The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (28 page)

Just thinking about it was enough to start me getting aroused and I knew I wanted to do it again, had to do it again, although without necessarily having to go to all the trouble of actually
falling into a stream miles from anywhere this time.

I suppose that was when I started planning and it only took about a couple of weeks to get things organized. I picked a Friday night obviously because it was the start of the weekend and Mark is
usually in a good mood when he gets home. But also because we pretty much had a Friday evening ritual: good meal in, watch TV if there’s anything decent on or get a video – maybe
something a little raunchy – and then early to bed and early to “rise”!

So this particular Friday evening everything was prepared. Around 7 p.m. I heard the key in the door and Mark’s customary: “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

“Hi, darling. Good day? I’m in the kitchen.”

Then his equally predictable: “I’m starving, what’s for dinner?”

“Me,” I sang back. This was definitely not the usual response and although it was far too late to back out I couldn’t help feeling that I might have just made a terrible
mistake.

I heard Mark walk through the dining room until he reached the kitchen door . . . and stopped. He stood there with his jacket over his shoulder, tie loosened off and top button undone, clearly
gobsmacked. “What the fuck’s this?” he managed at last.

It must have come as something of a shock to him. There was his wife sat on a small stool in the middle of his kitchen on a large plastic sheet.

I had taken a lot of trouble with my dress and appearance. I was wearing a short denim skirt and a tight little long-sleeved cardigan in lavender: one of those furry things that feels like
it’s made out of mohair but is actually 100 per cent synthetic.

With the way I was sitting facing him with my legs apart, Mark could probably see I was also wearing white fishnet stockings – large mesh – stilettos and a cheap and tarty white lace
push-up bra, suspender belt and briefs set. I had deliberately overdone the make-up and piled my auburn hair up on top of my head, plus put on the largest pair of gold hoop earrings I could
find.

“Like it, darling?” I cooed. “I do hope so, ’cos I was serious. I’m dinner and I want you to eat me all up . . . but first I want you to ‘prepare’
me.”

I could see from his open-mouthed blank look that Mark still hadn’t caught on.

“If you look behind me on the work surface I think you’ll find everything you need. There’s chocolate blancmange, custard, aerosol cream, some soft ice cream, maple, toffee and
banana syrups, honey, some fresh raspberries and even a selection of fresh cream cakes. So go to it, lover, and don’t you dare disappoint me.”

I could see the light come on in Mark’s eyes but he still had to check: “You’re not . . . You can’t be serious?”

“Oh, but I am.”

Mark threw his jacket over a chair, ripped his tie off, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up. Some chance.

He walked across to me and then slowly all the way around me. He dipped his finger into the blancmange and then almost gingerly dabbed a spot onto the end of my nose.

“Come on, you’re going to have to do much better than that,” I said almost tauntingly. I stood up and grabbed a handful of raspberries from the bowl. Clutching them to my
cleavage I squeezed hard, then wiped the sticky pulp across the top of my breasts before raising my open palm to my mouth and wiping it across my face, leaving it smeared with crimson.

It was like I’d just flicked Mark’s switch: “So you want to play dirty, eh?”

Pulling open the front of my cardigan he scooped two great dollops of the blancmange down inside, then massaged it against my tits through the woolly material. Next he poured custard inside my
knickers, front and back, before sitting me back down with a squelch.

The feeling was fantastic, possibly even better than I’d hoped. As I sat down I could feel the custard oozing out of the sides of my knickers and starting to slide down my legs. I could
feel it squashing against my arse and fanny and being forced through the mesh of the briefs. It was cool and velvety and very definitely a turn-on.

“Oh Christ, that’s wonderful! Do it some more,” I implored.

Mark stood in front of me with the tube of banana syrup . . . and a tremendous hard-on. I reached for his fly but he quickly took a step back: “Don’t you dare touch me, you dirty
bitch.”

And with that he started to squeeze the sticky syrup over my face, down onto my tits and then the cardigan and my skirt.

Of course it looked exactly like . . . Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. And so I stuck out my tongue for some “extras” and lapped up the sticky sweetness he
dribbled into my mouth.

Mark picked a large chocolate eclair from the selection of cakes on the plate. Holding it to my lips he squeezed hard and watched as the cream squirted over my face and into my mouth. He then
wiped the gooey mess off his hand with my hair.

Suddenly I couldn’t wait any more. Teasingly slowly I unbuttoned my cardigan and slipped it off my shoulders, then standing up I unzipped the denim skirt and let that fall to the floor.
Still in my outrageously tarty underwear I lay down on the plastic sheet and stretched out my arms and legs like a starfish.

“Finish me off,” I gasped, “Tip it all over me. Cover me!”

But Mark had other ideas. First of all he sprayed the aerosol cream up and down my body: cold and almost fizzy against my bare skin as it began to melt almost at once. Then he stripped and his
wonderful cock reared free as he removed his pants.

Picking up the bowl of ice cream he came and sat on the stool beside me and began flicking spoonfuls at me. Taking a scoop in each hand he shoved them down inside my bra cups and began rubbing
it around my tits. The shock of the cold made me gasp and instantly had my nipples standing up on end. Another handful followed down the front of my knickers and I could feel it almost burning
against my clit and pussy lips.

Standing over me he emptied the contents of the custard bowl over my body and the blancmange directly onto my head. I literally had a faceful: it was in my hair, my eyes, my mouth and even my
nose. I had to wipe the gooey, brown stuff away just to be able to see.

I smeared it over me and started to roll around until my whole body was a marbled riot of reds and browns and yellows. Mark stared at me, almost hypnotized by the sight, and then hauled me to my
feet and sat me back down on the stool. Fetching our sharpest kitchen knife Mark carefully hooked it under the front of my bra and with a single quick flick cut it away from me and then did the
same with either side of my knickers until they also fell away, leaving me in just the stockings and suspenders. The cold steel against my skin caused my cunt to contract in a way I had never felt
before: part fear and part pure passion.

“Sit still,” Mark ordered and began to pour clear, thin honey over my breasts. It pooled between them before running down over my stomach and on into the “V” between my
thighs.

Taking a soft pastry brush from the jar by the cooker Mark dipped it into the honey and then began flicking it across my nipples, coaxing them erect.

Kneeling between my spread thighs he started gently twirling it around the entrance to my hole until it responded to his insistent teasing, opening, almost unfurling, like the petals of a
flower. Then I could feel the bristles of the brush inside me: little circular motions tickling the walls of my cunt where the skin is most sensitive, coating them with a lubrication of honey . . .
and receiving a coating of my love juices in return.

Feeling my cunt close around the brush – sucking on it, trying to pull it deeper inside – was incredible and I shuddered and gasped in response. Mark immediately withdrew the brush
and I moaned again – this time in sheer frustration.

Dipping it into the jar again he began to paint my pussy with honey using long strokes starting at my perineum and working up to the top of my slit. Dip, brush, left. Dip, brush, right. Dip,
brush, dead centre.

It only took about a score of these before my first orgasm “b-rushed” up on me. I clung to Mark for support, pulling his face into my chest and feeling his tongue lapping at my
blancmange-covered boobs and his teeth nipping at my nipples causing tiny aftershocks to course through my body.

Eventually the storm passed, I calmed down and Mark stood up – he was looking nearly as messy as I was by this time. Going over to the work surface he returned with a huge, peeled banana
and the bowl of soft ice cream.

“Banana split,” he said with a wicked grin. He dipped one end of the banana into the ice cream until it was thickly covered and then quickly pushed the whole thing inside me, leaving
just an inch or so protruding like a little miniature penis.

The shock of the cold and the feel of the phallic fruit were too much for me and I climaxed again. I could actually feel my cunt squeezing against the banana as if it was a cock.

To make matters worse Mark was on his knees in front of me, literally eating me out. (Well, I had asked for it!) He ate noisily, chewing great lumps of the banana and then smearing it over my
outer lips and into my pubic hair with his tongue. I grabbed his head and pushed his face hard into my groin, forcing him to feed in time with my own frenzy.

I felt the last mouthful of banana slip from inside me and then we were both down on the floor, rolling around in the gunk, covered from head to toe and fucking like rabbits. The floor was cold,
hard and unforgiving but that just made me feel like more of a wanton slut than ever . . . exactly what I wanted.

We did it forwards, backwards, sideways, doggie-style, rodeo-style, sixty-nine different ways and all the time I was riding the crest of a honey-flavoured wave.

Finally Mark could stand no more, I could tell his own climax was coming fast.

“Not inside me,” I pleaded, “I want to watch you come. I want you to come over my face, all over me.”

That seemed to do the trick and within seconds I had jets of hot, creamy spunk in my mouth, dribbling down my chin and all over my tits – which I was contentedly trying to lick off like a
cat that’s got the cream.

“So that was dinner?” Mark eventually managed with an exhausted whisper.

“No,” I replied sweetly, “just dessert.”

Derek, Calgary

A short time ago, my girlfriend’s sister came to visit us for a week. Given that my girlfriend, Ashley, is an absolute knockout, so, too, was her twin sister, Abigail. I
couldn’t tell the pair of them apart; they both had long, black hair and crystal-clear, blue eyes, high, firm tits and jutting nipples, slim waists and long, supple legs, and, best and most
of all, plush derrières.

As an unrepentant butt man from way back – a guy who religiously tunes into women’s volleyball, beach and otherwise, whenever it’s on TV; eyeballs just about any magazine or
tabloid that so much as mentions, and pictures, Jennifer Lopez; and, when he was single, spent many a Friday night scanning butt mags and bum vids at his neighbourhood porno store – the sight
of those two big, tight asses prancing all over the place made for one of the most memorable weeks of my life.

On the last day of her stay, we took Abby snowboarding at a resort two hours outside of town. And after an invigorating morning and afternoon surfing the slopes, we made tracks for the lodge,
for drinks and dinner and a dunk in one of the outdoor hot tubs. My cock had been a frozen cable all day long thanks to the heavenly vista of the girls’ board-squatting, ski-pant-clad
posteriors, and it didn’t melt an inch in the bubbling chop of the soak tub, what with the two of them cavorting around in matching pink bikini tops and floss bottoms. Their heavy,
heart-shaped asses, cheeks splayed into two glistening, golden-brown globes by the bum-cleaving thongs, were openly displayed for my erotic enjoyment.

And with my blood-alcohol level and waterlogged dong rising to near record heights, I boldly joked about going to bed with the wrong girl that night, at which point Ashley pulled her sister up
out of the steaming froth and tugged down her thong, showed me a butterfly tattoo on Abby’s lower abdomen. Ashley sports a tattoo in the exact same spot, only hers is a heart.

After more kidding and more drinks, we finally piled back into the car and drove home. I was totally beat, so I mumbled a slurred goodnight to the girls and poured myself what I hoped to be a
long, fitful sleep. And I was sawing logs like a beaver operating a feller-forwarder when Ashley woke me up by pinching my nose. “Huh? What’s up?” I grunted.

“I noticed that you had a bit of a ‘hard’ time today – keeping your eyes off my sister and me,” she commented glibly, her eyes twinkling mischievously in the dim
light of the bedside lamp. “Think you can give me a hard time – right now?”

I ran a wooden tongue over cracked lips, the fog in my brain quickly burning away thanks to Ashley’s unexpected heat. “A man’s gotta do . . . something,” I mumbled, then
rolled on top of her, my ever-ready dick pressing long and hard against her warm, flat stomach.

I slid my hands under her top and cupped and squeezed her pert titties, while swiping tongue and swapping spit with the raven-haired beauty. I jack-knifed up so that she could grab hold of my
cock and stroke it with her hot little hand. We Frenched and fondled for a good long time, before I finally broke away from her wicked mouth and latched my lips onto her jugs. I sucked an obscenely
swollen, mocha nipple into my mouth and tugged on it, then swallowed her whole blessed tit.

“God, that feels good,” she breathed.

I sucked and sucked on her boobs, swirled my tongue all over and around her pointed, rubbery buds. Then I slipped a hand into her panties in prelude to pulling them off and steering my raging
cock into her dripping pussy. But Ashley shocked the hell out of me by grabbing my wrist and saying, “I want it in the ass.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed, for I well knew that she was an anal virgin, despite my repeated efforts in the past to pop her bung cherry. I thanked my Maker and scrambled off of her, flipped her
over, and then fumbled a tube of lube out of the bed stand that I’d been saving for just such a special occasion. I anxiously rubbed the lube onto my straining prong as I gazed longingly at
my girl’s cushiony, brown pillows.