The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (21 page)

I learned through all this experimentation that sex can be wonderful and that submission was the thing that really turned me on. I read a bit, was too afraid to experiment with other lovers,
kept this side of myself quiet, until he came along. The one. My Master.

Like me, his own path was not straightforward, but he can tell his own story. First he was my friend and confidant. I could tell him anything, everything. All about other lovers, my past, my ex,
the orgasms I faked. He let me sit in his arms and cry. I’d missed out on so much in my life. I’d been asleep. I was his sleeping beauty. I tasted food, saw sunsets. I wrote poetry and
songs. I was becoming me.

Then he was my lover. He was a good lover. Knew his way around a clit. Found my sweet spots. Kissed the nape of my neck until I had goosebumps all over my body. Then he kissed those too. Wanted
to discover every inch of me.

He knew about my experiments with scarves and a blindfold. My favourite books to read at bedtime. What turned me on. This man knew me inside out. And what turned me on, turned him on. So we
learned. Together. He read and asked questions. How could we set each other free?

Books and websites and chatting with people online taught us the safe, sane and consensual rules of BDSM. We started with what you’d expect. A starter kit from one of those sex shops.
Cuffs made of Velcro, easy to get out of, but strong enough so that when attached to the bedposts, they could withstand my yanking on them as my lover tortured my little clit to stiffness, rolled
my nipples between his dexterous finger and thumb, then pinched them hard, till I felt alive again. To erase the numbness. To make me come. So I pulled on those restraints as I surrendered myself
to his will, and his will was to release me.

Afterwards, the questions began. What part did I like best? Were there things that made me uncomfortable? What else made me curious? Months went by with me being put in these restraints
regularly and my lover exercising his control. He tickled me lightly with a feather, but that just made me squeal and I didn’t like it, so he stopped. He placed ice cubes in his mouth then
sucked my tits and my clit. So cold, then so hot. He thought I might enjoy wax, and it sounded good, but flames were scary to me, so he rigged up this effective method involving a mug warmer, a
metal Turkish coffee cup and white kosher candles, plus a candy thermometer. He found out that white candles don’t burn as hot as coloured ones and were therefore much safer. We’d moved
up to chains; they were stronger and could handle the pressure of my pulling better. Plus they were cold against my skin, much more sensual and theatrical. They made me feel like I was truly bound.
Stirred both our imaginations. So much of BDSM is theatre, role play, getting into the mood. I had panic snaps of course. All I had to do was pull, and the chains would release. From there it was
so simple to unhook my velvet-lined oxblood leather cuffs.

Ah yes, the wax. He blindfolded me, let me feel the heat of the metal cup gently on my inner thighs, and up onto my breasts. My cunt juices flowed. I didn’t know then what was going on. He
surprised me, but not totally out of left field. We’d discussed it in one of our briefing sessions, and in a survey he had me fill out regularly to figure out my limits, which changed all the
time. Finding a way to communicate with him was and is essential. It is my number one obligation and the way I serve him best: being open and honest at all times.

The wax: the drip down, down, down onto my breasts, around the nipples. Oh so hot, burning almost. God, I was alive and this man was putting me there. Exciting and dangerous feeling, although
not really so. But it was the edge of something. The edge of real trust, mine of him. He could do this to me when I was all bound up, unable to resist, well, unless I really insisted.
Vulnerable.

I felt him coming as the wax hardened on my skin. Heard him cry out. Felt the cold splashes of his orgasm all over my body. Opened my mouth to drink the rain of come. The sky had opened,
releasing us both. We were sticky and wet with it, with him.

He unbound me, washed me in warm water, then dipped his head down, put his tongue in to taste me. So tenderly he licked, then moved up to my lips so I could taste myself. We kissed as he
caressed along my moist sex lips, immersing his fingers in plum juice. I was greedy to quench him and he wanted to taste every drop. His head moved down again. His breath so warm on my breasts, my
stomach, my cunt. What I had done for him, he did for me. He found my vortex and swirled it, creating the storm of my passion for him once again until I shook and stopped, shook and stopped, shook
and stopped, until this rhythm and the heat and his tongue all coalesced into an open, flowing orgasm.

Days and nights after that were magic. Busy with some daytime chore, we looked up at each other and smiled, knowingly. We had a secret no other person knew of. We had shared intimacy in its
truest, most honest form. We knew everything there was to know about one another. Trust. Control. Release. Love. Knowledge. Peace. Joy. If there were seven deadly sins, these were seven happy
blessings. And we had experienced them. This was the secret of life as far as we were concerned. Details are sharper when you’re as exhilarated as we were and still are. It’s like being
constantly high. Euphoric.

Then a hotel visit to the city. High, sturdy bedposts, a four-poster bed. Made for bondage. And our first flogger, made by my lover out of rope from a hardware store and a rubbery bicycle
handle. That first lash with the soft silky rope turned rough against my skin . . . What was that? Pain? Yes, slightly, but not more than a bit. Heat, yes some. Excitement. Tension. Surprise. What
would he do? Strike harder? Could I handle it? Did he think I could? He did. And, oh. My cunt was wet. Those first whispered orders. “Hump the bed.” I paused. The flogger struck again.
This time harder. I humped. “Count the lashes.” His voice had never seemed so urgent, so strong. So confident. I trusted him. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he’d push me, beyond.
He’d show me, beyond. He’d trust me to tell him what I could handle and what I couldn’t. Then that first slip as the words rumbled and the bed creaked and my body softened and
yielded to the beat of the whip and the rocking of my hips, the rhythm of his lashes on my skin, soft then hard, then soft then hard as I count and moan. I want to come. “Not yet,” he
whispered. “Tell me what you are.”

What was I? I was his, I was nothing, I was this bed, I was this whip, I was this heat, this soft, this hard, this come, this . . . his and only his.

I am not who now, but what. I am a piece of plastic wrap floating, driven by the wind.

Giselle, Scarborough

I can’t believe I’m actually going to tell this story. I’m still pretty amazed that it happened at all. You see, my younger sister Rachel played soccer for
her high school’s team. I had finished my studies and entered the workforce by that time, but I would often attend her games to cheer her on and all that. Well, I actually did more reading
than cheering, but the fact that I was sitting in the bleachers at all meant a lot to my little sister.

I noticed Steve at the first game I attended, partly because the sunlight was reflecting off of his bald head and partly because he was the only other person there who was sitting alone. Steve
was the father of one of the girls on Rachel’s team, which meant that I got to see him at every game. I’m generally shy and cautious around new people, but I took to Steve right away
because he seemed rather shy as well. He was an intellectual sort with a toned physique, and I’ve always had a thing for older men who work out.

At first, Steve and I would discuss the books that we were reading. Eventually, our conversations became more intimate. Steve told me how lonely he felt in his marriage. Steve worked from home
as a technical writer and was fairly deprived of human interaction for that reason. He told me that he had always looked forward to six o’clock, when his executive wife Helen arrived home
from work. Over the past five years, though, Helen had been working later and later into the evenings and when she finally arrived home she was always too exhausted to pay him any attention. I felt
very close to Steve because he had confided in me and it soon became apparent that an intense attraction was developing between the two of us.

At the end of each soccer game, Steve and I would go our separate ways, he with his daughter and I with my sister. One day, after our team had achieved a 4–1 victory, I wrote my address
down on a scrap of paper and invited Steve to come over on Friday afternoon, since I did not have to work. He knew what the invitation implied. I remember Steve staring down at my address and
saying that he would have to think about it. When Steve arrived on my doorstep that Friday at two o’clock, I was overjoyed. I really wasn’t sure if he would come or not. I took the man
straight into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and rode his cock until he flipped me onto my back and pummelled me with penetrations. It was the most frenzied, passionate sex I had ever
experienced. I’m now convinced that bookworms have the best sex!

Steve and I continued seeing each other every Friday afternoon. By the time he arrived at my house, we were already so hot for each other that we almost never remembered to lock the front door
before heading to the bedroom . . . or living room, or kitchen or wherever. One Friday in May, two years into the relationship, Steve sat on my sofa while I devoured his hard cock. Suddenly, I
heard the front door open and I just about had a heart attack. Who would just walk into my house unannounced? I froze, thinking it might be a family member or a friend of mine, but it was not. It
was a stylish woman with short blondish hair and a professional demeanour. I had never seen her before. I had no idea who she was, but Steve certainly did: she was his wife.

He said: “Helen, what are you doing here?”

I was shocked! Steve had never told me that his wife was so lovely and curvaceous. I had thought that she was a dowdy old woman. Why had she come? This woman was going to kill me, I figured. I
braced myself for a thrashing, and I was thoroughly confused when this Helen woman did not seem angry at all. She merely said, “I found this scrap of paper in your contacts book and I figured
that it must be your girlfriend’s address, since it was the only one I didn’t recognize.”

Steve could hardly deny what was going on. After all, he had literally been caught with his pants down. He quickly started telling Helen that he was sorry and that he never should have started
this up, he was a terrible husband, that sort of thing. Much to my astonishment, Helen wouldn’t hear it. She wasn’t interested in his excuses. I was still sitting on the floor at this
point, and Helen simply walked into my living room and sat down beside her husband on my sofa. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I sat up on the coffee table so that I was at eye level with
the pair.

“I’ve known about you two for ages. I’m not about to tear a strip off you, don’t worry,” Helen told us. She admitted that she was never home and that she and her
husband barely spoke even when she was. Helen understood why Steve might look elsewhere for fulfilment. She then looked straight at me and said: “I’ve never been much good at all this
sex stuff. Never had much time for it, really. Never thought it was important. But I can see that it’s something my husband thinks is important, so I’m willing to give it another
go.” Steve apologized once again, but Helen told him not to be silly. Helen then looked over at me, sitting on my coffee table in my black satin dressing gown, and said in a thoroughly
businesslike tone: “I came over here today for a reason. I’m guessing that Steve likes whatever it is that you do, so I want you to teach me how to do it. I’ll pay you, if
that’s what Steve does.”

I was taken aback at the thought of being paid for sex, but also a little bit titillated by it. I agreed to take Helen on as my student, even though I had no idea how to teach someone to be good
in bed. Should I teach her theory or technique? I paced about the living room wondering how to begin when a thought occurred to me, which I shared with Helen: “The only way to have really
incredible sex is to be a truly desirous partner. Steve and I have such great sex because we’re so hot for each other. Half the fun of it, for me, is watching Steve get off on me getting off
on him. Do you know what I mean?”

Helen just stared at me blankly. She had no idea what I was talking about, but Steve understood. He told his wife: “I would never want to make love with you if you didn’t want it as
well. There’s nothing sexy about that. The best part of it is in knowing that your partner is really aroused by what you’re doing.”

I asked Helen what turned her on and she was perplexed. She had been focusing on other aspects of her life for so many years that she had pushed sex into some hidden corner of her consciousness.
It occurred to me that Helen didn’t need to figure out how to give Steve pleasure, she needed to remember how to receive it. Steve and I conspired to help his wife remember how good sex can
feel, and Helen was only too happy to go along with our idea. Our intention was to stimulate Helen generously until she begged Steve for more.

I ran to the bedroom to grab a vibrator and some lube. By the time I got back to the living room, Steve had already removed his wife’s silk scarf and used it to cover her eyes. With Helen
standing in front of my sofa, Steve and I removed her suit jacket and her pants. I ran my hands along her arms and down her breasts and her stomach over the top of her silky blouse, while Steve
stimulated her legs and buttocks. I watched Steve rub his fingers gently against his wife’s mound, stimulating her over the top of her sensible underwear. I slowly unbuttoned Helen’s
blouse, touching the skin underneath as I did so, until the diaphanous garment fell from her arms. When I unclasped Helen’s bra, Steve removed her underwear. She was naked now, but for a gold
chain with a diamond pendant, which she wore around her neck. I kissed that chain, at the side of Helen’s neck, and that one simple act caused the woman’s knees to buckle; she fell
backwards onto the sofa, with me behind her.