Again I surprised myself by crying out in need. He started to thrust, firmly and deeply, holding me by the handcuffs. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his face, expression unchanged, and I could feel the things on his belt smacking on my buttocks as he fucked me.
It was my dream come true. My hot young cop was now grinning at my whimpering. He had the power and we both loved it. He knew my weakness for his get-up and pulled out, spinning me round quickly. He lifted me up to sit me on the desk. I lay back to enjoy the view as he entered me again and resumed thrusting. The look on his face was one of complete authority.
As I felt my muscles start clenching for climax I allowed my eyes to drink up his hands gripping my hips, the gun on his belt swinging gently. Then I was gone, dropping over the edge of blissful oblivion and sighing softly. My climax must have been all he was waiting for because as soon as he saw it petering out he pulled himself up to kneel over my face on the desk. I remember sort of wishing my hands were free to grip his buttocks as he rode my face. I listened to his soft sighs as I swallowed down a mouthful of young law enforcement greedily. To me he tasted divine.
As soon as he’d finished he jumped off the desk. I sat myself up and watched him put himself away. He then leaned forwards and put his arms around me to undo the cuffs. I buried my face in his neck and took a deep breath of his musky scent, a mix of sweat and cologne.
He then stepped back to clip the cuffs back on his belt, winked, and left the room.
I recall that as the door swung slowly shut I watched his tight arse in his uniform pants as he strode over to the counter. I then quickly clipped my bra up, pulled my panties back on and zipped myself back into the red dress.
When I emerged he had gone and so had the coffees. I found his money on the counter and slowly rung the sale up in the till, gazing out the window into the night. My lips still tasted of him, my thighs still wet with my arousal.
As I said, best night of my life.
FUCK MY WIFE, PLEASE!
R.C., Danville
I wanted my wife just as much as he seemed to, judging by the huge rock in his jeans. My wife, Cindy, probably figured Rick was horny watching her dance in front of us in her bare feet. She tried to act oblivious to his reaction, but periodically I caught her checking out his bulge, which was by no coincidence much larger now than it had been when he had first arrived over four hours ago. Not to say he did not try to hide it with his hands rested on his lap, but this method proved futile when each swig of his beer exposed the beast.
Rick and I also pretended not to pay much attention to her, but this was hard to do.
“Who needs another beer?” Rick asked.
“Grab me one,” I said.
“I’ll take one,” answered my wife, still shaking her taut, compact ass in her chequered, flannel pyjama bottoms, while hip-hop music bumped from the stereo speakers. It was a style of music I ordinarily would not want played, but as the scene was such a turn-on, I did not complain. Ken Russell’s film Salome’s Last Dance played out mutedly on the television screen.
We all seemed to be buzzing pretty good from the beer that we picked up after going to the restaurant, on top of the margaritas we had at dinner. We decided to continue our fun at home rather than hitting the bars, to save money. Rick was an old friend who lived over 200 miles away in a smaller city in central Illinois. We had worked construction there together until I completed my bachelor’s degree in computer science and moved to Chicago. It had been the Windy City where I had met Cindy, shortly after the move. She had at the time been working two jobs – at a retail store in the day and tending bar at night. We had married almost exactly one year ago. Rick had been one of the groomsmen, and that was the last time either of us had seen him. He had always been a good friend: easy to talk to and a fun drinking companion. He was physically much better built for construction work than I had been.
Rick returned from the kitchen with the beers. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.
“Cindy just flashed her tits,” I joked.
“Damn, and I missed it?”
“Here, I’ll do it again.” She pulled up her pyjama top halfway and – likely inadvertently – flashed the bottom of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra.
“Wooo,woo!” hollered Rick. “That’s some wife you got there, buddy.”
“You’re telling me.” I could not believe she did it.
I had always had fantasies of Cindy taking on me and another man; and Cindy and I had played games in which she spoke of other men she would like to screw, while we fucked. Of course, those were only games. But when she had talked like that, in some mysterious way it made me both extremely jealous and extremely horny at the same time. It had brought on a tension so intense that not only would a heavy come release it, but it would also invariably result in a heavy come. I had always nailed her as hard as I could during those games. I had never thought in a million years that a penis other than mine would actually penetrate her.
Watching her now, dancing like a whore in front of us, and her likely knowing that she was turning Rick on – and with the effect the alcohol had on me – I decided I would try to have my darling wife do a threesome with Rick and me.
As we all tipped back a few more beers, my wife became a little tipsy. She finished the rest of the champagne Rick had brought over, and the empty bottle slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor. The opened end of the bottle pointed towards Rick. “Well, looks like you have to take your shirt off,” my wife said to Rick and laughed.
Rick laughed too and looked at me a bit self-consciously. Apparently he did not know how I was taking this sexual bantering between the two of them and was trying to read my expression. When my wife went to the kitchen to grab another round of beers, I broke the ice with, “Looks like she likes you,” and chuckled.
I was pretty sure, from knowing him, that Rick would be up for a threesome; and my wife was one sexy woman: adorable face; long, wavy brown hair; firm tits, and – as mentioned – a great ass. What I did not know was whether my wife would be up for it. I knew I had to think strategically for this to work.
“Hey, your shirt is still on,” said my wife, returning to the living room with the three beers.
“Yeah, so is yours,” I interjected.
“Well, I can fix that,” my wife said, pretending she was going to remove her pyjama top and once again exposing only the bottoms of her breasts. She dropped two of the cans of beer. Leaning over to pick them up, with the pyjama top being loose and having the top two buttons undone, my wife’s tits were in plain view for Rick and me, nipples and all. I actually saw Rick’s boner moving in his pants.
Cindy struggled to pick up the two cans of beer and in the process dropped the third can – good thing none were opened. She dropped to her knees to retrieve the beers. Either Rick or I could have leaned off the couch to help her out, but we were busy enjoying the view of my wife’s jiggling tanned boobs. She picked up one can and handed it to me; she picked up another and crawled over to Rick, laying it in his crotch. She grabbed the third can and climbed up onto the middle cushion of the sofa, between Rick and me. She sat straddling both Rick’s leg and my leg closest to her – she was in a leg spread. Maybe this would not be as difficult as I had thought.
“How about a foot massage?” she asked, looking at us both and extending her pretty feet.
“You heard her, Rick.”
Rick appeared hesitant, and then grabbed hold of her left foot, rubbing it as I massaged her right foot.
“Mmmm,” my wife responded. I noticed her eyelids were drooping and knew I had better act before she passed out. I was hoping the foot massage to be foreplay, not a sleeping aid.
I held the side of her head, inched closer to her and began French kissing her, placing my other hand on her thigh. This seemed to rouse her. Rick continued on her foot. The implausible suddenly seemed plausible – I was in perfect position to get a three-way started.
My next statement could have
been crossing the line – the point of no return – except I knew I could pretend I was joking, in light of the situation. “Why don’t you suck her toes, Rick?”
My wife stopped kissing me.
She looked at me, studying me. I went too far, I thought. In a hushed tone – her former giddiness no longer seeming present – she asked, “Are you sure?” And I knew she was not merely asking about the toe-sucking – which Rick delayed acting upon; she was asking, Are you sure you want to share me with your friend?
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
My wife briskly repositioned herself and said, “You heard the man; suck my toe!” She crammed her toes into Rick’s mouth to his obvious astonishment. Seeing my look of approval, he held her foot in both hands and sucked on her big toe. My wife breathed heavily as she unzipped my fly, pulled out my cock and began gobbling it up. Of all the blow jobs I’d had prior to our marriage, my wife gave the best. She sucked in corkscrew fashion, twisting her head from side to side as she moved her lips up and down my shaft.
“Rick, go ahead and play with my ass,” Cindy said, and I nodded my approval to him. Rick began groping my beloved wife’s ass through her soft pyjama bottoms while continuing to suck on her toes.
“You’re doing a good job on those toes, Rick. Why don’t you eat her pussy?” I suggested, floating in and out of consciousness from sheer pleasure.
“Yeah . . . eat my pussy, Rick!” exclaimed my wife, sassily, as she got on her knees – still on the couch – and pushed her ass out towards Rick.
Rick wasted no time in removing Cindy’s pyjama bottoms and laying his tongue to her snatch from behind. He must have been inhaling the sent of her luscious ass because his nose was right up her butt crack.
“How’s that ass smell, boy?” Cindy asked, an apparent rhetorical question.
My jealousy and arousal intensified times ten as compared to my wife’s and my bedroom talk, watching this other man eat out my wife. Her moans were muffled as she sucked my cock. She had to stop periodically to release the pressure to moan freely, but would jack me off during these moments. I had never heard her moan like that when I licked her cunt. She was being a filthy whore – and I loved it!
“What are you waiting for? Fuck her, Rick.”
Rick dropped his pants, positioned himself behind my darling wife, and drove his cock in. My wife grunted and groaned. He started slowly at first, gradually accelerating.
My wife removed her lips from around my cock, looked up at me and announced, “His dick feels so fucking good.” Intense heat travelled throughout my body, and I shuddered all over.
I grabbed hold of the back of Cindy’s hair and forced her back down around my dick. “Suck, bitch,” I commanded. And she sucked hard and fast, deep-throating me as Rick ploughed her. Her moans caused pleasurable vibrations, and she cupped my balls in her hand.
My wife sporadically stopped sucking only to barrage me with comments such as, “Ooh, he is such a good fuck,” and, “His dick is so big!” She would also blurt out commands to Rick. For example: “That’s it, stud; fuck your friend’s wife. Fuck that cunt good and hard!”
Rick laid into her with quick, jerky thrusts and was sopping with sweat.
“Stick a finger up my butt,” my wife demanded of Rick. Rick slobbered on his large, middle finger and eased it into Cindy’s butt hole. My wife moaned more loudly as he fingered her taut little ass.
“Come on, Rick, spank me with your other hand!” Cindy yelled. Rick did as told, slapping at both ass cheeks. He was leaving red handprints on her caboose.
I could not believe what I was experiencing, nor could I believe my wife was actually letting this happen and seeming to dig it.
“You fuck better than my husband!”
I was ablaze. I yanked my wife from around Rick’s finger and cock, flipped her on her back, and fucked the living daylights out of her. She was yelling like crazy with pleasure until Rick shut her up with his dick down her throat. I ripped her pyjama top open and held her wrists so she could not move them. Rick groped at her breasts.
We all three came in unison, seemingly suspended in time; then we collapsed upon one another.
I slept the best sleep I’d had in years that night. Since then, adding to our various sexual implements – the dildos, the sex oils, the erotic films, and the anal beads – we had Rick, who seems to visit much more often nowadays.
SUMMER OF ’69
Tony, Leicester
The other day I heard Bryan Adams singing “Summer of ’69” and it brought back all sorts of memories – not least of which was Mrs Greening and her wonderful underwear. More specifically it reminded me of Mrs Greening’s clothes line, and what I saw there that summer. Just an ordinary clothes line strung across our neighbour’s garden but to me there was a fascination about what she hung on it – mostly her underwear. I was nineteen and old enough to know that women of a certain age wore a certain kind of underwear, that they upholstered themselves with things they called foundation garments. Nothing trivial or lightweight, not like the teenage girls I’d try to chat up at the clubs around the city – exciting enough in their nylon knickers and skimpy cotton bras, or even the ones who liked to be daring and go round without any bra on at all, but nothing as substantial as the things the woman next door wore.
Women like Mrs Greening weren’t into anything trendy. They wore real, functional underwear designed to enhance their mature shape, to hold them in and push them up. Bras with broad, white satin-like straps and pointed cups. Matching girdles, shaped like a tulip with a zipper at the side and adorned with metal clasp suspenders – those strange, almost ingenious creations – and of course nylons. Nylons that gleamed with a faint sheen that drew my eye. My friends, falling over themselves in their fantasies of possessing girls in miniskirts and tights, seemed oblivious of the charms and styles of mature women and what older women wore underneath their sensible, knee-length dresses and skirts.
But then I told myself they hadn’t seen Mrs Greening’s clothes line, they hadn’t seen her as I had pegging out her corsets and slips and all the rest of it. If they had seen what I’d seen, out on the line and drying in the sun, they would have understood too. It made me go hard just thinking about it, and the fact that Mrs Greening was wearing all that underwear every day.
I wondered if Mr Greening took any notice of it, but he always seemed to be out at the local pub, leaving his wife in on her own. They must have been happy enough with how they lived as I never heard them row, not like my mum and dad did at times. So I reasoned that Mr and Mrs Greening were content enough, even if he wasn’t as turned on as me about the thought of the woman in her heavy-duty underwear.
I did agonize over this, fearing that my desire to masturbate over the thoughts of the woman and her lingerie was unique. I worried it made me some sort of pervert, wanting to think about a woman in her forties wearing all those tight girdles and long-line brassieres. But then it wasn’t the underwear alone. It was the thought of Mrs Greening in them, and in my self-excited fantasies she was increasingly showing me herself in her underwear.
I even got off on the idea of her going out into the back garden in her underwear and pegging her normal clothes out on the line as if she had washed everything and had nothing else to wear. The thought of her wandering round the house in her underwear and stockings was the trigger I needed to send me into a fabulous climax.
In truth I didn’t know Mrs Greening very well. I saw my mother talking to her across the fence in the garden, and several times slid close enough to try to listen in, hoping they would be discussing Mrs Greening’s underwear. They weren’t, I was disappointed to discover.
Mrs Greening was mature, though I had no real idea of how old she was. Not as old as my mum (who was forty-seven) but not far off. She was a brunette, not especially tall but well built with a narrow waist and good, round hips. Her bust jutted out invitingly and it took me no time at all t
o work out that her shape was no doubt mostly about what she wore under her outer clothes.
The thoughts that this was everyday stuff for Mrs Greening, that every morning she would clip and fasten and zip herself into her underwear, sent my fantasies into overdrive. It had briefly occurred to me that my mother might have underwear like Mrs Greening – my little sister Jane certainly didn’t – but a surreptitious examination of laundry piles and drawers soon revealed my mother didn’t feel the need to wear what Mrs Greening did. I resumed my interest in Mrs Greening’s clothes line, relieved in a way my mother didn’t wear what our neighbour did as it seemed entirely wrong to think these thoughts about my own family.
Then I found out what Mrs Greening was like.
For once I wasn’t staring at the clothes line. For once I wasn’t preoccupied with curves and containment. But a breeze, a sudden stiff gust, sprang up and one of Mrs Greening’s white girdles – as the mercurial twist of fate would have it, not pegged properly to the line – finished up on our side of the fence. Under many circumstances, I might have felt it better to tell my mother, let her deal with it. But Mum was out and, feeling a little emboldened by the chance to touch Mrs Greening’s underwear, I picked the girdle up, feeling its weight and texture, admiring the suspenders and the sheen on the panel at the front (at least I assumed it was the front).
It didn’t surprise me that being so close to what had been so close to Mrs Greening made me erect, bulging the front of my trousers. I was however surprised that Mrs Greening emerged from her house at that moment and confronted me.
“So, young Tony,” she intoned, one eyebrow raised, standing in front of me in a satin-like gown drawn and tied closed at the waist. “It’s you that’s been sneaking round taking my underwear off the clothes line, is it?”
I stared at the woman, my jaw sagging. I had last been in her garden three years before to retrieve a ball. But having been banned, after smashing a window at our own house, from playing football in the garden, I had no need to do anything but stay on my own side of the fence.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 50