The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I turned myself more towards him and pushed my shoulders down and back, which made my breasts stand out even more. He put his hand on my hip and ran it up my body. As it got to the underside of my breast he pressed upwards and the breast popped out of the top of the corset, exposing my nipple. He looked me in the eye as he slowly took a mouthful of wine then bent down and sucked my nipple. As he swallowed, a bit of the wine escaped and ran down between my breasts. I inhaled sharply at the sensation of him sucking the nipple, already sensitive.

  I pushed the other breast out of the top of the corset and moved his head over so that he could suck that too. I moaned slightly at the sensation. I was starting to feel totally wanton, this was sexy stuff; I was getting a real buzz from it. His hand had moved to my knee and was slowly making its way up my leg, which was parting of its own accord so that his hand had no opposition.

  As he got to the top of my leg, his hand stopped and I wriggled impatiently. He laughed then kissed me deeply, his tongue filling my mouth. I stood up and moved round so I was standing in front of him. I unzipped my skirt and let it fall around my ankles. He looked at me standing there in my corset, stockings and boots, totally open to him as I’d worn no underwear, and he pulled me towards him.

  My legs almost gave way as his tongue licked at my pussy. I clung to his shoulders while he kissed and licked my clit. I managed to get myself together enough to start to undress him. I took off his top, which just slipped over his head, then knelt in front of him and undid his trousers. As I was doing this I was feeling his balls and cock, rubbing them through his clothes. I noticed his breathing had quickened and pulled off his trousers then boxers. I took hold of his cock with one hand and in the other had his balls. I slowly licked his cock and felt it jump in response. I took it as far in my mouth as I could then started to lick and suck it, all the time kneading his balls with my hands.

  After a while he pulled me up and started to kiss me and he undid the corset. Once I was free he took both breasts in his hands and played with my nipples, then sucked and bit at them till I was moaning and more than ready to be fucked.

  He turned us both around so I was stood against the bed then pushed me back onto it. He pushed my legs apart and went down on my pussy again. By now I was dripping and he slipped his finger into me. I groaned as my hips moved against him, wanting more than just his finger. He played with my pussy and clit for a while and I was starting to think I was going to come, but he moved up onto the bed and looked into my eyes as he thrust his cock into me.

  I sighed and moaned at the same time; that was just what I wanted. He started to fuck me, slowly at first then faster and harder. My legs were wrapped around him; the feel of his hard cock thrusting in and out of me was pushing me towards the ultimate end. I could feel it building up and my breathing was getting more and more ragged. I realized I was digging my nails into his back and buttocks as I was clinging to him, but I couldn’t let go. Then I was there, my whole body seemed to spasm and I felt a great release, and my pussy was just sort of pulsating with pleasure as he still kept thrusting. I don’t know if I cried out or not, I didn’t really notice anything except the sensations that were going through my body. Then he thrust harder and groaned. He thrust a few more times then started to slow down. After a few more gentle thrusts he stopped.

  As I came out of the shower about half an hour later he was laid on the bed. “I think that went quite well,” he said grinning at me. “What do you want to try next time?”

  “I don’t know just yet, let me get over this one first, though I have to admit it certainly spiced things up a bit, you were right there!”

  “Well, I thought you made a very sexy prostitute,” he said, laughing as I pulled a face at him.

  “It does make it easier when you know the ‘client’ you’re going to see is your boyfriend,” I said as I lay on the bed beside him and took a sip of his wine. “Even so, I was still nervous as I was coming up here. I thought someone from the hotel might think I was a real prostitute and ask me to leave!”

  GOOD BUDDIES

  Larry, Hod Hasharon

  I was almost fifteen when I first attended summer camp, but old snapshots from that period show a kid looking closer to twelve or thirteen. We’d just gone through a hard winter and my health, delicate at the best of times, had suffered accordingly. Imagine, if you will, a scrawny, undersized youth whose only signs of adolescence were a skin problem and compulsive masturbation.

  Short on self-confidence but lavishly endowed with the cravings that gave my body no rest, I passed my days in furtive contemplation of the nubile teenage girls in my high school classes and my nights jerking off to lurid visions of Nancy Durbiner’s pubic triangle, Sylvia Crage’s dark-nippled breasts and Millicent Berko’s resplendent rump. Of course, I had never seen these maidens in the altogether, but combining their faces with the bare tits, pussies and asses populating the semi-porno pages glimpsed over the shoulders of bolder boys fed the fantasies that brought me to climax after climax.

  Picky about the charms of my virtual harem, I couldn’t imagine myself enjoying the erotic favours of ladies less enthralling than Greek goddesses – big-bosomed beauties who thrust their pointy nipples in my mouth and their fingers up my rectum while they moaned their gratitude for the giant cock with which I reciprocated their attentions. The sad truth, however, was that only the women of my daydreams appreciated this supposedly awesome tool, of whose actual mediocrity I was only too well aware – barely five inches fully rampant if the tape measure lifted from my mother’s sewing kit was to be believed.

  It was this sad owner of post-pubescent shortcomings (a play on words the aptness of which was a source of much melancholy) who was sent off to Lake Kiniwaukie Camp for Young Adults in the Laurentian Mountains north of Montreal following a winter of antibiotics and thermometers. The theory was that the outdoor life would serve as a tonic and build up my strength. Due to a last-minute bout of stomach flu, however, I was the Johnny-come-lately of this rural arcadia.

  I was not a happy camper during my first fortnight among the young adult nature lovers. As for me, I hated nature. I hated the mosquitoes and the sunburn I got my first day after forgetting to smear myself with sunscreen. I hated the hot cereal they forced me to eat at breakfast. I hated the smell of mildew that wafted from the mattress on my upper bunk. I especially hated the lack of privacy that forced me to whack off inside the concealing confines of an outhouse while my less inhibited tent mates joyously took part in circle jerks during siestas and after lights out.

  What I hated most of all, however, was having to sit on the pebbly shore of Lake Kiniwaukie during the morning and afternoon swims while everyone else waded out into the chest-deep water. The trouble was that the buddy system was in effect, and all the other kids had paired off before my late arrival on the scene. No one was available to be my buddy.

  “Let me be a third buddy with two others,” I begged the swimming counsellor.

  The hairy-chested whistle-bearer was adamant. “Sorry, son, the rule is one on one. Just be patient, I expect one or two to drop out in a couple of days and we’ll be able to match you up.”

  Day after day, however, the camp population remained stable. A week went by, then two. I remained the only camper stranded on the beach. In the end, something snapped.

  “The hell with it!” I muttered at last between gritted teeth, got to my feet and marched into the water. They would have to use force to get me out.

  The counsellor’s whistle shrilled, a long blast of fury. “You with the ribcage, out of the water!”

  I stood my ground (or rather, water).

  “Out, goddamn it! Out I say, or I’m coming in to get you and both of us will be sorry.”

  Though naturally timid, I ignored the threat, determined to make him sorrier than I if push came to shove. What was the worst that could happen? My parents would be called to remove me from the camp.

  Arms akimbo, the counsellor studied me with evident reluctance t
o make good on his ultimatum. Finally he climbed down his tree.

  “Muri,” he called, “get in there and take care of that boy.”

  Muriel Slovak was the counsellor-in-training assigned lifeguard duty on the raft anchored twenty metres from shore. She was a tall, skinny beanpole of a girl with large feet and little frontage, universally known as ‘the carpenter’s dream’ because she was as flat as a board. To compensate for her unlovely appearance, she was blessed with a disposition as sour as a crab apple.

  “Aw, Jeez, Eddy, not with that squirt,” she protested.

  “Don’t be a wise ass,” he warned. “You’re a C.I.T. on probation.”

  You didn’t have to draw Muriel a picture. Without another word, she dived into the water and paddled to my side. From her superior height, she gave me a dirty look.

  “You rotten little shrimp,” she said, “get back to shore.”

  I crossed my arms to hide my nipples. “No way, Jose.”

  She plunged one hand below the surface. I felt a sharp nip below my left buttock. Ow! The bitch had pinched me, hard.

  With the courage of a cornered rabbit, I returned the favour, not just with thumb and forefinger but the other three digits as well, grabbing and squeezing all I could of the bony butt beneath the lower edge of her bathing suit.

  She didn’t cry out, but turned very red. “That’s enough, kid. Let go,” she whispered.

  “Say you’re sorry,” I demanded.

  I must have been drunk with audacity. Her heinie felt very malleable in my hand. I pressed my palm against it and loosened my grip, then squeezed more gently. The sensation was very pleasant.

  She sighed and I felt her hand navigate like a submarine to the small of my back. It slithered beneath the elastic waist of my bathing suit. A fingernail indented the top of the cleavage between my buttocks and then raced south along this track to the back of my scrotum. My mast rose instantly to take advantage of the impending fair weather.

  It’s hard for me to picture what we must have looked like to the casual observer, either in the water or on shore. To all intents and purposes, two kids – an older, taller girl and an apparently immature boy the top of whose head barely reached her shoulder – standing stiffly (and I use the term advisedly) side by side immersed above the navel. All the action was going on invisibly beneath the surface.

  It took all my self-control to keep from gasping and my face expressionless as her fingers moved from back to front and began massaging the base of my engorged phallus. She frowned at me, as if still resentful of the imposition, but her thighs trembled with excitement, as my own questing fingertips homed in on her crotch, lightly brushed the thick, wiry pelt of her bearded groin, and pressed for admittance into the honeypot to which her spreading legs made me welcome.

  Preeeeep! The swimming counsellor’s whistle drilled through the hubbub of bathers. “Everybody out, everybody out. Fifteen minutes for showers.”

  “Oh, Christ!” I groaned. “It’s impossible. I won’t be able to for half an hour at least.”

  Imagine the jeers and laughter as the cantilevered front of my swimsuit emerged from the lake. No, I would drown myself first.

  “Let me handle this,” she murmured, and laboriously trudged ashore. A brief consultation with her boss followed. A small conspiratorial smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she headed back.

  “It’s OK,” she reassured me, “I told him you can’t swim, and I volunteered to teach you. I just got my instructor’s badge and he promised me the first learner. We have an extra twenty minutes.”

  “But I can swim,” I protested.

  She gave me an evil grin. “Not in the free style I’m gonna show you. Float on your belly face down.”

  This was better than floating on my back and flaunting the pup tent at the front of my swimsuit to all the world. I did a dead man’s prone spread-eagle, though below the waist I was anything but dead. The subaqueous protuberance between my legs, like the keel of a sailboat, was almost enough by itself to keep me stable in the water.

  Muriel positioned herself at my side and placed both hands, palms up, under my abdomen in the classic pose of a swimming instructor encouraging the confidence of a novice still uncertain of his buoyancy in the water. The hand farthest from my head drifted in a southerly direction, as if inadvertently, until it encountered the waistband of my swimsuit. There, a pair of fingers found the drawstring and gently tugged the front of my trunks backwards until they popped free from and slid below my raging hard-on. Fortunately, my ass was still covered.

  “Now I wonder what this can be?” she said, exploring blindly by touch. “Is it a log of driftwood?”

  “Not exactly,” I groaned, arching my back.

  “Am I getting warm?” she asked, squeezing the shaft with exquisite pressure and pumping it ever so delicately up and down between its forty-five degree cant to my body and perpendicularity.

  My voice was a hoarse croak. “Yes, warm.”

  “I’ll bet it’s a bonerfish.”

  I was too preoccupied with other matters to correct the misnomer.

  “Warm, very warm,” I moaned, and began to thrash in the water, compulsively imitating the frantic motions of a non-swimmer. Her fingers formed a cylinder and travelled slowly, lingeringly, up and down my piston. I couldn’t restrain a yelp and a number of involuntary pelvic thrusts. From afar, it must have seemed that I was learning the rudiments of the butterfly stroke.

  “Third guess,” she said. “A water pipe.”

  “Hot! Hot!” I cried, and came in an orgasm so violent and explosive that, though its epicentre was somewhere behind my balls, I felt it from deep in my anus right up to the nape of my neck. The ejaculation seemed unending. I’d never experienced anything like it before, a fierce pleasure that threatened to tear my nerves apart.

  Creamy-grey globules of semen popped to the surface of the water several inches in front of my head, so powerful had been the force that propelled them out the barrel of my prick like priapic projectiles.

  “I should have known,” Muriel said with a laugh, “A blow-gun.”

  The droplets of my jism gleamed like pearls in the sunlight. Muriel dispersed them among the sparkling wavelets with a sweep of her hand.

  “You owe me one,” she said, tidying me up with sisterly solicitude.

  A gentleman always pays his debts. I made sure the rest of that summer, whenever opportunity offered, that mine were properly (you should pardon the expression) discharged.

  SECRET MISTRESS

  Lilith, Toronto

  I have to get something off my chest and I can’t tell anyone. When it first started, it was all in forbidden fun: a few secret encounters, a good orgasm and life as usual. No harm, no foul. Now, a year later and not long before the wedding, I feel I must confess. Of course, the first person I would want to tell is my best friend, but she is the last person that I can tell right now!

  I met Jen at the advertising agency where we both work. She was the senior account director on the first project I was assigned to. Jen was nice to me from day one and took me under her wing. She taught me “the ropes” and gave me the inside scoop on the office politics.

  One Friday afternoon, Jen told me her boyfriend was out of town and invited me back to her place for a “girls’ night”. I was positively delighted. You see, not only had I just started a new job, I also had just moved to the city and didn’t really know anyone. The prospect of having a new friend to hang out with and develop some sort of social life was appealing so, of course, I accepted.

  We had left a little early from work that day. Jen had some errands to run and I went to the gym. I pulled up in front of the Victorian brownstone at 7 p.m. as planned. I walked up the stairs and rang the bell. I was surprised to see a tall well-dressed man behind the door but no sign of Jen.

  He must have noticed the look of confusion on my face because he promptly introduced himself. He was John, Jen’s boyfriend, and his business trip had been cancelled. He proc
eeded to tell me that Jen had called to say she had a flat tyre and was running late. It was going to be at least an hour before the tow service came to help.

  He invited me in and led me to the living room where he motioned for me to sit down while he poured me a drink. I watched him walk over to the bar and noted his pants hugged his perfectly formed bottom really well. I used the mirror over the bar to sneak a peak at his well-chiselled face; Jen had really caught herself a hottie! John smiled when he caught me looking at him and I was embarrassed. I may as well have been drooling!

  We sat across from each other on the oversized sofa and sipped our martinis. The conversation was slightly subdued at first, but as the alcohol kicked in, the conversation flowed freely. We talked about John’s job at a competing ad firm and how he and Jen had met.

  One half-hour later and the start of a second martini, I thought that John’s attentiveness towards me was a little calculated. It seemed as if he was flirting with me. That’s when I realized that perhaps I should slow down on the alcohol. What was I thinking? Not only had I just met him, but also he was my co-worker’s (hopefully soon to be my good friend) boyfriend! Jen never gave me any reason to believe that she and John were having problems so there was no way that John was flirting with me.

  No sooner had I convinced myself that I was overreacting than John was sitting beside me on the couch. He was close, really close. So close that I could smell the scent of his aftershave coupled with the muskiness of a long hard day at work.

  Before I could speak he was kissing me. His lips were soft and gentle as his tongue found mine. We sat there and kissed, passionately. Deliberately.

  Without any words, his fingers found their way up my skirt to my increasingly wet mound. He skilfully pushed my panties aside and entered me with his fingers. I was swollen and soaked. With a primal grunt, John grabbed me and pulled me on top of him. He pulled my skirt up around my thighs, pushed my panties aside for the second time, and entered me. I let myself be driven up and down on John’s throbbing cock as if on autopilot.