The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (70 page)

My body sinks onto itself, my abdomen pressing onto my chest, my stomach crushing against my ribcage. My hands clutch at the backs of my thighs, my knees bending as my body folds. My cock seems
to leap at me from between my legs, as if trying to reach my mouth of its own will. I take it in my hands and wrestle it into my empty mouth, its width stretching my lips to a familiar shape. I
moan as I taste myself again at last. An eternity has seemingly passed since I last had my cock in my mouth. Immediately I begin to move my head back and forth on it, feeling it fatten and
strengthen, growing harder yet between my lips. I clamp my toes under the headboard and use the big muscles in my thighs to tighten my body in on itself, pushing my cock deeper into my mouth so I
can suck on it.

Starving, I swallow it whole, the trained muscles in my stomach contracting, helping me move the fat head in and out of my lips. My cock is the connection, the link that joins me to my own body.
It’s at its hardest now, perfectly erect, and I brace myself against the headboard and begin to buck up from the bed, fucking my own face, my head pressing into the mattress. I suck hungrily
on my cock as it fills my mouth, draw it in until my throat contracts around it, squeeze my lips around it until I can feel the blood pulsing through it.

With a gasp I free my cock and let it rest against my face while I breathe again for just a moment. It smells like sweat and bleach and I close my mouth around it again, as deeply as I want now,
my head pinned between my thighs. My weight forces my cock into my throat, the penetration deeper than before. I focus alternately on my mouth and my cock and try to decide which is giving and
which is receiving. Does the mouth pleasure the cock or does the cock please the mouth? I think of Sabrina for a moment and I wonder what she thinks of when she is sucking my cock, and then realize
I probably don’t want to know.

I’m going to come. I’m ready; I can feel it – something that Sabrina, I’m sure, can never quite do. I listen to my breath bursting out of my nostrils as I go all the way
down on myself, as far as I can, until my lips sink into my groin. I can feel the vibrations of my moans through my cock. My thighs tremble on either side of my head and, helplessly, I begin to
come, the thick, swimming mass sliding down my throat. It’s warm and briny and it pulses into my mouth in a series of clinching spasms and I think about the long journey it’s made from
deep inside my body, through my sucked cock and into my mouth, back within my body, where it had came from, never once leaving me.

I release myself, my body snapping open like a spring, and collapse on the bed. The knotted muscles in my back and thighs slowly soften and I take a few deep breaths when I finally think to. I
lie there for a long time and watch my cock as it rests on my left thigh and slowly begins to deflate.

I don’t want to think about Sabrina, but just for the first few minutes after I come, I do. I am so much better than Sabrina.

Debra, Doncaster

I have to admit here and now to having a pain fetish. It is a strange quirk in my nature. It has always been there; well, it has since I discovered sex. That fine line between
pain and pleasure does exist; it is not simply a cliche. But I must take you back in time to demonstrate this fine balance.

I met Gary, blond and bold, when I was in my early twenties. He was the first man to understand my need for pain. He could tie me to the bed and whip me for a good twenty minutes without
ejaculating all over the place. Most men come in seconds if a woman allows them a dominant role. Not Gary. With him I moved on a stage. Whipping my arse didn’t really create that much pain,
so I turned over. I loved to spread my legs and catch my breath as the whip crashed down between them. My pussy would jerk at the harsh attention but grow wet with the thought of the next stroke of
stinging leather. However, the problem with pain is you have to keep upping the ante. You soon become used to pain and when you do the pleasure stops. This was happening to me, so Gary looked on
the internet and found an interesting place.

Walking into the club was like walking onto the set of an old-fashioned horror movie. It was dark, very dark. Low lighting and weird music almost gave a sense of threat. I could feel excitement
and tension in the air. Gary went off to find the bar, while I soaked up the atmosphere.

Suddenly someone grabbed my hand and I was being dragged to the back of the room. The guy had a mask on, the type like a balaclava, but made of leather. I could see blond hair curling at his
neck. I knew it was Gary.

I was pulled through a set of huge doors and dragged down a short flight of stairs. Then I was pushed through a black painted door. I landed on the floor, panting. I got up and went to fondle
Gary but he shoved me away and gestured to me to undress. I got the message: pain first, pleasure second. I couldn’t get my clothes off quick enough; I was so wet.

My hands were placed in metal handcuffs that were attached to the wall by chains. I was naked apart from my leather thong. Gary still didn’t speak but he came over and stood in front of
me. He grabbed a nipple in each hand and squeezed hard. He rubbed his thumb and finger together and ground away at my nipples. It was fantastically painful. I could feel how wet my pussy was, it
was starting to drip out onto my thigh. I waited to see what he would do next.

He stood in front of me again. He had a large candle on his hand. He lifted one of my legs and I watched as he poured the hot candle wax onto my thigh. I whimpered with the pain. This was
different. This really hurt. I could feel the heat sinking into my leg; it seemed to last for ages. Then it cooled to leave a steady tingle under my skin. I wanted it again. This time he lifted my
leg higher and pushed my thong to one side. He dropped the hot wax in my groin and it trickled slowly towards my pussy, stopping just short. I had my head bent forwards to watch but the pain forced
my head back and I screamed. For the first time I lost my breath and my knees buckled. The first of the heat diminished and the steady tingle toyed with my soaking pussy.

I was sweating with pain and excitement. Would he do anything else? He came forwards again. He took hold of one breast and squeezed it so that the nipple was almost facing the ceiling. Then he
poured the hot candle wax over my nipple. I almost climaxed before the wax hit me, such was my fervour. The wax sent arrows of pain down my body and my hips started to jerk as my pussy demanded
some kind of release. Then I felt my thong being ripped off and Gary pushing me back against the wall. He rammed into me and I bucked against him, delirious with sexual excitement. The combination
of hot burning wax on my nipples and a huge cock surging in to me was beyond anything. I was so wet he was almost slipping out of me and I had to bring my legs up to anchor him to me. I climaxed
again and again, but as I came back down to earth I was aware that I might never match this experience.

Afterwards, Gary released me and left me to clean myself up. I looked at the pink marks left on my skin from the wax. I could still feel the tingle. I got dressed and left the room.

Gary spotted me straight away. “Here’s your drink. I’ve found out where we go and what the carry on is. So when you’re ready.”

I knew then that I had just had sex with a stranger. Perfect sex. Lots of pain and lots of pleasure. I am still with Gary and we still go to the club but what Gary doesn’t know is that I
go to the club on my own sometimes. Not often, just sometimes. I never know who the guy is, maybe it is always a different guy. But it is exciting because I never know how far they’ll go or
how much I can take. It will be my downfall one day but not yet. No, not yet.

Carmel, Hove

It was already hot that summer, and it got hotter after Jen arrived. The grass was crisp under our feet by June and the boys pulled off their shirts as soon as we left college,
exposing lean torsos already burned matt brown by the sun until they were the colour of chocolate ice cream. I thought about licking that dark smoothness and the thought made me hotter than hot,
until I was certain I would melt to the pavement and gloop there – a puddle of longing. Until Jen.

She was older than us and if she hadn’t been ill she wouldn’t have hung around with a bunch of teenagers. But glandular fever had made her value simple pleasures – she reached
back a few years to her own late teens as though they were a comfort blanket and joined in our lives, sharing again the things that seemed so complicated and important to us but were probably
infantile to her.

Like me. From the first time she gave me her “lazy” glance I knew. I walked back with her to her aunt’s house where she was recuperating. Jen led me up to her room, talking
calmly, sat me on her bed, lit a cigarette and then braced one hand on the bedside table and the other on the mattress beside me as she pressed her mouth to mine and offered her mouthful of tobacco
to me like a grey prayer. I knew women did this stuff, I knew what lesbians were. But they weren’t sexy, orchid-lipped, hip-swinging girls like Jen, or I didn’t think they were.

Every boy in my class was crazy about her – the kind of crazy that made them crumple their discarded shirts and hold them over their crotches to hide the way she made them swell inside
their trousers. And she was giving me the slowest kiss in the history of the universe. I felt my spine melt, just the way I had feared it would when I thought about the chocolate boys, and I rolled
slowly down to lie on her bed and she rolled down too, fitting her body against mine.

As soon as I felt the softness of her body, like mine, unlike mine, I realized I couldn’t stop. All I could feel was the sensation of giving way to her, her thigh between my legs, her
breast softer than clouds against mine, her mouth as gentle as moonshine, making its way from mine, still trailing its tobacco cloud, down my neck. I didn’t look, that first time. I
didn’t want to spoil the magic.

But after that I looked. I saw how her hips curved around mine to lock her thighs around me. I saw how the rosy flesh between her legs swelled like a stormy pink sea under my fingers, and how it
became like a handful of wet silk, slippery with pleasure and ripe with the insistence of near orgasm. I saw how the sweep of my long hair could shudder her small nipples into tightness, and how,
when she was sated afterwards, they relaxed again to gentle halos crowning her sweet breasts. I saw how her face darkened with excitement, how she bit her lips to hold back from coming. And I saw
how she came.

She could do me in ten seconds, I swear. Her hand, her tongue, even the blade of her thigh could bring me off so fast I wouldn’t have time to protest. But when I watched her, I saw I
couldn’t do what she did. When she was ready to come, she would gather herself up, like a predator and then she would use me, use whatever I was doing to her, to make it happen. I
couldn’t do it to her – I was an instrument of pleasure, not a conductor. At some point in that hot summer, it started to matter.

I wanted to make her melt like I did. I wanted to possess her and hold her on the point of orgasm and watch eyes unfocus and turn inwards on the moment of absolute pleasure when her face would
go slack and her toes would point away and her calves would bunch, bring the coral heart of her sex up to my hand as though magnetized, begging, demanding, pleading without words. I wanted to make
her come without her orchestrating it – and I couldn’t.

I began to plan. First I took her along the river, to a place I knew where an old punt lay half-hidden. I led her to the boat and showed her how we could strip off and rest on the wide wooden
planks of the ancient craft, in the blood-warm water of the river, surrounded by the scent of bulrushes and the thrum of insects. For an hour we lazed, and then I moved my fingers to enter her,
like the river entered her, warm and insinuating, secret and languid. And she came of course, but there was still that moment where she gathered herself around my hand, and I saw the calculation as
she lifted her spine and pressed down with her shoulders and rocked her hips to get me just “there”, where she needed me, and I knew I hadn’t given her the orgasm. She’d
taken it – again.

I tried a moonlit evening in the park. The two of us lay entwined on a bench, knowing that nearby a young man was watching us with the strained delight of someone who couldn’t believe his
luck.

I tried the top of a double-decker bus, with a hot wind blowing through the open windows and the seats scorching her thighs as I knelt and lapped at her clit – one eye trying to peer round
her to see any passengers who might be climbing the stairs to surprise us. But each time I felt the way she organized herself around her needs and shaped what I was doing to deliver what she
wanted. It began to drive me crazy.

Then I brought her to my parents’ house one day when they were both out. I stole a bottle of champagne from them, telling myself that they’d promised me a magnum when I graduated and
this was a kind of graduation. It was going to be the day I made Jen lose control. I took care that she drank most of it while we sat in the garden, feeling the sun pressing down on us like a
physical being, an insistent lover. The heat burned along the partings in our hair, slipped inside our ears, curled itself into the whorls of our navels – exposed by our bikinis – and
even found its way to the root of every pubic hair, striking so hard on our tight bikini pants that we could feel the sunshine trapped there.

When I led her upstairs she had a wonderful smell, like baked bread, and she was vaguely drunk. For a while we just lay tangled on my bed, listening to the sound of lawnmowers outside, and then
I remembered I had a task, a grail to find. I began to please her, moving down her body, peeling the bikini away and anointing every inch of the flesh it had covered with kisses. She sighed. I used
my fingers to bring her nipples to tight buds, pinching gently so that she shuddered with pleasure-pain. I straddled her and began to sweep my fingers from her neck to her thighs and, as I did, I
heard a wasp, trapped against the window, trying to get out. As I hypnotized Jen with my hands, I watched the wasp, quietly murmuring its way up the glass and then falling back to the window sill
in a bad-tempered crescendo of loud buzzes. Instinctively I timed my movements to the wasp’s, travelling slowly and easily around the contours beneath me, then cupping my hand over her sex
and pushing hard against her pubic bone in time with the insect’s irritable descent.