The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “Tells people how to make money with their money.”

  “I always thought it was just work that did that. No wonder the girl’s a thief. No idea what’s what for all her intelligence, so she diddles about with money and steals salami. ‘Investment’ my bottom!”

  “Hold her still, Edna, I’ve got to invest something in this bottom here.” Frank began to twist and push. I bellowed with ignominious delight.

  “O Lordy, we’ve got a screamer. Any customers out front, Frank?”

  “Yeah, but Isabel’s takin’ care of them.”

  “Don’t want them to hear this. Might give them the wrong idea.”

  “This, my dear –” she held forth a ball gag “– is for bad little moo-moos who make too much noise.” And she gagged me.

  Frank continued. The old lady cranked up the suction. I was still bent over, and felt the salami oozing and twisting its way up me.

  I felt the old lady unhook my bra at the back. “I’ll just massage her titties for a bit. That should help too.”

  I felt I was going to go blind from joy and die of humiliation. I mooed. That’s what I did, deliberately. I mooed. Through the gag as well as I could. I’m a cow, I wanted to cry out to the world, milk me milk me milk me. Let my semen fill every pore and wrinkle on every sad face in the world. Let my dick stir potions for love and happiness. Just make me come, come, come. I stomped my feet and shook, wiggled, squealed . . .

  “Whoo-ee, will you look at that, Frank! She’s a regular geyser. That’s it, Bossy, squoosh, squoosh. Frank, look at her go!”

  “I know, I know. Is that collection bottle going to be big enough?”

  “Just barely. No one’s ever come close to filling it before.”

  I stomped my boots on the floor, bellowed and mooed. Every last ounce of pride and power gushed out of me through my pinioned tap. I was crazy.

  When it was all over she shut down the machine, unhooked me from it and removed the ball gag, then soaped and rinsed my tired cock with clean, damp sponges, as I stood there perfectly helpless and stunned. She gently cleaned the lube from the crack of my ass with warm soap and water, and even powdered me down when she was done. She got me all dressed, hooking my bra on expertly and snugly tying the Jane Belt for me, snapping me back into my skirt and pulling my sweater over my head. In the washroom, she even readjusted my make-up for me with the expert precision of one who had been in the business.

  Leading me into a tiny parlour with an enormous puffy armchair in it, she said, “Sit down here, dear, and recover your strength. You’ve been badly humiliated and totally drained of every last ounce of spunk and energy.”

  She brought me a cup of hot tea and went out front to tend to customers, leaving me to think my thoughts.

  I had been broken and milked by two old people whose bones I could have broken with my bare hands.

  After a while I collected myself, shouldered my purse and went into the store. She was counting money at the till. I stood, for a moment, taking in the whole store. The store I was going to steal from not that long ago. I felt quiet and peaceful inside. I walked up to her. “Would you like me to come back?” I said timidly.

  “Would I? I took a whiff of your spunk, honey, and I can tell it’s top-notch for my purposes. You bet. Come back as long as you’ve got a spring in your skirt and I can use you. You have a boyfriend, dear?”

  “No.”

  “A girlfriend maybe?”

  “Not that either.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t last long. You’re a real looker.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But until you get yourself a sweetie, sweetie, don’t go blowing your wad into a sock or something. I can always use more. Here’s your share, hon.” She put $150 on the counter before me. “This is after deducting the price of the salami, dear. I can’t sell that, now, can I?”

  “What? For me?”

  “You don’t think I was going to steal your spunk did you, honey? Now what’s the moral of this story after all? Don’t steal. Haven’t you learned that now?”

  “I’ll say. And I’ll never forget it, thanks to you. Stealing is wrong. But, ah, what about prostitution?”

  “I paid you for semen, dear, not sex. I didn’t turn you into a sperm cow for my own titillation. You see, dear, I just did it to acquire the raw fixin’s for my product – and to teach you a lesson, of course.”

  “I want you to keep the money. I mean, I don’t know how to say this but, degrading as it all was, I really enjoyed myself.”

  “So you have a good time and then give me $150 worth of merchandise? That would make me the whore, dear. Let’s just look at it this way: what if a Guernsey enjoys getting milked? She doesn’t owe the farmer anything. The farmer has her milk, doesn’t she?”

  I thought about that. “OK,” I said. I took the money and put it in my purse. I had no idea what I was going to do with it. Buy myself something pretty? Give it to Oxfam?

  “There’s just one thing I want to ask.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Can you please not call me ‘Bossy’ again?”

  “As you wish, hon. What is your name by the way?”

  “Portia. But I want you to call me . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Clarabelle.”

  “Clarabelle it is then.”

  “Moo.” I winked at her and she smiled, closing the till.

  YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

  Kathleen, Liverpool

  When there had still been some romance in him, in our earliest years together, Alan had said that he could never make a drama of our love; any satisfactory story had to have an end, he told me, and what we shared would have no ending. Twenty years on, though, I had come to realize that no ending was just as unfulfilling as a bad ending.

  What passion there was Alan had put into his work, into the stories and novels he wrote, the plays and television dramas; there was no passion in my life, only in his, which he lived as if it was a novel, he its hero, driven on by some anonymous but omnipotent author.

  Now I was so desperate for love that I could share it with anyone but my husband.

  “But a policeman, Alan? Did you have to?” I asked, as I set the places at the dining table.

  “Detective Inspector,” he responded, not looking up from the pad in his lap in which he was furiously scribbling notes. “And I want to pick his brain.”

  “But did it have to be here? And just him? Three is no number for a dinner party. Couldn’t he have brought his wife?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Not sure he has one.”

  Great! I thought, as my husband’s responses were spat out staccato fashion. Another man obsessed with self and career. It was going to be a wonderful evening.

  Gloomily I returned to the kitchen, checked that all was well with the food, uncorked a bottle of wine to let it breathe and then decided that I needed a glass.

  “Me too!” called Alan, hearing the pop of the cork.

  “So soon?” I called back.

  “If it’s soon enough for you then it’s soon enough for me.”

  “You’re drinking too much,” I said, pouring a second glass.

  There was no response until I carried the drink through to him, when he said, “Pot. Kettle. Black.”

  So often these days his side of a conversation was truncated, as if words had become so precious to him that he was frugal with them, reserving them for his work, denying them to me. Frowning, I handed him his drink and then sat on the sofa facing him.

  The pounds he had put on over the past months were becoming more noticeable, he had a visible paunch now where once he had been so slim, and his complexion was pasty, his eyes seemed to be weeping, red-rimmed, tired and lacking sparkle through working so many late nights.

  Not only did I feel no love for him, nowadays I felt no attraction towards him either.

  Sipping my drink, my mind
searched for some way to cheer up the evening ahead.

  “Well, I suppose your Detective Inspector might bring along his handcuffs,” I said, and finally Alan raised his eyes from his notepad, looked hard at me.

  “Do not, I repeat, do not inject any note of flippancy into this evening,” he cautioned me. “I need Robert’s input, I need his expertise as a policeman to make the work credible. If this one-off drama works then there could be a series to follow. Do not fuck the evening up with any crass comments or silly remarks.”

  “As if I would,” I said, with a grin and a dismissive wave of the hand.

  “Promise?” Alan insisted.

  “Cross my heart and hope to wotsit,” I said, my finger slowly marking a diagonal first one way and then the other, the manicured nail lightly scoring the skin where the neckline of my dress was cut low.

  But already Alan’s eyes were lowering, he was returning to his notes and failed to notice my nipples prick erect beneath the soft silk.

  Detective Inspector Robert Gregg was a hunk, I had to concede: his lush blond hair was like the mane of a cartoon lion; his shoulders broad and square beneath the elegant suit; his manner easy and relaxed as if he could cope with any situation.

  He smiled affably as I greeted him at the door, offered me a single rose and Alan a bottle of single malt.

  But then Alan took over, I was chef and waitress and almost coincidental to the evening. Even before the entree was set before them, he was quizzing the policeman, making notes in his pad right there at the table.

  “What I’m interested in is the vice aspect and what temptation, what complications it might present,” Alan was saying, as I came from the kitchen.

  “I hope you’re not asking if I’m a bent copper, Alan,” Robert said, with a smile and the slightest of winks in my direction.

  “Not at all! Not at all! You have the right to remain silent,” Alan quipped. “But still –?”

  “There are temptations that come one’s way,” Robert conceded. “And then there are aspects of vice that are cause for amusement, or sometimes revulsion.”

  “Amusement is good, it’s always useful to inject some humour,” said Alan eagerly, and I scowled, recalling that this was the very thing he had cautioned me against.

  “Why just this week we brought in a professional domme –”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Dominatrix,” Robert explained, while Alan waved at me to be quiet. “Nothing terribly wrong about her practices, if you’re into that sort of thing, except she was mixing in a spot of blackmail too.”

  For the next hour Robert kept Alan busy and me intrigued with his tales. The first bottle of wine was emptied, then a second. When I went through to the kitchen to open a third, and make coffee, I realized that I was perspiring heavily, my cheeks were burning and my whole body tingling as I thought of the depraved women and dominated men Robert had described.

  I held the bottle of wine to my cheek, felt its surface smooth, cooler than my fevered flesh, then lowered it, held it between my thighs, pressed it against my knickers.

  I was wet down there, incredibly wet, the fine silk was sopping, so I took off the knickers and tossed them into the laundry basket.

  “Many men are weak, or want to be made to feel that way,” Robert was saying, when I returned to the table. I topped up their glasses and then resumed my seat.

  “Only some, surely not many?” said Alan, as if weakness was a concept that was alien to him.

  “You’d be surprised, these women are skilled, they have their ways.”

  “And men too?” I slyly suggested.

  “Sorry?” said Robert, turning to me.

  “The roles can be reversed? There are men in whose presence a woman can be made to feel weak?”

  “Oh yes, but of course,” Robert agreed, and one anecdote flowed seamlessly into another.

  We were sprawled around the table now, our chairs pushed back, the meal finished and our bellies full.

  Finally Alan had stopped scribbling in that damned notepad, was slumped in his seat, his cheek propped against his fist and his eyes closed.

  “He’s cogitating; the artist deliberating?” Robert supposed, speaking in a whisper.

  “He’s sleeping; the piss artist dozing,” I said derisively, my voice not as soft, knowing that it would take a sharp nudge in the ribs or a slap across the head to rouse my husband.

  Robert smiled, reached out to touch his hand to my bare arm, as if someone should apologize for Alan.

  “Oh fuck him!” I hissed, before grinning, and turned to Robert to gauge his reaction.

  He was smiling still, no doubt used to much stronger language, and I got slowly to my feet, stepped around the table to stand in front of him.

  I had kicked off my shoes earlier, so stood before him in my stockinged feet, reached down to take the hem of my dress and lifted it. Black silk legs were bared for his appreciation, dimpled knees, the soft swell of my thighs and then the milky flesh where the lace tops gripped. Drawing the dress higher, I bared my naked groin to him, the neatly trimmed bush of blond hair, the slight protuberance of my belly.

  “Your presence has me weak already,” I said, my fingers spreading between my thighs, opening like the petals of a flower responding to the warmth of the sun.

  “And wet too, I see.” Robert smiled up at me, reaching out to touch me.

  Just the tip of a single finger touched the lips of my cunt but it delighted me more than any of Alan’s barely remembered caresses, had the muscles in my thighs spasming with pleasure.

  With no more than a cursory glance at my dozing husband, Robert rested his other hand on my hip, exerted a gentle pressure, and said, “Turn for me, Kathleen.”

  Making a slow pirouette, I presented my back to him, felt both his hands move to my groin, kneading my mound, stroking my labia, scratching through the soft fuzz of pubic hair.

  One hand fell, the other pulled, I was drawn back a step towards him.

  “You’re sure about this, Kathleen?” he asked softly, and it was not for fear of waking my husband that my only response was to nod silently.

  At that moment I couldn’t give a fuck for my husband, had only one thing on my mind.

  Inch by inch I was lowered into Robert’s lap, he had his cock out ready for me and it was harder than I could remember a cock ever being, his fingers were splaying to part the lips of my cunt and let it nudge inside me.

  “Oh my!” I gasped, as the first inch slipped inside me.

  “Slowly, so you enjoy it, so you savour it,” Robert told me, his hands on my waist to direct me, and gradually I felt him fill me, until my bare buttocks were settled on the soft wool of his trousers and he was buried deep inside me.

  I wanted him to fuck me there and then, wildly and with passion, but he would not permit it, not yet.

  Instead, his cock hard but motionless inside me, he crept his hands up my belly, beneath my dress, climbed up my ribcage to work inside my bra and cup my breasts. Fingertips caught my nipples between them, squeezed, making me squirm in his lap, my body stirring on his cock.

  “Yes, that’s it, Kathleen, slowly,” he said, licking between my shoulder blades where the back of my dress left my skin bare, planting the gentlest of kisses which felt for all the world like moths beating their wings against me.

  His body lifting a little in his chair, driving his cock just a little deeper inside me, he craned his head to lick at my neck, ran his tongue across my ear and then blew gently into it, making my arms break out in a series of goosebumps.

  So long since that had happened, so long since Alan had been able to provoke that reaction in me, and I clamped my hands over Robert’s, pressed them hard against my breasts until I thought I might scream with the pain.

  “So long!” I sobbed. “So long!”

  “You flatter me,” Robert said, with a low chuckle.

  My head rested back against Robert’s shoulder, my eyes were closed as I savoured the sensation, as he ha
d told me to; but now it was not the sensation of him growing ever harder inside me, then coming in a blistering orgasm at the same moment that I did, but of his cock wilting and shrinking from me like a shy meek creature.

  And the wonderful thing was that it was as delightful as anything else I had experienced. There was none of the frustration I felt when Alan – on those rare occasions he could be bothered to try – came too quickly and shrank so alarmingly, as if out of shame. Now I felt a euphoric sense of power, a joy with the intensity of my orgasm and of Robert’s too.

  His hands still fondled my breasts, but gently now, with a tenderness I had forgotten could exist, and my body felt molten as it was cradled in his lap.

  And still, through all this, my husband dozed, lost in a drunken stupor, perhaps creating dramas in his mind which would only ever be enacted on paper.

  “Tell me, do you have your handcuffs?” I finally asked Robert, posing the question my husband had cautioned me against.

  “Eh?” asked Robert.

  “Your handcuffs,” I repeated, turning awkwardly to kiss his cheek. “Do you have them with you?”

  “Of course not!” he laughed. “Why on earth do you ask?”

  “I’ve tried weak and enjoyed it, but now I want more. I want to experience the other side of the coin.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, taking his arms from around me and rising from his lap.

  I looked around the room for a moment, at the dining table littered with the last of the meal, the empty coffee cups, the dregs of wine in the glasses. Then I nodded, as if I had come to a decision, raised my hands and began to pull off my dress.

  “Kathleen? What are you doing?” Robert asked.

  “Ssh!” I told him, a finger to my lips as I bent to remove my stockings.

  With a light step, like a villain on a pantomime stage, I crept up on my husband, gently lifted his head and rested it back. Then, laying his hands on the arms of the chair, I bound him to it, wrapping a stocking around each wrist.

  “There, as good as any handcuffs.” I smiled, returning to Robert’s side and sitting on his knee.

  “Effective enough,” he agreed. “And now what?”