Confessions

by Selena Kitt

  "That's it, don't stop! Oh god, don't you fucking stop! You're gonna make me come all over that big, hard tool!"

  Mrs. L was a slut. A naughty, dirty whore. She said so herself. "Fuck your little whore! Fuck her 'til she comes!"

  I heard him groan, long and low, and that made me twist and buck on my little twin bed, hearing her finally lose her words, lost in her orgasm, just moaning with it now, over and over and over. My climax found theirs and I came, too, whimpering and shoving my hips up to meet the wet thrust of my own fingers, shuddering with pleasure as the sound of their coupling faded.

  I always had a hard time looking them in the eye the day afterward. Of course, they didn't know I'd heard. And I never said anything. But they sure taught me a lot, late at night, after everyone else was asleep…

  Confessions: Union Station

  It's been over ten years ago, now, that my ex and I were separated, and I flew to Chicago to meet a cyber lover. Dan was a former DJ, charming, arrogant, cocky, and a staunch Republican. We were like gasoline and a match- the sparks flew. I was twenty-five, separated with two kids. He was thirty-something, a year out of a serious relationship with the "love of his life" and liked kids… the way some people like cats…

  "with a nice honey glaze sauce."-Those were his exact words.-I don't know what I was thinking. Okay, I know. I thought I was in love. I probably really was. But it was doomed from the start. Still, love doesn't pay attention to that, does it?

  Perhaps my body knew, because I got my period the Friday I left. It started heavy and fast and I called him in tears, because of course, after all the cyber sex and phone sex, real sex was definitely on the menu. I had new lingerie and had planned not to wear any panties on the forty-five minute flight. My body had other ideas. He comforted me on the phone, said it was okay, we'd just spend the weekend together doing… other things.

  And we did. We kissed the minute I got off the plane. We kissed a lot that weekend. We cuddled a lot. I certainly alleviated my oral fixation more than once with him. And Chicago was a fine town to play in. It really was a good time, and I remember it fondly. In fact, when Sunday rolled around, neither of us wanted to go home. We walked, hand in hand, through Union Station, where he was going to meet his train. It's very stately and beautiful, and we spent an hour or so on one of those benches. We didn't talk much — but we felt a lot.

  Considering how things ended up, I'm glad I had an excuse not to have sex that weekend, but at the time, I was simply aching to be with him. I spent the whole time in a constant state of arousal. The anticipation for our meeting was incredible and I didn't know how I was going to make it through. But I did — the entire 48 or so hours — with no orgasm. He had a few, and giving him those made me so filled with lust I thought I was going to burst. But I just rode the waves, let them ebb and flow. The problem was, each time, the water got higher. And higher. And higher.

  Until I put my head in his lap on that bench. He stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I was. I rested my cheek against his crotch and felt him beginning to harden.

  When I smiled up at him and asked, he admitted, yes… seeing me curled up on the bench was turning him on. It was winter, and I was wearing jeans and high suede boots and a little black sweater that my nipples poked right through — and not from the cold.

  When his hand brushed one on its way to my hip, it made me shiver.

  "Are you turned on?" he whispered, glancing around at the people milling through the station.

  I nodded. "Since the first time you kissed me…"

  He smiled. "You once told me you could make yourself come without using your hands…"

  It was true. I'd done it before, in certain situations, when I was extremely aroused and couldn't, for whatever reason, touch myself. I hadn't climaxed once all weekend, and my whole body was on fire with need. I glanced around, unsure, seeing the light in his eyes. There was no one sitting on our bench, but there was a man reading the paper across from us. New people were constantly coming in and out of the station, up and down the stairs. He wanted me to make myself come… in such a public place? Could I do it, without touching myself?

  "Do it for me." His hand moved upward, cupping my breast. The movement of his thumb over my nipple was hidden, as I was curled up toward the back of the bench, my cheek resting against the line of his zipper. The sensation went straight to my clit, making my pussy come alive almost instantly, like a cat that had just been waiting for its prey to make a sudden move. My body pounced on the idea and I began to squeeze my thighs together, moving my hips in almost imperceptible circles.

  He watched me, his eyes shining, his thumb moving faster over my nipple through the fabric of my sweater. I felt my clit rubbing against the seam of my jeans — a useful stimulant under the circumstances — and tried to control my movements. I wanted to writhe and buck and twist on that bench, to come so hard people on the incoming train could hear me. But I stayed quiet… my breath coming faster, growing shaky, my face flushing with the heat of my pleasure.

  The shadow of someone passed over us and I slowed, biting my lip, but Dan encouraged me, tweaking my nipple, making me sigh and gasp. I wanted to tuck my hands between my legs, to rock against my palm, but I didn't dare. My clit was throbbing as I nudged myself, bit by agonizing bit, toward orgasm. My thighs were flexed so tightly that, three days later, I would still feel the soreness in my muscles — but I didn't notice it then. His cock strained against his jeans — I could actually feel it pulsing through the denim — and that turned me on even more. I longed to take him into my mouth, to make him come, too…

  But he was focused on me, whispering things I could barely hear, "That's it, good girl, do it for me, come on, baby, that's so good, you're so beautiful, don't stop, don't stop…" I couldn't have stopped if I wanted to. The delicious, winding spiral that had been stretching between he and I all weekend was pulled to its maximum, taut and trembling with such force that my thighs, my breath, my whole being shook with it. I knew it was going to snap back, and the sensation would send me into orbit.

  "Oh god…" I whispered it. I think I whispered.

  My hips moved faster now, my thighs squeezed together so tight they hurt, my little clit rubbing over the seam of my jeans again and again and again. Dan moved his hand surreptitiously to my other breast, shifting his weight, his thumb touching my nipple and that did it — the feeling reached its limit and my whole body stiffened with pleasure and I quivered in his lap, burying my face against the hard, heated length of his shaft as I came, feeling surge after surge shuddering through me.

  We didn't talk afterward. He stroked my hair as my body began to relax and the flush in my cheeks began to fade. I didn't open my eyes for a long time, too afraid of what — or who — I might see around us. Later, Dan said he didn't think anyone had noticed, and considering how busy it was, he was probably right.

  I didn't sit up until it was time to go to his train, and we walked, hands swinging, to where he would start his part of the journey home. He kissed me goodbye. It was the last time I'd ever see him, although I didn't know it at the time. Things didn't work out…

  relationships often don't.

  But I'll never forget that weekend. Or the time we spent together on that bench in Union Station.

  Confessions: Watching Him Masturbate

  I love to watch a man masturbate. It's a little fetish of mine, and I think it started because my ex-husband claimed he never masturbated. I couldn't imagine-I know I did, all the time, and according to the statistics, men supposedly did it much more than women. It took him over a year before he was willing to let me give him a handjob-and it was even longer than that before he would masturbate in front of me. And that was after I caught him. Or, really…he caught me watching.

  I'd been watching for a while. I was a bad influence on him-I introduced him to porn. He discovered he loved watching two girls together, and I'd purchased several tapes of girl on girl porn just for him. He couldn't resist. Which is what I
was hoping. At night, after he thought I was asleep, he'd sneak into the living room and put on some girlie porn. Me, I'd wait to hear the low moans of the girls on the television before sneaking out myself, watching from the doorway.

  The angle was a good one-I could see his profile, leaning back into the couch, his cock standing straight up in his pumping fist. I could also see the television screen, the girls there humping a double dildo between them, riding a pink jellied cock and moaning loudly. It was hard to decide which to watch, the movement of his hand up and down the length of his cock, or the sweet sight of two wet pussies, one blonde, one dark, impaled on a slick dildo. Just standing there, my panties were getting wet.

  When the girls on screen started moaning louder, fucking faster, pressing their pussies as close as they could, his hand moved faster. When the blonde reached out to squeeze the dark-haired girl's nipple, I heard a sharp intake of his breath, and his hand moved a little faster still.

  "Oh, god, baby, I'm coming, I'm coming!" The dark-haired girl moaned, her belly quivering, her whole body stiff, and I saw his hand squeezing the tip of his cock-hard-

  a bit of precum gathered at the tip. The sight made me breathless with lust, and I ached to go lick it off, but I didn't want him to know I was there.

  I finally gave into the ache between my legs, sliding my hand down to touch myself. I was afraid to interrupt him, thinking he'd be too embarrassed being caught that he'd stop. I didn't want him to stop. I wanted to see him come. The dark-haired girl had moved position, so she was licking the blonde, using the dildo to fuck her at the same time, the end in her hand, the cock had been inside her pussy, still shiny and slick.

  "Oh yeah," I heard him whisper as the blonde played with her nipples, pinching, squeezing, moaning, begging the other girl to lick her faster.

  "Oh, baby, yes, that's soooo good!" the blonde moaned, reaching her fingers down to spread her pussy lips wider. "Eat that wet cunt! Oh god! Lick it 'til I come all over your face!"

  He was jerking himself fast now-so fast! — his breath filling the room. His hand shuttled up and down his thick length, finally focusing right at the head, his eyes half-closed as he watched the screen. My eyes went from him to the TV and back again, my fingers wet, rubbing my clit while I watched. My pussy ached, my nipples hard under my t-shirt, as he pumped faster, harder, his breath coming in panting gasps, his hips bucking up, his toes curling. He was close. So was I.

  "That's it!" The blonde arched, spread, came, the dark haired girl pumping that slick cock furiously into her cunt, her tongue a blur over her clit. "Ohhhh I'm coming! I'm coming!"

  He groaned as he came, his cock spurting hot, white jets of it over his hand, landing thickly on his belly. Just the sight of his cum made me come, too, shuddering against the doorway, pressing myself there, feeling like I was going to collapse.

  I moaned, unable to help myself-I couldn't keep quiet — and that's when he saw me. Our eyes locked, and I saw a myriad of emotions cross his face-from embarrassment to excitement. Finally, the latter won out, and I went over to the couch to join him. From then on, he masturbated in front of me when I asked him to.

  But sometimes I still liked to sneak out and watch when he didn't know I was watching.

  Confessions: Key West

  There is just no place on earth like Key West. The Florida Keys are beautiful, of course-white, sandy beaches and long, rolling shores of clear water so warm swimming feels more like bathing-but Key West is a whole different world altogether.

  We were young when we went for the first time, in our twenties, and we’d only been married a few years. It was one of the first trips we’d made away from the kids, and the freedom of not having two little ones hanging onto my skirts all day was exhilarating.

  We’d traveled with, among others, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend and her two older teen girls. They were more energetic than we were after the long plane ride, and spent their first night out in a bar-slash-nightclub. In the morning over a free hotel breakfast muffin, my brother-in-law related the night’s events with wide, naive eyes.

  “A guy tried to pick me up!” he professed, lowering his voice and looking around as if to make sure no one overheard him to whisper, “He was gay!” As if we hadn’t understood the first time. I hid a smile and exchanged a quick, amused look with my husband. His entire family-aside from him-was wildly homophobic. It had surprised me when his parents suggested a trip to the Florida Keys, with a stay in Key West, considering the population, but who was I to argue with a week away?

  “Really?” I took a sip of orange juice to hide my smile. “So what club was this?” He told me, and then went on to describe the compromising position he’d found himself in, speaking in hushed tones. I was tempted to ask, “So why didn’t you take him up on his offer?” but I knew the teasing could only go so far before I crossed a line.

  That’s the way it was with them.

  But things were different in my marriage. We’d recently been talking about “other people,” talking about jealousy and commitment and what sex had to do with all of that.

  Neither of us was in any way homophobic-rather strange, given his Mormon upbringing and my prejudice father-and in fact, both of us were open to the point of having experimented with a member of the opposite sex at one time or another.

  He loved hearing about my exploits with my college roommate, and would often ask me to relate a “bedtime story,” about the times she and I had spent in bed together.

  The thought of watching or being with me and another woman inevitably turned him on, almost instantly. All I had to do, it seemed, was suggest the idea, and I could make him hard. And I had to admit-the thought appealed to me, too.

  I’d joked, packing my suitcase for our trip, that maybe we’d find someone to take back to the hotel when we were staying in Key West. I was half-kidding, half-not, and his response matched mine, “Maybe. Who knows?”

  Of course, talking about it wasn’t doing it. Actually doing something crossed a line, it seemed, and as we spent the afternoon at the beach, swimming and soaking up the sun, I thought about how we could eat our cake and have it, too. Was it possible?

  Would things change forever, if we did something like that?

  We all ate dinner together, but when he took my elbow as we were leaving and murmured, “Want to go hit that club?” in my ear, I smiled, and felt my bottom clench in excitement. It was within walking distance of the hotel, and when we all parted, I grabbed his hand and started walking. We were dressed for dinner-nice, but not too nice. It was still warm, although the last of the sun had faded out of the sky over an hour ago, and my skin was just slightly damp with perspiration.

  His hand moved around my waist, massaging my hip through my skirt as we walked. We didn’t talk, but the air was charged around us, electric with possibility. I had no idea what might happen, but I hoped. I think he was hoping, too. The truth was, I’d never been inside a gay bar. In fact, I hadn’t spent much time in bars at all. Neither of us were big partiers, but we both had adventuresome spirits that longed for…more.

  It wasn’t anything like I expected. Somehow I’d stereotypically pictured something out of The Birdcage. What we found wasn’t very different from most other night clubs or bars. It wasn’t full of flashy costumes, although both the men and women wore more leather than the general population, and had more tattoos and piercings. Or maybe that was just the bar crowd.

  He brought a drink to a table I found near the back-something girly and fruity, because I hated the taste of alcohol-and we sat together, quiet, drinking and watching, through several songs. He ordered more drinks, and I didn’t object, although I was a lightweight. Two drinks and I was feeling warm and fuzzy, everything softening around the edges. Three drinks and I was bold enough to grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor-another thing we didn’t do very often.

  The heat, the darkness, the music, all combined to move my body all on its own.

  It was me, but it wasn’t me,
like some scene out of Dirty Dancing, grinding against him, eyes half closed. I felt him respond, his hands moving over my hips, my waist, down over my ass. It was like having sex in public, and I followed not just the music but the throb in my lower belly and between my legs, making me rock against the hard press of his thigh between mine.

  I don’t know how long we danced-I lost time, until he finally pulled me back to the table, where I collapsed into a chair, so dizzy it felt as if we’d been flying.

  I drank the rest of the now iced-down fruity concoction in my glass and ordered another. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as I sucked that one down in huge gulps. I felt like I couldn’t get enough of…anything, everything. When his eyes met mine, they blazed with an unbelievable heat as his gaze moved over my body. I pulled my hair up in my hands and gathered it at the back of my head, leaving my neck exposed to the breeze. The front of the bar was open, letting in the night, and everyone with it.

  “Having fun?” he asked and I just smiled in response, leaning back in my chair and spreading my thighs under the table, letting the breeze in under my skirt, too.

  “Sure looked like it.” The voice startled us both as a woman grabbed the chair between us, turning it around and straddling it as she put her drink on our table. “You’re a great dancer.”

  “Thanks.” It was all I could think of to say in my surprise.

  She winked at me, her eyes heavily made up in dark black. Her hair was dark, too, short and straight and shaggy, her lips bright red. She had a nose ring and her eyebrow was pierced, and a tattoo that, in the darkness, looked like a mangled butterfly on the top of her bare right arm. She wore a black leather vest laced up the front with nothing underneath, her body full and lush.

  “So, wanna go again?” She knocked her drink back-it was nothing froofy like mine. It came in a shot glass. Standing, she set it on the table, jerking her head toward the dance floor. “Come on, let’s go.”