“Boy! Oh, boy!” she wailed. Her body shook wildly beneath me, her pussy convulsing around my thundering cock.
I jerked up my head and howled at the sun as I jetted white-hot semen into my violently coming wife, until she collapsed flat on the grass with me on top of her.
* * *
That was a typical morning at our house.
Sometimes, Alisha takes me for a ride in the car and we dog it in the back seat in some empty car park. And sometimes we go to a dog park and do it in the bushes, with all the other mutts barking and sniffing around. Alisha goes absolutely wild with lust then.
I don’t ask what she and Major really got up to while I was away, and she doesn’t tell. I’m not about to call my wife a bitch. But I know this dirty dawg will be hounding her for the rest of her life, dog-gone it!
The Gormless Gigolo
Amber, Milton Keynes
I’ve never been able to tolerate men very well as permanent fixtures in my life; maybe you know the ones I mean – the sole commitment and eternal love types – yeah, those sorts; the maudlin fuck-me-and-only-me kind of guys. I like them when and where I want them; preferably in bed, muffled and thoroughly compliant to my every whim; and then it’s adiós amigo – or amigos – whatever!
I like to fuck and often. But if a man or men can’t fuck me at least twice each of an evening, I lose enthusiasm and wake up the next morning frustrated and grumpy and have to search for more. I can’t help it because I’m cursed – or blessed – with incurably excessive sexual desires.
Simply put, I was born to be a dedicated and unapologetic seeker of as much sex as I can get. I realized this in my mid-teens after hearing my mother tell my father that Amber – that’s me – was an unruly little nymphomaniac. I looked up the word in a dictionary. It didn’t disturb me at all; I mean, you are what you are, right? And when I started to masturbate, which became overly frequent for the age I was then, my fingers would taunt my nubile clit that seemed to be raring to go continually.
In my late teens, hungrily reading erotica and porn, I would disguise the books by switching their covers with those of intellectual titles. It was then easy to read them in front of my parents, who were extremely pleased that I was turning out to be so avid in my search for knowledge. I was normal after all – hah!
As a result of those “intellectual revelations”, I began to experiment in the privacy of my bedroom, since my parents seemed to be stone-deaf when the TV was on. I had an adventurous spirit from the get-go, keen to try anything to the extent of my capabilities, and found various household implements to stick into my orifices, made slippery by my fingers and my imaginings of what I could do with them.
I found an awl with a thick, smoothly rounded wooden handle in my father’s tool kit that he’d bought but never used, which became my first dildo. It introduced me to the delights of sticking it rapidly in and out of my wet cunt for as long and hard as I wanted, the beauty of it being that it was easy to use and stayed rigidly at hand for ever.
Then I discovered a wooden mallet with an equally smooth thick shaft that I could sit on with it up my arse, and, with the dildo in me and using two clothes pegs that acted as excruciating nipple clamps, I could give myself thrill after thrill. But it wasn’t long before I wanted more ferocious and reliable items to do repeats until I was raw, which I bought a few weeks after I started a part-time job. I didn’t know any other women who spent most of their income on sex toys as I did.
Thus equipped, I fucked myself to near oblivion with those static objects, resulting in madly pleasant orgasms that left me both satisfied and frustrated, because I had reached the stage when I craved the real thing – malleable cocks in front of squirming male bodies that’d squirt their warm balm into me. Of course, I realized they’d deflate afterwards, but who says you’ve got to be limited to one cock when you can have many?
However, back then, my parents shielded their little treasure like a jailed bird that was unknowingly allowed to tweet in her nest, but not permitted to escape and fly off to sexual freedom. So I didn’t get fucked until I went to Oxford University when I was eighteen years old, which is where I also discovered my wondrous power and control over men through my contradictory behaviour, meaning always on my terms and in the manner of my choosing. Sure, soon enough there was always an abundance of accommodating participants who jumped at the slightest chance to find out if my reputation was true or not, and to prove that afterwards I’d never want or need an alternative lover.
What fools they were! The silly buggers had no idea! To think that I – the Queen of my Realm – the fountain of dreams – the epitome of man’s desires – would allow myself to be dominated by pandering hordes of the opposite, weaker species, that fawned and whimpered under my intoxicating influence!
Now, don’t get me wrong here. I loved my parents – I really did – and it was tragic when they suddenly died in a motorboat accident on holiday. It was just before my twenty-first birthday and I found myself heiress to quite a sizeable fortune. There was no one left who made me feel obligated to lie about my emotional and physical feelings or to tell me the whys and wherefores of how I should spend my life. Therefore I didn’t have to worry anymore about what they might’ve thought if rumours of my activities had reached their ears and, consequently, the future couldn’t impede my insatiable appetite for riotous sex.
So I bought a secluded house in Milton Keynes which wasn’t opulent but large enough to suit my purposes, where I could organize parties, pot-luck snacks and orgies without causing attention from nosy and no doubt complaining neighbours. I renovated the cellar into a dungeon. It’s not a dungeon in the strictest sense of the word, but a luxurious room with murals of forests and nymphs painted in exotic colours and full of furniture that caters to all the fucking positions you could imagine. On one wall is a rack of metal shackles and next to them hangs a variety of paddles, whips and canes, which are intended to be more for titillation than useful, unless my guests (friends and acquaintances into kink) want to surpass their desires dabbling in the world of soft BDSM – or I do – because to date, only the shackles have been used, even though I’ve had many orgies in there. I’m particularly fond of the shower and communal jacuzzi that’s situated in the middle of the room. Oh, yes – and a spanking bench complete with straps to bind a person upon it, who, suitably fettered, is in a fabulous position for receiving stiff cocks and/or relentless dildos wielded by evilly grinning female attackers.
Aah! How marvellous the weekends are! How invigorating it is to be surrounded by naked men and women coupled in twosomes, threesomes and moresomes with the smells of perfumes, aftershave, sex, sweat and tears pervading our nostrils! How invigorating it is to watch them manoeuvre into impossible positions and embraces that don’t work, and then do! And how interesting it is when newcomers arrive to have my community watching them to see if they fit in or not! For I am the Queen of my Realm and I’ll invite or reject who the hell I please! And (my only firm rule), if they try to sneak in without contributing to the booze or bringing delectable things to munch, then to hell with them – out they go! And yeah! If Georgy Baby (a favourite of mine) forgets to bring his famous curried rice salad, I’ll kick his arse in front of everyone!
One night a guy I’d never met before, that Georgy Baby had invited, entered my domain laden with two bottles of genuine champagne à la française, a platter of stuffed vegetables (hint, hint) and a bunch of wild flowers he’d stolen from my garden on the way – the audacious fiend! He told us the platter of veggies was based on a recipe from Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur in the department of Bouches-du-Rhône – the lying prick; but, ha, ha, who cares – he could be amusing. It turned out he was otherwise as dumb as a spent penis, not that it spoilt the fun.
He was the one – Francis – who suggested I should be fucked by three men at the same time. Of course, my adventurous spirit agreed instantly and I had them on a modern chaise longue shaped like a flat “S” covered with red velvet, which had
one end raised and the other end abruptly bent to the floor at thrusting height for a standing man. So I rested on it with my body face down and head up towards the bent end, gobbling a whopper with a guy underneath me inserted into my cunt and another on top capably reaming my arse; i.e. the indomitable Francis. The only irritating distraction was that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and jabbered constantly about inane things that had nothing to do with the procedures. It seemed his brains were devoid of simulating anything of meaning, although his rod did the opposite. The only word I could think of to describe him was “gormless”.
I must say they were pretty good though, and the gloriously devastating thing while they were giving it to me was clamping my hips on the bottom cock and tensing my buttocks on the top cock, thus creating tighter stimulation at both ends for a harder fucking. I don’t count or carve notches into a bow to record the orgasms I get at any one time; I mean, what’s the point? All I remember is that the three-way crazy coitus was awesome. Whoopee for me! But, above all, I learnt that Mr Gormless possessed something very special that’d stretched my anus to the limit.
Yeah, that Francis was exceedingly handsome and possessed the biggest dong I’d ever experienced. I’m not lying – I’ve seen and felt all shapes and sizes – but his makes me shudder when I think back on that moment when he dealt with my rear entrance admirably. If you’ve ever witnessed a bull or stallion in heat, you’ll get the picture.
He swaggered too; and in a sense it made me angry, because it suggested that I couldn’t possibly have been fucked before by one so well endowed as he, which was the truth. It was also his confident challenge that irritated me most, because I’d always had the power and no man had ever overpowered me before. And, having been so, I could hardly wait to have him stick his masterpiece into my pining cunt.
Afterwards, as we sat naked in the jacuzzi, nibbling on some munchies and sipping his champagne à la française, he began to taunt me that I’d appreciated his abilities and, if I wanted more, it’d cost me 500 quid – the shithead! Then he said that he fucked for a living and was a professional gigolo. I sniggered as though it didn’t bother me. What did I care – no, really? Five hundred quid was diddly-squat for me and so I decided I’d have him once more then dump the arrogant bastard! However, if I did that, I wanted him alone and all to myself. I told him, OK, but after everyone had gone.
The last guest left about two-ish and then I led the gigolo upstairs to the bedroom. I jumped on the bed and spread my legs, knowing my glistening, weeping cunt and untamed clit would attract him. Without saying a word he knelt before me, sucking and tonguing them with his experienced lips while murmuring that I was delicious. Naturally, that’s what I wanted to hear because I am delicious . . . and I’d be the best that he’d ever had!
I’ll tell you right now that I don’t care much for the missionary position. It’s boring and I find moving my hips to greet the fray entirely dissatisfying because of the angle. Besides that, I’ve found that men come too quickly for my taste.
He told me bluntly that I’d like it and again continued his routine of pathetic babbling. But then he could talk as much as he wanted, up to a point, because I gasped and yelled with utter surprise when he suddenly thrust into me – yes, in the bloody missionary position – straight as an arrow! It felt like he was splitting me in two as my greedy, slippery cunt made way to accommodate him, touching sensuous nerves I’d never thought existed. It seemed his shaft reached parts that’d never been touched before, because his massive bulb banged against my G-spot immediately like a drone that could never lose its way and as though he knew exactly where to find it. That wondrous thing hadn’t been reached before either. Don’t believe anyone who says a biggie isn’t the best!
I was under the impression that I knew more about sex than anyone else; its many positions, quirks and kinks, and what I liked and disliked. Plus, the matter of my impatience and frustration when I wasn’t as satisfied as expected. But that guy owned a forceful length of compacted sex gristle that’d swollen to such a sizeable width it took my breath away and shattered my confidence in my intimate knowledge of my erotic and pornographic idealism and of what I knew I was – a nymphomaniac who couldn’t get enough. Um . . . did I say I’d be the best he’d ever had? Au contraire, my darlings; and what a pity you can’t have what I had then!
At first, he fucked me with the utmost care and attention as he focused on my face, sensing from its changes and my murmurs of pleasure to what level he’d take me next. He played on my G-spot slowly and purposefully until I screamed when my filled cunt released a furious orgasm. I grabbed around him tightly as I jerked uncontrollably when another followed straight after.
And still, he was inside me and hadn’t come.
He kissed me softly and stroked my hair. Again, he told me I’d like it. Gradually he stirred and, raising my knees and thighs, dug into me like a sharp spade piercing damp, soft virgin earth. Then he quickened his pace and gave me long, hard, drawn-out thrusts that were endlessly vigorous. I came to a thunderous finish as he grunted and shot copious amounts of sperm into me; the warm, silky fluid flowing like heavenly rain.
I clung onto him mightily and thought I wanted more, as much as he could give, or wished for it. Instead he got off me and my eyes went wide with amazement. The arrogant Mr Gormless the Gigolo was still erect! I asked him if it ever went down. Of course, he answered, and told me that he was cursed – or blessed – with incurably excessive sexual desires. So I asked him the male word for “nymphomaniac”. “A manphro-maniac,” he replied. Hmm, as I said, he could be amusing.
Then, cuddling me, he proposed an intriguing question as I stroked his incredible cock: “Would I like to control it?” Naturally; so I replied something like: “Ooh, goody, yes!” And I rolled on top of him.
Again, he rose to the occasion to my silent applause and I couldn’t help shaking from the feel of his manhood. Then he began to chatter. I pretended to be angry and fetched a pair of panties and stuffed them in his mouth. I smiled and told him that since he thought I was going to pay him, he’d better shut up and let me get on with it.
As I said, I like a man preferably in bed, muffled and thoroughly compliant to my every whim. But this wasn’t going to be an adiós amigo occasion; neither did I intend to pay him a penny, because he was mine and I rode him like an insane woman in possession of a new toy spinning top.
OK, I’m a nymphomaniac and he’s a whatever. But it’s true to say we’ve both met our match. Now, six months later, his cock salutes me when I beckon and sexually I lack for nothing. On the other hand, while I won’t pay him for sex, financially he only has to stick around and be faithful; otherwise I’ll give him the boot and he knows it. And nowadays I behave myself too, although we still enjoy lots of parties.
I think I’m falling in love with him. But he won’t know that for a long, long time.
Her New Home Help
Sylvia, Darlington
Losing a job can come as a shock to anyone, and when my husband, Gerald, was told by the company who’d employed him for the last eighteen years that he was being let go in their latest round of redundancies, the news hit him particularly hard. He’s the kind of man whose self-esteem has always been bound up in his work, and knowing he wasn’t going to be the chief breadwinner anymore made him very anxious. In the current economic crisis, he wasn’t even sure he’d find another job, given his age. I took the bad news with a certain sangfroid – satisfaction, even. You see, while Gerald might have been the big man at work, at home I’m very much the mistress of the house, and now I realized I had the opportunity to finally enforce total domestic discipline upon him.
For a while, I’d suspected that Gerald had been putting on my underwear while I was out of the house. On more than one occasion, I’d come to do the washing and taken a pair of my expensive silk panties from the laundry basket that had clearly been worn by someone larger than me. When I discovered that not only had he stretched my very favourite lace-trimm
ed ivory pair till they were ruined, he’d also left a very obvious semen stain in the crotch, I’d decided enough was enough. I’d sworn my revenge, but until now I’d never found a suitable way to punish him.
Once he was at home on a daily basis, I set my trap with care. I let him think I was going off to work in the local library as usual, not telling him that I’d arranged to have a half day’s holiday and would be back much sooner than he expected. With the run of the house to himself, he could be getting up to any kind of mischief, and I intended to catch him in the act. When I let myself quietly into the house that afternoon, there was no sign of my husband in the kitchen or living room. I crept up the stairs. Our bedroom door was open a crack, and when I peered round it, what I saw was even better than I could have hoped for. My cissy husband pranced about in front of the mirror, wearing a pair of my black French knickers and a black bra that he’d padded out with my nylons to give himself the illusion of a bust. I gave him a good minute or so to preen and admire himself, then I burst into the room. The look on his face was priceless: I didn’t know whether he was going to dash out of the room or burst into tears. In the end, he literally threw himself at my feet and begged forgiveness.
I made the worm squirm for a while, asking what his cronies at the golf club would think if they could see him like this, and what good reason could he give me for my not asking for a divorce and taking him for every penny he had? Of course, I had absolutely no intention of doing any of that, but watching him blubber and plead and promise me he’d do whatever I wanted, just as long as I kept his need to dress in women’s clothing a secret, made my pussy wet and my nipples tingle. I knew I’d got him exactly where I wanted him, and the feeling of triumph was as good as any orgasm.
The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions Page 35
