The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I kneed him in the balls. Hard. Then threw his flowers out of the window into the back garden and went out, locking him in again. When I went back, maybe half an hour later, he was still holding his balls, and stood in a position to protect any further attacks. I asked him if he wanted to serve me and he nodded, so I told him he had to open his legs and that if I wanted to kick him in the balls again I would. I said he could leave now if he was too chicken.

  He stayed. He even relaxed a bit as he talked to me. I kneed him in the balls again. This time, as he doubled up, I let him lick the soles of my boots, and each time he tried to look up at me I used the crop, usually on his back and shoulders but occasionally bending down to hit his cock, which was ridiculously hard considering I was hitting it.

  I asked if he wanted to fuck me, and his eyes lit up. He said, “Yes, please,” but I told him no way. I asked about girlfriends and got the usual story – a girlfriend who wouldn’t understand what he needed, not that he’d ever asked her.

  (I told him later that if he ever wanted to serve me again he had to ask her. When he did confess, she confessed right back at him that she was submissive too. God knows where that relationship will go. Marcus wants to bring her along and for me to whip her, but I’m not sure I want to.)

  I made him wank into a glass and drink it, then chucked him out naked. He stood for ages in the rain, shivering. He didn’t dare ask for his clothes, I guess, but eventually I told him his clothes were with his flowers, and I watched as he made his way round the back and got dressed. They were soaked by then, of course, but that’s hardly my problem.

  Marcus is an obedient little shit. Are you going to accuse me of having no respect for men? If you are, I don’t care. Come round my place and say it and I’ll show you how much respect I have.

  Actually, that’s unfair. I do respect some men. And I don’t actually despise any of them. Show me a man as strong as I am and he’ll get the lot, anything he wants. I can be very kinky. I won’t suck husband’s cock but if an intelligent, strong, considerate and respectful man comes along and tells me to, I’ll do it OK. Just don’t beg, OK? Don’t snivel and expect to be thrashed and spanked.

  Have I ever met such a man? Yes, I have. He wined me, dined me and even took me away to Bali for a holiday. We talked, a lot, about life and everything. We fucked, a lot, with his toned body feeling great on top of me and between my legs. Aside from that, I sucked him off about once a day, on average, and I swallowed when he asked me to and let it dribble from my mouth and down my body if he wanted that. I’d wear what he wanted and take off what he wanted, including on one fabulous balmy evening when I wore just a silk minidress that stuck to my every curve when I waded into the sea in it. He liked to watch me play with myself and I’d do that, too, alone or secretly in public, like in the restaurant when he challenged me to make myself come between all the courses of the meal. No problem. I like masturbating. He did hint about involving another woman in our sex, and I’d have gone for it if he’d found someone.

  But when we got back from Bali he started to change. He became clingy and started to talk about me leaving husband and moving in with him. He became obsessed. He became a shit. He became my ex.

  Watch this space. If you dare.

  The Velvet Glove

  Lane, New York

  Like most New Yorkers, I have any number of grievances concerning the way life is as opposed to the way it should be, but on the day I’m going to share with you, I ignored some of those irritants as I hurried along Fifth Avenue skirting the barricades protecting pedestrians from the white-hot sparks of a welder’s torch near Forty-ninth. The pounding rhythm of a jackhammer assaulted one sense while the smell of giant roasting pretzels whetted another. The grit of New York, I mused. Nothing like it anywhere else.

  A very important part of my life waited for me on the seventh floor of a hotel; a part that temporarily halted the city’s hectic onslaught of sights and sounds. Her name is Jessica. A silly thought crossed my mind when I saw her standing in the doorway of the hotel room. How glad I was we didn’t live in a Moslem country where women were made to wear jubbah and yashmak. I prefer her in Prada or nothing at all. This time, it was nothing at all, except for three pieces of jewelry which adorned her almost flawless body – two small earrings in her lobes and a third ring through the top of her navel.

  Although Jessica possesses centerfold measurements, she considers her good looks more of a bane than a blessing. Not to me. From her tongue to tits to tummy to twat to toes, she is a vision I couldn’t wait to lavish pleasure upon. It is always something like a pirate sighting a ship full of gold and booty.

  “What big eyes you’ve got,” Jessica said as she sat beside me on the edge of the bed.

  “The better to ogle you with, my dear,” I answered, already salivating.

  I cradled her chin. The pad of my thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. I kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose, finally her lips. My tour continued to include light kisses on her nipples and tummy. We have fun with such antics, but sex wasn’t just a casual pastime. Our relationship had developed meaning and intensity. We seemed perfectly matched – sexually – like a lock and key, instantly comfortable with each other’s bodies. I liked taking control and she liked yielding it.

  The facial kisses were reassuring. The ones below the neck lit the fire. When our lips again met, we delighted in the hard and soft of teeth and tongues. She sucked in my bottom lip, nibbled and let it go. I kissed her deeply, parting her lips with my tongue, and slid it into her mouth in a gesture of arousal, like a blind man sensing light.

  We could be very silly sometimes, like when I asked Jessica if she wanted to play Carnival. The game entailed sitting on my face so I could guess her weight. Such monkey business always intrigued her and led her to wonder what I might come up with next, providing that extra pinch of spice to our lovemaking.

  Jessica wasn’t idle as she sat next to me. She kissed my forehead and ruffled my hair. She traced a fingertip from my elbow up my shoulder. Her finger then roamed down to my left nipple. She tugged at the hairs around it and then continued the journey down my torso to my naked thigh. She took hold of my thick penis. With my testicles against her knuckles, she seemed breathless with the desire to feel all of me, wanting to juggle my nuts. She teetered a bit when my erection became rock hard and bobbed like a magic wand. She noticed the gleam in my eye and knew what it meant. Time to play. She waited for me to work my magic.

  We both lived in the city, but on opposite ends. We’d been thrown together by respective workshops at a midtown hotel. I’d been attracted to her right away. She didn’t dress to impress, nor at all provocative. She had great structure, but didn’t mess with herself unnecessarily. A few freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks gave her a fresh, young look. She wore open-toed sandals which revealed pretty feet and adorable white toes that looked fetchingly suckable. I had unabashedly stared at her during one of our sessions. She chuckled in a very sexy way. I asked her to have a drink in the hotel’s cocktail lounge before she went home and she accepted. We hit it off so well she agreed to lunch in the future.

  A rendezvous with unspoken thoughts of an alliance was a risk which made both of our hearts go pitter-pat. And after the lunch it was obvious to us both exactly where we wanted it to go. She made a phone call and I got a room.

  “Sex is a most joyous thing – the most fulfilling act I have ever known,” Jessica told me sometime later. And from the beginning, anything either of us said seemed cute and cockeyed and wonderful. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves when we were together. We tried things Jessica swore she’d never thought of doing before. Once, I sat on a footstool where she straddled me, our flailing legs and arms giving the appearance of a multi-limbed, mythical sex-creature. It made us think of the sex scene in the old, steamy Mickey Rourke movie, Wild Orchid. She swore she’d never had multiple orgasms until I came along.

  We liked to play I’ll show you mine
if you’ll show me yours, like a couple of curious kids with flirtatious looks and double entendres – all the words and gestures that comprised our pre-bed warm-ups. Role-playing now and then became part of our liaisons. If she were Catwoman, I would happily play Batman.

  Our relationship didn’t fall out of alignment like a shimmying automobile. No, it drove as smoothly as an expensive limousine. We beguiled each other. We had wandered into one another’s universe like passing asteroids captured by gravitational pull into the same orbit. Whether we admitted it or not, we’d left a mark on each other’s heart.

  My lips moved back to Jessica’s swan-like neck and shoulders. I nibbled at her, catching a little skin at the hollow of her throat. Then I pulled a dark silk scarf out of a pocket of my cast-off jacket and placed it over her eyes. I tied it behind her head and said, “Good girl.” She sat as if she were clay to be molded, like something yet to be created.

  As my hands moved over her body, I lived fully in the moment. I felt like a potter about to create my handiwork from malleable clay. I planned to create something enchanting that would last within my memory through time. The eroticism of Jessica’s allowing herself to be totally under my control washed over me, causing a giddy feeling as if our togetherness tumbled out of a dream. It would take the talent of my hands, tongue, and cock to mold her into my perfect creation.

  I touched her breasts with my fingertips and circled them. The circles got smaller and smaller until the buttons on her nipples stood erect and the areolae wrinkled in anticipation. I reached for the nightstand, took an ice cube from a glass and placed it in my mouth. I took each nipple between my lips, let her feel the cold then licked them with my warm flat tongue. She quivered with an adrenalin rush. I rested her head on the pillow and dropped the rest of the ice cube in her navel where it formed a puddle up to the bottom of her tummy ring.

  “Open your legs,” I said.

  Jessica complied as my pulse raced. Anticipation tightened in my belly like a knot. What we shared was something primal. I was always hungry for her and she was always ripe, mine for the taking. Approaching the patch of earthen hair above the velvet vault and the treasure it flanked always produced great wonder and hedonistic greed as if I were about to explore the cave of Lascaux. I found flowers and vaginas to be structurally similar. A clit was the lily of the valley. I also admired her lovely ass. It seemed in perfect symmetry with her round breasts.

  It was time to start at the foundation of womanhood – the vagina. I stroked the smooth satin of her thighs which framed the triangle, and then lowered my head. The first kiss was measured, thoughtful, like a man tasting wine. The lips between the delicate fleeces were smooth and full. I licked her vulva, top to bottom. I am blessed with a long and curious tongue, and it soon found the hooded clitoris. It swirled around her magnificent bloom for several minutes. I flicked the left side, then the right, and played trills down the center.

  Jessica moaned, “The Lord of Licks. That’s who you are.” She liked to play with words.

  I provided the grateful attention her rose-colored divide deserved. My mouth plunged into her as if all truth and wisdom could be found within. My licking and probing unleashed the primal cream which hid in the recesses of the welcoming cavity where Nirvana awaited. The intimacy of genitals in one’s mouth is so different from intercourse, so powerful, another opportunity to mold the clay. I had her pussy’s undivided attention. Its petals were slippery and protracted, inviting whatever might come.

  I looked up through the valley between her breasts to her chin. The valley floor moved just enough to make the breasts sway gently between the dark strip of blindfold over her eyes and the dark mound of hair over her wet pussy lips. The mountains’ nipple-tips were still as stiff as pebbles, reflecting her pleasure. Air hissed through Jessica’s teeth. Her nerve endings hummed like tuning forks. As her fanny wiggled slowly, my tongue darted in and out, deeply, shallowly, around and around. I massaged her erect little clit.

  She said she wanted to take off the blindfold and brush her thumb across the moist tip of my prick before it entered her, but I told her the loss of one sense and the anonymity of the blindfold made for a more intriguing session. She didn’t have to participate while blindfolded. She could just – feel – and give herself over completely to sensation. So tender. So satisfying. Such sweet surrender.

  We never had to ask the other, “Was it good for you?” It was unbridled sex and I always prepared her well. We’d each found a bed partner so uninhibited we were building an array of mind-blowing memories. While I nibbled her clit and lapped at her labia, I also fingered her orifices and flicked her nipples, making sure they stayed erect, all during Jessica’s sublime, blindfolded darkness of an afternoon. But something even better was on its way. It would be my long, curved cock that played next. It would crush the flower petals en route to her near capacity-less velvet glove.

  The tenderizing of her clit and labia had been accomplished. My tongue had been like a lump of butter basting a fine cut of meat. The thrill of it all caused her hips to heave toward heaven’s tongued god. “You should teach a class on how to do that,” Jessica said to me with a throaty sigh, completely comfortable with my actions. She told me I was a pussy-eater extraordinaire.

  I pulled away and sat on my knees. Whether our foreplay was cursory or patient, it never dampened my cock’s desire to be inside her velvet glove. Its turn had arrived to ogle the sight that lay between Jessica’s open thighs. Without a scintilla of reluctance, it rose toward the thatch-roofed opening as if drawn by a magnet. A crystal tear appeared and hung from its tip like pollen. It was time for my pride to enter and sample the nectar.

  The plethora of sensations continued to consume Jessica – my mouth on her, the tickle of my chest hairs against her nipples when I moved forward, getting in position to fuck her, the sloshing, warm liquid in her navel. As the moon draws ocean tides, so did her vagina seem to bend my prick toward its entrance by a gravity all its own. My love-stalk touched her. Its tip parted her vaginal lips and stayed there for a moment, teasing them. Then it slipped inside her like a hand in a snug glove, thick and filling, taut and silky-skinned. There was a moment when time stood still, before my first deep plunge. When my shaft slid deep into the recesses of her, its tip made a dramatic turn to spots only it had discovered.

  Jessica’s head pushed back and buried itself in the pillow as she felt every vein and ridge slide into place like the alignment of planets. She flattened out her legs to allow maximum access as we both began to move slowly and gently; what she called “sweet fucking”. Long slow strokes. She ran a finger down the valley of my spine. She blindly reached between our bodies to capture and tug on the sac containing my eggs. What a funny apparatus we men have – a potent weapon to sustain the species and testicles which are so vulnerable. One wrong squeeze, game over. She let them slide over her palm as they shuffled back and forth, having no choice but to follow their veined master.

  Then, in the goodness of time, my thrusts picked up speed, moving faster and faster as if lovemaking had just been invented and might be taken away at any moment. Our auras seemed to combine as well as our parts. No cares about outside problems while our bodies created heat and humidity.

  The bed began to protest with a squonk-squonk-squonk at our back-and-forth motion, a testament to the lusty, lovely act of passion and fire, the greedy sex. Jessica’s breasts bounced and swayed like two synchronized dancers as I pierced her with a burning hunger – probed her as if it might be my last fuck on earth. She couldn’t see me, but she sensed my expression of pleasure. She reached for my back to dig her nails in. She couldn’t control the sensation deep inside her loins. It rushed toward the surface. It wanted my cock to love her until she melted around it, wanted me to melt into her.

  Our hips were bouncing now like an out-of-control rollercoaster. As the heat level rose, Jessica grasped the knotted muscles of my buttocks. They tightened like a fist with every push into her. She desperately held fast
while my balls swung against her bottom again and again and her juices soaked my banging sac. She locked her ankles around my waist and used her strong legs to urge me on. Fire flashed through her body and nibbled at the edges of her stamina, her climax so near. Sounds began in her throat and worked their way to the surface, the audible version of how her vagina felt.

  “EeeeeEEEE!” She came once, said she was done and then came again. She reveled in her nakedness, in the blindfold, and in our version of a fuck-o-rama.

  The squeal reinforced my orgasm. Above her, I announced, “I’m coming!” as my molten lava squirted into her.

  That sent her over the top once more. The “EEEE” turned into a louder squeal of pleasure and release. Her neck arched, her shoulders pushed her breasts against me as her final orgasm grew in waves. It poured through her and over her like warm oil to her farthest extremities until the rush ended.

  I felt my penis still pulsing inside her. I was in what shrinks call the flow state, a moment of transcendence. I related it to athletes or writers or painters or musicians when they’re in the zone. It’s the mastering of a craft – body parts functioning with a will of their own, leaving the mind to wander wherever it chooses. I’ve heard of people passing out from sex, but my antics have yet to carry me quite that far.

  I collapsed on Jessica. We breathed heavily as if at the end of a marathon. The works of the potter, the final touches on the purely sexual creation, were, for the time being, complete.

  I rolled over onto the pillow next to her, my chest heaving. With our faces side by side, I whispered. “I can’t tell you,” I breathed, “how great a fuck,” I said, “you are.”