The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (41 page)

He tells his wife he likes to jog early in the morning, before pollution envelops the city. He tells her he enjoys his run better when there are fewer people on the sidewalks, and when the sun
hasn’t yet risen. These are only half-truths, because he actually does jog all the way from his house to mine. I doubt if his wife even notices any more when he rolls out of bed before dawn.
I doubt if she ever notices him at all. That’s fine. I’ve taken it upon myself to notice him. In fact, I could notice him all day and all night, if I ever had the opportunity.

I emerged from the depths of slumber as he kicked off his shoes in my front hall. I scrambled out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. When you only get to see your lover once a week,
you always want to look and smell and taste perfect. And morning breath is a major turn-off. When I turned off the bathroom light, my eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough to the darkness of my
bedroom.

I asked, “Where are you?” as I walked straight into him. Ouch. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I told him.

He concurred with his standard standby. “Likewise.”

“All week I’ve been waking up and asking myself, ‘Is it Saturday yet . . . ?’” That’s all I managed to say before he kissed me. An entire week’s worth
of kisses in less than one minute.

When I opened my eyes I found that they had adjusted to the darkness and I could see my lover. Even after two and a half years, it’s a thrill to see this man in my bedroom. He was still
dressed, so I tore off his jogging shorts, followed by his red Reebok T-shirt, his running socks and his black underwear. I stepped back and, encircling him, took a good look at his tight butt and
his athletic thighs. All that jogging . . . Then I ran my hands over his chest, smooth with only a touch of hair around his little pink nipples. He threw his arms around me and squeezed my body
tightly against him. I’ve always loved that sensation of his chest and my breasts being separated only by my thin silk negligee.

I dropped to my knees to do what I know his wife won’t. His cock was still lifeless when I took it between my lips. The sensation of a soft cock against the walls of my mouth was
hilarious. What did it feel like? Like a snake, maybe. Malleable, like I could have tied it in a knot. I took it all in and, as I encircled his limp dick with my tongue, I started to feel it jerk
and grow. As I sucked it, of course, it got bigger and bigger until his meat was so large I couldn’t keep it all in my mouth any more.

Getting below him, I licked his balls, taking each in my mouth before working on the sensitive head of his penis. He made those noises I love to hear, sort of like a snort and a sigh, and he
said my name while he stroked my hair. It’s great to hear him say my name. I love that.

Anyway, I figured it was my turn, so I lay back on the bed to let him ravage me with his tongue. He licked my pussy lips hard with a warm, wet tongue. That really got the juices flowing. Then he
sucked on my clit while squeezing my nipples through my silk negligee and, let me tell you, nothing else in the world feels that good. No, that’s a lie, because what he did next was even
better.

His cock was large with anticipation and just the sight of it made my pussy whimper. Oh, I just had to have it! I had to feel that big slab of meat inside of me and I don’t mind saying so.
The sight of my lover holding his cock by its base, guiding it towards me, made me quiver. My pussy opened up for him to ram it in me, hard and strong. I couldn’t help but think how hot he
looked while he was doing it. His lean stomach muscles, embraced by only the slightest layer of insulation, tightened with every thrust. I ran my fingers through the dark curls above his hard rod.
He has the most incredible body!

Rolling onto my stomach, I half stood on the floor and half leaned against my bed. He came at me from behind, reaching around to rub my clit while I reached back to fondle his balls. I love the
way they feel in my hand, squishy and soft. With both hands, he took firm hold of my hips and plunged into me so hard I could feel the pressure throughout my core. While his fingers grasped my hip
bones and his thumbs dug into my butt, I hoped and prayed they would leave bruises. That way I would have something physical to remember him by throughout the week. I love to catch a glimpse of a
lovely purple mark on my body and sheepishly recall the naughty act that created it.

As my man thrust faster, I explored the muscles of his thighs with my hands as he jutted forwards into me. They were eager and hard. His thighs are his favourite feature, but I’ve always
been most fond of his cock. Rising to the balls of his feet, he held me aloft by my hips. God, those sexy arms! My feet weren’t even touching the floor and I had to grab my duvet just to hold
on to something. When I turned in near ecstasy to gaze at his face, it was practically scarlet, with one vein throbbing at the side of his forehead. The muscles in his athletic arms pulsed.

“Aren’t I too heavy for this?” I asked, anticipating his response.

“Feathers,” he said with strained laughter. “You’re as heavy as feathers.”

His cock had a mind of its own. It rammed so hard and fast into me, I knew my pussy would ache for days. So much the better. The dull pain would help me remember this morning throughout the
week. I would do anything for that man. Thrusting his whole body into mine, he propelled me forwards so hard the mattress shifted sideways across the box spring. When he set my knees down on the
dishevelled bed, I could feel his warm lips planting kisses across my back. He hugged me tightly around the waist, and I knew he was about to come.

Releasing a whimper like a child’s cry, he collapsed on top of me on the displaced mattress, cuddling against my back. He may never say it, but that’s how I know he loves me. We lay
like that for a while, our blissed-out bodies in layers, flowing like a waterfall from heads on the mattress to knees on the box spring to feet on the floor. With his heavy body on top of me, I
couldn’t move if I wanted to.

Eventually, he got up and showered. I didn’t move a muscle, just absorbed the scent of his body on my skin. After he dressed, he picked me up and reoriented me on the mattress, pushing it
back into place. He tucked me into my sheets and duvet, then kissed my lips softly.

“I’ll see you next week,” he whispered, placing his gentle lips against my forehead. I listened to the metallic jingle of my lover’s keys as he locked the door on his way
out. It was not yet 6:30 a.m. and already I couldn’t wait for the following Saturday.

Is it wrong to love a man with a wife and two kids? I don’t know. Maybe it is. But I’m addicted to the very smell of him now, and to the feeling of ecstasy that lingers long after
he’s gone. Looking forward to his next visit gets me through the week. Anyway, I don’t take up much of his time. Just an hour each Saturday at 5:30 a.m.

Robert, Wirral

OK, I confess. I did it. I screwed my wife’s best friend. I’m only partly to blame. Only partly. Sophie should at least share the blame, even though she’d
never admit it. But she knew. I never made any secret about what pushes my buttons and she pushed as many as she could reach.

She’s one of those women who make you want to breathe in when you walk past them in the street and then hold your breath for as long as possible to keep their scent inside you. The first
act in her capture.

My tastes have always been simple on the surface, but incredibly complex when you get under that surface. My public side, the one I always felt free to share with everyone, was a simple liking
for most things that defined femininity to my albeit narrow mind. ‘Black’ falls into the list, as do ‘lacy’, ‘frill’, ‘stocking’,
‘suspenders’, ‘underwear’ and so on – I’m sure you get my drift.

And, like I said, Sophie knew it. She would wear clothes that not only inflamed my sight but also my senses of smell and hearing, the perfume of her and the way her clothes seemed to rustle as
she moved. But, until that fateful day, the sense of her touch had eluded me. My eyes would dart each time she crossed her legs, hoping unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the stockings I was sure
she wore, or perhaps the nirvana of bare skin above.

Oddly enough it was my writing that catalysed it all. I write erotic books. That’s one of my less public secrets, because people have their prejudices and preconceptions, not least my
wife, who thinks I’m twisted and sick. Not that her opinion affects me other than to make me smile at her mediocrity as a woman and as a person.

Since I’ve known Sophie and her husband for so many years, and, on this occasion, alcohol had been flowing rather too liberally at a Christmas party, I confessed to her, too. She’d
seen some of my straight writing, but this time, goaded by the scents and the sounds and the sights, I told her about my bondage novels. I didn’t get the reaction my fantasies had hoped for.
I was relating the story of a woman who, to satisfy her dominant partner, had agreed to try to overcome claustrophobia be letting him lock her in a crate, suitably naked and thoroughly bound, for
as long as he, not she, wished.

Sophie attacked. Why would a woman agree to such a thing? What could she, or her man, get out of the exercise, especially when, by their actions, they were physically separated by the boundaries
of the wooden coffin that secured her?

But Sophie is not the only one who can push buttons. “If you have to ask, you’ll never understand the dynamic,” I countered.

That worked. I could feel her seething. Not that she’d ever admit I’d got to her. And then the subject changed, never to return.

Not that day anyway.

I’d almost forgotten the incident by the time she phoned my mobile. When I saw her name on the display the memory returned and I expected some barbed comment. Instead her tone was guarded
and mysterious. The book I’d been talking about, could she by any chance read it? I waited a few moments for some reason, some excuse why she would want to read such a perverse book. None
came. I promised I’d drop off a copy when I went to the supermarket later in the day. I waited a respectable amount of time before driving to her house. If she was in, she didn’t answer
the door, so I dropped it through her letterbox in a suitably ambiguous brown envelope.

Nothing happened until the following day, when a short text message on my mobile made things more serious. “Damn you,” it said. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Can we talk about it?” was my answer, a slight edge of concern that this would be some get-even plot hatched between Sophie and my wife.

“When?”

“Today. Two p.m.”

“OK.”

That got my heart rate going.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife when she let me in later the same day. She was polite and quiet, searching for the courage to open discussions. I guessed it fell to me.

“So,” I started, “the book …”

She blushed and avoided my eye.

“What was it you couldn’t get out of your mind?” I asked, adding, to help her, “the box?”

“No … all of it. Do people really behave like that?”

“Yes, lots of people do. Don’t tell me Peter has never forced you to do something, or held you down?”

“He’s very gentle,” was her get-out. I had always thought them naive.

A pause from both of us. A long pause. Did we dare resume breathing?

“Tell you what,” I offered, as light as I could be, “why don’t we try something? No pressure. If you don’t like it, just say and we’ll stop.
Immediately.”

“Like a safe word?” she blurted. So she had read a lot.

“Yes. Choose one.”

She answered too quickly. She’d already imagined this. “Mozart” betrayed her interest in classical music.

“Mozart it is.” I smiled. “Just don’t ask me to hum.”

“What are you going to do?” she wanted to know, straight away.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested.

A scared look. “I never agreed that we’d . . .” An unfinished doubt.

“One step at a time. You can’t see in through the bedroom windows,” I explained then gambled on, “and there’s a bed to tie you to.”

That hit home. She swallowed hard. “OK.”

I followed her lovely rear view as we climbed the stairs and she led the way to their bedroom, then sat nervously on the bed and looked at the floor. A dressing gown hung behind the door, its
belt an obvious invitation. I think she expected me to tie her hands with it, but instead I used it as a blindfold. To hide her from herself. She sat still as I fitted and knotted it.

“Something else. To tie you with,” I told her, my voice husky with desire for her.

“Ties. Second door along.”

Peter’s ties. A betrayal of her marital status? Maybe. I didn’t worry about that, taking a handful of ties and kneeling in front of her, wrapping the silk around her unprotesting
wrists. Then another round her ankles. She stiffened as I raised her skirt.

“Your knees,” I lied. Well, part lied. I did secure her just above the knees, but I also took time out to see her stockings and thighs.

“How do you feel?” I asked when she was no longer free.

“Peculiar,” she replied. “Excited.”

I reached forwards and cupped her breast, the reaction an involuntary intake of breath. But Mozart stayed dead. My hand grew bolder, feeling her flesh through her dress and bra, the nipple
pushing back at me. I focused on it, pleased with her sighed response.

“Do you like being helpless?” I wanted to know.

“I’m not helpless,” she whispered. “I can move my hands. I could stop you if I wanted.”

She moved her bound hands upwards and nudged mine from her breast. But did she want? To paraphrase the Spice Girls, did she really, really want?

“I think you are starting to understand, Sophie,” I ventured. “Let me change the question . . .
Would
you like being helpless?”

No answer. Just her rising and falling chest.

“Lie back on the bed,” I suggested. No, it was more a demand than a suggestion. I had to teach her.

“What are you going to do?” But she settled back and swung her feet up on the bed without waiting for me to answer.