Every erotica writer will some day face the question, "Did that really happen?" The thought that there might be a glimmer of truth behind the fiction seems more titilating in erotica than any other genre. The truth is, most mystery writers have never experienced anything like a real murder, but almost all erotica writers have presumably had sex, and have certainly been shaped by early experiences. In light of that, what is contained here is a series of short scenes titled "Confessions"-because that's just what they are, a few of the true stories that shaped my own sexual being. Are they all completely factual? I don't know if a fiction writer ever writes anything that is ever completely fact. Even when we're journaling, we're not journalists, after all. Nor are we poets. Fiction writers tell stories, we elaborate, we give the truth "scope." So while I will say that most, if not all, of these stories did, indeed, happen, in some sense of the word-I have certainly, as most writers do, taken liberties, and changed names to protect the innocent. Or not so innocent. But these are my confessions, told in the same, secret whisper I might tell them to you if we were alone, sharing the heat of memory in the dark. ----- Warnings: This title contains graphic language and sex. ----- It was the first time I'd ever had a cock in my mouth. I'd had plenty of them in my hand or rubbing up against me in the dark. But I'd never been brave enough and the boys I'd been with had never been bold enough, and so I'd never actually tasted the thick length of a cock before. Until that night. This man--let's call him David--parked the car down the block, like we'd been doing. We proceeded to kiss and touch and do all those things we'd been doing for the past few weeks. I had his cock in my hand, stroking it fast and hard, making him moan as he shoved my skirt up and pulled my panties aside. I'd learned quickly to wear skirts instead of jeans, giving his probing fingers easy access to my aching pussy. He almost inevitably made me come within a few minutes, shuddering against him, squeezing his dick in my hand until pre-cum leaked from the tip. That night, he didn't stop after that first one. He grabbed me, my hair in his hand, pulling my head back so he could kiss me--hard--his tongue probing deep into my mouth. His fingers kept pistoning in and out of my flesh, his thumb rubbing my throbbing little clit, and I twisted and arched against him, aching for that second come, working for it, rocking on his hand and begging, please, please, please. That's when he lowered my mouth slowly to his lap. I remember understanding what he wanted, but being afraid. Afraid I'd do it wrong, or not know how. It really didn't matter, though. He was good at guiding me, sliding my mouth down onto his cock. I remember gagging a little, feeling him back off, catching my breath. So this is how it was done. Up and down with my mouth, the same motion I'd been making with my hand. It was sloppy and uncontrolled, but I don't think he cared. My ass was in the air, my panties pulled down around my knees, my skirt up, and if a passing car had gone by and looked in, they might have gotten quite a view. He distracted me with his hand, fingering me as I sucked him, my pussy already on fire from his earlier attention. It didn't take me long to catch back up and I ground my hips, sometimes forgetting about the throbbing cock in my mouth altogether.