The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  Mark’s cock swelled inside me. I could feel each fractional increase and knew he was only seconds away from his own release. So I increased my own tempo, pushing backwards to meet each thrust and hearing my own disembodied voice give a little gasp of pleasure/pain each time I did so.

  Finally he came: I could feel that final swell and hardening of his prick that presages orgasm and then each separate squirt as he pumped his spunk into my womb. I don’t recall whether I came again or not, but I think I must have passed out for a while because the next thing I remember was coming to, our bodies entwined.

  That’s about it really. Except to say that my bottom was so sore for a couple of days that sitting down was a real problem. That I promised myself that I had learned a real lesson and I was never but never going to let anyone do anything like that again to me, ever.

  But that two or three months down the line I found myself actively thinking of ways that I could provoke Mark so he actually would do it again . . . just to see if it could possibly be as good and as bad as it was the first time . . . and it was.

  These days both of us knows that if I want a good spanking all I have to do is ask . . . either literally or metaphorically.

  And if we’re out or at a party and I catch him giving a girl the eye he’ll come up behind me and give me a playful pat, just a little pat, on the backside. But it’s still enough to set my pulse racing and my pussy churning.

  He can go off and flirt with any Tom, Dick or Harriet and I don’t mind at all. I’m not the jealous type any more. Mark’s cured me of that. And anyway I know it’s me he’s coming home to.

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

  Minds find it impossible to accurately recall 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.

  MOUNTAIN STREAM

  Gerard, Halifax

  My whole life I’ve been an indoors kind of guy. After the first wild, late-teenage years I even became the lights-off kind: a pasta tummy is better seen in the dark. Sex has never been an out-in-the-open activity. Except for this one time.

  I had been visiting friends in Europe and was driving my hire car through the mountains. I was feeling on top of the world until the engine started to clank and the temperature gauge crept up to red. I pulled over on the side of the narrow road and got out. I’m not bad with engines but I wasn’t going to mess with a hire car from another country. My mobile phone had almost no bars at all and I could not get a signal. I wasn’t sure whether getting higher or lower would be the answer, but after walking up and down the road waving my phone above my head for a few minutes I decided to try up. Locking the car I set off up the mountain track and into the shade of the trees.

  It was a gorgeous day. The sun was hot. The signal flickered in and out and, looking at my phone, I almost stumbled into a wide mountain stream. Looking up I saw I had almost disturbed a woman, standing in the water. She had her back to me and was oblivious to my presence. She had tumbling brunette hair and was wearing a floral print dress. The water came up to her calves which were shapely and honey-coloured. She was holding the hem of her dress out of the water, revealing the backs of her thighs. I stood and stared. The breeze blew her dress against her curves. I must have watched her wade for some time. My cock stirred in my jeans. Then she reached crossways for the hem of her dress and made as if to pull it over her head. I caught a glimpse of white cotton panties before I cleared my throat in alarm. I didn’t want to be accused of peeping at her.

  The girl turned in surprise but when she saw me she relaxed and smiled. For some reason I did not address her and she did not address me, she just waded over until she stood near my bank. Her face was oval and her eyes feline. She had a light dusting of freckles and a profusion of unruly curls. She was as full in the front as in the back and I saw her nipples harden through the dress’s thin fabric. The girl was as natural and earthy as the woods around her. She gave me a look, a long, significant look that could mean only one thing, and I dropped my mobile on the grass at my feet.

  Now, as I say, I am a lights-off kind of guy, so when this mountain lovely reached for my belt I was in no way comfortable. Panicked is more like it. Here we were in the dappled sunlight of a mountain glade, with the birdsong echoing and the water rushing. I looked around in concern but could see no one. She popped my fly and eased down the denim, causing me to sit awkwardly on the bank. No kiss. No introduction, just a soft hand on my tent pole. She parted the slit of my boxers and brought my penis into the world. Then she lowered her head and covered my cock with her mouth. I could not believe my luck. Was this a joke? A trick? Being sucked off on a mountainside is quite an agoraphobic experience.

  Her mouth was soft but she sucked hard, massaging the base with her fingers. Well, just as the up and down motion was bringing me to a crisis and I was wondering about the etiquette of coming in her mouth, she lifted up her head, licking her lips, and pulled her dress over her head. I saw she wore plain, three-in-a-pack white cotton pants and a wireless white bra. It made her look virginal, which she was clearly not. Her skin was that colour which has always known the sun, not tanned as such, but healthy and as rich as pine. I kicked my shoes onto the grass and peeled off my tangle of boxers and jeans. She was already clambering up the bank and across my lap. Her damp bra rubbed my mouth and I found a nipple through the material and sucked. It was ice cold and hard. My hand stroked her thigh and buttocks and dipped between her legs, rubbing against a springy mat of hair. I fingered gently and heard her moan into my fringe as a clit shape poked through the cloth. She pushed me onto my back and crawled along my body, stopping with her pussy over my face.

  I knew what to do and taking her bottom in one hand I peeled aside the slippery strip of fabric with the other to reveal dark, curling hair and a slice of inviting pink. She moaned as I curled my tongue onto her cunt and I responded deep in my own throat. Her taste was wild and pungent, not the fresh-from-the-shower, Saturday night, premeditated pussy-eating taste but a feral, spice-and-sandalwood, musk-and-resin flavour. It scared and aroused me as I jabbed her large clitoris with my tongue, lapped at her labia and, forcing her bottom down, stretched my tongue up inside her vagina, all the time conscious of my absurd cock-stand waving in the breeze for all to see. When her hips started to pump I stopped and tried to sit up. Her pants came down and I eased off her bra, letting a pair of heavy, cool, creamy tits capped with dark nipples loll in my face. Utterly naked she straddled my mouth again. Backwards this time, lowering her deeply clefted bottom onto my nose. I gave her anus a tentative lick before eating her pussy once more. She knelt up, moaning softly, holding her breasts and rubbing the swollen tips. She fingered her clit and dew poured from her cunt. I found myself lapping and swallowing as I ate, listening to her sighs. Soon my tongue was fighting for purchase as she shoved two then three fingers up her slippery cunt, leaving me only juicy knuckles to lick.

  Then she stood and pulled at my T-shirt. It was my turn to be totally naked. Again I looked for voyeurs, but we were alone. Nude as a babe she took my hand and stepped into the river. I followed. It was shocking, like ice, but only came up to my knees. She lowered herself into the stream and let the water touch her pussy, which she opened to its touch. Her middle finger twiddled her clit and her breasts rose and fell. I sat in the shivery water, gasping with cold and she climbed astride, lowering herself onto my cock. It is testament to her desirability that I stayed hard in that water, but I did. The icy fingers of the stream were replaced with the warm mouth of her cunt, with its secret supply of lubricant and she sank down with a sigh on my length.

  We fucked in the water for nearly an hou
r, numbed by the mountain stream into a kind of Tantric anaesthesia by the cold, cold water. The pleasure rose and fell but never came. We fucked missionary on a mossy bank with her legs pointing at the treetops, we fucked woman-on-top in the shallows, the water splashing onto my face and in my eyes. The end came on all fours. She had got down on her knees in the soft sand and raised her exquisite, goose-fleshed arse to the sky, her legs apart. I mounted her, noticing the bijou perfection of her tiny, dark anus, and pushed into her cunt. As I thrust, the water lapped her nearly blue nipples and the sand ground into our knees, delightfully abrasive.

  The orgasm was like a sunrise, breaking slowly with a feeling of water and sunlight and earth in it, me beginning first, and wild with abandon, licking my thumb and easing it into her anus. She made a surprised sound and then groaned, tightening her grip on my cock. We came together, yelling like apes, scattering the birds.

  My clothes were damp but not too wet to wear. We dried on the grass in the sun, like Adam and Eve, the touch of the daylight lifting moisture from the skin indescribable. Before I left we had one more slow, languorous session of sixty-nine, which, after our sunbathe, seemed dreamlike and dazed. She licked just the tip of my cock, maddeningly, and I sucked on her long, deep-pink clitoris, as long as a woman’s pinkie, as if it were a tiny dick. To my delight she ejaculated a fine spray when she came, sobbing with pleasure deep in her chest.

  I dressed, waved goodbye and decided to follow the road to the nearest town to see if they had a working phone. We had not exchanged a word.

  IN THE KITCHEN

  Michelle, Oxford

  When I first started going out with boys I was in my late teens, maybe seventeen. I had this boyfriend, Peter. He was all right, quite fit, nice enough, and we had a lot of innocent fun. He was my first and we tried all the vanilla things you try first of all: fumbling, nibbling, dry-humping on the bedroom floor, you know the kind of thing. Things changed when I met his family. We had a nice drink in their front room, all photo frames and books. When his dad served me my whisky and coke, his hand touched mine and I looked up into those brown eyes and – a spark. I must have blushed. I tend to blush up my neck – goodness knows what he thought. From that moment I could not take my eyes off him. I don’t think anyone noticed. He was a history professor, interesting when he talked, with a deep voice. I noticed he had long fingers when he held his glass. There were hairs on the knuckles. He must have been twenty-five years older then me but I just stared and stared.

  The next visit was a few days before Christmas. Peter and I had tried our first sixty-nine at my house three nights before and had found it a rather clumsy experience. Anyway, sex was on my mind when I walked into his parents’ house and sat down. Within half an hour I was feeling fiddly and fidgety. His dad’s voice sounded warm and treacly and I found myself self-consciously crossing my legs over and over. This crossing of the legs was the way I had discovered masturbation. I used to lie in bed at night squeezing my thighs together to capture the “warm glow” as I used to call it. Only later did I discover my trusty middle finger. Well, in the living room that night the crossing and uncrossing was having the same effect and a whole cloud of butterflies was gathering in my stomach. Blushing all over my neck I excused myself “to the loo” and locked the door. There I took down my wringing knickers and, I’m ashamed to say, lay on the floor with my shoes on the loo seat and wanked my little clit until I came. I didn’t cry out, just panted and thrashed a little, thinking of Peter’s father holding his glass of brandy to his lips. Pulling my wet panties back over my wet pussy was uncomfortable, but I was glad of the relief, however sticky, when I got back downstairs.

  I had no intention of letting it happen again but a few weeks later, Peter’s dad cleared his throat at dinner with a sound that sounded to me in my altered state like an aroused moan. I excused myself once more to the bathroom and, locking the door, diddled on the bath mat on my hands and knees with my knickers around my thighs and my arse in the air. It was a very good come.

  My covert wanking became a regular thing. Every time we visited something would set me off. One time I was sure Peter’s dad was looking up my skirt and I had to slip away and masturbate; another time he playfully hugged me in a welcome-to-the-family kind of way and I spent the evening squeezing my thighs to a mouth-watering peak before heading to the bathroom for a much needed flick off, my knickers stuffed into my mouth. You would think this secret life would have added a little spice to my love life with Peter but in truth, so far I had only come on my own. He was keen but inept, and the locations we tried for our first few tentative fucks (his car, my bedroom, his bedroom) lacked finesse. The parents’ house situation got to be a habit and the normality of this habit finally caught me out.

  We were at Peter’s parents’ place one afternoon in spring and his dad was wearing a sexy cotton shirt and chinos. I had offered to make a cup of tea, and was alone in the kitchen, putting tea bags in cups and filling the kettle, thinking about the man in the other room. Automatically my hand stole to my crotch as I leaned on the counter waiting for the kettle to boil. I pressed on my clit through my tights and let my mind wander. Before I really knew what I was doing I had my fingers in my knickers, stroking my elit from side to side. I didn’t hear Peter’s dad come in. I’d left him playing Scrabble. He had no reason to come in. He came up behind me and placed one of his large hands on my shoulder – the right, the same arm which was buried in my underwear. I knew it was him by the smell – aftershave and cigars, whisky on his breath. I turned, terrified, and he took me completely by surprise by kissing me fully on the mouth. I returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but was so clumsy I think I bit his lip.

  To my shock and delight he turned me around again to face the counter and reached beneath my short floaty skirt to the waistband of my tights. Easing down both navy hose and lemon cotton knickers he exposed my bottom to the air. It was a small, tight, soft bottom in those days and I was proud of it. I could well imagine the expression on his face, faced with my pale, shapely peach. I heard the buckle on his belt jangle and the next thing I knew he was easing a very hard, very thick cock into my pussy from behind. Remember, I was seventeen, just starting out. I had never had sex in any way other than on my back, certainly not from behind and certainly not standing up. Not only was this completely new and more than a little pervy, he was huge. His cock smarted going in, despite my wetness, stretching me up and out, filling me deeper than I had ever been filled. I gasped and stumbled forwards, my breasts squashing against the counter. In response to the gasp he shushed me gently and covered my mouth with his hand, as softly as if he were brushing hair from my eyes. I groaned into the hand and eased my hips back onto his, forcing his thick cock deeper, the stinging pleasure of it bringing tears to my eyes. I wanted him to know how much I wanted this crazy, dangerous fuck to happen. He began to pull in and out, rocking slowly against me, chugging that big, middle-aged cock of his in a gentle rhythm. The sensation was indescribable, nothing like Peter’s clumsy stabbing. He was much harder for one thing, and the sensation had an itchy, slippery friction which made my eyes roll back in my head. My hand stole once more to my tacky clit and I rubbed and rubbed, panting into his large, warm hand, breathing through my nose. My lover responded to my fingering by further nudging apart my thighs with his own and picking up the pace of his thrusts.

  My orgasm wasn’t long in coming. The expert pumping of my cunt from behind and the lightning-fast clit-flicking in front tipped me over. As he felt the tremors in my body, Peter’s father reached under me with his other big strong arm and lifted me off the floor. One of my shoes fell off, I think. I gripped the marble counter-top with my free hand, the black stone freezing cold on my throbbing nipples, and came, really, really hard. It was ten times the climax I’d ever had with my hand and, jerking on his amazing dick, I bit hard into his fingers until I tasted bone, just to keep from howling in ecstasy. He came too with a small grunt, deep inside me, squirting at least four times, his come hot
and prodigious. He pulled out of my raw vagina with a slurp and kissed me on the bum. He then deliberately broke a glass, right in front of me, picking up the shattered pieces as an explanation of the blood dripping from the passionate bite on his hand. How he explained the tooth marks I never found out. He will have had them for years. I hauled up my sticky knot of knickers and tights and returned, a little breathless and pink, to the game of Scrabble. I couldn’t look Peter in the eye and we never made love again; in fact, I finished with him a week later. I never forgot the stolen minutes bent over the counter by a real man, gasping senselessly into his big, strong, whisky-scented hand.

  SKIRT

  Anna, USA

  Brandon bought me the silly little skirt. It wasn’t something I would have picked out for myself but he was so happy with his choice, I took it happily and thanked him. It hit me mid-thigh and had flirty little pleats. Green and blue plaid very much like the uniform skirts I had to wear in school. Not my idea of sexy but I kept that to myself.

  On the phone one day, Brandon said, “Will you wear the skirt for me?”

  At first I was at a loss. What skirt? Then I remembered the lonely little schoolgirl skirt hanging in my closet. I laughed but said I would and hung up.

  I wore the skirt for the rest of the day. I topped it off with a plain white T-shirt and some flip-flops. Plain white panties were underneath. I thought that was a nice touch.

  When Brandon got home, he took me in. He smiled and then kissed me and thanked me. “Can you bring me a beer on the deck? I’m beat.” Then he wandered outside leaving me confused. Why was I wearing the skirt if he was beat?

  I played along. I brought him a beer and found him in one of the deckchairs. Tie pulled loose, sleeves rolled up, newspaper in his lap.

  “Your beer,” I said and waited. What was this?