“Fuck almighty!” Brandon hollers, as I plug his arse and Tyler drains his cock.
When Brandon’s heaving, brown body is at last still, I slowly slide my cock out of his violated bum and slap it up against his twitching arse cheeks. Tyler hand-jerks himself a few final drops of salty goo from Brandon’s slick, softening meat, and captures them on his tongue.
Brandon lifts his head from Tyler’s swollen cock and looks back at me. “Hey, babe,” he gasps, exhausted and exhilarated, “let us know if you have any more fantasies. Maybe Tyler and I can help you with them, too.”
. . . That’s just one of the various hotter-than-hell man-on-man-on-woman fantasies that fill my free time, my idle hands. And there really is a good-looking guy named Tyler, only he’s about as gay as Sean Connery, as is my beau Brandon, so the chances of the two of them ever getting together, let alone with Mr Connery, are just about nil. Thank God for Technicolor dreams and multi-speed vibrators!
Baltimore
Anya (Toronto, Canada)
I’ve made most of my living for the last few years as an erotic model, sometimes porn actress. At times that has led to a lifestyle that’s admittedly pretty decadent, and situations that are unusual to say the least. People ask me all the time what I fantasize about – what is it that you like? Is there anything left that you’ve yet to experience? Do you still have fantasies at all? – but what I’ve found is that it’s not what, but who. My fantasies are inextricably linked to a person, to somebody, and sometimes, to a particular place. I saw a man in Baltimore . . . I’ve tried to recreate the circumstances just as they were, and the fantasy just as I experienced it, so vividly it’s become a memory all of its own.
Baltimore surprised me, I have to say. I’ve become that jaded. Edward’s taken me to Las Vegas, New York City, Chicago. For some reason, I was expecting less of Baltimore. But as we drive back from spending the day in Annapolis, drive past the baseball stadium – a re-creation from the golden era of baseball, a thing of beauty – on the right the inner harbour glitters, and Baltimore fascinates me. Maybe I’ve just had more time to myself here, to explore it on my own, to find its elegant old heart. Edward lives outside of the city, somewhere in the suburbs. At night, see, he’s got to go home to his wife.
He pulls the Audi up to the hotel entrance, glancing at his watch. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and he smiles at me, almost shy, shooting a quick glance up from underneath his long grey bangs. “See you tomorrow,” he says, “about two o’clock.”
I smile back into his pale, thin face. Edward’s not a bad guy. He’s got a lot of money, owns a company of some kind. Computers. Something like that. I wave and smile again as I climb out of the car, actually, I keep the smile plastered on for the benefit of the uniformed doorman and next the desk clerk, all the way to the elevator. I can let it go as the doors sigh shut, but a trace of it lingers on the corners of my mouth. Not such a bad day today, being touristy in Annapolis, eating seafood – chowder, crab cakes – and there’s enough daylight left to take some pictures.
I discovered North Charles Street earlier, on my way to the Walter Art Museum and an afternoon of art through the ages. Without knowing anything much about architecture, I’ve become obsessed with beautiful buildings. There were so many along the way! Baltimore is an eclectic jumble of styles and periods, full of nooks and crannies that wait to be discovered. I hurry to my room, just grab the camera and run back to catch the elevator back down before someone else commandeers it.
The sun’s just above the skyscrapers as I hurry along, still in my silk dress, the same blue as the early evening air, and mid-heel sandals not designed for hurry. Scuttling down the street as the light begins to fade, taking the pictures furiously. I frame the ornate storefronts, a church, businesses, they begin with skyscrapers and then drop to older levels. I like to discover their hidden angles, and look at them in opposition to the sky that they push against. It’s never just glass and steel here (is this one neo-Baroque? neo-Classical?), even the concrete is ornate, doorways open to vast marble foyers. I snap and snap. The Baltimore & Ohio Railway Company, from Monopoly boards, B&O, from various angles, from just underneath the shadow of its doorway, then up against the doors and down the hallway to the now empty reception desk at the end, dwarfed by marble columns and a gallery above. My flash reflects against the glass doors and I push buttons on the camera to take it again without, although I doubt there’s enough light to pick up much. Restaurants and bars and stores, all the way down to the museum again, then back to record the metal sculpture behind a government building.
Two films down and packed away, I’m just now noticing the way my feet are beginning to throb. I turn down another street, now just a block away from the hotel as the sun gasps its last violet breaths before disappearing from view. He’s there on the sidewalk, along the side of an office building. He’s wearing a loose red shirt, short-sleeved to show sculptured arms, and baggy jeans but I can see his strong neck. Full lips. Dreadlocks fall on his shoulders, just barely streaked with grey. I’m never scared in strange cities, even alone here as dusk is setting in – and maybe I should be – but here, with this purple falling over the buildings, I’m so taken with it, with the beauty and charm that seems to saturate the very air around me, I can’t feel threatened by strangers.
“You look after yourself, young lady,” he says. His skin is dark, chocolate brown, warm, his big eyes and generous features take in my silk dress, blonde hair and oh-so-much eye make-up.
“Oh, I will,” and I smile into his earnest face, the lines around his eyes drawn into what looks like real concern. “I’m only going one more block,” and I point to my hotel.
He nods approvingly. “Well, God bless,” he says with a Maryland lilt. “You be careful.”
I love their God bless around here, but I don’t think I can pull it off, so I smile wider, he back in return, and he looks so warm, warm enough to touch, I’m almost drawn to lift my hand to his cheek before I stop the impulse. It’s the mood of this place. But I hesitate only a moment, turning to continue to the hotel, still smiling.
My cell phone rings as I’m entering my room. “Hello?”
“It’s Edward,” he says, his voice is low and gravelly, like a good radio sports announcer.
“So it is,” with a question in my voice. “What’s up?”
“Listen, there’s a meeting I forgot about, after lunch tomorrow, I won’t make it over till 3:00 or 3:30,” he says.
“Okay, Edward, I’ll see you around 3:30, then.”
His voice registers slight relief, “Good, good,” then, “Damn!” he explodes. “I’m supposed to be meeting my partner and some . . . others.” He stumbles a bit, and I think why bother? Have I ever showed any interest in what you do for a living? You won’t even tell me exactly what kind of business it is! “For drinks in about ten minutes.”
“Bye, then, or you’ll be late.” But I’m speaking into a dead receiver, he’s already hung up.
I set down the phone and readjust to my hotel room, much the same in a generic chain in hundreds of locations around the world. I can finally kick off my sandals, sit in the generic armchair and watch TV. There’s a bottle of wine I got earlier. I shrug out of my dress and take the bottle from the tiny beer fridge, flick on the television set and collapse in the chair. I could always go down to the hotel bar, like I did last night, flirt with the bartender and joke with travelling salesmen and conventioneers. Maybe it’s all the walking today, but right now I just don’t want to move. I stare at the flitting images of news reports, sitcoms and reality shows and drink a nice pinot noir. But at the back of my mind, he’s hovering, the man on the sidewalk. Edward’s never concerned about me, never even asks how I am. But then again, it’s not really part of our deal, is it? I’m supposed to look out for myself.
He’s never bothered to find out, never so much as wondered how I’ve been amusing myself until he gets here. Whether I feel safe. Even if I do, but should that matter? Edward le
aves me alone till late tomorrow afternoon, so much time between my early morning swim and 3:30 in the afternoon. I wonder if he works around here, lives around here. My friend, I mean. My warm hearted friend. If I could find him, somehow run into him again. What would happen if I got all dolled up again for breakfast tomorrow morning, and as I’m coming down the sidewalk right around that same block, he was there? I can see him so clearly, rounded face, so dark, such gorgeous smooth skin, and the body of a man who might’ve once been an athlete, or maybe a construction worker, solid with big shoulders. I search my memory for his image, peering into the neckline of his shirt, trying to follow the line of his shoulders to the skin of his chest.
He’ll be right there, and it’ll be later in the morning, when all the office workers are already in their cubicles, leaving sparse traffic on the sidewalk around us. I’ll smile, he’ll nod and smile back. And I’ll see it again, in his eyes, the connection, the understanding I felt. I know what people think, this well-dressed woman, travelling alone, walking alone at night, frequenting downtown hotels and bars. Two plus two is always four. But he understood the part about being so solitary all the time, and maybe in the slight shabbiness of his clothes I can guess at why, but it doesn’t matter, only that I saw his warmth and heard a sweetness in his voice. He’ll ask me how I got back to my room, politely, and I’ll answer, Just fine, thank you, that was sweet of you, and hesitate as I walk by, I’ll wait for another sign of interest, but I won’t be able to wait for too long, so I’ll probably turn back to him and ask Would you like to go out for a coffee? Or something . . .? with a small laugh.
He’ll be surprised, but in a happy kind of way, pleased, he’ll say Well, all right, young lady, with his musical intonation, and we’ll go about a block or two, just enough time for him to take in my smile, my short skirt and Italian leather pumps. Maybe he’ll laugh, shake his head. Where should we go? I’ll ask, leaning close to him, looking in his dark eyes, smiling You tell me. This is the first time I’ve ever been to Baltimore, and he’ll answer slowly, I’ve got coffee at my place, if you want coffee. Or something . . .? He’ll look at my face carefully as he smiles, to see if he’s got it right, using my words, and I’ll simply tuck my arm into his, slide my hand into his hand with a squeeze. I’d love to.
We chuckle together as he leads me back to North Charles Street.
“I’m up there.” He points to big windows above a bistro, stairs that walk up in art deco, it looks like a loft with big rooms, the art museum, the square with a tall monument, are just down the street.
“Looks beautiful,” I tell him. “I bet it’s full of light.”
He nods; his face creases with pleasure. “You could say that, for sure. It’s filled with light.” He goes ahead to lead me between the buildings to an entrance off the back. “You be careful, watch your step.” And he stops to give me his hand. We must be behind the restaurant here, a hallway that goes around the back of the building. There’s a staircase at the other side, big and wide, worn wooden floors that look more comfortable than shabby, the banister heavy and ornate. I take two steps and his hand snakes around my waist from the step below, then drops to slip under my skirt and touch my cheeks lightly with his big palm. I hurry up the steps, that featherlight touch of his fingertips on my arse, I giggle and press up a little faster.
“You’re tickling me,” I tell him, and he laughs low and deep and tickles me on purpose, till somewhere between the second and third floor, here, the sunlight filters through dusty windows that look out on the street from the landing above, it splashes here in a pool of light and I turn, stop, take both his hands and pull them around me, I pull him down to lean over me, to kiss him, my fingers sliding under his waistband to hold the muscle that curves underneath.
“Baby.” He just breathes it, our tongues find each other and we’re lost to time, soft wet lips and tongues, pressing myself up to the hard muscle of his chest, exploring the contours of his arm with my fingertips inside his sleeve while his lips taste me softly, delicately, like he wants to carefully savour every single second.
“I want you so very much,” I tell him, I whisper it into his ear and stroke the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. “Do you want me?”
“Baby, I haven’t wanted anything this much in ten years!” It’s spontaneous, and unmistakably genuine. We both laugh at the urgency of his voice, till he whispers, “Shh . . .” into my ear back, and I nod against his shoulder, still shaking with silent laughter. We listen to cleaners bump and bang around in the restaurant below, their distant voices joke and gossip through the stairwell. He talks to me, the words run together and his voice is deep, and full now of a seductive music.
“Baby, let’s take that off,” and my dress slips over my head, my fingers pull at the buttons on his shirt. His chest is big, rounded.
“You play football?” I ask him, and he’s shy, sheepish in reply.
“Not for so many years.” He lowers his eyes under thick lashes, I have to laugh at him. “I’m way out of shape. Getting fat.”
“Oh, no,” and my hands reach for him, we switch places in a slow ballet. I ease into his lap, brushing his nipples with mine, pulling his arms around me again. “Not out of shape at all. You’re so beautiful.”
“No, that’s you baby,” he says, “you’re beautiful,” and I watch his thick fingers touch my pale hair, stroke my pale skin, feel my breasts and warm them, watch him flick his tongue over my nipples until they’re small and hard.
Omigod . . . my chest against his, omigod, I feel it as it seizes me from inside, twists in my gut in a delicious thrill of wet desire, a stab of excitement and I gasp, I feel myself melting against the hard bulge of his cock inside his pants, and, “We should go inside.”
He laughs at me, lifts me up out of his lap, steadies me when I can’t find my way to stand for a moment or two. I laugh and point at the strained zipper of his fly. Some shred of common sense remains, I grab my dress from the step with one hand as he takes the other and we go upstairs, first he leads, then I start to run, giggling again, and he follows me up to the third floor, just down the hallway, and a big wooden door marked 3B.
“Is this the one?” I ask, and he nods, he opens it while I wait impatiently. Then inside it’s as sunlit as I imagined, dark red carpet on wooden floors, old ornate furniture and kitchen cupboards. I’m rarely more than a few inches from him, for hours that melt into our very own space and time. The afternoon is spent in his brown eyes, inside his strong arms, I feel the different surfaces against my skin – wooden floor, carpet, kitchen counter, the sheets on his bed – because I won’t go until I’ve tasted him over and over.
“What do you like?” he asks me once, and I just tell the truth, “Everything,” and I laugh but I press against him so he knows it’s true. “I want everything, that’s all, I want to do everything with you.”
I want all of you. I’m greedy for his warmth, his skin against mine, his lips, his warm skin inside of me, the way he holds me while he penetrates, slides in and out while the only sound is gasping breaths, his hands around me, the way he fills me up, greedy on this golden afternoon for his tongue in my mouth, between my legs, his fingers that stroke and push inside of me.
The hotel phone rings. It surprises me out of my imaginings, the fingers of one hand are still wet, still touching my pussy, and I reach for the phone without thinking with the other. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Edward. Meeting’s over, and I’m about five minutes away, as it turns out. I thought, since I won’t see you so much tomorrow, I thought I’d drop by.”
“Sure,” and my voice is honeyed, I’m still bewitched and, now aware, I need to hang on to the mood, because to fall out of it, and straight into sex with Edward, that would be too much of a crash.
So I take the second bottle of wine from the bar fridge, glad that it struck me earlier, maybe out of some glimmer of foresight, to take advantage of the two for one special. There’s some pinot noir left, but I want the second now, a
sparkling white, to keep me over the edge, to sustain some of this divine state of mind for Edward’s visit as I get ready for him. He’s at the door before I know it. I let him in, and hand him a glass of my bubbly without a word, just a smile and his favourite view – from behind, with the black lace panties and high heels, (the ones that tie around my ankles). His face flowers into absolute delight. It’s such a small gesture, really, dressing – or undressing – for him, and I’m feeling so expansive. Edward is flabby and white, has little imagination, but at the back of my mind, just behind my eyes, the purplish dusk settles on the buildings of Baltimore, and my big warm lover waits down there on the sidewalk.
Edward’s not sure what’s happening to him. I am inspired, I make love to his flesh in a way that was never before possible. He’s smart enough not to question any of it, just go with the flow, and I let it all drop over him, the overflow, sublimely generous, leaving till tomorrow to think about how I can make one man so happy while my head’s so full with somebody else.
Later, when Edward’s gone, I’m filled with lassitude but not tired enough to sleep. I pour myself the last dregs of wine, go sit on the windowsill to peer down at the street, and wonder, can I get that magic I felt on the sidewalk, down there behind the courthouse as the night fell on Baltimore, there beside the sculpture, (and I can see the tip of it now,) can I get that magic to work for me again?
My Seven Lovers
Kim (San Diego, USA)
I am sitting on the bus after a long day at work (I’m a nurse in a small and dull hospital) and there are six men and one other woman here with me. They vary in ages, and each of them I find attractive, one way or another. I begin wondering what they look like naked, what kind of lovers they are. I start to imagine that they are all my lovers. Not at the same time, of course, this isn’t some kind of wild bus ride orgy. Each is a secret lover.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 33
