The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I can tell you it was the best fuck I’ve ever had and now I make sure I always let my ticket expire, hoping he’ll be back to be of service to me again but so far no luck.

  SERVICE CALL

  Tony, South Australia

  My job is boring. I work in information technology, meaning I walk around all day fixing computer problems for office staff that still look for the “any key”. But in any large organization, a young, enthusiastic computer technician has plenty of equally young secretaries who call on him for help. Standing behind them while they show me what caused their latest problem, affords me a wonderful view down their conveniently agape jackets, camisoles and blouses.

  Quite a few of the older secretaries also seem to forget the most rudimentary things concerning their computers at the oddest times. Only last week, Mrs Kennedy left an urgent message on my voicemail. In the overly superior tone she used with everyone younger than her she commanded me, “Tony, please come to my cubicle at your earliest convenience. My computer is completely broken. Even the TV thingy has gone black.”

  Something rather untoward must have occurred, as monitors simply don’t implode. So I headed to the sixth floor with visions of spilled coffee flowing through the circuitry.

  Mrs Kennedy has been at the firm for longer than anybody I know. She is in her early fifties and has been a widow for three years. All the girls on the lower floors gossip that she must be sleeping with at least one of the bosses to keep her position as Personal Assistant to the Board. If it is true, then good luck to whomever it is. She is a good twenty-five or so years older than me but still a very beautiful woman. Unfortunately she had never given me the time of day. A simple hello, in the elevator of a morning, was greeted with the barest of nods from her.

  As the elevator door slid open, I pasted on my best smile and confidently strode towards her cubicle. I gently rapped my knuckles on the flimsy partition that separated her from the executive corridor. I was happy not to smell or see any telltale signs of coffee.

  “Good morning, Mrs Kennedy,” I said politely.

  She glanced up with an annoyed look on her face, which was quickly replaced by a stunning smile when she realized it was me. “Oh thank God you came so quickly. I need to proofread an email for Mr Jenkins and get it sent out straight away, but everything’s gone blank.” She spread her hands forlornly towards her monitor.

  I moved around behind her to look over the top of her head. Sure enough, everything looked dead. So I asked the first question all IT guys ask: “Can you tell me what you were doing when everything went black? It’s probably an issue with the monitor. It’ll need replacing but I need to show in the report that I looked into other options.”

  She glanced back at me with a very relieved look on her face. In one fell swoop I’d assured her of her innocence and blamed the dumb computer. I smiled back at her but the hint of lace I could see poking out at the top of her blouse drew my eye. She blushed and turned back towards the monitor.

  After mentally berating myself for being an oversexed fool, I prompted her to retell her version of events. I nodded as she explained how she’d received the email, noted the importance attached to it, and swung in her chair to snatch up her glasses from her desk to read it. When she swung her chair back, everything was blank.

  I asked her to move back from her position before the monitor, so I could get under the desk and check things like the cable connections – just in case.

  A nervous look crossed her brow as I crawled into the space under her desk. I was beginning to think maybe all that swinging back and forth had caused her to kick a cable loose. Sure enough, lying in the corner of the chair recess was the unattached end of the monitor cable. I took my trusty pen torch out of my pocket. Holding the light in my teeth I carefully examined the pins. A couple had been bent but the connections to secure it to the back of the computer seemed fine. If they had been attached properly, it would have been very difficult for her to have kicked them out.

  I crawled further into the space below her desk and pushed the monitor cable back into its housing on the back of the graphics card. An excited, “You’ve fixed it,” came from Mrs Kennedy.

  “You’ve fixed what, Sharon?” said a baritone voice from the other side of the partition.

  Suddenly Sharon Kennedy’s chair flew into the space that I was occupying. I leaned back and raised my hands to save my fingers from the wheels on the bottom of her chair. The light from my torch shone straight up her black skirt, clearly defining her crease behind sheer white panties.

  Her knees tried to come together but trapped my raised hands between them. Mrs Kennedy never missed a beat. “Just a couple of minor mistakes in that email you sent me to look over. I was going to send it back to you for final approval after lunch.”

  The direction of Mr Jenkins’ voice changed so it came from directly over my head. He must have moved to stand directly in front of Mrs Kennedy’s desk. Slowly her knees relaxed their deathlike grip on my clenched hands. Before my stunned eyes, they moved further apart, affording me an uninterrupted view of her thinly veiled sex.

  While the conversation went on overhead I thought it best for me to test the waters I was being offered. After removing the torch from my mouth, I leaned forwards and softly kissed the inside of an exposed knee. When she didn’t jerk it away, I repeated the kiss on the other knee, which caused her to firmly plant her feet wide apart. I continued to trail kisses up her thighs until her chair stopped me from getting any closer to her core.

  In the confined space below her desk, I could smell her musk as she warmed to my attentions. I rested my hands on her knees and softly stroked the inside of both, inching my way towards the hem of her skirt. Allowing my hand to continue massaging her left leg, I traced lazy circles down her inner right thigh with my other, continuing my advance under her skirt until the knuckles of my fingers brushed against the damp gusset of her panties.

  Only the slightest catch in her voice betrayed her rising desire as Mr Jenkins continued to question her over the contents of his email.

  I withdrew my hand from massaging her thigh and retrieved my pen torch. I placed half of it into my mouth, sucking on the metal casing and warming it with my saliva and tongue.

  Just as I took it back out, judging it to be warm enough, Mr Jenkins finally bid farewell to Mrs Kennedy. I pulled both my hands back, sure that my brief minutes of fun were now over along with my further employment with this company. A sacking on grounds of sexual harassment would not look good on the CV. I slipped my torch back into my shirt pocket.

  I waited for her to roll back the chair but instead her hands came down from her desk. She grasped the hem of her skirt and pulled it further up her thighs until she could hook her thumbs into the elastic of her underwear. As she wiggled her weight back and forth on the chair, she slipped her panties towards me. I didn’t need a second invitation.

  I reset the torch in my mouth before I placed my hands over hers. For a moment we lingered, fingers each caressing the other’s. I reached past the point of our contact while she lightly rested her hands on my wrists. Curling my fingers under her waistband, I continued to lower her panties. Obediently she lifted one foot to allow me to slip them off and then the other. I stuffed them into my trouser pocket so I wouldn’t have to look for them later.

  The torch in my mouth never left the wonderful sight of her shaved slit before me. Who would have imagined that the office bitch was as smooth as a baby’s bottom?

  Free of her underwear and with her skirt hiked up past her thighs, she moved to the edge of her seat allowing me full access to her charms.

  She only sat up twice during the time I spent under her desk that day, once to sign for a courier package and once to sign a card for one of the girls downstairs, who was going on maternity leave. The aroma of her was heavy in the air from my perspective; I kept waiting for someone to comment – none did.

  Eventually her legs came together as she struggled through a silent orgasm, t
rapping my head between her thighs, my questing tongue still dancing within her folds. Without a word she passed a box of tissues to me, allowing me to clean up a little before casually rolling her chair back and straightening her skirt.

  “Thank you, Tony,” was all she said as I crawled out into the open space of her cubicle.

  I stood, trying to surreptitiously adjust the evidence of my own excitement. A look of sympathy crossed her beautiful features before she reached forwards. I nervously glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

  With a smile on her face, she carefully tucked the exposed portion of her panties deeper into my trouser pocket before she too looked around for any fellow workers. On seeing none she quickly patted my throbbing member. “I will have to thank you properly another time, I’m afraid. I really do need to finish that email.”

  I nodded and smiled at the offered promise of more to come. “If there is anything I can do for you in the future, don’t hesitate to call me,” I said. “I’m happy to help.”

  Like I said, that was last week and I’ve not heard from her since, at least not until I checked my messages before lunch. I’m booked to visit her workstation this afternoon, at the same time a board meeting is due to commence. Her message said I needed to fix a bug in her database program. I’m guessing I could be in her chair for quite some time.

  STRAWBERRY YOGHURT

  Laura, Worcestershire

  My name is Laura and I have only been unfaithful to my husband once, but then I suppose once is enough. The thing is that it happened in the last place I expected, with someone I wasn’t really attracted to and in a way I could never have imagined. It also stopped me buying strawberry yoghurt ever again, and this is why.

  I am a thirty-eight-year-old woman, with a good husband and three children. We live on the edge of a small town not far from Birmingham and are quite comfortable. I have a part-time job as a receptionist in an accountant’s office, my husband Bob earns a decent wage as a salesman and I don’t want for anything much.

  Odd then that one day I let another man do what he wanted with me in a way I had never imagined possible. A complete stranger, in a Tesco’s car park, having me over the bonnet of my car.

  I usually did all my weekly shopping at a supermarket in the town where we lived, but one October night I set off – for a reason I can never explain – to go to a neighbouring town and shop at the Tesco supermarket there. It was, I have to say, a bigger store than the one I was used to and maybe it was the vague thought that Christmas wasn’t so far away that made me imagine I should go someplace else. For once too I had gone on my own. Usually at least the eldest of my three children, my daughter, accompanied me but tonight she was busy and the other two didn’t want to come along so I happily left them at home with their father. Maybe I went further afield because I felt free, but I’ll never know.

  But while I can make all the excuses I want for my sudden choice, the fact remains I didn’t have to do what I did. I arrived at this Tesco store, walked round the supermarket buying the usual things and piling my trolley up high, paid on credit card and made my way across the dark car park to where I had left my car. It was dark where I’d parked because one of the many lights around the car park had failed but even so I didn’t feel in any danger as I started to unload my trolley into the boot of my car.

  I was aware of a man standing close by, asking if he could help me. Now normally I wouldn’t even entertain such an idea but he wasn’t so much of a stranger. I had literally run into him three times going round the supermarket, the first time with our trolleys colliding so hard several things fell off both of them. He was smartly dressed, a pleasant enough personality though I have to say not exactly attractive to me, and he apologised profusely for his clumsiness (when in fact it was more me not looking than him). Having helped me pick everything up, he said goodbye. Then we had encountered each other again, though not so violently this time, exchanged smiles and a few words and when I bumped into him a third time we chatted a little more, especially as I asked him where the yoghurts were. You see, I am partial to strawberry yoghurts but no one else in our family likes them and I didn’t know where they were in this new place. This man and I even went through the checkout together, and once outside he said I should be careful as I was heading towards the darkened part of the car park.

  I had assured him I would be OK but perhaps he felt constrained to come over and see if I was OK in the dark corner. It was kind of him and, despite my protests I could manage, he still helped unload my trolley and put it in the boot of the car. It was then that he said the top had come off a pot of strawberry yoghurt and pointed out it would spill out in the bag. He extracted the half-open tub and asked if he should go and fetch me a new one. I said no, it didn’t matter.

  “It’s a pity to waste it,” he said as he held it up.

  “Oh it won’t be wasted,” I said. “I can eat that now, before I set off home, as I like strawberry yoghurt and no one else at my house does.”

  The man said he had a better idea for it, and I was puzzled. “It makes a good lubricant for anal sex,” he said calmly.

  “Anal sex . . . You mean, up a person’s bottom,” I blurted out. “But why? Are you, uh, gay?” It was a stupid question but the man just laughed.

  “Far from it, but that way the woman has pleasure and she doesn’t get pregnant. You should try it.”

  At this point I should have fled, but I didn’t. For a reason I cannot begin to fathom I just stared at him. I have never had anal sex and never planned to. Fortunately Bob has never asked and I would undoubtedly refuse. Yet here was a complete stranger holding up a leaking pot of yoghurt, suggesting I should try out having a prick up my rear hole.

  I can remember saying: “You mean me try it?” And him responding, “Why not?” For some reason I couldn’t think why not.

  I don’t know why I allowed it, but he took my arm and guided me to the front of my car. He set the pot down carefully, peeled open my coat and felt up my breasts. He pressed his lips to mine as he did so and I felt both revulsion and a wild wanton excitement. Among the panic that his hands were on me, I felt a strange burning in my sex. I hadn’t felt this way since Bob and I used to have sex before we were married. Back then we had to do it at the back of a pub car park as neither of us would have been allowed to fuck in our respective family’s homes. So here I was, reliving those days, though I always thought Bob was good-looking and this man wasn’t. Just a stranger, that’s all.

  This man – I never did find out his name and never want to – had set something off in me. I felt I was a long way from home, safely hidden by the dark and with a fire in my belly like no other I had known for years. I allowed him to squeeze and fondle my boobs, feeling how hard my nipples had become, and then he broke the kiss and turned me to face the car.

  “I’m scared,” I said as he gently pushed me face down over the cold bonnet.

  “Don’t be, the yoghurt will stop it hurting.”

  I felt him lifting my skirt at the back and braced myself. It was insane what I was doing but I couldn’t help myself. The yoghurt pot was right by my face and I stared at it as I felt him reach up and tug my panties down to my knees. I felt his hand easing my legs apart and I opened them as much as I could.

  “It’s my period,” I said, in case he wanted to go in me the conventional, almost doggy-style way, but he said he didn’t need to worry about my twat, as he called it.

  I saw his hand reach for the open pot, scoop out a big dollop of the yoghurt and then I felt it smeared between my bum cheeks, his finger working up into the crevice and against my sphincter. I gasped as his finger worked the creamy substance up into my rear hole. I desperately tried to relax my back passage to allow him in. I was scared he would hurt me and equally scared the yoghurt would somehow, like horseradish sauce (I imagined) burn me.

  But the yoghurt felt slick and cool and he expertly wormed his finger in, smoothing the yoghurt up into me. I suppose, though I didn’t dare loo
k or ask, he spread some along the shaft of his cock but in any event his prick was soon pressing against my anal opening. I wanted to scream as it pushed up into me – gently enough but insistent and I wished I had something to grip on to on the bonnet. I also wished I had something to bite on but he must have sensed this because he reached forwards with his dry hand and lifted the corner of my silk scarf so that I could take it between my teeth. It occurred to me this was a gentlemanly thing to do and I remember blushing at how ludicrous and bizarre a thought this was.

  I also remember feeling his hard, long cock not only driving in but also it sawing in and out of me. I felt I was going to be split in two and wondered how anyone would even tolerate this for sexual union. But I more than tolerated it: I felt turned on being used like this and brought one of my hands round and stuffed more of my scarf in my mouth.

  Behind me the man was grunting as he hammered up into me and I felt my cunt catch fire. What he was doing to me hurt but it was the most satisfying hurt I’d ever known and I could hear myself moaning into my simple gag. I could also feel, at every thrust, my body sliding on the car bonnet; my erect nipples rub against the cold, hard surface. I couldn’t believe this humiliating near-rape was happening to me and equally I wanted his cock in deeper. I was mortified in case someone should come past and see me (thank goodness the scarf was acting as a reasonably effective gag as I bit on it so no one would hear my cries) and I was petrified in case somehow the lights on this side of the car park would suddenly flood me in a revealing glare.

  In this state of terror and excitement I felt his balls slap against my cunt at every thrust and as his shaft slid into me there was an accompanying slurp from the strawberry yoghurt. He must have been doing this to me for a good five minutes but I didn’t care about the time. He had one hand on my back, holding me down in case I tried to get up, but there was little danger of that. Above all I just wanted to come, but with a loud grunt he came first. He stopped his thrusting and at once his cock twitched as it began to pump his semen into my bowels.