The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I moaned and said, “Today is definitely my lucky day,” and I started licking his shaft, circling my tongue all around it right up to the tip. When I reached the tip I wrapped my lips around him and sucked it in as far as I could. He was so large I couldn’t fit the entire thing in my mouth, but I did my best. Moving my mouth back and forth, I sucked him hard as he thrust against me. I heard him moan and saw his knees shake. I stopped; he wasn’t going to come yet. I told him to get undressed. He kicked off his shoes and slipped out of his khakis. I led him over to a large lounge chair.

  “Lie down on that chair,” I ordered him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” was all he said. He lay down on my lounge chair big enough for two.

  I climbed onto the chair, moving in between his legs. My breasts brushed across him as I moved up, positioning myself above him, my hot, aching pussy pressed against his hard throbbing cock. I stared into his beautiful green eyes. I pressed my mouth against his and he eagerly kissed back. Passionate kisses just the way I liked: lots of lip, not too much tongue.

  I reached down to guide him into me; I’d never had something that big inside of me before. I was so wet he slid in easily. I rode him hard, grinding my body against his, feeling his hips thrust, pushing deeper and deeper inside me. I came hard and fast exploding onto his massive cock.

  “Lie down, ma’am. I want to taste you.”

  I did what he wanted and he spread my legs wide open then climbed between them. First he kissed my lips, trailed down my neck to my breasts and kissed them, then sucked my nipples, first gently, then harder. He gently nibbled at them with his teeth. Then he ran his tongue across them and starting moving down until his face was between my thighs. There he licked all around my outer lips, dipped his tongue in to taste me and then moved up to find my clit.

  He was very skilled and knew just what to do. Soon I climaxed again. He licked up all the sweet nectar that flowed out of me, pushed my legs up and back and inserted his hard dick into me again. Those Southern boys really know how to please a woman. My pussy was still pulsating and I could tell it was driving him wild. He thrust into me hard and fast; I screamed so loud the neighbours probably thought someone was killing me. He hit places that had never been touched before. He was sweating and moaning, fucking me wildly. I knew he was getting close. He pulled out of me and shot a stream of semen across my breasts. Breathing heavily he collapsed beside me on the lounge.

  “I hope that was satisfactory, ma’am.”

  “Oh God, yes, that was wonderful. By the way, my name is Roxanne.”

  “Well, Roxanne, my name is Rob and I think I’m hotter and sweatier now than I was to begin with. Do you mind if I take a dip in your pool?”

  “No, I don’t mind at all. I think I’m going to join you.”

  He stood up and dived into the pool. I grabbed a towel and quickly cleaned off the sticky stuff on my chest and jumped into the pool with him. That man really looked good wet. After he did a few laps in the pool he swam up behind me and wrapped his arms around my body. I could feel his erection pressing into my back. Wow, already hard again. Not only is this guy gorgeous and hung like a stallion, he has stamina too! I thought to myself.

  He pressed me against the side of the pool and entered me from behind. The water splashed around us as he thrust his big shaft in and out of me. The cool water felt good against our naked bodies as the hot sun beat down on us. He told me to turn around and face him. My back was now pressed against the side of the pool and I wrapped my legs around him. His cock was angled to rub my clit and still hit all the right spots deep inside. I could feel the tingling sensation moving throughout my body as he pumped faster and harder into me. I felt the rush of hot semen flood inside me as I quivered and came with him.

  We climbed out of the pool and I gave him a towel. I watched him dry off his gorgeous body, admiring every inch of him. I slipped my dress on and watched him gather up all of his lawn equipment. All I could think was that he could spread me anytime. He finished and packed his equipment back into the van. I never took my eyes off him.

  He walked up to me and handed me the bill along with his business card. “I also do some handyman work on the side and during the winter. My cell number and home number are on the back of the card, you can call me anytime, for anything.”

  “Thank you, I will be calling you.” And I did, every chance I could get.

  BOTTOM MARKS

  Jenni, London

  A woman is changed for ever by the first proper spanking from her lover’s hand.

  Minds find it impossible to recall accurately the bright, sharp clarity of pain. Marks fade from buttocks within an hour or two, within a day or two.

  But bodies remember. And for ever after, if you catch her unawares and trace your fingers gently up between the backs of her legs to that place where buttocks and thighs bisect then you will feel the tiniest shiver of apprehension, an involuntary tensing of muscles . . . no matter how delicate the caress.

  At least that’s how it was for Mark and me. We’d met in our second year at uni and for me at least it was love, or more correctly lust, at first sight. Mark played rugby for the college team and it was some end-of-season bash. I’ve been described as something of an English rose – tall at five feet seven, slim and blond – but at six foot two, Mark still towered over me. He was well built at fourteen stone, with dark-brown eyes, very short, light-brown hair and as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.

  We were introduced by a mutual friend and spent most of the evening talking. He turned out to be very much the “gentle giant” – intelligent, thoughtful, considerate and charming – and pretty much that was that.

  “An item” for our final year, we were very much in love and really quite innocently discovering the joys of sex. One other thing I discovered was that I had quite a nasty green-eyed streak and got terribly jealous if Mark even so much as looked at another girl . . . or even if I caught a girl looking at him. Mark used to find this completely incomprehensible and, worse, I knew it was one of the few things that actually got under his skin: “I love you and I’ll never give you a reason to mistrust me. But if you don’t trust me, that’s your problem, not mine,” he used to tell me.

  Both lucky enough to get good degrees, without having to work too hard for them, jobs up in London followed: Mark with a City firm and me with a public relations company in Knightsbridge. We’ve been sharing a flat together in Willesden for coming up to three years.

  It was Shari, one of our old college friends, who invited us to a party, almost a reunion, one Saturday evening, at her house on the outskirts of West London, and we had both really looked forward to going. The party was great, the beer and wine flowed, and we both sort of circulated and chatted, catching up with old friends and gossip.

  I’d noticed Mark spending an awful lot of time talking to Zoe – high heels, short skirt, gauzy blouse and too much make-up – who I vaguely remembered as being engaged to Tim. And then at around half past ten I realized they’d both gone missing.

  I gave it about another quarter of an hour and then, quite discreetly, searched the house from top to bottom – bedrooms, bathroom, even the downstairs loo – but there was no sign of either of them.

  It was a warm summer’s evening, dusk had only just fallen, and I went outside and walked up and down and round the block for a while until I saw them, arm in arm, coming towards me from the opposite direction.

  As we neared I could see she was somehow “mussed up”. To this day I don’t know what came over me or why I did it, but I just suddenly lost it.

  I slapped Zoe hard, a stinging swipe that left a livid palm print on her cheek made all the more striking as her face went white with shock. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off him, you slag! He’s mine, d’you understand?” I snarled.

  “Jenni, what on earth do you think you’re doing? You don’t understand . . .” Mark began.

  “I don’t care! I don’t care! Just tell me you didn’t fuck her, that’s all. Tell me!�
�� I’d grabbed hold of the front of Mark’s shirt and was tearing at it so furiously that buttons popped and I felt a seam split.

  “Tim’s just dumped Zoe. The engagement’s off. She’s really upset and I was just giving her a shoulder to cry on.”

  “See! I knew it. Tim doesn’t want her any more and now she’s trying to get her hooks into you. Stay away from him.” I aimed another blow in Zoe’s direction.

  Mark grabbed hold of my arm. “That’s it. That’s enough. Sorry about this, Zoe, just get yourself back inside. I’m taking Jenni back home,” and with that he dragged me away, still kicking and screaming, into the car.

  As we drove home I was still white and shaking with adrenaline, scarcely able to believe what I had just done, and beside me, in the driver’s seat, Mark was also white-faced and ominously quiet.

  When we got indoors he left me downstairs, pushed past me and went up to our bedroom. I followed him forlornly a few minutes later and found him packing, a suitcase open on our bed.

  “What . . . What are you doing?” I began.

  “What does it look like? I’m leaving you. I love you, you know I do. I really do. But I can’t stand this jealousy and tonight was the last straw. I really do think you’ve got a problem and I don’t know what to do any more.”

  “Where are you going to go?”

  “Don’t know. But I thought I might try Tim since he’s on his own as well,” he said with a bitter laugh.

  That was when I lost it completely, when I realized that he was serious, that he meant it. I think I was actually hysterical – love can do that to you. I howled, I sobbed, I begged. I pulled at my own hair. I pummelled at Mark’s broad chest with both my fists and all my strength until exhaustion forced me stop.

  And that was when I threatened to kill myself . . . as soon as he walked out the door.

  “You wouldn’t, would you?”

  I nodded dumbly and in pain: “I can’t live without you.”

  “And I can’t live with you like this.”

  There was a long, long silence which grew and grew between us until Mark broke it, speaking slowly and quietly, little more than a whisper: “OK, I’ll give it just one more try. But you’ve got to change.

  “What you did earlier was wrong, dreadfully wrong and unforgivable. I’m going to punish you. I’m going to spank your arse just like a naughty little girl, since you insist on behaving like one. I’m serious, this is something I should have done a long time ago. I want you to know what it feels like to be hurt, particularly by someone you love. So it’s going to be a lot more than a couple of playful smacks.

  “You’ve got to agree, of course. But if you don’t then I’ll simply carry on packing and leave. You can be quite sure of that.”

  And with that he put one finger under my chin and lifted up my tear-stained face until his calm gaze held my own. I nodded my agreement, not trusting myself to speak, still overwhelmed by events, shocked by what I had just heard and consented to.

  Mark continued to stare impassively down at me until I felt compelled to speak: “OK. Yes. Do it now. Let’s get this over with.”

  “No, not now. Not like this. It wouldn’t be right. Let’s make it next Friday evening. We’ve got nothing planned for the weekend and you won’t have to worry about not being able to sit down at work,” he said ominously. Of course he did. I know now that being made to wait, the anticipation and the apprehension, is at least as important as the punishment itself.

  Looking back now I remember the week that followed only as a blur. I struggled through at work on autopilot. I was distracted, found concentrating difficult and caught myself drifting off into dark reveries – but no one else seemed to notice.

  At home things were superficially normal. Mark was his usual kind and considerate self but there was an unspoken tension between us. We didn’t have sex, which was unusual. Normally we’d make love at least two or three times a week. I even tried to seduce Mark, in fact none too subtly, and he very gently but firmly rebuffed me. This too, I know now, was also all part of the game.

  On Friday we met up after work for a drink, not something we did every day but not entirely out of the ordinary. Mark suggested we ate out – at least in part, I think, to prolong the moment even further – I declined.

  Once we got in I told Mark I was going to fix him something special: good steak, mushrooms and salad, one of his favourites; with a decent bottle of red wine . . . and more than a little Dutch courage for me. Normally I change as soon as I get in: T-shirt and jeans or jogging bottoms and trainers. But that night Mark insisted I stayed in my business outfit: charcoal two-piece – jacket and skirt cut just above the knee but with a sexy slit up one thigh – classic white cotton, fitted blouse and black court shoes, not stilettos – too tarty – but still with a decent heel.

  After we’d eaten I cleared away and then we went and sat in the lounge, still each with a glass of wine, and Mark put some Bach on the stereo.

  We sat in silence. I could feel myself becoming hot and breathless and my heart hammering within my chest. Eventually I had to give in: “Mark, please. Let’s do it. Let’s get it over with now.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “I think you’re just about ready.”

  He made me stand, removed my jacket and then unbuttoned my blouse down to my waist. Then he told me to take off my shoes and pulled down my knickers and tights. Sitting back down on the couch he motioned me across his lap, my head to his left, and used his tie to bind my hands and secure them around the arm of the couch – not too tightly, but more than enough to let me know I was helpless and unable to protect myself. Finally he eased my skirt up over my hips until I was naked from the waist down.

  Then nothing. Two or three minutes passed and Mark had neither moved nor spoken. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and started to squirm in his lap. The gentle pressure of his left hand in the small of my back was a warning to be still and the fingertips of his right began to stroke and caress me.

  They explored the flanks of my thighs, the rounded hills of my buttocks and the horizontal crease where they met. I felt him grab the cheeks of my arse, one in each hand, and begin to knead and pull at the flesh. Fingers dug in deep, pulling me apart and I knew he would be able to see the whorl of my anus. I blushed with embarrassment and, yes, a rising tide of passion as well. Unbidden my legs began to part, exposing myself in supplication, willing him to explore.

  Mark’s fingers transferred their attentions to my inner thighs, tickling and teasing the creamy skin. Moving upwards, they trailed through the curls of my pubic hair and began to probe at the swollen, tender flesh of my mound beneath. I found myself pushing back against those fingers and trying to grind my groin into his lap beneath me.

  Under the lash of caresses I began to shiver uncontrollably, tiny spasms rippling up and down my body. I was wet and I knew he knew it too.

  Again I was forced to break the spell: “I don’t think this is supposed to happen, but you’re actually making me incredibly randy.”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied. “That’s because we haven’t really started yet.”

  And with that he brought his right hand crashing down on my arse. The blow was so sudden and completely unexpected I had no chance to prepare or brace myself. The impact knocked all the wind out of me, so there was no shriek in response, just a breathless gasp.

  The shock was followed by a blaze of white-hot pain. My parents had never even smacked me as a child so nothing could have prepared me for this. Just one slap and it went beyond imagination. How could this be? How could I not have known?

  Mark simply waited until I had recovered, got my breath back and stopped writhing, then he hit me again, on the other cheek. The shock was less unexpected, the pain every bit as bright, and this time I did yelp.

  A shorter respite and he smacked me again, alternating left and right in a slowly increasing rhythm, blows on top of blows.

  Incredibly the pain increased, nerves sending little messages of dis
tress coursing round my body. Then the heat, building and radiating like a furnace. I knew without being able to see that my backside was glowing crimson.

  And still that hand came down, all over my rosy cheeks and then the tops of my thighs as well. I was bathed in perspiration and began to cry, great racking sobs, as tears coursed down my face and dripped onto the floor.

  Suddenly everything shifted with a wrench that was almost physical. Mark was still smacking me and it still hurt, God did it still hurt, but somehow the pain was distant, far away, almost as if it was happening to someone else. Mark’s beating had lit a fire inside me that was warming, almost pleasant.

  I began to respond to his rhythm, my body undulating across his lap, provocatively thrusting my bottom to meet the blows, almost inviting them. With a great wordless yell I actually think I climaxed or something very close to.

  Mark stopped immediately, untied my hands, held me close until my sobbing stopped and then carried me upstairs to our bedroom.

  He made me strip until I stood naked before him on legs still slightly wobbly and then laid me down on the bed. I remember wincing at the coolness of the quilt against my burning skin. He undressed and his prick was already rock hard and fiercely erect.

  I came as soon as he shoved his prick inside me. My cunt was a well of hot oil into which his manhood plunged and I could feel the walls spasm, clenching and relaxing as I tried to suck his cock deeper and deeper inside me.

  As soon as my orgasm subsided Mark withdrew. He rolled me over onto my stomach, lifted my hips and then took me doggy-style. Hypersensitive, the glowing cheeks of my arse responded to every thrust as he buttressed up against me.