These words are harsh but I know they’re part of his fantasy, part of his desire to be treated roughly, punitively, perhaps even cruelly. He moans at what I tell him and again when his lips first touch my ankle, yet he adheres to my instructions. Slowly he kisses his way up my leg, savoring each spot as if that one spot of hosiery is the center of his existence, as if he lingers there long enough, he’ll feel skin through the nylon barrier.
Barriers. That’s what this scene is all about – creating barriers to his pleasure while slowly opening the gates to mine. Denying him is such an arousing, hot way to gift myself. Watching him work so conscientiously when I know his dick would like nothing better than to force me down and plough into me – having that level of control is sheer diabolical pleasure.
His lips reach just past my knee. He has risen up from the floor, and, still kneeling, has almost wrapped himself around my leg. His hands, long tired of being behind his back, embrace each side of my leg as he straddles it to reach beyond the curve of my knee, to reach towards that sacred place at which he longs to worship. Yes, my cunt is a place of worship to him and no matter how vulgar mere words might make it sound to others, to him it will always be a shrine.
He strains forwards to close in on the border of my stockings. Tempted, I raise my foot and press it into his cock. Hard resistance meets my foot and, as I press harder and rub rougher, I can feel the skin of his cock roll over its erection. The sensation makes him moan and he pulls ever so slightly away from me, lost in the intensity of feeling my foot against his hardness.
“Like that, slut?” I ask him.
He pants affirmatively, slack-jawed, eyes fuzzy with lust.
“Just how much do you like it, hm?”
I expect him to mouth something worshipful or meek, but words fail him completely. His cock, however, doesn’t. And next thing I know, I feel it humping my leg. He is humping me – like a dog and with a lolling tongue, no less!
“Beast!”
I push him from me and grab him by the hair. I push against his chest and attempt to wrestle him to the ground. It’s a messy affair, full of stumbling uncertainty on his part and inexperience on mine, but I get him there. I get him on his back. Quickly, I straddle him, planting my lap firmly over his cock. Oh, I’m not going to fuck him. I have no intention of enjoying the thick penetration he’s capable of at this moment, but I do want him to feel my wet luscious cunt lips against his firm erection. I want him to feel what he’s not getting. I want to taunt him.
“Hump me like an animal, will you!” I castigate. “Always the dog, aren’t you?”
I don’t wait for an answer as I grab my forgotten panties from the floor.
“I bet you could smell me when you kissed my thigh, couldn’t you? That’s why you couldn’t answer me in words, isn’t it? Because of my smell. It’s my smell you like.”
“Your perfume,” he offers worshipfully.
“Perfume, schmerfume,” I counter. “You like cunt, pure and simple, don’t you?”
He stammers a “yes” while I find the inside crotch of my panties and bring it to his nose.
“It’s this you like, isn’t it?”
He barely has a chance to inhale before I mash it into his face. I can only pretend to smother him with this bit of well-worn, well-scented fabric, but I do overwhelm him with my force and cunning, and my effort leaves him gasping and panting as if I had actually robbed him of air. He tries to rise, but I push him down with as much force as I can muster. I grab the crop and, reaching behind with it, slap whatever thigh muscle I can find as fiercely as possible. The slaps are sharp, as staccato as little firecrackers, but as I apply the crop, I focus on words so castigating they have their own smarting slaps.
“This is what you like,” I repeat myself. “Cunt smell.”
It’s an insult to him, this observant worshipper of mine, to call his place of worship a cunt, but I love to thwart him. I love to push the sacred into the profane while the crop stings red and painful.
“Yes!” he admits. “Yes! That’s what I like.”
He trembles as he admits his coarse desire. Which makes me smile. I feel like a wily fox that’s outwitted the rooster and expelled him from the henhouse. But it’s premature to gloat; I’ve yet to catch the chicken.
I cast aside the crop and pull my panties over his head, roughly, swiftly, leaving the “perfumed” crotch at his nose. One hole of one pant leg allows him to see while the other dangles from his chin. He looks ridiculous and a soft laugh from me is all it takes to make him blush, humiliated.
I climb off of him and, taking my crop, return to my chair. I spread my legs as he rises to kneel before me.
“This is what you want?”
I point to my cunt with the crop. He nods, weak, submissive, and conquered.
“This is what you want?” I repeat as I use the crop to play with myself. I rub its flat bat over my clit, use it to spread wide my generous labia. I use it to toy with myself until I gleam. And, finally, slowly, I insert the handle into my hole.
His pantied face watches me. Slowly, I masturbate with the handle and a finger from my free hand to my clit. It feels delicious.
I moan and suggest, “Maybe I don’t need you. This feels so good that maybe I just don’t need you.”
That’s when he breaks and literally begs me for the opportunity to please me.
“Please, no! Please let me serve you. Let me taste you and bring you pleasure.”
His words form common cliches. They’re what every hopeful submissive says, online or off. But here, in my fantasy, my panty-compromised slave speaks them in desperate sincerity. He longs for access, for permission, and whatever I grant him will be his bliss. He won’t care if, as portrayed in countless female domination fantasies, he never gets to fuck me. He won’t care if I never suck his cock. Those typical male fantasies don’t have a place in his desperation. The only thing he’s focused on is whether I’ll permit him or deny him.
“Please allow me, ma’am.”
He’s whimpering as he speaks. He looks sad and near defeat, like a mama’s boy who’s been scolded into staying away from the cookie jar yet clinging to one string of hope, one final chance at a cookie. It’s delicious and it’s my teasing that puts him there.
If I were a greater woman, I’d keep him there all day, hanging onto my every move for the slightest permission, but my lust weakens me and makes me impatient. I beckon him to me. I remove the crop from my wet depth and make him lick it clean.
“Do you think you can lick me as good?”
The taste of my juice upon his tongue makes him speechless. He can only nod.
“Then I want your tongue on my clit. Make sure it keeps to its target. No wandering. And put your hands behind your back.”
It’s difficult for him to balance himself, to perch his tongue on my clit while placing his hands behind his back. He bobbles back and forth on his knees, struggling to find his balance, but as he finds his footing, he leans forward and his tongue touches me at last. That first touch is electric and I’m almost instantly delirious, it feels so good. I lose myself in the sensations he imparts as he presses, strokes, and laps at me.
He sucks lightly every now and again, so sweetly that I deem him diligent, proficient, and worthy. I won’t ever need to send him away; I won’t want to. My cunt agrees; it tightens and throbs, responding to every flick of his tongue, every circle he makes, every grab and release of his little sucks and nips. Yet it’s not enough. My cunt yawns and begs to be filled. I want him in me.
“Your tongue,” I whisper. “Fuck me with it.”
As he shifts lower, I reach for my clit. Wet with his spit, it lurches under my finger and, as he enters me, my cunt clutches at his tongue. His tongue works in concert with my finger and although the tightening within tells me I won’t have long to wait, I want still more. I am greedy with lust.
“Stroke yourself,” I decide. “And be a pig about it.”
Together, we masturbate in
mutual raunch. My hand and his tongue curries me while he pulls and strokes on his cock. We utter sounds of sex gone wild; we’re lost in our realm of commands and compliance, and as I near my own orgasm, my mind runs wild with images: of his cock, bound tight; of a dildo anchored in his mouth and me riding it, hard; of caning him while he beats off; of locking his dick away and denying it any freedom for days on end, of that rounded rump of his awaiting the approach of my strapped-on dick. They’re mad thoughts, formed in lust. They’re ideas and intentions, bold and brilliant.
They’re my greed let loose. I want to tease him and use him and deny him, and these raw desires drive me right over the edge. Orgasm seizes me and rips through me, strong enough to leave me weak and breathless, limp.
But I’m not so out of it that I fail to hear him nearing. He’s working his cock fast now, panting with every stroke. A huge groan tells me he’s there, then little whimpers of “oh my, oh my” escape his lips as he spills his seed at my feet.
I make my final gestures of decadence when I examine the little white puddle that lies thick at my feet, then command him to put his nose in his come, leaving him abased one last time as my fantasy fades and my mundane reality returns.
Yes, this is my fantasy, to demand his compliance, to command my pleasure. It fuels me when I touch myself and it never fails to satisfy me. But over time, it has grown stronger and with it, my need has grown great, insistent. It’s a powerful potion and I suspect that someday soon I’ll overcome my hesitance. Someday soon, I’ll act on this fantasy and answer my needs for real. It scares me, but I tell myself the same single word each time, after I come: Courage. Because that’s what it takes to realize your dreams. Courage. No matter how wild those dreams may seem, no matter how long it’s taken me to embrace them.
Breakfast with Tiffany
Madeline (Toronto, Canada)
Lust has a hundred aromas and a thousand flavours. Whether my lovers are men or women, it’s the savory tastes of their bodies that I recall with the greatest pleasure. My open mouth passes over heated skin, vacuuming its bouquet. My tongue relishes the sweet-salt of sweat, lapped from intimate creases. I dote on the spicy saliva I suck from beneath an amorous tongue. The slippery, slightly lemony musk that oozes from the labyrinthine folds of an excited vagina delights me. When a man anoints my mouth with the hot wet cream-and-leather proof of his passion, I am transported.
Perhaps it is strange then, that in my fantasies, I dwell more on my lovers’ oral pleasures than on my own. My favourite mental accompaniment to my solitary play is an appetizing little scene I call, “Breakfast with Tiffany.”
“Tiffany” is a composite of every slender young blonde I’ve ever lusted after. She’s somewhere in her late twenties, with vanilla skin and enormous, creamy-lidded, espresso-brown eyes. Her lips are raspberry cream; her nipples cones of milk chocolate.
My fantasy starts with me laying a table for breakfast. I set out a dish of thick sweet cream that I’ve whipped to stiff peaks and a bowl of fresh fruit. It is very important that the fruit be perfect, without a single blemish, and arranged aesthetically. Setting the table is an act of seduction. My selection is always the same – two large thick, definitely phallic, bananas that are a few days away from being ripe – a pair of Jaffa oranges that mimic the shape and size of Tiffany’s tender breasts – a bunch of big black seedless hothouse grapes and one glorious peach that is juicy-soft to the touch but not squishy – just past “ripe”.
The fruit knife is silver, inlaid with gold. There are no napkins or fingerbowls. If either is needed, my tongue and mouth are ready to serve.
With the table prepared, I sit to one side and wait. What I am wearing doesn’t matter much. Sometimes I imagine it’s a short satin slip, sometimes a tailored shirt or perhaps the tops of a pair of pajamas. Usually, I don’t even think about what I have on. I might as well be invisible, except to Tiffany. The fantasy is about her, not me. When, in the fantasy, she looks at me, I’m seeing her looking, not what she sees.
When Tiffany comes down from upstairs she’s perfectly made up, cotton-candy hair artfully tousled, wearing a tiny white lace bed jacket that frosts her slender arms like a dusting of icing sugar. Sometimes she has mules on her feet, sometimes not. I tried imagining hose on her legs once but they didn’t add to my pleasure so I don’t bother any more.
She ignores me, but not from haughtiness. Tiffany is enraptured by the banquet I’ve spread for her. With her butter-smooth little bottom perched on the edge of a delicate cafe chair, she gorges her eyes on the feast that awaits her. Her mouth waters. I can’t see that it does but we have perfect empathy. I can taste the saliva that pools in her mouth.
A willowy arm reaches out. Her elegant hand hovers above an orange, over a banana, close to the peach. It is as if her fingertips test the textures of skins and rinds without actually making contact. She traces each fruit’s contours with air-caresses.
I hold my breath. Which of my offerings will she choose first?
When she makes her selection, her hand moves with predatory speed. She snatches up an orange. With the fruit nestled securely in her left hand, she takes up the knife and bisects it with one deep swift slash. One half falls to the table. She strikes again, and again, criss-crossing the pulpy interior of the other half with a dozen precise cuts. Juice, the orange’s blood, wells up. The lacerated hemisphere is lifted to her breast. Tiffany squeezes. Pale sweet droplets fall in a slow steady stream, exactly onto her left nipple. She shivers. The juice is chill.
Her left hand bears the other half orange to her mouth. Her face transforms. Tender calm dissolves into ravenous ferocity. Her lips curl back from tiny white teeth. Almost snarling, she tears into the succulence. Slurping, sucking, devouring, Tiffany gobbles shamelessly. Pulp smears her lips and chin. Juice flows.
And yet, even as she falls on one half of the fruit like a rapacious beast, her other hand continues its slow controlled squeezing of the other half. Orange juice drips from her left nipple. My thirsty eyes follow its descent. Drops splatter a creamy thigh. Tiffany lifts her knee until her heel rests on the cross-bar of her chair. With her leg angled thus, the sticky fluid runs down into the crease of her groin.
I groan in anticipation.
Half the orange is reduced to gnawed pith. The other half is concave from losing juice. Tiffany arches back and clamps the hollowed half over her breast. Her hand revolves it, pressing it as one might on an old-fashioned juicer, with her nipple the spike that impales it. Like some sort of fruit-sadist, she grinds and compresses. Little translucent juice-sacs smear her delicate skin.
I half-rise, thinking to nibble those tiny nectar-filled gobbets off her loveliness, one at a time, but subside. There is a full bowl of fruit. My darling has sampled but one, so far.
Her hands open. Ruined orange-halves fall to the floor, discarded. Tiffany’s avid eyes are on the peach. I am that peach. I lie in my bowl, almost over-ripe, almost trembling with anticipation. How will Tiffany choose to consume me? Will I be ripped asunder and gulped down? Or?
One finger strokes, savouring the texture of delicate fuzz. The peach is cupped and lifted on a palm. Tiffany takes up her cruel knife. Its gleaming blade rests on the peach’s skin too lightly to indent it. Her wrist lifts, angling the cutting edge. Slowly, with a surgeon’s precision, Tiffany slices. Flesh parts. The incision is fine and deep, running a third of the peach’s circumference. She prepares to cut again. The blade slithers through fruit-flesh, mostly parallel to her first cut but meeting it at the top and at the bottom. The twin points of the knife lever the new-moon sliver free and discard it. A once-perfect fruit is now slotted but is not marred. It is as if peaches were meant to wear thin tight smiles, displaying hints of the yellow wetness of their lush interiors.
Tiffany cradles her fruit in both palms. The nails of her thumbs rest in the wound. They press, move, press again. She is turning the raw edges of the cut inwards, creating lips for it. From time to time, as she works, she looks down into her la
p. I understand. She is a sculptress. The fleshy slit that nestles between her thighs is her model. She is transforming the lush fruit into an effigy of her own, more luscious, sex.
Edible. I mouth the word, tasting it, tasting the peach, tasting the flesh. Succulence. The true meaning of that word is revealed to me.
Tiffany glances my way with naughtiness sparkling in her eyes. I understand. She is telling me, “This is for you.”
Holding the peach in her left hand, Tiffany scoops cream from the bowl with the forefinger of her right. She smoothes it into the slot, leaving a dab at its apex. I recognize the image. When clever fingers tease me until my sex weeps and gapes, its lips ripe and plum-purple, and those fingers stoke the urgent hunger between my thighs until only ferocious abuse will serve to sate it, and those fingers fold into vicious spikes that plunder me deep and hard and fast, they whip my clear dew into a thick white froth. So it is with Tiffany, for she is me and I am her.
She is showing me my, our, sex, as it is when most avid – in that excruciating nanosecond when climax is inevitable but not yet achieved. It is Tiffany’s sadistic practice, when she has driven me to that peak of expectation, to pause, withdraw her fingers and slurp up the ambrosia I have leaked, suspending me in a delirium of desire.
Tiffany is reminding me.
Twisted on her seat so that she can maintain avid eye-contact with me, she extends her tongue. Hers is a tongue among tongues. All tongues were meant to be like Tiffany’s, but fail. It is narrower than mortal tongues, and longer. Its tip is a supple arrow-head, bluntly pointed. Her tongue is pink, pink, pure pink. It is prehensile. I fancy that she could pick small objects up with it, if she wished.
She rolls its width into a “U”. She flattens it and curls its tip up. Stiffening it, she trills, vibrating its end. Her hand brings the peach closer. By stretching her tongue to its incredible limits, she is able to take cat-laps that just touch the fruit’s skin, a fraction below the slit.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 2
