Nexus Confessions Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Also in the series

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Walk on By – Upskirt peeper with a craving for hose and heels

  Victim of Circumstances – A wife addicted to flashing

  Figging the Brat – Sharing the responsibility for punishment

  Car 371 – A taxi driver gets lucky

  The Invisible Woman – When a mother has to have her own daughter’s lover

  Was It You? – Feminising your boyfriend

  Angelo’s – She fancies older men

  Linda’s Misdemeanours – Playing the slut to provoke the boss

  Playing with the Computer – Online swinging

  Out of the Closet – Unable to resist dressing in Auntie’s clothes

  Payback – When three girls turn dominant

  What We Did On Our Holidays – Cuckolded – and loving it

  Lesbian Longing – Suburban mother seduced by a teenage lesbian

  One Snowy Night – Hotel receptionist seeks dirty sex . . . with a guest

  Copyright

  About the Book

  On holiday, David is cuckolded by his glamorous wife Ginny, only to discover a craving for such betrayal . . .

  Justine and Cynthia are dominant older women with special plans for Babs, the nineteen year old female brat . . .

  Office girl Linda dresses to tease her older boss, from whom she secretly craves punishment . . .

  Rob is a voyeur with a stocking and shoe fetish and the perfect peephole, but he never counted on being rumbled by Mistress . . .

  Sharon is an upskirt exhibitionist who uses her husband’s friends as the audience . . .

  Swinging, dogging, group sex, cross-dressing, spanking, female domination, corporal punishment, and extreme fetishes . . . Nexus Confessions explores the length and breadth of erotic obsession, real experience and sexual fantasy. An encyclopaedic collection of the bizarre, the extreme, the utterly inappropriate, the daring and the shocking experiences of ordinary men and women driven by their extraordinary desires. Collected by the world’s leading publisher of fetish fiction, this is the second in a series of six volumes of true stories and shameful confessions, never-before-told or published.

  Other titles available in the Nexus Confessions series:

  NEXUS CONFESSIONS: VOLUME ONE

  NEXUS

  CONFESSIONS:

  VOLUME TWO

  Edited and compiled by

  Lindsay Gordon

  Introduction

  Who can forget the first time they read a reader’s letter in an adult magazine? It could make your legs shake. You could almost feel your imagination stretching to comprehend exactly what some woman had done with a neighbour, the baby-sitter, her best friend, her son’s friend, a couple of complete strangers, whatever . . . Do real women actually do these things? Did this guy really get that lucky? We asked ourselves these questions, and the not knowing, and the wanting to believe, or wanting to disbelieve because we felt we were missing out, were all part of the reading experience, the fun, the involvement in the confessions of others, as if we were reading some shameful diary. And when Nancy Friday’s collections of sexual fantasies became available, didn’t we all shake our heads and say, no way, some depraved writer made all of this up. No woman could possibly want to do that. Or this guy must be crazy. But I bet there are reader’s letters and confessed fantasies that we read years, even decades ago, that we can still remember clearly. Stories that haunt us: did it, might it, could it have really happened? And stories that still thrill us when the lights go out because they have informed our own dreams. But as we get older and become more experienced, maybe we have learnt that we would be foolish to underestimate anyone sexually, especially ourselves.

  The scope of human fantasy and sexual experience seems infinite now. And our sexual urges and imaginations never cease to eroticise any new situation or trend or cultural flux about us. To browse online and to see how many erotic sub-cultures have arisen and made themselves known, is to be in awe. Same deal with magazines and adult films – the variety, the diversity, the complexity and level of obsessive detail involved. But I still believe there are few pictures or visuals that can offer the insights into motivation and desire, or reveal the inner world of a fetish, or detail the pure visceral thrill of sexual arousal, or the anticipation and suspense of a sexual experience in the same way that a story can. When it comes to the erotic you can’t beat a narrative, and when it comes to an erotic narrative you can’t beat a confession. An actual experience or longing confided to you, the reader, in a private dialogue that declares: yes, if I am honest, I even shock myself at what I have done and what I want to do. There is something comforting about it. And unlike a novel, with an anthology there is the additional perk of dipping in and out and of not having to follow continuity; the chance to find something fresh and intensely arousing every few pages written by a different hand. Start at the back if you want. Anthologies are perfect for erotica, and they thrive when the short story in other genres has tragically gone the way of poetry.

  So sit back and enjoy the Nexus Confessions series. It offers the old school thrills of reading about the sexual shenanigans of others, but Nexus-style. And the fantasies and confessions that came flooding in – when the call went out on our website – are probably only suitable for Nexus. Because like the rest of our canon, they detail fetishes, curious tastes and perverse longings: the thrills of shame and humiliation, the swapping of genders, and the ecstasy of submission or domination. There are no visiting milkmen, or busty neighbours hanging out the washing and winking over the hedge here. Oh, no. Our readers and fantasists are far more likely to have been spanked, or caned, feminised into women, have given themselves to strangers, to have dominated other men or women, gone dogging, done the unthinkable, behaved inappropriately and broken the rules.

  Lindsay Gordon, Autumn 2006

  Walk on By

  It wasn’t my ideal job. Let’s face it, spending eight hours a day in a dingy, dusty basement with only racks of files and the odd spider for company isn’t at the top of anyone’s list of ambitions. But I’d finished my degree over a year ago and still hadn’t managed to find a permanent job. If it hadn’t been for the odd bit of temping, and occasional handouts from my parents (always accompanied by disapproving shakes of the head and lengthy enquiries about my future prospects), I’d have been living on the street.

  As it was, I had one tiny room in a shared house and I still took my washing home to mum once a week. It wasn’t much, but it was mine and at least I didn’t have to worry about my little sister rushing in every time I decided to have a wank. And, let’s face it, wanking was about the only sex life I had these days. Well, I was hardly a good prospect, was I? Anyway, I’d always been really shy around girls and, what with my somewhat unusual sexual preferences, it seemed easier not to even bother. I wasn’t a virgin, but you could hardly call me experienced. And when it came to my more specialised appetites . . . well, those had always been strictly confined to my fantasy life. I’m sure there were girls who got off on having their feet worshipped and didn’t mind a bit parading around in nothing but high heels, but let’s just say I’d never met one of them.

  Anyway, as I said, it was hardly my dream job; frankly I couldn’t think of anything more boring, but there was rent to pay, I owed thousands in student loans, and I was beginning to dread going cap-in-hand to my parents every few months. It was time to stand on my own two feet and, if that meant working in a musty old cellar, then it had to be.

  The job itself was simple enough. My employers, one of the City’s oldest firms of solicitors, were only just moving into the computer age. The basement
housed their archives. It would be my job to retrieve and file wills and trust documents and title deeds and, in quieter moments, to design a computer program to catalogue everything in the archive. This was no mean feat; some of the papers had been there since Victorian times. But, to tell you the truth, I relished the challenge and for a shy, gauche young man like me, working alone suited me down to the ground.

  It was pretty dark and spooky in my basement. The overhead lights did little to relieve the gloom, merely creating shadows and adding to the sense of decay. What’s more, the dust and crumbling paper exacerbated my asthma and I spent most of the day red-eyed and sniffling. Hardly appealing, so, when you think about it, it was probably a good thing that I worked alone.

  But I’d only been there half a day when I noticed an unexpected, and most welcome, fringe benefit. The basement was essentially one huge rectangular room. On the floors above, the building had been divided into separate, smaller rooms but my domain had never been partitioned. One side of the room faced the street where there were windows to let in light. I hadn’t paid much attention to them at first, beyond thinking that they wouldn’t allow me to see much of the world. The windows were at eye level and only about a foot high. What would normally have been the windowsill on the outside was the pavement.

  Towards the end of my first morning I heard a clip-clop sound coming from outside and looked up to notice two sets of women’s feet walking past. Both women were wearing high heels of the type worn by office workers. One of them wore plain black court shoes but the one closer to me had on chocolate-brown suede shoes with a series of narrow straps across the instep. The other one wore ordinary, dark nylons but the woman in the brown shoes was wearing sheer, seamed black ones with the Cuban heel just visible at the back of her ankle where the shoe ended. I was pretty certain that her nylons, unlike her companion’s, were probably stockings and I couldn’t help my mind wandering a little farther up her leg to that inviting and mysterious zone between stocking tops and underwear.

  As the windows ran the whole length of the building, from the vantage point of my desk I was able to watch then walk the full length of the building. Once they had passed me, their heels clacking against the pavement, I could see them from the rear and got a lovely view of stocking seams running up the backs of two shapely calves. My boring unappealing job suddenly seemed a lot more exciting. As the two women disappeared out of sight I realised I was holding my breath.

  Needless to say, that night in my room, I relived that moment in minute detail. Running over in my mind the sound of the steel-tipped stilettos clip-clopping against the paving slabs. The curve of their insteps, the subtle gleam of light on their nylon-clad legs. Either one of them would have been enough to bring me off but it was the woman in the brown shoes with the old-fashioned seamed stockings who really excited me. I don’t know why, but for some reason I always imagined that women who dressed that way were dominant and demanding. In my imagination they wanted nothing more than to have me kneel at their feet, gazing up at their magnificent stockinged legs. Maybe, if I was lucky, I might even get to lick the leather and run my tongue slowly along the length of the cruel, slender heel.

  From then on, I woke up every morning eager for work. I took to going in early to catch the office girls walking past on the way to their own jobs. I knew that, if I let it, my new obsession could interfere with my job so, ever the professional, I disciplined myself, rationing my voyeurism to my free time.

  I got into the habit of buying two slices of toast and a cappuccino in the sandwich bar opposite then sitting by the basement window while I ate my breakfast. At nine o’clock I’d sit at my desk and wouldn’t look out of the window again until lunchtime which, needless to say, I ate at my favourite seat where I had the best view. It wasn’t easy, but I was paid to work, not to look out of the window, and I couldn’t ignore my responsibilities. And, with something to look forward to, I was able to channel all my pent-up energy and excitement into my work and even began to enjoy it.

  I soon developed favourites. I could even identify them from the sounds of their footsteps as they approached down the street. There was a woman who passed by very early every morning who always wore rather slutty shoes that were somewhat scuffed, the leather on the heels curling slightly like banana peel. Though my view was restricted to the knees down, I felt I could tell a little about their characters from their legs and feet. The woman with the tarty shoes was short and a little chubby. Her calf was full and rounded and she always wore black, very shiny tights of the kind, I knew, that contain a high proportion of Lycra.

  She always wore impossibly high heels that meant she was practically walking on tiptoes. She had half a dozen pairs of shoes, which she alternated. Most of them were unusual colours: crimson, green, yellow and pink. She always walked slowly and sometimes she looked as though her feet hurt and I concocted the fantasy that she was a street girl on the way home after a hard night. I was probably completely wrong. She could have been an office girl for all I knew, or even a high-court judge with terrible taste in shoes, but in my imagination she was a tart with a heart going home to a fry-up and a warm bed.

  Did she do it in punters’ cars, I wondered? Did she peel down those shiny tights and just bend over in an alley? Or maybe she had a room with a maid to show in the clients and a bowl of condoms on the bedside table where she stripped off completely and let them do whatever they wanted provided they had the money to pay. I couldn’t help wondering how much she would charge if you asked her to keep her shoes on.

  There was another woman whose shoes were always shiny and immaculate and clearly expensive. She rushed past as if she were terribly busy, talking into her mobile phone so loudly I could hear every word. I imagined that she was a recruitment consultant or estate agent whose income depended on commission and she was ruthless and focused in her pursuit of clients.

  Was she the sort of woman who’d like to dominate a man at the end of the day? Would she lift her foot and run her spiked heel down my torso and threaten to grind it into my testicles if I wasn’t a good boy? Or maybe she preferred to let go in her free time and allow someone else to take charge. One day she hurried by in a pair of square-toed, kitten-heel black slingbacks and I noticed that she had a hole in her tights. I longed to finger her pale skin through the gap and touch her naked flesh with the tip of my tongue.

  Needless to say, sitting by the window looking at a parade of gorgeous female feet going by got me rather hot and bothered. But no matter how horny it made me, I had a strict rule that I’d wait until the evening to relieve my pent-up arousal in the comfort and privacy of my own bed. Even though nobody would ever know about it, somehow, wanking in a dank basement seemed just too seedy and desperate.

  After a while, I even came to enjoy the frustration. Fuelled by my arousal, my work had never been better and, when I finally allowed myself to come, reliving the parade of shoes that had passed by the window that day, it was never less than spectacular.

  By far my favourite was the woman I had seen on the first day in the brown suede shoes. She had an elegant, languorous way of walking that reminded me of a catwalk model. Something about the rhythm of her steps told me that her hips swayed as she moved and it wasn’t difficult to picture her buttocks swinging from side to side, hypnotising me.

  She usually passed by just before nine and seldom went home before six. Most lunchtimes, she walked by my window while I was sitting at my vantage point eating my sandwich and came back just before I returned to work. On the days when she didn’t, I imagined she was indulging in some stuffy business lunch, forced to be polite to clients she couldn’t stand. At least I hoped she couldn’t stand them because, by this time, I’d developed quite a crush on her.

  It was crazy, I knew, because, in reality, I knew nothing about her other than that she had expensive taste in shoes and favoured old-fashioned hosiery, but fantasies never hurt anyone and, since they were the only sex life I had, I intended to enjoy them to the full.
/>   She seldom wore the same footwear twice. She owned several pairs that I recognised as Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo, so I guessed she was – if you’ll pardon the pun – well-heeled. Though her choice of shoe was never slutty, they were always exotic and individual. She favoured tall, slender heels which showed her arched instep to its best advantage and made her calves seem even more shapely. She liked suede and buttery, sensual calfskin and shoes made from silk. There was a crimson pair fastened by ribbons around the ankle and a dark green beaded pair with the same iridescent sheen as a fly’s wing.

  No matter what shoes she chose she always wore sheer, traditional nylons. In my fevered imagination I pictured her sitting on her bed each morning, taking a flimsy stocking out of the packet and rolling it down in readiness. Then she’d put her scarlet-painted toes into the stocking’s shaped toe and gently ease it up her perfect legs. She’d fasten the top to her suspenders – attached, in my imagination, to the bottom of a frothy black corset (unlikely, I know, but, hey, it was my fantasy so why not) – and turn her back to a full-length mirror to check if her seams were straight.

  I couldn’t help picturing myself naked on my knees looking up at her legs and tracing the seam with my eyes, and then my fingers, from where it began at the heel with its dark step-shaped pattern and up the curve of her calves and thighs. At the top there was the circle where the seam ended just under the dark welt of the stocking-top. If I was lucky, maybe she would bend over and treat me to a glimpse of plump lips beneath the globes of her buttocks as she slid her knickers up her legs. Well, I could dream, couldn’t I?

  When I pleasured myself at home after a long day at work, it was this woman who fuelled most of my solitary fantasies. I christened her Dita, after Dita Von Teese, the exotic and glamorous wife of Marilyn Manson. Was she a high-class escort or a high-powered businesswoman? Whatever she did, I knew it was lucrative. Occasionally I might catch a glimpse of the bottom of a dress or a skirt and these too were expensive and tasteful.