The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (51 page)

I exhaled in a great, shuddering breath, and Juan smiled. His hand came up to stroke my cheek, and he leaned forwards and kissed me. It was a tender kiss, a first kiss, a lover’s kiss. It
was the sweet goodnight kiss from a boyfriend, not the lusty just-fucked kiss bestowed upon a woman with another man’s cock buried up to the hilt in her cunt.

I kissed him back just as tenderly, and for long moments we explored each other’s mouth. Then his lips slid from mine, down my neck, kissing gently over my skin, until finally his lips
closed over my nipple. His warm tongue swirled over the peak, sending ripples down my belly, so that my pussy shivered around Steve’s cock. For long minutes, Juan laved each nipple in turn,
before sliding lower, his lips running over my belly until they rested just above my pubes.

Behind me, Steve rose up to see, and his cock twitched and thickened, rising to half-mast inside me.

Oh God, I thought deliriously. He’s not going to . . . Mandy’s words about Juan’s talented tongue came rushing back to me.

Juan’s mouth dropped lower. With careful fingers, he parted the lips of my pussy and, uncaring of my slippery just-fucked state and of Steve’s twitching cock still wedged inside, he
put his lips to my clit and sucked. His tongue flickered, running over my throbbing nub. Mandy was right – he was a master. He seemed to know instinctively exactly the right pressure and
speed, exactly how I love to be touched. My orgasm built inexorably, until I came with a gasp, my inner muscles spasming so hard that my stomach muscles ached.

Juan raised his glistening mouth, and I pulled him up to me by the hair. We kissed, tenderly, then fiercely, slurping and devouring each other. My hands delved down to his groin. He was hard,
his cock a silky, steel shaft. Behind me, Steve was erect again, and starting to tentatively thrust, but I ignored him – it was Juan that I wanted.

Steve’s thrusting held me pinned, so I tugged on Juan’s arm until he took the hint and moved higher in the bed. His groin was level with my face, soft brown hair and musky scent. His
cock pulsed in front of me. Bending towards him, I licked around its proud helmet, savouring the smoothness, the single salty drop of fluid that seeped from its tip.

Juan groaned, and his fingers clenched painfully in my hair. His hips moved forwards, instinctively, silently urging me to take him deeper.

Behind me, Steve was in fine fucking rhythm, holding my hips as he pummelled me from behind. He felt good, hard and fierce, and the aftershocks of orgasm rippled through me. Too soon for me to
climb to my peak again, but the sheer eroticism of the moment made up for that. Two men, two glorious handsome men, taking me, loving me, fucking me. It was everything I’d ever fantasized
about and then some.

Juan’s cock bobbed enticingly in front of me. My tongue darted out and licked carefully around the rim, then, taking pity on him, I took the whole thing in my mouth. He wasn’t
particularly long, but he was thick, mouth-wateringly solid, dusky gold along the shaft, darker at the root.

I pushed on Juan’s chest, rolling him over onto his back, and then I lifted myself away from Steve’s cock, ignoring his moan of disappointment. My attention was fixed on the
mouthwatering expanse of Juan’s golden skin. Straddling him, I eased myself over his cock. Steve’s seed was sticky on my thighs, sliding out of my cunt, but I didn’t care. I
wanted Juan’s great golden cock, wanted to feel it inside me hammering my pussy as hard as it could. I wanted to come again and again, until my teeth ached.

Juan’s eyes were slits of pleasure as I sank down over him, taking him inside in one smooth movement. His hands rested on my thighs, and he let me do the work, rising and falling on his
prick with rhythmic motion. I was vaguely aware of Steve pumping his cock into his fist, but Juan filled my vision. His hips undulated in time to my motion, and his hands clenched and unclenched on
my thighs.

The pressure built once more and I came hard, just as Juan thrusted up, spurting his juice into me, and Steve climaxed with a roar, spilling himself over his hand.

The next morning, the three of us shared breakfast as if nothing had happened. If it wasn’t for the pleasurable ache between my legs, I might have thought I’d dreamed it all. Steve
kissed me goodbye that afternoon and returned to Baltimore. Juan stayed, and we spent the afternoon lazily curled up on the couch, watching TV and caressing each other’s skin, making love
when the mood took us.

Around six, the door burst open and Mandy rushed in. “Liza! Have I got a story for you. You won’t believe what Raoul is –” She broke off, her eyes wide, as she took in
Juan and I, naked on the couch. “On second thoughts, you just might have the better story!”

Paul, Madrid

I had tired of the cities, of the hustle and the bustle, had had my fill of culture; I had seen Gaudi’s Barcelona and Dali’s Figueras, had visited the Prado and the
Alhambra and the Escorial. Now I wanted something more peaceful, more rustic.

A two-hour bus journey took me inland, to such a nowhere place that I wondered why it should merit a bus service at all. A church at one end of the square was perhaps the most unremarkable I had
seen during my months in Spain, the small hotel at the opposite end seemed clean and welcoming but could have been anywhere. There was nothing to distinguish the buildings and the town struck me as
more a place to pass through rather than arrive at.

Arrive I had, though, so with my rucksack slung over my shoulder I strolled around the square, glanced in the windows of a shop or two, smoked a cigarette as I sat by the fountain in the centre
of the square. There were quite a few people about, but not so many that they needed to compete for space, as they seemed to do in other places I had been, and none who were obviously tourists.
Most seemed unhurried and contented, some smiled a silent greeting at me as they passed, and it occurred to me that the town’s charm might be in its very anonymity, that the most remarkable
aspect of it was that it was so unremarkable.

On an impulse I picked up my rucksack and walked briskly across the square to the hotel.

They had a room for me, the price was reasonable, within minutes I had deposited my things and changed into fresh clothes, was back out on the square again.

There were a number of bars, restaurants, cafes dotted around the square and I chose one at random, sat at a table outside.

The young woman who came out to me wore a long flowing skirt which was a little too old-fashioned for a person her age, it might have been more suited to her mother, if her mother had been a
flamenco dancer. The blouse, too, was a little unflattering, a few too many frills about it, as if the fashions often years ago had only just reached that backwater. The way she moved, though, made
any complaints about her dress immaterial, for she walked as other women might dance, her hips swaying, a gentle fluid motion making her whole body seem to undulate as she moved towards me.

“Buenas tardes,”
she said with a smile.

“Buenas tardes,”
I replied.
“Un cerveza por favor, y un . . . un bocacülló?”

She sensed my hesitancy as I searched for the right word, asked in English, which was better than my Spanish, “And what would you like on your sandwich?”

“Erm . . . ham? And cheese?”

“Bueno. Jamon y queso.”

The beer was cold, her smile was warm as she served it to me; she brought me a dish of olives while the sandwich was prepared. There must have been few people inside for she was attentive in her
service, unhurried.

I had a second beer, a third, and each time she served me she lingered a little longer at my table.

“Me
llamo
Paul,” I introduced myself, and she said her name was Yolanda. I congratulated her on her English and she teasingly said that my Spanish was . . .
understandable.

I laughed and invited her to sit a while if she had the time. She narrowed her eyes to peer into the dark interior of the bar, decided that no one needed her so took the seat beside me.

I told her of my travels, of the places I had visited and the sights I had seen, thinking to impress her with the sophistication, but though she listened with an interested smile there was no
hint of envy in her soft brown eyes, no obvious yearning to visit these places for herself.

Finally she said, “Pah! These
Madrilenos
and the like, they are all very well with their fine clothes and their boutiques, their galleries full of art and libraries full of books,
but still they are a little bit backward.”

“Backward?” I laughed, first looking at the clothes she wore, then around me at her tiny town, and seeing not an iota of sophistication anywhere. If there was any place that was
backward in that country then I had surely stumbled upon it.

“You doubt me?” Yolanda demanded, getting quickly to her feet, fists on hips and glaring down at me.

“No, I’m sure your small town has much to recommend it, and its people –”

“Do not think to condescend!” she cut me off, backing from me like a dancer, with a twitch of the hips and a single step. She spat a curse at me:
“Bruto campesinol
Ignorant peasant!”

The fire in those eyes! The lushness of the lips as she spat her curse! Her whole body trembled with anger, with passion, and before she could back further from me I reached out to grasp her
wrist.

“I’m sorry, Yolanda, truly sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s my English sense of humour, I suppose.”

“Unsophisticated?”

“Unsophisticated,” I agreed, smiling. “Tell me, what time do you finish work here?”

“Why?” she asked.

“We might meet for a drink?” I hoped.

“I finish at eight, the house is at the back of the bar.” She pointed, snatching her hand free, then turned on her heels and flounced off.

Yolanda greeted me more amiably than we had parted, with a smile and a kiss to each cheek.

She had changed from the skirt and blouse of earlier, wore a tight dress of black silk, its neckline low, its skirt short. Her hair had been drawn up, was held at the back with a large silver
comb, her eyes had been darkened and her lips glossed a dark red. She looked stunning but still … a little out of fashion.

She stepped aside to let me enter, closed the door after me and then led me into the house, her arm linking through mine. The blinds were partly closed in the room I was taken to, keeping the
air cool, the light soft. I cast my eyes around the room, making out objects in the muted light: the sofa and chairs, furniture of rich wood which might have been antique, the small table in one
corner at which sat the dark shape of a woman.

I looked enquiringly at Yolanda, saying nothing but my puzzlement obvious.

“My aunt, Tia Maria.” Yolanda grinned, and at the mention of her name her aunt’s head lifted from the book she was reading.

“Hola,”
she said, regarding me sternly.

She was perhaps ten, fifteen years older than her niece, somewhere in her thirties, and dressed like a woman in mourning. Her long black skirt came to her ankles, her blouse was buttoned to the
neck and hair as dark as Yolanda’s was tied back from her face, though more severely than her niece’s.

“Er . . . hello,” I said, for the moment forgetting the little Spanish I knew, thinking that in her monochromatic harmony she resembled a portrait by Whistler. The artist’s
mother, maybe.

“Some wine?” Yolanda invited, crossing to an ancient cabinet.

“Just the one,” her aunt said.

“Great,” I said, without enthusiasm, wondering if Tio Pepe might be lurking somewhere in the background.

Yolanda nodded to me to sit on the sofa, poured two glasses and joined me there while her aunt returned to her book, her back almost, but not quite, turned to us.

I took a stiff drink, then asked in a whisper, “What’s your aunt doing here?”

Smiling slyly over the rim of her glass, Yolanda said, “She is here as my
carabina
. . . my . . . how would you say? My chaperone?”

“Remind your young man that
carabina
can also mean carbine, gun,” Yolanda’s aunt said, without looking up from her book.

“Look, maybe I’d best leave,” I said uncomfortably, setting my glass down, wondering how she might now dare challenge the idea that this town of hers could be anything but
backward.

“No, please don’t,” said Yolanda, resting her hand on my knee to lean towards me, and in the instant before she kissed me I was offered an enticing view of her breasts, a sight
which made me gasp, as if I was about to drown in them.

What Yolanda offered this time was no simple kiss of greeting, no light peck to each cheek, but a kiss as passionate as the Spanish sun was hot. I had never known lips so soft, her tongue when
it slipped between mine was caressing rather than abrasive, and it felt as if my whole body was melting, sinking into hers.

When Yolanda broke the kiss, our faces inches apart, I cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, in the direction of her aunt. She was still seated as before, her back mostly turned to us, head
bent over her book.

“Don’t go?” Yolanda asked softly, her hand caressing my thigh.

If there was any temptation to leave, any cowardly impulse to run, it vanished the instant the tip of a finger reached my groin. A tingle that was electric coursed through my body and I leaned
forwards to resume the kiss, my eyes still fixed on Yolanda’s aunt at first, but soon feeling the lids flutter shut as I surrendered myself to the power of her kiss.

There was more than just the tip of a finger at my groin now, Yolanda had the palm of her hand pressed hard against my cock, her fingers were digging and probing beneath, clutching at my balls
through the fabric of my trousers.

“Yolanda!” I hissed, softly but urgently.

“Yes?” she asked, her face pulling back to give me the sweetest, the wickedest of smiles, and her fingers pulled my zip down, searched around for my cock.

I bit my lip, closed my eyes and fought to keep my breathing even as Yolanda pulled out my cock, thinking: Oh shit! Oh shit!