The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies

by Sonia Florens

  I gently squeezed one hand under the curve of her womanly tummy for support. The other, I sucked wet the middle finger then reached for her backside. My penetration into her tight passage was all the incentive she needed, and she toppled into sweet oblivion with a guttural roar. I pushed in all the way. Simon pressed her hips down from both sides; she crushed him hard.

  “Yesss, baby, rub your pussy against that hot tongue,” I urged over Meg’s muffled screams, her feminine form convulsing in its pleasure while she valiantly rode the crest of insanity. “Feels so, so damned good.”

  Meg slowed at last, but continued to feed on Simon. “Yeah, he eats pussy real good, doesn’t he?” Stroking her hair, easing her return, I gauged her satisfaction by her hungry suckling and muted whimpers. How well I know that profound need that always plagues me afterwards. Yes, sweet Meg, suck his cock, feed your soul.

  I waited for Meg to fight her way back through the haze and straighten, then I straddled Simon’s hips and slowly lowered myself onto his quivering shaft. Meeting Meg’s smouldering gaze, I drew her to me for a taste of those provocative lips. What they tasted of was cognac and cock. I savoured the combination, and then left her to recover while I nourished myself from her ripe nipples and swayed upon the rock-solid penis that stood buried within me.

  My breast fetish for the moment appeased, I let Meg slide off Simon, and then I came down into his loving arms. Her scent was strong on him, and now I licked his lips for Meg’s own alluring taste. Our kiss was brief, but fiery.

  Simon rolled me onto my side and re-entered me from behind. He knows my needs so well. A strong hand snaked over my hipbone and experienced fingers seized the slippery kernel of my clit for manipulation. The other arm lay in an arc, a supporting cradle, underneath my neck. Meg, for her part, took charge of my needy breasts. Coordinating her ministrations with Simon’s languid strokes, the two joined forces and teased me relentlessly.

  As I grew more responsive, my back curved into a pliant arch that allowed Simon deeper penetration. For that, he rewarded me with a more solid thrusting.

  My orgasm suddenly upon me, Simon pushed in to the hilt and wedged his thumb through my lips and into my mouth. I exploded with a growl, my nerves alive. Simon pinched my clit with his working hand, my outer labia affording him a firm grip, and rubbed his fingers against one another. Meg bit one nipple and squeezed the other none too gently, adding a pleasant pain to my pleasure, only to have the scream of jubilation stick in my throat, as I sucked on Simon’s thumb like a cock.

  I relished the precious ecstasy for as long as I could freeze time. With the tension slowly ebbing, Simon and Meg, as good lovers do, held me tenderly, lulling me back to sensibility at the dictate of my own sweet time.

  I returned from the bathroom and found Meg on her back and Simon on top. Her legs were wrapped high around his waist, in the age-old fashion that a woman opens herself to a man. He was thrusting into her, his balls slamming against her bottom. I climbed between his legs to watch them do so.

  My affectionate caress of Simon’s manly buttocks slowed him, curbing his thrusts into sensual grinds. I took his drawn out moan as a request. My mouth replaced my hands for a wet massage of his cheeks, stopping briefly to tantalize the small sphere of nerve endings before continuing lower to his scrotum, where I could taste and smell both Meg and me.

  “You’ve got a great arse, Meg.” I heard Simon say. “Do I get to fuck it?”

  Her whimper of consent came without hesitation, and I reached for the jar I had brought back with me. As my greasy finger circled and taunted Meg’s anal entrance, I continued to lave Simon’s testicles with my tongue. He and Meg kissed while I took time to lubricate her, to prepare her for pleasure.

  Ready, Meg turned over, laid her head down, and raised her rear high.

  “That’s nice, baby, that’s just how I like to take it.”

  Simon took his place behind her on his knees and I took mine beside him. Unhurried, fanned fingers squeezed and moulded Meg’s lush flesh, as much a posturing of their dominant and submissive roles as foreplay.

  Meg purred, waiting docilely, straining to deepen her spinal arch.

  Eyes glazed, Simon groaned with manly ego and spread her arse cheeks more taut for a better display of the oiled sphincter that was now at his discretion.

  “Mmm, looks nice, babe.” He tore his gaze away to thank me for the preparation, a thorough kiss that left me sizzling.

  Meg’s moans rose when Simon’s hips pressed forward and the weight of his cock-head lay teasingly against the puckered entrance. Her moans rose higher when, taking hold of his thick shaft, he began to rotate it around the small circle, lubricating that same head in a blend of pre-come and grease to ease the penetration of her tight canal.

  “You ready to give it to me, Meg?” Simon tapped gently then butted his swollen tip against her little ring.

  “Yesss,” came her soft, anxious reply.

  I watched, riveted, as the darker resistant skin first indented slightly, then slowly began to give way against steady pressure.

  “That’s right, baby, open up your arse so I can fuck it.”

  Meg gasped, and I let out the breath I did not know I had been holding when elasticity prevailed and the bulbous head suddenly penetrated in partial then came to a halt.

  With Meg’s rubbery anus stretched forcefully to accommodate his thickness, and purple veins straining against the pink flesh of his shaft, Simon allowed her a brief respite. Then he resumed the invasion, taking an inch, returning two, conquering slowly, prolonging the exquisite sensations, sensations that I am gifted with often.

  Meg moaned and whimpered, urging him to take her, to be swift in delivering them both to the height of ecstasy. Simon listened in silence to her exasperation – to what I know is symphony to his soul. And when her neediness grew into the very advantage he sought, on the next outward slide, he withdrew completely.

  Meg lamented, her rectal muscles contracting reflexively, pleading for his return. Simon watched; triumph and pleasure etched on his face. Then he started the sweet torment anew, inserting ruthlessly slowly. Giving little; taking a lot. By the time he sank to the hilt, I was trembling, desperate for a release of my own.

  Simon’s hands fell away from Meg’s hips, and he grew still. Meg cried in protest, gliding back and forth on his slick cock in her urgency, her coaxing strokes exposing the full length of the rigid shaft in one direction, then swallowing it back into the snugly-fit glove down to its base. When her efforts failed to raise a satisfying response, her strokes became more demanding, and grew into feverish pumping.

  Meg’s need successfully nurtured into a serving tool, Simon’s attention turned to me. “Come here, babe.”

  I shuffled forward on my knees obediently, positioning my crotch above the open palm Simon held out at hip level. Knowledgeable fingers began to move, to stimulate. I might have collapsed from sheer exuberance, had my body not been already wracking itself into oblivion.

  “Look at me!” Simon’s commanding eyes bore into mine while he shoved a finger in as substitute, and continued to massage my bursting clit with his thumb.

  Through the storm of rapture, I whimpered, “Simon,” his wielding power once again granting me solace in the sweet submission that belongs to me by nature. “Ohhh, Simon . . .”

  My husband, my love, the man who keeps my blood boiling and my heart thundering with life.

  Having brought me to a swift completion, Simon held and cooed me through recovery, his patience great, his tenderness heartfelt.

  Breath finally caught, libido appeased, I moved to kneel behind him, then reached for the lubricant.

  For Simon, I used two fingers, inserting deep. A groan expressed his pleasure and he reclaimed Meg’s hips, forcing her frantic pumping under control, hushing her pathetic mewling.

  “All right, baby, you get your turn too.” His hand slipped over the curve of her lush hip, disappearing under her abdomen, his own hips on the move to meet the ma
ting call. I wrapped my free arm around his waist and held on tight.

  Thrills vibrated in Meg’s wail at the onset of orgasm, her body tensing first then shattering into convulsions. Simon’s gentle thrusts grew more arduous, driving Meg harder and harder into the pinnacle of pleasure, then slowing with her downward spiral, only to pick up pace again and require more of her. She reached a second orgasm, bucking even more violently on his cock, her cries of ecstasy drowning his growls of satisfaction.

  Following the peak came the desperation, the need for that all-consuming powerful thrusting, essential to completing a woman’s satisfaction, an act catering to her primal need for domination, for possession.

  A man well versed in women’s needs, Simon obliged, pumping hard and fast, dousing the intensity. I pinched his nipple for their mutual gratification and braced myself. With Meg primed to his taste, smouldering and whimpering like a puppy, Simon pounded her arse for the final conquest.

  “Take her, my love,” I whispered, prideful of my man. “Fuck her.”

  And he did.

  I woke to a knock at the door. “Who’s that?” I demanded, disoriented. My eyes focused on the small clock on the night-stand and I saw it was past two.

  “Thought you two might enjoy a late night snack,” Simon offered, rising from the bed.

  Meg and I shared a sleepy look, shrugging our shoulders, then sobered quickly at “Come on in” and, in a panic, scurried for the covers.

  In stepped our favourite bartender, a familiar bottle in his hand and a cheeky smile that told all. “Cognac, ladies?”

  The glance Meg and I exchanged this time was of delight and a fully alert one. Suddenly two pairs of arms shot out in wide welcome. “Yes, please,” we called in unison.

  The Mating

  Edita (Toronto, Canada)

  I have this dream, a fascinating dream. Too perfect to be thrown away. I rest on a smooth, spongy meadow filled by rabbits – hundreds of shiny, sleek black ones and fluffy, creamy white ones. They frisk round me, their noses twitching, their tails bobbing. Soft and cuddly, warm and vibrant. A deliriously familiar rabbit-hutch smell. They climb all over me and cover me with their downy fur until they knit me into a delicate bed of rabbits. Gradually we all join – me and the rabbits, to become one huge rabbit, that itself changes too, into Larissa Logan, and she holds me and loves me and . . . then I wake up. Fuck!

  Christ, I’m horny. I have a pain right through the middle of my belly. Jesus, I don’t think I can work unless I do something about this rampant hard thumping against my cunt. I’m sure the sheets have to be soaking. Fuck! I should get up and make an early start. With Brenda off ill, it means that I’ll have to help out in surgery as well as do my own work. I hate helping in surgery. Particularly on a Saturday, it seems like a kind of sacrilege to have to work so hard on a Saturday.

  Damn her! Three times I have had this dream about her. Three times she’s been down on me and I’ve, in turn, been down on her, rabbiting around, rooting in her cunt, smelling, licking and sucking. Yes. I will have her. I will take her to me and make her mine. Bastard. Dream on, sunshine. I’m only the student seeing practice in summer and she’s the lord almighty veterinarian, the boss lady, the superior one. Oh, come on, I knows that she’s an icicle, hard as a rock. But below that mask, that disguise, for sure there have been some indications that she wants me, needs me, lusts after me, sure she does. Right! Like not! In each dream we are some sort of animal. She’s as beautiful as she is in life – sleek, strong, muscular. Her huge eyes are the eyes of a cow, then a horse or, in this one, the eyes of a rabbit. I ache to rub my hands through her thick black hair, to nibble her tiny ears, to run my hands over her dense skin. I am a hormonal teenager with these hot, wet dreams of my boss.

  In the shower, I continue with the fantasy. She’s there, on her knees sucking me, licking me, swallowing me. She is on her knees, her ass to me and I have lubricated her asshole and am ramming my finger into her. I finish desperately on this note, my clit tiny and spent by making love to Dr Larissa Logan.

  I arrive early, clear yesterday’s files, pack kits into the autoclave, set-up the operating room, take the dogs out and clean the cats. I look for things to keep myself busy.

  For once we finish the office on time and start on the surgery. Cat spay first. Routine. I inject the dose as instructed by Dr Logan, tie the cat, shave it, disinfect the skin, and drape it. Dr Logan only has to make the incision and remove the ovaries and uterus.

  If only it was one of the other veterinarians who was on today and if only I didn’t have to help out in the operating room. I have tried to keep my distance from her, but it’s nearly impossible in these cramped rooms to be anything but touching. I would like to be in the other town, not two inches from her, my thigh touching hers, my hand brushing hers now and then. I can almost feel her breath on my face. God, I’m hard, so hard that it’s like being a teenager, worse than when I was a teenager. I have never lusted quite as badly as this. I push myself right up to the operating table. I’m melting with desire for her. Every near brush or touch is like an electric jolt through my body. Damn! One minute I want her and the next I could kill her.

  “Shit!” she says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is the one that’s pregnant. You should have reminded me.”

  “Yes?” I say softly. Don’t look for trouble so early in the day; don’t reply in an equally aggressive way.

  “Do you remember from the mists of your classes that there’s an extra risk of haemorrhage?”

  I ignore this. She isn’t capable of speaking to any of her staff politely, particularly not me. Particularly not now. It’s as if she resents a woman being a vet.

  She curses again, but gets on with the work and sutures up the wound. The ovaries and uterus lie in a kidney dish. The uterus is distorted and looks as if it’s filled by a string of marbles. I’m fascinated by those marbles. Can’t take my eyes off them. “They’re alive,” I say. “Of course they are. What did you think?” She doesn’t look up from her stitching.

  For a second she looks up at me and there’s a look on her face which could be disgust. Her lips curl down and her eyes are cold. Arrogant bitch. I wonder if the antagonism is because I’m a woman. No, that’s really insulting. No, her attitude is just because she’s a bitch, plain and simple. “Take the cat away and bring the next patient in.”

  “It’s a shepherd – Lemour’s one – the one that had a go at you last time when it was in for its ears.”

  “You frightened of it or something?”

  “I didn’t say so. It would be better if we brought it in together. You could sedate it.”

  “Now you’re telling me my job.”

  I shrug and untie the tapes holding the cat on its back and take it into the recovery kennels. Carefully I place it on its side and check to see the tongue’s out.

  The shepherd is in one of the large bottom kennels and squints at me with glinting red eyes. His mouth twitches, exposing huge teeth, the tail vibrates a warning.

  I return to the operating room and clear the table and put the instruments into the sink in the prep. room for later cleaning. Once everything’s ready for the shepherd, I peep round the door of the office and Logan’s there, feet up on the desk with her head buried in a paper, making a show of ignoring me.

  I go to the kennel and open the door casually, as if the dog is a tiny, hand-licking poodle, and talk to him quietly. I slip my hand into his collar. The dog raises his lip enough to show red gum.

  “Good dog. Good dog.” I stroke his chest and the area behind the ears that drives most dogs into an orgasmic trance. He walks beside me as gentle as a lamb and goes limp when I put my hands under him to lift him onto the table.

  Logan is in the pharmacy next to the operating room. I call to her, telling her that the dog’s ready and she comes in and looks around. “Is the Cavitron set up?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “You knew that it was to be a scaling and
extraction.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Well, hold the vein and get him under and then set it up fast.”

  The morning goes in the same way – snipe, niggle and childish complaints. I should leave this office. Nothing about me is right. Nothing. I will never fit in, not with this hard on, throbbing between my legs. Damn my dreams of sex, sex and Dr Larissa Logan, Larissa, all the time.

  As we finish the last case of the morning she says, “I want to do that dobe next. She’s just right. The stud’s coming in at twelve.”

  The dobe bitch is as sweet as the rabbits in my dream. Soft and silky and female in every way. I can almost smell her femaleness. Its body, like Logan’s, is without an ounce of fat, and is streamlined to an efficient, beautiful machine. Its coat glistens with health.

  And, by god, the bitch is ready. She rubs her back end on the floor, she pushes it against the wall, she does anything to get some sensation to her bright red, swollen vulva.

  The male arrives. He’s huge, and as male as she’s female. Big-boned, tall, well-covered, silky and lithe.

  I stroke him and bend down to talk to her. The dog licks my face. In fact, this male is as gentle as the female, a wuss, a big cuddly bear.

  The two dogs are introduced and sniff and then go to their respective owners and place heads on laps. The owners and Larissa Logan and I sip coffee. Both dogs ignore each other. I pull the male’s collar and drag him to the bitch. The bitch smells me and nuzzles me and he lifts his head and looks at the ceiling. Big deal!

  The humans have some more coffee. The dogs stare into air.

  I have seen males like this in my dad’s kennel. They just need a bit of prodding, something to get them going. My dad used to joke that they are like men in their sixties, married to the same woman for forty years. I stroke him and pat him and whisper to him. “Come on, come on, boy.”

  The dog licks my face. Big sloppy kisses.

  Ah, no, it’s not the dog I am teasing but Dr Larissa. She wants me, she needs me. I am here for her.

  I rub the edge of the bitch’s vulva and wet my finger in her juices, I then touch the male’s nose with my finger, covered in blood. He sniffs. I let him lick my finger and place my hand almost right into his mouth. He licks again and sucks my ear. If the dog could be as affectionate to the bitch as he is to me, then things would be just perfect.