Nexus Confessions Read online

  Under normal circumstances I’d have baulked at the suggestion that I soil a jacket that I’d just had dry cleaned, but I whipped it off the trolley and spread it out on the ground like Walter Raleigh laying down his cloak for his Queen. She lay down on it with her thighs spread and her skirt bunched up around her waist. The sight of that six inches of creamy thigh above her stocking tops, leading up to a neat trimmed pussy, was almost more than I could bear.

  I longed to take my cock in my hand and plunge it in her up to the root and fuck her so hard she screamed. Yet I was conscious that I’d promised to do whatever she wanted, that we were here for her pleasure not mine and I dared not move a muscle until I had received my orders. She used both hands to spread her lips and I saw the dark rosy moist interior of her glorious pussy.

  ‘Lick that. And don’t stop until I tell you.’

  I didn’t need telling twice. I shuffled forwards, positioning myself between her spread thighs. I lowered myself onto my elbows and pressed my face against her crotch. I could smell her arousal and a hint of some exotic perfume. Though I wasn’t very experienced, I’d always prided myself on my cunnilingus skills. I ran the flat of my tongue along the length of her slit. I dabbled it at her opening. I slid it downwards and explored the area between her two secret holes before probing at her tight rear opening.

  She gasped. She was holding her lips open, spreading herself for my eager tongue. I explored every millimetre of her beautiful cunt. She moaned and wriggled throughout my exploration, leaving me in no doubt that she found it as arousing as I did. My cock was drooling pre-come onto the dusty floor. My balls were hard and tight and riding my shaft.

  I moved my attention to the hard bead of her clit and pushed back its tiny hood with the tip of my tongue. She gasped in appreciation and began to rock her hips. I lavished the sensitive nub with long strokes, each of them eliciting a little moan of pleasure. I slid two fingers into her hot tight cunt and fucked her slowly as I licked.

  Her thighs were trembling and taut. Sweat filmed her body, making her skin gleam. My cock ached. I reached between my legs with my free hand and took it in my fist. I began to pump it slowly, co-ordinating my movement with the rhythm of my mouth moving against her hot pussy.

  I began to concentrate on her clit, circling my tongue around the edge and occasionally flicking it across the sensitive tip. I was fucking her with two fingers, crooking them inside her to stimulate her G-spot. I knew I’d found it because she arched her back and began to whimper.

  I wanked myself steadily, my hand wet with my own juice. Her cunt was so slick and slippery that, from time to time, her fingers lost their grip and had to be repositioned and somehow I found that unbelievably arousing. I was sucking hard on her clit by now, taking it right into my mouth and occasionally even nibbling on it.

  I was working her G-spot at the same time, circling my fingers inside her. The effect on her was electric. Her whole body was taut and tense and she was moaning and gasping. I could tell that she was on the brink of orgasm, riding that moment where arousal reaches a pitch and finally, finally tips over the edge into climax.

  My hand was a blur on my cock. I could have come at any minute, but I was biding my time, waiting for her. I wanted to time my release with that incredible moment when her body would spasm and her clit would dance in my mouth and I’d feel her cunt contracting around my fingers.

  She was in a world of her own, lost in her own arousal. Her hips pistoned, grinding her open crotch against my face. She was making sharp little mewling noises – sobbing almost – in response to the sensations my tongue was creating.

  My cock was rigid. I was covered in sweat and dust and the floor was hurting my knees but there was nowhere else I would rather be: the taste of her cunt in my mouth and my cock in my hand.

  By now, she was practically screaming. Her hips rocked urgently. I licked for all I was worth. She lifted both legs and rested her feet against my back. Her cries reached a pitch of excitement and her whole body stiffened. She was coming. I pulled down hard on my foreskin, finally allowing myself to climax.

  I felt her heels pressing into my flesh. She raked them down my back, not hard enough to hurt, but I could definitely feel it.

  I kept my mouth clamped over her pussy and rode out her orgasm with her. My cock pumped out jism onto the dusty floor. Some of it landed on my jacket and the idea of soiling it only added to the excitement. She seemed to come forever, her clit in my mouth and her scratchy pubes pressing up against my nose. When it was over, I lay down beside her and held her in my arms. I was covered in dust and I was pretty sure that there were cobwebs in my hair but I couldn’t have been happier.

  ‘Did you enjoy that, Rob?’ she asked finally, her voice sleepy and satisfied.

  ‘Fantastic. How was it for you . . .’ I looked at her. ‘Do you know, I don’t even know what your name is?’

  ‘Why don’t you just call me Mistress?’

  And I have, ever since.

  – Rob, London, UK

  Victim of Circumstances

  I’m not really an exhibitionist. I’m just a victim of circumstances.

  It started the Saturday before last. My husband’s best friend and workmate, Tim, was scheduled to turn up and watch THE MATCH, while helpfully removing the beer cans from our fridge. I could gripe a little here and ask why men need to watch football matches in twos or threes? Or why they never watch ‘a match’ and it always has to be THE MATCH, in capitals and with a definite article?

  But it’s not in my nature to bitch and moan.

  For the afternoon my home would be transformed into a beer-smelling playground of expletives, farting and loutish cheers. Rather than fight the inevitable entropy of manliness, I’d decided to simply take a shower, and then go into town and indulge in some retail therapy. If Ron could behave like a conventional stereotype there seemed no reason why I couldn’t follow his example.

  But that Saturday started like something from the corniest of corny sitcoms. Because the shower was running, I didn’t hear the doorbell. Because I didn’t know Ron had let Tim into the house, I didn’t bother covering myself as I went from the bathroom to our bedroom. And because Tim was headed up the stairs, he got to see me absolutely naked.

  There was a moment where I could have sworn my heart stopped beating. My cheeks turned bright red but I’m fairly sure Tim was not looking at my face. I was standing like a rabbit caught in the glow of oncoming headlamps. My bare breasts – washed, scrubbed and looking distinctly perky – were exposed and trembling for him. The triangle of my pubic bush – only just trimmed and with the short dark curls still bejewelled by shower water – was there for him to see.

  Tim stood at the top of the stairs between me and my bedroom door. His jaw hung open. His eyes were wide with amazement. And then he began to grin. ‘Wow,’ he whispered. ‘Sharon!’

  I rushed past him and slammed the bedroom door closed.

  As though reciting the punchline for the sitcom script I had just been part of, Ron called up, ‘I don’t know if the bathroom’s free or not, Tim. I think Shaz might be taking a shower.’

  I lay shivering on the bed, not sure what had happened and confused by my body’s responses. I was embarrassed, I was angry, and I was maddeningly horny. Those first two responses didn’t cause me any confusion. Tim seeing me naked was humiliating. And Ron, not thinking about me in the shower and simply letting his friend bound up the stairs, would have irked any woman. But I couldn’t understand why I was so aroused.

  I closed my eyes and the image came back to me. Tim was staring at my naked body. His gaze feasted on my bare breasts, then lowered to glimpse the triangle of my pubes. I wondered if he had seen anything more. I’d trimmed the dark hairs short in the shower and it was not unusual for the grooming to make my labia grow more obvious. This isn’t a confession where I admit to touching myself up in the shower (although the massage spray does have a distinctive pulse). But I was petrified that Tim might have seen my pussy li
ps.

  No. I wasn’t petrified. That’s the wrong word. Half of me was devastated that he might have seen so much. But the other half was very excited. Considering the spreading warmth that swept from my loins, I knew exactly which half was excited.

  My thoughts were in overdrive. I wondered if I should tell Ron what had happened, or if that would make my humiliation worse. I couldn’t imagine him being angry because of the incident. But I could easily picture him adding to my shame by turning the story into a crass little anecdote for all his workmates and drinking friends.

  That thought killed the idea of sharing the experience with Ron.

  And I was anxious to find out if Tim was aroused by what he had seen. I don’t know why his opinion mattered to me, and his exclamation had said more than a single syllable can usually manage. But I needed to know if the sight of my bare body had given him an erection, if he’d had difficulty peeing after seeing me, and if the sight of my nudity now occupied a special place in his thoughts.

  I was tempted to touch myself while I remembered the moment. I was already undressed. Considering the ferocity of my arousal I don’t think it would have taken more than a finger against my clit and I would have reached a climax. But I couldn’t let myself do it then.

  Instead, I got dressed, quickly tidied my appearance, and then hurried out to the shops. I called goodbye to Ron, not daring to enter the lounge where he sat in front of the TV with Tim. My husband grunted back an unintelligible response.

  Tim shouted, ‘It was good seeing you, Sharon.’

  His words turned my cheeks scarlet.

  The memory of that Saturday stayed with me for most of the week. Each morning, when I showered, I remembered that was what I had been doing prior to Tim glimpsing me naked. Before I dressed, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror and critically analysed the view Tim had enjoyed. My breasts are full and round. They are pale enough so a starburst of pale-blue veins can be seen beneath the flesh. Arousal hit me each time I remembered Tim had seen those veins. My nipples are only small, even when I’m excited, but the areolae are huge, dusky-pink circles. My small nipples grew stiff whenever I thought about Tim looking at me, and the areolae turned dark purple, the crinkled flesh turning taut and glossy.

  Throughout the days, the memory plagued me like an obsession. Every evening, when Ron and I retired to bed, I mounted him with a passion we hadn’t enjoyed since before we got married. And, even when he was satisfied and snoring heavily, I could only drift off to sleep with my hands pressed against my crotch and my thoughts fixed on that moment when Tim had seen me naked.

  By last Friday I thought I was over the stupidity of the distraction. It was early morning, Ron and I were both about ready to set off for work, and our conversation was snatched in those exchanges we made between visiting the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. He asked if I had plans for the weekend. I said I wasn’t sure yet. He told me Tim was calling round on Saturday to watch THE MATCH.

  A fist of arousal punched me in the stomach. If Ron had been watching me I’m sure he would have seen my response. He called a goodbye at that point and disappeared out of the house. Which left me with ten minutes alone to finish getting ready for the day, after I’d fingered myself to orgasm.

  The Friday dragged past in a sick haze of lurid thoughts. Not only was I remembering the previous Saturday, I was now anticipating what could occur as the next one approached. Was Tim genuinely coming round to watch THE MATCH? Or was there something else at our house he wanted to see? Last time he had seen me naked by accident. How was I going to face him after that? Would there be a danger of it happening again? And, if there wasn’t, how could I shape events so it did happen?

  I shook myself out of the fugue on Saturday morning. It was senseless to obsess about something so trivial. I was jeopardising too much (my reputation, our marriage and Ron’s respect) to risk throwing it all away by flashing myself at Tim.

  Like a junkie trying to distance myself from the source of my addiction, I planned to escape from the house well before THE MATCH began. I got up early, showered and dressed while deliberately not thinking of the excitement I enjoyed from being viewed naked. I hurried out of the house just as Ron was getting up. I pecked him on the cheek, told him to call my mobile if he needed me, and then scurried off to the garage, delighted I had made this break from my obsession.

  Once again, I became a victim of circumstances.

  I was still in the garage three hours later, fuming at a car that wouldn’t start and cursing my own stupidity. The electrical fault could have been dealt with if I’d been concentrating on Friday. I’d dimly noticed one of the dashboard lights was flashing as I drove to and from work. But my thoughts had been so tied up with arousal I hadn’t taken any notice of what the light meant.

  Tim and Peter turned up while Ron and I were still struggling to make the damned thing start.

  My stomach churned. My cheeks turned scarlet. And I couldn’t meet Tim’s gaze or properly respond to his questions.

  ‘Car not working?’ Tim asked. ‘Can I take a look at anything?’

  My eyes grew wide when he said that. I told Ron I was going inside to clean up after a morning spent grubbing around inside a dirty engine. He told me he, Peter and Tim would sort the car.

  An hour later, when I’d finished cleaning and changing, I heard the gutsy roar of my motor’s engine. The boys gave a hearty cheer, congratulating themselves on their manliness, and I groaned with frustration that my plans to escape had been thwarted. It was now too late to run out of the house. And while Ron, Peter and Tim had been labouring under the bonnet of my car, I’d had time to dwell on the nearness of all three men and fantasise about situations where Peter and Tim could see me naked. The ordeal of Friday, where I had been locked in a constant haze of excitement, paled next to my thoughts during that day.

  I speculated about Peter’s unexpected appearance. I couldn’t remember if Ron had mentioned that he would be visiting and wondered if Tim had encouraged him to join them for the afternoon. It was easy to picture Tim telling Peter what he had seen and my pulse raced as I imagined the two men discussing me. I expected Tim would have exaggerated the entire incident and, if I’d touched my pussy while I thought about that, I would have screamed with the release.

  When Ron called up to the bedroom to say the car was working, I came to a bold decision. I put on a flimsy blouse: not transparent but not particularly concealing. And I put on a very short skirt. I didn’t bother with bra or knickers. Then I went downstairs as the three of them settled in front of the lounge’s TV.

  My heart raced fast enough to make my head pound. Hurrying through to the kitchen, snatching tins of beer from the fridge, I tried to show less haste and more decorum as I stepped into the room and handed out drinks.

  I mumbled something nonsensical about wanting to thank them for repairing my car. I can’t remember the exact words. Ron’s concentration was fixed on the TV as a pair of chuckling pundits narrated the build-up for that day’s game.

  Tim’s attention was fixed on my breasts.

  I hadn’t fully fastened the blouse and, when I lowered myself to pass him his tin, I knew I was showing a good expanse of cleavage. His grin grew wide. In my mind, I could almost hear him whisper the word, ‘Wow!’

  Daringly, I smiled for him.

  Peter seemed equally appreciative when I passed him his tin and I noticed both guests were watching me when I settled myself in a chair with my own drink.

  It’s hard to explain how naughty I felt. My husband sat close enough to touch. The two men were virtual strangers. And I was casually flaunting myself at them. With my legs pressed together I suppose I looked fairly innocent as I tried to follow the football match. But, when I parted my thighs slightly, I knew I was giving Tim and Peter an unfettered view of my bare sex.

  Their responses were almost like pantomime reactions. If either of them had been cartoon characters they would have had their eyes standing out on stalks and huge, dripping tong
ues lolling from their mouths.

  I parted my legs further.

  After all the arousal of the past week my labia were large and obvious. Even in the grey shadows beneath my skirt I figured they would be noticeable to the astute gazes of Peter and Tim. But, just to be certain, I parted my legs that little bit wider.

  Peter’s grin was broad enough to split his face in two.

  Tim casually stroked himself through his pants. For the first time I noticed the fat bulge that pushed at the front of his jeans. Aside from revelling in the pleasure of being viewed and exposing myself, I had wondered if I was truly exciting Tim. The sight of his erection was my first indication that he was genuinely aroused.

  I gasped. To cover my surprise, and so Ron didn’t suspect what was happening, I spilled some beer over my top and acted as though that was what had caused my exclamation. The liquid turned the fabric transparent. When I glanced down I saw that what had only been suggested before was now on full display to all three men.

  ‘I’d best go and get changed,’ I murmured.

  ‘Waste of good beer,’ Ron declared, without glancing at me. No one was listening to him.

  As I left the room I heard Tim say, ‘I need to pop upstairs for a moment.’

  The words brought me close to panic. I’d just been flashing myself at the man, deliberately showing him the most intimate secrets of my body. And now he was following me up the stairs. I didn’t know whether to hurry up or slow my pace. My heart had been pounding before. Now it thundered.

  Tim was by my side on the landing before I could come to a decision. ‘Do you know how hot you look?’ he asked. ‘Do you know how badly I want you?’

  I shook my head. ‘We can’t do anything, Tim,’ I told him. And, as desperate as I was to satisfy myself, I intended to stick by the statement. ‘I’m faithful to Ron. You can look, but you can’t touch.’

  He accepted the situation with a blink. His response was instantaneous. ‘Can I look some more?’