The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  When she was fully inside me I held my knees together, never wanting her to leave or this moment to end, but her fingers conspired against that. One finger was making my nipple harden almost to the point of pain – and the butterfly was doing nothing. I tried a wriggle to see if I could nudge it “accidentally” but she was too quick for me.

  The ache in my nipple, the quiver of expectation in my clit and the tight hard presence of the dildo were held in balance until the moment I felt her lips kiss hard between my shoulder blades and then all heaven broke loose. I groaned as her finger slid over my clit, as she squashed my nipple into the palm of her hand and thrust the dildo still deeper inside me – but it was the kiss that unlocked me. Her lips were the master key. I was trembling, sobbing, crying with pleasure. She held me still until I came, her lips still causing havoc on my skin in the sensitive aftermath I shuddered through.

  Eventually I realized she was unbuckling the harness, felt the dildo leave me, heard the thump as it hit the floor. I was just about turn to thank her when I felt the knot of the gag being coaxed into my mouth and tied firmly in place.

  “No talking,” she said.

  Now she let me turn and drew me into her arms. Although I wanted to kiss her and thank her, I was glad of the gag because it gave me permission not to speak, not to have to try to find non-existent words to describe how I felt. And it kept her in control; I did realize that, even as I drifted into sleep cuddled against her breast.

  When I awoke, the gag had gone and so had Martha.

  I pulled the duvet over me and curled up, body and brain singing together for the first time in my life. I had no choice but to cry, feeling beautiful and alive and anything but guilty.

  I reached for my mobile, brought it into my cocoon and dialled Martha. She picked up but said nothing. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “That was just a rehearsal, girl.”

  I laughed. A silence developed but it was easy and relaxed. At last I said, “Next time you must tell me your fantasy.”

  “You are my fantasy. Come on over to my place tomorrow after work. We can talk in the shower.”

  I laughed again. It was becoming a habit.

  Later, emerging from the cocoon, I got out of bed and saw the beautiful dildo on the floor, minus the harness. In the bathroom I washed it with care, without trace of shame, and wished for nothing more than for Martha to bring it back to life again. And that’s when I realized – life is not a rehearsal.

  Temptations Of A Wicked Stepmother

  Christine, Manchester

  I convinced myself I was a good girl who had been bad. In reality, I knew I must have always been a bad girl who was just pretending to be good. For when would a good girl, even in her wickedest of moments, ever be able to confess that she had slept with her stepson?

  Let me give you some sort of introduction. My name is Christine and, at fifty-one, I have been married to my second husband for six years. My first marriage was unofficially a marriage of convenience. Both our well-to-do families were close and they encouraged us to get together. Pete was a nice guy and we were married for twenty-five years. Of course, there was never any love, and sex was every Saturday night straight after Match of the Day, but it was safe and comfortable. And then, I met husband number two.

  I think I was attracted to Trevor because he was the polar opposite of Pete. He was a heavy-drinking builder with tattoos on his thick, hairy forearms. He was rude and vulgar but he had charm in abundance, too. I met him in a pub that I would never normally set foot inside, and his blue eyes unashamedly undressed me as soon as I walked through the door. When I passed him to go to the toilets, I felt his hardness digging into me. Within a few months I had left my husband and, once we had finalized the divorce, I had moved onto husband number two.

  We moved in together with his son in the city and at first things were great. Trevor was unpredictable and spontaneous, and this excited me. He quickly became predictable, however. Trevor would either come home late at night drunk from the pub, or he would stay at home and get drunk shouting at the television. The charm diminished and the vulgarity increased. I was his little slave, and not in a good way, either.

  His sixteen-year-old son, Todd, was nothing like his father. He was shy and sweet. Todd hardly ever had any friends over and I guess he enjoyed his own company. I could tell that he had an adolescent crush on me, and to be honest I was flattered. I wasn’t getting any attention from anywhere else, was I? You could say that I played on the crush. I’d deliver tea to his room in the morning wearing my red silk blouse tied at the waist, and I’d allow him just a fleeting glimpse of my full, voluptuous cleavage as I leant forward over his bed. I could just sense him stirring under the sheets. Occasionally I’d accidentally brush my arm against his crotch, and my suspicions would be confirmed. To me, though, it was all just harmless fun. It made me feel good and I know it made him feel good, too. I guess I was just giving a few thrills to a young lad.

  Things changed one Saturday morning when Todd was about nineteen or so and I looked out of the kitchen window and wondered who the hell the hunky guy in the garden was with his shirt off mowing the lawn? My nipples tingled against the fabric of my robe as I stared at the tall, broad-shouldered young man with a muscled midriff. It was Todd. I had always looked on him as Trevor’s little lad and so I had not noticed him develop into a hunk. I felt shocked and a little ashamed at the way he made me feel. He saw me watching and he waved. I removed the stray hand from inside my robe and waved back.

  Over the next year and a half Todd became unrecognizable as the shy, sweet sixteen-year-old I’d first met. He was still sweet, but he was no longer shy. With his growing body came growing confidence. He had always been the one who would take discreet glances when my skirt rode high up my thighs when I sat down on the sofa. Now it was me who eyed his glistening body when he came out of the shower with just a tiny towel balancing precariously round his waist. He saw me looking and I guess you could say he played to it. Maybe in his mind he was just giving a few thrills to an older lady?

  One weekend afternoon he brought a girl back to the house. She was only about eighteen, a sexy girl with long dark hair and a piercing through her chin. Todd wasted no time taking her to the bedroom. I could hear their moaning and groaning from the living room, and I tiptoed upstairs to my bedroom to be closer to the action. Only, when I reached the landing I noticed that the door was slightly ajar and I could see inside. I just could not resist. I hid by the doorway and glimpsed inside. The girl was on top of Todd, her luscious dark hair barely covering a dragon tattoo that rested just above the tip of her buttocks. His face was hidden away beneath her. I rolled the hem of my skirt high up over my hips and started playing with myself. My own fluids trickled along my bare thigh, staining the tops of my black hold ups. I glanced back inside the room. The girl had arched back so that Todd could go deeper inside her. I could see his face now. His kissable lips were smiling. He stared straight at me as I watched him pleasure a girl less than half my age. I scurried away to the bedroom where I parted my legs and fingered myself until I came again and again.

  I was not the only one who noticed the changes in Todd. He was twenty-one now, and he had a reputation as a bit of a player. Some of my friends asked how I managed to restrain myself with such a handsome young man in the house. It was all in jest really, and I laughed it off. Things became difficult, however, when my oldest friend, Debbie, came around for a few glasses of wine. She asked Todd whether he minded doing the girls a favour. They were planning a stripper for Carol’s fiftieth birthday party. Would he like to fill the role? I inwardly pleaded that he would say no. But he smiled and said, of course, why not?

  The party was held in a dingy pub in the city centre, surrounded by drunken revellers outside, and we had the top floor to ourselves. The ladies had already been drinking for a couple of hours before Todd arrived, looking gorgeous. He was greeted with wild screams from ten middle-aged women. He played to the crowd, seemingly lov
ing the adulation and attention. The girls shouted “Off, off, off” as Carol excitedly massaged oil into his chest. He was quickly down to just the tiniest pair of briefs. Now the girls shouted louder than ever for him to take them off. The briefs were elaborately disposed of. I was horrified when my friends chanted “Lick, lick, lick . . .”

  My friend Carol has always been what could politely be called a “loose woman”, and she did not need much encouragement to lick the cream from the tip of my stepson’s cock. She was quickly down on her knees taking his full length in her mouth. Todd slipped his hands inside her low-cut top and groped her big boobs. He pulled her panties down her legs and theatrically threw them into the screaming crowd. It did not require a second glance to notice the wet patch down the front of the pants. Todd took Carol’s hand and guided her to the back room.

  Again, I just could not resist. I made my excuses and went to the Ladies, passing the room on the way. I peered through the window and saw Todd fucking my fifty-year-old friend hard from behind. Her eyes were shut, her mouth was open, and she moaned loudly. Again, Todd saw me watching. He smiled at me wolfishly. And, again, I scurried away, this time to the toilets, where I fingered myself to a climax in the cubicle.

  For a while after that I tried to keep away from Todd. I was just too embarrassed. Our communications were always polite and amicable; I just tried to limit them. For a change I did my best to focus my attentions on his pot-bellied, lazy father. It was hard work, let me tell you. But for a while I managed to focus more on my husband than on his young, gorgeous son.

  And then one Saturday morning, on the spur of the moment, I thought I’d do something just like the good old days; the days when there hadn’t been any tension, before I desperately wanted to fuck my stepson. Trevor was still asleep, nursing another hangover. I delivered Todd a cup of tea to his room wearing a lacy black robe, not that he noticed anymore. I leant forward over his bed with his tea. Todd looked sleepy, like he had just woken up. Only, his half-opened eyes scanned my cleavage, which was barely concealed inside the robe. Oh, my, I thought, maybe I still do have what it takes to turn him on. My arm accidentally brushed against his crotch, and I could feel him stiffening. Todd pulled the duvet to one side, exposing his taut, lean body and, more importantly, his thick erect cock. He didn’t say anything. He left the ball, or balls, in my court. It was an open invite, but one that I could still refuse.

  After so long of pure lusting, there was no way I was going to refuse the invite. My body just wouldn’t let me.

  Trevor was in the bedroom, just down the corridor. He could wake at any time, and find his wife with his son. It was a risk I had to take. I said nothing. I crouched down and took the tip of his cock in my mouth. I felt him throb, and now I knew that I could still turn him on. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. I ran my tongue down the full length of his cock, before gently and tenderly kissing his balls.

  Todd had slipped his hands inside my robe. He groped and squeezed and massaged my full, heavy breasts, before circling my nipples with the tips of his fingers. Feeling them harden, he tweaked them between thumb and forefinger. My toffee nipples were stiff and erect. He pinched them hard, and I released a low muffled moan.

  He made me feel wanted, like I was desirable again. His hands brushed along the inside of my thigh. He told me that I felt deliciously smooth. I parted my legs as his hands explored higher, and he groaned as his fingers became tangled in my full thick bush. I knew that I was soaking wet, and I just needed to be touched. I bit into his neck as two, then three, then four fingers were pushed inside me. He fingered me in a sensual fucking motion until I knew that his fingers were drenched with my juices.

  I lowered myself onto his waiting face and he licked me out. I knelt forward on all fours and took his cock in my mouth. It was all that stopped me from moaning out loud as he ate me out. For one so young, his tongue felt so experienced and expert, as it probed inside me and then circled my pink, erect clit. My hands gripped the bed sheets as he made me come again and again.

  I rolled over, my head dizzy with excitement, and I tasted my own sex as I kissed him on the lips. Todd asked me how I would like him to fuck me. The words sounded so naughty that I swear I almost came again. I didn’t answer him. I showed him. I lowered myself down on his hard rod. I wanted it to be like it was all those years ago, with me in control. I could fuck him as hard or as gently as I liked. Todd stared into my eyes, his head resting on a pillow. There was a mirror behind his bed and I stared at my reflection. There was a layer of sweat on my forehead and my eyes sparkled. I remember thinking, “This is what I look like when I fuck my stepson.” It felt wonderfully surreal.

  I whispered to Todd that it was his turn now. I told him that I wanted his hot juices sprayed all over my big tits. I think he must have thought about this before, for it almost instantly took him over the edge. He came in spasms, drenching my tits, the hot fluid trickling down over my belly.

  We never did fuck again. I think we both realized that it wasn’t the right thing to do and that it was best it just stayed a delicious, wonderful memory. Occasionally I would catch him eyeing my curves and occasionally he would catch me eyeing his young hot body, and we would exchange a knowing look. It feels good.

  Do I regret what happened? Well, just the memory of it makes me tingle and if that makes me the wicked stepmother, then so be it!

  Closing Time

  Dean, Birmingham

  There was this game we played whenever the mood took her. It was she who carried the risk, her fashion job on the line if we got caught. I guess I didn’t know what the full repercussions might have been for her, but I was always fully aware of what my beautiful merciless Mistress did to me when I failed her in any way.

  Mostly I felt safer, somehow more secure, when we were in Britain. The anonymity of London was my favourite; among all those millions of people, each intent on their own lives, it never felt like there was anyone who would care whatever we did. When her work started sending her into Europe my nerves increased. And so did her excitement.

  I remember we were somewhere Germanic; big imposing Gothic architecture spliced through with generic glass windows of stores that could be anywhere in the Western world. She had given me the names of three streets and I obediently and desperately spent the morning pacing up and down them. When the area I was patrolling began to fill with a lunchtime crowd, dressed in sombre suits and quietly queuing for bratwurst and at the obligatory McDonald’s, I got a familiar tingling down my spine that made me believe in a sixth sense.

  I turned my head and saw her. I stopped and stood completely still for a long moment, entranced by the way she held herself; it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. She wore a beige coat, tied at the waist, a black skirt visible underneath; only a hint of flesh was visible between her skirt and the high black leather boots she wore. Her hair was shoulder length and flowed freely and was the most wonderful deep black. I caught a glimpse of her face; her lips were made up with bright red lipstick. She smiled at me, a Mona Lisa smile that said nothing and everything. Then she looked away as if I was of no importance and disappeared through the revolving doors of a department store.

  I forgot my fear. My heart continued to beat fast, but for another reason. There were no thoughts, only instincts that she had trained into me over many glorious years. I counted three seconds out loud then I followed her.

  She moved through the shop, stopping now and then to examine clothes. I tried to act like I was browsing myself, but my eyes were fixed on the curves of her body. She moved to the escalator, and I stood behind her. She looked over her shoulder at me and there was that seductive smile again. I saw her hand move to the bottom of her skirt. We had gone through this routine so often, but still I watched in amazement as she pulled it up to give me the briefest glimpse but it was enough to see she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

  The previous night she had tied me to the bed and teased me for endless hours with her naked sex. It was a stran
ge mixture of embodying the roles we were acting and feeling the surge of excited shock that an unknown woman had flashed me, alongside the knowledge that I knew her body intimately, I knew the feel and scent of that dark triangle of hair between her thighs as if she was permanently rubbing herself against my face. The result of these two different thoughts was the same: my cock hardened and I kept following the woman in front of me.

  She led me to the lingerie section. She touched items, spending as long caressing the cup of a plain white sports bra as she did fingering the lacy edging of a minuscule pair of panties.

  I breathed deeply, gazing at her French-manicured nails, feeling as if her expert hands were pleasuring the breasts and pussies that would one day fill all the clothes she blessed with her attention.

  Suddenly she picked out a set seemingly at random and began looking around for a changing room, as if she really didn’t know where it was.

  It was the moment I had to quickly act or face her wrath. In our early days there were times I got it wrong, too caught up in the vision and power of her presence to remember my part. This time though, before she moved to the corner where the changing rooms were, I walked over to her as if I possessed all the confidence of an alpha male.

  “I bet you would look sensational in those.” I stared into her eyes and was barely aware of the underwear she was holding.

  “Follow me,” she said, turning aside from me and striding away.

  My heart pounded so hard that it made my chest ache.

  We walked, she in front, me a couple of paces behind, across the nearly empty store to the changing rooms. She entered one of the cubicles and stopped me with a “Wait here” before pulling the door shut behind her.