The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

I sat back, heart pounding, as I caught my breath. Of all the times I had fantasized about my boss’s wife, I had never imagined her quite like this, nude with her beautiful hair disheveled and her face glazed with my come. She was still caressing her pussy with a blissful smile.

  She looked up at me. “So? Are you satisfied?”

  “More than satisfied. You’re a fantastic submissive.”

  Alexa didn’t try to deny it. Instead she smiled and asked me how I’d gotten so good at domination. Seeing an opportunity, I told her that I’d teach her how to dominate her clients in return for becoming my regular submissive. And that was how I turned my boss’s ex-wife into the sexual slave of my dreams.

  A Special Favour

  Lindsey, Oxford

  I got my first proper job within a month of graduating from uni, which, I’m happy to acknowledge, made me pretty damn lucky in the financial climate of the times. Plenty of my friends were still moping around their parents’ living rooms, taking up space and living on a steady diet of daytime television and Indian takeaways, so I did feel lucky to be employed, in a new city, on a living wage. That didn’t make my job any more exciting – it’s not exactly every little girl’s dream to be a sales rep for a medium-sized academic publishing company, especially after spending four years doing Classics at Oxford. But the people were nice, lots of them not much older than me, and the boss was nice. Good Christ, the boss was nice.

  Well. “Nice” used to mean “polite”, apparently, in the days of Austen. Correct. Proper. Paul had manners, lovely manners, but there was nothing proper about him. It didn’t take me long to work it out. He’d been throwing me grins every time he passed me from the moment I started, so I knew he liked me, and there was something about him that made the smiles seem charming, even when you suspected there was some intent behind them. He was all legs, Paul was, boyish figure, face that looked too young for his slightly greying dark hair. Sandra, who sat next to me, once leaned over and muttered that he must have been a stunner in his youth. Privately I thought I couldn’t imagine him ever being as sexy as a young man as he was now, the way his brow pulled together thoughtfully when you told him something and the way he called you “love” when he was explaining things, not patronizingly, but kindly. Like your best friend’s hot dad. He had a Sheffield accent with the edges knocked off, and every time he leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I could smell the spice of his cologne and feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, I felt like I was going to melt into my chair. He only had to smile at me when he straightened up, after five minutes of leaning over me like that, and I’d feel myself getting wet between the legs, this hot rush out of nowhere.

  He never did anything. For two months, nothing, just the smiles, and I started to think maybe it’d be nice if he was a bit more sleazy, even though I would never have fancied him so much if he had been. I thought of doing mad things, like unbuttoning my blouse far enough that my bra was visible, or stupid things you only see in porn, like dropping my pencil and ostentatiously picking it up. But in the end, I didn’t, because I was twenty-two and had always been that clever girl at the back of the class who never made the first move. I told myself sternly, after this had gone on for a while, that this was a crush and that I would get over it, and I thought that was the end of it.

  Then he called me into his office. It must have been October, a bit chilly. I was wearing a skirt, cut demurely just above the knee, and stockings under it. He looked up at me when I came in, smiled, said, “Ah, there you are, Lindsey. Sit down, love.”

  The love made me weak in the knees. The feminist in me quailed. I blamed the accent because it made me feel better. Always a sucker for an older man with a northern accent.

  We talked about sales, how I was doing well, all that stuff. I barely remember it. I was too busy nodding and smiling and trying not to let him see how intently I was watching his face, his beautiful long-fingered hands as they fidgeted with his papers, his long legs under the desk. So when, at the end of the consult, he said, in a perfectly normal voice, “All right, that’s all for now. Knickers, please, love,” I was convinced I’d misheard.

  I stood up. He hadn’t asked me to; I distinctly remember that I had to get out of my chair because the mere thought of that word in his mouth, even though I was sure I’d imagined it, made me want to squeeze my thighs together in a way that would have given me away immediately. “What?”

  He just looked at me, same friendly, open face, still your mate’s sexy dad, unthreatening, and held out his hand. Left hand, I remember he was left-handed, because for some reason I liked that. It made me wonder if anything might feel different with a left-handed bloke doing it to you, if it would spark different nerves if someone fucked you with their fingers from an angle that was slightly unfamiliar.

  “Knickers,” Paul said again, in the same perfectly modulated tone of voice.

  To this day, I can’t believe I just did it. Didn’t ask again, nothing; wasn’t even offended at the suggestion. There was something about him, some weird magnetism, the way he behaved as if all of this was perfectly ordinary, that made me think it was too. I was grateful it was a stockings day and not a tights one as I reached up under my skirt and worked my knickers down, but that was literally the first thought in my head as I lifted my foot to unhook them from the heel of my shoe. Afterwards, I stood there looking at him, knickers balled up in one hand, and he just smiled at me, not one flicker disturbing his calm.

  “Put them on the desk, please.”

  I did as he said. By this time I was slick, that weird aching feeling throbbing between my legs like when you just want something in you right now. I didn’t know if that was inappropriate or not. He was acting so much as if this was all just in a day’s work.

  Then he said, “All right, Lindsey. You can go now, if you like.” A pause. “Or, if you’re interested in taking it on, I’ve got another task for you. But that’s up to you. It would be quite voluntary.”

  My breath caught. I knew what that offer was, even little innocent me, if I could still be called innocent with my visibly damp knickers spread out on my boss’s desk. That was him saying, if you want to go, that’s fine, but if you want to stay . . .

  God, I wanted to stay. All those months of hearing his low voice in my ear, feeling his hair almost brush my face; I’d never wanted anything so much in my life. I nodded hesitantly, very aware of how sensitive my skin felt all of a sudden, so that even the brush of my own hair against it as I moved my head made it prickle. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” he said and, for just a second, I thought I heard a little bit of relief creeping into his voice. “Hoped you would. All right – take a seat over there for me, will you?”

  There was only one other chair in the room, and it was the one I’d been sitting in before, opposite his desk. So I went back over and sat down, feeling suddenly very naked without my underwear, but it was good naked. It made me wonder what it would be like to be naked like this outside with nobody knowing; the silky inside of my skirt rubbing against my backside and my cunt all hot and swollen, while everyone else just went about their business. Then he said, in that same smooth tone, “Spread your knees, love. Far as they’ll go, please.”

  I was on autopilot. I could feel myself clench hard, muscles spasming of their own accord, as I opened my legs, the skirt riding up my thighs. The chair was one of those wide old armchairs they have in posh offices and by the time I’d spread my legs as wide as they’d go, there was nothing left to his imagination, I knew that. I was soaked, clit throbbing, and he could see it all. The thought alone made me bite my lip on a whimper, back arching slightly as my hips canted up.

  “Good girl,” he said. That was the point at which I really should have objected, but I was in some kind of trance. He’d put a spell on me. I could see the line of his eyes, trained directly on me, and he was holding my knickers now in both hands, twisting them slightly. That was the only sign he was agitated at all. “All right. Now, I want
you to touch yourself for me, please.”

  I didn’t even hesitate. I was so ready, and I was too young to understand much about my own preferences then; I didn’t understand why I wanted this so much. But he was watching me, waiting, and I didn’t want to disappoint him and, moreover, the idea of getting myself off for him was suddenly the most appealing thing I’d ever heard. I was so wet that when I got my hand down there, it just slipped around my clit at first, and I heard his breath catch slightly as I moaned frustratedly, finally.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  I didn’t usually go for the penetration when I was on my own, but for some reason that was all I wanted. I could feel myself all hollowed out and wanting, this empty feeling that seemed to go right into the core of me. When I’d thought about this, I’d always thought of him fucking me, filling me up that way, but somehow the idea of fucking myself for him, of pleasing him like this, was just as satisfying. I slid my hand down, pressing my whole palm against myself just for the pressure, just for a moment, so I could grind up against it. After that, it was only natural to push two fingers into myself, middle and ring finger sliding easily into my wetness as a knife into hot butter, and when I moaned, feeling my cunt flutter around my fingers, he moaned too.

  “Good,” he said, voice lower now, slightly hoarse, and I could see his fingers clenching and unclenching reflexively in the balled-up damp cloth of my knickers, caught between his two hands. He had leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the desk and his gaze fixed intently upon me. “Rub your clit with your thumb for me, please.”

  Christ, I think I almost sobbed at that. I must have moaned, hips bucking up into the cradle of my hand as I worked my two fingers inside myself, crooking up against my inner walls, pulling out just far enough that my whole body jolted with the pleasure of being filled again when I shoved slickly back in. This time, as I withdrew, I brought my index finger alongside the other two and pressed back in with three, the stretch making me shudder. My toes were curling in my neat office shoes, my head tipped back and my eyes closed, and when I rubbed my thumb hesitantly across the swollen nub of my clit, it was almost immediately too much.

  “Oh—” I had the presence of mind, somehow, to lift my free hand to my mouth, biting hard on the palm as my lower body trembled with effort. I could no longer look at Paul, but I was still viscerally conscious of his eyes on me like a caress, every brush of my thumb over my clit flashing through me like an electric shock under his inspection. My cunt was fluttering palpably now, gripping tight to my fingers as the motions of my thumb got faster, and I could feel every nerve in my body lighting up, this massive push of sensation, of pressure, all arrowing down to that place between my legs where I was spread open.

  “Good girl,” Paul said again, softly. His voice was thin, by this point, breathy, but the weight of his approval was the final push and, God, I’d never come before the way I came at that moment. My hips lifted up off the chair, my back arched. I made an unearthly sound that would have rung in that little office if it hadn’t been stoppered by my hand, and I heard him groan softly under his breath as my muscles clamped down around my fingers, pleasure rippling out of me in waves that made me feel as if the top of my head was coming off. It seemed to go on for minutes. By the time I collapsed, panting, one sticky wet hand still buried in my cunt and my legs weak and spread akimbo, I felt as if I’d been eviscerated – and enjoyed it immeasurably more than should have been possible.

  He left me alone for possibly three minutes. I know that, by the end of the silence, the edges of anxiety were just beginning to prod at the corners of my mind as the orgasmic fog died away. I looked up at him.

  His eyes were green in that moment, a hot dark green around the blown black of his pupils. Usually, they looked a fairly nondescript pale brown, but I remember remarking to myself that they must have been true hazel, right before it occurred to me that, God, he was so turned on. Wildly turned on, stock-still in his chair like an animal biding its time to attack, and all the poor abused muscles in my abdomen twitched again at that thought.

  Then he said, “Come over here, please, love.”

  I went. I wouldn’t have refused him at that point for anything; I wanted to know, had to know, what he was going to do next. His eyes, his posture, were mesmeric. Everything about him was. I went towards the desk without question, and when he placed his hands on my legs, slid them slowly up the outsides of my thighs, we both shivered.

  “Take a seat, Lindsey,” he said. His voice was still almost calm, striving for that even, professional tone, but I could hear the struggle in it now. He lifted me up onto the edge of his desk, facing him, and then his hands slid around from the outsides of my thighs to the insides and I was shuddering all over again.

  “Paul,” I said. It was the first time I’d spoken his name this whole meeting, and it was an odd feeling to realize that. Liberating, in a strange way, because when he didn’t object, it suddenly felt as if I could do anything. My hand came to rest gently on the back of his head, in his soft salt-and-pepper hair, and then he groaned softly and spread my thighs again with his palms and I clutched at him instinctively.

  I was right on the edge of his desk, spread open, still pink and slick from before, still swollen. When he started to lean in, I could feel my body tensing in strange, interesting ways, and when he pressed his cheek to my inner thigh, above the stocking top, I couldn’t help but tug at his hair.

  “That’s my girl,” he said softly. It was the tone a man would use to commend his daughter, and that thought shouldn’t have made me bite my lip and cant my hips the way it did, but there was obviously something gone wrong in my workings when I was around Paul; he set me all wrong, like a magnetized watch. I could feel his hot breath on me, then the soft brush of his lips to my inner thigh, and then I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  After I’d finished coming the first time, I’d felt as if I’d never be able to come again. But the moment his mouth touched me – one long, knowing stroke of the flat of his tongue all up my slit, from cunt to pubis – I was there again, strung out and helpless. He moaned, the vibrations of it rippling through me. Some blokes, when they do this, it’s like an obligation, but with Paul, I felt as if I was doing him a favour. I could feel in the way he pressed his face right up against me how much he loved this, the way he opened his mouth wide over me, suckling at my clit, then sliding down to lap at me where I was wet. He nosed along my slit, licking me deftly, hard and slow at first and then gentler, more direct, and I felt crazed, thighs jerking in his grip and teeth digging so hard into my lower lip, I thought there’d be indentations there later. It was as if I was floating somewhere outside of myself, the pleasure of it too much. Then he slid his mouth up again, suckled hard on my clit, and one hand shifted from my thigh to the hot place between my legs, two fingers pushing easily inside of me.

  That was it. I almost screamed. I certainly clamped my thighs closed around his head, shuddering, fingers digging into the edge of the desk as I came and came and came. There must have been endless amounts of slick, but he just moaned through it, went on lapping at me until I had to push him away because the sensation was too much. I shoved at his head helplessly and when he lifted his face, it was slick, his eyes still wide and black. He withdrew his hand carefully and, as I watched, put the two fingers, glistening with my wetness, gently into his mouth. When he let them drop again, they were clean. I whimpered.

  “All right,” he said, his voice very soft, “you can go now.”

  I looked at him blankly for a moment. I was out of it; I felt drugged, but even still, I could see the bulge in his trousers, thick and obvious at his crotch. I glanced at it, then back to his face. “Are you—”

  “I said,” he cut over me, “you can go.” He stood up from his chair and crossed the room to the window. For a second all I could do was stare at him. Had I done something wrong . . . ?

  Then he turned back to me, and he was smiling. “Good work, by the way. Oh, and
please leave the knickers. I’ll need them for my report. I daresay you can cope without them.”

  I never wore knickers to that office again.

  Tied Up And Bent Over

  Helen, Plymouth

  I’m a forty-two-year-old woman. I have a nice husband, Gregg, a son and a part-time job in a library.

  A few years ago I hit a stale patch in my marriage. We’d been married for ages and I was feeling the “seven year itch”. Don’t get me wrong, I love Gregg, but our lovemaking always seemed to be very routine. Gregg’s always been a gentle, considerate lover, but I just wished for something a bit more . . . exciting.

  On our seventh anniversary, Gregg arranged for us to stay overnight at a really gorgeous hotel in Portsmouth. He’d booked tickets for a night at the theatre, followed by dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Normally, Gregg is a fish ’n’ chips kind of guy, so I knew he was really trying to make our anniversary special.

  I bought a new outfit for the occasion – a silky blue cocktail dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt, and heels to match. When he saw it, he just smiled, and I could tell he liked it by the way his gaze stroked down over my breasts and my long legs to the six-inch patent glossy heels.

  As we arrived for dinner and sat down, for once without a babysitter’s curfew, I looked at him and suddenly realized anew why I’d married him. He really is a gorgeous man, with thick black hair and laughing blue eyes, and he’s witty and funny and good company.

  Over the meal, Gregg seemed different to normal, a bit keyed up. I thought he might be building up to giving me a gift; he sometimes worries that he might choose the wrong thing. But no gift appeared and after a while he seemed to relax.

  We had wine with our meal, and then afterwards he ordered champagne to toast our anniversary, so by the time we went back to the hotel, I was feeling very mellow and more than a little horny. As we got in the taxi, I slid my hand up his trouser leg, but he just lifted it up and kissed it.