I’m of two minds regarding confessional style erotica. The first is fairly straight-forward – Oh! Confess away you naughty thing! pretty much sums it up. The second is a bit more serious and a lot less fun. It stems from the fact that, as an ex-Catholic who still has slightly bitter memories of confessing to a faceless priest while kneeling in a small, poorly-lit box, I don’t like the whole notion of “confessing” in a non-criminal context. While totally appropriate in the cases of rape, murder and assault, I just don’t see the inherent harm in masturbating on a regular basis.
That said, my ideological proclivities and righteous opinion-holding didn’t stop me from writing a little piece of confessional erotica about a woman who sleeps with her first cousin. Ha! Take that, ideology! That story, “Barcelona”, is part of what’s shaping up to be a pretty fabulous collection – The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions, edited by Barbara Cardy, now available here in the US and here in the UK. As part of the Mammoth Book series, you know it’s.. big, (I’m not just saying that – it really is). Moreover, it’s full of really lovely confessional erotica. Take that again, ideology!
So, in honor of the release, I’m posting an excerpt here. After all, who doesn’t love a confessional literature.. Ahem.. And so, without further ado, I give you “Barcelona” – just one of many sexy, sexy confessions about sexy, sexy sex, in sexy sexy places. I hope you enjoy! xx.M
He said this quietly, as if it were simple fact. Maybe it was. More blushing as years of suppressed attraction shot straight through my body, peaking my breasts and slicking my thighs. I was vibrating with arousal and he hadn’t even touched me.
“Eric…” I said, trying to think of something to say and coming up blank.
He stopped in front of me and, carefully, warily, as if he were afraid I might bite, lightly cupped my neck. My breath caught.
Kissss, my brain whispered.
We were finally going to kiss. We both knew it, and the ache of wanting it was almost too good to end. Electricity shot straight through me as he lowered his head and stopped just before meeting my lips.
“Do you remember when you all came to visit me in Barcelona,” he murmured. His mouth was whisper from mine.
“Yes,” I said.
A little thread of something nervous and giddy coiled through my belly. My hand reached up around his waist, and he shifted closer, closer but not so close that our bodies touched. Not yet.
“Do you remember that night…” he began.
“… we went out with our parents,” I finished, evoking the nearly that had carved itself so deeply on my brain. “It was hot and we’d had too much to drink and I wished they’d go away and leave us alone.”
He nodded. “You were wearing a black and red dress.”
“I know that dress,” I whispered. He was leaning closer. I could smell rosemary and lemon on his hands.
“I brushed against you so many times that night, daring myself to take your hand. I wanted to fuck you in that dress.”
My hips canted, instinctively trying to find his. When they did, I all but moaned. God, he was so hard. He pressed himself into me, fitting his cock into the hollow of my thighs. It fit, we fit perfectly, even through out clothes. Still we did not kiss.
“How?” I said. “How did you want to fuck me?”
He was pushing me back now, walking me into the counter. My arm tightened around his waist. We were both breathing hard.
“I wanted to pull you down an ally, push you up against an ancient stone building and make love to you in the middle of the dark city.
My hips started to move, rubbing against him. I was so hot, I couldn’t breath.
“Tell me. Tell me more.”
He started kissing my neck.
“I imagined lifting that dress up over your hips and touching you through lace panties. I imagined you hot and slick and ready for me.”
His lips found my pulse as my hand snaked down past his waistband and pressed against his ass. My voice, when it came, was thick with invitation.
“I wasn’t wearing any panties that night. I was thinking of you slipping the straps off my shoulders and sucking my breasts, touching me, quickly, so no one would see.”
He mouth stilled on my skin. I could feel his heart hammering under my hand as he lifted me up onto the counter and stood between my legs. Slowly, his long, blunt-tipped fingers slid beneath the strap of my top. I caught my breath as he looked into my eyes and drew my camisole down, baring a soft expanse of skin. Then he bent his head and brushed a kiss over my tight, aching nipple.
“Tell me,” I whispered, “what did you want to do me up against that wall?”