Confessions

by Amber Stephens

  By the time Shelley had finished, all seven of her fellow addicts were gazing at her in various states of interest, from the openly lecherous (Larry) to the disbelieving (Abigail).

  ‘That’s it,’ Shelley said weakly, and sat down.

  ‘Thanks Shelley,’ Verity said. ‘Who’d like to go next?’

  ‘I will,’ said Rose, She had long blonde ponytail, and she had a strong cockney accent, like someone hamming it up on EastEnders. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a top that showed off her considerable cleavage. She didn’t stand, but leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees, as if she’d been preparing this for sometime and wanted to get it just right.

  ‘I was a porn star,’ Rose said. ‘Some of you might know me – I went by the name Rose Saintly.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Cian said. Larry, sitting next to him, nodded as well.

  Rose winked at them and continued. ‘All that’s behind me now, at least the film work. I’m too old. Problem is, I developed certain … habits, or shall we say tastes, while I was in the business. And I’ve been indulging them a bit too much in the last few years. I need to break out and have a proper relationship, while there’s still time.’

  She sat, and Shelley wondered if she was talking about wanting to have children. She wasn’t sure if the new magazine would be interested in that side of the story, or whether they just wanted the sex stuff. She determined to try and find out anyway.

  Next was Abigail. Tall, raven-haired and exquisitely beautiful in a cold way, she’d been watching Shelley with an appraising eye since she’d entered the room. Abigail wore a miniscule skirt and thigh-high boots. She’d stood and announced clearly and confidently, ‘My name is Abigail, I’m a sex addict. I’m thirty-four and have been a dominatrix for the past four years, full-time; before that I just dabbled. I love inflicting pain, and have got to the point where I can’t enjoy a normal sex life. I need help.’

  She sat, and resumed staring at Shelley.

  Next to speak was Will. He wasn’t bad-looking though wore an expression that said he knew it. He introduced himself in a Northern accent as Will Trewin, a merchant banker. This caused giggles between Cian and Larry, who seemed to have become firm friends already. Shelley wished she were sitting next to them. Will glared at them and went on. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m a serial adulterer. I love my wife, Mand, and our little lad. But I just can’t help myself. I’ve sworn off the affairs so many times, and Mand’s forgiven me nearly as many. But she’s finally put her foot down. If I can’t mend me ways, she’s off. So here I am.’

  After Will, Cliff and Cheryl stood together. Verity explained:

  ‘Cliff and Cheryl are here together, as a couple. This is not unusual. We often have couples here at the clinic hoping to improve their sex lives. But it is unusual to have a couple in an addiction programme, please make them feel welcome.’ She waved at them to begin.

  ‘We are most definitely sex addicts,’ Cliff laughed. ‘We’re swingers and like to take part in threesomes, foursomes and more-somes regularly. Now that would be okay, as we both feel the same way about it …’

  Cheryl nodded. They were a good-looking couple, Shelley couldn’t help but notice. Cheryl was slim, with boyish hips and short, sandy hair. Cliff was average height, with wide-set eyes and the sort of familiar, even face that made him look an actor you spend the whole movie trying to remember what you’ve seen them in before. Most of the swingers Shelley had read about looked like they’d fallen out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, been stung by bees and landed on their faces.

  Cliff went on. ‘But the problem is we want our own sex life to be just as good, like it used to be. And we’re increasingly finding we’re just not interested unless there are other people involved.’

  ‘We want our own sex life back,’ Cheryl finished. They smiled at each other and sat down.

  Next was Cian. ‘Wotcher,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Right, I’m Cian O’Connor, lead singer of The Cossacks.’

  That’s where I’ve seen him before, Shelley thought to herself.

  ‘I’m here because I can’t stop knobbing endless lines of women. It’s not that I don’t like it, but I think I’ve had enough really and need to settle down. My career’s suffering and me old man’s not too happy with the direction my life’s taking. Tada!’ he finished with a flourish and sat down. God, he was good looking. Briony would say he was the sort of man you wanted to bite bits off of.

  Last to speak was the Larry, the young Asian man sitting to Cian’s right, and Verity’s left. He introduced himself as Larry Bala. ‘I’m a Singaporean sex addict,’ he proclaimed, with a shy grin. He had lovely jet-black hair and perfect skin. ‘Or at least I’m a wank addict cos I just can’t stop masturbating. I spend up to twelve hours a day on the internet, looking at porn and quite frankly, ladies and gentlemen, the stuff I’m looking at is just getting weirder and weirder. Plus there have been some, er, incidents in public. I need to turn my hand to something else, my father said. So here I am.’

  Now Shelley realised why everyone had taken an interest in her story. There was apparently something there for everyone. Well that was okay, she could use that to her advantage, get them to open up more outside the formal sessions.

  ‘Thank you everyone,’ Verity said, shuffling her papers. ‘Now, if you’d all like to help yourselves to a cup of tea or coffee, and use the facilities. Then we need to press on with the full confessionals. Shelley has already said she wants to go last. But would anyone like to volunteer to go first?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose without hesitation. Shelley turned to look at her. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to tell this story for ages now, and it’s all ready to fall out my head if I wait any longer.’

  ‘Fine, let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes, and we’ll hear what Rose has to say. I know you’ve all been fully briefed on the content of the course, but let me just reiterate that you are all expected to give a warts-and-all account, what we call a ‘confessional’ of the events that led to you coming here. If you can’t open up to us and tell us the truth, then you can’t open up to what you are for yourself.’

  Shelley winced at the appalling sentence structure. It sounded like so much cod psychology to her. But she nodded along with the rest, her mind wandering and thinking of the BlackBerry in her jacket. She wanted to hide it in her bag, but was worried Sandra would search it, looking for pornography or sex toys. Any kind of recording device or means of communication with the outside world was forbidden.

  Rewriting the story later would be long-winded on the BlackBerry’s tiny keyboard, but unless Rose turned out to be the Catherine Cookson of the porn industry, her story would need editing anyway. Aidan had asked Shelley to do her best to relate each story in the style and vernacular of the person telling it. In the old days reporters used to phone their copy through to sub-editors back in the office.

  Shelley was actually quite glad she didn’t have her own mobile, and not just because she didn’t have to read any more embarrassing texts from Gavin. Briony had a tendency to download intensely irritating ring tones and set them up to go off at top volume on Shelley’s phone, which she’d then hide at the bottom of Shelley’s bag. Last week she’d had to endure a mortifying forty-five seconds on the tube rummaging through her bag, flipping tampons everywhere while looking for the damn thing as it played ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’, by the Dead Kennedys.

  ‘So Rose, we want everything!’ Verity was saying to the voluptuous blonde.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rose replied, smiling. ‘You’re gonna get it.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘God I love Hobnobs,’ Cian said, ‘Hey Verity, are we allowed to fuck biscuits?’

  She stared back at him in astonishment. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Well I know we’re not allowed to shag each other,’ and he waved a hand at Cheryl, who giggled. ‘So maybe we could transfer our passions onto non-threatening, inanimate objects like biscuits. I quite fancy knobbing my way throu
gh a packet of Jaffa Cakes.’

  Will shook his head and snorted. Abigail looked a bit green and put her biscuit back on the plate, from where Larry snatched it up.

  ‘And the best thing is you can eat them afterwards, saves the cost of putting ’em in a cab and sending them back to Mummy.’

  ‘I don’t think that kind of talk is really appropriate,’ Verity said as they took their seats again. ‘Now everyone quiet down please. Show Rose some courtesy. Rose?’

  Rose stood, and Shelley smiled at her as their eyes met briefly. Rose cleared her throat and began to speak.

  * * *

  Home was Whitechapel and I left it when my mum told me I couldn’t be a model. She was right, though it took me a long time to admit it. My tits and arse were too big to fit into those tiny frocks, but I was sixteen and knew nothing. I’d met this bloke you see, a photographer who told me my cheekbones were just right for that season, and that he wanted me to sign up with him. He asked for £150 for photos and I emptied my savings account. He gave me a place to stay too, with some other girls, mostly from Eastern Europe. I thought I had it made right then, but someone took those rose-tinted glasses off me after a few days and chucked ’em in the canal. First of all nothing happened. I just stayed in the flat with the other girls. Horrible dingy place it was. Out near Ilford and you can’t hear the Bow Bells from there.

  I had next to no money, and survived on nothing much more than brown rice and water. That was all the other girls ate as well. It was okay with me, I knew I needed to lose a bit of weight. The flat was owned by an agency the photographer was connected with. It didn’t cost anything till you started earning, then they took it all back.

  The photographer brought this clothing designer around one day after a few weeks, said he was looking for new faces for a show. Me and a few other girls were herded into a van and taken to a freezing cold warehouse somewhere near Canning Town in the East End and we were asked to strip down to our knickers. I wasn’t so keen but the other girls did it straight away like they were used to it. I took off my bra and it hit me then that I didn’t fit in. The other girls hardly had a tit between them; I saw a row of tiny nipples poking out in the cold air, and then looked down at my melons. Pretty fine they were, no implants then but firm enough to fool a blind greengrocer. The designer was staring at them and said something to the photographer who looked over me, said something back and they both laughed. I felt pretty cheap.

  But later, the designer called me into another room and asked me to try on some clothes. He came up behind me as I was getting myself into this tiny little frock. Horrible thing it was, all colours of the rainbow, like something Joseph’s slutty sister might have worn. God knows what he was thinking when he came up with that idea. Anyway, he ‘helped’ me into it, acting all businesslike of course, but his hands went everywhere. I didn’t know what was normal, so accepted it. But then I found his hand up my skirt.

  ‘Oy!’ I said, ‘No pot of gold up there, mate.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said in this toff voice. ‘I need to see what it looks like without the panty line,’ and then he whipped me keks off! I was too surprised to say anything.

  He stood behind me again and felt my tits, making out that he was just positioning them for best effect. I figured something was wrong, but I still had this stupid idea I’d be a top model. Now let me say right now that he wasn’t bad looking. I don’t want to pretend he was some big, fat creep with a face like a bulldog. And if he’d just asked, then I might just have said yes. I’d been stuck in a grotty flat with a bunch of Polish tarts for three weeks at that point, and would have appreciated some attention from someone who spoke English. What I didn’t like was the liberties he thought he could take. Still that’s the business isn’t it? Models are just tarts without the cream at the end of the day.

  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said. Finally someone being nice to me. I felt a bit better after him about that, especially when he told me he’d probably have some work for me. He poured me a glass of wine and asked me to sit down.

  ‘Now you’re young,’ he said, ‘and you may not know how things work in this industry, but there are certain perks of the job for designers like me.’

  I looked at him, standing in front of me. I was starting to guess what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to serve it up on a plate, was I?

  ‘I mean for designers who are hetero. You know, straight?’ He sipped his wine and winked at me. ‘There aren’t many of us, and we get to choose from a large pool of pretty young girls.’ He reached out and stroked my chin. ‘You see, I could choose anyone for this job I have in mind, someone with a less feminine figure, for example, it would make things easier for the dressmakers.’ He shrugged, like he didn’t care, but I knew he was acting. ‘But on the other hand, maybe someone with your more, er, ample charms is what the fashion world is looking for. Do I take the risk? And get my reward? Or do I play it safe?’

  I’d got it by then.

  ‘You’ll be expecting this reward from me, then?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking my hair. He moved closer to me, took my hand and moved it to his fly. He wanted me to do the deed, to put the responsibility on me.

  I made a decision then. That I’d do what I needed to do to make it. I didn’t want to piss about with the scrawny Poles for the next year. I took hold of his fly and pulled it down. His cock was already trying to burst out. He wasn’t wearing pants, he’d planned it all. I’d seen penises before of course, round my way the lads aren’t shy about whopping it out in the hope you’ll grab hold of it. But I was still a virgin. I’d never even had one of them in my mouth. It sort of made its own way out of his fly, rising up and pointing straight towards me, like it was saying hello. He moved even closer and I could smell him, a musky scent.

  As I watched, a tiny drop of fluid appeared at the tip.

  ‘You look like you’ve been starving yourself,’ he said. ‘How about a bit of sausage?’

  I rolled my eyes, opened my mouth and gingerly moved my head forward. He sighed as my lips made contact with his cock. I had no idea how you were supposed to do this sort of thing, but how hard could it be, I thought. You just take as much in as you can and try to chew without using your teeth. He seemed to like it anyway. He wasn’t really that big, but it felt enormous in my mouth. I remember thinking it tasted a bit salty, or not salty, but … well, most of you know what it tastes like. Thing was, I didn’t mind the taste. And I liked being able to make him react, you know? It was like I had some power in this exchange too. Though he was trying to dominate me, I wasn’t completely under his control. I pulled my head back, letting the slippery head come out and he tried to stick it back in, but I held him back, then slowly licked the end. Little feathery dabs with my tongue. This drove him wild and I liked that even more.

  Eventually he couldn’t stand it any more. He stood back, took off his trousers and grabbed a condom from the nearby table. I watched him, nervous, but also ready for what was going to come.

  Now I reckon I was quite lucky to get the guy I did. Plenty of girls have it much worse on their first time. Sure he was pushing me into something I hadn’t asked for, but he had given me a choice; it wasn’t like he was raping me or anything. I could have walked out anytime I liked. Also, I was lucky he used a condom, and lube. God alone knows the places his old feller had been. Further afield than Canning Town anyway.

  He came back, knelt down before me and kissed me. He pushed me back a little and I had to lift my leg so as not to overbalance, then I felt his hand slip between my thighs. He was good this guy. I only hope he’d dry-cleaned the couch recently because I reckon it got a lot of use.

  I remember the feeling as his hand touched my pussy lips. It felt wrong, sort of invasive, but at the same time it felt so good, it was what I wanted. I opened my legs a little more as he bore down on top of me and I gave up the fight and lay flat on the couch. I felt his lubedup fingers sliding across my labia and then o
ne of them popped briefly inside me. I would have squealed but his tongue was down my throat. His breath smelt fresh and I felt my body relaxing as his mouth moved against mine and his fingers explored inside my vagina.

  Then, almost before I knew it, he was on top of me sliding my tight skirt up my thighs and exposing my bare arse to the elements. He lifted my legs up and over, so my ankles were around my ears and he positioned himself over me, I could feel his big purple head throbbing and tickling my open fanny lips.

  ‘How old did you say you were?’ he asked softly, gazing into my eyes.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I replied quietly. He smiled and nodded. Then he thrust himself inside me. We both closed our eyes and groaned. He with pleasure, I with pain.

  Jesus, it hurt. I’ve had some huge things jammed in there since which hurt more, but I was ready for those, I knew what I was getting. This took me completely by surprise and knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit.

  I wish I could say it stopped hurting after a while, but it didn’t. He took some time to finish off and each thrust hurt, despite the lube. Could have been worse, I suppose, but could have been a hell of a lot better too.

  Afterwards he gave me the details of the job. It was a shoot for a no-name lingerie catalogue. Not quite what I was expecting, but I was hopeful it would lead to better things, and better sex.