“Monsieur, you permit me no modesty,” she protested.
I inspected the intricate folds and hollows and crevices, the distended inner lips and the wet, inviting orifice. The sexual aromas of the woman were intoxicating.
“None, Madame,” I replied. “A woman as succulent as you has no need for modesty.”
I caressed the soft thighs and above the tops of her stockings traced intricate patterns on the sensitive skin. Madame whimpered. I brushed my face into her thick pubic hair, breathing in the smell of her sexual heat, then opened her wide. Slowly I licked the shaved labia then sucked on the slippery inner lips, savouring the moist, pink flesh. When my tongue rimmed her orifice then pushed into her hole to lap the juices, Madame moaned. I drew back the hood to expose her clitoris. The little floret clamoured for attention and I wet the tip of my finger in her orifice before playing with the swollen bud, teasing it, rubbing it then squeezing it hard. Madame cried out and tried to close her legs. But I held them open and leaned forward to lick the hard little nub, caressing it with my tongue then sucking on it. The juices flooded out of her.
The flower between Madame’s legs was now in extravagant bloom and its aromas filled the room. I began a rhythm, sucking at her orifice with my mouth, eating her inner lips, then using my tongue to play with her clitoris. She moaned in time to my stimulation and I increased the tempo and the intensity.
Her pelvis was rocking to my rhythm when slowly I inserted a finger into her vagina. Madame gasped and tried to seize my hand. But she could not retain her balance. I waited until she was steady again then eased two fingers into her. Madame cried out as I stretched the vagina, stirring parts deep inside her, exploring the moist walls of her passage to find her sensitive spot. When Madame gave a piercing shriek and her pelvis jerked off the vanity, I knew I had found it. I began to thrust my fingers rhythmically up her cunt. I alternated deep thrusts with stimulation of her G-spot and matched them to the tempo of my tongue on her clitoris. Madame’s cries grew louder as her pelvis thrashed wildly, her bottom thumping on the vanity. Her climax was near.
“Put it in, Monsieur, put it in,” Madame shrieked.
I stood up, raised her legs into the air, spread them as wide as possible and inserted my rock-hard penis into Madame’s opening. She groaned as I pushed deep into her.
“No, no. I want to ride you,” she breathed hoarsely.
She forced me down on to the toilet seat with my back against the wall. Then slipping down from the vanity she turned, presenting her luscious rear to me, straddled my thighs and positioned herself over my cock. Madame pushed its head into the mouth of her vagina and the juices flooding from her drenched us. I thought I would explode.
In one smooth downward motion, Madame impaled herself on my throbbing erection. Her cry filled the room. “Monsieur, you stretch me to the limit.”
For several seconds she writhed on my cock then leaned forward to grip the edge of the vanity for support. I felt her thighs tighten as she lifted herself. Sliding up and down my rigid shaft, Madame began to ride. I seized her trim waist to lift her high on the up stroke then plunge her down hard to the root of my shaft so the full length of my swollen cock was thrust up her vagina.
After several slow, smooth strokes the tempo increased and Madame’s ride grew wilder and more intense. Her bottom jiggled wildly to the rhythm and slapped against me as I drove her down into my lap. In the mirror I could see her breasts bouncing frantically. Her cries became a cacophony that filled the small space as the ride became frenzied. Up and down, faster and faster she rode until, in a final spasm, Madame climaxed. Her orgasm surged through her, consuming her in a paroxysm of wild convulsions.
Holding her above my lap, I plunged into her with all the power I had. My thrusts battered Madame’s body, making the soft, ripe buttocks oscillate wildly. My furious assault drove her into a shrieking crescendo and Madame’s cunt devoured my raging cock. Then, with a roar of release I exploded, erupting deep inside her, again and again and again. Like some feral animal we thrashed together in frenzied orgasm. I emptied myself into her.
Spent and gasping, we rested. Madame sat in my lap, my cock still clenched inside her. I fondled her breasts, stroking and squeezing them, playing with the swollen nipples.
“Monsieur was extremely fierce,” she murmured.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you, Madame.”
“Oh no, Monsieur. But you took me with admirable penetration and made me come with great intensity. I had a delightful orgasm.”
There was a knock on the door and a woman’s voice said, “Have you finished?”
I now realized that the sounds of our lust must have been quite audible to anyone passing the toilette.
Madame said, “Oh, Monsieur, how embarrassing . . . to be discovered in flagrante delicto. We must leave at once. How disappointing, there’s no time for post-coital play.” She lifted herself off my cock and used the hand basin to wash off the juices splattered over her pussy and thighs. In the confined space I took every opportunity to again fondle her sensuous body as she dressed. Picking up her panties I said, “May I keep them, Madame, as a memento?”
“Oh no, Monsieur, it would not be respectable for a woman of my age to be without panties.” Her reply was so incongruous that I burst into laughter.
To my surprise, Madame washed off my wet cock and, as I dressed quickly, said smilingly, “I hope it pleasures many ladies in Nice.”
As we unlocked the door Madame observed, “The toilette will smell of our sex.”
When we emerged several people were clustered around the door. They smiled and giggled and some even applauded. Madame blushed scarlet.
“Was it as good as it sounded?” one woman whispered.
Madame glanced slyly at me and murmured, “Oh yes, he performed outstandingly.”
I too blushed.
Madame read her magazine, appearing serene and contented. I tried to concentrate on my report but it was difficult. Whenever I thought of our copulation, I became aroused again. As the train approached Lyons Madame slipped from her seat again and returned a few minutes later looking immaculately presented once more. When the train stopped I carried her case out to the platform.
She smiled at me. “I’m a happily married woman with a husband who keeps me fully supplied. But occasionally I enjoy harder, rougher sex. Then I want to be serviced by a young man with a big, aggressive penis. When you rubbed yourself against my derrière I thought you might be a suitable young man.”
I was speechless. I had been seduced to service Madame’s sexual needs. But after such fabulous sex, I had no complaints.
“Thank you, Monsieur, your performance exceeded my wildest expectations. I hope I was not too disappointing for you.”
“On the contrary, Madame, you were a sensational fuck.”
She blushed. “You flatter me, Monsieur.” Extending her clenched fist, she whispered, “A gift, in remembrance.”
I closed my hand to take her offering and she turned and walked away, pulling the case behind her. Aroused again by the view of Madame’s provocative rear, I raised my hand to inhale the aromas from her panties.
I spent a memorable week in Nice. The topless girls were delectable and my cock performed valiantly. But, good though it was, the sex did not compare with my fornication with Madame.
I have Madame’s panties before me now, a flimsy wisp of black diaphanous lace . . . feminine, revealing, sensuous. I fantasize the smell of her sex still lingers on them. Madame introduced me to the carnal pleasures of older women and I’ve fucked several more mature women since then. I revel in their softer, more voluptuous bodies and, although more demanding, I find their appetite for sex to be boundless. I’m becoming addicted to the erotic delights of les vieilles femmes.
SHARING MY WIFE THE BACK WAY
Martin, Hertfordshire
Not many men enjoy seeing their wives being screwed by another man – so I suppose I am a rarity, though I have to admit I do get something fro
m this. Something I wouldn’t have got unless I agreed to letting another man have her.
When I married Jeanne eleven years ago we were pretty much a standard, suburban couple. We had careers and more or less agreed we wouldn’t have kids, though it soon emerged that we didn’t have a choice as Jeanne couldn’t conceive. Anyway, like a lot of couples we had plenty of sex in the first two years of our marriage but the frequency, and with it the intensity, fell away. When we did have sex it tended to be quick and simple. We were usually too tired and too stressed to do anything else.
After a few years I wanted to spice up our sex life though and I tried to persuade Jeanne to start wearing high heels and stockings when we had sex, but she was appalled at wearing shoes in bed so that more or less ended that idea. Jeanne also wasn’t keen on stockings and her usual pale flesh-coloured tights weren’t my idea of a turn-on. Sex, I should tell you, has to be in bed as far as my wife is concerned.
One day while surfing the net I came across a testimonial, if you can call it that, from a guy who had rejuvenated his sex life with anal intercourse. I was intrigued and the more I found out about it the more it appealed to me. Of course I reckoned Jeanne wouldn’t be keen, but I had to try. And it was something we could do in bed. Introducing the subject however wasn’t going to be easy, despite a mate of mine saying all he said to his partner was: “Fancy it up the bum?”
It worked for him but I was certain that wouldn’t work for me. Then, while I was wondering how to raise the subject, Jeanne sprang a surprise on me. She said our relationship wasn’t going anywhere and we needed to sit down and have a heart-to-heart. At first I thought she was going to tell me she wanted a divorce but it soon emerged she too wanted something “exciting” to happen in bed. Taking this as a cue I immediately blundered out my anal-intercourse desire and she stared at me as if I was crazy.
“I meant to say,” she snapped, “I want another man.” Once I got over the shock of that Jeanne added that while she loved me and didn’t want our relationship to end, she did want to find out what it was like being fucked by another man.
It emerged that it wasn’t just any man. One of her colleagues, Simon, had been making eyes at her at the office where she worked. He was a good few years younger than me and as he was in Jeanne’s words “hot and ready”, she quite liked the idea of seeing what he was like in bed.
For once I used my brain instead of refusing point-blank. I reasoned that she could just as easily have sex with Simon without me ever knowing and given her preference for sex under the sheets I said she had my permission to be screwed by him, but . . .
In fact, I had several buts, which I patiently listed. First of all, any sex had to be in our house and no more than once a month if it was to become a regular event between them. Second, I had to be there to make sure she was OK (I had no idea she wouldn’t be anything but OK with this Simon, as he was hardly a stranger to her). Third, anything between her and Simon took place in our bed with me there.
“You want to be in bed when Simon has me?” Jeanne looked truly astonished. I think she was tempted to ask what kind of a pervert I was but I merely smiled, seeing the thought on her face but knowing she was unable to ask it given what she was wanting to do anyway.
I then added the final two more conditions, the first of which was she would have to wear stockings and high heels when he had her and last, but by no means least, I was to be allowed to screw her arse while he fucked her the usual way.
Jeanne looked thunderstruck. There was no doubt this matter she had raised with me wasn’t a casual “I wonder if?” approach: she had very clear ideas that she wanted sex with Simon and had done for some time. Jeanne tends to let thoughts dwell for a while like that. I estimated that if she agreed to my conditions then it was a win-win situation. I didn’t say that because she had to come to the thought herself.
It was one personality trait I had noted in my wife over the years we were together. When Jeanne says “no” straight out she means no, but whenever she is in doubt about anything she says she needs time on her own to think, and when she does that she usually comes round to the point of view I have. So when she said she needed time on her own to think, all I had to do was sit back and let her have that time. “As long as you want,” I said.
It was a big decision for her, giving way to me on three things and though the underwear and heels in bed I could have easily surrendered if pressed I was keen to be in bed with them if only so I could go up her rear. I wasn’t sure how I felt about another, much younger, man fucking my wife but I was sure I was willing to put up with it to gain the anal intercourse. And Simon having my wife once a month wouldn’t be too bad.
This was a big thing for Jeanne to consider because she went to her mum’s for a long weekend to think. I guessed, though I couldn’t know, that she was no doubt seeking the advice of an old friend of hers as she came to a decision. I just hoped that Shelly wouldn’t prove to be such a prude and be so horrified at any of what Jeanne told her that none of my plan would happen. I also figured she would call Simon up and test the idea with him. After all, if he wasn’t happy with my conditions there was every chance it wouldn’t happen.
I needn’t have worried. Jeanne came home, dropped her suitcase in the hall and threw her arms around me. “Shelly and me went shopping, for some underwear I can wear in bed with you and Simon,” she said as she hugged me. “And I have already spoken to Simon and he doesn’t mind. In fact, he likes the idea a lot.”
Then she paused. “But I have one request. If it’s good, can we do it more than once a month?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “It depends how good you are between me and him.”
It turned out to be very good between us. Simon is a good-looking twenty-two-year-old, and in a way I can see why Jeanne is attracted to him as he works out regularly. Jeanne’s choice of underwear (or perhaps it was Shelly’s influence) was perfect – a black lace suspender belt, charcoal stockings and black patent leather high heels – and I felt pretty aroused as I clambered into bed with them. I felt a little embarrassed at being naked with another man in the room but as he didn’t seem to mind I resolved not to mind either.
Jeanne of course was in the middle and spent most of her time on her side facing Simon, alternating tender little pecks and longer, open-mouthed kisses with him having full access to all of her front. Jeanne’s back was all mine and I carefully lubricated her back passage while she was in the throes of a particularly engaging French kiss and I soon had my finger replaced by my hard cock. I slid up into her bum just as Simon pushed his way into her from the front and I marvelled at both the way I felt his thick cock through the thin wall separating Jeanne’s vagina and anal passage and the way my wife gasped. I really don’t know if it was because of me in her rear or Simon in her front but she moaned like she had never done before as we fucked her simultaneously.
From my point of view at the back I missed kissing Jeanne and I suppose I was just a little jealous, but then I had what I wanted. It is slightly impersonal screwing someone from the back when their attention isn’t on you, but I knew part of my wife’s gasping and moaning was because of my cock in her rear. Simon was no doubt good, and I was too. I also tried to time my climax to match Simon’s and though some practice is needed on that score I know we are going to get plenty of opportunity to try.
Once a month? More like twice a week at the moment, and Jeanne and I have even been shopping for more underwear for her to wear when she’s sandwiched between me and Simon.
GETTING THE JOB
Kitty, Los Angeles
My name is Kitty Collins and I’m a “fantasy actress”. That doesn’t mean I work in porn. It means I’m one of those girls who do phone sex at the numbers you see in the back of the magazines. I’m really good at it, which is lucky since it doesn’t look like I’m going to get too many other acting jobs in Hollywood.
Everything you think you know about Los Angeles is true, especially when it comes to the girls. They’
re all gorgeous, incredibly young and willing to do anything to anyone to get a part. I came out here when I was eighteen, but that made me almost too old already. And I was never beautiful; just cute. All my auditions were for the “comic relief” or the “best friend” or the “waitress who spills coffee” or something like that.
I’ve also got this voice. It’s really deep. I like to call it husky and beg my agent to send me on auditions for sexy parts, but it doesn’t work because, you know, cute. I’ve even had casting directors ask me if I’m really a man. That got me seriously pissed off.
The best gig I could get was a voice-over for an insurance company, which lasted long enough to get a SAG card, but after that, nothing. I wasn’t making any money and I had to pay the rent. I know everyone waits tables eventually, but I am totally not waitress material, and all that left was finding something at the Beverly Center. Great place to look for celebrities, not so great for becoming one.
You can see where this is going. I’d always told myself I’d just give up the whole thing and go back to New Jersey before I’d do anything as gross as being a hooker, but I knew a lot of girls who were working at the strip clubs, and somehow that didn’t seem quite as bad, not like something I would actually do, just better than walking the streets.
My friend Morgan mentioned an opening at Hot Stuff. I was like “NO WAY!’’ until she pulled out a wad of bills and showed me how much she’d made that day in tips, so I asked if she’d call her boss and get me an audition. I told myself it was just for fun. Even if I were offered the job, I wouldn’t actually take it. I just needed to prove that the gym membership wasn’t a total waste of money; that I could still compete with the newest wave of silicon tits.
At least I could say I’d finally been on a stage in LA. I just hadn’t planned on being nearly naked when it happened, smelling stale beer and bleach that barely covered up previous nights’ puke. The walls around me were covered in red paint with zebra stripe stencils and the air vibrated with Bon Jovi singing “You Give Love a Bad Name”.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 3
