The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (35 page)

I began trying to impress her with the books I borrowed. Dostoevsky, Hamsun, Gogol, Celine. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski, Nersesian. I kept waiting for Rose
to compliment my choice in authors. Or, at the very least, take note of the erection straining against denim. Nothing.

Every day I sat across from Rose, pen poised above paper, and fantasized about her approaching me (always as I affixed the words “THE END” to a manuscript of blockbuster proportions)
and saying, “So that’s your new national book award candidate of a novel, eh?” and I’d say, “Yep.” She’d say, “I heard six production studios are
battling for the movie rights,” and I’d modestly say, “You’re goddamn right they are.” Then she’d raise her burgundy skirt revealing an utter lack of
undergarments or pubic hair. She’d climb the armrests of my chair and settle her gaping pussy on my face.

Fuck yeah! The fantasy struck me as inexplicably attainable. All I had to do was finish the goddamn novel and the rest would fall into place.

A month later, I’d managed to set down another 5,000 words, doubling my word count. Another 90,000 words and Rose would be mine. I wondered, Did she really shave her puss or go au naturel?
And did it really matter to me at all?

Such were my thoughts that I scarcely registered the arrival of closing time. Having not had the chance to pick any books to impress her with, I simply grabbed a handful of paperbacks that had
been left on the table next to mine by a woman much too heavy to stick to my flypaper. I didn’t recognize the authors. I wouldn’t be reading them anyway.

I set the books on the desk and handed Rose my library card. She raised her stamp and hesitated.

“Oh wow,” Rose said. “You’re a Stella Rider fan? I adore her Harlequins.”

Harlequins? What the hell? I glanced at the book. The cover depicted a dashing pirate with the abdomen of a Bowflex endorser about to passionately embrace a scullery wench with hair like
wildfire and a bosom of Californian proportions.

“Yeah. I’m a Harlequin fan from way back.”

Her hard candy eyes melted into pools of luxuriant fudge. “Have you read the Forbidden Desires series? I swear I had to take a cold shower every ten minutes reading those books.”

I thought about her pale thighs subtly massaging each other. What does she do in the privacy of her bedroom? As she talked I noticed the glint of metal from her tongue piercing. Outstanding.
Women don’t get their tongues pierced because they like to sit on the couch, Friday nights, reading the adventures of Cervais the lusty swashbuckler.

“No. Haven’t had that pleasure.”

“Omigod. You don’t know what you’re missing. Let me lock up real quick and I’ll read you a few of my favourite passages.”

She returned five minutes later with a handcart brimming with crack-spined literary treasures bearing such titles as
Forbidden Lust, Forbidden Fruits, Forbidden Toejam.
I’m gonna be
here all night, I thought with a sort of manic glee, the epicentre of which was located between my forbidden legs.

We sat facing each other, our knees touching, at my table. The reading lamp cast an intimate circle of illumination around us. Her favourite passages included a lot of “throbbing
manhoods” and the “licking of the flesh envelopes of love”. Her soft voice could have made the telephone book sound sexy. As she read her thighs undulated like the tide. I could
smell her musky scent, an undercurrent of her wetness beneath the waves of lavender wafting from her pale, smooth skin.

My hands brushed the outside of her knees. She opened her legs and slid down until only the top of her ass touched the seat of her chair.

As Rose continued reading the amorous exploits of Avery the well-hung aviator and Stash, the progressive airplane mechanic, I knelt between her legs, moving her skirt over her hips as I kissed
my way up her inner thigh. She wore no panties, easy access to her joy button being imperative given the amount of eroticism she read during the course of her day.

Nearing her pussy was akin to crawling towards an open stove. Her heat baked my face, causing the tube of dough between my legs to rise. A barbell matching the piercing in her tongue lanced her
clit hood. I sucked the jewellery into my mouth savouring the metallic taste. Her breath caught in her throat, a moment of silence like the inhalation before a scream, then she went back to
reading.

“Stasha gasped with immense pleasure as Avery lugged out his perfectly proportioned ten-inch monkey wrench of bliss.”

Ten inches? Fucking bullshit Harlequin setting me up for failure.

Her pussy, plump and engorged, two sizes too large for the rest of her body, seemed to pulsate against my mouth. She looked as though she’d been whacked between the legs with a
fireman’s axe and I buried my face in her wound, fanning the flames burning white hot within her.

My left hand curved around her leg, fingers splaying open her labes, exposing her erect clit. I break-danced my tongue against her bean as I fucked her with the index finger of my right hand,
letting my pinkie finger dip into her asshole.

The words ejaculated from her lips in whispery gasps. “Oh . . . uh . . . throbbing . . . manhood . . . moist . . . flower . . . Hoboken.”

Rose’s hips contracted, raising her off the chair. I bore her weight with my chin and two fingers. She dropped the book and palmed the back of my head, pressing my face deeper against her
cunt as though she wished to envelope my head with her pussy lips in a sort of reverse birth.

She came violently, and I could have sworn I heard a gurgling sound coming from her plumbing as she flooded my face with her juices. I rose up for air after being submerged for something like
fifteen minutes. I eat so much pussy I’ve grown a pair of gills to adapt. Check behind my ears sometime if you don’t believe me.

Rose reached down and pulled me up by my slippery chin. Our lips and tongue greeted each other before she went licking her come off my lower face.

“I love the way I taste,” she said.

I’d long since destroyed my taste buds with a steady diet of corn liquor so I had to take her word for it.

“Read to me while I suck your cock,” she ordered.

I didn’t feel much like reading but feared I’d miss out on the blow job if I disobeyed. I chose
Forbidden Planet
from the stack. I opened it in the middle.

“The alien princess withdrew the spaceman’s antenna from his aluminium pants and began polishing his helmet with her four tongues.”

Rose licked the wet spot of pre-come on the denim jeans. Already I began to stutter. She unbuttoned my pants and yanked them down to my ankles. My dick bounced with the sudden motion, tapping
against her spectacles. Her lips smiled against my tightening nut sack as she juggled my balls with her tongue.

She dribbled saliva up my shaft. Her tongue slathered up and down my cock, flicking across the circumcision scar. The stud in her tongue traced the engorged veins, feeling like the tip of a
ballpoint pen scribbling happy faces all over my fuck stick.

“Purple . . . vagina . . . Uranus . . . so hot.”

Enough. I threw the book on the handcart and knocked down the stacks blanketing the surface with paperbacks. I raised Rose up by her armpits, her mouth breaking suction with an audible pop. I
sat her down on the bed of books. She unclasped her bra and leaned back allowing her breasts to loll.

Gripping her by the back of her knees and spreading her legs the wingspan of my arms, I eased myself into her incredibly tight pussy. Her vaginal walls constricted around me with each thrust.
Her last boyfriend must have been hung like a cashew. Or perhaps she only dated Orientals.

Rose gritted her teeth as her cunt slowly expanded to accommodate my . . . uh . . . ten inches. Her tits bounced like pompoms, cheering me on as I donkey-konged her puss. As we settled into a
rhythm, I rocked the handcart with my foot letting it do the work for me. It allowed my hands the chance to roam like sex-crazed monks exploring the countryside of her body.

The sound of my balls slapping her ass was as loud as cannonade in the silence of the book sanctuary. Her groans and murmurs of pleasure like shouts in a monastery. We came simultaneously,
silencing each other’s cries of passion with deep tongue kisses. I pulled out, expelling come, mine and hers, down her ass crack, puddling onto
Forbidden Research
beneath her natal
cleft. We used pages from
Forbidden Deformities
to wipe off with.

“So,” Rose asked once we regained our breath, “what’s this novel of yours about?”

“It’s called
Vows Of Silence.
It’s about a nun who quits the convent because she falls in love with a mime. So she enrols in mime school hoping to win his heart with
pantomime.”

“So do they live happily ever after or do they just fuck and run?”

“I don’t know. I’m at the part now where the church sends out an albino assassin to kill them.”

Louise, Swansea

I have always been happy around books. As a little girl I loved the smell of a new book as you peeled it open and the sight of black words on a white page still does my heart
good. This was an innocent pleasure until I reached young adulthood where my love of books developed into an interesting erotic quirk.

More and more as a young literature student I took to frequenting second-hand bookshops. I had texts to buy and a growing interest in writing and so I would spend many happy hours browsing the
old volumes and newish paperbacks. I don’t know what it was, but the places began to have an effect on me. Maybe it was the sheer mass of ideas contained in those shelves (I’ve always
been a bit of a brain-fucker) or the aroma of ageing pages and cool, dry paper. Whichever, at some point, I began to get aroused purely by being in these shops. I would walk home in a slight daze,
not knowing what to do with myself. I must add that this was nothing to do with the sexual content of the books. I love a bit of erotica as much as the next girl but the effect simply came from the
books themselves. It was quite peculiar but very pervasive.

The first time things came to a head, I had come into this one shop out of the rain. My clothes were slightly damp and the books smelled green and grassy. I was lurking amongst the warren of
ceiling-high, library-like shelves reading a collection of short stories when the usual erotic buzz of the place became overwhelming. I replaced the book and slipped into the small customer loo at
the back of the shop. At first I just stood against the wall in silence and squeezed my breasts through the damp material. When this wasn’t enough I pinched my cold nipples through the cotton
of my bra until they stood out sore and hard. Before I knew it I had my right fingers in my knickers and my left hand inside my bra and I was quietly, firmly masturbating. As each fresh wave of
pleasure developed between my legs I told myself that I would stop in a minute but soon felt the slipping sands of a climax beneath my feet. It was a soft, muted orgasm, dizzying because I was
standing up. I walked home with a shocked smile on my face.

I visited that loo a few more times, on one occasion pulling up my sweater and cami top and baring my breasts under the strip light, watching myself come in the mirror, my hand gyrating beneath
my underwear’s straining nylon. However, after an accidentally noisy orgasm I decided that the obsession must stop. I didn’t visit the shop for months and took a different bus to avoid
it.

Then, one day, I was walking alone in the old neighbourhood when a coincidence struck me. I had, the night before, trimmed my pubic hair for the first time. I had previously kept a luxuriant
bush of springy hair but in a fit of curiosity I had taken scissors and a razor to my curls and left behind a fine covering of hair which, while modest, showed a good deal of interesting detail. I
had had some good fun the night before with a hand mirror, investigating my new look. It seemed to me that my newly styled pussy deserved to be introduced to the books, so I slipped inside. In the
bookshop loo I raised my short skirt and took down my knickers to thigh level. My pussy looked lovely. I even teased apart the folds to see the pink pearl of my clit gleaming there amongst the
short, newly shorn hairs. Then I had an outrageous idea. I arranged my clothes and with a beating heart explored the shop. I seemed to be the only browser in the labyrinth of discreet shelves and
the owner was eating crisps, lost in a police procedural novel. I took myself off to the depths of the shop and found a spot I liked. There I bunched my skirt up around my hips and dropped my
already moist knickers. I breathed in the raunchy scent of the books and, leaning against a shelf of hardbacks (I think I may have licked one of the spines), set to work.

It felt incredible, rubbing my cunt like that in public but at the same time in private, surrounded by these hot, dangerous volumes, the leather warm and sensuous on my bottom. I took my time,
sometimes standing with my feet wide apart, once propping one booted leg up on a shelf to spread my legs further, masturbating in slow, hard circles, my cunt oozing creamy juice. A particularly
good position was squatting, my bare bottom all but touching the dusty floorboards, my pussy pinched together around my rotating fingers. Sometimes I dipped in deep to my own warm honey; sometimes
I tickled my rosebud with feathery strokes. In the end I came on my back, knees bent in the air, the heels of my boots pricking my bum cheeks. The orgasm was ferocious. I tasted it in my mouth
before it arrived beneath my fingers and I remember flopping like a stranded fish as it tore through me, knocking the breath from my body. It travelled right down my legs into my boots and made my
wrists tingle. Goodness only knows if I stayed quiet. I have no recollection. Dazed and seeing stars I arranged my clothing and left the shop on wobbly legs, saying goodbye to the (hopefully)
oblivious bookseller, licking my sticky fingers as I went.

Kyle, Bellmead

A few weeks after I turned eighteen, my aunt – my stepfather’s younger sister – came to visit and my parents put her in my room while I was stuck sleeping on
the couch in the den.