Spicy Confessions: 12 Steamy Sex Stories

By Giselle Renarde

Is this really true? Did that really happen?

There’s nothing more titillating than confessional erotica. That’s why award-winning author Giselle Renarde has put together yet another anthology of erotic letters! Her latest sizzling collection contains twelve of the kind of sex stories readers love. Are all these tales true? Some are. Some aren’t. Some are somewhere in between.

Can you tell the difference between a real-life erotic tale and a totally made-up one? It might be harder than you think. Sometimes truth is indeed stranger than fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giselle Renarde
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005502409

Giselle Renarde

Giselle Renarde is a queer Canadian, avid volunteer, and contributor to more than 100 short story anthologies, including Best Women's Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica, and Best Lesbian Romance. Ms Renarde has written dozens of juicy books, including Anonymous, Ondine, and Nanny State. Her book The Red Satin Collection won Best Transgender Romance in the 2012 Rainbow Awards. Giselle lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head.

Book preview

Introduction

In 2012, the good people at eXcessica published an anthology called Secret Confessions. It was a book of letter-style erotica—a whopping thirty-six first-person stories. I wrote those stories over the course six years.

The true (and true-ish, and not-even-close-to-true) tales in Secret Confessions were originally featured in periodicals like Hustler Fantasies (my family still can’t believe a sweet little thing like me has written erotica dirty enough for Hustler) and websites such as For the Girls and The Erotic Woman, as well as defunct sites like Every Night Erotica and Oysters and Chocolate.

Well, it’s 2015 and I’m back with more letter-style smut. After welcoming Sapphic Confessions: 24 Kinky Lesbian Sex Stories into the world earlier this year, it’s time to get spicy!

The first two stories in this new collection are coming at you direct from Hustler, while others have appeared on a variety of websites and between the covers of print anthologies.

Spicy Confessions includes twelve true, semi-true, and totally made-up sex stories. We’ve got bi girls and lesbians, Femdom, cougars, a cock cage, cousins in lust, a MILF who’s got the hots for her best friend’s college-age son, a Santa with a taste for pussy, naked hiking, polyamory, and so much more!

There’s so much to be excited about in this great little collection. I’m giddy just introducing it! But you know what? I love my introduction to the 2012 anthology Secret Confessions so much I’m going to replay it below...

...for your enjoyment...

No naughty encounter is ever complete until you tell somebody about it.  And who doesn’t feel a tingle while reading a naughty story and wondering, Is this true? Did that really happen?

There’s one quality that unifies all confession-style erotic stories, no matter how sweet or how kinky: they’re all written in the first person. (I did this, I did that.) For that reason, when reading these stories, we’re particularly inclined to wonder if these stories are true.  The author is writing as though they were (I ate her pussy, I sucked his cock), so why wouldn’t we believe it?

One of the best things about confession erotica is its unique capability to allow readers to suspend disbelief.  When we hear these stories, we trust that we’re being told the truth.  Even if we try to be rationally and consciously sceptical, we still believe, and there’s a bit of magic in that.

So, now I’m sure you’re wondering about the confessions in this collection.  Are they true?  Are they fiction?  The answer is yes. Some stories are entirely fictional, pure fantasy.  Others draw on real events, but aren’t entirely accurate.  Of course, names have been changed, to protect the innocent parties.

Some stories are true, some are false, some are somewhere in between. Does it spoil the fun that I’ve made this confession?  I don’t think so.  I still haven’t told you which are which.

Giselle Renarde

Didgeridoo Me

Greg thought he was God’s gift to women just because he’d spent a summer term in Australia.  And the sad truth? Greg was God’s gift to women just because he’d spent a summer term in Australia.  All he had to do was ask the question, Want to see my didgeridoo? and he’d have every girl in town hanging off him.

There’s never much going on in our small town, especially where nightlife is concerned.  Greg was crafty that way.  He recognized that we girls needed entertainment, and the easiest way to put himself smack in the centre of our group was to bring out that damn instrument.

I’m cursing the didgeridoo now, but in truth I loved that phallic-shaped thing.  All us girls wanted to be near Greg when he played. He’d haul it out into the fields on a warm night, take a seat on the big plastic beer cooler Marie and me had lugged all the way out there, and prop the didgeridoo between his long legs.

Greg was kind of a scruffy guy, wore big baggy pants with lots of pockets down the sides, band tees and hoodies. The way he talked, you could tell he read a lot of books. Back when we were all in high school, lots of the guys would make fun of Greg, call him a fag right to his face, stuff like that.  Could be that’s why all us girls liked him, and why we trusted him.  But, boy oh boy, did Greg prove those guys wrong during our hot nights out in the fields. 

We’d all have a beer in hand before Greg sat on the cooler like it was a bench.  In those days, we dressed to impress—tight little tops with our tits popping out, bare middles to show off our pretty little belly rings, short shorts, usually cut-offs of jeans that had barely fit us in middle school.  Our butts were bursting out of those things. From the front we were all legs and painted toenails in our flip-flops.  We were irresistible and, as it turned out, when that didgeridoo started up, we couldn’t even resist each other.

I don’t know how Greg produced that sound, that deep bass vibration, out of what was essentially a big stick, but when he started to play I would feel the hum of it in my pelvis.  His music was inside me, and it was dancing.  The sound itself didn’t make my feet want to move, not the way R&B or techno or even hard rock made me want to.  No, the penetrating throb of the didgeridoo brought out something altogether different in me.  It brought out my inner slut.

At least one girl, usually two, would settle in between Greg’s legs, pressing the didgeridoo to one side while tearing open his fly.  Sometimes that was me pulling out his cock, diving into his lap, but we all seemed to like variety while