Sweet Confessions

by Violet Blue

  “No, I don’t!” said Millie. “That’s not why I did this!”

  “Are you sure?” Brad asked. He smiled—or smirked—she couldn’t quite tell which.

  Maybe he was right, she thought. She climbed on top of him and settled herself on his cock. She couldn’t stop thinking about having him look at her so closely. Her cunt dripped with sweet juice. She hovered over him, moving her bottom up and down, touching him only with her pussy. She liked the feeling of connectedness through open space. As she moved on his cock, he reached up and placed his hands on her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them with the rhythm of her movement.

  As she got closer to climax, Millie shifted her weight so only Brad’s tip remained inside her and she began to move faster, enjoying the sensations on the delicate flesh of her opening. Brad dropped his hands back to the bed. Millie knew he liked to close his eyes in order to concentrate on the fullness of her warmth and wetness and rhythm that led to his explosion. This time, however, he propped himself up so he had a good view of his crown being swallowed by her lips. She continued her quick movements on his tip, then plunged him into her all the way. She paused—and now his eyes squeezed shut as he came. Millie started to move harder, knocking herself against Brad as he spurted, hitting that sweet spot inside of her with a violence that caused her to yelp once more as she felt herself reach her peak. She gave a warranted yelp this time.

  She collapsed on Brad, her body motionless except for her heaving chest. After a moment, she lifted her head. Brad smiled at her.

  “Well,” she said smiling back, “if that is what it is like to get shaved up, I might have to do it more often.”

  She had to admit, she liked shaving. Brad was right—a trim pussy kept her cooler, more comfortable. Once in a while she missed being able to brush her hair smooth, but, hey, whoever saw it brushed? And it never stayed that way. Now she just buzzed herself up every couple of weeks. She didn’t even use a guard anymore. Just all the way down. But she wouldn’t even think of attempting a razor. She could only go so far.

  Millie looked at her shorn pussy again. She liked to see that apex where the lips meet, drawing the viewer to the inner sanctum. She knew Brad would stiffen at the sight of her exposed flower. Although now the process was old hat, she still enjoyed the view of her freshly shaved pussy each time. She liked how chic it looked: not bare skin like a little girl, but trim and tight like a well-put-together woman. She was a strong woman. She was in control of her life. Except when she wasn’t—and that kind of out-of-control took place with Brad.

  “Ahem,” came a voice.

  She looked up to see Brad standing there watching her with his staff at full mast.

  “Wanna shave me up?” he asked, stepping into the tub.

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” Millie replied.

  She started with his chest, methodically moving the trimmer across his pecs. She kneeled in the tub to continue down to his belly. She noticed the little appendectomy scar that reappeared every time his hair was shorn. She continued down to his lower belly and pubic hair. His cock stared her in the face, rock-hard and red. She felt her own sex organs responding.

  “How about I do the rest. Here,” he said as he squirted some shave gel in her hands, “put this on the boys.” She complied, swirling the gel into foam. He picked up his razor. Tightening his scrotum, he careful ran the razor over his balls.

  She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t think she could ever get a sharp blade that close to her private parts. She watched in fascination as he moved the razor to the base of his cock where he cleaned up a few hairy stragglers. Millie had never seen this part of the process before. Her pussy pulsed already from shaving herself and now it responded to Brad’s actions.

  When Brad finished, he turned on the shower. They rinsed off without a word. He flipped the water back off. They stared at each other until Millie felt Brad pull her out of the tub and lay her on the rug in front of the sink, still wet.

  He positioned himself over her and quickly pushed his cock into her wet pussy.

  Oh, what a relief, she thought. Her internal pressure had built to such a level that she felt like her sex would turn inside out without Brad’s cock to keep it in place. She moaned.

  He began thrusting with urgency, slamming into her again and again, and she bucked back against him.

  After what felt like only a moment—or a month—she exploded. The visual and tactile stimulation had raised her sensitivity to an all-time high. Brad followed her shortly thereafter, with a loud grunt as he erupted inside her. One, two, three, four, five strong strokes and then he suspended his motion; she could feel his cock continuing to pulse against the walls that held him so tight.

  There they lay, wet from the shower, sweaty from their exertion, limp from their climax. Millie pictured Brad’s shaft in her face as she shaved his belly, her hands foaming up his balls, his fingers delicately tightening his sac.

  “Well,” Millie said, “if that’s what it’s like to shave you up, I might have to do that more often.”

  NEW DAY, NEW LI FE

  Andrea Dale

  So, is it everything you hoped for?” Mike asked.

  Rachelle snuggled beneath his arm. “And more,” she said. “I’m here, with you, and I’m healthy. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

  Here was Prague; specifically, the wide pedestrian Charles Bridge, the perfect place for a stroll after a dinner of smoked pork and dumplings and cabbage and velvety smooth beer.

  The summer’s night air was a soft caress on her skin. Accents and foreign words slipped around them like the slow-flowing Vltava River under the bridge. Ahead, the Old Town buildings were softly lit.

  She was content. She was alive.

  The bout with cancer had terrified her, but she’d met the terror head-on and come out the other side relatively unscathed. She’d been given a clean bill of health—a second chance. And, as she’d told her husband, she wanted to do all the things she’d thought about doing but set aside due to work or commitments or time.

  Mike, being as astounding a husband as she could ever hope for, had agreed.

  So they’d come to Eastern Europe, land of her forebears. She didn’t care about the direct genealogy—too far back to follow—but since she’d been a girl she’d wanted to see the places with the exotic-sounding names and pastel-colored buildings and paprika-laced food.

  She wanted to experience it.

  They wandered to a stop at the end of the bridge, found an empty spot along the rail next to one of the many monuments that lined the wide stone walkway. Light from a nightclub that jutted out into the river made sparkles on the water. Maybe they’d play Poohsticks tomorrow, if they could find some twigs.

  “Well, you don’t see that every day,” Mike said.

  The nightclub had several curved windows—alcoves, if you were inside—and spotlighted in each was a dancer, facing out into the night.

  A naked dancer, save for her tiny G-string and spike-heeled go-go boots.

  “No,” Rachelle said, “you certainly do not.”

  Normally she would have added, “Not in the nice part of town,” but somehow, this just didn’t seem as sleazy as she would have expected. The nightclub was obviously modern and upscale, and while it clashed with its surroundings, it (and the dancers) didn’t strike her as sordid. Different cultures had different standards.

  The closest dancer either had incredibly long hair or wore an extension, because the ends of her high ponytail brushed the middle of her bare back. She was lean without being skinny, with natural-looking breasts. Her boots and thong were electric blue. Her movements were fluid, graceful, as she danced to music the onlookers couldn’t hear.

  That was about all Rachelle could see from this distance.

  “You seem quite mesmerized with her,” Mike commented.

  And Rachelle realized she’d been staring at the dancer for a good five minutes.

&
nbsp; “Oh,” she said. “Well. She’s very good.”

  Mike leaned over her shoulder, his lips brushing against her neck. She shivered under the delicious feel of his kisses. His breath ruffled her hair as he said, “I think it’s more than that, darling.”

  At home—before—she might have laughed his words away. But she’d learned not to shy away from anything anymore. Life was too short for denial, even denying something to oneself.

  That didn’t make it easy, of course. But it was dark, and they were alone in their little alcove, and most people walking by wouldn’t have understood what they were saying anyway. And Mike loved her without reservation.

  The Chinese characters for fear and excitement, she’d been told, were the same.

  Deep breath. “I’ve always…found other women attractive,” she said.

  His arms tightened in a hug around her waist. “I’ve noticed. I’ve always appreciated that you didn’t get jealous when I looked at a pretty woman—and that you sometimes said she was pretty, too. Go on.”

  She wanted to squirm, but faced things head-on. “It’s more than just appreciating the female form, although that’s definitely part of it. I did have one…I guess you’d call it an encounter, in college. We didn’t go all the way. Whatever that means when it’s two women.” She laughed, releasing nervous energy.

  “Anyway, we were drunk, which gave me the courage to play, and we kissed and fondled. But that was about it.”

  “Did you come?” Mike whispered. She could feel his cock hardening against her tailbone, and she shivered again, deep inside where it counted.

  “Not during. I was pretty worked up, though, and I masturbated when I got back to my room. It’s all a bit fuzzy, really. I never had the guts to follow through on anything afterward.”

  It wasn’t just Mike’s hands sliding up her rib cage to cup the underside of her breasts and then higher to graze over her nipples, harder and more sensitive than she’d realized they’d become; it was also his next words that made her inner walls clench.

  “Do you want to now?” he asked.

  She had to think about that. Thinking was hard enough when he was caressing her nipples; now he was rolling them gently between his fingers. The thin knit of her sweater and the satin of her bra muted the sensations, but that didn’t make them any less delicious.

  Any less maddening.

  “Um,” she said. “Well, on a purely physical level, maybe. Yes. But there’s also the rational and logical and emotional levels. I prefer men; I need a man in my life to balance me. More importantly, I love you, and I married you, and I promised to be faithful to you. I’m not going to throw that away.”

  “I love you, too,” he said. “Without reservation. But if monogamy weren’t an issue—if, say, hypothetically we both agreed to the parameters and rules—then what would you say?”

  Warmth and heat spread through her. He was rock-solid hard against her, and she wanted to turn and fold herself around him, but it all felt so good. She couldn’t help but wriggle her hips back against him, and the graze of his teeth against her neck told her how that affected him.

  “I’d say there were still some emotional issues to contemplate,” she said. “It’s…complicated.”

  “I can see that,” Mike said, his fingers working her nipples more firmly, making her want to rip off her top and bra and toss them in the river so she could feel the cool night air and his hands against her heated skin.

  “How about this,” he went on. “For right now—this moment, here, us—we’ll just think about it. How it might go, how it might be.” His voice turned husky. “Confess to me, Rachelle.”

  So she did. The words spilled out of her, and she didn’t censor them or try to form them into a coherent narrative. She talked about how it felt in college, soft small hands on her, narrow, delicate fingers; smooth skin, the only hair a peachy fuzz; warm lips, questioning and exploring rather than possessing.

  Although there was possessing, too.

  As she talked about pretty women and stared, sometimes unseeing, sometimes rapt, at the dancer in the window across the water, Mike’s hands were on her.

  He murmured in her ear, encouraging her on when she faltered, as he slowly gathered the fabric of her long, flowing skirt in his fingers, drawing it up to her waist. From behind, it still hung low and proper (as if anyone would try to peer past Mike’s legs to gauge).

  And it was dark. And they were in a foreign country where nobody knew them, and an exotic dancer blithely undulated for the world to see. And the air on her legs only reminded her how deliciously naughty what they were doing was.

  Her tiny thong was useless, drenched. Mike slipped his fingers around it, finding no resistance. He dipped into the heat and wet of her, and she hissed, wanting more. Instead, he drew his hand away, up.

  In the glow of a nearby streetlight she could see his fingers glistening. He painted them along her lips, whispering something about how incredible and sweet a woman tastes, and did she want to taste that? She moaned, and he took the opportunity of her parted mouth to edge inside, and she sucked the taste of herself, which was incredible and sweet.

  As she watched the dancer writhe, she let herself freefall into sensation. Mike was stroking her again, not just teasing this time but focusing, his fingers sliding across her clit. Every muscle in her thighs and calves quivered as she balanced on the edge of need and with the need to keep standing.

  And then, blessedly, she was coming, hard and contracting and so very alive.

  She wasn’t entirely clear on how they made it back to their hotel and had only a vague sense of stumbling through the lobby, riding up on the tiny clanking elevator, groping like teenagers.

  She felt drunk on life and vacation and arousal. She couldn’t imagine how Mike had made it all the way back; he was still so hard. He stripped off his shirt even as she parted his pants, drew out his cock and took it into her mouth.

  It was blissfully hard, yet she couldn’t help comparing the solid rigidity, the coarse hair and taut muscles of his thighs, with her hazy memory of touching the woman in college. Neither better, just…different.

  Mike urged her up to kneel on the bed; flipped her skirt up and divested her of the useless thong. Just before he slipped the glorious length of him inside of her, as he teased her still-wet, still-needy sex with the head of his cock, he said, “Imagine that dancer lying in front of you, legs spread, desperate for you to touch her.”

  Then he was inside of her, stroking deep and firm. She was spiraling higher, lingering on the edge. The image he described shimmered into a vision and cradled between that and Mike, she let go and came.

  The next morning, they ordered room service, a typical Czech breakfast of dark rye bread and salami and cheese and coffee. Lounging against the feather pillows, Rachelle asked Mike if he wanted her to explore her bi side so he could sleep with another woman. She didn’t expect him to have an ulterior motive, far from it. She just wanted to know how he felt about the whole thing.

  He had to think about it, and she nibbled bread and cheese and sipped her coffee, feeling…content, almost light.

  “I think,” Mike said finally, “yes, that’s probably part of it. There’s always a thrill to being with someone new and different. I’m not looking for that—it’s not a part of my life anymore—but I have to acknowledge that aspect of it. The real reason, I’m pretty sure, is that you look so damn beautiful when you come, and I’d love to see that happen with another woman, so I can just enjoy how you look and react and cry out with passion.”

  Rachelle had to put down her coffee cup before she spilled the hot liquid everywhere.

  That day, she noticed women everywhere; not more women, but more detail: the curves and lines; the smooth skin, kohlrimmed eyes, manicured nails, hair thick or thin, straight or curled, short or long; the graceful gesture of a hand; the crinkles of laughter at the corner of the eyes and mouth; a full lower lip, the sway of hips.

  She almost missed the sigh
tseeing, lost in the wonder of what she was seeing, she almost felt like, for the first time. Or was it remembering, a part of her coming awake after a long slumber? Sleeping Beauty seeing the beauty.

  She was distracted. How did men get through the day? There were so many breasts to ogle, asses to admire, legs to lust after. She was thankful for her sunglasses, hiding her lustful gaze.

  All the looking at women and admiring women and, let’s face it, imagining women naked and wanting, meant she couldn’t escape the question that plagued her: Did she want to sleep with another woman?

  She wanted to experience it again, yes. She had enough faith in the strength of her marriage to contemplate it, yes.

  The fact that they were in a faraway foreign country meant it would be easier to do it with no attachments, no strings. Nobody would know or possibly even care.

  If she and Mike agreed to the parameters…

  She contemplated suggesting she have a tryst alone—have her experience, be done with it. But the more she contemplated that, the less it appealed to her. If she was going to do this, she wanted to share it with Mike.

  The day after that, maybe solidified into yes.

  They’d talked a little more the previous night, over wine with dinner and a nightcap in the quiet corner bar where Czech folk music enclosed them in a private bubble.

  She thought, that night, when she went to sleep, she was sure.

  She wasn’t so sure the next morning.

  Then they met Eliska.

  It seemed a little too obvious, like something in a letter written in a trashy magazine. They’d gone to St. Vitus Cathedral, as part of a tour they’d arranged ahead of time. There were ten people on the tour, which was led by Eliska.

  She was, hands down, the best tour guide they’d had in any monument in any country.

  In accented but excellent English, she told them about the cathedral’s—and, by extension the Czech Republic’s—history, not by reciting facts and dates and lineages, but by telling stories. She engaged the listeners, encouraging them, for example, to look for motifs throughout the building (carved in stone, depicted in stained glass, embroidered in cushions and tapestries) even as she wove the meanings of the motifs into her monologue.