Dirty True Confessions

by Huck Pilgrim

  I went to get an espresso. I saw Michelle ordering her own coffee, and I hid myself behind a magazine rack. She had a shawl or something wrapped around her head. As she lifted her drink, her hands shook. I slipped out of the shop without speaking to her.

  I never saw her again.

  She left the dorms, she left campus. I didn’t know what became of her. I threw myself into my classes. Did my graduate work. I eventually secured a teaching position.

  Years later I discovered from a mutual friend that Michelle had left school because she was pregnant. I was shocked, sickened. This was told to me in passing, and I was able to mask my reaction. I’ve since tried to find her. I’ve done Internet searches for her name, but I get no results. Perhaps she married? Maybe now she uses a new name.

  Or maybe she doesn’t want to be found.

  I remember pulling my wet cock from between her legs. As I reassembled my pants, I watched my cum seep from her vagina, pooling on the couch. I panicked. I used her panties to mop between her legs, the couch. I tried to dress her, but I only got her underwear to just above her knees. My hands shook. I pushed her dress down between her legs and slipped out the door, inadvertently allowing the latch to catch loudly in the jamb as I left.

  When I learned Michelle had become pregnant, I began to obsess about that night, specifically how I panicked at the end. I began a sort of magical thinking where I would play the same thoughts over and over in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept imagining a different scenario where I had taken the time to slide her panties back up her thighs or arranged her dress more carefully. I began to deeply regret using her own panties to clean her, to wipe my spent cum from the cushions of the couch. I can’t remember if I had any tissues or hankie in my pockets, but I know I had a scarf. If nothing else, I could have cleaned her the same way that I lubricated her—I could have used my mouth.

  And here is where my confession gets a little messy.

  About five years ago, a woman in one of my evening classes started coming to my office hours regularly. She was an attractive woman, a little older than most of my students, finishing up the few credits she needed for her undergraduate degree. Dark and slender. A flat chest and hips like a boy, but an outgoing, engaging person. I felt an affinity for her that went beyond my role as an educator. I’ll call her Natasha. We became close. She eventually shared with me privately why she had dropped out of school.

  She’d been drinking at a party and things had gotten out of hand. She’d been raped by three of her classmates. All men she knew and considered her friends. None of them were prosecuted. There were lingering questions about consent.

  The men had recorded the encounter on video and then posted it to the Internet. She made me promise not to search for it, although she mentioned that it was easy enough to find, if you knew her first name, the name of the school, and a rude word that I won’t repeat here. I told her I wouldn’t search for it, but then curiosity got the best of me.

  She was lying in bed and someone off camera asked her to show off her breasts. She wore her hair in a dark bob style and had a devilish smile. Pulling down the sheet, she raised her shirt, and then massaged her small breasts through her bra. One of the men pulled out his cock and asked her to kiss it. Natasha balked at first, but she did it in that playful way that made you think she really wanted to suck that cock. When she took it in her mouth, the others hooted their encouragement. Someone off camera took stills of her, the stark flash of the camera repeatedly illuminating her head like lightning strikes. The three of them took turns fucking her, one after the other, passing the camera between themselves, recording it all. The next time she was in my office, my mind kept flashing to how she looked with her mouth wrapped around each of those boys’ cocks. I think she could tell by how I acted that I’d seen her video, but she never said anything.

  She told me she’d dealt with her ordeal by becoming promiscuous, but that she felt as if she had finally gotten things under control. I’ll confess that her story intrigued me far more than it should have. She enjoyed telling me about her sexual exploits after the rape, and I enjoyed hearing her stories. She described receiving a promotion at her father’s firm one morning in a large conference room that overlooked the city, the very same conference room she’d used to fuck one of the senior partners only a few hours earlier. Another time she told me about sucking off a teenage clerk at the Gap in exchange for some jeans. When she left, she forgot her “purchase,” but then didn’t feel comfortable going back to claim it.

  I enjoyed our time together, but didn’t understand what she wanted from me.

  It didn’t seem to be about sex. She didn’t rebuff me, but she would turn suddenly cold if I tried to sit next to her or take the conversation in that direction. I assumed it had something to do with her indiscriminate sexual activity and the things she said she had to do to get her life under control, so I didn’t push it. I found her stories intoxicating. That was enough.

  I started to discreetly touch myself under my desk as she spoke. She didn’t seem to mind this. In fact, she encouraged it. Soon she invited me to kneel between her legs and tongue her as she told her stories. Sometimes she would push down her jeans and panties, and then raise her knees to her chest. Other times she would lift her dress and slide her panties to one side.

  She was an odd little bird. She didn’t want to fuck, but she loved to be licked to orgasm.

  Hoping that this might be a prelude to more, I performed cunnilingus on her without reciprocation. Her stories were reciprocation. But the more she told me, the more apparent it became that nothing about her sex life was under control. Soon the stories began to change subtly. Instead of being about events from the past, it became clear they were more recent experiences.

  Sometimes she would say she had fallen off the wagon over the weekend. Or she’d say she’d had a little slip. An accident.

  I determined she was fucking two or three different men a week and grew alarmed. Jealous. She said not to worry, that she was working hard to get herself back under control. She asked for my patience and support. Told me I was special. I was the only one who knew her whole story, and she said she wanted to keep me separate.

  I felt flattered, but it was . . . unsettling.

  Soon the details in her stories started to change again. She grew more focused on describing the exchange of bodily fluids. She would wait until I had my mouth on her sex and then describe taking a recent lover’s semen, the very act of being inseminated. She would describe the volume of cum a lover introduced to her, or sometimes the force with which he delivered his seed. She would say whether he had slowed and stopped as he filled her, or if he continued to pound away. She’d tell me what was called out at the very end. Sometimes another lover would take the place of the first and she would tell me that, too. If she’d taken multiple partners, she’d go on about the wet, sloppy sounds she heard. It was a powerful and disturbing experience to realize that I was licking her in exactly the place where strangers had recently ejaculated. I’ll admit that I came almost immediately the first time she did this. And then I worked on her with my mouth until she came, too. Shame and self-loathing washed over me.

  I came to believe that she was grooming me. She wanted a man she could humiliate and abuse, someone with whom she could validate her unhealthy behavior. And for this she needed a male friend, someone close who didn’t matter much, a person she could simply use and discard.

  Of course, I resolved to end our relationship.

  I decided I would tell her after class, but then she arrived a few minutes before class and whispered she had something to tell me. All that night, I wondered if she were going to break it off with me. I grew apprehensive and sad and found it most difficult to teach. After class we ended up in my office. When I discovered she only had another story to tell me, I felt so relieved, I got down on my knees and satisfied her. I resolved that this would be our last night together. After the next class, I told myself, I’d quit our relationship f
or good.

  One night she came to class twenty minutes late, followed by Miguel, a dark skinned teenager, who was a mediocre student. Natasha wore a tight fitting black dress that night and I found it difficult to ignore. Miguel kept smiling at her, which I also found difficult to overlook. When class was over, I felt exhausted and retired to my office to lie on the couch.

  Natasha followed me. She removed her panties and straddled my face.

  As I nuzzled her, she told me she had fucked Miguel in one of the bathrooms at the start of class. I sobbed silently as she described the filthy things he whispered to her as he filled her with his cum. My cock was hard and painfully crimped in my pants. It was one thing to know intellectually that I was following in someone else’s performance, quite another to smell her freshly wetted sex, to know the exact person—the style of his hair, the color in his cheeks—and to understand that he had buried his cock in my little Natasha only a few yards from me, as I lectured about Shakespearian drama.

  After I made her orgasm, she stood. Stroked my wet face.

  I opened my fly and began to masturbate, weeping. She held me. She rubbed my shoulders and kissed my neck. She whispered in my ear that I should ejaculate into my hand and then consume it for her. I’m ashamed to say, I did exactly as she asked.

  She ended up sleeping with every male student in that class.

  One night I came to my office and found one of my students leaving the building. He was an older, balding man in his early forties, and he was from the same class as Natasha. He nodded and smiled to me as we passed in the hall. As I continued down the hall, it occurred to me that he might have come to this building to meet with me, but when I turned to call out to him, he was already hurrying out the door.

  When I got to my office, I found Natasha. She was nude, her slender body splayed out on my couch.

  She reached for me, kissed me passionately, and then pushed my head between her legs. I could see the semen oozing from her vagina, pooling on my couch. I hesitated. I could feel my cock stir in my pants. She pleaded with me to kiss her there. I didn’t want to, but I did. I thrust my tongue between her legs, and she groaned at first, and then she began to softly chuckle. My penis throbbed in my pants. I didn’t taste anything at first, and then it was salty. Incredibly, overwhelmingly, salty. I made my mind go blank and cleaned the worst of it, especially the small puddle on the cushion, under her bottom.

  As I lapped her, she told me she had decided to share with all her lovers about the nature of her relationship with me. She said that she felt this would help her more quickly regain control of her life, that being honest with oneself and with others is always the first step.

  Stroking my head, she said she hoped I didn’t mind.

  I replayed the meeting I’d just had in the hall with the older student, the person who’d left this little gift for me. With reflection, his smile seemed more like a smirk. Natasha must have told him the task that lay ahead of me, this mess that I would feel compelled to clean.

  I felt so humiliated.

  I begged Natasha to stop sleeping with my students, her classmates. She surprised me by agreeing almost immediately, but then she started to sleep with my colleagues. She took every man in my department. These were good, intelligent men, with families. I wish I could tell you that I put a stop to my relationship with Natasha. Things had certainly gotten out of hand. Unfortunately I can’t tell you that. Self-control has never been my strong suit.

  We continued on until Natasha found the courage and strength of character to call it quits.

  I have since stopped dating. I will occasionally pay a prostitute to lay on the couch in my office—raise her dress high, pull her panties down—and allow me to lick her rectum. I masturbate by rubbing my penis on the cushions of the leather couch. I ejaculate into my hand, then I wash it all down the sink and pay.

  I know the prostitutes consider me loathsome, a freak.

  That’s a most unkind assessment of me, but I suppose I find it difficult to say that I disagree with it in part, or even entirely. You see, I raped my good friend. I fucked poor Michelle. And I enjoyed it. That’s my confession.

  Brad W.

  Amherst

  The Price of Fame

  I’m Milton Pearl, a sixty-two year old father and widower, and I’m too old for confessions. My daughter, Nicki, is the one you ought to ask for a confession. She’s still at Carvel High, just turned eighteen, and she’s doing porn videos. I only recently found out about it, and it’s making me crazy. Sometimes I can’t help but feel as if I’ve let the poor girl down. I was the one who encouraged her to try modeling. I wanted her to do something with her life. Be somebody. She’s an attractive girl. Small, thin. Big brown eyes like a baby doe. She has hair just like her mother—silky, chestnut hair that falls to the middle of her back.

  Nicki’s mother is how all this started. She died last year in a motorcycle accident.

  Her name was Becky, and we met in her final year of high school. I was twice her age and had just returned from a tour in the Gulf. She worked the counter at Howard Johnson’s down on the Boulevard. She kept the hem of her uniform skirt a few fingers higher than all the other girls, but she had the legs to pull it off—slender, tan legs. Cheerleader legs. I had my Harley back then and Becky liked to feel its huge engine roar. We’d go for long rides, and after a few hours of weaving along the wooded back roads, she’d lower her hands from my waist, reach between my legs, and I’d know it was time to pull off to the side. She wasn’t my first woman, but she’s the only one I ever wanted to make a child with.

  After the accident, Nicki started acting out with boys.

  I found nude video of her on one of my laptop computers. She was texting with someone on a software program I use for making video calls. I don’t think she intended for me to find the recording, but I think I know the exact night it happened. I was upstairs watching a football game and she had herself holed up in the dining room with the door locked. The video shows her sitting at the table with her top completely unbuttoned. She slips off her shirt, opens her bra, and then hides her breasts with both her hands. You can tell by the expression on her face that she’s building up her courage, and then she takes a deep breath and lowers her hands. Nicki has breasts just like her mom—teacup size. Nipples big as gumdrops, areolas the color of chocolate milk. You can tell she enjoys showing off her body by the sly way she’s grinning when she drops her hands. After a few minutes of typing, she stands up. She’s in her underwear, and her slim hips and tummy fill the frame. She turns around, lowers her panties, and flashes her bottom. When she sits back down, her face is flush. After a few more bursts of furious typing, she stands again, only this time to show her front—a thick patch of untrimmed pubic hair, all wispy and wild. She only shows herself for a minute, and then she pulls her panties back up and sits, her face glowing bright red.

  I know that’s not appropriate behavior for a little girl, but I didn't want to come down too hard on her. The video reminded me of Polaroids her mother and I had made when we first started dating. I’d get us a room at the motel where she worked, and Becky would hold her uniform skirt up and grin that devilish good girl smile at me. She’d lower her panties and hose, and then sit in a chair with her knees up high while I photographed her. Becky loved to show off her body. She once told me that the thrill of performing for a crowd in a skimpy outfit was the main reason she was a cheerleader all through high school. I looked all over for those old Polaroids but couldn't find them. I lost them. They’re gone, just like Becky’s gone. Just like my youth’s gone. And now it looks as if my little baby Nicki’s gone, too.

  It’s all so unfair.

  ***

  If Nicki acted out with boys to deal with the loss, I didn’t do much better.

  I was a mess.

  I married Rebecca three months after we put Becky in the ground. I don’t know how I would have gotten through those first few weeks without Rebecca. She’s a godsend, but nothing like Becky. For
one thing, she couldn’t look more different. Rebecca is a ginger. Red hair that hangs to the middle of her back. Tall, milky white skin, and an athletic, formidable body. A real Viking. She’s a makeup artist at the company Becky and I started. I’m a stunt coordinator and a damn good stuntman myself. I’ve been a double for Cruise, Eastwood, Ford, and Willis. I’ve been blessed with a rugged face, but I keep my body in good shape. I’ve even doubled for Schwarzenegger.

  Rebecca is half my age with an insatiable appetite for sex. Right after the accident, this was perfect. We’d slip into one of the trailers, lock the door, and fall into one another’s arms. I always had a thing for her, but we never did anything about it. When we finally became physical, we didn’t do touchy-feely sex. I’d just cup her shoulders into my palms and pound my cock into her. Sometimes she’d lick her finger, reach around and slip it in my ass. Ordinarily I wouldn’t let a woman do that to me, but Rebecca could get away with it. She’s such a brazen, intimidating woman. It’s one of the reasons we hired her. She’s the perfect woman to deal with all the hotshot Hollywood people.

  Once Rebecca and I started having sex, we met two or three times each day, but always on the set, in a car, or at some motel. I didn’t want to bring her home right away, so soon after losing Becky. Didn’t seem right. I wanted Nicki to like Rebecca. I figured that since the two of them were so close in age—about ten years apart—they might bond.

  Didn’t happen.

  At our wedding, Nicki got hammered and tossed a drink in Rebecca’s face. I won’t repeat here all the ugly things Nicki said that night. Rebecca took it in stride. The next day Nicki apologized, but the two of them started out with a low-level, brooding relationship, like a tooth gone bad.