The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I only ever had her once again after that night, oddly enough in that swimming pool. She called me and said our friend was away and she had use of the house, and asked if I’d like a replay. Of course I said yes, and she asked what I wanted. I told her I wanted her in the pool, dressed in underwear, black stockings and suspenders. When I turned up later she was nowhere to be seen, but eventually I found her in the pool, swimming slowly up and down in lilac suspenders, bra and thong, her stockings soaked. She was even wearing high heels to complete the picture. Our rapid fuck, with me standing in the pool and her balanced on the edge at just the right height, was fantastic, ending in me filling her with my emission. She ducked down under the water afterwards and sucked me clean and, after a suitable recovery time, sucked me all the way again until I filled her mouth.

  But Elaine wasn’t the only one. I just wish I could control it. There have been so many times I’ve tried, when some woman has taken my fancy and I’ve willed that I could exercise this strange power, yet nothing happens. At other times it’s just there, and she and I both know it.

  I started saying this wasn’t a confession as much as a boast, but that’s not strictly true. To some people out there, I confess: I’ve had your wife, your girlfriend, your sister, your mother . . . Ordinary women with whom there’s a telepathic connection, so powerful there’s nothing either of us can do about it. I’ve explored every inch of them. I’ve penetrated their every orifice. I’ve tied them up, whipped and spanked them, coated them inside and out – mouths, vaginas, back passages, bodies, faces, legs, hands, feet and hair – with my seed. And I intend to go on having them.

  BRINGING EDDIE’S LUNCH

  Jess, Mishawaka

  My boyfriend, Eddie, is a remodelling contractor. Sometimes we fuck in other people’s houses.

  When Eddie is working, he’s a walking sexual fantasy. He wears tight carpenter jeans, with a hammer hanging from the hammer loop. He wears white T-shirts that are always, no matter what time of year, soaked with his sweat. I love it when he’s swamped with work, when he’s too busy to get his hair cut. When he slicks his too-long hair back out of his eyes, he looks maddeningly sexy.

  And, of course, when he’s swamped with work, I have to bring him his lunch.

  About a year ago, Eddie was refinishing the hardwood floors in a historic house by the river. The European couple who owned it, the Ellingtons, were both university professors. They were in Prague for the week while Eddie worked. Refinishing a hardwood floor is labour intensive, and Eddie didn’t have time to break for lunch. That Monday, he asked me to take time off work to bring him a sandwich and a couple of beers. I was happy to. I bought myself a sandwich as well, and we ate together sitting on the back steps.

  “Want to see what I’ve been doing?” Eddie asked me when we’d finished lunch.

  I said I did, and he took me inside. It was a nice home, I guessed. I couldn’t really tell, since the furniture was covered in tarps and piled into a carpeted room. In the middle of what I assumed was the dining room stood the floor sander. It looked like an oversized vacuum cleaner. As I walked over to inspect the floor, Eddie turned the sander on. It began to vibrate, humming loudly.

  “I’ve been pushing this thing around all morning,” Eddie told me. “Go ahead, give it a try.”

  I took hold of the handle. Instantly, the floor sander sent vibrations through my entire body. I’d been having my period, and Eddie and I hadn’t had sex in five days. The vibrations reminded me of what I’d been missing, and my clit began to throb.

  I looked over my shoulder at him, and I could tell Eddie was thinking the same thing.

  “Pull down your pants,” he said.

  “Are you serious?” I said, looking around the room. “We’ve never done it in someone else’s house before.”

  “Yeah, I’m serious,” Eddie said. He reached around me to switch off the floor sander. Putting his arm around me, he guided me around it and backed me against the wall. “Pull your pants down and bend over the writing desk, Jess.” He punctuated the sentence with a long kiss, probing my mouth with his tongue.

  Eddie led me over to the writing desk, which was with the other furniture under the tarp. As I reached for my belt buckle, I said, “Are you sure the Ellingtons are in Prague?”

  There was a devilish grin on Eddie’s face. “No,” he said. “I’m sure they’re on their way home this minute. They could burst through the door at any time.”

  I frowned at his smart-ass remark as I lowered my skirt to the floor. The thought of the Ellingtons (or their kids, or the neighbours) bursting through the door at any time sent my heart racing.

  Eddie helped me out of my panties, then stood back to admire the view. “Look at that cunt,” he said, wrapping one muscular arm around my waist. “Bright pink and shiny wet. You should see it, Jess. It’s beautiful.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said as he pressed his body against mine. “Are you just going to look at it, or are you going to fuck it?”

  As if I had to ask. Eddie tried putting his cock in me, but I wasn’t quite wet enough yet. After a series of soft kisses across the back of my neck, he licked his fingers. He spread the moisture all around my waiting cunt, then inside me. Slipping his fingers out, he licked them again, then slid his cock inside me.

  Eddie started banging me slowly and gradually worked up speed. I reached back and put my hands on his hips, pulling him towards me again and again.

  Eddie thrust into me hard, and I opened my eyes. I noticed a beautiful antique mirror across the room, in which I could see our reflection perfectly. I watched the hard muscle of Eddie’s thighs pumping, watched my breasts bounce. We were beautiful together, a well-oiled fucking machine.

  Right about then, Eddie opened his eyes and watched me watching the two of us.

  “You like that?” he growled in my ear. By now he was slamming into me hard.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice high and arching. I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d been for his cock until he’d started pounding into me.

  But Eddie was also eager, and he didn’t need much more encouragement. “Can’t wait,” he said excitedly. “Gonna come.”

  It was now or never, and my pussy knew it. Seconds later, he was spurting hard inside me, and I was pulsating right along with him. He bit into his biceps to keep from screaming. I tried to hold back the shout that burst out of me, but it was no use. I hollered loudly. The sound echoed through the empty room behind us. It was like being in a cathedral. With my skirt down.

  Eddie and I leaned over the writing desk, panting, as our juices began to run down our legs.

  “We need to clean up,” he said. I was far messier than him, so he added, “Stay here.”

  I waited, and watched the mixture of semen and pussy juice run down my leg, hoping Eddie would get back before it reached my shoes. He did. I mopped up my wet cunt as best I could with the paper towels he’d found, then pulled up my skirt.

  Once we were cleaned up, as well as we were going to be under the circumstances, Eddie stuffed his cock back in his jeans and said, “Fun’s over, Jess. I gotta get back to work.”

  He did, and so did I. All day long I smelled his sweat and sawdust, faintly, on my clothes and in my hair. I thought about him all day. When he finally came home that evening, I practically jumped him as soon as he walked through the door.

  After that, Eddie asked me to bring him lunch more often. We got naked in more of his customers’ houses. Once, we even had a quickie in the kitchen while the homeowner (eighty-five years old, and all but deaf) watched Wheel of Fortune in his basement. The thrill of being vulnerable, the chance of being caught at any moment was almost as big a turn-on as the way Eddie looked in those carpenter jeans.

  And then there was Veronica’s house.

  Veronica was a schoolteacher. Eddie had been her regular handyman for years; she liked him because he cleaned up after himself. It would be an understatement to say that Veronica was a neat freak. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhe
re in her house – not even behind the dishwasher, and everyone has a horrible mess behind the dishwasher. Her cleaning products stood neatly organized on the pantry shelf, the outsides of the bottles wiped free of drips. Even the straws in her broom were clean. How could they be dirty? Dirt wasn’t allowed in Veronica’s house.

  On the Saturday morning that I brought Eddie lunch at Veronica’s, she’d hired him to take down and replace her kitchen cabinets. It was summer, and Veronica was away visiting her sister in Omaha. The thought of her kitchen disorganized – ripped apart, no less – was more than Veronica could bear.

  “Let’s get naked,” Eddie said as I handed him his lunch. He set the lunch bag down on the counter and didn’t give it a second thought; his eyes were focused on me.

  “Not here,” I said. “Anywhere but here. Veronica will know.”

  “So what if she does?” Eddie said. He slicked back his sweaty hair and smiled. He looked so hot, my resistance was rapidly melting. “If she has a video camera hidden somewhere, it’ll give her the thrill of her dried-up old life. And if she doesn’t, how’s she going to know?”

  “She’ll smell it,” I said, laughing. “I don’t care how well you clean up after yourself. I’ll bet she can detect one particle of the scent of my excited cunt per million parts of bleach and lemon cleaner.”

  Eddie massaged his cock through his jeans. “Say ‘excited cunt’ again,” he said. “Get naked while you’re saying it.”

  I was about to say something when Eddie pulled me in for a kiss, rubbing my nipples through my thin T-shirt. “Where should we go?” I asked him.

  “Basement,” he said. “There’s a really nice leather couch down there, and besides, there aren’t any really obvious windows.” He led me downstairs, where we stripped totally naked. Eddie sank into the brown leather of the couch, and I climbed on top of him. This time, we didn’t even need the spit lube.

  “I hope she does have a camera,” Eddie said breathlessly as I rode him hard. “I want to see this again, from the other angle.”

  I laughed, pushing my legs wider apart to drive his cock deeper into me. Eddie gasped. He might have been enjoying this performance, but though he was rubbing just the right spot inside me, I had a hard time letting myself come. I couldn’t stop thinking about Veronica’s disapproving face. I was fairly certain sex was no more welcome in her home than dirt.

  “What’s wrong?” Eddie asked me.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this to her furniture,” I responded.

  Eddie sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Pick a spot on the carpet.”

  If it had been anyone but Eddie, I would have been offended by the suggestion. But I really wanted to finish what we’d started. Veronica’s carpet was covered by the cleanest-smelling rug I’ve ever laid my bare ass on. Actually, Eddie laid my bare ass on it. This time, he got on top.

  “There now,” Eddie whispered in my ear. “I’ve got you nailed down, Jess. You couldn’t get up if you wanted to. Even if Veronica walked in the door right now, she’d just have to stand there and watch you get fucked.”

  Eddie always did know the right things to say. Seconds later, we were coming together.

  Veronica called the following week, letting us know that she loved her new kitchen cabinets. But, for some reason, she hasn’t called Eddie back since then. He strongly suspects that she did have a hidden video camera.

  Personally, I think it’s the Ellingtons who had the hidden camera. Since Eddie and I fucked on their writing desk, they’ve had him put new windows in the pool house and a new roof on the carport. If that’s not customer satisfaction, then I don’t know what is.

  CAROLINE’S BLACK AND BLUE BOTTOM

  Michael, San Diego

  I knew Caroline from the blogosphere. I knew she was twenty-nine, lived in LA, was into pain, worked as a submissive in a dungeon and constantly craved a Jamba Juice.

  One time she wrote in her blog: “If anyone out there brings me a Jamba Juice to work, they’ll get something special.”

  I wrote: “If I lived in LA, I’d bring you one every day.”

  Her user handle was SoozyQ, Caroline was her pro name and Elaine (apparently) her true name. She seemed obsessed with images of women in Nazi outfits and pictures of Edward Norton in American History X. For several months we exchanged blog posts about sex and drugs and loneliness. She kept late hours until sunrise like I did. One night she wrote she was upset because an ex-boyfriend had posted pictures of his dick entering her cunt on the internet, and she gave me the link. She told me how she loved crystal meth because it made her horny and kept her thin, but she had to stay away from the addictive drug; I certainly could relate to that. She told me how the one night someone gave her what she thought was XTC but was actually acid and she had to work in that state of mind. I told her about the massive amount of ‘shrooms I’d been taking lately and she said she didn’t like ‘shrooms “because they make me see witches.” When asked what was the nicest gift anyone could give her, she replied: “A family and a home.”

  That was a good answer.

  Ever since joining the blog universe, I’ve struck up about a dozen online “relationships” with women all over the country, from ages eighteen to forty-eight, varying in degrees of flirtatious emails, cyber sex on Instant Messenger, late-night phone calls when their husbands, boyfriends or parents are asleep, to some of them flying, driving or taking the Amtrak into San Diego for a weekend to see if there is any chemistry “in the meat world”, as they say in the vernacular. Usually, it’s awkward and doesn’t work out . . . so with this, I often suggest, before they make the trip, that we immediately jump into a quick, hard fuck. Why not? That’s why they’re coming to see me, and sex will be on our minds the whole time. You know: Who should make the first move? Will a move be made? Will there be sex? Will the sex be good? If the sex is taken care of right away, then there won’t be all that tension and anticipation and we’ll both know if the sex is good and if we should continue with the visit as friends or mere tricks.

  So I was a little nervous about meeting Caroline in LA and she said she was too, but I wondered about that since our prearranged get-together was going to be brief and contrived; she was a professional, after all, and I was going to pay her for the time at the going rate plus a tip; and I knew there wasn’t going to be any actual “sex” involved.

  This was also going to be a new experience for me, dropping into an S/M dungeon; I felt better that I was going to be with a woman whom I’d at least communicated with and knew a little bit about, rather than a complete stranger.

  I’ve never been into the BDSM or D/s scene much. The “lifestyle” fascinates me and I like the clothing and gear and attitude in an academic sort of way, but it simply doesn’t turn me on, nor is it something I pursue with the kind of passion that many in “the scene” do with almost religious fervour and intent.

  I set up a Sunday appointment with Caroline at 1.30 p.m. The dungeon was located across the street from LAX in a warehouse zone on South La Cienega Boulevard. If you didn’t have the address and didn’t know what it was, you’d never know such a place of business was among the rows of bland, cookie-cut rectangular buildings that look like they were erected in the 1950s. The windows were tinted and there was an American flag in front of the place in question. I was told there was a “discreet” back entrance for clients who didn’t want to be seen going in or out but I didn’t care; I pressed the intercom and said I had an appointment and was buzzed inside.

  The lobby was appropriately dark; a fat, greasy man in a pastel shirt who looked like the clichéd smut peddler sat behind a wooden desk. He looked me up and down and seemed bored. On a leather couch to my left was a woman with short hair, wearing a teddy and chewing gum; at the desk to my right sat a short blond woman who was on a computer, doing something on the internet – 1 knew this was Caroline; she was often on-line at work and I recognized her from some photos I’d seen: long, thick curly hair, round face, slightly chubby body, big breasts and
innocent-appearing blue eyes.

  I had two Jamba Juices with me, orange and a berry flavour. She chose the orange and I had the berry.

  She was shy and had a soft, high-pitched voice like a ten-year-old girl. She didn’t look me in the eye when we shook hands, nor when she gave me a tour of the facility. But maybe this is what submissives are supposed to act like, what did I know?

  This dungeon was a 7,000 square foot warehouse split up into various themed rooms. The Bastille Room – a jail cell with a rack; the Elizabethan Room – soft and pink and good for tickling; the “O” Room – minimal with plain white walls and some hardcore torturing devices; the Mae West Room for clients who liked to cross-dress and that door was closed; Windsor Hall was a classroom setting with half-a-dozen student chairs, a teacher’s desk and a chalkboard; the Interrogation Room for some hardcore action had quite the fascist feel; Windsor Stables was the “pony training” area and the biggest – it was like a studio sound stage or small theatre.

  “Movies could be made here,” I said.

  “Oh, there have been a few that have,” Caroline said, looking at the floor.

  “What kind?”

  “What do you think?”

  “S&M, I guess.”

  “And some porn.”

  I chose the Marquis de Sade Room, second biggest to Windsor Stables; everything in it was black or purple and there was a rack, cross, shackles, torture tower and a suspended cage connected to the ceiling and tracks, so it could be pushed from one side of the room to the other. I chose this room because it had a large, comfy couch with pillows. I would have wanted the classroom if Caroline had been wearing a schoolgirl outfit (she was in white lace) and I could be the perverted teacher and she the naughty nymph.

  We went up front and told the fat man which room. “How long?” he asked me. I said half an hour and he said, “A hundred dollars.” I already knew what the prices were going to be; an hour went for $160 and I almost took that but this was my first time, what if I got bored?