The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (65 page)

“How’s that ass smell, boy?” Cindy asked, an apparent rhetorical question.

My jealousy and arousal intensified times ten as compared to my wife’s and my bedroom talk, watching this other man eat out my wife. Her moans were muffled as she sucked my cock. She had
to stop periodically to release the pressure to moan freely, but would jack me off during these moments. I had never heard her moan like that when I licked her cunt. She was being a filthy whore
– and I loved it!

“What are you waiting for? Fuck her, Rick.”

Rick dropped his pants, positioned himself behind my darling wife, and drove his cock in. My wife grunted and groaned. He started slowly at first, gradually accelerating.

My wife removed her lips from around my cock, looked up at me and announced, “His dick feels so
fucking
good.” Intense heat travelled throughout my body, and I shuddered all
over.

I grabbed hold of the back of Cindy’s hair and forced her back down around my dick. “Suck, bitch,” I commanded. And she sucked hard and fast, deep-throating me as Rick ploughed
her. Her moans caused pleasurable vibrations, and she cupped my balls in her hand.

My wife sporadically stopped sucking only to barrage me with comments such as, “Ooh, he is such a good fuck,” and, “His dick is
so
big!” She would also blurt out
commands to Rick. For example: “That’s it, stud; fuck your friend’s wife. Fuck that cunt good and hard!”

Rick laid into her with quick, jerky thrusts and was sopping with sweat.

“Stick a finger up my butt,” my wife demanded of Rick. Rick slobbered on his large, middle finger and eased it into Cindy’s butt hole. My wife moaned more loudly as he fingered
her taut little ass.

“Come on, Rick, spank me with your other hand!” Cindy yelled. Rick did as told, slapping at both ass cheeks. He was leaving red handprints on her caboose.

I could not believe what I was experiencing, nor could I believe my wife was actually letting this happen and seeming to dig it.

“You fuck better than my husband!”

I was ablaze. I yanked my wife from around Rick’s finger and cock, flipped her on her back, and fucked the living daylights out of her. She was yelling like crazy with pleasure until Rick
shut her up with his dick down her throat. I ripped her pyjama top open and held her wrists so she could not move them. Rick groped at her breasts.

We all three came in unison, seemingly suspended in time; then we collapsed upon one another.

I slept the best sleep I’d had in years that night. Since then, adding to our various sexual implements – the dildos, the sex oils, the erotic films, and the anal beads – we
had Rick, who seems to visit much more often nowadays.

Tony, Leicester

The other day I heard Bryan Adams singing “Summer of ’69” and it brought back all sorts of memories – not least of which was Mrs Greening and her
wonderful underwear. More specifically it reminded me of Mrs Greening’s clothes line, and what I saw there that summer. Just an ordinary clothes line strung across our neighbour’s
garden but to me there was a fascination about what she hung on it – mostly her underwear. I was nineteen and old enough to know that women of a certain age wore a certain kind of underwear,
that they upholstered themselves with things they called foundation garments. Nothing trivial or lightweight, not like the teenage girls I’d try to chat up at the clubs around the city
– exciting enough in their nylon knickers and skimpy cotton bras, or even the ones who liked to be daring and go round without any bra on at all, but nothing as substantial as the things the
woman next door wore.

Women like Mrs Greening weren’t into anything trendy. They wore real, functional underwear designed to enhance their mature shape, to hold them in and push them up. Bras with broad, white
satin-like straps and pointed cups. Matching girdles, shaped like a tulip with a zipper at the side and adorned with metal clasp suspenders – those strange, almost ingenious creations –
and of course nylons. Nylons that gleamed with a faint sheen that drew my eye. My friends, falling over themselves in their fantasies of possessing girls in miniskirts and tights, seemed oblivious
of the charms and styles of mature women and what older women wore underneath their sensible, knee-length dresses and skirts.

But then I told myself they hadn’t seen Mrs Greening’s clothes line, they hadn’t seen her as I had pegging out her corsets and slips and all the rest of it. If they had seen
what I’d seen, out on the line and drying in the sun, they would have understood too. It made me go hard just thinking about it, and the fact that Mrs Greening was wearing all that underwear
every day.

I wondered if Mr Greening took any notice of it, but he always seemed to be out at the local pub, leaving his wife in on her own. They must have been happy enough with how they lived as I never
heard them row, not like my mum and dad did at times. So I reasoned that Mr and Mrs Greening were content enough, even if he wasn’t as turned on as me about the thought of the woman in her
heavy-duty underwear.

I did agonize over this, fearing that my desire to masturbate over the thoughts of the woman and her lingerie was unique. I worried it made me some sort of pervert, wanting to think about a
woman in her forties wearing all those tight girdles and long-line brassieres. But then it wasn’t the underwear alone. It was the thought of Mrs Greening in them, and in my self-excited
fantasies she was increasingly showing me herself in her underwear.

I even got off on the idea of her going out into the back garden in her underwear and pegging her normal clothes out on the line as if she had washed everything and had nothing else to wear. The
thought of her wandering round the house in her underwear and stockings was the trigger I needed to send me into a fabulous climax.

In truth I didn’t know Mrs Greening very well. I saw my mother talking to her across the fence in the garden, and several times slid close enough to try to listen in, hoping they would be
discussing Mrs Greening’s underwear. They weren’t, I was disappointed to discover.

Mrs Greening was mature, though I had no real idea of how old she was. Not as old as my mum (who was forty-seven) but not far off. She was a brunette, not especially tall but well built with a
narrow waist and good, round hips. Her bust jutted out invitingly and it took me no time at all to work out that her shape was no doubt mostly about what she wore under her outer clothes.

The thoughts that this was everyday stuff for Mrs Greening, that every morning she would clip and fasten and zip herself into her underwear, sent my fantasies into overdrive. It had briefly
occurred to me that my mother might have underwear like Mrs Greening – my little sister Jane certainly didn’t – but a surreptitious examination of laundry piles and drawers soon
revealed my mother didn’t feel the need to wear what Mrs Greening did. I resumed my interest in Mrs Greening’s clothes line, relieved in a way my mother didn’t wear what our
neighbour did as it seemed entirely wrong to think these thoughts about my own family.

Then I found out what Mrs Greening was like.

For once I wasn’t staring at the clothes line. For once I wasn’t preoccupied with curves and containment. But a breeze, a sudden stiff gust, sprang up and one of Mrs Greening’s
white girdles – as the mercurial twist of fate would have it, not pegged properly to the line – finished up on our side of the fence. Under many circumstances, I might have felt it
better to tell my mother, let her deal with it. But Mum was out and, feeling a little emboldened by the chance to touch Mrs Greening’s underwear, I picked the girdle up, feeling its weight
and texture, admiring the suspenders and the sheen on the panel at the front (at least I assumed it was the front).

It didn’t surprise me that being so close to what had been so close to Mrs Greening made me erect, bulging the front of my trousers. I was however surprised that Mrs Greening emerged from
her house at that moment and confronted me.

“So, young Tony,” she intoned, one eyebrow raised, standing in front of me in a satin-like gown drawn and tied closed at the waist. “It’s you that’s been sneaking
round taking my underwear off the clothes line, is it?”

I stared at the woman, my jaw sagging. I had last been in her garden three years before to retrieve a ball. But having been banned, after smashing a window at our own house, from playing
football in the garden, I had no need to do anything but stay on my own side of the fence.

In truth it had never occurred to me to steal Mrs Greening’s underwear. I couldn’t even believe anyone would steal clothes from a line. My mum and dad hadn’t said anything
about thieves in the neighbourhood and Mrs Greening would have told them, I was sure.

“That’s mine, I think you’ll find. Looks like I’ve caught the culprit, red-handed.” She seemed to have a smirk on her face as she said it.

Words failed me, but I managed to stutter something out along the lines of: “M-Mrs Greening . . . I hadn’t . . . I mean, it isn’t me . . . I don’t steal . . . this . . .
urn, girdle blew over –”

“Hmm, you know what it is then,” sighed the woman. “Please don’t make it worse for yourself by lying.”

I felt crushed. I wasn’t lying and I thrust the offending girdle towards the woman, feeling ashamed and confused. But she didn’t take it. Mrs Greening stood, hands on hips, and
regarded me, her eyes going to my crotch. “I do understand, believe me. An attractive, mature woman’s underwear on a clothes line always attracts young men. Excites them,
too.”

“Oh!” I gasped as I realized what the woman was looking at. Blushing red, I tried to cover my embarrassment by dropping my hands, still holding the girdle, over the front of my
pants. Mrs Greening merely laughed.

“Tony, as you are so fascinated by my underwear, I suggest you come over here and gather all my clothes in off the line. Think of it as a test that you can touch my underwear without
wanting to steal it. Bring them into my house, please, while I consider if I should tell your parents about what you have been up to.” At that she turned and marched off into the house,
leaving the kitchen door open.

I gulped, understanding at once that here was some get-out clause, that bringing all her underwear in would somehow help prove my innocence. I hopped over the fence and set about gathering the
assortment of bras and girdles and stockings and even knickers – deep-waisted knickers, I noted – off the line. Under normal circumstances the chance to visit so much mature
women’s underwear would have made me swoon with delight, but this was more serious than that.

Mrs Greening was waiting in the kitchen and indicated I should drop the pile of clothes on the table. “It wasn’t me,” I said as I put them down. “You have to believe me,
Mrs Greening. I wouldn’t steal your clothes.”

“Really? And yet you spend so much time staring at them, when I hang them out.”

I felt my face burn. So she had noticed me, staring at the underwear on the line, and I earnestly wished the ground would open up and swallow me. “It . . . It isn’t like that,”
I managed to say.

Mrs Greening was cool and very much in control. “Tell me what it is like, then.”

“It’s just that . . . urn, your clothes. Seeing them –”

“My underwear,” corrected the woman. “My skirts and blouses don’t hold the same fascination for you, do they, Tony?”

I felt my face grow even redder. I started to say something vague about all women’s clothes holding a fascination but it was not only gibberish that came from my mouth, but clearly a
lie.

“I’m disappointed in you, Tony,” said Mrs Greening gently, interrupting my implausible little speech. “I hoped you would understand better.”

Understand? If I wasn’t confused already I certainly was now. “Mrs Greening, please don’t tell my –” But I didn’t get any further. Mrs Greening had undone the
tie at her waist and let her robe fall open.

The act revealed she was wearing a black bra and girdle complete with suspenders holding up her dark, almost black stockings. My jaw – for the second time that day – must have sagged
open in disbelief as I saw her in her underwear. Underwear I had never seen on the clothes line. I remember hearing a strange gurgling noise coming from my throat, a mix of shock and delight I
suppose.

“Do you like what you see?” Mrs Greening was almost purring, eyes on me. She put her hands on her hips, inside the robe, so it was held open even more, one nylon-adorned knee forward
as a model might display what she was wearing. “Wouldn’t you say my underwear is better on me than on the clothes line?”

Somehow, I nodded. I hardly dared blink in case this apparition disappeared. Then something happened that I would curse silently for another three years. There was a knock at the front door, my
mother calling out: “Mrs Greening, are you in?” She sounded urgent.

Mrs Greening half shrugged, and drew her robe round her, fastening it again and hiding the vision of her in her black underwear. “I think you’d better go out of the back door,
don’t you? Before your mum sees you in here and starts to think strange thoughts.”

I fled as suggested, and never did find out what those strange thoughts might be, but I soon found out why my mother’s intervention was so urgent. There’d been a big accident at the
factory where Mr Greening worked, with three people badly hurt – including Mr Greening. He wasn’t expected to survive and didn’t.

The funeral of Mr Greening ten days later was a sombre affair. I felt I should go, but there were so many going to the service, so many of the Greening family and friends were there, the chapel
would be full to bursting. As a good friend my mother went, but no one else from our family did. I peeked out from behind the curtain as I saw the woman next door, dressed all in black, being
helped into the lead car behind the hearse. Although it was a sad occasion I felt slightly guilty thinking about what the widow might be wearing under her black outfit.

I felt incredibly bad about such a thought at a time like this, but then I had come so close to something quite wonderful. I fantasized about fucking the woman (in her underwear, of course) but
the opportunity had disappeared almost at once. I might have hoped that in time she would call me into her house again but within a week of the funeral Mrs Greening had moved to her sister’s
place, somewhere near Skegness.