Five Minute Fantasies 3

by Cathryn Cooper

  The elevator takes for ever, then the blocks seem unbearably long as I make my way back towards home, my shoes pinching in the conspiracy to slow me down. Finally, I reach the last block, covered by a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion that I only now acknowledge, huffing slightly, and approach from the opposite side of the street and yes, it’s to throw him off a bit, but more so to look into the store and, yes, it’s empty, except for him. I can’t contain the smile that tugs eagerly at the corners of my mouth as I step off the sidewalk. He’s all in black today, his face almost ghostly, hair glowing, he comes into full view as I reach about three-quarters of the way across the street. His eyes take their usual trajectory, flitting up to my face, then quickly much lower down, and as they watch, as I draw closer, my fingers reach for the hem of my skirt and pull it up slowly, using my nails to crawl it up little by little and reveal the laced edges of my stockings as I continue to walk. His eyes widen.

  I glance around – there are a few people about a block away, and only two cars even farther away – then back to him. He fingers an orange glass butterfly, fiddling with it absently, his mouth slightly open. I pull a small notepad from the pocket of my coat, I pull it out as he watches intently, and as I reach the sidewalk on his side, I toss it on to the pavement.

  He looks at the notepad. I look at him. I get closer, kneel to the ground to pick it up, there right in front of the window, I kneel at the same time my fingernails reach the bottom edge of my hem, pulling it up under my coat. His eyes are wide and unblinking, the notebook has landed just in front of the glass and we’re only inches apart now as I reach for it, I look like I’m reaching for it, but drop my hand between my legs, his eyes following, pulling my panties aside so he can really see me, spreading my pink petals so he can see them shiny wet inside. Wet for him. Wet for you, I whisper it to him through the glass, slipping my two fingers inside as he smiles a thin, tight smile and the rosy tongue appears, runs over his lips, back and forth. He raises his eyes to mine after a few moments. I close my legs, begin to rise again. Thank you, he mouths the words back, reaches up to touch the window with his hand. I kiss my own fingers and touch him from the other side, leaving a slight smear of my juice on the glass. Just like a movie ending, after all. Just like a goddamn movie.

  Thrill Ride

  by Lynn Lake

  I’m an amusement park aficionado. A rollercoaster rambler. A thrill rider. I’ve been to just about every theme park in the continental United States and Mexico and Canada, ridden almost every coaster and ride wooden, steel or composite fibreglass. I’ve been on more log plumes than a Quebec lumberjack, more jungle cruises than a great white hunter, and plunged down more white-water adventures and splash mountains than an Olympic kayaker.

  So, when I was walking away from Universal Studios Hollywood on a recent vacation/pilgrimage to Southern California park country during my third-year college summer break, I was more than a little intrigued by the dirty old man who jumped out from behind a tour bus and cried, ‘Wanna see an amusement park not on the maps?’

  He had a crazy look in his eye. But not the kind you get from cheap booze. Rather, the kind you get when you’re pushing 4.2 G’s at 96 miles-per-hour in an eighty-degree freefall from the 310 foot high point on the Millennium Force rollercoaster at Cedar Point, Sandusky, Ohio.

  I was instantly drawn to the man.

  ‘You love ’em, don’tcha? You love to ride?’ he babbled, before I could even answer his first question.

  ‘M-maybe,’ I croaked.

  He barked laughter, squinting at my chest. ‘Those ain’t dimples doo-daddin’ your Psycho House T-shirt, honey.’

  I blushed under my sunburn. I do tend to get overexcited when ‘amused’ at a theme park, emotionally and physically.

  The old guy bobbed his bushy head. ‘Yep, I can spot a true believer every time. Used to be a park crusader/rollercoaster rambler myself. Hell, they built Disneyland right around me back in ’55. An’ I was at Coney Island when it was an actual island, not just some punk peninsula,’ he cackled, his rheumy eyes growing wistful.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathed, shifting my long, bare legs around like I had to pee.

  ‘So, how ’bout it? You wanna see an amusement park you won’t find in any two-bit travel brochure? Ride rides and play games no tourist ain’t never rid or played?’

  ‘You mean a private park?’

  He glanced around at the sun-baked, car and bus-clogged parking lot, then back at my chest. He nodded.

  ‘Where?’ I squealed. ‘What’s it called? What types of rides, games, sideshows, and attractions do they have?’ Finding an unmarked amusement park was like riding a rainbow into a pot of gold.

  This dirty leprechaun beckoned me closer. I jumped forward, and he latched his greasy fingers onto my upper arm, squeezed. ‘Lolliewood,’ he breathed.

  I fought the urge to gag, both from excitement and the man’s breath. ‘Larry Lollie?’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

  He nodded, rubbing his grimy hand up and down the electrified skin of my arm. ‘They’re true. Larry Lollie used to roll more travelling circuses, carnivals, and freak shows, run more amusement parks, than the Ringling Brothers and the Knott Family put together. Until…’

  ‘Disney came along?’ I panted.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. ’Til the IRS got their hooks in him, seized all his assets.’ He hooked his own skinny arm around my waist, drawing me close, caressing my rib cage. ‘’Cept for a few hidden assets, that is – things not listed on the books, or maps.’

  I gulped. If it was Larry Lollie, the rides and attractions were sure to be first-rate. ‘Wh-wh-where is it?’

  The dirty old man grinned a jack-o’-lantern grin. ‘I got a map,’ he said, sliding his hand up and over my brimming breast, pressing the flesh. ‘Like them star maps, ’cept this only has the one big star.’

  I bit my lip and batted my eyelashes, my blood boiling. ‘Where is it and how can I get in?’

  He released my tingling breast long enough to dig a withered piece of paper and a red, plastic card out of his dilapidated workpants. He held them up, the credit card-sized card gleaming in the bright sun, gold holographic double-L lettering winking seductively at me. ‘With this here and one of these, you can find ’er and get in.’

  I swallowed hard, perspiring everywhere now, pulse racing. ‘What’s-what’s it going to cost me?’ I asked, knowing full well I’d blown my last traveller’s cheque on the Jurassic Park River Adventure inside Universal Studios.

  He shifted the card over to his map hand and worked his other hand over my breast again, fondling, plucking at my stiffened nipple. I shivered. Maybe this was how the old guy got his thrills these days. But if it would get me into the legendary Lolliewood, then he could ride all day. I grabbed on to his shoulder, raising dust, and something that wasn’t dust – yet – in his middle third.

  He looked at my hand and grinned. ‘You’re gonna love this place, honey. It’s…adults only.’

  I grabbed on to both his shoulders and moved my face downwards, eyes closed and lips puckered.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on over there?’ someone yelled. A security guard, racing towards us.

  The dirty old man dropped my boob and his map and card and took off running, the security guard in hot pursuit.

  They were both dodging traffic across the freeway when I scooped up the map and the red card and dropped them into my purse. Then I skipped on over to my rented car, singing, ‘Lolliewood, Lolliewood, oh lollie-lollie-lollie Lolliewood…’

  Larry Lollie’s ‘ranch’ was way out in the back of beyond, a dusty two-hour drive due north-east from Anaheim and my Doodlebug Motel, in the middle of the dry gulches and shale buttes of semi-desert country.

  I finally located the rocky plateau three miles west of the ‘Next Gas Stop 60 Miles’ sign as night was falling. From the highway bottom, it looked like nothing was there but volcanic rock and a few scraggly bushes. But as I
drove off the asphalt and on to a dirt road, up the dusty trail that wound around the outcropping, I suddenly came upon a locked gate and a guardhouse.

  Three men boiled out of the guardhouse, each of them looking as big and tough as Green Berets, or Disney attorneys. They ordered me out of the car. One took my purse and went through it, confiscating my cell phone and camera, while another ran his hands all over my body, searching me. While the third scrutinized my park pass and told me I’d have to sign a waiver forfeiting all rights forever to bragging about my adventures at Lolliewood to anyone living or dead.

  I signed the waiver, and the man cut my pass card in two. Then I was let through the gate.

  I drove rapidly up the dark, serpentine road then down, winding around into a heavily-treed valley. The irrigation costs alone must’ve been astronomical.

  Finally, I cruised into a parking lot, and another security man met my car. He gave me the once-over all over again, before gesturing towards a paved path that led into the forest of palm and pine trees. I hustled on down the bunny trail, ahead of couples who were sauntering along like this was an every-night occurrence to them.

  And after a dozen more twists and turns, I came at last into a clearing. And there it was. Spread out at the bottom of that lush, man-made valley, walled in by towering, barren volcanic rock. Lolliewood. In big, bold, neon-red letters burning away above a black, gold-spiked fence that encircled the entire blazing, blaring private amusement park. I felt like the mother stumbling on to the alien landing area in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  I dashed into the theme park. The theme being S-E-X, in big, red-hot letters.

  There were carnival games galore, old favourites turned decidedly adult in nature under the glittering lights, amidst the cacophony of calliope music and a grunting and groaning soundtrack. You didn’t spray water into a clown’s mouth until the balloon broke over his head; you sprayed water between the sculpted legs of a lady until her clit popped. You didn’t ring a bell at the top of the strongman tower when you banged the bottom with a mallet; you banged the bottom with a mallet and two strobing balls shot up the pulsating, phallic-shaped tower, warm goo splashing out of the slitted top if they reached all the way.

  There were rides, too. Bumper cars shaped like body parts, the whole structure lighting up and vibrating and letting off steam whenever anyone banged the right parts together. Spinning bra cups and penis plumes that dove into vagina-shaped pools of warm, sticky liquid. A giant, pink and red-lit rollercoaster shaped like a shapely woman lying on her side, and then her back. I rode her curves repeatedly, the acceleration from sternum to breast-top amazing, the freefall from nipple crest to pussy-bottom exhilarating.

  I went through all the rides at top speed, surging with glee, tingling with delight, ogling the gorgeous, unclothed carnal-carnies who were everywhere in abundance. An erotic amusement park – my two passions combined. I’d died and gone to…well, not heaven, certainly, but some place just as pleasurable.

  Then I came to a screeching halt in front of the House of Whorers. And things got really exciting.

  The southern gothic mansion was a stunning recreation of an old-fashioned bordello, three storeys high and gabled and balconied like it had been flown straight in from Bourbon Street. It was lit up in shades of blue and green and red, and throbbed with activity, well-hung and well-endowed shadow figures gyrating behind the back-lighted windows. A big-bosomed animatronic madam called out and beckoned at me from an overstuffed couch on the front porch of the house, and holographic ladies of the evening strolled the grounds and surrounding sidewalks, making with the come-ons.

  I watched all the action for a moment, weak in the knees and wet like after a Jaws tram ride. Then I crept bar by bar over to the front gate of the house, only to be crushed when the naked hunk standing guard said, ‘Sorry, couples only.’

  I desperately looked around for an unattached man in the laughing, loving crowd of beautiful people. And couldn’t find one. I slumped against the fence like someone had just stolen my cotton candy, rubbing up against the iron.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when someone touched me on the shoulder. ‘I was just getting something off my shorts,’ I yelped, spinning around.

  The man laughed. ‘And I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind being my companion for the evening?’

  He was tall and thin and dark, with flashing black eyes and white teeth, dressed in a maroon-coloured silk shirt and a grey pair of pants. I opened my mouth to reply, but the words got stuck in the dry gulch of my throat. So the stranger took me by the arm and guided me past the buff doorman and inside the illicit mansion.

  A man and a woman – both model-perfect nude in appearance – came forward to meet us in the chandelier-lit, red velvet entrance hallway. While holographic and projection women and men in period dress and undress paraded around in the background, the sounds of their laughter and innuendo filled the perfumed air.

  The large-breasted flesh and blood blonde took my escort’s arm and led him away down the hall and into a room, closing the door behind them as holographic harlots tittered and pointed nearby. Then the red-haired muscleman with the amazing endowment gripped my arm and escorted me down the hall, into a room opposite the one my companion had disappeared into.

  It was a bedroom, red-lit and done up in campy gothic style. There were two semi-nude, see-through figures on the canopied bed, a man on top of a woman. They briefly stopped what they were doing and looked at us. ‘Always room for one more,’ the spectral john said, grinning and gesturing with his arm, before going back to his dirty business. The bed banged against the wall in rhythm to his urgent thrusting.

  ‘You have to be this naked for this ride,’ my guide informed me, gesturing at his body.

  I gulped and nodded, turned my back and hastily peeled off my T-shirt, shorts, and shoes, and panties. The hung-man then handed me a pair of 3D glasses with the comment, ‘Wear them when instructed’. Then he took me through another door, into a room that contained only one piece of furniture – a red foam-rubber recliner-type chair/bed, like an upraised hospital bed without the sheets. He arranged me on the recliner and then shut the door, leaving me all alone.

  Which is exactly when the lights went out.

  The bed and I started moving. Then big white letters burned briefly in front of me: ‘Meeting’. Images started flashing all around me; images of girls and guys meeting, men and women talking and laughing, some in black and white and some in colour, still and moving pictures, from olden days to modern times.

  ‘You’re a real swell girl,’ a holographic young man suddenly said right next to me.

  He was dressed up like Potsie from Happy Days, and I thought he was talking to me. But then a young woman appeared, holding his hands and saying, ‘I think you’re real neato, too, Ralph.’

  I cruised further along, and the big white letters flashed, ‘Making-Out’. And the kaleidoscope of images changed to men and women holding hands, hugging, pecking each other on the cheeks. Then tentatively kissing, deep-kissing, frenching. A sensual soundtrack of lip-smacking and wet-slurping accompanied the sexy imagery. And the bed grew warmer, matching myself.

  Full-size holographic figures popped up ahead and alongside me, entwining and kissing. And then a giant pair of burning red lips appeared; appeared to be bearing down right on top of me. I felt someone actually kiss me – on the lips. Again, and again, setting my mouth on fire.

  I just lay there/sat there and took it, took it all in, gripping the heated foam rubber and trembling, the wet, burning sensation on my lips and between my legs radiating all through me. And then the petting began.

  Images cascaded all around of men stroking women, women stroking men, intimately caressing one another in a roiling sea of flesh. The bed itself seemed to pulse with electricity, setting my skin ablaze. Glowing, orange hands reached out and touched me, stroked me, the sounds of passion escalating in intensity, drowning out my plaintive whimpering.

  The larg
e pair of hands settled on my breasts, cupping and squeezing. I moaned, as the orange fingers slid up my shimmering boobs and over my achingly-hard nipples, lightly and exquisitely pinching and rolling them, as holographic and digital naked men and women were being felt up all around me.

  Then the hands and imagery disappeared, leaving me bursting with unfulfilled need. I moved forward, on to the next stage: ‘Mating’. The big white letters added, ‘Please Put Your Glasses On’. I fumbled the forgotten 3D glasses over my eyes and the blurry images that had started up again popped right out into my face.

  Giant cocks and tits and pussies, swollen hoods and nipples and lips, veiny pink shafts rising up and towering, cherry-red nipples flowering, directly in front of me. I lifted my hands and tried to grab on to a cock, opened my mouth and tried to take in a nipple. But couldn’t.

  Genitalia of all shapes and sizes throbbed away only inches away from me, thrusting at me. Until the 3D body parts morphed into 3D people, men grunting and pumping away at groaning women, so close I could almost rub their shining bodies and stick my tongue into their open mouths. Their heated cries of passion pounded my ears, the sensory overload setting my head to spinning.

  And then the 3D went 4D again, the bed undulating, vibrating, a glowing green hand appearing between my legs and rubbing my dripping pussy. ‘Oooh,’ I moaned, arching off the bed, the neon fingers sinking inside me.

  Glowing hands fondled my breasts, glowing lips kissing me, enveloping my rigid nipples in wetness and warmth and sucking, fingers pumping my pussy. Shivers of joy shot all through me, as I got frenched and felt up and finger-fucked, as beautiful men and women made mad love all around me.