Sweet Confessions

by Violet Blue

  She dismounted and insinuated herself into the crook of his arm, letting her chest warm his frame. The smell of his skin reminded her that this was a man who had long ago accepted her, 100 percent, for who she was. He was crazy about 90 percent of it and okay with the rest.

  Nothing bad was going to happen tonight.

  “I love you,” she murmured into his throat. Her pelvis gyrated in slow motion.

  Just nine blocks more, she told herself as they walked, hand in hand. Just seven more blocks…six… For a second or two around block five, she thought she might not make it—not because of miscalculation, but because of arousal. But she reasserted control, and the tickle felt better than ever. Soon the fence was in sight.

  They’d stopped at this safe little neighborhood park before, on other nights when they’d been out for drinks. Eric would always wait at the gate while Jenna dashed in to water the ground.

  On one occasion it had been Eric who’d requested a moment among the trees, and Jenna had stood on the sidewalk watching a crescent moon sail in and out of clouds, while she strained her ears for the distant sound of her lover’s tight, male stream of release. Her pussy had sweetened with slickness as she listened.

  “I need to stop at the park,” she said tonight, as they approached it. She could detect the tremble of excitement—and nervousness—in her own voice. She observed with approval that dusk still lingered on this lazy June evening, offering reasonably good visibility for anyone who had something bold and compelling to look at. She’d counted on this.

  “See you in a minute,” said Eric, pulling her toward him for what he obviously expected to be a quick, affectionate peck on the lips.

  But Jenna didn’t let go. Instead, she pressed herself against the front of Eric’s jeans and kept her mouth as close to his as she could without impairing speech. Her clit buzzed as the friction from Eric’s crotch complemented the giddy tease of holding on just a little longer.

  “I want you to watch me.”

  The admission, though softly spoken, resonated deeply in the quiet of the night.

  She was heartened to note—proud, even—that at this critical moment it was not her anxiety that came to the fore, but her joy: her sensuous relishing of an act that for her held no shame, except insofar as it had always seemed a shame not to share such an intense and intimate area of pleasure with the man she loved.

  In the instant that she waited for his response, a tide of memories welled up—like the water inside her; memories of the times she’d brought herself off on the seat while she did it, imagining that she had an eager male audience.

  She recalled the workdays where she’d kept herself right on the edge as long as possible at her desk, fidgeting and fantasizing, until she was an inch away from rubbing her pussy in a frenzy—and a breath away from soaking herself.

  She remembered those nature hikes with women friends during college—how the other gals had perennially been concerned that some guy might come along just when they were squatting, bare-bottomed, to make their girly rivulets…and how Jenna, by contrast, had secretly hoped for such an eventuality.

  Eric’s eyes were alive with interest, beneath asymmetrically cocked brows. “Well, then,” he said with a reassuring jauntiness. “Lead the way.”

  Jenna sighed, basking in the good vibes of his complicity. It was really happening. She pressed a hand to where her body readied for release.

  They shuffled together shyly, like virgins, to the dense bank of trees. When they arrived, she hugged him again.

  He laughed. “I thought you had to go.”

  She ground into him. “I do, I do. Fuck, I’m nearly wetting my panties.” It thrilled her to say it aloud—wetting my panties—and once again she wondered if he had any idea how raunchy she was, deep inside her private world, on this hitherto unbroached subject. “But I’m so turned on knowing that I’m going to”—she hesitated only a fraction of a second over the word—“pee in front of you.” She savored the magic of the situation before finally breaking away from him to lift her skirt.

  She held the miniskirt in folds just above crotch level, clutching fabric and self in one handful, pushing her mound against manic fingers while she feasted on the exhilaration of display. She was almost reluctant to stop fondling herself long enough to get her pussy out in the open.

  Eric was staring at her with fascination, a hand grazing a ridge in his jeans.

  “Well?” he prompted sweetly, but with an undercurrent of urgency. “Let’s see you take those panties down and make a pretty puddle, gorgeous.”

  She hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that Eric would be so wrapped up in the show she was staging, right away. The sense of gratification that washed through her was overpowering.

  As she hooked the fingers of her free hand into the waistband of her lime bikini briefs, “pretty puddle” rang like the sexiest poetry.

  “You’re going to do it right from between your legs, aren’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “Nothing like how a boy does it, eh?” He seemed to know exactly what she wanted to hear—as if she’d tape-recorded the fantasies in her head, and he’d been rehearsing from the transcripts.

  She moaned in lieu of a reply, and Eric licked his lips while she scrunched her panties out of the way and bent her knees. She saw his gaze go appreciatively to the smooth roundness of her exposed ass.

  “Come on,” he said, with gentle insistence. “Show me what a woman you are. Show me how you pee, Jenn.”

  The words might have looked silly on paper, but in the night air they pinged Jenna’s nipples and made her clit throb. As she felt the first tentative drizzle of piss blazing a trail down her slit, she couldn’t recall ever being so turned on.

  She ached with visceral bliss as her muscles creaked open and the hot trickle kissed her pussy lips on its way to lower ground. She used her hand to coax the engorged lips farther apart, while the knowledge that Eric was watching her every action thundered in her consciousness.

  Oh, yes, she’d gotten herself exquisitely aroused by curating those beers all this while. But letting go of them at last was positively heavenly. It felt so good that her eyes blinked closed and her shoulder blades quivered. And when the flood began in earnest as her muscles twanged back into relaxation and freedom, Jenna squealed with raw delight.

  Oh, it felt so good, so good. She let her fingers brave the downpour to skitter along her sex.

  She opened her eyes to find Eric’s attention locked on the feminine wall of water that rushed from her underside, cascading to earth with all the ecstatic turmoil of an impassioned lover. She fantasized, without even meaning to, that the whole neighborhood could hear her pissing—and she embraced the image.

  She felt so lewd and fulfilled and desirable and honest, peeing her heart out for her man. She felt she was a living expression of natural womanliness and lust, with a river of love and libido pouring from between her thighs.

  Her forefinger was riding her clit, and now she was coming. Her legs were twitching and all her nerves were crackling, each neuron individually intoxicated and euphoric. Her pussy was the center of the universe, and the muscles she peed with spasmed in satisfaction as the final drips and drops luxuriated out of her.

  Jenna and Eric remained silent, in a kinky afterglow, while she reached in her skirt pocket for tissues. Eric stroked his fly as he watched her wipe her pussy, thigh flesh and fingers. It was quickly done, and yet she didn’t change positions when the task was accomplished.

  Except to step out of her panties.

  Her eyes met his.

  He was behind her with unzipped jeans in a heartbeat, encircling her waist and aligning their bodies.

  “That was magnificent,” he slurred in her ear, as if drunk on her spectacle. He slapped her right asscheek lightly, then groped her there until she jiggled. He teased the soft pout of her vulva, and she widened her stance farther, elevating her derriere and leaning forward to brace herself on a tree trunk.

  The collegial horn
iness of his bloated cock, sliding lusciously into her, underscored the fact that she had made Eric wild by peeing for him. Inside her fuck-hungry cunt, this evidence of her effect on him sparked a network of sensations that spread in all directions to delight her—just as the orchestrated paradise of orgasmic, exhibitionistic release had rocked her body a few minutes earlier.

  He began pounding in and out. Each inward thrust, like an accented syllable, hammered home what she’d done here tonight. “I peed, I peed, I peed,” sang her inner voice, in time with the rhythm. “I fucking peeeeeeeeed,” said her new orgasm, the e’s trickling out like more pee, to be heard as a beautiful shriek in the twilight. The sound made Eric wiggle inside her like an out-of-control screwdriver. He came with a carnal sob.

  “I have to piss like a son of a bitch now,” he informed her after he had pulled out and she’d danced back into the panties. He touched her elbow. “Does that make you excited, you little tinkleangel? To think about my warm cock all set to piss and piss while you look?” He chuckled when she nodded through hot blushes.

  She watched him take his semiflaccid pink flesh in hand; she got an excellent view when he turned in profile to aim at a tree.

  She shoved two fingers into her mouth as she admired Eric’s stately arc. When she sucked, rocking in place, she tasted the salty tang of a stray, lingering drop of her own.

  Still leaking, Eric growled, a satisfied animal—“Ahhh”—and Jenna tried to imagine precisely what it felt like for him to let pleasure stream and stream through his dick while he emptied. Her own groin muscles flexed idly in sympathy, and the delectable wetness of renewed want licked into her clinging panties.

  He winked at her as he zipped up. The night was turning pleasantly breezy, and Jenna heard the wide-open park gate knocking against the fence: gate and fence banged like a pair of happy fuckers.

  Eric took her hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’ll be ready for another beer when we get home.”

  His palm, squeezed against hers, was solid like a promise.

  THE FEMALE GAZE

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Ever since they’d started dating three years before, Alex had been telling Rory about the boys who hit on him—the men, the bears, the daddies, the silver foxes; the ones who looked like they were barely legal, the shy boys who found in him a kinship, or just a look, a lust, an impulse. “The bartender comped my drink, then slipped me his number. Do I have to put on a wedding band before they get the picture?” he’d ask, chuckling as he kissed her lightly.

  She ran her hands through his thick black hair before telling him that a wedding ring had never been a deterrent to men hooking up with other men. Maybe she should have been bothered by people checking out her man, who’d once been a model and graced ads for Calvin Klein underwear and Brooks Brothers before deciding that he really preferred environmental law. But she didn’t mind, not really, and she certainly didn’t begrudge these men their hungry stares, their heartfelt offers. The women she could do without, the ones who blatantly clocked her man while they walked down the street, the ones who she could tell would take her husband into the bathroom for a quickie if they thought they could get away with it. Rory wasn’t sure why, exactly, the former amused her and the latter annoyed her, but there it was. Actually, it was more than that; the thought of these men kissing her boyfriend; running their hands all over his firm, muscular body; swallowing his cock; plundering his bottom as she’d only fantasized about doing; well, it turned her on.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if they saw in Alex the same things she did. Was that possible? Were they clairvoyant—or just horny? Was he just another pretty face or did they want him to speak to them in that booming, low voice? Did they want him to order them around, like he ordered her? “Touch yourself for me. Show me how wet you are. Fuck yourself with the vibrator I got you.” Would Alex be a top or a bottom in bed with a man? The more these men propositioned him, the more Rory found these naughty images creeping into her mind when she was alone, when she let her fingers wander between her lips and her mind go free.

  Alex had beautiful olive skin and intense brown eyes and was strong in ways she was still coming to understand three years into their relationship. He was stubborn, yet she could melt him with a single, sensual smile, with a nip of her teeth against his arm, with a lick of her tongue along the center of his palm. She’d been known to interrupt him in the kitchen, where he did most of the cooking, to simply get on her knees and worship his enormous, beautiful cock. It was not only long, it was fat, wide around. She’d taken him between her lips countless times, in six states and three countries. His perfect cock had been in her ass twice, two of her favorite memories of their time together. He didn’t mind her occasional petulance, and she forgave him his stubborn meltdowns, because everything else was so electric.

  Nothing was missing between them, on the surface, at least, and yet she wanted something more. She surveyed her own boyish body in the mirror, staring at the freckles dotting her face, the small B-cup breasts, the tiny pooch of her belly and her small torso. She was boyish, but she was no boy. She had an ass, one that Alex loved to slap and beat with one of the many toys they kept for just such a purpose. He loved how wet she got when he held her throat tight while she struggled to get away, but not really. In turn, Rory loved that side of him, the one she thought of as manly. All too often she was called a dyke, or had been assumed by guys she went out with to be some kind of goth punk bitch goddess who wanted to slap them around, based on her short hair and layers of black and silver. She didn’t necessarily mind either assumption—she’d bedded her share of girls, boyish like her, and curvy lipsticked lasses, and she could be tough when she wanted to be. She wasn’t a top, not really… but she could still see Alex on the bottom.

  She shut her eyes and stood there, naked, asking herself what she was looking for. Not another man—at least, not one for her. Alex was her soul mate; that much was clear. But she did have these dreams that wouldn’t go away, flashes of Alex naked, bound, his mouth open, his body bared…for another man, one bigger and stronger than him, one who could make him beg and whimper the way he made her beg and whimper, strain and arch, scream and cry, in bed.

  Who knows if she’d have thought of it on her own if Alex hadn’t planted the seed, over and over. He liked to joke about it, but she could tell that somewhere inside he was flattered by the attention. Girls fawning over him could mean they wanted the status of being seen on his arm, a glamorous dinner or a ring on their finger. He’d made it clear those weren’t the kinds of girls he wanted; she’d seen him point her out to some hopeful busty blonde, seen their eyes narrow as they took in her appearance, her clear defiance of what a pretty girl should look like.

  But the men were something else, and she wanted to know what that something was. Who would Alex be when the boy/ girl equation was stripped away, when it was simply pure testosterone thrown together? Well, pure testosterone and her. She didn’t believe in the strictness of sexual orientation, the way men wrapped their heterosexuality around themselves so tightly they could barely smile at another man, nor in the halfhearted female bi-curiosity shown on any given night at any nightclub—or reality show—in America. She wanted to find out what might happen when all bets were off, and not just secondhand. She wasn’t really into girls, not the way she was into Alex, not in a forever kind of way, but she knew what it was to fall to her knees in awe over a woman who simply knocked her out, whether the big, quiet butch at her gym, the one who seemed to fuck her simply by raking her eyes down Rory’s body, or the Indian exchange student whose waist-length black hair smelled like flowers, who had kissed Rory dizzy.

  She didn’t know what to expect, but she knew she had to try, not just for her sake, or Alex’s, but for their relationship, for the future. She didn’t want to suddenly be a middle-aged wife who’d passed up the chance to live out a fantasy and then regretted it. She wanted to see, to watch, to know not by doing, but by seeing, by living vicariously;
there, but not there, an outsider whose orchestration would let the two men be insiders.

  One Wednesday night, Alex came home late, slipping into bed next to her, where she was flicking through channels aimlessly. “It happened again,” he said, chuckling and reaching beneath her nightshirt for her nipple. “The pizza delivery guy, of all people. He told me to put his tip in his pants.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at that, even as her nipple hardened while she pictured Alex’s hand wrapping around the faceless guy’s cock. “What if you said yes?” she asked before she could stop the words.

  “To the pizza guy? I think I’d smell like pizza.” He laughed, but as clichéd as that image was, Rory didn’t. Just then, more than anything, she wanted to see him with another man, any man, really…well, any man who Alex showed a hint of desire for. She didn’t want him to do it for her, exactly, but for them.

  “But what if…I was there?” she asked as she writhed against him, pulling her body away from him so her trapped nipple was stretched, flattened. “What if I watched you two, and you could watch me? What if I touched myself while it happened?”

  “Rory, what are you talking about? I mean, nothing against gay guys but…I’m not one. You know that,” he said as he pulled her close, his hard cock burrowing between her legs. He let go of her nipple and grabbed his dick to press it against the rosebud of her ass, a place he’d only gone those two times before. Was he saying that he wanted to fuck another guy there? Or that he wanted her to be quiet, to focus on him and only him?

  “I’m not saying you’re gay, baby,” she said, because lord knew he loved every inch of her body, overwhelmingly, voraciously. “But…there are shades of gay, shades of want that maybe you’ll discover. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do—I wouldn’t enjoy that—but maybe there’s something to all those guys approaching you, maybe it means something you can’t truly understand until you act on it.”