The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies

by Sonia Florens

  My thighs squeeze together. I know what that lick feels like. I’ve felt it, when my thighs have been spread achingly apart and the skin immediately below my own sex has been pulled drum-taut.

  The tantalizing tongue drags up, up to where the slit parts the flesh. It twists, insinuating itself into that narrow slot.

  Where my slot’s lips unite, there is a little lip that forms a subtle cup. It is in that little depression that my juices pool when my sex weeps. The nectar inside Tiffany’s peach is a mixture of peach-juice and cream. Its flavour is different from mine but will suffice as a substitute.

  Tiffany’s fresh-from-bed skin has the aroma of apples baked with cinnamon. Her pussy-dew always reminds me of pina colada – pineapple and coconut. We are all different. I once had a lover, a Mexican barmaid, appropriately, who tasted like salty-lemon and Tequila. I push her from my mind. This is Tiffany’s breakfast, not hers.

  Held rigid, a spike of flesh, Tiffany’s tongue stabs. With its tip buried, it vibrates. She drags it upwards, still quivering, until it “flips” free at the very top of the slit. My sex feels each fraction of an inch of its progress, vicariously. It remembers the vibrant pressure of her tongue’s tip on the softness of its floor. It recalls how delicately it trills the edges of my inner labia. It knows what her tongue feels like on the firm smooth plane, between my outer lips but above my inner ones. That even curve is crowned by the pink pea of my straining clitoris. When she subjects me to that particular caress, at the moment of the “flip”, her tongue’s tip flicks.

  I moan.

  Tongue still stiff, Tiffany moves the peach away and back, each motion impaling it, stabbing low, high, between. Its juices, as mine would, run. Her hand moves faster. Her tongue pierces deeper.

  The peach is fucking Tiffany’s tongue.

  She returns the assault. Her fingers tighten, bruising the softness. Her tongue flattens and slavers, running up and down the full length of the drooling slot. She sucks hard, then curls her lips back from her even white teeth.

  Once more she looks at me, with erotic threat. Gazing into my eyes, she turns the peach sideways. Her lower teeth are inside the slot. Her upper ones rest on the delicate skin. Fascinated and squirming, I watch as her teeth slowly sink into peach flesh.

  She bites!

  Poor peach! Poor vulva! Savage and slavering, grunting her greed, Tiffany devours its sensitive vulnerability.

  My legs cross and clamp. I vibrate. Pity and envy consume me. The thought of it, of her feasting on my flesh, of being eaten alive by this lovely young girl, even with a peach as my proxy . . .

  The thrill of it is too much. I surrender to the gleeful paroxysms of a convulsive, gut-clenching climax.

  When my mental eyes focus again, Tiffany is looking at me, smug. We know that breakfast is not yet done. My first orgasm always leaves me on a plateau, ready to scale higher peaks once I’ve caught my breath and my legs have ceased their trembling.

  She arches a brow at me and beckons. I saunter to the table, hitch my bottom up on it and spread my thighs. Tiffany has to stretch round me to reach the fruit bowl. She takes her time selecting the next treat by touch. My navel is inches from her eyes. The tip of her nose is even closer to the roundness of my lower belly. Tiffany’s breath warms my mound. When she inhales, the aroma of my climax fills her mouth.

  She has chosen the other orange. Looking up at me, she peels it. Orange curls drop between my thighs, to the floor. When it is bare, orange flesh showing through white pith, her thumbs dig in and rip it apart. Precise fingers separate one section. She lays it on my bare thigh, ready, and reaches for a banana, which she sets on the table between my thighs, one end just touching the wrinkled lips of my sex.

  For the first time, in the fantasy, Tiffany touches me. Two fingers, forked, press on my mound, one to each side of my clitoris. My slit opens. My clit’s engorged head protrudes from beneath its hood. Holding me like that, my naked clit exposed, Tiffany lifts the orange section to her mouth. Delicate little bites clean the pith away. A nibble exposes the tiny sacs of juice along its narrow edge. She rests that naked oozing slice between my parted lips with the raw edge gently pressed to my clit. Her fingers slide it, up, down, up, frotting my clit delicately. Her free hand guides my fingers to take the segment and continue the subtle teasing. Once I am moving the slice to her satisfaction, not too quickly, without too much pressure, just enough to tantalize, she lets me take over.

  It’s the banana’s turn. Tiffany pushes back half a foot. Her left fist wraps the base of the firm yellow stalk. The nails of her right hand slit the tip, vertically. She peels the sections of yellow skin down slowly, baring the ivory column. Three strips of skin dangle over her left fist.

  Tiffany changes her grip. Holding the very base of her fruit in her fingertips, she makes a ring with the fingers of her right hand, around the stalk, below the skin. Her hand runs upwards, smoothing the banana’s foreskin back into place, then down, exposing the flesh once more. As she slowly masturbates the banana, she lifts it, an inch at a time, towards her open mouth.

  Were I a man, and the banana my cock, I’d have been sore pressed to resist grabbing handfuls of her hair and dragging her parted lips down, hard. As it is, my pressure on my orange slice increases. I feel tiny plump sacs burst, each “pop” a minute kiss. Juice runs down, trickling into my sex.

  Tiffany’s raspberry lips purse on the tip of her banana. She kisses it. It presses upwards, forcing entry. Half the banana disappears into her mouth. Her cheeks hollow, then relax. She sucks rhythmically, in time with the banana’s thrusts into her mouth.

  She removes the banana, glistening wet, and slurps up its underside with a flattened tongue. Holding it still, she bobs on it, fucking it with her lovely mouth.

  My orange slice disintegrates under my fingers. I shrug and reach for another piece. As I separate it from the remains of the orange, Tiffany takes the first pulpy piece from me. It replaces the banana, in her mouth. Her eyes roll with pleasure as she sucks the mixture, orange juice and my juice, before spitting the mess into her palm. Grinning, she reaches between my thighs and prods the sodden and crushed segment into me.

  Insistent fingers slide the pulp between my inner labia, then press it up behind my pubic bone. They rotate it on the engorged mass of my G-spot. Citric acid tingles until my seepage dilutes it.

  Smiling sweetly, Tiffany takes a third segment, then a fourth. Each orange-slice is poked and prodded until it is snug and secure, packed into the slight internal cavity. Not content yet, she selects grape after grape. Each is wetted, cleansed, in her mouth, before it is added to the fruit cocktail she is preparing.

  I relax my internal muscles to make room. Although I twitch inside, I resist the urge to squeeze. The fruit becomes a weight that distends me and threatens to slither lower. I frown in concentration. My unspoken instructions are to hold the soggy mass, but so gently that not a single grape is crushed; no whole segment of orange bursts.

  Her fingers pinch the lips of my sex together, taking some of the strain. With six quick neat bites, she devours her banana. Tiffany hands me the second one to peel for her. When it is bare flesh, she takes it from me. Her tongue laves it. Sweet lips purse to smear her drool over its length. When it is glistening wet from end to end, she presents it to my sex. The pinching fingers part. I feel the mess of fruit move but before it can extrude, the banana blocks its path.

  The banana prods. The fruit is forced back up. With the bulk of the banana added, I am gently but firmly distended. A third of the banana disappears, then a half, three quarters, and at last, the entire length. I am. full.

  Tiffany takes my hand and guides it to cup my sex to keep the mess confined. She takes a napkin and leisurely wipes her fingers. My need to expel, to evacuate, becomes urgent. She knows that. That’s why she takes her time, moving her chair away, taking a cushion and arranging it precisely on the floor and laying down, on her back, with it supporting her head.

  “I’m ready,” she tell
s me.

  Holding my sex, legs spread awkwardly; I hitch myself off the table. I duck-walk to my lover and squat, knowing how obscene a picture I make, lowering my sex towards Tiffany’s face. When the lips of my sex are three inches from the lips of her mouth, her finger touches my thigh, halting my descent.

  “With cream,” she says.

  I bite my lip and nod. The heel of my clutching hand moves aside. I wet one finger of my free hand. It finds the pink pea of my clit. I flick, left-to-right, right-to-left. My clit’s nerves scream for more, more, more . . . I obey. Faster and faster, I whip that morsel of pulsating flesh, driving it, and me, into no-thought, no will, just raw need. Likely, my face screws up in concentration. No matter. Tiffany can’t see my face. Her eyes are focused on my bulging, fruit-filled, vulva.

  It becomes too much. My twin needs, to climax and to void, peak. Deep inside me, an inexorable hand squeezes. Orange slices are crushed. Grapes pop. I can feel their small explosions. My vagina squirts tears that add to the lubrication.

  I can resist no longer. With one mighty clenching, I eject the fruit mass in a long lumpy stream, directly into Tiffany’s avid, open mouth.

  And Tiffany eats her breakfast.

  The Watcher

  Kate (London, UK)

  I’ve always had exhibitionist tendencies, I suppose. From my earliest days I can recall becoming excited by my own nakedness, particularly when someone – an unknown, unseen someone – could also see it. I remember as a young girl, probably about eight or nine, lying in the garden on an old rug and looking at the windows around me. There weren’t many, only about three or four houses in a row, but each window, anonymous and dark, held the promise of an unseen observer and I grew very excited as I imagined who might be watching. I folded the blanket over me and slipped out of my clothes, feeling a tremendous rush of what I now know as sexual energy as I peeled off my final sock and lay completely naked beneath the blanket, in full view of the neighbours. My nakedness – or at least the excitement it engendered – was almost physical, making my body tingle with anticipation. Anticipation of what I had no idea, being so young, but even then I knew that displaying my body was something I enjoyed.

  That day I didn’t dare pull the blanket from me to reveal myself fully – that landmark in my sexual development came a few years later. I was a student in my first year at university, virginal and shy. I had had a sheltered upbringing and so, while in retrospect I can see I adapted and matured very quickly, at the time I felt gauche and inferior in comparison to my more experienced friends.

  It was a particularly fine day, I guess at the end of September or early October, one of those days when autumn forgets itself and mimics the gentle promise of spring, with fresh sun and warm breeze and gentle, vivid air. I had taken myself out for a drive, investigating the craggy countryside. Avril, who had the room next to mine in our six-bedroom student flat, had brought a man home the previous evening, and I discovered for the first time how thin the walls were. The sounds of their lovemaking had gone on into the early hours and I lay next door, frustrated and curious, desperate for knowledge. Listening intently, I stroked my slit in rhythm with the lovers next door, but didn’t dare take myself to climax for fear of letting out a moan and alerting people to what I was doing. I can laugh now, but at the time I didn’t see any incongruity in my reticence.

  And so, the next day, I was still feeling aroused and dissatisfied. As I drove I pressed my hand over my crotch, pushing my palm over my clitoris. I could feel the excitement filter through my body, raising my nipples erect and sensitive, flushing my face and neck and tingling down my arms and thighs. In my distracted state I feared I was becoming something of a traffic hazard and pulled over into the next layby.

  I was highly sexually charged, and yet very inexperienced. I think that was a factor in what I did next: I had so much excitement running through my body I had to release it somehow and, not having experience of more conventional methods, invented my own. My initial thought was that I was going to masturbate in the car, bring myself off so I could continue with my drive unaffected by libidinous overload. There were lots of cars and lorries passing, however, and it felt impractical and unsatisfying. I had parked next to a wooded area, dark and secluded, and somehow the thought entered my head to go there to conduct my solo lovemaking. It’d be quieter and more sheltered than doing it in the car, I thought.

  As soon as the idea entered my head it took over. My excitement doubled, trebled, my body trembling at the thought of masturbating outdoors. Although my first thought had been that the woods would offer more privacy than my car, it was the notion of being outdoors, in the open, which really galvanized me. I got out of the car and jumped over the crumbling wall into the wood. It was overgrown and unkempt, broken branches and the crumbly, fragrant residue of several years fallen growth scattered over the ground. I scrabbled through, fighting against increasingly dense undergrowth, beginning to regret my decision and trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t do what I had set out to.

  But I knew I would.

  As I walked on, deeper into the wood, I stroked myself through my jeans. I was tingling with anticipation, imagining playing with myself while sitting in the open woods. I undid my button and slid the zip down, feeling the air against my panties. With my hand pressed against my mons, fingers sliding across my slit, feeling my lips swell beneath the cotton of my panties, I walked on determinedly. My initial thought had simply been to find a broken tree to sit on while I frigged myself, but I was growing more horny with every step.

  I’m going to strip, I thought. Completely naked.

  I conducted an argument in my head, alternately convincing myself that I would indeed go through with it and that there was no need to worry because I would never do anything so foolish. Deep down, though, I think I knew what would happen, I think I knew which argument would prevail.

  I came to a clearing. There was a big, fallen tree resting across it, offering a perfect perch. I looked around. Nothing, no noise but for the rustle of the remaining leaves and the solitary cries of a couple of birds. If I was going to do it, this would be the place. Negotiating with myself, I tried to reach a decision, all the while resting on the tree and pressing my palm against my clitoris. Quietly, I slid my jeans over my bum and dropped them to my knees. Unrestricted, I could now part my legs and settle my fingers against my slit. It was soaked, my juices oozing into my panties. I wanted to take them off, to reveal myself to the world. Looking round, feeling very exposed, I raised myself from the tree trunk and slid my panties down, gasping as the cool wind drew across my pussy lips for the first time.

  My body began to respond as I stroked up and down my lips and played my thumb around my clitoris. I became flushed and aroused, quickly losing sight of common-sense. I wanted to be naked. I wanted to be exposed. Looking through the clearing once more, I gripped my T-shirt and raised it over my head. The coolness of the wind against my skin was electrifying. Reaching behind, I unclasped my bra and let it fall to the ground, and instantly my nipples swelled more stiffly than I had ever experienced. They were almost painfully erect, my puckered areolae enhancing the effect and making my nipples appear to stick out much further than ever before. By now I was concentrating almost exclusively on my clitoris, stroking my index finger round and round, dragging the nail against it, squeezing it between thumb and middle finger.

  I stood up. This was the moment of no return. I knew now that I would go through with it, that within moments I would be completely naked. I undid my shoes and heaved them off, followed by my socks. Stopping for one final – and by now pointless – look around the clearing, I slid my jeans and panties down and stepped out of them.

  I was totally naked.

  An overwhelming rush of sexual arousal flew through my veins and nerves, leaving me gasping. I was senseless by now, overcome by the knowledge that I was completely naked, outdoors, and that anyone could see me. Somehow, it didn’t seem enough: I wasn’t exposed enough, because
my clothes were at hand. If someone were to come I could make myself decent relatively quickly, and that wasn’t good enough. I was coming to understand the nature of my exhibitionism.

  Picking my way gingerly over the rough ground, I walked to the far end of the clearing, away from my clothes, away from safety. The air against my skin was delicious, each gust of wind adding a frisson of excitment. Some thirty yards from where I had undressed I stopped and leaned against an old oak, bending and sitting on my haunches, legs spread wide. I closed my eyes and pressed my thumb hard to my clitoris, stroking my fingers furiously against my engorged lips. I began to moan and scream as an extraordinary set of reverberations, vibrations and whirling, whorling eddies began in my belly and womb and alighted across my arms, legs, fingers, toes, bursting through my head and hijacking my brain with visions of ecstasy and notions of lust.

  My climax came, my body ripped asunder by wave after wave, my skin alive with lust. I continued to stroke myself gingerly, forgoing my now too sensitive clitoris and sliding against the sticky moistness of my lips. I opened my eyes.

  And saw a man.

  He was old, around fifty, I guess. He was watching me intently, making no attempt to conceal himself. I screamed and jumped up, my nakedness no longer an exciting indulgence but a fearful, humiliating encumbrance. The man appeared startled by my sudden movement and backed away. Stopping for one final look he turned – reluctantly, I fancied – and walked away.

  But it was too late. I knew I should have felt ashamed. I knew that it should have taught me a lesson. But I also knew, deep in my soul, that what had occurred was the most exciting thing I had ever encountered. I had been caught, and I loved it.

  I went back to the woods three times in the next couple of weeks. Each time, I tried to stop myself but I couldn’t. In rational moments, surrounded by my unsuspecting friends and the totems of normality, I knew what I was doing was foolish, and in those moments I could easily persuade myself that I would not succumb again; but then, alone and tortured by memories of the excitement of exposure, my resolve crumbled and I would find myself driving once more to the woods.