The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  Eventually, I had to pull the wet-vaccing babe to her feet, lest I blow foam down her throat. I wanted pussy, and I wanted it now. She instantly understood, bent forwards over the top of the washing machine and spread her sleek legs. I located a convenient cock-sized hole in her body stocking, right on target with her slickened snatch, and jammed my rod into the breach, filling her slit.

  Her sex hole was dripping and gripping, and I savagely hammered the young hottie’s puss, the washer rocking back and forth like it had a life of its own. Lin gripped the enamelled machinery and whimpered, her head bouncing to and fro, her silky hair flying all over the place, my heavy, hairy balls slapping her rippling, coffee-and-cream-coloured ass flesh as I bore into her.

  “Sweet land of liberty!” I sang out, my cock exploding in her stretched-out love tunnel, rocketing sizzling jizz deep into her very being. As she herself was consumed by orgasm.

  When we were straightening ourselves up afterwards, she more formally introduced herself. “My full name is actually Linda Jones,” she said with a sassy smile, “and I’m originally from North Platte, Nebraska. I’ve felt a little like a foreigner these last few weeks, all alone in the big city. Until you made me feel welcome, that is.”

  BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

  Ava, Ipswich

  Steve and I have been married for almost ten years. I’m thirty-eight years old and he’s thiry-four so if you like I’m the “older woman”.

  We went out for about eighteen months before we decided to get married and while Steve certainly wasn’t a virgin it’s also true to say that he wasn’t terribly experienced sexually. Not like me!

  We’re very happy. With a little gentle help and guidance from me Steve has turned into a wonderful and attentive lover. He adores me . . . and that, if you like, is the problem.

  Sexually I’ve always been the more adventurous of the two of us with a small but important masochistic streak. I like being a “naughty girl” and I like being punished. Not all the time, you understand, but maybe three or four times a year; it’s like an urge than just keeps growing inside me, an itch I can’t scratch.

  To start with I tried talking to Steve about it. I bought a few mild S&M magazines and left them lying about. We even watched a blue bondage video. But it was no good; Steve just couldn’t bring himself to “hurt” me. I tried explaining that I didn’t really want to be hurt, just a decent “spanking” occasionally as part of a sex game. He tried, but it was a disaster and we both ended up in tears . . . of laughter, and no bad thing for that.

  But it didn’t solve my problem or cure my itch until one day I was reading a sex mag and came across the ad from The Master. It took several weeks and quite a lot of very subtle persuasion before Steve agreed to me making an appointment and even then he insisted on coming along that first time to make sure everything was properly above board.

  Now when the itch starts coming on I start being deliberately naughty. I will stay out late without telling Steve, maybe come home drunk after a night on the tiles with the girls. I’ll “forget” to cook his supper or serve up something I know he doesn’t particularly like. I’m sure there are times when Steve deliberately pretends not to notice the signals and then – and only as a last resort when I’m getting crazy with frustration – I’ll pretend to have a headache or be “too tired” when I know he’s in the mood for love.

  The session usually starts on a Thursday night, often just as we are going to bed. Steve will say something to me like: “You know you’ve been a bad girl so I’ve made an appointment for you tomorrow evening at 7 p.m.”

  That’s all but it’s still enough to have me spending the night – and most of the following day – tossing and turning in apprehension and, yes, anticipation.

  When Steve gets home from work on Friday I’ll have prepared a meal for him, definitely something that I know he likes. When he’s finished he hands me a sealed letter for me to give my Master and it’s time for me to leave.

  My Master lives about a twenty-minute drive away. I will already have my uniform on: white, short-sleeved blouse, no bra, short, black miniskirt over white cotton panties and plain black shoes. I am allowed to wear stockings and suspenders – absolutely no tights – but I know my Master prefers me without so I am barelegged. By the time I reach his house I will be feeling hot, body sheathed in a mist of perspiration and twitching with tiny shivers of fear. And yes I admit it, damp between my legs as well.

  His large house is in an upmarket neighbourhood so I park the car in the drive and ring the bell. My Master opens the door; he is tall, distinguished with steel-grey hair, in his early forties and wearing casual slacks and an open-necked shirt.

  “Ava, hello,” he says as I silently hand him the letter. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Do come in.”

  The house is beautifully and expensively furnished, although I have actually seen very little of it. He leads me into the large drawing room. In the centre of the room is a small wooden stool and he beckons me to sit on it. It is hard and uncomfortable and so low that my knees are higher than my hips. My Master sits in a white leather armchair directly in front of me and I am aware that with my legs apart he will be able to see my white knickers and the darker damp patch where the cotton is stretched tight across my mound.

  He opens the letter and reads it in silence, occasionally glancing quizzically at me from over the top of the paper. When he has finished he puts the letter back in the envelope and says: “I’m very disappointed in you in, Ava. Stephen tells me that he has had to get his own dinner three times in the last two weeks. The bed is unmade and twice he has had to iron his own shirt. He even says he asked for a blow job and you refused, is this true?”

  “Yes, Master,” I reply.

  “It seems you have learned nothing. What shall we do with you, eh?”

  “I need to be punished, Master.”

  “Yes, I think so. Stephen thinks you should choose your own punishment. So tell me how many strokes you think will fit the crime, please, Ava. But before you do, Stephen has also told me how many he thinks you deserve. If your guess is higher than that, of course, that is the number you will receive, but if Stephen’s is the higher – and you are trying to escape lightly – then you will receive his figure plus the difference between the two. So if you say ten and Stephen thinks you deserve fifteen then I will give you twenty. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but this is something new. The rules of the session are strict and unbending. There is no sexual contact between my Master and I, although occasionally he will caress me prior to administering the punishment. Caresses which only serve to make my skin more sensitive. Sometimes after the beating he will order me to masturbate in front of him. I find this particularly humiliating since I am invariably sopping wet and climax within just a few seconds, with two or three fingers rammed inside my throbbing pussy. An orgasm that I know belongs to my husband and so feel each spasm as a betrayal.

  More importantly my Master hasn’t told me what implement he is going to use to punish me or where. Sometimes I will be tightly tied over a whipping bench or spreadeagled across his dining room table. On one occasion my wrists and ankles were trussed together and I was hauled into the air before he whipped my burning flesh with a cat-o’-nine-tails. On another he lashed my elbows tightly together behind my back and then used the flat of a springy plastic ruler on my breasts. I remember Steve melting ice cubes on them to ease the burning when I got home.

  But possibly the worst and most humiliating is when he puts me over his knees and spanks my bare bottom. With certainty I know he has the power to reduce me to tears – the cheeks of my face redder than the cheeks of my arse, blubbing like a baby and begging him to stop – using just his hand.

  What would it be tonight, I wondered: “T-t-ten,” I whispered.

  “Bravo. Good guess, but not quite good enough. Stephen, I’m afraid, thinks you deserved a dozen. And that means I get to give you fourteen. Stand up and remove your knickers.”


  As I do so my Master gets up and goes to a large fitted cupboard in one corner of the room. Inside are the instruments of my punishment – tawse, paddle, crop, cat – and he is truly master of them all. After a few moments’ consideration he selects a thin bamboo cane and swishes it experimentally through the air. It makes a vicious hiss.

  He crosses the room and sits in the middle of a large leather sofa, the arms of which end in carved wooden posts and around which I notice are tied lengths of braided golden rope. My Master summons me with his cane and I come and stand before him. He takes the knickers from my hand and raises them to his cheek: “My, Ava, you are a wicked girl. Now lie down here across my lap.”

  Obediently I do as I am told, head to his left. He pulls my arms out in front of me and ties my wrists together, before pulling the braid tight against the post. Once I am secured he moves his right leg away from under me and is then able to clasp my thighs tightly between his own, leaving me unable to move and completely helpless. Finally he pushes a cushion under my stomach so my buttocks are stretched taut and raised even more prominently before lifting my skirt clear of my hips.

  My Master sits like this in silence for a minute or more before he starts to brush the skin of my thighs and buttocks with just his fingertips. Every touch makes me flinch, heat rising within me until I feel as if I am already on fire. With his left hand he reaches beneath me, undoes the buttons of my blouse. He cups my right breast and then squeezes the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling down until I gasp with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  “Now we can start,” he says. “Would you like me to gag you?”

  I shake my head and instantly feel the first cut of the cane across my buttocks.

  “I asked you a question.” The swish and thwack of the cane making punctuation marks in the conversation.

  “No. No, thank you, Master.”

  Swish, thwack. Three. Swish, thwack. Four. By now I am clenching my teeth against the pain. I know that sat in the sofa my Master isn’t really able to swing the cane with enough force to really hurt me. But that doesn’t stop the sudden blaze of each stroke and the heat building in my buttocks and raging outwards through my body like a bush fire. It doesn’t stop it feeling like a line of bees marching in formation across my arse and then all stinging me at the same instant.

  Swish, thwack. Five. Swish, thwack. Six. My Master is a real expert, laying the strokes carefully across my buttocks. I have been this far before but now I am entering unknown territory, possibly even an unknown world.

  Swish, thwack. Seven and this one is laid precisely in the crease where my cheeks join my thighs and the skin is tenderest. Swish, thwack. Eight! The blow lands across the earlier strokes where the red welts are already beginning to rise.

  “Aieee!” I howl and despite myself hot salt tears begin to course down my cheeks. “Please, no. Please, no more, that’s enough. I’ll be good, I promise. I swear. Ring Steve, please, tell him I’m sorry, tell him I’ll be good. Tell him to come and get me,” I babble.

  My Master stops instantly. His hand begins to trace the welts across my buttocks, feeling the radiant heat and the way I wince from his touch, squirming downwards into his lap.

  “Ava, you disappoint me,” he says softly. “Have you learned nothing? This is what Stephen wants. It is what you want. It is what I want. It is what we do.”

  With that he reaches down over my forehead with his right hand, grasps my nose tightly and pulls my head upwards. As my mouth drops open helplessly he pushes my sodden panties into my mouth, effectively gagging me.

  Swish, thwack. Nine. Swish, thwack. Ten. Suddenly the endorphins kick in. The pain is still there but now it is tinged with pleasure. I feel more alive than I have ever done in my life. Every cell in my body is on red alert. All my senses are heightened: even the scent and taste of my panties. A microsecond behind comes the familiar sexual rush: the dropping, dragging sensation in my womb and the gush of my love juices.

  Swish, thwack. Eleven. Swish, thwack. Twelve. And my Master stops again, unties my hands and removes my gag.

  “Kneel on the floor, Ava. Now sit back on your haunches,” he commands, noticing the jolt of pain as my burning buttocks come in contact with the backs of my calves.

  “Now listen carefully. I want you to open your blouse and cup each of your breasts. That’s it, push them up nice and high. Now I want you to beg me to give you the last two strokes across your tits. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” I reply, although at that instant I don’t know if I have the strength to do it or not and I feel my stomach flip with fear. “Please, Master, cane my tits. I beg you, please.” My voice is wonderfully calm and firm.

  The cane swishes down across my pillowed breasts and the fire follows an instant later.

  “Now pinch your nipples, pull them up into the air as far as you can and lean backwards.”

  Silently I obey and the final stroke flicks upwards onto the delicate underside of my breasts. It is over and the agony is almost outweighed by the ecstasy of relief.

  I straighten my clothing although my Master retains my soiled panties as “a reminder of you”. I spend a few minutes recovering over a long cold glass of water and then set off to drive home, the rough material of the seat chafing against my still burning cheeks.

  As I get out of the car I check my face in the mirror: eyes still a little red but apart from that I look shockingly normal. The pain has virtually gone although as I walk up the path I still feel stiff and sore, but nearly pleasantly so, like after a good workout at the gym. Experience tells me that the welts will probably be almost gone by the morning but that sitting down is still likely to be uncomfortable for most of the weekend

  Steve lets me in and we go through to the lounge. He sits, I remain standing in front of him.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so awful to you lately. I really am. I’ve learned my lesson and I promise I won’t do it again.” As I say the words I mean them, I really do, but I also know that it will only last until the itch comes back.

  “He caned me here and here,” I say, pointing to my buttocks and my breasts.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  That was easy. In two movements I pull the blouse over my head and drop the skirt down my legs, before stepping out of my shoes, noticing Steve’s eyes widen as he realizes I’m not wearing my panties. Naked, I clasp my hands together at the back of my neck and pirouette in front of my husband.

  “God,” he breathes as he reaches out to trace the line of one of the welts across my backside. I flinch against the coolness of his fingertips.

  He leads me upstairs and showers me. I stand passively as he plays the jet across my body – over my breasts, down my back and up between my legs – the barely warm water easing the stinging still further.

  Steve dries me with a warm fluffy towel, just gently dabbing the tender spots. With infinite tenderness he rubs cooling body lotion into my breasts and buttocks before leading me to the bedroom.

  We make love three times that night. It is the best sex I have ever had.

  The last time he flips me over onto my stomach and then takes me doggy-style, his hands cupping breasts that seem fuller and heavier than ever before. My womb molten, I am filled with liquid fire. As Steve slides slowly backwards and forwards inside me, the caress of his pubic hair against the hypersensitive globes of my bottom seems as sharp and bright as the cut of the cane.

  I come and cry. And cry and come, weeping tears of joy, not shame.

  And when we have finished and are curled up close against each other Steve says in wonderment: “I just don’t know why you do it, you know.”

  “Because I can,” I reply. “Because it’s what I want. Because it’s what you want as well, even if you won’t admit it. Because I love you so.

  “And because this way I can have the best of both worlds . . . I can have my cane and beating too!”

  BLOND BEAUTY

 
; Karen, Blackburn

  I entered the bedroom, dressed in a pair of tight-fitting jeans, work boots, and a second-hand “Official Bikini Inspector” T-shirt. My short, dark hair was slicked back and tucked in behind my ears, my strapped-on cock outrageously bulging the front of my jeans.

  “What’s taking so long?” I demanded, in a voice three octaves below normal. “Damn women always taking so long to make themselves pretty.”

  Chris was seated at my make-up table, his back to me, his long, blond hair fanned out across his shoulders. He turned his head and glanced at me, and his big, blue eyes looked just a little frightened under the black eyeliner and blue eye shadow. I gaped at him, at the well-applied blush and perfectly applied crimson lipstick, feeling even more frightened.

  He slid off the stool and fully faced me – my husband, dressed in a short, black leather skirt and sleeveless, white satin blouse, black silk stockings on his legs and four-inch heels on his feet. “I’m ready,” he stated, his voice gone high and squeaky, like a girl’s. He twirled a strand of blond hair around his finger and gazed demurely down at the floor.

  And as I stared at him/her, my fear of the kink slowly began to dissipate, my body surging with a heavy, tingling heat. He looked as sexy as hell, one damn fine-looking woman!

  I ogled him guy-like, from the tip of his brushed blond head to the toes of his high-polish stilettos. I scrubbed under my nose with a pair of fingers, then hooked my thumbs into my belt. I would’ve spat on the floor, too, to heighten my masculine effect even more, but I just couldn’t muster the saliva just then.

  Chris clasped his scarlet-tipped fingers together over the front of his skirt and shyly looked up at me. “You like?” he asked, all peaches and cream.

  I nodded, my pussy gluing to the leather platform of my harness with moisture, the flexible dong almost popping my zipper. We’d discussed it for months – cross-dressing – and now my only thought was: Why the hell had we wasted all that time talking instead of doing? Typical women.