I did what he asked and his dick felt so fucking good inside my vagina that I almost came right then. I contracted my vagina muscles and they gripped his cock. He chuckled. “That’s it. Your white cunt loves this black cock, can’t get enough of this dick – you’re holding on to it for dear life!” He began to guide my movements up and down on his dick. When I came down on it, I came down on it hard and he loved that, me fucking his dick so deep and so hard with my dripping hot cunt, and I let out a pretty loud involuntary moan. I could see one of the men in the front row look back. He knew what we were up to; I am sure he could see me bobbing up and down and it excited me even more to know that he knew that this white slut was fucking that fine ass black man in the back corner. His dick was probably oozing come right now just thinking about it. I didn’t think those men would do anything to interfere, as they wanted to hear what we were doing, and in fact were getting off hearing it. I moaned again and said in my normal voice, “Yes, I love your hard black dick in my cunt! Oh baby, fuck my hot, white snatch and come in me, baby. I want your hot come all in my pussy.” By now, I didn’t care who heard me, who knew that I was a nasty, white bitch with a sexy black man fucking the shit out of me in a public theatre and loving every second of it too. I couldn’t contain myself and I started to come all over his cock, squirming on it and moaning, saying, “Yes, yes, oh, baby, fuck me, oh, fuck me. I’m coming, oh, I’m coming.”
Once my head cleared a little, I saw that he had not come yet. He said to me, “Stand up a minute. Now I want you to bend, raise up your skirt, that’s it – let me see that fine white Irish ass that I’m gonna fuck right now,” and he bent me forwards, supported me with his arm around my waist and I held myself in place with my hands on the seat backs in front of me. I felt his slick, wet dick slide into my tight, puckered asshole and he grunted with pleasure as he forced it deeper and deeper into me and it felt so big and so tight in my ass and I loved the feeling, so full of his fine black dick. I realized that I lived for that moment in our relationship, that moment when his hard black cock rammed into my ass and he was fucking me until I saw stars. And he did fuck my tight ass, bent over me and pumping his hips as he thrust into me as deep as he could go. I could see that the guys down front were sneaking glances over their shoulders. I could see one man’s shoulder moving, as his hand stroked his own inflamed dick. I knew he was listening and watching my man fucking me in the ass. I loved the fact that not only would he come in my ass but that jerk was gonna come all over his hand wishing it was his dick in my ass too.
I heard my man grunting and panting and fucking me hard. “Take all my come, you beautiful nasty white bitch – your ass is all mine, to fuck anytime I want and I love fucking your ass too. I am gonna come in your ass now, baby, now, take it all now,” and he groaned loudly as his hot sperm shot into my bowels. He jerked over and over again and then slumped over me, spent for a few seconds. As this was happening behind me, I could see that man in the front moving faster and faster and throwing his head back and coming also; a slight groan came from the front. I smiled a wicked smile and loved the power of our session to so arouse the spectators too.
As he slid his cock out of me and wiped it off with some tissues he said, “OK, Sabina, I want to you to tighten up your ass and hold onto all that come as we walk out of the theatre. Don’t you let a drop escape until I let you go to the bathroom.” I lowered my skirt, smoothed it and adjusted my dress as he pulled up his pants and buckled the belt. And then we slowly exited the dark theatre with me holding my sphincter muscle so tight to keep all his hot come inside me. You see I will always do anything he asks of me.
Well, this was the beginning of the new me and perhaps in my next letter, I will tell you more about my strange, new life.
MY GUILTY, HOPELESS SECRET
Leanne, Stockport
I call it my hopeless secret because I just can’t fight it. It’s something I have to do, like eating and sleeping, but a lot more fun than either. Actually, fun isn’t the best word, because without doubt I suffer for it, my partners see to that.
Put simply, I crave being tied up. There doesn’t have to be anything else, because it’s just the inability to move that gets me. You can leave me like that for hours and I get into a euphoric, trancelike state that’s difficult to put into words if you don’t have similar urges.
I tried tying myself up, particularly when I was a teenager, but it never really quite gets there. You always have to leave yourself a get-out, so it’s never totally complete, though I did have a couple of mishaps. The first was when I was about eighteen and my parents had gone away for a weekend in the Lakes, leaving me alone in the house for most of Saturday and Sunday, including the whole of Saturday night. I’d actually been invited out to a mate’s house for a party, but having the house to myself was far too good an opportunity to miss, so I feigned a stomach upset – that wasn’t hard to do because the ideas I had made my insides churn up with anticipation.
I left a decent amount of time after they left, just to make sure they wouldn’t come back for something they’d forgotten, but sitting there waiting wasn’t easy. Finally I set my plan in motion, going out to the garage where I knew I’d hidden a new rope washing line I’d bought a few days before, then stripping naked in my bedroom in readiness. I cut the line into a few lengths and got a few other things I needed, then moved to the stairs, where I attached one length of the rope to the top banister rail and moved down a few steps. I sat and tied my ankles and knees tightly together, then put my knickers (the ones I’d taken off) over my head, cutting off my vision and covering my nose and mouth with the part that had got rather wet from my previous excitement. Maybe that idea would disgust people, but I guess I was trying to add to my self-humiliation by being forced to inhale my own secret scents and taste my own secret fluids. To add to the sensation I tied a rope around my face, making sure it pressed the knickers into my eyes, blindfolding me, and into my open mouth, acting as a very effective gag and keeping the fabric tight over my nose.
Of course it meant I couldn’t see any more, and that, looking back, was stupid. But I wasn’t thinking straight. I put my hands up above my head to find the end of the rope that was dangling from the top. I’d already made a loop in it using a slip knot, so it was relatively easy to slip my hands in the loop and pull tight, securing my hands high above my head. God knows what I looked like, but it felt great, even knowing that I could pull my hands wide at any time and get out of the loop.
Except it didn’t quite work out that way. After an hour or so I seriously needed to masturbate, so I pulled. But the rope wouldn’t budge at all. The curls of the plastic, added to my weight keeping it taut, wouldn’t let the slip knot slide open. I tried climbing up a step, but I couldn’t see and I couldn’t get my feet far enough apart to make a step, and jumping would have been too risky. With mounting panic I realized I was stuck there. I kept tugging at the rope but it was hopeless, and I started to cry; not because I was afraid or anything, I was just having to face up to the fact my parents would arrive home – eventually – to find me naked, tied up and with a pair of my knickers tied tight across my face. Time slowed right down and it felt like an age. I could just about make out light and dark round the ropes and material across my eyes, so I knew when night came, and I even managed to sleep a bit, standing up and letting the rope support me, but after a while the rope would cut my circulation off and wake me up.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the time, but I can still remember my dread when I heard their car draw up outside. I’d been desperately trying to think of some way to explain why I was like this, the most obvious being that someone had broken into the house and left me like it. But thinking that through made it totally implausible – there were no signs of any break-in, and there would be nothing missing. And besides, if someone had broken in and done this to me, my parents would call the police and it would all result in a whole web of lies that I couldn’t back out of.
I still didn’
t know what to say when I heard the door open. Luckily Mum had come in on her own, having dropped Dad off at the pub to meet his friend on the way. She obviously didn’t see me at first – I heard her take her coat off and put the keys on the hook. Then I heard her: “Leanne? My God, what the hell’s happened?” She was coming up the stairs to me. I just started to cry uncontrollably with the shame of it all.
She untied me without saying much else. I guess we all think of our parents as staid and ignorant of sexual things, but she realized straight away that what I’d done was sexual, and that made her back off saying too much once I’d answered her question that I was all right. After I was free she told me she didn’t know what I’d been up to and wasn’t going to pry, but if I did it again I should be much more careful in case I had an accident. I was so tired by then I just wanted to go to bed and sleep. As she closed the door, she finished by telling me she’d tell my dad I wasn’t feeling well and then added something that floored me. She said to keep a pair of scissors handy next time. Somehow she knew what I’d done, and she understood it. Maybe, just maybe, it was hereditary.
It certainly took away some of the shame I felt, so I was able to drift off to sleep. But before I did I remembered back to the feeling of genuinely being unable to escape. My previous clumsy attempts at self-bondage had never gone that far, and I was totally hooked. OK, I admit it, I didn’t go straight to sleep – I used my fingers first. Mum never mentioned it after that, and nor did Dad, so I guess she never told him.
TEAMING UP
Malcolm, Sioux Falls
When I hit fifty and flabby, I made a resolution to get back in shape before it was too late. I did not want to end up like a lot of my middle-aged insurance colleagues – nursing hernias and heart conditions and heavy loads over their belts that meant cock sightings only with mirrors and sex on the pay-away plan. I’d run the actuarial charts, so I knew where I was headed unless I took action.
And I took action. Along with a programme of early-morning weightlifting and walking, I test-drove a number of recreational sports: golf (too slow), basketball (too exhausting), racquetball (too claustrophobic), curling (don’t know why I tried curling), before finally settling on softball; slo-pitch softball, to be exact. I’d played some hardball way back when, and I figured I could maybe work my way back up the horsehide ladder, and into better shape, via the slo route.
My secretary told me about a mixed league that was looking for players, and I signed up and met my teammates the following Tuesday on a gopher-holed field on the windy outskirts of the city. The Bronx Bombers they weren’t, but neither were they the Bad News Bears. They were just a mixed bag of guys and gals used to fielding phone calls and inter-office memos rather than line-drives.
Except for the captain of the team, that is. Donovan was a long, lean, obviously athletic guy with short, rubbable black hair and brilliant, knee-sagging green eyes. He reminded me of Alex Rodriguez of the Yankees, and I could tell by the way he was throwing balls around during warm-up that he could really play the game.
We ended losing 21–19 to the Wheaties in a tight-scoring affair, but I had a good time and got a heck of a lot more exercise than I thought I would. Some of the old skills returned along with the arm soreness and the stitch in my side, and I found myself running the bases virtually every time I stepped up to the plate. And when our team captain saw I could field the ball without closing my eyes and offering a prayer, he put me in left field, which meant I was chasing down balls almost every inning, as well.
The best part of the game, though, was sporting young Donovan. He was decked out in a pair of tight, silky blue shorts and a blue-mesh muscle shirt. I reverentially watched him coil at the plate, knees bent and bum waggling, run the bases after a hit, powerful bronze thighs and arms pumping, loose cock flopping. And I had a good, unobstructed view of his big, rounded butt from my position in left field as he crouched in the hole between second and third. I fantasized about filling the stud’s own hole with my bat and balls, field-dreaming that a fall-summer sexual encounter could be as natural as Roy Hobbs.
“Hey, you ever think of playing serious ball?” Donovan asked me after the game, when we were stowing the baseball gear in his equipment bag. “You’re pretty good, you know.”
“Thanks,” I replied, beaming. “What do you mean – serious ball?”
“Well, I just play on this team for fun, and to recruit new talent. I’m on another team with a bunch of guys who play a lot harder. Thought you might be interested in stepping it up a notch.”
“Uh, yeah, sure, I’m interested, absolutely,” I blustered, lost in the guy’s twinkling emerald eyes. I was willing to even play on the Tampa Bay Devil Rays if it meant spending more quality, sweaty time with the D-Man. “When do you guys play?”
Donovan cracked a blindingly white smile that lit up my small corner of the world. “Every Friday night. Why don’t you come out this week?”
If I squeezed in a massage and a session with my chiropractor, I could just maybe make it to a Friday game in one piece. “Great. I’d love to come . . . out,” I enthused, watching Donovan’s kitten-pink tongue part his thick lips and apply lubrication.
“Excellent. I’ll give you my address. The guys always get together before the game to strategize and stuff.”
They did take their diamond-ball seriously. Donovan gave me his address, and I memorized it like some guys memorize baseball stats.
That Friday night, I bumped the kerb a couple of doors down from Donovan’s house at six o’clock sharp. He lived in the funky, elm-shaded neighbourhood we strait-laced, suburban Sioux Fallsians call the Yippie District. And Donovan’s place turned out to be an old, refurbished, two-storey job painted a wild neon green with purple trim.
I wasn’t absolutely sure of the young man’s sexuality, but the house and the ’hood were sending out the right vibes. And so was the flamboyant tease with the pink hair and blue nose studs who answered the bell when I rang. “You must be Malcolm,” he gushed, spilling some of his drink and his spit. He winked at me. “I hear you can really play.”
Dressed in black leather pants and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, drinking anything but Gatorade, the guy looked about as ready for a ball game as my dead uncle Clarence. “We’re all in the backyard,” he whispered, breathing booze in my face. Then he pirouetted and sashayed away down the hallway.
I followed his tight, twitching buns through the eclectically furnished house and out onto a creaking back porch that overlooked a small-size backyard. The yard was surrounded by an eight-foot-high cedar fence, and there were enough guys crammed into the green space to make up a ball team, all right; but they were playing a different kind of catch entirely.
A long-haired blond and a flat-top redhead were passionately making out in a shaded corner of the fence, Blondie gripping Red’s head while Red gripped Blondie’s ass, their tongues entwining like the ivy at Wrigley Field. Two more players were executing the ol’ squeeze play on a third guy in another corner of the yard, their mouths attached to his sun-burnished nipples, sucking and licking and biting, their hands on his blue-jeaned equipment, rubbing and squeezing and stroking. The double-played dude had his back up against the fence and his shirt up around his neck, his hands on his buddies’ heads, as he got licked and sucked and manhandled.
And smack in the middle of that miniature field of dreams, a guy suddenly sank to his knees in the grass and deftly unbelted and unzipped another guy. He tugged his pal’s jeans down and said howdy-do to a slender, ebony-black cock rising up and sniffing the open air. The kneeling man fielded the standing man’s cock like a pro, seizing it with his hand at the base, with his mouth at the head. The standing man grunted and tore off his T-shirt, exposing even more shining ebony skin. He started pinching and pulling his nipples, as his playmate got a good, hardcore sucking rhythm going, as I watched and drooled in amazement.
“What’d you think of the team?” someone asked, startling me like a voyeur caught with his pants down. Do
novan casually threw an arm over my shoulder. “Think you can play with us?”
I looked at that muscular, brown arm, felt its soothing, sensuous warmth, looked out at that orgy unfolding in front of me, felt its raw, white-hot heat. Then I looked into Donovan’s gleaming green eyes and gulped, “Game on.”
He smiled, took my hand and led me down off the porch and onto the field of play. He pointed out the various players, told me their names, their favourite positions, then gestured at the guy with the pink hair and the skewed fashion sense to come on over. “Skeezer, Malcolm,” he said by way of introduction. “Skeez here can really suck up the ground balls.”
“Oh, yeah? How about that? We’ve, uh, already met,” I mumbled.
“Not properly,” Skeezer responded, grinning and touching my shoulder like I was “it”. Then, without further ado or coaching, he dropped to his knees and stood his drink in the grass and popped open my Dockers. He had my pants and briefs down around my ankles before I could say, “Holy cow!”
I flinched when his warm, wet mouth engulfed my shocked cock, flinched again when Donovan slid his warm, wet tongue into my ear and swirled it around. My reflexes were still pretty quick for an old guy, though, my bat corked and balls juiced in a matter of seconds, thanks to Skeezer’s loving lips and tongue and Donovan’s whispered wet nothings.
“Jesus,” I groaned, my wood filling the heated cauldron of Skeezer’s mouth to the gag reflex and beyond.
But the ball boy didn’t back down. He locked me tight and hot and wet in his mouth and throat, his nostrils flaring for air, his baby blues gazing up into my eyes. Donovan bit into my lobe and kissed my neck, his musky man-scent filling my dizzy head.
I’d only ever gone two men down once before in my life, in my wild youth, in a secluded barn with a pair of kissing cousins with no one to witness our wicked mischief other than a pair of disinterested cows and a one-eyed field mouse. This, on the other hand – Skeezer bobbing his pink head up and down on my pink cock now, Donovan tonguing and biting my neck – was wildly out in the open, ten other guys and who knew how many peeping Toms catching the action. I was overwhelmed by the thought, by the double-team sucking and kissing, and my knees buckled with the sheer erotic weight of it all. Thank God I’d been working out.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 29
