The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I suddenly felt Charles pushing me aside as he climbed onto my wife and entered her a second time with his hard cock. He drove into her pussy with one swift movement, causing her to cry out in ecstasy. I continued to lie there on my side, a few feet away, and listen as he repeatedly drove into her body, fucking Jean as if she was the last woman on earth. Soon, he was groaning as he ejaculated another load of semen deep into her body.

  Once Charles had pulled out of her, I was back between her legs, licking up the tremendous mess he’d left. There was so much cum to clean up that I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach. I hadn’t had anything to eat earlier in the evening and having to swallow two loads of cum on an empty stomach didn’t sit well with my digestive system. When I’d finished cleaning my wife, her lover jerked me over to his side of the bed and shoved my masked face into his crotch.

  “Lick my balls and cock,” he said.

  He kept his hand on the back of my head so I couldn’t pull away. I eased my tongue out through the opening in the mask and began to lick his balls the way he wanted. I won’t say I wasn’t embarrassed by the ordeal, but this was what I’d wanted . . . to be the slave of my wife and her black lover. I continued to lap at his groin until he moved my face up to his limp penis, which was still quite large in size. I worked my tongue up and down his impressive organ, feeling it swell with blood, knowing he enjoyed what I was doing. I mean, what black man wouldn’t get off on fucking an attractive white married woman and then having her bound, submissive husband lick his groin clean? It was more than about sex (though that was part of it), but also about the years of slavery the black man had incurred at the hands of the white majority.

  This was payback, pure and simple.

  Those thoughts were flowing through my mind as Charles placed the head of his cock to my mouth so I could suck it. I opened my lips as he pushed my head down upon his huge piece of flesh. I took three inches of his semi-erection down my throat and began sucking it like there was no tomorrow. I felt him swell inside my mouth and the vein on the bottom of his cock thump in excitement.

  “Do you see your husband?” Charles asked my wife.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I know he enjoys eating cum. He also likes sucking cock. At least it looks that way to me. Maybe we should dress him up like a French maid with white ruffled panties and black fishnet stockings. Then, he could become my bitch. I could take off his panties and fuck him like I do you.”

  “Robert might like that.”

  “Yeah, I bet he’d like being a woman and having to serve a black man.”

  Charles grunted and started shooting his load of semen into my mouth. I swallowed for dear life so I wouldn’t choke on the amount exploding within my throat. Even as it was, there was so much semen that it oozed out from the sides of my mouth.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” Jean said.

  “Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to give you some more before the night is over. I just need to start your husband’s training so he knows what I expect from him.”

  “When he’s finished gulping down your load,” Jean said, trying not to pout, “you can use the hoist in the corner of the room to hang him up by his feet.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “Robert can hang there for a while and listen to us fuck. I’m going down to the kitchen to get us something to drink.”

  “Bring me back a beer, baby.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Charles laughed at she got off the bed and he slapped her hard on the bottom.

  He still kept my face impaled on his erection until the last drop of semen had been swallowed. Once that was over with, he got me off the bed and had me lay down in the corner of the bedroom. I listened as he switched on the electric hoist and lowered down the iron clamp with two ankle cuffs fastened to it by their metal rings. When the cable was lowered to the floor, he wrapped the leather cuffs around my ankles, locked them in place, and turned the hoist back on. I was raised up into the air until my head was completely suspended off the floor.

  Charles was fucking me in the mouth again in an attempt to get a fourth erection when Jean entered the bedroom.

  “Here’s your beer,” she said, taking a swallow of something.

  “Thanks,” Charles said.

  He kept moving his penis back and forth inside my mouth. It was getting harder, but slowly. I, on the other hand, was starting to get a cramp in my jaw from all the sucking. I didn’t know how much longer I could go on. It didn’t help matters that I was hanging upside down and the blood was rushing to my head.

  “I should take a few pictures of Robert with your cock in his mouth,” my wife said with humor. “That way if he ever thinks about leaving me, I can threaten to post the pictures on the internet.”

  “You’re a cruel lady.”

  “That’s why he loves me so much. Besides, you’re the one getting a blowjob from him.”

  “I’m simply doing what any Master would do with a male slave.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you get down on the floor and assume the doggy position,” Charles said. “I’m going to fuck you like the bitch you are. I want you on your hands and knees. I’m going to have you howling at the moon before I’m finished tonight, lady.”

  Jean laughed at his comment as she got down on the carpet.

  Withdrawing his cock from my aching mouth, Charles got down behind my wife and quickly entered her moist vagina. I listened to her moan with intense pleasure as he drove his massive erection repeatedly into her. Then, I could hear his stomach slapping hard against her bare buttocks.

  This went on for nearly fifteen minutes before he shot a third load of semen into my wife’s body. When Charles was satiated, he rose to his feet and began to get dressed, which surprised both Jean and me.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “I thought you were spending the night.”

  “I’m meeting some friends.”

  “Why don’t you come back over afterwards?”

  “Nah, I’m too tired.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, bitch. I’m the Master here. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Besides, your husband has plenty of my love juice to clean up. That should keep both of you busy for the next hour. I’ll be over tomorrow night to finish what I started. I’m not going to be satisfied till you have a bun in the oven.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Don’t lie there on the floor with cum oozing out of your cunt and pouting. Get up here and give me a goodbye kiss.”

  I listened as my wife rose to her feet and kissed Charles. Once he was dressed, she walked him downstairs to let him out the front door. She wasn’t in a very good mood when she returned to the bedroom.

  “Since I already have you hanging up by your ankles,” she said, “I might as well give you a whipping.”

  I knew better than to say anything.

  Jean was mad with Charles for leaving earlier than expected. She was going to take her anger out on me. She whipped my buttocks with her Mexican quirt, striking my bare flesh at least thirty times. I cried and begged for mercy, but it didn’t do any good. When she had completed the punishment and had lowered me to the floor, Jean instructed me to stay on my stomach because my bottom was bleeding so profusely from the red whip marks zigzagging across my ass.

  She didn’t want me to get blood on the carpet.

  Leaving the leather mask on my face and the handcuffs locked around my wrists, she got down on the floor and nestled my head between her legs. I knew what my wife wanted and was soon lapping up the third load of cum from her recently fucked pussy. After that, I licked her clit and got her off two more times.

  Once Jean was sexually satisfied, she left me there on the floor and went to bed.

  My wife got pregnant from Charles’s potent seed on that very evening.

  How do I know? Well, he didn’t come over on Sunday night.

  In fact, it was closer to two
weeks before he finally made another appearance. Once Jean was sure she was pregnant and had told me, I figured out the time frame and knew it had happened on the night before Mother’s Day.

  Charles and my wife weren’t getting along as well as they had been back in May. I believe things changed when he brought over five of his black friends during the middle of June and had a gangbang with Jean.

  She was different after that.

  Hell, so was I.

  Charles had made me prepare each man, not once or twice, but three and four times as they all took turns screwing my wife in her cunt and ass. He took photographs of Jean being sodomized and fucked in the mouth at the same time. Charles then took pictures of me sucking the other men off, especially when they would come in my mouth and all over my face. I was forced three different times to put my mouth to Jean’s cunt and to lap up the copious amounts of semen that had been deposited there. Once, they even had me suck the semen out of my wife’s ass, which was disgusting and had the men laughing and snickering at my submissiveness.

  That horrible night, however, is another story.

  Anyway, Jean had the baby and I take care of it while she dates other men.

  After all, it’s about serving my Mistress, and that is something I intend to do to the best of my ability.

  Fifi The Slut

  Vic, Blackpool

  It was my fault that I decided to dress up as a French tart and it was my fault I couldn’t wait for Lisa to print out the directions and it was my fault the car needed petrol because I hadn’t bothered to check earlier and I suppose it was my fault I missed the party and ended up having sex with that man.

  OK, let me rewind this a bit and sort out all the faults in order. It was the day of Kev’s thirtieth birthday do, a Saturday last spring. Fancy dress, he said; come as something wild, the invitation said. To a pub in Preston, so not all that far away. How wild would a Parisian prostitute be? Pretty wild, I thought. Yes, I really did dress up as a French tart. You know the sort of thing: clinging hooped blue and white jumper with torpedo tits, a short red skirt borrowed from Lisa like I borrowed a bra of hers, fishnet stockings (new, from the supermarket, bought that morning along with the cat food we needed), some of Lisa’s red lipstick, a pair of big sunglasses and the crowning touch of a red beret that almost matched the skirt, perched on a platinum blonde wig. Cheap wig, but that was all the shop had.

  I looked the part, right enough. Even Lisa, my girlfriend, said so and she’s hard to please normally. Fifi the slut, she named me, and that pleased me. She herself was going as an Amazon warrior in torn furs and leather thigh boots and no way was she going with me in the van. She suggested I shared a taxi with her and her friend Ashley (a goth nun apparently, in a black plastic habit complete with a split up the leg and cleavage hanging out) but she wouldn’t be ready when I was ready to go. Yeah, I get impatient and I didn’t want to miss a moment of Kev’s do.

  As it turned out I missed it all, but then I was having sex with a man I barely knew.

  So there I was at home, dressed to kill as Fifi, and sure I knew the way to the pub that Kev had hired for the evening. I know Preston pretty well and I was sure it was in Fulwood. Lisa said she would print out the email with the address on but I said she didn’t need to bother. I left her in her Amazon outfit with a smile and shouted in my best “ooh-la-la” accent that I would see her there with Ashley whenever the nun was ready.

  The pub wasn’t in Fulwood and I was lost. I had left my mobile phone on the hall table, thinking there was nowhere to put it as I sure as hell wasn’t going to carry a handbag. I know; I was happy to be a hooker off the streets of Paris but I wasn’t going to be a sissy. I might wear a skirt and a pair of Lisa’s high heels that somehow I forced my feet into but a handbag was taking it too far. I was adamant that men don’t carry handbags and as the bar was free I wasn’t going to be carrying money anyway.

  So there I was, driving round Preston looking for this pub and wondering if I dare ask anyone the way. I was suddenly unsure how it would look to most blokes if a man in a blonde wig and bright red lips started asking them if they had a moment to spare. Suffice to say my courage was beginning to fail me. The taxi Lisa had talked about earlier began to seem like a very good idea.

  I could turn the van round and head home but the trouble was I would have to make my way back on a nearly empty tank. I also worried that Ashley for once had been on time and she and Lisa had already set off. I wouldn’t be able to get into the house without her key so I had no option but to carry on looking for this pub while keeping one eye on the petrol gauge.

  I was sure I would be all right as my unerring sense of finding places would come to my rescue, but there were roadworks I never expected and I had to turn round and find another way across town. That was probably the last straw for what was left in the tank and, with a graceful but distinctly final splutter, the engine cut out. I coasted to a halt and thought, what the hell do I do now?

  I’m not stupid and I was ready for such an emergency. I keep a jerry can in the back of the van. Always have. But I also understood that it wasn’t much use as not only did I have to walk to the nearest garage in these crippling high heels, somehow I had to persuade them to let me have a few litres of petrol on account. Yeah, on account that I had no money.

  I sat in the van and felt like crying, which was a pretty unmanly thing to do but it was all I could think of right then. I had rushed out on my own and ended up God knew where, marooned in some back street of Preston while dressed as a hooker. Surely it couldn’t get any worse, I thought, when it began to rain.

  I had no idea how the ladies of the night in Paris coped with such weather, but I could guarantee they wouldn’t think a beret was anywhere near enough protection. I sat slumped in the van and watched the rain running down the windscreen, thinking it sort of hid my tears. If the mascara I was wearing under my dark glasses wasn’t waterproof I would look a real mess if I didn’t watch it.

  You hear of knights of the road, of course. Those people who somehow spot someone in distress and come riding, or driving, to the rescue. I got one and I have never been more grateful in my life to see the figure hurrying through the rain to tap on my window. I wound it down and stared at the man, but that was because he was staring at me. I could understand it. A Parisian hooker is not something you often see on a wet Saturday evening in Preston, whether male or female.

  “I take it you’ve broken down,” said Dean as he looked wide-eyed at my outfit. I didn’t know his name then of course but he did tell me eventually. It’s the least a gentleman can do when he screws someone.

  OK, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I had no intention of anyone screwing me. But shit happens, as they say. Anyway, Dean pointed out that the way the van was angled into the side of the road suggested the vehicle had suffered some problem and wouldn’t go any further. I told him I’d run out of petrol and no way could I shift it straight.

  The rain started to fall harder and he asked if he could get in next to me on the passenger’s side. I have to admit I felt a bit strange saying yes, but if he wanted to talk to me then there was no reason he should get wet. Dean climbed in and stared at me again, or more specifically my boobs. Not real but the two cones of foam rubber were doing a good job, even if they now felt ridiculous.

  “You were going to get petrol like that?” Dean asked, now staring at my fishnet-covered thighs where they emerged from my red skirt. I admit I blushed at his stare and even tried to pull my skirt hem down. Futile, but there we go.

  Dean himself was a nice-looking man with an easy-going smile, probably about my age. Bit taller than me with a generous head of curly brown hair. Now, as I am not gay, I am only passing this on in the interest of explaining why things turned out as they did. I didn’t fancy him and I hoped he didn’t fancy me but you can never tell about these things.

  “Tell me what this is about,” Dean said. It wasn’t a request, it was more like an order, and that made me feel a bit strang
e. My heart began to bump a little as I felt him looking me up and down, weighing me up. I somehow got the whole sorry tale out while he studied my curves and legs, with me emphasizing that Lisa fully approved of my choice of fancy dress. That’s right, my girlfriend. My hot girlfriend, I made clear. The woman I would marry one day.

  “So where is this girl?” he asked, looking round into the back of the van at the mess in there. I told Dean that she had gone to the party with a friend. I even said, you’d like Ashley in her slutty goth nun outfit. Perhaps you’d like to come along and meet her? I was sure Kev wouldn’t mind, I said.

  Dean shook his head. Not his thing, he said. I’m surprised it’s yours, he added with a grin. Then he asked me my name. When I told him it was Vic he shook his head again. “You look like a Fifi to me,” he laughed.

  I gulped. He knew I was Fifi? Or maybe all French hookers are called Fifi, I thought. When I said no, it was Vic, he said he was sure I was Fifi at heart. Then I swear he moved a little closer to me. Sort of like adjusting himself in the seat but definitely an inch or two nearer. Just a gear stick between us.

  I had put some of Lisa’s perfume on and I could suddenly smell it. Or perhaps it was Dean’s cologne. Either way my senses seemed heightened. My heart was going and I wanted to gulp. To have someone like Dean next to you in the front of a vehicle on a dark night, with no one looking in, and feeling all hot and bothered. I think there was a moment when I thought all this was unreal, but it passed.

  I was aware of Dean putting his hand on the gear stick and waggling it from side to side. He said he was just checking it was in neutral but reverse was OK too, if I liked that sort of thing. Did I like reverse? I wanted to say something but my mouth was dry and my head swam and I am sure my heart thumped harder.

  Then Dean put his hand on my knee. Now, for those of you who have never worn fishnet stockings, here’s the thing. You feel the warmth of the other person’s hand at once through the mesh. They can feel the heat of you, I suppose, and I was pretty hot. I ought to have knocked his hand away, told him I wasn’t like that (was I a girl like that? I wondered later) but I let him rest his hand there. I also didn’t stop him reaching down between my legs; and though, being a good girl, I tried to keep my knees together, he slid his hand up between my thighs. As I was wearing a short skirt I could see what he was doing and I was very aware of how my cock felt under my skirt. Pretty excited, I have to say.