The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  “OK?” he whispered, lying breathlessly beside me.

  “OK, but . . . umm . . .”

  “But you still have a giant black cock inside you?” he teased.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Rolling over, he unclipped the leather straps and, inch by long inch, slowly pulled the massive dildo out of my arse.

  Wonderingly, I looked at its frankly intimidating width and length.

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Oh, I can.” Gregg smiled. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart. Did you like your present?”

  I blushed, laughing. “It was amazing. I . . . like the new, masterful you. Will Sir be coming again any time soon?”

  His face changed, his expression uncompromising. “Oh, yes, sweetheart. Next week, when you go grocery shopping, you’re going to be wearing your new toy.”

  “What?” I yelped. “No way!”

  He leaned over me, his head close to mine. “Excuse me?” he said menacingly.

  “I . . . uh . . . no way, Sir!”

  It’s Friday today, and we’re due to go shopping tomorrow. I’m wet just thinking about it. I’m sure Sir will insist I’m a good girl, and grocery shopping will never be the same again.

  Mummy Yummy

  Sonya, Bristol

  When my husband died, it made sense for me to sell the large house we’d shared in the country and move into a bungalow in the city. The kids were all grown up and on their own, and I’d be closer to my job at the hospital.

  I was forty-eight years old, and it was time for a change. Little did I realize how radical, and at the same time shockingly familiar, that change would be. Thanks to my new urban neighbours.

  Jordan and his wife, Emma, were in their late twenties. They welcomed me to the neighbourhood when I first moved in next to them by bringing over a basket of fresh vegetables that Jordan had picked from their garden that very morning.

  Emma was a tall, striking blonde, with rather cold blue eyes and a slightly severe face. She was an ambitious investment banker, who often had to travel out of town on business. She had a bit of a stand-offish personality.

  Jordan, on the other hand, was a small, slender, brown-haired man, with warm brown eyes and a rather boyish face, an enthusiastic, puppy dog-like personality. Whenever I talked to him, I always felt like patting him on the head, he seemed so eager to please, an invisible tail seemingly wagging behind him.

  I talked to him often. We shared a love of “Mother Earth” – gardening and landscaping, planting and growing. And he was fascinated with my job as a maternity nurse.

  Jordan was a clerk in a government department and didn’t seem to have much ambition to be anything beyond that. He’d been orphaned as a young child when his parents had died in a car accident, and I could tell right away that the young man saw me as a kind of surrogate mother-figure. Little did I realize initially, though, how he also saw me as a sexual mother-figure.

  It first happened during my second month at my new home. It was a warm autumn day, and Jordan was helping me lay out my back garden ready for the following spring. I’d had some middling-sized rocks delivered, and while I turned over the soil, Jordan moved the rocks into position. We were both perspiring in the bright sunshine and were down to just our T-shirts and shorts.

  “How about some lemonade?” I said, setting my spade down and stretching my back out. “I could do with a break.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Jordan yelped, almost dropping a rock on his foot, then slapping dust off his hands.

  He’d taken to calling me “ma’am”, although it often sounded like “mum”.

  It was cooler inside the house, and the cold lemonade hit the spot after all of our strenuous outdoor activity. We sat across from one another at the kitchen table. And, after watching me with his big, doleful eyes for a while, Jordan started telling me about all the problems he and Emma were having.

  I can’t say I was too surprised to hear it. A more mismatched couple – both physically and personality-wise – I hadn’t met in quite some time. And I meet a lot of young couples in the hospital maternity ward.

  But I listened intently, letting Jordan get it all off his chest. And I was only slightly surprised, again, when the young man suddenly broke down in tears and began sobbing at the table. But then I was in for a real shock, when I reached over and sympathetically squeezed his hand, and Jordan jumped up and literally leapt into my lap. He threw his arms around my neck and wept against my shoulder, really letting loose, his bare legs draped over my bare legs, his bottom perched between my thighs.

  “There, there . . . it’ll be all right,” I stammered, now actually patting him on the head and rubbing his back.

  I’d been through the same scenario countless times with my own children, of course, and to be frank, Jordan was almost child-like in the way he looked and acted around me. He was also light in my lap, his little body shaking, his smooth arms clinging tightly to my neck, his thin chest shuddering with sobs against my motherly breasts.

  After a minute or so, he finally pulled his head back and looked at me through his big wet eyes, gulping. I thumbed the tears off his cheeks, fully in my “mummy-mode” that I knew so well, both personally and professionally. Jordan’s cute face brightened and he sniffled a weak smile. I gave him a quick, light kiss of encouragement on his soft, moist, red lips. He grinned happily and planted a warm wet kiss on my startled mouth.

  We held together like that, my arms around him, his arms around me, our mouths pressed together in a plainly less-than-innocent manner. The temperature in the formerly cool kitchen skyrocketed. I hadn’t been this intimate with another man – if that’s what it was – since my husband had died, and my pent-up emotions flowered as spontaneously and powerfully as Jordan’s. Our lips moved, our arms clutching, my breasts and his chest heaving.

  But as thoughts of my late husband briefly flashed through my mind, so did thoughts of Jordan’s present wife. I jerked my head back and our mouths parted with a damp pop. “Jordan, I – I think we’d better stop—”

  “Too late, Mummy! I’ve already gone and wet myself!”

  “What!?”

  I gaped at the young man. He looked sheepishly back at me, batting his long dark eyelashes. Then he scrambled out of my lap and up onto the kitchen table and squirmed onto his back.

  He lifted his bent legs and said, “Would you mind changing me, Mummy? I guess I got too excited and had an accident.”

  I rose to my feet on shaky legs. “Um, y-yes, we both got a little too excited, didn’t we?” I spoke in a motherly tone of voice, and took motherly action. Without fully realizing what I was doing, I automatically pulled Jordan’s popped-open shorts down, as he arched his bum up off the table and straightened out his legs.

  And I found myself staring at his nappy.

  That’s right – his nappy. The young man was actually wearing a disposable nappy, I suspected specially for the occasion.

  I looked down at Jordan laid out on my kitchen table with his legs upraised and a nappy fastened around his hips and groin. Then I instinctively reached for one of the maternity baby-changing kits I kept in a drawer, and proceeded to change Jordan’s nappy.

  He had wet himself, the silly young man. I tore the sticky side tabs apart and pulled the front back and saw that his nappy was soaking. And my smile of motherly amusement and tolerance slipped into bit-lip amazement and consternation, as I also saw Jordan’s long hard cock. His very adult erection bobbed up off his abdomen. The pink shaft was mightily swollen, the purple hood tremendously mushroomed and his slit was glistening with a tear of another type.

  I breathed deeply, unevenly. Jordan gazed up at me cooishly. His large balls were clean-shaven, his big cock clean-cut.

  My fingers trembled as I took a wet wipe and unfolded it. I gripped Jordan’s thigh and applied the wipe to his cock, still on automatic mummy pilot. His cock jumped when I bathed his shaft with the wipe, and I felt the powerful throb of the full-bodied organ. More clear semen leaked
out of his slit. I wiped that up with an expert flick of my wrist.

  I folded the wipe over, and swabbed it under his cock, wiping his balls. His lithe body quivered and his thick cock jerked. I discarded the first wipe and got another. Then I gripped his cock with my forefinger and thumb at his hood. I lifted his cock and mopped all around his groin.

  Jordan whimpered softly, pleasurably, his eyelids fluttering. I could feel his cock pulsing between my fingers, like the pounding of my heart, my breath gone thick and humid in my throat and chest, the atmosphere sensual. I laced the rest of my fingers around the young man’s shaft, as inconspicuously as I could, given the circumstances.

  His cock throbbed hotly in my squeezing hand, against my moistened palm. He raised his bum, staring up into my eyes with sweet anxiety. I swabbed his taut little bottom cheeks and in between. The tips of my breasts were pressing hard against my sweaty T-shirt and belied the calm, indifferent efficiency I was trying to portray – and failing.

  When I powdered Jordan’s cock and balls and part of his bottom he gurgled, “I’m still thirsty, Mummy.” I knew exactly what the young man meant. And what I just had to do.

  I fastened a dry nappy snugly around his narrow hips, never more excited about that particular mundane job done. A “dirty” job like never before. Jordan’s erection bulged the front of the nappy. He raised his arms and held out his hands, and I leaned over and we grabbed onto one another again. I lifted him up off the table and carried him into the living room and sat us down on the couch. His heart beat against my wildly beating heart and my stiffened nipples poking into his chest.

  He snuggled down into my arms so that he was reclining across my lap with his head cradled by my left arm. He blinked his eyes and puckered his lips, his face beaming younger than ever. I pulled up my T-shirt and pulled down my bra. My breasts flopped out into the open, tingling wickedly, especially at the engorged red tips. I lifted Jordan’s head and fed a thick nipple into his hungry mouth.

  “Ooooh!” I moaned, unable to control myself.

  His plush lips sealed around my nipple and his moist mouth sucked. I surged almost as wet as he’d been down below. It was so strange, yet familiar; so weird, yet so wonderful. My pussy pulsated to the pull of his lips on my tit, and I felt as if I’d cry with emotion.

  I couldn’t satisfy Jordan’s thirst with actual breast milk, of course, but I’d brought along a glass of moo juice with me as a substitute. I don’t know what I was thinking – I was just doing; acting out my fantastically perverse part in the young man’s fantasy. I lifted the glass and spilled some of the milk down onto my breast. Jordan opened his mouth wider around my glistening nipple and sucked up the sheeting liquid.

  I trembled with erotic sensation, the young man tugging on my milk-drenched breast, his pink tongue spiralling around my whitened nipple. I set down the empty glass and gently slid my hand into Jordan’s nappy and took hold of his cock again; this time for a very unmotherly purpose.

  He gasped, his mouth full of milk and my nipple, his cock swelling up even harder and longer in my hand. I pumped my hand up and down his smooth length. Jordan gulped and bit into my nipple and grabbed onto my other breast and groped it.

  The insane intimacy was so intense it was overwhelming. Mother and mother-lover. I cradled Jordan’s head and stroked his cock. He swallowed up half of my emblazoned wet breast and sucked on it, squeezing my other flushed tit, rolling my nipple between his deft little fingers.

  I’d brought the jar of Vaseline along with us. It was only natural. I caressed Jordan’s cock to the point where he was leaking pre-cum again, and he bit into my breast in warning. I played with his balls briefly and then pulled my hand out of his nappy and popped the garment open. I plunged two fingers into the Vaseline, then slid them under his bottom and into his anus.

  He jumped in my lap, clutching at my breasts with fingernails and teeth. I sunk my fingers deep into his anus and pumped. His butt cheeks clamped me as tightly as his hand and mouth. His cock was vibrating and his chute was a hot sucking tunnel.

  I stared down at the young man in my lap, my head swimming and eyes blurring, tits burning and pussy brimming. Two could play at this awesomely perverse game – willingly, wantonly. I glided my fingers back and forth in Jordan’s anus, deep and fast, spurring him to suck harder on my one breast and slap the other with the palm of his hand in his desperate excitement. His cock jutted up almost straight into the air, twitching at the tip and gaping at the slit.

  He spat my sodden ripe nipple out of his mouth and cried, “I’m hungry now, Mummy! I want to eat you, Mummy!”

  I was as wanting as he was, maybe more. This baby game was going irreconcilably adult. Mummy needed good loving too!

  I shifted Jordan out of my lap and flat onto his back on the couch. I skinned off my shorts and wet panties, then swung around on the couch so that I straddled his head, up on all fours over the top of his little body, looking down at his big cock.

  I grasped his prick and splatted my cunt down onto his waiting face. “Yes! Eat Mummy!” I cried, as utterly depraved as that.

  The good little mummy’s boy grasped my big buttocks with his small hands and spooned his eager tongue into my soaking slit, and slurped. I shuddered, every part of me. My hanging tits were jumping and swaying, my pussy juicing into Jordan’s mouth. I dropped my head down on his groin and inhaled half of his cock into my mouth.

  He urgently licked my pussy. I urgently sucked on his cock.

  My husband and I had never sixty-nined. But here, and now, with Jordan, it seemed the absolutely appropriate way to fully express our twisted desires.

  His wet widened tongue dragged up and down my shimmering slit, stroked over my swelled-up clit, his fingers biting into my quivering butt cheeks. I moaned around his surging cock in my mouth, awash in a sensuality I’d never experienced before; and few other women ever have, I’d wager. I squeezed and juggled Jordan’s balls, pumping part of his beating shaft with my other hand – the part that I wasn’t wet-vaccing with my mouth. He tasted my tangy juices as I swallowed his salty pre-cum.

  We bobbed faster and faster, lapping and sucking more frantically. Until Jordan’s body bucked beneath me, and he wailed into my cunt.

  Hot rubbery sperm spurted inside my mouth and splashed the back of my throat. I milked the young man’s balls and cock and then shuddered violently on top of him. My own orgasm burst white-hot wet in my tongued pussy and tidal-waved through my shaking body, flooding Jordan’s face in between my legs.

  I have to confess, I regularly tuck Jordan into bed now whenever his wife is away on business. The poor little handsome-hung guy just needs my mothering so badly. And who am I to deny the sweet young thing, and my own nasty needs, when it’s so very much in my motherly nature? I haven’t let the little guy actually fuck his Mummy though as he’s not mature enough for that – yet.

  My South Bank Show

  Bob, London

  It started off as a joke, a bit of a lark. I spotted the small ad in the Etcetera column of my local evening newspaper:

  Wanted: Male Private Investigator with Digital Camera

  I need a completely confidential private investigator with a

  digital camera. Will pay fifty pounds upon completion of

  assignment. Need assignment done tomorrow. This is a

  one-day assignment. You must be available all day and have

  excellent surveillance and self-concealment skills.

  Please email box number 747 ASAP!

  Well, I’d always fancied a stint as a private dick. Just call me Philip Marlowe! The ad specified a man and I could borrow the eye-spy gear. As requested, I sent off an email, referring to myself as “Bob”. I wondered how many responses the ad would receive and if any, other than my own, would be genuine. The scenario seemed ripe for parody. And why the last-minute rush? Was there risk involved? A mere fifty quid for a largely unspecified day’s work that might involve being punched in the face by an angry boyfriend or even kni
fed by a drugs pusher. My imagination worked overtime. It seemed the ad-poster didn’t want to involve the police – were they crooked themselves or was it more of a civil “crime”? I decided that it had to be a jealous husband. Whoever it was, they must have been waiting online, as a reply pinged back into my inbox within five minutes:

  Bob – be at the Tate Modern north entrance at 9 a.m. SHARP. Stella.

  Stella, was it? Well, well, well. Perhaps it was a suspicious wife instead of a jealous husband. But why did she need a male investigator? To infiltrate her old man’s lap-dancing club? I fired off a few inane questions but answer came there none. It was 9 a.m. at the Tate or nowt. I like a woman who knows what she wants.

  The following morning, I crossed the bouncy Millennium Bridge over the murky Thames and strode towards the rendezvous, the converted power station which now houses eclectic artwork in its vast turbine hall. It was a weekday morning and not too busy, just a gaggle of bored-looking schoolkids and the ubiquitous squad of Japanese tourists grinning through their miniature camcorders. What did “Stella” look like? Was she young or old or in between? Tall or short? Blonde or brunette? My mind concocted a wish-list as the minutes passed. Five past nine and she was a buxom redhead. Ten past nine and she had morphed into a slender, raven-haired femme fatale.

  At almost a quarter past the hour, a small figure in a long grey raincoat approached the gallery entrance, making a fine display of looking at the posters and generally acting nonchalant. Instinct told me “Stella”. Casually, she worked her way along the row of adverts for coming attractions of the intellectual variety, her eyes flickering over the words but not taking them in. When she reached me, she murmured: “Follow me and don’t say a word. Act as if we’re not together till I give you a sign.”

  I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and whistled a brief air from My Fair Lady. It seemed as good a response to give as any. Off went Stella at a brisk pace, the high, narrow heels of her boots clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement. She took the walkway that leads along the Thames embankment and I followed at a respectful distance, watching the pleasing wriggle of her neat little hips beneath the tightly belted coat. She was a pretty girl, early twenties, with heavy straight dark hair cut into a short thick bob. She had a squareish jaw and a wide, scarlet-painted mouth. And she was fit. I began to pant slightly as she disappeared into the distance, a diminutive, determined figure marching on towards – what?