The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies

by Sonia Florens

Recently I have developed the fantasy a bit further. Brian and I have been going through a rough patch, and we haven’t had sex for a couple of months. Even now, though, he is still so solicitous and caring, and it drives me mad. It makes me want to punish him more in my fantasies, and that’s exactly what I do.

  I decide that it isn’t enough for me to have an affair with his friend: I have to let Brian watch it. In real life, I’m not sure there would be many “Garys” who would agree to this, but in my fantasy he is eager and joins me in goading Brian. The three of us sit on the settee, Gary’s arm around me, his hand lodged on my tit. He looks directly at Brian.

  “I’m gonna shag your missus in a while, Brian. That’s okay, isn’t it?” Brian makes no reply, but watches Gary’s snaking hand over my breast. “I love your wife’s tits, Brian. Don’t you? When did you last see them? Probably weeks ago, I should think. Tell you what, mate, why don’t you get them out for us?”

  Brian looks confused and I laugh, shaking my chest provocatively.

  “Come on, Brian,” says Gary. “Get on with it, mate, I want a feel.”

  Brian leans over and slowly begins to unbutton my blouse, undressing his wife for the benefit of his friend. He peels the blouse apart to reveal my white, lacy bra, carefully chosen because it is front-fastening. Gary indicates with a nod and Brian unclasps me, releasing my breasts to open view. Gary grips my right nipple and squeezes, while I croon in delight and rest my head on the settee back, watching Brian as he watches Gary. He swallows hard as Gary lowers his head and takes my breast in his mouth, but says nothing. Gary’s left hand is wandering over my body, across my naked stomach, down my thighs and back up to my crotch, where he rests his palm, fingers pressing into me. At length he raises his mouth a fraction from my breast.

  “Be a good chap, Brian, take her jeans off for me, I’m a bit busy here.”

  Brian sinks to the floor and wrestles with my button and zip. I raise my bum from the settee and he begins to drag my jeans down over my hips to my knees. Immediately, Gary places his hand on my panties, fingers rummaging against them, while Brian completes the removal of my jeans. He sits back on his heels and watches, as Gary’s fingers seek out my lips through the cotton panties and slide up and down, gathering their moisture against the fabric, creating a damp patch to reveal my excitement. I groan.

  Gary gestures once more. “Take her panties off, mate. Let me at her snatch.” Brian reaches forward and slides them from me, revealing my completely shaved pussy. I open my legs wide. “When did you last see that, Brian?” Gary goads. Brian doesn’t answer.

  “He never gets to see it any more. He has to lick it, every time I come home with your spunk inside me, but I make him do it in the dark. He’s not allowed to see anything. I’m buying him a blindfold tomorrow.”

  “We want him to see this, though.”

  “Too right. Every last piece of action.” Gary is fingering my pussy, his middle finger sliding between my lips and his index finger circling my clitoris. Brian, sitting beneath me, watches every move.

  “Brian, I’m getting a bit uncomfortable here. Got a hard-on which is threatening to poke a hole in my trousers. Take them off for me.” At first, Brian looks like he will refuse, but not for long. He reaches towards his friend and undoes his jeans, yanking them down and revealing blue boxer shorts with a large, sex-laden shape hidden beneath them. “The shorts too, mate.” Brian eases them down and Gary’s fine, chunky erection bounces into view. Immediately, I grip my hand around it and begin to wank him, feeling it grow even harder in my hand. All the time my eyes are on Brian, while his waver between my face and my hand, following the action, observing my reaction. It is delicious.

  I want Gary’s cock in me. I want to be fucked while my husband watches. I pull Gary on top of me and settle him into position, gripping his cock and sliding its silky, purple head against my lips, pushing forward as I press him towards me, and I sigh as I feel him entering me. I look over his shoulder at Brian, who is watching, dumbstruck.

  “Fuck me,” I cry. “Fuck me. Show me how it’s done.” Show Brian how it’s done, more like. Gary begins to thrust into me, hard, long and fast. I always imagine this to be rough, almost to the point of being painful: again, I’m not interested in romance, just sex, pure animal sex. He pounds into me, his face pressed to my cheek, biting my neck, fingers scratching at my shoulders and back. He comes quickly, grunting loudly as his spunk spurts deep inside me and I squeal with delight as I watch a pained expression pass over Brian’s face. Gary slides off me, exhausted and I clasp my knees together, panting with exertion.

  “Guess what, Brian?” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “It’s feeding time, baby.” His eyes widen, silently pleading, but I smile and roll off the settee. “Lie down, cuckold,” I say. Without a word, he does as he is told and I stretch myself over him. Already, Gary’s sperm is flooding out of me, some of it landing on Brian’s nose and in his eye. I settle myself above him and part my lips, watching in delight as a string of silver sperm slides from me into my husband’s waiting mouth. He swallows and opens again to receive another drop. When most of it has fallen into his mouth I press myself against him. “Lick,” I tell him. “Lick out every last drop.”

  This never fails to bring me to a climax. The thought of my helpless husband hoovering up another man’s sperm from his wife’s pussy leaves me trembling with lust. Yesterday, I had the most shattering climax of my life as this fantasy came to a conclusion. And as soon as I’ve finished writing this I shall be going upstairs to strip off and do it again.

  What’s next for my fantasy cuckold? I’m not sure yet. The best ideas come to me in the middle of masturbation so I shall probably find out very soon. I know my treatment of Brian is getting nastier all the time, and yet in real life I still love him dearly. I don’t think I could ever do this to him, but perhaps it would be best if I never have the opportunity to find out.

  Meanwhile, I will continue to use my fantasies to spice up what is already becoming a drab, middle-class housewife and mother’s existence. Thank you for letting me share this with you. Writing this story has been a terrific turn-on.

  Puppet

  Lili (San Diego, USA)

  When he is gone from me, I miss him. When he is gone from me, I await his return. But I also indulge myself in thoughts of him and in these thoughts, we are naked and he is hard, aroused at the sight of me, aroused by the knowledge that he can take me and use me however he wants to. Always, I crave that, to be the object of his desire and his appetite, and when he is away, I dwell in the memories of how he has used me.

  I remember how he puts the leather cuffs on me, how he locks the collar in place. The feel of leather against my skin, its tight grip around my wrists, my ankles, my neck, captivates. But no more so than what he does to me once he runs a rope through their o-rings, connecting my appendages, making me a puppet to his whims.

  He lays on his back and tells me to climb on top of him. “Get me inside you,” he says simply enough.

  I straddle him, spreading myself above him. I take his hard cock into my hand, aim it between my lips, and slowly rock him into me. Because he has ordered this at the start of our love-making, I’ve had no foreplay to prime me, but I know that our brand of foreplay isn’t far off. I know it’ll start when he’s fully in me and when he draws that rope taut through the cuffs.

  I grow wet as my cunt devours his cock. He feels huge inside me and it makes me want to ride him vigorously. But before I can, he stops me. He tells me to hold still.

  That’s when he draws the rope taut. It forces my hands behind my head, forces my feet close together – and forces me to straddle wider. It opens me and makes me vulnerable.

  You would think he’d want to take me right then and fuck me viciously, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my breast. When he cups it, his grasp is sure and confident. I can feel determination in his grip, a determination that turns to steel as he squeezes my breast. Hard.

>   I cry out at the pain and squirm. His hand slips to my nipple. He pinches and pulls, once, twice, thrice, before he stops. I continue to struggle against the pain, whimpering and shuddering.

  He laughs at me, but what he declares is far more wicked than how he laughs. “That feels good on my cock.”

  And he pinches me again.

  Yes it hurts, but paradox that it is, it also feels wonderful. I crave this intensity, this mix of pain and passion and prerogative. It is a dance of macabre pleasure – dark but thrilling, thrilling but luxurious. My cunt, so ready to respond, clenches at what he does, and it’s all the validation I need to know I like the sexual trials and tribulations he designs for me. Impaled on him, forced to hold this position by the ropes, I am at his erotic mercy.

  But this is what makes fucking wonderful. Lacking control, I never know what his next move will be, what his next twist of fate will be. It’s like riding a roller coaster blindfolded.

  When we first met, our S/M scenes were long and drawn-out – mini-series of sexual sharing and discovery. He would tie me to a post in his basement. A spreader bar would force my legs open while my head was forced upright by a length of string that ran mere inches from the leather head harness to the post. And while he played rough with my body – while he whipped my cunt and tits or simply teased and tormented them with the force of his own grip – a bit gag exaggerated every facial expression I made in response to his manipulations. Often, I’d be so aroused that when he pressed his finger to my clit, I’d pop like a firecracker.

  But heat fades. It exhausts itself. And so did we to some extent as our relationship matured, as we worked through all our untried possibilities. Now, we take our time. We play often but in a brief, episodic fashion, and our appetities are more easily sated. Where we used to feast, we now snack.

  And when he’s away, I dream of the junk food that he feeds me. Thus, the memory of being his sexual puppet stays with me.

  I remain lodged on his cock but the more he pinches and teases, the less I feel his cock inside me. My cunt has accommodated it thoroughly and short of riding it, I will not be afforded the pleasure of its presence.

  But he can feel me, clenching and clutching, my cunt giving every clue to what his manipulations do to me. Soon, though, this game comes to an end and he tells me to climb off. As I do, I long for him to lay me down and take me, but I suspect he hasn’t toyed with me enough. I know better than to think I’ll get off that easily. Just as pain and pleasure are paradoxes, immediate desire and delayed gratification have their own strange mutuality and, as much as I ache to be fucked, I also long to see what he’ll do next.

  He blindfolds and gags me using lengths of denim fabric cut for those purposes, then leads me away from the bed. Unable to see, ropes hobbling me, every step feels like a stumble waiting to happen. It’s a clumsy, uncomfortable procession and never have a few steps felt so uncertain.

  This is why I miss him, why I fantasize in his absence: because I want to relive what he does to me. What he does for me.

  He sits down, puts me over his lap, and re-routes the rope so it runs under the chair. It still runs from my wrists to my ankles and he pulls it tight the way an equestrian would “tighten up” on the reins. The effect is astounding. Draped down, my arms and legs drawn together enough to feel the stretch in my muscles, I feel played. Like a puppet.

  Few puppets, I suspect, find themselves bottom up across their master’s lap, but there I am, acutely away of the cock that presses into my belly, sticky from the juices of his earlier manipulation.

  I know what is coming: a spanking. His hand will strike my fleshy bottom, sending shivers of pain into me, a sensation that will cull arousal from the depths of my pleasure centers. What I don’t know – what I never know going into a spanking – is how strenuous it will be. Will he start out slow and sensual and acclimate me to his hand, then crescendo to an intense and thoroughly arousing climax? Or will he start off hard and swift without a care for finesse or subtlety, just so his cock can feel my body squirm and suffer? But that’s where the thrill lies: in not knowing.

  His first six strikes tell me everything. They are mild and no two strikes hit the same spot twice. They’re meant to warm cold flesh, to condition it for more. He is warming me up, slowly and methodically. Six strikes make a pass and, between each pass, he strokes my skin, lightly and with care, as if to pace me, and each time he reaches these reprieves, I go limp across his lap. I can’t help it; his touch is golden.

  And it arouses me. As my body responds, I become aware that, rounded over the edge of his lap, my arse allows my naked cunt to peek out from between my thighs. I can imagine its slitlike appearance and I know that the more he spanks me, the more it will grow engorged. Soon, it will glisten.

  Now his strikes become more intense. His volleys sting and send pain deeper into my flesh. Initially, I groan and take it but by the sixth, seventh, eighth strikes, the sting has accumulated in such unrelenting pain that I can’t help myself. I cry out. I squirm. I buck across his lap. And I feel his cock lurch underneath me in response.

  His hand caresses me again. I have reached another reprieve. His soft touch competes with the burn left behind from his hearty hand, a light tickle over stinging skin. But as the burning lessens, his touch becomes delicious, so luscious that I moan. It makes me want more – more intensity, more arousal, more of him – and my cunt begins to throb. I suspect that my vulnerable slit has begun to glisten and I hope he will notice my wetness.

  Another volley begins and its sudden viciousness replaces kind respite, signaling a grand finale across my ass. It’s swift, cruel, and hurried, and I can no better tolerate this round than I could the last. I lurch across his lap, shooting forward as if I’m trying to escape his hand. Perhaps I am. Perhaps the instinct to flee has overtaken me, even though I love what he’s foisting on me. But he knows how to keep me in my place – he clamps his free arm down across my back and pins me. I can struggle but I can’t escape.

  Relentlessly, he continues. The blows merge and I can barely tell where one ends and another starts. My ass is a thing of stinging pain and the pain’s so great, it feels like it’s leapt into my throat. Consumed by pain, I’m choking on the lump that has formed there.

  And, just as swiftly as the volley descended upon me, it ends. Abruptly. My sprint through pain is over. I want him to caress me again, to hold me and tell me I’ve done well. But his hand finds my cunt instead and its first touch sends a shiver through me.

  Fingers probe me and discover just how aroused I am. My labia smack in wet delight and my cunt tightens, begging for attention. I long for his fingers to stroke the length of my lips, to coax and tease me, to explore me in nuanced, subtle movements.

  But he is too pedestrian for that. He pries me open and sticks his thumb into me. It’s a crude gesture, one meant to remind me that I’m just a wet, ready piece of meat. He never has to tell me I’m a slut; my own cunt does that for him.

  His fingers spider up from my slit and find my clit. While one finger massages it, the others grab and pull at my mons. He manipulates me yet again, except now I’m a puppet to his hand – and that hand wants to grope me until I come.

  I’m surprised to find my cunt tight and heavy; I’m far more aroused than I expected and, as his hand probes and pokes and strokes, I shudder. Where his touch once soothed, now it coaxes, drawing me into a spiral that will culminate with my orgasm. It’s so lusty – lecherous even – that I try to writhe in concert with the hand that strokes me. I want to ride the thumb that plumbs me. I want to feel my hard little clit against a knuckle. Or better yet, against the callous of his rough fingertips. I want him to feel how aroused I am, how I’ve forgotten all decorum, all passivity. I want to hump until I come.

  Except that’s not what he wants. His fingers close around my cunt flesh and he pinches me. Sharp pain shoots across my cunt.

  “You’re not to do that,” he orders. “I’ll make you come.”

  I collap
se under the pain and comply. When he loosens his grip, I throb from within fiercely. He feels its against his thumb and he laughs. Like a cruel puppet master, he laughs.

  The whole incident leaves me conquered and compliant yet its drama brings me even closer to coming. He puts that callous fingertip I longed for against my clit and strokes me hard and fast. I moan and feel close, so close, and the more I reach towards coming, the harder he breathes. Lustful, he sounds lustful, and, in tandem, his cock swells beneath me. And, like my cunt telling me I’m a slut, his breath and his cock tell me the same thing: I’m a slut.

  Slut. I’m a slut.

  The knowledge pounds in my head, its message is more than I can bear. My cunt clenches as my clit explodes in delight. Pleasure and release and sensation and resolution converge and overtake me. I come. Throbbing, I come. Again and again and again, orgasm rakes me in hard contractions and, when it subsides, I’m left dumbfounded.

  Good sex does that to me.

  I must admit: Here is where things get fuzzy in my recollections, where my longing and fantasizing become disorganized and incongruous. Like a dream where the storyline all too easily jumps from making sense to going surreal, my fantasy loses its sensibility. Maybe longing has fatigued me. Maybe the very thought of such hefty sex play and such a big orgasm leaves me needing to simplify things. Maybe because no matter how heady the memory or how ingenious the eroticism, I still need to end it with simple penetration.

  And that’s how I end this fantasy: I’m naked and half-asleep, spent from all he’s done to me. Maybe the cuffs and collar are still in place, but there’s no longer any elaborate bondage or pain play. Just me, lying there and available.

  Drowsy, languid, I am barely aware. But I feel him near. He parts my legs, moves my arms to my side. As he climbs on top of me, his hand goes to my breast and squeezes it. He lowers himself onto me and his hard cock searches me out. When it finds its mark, it pushes. It pushes me apart, pushes itself into me. He takes me.