Nexus Confessions: Volume Three Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Also in the series

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Perfect – Seeking the further reaches of restraint

  Breastfed – There are girls who like it too

  Under a Blanket in the Sky – Never too old to misbehave on a plane

  He Touched Me – You got to hand it to her

  ‘Have you got that in a size 16?’ – Forced to dress by a matron

  Effing Mablethorpe – The cuckold, his wife, their holiday and her lovers

  Stranger on a Ten-Speed – Opportunism rides

  Jan’s Buyer – Breaking every rule in the book

  Word of Foot – Confession of a female foot sucker

  Cheating – Reaching the heights of betrayal

  Gagging the Press – You can never underestimate the benefits of fieldwork

  Family Girlfriend – All for the love of MILF

  Moving On – Good work if you can get it

  My Wife is a Lesbian – For the purposes of home porno

  The Officer and His Bitch – The strong arm of the law

  Pounce – The more the merrier

  Annie’s Bum Deal – Sometimes, discomfort is underrated

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Sophie likes to hire men for pleasure, but her tastes are getting extreme …

  Jan’s an estate agent who likes to conduct a kinky kind of viewing …

  Zoe is driven by her craving for the breasts of older women …

  Deborah goes on assignment to interview a dominatrix and learns about submission …

  Bridie’s an actress and is hired to act out the fantasies of another woman …

  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, these are 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

  NEXUS CONFESSIONS: VOLUME THREE

  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 readers’ 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, Spring 2007

  Perfect

  I’m paid to be right, maximising the chance of success; or, when events turn in the wrong direction, to minimise risk. The balance depends on attention to detail and the correct prediction of outcomes. But we can’t stay on the professional plane, governed by rationality, forever. Personal lives involve erratic emotions.

  In the mirror it’s the power player I see with glossy black hair, expensively cut and combed to a casual style. Highly arched brows curve over intense hazel eyes. Flawless tanned skin glows with rouge on high cheekbones and into the hollows beneath. Broad sculptured lips glisten in complementary red. The charcoal-grey Chanel suit clings to my slender form. For timid women the outfit might be too revealing, its plunging neckline too wide and deep, but how should a Finance Director of an international company be expected to dress? And beneath the strictly formal covering no one could detect the wispy lace of bra and panties which leave no outward trace.

  I slung the red crocodile bag onto my shoulder, picked up its matching briefcase, and left the washroom. Outside, the terminal bustled with confused human traffic. As I walked across to the bar, poised with diamond precision on high heels, the broad suspender straps – a souvenir of the Paris adventure – stretched down my thighs comfortingly. Parisians understand chic underwear. Hoisting the skirt I arranged myself on a stool and, when the barman approached, ordered a Martini. While he poured and delivered I sat unconcerned by a rude examination that lingered over my face and drifted into the shadowed cleavage. In fact I inclined further to deepen his view as if hot for attention and finished the drink unhurriedly. But when I paid with a generous tip I gave him an icy appraisal to convey that sex, a commodity in
the personal services sector, can be bought, just like Martini.

  The Cartier wristwatch confirmed ten minutes to boarding. I returned to the waiting area and chose a seat well away from anyone else, where my thoughts drifted to the forthcoming meeting which could become nasty. In the distance the barman wiped the counter and caused me to reflect on my switch from alluring behaviour to puritan. I ought to discipline a girly game that I played too often. Discipline –

  Interrupted by a chirruping phone I retrieved a slim silver model from my bag and opened the line.

  ‘Morning, Sophie. Elaine here. What’s the verdict? Out of ten.’

  ‘I think … nine.’

  ‘Exceptional, from you. I take it he made you come deliciously?’

  ‘Several times.’

  ‘Have you any immediate interest in another? As a regular client I like to keep you well supplied.’

  ‘No, I’m in the departure lounge at Heathrow, en route to Geneva. But as a speculation what’s the youngest age on your books?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘God! It must be like getting fucked by your son.’

  ‘He’s certainly virile,’ Elaine chuckled.

  ‘The oldest?’

  ‘Sixty-seven.’

  ‘That must be like going with your grandfather.’

  ‘He has extraordinary skill and patience.’

  ‘Do you always sample them personally?’

  ‘How could I recommend them otherwise?’

  ‘All that wrinkled skin – ugh!’

  Elaine laughed. ‘You’re so fastidious I wonder how you survive in this wicked world.’

  ‘By avoiding sordidness.’

  ‘Whereas I’ll try anything, or anyone, once. My clients deserve only the best, and if I learn something new that’s a bonus.’

  ‘You’re an extremely bad influence. I’m beginning to think in a similar way. Recently I’ve been considering … an experiment.’

  ‘Which particular one?’

  I paused, then boldly revealed my hand. ‘Restraint.’

  ‘Now I’m really impressed! I had no idea a control freak could be so adventurous.’

  ‘He would, of course, have to be completely

  reliable.’

  ‘Your timing is fortunate. I have a candidate who –’

  ‘Don’t rush me. First, guarantee his reliability.’

  ‘I understand. You wish to sample being controlled without losing your own control.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Even so, be careful of what you start.’

  ‘I must go. My flight has been called.’

  Ten days later, following a pleasant meal with friends, I returned after midnight to my towerblock apartment. Leaving all the lights off I crossed to the uncurtained window to gaze contentedly at a sailing moon over the Thames, patterned by reflected lights, curving below. The potent effect of quality wine still thumped my heart and over the high view I drowsed sluggishly.

  A loud buzz jerked me sharply awake. Puzzled, I lifted the security phone from its wall cradle. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good evening, Sophie. My name is Bernard. We have never met but we’ll start now.’

  ‘Start what?’

  ‘I am recommended by Elaine.’

  ‘Elaine sent you?’ I ransacked muddled thoughts until a hazy memory emerged of my speculative enquiry. ‘Do you know what time it is?’ I asked indignantly.

  ‘I understood you were a serious client and not a time-waster.’

  How dare he doubt my credentials! ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘A mark of seriousness is to do as you’re told, when you are told. I am here simply to meet you and shall make no further demands. Now, with that reassurance, let me in. At once.’

  ‘Damn you!’ I punched the Entry, slammed down the phone, and instantly regretted the overreaction. Slumped in a chair I struggled through fury to rationalise.

  He could still be stopped at the apartment door –

  Only a meeting –

  And then goodbye, forever!

  My heart pounded but not, perhaps, with the effects of the wine.

  How long does the journey take in the express lift? I stroked clammy palms on the fabric of my dress and jumped in shock when the doorbell shrieked. Then, motionless, I inhaled deeply to steady my nerves. Poised at the door I took another steadying breath before releasing the lock but the sight of a dark silhouette constricted my throat. Unable to speak I turned away.

  Despite his bulk he moved with agile grace to the opposite chair. It seemed appropriate to leave the room in shadow although, by moonlight, I could see only glinting silver-grey hair and a part of his face with mature lines. I guessed his age at about fifty.

  Bernard leaned back comfortably and glanced around before his black eye sockets turned on me. ‘I approve,’ he said in a rumbling tone.

  Approve of what – sitting in dim light? The furnishings? Or approve of me? I rejected the last thought instantly. I needed no man to like me; rather, he needed me to accept him.

  ‘I shall be demanding, of course –’ he continued ‘– as you expect, with your inclination.’

  What inclination? ‘It’s only an experiment,’ I croaked.

  He ignored the important caveat as if I’d not spoken at all. ‘I know nothing of your tastes. Do you have anything to tell me, regarding those?’

  Tastes? For what? I shook my head.

  ‘Merely a reckless desire for restraint?’

  Reckless suggested, impertinently, a simpleton.

  ‘Do you have a preference for the means? Velvet rope, for example, or Velcro … Chains?’

  I snorted angrily.

  ‘Any particular scenarios in mind? A persistent fantasy? Have you thought about what should follow restraint? That, alone, is simply a prelude.’

  He seemed so dark, and so large, and so much at ease in the interrogation. His deep calm tones transmitted authority. This stupid idea had suddenly come far too close and in too much detail for comfort. I cleared my throat with a strangled cough. ‘What usually happens?’

  ‘The whole point is for something unusual to happen.’

  Of course it is. I felt ridiculous. ‘You decide.’

  He leaned forwards intently. ‘Are you a masochist?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then why do you trust me?’

  ‘I suppose … I’m trusting Elaine.’

  Bernard stood up promptly. ‘I salute the courage of a bold young woman.’

  I really hated my surge of gratitude. Gazing up at the looming form I muttered, ‘Where will it be? And

  when? My diary is full.’

  ‘I shall choose the time and venue. My first instruction is to stand.’

  ‘You said no demands!’

  ‘Relax … and do it.’

  I complied meekly. Large heavy hands clamped my arms to the sides and held my body rigidly. My brain revolved with an excited thought: I’m being restrained! Unable to shrink away from the kiss, I absorbed his warm and resilient pressure for the length of time he decided.

  When Bernard pulled back, the dark pools of his eyes gazed into mine, and his voice sounded husky. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t made that promise.’ Abruptly he released me and disappeared into the gloom. The door opened but then there was a pause. Through a blank silence my heartbeat stopped. As the door shut decisively, a sprung trap, ‘Be careful of what you start’ vibrated inside my head.

  Early the next morning the Swedish acquisition fell apart and absorbed all my energies in complex negotiations. In fleeting moments of free time I remembered Bernard’s allure and felt in my belly a sickening stab. But that experiment lay in a different world, remote from the daily reality of fighting clauses line by line, crunching the numbers urgently, and the analysis of results. Through sheer bloody-mindedness I rescued the key elements and the company gave me a raise together with a month’s leave. A website offered a hotel in the old heart of Antibes. After leaving the number, and instruction
s for my team, I flew out the following day to the warmth of a golden autumn in the Mediterranean.

  During the first days I poked into every corner and tiny shop in the narrow crowded streets, and sunbathed on the beach at a distant point from the busy port. The tensions of hard negotiation faded away. Relaxed, I ate in a different restaurant every evening and at night slept dreamlessly although, as the first week came to an end, I began to feel unusually lonely. At home the remedy would have been a meal with friends or a call to Elaine.

  The telephone’s shrill tones penetrated drugged sleep at some dark hour of absolute silence. I fumbled to switch on the bedside lamp and struggled to lift the receiver. Had the deal soured after all my work? ‘Hullo.’

  ‘It’s Bernard here. Come now.’

  ‘Who? … Oh, I remember. How did you know where to find me?’ I glanced at my watch and said, disbelievingly, ‘It’s 2 a.m.’

  ‘A blue Citroën is parked across the street. Come now, just as you are. Make no preparations.’

  ‘I’m naked!’

  ‘Then I won’t need to strip you. Put on a coat, go to the car, and give the driver my name. I shall judge your commitment by how long you take. Don’t keep me waiting.’ A painfully loud click closed the line.

  Trembling on the edge of an abyss and stifled in suddenly hot air, I blocked my mind, fearing to lose the will. In the bathroom I threw tepid water over my face and dragged a comb through tangled hair. My heart pounded rapidly as I dressed in a light summer coat, thrust on my shoes, and locked the door. Shoving the key deep in my pocket I dared not consider stupidity. I was out on a limb and at risk having abandoned money, credit cards, identification; all security gambled on an experiment.

  The corridors were deserted and so, too, the reception desk. Outside, shivering in cold air, I tightened the coat. Only one car stood at the curb, its engine idling quietly. I opened the rear door, sank into the seat and said, ‘Bernard’. Without turning round or uttering a word in reply the driver steered into the empty street.

  Beyond the town the car followed a winding route into the hills until I looked down on the harbour’s lights; a diamond necklace in purple velvet. I could easily have fallen into a doze but for the electric pulses that raced through my belly, and noticed nothing more until elaborate iron gates, a gravelled drive, and a house with white shutters. The driver stopped at a stone staircase and pointed upwards to an open door.