The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  Then Joe, one of the guys at my company, offered to help me out. Though we’d worked in the same department for about six months, I didn’t know him all that well, but I’d always thought he was cute. About a foot taller than me at just over six feet in height, he had a muscly body, big, brown eyes and a shy smile that I found rather endearing. It turned out he lived fairly close to me, and he told me that if I sorted out a van, he’d be happy to help me load my things and drive me over there. I told him he was on, and promised that I’d buy him dinner to say thank you.

  When Joe turned up on that Sunday morning, I’d just about finished packing my clothes, books, and all the various bits and bobs you accumulate when you live anywhere for any length of time. Joe was also going to help me take the couple of pieces of furniture I owned, though the flat had been furnished when I’d moved in, so I didn’t have to worry about transporting a bed or anything that would be too awkward to carry up and down Alison’s narrow staircase.

  I showed him where I’d stacked a few boxes in the hall, thinking as he bent to pick up the first one how sexy he looked in his faded jeans and plain white T-shirt. He had to wear a suit for work, and this was the first time I’d ever seen him in casual clothes. I couldn’t help but notice how the jeans clung to the firm globes of his arse, and started to get excited at the thought of him straining and sweating to carry the heavier items. He’d be in serious need of a shower when all this was done. An image flashed into my mind of him peeling off his sweaty T-shirt to reveal his fit, toned chest, before removing his jeans. He wouldn’t be wearing anything underneath them, and his cock would rise up, hard and proud . . .

  Joe caught me staring at him, and gave me a little smile that seemed to say he knew exactly what I’d been thinking about. I blushed and scurried into my bedroom to make one final check that I hadn’t left anything behind.

  At last, there was only one box left standing in the middle of the bedroom floor, containing everything I’d had in the drawers of my bedside cabinet. Joe bent to pick it up and carry it out to the van and, as he did so, the bottom of the box gave way. All manner of personal items scattered across the floor, including make-up, jewellery, a packet of tampons and my favourite sex toy – a pocket rocket vibe that never failed to bring me to an explosive orgasm. I thought Joe might say something on seeing my vibrator, but instead his gaze had fallen on a couple of very dog-eared paperback books that now lay on the floor.

  He picked one of them up, his eyes widening as he read the title out loud: “Spanking Tales for Bad Girls. Now, why would you be reading a book like that, Marsha?”

  If only the ground could have opened and swallowed me up at that moment. I fidgeted from foot to foot, wanting to be anywhere else than in my room as Joe flicked through the book. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me that the paperback practically fell open at one particular story that I’d read and reread so often I almost knew it by heart. It told the story of a businesswoman who got pulled over for breaking the speed limit on a quiet stretch of highway somewhere in Vermont, and received a spanking from the very dominant police officer who had caught her. All pure fantasy, of course, but the way the story was written and the way the woman had her clothes gradually stripped off her by the arresting officer before he tanned her hide with his strong, masculine palm had me creaming my panties whenever I read it.

  I risked a glance at Joe as he read a few paragraphs. His face gave nothing away, but I was convinced he had to be thinking I was some kind of pervert. That impression was only reinforced when he set down that book and picked up the other. That was a collection of readers’ confessions – and, again, it was the section of spanking stories that was my particular favourite. If Joe hadn’t guessed by now where my tastes lay, the fact the corners of the book were turned down to mark those stories I really loved would have given it away.

  “So this is what turns you on, is it?” Joe asked at length.

  All I could do was nod, afraid that if I spoke my shame and need would be all too apparent to him.

  He took a pace or two closer, and I couldn’t help but notice again how big and strong he was, and how easily he’d be able to pull me over his knee to give me a spanking, just like the policeman did to the girl in the story.

  “Well, I think it’s very naughty of you to read something like that – and even naughtier of you to pack your reading material so inadequately,” he told me, as if it really was my fault the cardboard box had fallen apart. “What if it had been a removal man who’d seen your dirty book collection? What would he have thought of you?”

  “I don’t know – sir. But I’m very sorry, and it won’t happen again.” Something in the way Joe was addressing me gave me a squirmy feeling inside, and I felt my underwear growing damp as he fixed me with a stern gaze. How many times had I tried to manoeuvre one of my boyfriends into spanking me for doing something wrong, and now here was Joe, who didn’t really know me all that well, instinctively falling into the role of the dominant male figure who needed to make me realize what a very bad girl I’d been.

  “I’m afraid there’s only one way to make sure you learn to be more discreet with your possessions in future,” he told me, “and that’s to give you a spanking.”

  Part of me wanted to tell him he couldn’t possibly be serious. But the rest of me was thrilled that Joe had stumbled on my wicked little secret, and now seemed determined to use that information in the most appropriate way possible. I hung my head, not wanting him to see how embarrassed and excited I’d become.

  He didn’t begin to warm my bottom immediately, as I’d thought he might. Instead, he sent me to get a roll of parcel tape from the kitchen, and set about repairing the bottom of the box. Then he made me pick up all the things that had fallen out, and pack them again. Joe didn’t say a word throughout this process, but having to handle my sex toys and erotic bedtime reading while he watched seemed to make my anticipation build even more. By the time everything was securely stowed in the box, my panties were soaked through with my juices, and I was desperate for him to get the physical side of my punishment over with.

  Without another word, Joe went and sat on the wooden-backed chair that stood at the side of my bed and, until I’d started tidying everything up, had mostly been used for storing the clothes I intended to wear the following day. He patted his lap and waited for me to go over to him.

  As much as I wanted this, I dragged my feet. Fantasizing about being over a man’s lap, waiting for my spanking to start, and actually doing it were two very different things.

  “Don’t keep me waiting, Marsha,” he said, his voice stern, and my pussy clutched with lust and fear. Had he done this before, or was it just a happy accident that I’d found a man who knew just how to take on the role of the strict martinet, who would be cruel during my punishment and kind to me afterwards?

  Taking a deep breath, I climbed onto his spread thighs, arranging myself face down. I felt deliciously vulnerable, but somehow I knew this was the right place to be. Strange as this may sound, it was almost like coming home, as my submissive core responded to the fact of being in the position I’d dreamed about for so long.

  Joe reached underneath me, undoing the button and zip of my jeans. As he began to pull them down, it registered with me for the first time that he was going to spank me on my bare bottom, just like the girls in the stories I loved so much. “Please,” I murmured, and I wasn’t sure whether I was asking him to stop or to carry on.

  Once he’d got my jeans down round my knees, he gave me a few spanks on my panty-clad cheeks. They weren’t hard, but I’ll never forget the first one landing – the shock of the impact, even though I’d done my best to prepare for it, and the sound of his fingers cracking against my skin. A second slap followed, then a third and a fourth. I wriggled a little, but it was more for show than anything else; if this was the level of punishment he intended to dish out, I was sure I could take as many of these as he was prepared to give me.

  Of course, these were just th
e warm-up, and all too soon Joe raised the stakes. He tugged at the modest white cotton panties I wore, inching them down to expose my arse. As he removed them, he commented on how my skin was already beginning to turn a rosy shade of pink, and how beautiful it would look when he’d stained it red. Shame burned through me at being bared to him like this, but I was as turned on as I’d ever been, and desperate for more, even though I sensed these next swats would be much harder than the initial ones had been.

  The moment before his hand came down again seemed to stretch out for an eternity. The room was so quiet I could hear Joe’s watch ticking, and the muted rumble of a car passing on the road outside. Then he slapped me again, and as the blow connected with my naked flesh, I let out a yell. Now, he showed me no mercy, his big palm striking first one cheek, then the other, hard enough that I was sure if I could only see my bottom, the marks of his fingers would be all too visible. Again and again he spanked me, using a fast, steady rhythm that barely gave me time to recover from one stroke before the next was falling. Joe kept up a commentary, telling me how nicely my bottom was colouring, and how wet and juicy my pussy lips were. Even though my movements were restrained by my clothing, still down round my knees, I knew he must be getting a very rude view between my legs as I writhed and tried to squirm away from his punishing palm.

  At last, he seemed to think I’d suffered enough, and he dumped me without ceremony onto the bed. I lay there, face down, not wanting to roll over and press my sore arse against the mattress. Though I couldn’t see him, I could hear all too clearly the sounds of boots being kicked off, and a zip being undone. Then there was some rustling I couldn’t identify, and grunting, before Joe took hold of my jeans and panties and pulled them all the way off. Almost before I’d had time to react to being undressed, he was behind me, pressing his groin to my tender bottom cheeks. As he spread my sex lips with his fingers and guided his cock into position, I realized the noises I’d heard had been Joe fitting a condom on himself.

  I was so wet and ready he slid into me with almost no effort, filling me to the brim with hot, hard man-flesh. Now I was yelling again, but my cries were ones of pure pleasure at being impaled on his dick as he began to thrust in and out. His strokes were firm and true, and we quickly found a rhythm that worked for us both. The slight soreness as his groin slapped against my spanked bottom only seemed to add to the thrill. Still, I needed more in the way of stimulation than just his cock fucking me, and when he reached beneath me to play with my stiff little clit I got all the extra sensation I could want. In seconds I was coming, calling out Joe’s name as my pussy clutched at his shaft. He followed, holding me tight to him as he pumped his spunk into the condom.

  Afterwards, there was none of the awkwardness I thought I might have felt. Our unexpected fuck had been marvellous; the punishment session leading up to it had fulfilled all the fantasies I’d held for so long. And as I helped Joe carry the box that had caused him to spank me in the first place down to the van, I knew we’d both enjoyed it so much that it wasn’t going to be a one-off. After all, there were so many ways I could find of misbehaving, and I knew Joe would have so much fun making me sorry for every single one of them . . .

  Bedside Manner

  Tory, Colorado

  The plastic nameplate on her chest read Stella, but I like to think of her as Nurse Nookie. My three favorite pastimes are writing, women, and motorbikes. When writing erotica, I seldom tell the truth. For a writer, almost everything in the past is fiction. But as this confession will illustrate, truth can sometimes be more fun than cerebral meanderings.

  No woman had ever gotten the best of me, but on one dark night, one of my bikes certainly did. It was a beautiful evening. The moon looked like a golden glob of honey camouflaged just slightly in a cradle of cirrus clouds as I flew down the highway, the wind caressing my face like a woman’s hands, with my sweet Suzy clinging tightly to my waist. In the middle of nowhere, the stars have a remarkable brilliance that can distract one just for the instant it takes for some night creature to scramble across the road in front of a speeding vehicle. Never taking a life if I can avoid it, my bike swerved to miss the animal. The road was slick and winding and I fishtailed. The tires slid sideways sending my machine into a spin and off the side of the road into a ditch.

  It would prove fortuitous to have a room to myself. For the first few days I lay motionless on a hospital bed under a white sheet and a blue blanket. Ironic how one moment can change lives. Suzy wasn’t able to visit me right away because she was in a different part of the hospital recovering from her own injuries, not as serious as mine, but bad enough to leave her with a few sutured cuts, scrapes, and a broken arm. I’d often joked about being run off the road by some motorbike hater, and now here I lay with bandages around my head thanking the motorcycle gods that Suzy and I were both still alive. Fortunately, the impact of my helmeted skull against the pavement hadn’t diminished me physically, but there was internal bleeding which was going to keep me imprisoned for several days. With the exception of the cast on one leg, at least my body parts and appendages still functioned normally.

  My first image of Nurse Nookie was one of no-nonsense sterility. She was perhaps a decade older than me and looked as stone-cold sober as a Nazi broad in charge of torture. Although she wasn’t ancient by any means, she was a walking ad for straight-laced conduct. Tall and slender, her head was crowned with a huge cloud of hair that looked like a puff of wind might separate it from its cranial mooring and send it aloft. As stern and as businesslike as she appeared, she proved looks can be deceiving and her bedside manner would soon lead me toward a seismic shift in my thinking about what appears on the surface.

  At first, she didn’t seem much interested in my writing, but my request for pen and paper kept me off the television bolted into the wall. Stella finally asked what I was working on, and I told her I wrote steamy erotic tales of derring-do. Her nose wiggled and her eyes crinkled a touch. I told her where she could find my stuff online if she was so inclined.

  The following day, she told me I needed to bathe. Considering my cast, it would be what I call a spit bath – warm, soapy water applied to pits, cracks, and crevices. The austere nurse pulled the privacy drape around my bed closed, pulled back the white sheet and blue spread, and sat next to me with the warm pail of water on the food stand. While applying soap to a washrag, she surprised me by confessing she’d read one of my stories the night before.

  “What did you think?” I asked as she lifted one of my arms and soaped my pit hair.

  This was not the type of woman to blush and she didn’t. She looked me straight in the eye and said she’d never thought of body parts in quite the light in which I had portrayed them. While doing my second underarm, she further stated she could see I had a real knack for getting to the root of things. Without further conversation, she lifted my hospital gown above my tummy. Holding the washrag, she lifted my balls and washed my tant – the space that ain’t nut sac and ain’t asshole. The warm water felt heavenly, so much better than doing it for oneself. While the rag encased my balls in its warmth, the fingers of Stella’s other hand slid into the dark thistledown of my pubic hair and captured my penis. I don’t think my dormant tool’s response could have been any more electric if I’d stuck it into a live socket. I must have jumped a bit because Stella’s lips actually curved at their corners into some semblance of a smile.

  She was looking at my unit, so I looked down as well. With thumb and forefinger, she pulled on its helmet and stretched it away from the hilt like it might be a turkey neck. More soap and warm water. By the time my cock had been thoroughly washed and inspected, it had blossomed into a full-blown erection, as magnificent as any I’d shared with poor Suzy, somewhere in another hospital bed, perhaps awaiting her own spit bath.

  Maybe having an erotic writer’s friendly weapon in her grip released some deep inhibitions, making me a vessel in which to express passion. I’ve always believed sex was most rewarding when spontaneous
and unexpected. I quickly decided this form of exchange was preferable to the usual fake conversation one normally expects from a nurse.

  She stared at my freshly scrubbed tool for a moment. She said something about an insatiable awakening, and then went down on it! While Stella gobbled my cock, a vital and earthy rerun of me and Suzy’s time together played in my head. I closed my eyes and gave over to the sumptuous feeling of being sucked off. Snapshots of Suzy and me in the throws of passion, the exquisite variety of our actions, from pile-driving intercourse like two animals in heat to the lazy moments when she would place a small white foot against my broad chest so I could paint her toenails twitter-pated my brain cells.

  Stella, however, didn’t have to take a back seat to anyone when it came to cock-sucking. She was giving my root both long, deep-throated lunges followed by short tongue swirls on the weeping crown-head. The previously stern nurse was on a roll, I guess you could say. I opened my eyes and looked at the brownish nest of hair riding atop her head and bobbing dangerously with each downstroke. I kind of feared it might be an attachment that would come loose and plop on my tummy like a dead rodent, killed during the act of cock-sucking. But I also realized this to be the first time I’d gotten sex relating directly to my attempts at being an author. That thought alone would probably have put me over the top, but when one of Stella’s gobbles took her lips all the way into my pubes and she held her mouth there, the volcano inside me erupted. My tonsil-tickling climax felt like New Year’s fireworks, huge waves crashing into unyielding rocks with sea spray shooing everywhere, maybe even like an inner earthquake.