The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  Gut-wrenching horror or pulsating thriller? Hilarious farce or poignant drama? So many choices among my DVDs. Or I could just watch the same old thing I always watched. I opened the disc drawer to drop in my choice of maudlin tear-jerker and saw there was a disc already in the tray. Plain silver, with some handwriting on it. Not the usual stylish design I might have expected. Of course, I wasn’t shocked that there was a disc in there already: if this machine had been stolen it was a fair bet it was taken from someone’s home and the original owners did what I did and left a DVD in until they were ready to watch a new one.

  Still, it was disappointing that it wasn’t the latest blockbuster or even something vaguely interesting to watch. In a way I felt bad about whoever had owned this DVD player before, because the handwriting made it look personal. It’s easier to think of things being stolen and passed on if they seem as if they don’t belong to anybody. The handwriting made me think of whoever had last used the player.

  Was this a holiday movie, or a record of a birthday party maybe? Perhaps a wedding reception, I thought, as I took the disc out. But the handwriting didn’t say “Fred 60th” or “Tenerife, August 2012” or “Kevin and Amy Happy Ever After”.

  There was just a single word written on the disc: “Cane”.

  It was probably a pirated film, I thought. A copy of something passed around in pubs, probably full of hand-held shakes or, as I once saw, a whole movie with Brad Pitt doing his thing and the words “Press Review Copy” permanently across the screen. “Cane”, though, puzzled me. I thought of what I knew of the latest films and as no one, I was sure, copied old films much these days, it was unlikely to be either The Caine Mutiny or Citizen Kane. If it was the second, then, sorry, Orson, your time is up, I said as I dropped the disc in the waste bin before settling down to watch Harry meet Sally again.

  Billy and Meg still hadn’t got it together when my thoughts turned to the disc I had thrown out. Surely everyone knew how to spell “Kane”, didn’t they? What sort of idiot didn’t know how to put the proper name of the movie on a disc? I stopped Harry meeting Sally and fished the discarded DVD out of the bin. Intrigued, I put it back in the machine and sat back to watch whoever it was do whatever on screen.

  What came up was the last thing I expected, and I don’t mean because it was amateur. There, on screen and without titles, was a woman of probably my age (mid-thirties, I reckoned) who was standing naked save for a skimpy suspender belt and stockings in front of the camera. Her arms were down by her sides and she made no effort to hide her charms. In fact, she seemed to be waiting for something or someone. The camera wasn’t shaking so there must have been a tripod and, while this wasn’t one of Hollywood’s latest offerings, it wasn’t badly lit or for that matter poorly framed, though it was clearly filmed in someone’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the wardrobe doors shut. No discarded knickers on the floor. If this was home porn the couple were tidy people. (That’s always been my thing about porn: my friend Julie showed me one once where the woman kept her cardigan on and the man never removed his socks and the place was a mess. No, give me something attractive like John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale in Serendipity any day.)

  I had no great desire to watch two people bonk, no matter how carefully the scene was shot. I got up to eject the DVD and run back to Billy Crystal. What I saw next, however, made me stop. The woman turned away from the camera, went to the edge of the neatly made bed and bent over so her rear was facing the camera. Another woman came into view and she was wearing normal clothes. Not leather, not PVC, not rubber, not lace and satin frillies. Just a middle-aged woman in a Marks & Spencer twinset and plain skirt. Sensible, as my mother would say. This woman, though, was carrying a cane and, intrigued, I sat down again to watch.

  I saw the woman swish the cane, say something about being naughty and the need for discipline, and then carefully apply measured strokes of the cane across the bending woman’s bum. The cane snapped repeatedly but in no great hurry across the suspender-belt-framed backside of the woman at the bed and slowly red weals appeared across the exposed flesh. The weals darkened to bruises in front of my eyes, and while the bending woman was weeping and wriggling at each blow, the woman delivering the strokes made no effort to stop or even delay the strokes.

  The handwriting was accurate then: this was about the Cane and the poor woman on screen was being caned. To my astonishment I was entranced by this and I didn’t move as the poor woman on the receiving end took a good thirty strokes. As I watched, the caning stopped and the woman stood, turned back and stood again to face the camera but with tears streaming down her face. I felt sorry for her but more than that I felt a twinge of excitement in the pit of my belly.

  The scene changed and the woman in the suspender belt was outside. It was sunny and it was clearly local: over the tree-tops in what I presumed was a garden I could see the top of Lincoln cathedral. Yes, I know it all too well. I watched as the caned woman, still in the same attire (or lack of), went through the same routine, though this time bent over a distinctive bird bath with dolphins entwined up the stem, and showed her bum to the camera. As she gripped the bird-bath edge I could see there was no evidence of her earlier beating. But the same woman I had seen before (different twinset this time) did the same to the bending woman. Same beating, same marks, same resulting tears.

  Then another scene, but this time the woman was dressed until she turned and flipped up her skirt against a backdrop of Lincoln castle. If I was in any doubt before, this confirmed that the DVD was local and I guessed they were local people both giving and receiving. The woman with the cane caned the sobbing but unmoving woman and then the film moved on. Local scenes, carefully chosen for essential discretion, I imagined, and the younger woman was routinely caned by the older woman. There were few words said and what was said tended to be about the need for discipline and correction.

  What you need to know now is that it was having an effect on me. I had my legs apart and my hand in my panties. I was frigging wildly as I watched this unknown woman being routinely, systematically caned. I came several times, starting with the bending woman getting her regular thrashing bent over a canal lock gate that I vaguely recognized.

  When the DVD was over I was exhausted. Somewhere out there, I thought, a woman who went to the trouble of being caned, or doing the caning, was missing her entertainment. I had no idea if it was suspender woman or twinset queen who was the owner of the DVD machine and disc but something in me wanted to find out.

  Now I would love to say that I pieced together all the evidence to find this woman, or women, from various scenes and locations but it was easier than that. In several of the scenes there was the same car. I could make out enough of the registration plate so I set out to look for a particular blue car. Lincoln isn’t a big place and as I guessed the car was parked within sight of the cathedral towers it wasn’t long before I saw it in a driveway. I got out of my car and went down the side of the house to sneak a look at the garden, and there was the same dolphin-strewn bird bath. Yes, I had the right place. But was it the home of the beater or the beaten?

  Anyway, what would I say if I knocked on the door? “Excuse me, madam, but I have a DVD of you being beaten black and blue”; or, “Madam, where did you get those sensible twinsets from?” I could, of course, just say, “I think I have something that belongs to you” and hand the DVD player back with the disc inside it and pretend I had never watched it. But then how would I know where it came from without seeing it was local and traceable?

  The question of whether I stayed or went was answered by suspender-belt lady, who had seen me walking down the side of her house. Yes, she wanted to know what I wanted and yes, I confessed to what I had seen, trying to use every euphemism I could manage, but failing badly. I mumbled some apologies and offered to bring the DVD player back.

  The woman, not unnaturally, wanted to know two things: my name, and how much I had seen. I told her I was Ellie and I had watched the whole thing, hence I trac
ked her down. I didn’t tell her I had watched it dozens of times, fingering myself and diddling my clit as I repeatedly watched her getting a thrashing.

  The woman’s name was Deborah and she invited me in, which I figured was a brave thing to do all things considered. To cut a long story short we talked openly, she made coffee and it was obvious she was not the least worried that I had seen her naked. It didn’t trouble her that I had seen her thrashed so comprehensively. And nor did it worry her to talk about it all. She told me she needed to be beaten every so often. From time to time she had a fierce desire to be treated the way I had seen. Bent over, as good as naked, being told she deserved a beating. Deborah made no statement that could pretend to be a psychological explanation or emotional excuse. She simply needed to be caned.

  “There’s something, however, that you missed,” said Deborah as we finished our drinks in her kitchen. “While you did well to locate me, and I suppose it was careless having my car in shot, the woman caning me wasn’t always the same person. The locations may vary but my outfit and hers are always the same.”

  I protested I hadn’t noticed the other woman much but I was intrigued. The clothes, I said, were more or less the same and that was all I saw. Deborah laughed and then took me to the same bedroom I had already seen in several of the film’s scenes. The same neat bed, the same tidy room. Hanging in the wardrobe, though, was a row of what I could only describe as sensible skirts and twinsets. “I need the person beating me to look like a schoolteacher, or an older aunt,” Deborah explained. “I find women who are willing to play the game my way. They dress in these clothes complete with string of pearls and flat shoes and then cane me.” She indicated the canes stacked neatly in the corner of the wardrobe.

  I admit I was more intrigued than ever and when I blurted out that I doubted if any of them would fit me, I suppose our relationship was sealed. It turned out there were clothes to fit me and, yes, I did look older in them and I really did like swishing the cane for effect.

  Deborah set the camera up, showed me how to start it and then removed her clothes. She got down to the same skimpy suspender belt I had seen before and we did what I had seen before. Deborah bent over and, remembering my lines about the need for punishment and how she had deserved this, I caned the woman’s offered arse as carefully and as rhythmically as I could. I had thrilled at seeing the marks appear on video but seeing it in the flesh was even better.

  I have a copy of that movie, and the others we did at various times. Oh, there has been no sexual contact between us so far (though I suppose I do hope to kiss her tears away one day and perhaps soothe her battered bottom) and in a way I have become Deborah’s leading lady. We even go out and about in her car or mine to sneak risky shots of canings in public places, which gives me a thrill I cannot even begin to explain. As some of the women in the original DVD have for a variety of reasons stopped caning Deborah, it helps me to think eventually I will be the only one wielding the cane.

  I confess too that one day I really want to have a caning scene with her and me in wedding gowns and her wearing a white suspender belt and white stockings, which for some reason excites me most of all. But one thing we won’t ever do in future is leave a DVD in a player after watching it. Not when there are some thieving bastards around.

  All About Him

  Mina, Milwaukee

  I worked with Steve for more than four months before we talked. It wasn’t my fault; I was going through this thing with my girlfriend at the time, and there’s nothing more preoccupying than a lesbian relationship where the bottom is slowly falling out.

  Steve was a big guy from some northern Wisconsin town that barely had a name. He had blond hair, pretty brown eyes, and he was quiet in a way that I wasn’t used to. He came to the city to get his art degree; otherwise, he said, he would have just ended up a mechanic like the grandfather who raised him. I figured that with my purple spiked hair and tall red boots I spooked him, and that was fine by me. The first day he did speak to me was a surprise.

  “Are you OK?”

  I looked up from my lunch, surprised, as I say, and he nodded at my wrists. They were banded with rope marks that I had completely forgotten to cover, and in the cold fluorescent lights, they were scarlet on my pale skin.

  I raised my eyebrows, and he blushed (gorgeous on such a big guy), but kept going.

  “I mean,” he said doggedly, “is anyone hurting you?”

  I started to give him a brush-off answer, and then I grinned.

  “Only in the best possible way,” I assured him, and that was where it started.

  I broke up with Cassie and started spending more time with Steve. It had been a while since I had had a guy, and I had never had a guy as wholesome and good as Steve. He called his grandparents every week; he had this rescue mutt that he loved to death; and, oh, by the way: he was an absolute pain slut.

  It came out in bits and pieces. He talked about getting the paddle when he was a kid, and how that had made him feel, and about an ex-girlfriend slapping him and it making him so hard. It made me hot, and it was amazing fun to tease him about it.

  Finally, he was at my apartment for our now traditional Friday pizza, and I was feeling so horny and he was just so cute. I don’t think anyone could resist Steve when he looked down with that shy grin, so I grabbed him by the chin and made him look at me.

  “I want you to put your money where your mouth is,” I whispered. “You like pain so much? Bend over the arm of the couch.”

  For a second, I wasn’t sure he would do it. I could see every moment of doubt and fear in his eyes, and so I leaned over and kissed him instead. He tasted like cheese and pepperoni, and underneath it, he tasted so fucking good that I could have eaten him up right then and there. I took a few nibbles, and his soft moan told me everything I needed to know.

  When I was done with him, his lips were red and shiny, and he went to bend over the couch without a single word of protest.

  I looked at him for a moment, just loving the way that his body looked bent over just for me. His position tightened his jeans over his ass, and I ran a hand over the curve of his rear. He twitched underneath my hand, and that made me grin.

  I gave him a couple of gentle slaps, enough to make him squirm, and just when he was beginning to think that was all I could do, I reared back and let him have it. I used to take judo, and my arm strength’s pretty good for a small woman, I think.

  He yelped, and he would have stood straight up, but I cupped my hand over the back of his neck and pushed him back down.

  “You get up again, and I’m going to stop for real,” I told him, and from the way he sunk back on my couch, I could tell how much he needed this.

  I gave him two more gentle slaps, and another big one. This time he stayed down, but I could see his fingers digging into the cushions of the couch.

  “Poor baby boy,” I cooed. “Been a while, huh?”

  His pained nod turned into a flinch when I landed another strong blow to his rear. I gave him about thirty swats, most gentle, but some hard ones in there that made his whole body tense. By the end, he didn’t know what was happening, and even a gentle touch was enough to make him shiver.

  I paused, rubbing my red palm, and he looked at me over his shoulder.

  “That all you got?” From anyone else, it would have been bratty, but there was so much longing in his voice that I just melted instead.

  “No, sweetie,” I purred. “Not by a long shot. Now I’m going to pull down those jeans of yours and really let you have it.”

  He didn’t fight me, but he did squirm a lot when I came up behind and wrapped my arms around his waist. It brought my hips in contact with his ass, and when I undid his jeans, my hands brushed against his erection, which was so hard it must have hurt.

  “Bad boy,” I muttered, my tone telling him he was anything but, and he whimpered and shoved his ass against me.

  I worked his jeans and his navy boxers down his legs, leaving them pooled on the flo
or. I gave his cock a few strokes, because it looked fucking delicious. It was big, heavy and dark, and there was already a dribble of cum at the head. It filled my hand, and I grinned, pressing my legs together at the sight. I knew I was already wet, but that was going to wait for later.

  “Oh, look at this,” I said, stroking my hand over his bare rear. “It’s barely red, you slut. I guess it takes a lot to really make you cry, huh?”

  He started to say something, and then he choked on it when he felt me pull his belt from his pants.

  “Oh, please . . .” he whined, and I paused. I had a few friends who had not had great experiences with belts.

  “Please stop?” I asked and he shook his head wildly.

  “Please make me hurt,” he said nakedly, and right then there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him, nothing in the world.

  “OK, baby, OK. I’m going to take good care of you.”

  He went completely still when I tapped the folded belt against his rear. Without the jeans, I could see every little shiver and, oh yeah, I was going to love marking that up.

  I took a couple of very soft practice strokes to gauge the distance, not enough to snap at all, and then, when I saw him pull in his breath, I cocked my arm back and brought it down across his ass.

  The breath left his body in a high sharp cry, and almost immediately, a wide red stripe appeared across the pale expanse of his skin. He kicked up one leg behind him, but I shoved it down again.

  Before he could quite recover from that, I brought another stroke down and then another, turning his cry into one long wail. I can hit hard when I want to, and I wanted to hit him hard. I turned his skin bright red from the crease of his ass down to his thighs, and now he was crying, big gulping sobs that he buried in the couch cushions. His shoulders shook, and I could see that his T-shirt was soaked with sweat.

  I reached down and grabbed his cock hard, and yeah, the cum was positively leaking out of it now.