Sweet Confessions Page 4

  “Is this what you wanted?” he ground out his question between clenched teeth just moments after a particularly brutal thrust had made my eyes fly open and my breath catch.

  “Yes!” I gasped, and then added somewhat defiantly, “And it’s—about—fucking—time!”

  In response, he forced my legs farther apart with his own and tangled his hand in the hair at the back of my head. He tugged, pulling me upward, and the shift in stance positioned my mound so that every thrust of his hips ground my clit into the edge of the sink. It sent pleasure-pain jolts through my body, and it was not long before I was coming, my pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock, my mouth open as gasps and moans and cries were wrung from me.

  “Come for me,” I implored him as I rode that tide of pleasure, and he bent himself to the task. His eyes closed and his fingers tightened in my hair and he hammered himself into me hard and fast until finally he froze and emptied into me with a long, low groan. As his cock twitched inside me he pulled me up against his chest and took a breast in each hand. He sank his teeth into my shoulder and rolled my nipples, making me quake inside and out.

  God, I love this man, I thought to myself, because despite his prudery about sex in public places, I could always entice him to indulge me. I reached my arm back and pulled his head down toward me. I kissed him, sucking on his bottom lip, scraping it with my teeth as I let myself relax into him.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, stepping away from me. I grabbed the edge of the sink for support and watched in the mirror as he walked to the door and took my sundress off the hook. He wiped himself off with it and then tossed it at me.

  I spun around and caught it, then gave him my best indignant look.

  “Kurt!” I gasped. “I have to wear this!”

  “Yes, you do.” He smiled at me, a short meaningful smile. “Consider it the price for getting your way.” King mated, he acknowledged.

  I laughed delightedly and gave him a slow smile of my own.

  Yes, I supposed, a come-smeared sundress was a small price to pay for a café au lay.

  SILVER SCREEN

  Portia Da Costa

  It’s a grubby little backstreet cinema, and it smells grubby too. My nose wrinkles at the pungent aroma, an unsavory potpourri that I don’t really want to analyze.

  Sit on the third row, on the right, in the middle of the row, he said, giving precise instructions, as always. I peer into the flickering chiaroscuro gloom, my belly fluttering with nerves as I search for a vacant seat. God, I hope there aren’t too many perverts in the specified area! A few, I can handle. Too many and the peril outweighs the fun.

  My Harry can be a bit too much sometimes. His games are wild and his orders even wilder. But I can no sooner disobey him than stop breathing or feeling.

  Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I creep down the central aisle. My heart thunders. It’s a grim, grimy, horrible place, but still it excites me with its miasma of sexy sleaze. I imagine unspeakable things going on down every row. There is an usher on duty who’s probably far more entertained by the show in the auditorium than the one on the screen.

  The shadows seem to heave with activity: Fumbling. Fingering. Fucking. All the things, or at least some of them, for which Harry has commanded me to come here.

  Shifty movements circle my peripheral vision, and I thank god that the light from the screen is dim and defective so I don’t have to look at anything too closely. In the muggy, flickering murk I can imagine my own world, my own cheap and nasty scenario in this cheap and nasty place.

  The gasps and groans on the stuttering soundtrack don’t muffle the gasps and groans from the theater itself, and its scattered clusters of desperate patrons. Clandestine ecstasy is like a gathering vapor in the air, as strong and affecting as all the other, less salubrious odors.

  I feel a clench, deep down low, at the thought of unknown bodies rocking together. It’s a frisson that’s both sick and irresistible.

  Above me, the film plays on. A couple bump and grind, buck and moan. They’re infinitely more athletic and somewhat more stylish than the patrons slumped and jerking in the scummy, never cleaned seats, but I doubt that they’re enjoying themselves a fraction as much as my viewing companions are. But then again, who knows?

  Part of me wants to look away from the screen, but that kind of sex is like a car crash. You just have to look. And when I do pay more attention to it, I almost laugh. The guy who’s putting it noisily to his pneumatic brunette companion looks vaguely familiar. He reminds me of Steve, a buddy of Harry’s. My demonic boyfriend constantly teases me about liking his friend and has been badgering me for ages to admit that I fancy fucking him.

  And now, when I’ve finally admitted it, this is what he does. He sends me to a porno movie where the lead actor looks just like Steve. Well, not exactly like him, but near enough to create a luscious empathy.

  And the way Fake Steve is gripping his partner’s hips even reminds me of Harry’s own favorite sex style.

  He likes to grab me and really shove into me in a rough, relentless doggie-fashion. And I like to be grabbed and shoved into, I must admit. Especially when he’s growling a long, low rap of outrageous filth into my ear and plotting one of his mad, outrageous schemes.

  Like this one.

  Reaching the third row, I slip in on the right side. Oh, yuck, my shoe instantly squelches in some unidentified substance underfoot. I’ve a shrewd idea what it is, and judging by the gasps from across the aisle, quite a bit more of it is about to be deposited any moment now.

  The place is so utterly filthy and sleazy, yet it makes my pussy flicker with a perverse, delicious longing—for Harry, dark Harry and his dangerous touch.

  Where are you, you unmitigated fuck?

  He has to be around here somewhere. He hasn’t phoned me to cancel, so the game is still on. I feel light-headed, high on a cocktail of danger and a melting wash of yearning.

  Curious eyes turn my way as I slip into the prescribed seat. My heart pumps, my hormones surge, pure lust wells up.

  My clit throbs like a heart too, calling to Harry, as my panties flood with juice.

  I want to rubberneck around, looking for him, but now I’m in my seat, that’s forbidden. I have to keep my eyes completely focused on the screen, watching the action scrupulously as I pretend to allow a “stranger” to feel me up. Watching every bump and grind of the performers as I perform too, for this “stranger.”

  Harry loves for me to be slutty, and this is the ultimate in sluttiness: playing around and making free with myself in this dark yet public place.

  I sense a presence moving toward me. Someone slides in at the end of my row. It’s not busy in this section, and soon he’s worked his way along the seats and is sitting right next to me. I hear the faint creak of a leather jacket, and I’m glad he’s here at last. It’s taken him long enough. I was starting to feel vulnerable and not in a good way.

  But now it’s game on. I smell a sexy male cologne, something strong and woodsy that punches its way through the fetid smells around me and makes my head feel light. It’s not Harry’s usual brand, but then, I wouldn’t expect it to be. That would be a dead giveaway. It’s yummy though, and its narcotic odor seems to send all the blood in my body rushing straight to my genitals. My breasts feel heavy, the nipples hard and crinkled inside my bra, almost painful. My pussy feels slippery and bloated and the temptation to slide about in my seat and stimulate myself that way is unbearable. I try a little wriggle, attempting to knock my clit against the gusset of my knickers, but it seems to make things worse, not better.

  Beside me, however, my stranger emits what just might be a sigh of appreciation. Wiggling and waggling around in a dirty cinema seat isn’t doing a whole lot for me yet, but it’s certainly hitting the spot for him all right.

  Up on the screen, the ersatz lovers have changed position. Fake Steve has pulled out, and his lady friend has turned over. She’s rubbing herself enthusiastically,
squirming about on the satin sheet, her thighs flung wide while he looks on, handling his more than ample cock.

  Is Real Steve that big?

  I wish for a moment that I was on a bed such as that one, a vast arena with acres of room to maneuver. While both my “stranger” and Real Steve looked on, I’d lie back, lift my knees and hold myself open, blatantly displaying my sticky pussy to them in glorious Technicolor and aching detail. I imagine dazzling film lights shining down on it, warming it from without as lust warms it from within, revealing every last crinkle and crevice of my sex lips in merciless high definition.

  As Harry…sorry, the stranger…edges closer across the imaginary playing field of the black silk sheets, I insert a finger inside myself and Real Steve slides close on the other side, groaning in appreciation.

  There’s a groan from my right now, and god, I want to look around. Has the stranger got his cock out? Has he preempted me? Hell, I’m slacking. I haven’t really done a thing yet apart from wriggle around a bit in the darkness.

  Desperately aroused and almost hyperventilating with fearful excitement, I ease open my jacket, then stealthily unbutton my blouse. There’s a rustle from beside me, as if my companion is having trouble with his equipment and has been forced to adjust his position again to give himself some ease.

  So…maybe he hasn’t got his cock out after all?

  Having dressed carefully for this jaunt, I easily flip open the front fastening of my bra, nudge aside the cups and let my boobs swing free.

  Oh shit, I’ve done it now. I’ve shown myself. This is the public risk that Harry dared me to court. Because I can’t look around to check, I can’t be sure who’s watching. There could be dozens of punters ogling my pale breasts gleaming in the light from the cinema screen, a whole cadre of men who’re scrutinizing my exposed nipples, edging forward in their seats in the hopes of seeing either me, or the stranger beside me start to fondle them and play with them.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I think, as I oblige, having to bite my lips at the silvery jolt of sensation that speeds instantly from my nipple to my clit.

  I’m a powder keg of lust, ready to go off at any moment. My eyes almost cross, but with my few remaining fibers of self-control, I focus on the screen.

  Fake Steve is holding himself in his hand and rubbing up and down the inside of the brunette’s long, shapely thighs. His buttocks flex as he moves back and forth, back and forth. The dark girl swirls her hips as she plays with herself, moving in a surprisingly graceful syncopated rhythm.

  I go on pinching my nipple hard, emulating the rough but thrilling way Harry likes to handle me. Even though I can’t look to the side, I can close my eyes and imagine Harry plaguing my breasts, pinching and twisting, while Real Steve reaches between my legs, combing through my pubes until he finds my clit and pinches that too.

  Tears of frustration squeeze from between my tightly closed lids, and I bear down, grinding my aching pussy against the less than immaculate seat cover. It’s no good, I’m going to have to touch myself down there and come, or I’m going to have some kind of seizure, that’s for sure.

  I’m just about to pluck at my loose skirt when a hand from the right beats me to it. I almost wet myself I’m so shocked, so thrilled. Still pulling at my tit, I shift my thighs, open them wide as the hem eases the fabric up and up and up and pretty soon my pussy is exposed. A great waft of pungent woman smell drifts up, almost drowning out both my stranger’s delicious cologne and the scents of the cinema itself. I lift my bottom, helping him to ease my skirt from beneath me, and the sleazy degradation of sitting bare-assed on the filthy seat almost makes me come.

  For a moment his hand covers mine, squeezing my breast, then it dives down again, slipping into my pussy, just as Fake Steve’s plunges into his babe’s pussy, up on the screen. He starts to pump her with two stiff fingers, just as two stiff and very broad fingers jab magisterially into me. I whimper softly, then stifle the sound with my free hand. A thumb squashes down hard on my clit, and then with a rhythmic pincer movement he works me roughly, without mercy.

  I bite my hand. My heels scrape the filthy floor. The muscles of my thighs and buttocks tense to the point of pain. I bear down on the ruthless grip that beleaguers my entire sex.

  It takes just moments for me to come like a freight train.

  I gasp and heave for breath as I come down. And just as I’m about to shatter the game and turn and give Harry a sloppy kiss for his kinky efforts, his hand, still scented from me, presses firmly against my cheek, forcing me to remain focused on the screen and the rise and plunge, rise and plunge of Fake Steve’s hips and bottom as he vigorously fucks his fake lady love.

  So, the game has to be played to the end. It’s time for quid pro quo.

  I hear the sound of a sliding zipper, and then a big warm hand takes mine and conducts it to a big warm cock. Dear god, does he want me to kneel down amongst the condom wrappers and the months’ and years’ worth of dried semen on the carpet and suck him? Even while I cringe, my pussy flutters again at the thought of it.

  But no, he just folds my fingers more closely around his penis and begins to use them as a glove, working up and down, up and down, sliding easily and slickly on his precome.

  It seems to take an age and my arm starts to ache. But all the while my pussy’s aching too. Rubbing him makes my excitement surge again.

  He sighs now and again, but still he doesn’t say anything. Those are the rules, even for him. Even when he comes, saturating my fingers with what seems like an ocean of semen, he barely gasps and then recovers in seconds, zipping up and rising abruptly to move away along the line of seats.

  Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

  I sit motionless for a moment; then, in an embarrassed, sweaty flurry, I bring myself off again. I have to.

  Afterward, still shaking, I set my clothes to rights, almost leap to my feet and stumble from the cinema in a daze.

  The trip back to Harry’s flat is a compete blur. I’m assuming he wants me to go there and meet him afterward. We haven’t spoken since he laid out his wicked plan two days ago. When I finally reach my destination, I let myself in, looking forward to a large glass of wine while I wait for him to get back too.

  But something’s wrong. There’s a presence in the flat. Wine forgotten, I fly through to the bedroom and find Harry there, bundled beneath the covers in his huge wide bed, with books and tissues all around him, and glasses and cups and an open box of cold remedy sachets on the bedside cabinet.

  My face must be a picture. He laughs and wheezes. “Sorry, babe, couldn’t make it. I’ve got a cold.” The way he’s smirking though, despite his red nose and watery eyes, tells me that he knows that I still went, all the same.

  You bastard, you could have phoned!

  “But…but…” I quiver with a combination of horror and renewed arousal. What have I done? It’s willfully dangerous, letting myself get masturbated in a public place, by a real stranger. Yet I’d do it again if I got the chance; I just couldn’t help myself.

  “Don’t worry, love, it wasn’t some tramp or free-range pervert or other deadbeat who brought you off, you know.” He plays his fingers languidly over his mobile phone that’s resting on the counterpane amongst the sickbed detritus.

  But just when I think he’s going to call someone, there’s the sound of the flat door opening and closing, and then a firm tread approaches the bedroom. When it arrives at the bedroom door, and even before I turn around, I get a whiff of a luscious and now familiar male cologne.

  There’s the soft creak of a leather jacket, and as I slowly face its owner, my heart and my pussy flutter, newly hungry…

  At the sight of Real Steve, handsome and smiling and ready to go again.

  THE CONTENDER

  Jacqueline Applebee

  Uncle Ray was a boxer long before I was born. Ray “Magic-Hands” Harris was a big, stocky man; stern with strangers, but an absolute sweetheart to his friends. He was also a firstclass cook.
I remember standing on a chair when I was little so I could watch him make bread. He would pound the sticky dough with his powerful fists to create something amazing. Ray’s not exactly a contender nowadays. Sure he’s still a big man, but the leanness of his stomach has turned flabby over time; the strong muscled arms that used to swing me round and around have grown thinner, slacker.

  “I can still kick your arse!” he would call out when I would try to do something for him. “I’m not dead yet!” What Ray’s body had lost, his mind had retained. He could still go the distance when he was being a stubborn old git.

  I became a single parent when I was nineteen. My son, Blake, who is my simultaneous ray of sunshine and royal pain in the bum, wanted to be the heavyweight champion of the world when other children wanted to be astronauts or explorers.

  I went to pick Blake up from a boxing club in Bethnal Green. The Victorian building was stuffy, sweaty with male bodies who danced about in and out of the ring. Blake’s interest was only half the reason I enrolled him for boxing lessons; my appreciation of hot, fit men was the other.

  I shuffled onward, weighed down with bags of fruit I’d bought from the nearby Roman Road market. Salt trickles of perspiration made me blink. I breathed in the scent of masculinity, the familiar smell that never failed to arouse me. I’m a dirty old woman when it comes down to it.