The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (73 page)

There was a kind of rubber scritchy sound as my cock swelled even more into the tube and forced it to expand. Involuntarily, I backed up, trying to pull myself out. The hose grew taut, but held
firm. My dick was stuck.

“Get me out of here! Help!”

“You’re not as bright as you look, are you, dear? Either that or you weren’t listening. I’m milking your sausage for my health and beauty products and the odd potion or
two. I hope I don’t have to explain that again.”

“Ohhh! Ohhhhh! You’re gonna make me . . . You’re gonna make me . . . You fucking witch!”

“I’ll thank you to mind your language, young lady. But I don’t want you to come too quick, dear.” She turned the suction down, but only a little. “I find if you
make ’em wait a while you get a larger, higher quality load.”

“You’re fucking mental!” I stamped the floor with my boots. The tube jiggled. “This is fucking rape! This is fucking cock rape!”

“The moment you want, dear, I’ll turn the machine off and turn you loose. I’ll turn the tapes over to the cops too. The choice is still yours.”

I sniffled. My cock swelled. I danced obscenely at the end of the hose. I felt the urge to moo with shame and arousal.

“Phew!” she said, looking into the transparent and swelling tube. “You’re gettin’
huge.
This should be a good haul. Just hang in, dear, and don’t come
too early. Would you like me to play some nice music on the radio? That should help you relax a little. You like country? Can’t stand it myself. But lots of my girls find it more
relaxin’.”

I bucked and wiggled, trying to get out without increasing my arousal. I was desperate.

“You’ve got to come sooner or later. Now where’s that salami you stole?” She rummaged in my purse and found it. Holding it up before me, she had an evil glint in her eye.
“I know just where to put this to get young Bossy to perform. Would you look at that! The very item that got you in this trouble to begin with. Can you spell irony?”

I stamped my feet. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“Really, hon, your hypocrisy is getting very tiring.”

The door back into the shop sprang open and a spry old man wheeling boxes on a dolly came in. I didn’t see him that well because I think I was practically cross-eyed by then.

“Morning, Edna.”

“Morning, Frank.”

“Milking time?”

“Yep.”

“Looks like a fine young heifer.”

“Premium dairy, Frank. Champing at the bit though, thinks herself hard done by.”

“Tch. Kids these days.”

“And now she has her hands tied behind her and her dick up a spout. And why? Because little Miss Greedy Guts couldn’t keep her fingers out of the cookie jar.”

“Oh-oh. Shoplifter, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Say, she looks familiar . . . Yeah, works at the investment centre in town, I think. Seen her drive a fancy old Jaguar around. Must be doing well, all right. And a shoplifter for all
that? Shameful.”

“Some people never get enough.”

“Ain’t it the truth.”

“Well, I ain’t getting any out of her yet. Say, Frank, maybe you can help me a little. I want to keep my eye on the suction here. Can you just lube this up and keyster our big friend
here?”

I couldn’t believe it. The old man scratched his chin and looked at my gartered thighs and burgeoning cock like you’d appraise horseflesh.

“Wait a minute,” said the old lady. “You don’t have a problem with men, do you, dear? Cause if you’re some kind of radical lesbian or something I wouldn’t
want to force old Frank here on you. I’ll just do it myself. He’s gay, by the way, bless his soul, so he won’t get any more out of it than I would.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“Fine then. Take that stool, Frank, and set yourself in behind her. Don’t forget to work it in real slow.”

She bent me gently over and supported my shoulders while Frank pulled up a stool.

“Investment centre, eh? What does she do there?” asked the old lady.

“Some kind of investment analyst, I guess.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“Tells people how to make money with their money.”

“I always thought it was just work that did that. No wonder the girl’s a thief. No idea what’s what for all her intelligence, so she diddles about with money and steals salami.
‘Investment’ my bottom!”

“Hold her still, Edna, I’ve got to invest something in this bottom here.” Frank began to twist and push. I bellowed with ignominious delight.

“O Lordy, we’ve got a screamer. Any customers out front, Frank?”

“Yeah, but Isabel’s takin’ care of them.”

“Don’t want them to hear this. Might give them the wrong idea.”

“This, my dear –” she held forth a ball gag “– is for bad little moo-moos who make too much noise.” And she gagged me.

Frank continued. The old lady cranked up the suction. I was still bent over, and felt the salami oozing and twisting its way up me.

I felt the old lady unhook my bra at the back. “I’ll just massage her titties for a bit. That should help too.”

I felt I was going to go blind from joy and die of humiliation. I mooed. That’s what I did, deliberately. I mooed. Through the gag as well as I could. I’m a cow, I wanted to cry out
to the world, milk me milk me milk me. Let my semen fill every pore and wrinkle on every sad face in the world. Let my dick stir potions for love and happiness. Just make me come, come, come. I
stomped my feet and shook, wiggled, squealed . . .

“Whoo-ee, will you look at that, Frank! She’s a regular geyser. That’s it, Bossy, squoosh, squoosh. Frank, look at her go!”

“I know, I know. Is that collection bottle going to be big enough?”

“Just barely. No one’s ever come close to filling it before.”

I stomped my boots on the floor, bellowed and mooed. Every last ounce of pride and power gushed out of me through my pinioned tap. I was crazy.

When it was all over she shut down the machine, unhooked me from it and removed the ball gag, then soaped and rinsed my tired cock with clean, damp sponges, as I stood there perfectly helpless
and stunned. She gently cleaned the lube from the crack of my ass with warm soap and water, and even powdered me down when she was done. She got me all dressed, hooking my bra on expertly and
snugly tying the Jane Belt for me, snapping me back into my skirt and pulling my sweater over my head. In the washroom, she even readjusted my make-up for me with the expert precision of one who
had been in the business.

Leading me into a tiny parlour with an enormous puffy armchair in it, she said, “Sit down here, dear, and recover your strength. You’ve been badly humiliated and totally drained of
every last ounce of spunk and energy.”

She brought me a cup of hot tea and went out front to tend to customers, leaving me to think my thoughts.

I had been broken and milked by two old people whose bones I could have broken with my bare hands.

After a while I collected myself, shouldered my purse and went into the store. She was counting money at the till. I stood, for a moment, taking in the whole store. The store I was going to
steal from not that long ago. I felt quiet and peaceful inside. I walked up to her. “Would you like me to come back?” I said timidly.

“Would I? I took a whiff of your spunk, honey, and I can tell it’s top-notch for my purposes. You bet. Come back as long as you’ve got a spring in your skirt and I can use you.
You have a boyfriend, dear?”

“No.”

“A girlfriend maybe?”

“Not that either.”

“Well, that shouldn’t last long. You’re a real looker.”

“Thanks.”

“But until you get yourself a sweetie, sweetie, don’t go blowing your wad into a sock or something. I can always use more. Here’s your share, hon.” She put $150 on the
counter before me. “This is after deducting the price of the salami, dear. I can’t sell that, now, can I?”

“What? For me?”

“You don’t think I was going to steal your spunk did you, honey? Now what’s the moral of this story after all? Don’t steal. Haven’t you learned that now?”

“I’ll say. And I’ll never forget it, thanks to you. Stealing is wrong. But, ah, what about prostitution?”

“I paid you for semen, dear, not sex. I didn’t turn you into a sperm cow for my own titillation. You see, dear, I just did it to acquire the raw fixin’s for my product –
and to teach you a lesson, of course.”

“I want you to keep the money. I mean, I don’t know how to say this but, degrading as it all was, I really enjoyed myself.”

“So you have a good time and then give me $150 worth of merchandise? That would make me the whore, dear. Let’s just look at it this way: what if a Guernsey enjoys getting milked? She
doesn’t owe the farmer anything. The farmer has her milk, doesn’t she?”

I thought about that. “OK,” I said. I took the money and put it in my purse. I had no idea what I was going to do with it. Buy myself something pretty? Give it to Oxfam?

“There’s just one thing I want to ask.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Can you please not call me ‘Bossy’ again?”

“As you wish, hon. What is your name by the way?”

“Portia. But I want you to call me . . .”

“Yes?”

“Clarabelle.”

“Clarabelle it is then.”

“Moo.” I winked at her and she smiled, closing the till.

Kathleen, Liverpool

When there had still been some romance in him, in our earliest years together, Alan had said that he could never make a drama of our love; any satisfactory story had to have an
end, he told me, and what we shared would have no ending. Twenty years on, though, I had come to realize that no ending was just as unfulfilling as a bad ending.

What passion there was Alan had put into his work, into the stories and novels he wrote, the plays and television dramas; there was no passion in my life, only in his, which he lived as if it
was a novel, he its hero, driven on by some anonymous but omnipotent author.

Now I was so desperate for love that I could share it with anyone but my husband.

“But a policeman, Alan? Did you have to?” I asked, as I set the places at the dining table.

“Detective Inspector,” he responded, not looking up from the pad in his lap in which he was furiously scribbling notes. “And I want to pick his brain.”

“But did it have to be here? And just him? Three is no number for a dinner party. Couldn’t he have brought his wife?”

“Divorced.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not sure he has one.”

Great! I thought, as my husband’s responses were spat out staccato fashion. Another man obsessed with self and career. It was going to be a wonderful evening.

Gloomily I returned to the kitchen, checked that all was well with the food, uncorked a bottle of wine to let it breathe and then decided that I needed a glass.

“Me too!” called Alan, hearing the pop of the cork.

“So soon?” I called back.

“If it’s soon enough for you then it’s soon enough for me.”

“You’re drinking too much,” I said, pouring a second glass.

There was no response until I carried the drink through to him, when he said, “Pot. Kettle. Black.”

So often these days his side of a conversation was truncated, as if words had become so precious to him that he was frugal with them, reserving them for his work, denying them to me. Frowning, I
handed him his drink and then sat on the sofa facing him.

The pounds he had put on over the past months were becoming more noticeable, he had a visible paunch now where once he had been so slim, and his complexion was pasty, his eyes seemed to be
weeping, red-rimmed, tired and lacking sparkle through working so many late nights.

Not only did I feel no love for him, nowadays I felt no attraction towards him either.

Sipping my drink, my mind searched for some way to cheer up the evening ahead.

“Well, I suppose your Detective Inspector might bring along his handcuffs,” I said, and finally Alan raised his eyes from his notepad, looked hard at me.

“Do not, I repeat, do
not
inject any note of flippancy into this evening,” he cautioned me. “I need Robert’s input, I need his expertise as a policeman to make the
work credible. If this one-off drama works then there could be a series to follow. Do not fuck the evening up with any crass comments or silly remarks.”

“As if I would,” I said, with a grin and a dismissive wave of the hand.

“Promise?” Alan insisted.

“Cross my heart and hope to wotsit,” I said, my finger slowly marking a diagonal first one way and then the other, the manicured nail lightly scoring the skin where the neckline of
my dress was cut low.

But already Alan’s eyes were lowering, he was returning to his notes and failed to notice my nipples prick erect beneath the soft silk.

Detective Inspector Robert Gregg was a hunk, I had to concede: his lush blond hair was like the mane of a cartoon lion; his shoulders broad and square beneath the elegant suit;
his manner easy and relaxed as if he could cope with any situation.

He smiled affably as I greeted him at the door, offered me a single rose and Alan a bottle of single malt.

But then Alan took over, I was chef and waitress and almost coincidental to the evening. Even before the entree was set before them, he was quizzing the policeman, making notes in his pad right
there at the table.

“What I’m interested in is the vice aspect and what temptation, what complications it might present,” Alan was saying, as I came from the kitchen.

“I hope you’re not asking if I’m a bent copper, Alan,” Robert said, with a smile and the slightest of winks in my direction.

“Not at all! Not at all! You have the right to remain silent,” Alan quipped. “But still –?”

“There are temptations that come one’s way,” Robert conceded. “And then there are aspects of vice that are cause for amusement, or sometimes revulsion.”

“Amusement is good, it’s always useful to inject some humour,” said Alan eagerly, and I scowled, recalling that this was the very thing he had cautioned me against.

“Why just this week we brought in a professional domme –”

“Huh?” I said.