Nexus Confessions

by Various

  ‘They’ve added a message,’ Robert mumbled. Reading from the screen, he said, ‘Nice arse. Great-looking pussy. Thank you for sharing. Here’s a cream pie as my way of saying thanks.’

  I was blushing and trembling.

  Robert grinned like an idiot.

  Someone had seen my most intimate parts and written back with an endorsement of approval. I realise it’s probably shallow to get satisfaction from such praise but I couldn’t help feeling boosted by the coarse compliment. ‘What’s a cream pie?’ I asked.

  Robert touched the centre of the screen, his fingers sliding over the lips of the woman’s cunt and indicating the semen that dripped out of her. I swallowed, sick with excitement when I thought that was how his finger would look if it was genuinely touching another woman.

  ‘It’s a slang term for a pussy dripping with come.’ I wrinkled my nose. The phrase was vulgar and disgusting. But it heightened my arousal. My need to have his length was suddenly insatiable. I desperately wanted to feel him inside me and end the evening with a passionate bout of lovemaking.

  But I could see Robert was having more fun with the computer. He was clearly anxious to take the game to the next level. I didn’t know if he wanted to fuck me, photograph me, or do both so that we had a picture of our own cream pie. But I did know his enjoyment had little in common with my immediate needs.

  I opened my mouth to tell him what I wanted.

  ‘You’ve got mail.’

  ‘Another of your adoring fans,’ Robert mused as he studied the message and attachment. He laughed dryly and said, ‘This is from Tom. You’ve certainly made an impression on him.’

  I glanced at the picture on the screen. It showed a huge and swollen erection. The long length was held in a tight fist that had made the mushroom-shaped end dark purple.

  ‘This is what your picture did to me,’ Robert read.

  I shivered. ‘How do you know that’s from Tom?’

  ‘Silly bugger used his own email address. Not very discreet, was it?’

  My stomach churned. I would never be able to look at Robert’s friend again without thinking about the picture of the huge erection and knowing that the sight of my bum had caused him so much excitement. I felt sure, the next time we met, I would blush so severely he would know it was my photograph he had seen. The thought stirred the muscles inside my cunt. My fingers strayed back to my clitty. It wasn’t the full penetration I needed, but the gentle caress of my hand against my lips did promise more satisfaction than my husband offered.

  ‘Should I send this photograph to our respondents?’ Robert asked. His earlier picture filled the screen. This was the one that showed my face as I devoured Robert’s cock.

  ‘You can’t send that!’ I shrieked. ‘They’d know who I am.’

  ‘I can edit it a little. Blur the focus on your eyes and . . .’

  ‘No!’

  His mischievous grin grew wider. I could see him doing something with the mouse. Before he had a chance to send anything against my wishes the computer interrupted him.

  ‘You’ve got mail.’

  Robert clicked three buttons and then whistled his approval. ‘Now that’s raised the ante,’ he mumbled.

  I put a hand over my mouth in surprise. This was a picture of a woman’s large bare breasts. They were round and fat and swollen. Coffee-coloured areolae defined the centre of each breast and hard nipples punched out at the camera. But it wasn’t the breasts that made me gasp, it was the fact that the breasts were being touched by two cocks. ‘Who the hell is that from?’

  Robert’s grin faltered. ‘It’s from someone who knows how to set up a disposable email address. Sneaky bastards.’

  I stared at the picture, shocked that someone within our social circle had done something so daring. My arousal was momentarily tempered by jealousy. This woman had two cocks at her disposal and I only had Robert and his overriding interest in the computer. The injustice was sharp enough to hurt and I was desperate to know who she was. Studying the picture, looking for clues from the glimpse of background behind the woman, I racked my brains to put a face above the top of the photograph. Something in the image suggested that if I only concentrated a little harder, I would be able work out who she was.

  ‘It gets worse,’ Robert frowned. I glanced at him uneasily. His tone was ominous and I detected the suggestion of an apology in his voice. Glancing down at his groin I could see his erection had dwindled to a sliver of its former size. ‘This picture is from someone who’s guessed who we are.’

  I felt physically sick. I glanced at the email that had accompanied the picture and read the message. ‘Katy? I’d no idea you did this too.’

  ‘Damn,’ Robert mumbled. The picture disappeared as he clicked on various elements of the email message searching for properties, protocols and other computer-related clues that might reveal the identity of the sender. I watched his interest in me evaporate and realised there would be no chance of satisfying myself with Robert that evening. I took a final glance at the remnants of the picture on the screen, picked up my clothes from the floor, and told him I was going to call a friend.

  ‘Karen?’ I said, two minutes later, whispering into my mobile phone. ‘I loved your picture.’

  ‘Likewise, Katy,’ she giggled. Karen is the only person who ever calls me Katy. ‘Colin and Tony both got a lot from seeing yours, although I expect you could see that much.’

  My stomach churned. I’d seen Colin and Tony’s erections. Colin was Karen’s husband. Tony was a workmate who shared an office with Robert and Colin. I had no idea that Tony and Karen and Colin did the things that were suggested in that picture. But I was delighted to think their erections had been hardened by the sight of my bare backside. My heart trembled and the muscles inside my cunt went into a liquid convulsion. ‘Are they both with you now?’

  She sounded excited. ‘Of course. That’s how we were able to take the picture. Are you two thinking of coming over here?’

  I lowered my voice to a whisper and glanced towards the closed door of Robert’s computer room. ‘I’ll come over,’ I decided quickly. ‘But Robert won’t be able to make it. He’s busy playing with the computer.’

  – Kate, Yorkshire, UK

  Out of the Closet

  Aunt Emma is shopping in the city and won’t be back for at least three hours. It is just after 2 p.m. and I stand before her bedroom door, my heart pounding, my mouth dry, my cock so hard it hurts.

  It’s Saturday afternoon. I’ve been in my Aunt’s house for less than twenty-four hours and already I am overwhelmed by the desire that has come to dominate my life so absolutely over the last two years. Tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday and I have decided to celebrate early.

  My mother is due to arrive later tonight, returning from a business trip. Tomorrow, my sister will return from university. It will be a simple family occasion: my divorced mother, my widowed Aunt, my older sister and me, the only son, nephew and brother.

  I think of my father briefly. I haven’t seen him for nearly three years. I feel a familiar shame as I ponder what he would make of the son he left behind, the son he had always seen as disappointingly effeminate. The son who is now trapped inside a powerful, utterly irresistible and deeply sexual attraction to the various intricate and delicate trappings of femininity and to what I have come to understand as a very real and powerfully erotic thing called the Feminine.

  My father had recognised the early signs of what, in moments of true despair, he would refer to as my ‘strangeness’: my dislike of boys’ games and activities, the rough and tumble of ‘a boy’s life’. Then there had been my lack of male friends and my always rather effeminate demeanour, a fact made more disturbingly real by my slight physical build and my soft, girlish features. Then he had left, without announcement or plan. He had gone to work one morning and never come back. And, ever since, my obsession has grown steadily into one single and very fundamental desire: the desire to dress in female clothing.

  This
desire has never been fully realised. However, I have spent many secret hours during my mother’s frequent business trips investigating the silken scented secrets of her bedroom, educating myself in the astonishing variety of fabrics and designs that inhabit the soft, sensual and always so welcoming world of the Feminine.

  I remember being alone in the holy space that is my mother’s room, the temple where I first worshipped the Feminine. Here I have experienced a fierce and utterly unforgiving sexual pleasure, a pleasure so powerful that even the thought of its suppression is impossible. As my hands have passed nervously and hungrily over her most intimate satins and silks, it has felt as if my heart were about to explode. On sex-charged afternoons and evenings, I have slipped open her underwear drawers with a sense of terrible guilt, a dreadful fear of discovery and an all-pervasive, utterly inescapable elation. The sight of her carefully ironed and neatly stacked panties is enough to induce a moan of terrible aching pleasure and an erection like a burning metal torch. I have held a pair of lace-frilled white silk panties to my face, inhaled their strangely suggestive perfume and felt a new world of sensual possibilities open up before me.

  Then there have been the even more intense delights of her pantyhose. Kept in the lower drawers are piles of tights and stockings, mostly tan- and grey-coloured, but also black and white, and even more exotic colours – red, blue, pink. Here I have experienced a profound ecstasy and discovered the strongest and most unforgiving of my sex-fuelled fascinations. Nothing has ever aroused me more than the feel of soft sheer nylon. Indeed, since my hands first touched the soft second skin of my mother’s tights and stockings, I have seen the world through a fetishistic film of semi-transparent nylon. I have plunged hot shaking hands into a sea of soft nylon and entered a word of indescribable physical pleasure that has often resulted in an automatic and devastating orgasm, a giant coming stimulated only by the sight of this most potent and beautiful symbol of the Feminine.

  My explorations have included many other aspects of my mother’s gorgeous, elegant attire: her erotically varied selection of foundation wear, including panty girdles and a number of panty corselettes, elastanewalled prisons for a beautifully generous figure; her many elegant brassières, each designed to contain in a soft yet firm embrace a truly impressive and beautifully shaped bosom; a variety of silk slips and petticoats; a vast array of stylish dresses designed for the mature yet highly contemporary figure; a carefully chosen and maintained collection of shoes, all heeled and designed to accentuate long, statuesque, perfectly shaped legs sheathed in sheer nylon to maximum giddying effect.

  Yet never, in all of my erotic expeditions, have I actually tried any of these garments on. Fear of discovery and the shame such exposure could inspire are far too strong for me to take any risk greater than idle caresses and worshipful kisses; an ecstatic but also relatively safe burial in the secret world of my mother’s glorious and proudly displayed femininity.

  But then there is my Aunt. My mother’s junior by five years, a woman in her late 40s. Like my mother, a striking red-lipped brunette with large, soul-melting, honey-brown eyes. Slightly slimmer, but still pleasantly plump, Aunt Emma shares my mother’s commitment to classic femininity in all its forms and, as I have entered my late-teenage years, her visits have become a source of significant sexual excitement, a fact she is clearly aware of, and which she has sought to exploit in a rather obvious manner my mother could not fail to notice, but which she has never openly acknowledged.

  For her visits to our house, Aunt Emma always ensures that she is ‘appropriately attired’, dressed in a way guaranteed to tease my puberty-addled mind and – more importantly – body. She sits across from me in the living room, following a tight and disturbingly intimate welcoming embrace that always finds my face buried deep in her large scented bosom. Typically, she is dressed in a knee-length black or check skirt, virtually always black tights, always heeled shoes and normally a tight black or white nylon sweater with a jacket that in some careful way matches the skirt. Yes, she looks stunning, with her thick black hair bound in a tight bun by a diamond clasp, her lips blood-red, her eyes filled with a darkly erotic fire. And I am helpless before her, my eyes fighting to avoid hungry glances at her perfect ample form, my mouth struggling not to drop idiotically open in sex-fuelled awe.

  Then, slowly, while talking to my mother, she crosses her legs. A casual gesture, done almost unconsciously, but driven by a teasing intent: to arouse and, in some way, to shame me into the confession of a helpless and furious desire. As her sheer black nylon-wrapped legs cross and rub together a strange, static electric whisper always echoes across the room and I fight a gasp of perverse delight. Inevitably, the skirt rides up over her knees to reveal a torturing hint of firm muscular thigh sealed tightly in dark hose and the toes of her stiletto-heeled black patent leather court shoes point down towards the ground as if identifying the place I should be – at her feet, worshipping, begging to be forever enslaved. And maybe, just for a second, her knowing, slightly contemptuous gaze meets mine and I see she knows everything there is to know about me and my secret kinky desires.

  And now, as I walk into my Aunt’s bedroom, it is as if her eyes are still upon me, seeing every move. For a moment, I wonder if there is a camera in the room, a camera through which all my subsequent actions will be recorded and revealed. An absurd thought, but one which sends a quiver of almost delicious fear down my spine.

  The room is slightly smaller than my mother’s and is dominated by a large double bed, an island of erotic promise covered in cream silk sheets. Surprisingly there is little other furniture, just a simple white bedside table and, by a far wall, a long, very beautiful dressing table dominated by a large oval mirror. The dressing table is made from a sparkling white wood and the mirror frame is gold. Along the long flat surface of the table are a vast array of items of female make-up and preparations and I stare at them with curious and hungry eyes. Yet it is the large double doors built into the wall just beyond the dressing table that ultimately draws my gaze away. This, I know, is the large walk-in closet that contains all my Aunt’s clothes. This is the cave of delights I have come in search of.

  Each step now is a nervous challenge. I walk to the bed and place the black plastic bag I am carrying upon it. Then I turn back to the closet. As I walk towards the closet doors, I feel my heart speed up and a thick film of sticky sweat seep through the always disturbingly soft and pale skin of my face. I rub the hot damp palms of my hands against my thighs and feel an embarrassing fear grip my heart. My erection suddenly dies and I feel my balls shrivel to nothing inside my underpants. For a few seconds, I am aware of the terrible risk I am taking. For a few seconds I imagine being fully dressed, for the first time ever, intricately and carefully feminised. Then I imagine exposure: before my Aunt, my mother, my sister. The simple horror on their faces. The contempt and disgust. Then, once again, there is the face of my father, a face filled not with anger, but with a strangely resigned satisfaction, as if he were saying ‘I always knew this was what you were’. Then, with an equal suddeness, fear turns to anger. I feel something like rage wash over me and then, defiantly, I step forwards. Yes, he always knew. And I have always known: not just what I am, but that there will never be any escape from this dark, unforgiving and so desperately pleasing essence.

  I turn the elegant gold-coloured handles of the closet doors and pull them open. Momentarily, I am facing a teasing blackness, an unseen potential. Then an electric light flickers desperately, rapidly. For a few seconds it seems the light is broken and a strange clicking sound, like a fly buzzing deep in the electrical element, fills the darkness. But then, miraculously, there is an explosion of light and the secrets of my beautiful Aunt Emma are finally revealed.

  I am looking down a corridor between two rows of clothing. Beneath each row are metal racks filled with shoes. And at the end of the corridor there appears to be two more closet doors – a closet within a closet!

  I step nervously into the corridor.
The sweet, erotic scent of roses fills the cool air. The right row is made up almost entirely of blouses and, after maybe twenty or so, a further collection of skirts. The left row is exclusively dresses, a striking collection of intensely feminine and very stylish female attire, each betraying the beautiful, intelligent and highly sexual personality of my amazing Aunt.

  I draw to a halt in the middle of the corridor. I run my hands across the gloriously erotic fabrics of the blouses, the feel of silk and satin and expensive, electric Indian cotton. I gasp with a familiar soul-imprisoning pleasure. All fear and trepidation is lost in the immediacy of a furious arousal. Suddenly my balls are bulging and my cock is rock hard, pressing with a savage male strength against the harsh, ugly fabric of my jeans, almost demanding to be encased in these wondrous feminine fabrics.

  One blouse takes my kinky fancy: an exquisitely cut white silk number with a high wide lace-frilled collar. I lift its silver hanger from the long thick pole that is the spine of the right rack and then hold it before me, my eyes drinking in every fascinating, elegant, intricate detail of its gorgeous design. I remember this one from my Aunt’s visits. I remember her slowly, gracefully slipping out of a tweed jacket and turning to face me on a warm July afternoon a year ago.

  ‘You should visit me, Chris. Give Lucy some time to herself. You’re always welcome.’

  I had nodded weakly, struck dumb by her beauty and by the thought of being alone with her, in her home, in the heart of her spectacular, erotic universe.

  I hold the blouse before me and remember the way it had seemed to hold her large, perfectly formed breasts in a gentle embrace of expensive Italian silk, to tease and torment her body as much as it had (and is) teasing and tormenting mine. I feel sick with need. I must have this wonderful piece of female clothing next to my body.