Dirty True Confessions

by Huck Pilgrim

  I was a crack whore.

  I sighed. With acceptance, comes resignation. He was going to fuck me tonight without a condom. I would have to carry home a load of his cum, somewhere inside my body.

  I blew air heavily from my mouth and climbed to my feet. I felt too ashamed to look at Bang. He doesn’t like white girls. I took off my shirt and let it drop to the floor. My bra followed. I climbed onto the bed, lay on my back and raised my bottom, pushing my panties down my thighs. I had to sit up to work them past my boots.

  I looked at Bang. He was emptying his pockets on a sideboard against the wall. He was big and virile and sexy and I felt certain he would get me pregnant. I didn’t want to do it, but I reluctantly rolled onto all fours. I tucked my knees up under my body and raised my bottom high.

  We all have to do, what we all have to do.

  Soon he got on the bed behind me. I whispered to him that I had never done this before and he said that he had done it many times. I believe he said that to comfort me, but in light of his earlier admission about anal sex and his job, it made me shiver. How many girls had he schooled with this particular lesson? He applied the cold grease to my bottom and then I felt his finger probing inside me, relaxing my sphincter.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said.

  Then he pinched my upper thigh so hard I almost collapsed onto the bed. I gasped and mewled and it went on and on. Finally he stopped and I had sharp, searing pain, throbbing in my thigh.

  “Focus on that, you won’t feel this,” he said.

  He pressed his cock against my ass. There was a small amount of pain, but it was nothing compared to the pulses of warmth already coming from my poor thigh. And then he was in me. Instead of pain, I felt an incredible fullness inside my ass. As he started to work that big thick tool in me, I had to work to keep my anxiety levels in check. He applied more grease and soon I started to calm down, and then I started to enjoy it. I lay my cheek on the cool sheets, held tight to the mattress, and groaned. This went on and on until I was almost beside myself. The whole night had been an exercise in ratcheting up sexual tension, and when an orgasm finally raced through my body, it came on like a freight train.

  I screamed like a girl on fire, moaning and pressing my ass back against him. When I finished, I was sapped—still on my knees before him, my ass high in the air.

  I might have been spent, but he wasn’t. He continued thrusting into my bottom. Once. Twice. Again. One more time. And then he made good on his promise. He groaned lustily, held my hips firmly, and pressed his cock deep into me. I felt a rush of hot fluid inside me and raised my head. As I turned to look at him, I felt another gush of his molten liquid inside me. I rested my head in my arms and waited for him to finish emptying his juices into me. When he finally pulled himself out, I felt so empty. I collapsed onto my side, listening to my breathing. I can’t remember ever feeling so completely sated.

  Soon he tapped my boot.

  “Wake up,” he said. He was cleaning his penis on the sheets.” You go find that boy that you disrespected, and you make things right with him.”

  I crawled out of bed. He was using a no nonsense tone of voice, and I didn’t want to challenge him, but I felt slow and dimwitted from the sex. I scooped my clothes from the floor, then remembered I’d need to remove my boots. I looked around for a chair.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I looked at him dumbfounded. I raised my jeans and my panties and was about to say something but he cut me off with a loud sigh, a weary shake of his head. “Jesus,” he said. He reached into his neat pile of clothes on the sideboard and found his wallet.

  “This is car fare,” he said.

  He held a fifty dollar bill in his hand and motioned for me to hand him my jeans. He folded the bill and stuffed it into one of my pockets, then tossed the jeans onto the bed.

  “Before you leave, Marlo is going to offer you more drugs,” Bang said. “He’ll call it a peace offering, but it would be a mistake for you to accept it.” My shoulders shook involuntarily. Bang stepped toward me. His shoulders and chest glowed with a light sheen of sweat from the exertion of fucking me.

  “You’re still in the store,” he whispered emphatically.

  “You need to go find that boy,” he said. “Finish up. Make sure he’s happy.” He pointed his finger at my face as he said this, and I swallowed hard. “When you’re done,” he said, “you come back here. Get your clothes. And then you leave.”

  I looked at the panties in my hand, my jeans on the bed.

  “Go on,” Bang said.

  He sounded impatient, as if he were talking to an unruly child.

  I shuddered again, then my mind kicked into gear. I grabbed the sheet from the bed and drew it around my shoulders like a cape. I raced from room to room until I found whatshisname on a lanai with two or three others. He didn’t recognize me. I tried to explain who I was and how we knew one another without embarrassing him in front of his friends. Finally I showed him my boots and the sudden look of shock on his face told me he remembered. I wasn’t sure exactly what I ought to do. Should I apologize? I thought about what Bang said and decided not to take any chances. I opened the sheet. The midnight wind whipped it back from my hips and torso, and I held the fabric tight, opening my arms and holding them wide. I felt as if I were soaring through the night sky.

  Whatshisname looked at me and smiled. He looked happy.

  His friends politely offered to leave us alone. Something wet was leaking from my bottom. For the last time that night, I navigated the wobbly journey from those stiletto heels to my knees. After that night, I never wore those boots again. I loved them, but I put them in the closet at the dorm, and then I promptly forgot about them.

  I focused on my studies.

  My parent’s marriage lasted three more difficult years before it finally came tumbling down. I was able to make myself available for both of them, but I had to learn not to let them force me into taking sides with one or the other. I became good at being an intermediary. My philosophy was we all have to do, what we all have to do.

  Later that year, I met my husband, a good man whom I love very much. Three years later we married. On our first year anniversary, he took me downtown to an opera and who should I see but Bang. He was on the other side of the lobby with the most beautiful black woman on his arm. He had that same beautiful white smile, those same dark smoldering eyes. He seemed to know everyone and everyone seemed eager to greet him. I caught his gaze, but if he recognized me, he didn’t show it.

  Later that night, in my bedroom, I got down on my hands and knees for my husband.

  I never again had the nerve to do anal, but when my husband took me that night, I imagined it was Bang back there, taking me, filling me with his big fat cock. Our lovemaking was memorable. I know that sounds crude, and I want to make it clear that I am not unhappy in my marriage. I rarely think of Bang that way. More often, if I think of Bang, it’s with much so much gratitude, it’s close to reverence. Marlo did offer me more drugs that night, just as Bang said he would. I felt so terrible after the humiliating experience of blowing whatshisname, that I feel certain I would have accepted those drugs, had Bang not warned me what to expect. Instead I declined. I took a cab home, paid for with the money Bang had slipped into my pants. If I want to get down on all fours for my husband and then imagine that it’s Bang fucking me, schooling me with his big black dick, I most certainly will.

  My husband is a high ranking executive at a Fortune 500 Company. He has a stressful job, and he often comes home on Friday night frazzled from a difficult week. I feed him and put the girls to bed. We go into the den and he turns on the TV to unwind.

  I get down on my knees and put his cock in my mouth. We all have to do, what we all have to do. On nights like this, it can take forever for him to come. But I have less illusions about myself now. I know exactly what I’m capable of. I could have been a crack whore. Instead I’m a socialite. I try to be grateful for all that I have.r />
  Diamonds, furs.

  A vacation house in Barbados.

  My own Lexus.

  When the cream fills my mouth, I look up into my husband’s eyes. I swallow it all. Smile. When I’m finished, I open my mouth, show him it’s empty.

  I want to make him happy.

  Jessica M.

  Philadelphia

  He Sends His Regrets

  On a cold December night twenty years ago, I raped a friend of mine, an attractive girl who was too drunk to sit up, or to even remember my name.

  I had crossed the quad and was headed upstairs, to my room, when I saw her in one of those little sitting rooms off the main hall, passed out on the couch. Her knees were tented together, and her body splayed out across the seat. I recognized her immediately by the pretty party dress she wore. She’d been at the same holiday party as me, but we hadn’t spoken with one another. I’ll call her Michelle for this, but that’s not her real name.

  My face and hands still stung from the cold outside. It was about two or three in the morning, and I was a little drunk. An upperclassman had spiked the punch, making it impossibly strong, but the cold walk across campus had sobered me some. A light dusting of snow had begun to fall, and I was in a festive mood. My fingers felt thick and numb, and I blew into my fists to warm them. I didn’t plan to take advantage of her. It all happened a little at a time, one decision after the next, until things got out of hand.

  Michelle had one arm crooked over her eyes and the other falling off the couch, touching the floor. I told myself I ought to check on her, make sure she was alright. I always liked her. She wore her hair in a bob, and we all called her by the first name of some perky Eastern European gymnast who was popular at the time, as much for her athletic build, as for her bouncy, unbridled optimism. I slipped into the room and closed the door behind me, careful not to let the sound of the latching door echo through the rest of the dorm.

  I put my hand on her calf. I softly said her name. “Michelle,” I whispered.

  She didn’t stir, so I sat down. I kept my hand on her leg. I could feel my penis stirring in my pants, but I told myself this was just going to be a little joke. Bawdy humor. I began stroking the back of her calf. I felt certain her eyes would soon flutter open. When they didn’t, I ran my hand up to her knee and opened her legs. I held her knee against the couch, keeping her legs apart. Her skirt fell into the valley between her thighs, hiding her crotch, making her look like some fashion model in a soft core glamour pose, selling men’s cologne or bottles of vodka or something. Then she moved her bottom, shifted her weight, and her legs remained open. I grinned—a pretty girl in a party dress with her legs spread wide. My cock was getting hard now and I found my senses were growing more heightened. I listened to make sure no one was coming.

  I slid my hand from her knee up along the inside of her thigh. I moved my hand slowly and felt the blood thumping in my ears. Slipping my hand under her dress, I let it come to rest on her panty clad crotch. I held my breath. I used my thumb to massage between her legs, my fingers resting on her groin. She moaned softly and rolled her hips. If she would have opened her eyes, I could still play it off as a joke, although by now I knew the gag had lost much of its potential to make her laugh.

  I blew the air from my mouth. I considered leaving and resolved that I would do exactly that. My penis throbbed in my pants. I decided I would go to my room and masturbate. A clock ticked loudly on a wall somewhere.

  I lifted her dress.

  She had on cotton panties with colored stripes. I was breathing through my open mouth and my throat was dry. I smiled, trying to keep the illusion of a joke alive. I knew she was from a powerful, wealthy family. I’d watched her step from her father’s silver Jaguar, her arms filled with little bags from those expensive boutique shops downtown. I’m ashamed to admit it, but that’s how I justified what I did next. I rested her dress on her tummy, hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties, and then tugged her underwear down. I worked her panties over her rear, then pulled down the front to reveal her little secret.

  She’d shaved off all her pubic hair.

  My cock pulsed when I saw her bald pussy. This was long before all the girls started shaving themselves down there. Back then, if a girl took a razor to her privates, it said something about her. It spoke to her morals. At least, that’s what I told myself. That’s how I rationalized what I did next. I lowered her panties to just above her knees, and then folded her legs back onto her chest. Her hairless little pussy turned up to greet me.

  I used her panties like a cloth handle to hold her legs high. I knelt on the couch. With my other hand, I unzipped my fly and then hauled out my cock. Even then, I wouldn’t acknowledge what I was about to do. I told myself that I would only rub it against her. I put the head of my penis against her sex and I could feel prickly razor stubble. I rubbed against her lips. She was dry. My breathing was coming heavy and I had completely sobered by now. I felt panicked. I knew that if I continued to rub myself against her dry pussy, I would ejaculate. For the first and only time that night, I showed some restraint. I stopped myself. I pinched my penis just below its big wet head and sat back on my heels. My head felt light. I let her knees fall to the side and she curled into the fetal position, her little bottom still exposed to me.

  Looking at her, I felt an alarming sense of power. My heart raced in my chest and my mouth was dry. I’ve thought a lot about what happened to me that night with Michelle, and while it’s hard to find much that’s redeemable, this much is clear: I will never feel such power again. I am a thirty-eight year old bachelor. Twice married, twice divorced. For the last few years, I haven’t even bothered to date. I’m just no good at it.

  I took a deep breath. I wish I could tell you that this is where better judgment took over, but we both know that’s not what happened.

  I lowered my pants to the middle of my thighs. By now I knew exactly what I was going to do, but I wouldn’t let myself think about it in the front of my head. I removed her panties and opened her legs. I spit into my palm and rubbed the moisture onto my penis. I have never felt more sexually alive or potent in all my life.

  I tried to mount her, but she was still too dry—and I far too excited—to attempt penetration. What could I do? I hunkered down on the couch and licked her between the legs. My mouth was dry from drinking and fear and it took a little time to get the saliva going. I remember thinking that if someone had come by it would be ridiculous to get busted giving her head, my bare ass high in the air. She seemed to enjoy it. I heard more soft moans from her and at one point she closed her legs and then curled onto her side. I don’t know why, but I licked her anus. She had a bitter taste, and as I nuzzled her, I felt my penis rubbing against the leather couch cushions, and I became aware that I might come with my tongue deep inside her ass.

  I tried mounting her again, this time with more success. She was on her side, and I slipped inside her easily. She was so . . . slippery. I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. There was only me, with my cock inside her, my hands grasping the couch to support my weight. I drove into her, pushing towards my great prize.

  And here is what I won:

  After the last divorce, I began putting together the rape, the lack of an ability on my part to navigate an intimate relationship. I am a tenured professor, an intelligent man. I grew depressed. One of my students at the time was failing my course and came to my office hours to ask for help. Her name was Samantha, and she shared with me that she had a part time job dancing in a local strip bar. She was a nineteen year old girl, a beautiful redhead with green eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She offered to dance for me privately in return for a better grade. I agreed. After class, we would meet here in my office, lock the door. I’d sit on the couch and she would climb into my lap and writhe until I filled my pants with cum. I always wanted more from her, but she was unwilling to have sex with me. Depending on what she wore to class, I could occa
sionally win getting her to remove her pants or shirt before she climbed into my lap. One night, she wore a pretty party dress, and I was determined to have her. I wanted to take her on my couch, with her dress up over her hips, her legs folded onto her chest. I wanted to pull her panties to her knees, then hold them in my fist as I fucked her. Of course, she balked. She had the most delightful way of turning me down, but I worried her until I produced a concession. Our eventual compromise was this: she would raise her dress and bend over my desk, her panties down around her knees. I was allowed to lick her ass. She had a bitter taste, but I eagerly licked her bottom until I made myself come. Not long after, Samantha dropped my class, never returning to my office. I think she found me too needy.

  After I mounted Michelle, I came inside of her almost immediately. I couldn’t help it. Two good pumps. Maybe three or four more after.

  For the longest time, I hovered over her, constricting the muscles in my ass, allowing my cock to drain inside her. I wanted to make it last. I was so lightheaded that I briefly thought I was in danger of passing out.

  Shame and self-loathing washed over me.

  I slept in the next day. When I woke, it was late afternoon on an overcast day. I showered and dressed and went out to find food. For some reason, my mind remained a blank slate. It wasn’t like I had forgotten what had happened, or blocked any of it out. I had complete command of all the details. I just wasn’t thinking about it.