Five Minute Fantasies 3

by Cathryn Cooper

  ‘Let’s talk,’ he said. I must admit to being disappointed. I thought he was going to pin me to the bed and ravish me. I’d have said no, of course. Except the memory of his probing tongue wouldn’t go away, so maybe I wouldn’t have.

  He pulled the blankets up over us. He lay on his side, I sat up until I realised that was too uncomfortable, with the handcuffs. So I reluctantly lay next to him.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you and Ben.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You don’t think I’m good enough. I heard you.’

  ‘No, I said you weren’t right for him.’

  ‘It’s the same thing. And now, well, you probably think I’m even more of a slut.’

  ‘What I think about you is not up for discussion at the moment. Though I do believe that you’re a good girl who only tries very hard to be bad. You want marriage, kids, the whole kit and caboodle.’ I hated him for understanding me so well. Hated him, but desperately wanted him to kiss me again. ‘But Ben is never going to give that to you.’

  ‘No, because you won’t let him.’

  ‘I have my reasons. Actually, now I have different reasons, but we’ll discuss those later. Ben is gay, Charity. He and Vince are in love.’

  I was going to argue with him, but what he said made sense in too many ways.

  ‘So now what are we going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Me? I’m going to open that yoghurt, smear it all over your body then lick it off.’

  ‘Well if you insist,’ I said.

  The following morning we watched Ben and Vince ride off into the sunset together. Well, it was raining and they were in Ben’s car, but you get the idea. Ben’s parents had left some time earlier, so it was just Jack and me.

  ‘What about us?’ I asked. He stood behind me, with his arms around my waist, making me feel very safe and protected. ‘You’ll be unfrocked and the Pope will send out a hit squad for me.’

  ‘The word is defrocked. The Pope doesn’t care what I do.’ I felt his mouth on my neck. ‘I’m Church of England. Now, let’s go and see if we can find any more yoghurt in the fridge.’

  Cocksucker

  by Lori Selke

  He asks if he can suck my dick.

  I’m still donning the harness, cinching the straps around my thighs tight. There is nothing elegant about this process. The transition from just me to ‘chick with dick’ is a sensitive one. I always want to hide in the bathroom until it’s over. But tonight, I left the door ajar, and there he is, standing in the doorway. I can see him in the mirror. He looks a little shy right now, which is reassuring.

  Strapping it on for my man is one thing. I love men who are in touch with their ass, who aren’t embarrassed by the pleasure they get when I stick my fingertip in their anus while I’m giving them head, who have learned to ask for that, and more. I like anal sex, too, I know how good it can feel when it’s done right, and I’m glad to share that with them. Men who aren’t so focused on their dick are better lovers, in my experience. And it’s nice to be able to give instead of take, to turn the tables once in a while.

  But this isn’t Deep Throat. He doesn’t have a clit in his larynx. I don’t quite get it. Of course I know that it makes as much sense as me wanting to suck his cock. Except that I get off on the fact that I can concentrate so clearly on his pleasure. I know he feels each stroke of my tongue, because I can see him react. He won’t get that kind of feedback from what’s hanging between my legs right now.

  But I can tell that it’s taken a lot for him to even ask this of me. Normally, if he wants to try something new, he just plunges ahead. This man is no Sensitive New Age type, always checking and double-checking everything out of ‘respect’. I hate that. Those guys are the most unbelievably boring in bed. I think that a lot of them have secret kinky fantasies about being taken and used by some leather-clad dominatrix type, but they’re too cheap to just go see a pro.

  I turn around. My little purple dildo is bobbing between my legs.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Get down on your knees.’

  He scrambles to the floor, but doesn’t move any closer to me or my dick.

  ‘We can do this, but on one condition,’ I say.

  He nods.

  ‘Tell me why.’

  He swallows once, then licks his lips nervously. The sight makes me just a little bit wet. I am obsessed with his mouth. I have been since the day we met. He has a big mouth, both literally and figuratively. He loves to talk. He loves to kiss me. I bought concealer for the very first time ever after our third date, when he left a few hickeys a little too high on my neck.

  I love to bite his lip and listen to him gasp. I love to listen to the sounds he makes when he’s close to coming. Whenever I hear him moan, I want to press my fingers against that mouth and feel the vibrations those soft sounds make.

  I didn’t think my question would be so hard to answer. But I can see the bulge in his jeans.

  ‘It’s a turn-on,’ I prompt. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s wrong.’

  I raise an eyebrow and wait for him to continue.

  ‘It’s dirty. It’s something I’m not supposed to do.’

  ‘It’s dirty?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and I can tell by the huskiness in his throat that he means it. ‘It’s nasty. A girl isn’t supposed to have a cock. She isn’t supposed to get turned on watching me suck it. But baby, I can tell you’d get turned on. You like to watch me, and I want to do it for you.’

  I take a step toward him. One more step, and my little purple dick will be right in his face.

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘There isn’t much else to it,’ he says. ‘I love the way you look, standing over me. I love having you inside me.’

  One more step. His mouth opens.

  ‘Slow,’ I say. ‘Go slow. I want to see it. I want to see everything.’

  And he does. His big mouth and my little dick, he could probably swallow it all in one gulp, but, instead, he works it delicately, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth, wetting his lips, sweeping the ridge of the cockhead over and over again. Even though I can’t feel a thing, he’s teasing me, building up my anticipation. Putting on a show.

  I wish it were more than just a show. I don’t have penis envy, not really. That’s not it. I want his desire to give me pleasure, to be sincere and direct. No performing. Deeper than that.

  I want him to touch me. I lean over and whisper in his ear, ‘Do you know how wet you’re getting me?’

  He shakes his head, swallowing my dildo deeper. I put my hand on the back of his head and hold him there, then pull my hips back slowly. ‘I think you should check,’ I say with a smile, and lift his hand to my pussy. Which is dripping. Then I clamp his hand between my thighs and start to fuck his mouth.

  He’s right, this is nasty and dirty and entirely wrong, and it’s getting me off, too.

  He wants to finger me, to make me come while I am in his mouth. And I’d like that. After a while, I let his hand go and spread my legs. The orgasm he gives me comes fast and hard. I can’t help but snap my hips forward, twice, three times, filling his mouth with my cock. He’s jacking himself off beneath me. I don’t think I’m going to get in his ass tonight after all.

  A few days later, we are in bed. I am just about asleep when he whispers in my ear, ‘I have another fantasy’.

  I make a small noise to indicate I am listening, even though I am so tired it takes an effort to concentrate on his words.

  ‘I want someone to come in my mouth.’

  ‘I’ve come in your mouth lots of times,’ I mumble. ‘You want me to sit on your face, just ask.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ I hear him shifting behind me. He drapes an arm over my hip and buries his face in my shoulder. By the time he speaks again, I have to drag myself back from the lip of unconsciousness to listen.

  ‘I want a boy to come in my mouth. A guy. Another man.’

  I’m not sure if I should say anything
or not. I am almost afraid to move. I am suddenly wide awake.

  ‘And I want you to watch,’ he continues.

  Is this his way of coming out to me? Is my boyfriend bisexual?

  Does it matter right now?

  I can feel how tense he is against me. He’s afraid. This is a fragile moment. If I say the wrong thing, he will close down, maybe for ever. I resist the urge to make light of his confession, to say something flippant.

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ I ask after a moment.

  ‘Not really,’ he says. And I can feel some of my own muscles uncurl.

  I uncurl a little too much, and before I can stop it, it slips out of my mouth. ‘My dick wasn’t enough for you?’ I can hear the lightness in my tone, but what if he misunderstands?

  ‘It’s different,’ he says, and then stops. If I want any more from him now, I’m going to have to do the work.

  So I ask, ‘Why do you want me to watch?’

  He sighs and runs his fingers through my hair. ‘If you’re there, it feels safe,’ he says.

  ‘Safe like you’ll know I’m not jealous?’

  ‘No. Safe like I know you’ll watch out for me.’

  I want to laugh, to scoff, to say, ‘You’re afraid of a little cock? They’re such fragile things, there’s nothing at all to be scared of. Look, I let yours inside me as often as I can get it. If I can do that and like it, why do you need me to hold your hand when you try it out?’

  I want to say, ‘I never expected you to be such a timid little virgin’.

  I want to say, ‘I don’t think that’s safe’.

  I want to ask, ‘Do you check out the tackle of the other guys at your gym? Have you picked one out? Do you jerk off to the thought of your mouth on his cock?’

  I want to ask, ‘Have you been thinking about him while we fuck?’

  I want to ask, ‘Am I just a substitute for what you really crave?’

  And some of those questions I might just ask some other day. But I know better than to ask them right now.

  So instead I say, ‘That sounds pretty hot’. And I realize, after I say it, that it’s true.

  I also realize that his cock is hard against the small of my back. So I shift a little, until I’ve half-turned to face him, and I’ve opened my legs to let him slide between my thighs. I can’t see his face; it’s too dark. But I look at him anyway, imagine looking into his eyes while he sucks off another man.

  I’m wet enough now that it’s easy for him to enter me. We start out slow, but it doesn’t last long. I come hard, and he comes right after me. His moans are high and full of relief. So are mine.

  On The Beach

  by Primula Bond

  Swimming always gets me going. Blood pumping through these sluggish old veins after being holed up in the holiday cottage with a load of rutting couples. I love it when the water’s cold and rough. Far out there a couple of surfers are wrestling with the waves. Here the beach is deserted.

  And now I’ve earned a kip. The sun’s really warm after the cold water. I whip my bathing suit off and flop down onto my towel but my heart’s still drumming, my body still buzzing. I turn on my back, stretch my legs out, point my toes to make them look longer. Hmm, still pretty good.

  A breath of air tickles my slightly parted fanny. I open my legs a little more. I grope about in the sand to find my oil, but I can’t find it. My hand flops back onto my bare stomach and the touch electrifies me. I move my fingertips down to the hairless groove running along the top of my thigh and that makes me jump, too. The skin is the largest organ of the human body, and boy is it the most sensitive.

  There’s another place, though. So sensitive it could make me come with a butterfly kiss. My hand wanders back up to my breast, just brushes the top, avoiding the nipples. They swell out luxuriantly. My stomach flutters.

  I drop my hands. Is it possible to tease yourself? The sun rests on my eyelids while my hand drags back to my stomach. I move it in circles, frantic messages puckering up my nipples. My stomach tightens. My thighs fidget on the towel, open up wider. I fan my fingers, catching at a hardening nipple, and sidle the other hand downwards to the warm nest of hair. My fingers tangle in the wet curls, pulling strands, feeling each hair tug on the tender skin.

  My middle finger extends down the crack and I half gasp, half giggle at the moist blood-heat warmth just inside the lips. That’s not just damp from the sea although I wonder what it would taste like now. I wiggle my finger, feeling the sliver of sensitive flesh. I shock it into tingling response. I moan softly, sure that the sound is only in my ears.

  A shadow crosses my face and I swear, thinking a cloud is obscuring the sun. But it’s too solid for that. There’s a tall shape a couple of feet away. Surely not the others, come to spy on me from the cottage? I raise myself up on my elbow, ready to give them hell. My breast bounces against my arm. I raise one knee to get myself upright and a droplet of juice runs out of my crack and across my thigh.

  It’s not my friends. It’s one of the surfers. His short wetsuit is rolled down his torso and he has his back to the sea. He can see me clearly, but I’m half blinded by the glare. I raise one hand to shield my eyes and take a good look at him. Sex on legs. Like something out of a beer advert. He’s lithe and tanned. His face is young. So young. Tiny gold prickles of barely shaved stubble speckle his brown cheeks. Hectic flushes of blood are just visible under the skin. Is he blushing?

  I try to remember myself at his age. It wasn’t so long ago, for God’s sake. He’s seventeen, eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Definitely a boy and yet his body has been worked on. Hard. No ounce of puppy fat. His arms are big with muscle.

  I let my eyes flutter back to his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he’s not about to make small talk. His bright blue eyes are fixed on my big breasts, hanging there in the sunshine. I must look like some kind of nude sculpture there on the towel. I suppose I could always pretend I’m one of those naturists.

  But the naturists always claim there’s nothing sexual about nakedness, don’t they? What bollocks. I reckon this boy’s nakedness would be a blatant invitation to a shag-fest. His eyes are burning on me and my nipples harden as if agreeing with my assessment. They shrink into tight little arrowheads. Pointing directly at my young stranger.

  The young man/boy swallows, getting the message. He scuffles his bare feet in the sand. Shit. He’s trying to get away. I want to stretch out and stop him. But no. He’s just planting them more firmly in that kind of swaggering stance young men have. Through his tight wet suit I can see his groin bulging against the black cloth. I want to rip it off here and now. I want to know what’s going on underneath.

  ‘Surf up today?’ I suddenly ask into the sizzling silence. I can imagine my mates up at the cottage giggling at my lousy attempt at surf-speak. ‘I thought there were two of you out there.’

  He nods, and tosses his head back towards the waves. His hair is beginning to dry into bleached strands.

  ‘My brother’s still out there. I got a cramp.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  The fluttering in my stomach is back with a vengeance. No, forget fluttering. Nothing lady-like about this sensation. It’s twisting and tightening with total lust. I can’t believe I’m still sprawled here like some kind of centrefold. Usually I would have lifted the towel by now to cover myself up. I’d have made some shy, dismissive remark to send him on his way, but right now his glowing stare and his unmistakeable hard-on are just too good to waste. I’m not letting this opportunity pass. Apart from anything else, I intend to dine out on it tonight. The others will never believe me.

  ‘Want some lemonade?’ God, I sound like his aunt.

  ‘My dad says you should never accept drinks from strangers,’ he croaks with a lopsided grin, and I laugh. How sexy is that grin? How sexy is it that we’re strangers? I take the bottle from the cool bag and wave it at him.

  ‘I say you’re big enough to look after yourself.’ I’m still laughing. I pat the towel beside
me. He steps closer. I’m making him feel safe. He leans across me, and swigs from the bottle. ‘So,’ I go on, my voice husky with laughter and desire. ‘Do you know this part of Devon?’

  ‘No. It’s my first time.’

  Colour floods his cheeks even more as he says it, and this time I rein in my dirty chuckle. I quietly take the lemonade from him, keeping my green eyes calmly on his burning blue ones, and without wiping his spittle off the neck of the bottle I flick my tongue round the wet rim before tilting my head back to take a deep swallow. Now his eyes are on my throat as the cold liquid swishes down. This is like something out of a movie.

  ‘I mean, it’s the first time we’ve been down to this coast,’ he stammers. ‘Dad’s rented a place for the summer. He insisted we come here this year. Normally we go to Constantine Bay, in Cornwall. The surf’s miles better over there. So’s the surfing crowd. I mean, it’s just dead round here, isn’t it?’

  ‘That depends what you’re after,’ I remark lazily. The bottle is still hovering above my open mouth as if I’m about to give it head. I lick it again, turning myself on with the suggestive swipe of my tongue. Then I wrap my lips round the long cool shape and swallow a little more. His Adam’s apple jumps. I screw the top back on. On an impulse I put the bottle not back in the cool bag but between my legs, resting it up against my pussy. I can’t stifle a gasp as the cold plastic meets the sensitive, warm flesh. I lean back, letting it rest there, restraining myself from grabbing it and rubbing it up and down my hot slit like a sex toy. The urge won’t go away. But then, nor will the boy. My voice comes out in a low moan. ‘There’s plenty to entertain you if you know where to look.’

  ‘I’m beginning to realise that–’

  Without the bottle the boy doesn’t know what to do with his hands. So he starts rolling the wetsuit back up his stomach.

  ‘It’s too nice out here today to cover yourself up. It may not be the Med, but this lovely weather has got to be a record for Devon. Sit down for a moment. Like you said, there’s nothing to do round here. So there’s no rush, is there?’