Sweet Confessions

by Violet Blue

  He reached for me, taking me at the waist, his strong hands implacable. He studied me—shoulders, neck, the curve of my breasts above the bodice of the dress—his hands starting a slow kneading, tightening then loosening around my stomach, the rhythm deliberate as he continued his examination of my hands, my arms, my shoulders. My body, barely under my control throughout the night, shocked me with a punch of primal arousal, the pulse between my legs a perfect cadence with my racing heart. His cock jumped against the taffeta, a shining, dark smear marking me as his. He released my waist and ran his hand up the side, unzipping the dress, then pulling it away. He lifted me out of the pool of fabric, setting me on the thick carpet beside his bed. I stood still, empowered by the controlled hunger I saw in him. He traced along the bodice of the corset even as his other hand teased my thigh where my garter held the stocking. I swallowed my fear and reached up to his cheek, a light press of flesh to flesh that nearly overwhelmed me. His hand left my thigh and he slid his fingers between the soaked curls of my pussy.

  Feral and low, his whisper raked like a whip. “Take off your shoes.” His fingers circled my clit as I slipped out of the heels. I wanted to grind against his hand, to spear myself on his cock, but he took his fingers out of me and raised them to my lips, smearing my own juices over them. The gleam in his eyes was demonically wicked. I flicked my tongue out, cleaning the tip of his index finger before he put his hands on my shoulders and exuded pressure, undeniably wanting me on my knees. God, yes! I’d show him how much I wanted him; my mouth watered at the thought of sucking him dry.

  But as I went down on the handmade silk rug, he deftly stepped behind me, denying me the taste of him, the joy of his cock inside my mouth. He ran his hands over my shoulder blades, tracing the edges of the corset, then plucked at the crossed lacing at the center of my back and, as if the strings were wires connected to my pussy, the sensation electrified me. He ran both his hands over my ass, then slid one up to my pussy again, testing me, stroking me, driving me crazy. My breath puffed in short, starved bursts, the corset still firmly in place. The slightest bit of relief came when he pulled at the excess lacings where Monica had tucked them at the base of my back. I felt the tickle of him untying me. I ran my hands over the front, ready to spring myself by opening the front hooks and eyes.

  “No,” Graham said without color or bite.

  I forced my hands to my sides, my breath shivering in and out as anticipation grew in me. One of Graham’s hands spanned between my shoulder blades as he pressed me down to my hands. “Down. All the way.”

  Prone. Vulnerable. Memory flared a hiccup of panic in my throat, my body going rigid as I took possession of the fear. I lay on the thick rug, willing my muscles to relax. Graham’s hands stroked and teased the back of my neck, the span of my shoulders, turning me into a puddle of want. I found myself entranced, moving like a charmed snake, supple shrugs and swaying hips under the mystery of his touch.

  My brain tried to reason, tried to assess the surrender, but the thick thud of my heart, the roaring rips of swelling desire in my ears smashed reason to bits. Graham’s hands ran down the back of my arms and closed around my wrists, pulling with care to cross them at the crest of my buttocks.

  I was so hot, so utterly alive, every nerve overtaxed with the erotic pop of his strokes, it didn’t register at first. He used the lace ends to tie me, skillfully binding my wrists together at the small of my back, my captivity nearly complete.

  He moved between my legs and lifted my hips, forcing me onto my knees. I groaned out a breath, Graham’s intention feverishly clear. I wished I could see my wrists, the laces of the corset branding my skin in ribbons of fire that frightened and electrified me. He slid a hand over my ass, his fingers drenched in evidence. Expertly, he found my clit, giving it a squeeze that asserted control and I moaned, the sound involuntary but unstoppable. I tried to catch my breath but the corset denied me the calming coolness of full lungs.

  And as I blurted out the abbreviated breath, my ribs and diaphragm strained against the increased constriction of the corset. Graham, with one hand teasing my clit, pulled against the lacings with the other, tightening, forcing the corset tighter, harder, encasing my torso in brocade and rigid metal, unyielding cotton and eyes slicing space. The sound that escaped my throat had no force, the air conservative and stingy. His relentless fingers continued to stroke and pluck at my clit, and as my head spun with the enormity of what I was doing, what he was doing, my pussy boiled with truth, flowed over his hand, wept for completion.

  I barely felt his cock at the gate, but as he pushed into me, hard, direct, adjusting the angle of my hips, the corset tight around me, my charged senses registered every millimeter of his penetration.

  I cried, my lungs hungry for more air. The tender ducts of my eyes forced tears; forced the joyful, fearful, amazed celebration of his finally fucking me out of my body, acknowledging the wonder.

  He groaned. I heard it and felt the edge of orgasm rush forward. His cock began a fast, hard pistoning; the solid invasion, the complete sense of surrender bucked against my need for him, my longing; my shredded naïve notions of love replaced with something I didn’t yet understand, didn’t fully comprehend, but that I felt being forged in the white hot heat in my aching chest, under the strong pounding of my heart and his cock.

  The edge didn’t loom, and it wasn’t emblazoned in white light. It was red, alive, angry and molten—lava sliding out of a crack in the earth to burn away the old and build new, fresh land.

  My pussy clenched, the saliva in my mouth pooled on the carpet—and behind me, fucking me, possessing me, Graham’s panting breath finished me. I came hard, wave after wave of obliterating pleasure pulsing from my cunt, blasting through the cage around my body and tearing the scream from me in ragged, joyful chords.

  He didn’t stop, his cock still thrusting, piercing, binding me to him as the orgasm rocked through me, and as I half feared the pain of wasted flesh abused, he thrust harder, deeper, splitting my pussy.

  Abruptly, he released the laces, and the corset, victim to physics, loosened, freeing me, gripping me just barely less than it had all evening, but my pussy, my ribs, my lungs, opened.

  Golden light, flashing harmonies, the instinctual gasp of the first full breath I’d taken all night obliterated every nerve, every instinct, every reservation and thought. I shuddered, clenched, gasped and came again, savoring a final slap on my ass as Graham growled and came, filling me with his semen, searing me with the brand of ownership.

  He collapsed over me and together we sank to the carpet. His ragged breath echoed mine as I savored every fiber of the rug, every inch of his warmth, the slow slide of his spent cock out of me, the cool wetness as I dripped on silk.

  One of the stays of the corset dug into the flesh beneath my breast and I giggled, joyful, content and embracing the unknown itinerary of this journey Graham had started me on.

  He kissed the back of my neck, tender, loving, and a full body shiver pebbled my skin and hugged my waist where the stays of the corset rested.

  I closed my eyes, content to be pinned.

  Pinned, bound, caged within stays and ribs, exhausted and totally, completely happy for the first time in my life.

  So sweetly spent. So completely and delightfully waisted.

  UNDERPANTS

  K. D. Grace

  Don’t get dressed,” Dan whispers into the phone. He’s just come, and I can hear the drowsiness creeping into his voice. “I want to dress you.” His words soften like warm butter. “I dream of dressing you.”

  My fingers are still curled over my pubis, slick and warm from my orgasm. I smile into my pillow where the phone is cradled against my ear. “I’m in bed. I won’t need dressing until morning.”

  “I mean when I get there tomorrow night. Let me dress you. I have a surprise for you,” he adds, just in case I might need convincing.

  I don’t.

  Dan’s full of surprises. That’s why I still fuck him. Know
ing that I’m the other woman makes the sex more exciting. Maybe it’s knowing he doesn’t want me to settle down and have his children.

  I don’t ask how he manages our one evening a week. I don’t care. I don’t even know his partner’s name. I get my weekly shag and just enough risky phone sex to turn me all Pavlovian every time my mobile goes off.

  The next evening I indulge in a candlelit bath with lots of bubbles. I lie back with my eyes closed and masturbate. When I answer the door, I’m primed and ready, wrapped in a blue silk robe, hair and makeup perfect. I go all tingly as I imagine being wide-eyed and naïve, needing the help of someone older and wiser to dress me properly for a night out in London. I feel wickedly innocent standing before Dan, clutching the robe around me demurely.

  He kisses me, eating my mouth like it’s chocolate. “Traffic’s awful,” he says, pulling away enough to trace the lapel of my robe down between my breasts to where it crosses under the knotted sash. His eyes are as hungry as his mouth, following the trail of his hand.

  It’s then I notice the package, about the size of a thin book. It’s wrapped in gold paper, tied with a red ribbon and a single rose. I reach for it, but he pulls it back offering me a teasing smile. “When I decide you’re ready for it, you’ll get it.”

  He takes my hand and leads me into my bedroom, tugging open my lingerie drawers and running thick fingers over neatly folded bras and thongs. Then he shakes his head and shoves the drawers shut. “Not right for tonight.”

  I feel pleased. He knows I love sexy lingerie. Surely that’s what’s in the package. He throws open the closet door and paws through my clothes. “I want something soft and revealing.” He glances over at me. “I want easy access to disguise a multitude of indiscretions.” His gaze locks on my crotch, and I feel breathless.

  “How about this?” He pulls out my favorite dress, black silk and chiffon with a short flip skirt. The top shows more cleavage than anything I own. When I reach for the drawer with the appropriate lingerie, he pushes my hand away. “I’m dressing you, remember?”

  “But—”

  “Shh.” With one hand, he unties the robe and shoves it off my shoulders. Then he pulls the dress from the hangar and motions for me to raise my arms.

  When he slides it over my head, I’m sputtering about the proper bra and thong, certain men don’t know about these things, but he isn’t listening. He pinches my nipples through the dress until they’re distended and sensitive, and even the touch of silk makes them ache.

  “Perfect,” he says. His voice has gone rough, and when he takes off his jacket, like he’s getting down to serious business, I can see the press of his penis distorting Armani trousers.

  He rummages in the top drawer beneath the thongs and knickers and finds black suspenders, old ones, ones I seldom wear. I’m starting to wonder what he has in mind. Then he lifts the dress until I can see my bottom reflected pink and freshly scrubbed in the mirror behind me. He sees it too and takes his time to admire it, turning me this way and that, cupping me, spreading me just enough for a glimpse of what I know he wants.

  When the suspenders are secure, he sits me on the bed and kneels between my legs. Slowly he teases sheer black stockings up my thigh, pausing to run his tongue over the arches of my feet and kiss me on the spot where he attaches the stockings to the suspenders. I feel his hair, still damp from the weather, brush against my mons, and my labia shiver and grasp. “There,” he sighs, when he’s done.

  I don’t care about the restaurant anymore. I want him now. But he ignores my efforts to wriggle closer. He helps me into black stiletto sling-backs that have fuck me written all over them. Those, I knew he would choose. They’re his favorites.

  “Almost ready.” He’s breathing harder now, but so am I. I feel half-naked and naughtier somehow without the appropriate underpinnings. He’s taking me to some Italian trattoria I’ve never heard of. He says he likes the atmosphere. That usually means a place dark and intimate enough that the meal is a yummy grope fest, and I’m the main course.

  I giggle and open my legs. “What? No knickers?”

  “Of course knickers. I’m not taking you out dressed improperly.” He sounds proprietary, as though my virtue is his to protect, and I feel even naughtier. He hands me the goldwrapped box. While I shred the wrapping, he takes the rose and brushes the petals up the length of me. The room is awash in the scent of rose and pussy.

  For a second, I think he’s having a laugh. But he waits expectantly, all wicked smiles, as I unfurl the huge pair of white cotton knickers that my nan would have found prudish. I’m thinking surely there must be a sexy lace thong underneath, or maybe hidden inside.

  There isn’t.

  “You’re joking. Right?”

  “I’m serious.” He lays the rose aside and takes the knickers from me. He slips my stiletto clad feet through the giant leg holes, then shimmies them up my thighs. “Lift your bottom for me,” he says. “There we go. That’s my girl.”

  I’m too shocked to argue. He drags them up over my bum, and they keep going until they’re scant centimeters beneath my breasts.

  “You’re joking,” I repeat.

  He’s practically on top of me in his monumental struggle with the big knickers, enjoying the experience a lot more than I am. His cock is digging enthusiastically into my thigh as he presses closer. “I promise it’ll be good.” Then he slides his hand over the acres of white cotton onto my mound. “I want to keep you all safe and tucked away just for me.”

  I think he’s going to pull the crotch aside and finger-fuck me. Instead, he grabs the whole gusset and gives it a hard yank.

  I yelp in surprise as his efforts nearly slide my bottom off the bed. Then I watch in fascination as he ties the large crotch into a tight, compact knot, pulling the gaping legs of the knickers down tight around my thighs as he tugs and shapes. With one hand, he holds my labia open and with the other he wriggles the wad of scrunched fabric up snug between my lips, like he does with his penis sometimes when he’s teasing me. He pushes and shoves and adjusts until I can just clench my muscles around it.

  “There,” he grunts, pulling away and offering me a hand to stand. “That’s perfect.”

  As I struggle up from the bed against the press of the knot, he glances at his watch. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

  The taxi is waiting, and amid breathless curses and protests, I follow Dan down the steps frantically clenching the knot that, I’m sure, is the only thing keeping the big underpants from dropping embarrassingly around my fuck-me shoes.

  In the taxi, he puts his arm around my shoulders and slides his hand into my dress, his eyes daring the taxi driver to enjoy the view. He guides my palm under the edge of his jacket to his hard cock. As I grope, I catch the flutter of his eyelids before he pushes my hand away. He’s teasing himself as much as he’s teasing me.

  He strokes my nipples into hard little bullets, and the knot of underpants pressing into me becomes a slippery dildo. With the vibration of the car beneath me, I’m practically fucking cotton. I’m breathing hard, about to come, when the taxi stops, and Dan pays the driver.

  I can barely walk as the waiter seats us, and for one horrified moment I think I’m going to come in the middle of the restaurant and lose my grip.

  The chairs are hard wood, making the knot feel like a fist each time I lean forward in my seat. Dan orders expensive champagne and antipasto, and the waiter gabbles on about specials. But I’m thinking about the big knickers, not sure if I want them off or further on.

  I excuse myself to go to the ladies’, and as Dan stands to pull out my chair, he whispers close to my ear. “Don’t be long, or I’ll think you’re up to something.” He gives my nipple a pinch. I gasp and clench and hurry off to the loo.

  The ladies’ room is only a one-seater with no stalls, and I’ve barely gotten my hand under my skirt when there’s an urgent knock on the door. Some poor woman may be waiting in extreme discomfort, and here’s me playing with myself. I
sigh and give the toilet an unnecessary flush before I open the door, and Dan pushes his way in, shoving the lock tight behind him. He jerks my hand to his nose and sniffs. “You were playing with your knickers.” It isn’t a question.

  He forces me forward over the sink, bending me until the reflection of my tits bounces in the mirror. Behind me, he lifts my skirt, and I yelp in surprise as the first smack of his hand comes down onto my white-knickered bottom. “I get to dress you.” Smack. “I get to play with you.” Smack, smack. “My rules,” he puffs in my ear.

  “You didn’t say anything about rules,” I growl. “And besides, if I don’t do something these damn things will be down around my—” I suck air as his hand comes down again on my bottom. I’ve never contemplated the sound of a hard smack against heavy cotton knickers before, and I don’t contemplate long. Dan turns on the cold water and shoves his hand under it. Then he thrusts a wet finger against my anus and wriggles and pokes. In my already desperate state, it takes about two seconds for me to orgasm. With my back hole gripping his cotton-clad finger, I nearly bounce him across the ladies’ room in my spasms.

  He steps back and admires his handiwork. “Feel better? I daresay you won’t lose your panties now.” He takes my hand. “Pasta’s getting cold.”

  Wobbly legged, I follow him back to the table in an endorphin haze, sitting very carefully with both my holes full of cotton.

  Through the entire four-course meal, I think only of the big cotton knickers and what they do to me each time I move. And Dan, that horny bastard, knows exactly what they’re doing to me. He also knows that I know he’s sitting there with a raging hard-on.

  The taxi ride home is interminable. He doesn’t touch me this time. He doesn’t dare. When we arrive, he hands the taxi driver a wad of bills and drags me upstairs. We’re barely inside before he’s shoving me toward the bedroom, shedding his clothes as he goes. By the time he pushes me onto the mattress, he has kicked off his shoes and stumbled out of trousers and boxers.