Sweet Confessions

by Violet Blue

  “I’ll give you that,” he said as he played with her clit, still nudging her ass—she could tell he was probably going to make her beg to be fucked there, if she truly wanted it, just because he could, because it was such a rarity—as his fingers made her open to him. “But what am I supposed to do, just go home with the next guy who offers? I don’t want to do anything without you. We tried that and you know how I felt.” She did. For a little while, they’d tried to have a totally open relationship and had picked up partners with all the enthusiasm of the sexually liberated, only to find that, once chosen, those partners seemed to lose much of their appeal after they’d gotten naked with them. Something was missing, and the only truly satisfying extracurricular sexing they’d done had happened with them and another woman.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I guess I just want us to try this. I can’t really say why but…it makes me very, very wet.” His fingers pressed inside her to find out just how true that statement was, and she pressed down against him. “And I have this hunch that you’d like it too, if we found the right guy. If I found him,” she finished, suddenly struck with the perfect plan.

  “Maybe,” he said, not sounding convinced. “How about this? You pick out your dreamy real-life Ken doll—only with a cock—and I’ll meet with him. But no promises, okay?”

  Instead of shaking on it, they kissed—deeply, passionately, the kind of kiss where his mouth covered hers, his teeth digging into her skin, overtaking her lips, her tongue, her essence. And then, for the next hour or so, she forgot about the other man she wanted to find, and focused on the man who truly mattered as they twisted and writhed and joined until they finally slept, curled against each other.

  Rory was the type of girl who didn’t waste time analyzing every available option. If she wanted something, whether a pair of sunglasses or a gourmet chocolate bar or a new suitcase, she let whichever caught her eye be the one she chose. She didn’t consider it impulsive so much as decisive. When she knew, she knew, and she figured shopping for food or jewelry or accessories had to be something like shopping for men. And it kind of was, except that there wasn’t a store where she could find a man who’d fuck her boyfriend and let her watch—and even if there was (she wasn’t above imagining such a thing), Rory wasn’t sure she’d want it to be that easy, the way online dating always promised. There was a myth that you could plug in height, eye color, race, penis size, and get the perfect man, but she knew from her own trial and error that it just didn’t work like that. Men might seem easy, and some of them were, sexually, but she liked the spark, the challenge, the interplay. Or maybe she just liked men who made her work for it.

  Especially for this mission, she didn’t just want any man; she wanted the right one, the one who’d turn both her and Alex on, one who wouldn’t simply tolerate her in the bedroom, but would get off in some way on being under her distinctly female, masturbatory gaze. Instead of the morass of online options, there was the gay bar her favorite fags had recommended, the one most open to women, where maybe there might be a bi, or at the very least, curious, guy who’d consider her offer.

  She knew that this foray into fag hagdom would be different from when she’d gone to the bars just for fun, when she was the Girl, usually the only one, sometimes one of a handful. That world was theirs, and she was the outsider, a tourist, but a very eager one. She could blend, precisely because she didn’t want to take home a souvenir. Here she was not a visitor, but the instigator and collaborator.

  She’d decided to wear a red corset top covered with a thin white cardigan and her darkest, tightest jeans, plus heels. She knew many gay men who couldn’t resist a pair of breasts looking like they’d been served up on a platter, and she loved to flirt, especially when flirting was the endgame. She could feel the puzzled glances of men wondering if she’d stumbled into the wrong kind of bar, if she wasn’t looking for the one filled with punks and metalheads down the block. She let the bartender concoct her drink—“Something fruity,” she specified with a wink—then went back to perusing the bar. There were men here she herself could get wet for, but she wasn’t here for that. Well, not only for that. She was here for Alex, to show him what he, what they, were capable of.

  She sipped her mystery drink and waited. The right man would come to her, that much she had learned from a decade of chasing boys. She was happy to observe the boys at play, especially the go-go boy in just his tighty-whiteys. Flirting with gay men had always come easy for her, but she was on a mission tonight, and she tried to look relaxed yet mysterious. It wasn’t until she’d turned toward the bar, her ass sticking out, that a man walked up and complimented her. “Lady, if I swung that way, you’d be the kind of woman I’d want to take home.”

  She turned to find a pale, husky man, full-bellied, with a beard, glasses and short brown hair she instantly wanted to run her fingers through. Whereas Alex has a swimmer’s lean body, this man clearly liked to eat and drink. He was wearing a blue sweater and had a twinkle in his eye; he was probably only a few years older than her twenty-eight but had a wise look to him.

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a bar like this?” he asked with an exaggerated accent.

  She grinned at him. “How do you know I’m a nice girl?”

  “Now that’s what I like to hear. What are you having?”

  He proceeded to buy her a drink, and as they chatted, she found herself almost reluctant to get to her point. Would he think her yet another boring straight girl partnered with a fag in disguise? Or would he get how much more complicated her situation was? It was only after her third drink that Rory truly opened up. Vince was enraptured, listening to her with his full attention, not trying to signal any of the boys or ogle anyone out of the corner of his eyes. He didn’t even ask to see a photo of Alex, but he did want to know all about his personality and their sex life. “Usually, well, usually I’m the bottom. Actually, almost always. Maybe I don’t look it tonight”—she indicated her top, which, while not an actual corset, still made deep breaths a challenge—“but I like to be bossed around. Told what to do. Ordered to do things I might initially balk at. But this is different. This is something I’m asking him to do for me…but not just for me, if that makes sense.”

  Vince put his hand on her shoulder and said three simple words that let her relax, even within the constricting top. “I get it.” They closed out the bar talking about Alex, sex, and then finally, just for fun, the other men in the bar. “Alex looks kind of like him,” she said, pointing, and Vince whistled. Their date was set when she hugged Vince good night.

  When they were finally alone in the hotel suite Rory had picked for its elegance and discretion, sleek modern charms and most especially its California king-size bed, she realized she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She was used to keeping them busy—even when they were bound behind her back. Her long nails often sported a chipped red color from all her fidgeting and busywork. What she ached to do as she looked at the two men poised before her was run her hands through their hair, clutch at their chests, dig those nails into their backs. She was used to being the center of attention with men or women, in bed or out, and this was something new. She’d requested it, but it would still take a little getting used to, staying perched in a plush chair off on the side of the room.

  But tonight, Rory was there to watch. She wanted to see Alex find a new side of himself. She knew those lips, those teeth, those hands, that cock. She knew every inch of him and wanted to think she knew what happened in his head, but she could never know it all. Maybe he couldn’t either.

  In her head, this moment had looked like one thing: a fantasy come to life, a seduction scene par excellence. But in real life, fantasies become something more real—more nuanced, more passionate precisely because they aren’t perfect. Alex looked at her and she wasn’t prepared for the emotions playing out on his face: fear, excitement, lust—and thanks. He was thanking her for giving him something he hadn’t even been sure he wanted. Alex was the
one who was nervous, his usual toughness stripped down. She smiled at him, a tender smile, not a cruel one. She didn’t want to subject him to something he would despise or even tolerate, just because she could. There’d been a time when she would have wanted that, when pushing men’s boundaries made her feel more powerful, her version of digging her heel into his balls, but without the sadism. This wasn’t about power, but pleasure, both of theirs.

  In her fantasy, Alex had been with the consummate, sixpacked, gleaming hunk, the kind blaring from billboards for gay gyms and preening from dirty magazine covers. In the end, though, who she’d chosen—and who’d chosen her, and Alex—was a real man, more real than some gymbot could ever be. Vince had hair on his chest, and arms, and back, and legs. He was big and strong and didn’t say a lot, not like he had at the bar. You could call him a bear, but he had told her he didn’t care about labels. He just liked to hold men down, make them cower; to turn them, not to put too fine a point on it, into girls. And that was what Rory really wanted to see, she realized, as Alex stripped in front of Vince: to switch not just places but genders, for a night. Not literally—that was too simple. He could’ve put on lipstick and a dress and panties, but she didn’t want him as a girlie girl, but a girl like her: a tough girl turned liquid at the helm of a big strong man. She wanted him to know what it was like to submit so fully, so wondrously, that everything else disappeared.

  She stepped a little closer, but not so close as to ruin the moment. “Alex, are you going to let me inside you?” Vince asked. Well, really he was telling, but a good top knows how to give an order and make it sound like a question, how to make getting what they want seem like the bottom’s dream come true.

  “Yes,” Alex said, his voice high and strangled. Now his eyes were closed; he didn’t dare look at Rory. She hoped it wasn’t awful of her to get quite so wet from seeing him like that, a little helpless—not just before Vince, but his own desire. Had he buried it for so long only to now, finally, reveal it, or was it something new, prompted by all their talks leading up to this night? She didn’t know, but she didn’t need to. She took out a small vibrator, a discreet miniature version of her beloved Hitachi Magic Wand, and slid it up under her skirt, flush against her fishnets. She loved getting her tights wet with her juices, loved how the fabric pressed tight against her skin just where she needed it, and now that sensation was amplified. She had her girl world in the corner, while the boys explored something all their own across from her.

  Rory had been to strip clubs, all but one filled with naked, jiggling, beautiful girls. She’d liked it, but could never quite get past the reality to enjoy the fantasy come to life. She’d wanted to know what they used to keep their hair in place and how much money they made and all sorts of details that were anything but erotic. The male club she’d visited with a bachelorette party had been laughably full of men so polished and preened they’d lost all their sex appeal to her. She’d forgotten what it was like to simply take pleasure in pure, unadulterated voyeurism, the kind where you’re witnessing something truly intimate. That’s what she saw before her now: Alex, on his knees, taking Vince’s cock all the way to his big, hairy balls. The soft “Wow” escaped her lips before she even realized it.

  It was one thing to picture all kinds of filthy scenarios, but quite another to see it in the flesh. Alex’s eyes opened for a moment and she watched him strain to keep his mouth in place and be used in the same way he liked to use her. When his stare went on too long, Vince pulled out his dick—that Rory, an admitted size queen, was pleased to note was at least nine inches—and slapped it across Alex’s face. Rory whimpered, then bit her lip and pressed the vibrator harder against her clit, then just tore the fishnets entirely because she couldn’t wait. That slap was too much for her. Vince beat his meat against her boyfriend’s cheeks until he was done. Unlike Alex, Vince didn’t seem concerned with Rory in the least, and she recognized that as a kind of topping—of her. By showing her his indifference, by showering Alex with his erotic attention, he was reinforcing the fact that she’d never have him.

  Rory shoved her fingers in her mouth, suddenly needing as many holes filled at once as she could manage. Vince bent Alex over the bed and Rory was torn between rocking against her toy and staying still to maximize the view as Vince lubed up his fingers, then jammed then into the ass Alex had only let her inside that one time.

  Soon all she saw was Vince’s backside, as he stood behind Alex, put on a condom and prepared to enter him. She felt like the ultimate dirty old woman as she moved to get the best view possible, but it was worth it: Alex’s cheek was bent against the bed, and he looked nervous but ecstatic, and when Vince entered him, she saw right away that she’d been right. Not that Alex was gay—she didn’t care about the terminology—but that he liked it, liked having another man’s cock up his ass, liked being on the bottom, liked having his body run over roughshod. Vince bore into him, quietly but intensely, and Rory lost count of how many orgasms she had as she took in the transformation happening before her.

  At the end, when Vince said, “I’m going to come all over you,” she stepped away. She wanted to give them a moment of privacy, and she’d seen all she needed to. She knew many women, perhaps most, might be unnerved by what she’d seen tonight, but Rory was energized, awakened to a beauty she had hoped for but still hadn’t quite expected.

  After Vince left, with a kiss for Alex and a hug for Rory, they were quiet, calm, each lost in his or her own thoughts. She watched Alex do little things like eat a hamburger and flip channels on the TV in wonderment. He had changed—but so had she. And yet when he kissed her, his weight pinning her to the bed, getting lipstick all over him and the otherwise-pristine white sheets, she realized that he was also the same and, most importantly, hers. Not to own or control, but to share. She gazed right into his eyes—and he into hers—as their lips met.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  JACQUELINE APPLEBEE (writing-in-shadows.co.uk) is a black bisexual British writer who breaks down barriers with smut. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and websites including Cleansheets, Best Women’s Erotica, Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2 and Best Lesbian Erotica.

  RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel.com) is an author, editor, blogger and In the Flesh Reading Series host. Her books include the novel Everything But and the nonfiction The Art of the Erotic Love Letter. She’s edited over thirty erotica anthologies, including Passion, Fast Girls, Spanked, Peep Show, Please, Sir and Please, Ma’am.

  ANGELA CAPERTON’s (blog.angelacaperton.com) eclectic erotica spans many genres. Look for her stories published with Cleis, Circlet Press, Drollerie Press, eXtasy Books and in the indie magazine Out of the Gutter.

  HEIDI CHAMPA (heidichampa.blogspot.com) has been published in numerous anthologies including Best Women’s Erotica 2010, Playing with Fire, Frenzy and Ultimate Curves. She has also steamed up the pages of Bust Magazine. If you prefer your erotica in electronic form, she can be found at Clean Sheets, Ravenous Romance, Oysters and Chocolate and The Erotic Woman.

  DEVYN CHRISTOPHER (theurbanrogue.blogspot.com) is a freelance writer with a background in kink, anthropology, mysticism and seditiousness. His blog, Urban Roguery, has received numerous positive reviews, and was among the Top 100 Sex Blogs of 2009. A native New Yorker, he lives in Toronto.

  PORTIA DA COSTA (portiadacosta.com) is a British author of romance, erotic romance and erotica who loves writing about sexy, likeable people in steamy, scandalous situations. Her many novels have been translated into a variety of languages, and she’s had well over a hundred short stories published in magazines and anthologies.

  ANDREA DALE (cyvarwydd.com) has been published in Orgasmic, Alison’s Wonderland and Sweet Love, among many others. She’s walked on the Charles Bridge in Prague and seen the go-go dancers, but that’s all she’s admitting to.

  JEREMY EDWARDS (jeremyedwardserotica.com) is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment. Hi
s work has appeared in over forty anthologies, including The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7–9, and he has appeared at the In the Flesh reading series.

  K. D. GRACE (kdgrace.blogspot.com) lives in England with her husband. She is passionate about nature, writing (her novel is The Initiation of Ms Holly) and sex—not necessarily in that order.

  KAY JAYBEE (kayjaybee.me.uk) wrote the erotic anthologies Quick Kink 1 and Quick Kink 2, and The Collector. A regular contributor to Oysters and Chocolate, Kay also has stories published by Cleis Press, Black Lace, Mammoth, Xcite and Penguin.

  REGINA KAMMER is a librarian and art historian. She began writing historical fiction in 2006 during National Novel Writing Month. About midway through that fateful month she switched to erotic fiction when all her characters suddenly demanded to have sex. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  ALEXANDER LIBOIRON is a native of New York and currently hangs his hat with his wife in Brooklyn, with whom he enjoys an open relationship. He has been involved in the kink community for several years, and loves nothing more than meeting people with varied sex lives who are willing to share stories.

  PIPER MORGAN (pipermorgan.blogspot.com) has been published in Strange, Weird, and Wonderful Magazine, Night Terrors: An Anthology of Horror and will have two stories appearing in Daily Flash 2011: 365 Days of Flash Fiction.

  SOPHIE MOUETTE (cyvarwydd.com) is the pseudonym for two widely published writers of erotica, romance and speculative fiction. Sophie’s first novel was Cat Scratch Fever. Sophie’s short erotica has appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2005 and 2007, Best Lesbian Love Stories 2009 and various Wicked Words anthologies, among others.