Sweet Confessions Page 7

  With her skirt pulled up to her ass, naked skin beneath, her pussy pressed hard against the crisp white sheets. She focused intently on the men—oh, the noises that they made. Those were almost as sexy to her as what they were doing. But then Ry did exactly what she’d fantasized about moments before. He slipped a pillow under her hips to raise her, parted the cheeks of her ass and pressed his tongue to her hole.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Why hadn’t she let him do this before? He made one spiral and then another. She shut her eyes for a moment—because the wave of pleasure was almost too extreme—then opened her eyes and stared down at the forest-green carpeted floor, speckled with bits of lint. Ry slid one hand under her waist and touched her clit.

  “Oh, baby. You’re so wet. Look how wet you get when I lick you here.”

  Her cheeks burned as shame flooded through her. She couldn’t speak. Ry’s tongue between her cheeks turned up so many different emotions inside of her. Is that why she’d never let him do that before?

  He licked her again, then moved back and pressed the ball of his thumb to her asshole. He didn’t push it in; he simply rested his thumb against her. She waited. He didn’t move. She waited another second. He was as still as she was. Finally, Lia couldn’t stand the tease. She was the one to push back, to thrust back so that his thumb was inside of her and she was panting.

  “You want it, don’t you, you little slut?” he said. She loved when he talked to her like that. His accent made her feel exceptionally dirty. She had no idea why. Her eyes went back to the boys. The top was fucking the blond now at a rapid speed. She saw things she hadn’t noticed at the start. The blond’s nipples were pierced; his chest was waxed, smooth and bare. The brunet had a tattoo of an anchor on one shoulder, a’40s-style tattoo that made her want to trace the outline with her tongue.

  “What are you thinking?” Ry asked, but she shook her head. He gripped on to her curls and pulled back hard. A shudder ran through her. His thumb was out of her ass now, and she could feel the head of his cock against her. Poised. Ready.

  “What are you thinking, Lia?”

  “That I’d like to lick him,” she said. Her breath was coming faster now. “That I’d like to be him,” she continued, unable to hold back as he pushed his cock into her. She wanted it all and all at once. She wanted to be the boy on top, licking the blond’s hole, then fucking him. She wanted to be the blond, getting rimmed, getting fucked. She wanted to touch them, crawl into their bed, be a part of the game; turned inside out by the way they moved, the way they fucked.

  There was a picture on the wall—a sailing print with a gold frame. The room had that antiseptic smell of cheap cleaning products, but beneath the scent was the odor of so many other guests who had romped here before.

  But they hadn’t been doing this, Lia thought. They hadn’t been fucking in tandem like she and Ry and the duo on the other bed.

  It wasn’t a race—she knew that—but now the couples were moving beat for beat. Ryland was deep in her ass. The brunet was fucking the blond to the same exact rhythm. Their groans were a background melody.

  Their very breathing was in synch.

  When the movie ended, Lia came. Ry’s cock was deep in her ass, and his fingertips stroked her clit, stretching out her orgasm. She sighed and pulled off him—feeling dirty and used and clean and set free. Ry reached for the remote control and turned off the porn channel. Through the bathroom door, she could see those familiar cheap white towels—nearly threadbare, too thin to be much use. She’d shower anyway, then head back to work—her ass sore, her body humming.

  Ry said, “Next time, we’ll take out an ad. Describe exactly what we want.”

  She looked at him, then at the dark box of the TV screen, and she nodded.

  Because next time it was going to be for real.

  WAISTED

  Angela Caperton

  Ready?” Monica asked with trepidation in her tone. “Last one.”

  I gripped the mule post at the base of the foyer stairs and nodded. My ribs protested under the pressure and my insides creased beneath the stiff stays and beautiful, embroidered satin brocade.

  “There!” I felt the tug and zip as Monica finished tying the bow at the base of the corset, the long remains of lacing tucked up under the base crossings. With a sisterly pat on my ass, she announced with some pride, “Done! Although I’ve no earthly idea how you’re going to breathe in that thing, much less dance.”

  I released the post and took my first few careful steps to the hall mirror. The lush, dusty lavender accented by scrolling embroidery and black lace along the edges looked like something out of a dream. I felt every stiff stay that ran over my ribs and stomach, and I suspected that if I wore the garment too long, the thin padding beneath the front hooks and eyes would dig into my skin. As I drew a restricted breath, the laces at the back gripped like a silken steel cage, soft, moving just a little as my inhalation tested the corset, but the bands remained unfeeling, strict guards against excess.

  I stared at myself, at the swell of my breasts cradled in black lace and brocade, spared the total confinement of the rest of the garment, then I let my gaze drift down to the artificially narrowed waist and the feminine frill around my hips.

  “I can’t believe women used to wear those things all the time,” Monica said as she stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror.

  I traced over the scrolling embroidery, my heart’s rapid beat more pronounced against my caged ribs. I nodded my agreement.

  “It is sexy, Kate. Graham’s not going to know what hit him.”

  I shivered, smiling; fine, feminine bubbles rising in my blood. Graham knew. Of course he knew. He had bought everything I was to wear for the party, had insisted on outfitting me like a queen for the occasion. He’d been so different about it too, the damp dissatisfaction I had been feeling from him for weeks completely absent when he’d told me where to go to pick up the clothing. Even from across the country, his tone on the phone had been apple crisp and edged with something I couldn’t quite place but had kindled a warm flame at the base of my spine that heated each time he called with a new destination. First to Lauren’s Lingerie to collect the charcoal-black stockings he’d ordered. Then three days later, it had been to Renau’s Shoe Boutique for the heels he’d picked out—all I needed to do was try them on in my size. There had been a renewed spark in his eyes when we’d had lunch two weeks ago and he told me my dress awaited me at Vivian’s Designs. Awaited me.

  And it did—the beautiful, dark plum, strapless taffeta gown that swept the ground regally and showed off my shoulders and long neck. And waiting too was the corset with garter straps and a matching lavender and black thong.

  I didn’t want to think how much everything had cost Graham, and I struggled against a sour suspicion he’d gone through such effort out of an abundance of caution against my showing up for his company’s charity bash dressed in an out-of-date consignment shop prom dress.

  My fingers skimmed down the lines of the vertical stays. “I should finish getting dressed.”

  “Damn straight, sis. You’ve got less than an hour.”

  Monica waited at the base of the stairs like a mother seeing a daughter off on a date. She’d been that to me as well as a confidant as I picked up the soggy remains of my life. Without question, she took me in, gave me a shoulder when I needed it and left me my space in equal turns. She understood divorce and grief, and I know the shadows of Monica’s life had helped me put order back into my own, post-Jeffrey. It had been Monica’s husband Fredrick who introduced me to Graham on an early summer afternoon at the marina where Fredrick kept their boat. Graham’s thirty-foot cabin cruiser bobbed in the slip beside Monica and Fredrick’s, each mooring line neatly chalked off, the brass work shining like diamonds, the bumpers tied to the gunwale in precise knots. Graham’s smile had fluttered my belly and while the conversation had been brief, it had been enough. He called the next day to ask if I’d like to go with him
to a concert at the botanical gardens.

  In short order, Graham burned away the confusion and guilt I’d all but tattooed to my psyche, and we’d dated steadily for eight months and enjoyed some great sex. He’d even taken me to New York for a long weekend, but for the last three months, he seemed to be pulling away, distracted, and even in bed he seemed vaguely absent. His travel schedule had become insane, and I chalked it up to stress, but I struggled to identify the source, or how I might help.

  And now, with this party, and his new attitude—I had a sense of a threshold, but of what sort, I could not guess.

  He’d hired a limo for the night, a tasteful black sedan with a quiet driver, and when it arrived he handed me into the buttersoft leather seats. I couldn’t stop smiling as I gathered the skirt of the dress around me. Graham’s eyes had glowed when he saw me at door, and they hadn’t stopped.

  He got into the car on the other side and immediately took my hand, bringing it to his lips for a tender kiss.

  “I knew you would look spectacular,” he said, a small, secret smile on his face. He traced a single knuckle down the exposed line of my neck.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn, Graham: the dress, the corset, everything,” I practically cooed. “I feel completely feminine, and I love it.”

  He turned from me, looking past the driver to the road. “What does it mean to feel feminine?”

  The question hung a moment between us. “That’s a loaded question.”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “It’s not a static feeling, and I suspect different women have different definitions. For me, right now, it feels like a mix of potential and chance, sexual power and mystery. Flirtation and seduction, exuberance, grace, the thrill of being adored and wanted. It’s magic.” I squeezed his hand lightly and he turned back to me, his smile quirking at the corners.

  “Is that all?”

  I laughed and he raised my hand to his lips again, lightly raking his teeth over one knuckle.

  He released my hand and turned back to the road.

  “Kate, remove your panties.”

  At first, all I could do was blink, my throat suddenly dry, the inevitable question caught in the constriction of the corset.

  “What?”

  The quiet hum of the limo swirled around us for several rapid heartbeats. Graham turned to me, unsmiling, but with that same spark in his eyes that he’d shown at lunch two weeks ago.

  An odd tickle teased the base of my stomach, whipping my pulse into an uneasy staccato. Slow heat spread over my hips and freed the first slick of arousal in my pussy.

  I glanced at the back of the driver’s head, at the rearview mirror, hoping he hadn’t heard Graham, hoping his forehead would be all I saw in the mirror as I started to slide the dress up my legs, then wickedly hoping he had excellent hearing and eyes in the back of his head.

  My fingers fumbled as I shifted a little and unsnapped the garters from my stockings, then slipped the delicate thong over my ass, exposing my damp pussy to the suddenly warm air in the limousine. I looked over at Graham, but he didn’t watch me, instead looking out the front windshield, his face impassive, his eyes unreadable. I quickly fixed the garters to my stockings, then worked the thong down my legs, the air pushed almost violently from my diaphragm as I bent to step out of it.

  “Leave them on the floor,” Graham said with a calm tone he might have used to order a drink.

  What paltry breath I had in my lungs froze, my cheek almost to my knees as I held the delicate material in my fingers; I felt a stab of…of…of what? What was the sharp ache clenching my hand but rushing my heart? I released my grip and the thong remained on the impeccably clean carpet of the car, evidence of my complicity. I sat back up, my lungs greedily cooling with the measured inhalation the corset allowed me. I sat back against the seat and settled the skirt around my legs.

  My ankles burned from the heat of the thong between them.

  The creak of the leather seats and the rustle of the taffeta were the only sounds for several moments. Graham didn’t look at me, and after my heart began to slow, I tried to relax.

  Tried to relax even as I leaked between my uncovered pussy lips.

  “How do you feel, Kate?” Graham asked quietly. He looked at me again with the barest hint of a smile.

  The question slapped my nerves and my heart skipped to fourth gear. My cheeks burned as much as my ass did against the stiff taffeta, and more shivers of wet pleasure bloomed in between my legs.

  “I feel…I don’t know how to say. I…I feel like I’m walking in a labyrinth.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  Static pressed against my eardrums, but his voice pierced through precisely. The pounding in my wrists and at my throat thudded like the hammer fall of a sculptor. “Yes, some, but…I like it.”

  He smiled, and it seemed genuine if controlled, the slight curve of his lips more true than any other expression I had ever seen on his face.

  The limousine stopped at the opulent hall where Graham’s company held their charity event every year. I didn’t see the limo driver as he handed me out of the car; the image of the lavender thong on the floorboard exposed for all to see burned my vision. When Graham placed his hand on the small of my back, the center of his palm crossed the valley of the corset laces and my skin under the material seemed to swell, soft and sweet like a marshmallow browned by a careful flame.

  My ears rang with names and polite conversation as Graham introduced me to executives and dignitaries. A wonderful nervous simmer in my belly fed warmth to my skin, my mouth, but it wasn’t born of swirling music or the stream of people around me; it bloomed from Graham’s hand, the slightest pressure of his fingers against the back of the dress, the pad tracing imperceptibly to anyone but me the laces over my spine. A lush tingle ran up the back of my neck, the upswept hair masking a blush of arousal that fed the growing wetness in my pussy.

  I found refuge in the cage of the corset, as if the silky material and stiff stays kept my growing desire in check. We mingled, we danced, we sat and dined, and Graham’s hand possessed me, held me to him like a leash, the small strokes against the crisscrossed laces as powerful as a kiss. I floated through the night nearly blind to everything except him, each stingy breath bringing me one more ache closer to knowing him. After hours of socializing, when finally Graham whispered in my ear, the bolt of lust that blasted through me nearly emerged in a moan.

  “It’s time to go.”

  I hardly saw the lights, barely heard the drone of cars on the road, almost missed the stop and start of the limousine—every sense, every nerve ending collected under Graham’s still, hot hand where it rested on my thigh. My heart pounded between the tight hooks of the corset and the desire to beg, to plead for his fingers to grace the corset strings again nearly overwhelmed me. I had had one glass of wine at the reception and was more intoxicated than I had ever been in my life. When I’d stepped into the limo, my thong was still on the floor, a brand of shame and freedom born of the very same release. The crumpled silky fabric lay hot between my feet. I struggled not to crawl into Graham’s lap, while I fought to obey the calm, steady palm on my thigh. My blood and my pussy fueled both a hungry arousal and a hard, urgent desire to rebel, to destroy without reason—twins of fire I never knew lurked within me.

  He didn’t say a word during the ride, and upon our arrival, only opened the front door of his house, not even glancing back at me, and walked straight up the stairs toward his room. I followed without question and at the top, the fleeting question passed, should I close the door?

  I walked to his bedroom, the dress suddenly a thousand pounds, the corset cold without the heat source of Graham’s hand. I stood at the threshold, acutely aware that passing beyond the door would change everything for me, for him. I wanted the cool calm of a deep breath, but the corset denied me that simple sanctuary. Everything about this moment would be deliberate, nothing left to physiology or chance. I step into
his room, I step into his hold.

  His control.

  Blood rhythmically beat against the back of my eyes as he removed his cuff links, unbuttoned his shirt. He didn’t look at me, but he knew I was there, wavering, and although his expression never changed, I knew to linger too long between worlds would disappoint him.

  Graham wanted decisiveness—in action, in thought, in purpose.

  Giddy with an oddly born sense of power, I stepped into his room and went to his side, wanting with all my heart to touch him but not daring, afraid beyond reason my clumsy attempt would melt the magic like fire on wax. His body heat stroked my skin in elusive waves as he stripped down to nothing within inches of me. He never acknowledged me, never looked at me, just continued his routine as if I were a ghost, a pesky shadow on the mirror above his bureau, and I held back again and again the conditioned bleat that would demand his acknowledgment.

  This wasn’t about me, and yet it was—about me and about him. Some alert corner of my brain processed, filtered, edited, condensed every moment of the last few weeks, rendering down action, reaction, conversation and sensation into the thick, sweet essence of pilgrimage.

  Somehow, the corset pointedly, precisely forced me to think about everything—including a fought-for full breath.

  He stood before me, toned and sleek, his skin marked by tan lines and the long scar on his right shoulder, memento of a car accident long before I knew him. His cock jumped a little as it grew erect under my gaze, and I smiled, a slow, spreading blush that percolated through my entire body. He looked at me finally and the punch of his gaze almost staggered me: penetrating black eyes, confident, almost cold, except for the fire I saw there. He lusted, he wanted, and he wanted me.

  But not just my body, I could see that. His body couldn’t mask his desire, but in that first braising appraisal, I knew this wasn’t just about fucking, and with everything that had happened that evening, I knew I wanted what he did—even as I acknowledged my shaky concept as to what that want was.