The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I drove back alone wondering what the hell had happened. I wondered which woman there had been the one to stroke my cock and whether it was her or her partner who had used her mouth on me. I began to wonder if I would ever know and, pleasant though it was, I was puzzled.

  I was about ten miles from home when another thought hit me, and it hit me hard. I had presumed all along it was a woman who had put her mouth on me and sucked me off but what if it had been Jake? What if the women were just there to make me think it was them?

  Had a man managed to give me the best blowjob ever? Oh, God, it didn’t bear thinking about, but it did make my cock swell and that made me feel strange.

  I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the truth, but I think about it often and it makes me wonder whether I really want to know. However, I’m still married, still me, and continually looking for another training course where the theme is trust.

  A Proper Place For Little Ladies

  Ashley, Sussex

  My name is Ashley, and I live in the “Land of the South Saxons”, or Sussex as we know it today. I am an only child and reside alone in a cottage that my ancestors have owned for generations. The small village is called Denton – not far from Newhaven – and from my front window I can see the old church of St Leonard’s that was first built in 1288.

  I used to be a sensitive, sexually naive, emotionally neglected woman who relied on a trusted dildo for satisfaction. A dildo that vibrated at three different speeds, the pace of which depended on my mood. I’ve never had a boyfriend simply because I don’t like boys. And I’d never had a girlfriend because I didn’t have the courage to admit that I was a lesbian; and I guess that was why, for a weird reason, I sometimes spanked myself. I didn’t think I was attractive enough to anyone due to my rather skinny body, diminutive bosom and small, quaint little buttocks that bob up and down like two ripe cherries swaying in the breeze hanging from a young tree branch. Other than that, I rarely enhanced my looks with eyeshadow or used colour on my otherwise pouty lips. I didn’t dress very well nor take particular care of myself and I suppose people might have regarded me as somewhat drab. But all that changed.

  I commute daily and work in London as a statistician for a company contracted to the government, in a dingy back office with three other women, that has a brick-wall view from a solitary window that can’t be opened. Needless to say, the office was drabber than me and made worse because all of us there were about as exciting as the brick-wall view.

  Commuting every day for five days a week from where I live is a humdrum routine requiring car parking, trains and then using the Underground followed by a brisk walk to get to where I work. Recognizable people board the train and maybe say hello and then stick their faces in a book or clamp earphones on, listening to music from their mobiles, or both. I do both, because I don’t encourage conversation with boring commuters who all seem to be boring employees of some ungodly boring government department. Of course, I don’t know any of them even though we live in the same county, so I don’t know if some of the female travellers have a three-speed vibrator either; or if the males fancy one of us (not me) and rush to the toilet to masturbate and pee to get them through their boring days.

  I couldn’t wait for my days to end so that I could get home to my quiet little cottage in Denton, when I’d have a shower to loosen the juices in my cunt and spend half an hour stuffing myself with my vibrator. After bad days, especially when I was feeling down, I’d whack my little bum for devilment with a long dog collar that has metal studs to give it some weight and put on the vibrator at full speed to aggravate myself until the moody feelings vanished with an orgasm or two. After good days, I’d start on low and rev up to high to increase my happy feelings with an orgasm or three without the delicate punishment I inflicted upon myself. I guess the bad days made me a masochist, although I’ve never thought about myself as such.

  So I was disturbed one day – a Monday – after I sat down in the train when a rather drab-looking newcomer, a skinny woman with diminutive boobs, pouty lips, large eyes that could use some make-up on the lids and a two-cherry bottom – in fact, just like me – tapped my shoulder and asked if the space next to me was taken. It wasn’t and she sat. My immediate thought was that two drab females sitting together must have looked ludicrously comical to some; but I wasn’t concerned, because quite honestly – until afterwards – I didn’t give a tuppenny fart what people thought.

  Now, it’s an annoying thing when you’re reading a book and listening to music and someone taps you on the shoulder with no intention of doing the same. It’s an interruption of one’s privacy and quietude, trying to escape the possibility of a conversation from an intruder one doesn’t want to know. She chatted incessantly with slight pauses in between her gushing babble when I would attempt to replace the earphones to survive my normally mundane commute. But she persisted and before we had arrived in London, I knew her name was Donna; that she was a secretary to a crabby old solicitor; had just moved down to Newhaven from Nottingham; was single; disliked men and thought a dildo was just as good as a cock; that she therefore couldn’t be bothered to make herself look nice and had a backroom office just as drab as mine and across the street from mine. In addition, she stated quite positively that when she wanted something she took it and expected to be obeyed in almost all circumstances. She didn’t divulge anything else and I didn’t confess to the creeping wetness between my legs. The conversation, I noticed, made one of the Mr Oglers, who was pretending not to look or be interested, blush at the prospect of showing her what a man could do.

  That’s the point when I looked at her properly and was struck by her large brown sensitive eyes, which muddled my mind and insides because we were so similar that she could’ve quite easily been my sister, although to say twin would be far-fetched. Then she told me she’d be travelling back at precisely five o’clock and couldn’t wait to get home for a shower and a cold Martini with precisely three olives before playing with a vibrator.

  That day was spent curiously happy because, rather than having annoyed me, I realized I was surprisingly interested in my new travelling companion and had an overwhelming desire to fondle and fuck her. Consequently, on the way home, without conscious reasoning, I popped into a store near the station and got bottles of gin and dry vermouth and a tin of green olives. I’d never tasted that drink before and shyly asked how to make one, which amused the proprietor. Then at the village corner shop I bought a pale red lipstick and make-up, plus a fashion magazine to get some idea of how to best apply the stuff on my eyelids.

  Finally at home, I rummaged in my wardrobe for the seldom-used black suit reserved for formal occasions that I decided to wear the next day with high-heeled red shoes and matching handbag, hoping the shoes, which I wasn’t used to, wouldn’t make me walk unsteadily. After that I had a shower and, not bothering to have a session with my vibrator, poured a drink and experimented with the make-up. Eventually I was pleased with the transformation considering I was habitually drab. I also found that I could comfortably acquire a taste for Martinis.

  I remember Tuesday morning was a bright, sunny day and I boarded the train to find Donna already seated in the same place as before, which becomes a common trait with regular commuters. She stared at me with pleasant surprise as I stared back, equally entranced by the effort she’d made beautifying herself and wearing a navy blue outfit that suited her admirably. So we two women who couldn’t be bothered to make ourselves look nice were transformed into two women who had, and judging by the leery looks from a guy sitting opposite I guess we looked peachy.

  Since our offices were close, we decided to meet for a bite. And that’s when our lives began to change. It took two more trips and lunches together before I got the courage to invite her to spend a weekend with me. At that stage, we’d discussed several likes and dislikes and I wasn’t put off when she told me that slapping a nice bottom and fucking before mixing Martinis turned her on. I’d often wondered if the sensations from
someone else would be pleasing or horrible, so I agreed.

  The weekend arrived and since I knew from the lunches that we could both eat like hogs and not seem to put on any weight, I stocked up on a pile of food as agreed and she would bring the booze. On the other hand, we’d only known each other for five days and I was sure there’d be a bit of embarrassment because we’d led relatively insular lives thus far – I was proved wrong.

  She arrived in her black Mini Cooper and skipped into the cottage spryly, which made me imagine she was a mythical fairy from the woods who was full of sex and promise come to me as a gift to perform magically upon my body. She unloaded a box of bottles and then returned to her car, bringing back a military-style duffel bag and a bunch of fresh, sweet-smelling roses. Delighted that we were finally alone together, our pouty lips collided in a frenzy of kisses, which was perfect since we were exactly the same height.

  I didn’t want to wait and dragged her by the hand to a sofa and clung to her as if there was no tomorrow. She, being equally impatient, stripped me in a trice, then herself, and we gazed at each other’s tiny bodies with their little boobs and grabbed at each other’s cherry bums with eager delight. She made me shiver when she bit my neck rather hard, but I cringed after she bit me three more times.

  “Your home is the proper place for little ladies,” she murmured softly, to which I replied it wasn’t the only proper place I could think of. And then she told me playfully I had a naughty little mind and wouldn’t it be grand if I got over her knobbly knees.

  I thought a spanking from her small hand couldn’t be that bad, although if she used my studded dog collar it might hurt a bit more than I was prepared to take. However, I placed myself across her thighs willingly and she began to slap me with surprising eagerness. What I hadn’t bargained for was that her bony hand would have such stinging power, which duly reddened my buttocks and made me yelp and wriggle. After a while, I began to feel hot and giddy with excitement, which aroused me because it was quite different from spanking my own bottom, that’d so far been a recreational habit that I’d enjoyed.

  I like to think she spanked me more for fun and titillation than with any malice to do me harm, but I was to learn she had a mean streak in her that easily got out of control. It didn’t cross my mind at the time; I was too intent on my first experience of bearing the resounding smacks and getting fucked.

  I allowed her to continue unabated because I’d no idea about what was considered to be appropriate or the length of time it should take and consequently I was gradually made to feel sore and uncomfortable. It reached the stage when I started to complain and asked her to stop, but she would have none of it.

  Suddenly, for no good reason, she shoved me off her knees quite abruptly, which shocked me. She said I was a hopeless case and should’ve anticipated a good whacking since she’d mentioned she liked to do that prior to sex and Martinis and expected to be obeyed. I had to admit she’d said exactly that, but added that I didn’t think she’d be so enthusiastic. Instead of sympathizing she said I was foolish and should learn that the proper place for discipline was on the bottom until the mistress was satisfied.

  Well, I didn’t think I was looking for a mistress. I wanted a lover who liked a bit of slap and tickle, not to be subjected to sadistic treatment. On the other hand I had a tendency to be submissive, which mixed me up somewhat. As I said, she would have none of that nonsense and immediately produced a pair of metal handcuffs and an eighteen-inch plastic ruler from her duffel bag. And she was so damn quick I didn’t realize I was caught until she cuffed my wrists behind my back expertly.

  I told her she was being silly and to let me go. She sneered and told me she’d teach me not to call her silly. It was clear to me that no matter what I’d say, she’d twist it around to mean something else, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  She grabbed my arm, kicked a chair back from the table and roughly threw me over her knobbly knees again, which didn’t feel so welcoming as before. At that point I thought we’d gone far enough. I mean, it was our first private encounter and she was purposely taking advantage of a situation with neither consideration nor consent. Like many small people my anger can match anyone’s of any height and I was thoroughly pissed off by what she intended to do, and I told her that. I should’ve kept my mouth shut, because the ruler slammed onto my poor, tight flesh six times in succession on each buttock and I can tell you I wasn’t just yelping and wriggling that time. She held onto the cuffs with her free hand and clamped her legs around mine; there wasn’t much I could do about it and I was howling and crying uncontrollably because the pain was already unendurable.

  She knew my age and that’s the number she gave me – on each side – for no reason! And may the gods help me, if she’d had a wooden ruler rather than a plastic one, I thought, as I snivelled and sniffed, pinching my buttocks together to salve the hurt.

  Then she helped me to stand up, with my bottom feeling regretful for doing nothing to deserve it, and I wondered why she’d done this. She hardly knew me, so why would she risk doing such a cruel thing to me? And I found out.

  Again, going to her duffel bag of tricks, she came back with a strap-on dildo, which was not overly large – about the same width and length as my vibrator. She fastened it onto herself while staring at me knowingly, took hold of the cuffs and sat on the chair, pulling me backwards to sit on the dildo. Then her fingers of one hand caught my clit and spread my juices around it, sending me wild with delight as her other hand dug around the edges of my wet cunt. Each time I raised myself on the shaft she pushed my raw flesh against it, which turned into a most incredibly sensitive fuck. I’d no idea at that stage if my lashed buttocks had anything to do with it, but my orgasms – yes, multiples of them – made me fairly sure afterwards that it must’ve made a big difference.

  With tears in my eyes I got off her and stood in front of her with a quizzical look. What next? She went to my fridge and took out a cold tin of green olives, opened it and popped several into her warm mouth. She approached the table and laid down on it, while I, still cuffed, waited bemused.

  “Kiss me,” she mumbled as she put the olives into her cunt. I bent slightly and did so and then she said: “Now take the olives out with your tongue – very slowly – and don’t chew or swallow any.” I think her whacking at my expense must’ve heightened her senses, because she came almost immediately as my nose, lips and tongue glided on her clit and into her ravishing chasm. It wasn’t easy because some of the olives had sunk deep, but I managed to tweak them one by one into my mouth and the last one squeezed itself out as she contracted with a final spasm of pleasure.

  She lifted herself up lazily and made two Martinis. I was still cuffed with my mouth full of olives and it was difficult to avoid the temptation of chewing and swallowing them. I decided I’d better not, now that I knew how severe she could be. She put the glasses in front of my mouth and I carefully slipped three into each one. Then she tipped one of the glasses onto my bottom lip. The drink slithered down my grateful throat; it was much stronger than the ones I’d made before and the olives tasted delicious. The action was curiously erotic.

  She asked me then if I was going to behave myself. I said I would. She asked me to thank her for her kind punishment. I did. She asked me if I’d like her to take off the cuffs. I said, yes, please – Mistress.

  So that was the start of my submissive relationship that’s always performed downstairs in my cottage. The bedroom upstairs is reserved exclusively for making love – or heavy fucking, if you prefer. Apart from our weekend role-playing, she makes me wear nipple clamps and a string with two metal balls that bounce against my clit when I walk, which is to be done every Friday commute to prepare myself for that night’s indulgence. I do.

  Between weekends, we’re both amazed at how our similar backroom offices with no view have become less boring. That’s because it’s now our spot for the imagination to flow with images of us naked together in the proper place for little ladi
es.

  Rehearsals

  Olivia, Bournemouth

  My name is Olivia. Until I met Martha I’d have said I was good at keeping secrets, especially my own. But Martha unravelled me faster than a piece of knitting being pulled apart and even as old secrets were exposed new ones were being created.

  I’ll start at my beginning which was without doubt the end of my marriage to Jack. I’d like to say that I emerged from the wreckage of those years a superheroine strengthened and empowered to brush aside any threat ahead but I can’t. I didn’t.

  When I eventually re-emerged into real life I sort of tagged onto the local drama group, helping backstage at first and later joining.

  Martha joined a while after me and caused quite a stir. She was both fearsome and beautiful. Her outdated Afro hairstyle was outrageous and wonderful.

  Nobody knew where she was from exactly; could be Brazil or Africa or India but would be considered a beauty anywhere.

  It wasn’t long before she was directing plays. Her first included a violent bedroom scene and, if I’m being honest, it was that scene alone made me break cover and audition for the part. Just reading it started off a prickle of excitement. Being pushed around, forced onto the bed, stripped, manhandled – and all so safe; it was a stage play after all and for good measure the leading man, Gareth, was gay. Safe: my fascination with its violence a throwback from my marriage when it had been anything but a turn-on.

  Maybe this would help me deal with the past, I told myself positively.

  Maybe it just underlines how sad your life is, came back the negative.

  What little sex life I had was solitary, its peculiar routine buried deep at the very bottom of my pile of secrets.

  But, positive or negative, the involuntary turn-on was compelling.