I fingered the borrowed digital camera in my coat pocket. It was perfect for the task at hand, no bigger than a small pocket calculator. I stroked its rounded metal contours as I watched Stella’s pleasing behind vanish into the shadowy confines of an underpass. To be truthful, I felt like stroking something else. I was getting quite hard and required some relief. When I entered the passageway, I found that she stood casually leaning against the tiled wall, her raincoat unfastened.
“Get the camera out,” she hissed, her eyes firmly fixed upon the tunnel entrance behind me. I reached in my pocket and drew out the spy-cam. I raised one eyebrow and smiled. She frowned. Espionage was a serious business. Suddenly, there were voices behind us and footsteps, approaching the underpass. Stella fixed me with a steely, commanding gaze.
“Now! Take this!”
Quick as a wink, the young woman whipped open her coat and gave me a flash of what she had on underneath. Obediently, I pressed the button and felt my manhood press against my fly. As two girls entered the passage, Stella moved away, like a bat out of hell, swiftly wrapping the raincoat around her nubile body. She stalked off at her former brisk pace, again leaving me in her dust. Outside, near the sturdy Victorian arches of Blackfriars Bridge, a faint London drizzle was beginning to fall. I replaced the camera in my pocket and turned up the collar of my coat. So, Stella was a flasher. Well, well, well. An image of her exhibitionist’s outfit was burned into my brain as I followed the young woman, beginning to feel like a stalker and a pervert. She was wearing black leather thigh-high boots and a cherry-red latex mini-dress. The dress seemed to be melted onto the surface of her firm, tight body. Its skirt was so short that it barely covered her crotch. Was she wearing panties? I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon find out. My cock throbbed as I kept the girl in sight. Her boobs were quite small and very round, like oranges. The nipples formed two little dimples in the glossy fabric of the skimpy dress.
On we trotted, past the tall redbrick facade of the Oxo building, with its upscale design galleries and restaurant in the tower, which, in a more practical age, was a meat extract factory. Stella kept her gaze firmly fixed to the front, as if she knew exactly where she was going. I wondered how many scenic miles she’d take me on her Wednesday flash and whether we would pause for refreshment. I was musing about lunchtime Guinness and shepherd’s pie, when she suddenly took a turn to the right and clip-clopped onto the wooden boards of a small pier used as a viewpoint. This was a much more exposed venue than the underpass. My fingers closed on the camera as she commanded me with her dark-lashed eyes. I presumed she was scanning for onlookers but, funnily enough, I was ceasing to care. I pressed the button as she opened her coat. I pressed it once, twice, three times, punctuating her movements. She leaned against the iron rails of the pier, damp black hair beginning to curl a little above her ears. Closing her eyes in ecstatic abandon, she thrust her boobs forward, two perfect juicy mounds encased in tight bright latex like a second skin. They looked almost as if they had been sprayed with paint and were still wet. As she arched her back, she parted her lips, which were as glossy as her naughty outfit, revealing small, rather predatory-looking even white teeth. Her nipples looked as if they were poised to pop over the tight, elastic neckline of the outrageous dress. I snapped buoyant cleavage and several inches of tantalizing thigh. The boots were amazing. Stiletto-heeled, they were quite wide at the tops, reminding me of a pantomime boy. Dick Whittington boots but sexy, oh so sexy. My cock threatened to wear a hole in my underwear.
In the distance, someone whistled and, with little change in facial expression, Stella smartly belted her coat and trotted off again, like a fox tipped off by the baying of hounds. I heard the metal-tipped heels of her boots drum a hollow determined beat on the boards of the pier, then she turned right to continue along the Thames walkway. The rain was getting heavier and I saw her retrieve a tiny umbrella from her bag. With one deft flick of the wrist, the brolly was up, a bright red splash on a dull grey day. Of course, my own head was unprotected. I marched on in the young woman’s wake, wet about the ears and rigid in the crotch.
Eventually, we arrived at the stretch of the embankment favoured by street performers. Stella paused to watch a young woman who seemed to be coated in silver paint, a living statue in a Victorian-style dress. Slowly, moving jerkily as if propelled by a rusty mechanism, the street artist offered a paper flower. Stella tossed a pound coin in the “statue’s” basket and took the giant daisy with a hint of a smile. The statue blew her an arthritic kiss. I lingered among the onlookers until she headed off towards the enormous gleaming wheel of the London Eye. Was she hoping to flash inside one of the see-through capsules that took people up for a fairground-style ride to view the city from a pigeon’s angle? I’d heard the queues were dreadful.
The queue was lengthy, especially for a drizzly winter morning when the view from the Eye would surely be cloaked with cotton wool-like mist. I saw Stella turn to the left, into an open-air café. I’d rather have had a beer but it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Was she really going to sit down? Like a sleepwalker, I followed her wriggling bottom through the maze of little tables. She selected one in a corner, near the concrete-clad anchor point of one of the vast Eye’s cables. I made to join her and she muttered: “Not here. Sit at another table and watch.”
“Mind if I have a coffee?”
The young woman fixed me with a brief, withering glance. It seemed a cappuccino was out of the question. Like a good boy, I took position at a nearby table. Stella’s table wasn’t protected by the tented roof of the café so she kept her umbrella up, effectively screening her from those around. I sensed a photo opportunity was nigh and fumbled for the Fuji.
With a conjuror’s sleight of hand, the young woman stood up, flipped open her coat, arched her back and, still holding the umbrella, popped out her tits. I swear they bounced out like a pair of rubber balls. They didn’t quite look real but who was caring? I snapped her as she pouted moodily, her red lips, red dress, red umbrella startling as blood against the grey London day. Her boobs were very white, the nipples full and dark by contrast. They pointed upwards, as did my cock.
Then Stella placed one kinky-booted foot on another chair, exposing an acre of strong, slender thigh. I snapped the leather-clad leg from sharp pointy heel to wide, thigh-caressing top. Her dress rode up to her crotch and I snapped a glimpse of shaven heaven, a perfect little pink pussy with just a touch of dark hair. She had a small silver ring in one of her labia. Slyly, she caressed her clit, at the same time running the tip of her tongue over the thick gloss of her scarlet lips. I snapped and came.
She knew what she’d done and smiled, her vixen’s face looking quite smug. Before I knew what was happening, she had tidied herself and was off again, leaving me in a damp, sticky mess. An elderly woman glared as I trotted out of the café, limping slightly as my trousers stuck to my swollen, sodden crotch. Now where was she?
The familiar silhouette of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament rose up in the darkening sky. Stella’s bright umbrella bobbed along the walkway towards Westminster Bridge. She seemed to be gaining speed and I suddenly remembered the fifty quid. Glancing back at me, she stopped by a tree and I watched her retrieve an envelope from her bag and tuck it into a notch in the trunk. Thinking of sudden gusts of wind and thieves, I broke into a jog. Stella reached the main road crossing the bridge as I reached the tree. I clasped the envelope in my hot little hands as I watched a big red London bus come along. Calmly, Stella walked to a nearby bus stop, got on the bus and turned to blow me a perfunctory kiss from its platform. And then she was gone, southbound to who knows where. I opened the envelope. As I suspected, there was no money, just a brief note in bold, strong handwriting: Enjoy the pictures. S
I never saw Stella again, though I’ve certainly kept a keen eye out for that minx in kinky boots. However, our risqué photo shoot by the Thames proved stimulating in more ways than one. Creative juices aroused, I decided to become a glamour photographer. Now
I photograph “dangerous curves” almost every day. If I told you my real name, you might even have heard of me . . .
Friday Fun Night
Claire, Chatham
Arthur and I have been married for a couple of years. We’re both in our mid-forties, and we’ve both been married before. His first wife died, while my first husband left me. I work as a clerk in a hospital and Arthur’s an accountant with the local government authority. I guess you could say that we lead a pretty dull, contented life. Except for our Friday Fun Nights, that is.
Arthur came up with the idea about six months ago. Things had become a little stale in the bedroom for us, I guess. I always did everything he asked of me – sucked his balls and cock, licked his arse, took him in my arse; to his satisfaction, I thought – but he wanted a little more spice. And he’s the boss in the bedroom.
So, he designated Friday night as our fun night. The night we’d get a little bit wilder with one other; though still maintaining our respectable reputation with the neighbours, of course. It would all be done in the privacy of our own home, and nobody would get hurt. Or, at least, not too badly hurt, Arthur assured me.
I’ll never forget that first Friday Fun Night . . .
Arthur came home at his usual time – 6:05 – and I greeted him at the door, as usual. “How was your day, dear?”
He grunted and dropped his briefcase down on the side table and hung up his coat. I could tell that he was upset about something. Probably his new supervisor at work had been at him again. Or maybe he was just a little nervous about our first Friday Fun Night.
I know I was more than a little apprehensive, myself. And a lot excited. Arthur hadn’t told me what he had planned, and I had no idea what was in store for me.
“Would you like a drink, dear?”
Grunt.
He sat down in his armchair in the living room and I brought him his usual gin and tonic. He grabbed the glass from me and downed the contents in three quick gulps, which was unusual for him. He hadn’t even reached for the newspaper.
“I see you didn’t even bother dressing up, eh?” he grumbled.
I thought I had. I looked down at the floral-print dress I was wearing, one of Arthur’s favourites. The dress moulded closely to the round contours of my body, my large breasts and bottom pushed out at the front and back. I’d done my red hair up the way he likes it and dabbed on plenty of makeup, as well.
“Sorry, dear. I didn’t know—”
“You never do what you’re told, do you?”
That was so far from the truth it was ridiculous. “Why, yes, Arthur, you know I—”
He reached around where I was standing next to his chair and swatted me on the bum.
I jumped, surprised.
“You need to be taught a lesson about pleasing your man,” he said.
He smacked me on the bum again, harder. My knees buckled and I almost fell forward onto my face. I’ve got plenty of padding back there, but his hand still stung me – to the quick.
I looked down into Arthur’s face. He’s got the deepest blue eyes; they usually sparkle, set off against his pale skin and dark hair. But now they were ice-cold, hard and glaring. I thrilled under his gaze like I had under his hand. Things were not “usual” anymore, for sure.
“You’ve had this coming for a long time, Claire,” Arthur stated. He whacked my bottom again, so hard this time that I did stumble forward. “Take off that ugly dress!”
I was shaking, shimmering. My pussy was flushed hot and damp as the rest of me, almost from the first instant Arthur had laid his heavy hand on my bum. My buttocks flashed with feeling, where he’d struck them. I squirmed quickly out of my dress and stood next to Arthur in his chair in just my black lace bra and panties (also worn specially for the occasion).
Arthur didn’t think much of my undies, either, however. He grabbed my arm and pulled me over his knees, yanked my panties right down. My bum cheeks popped out into the open – quivering mounds of hand-warmed flesh.
Arthur smacked my bare arse with his bare hand, jolting me to the core. The sound of flesh-on-flesh impact cracked in my ear, the sensation arcing through my bent-over body. Hot blood rushed to my head and bum and pussy.
Arthur popped my bra open with his left hand, roughly squeezed the sides of my breasts where they were squished against his thigh. And he spanked me with his right hand, slamming my buttocks again and again and again. It was such a strange, sensual mixture of pain and pleasure, heat and hurt – Arthur whaling my bum, fanning searing flames of perverted passion I hadn’t even thought I’d possessed.
“How does that feel!?” my dear husband gritted, panting, blasting his hand down across my gyrating buttocks. “Have you learned your lesson yet!?”
I wasn’t at all sure what lesson I was supposed to learn. But not to upset the man any further – or maybe to upset him even further – I gulped, “Yes, Arthur! Oh, yes!” jerking with each and every whack of his hand on my bottom.
My swollen clit pressed and rubbed against his thigh as he rocked me. I was already on the verge of coming, driven there fast and furious like never before by Arthur taking out his frustration on my bottom. It was a new, wonderful, wicked experience.
“No! I don’t think you’ve learned anything yet!” Arthur encouraged me. He pushed me off his knees, and it was all I could do to stop from tumbling right onto the floor.
I stood silently on shaking legs, naked, my breasts and buttocks jutting out, the one pair burning, the other pair blazing. Arthur got up and grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the living room and down into the basement, into his private den. I could see that his hard cock was almost bursting through his conservative suit trousers.
When he opened the door and pulled me inside the small room, and turned on the light, I found out what all the banging had been about during the week. Arthur had installed an iron bar overhead across the ceiling, bolted into the wall at each end. He picked up a pair of silver handcuffs from his desk in the near corner. I’d never seen the handcuffs before either, nor the other assorted sex toys that were carefully arranged on the top.
Arthur cuffed my right wrist and said, “I’m only doing this for your own good, Claire. You have to be taught a lesson.”
I eagerly nodded. My breasts and buttocks jiggled, my face was burning as bright as my bum with needle-like sensations in my beaten bottom cheeks.
Arthur lifted my arms up to the iron rod and cuffed my left wrist so that the chain of the shackles was over the bar and my hands were on either side. There was no way I could escape even if I’d wanted to. He picked up a wooden yardstick off his desk and got in behind me on one side. He trounced my buttocks with the hard, smooth, three-foot length of wood.
I yelped and jumped forward. The handcuff chain rattled against the iron bar. I was held fast. Arthur lashed my battered bottom with the yardstick again and again and again. I grabbed onto the bar and hung on.
Every crash of the wood against my cheeks flashed an electric shock sizzling through me, scorching up from my bum and burning through the rest of my body. My damp hands slipped on the bar. Perspiration ran down my sides from my upraised, quivering arms. I was up on my toes, clenching and thrusting my bottom back to meet the savage blows, sticking my shuddering tits out, shaking out of control. My gasps of twisted delight were cut out by the warning whistle of the stick slicing through the air then the shattering crack of impact on my arse.
Arthur was breathing almost as hard as I was.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang upstairs.
“Don’t go anywhere!” Arthur told me, tossing the yardstick back down onto his desk. His hand shook violently as he struggled to get the door open.
I trembled from head to toe with sexual sensation and anticipation.
Arthur escorted a woman into the room, then shut the door on all three of us.
“This is Kelcie,” he said, introducing me to the tall, slender, green-eyed, dark-skinned blonde. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see a naked
woman handcuffed to an iron bar.
I smiled nervously and nodded. Kelcie was wearing a red leather jacket and a leopard-print top, a black leather skirt and black stockings with red stiletto heels. Her thick lips gleamed with crimson lipstick and her wide eyes were rimmed with plenty of dark eyeliner.
“I’ve enlisted Kelcie to help us out tonight,” Arthur explained to me.
Kelcie nodded and smiled.
“Suck my cock,” my husband said to her. “My wife wants to watch.”
I clenched the bar, my knees buckling again. Kelcie stripped off her jacket and top and peeled away her skirt. Her breasts were almost as large as mine, with no saggage. She had prominent, pointing nipples even darker than the surrounding ebony skin – and she had a small, soft cock between her legs!
Kelcie dropped to her knees on the carpet, unfastened Arthur’s belt and unzipped his fly. Then she dug her long, red-glossed fingernails inside Arthur’s suit pants and pulled out his cock. It was very erect and pulsing bright pink in Kelcie’s black hand. She swirled her hand up and down his cock, pumping my husband up even longer and harder and thicker.
He stared at me watching the strange woman wank him. “Maybe you’ll learn something now,” he said.
Kelcie licked her plush lips an inch away from Arthur’s cockhead. And then she opened her lush mouth up wide and took my husband’s swollen hood into her mouth; bobbed her head forward and swallowed up almost Arthur’s entire throbbing length.
The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions Page 18