“Deal,” says Brad as he paws at my ass. I hear John heave a sigh.
“Then I’m afraid we have no choice but to give in. You win, Brad. Fuck her.”
Brad grabs my hips and rams his cock into me in one huge thrust that lifts my feet off the floor. I cry out and bite into my own arm to stifle my groans as he starts to pound in and out of me. His cock is long and hits just the right spot deep inside of my cunt. I hate him in this moment, but at the same time being fucked in front of John is wildly exciting. I’ve never felt so out of control. I have had no say in the matter of what would be done to my body since I entered the classroom earlier, and now I completely abandon myself to the wishes of both men. Brad is panting hard as he swirls and thrusts deeper and harder.
“God, Rachael – you’ve never been so wet.”
“No one has ever . . . oh! . . . done that to me before – not that way.” (Of course, I mean John and his licking my cunt under the desk, but I don’t know or care what Brad thinks.)
John has come over to join me. He sits on the couch, still dressed, watching me closely. He gently brushes my hair away from my face, locking his bedroom eyes with mine as I jerk with the motion of being fucked.
“You look beautiful, Rachael. You like being fucked, don’t you?”
He starts to toy with my breasts, pinching at the nipples. I moan.
“Answer me, young lady. Tell me how you feel.”
“I . . . oh! . . . love being fucked in front of you. I love that you are watching me –”
“Are you going to come soon?”
“I want to come with you inside me! Hurry up, Brad . . . I can’t hold back for much longer.”
“Oh, no! I’ll make you come, you bitch!”
Brad starts to fuck me even harder. I can’t speak now – just moan, holding back with every muscle, saving myself for John. He stands up and gets undressed. Unhurried and elegant in his movements, he goes to stand behind Brad.
“You heard the girl. Finish up now. I think you’ve made your point.”
I clamp down and milk Brad’s cock with my muscles, pushing back hard against him with every thrust. He could never resist that, and he shudders and spurts into me, gripping my hips hard enough to leave imprints of his fingers in my flesh. I feel him slide out and John gets into position in his place. He is much more sensual, stroking my back and the sides of my breasts like a virtuoso. My cunt is distended, oozing liquid, clutching at air . . . aching for his cock. I can feel the head of it straining at my entrance, slipping around in all of that hot juice.
But first, he makes me beg.
“Tell me what you want, Rachael.”
I practically scream: “For God’s sake, fuck me John! I need you to make me come!”
With a groan, he complies and eases his cock up into me inch by inch. I gasp in joy: this is what I’ve dreamed of for the past four years, and it’s really happening. He is Brad’s match in length and hardness, but has infinitely more finesse. I wriggle against him, primed and ready.
He hits the wall inside and stops, holding himself for what seems an eternity before sliding back out so that only the very tip of him is still inside, then – just a little faster and harder – he dives back in. I am moaning continuously now. Brad is panting, watching, hating us both – but he has given away any power he had over us by fucking me. John is igniting me in ways he could never hope to, and I am swooning in ecstasy.
“Ah, yesss . . . fuck me, John. Show him how to make me come.”
He murmurs and strokes me . . . my entire body is ablaze with want and the impending fulfillment of all of my forbidden dreams. I actually fight to hold back, to make it last, but now John is losing control . . . pounding away with double the power of Brad’s fucking. He is starting to gasp my name over and over and I know he is close, so I give in. I buck back against him, shouting and moaning, as the waves explode through me with incredible force. (I have rarely achieved an orgasm through intercourse in real life, but the memorable times that I did have been like that – being rammed from behind or with me riding on top, taking charge.)
My climax sets John’s off, and he squeezes me close to him as his cock gives a leap and spurts into me. I can feel every individual gush. We collapse onto the couch and curl up together in a naked, sodden heap.
I peer up through half-closed eyes to see Brad doing up his jeans. He gives me a look that is both sad and a little bit triumphant. I smile at him. Nothing has happened that I can’t live with. It felt too good. As the door quietly opens and closes, I turn to my greatest fantasy figure and lazily give into a long sweet session of melting kisses.
I have never felt such a strong desire to fuck anyone before or since my professor. Pity it couldn’t happen in real life, but even now, he is such fun to fantasize about. I haven’t seen him for over a decade, but who knows? Maybe by chance he’ll pick up this book and read over my thoughts and recognize himself in it. The idea turns me on more than I can say.
These wild dreams are harmless, sexy fun – but I have found to my dismay over the years that men seem threatened by my voracious fantasy life. Do they honestly think I would really want to be blackmailed into fucking an ex-lover while my professor eggs him on, waiting his turn? Very few men seem to understand that the edgier a fantasy is, the hotter it gets me. This one is relatively tame compared to some, and I have all but given up telling them about any of my lusty scenarios. I have made a couple of male friends online with whom I exchange fantasies via e-mail. They live in other countries, so the temptation to meet is not an issue. The distance gives us the safety to share these kinds of thoughts with each other – at times, they are my sex life when I am between lovers and, except for the lack of physical contact, they are in many ways the best lovers I’ve ever had. Both of these men are very creative and work in artistic fields where story-telling is important, and they get off on trying to outdo themselves in telling me wilder and wilder scenarios. They love it when I tell them how excited they get me, and how wonderful my orgasm is when I read their letters. Fantasy is wonderful, alone or shared – if one is lucky enough to have a partner who can handle it. There is no point in being jealous of dreams and shadows, and they can awaken a depth of passion that surprises and delights, if one gives in to their power.
Cuckold Heaven
Margot (Nottingham, UK)
I do love my husband. I want to make that clear from the start, because it may not sound like it at times in this fantasy. I don’t know how much of this I could do in real life, even if I were to get the opportunity, but fantasizing about it makes me more excited than anything I’ve ever known.
He’s a good man, my husband. That’s the only way you can really describe him: good. He’s considerate and careful. He runs after me in the house, doing all the washing-up, sharing the laundry and ironing, doing chores without being told. He always asks if we can make love, and if I agree his big spaniel eyes of gratitude make me want to puke.
And that’s the trouble. He’s just too nice. It’s boring. I’m bored.
I have lots of fantasies which I run through when he’s at work and our daughter’s at school, most of which revolve around not being nice. Sometimes it’s Brian who loses his temper and finally lashes out. I have him rip my clothes off and throw himself upon me, spearing his cock inside me before I can protest and fucking me hard. But mostly those fantasies don’t work: the trouble is, I just can’t imagine Brian really doing that, and I dissolve into a fit of giggles.
And so in the fantasy it becomes someone else. I prefer it to be someone I know – it makes it kinkier somehow. I don’t need to fancy them in real life, and in fact it’s better if I don’t. There’s Dave, for example, a regular in the bar where I do evening work. He’s a bit of a shag monster, going from woman to woman in a constant cycle, and I never understand how he does it because he doesn’t turn me on at all, but the very fact he doesn’t makes him all the more powerful as a fantasy figure. He traps me in the loos and forces himself on me, his
mouth all over my face and his hands gripping my tits. He unzips his cock and makes me touch it, then pulls up my skirt and twists my panties aside and before I know what’s happening he starts to fuck me.
It’s a good enough fantasy, but in the end it leaves me kind of cold. I feel that it’s Brian’s relentless niceness which forces me to fantasize the way I do: I like to dream about roughness as an antidote to his gentle approach. But those Dave fantasies go to the other extreme – they simply replace gentleness with force, and there’s no scope for sharing the moment. That’s what I crave – a fantasy in which nasty things happen, but where everyone enjoys it.
So my fantasies turned to Brian dressing me up as a schoolgirl and spanking me, or chaining me to the bed – games where I was a willing participant – but they didn’t work either: I still couldn’t imagine Brian doing it. The very fact that in reality I would never dare broach such a subject with him rather proved my point. And that’s how my favourite fantasy came about.
If he wouldn’t do it to me, I’d do it to him.
Once the idea of dominating Brian took hold it swept all other fantasies away. I loved the idea, the notion that I could bully and cajole him into doing things he would never choose to do in real life. But always, in my fantasies, it was important that however much he protested, he really did enjoy what was happening. As I said, I do love him.
They start out gently enough, these fantasies. I imagine a situation where he has annoyed me for some reason – sprayed all over the bathroom, for example (which is something he never does, he always sits down to pee). In the fantasy I scold him terribly and he apologises, but I refuse to accept it because I am so angry. “Stand in the corner,” I tell him, more in exasperation than with any genuine intent, but to my amazement he obeys. I leave him to see what he does next, but fifteen minutes later he is still there, facing the wall. I’m astonished, but slightly intrigued. If he will do that, what else will he do?
At first none of my demands are sexual – they are purely to test his obedience – but he complies with everything I ask. I tell him to scrub the kitchen floor and he does it. I tell him to wear my pink (well, peach – it’s the nearest I have to pink) apron and he does. I tell him to eat his tea outside, in the rain, and he trots into the garden with his plate. Whatever I ask, he always obeys. So far this is probably completely true to life: if I was to ask Brian those things I’m sure he would look quizzical and a bit hurt, but would do them nonetheless.
But now my fantasies begin to adopt sexual overtones. Seeing him scamper after my every command makes me horny and I get the sudden urge to use him. “Brian,” I yell, “come here.” I’m lying on our bed, naked, and he blanches as he enters and sees me. “Lick me,” I tell him. He tries to say something but I tell him to shut up and get on with it. The tartness of my reply shocks him and he immediately folds himself between my legs and sets his tongue to work. He isn’t very good. In reality, he has only done this to me three times, and I haven’t had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong, but in my fantasy I have no such compunction. I make him concentrate on my clitoris and explain how he should roll his tongue round and round its hood, sucking gently and occasionally drawing his tongue directly over the clitoris itself, slowly and softly. As I approach a climax I order him to speed up and to suck harder. “Harder, harder,” I instruct him, gripping him between my thighs and pressing his head into me.
My fantasy climax is usually accompanied by one in real life, this thought alone enough to bring me off. But then Brian would come home from work, Mr Nice Guy again, and my frustrations with him would grew ever stronger. Those frustrations have been instrumental in the development of my fantasies.
In them, I progress to sitting on him. I force him to lie on the bed and straddle him, pressing hard against his face, making him push his tongue inside me. I force him to stare into my eyes as he does, so that he can see who is making him do these things. His face begins to go red as he runs out of breath and I shift slightly to allow him some air before settling on him once more. Riding back and forward – sliding his nose against my lips and feeling his tongue probe inside me – quickly brings me to the point of climax and I push down so that he can suck my clitoris to finish me off.
Sometimes I vary the action and have him lick my arse. That’s delightful and the idea of it always makes me come in real life. I flatten myself against him and spread my cheeks so that his tongue is pressed hard against my hole. I order him to push inside me and feel his tongue, wet but suprisingly cold, slither into my back passage. I don’t need to dream about that for long before fireworks start to explode in my head and my stomach starts to churn with lust.
Everything I’ve fantasized about so far I would, given the chance, enact in real life. I’ve tried to drop subtle hints to see if he is interested, but so far he has not risen to it and I don’t want to try too hard and offend him. But it adds to my frustration, and in my frustration my fantasies get kinkier. I don’t believe I would ever do any of the following in real life, but dreaming about it certainly gets me going.
In my fantasy (and in real life too, to be honest) I get irritated by his passivity. He never fights back, he never shows any dismay at what I force him to do. So I decide that I need to test how far he can be pushed before he starts to fight back. That’s when I resolve to take a lover. I do it openly, telling him in advance that I am going to look for someone. His eyes go all hurt, but he doesn’t shout or forbid it, or even ask me not to: because I have said it, he accepts it. This annoys me and I push him a little harder: I ask him to recommend someone.
“You must have some nice friends,” I say, “well-hung guys, good looking. Who could I chat up? I want to fuck one of your friends, Brian. Who should it be?”
Finally, I find his breaking point. He refuses, crying and pleading with me. But not for long. I press my hand against his crotch and slide my thigh across him, snuggling close.
“Come on,” I say, using my most seductive voice. “It’ll be exciting. I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.” I slip my hand inside his trousers and feel his cock. It is fully erect. “And then after that, maybe we could have some fun together.” A quick squeeze, a lingering snog and a promise of a good time later and he agrees. He gives me a name and sets up a meeting.
The good thing about fantasies is that you don’t have to bother with boring detail. I get fixed up with Gary (in reality a workmate of Brian’s and very good looking) and we go out for dinner. When I’m masturbating, I don’t usually linger on this bit – it isn’t an important part, really – but occasionally I build the scene. I have Gary fuck me in his flat after our first date, taking me from behind and mounting me like a dog, fucking me hard and rough. He calls me a bitch and a whore and a fucking cheat and I swear back, yelling at him to fuck me, fill my cunt with his hot prick. I like to make it as rough as possible, no romance or sensitivity at all. I make him scratch and bruise me, so that I have trophies to show Brian later.
When we finish fucking I hurry home as quickly as possible. Brian is waiting up, as I have ordered him to. I tell him about my evening, describing everything that happened in intimate detail. I tell him the length of Gary’s cock, how it was much wider than his and stretched and filled me so well. I explain how he threw me on the bed and fucked me from behind, how he was hard and rough and made me feel used. I begin to strip and show him my bruises and scratches.
“That one,” I say as I point to a livid graze across my thigh, “that was when he came inside me. I could feel it pulsing from his cock into me. It was like an explosion. You never come that hard, Brian, you just kind of squirt it out a bit.” He nods morosely as he inspects my graze. “Can you smell him?” I ask. “Can you smell his body on me?” I force his face against me, pressing his nose to my skin. “Can you?” He nods and tells me he can.
“There’s more,” I crow. “I’ve probably lost most of it, but there’s still some of his come inside me.” Carefully, I peel off my panties. “Want to see?” He
tells me he doesn’t, but I ignore him. “Lie down,” I order. Despite his protests he complies and I straddle him once more. “There,” I tell him. “My cunt’s still all wet and messy and dirty from his spunk. Isn’t it?” I look down and it is. I can smell it myself, the smell of sex. “I’m all dirty, aren’t I?” He nods. “So clean me up, husband, clean all my lover’s spunk out of me.” I press myself against his mouth and know that he is licking a curious concoction – my stale juices from earlier, the remains of Gary’s sperm and the fresh secretions of my current excitement. I ride his face for half an hour, sometimes smothering him for a minute at a time, revelling in the act I have forced upon my husband.
“And just think,” I tell him afterwards, “every time I fuck Gary you’re going to have to clean it up like that.”
Like I say, I don’t think I could do these things in real life – not unless Brian said he wanted me to, and since he doesn’t talk about sex that’s unlikely. I’m not even sure I’d enjoy it in reality: I’m not big on hurting people’s feelings. But the fantasy is wonderful. I strip myself completely naked, open the windows wide so that I can feel the afternoon breeze on my skin and stretch myself out on the bed. Sometimes I use a vibrator, but mostly I just use my fingers – they’re more delicate, more sensitive, and I’ve got them well trained over the years. Sometimes when I’m fantasizing about sitting on Brian’s face I’ll get up on my knees and adopt that position, imagining him below me, looking down on where his reddened face would be, but mostly I lie back and think of cuckoldry.
It’s a wonderful word, cuckold, so derogatory. In my fantasies I relish using it on Brian. “How’s my little cuckold tonight?” I enquire after a night out with Gary. “Does the cuckold want to swallow up our juices now?” I imagine Brian’s crestfallen face, silently nodding, readying himself, sliding into position below me.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 8
