When I opened my eyes I found that they had adjusted to the darkness and I could see my lover. Even after two and a half years, it’s a thrill to see this man in my bedroom. He was still dressed, so I tore off his jogging shorts, followed by his red Reebok T-shirt, his running socks and his black underwear. I stepped back and, encircling him, took a good look at his tight butt and his athletic thighs. All that jogging . . . Then I ran my hands over his chest, smooth with only a touch of hair around his little pink nipples. He threw his arms around me and squeezed my body tightly against him. I’ve always loved that sensation of his chest and my breasts being separated only by my thin silk negligee.
I dropped to my knees to do what I know his wife won’t. His cock was still lifeless when I took it between my lips. The sensation of a soft cock against the walls of my mouth was hilarious. What did it feel like? Like a snake, maybe. Malleable, like I could have tied it in a knot. I took it all in and, as I encircled his limp dick with my tongue, I started to feel it jerk and grow. As I sucked it, of course, it got bigger and bigger until his meat was so large I couldn’t keep it all in my mouth any more.
Getting below him, I licked his balls, taking each in my mouth before working on the sensitive head of his penis. He made those noises I love to hear, sort of like a snort and a sigh, and he said my name while he stroked my hair. It’s great to hear him say my name. I love that.
Anyway, I figured it was my turn, so I lay back on the bed to let him ravage me with his tongue. He licked my pussy lips hard with a warm, wet tongue. That really got the juices flowing. Then he sucked on my clit while squeezing my nipples through my silk negligee and, let me tell you, nothing else in the world feels that good. No, that’s a lie, because what he did next was even better.
His cock was large with anticipation and just the sight of it made my pussy whimper. Oh, I just had to have it! I had to feel that big slab of meat inside of me and I don’t mind saying so. The sight of my lover holding his cock by its base, guiding it towards me, made me quiver. My pussy opened up for him to ram it in me, hard and strong. I couldn’t help but think how hot he looked while he was doing it. His lean stomach muscles, embraced by only the slightest layer of insulation, tightened with every thrust. I ran my fingers through the dark curls above his hard rod. He has the most incredible body!
Rolling onto my stomach, I half stood on the floor and half leaned against my bed. He came at me from behind, reaching around to rub my clit while I reached back to fondle his balls. I love the way they feel in my hand, squishy and soft. With both hands, he took firm hold of my hips and plunged into me so hard I could feel the pressure throughout my core. While his fingers grasped my hip bones and his thumbs dug into my butt, I hoped and prayed they would leave bruises. That way I would have something physical to remember him by throughout the week. I love to catch a glimpse of a lovely purple mark on my body and sheepishly recall the naughty act that created it.
As my man thrust faster, I explored the muscles of his thighs with my hands as he jutted forwards into me. They were eager and hard. His thighs are his favourite feature, but I’ve always been most fond of his cock. Rising to the balls of his feet, he held me aloft by my hips. God, those sexy arms! My feet weren’t even touching the floor and I had to grab my duvet just to hold on to something. When I turned in near ecstasy to gaze at his face, it was practically scarlet, with one vein throbbing at the side of his forehead. The muscles in his athletic arms pulsed.
“Aren’t I too heavy for this?” I asked, anticipating his response.
“Feathers,” he said with strained laughter. “You’re as heavy as feathers.”
His cock had a mind of its own. It rammed so hard and fast into me, I knew my pussy would ache for days. So much the better. The dull pain would help me remember this morning throughout the week. I would do anything for that man. Thrusting his whole body into mine, he propelled me forwards so hard the mattress shifted sideways across the box spring. When he set my knees down on the dishevelled bed, I could feel his warm lips planting kisses across my back. He hugged me tightly around the waist, and I knew he was about to come.
Releasing a whimper like a child’s cry, he collapsed on top of me on the displaced mattress, cuddling against my back. He may never say it, but that’s how I know he loves me. We lay like that for a while, our blissed-out bodies in layers, flowing like a waterfall from heads on the mattress to knees on the box spring to feet on the floor. With his heavy body on top of me, I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
Eventually, he got up and showered. I didn’t move a muscle, just absorbed the scent of his body on my skin. After he dressed, he picked me up and reoriented me on the mattress, pushing it back into place. He tucked me into my sheets and duvet, then kissed my lips softly.
“I’ll see you next week,” he whispered, placing his gentle lips against my forehead. I listened to the metallic jingle of my lover’s keys as he locked the door on his way out. It was not yet 6:30 a.m. and already I couldn’t wait for the following Saturday.
Is it wrong to love a man with a wife and two kids? I don’t know. Maybe it is. But I’m addicted to the very smell of him now, and to the feeling of ecstasy that lingers long after he’s gone. Looking forward to his next visit gets me through the week. Anyway, I don’t take up much of his time. Just an hour each Saturday at 5:30 a.m.
FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T TELL MY WIFE
Robert, Wirral
OK, I confess. I did it. I screwed my wife’s best friend. I’m only partly to blame. Only partly. Sophie should at least share the blame, even though she’d never admit it. But she knew. I never made any secret about what pushes my buttons and she pushed as many as she could reach.
She’s one of those women who make you want to breathe in when you walk past them in the street and then hold your breath for as long as possible to keep their scent inside you. The first act in her capture.
My tastes have always been simple on the surface, but incredibly complex when you get under that surface. My public side, the one I always felt free to share with everyone, was a simple liking for most things that defined femininity to my albeit narrow mind. ‘Black’ falls into the list, as do ‘lacy’, ‘frill’, ‘stocking’, ‘suspenders’, ‘underwear’ and so on – I’m sure you get my drift.
And, like I said, Sophie knew it. She would wear clothes that not only inflamed my sight but also my senses of smell and hearing, the perfume of her and the way her clothes seemed to rustle as she moved. But, until that fateful day, the sense of her touch had eluded me. My eyes would dart each time she crossed her legs, hoping unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the stockings I was sure she wore, or perhaps the nirvana of bare skin above.
Oddly enough it was my writing that catalysed it all. I write erotic books. That’s one of my less public secrets, because people have their prejudices and preconceptions, not least my wife, who thinks I’m twisted and sick. Not that her opinion affects me other than to make me smile at her mediocrity as a woman and as a person.
Since I’ve known Sophie and her husband for so many years, and, on this occasion, alcohol had been flowing rather too liberally at a Christmas party, I confessed to her, too. She’d seen some of my straight writing, but this time, goaded by the scents and the sounds and the sights, I told her about my bondage novels. I didn’t get the reaction my fantasies had hoped for. I was relating the story of a woman who, to satisfy her dominant partner, had agreed to try to overcome claustrophobia be letting him lock her in a crate, suitably naked and thoroughly bound, for as long as he, not she, wished.
Sophie attacked. Why would a woman agree to such a thing? What could she, or her man, get out of the exercise, especially when, by their actions, they were physically separated by the boundaries of the wooden coffin that secured her?
But Sophie is not the only one who can push buttons. “If you have to ask, you’ll never understand the dynamic,” I countered.
That worked. I could feel her seething. Not that she’d ever admit I’
d got to her. And then the subject changed, never to return.
Not that day anyway.
I’d almost forgotten the incident by the time she phoned my mobile. When I saw her name on the display the memory returned and I expected some barbed comment. Instead her tone was guarded and mysterious. The book I’d been talking about, could she by any chance read it? I waited a few moments for some reason, some excuse why she would want to read such a perverse book. None came. I promised I’d drop off a copy when I went to the supermarket later in the day. I waited a respectable amount of time before driving to her house. If she was in, she didn’t answer the door, so I dropped it through her letterbox in a suitably ambiguous brown envelope.
Nothing happened until the following day, when a short text message on my mobile made things more serious. “Damn you,” it said. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Can we talk about it?” was my answer, a slight edge of concern that this would be some get-even plot hatched between Sophie and my wife.
“When?”
“Today. Two p.m.”
“OK.”
That got my heart rate going.
You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife when she let me in later the same day. She was polite and quiet, searching for the courage to open discussions. I guessed it fell to me.
“So,” I started, “the book …”
She blushed and avoided my eye.
“What was it you couldn’t get out of your mind?” I asked, adding, to help her, “the box?”
“No … all of it. Do people really behave like that?”
“Yes, lots of people do. Don’t tell me Peter has never forced you to do something, or held you down?”
“He’s very gentle,” was her get-out. I had always thought them naive.
A pause from both of us. A long pause. Did we dare resume breathing?
“Tell you what,” I offered, as light as I could be, “why don’t we try something? No pressure. If you don’t like it, just say and we’ll stop. Immediately.”
“Like a safe word?” she blurted. So she had read a lot.
“Yes. Choose one.”
She answered too quickly. She’d already imagined this. “Mozart” betrayed her interest in classical music.
“Mozart it is.” I smiled. “Just don’t ask me to hum.”
“What are you going to do?” she wanted to know, straight away.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested.
A scared look. “I never agreed that we’d . . .” An unfinished doubt.
“One step at a time. You can’t see in through the bedroom windows,” I explained then gambled on, “and there’s a bed to tie you to.”
That hit home. She swallowed hard. “OK.”
I followed her lovely rear view as we climbed the stairs and she led the way to their bedroom, then sat nervously on the bed and looked at the floor. A dressing gown hung behind the door, its belt an obvious invitation. I think she expected me to tie her hands with it, but instead I used it as a blindfold. To hide her from herself. She sat still as I fitted and knotted it.
“Something else. To tie you with,” I told her, my voice husky with desire for her.
“Ties. Second door along.”
Peter’s ties. A betrayal of her marital status? Maybe. I didn’t worry about that, taking a handful of ties and kneeling in front of her, wrapping the silk around her unprotesting wrists. Then another round her ankles. She stiffened as I raised her skirt.
“Your knees,” I lied. Well, part lied. I did secure her just above the knees, but I also took time out to see her stockings and thighs.
“How do you feel?” I asked when she was no longer free.
“Peculiar,” she replied. “Excited.”
I reached forwards and cupped her breast, the reaction an involuntary intake of breath. But Mozart stayed dead. My hand grew bolder, feeling her flesh through her dress and bra, the nipple pushing back at me. I focused on it, pleased with her sighed response.
“Do you like being helpless?” I wanted to know.
“I’m not helpless,” she whispered. “I can move my hands. I could stop you if I wanted.”
She moved her bound hands upwards and nudged mine from her breast. But did she want? To paraphrase the Spice Girls, did she really, really want?
“I think you are starting to understand, Sophie,” I ventured. “Let me change the question . . . Would you like being helpless?”
No answer. Just her rising and falling chest.
“Lie back on the bed,” I suggested. No, it was more a demand than a suggestion. I had to teach her.
“What are you going to do?” But she settled back and swung her feet up on the bed without waiting for me to answer.
More ties. One more. I untied her hands long enough for me to wrap one tie around her left wrist and secure it to the bedhead. She made no move to resist, so it was easy for me to take the other arm and secure it to the opposite post, giving her an erotic Y shape.
She took her time settling, unfamiliar with the fact she now was helpless. She’d played with the words and played with the ideas and now she was there. But she didn’t struggle, not yet.
After maybe five long minutes she spoke. “Are you going to keep me like this?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t? You have your safe word if you need it.”
“I know,” she added, a certain indication she wasn’t going to use it, for the moment at least.
My hands returned to her breasts again, firmer this time, using both hands on both breasts. When no complaint came, I unfastened her dress. How thoughtful (and perhaps planned) of her to wear one that buttoned up the front. Beneath, as I always knew there would be, I found black lace. Not quite see-through but not far off. She tugged at her bonds, not so much to try to get free, I imagined, as to assure herself she couldn’t.
A few minutes later my own impatience made me pull down the lacy cups of her bra and feast my eyes – closely followed by my hands and soon afterwards my mouth – on areas of her body I’d only ever fantasized about beforehand. I was getting uncomfortably excited and, judging from her jerky reactions, so was she.
“I can still move,” she goaded, bringing her bound legs up off the bed to demonstrate. It was a clear challenge, one I was happy to accept. Untying her knees and her ankles, I used the two ties to secure her feet, turning her comfortable Y into a slightly stretched X, and causing her errant hemline to show me all of those sexy stockings and the suspenders that held them so erotically taut.
“Now you can’t move,” I reminded her.
“No,” she said quietly.
I settled to caressing and kissing her breasts and neck again, rewarded by contented moans. My hands strayed too – downwards, over her rucked-up skirt and onto her surprisingly cool thighs, then down to feel the nylons and suspenders. Then, tentatively, upwards until they grazed the tiny strip of fabric that hid her remaining modesty. Her jerks continued as I pulled it aside and investigated her warm wetness.
“Fuck me,” was all she could grunt out. Such language from such a naive lady. What could I do but oblige?
That started a relationship that goes on today. That’s my confession. I screwed my wife’s best friend. The fact I’m still doing it, experimenting in ways that are as far out as our combined imaginations can invent, including her very own isolation box. But all that is fact – I have no need to confess that to anyone.
SHE COMES IN COLOURS
Simon, Brisbane
Annie and I had been friends for years, and though we went out occasionally, we weren’t really dating; she was cute, but skinny, and I preferred busty women – and so did she. But when she invited me to a sneak preview of the latest Star Trek movie organized by the local fan club, I decided it beat sitting home alone, and that’s how I met Helena.
Annie and I had barely walked into the lobby when Helena emerged from the costumed crowd and rushed up to give Annie a hug. I looked down, and my eyes locked on to a magni
ficent display of creamy cleavage; it took a huge effort to look up again. She was rather plump, but breasts that large wouldn’t have fitted on a skinny frame, any more than her grin would have fitted on a narrow face. “We haven’t met, have we?” she purred.
Annie introduced us, and then introduced me to Paul, Helena’s date. I resigned myself to watching the movie, but was pleasantly surprised when Helena sat next to me. Paul and Annie stared at the screen as though hypnotized, while Helena concentrated on entertaining me – shifting in her seat so that her tits swayed, dropping popcorn into her cleavage and fishing it out, even pressing her boobs against my arm and brushing her hand across my hard-on as she leaned over me to whisper to Annie. She kissed both of us goodbye after the movie and, as I drove Annie home, she commented, “You and Helena seemed to hit it off.”
I shrugged. “How long have she and Paul been together?”
“They’re not. She’s just come over here for a few weeks to get over her divorce and make up for lost time, as she puts it.” She said it warmly, without a hint of disapproval. “Look, it’s the club’s Christmas party on Saturday; do you want to come? You won’t have to wear a costume.”
I’m not sure why I said yes – maybe to make up for staring at another woman’s breasts all night – but I’m glad I did. When I arrived, I saw Helena sitting on a chair in the kitchen clad only in an old towel and green body paint, which Annie was applying to her neck and back.
“I’m going as an Orion slave girl,” Helena explained, “and Annie’s doing the parts I can’t see well enough to do myself. Do you want to help?”
I glanced at Annie, who grinned and handed me another pot of paint. “Uh . . . OK. Where should I start?”
In reply, Helena dropped the towel. The tops of her breasts were painted down to within an inch of her nipples, and her belly and thighs were also green, leaving only two narrow bands of pale pink. She grabbed both of her nipples – they were already swollen – and hoisted them up to her chin, saying, “I can’t see below here.”
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 32