FIVE MINUTE FANTASIES
VOLUME ONE
A collection of twenty erotic stories
Edited by Cathryn Cooper
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013
ISBN 9781909520516
Copyright © Xcite Books 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Contents
Associations Astrid L.
Charity Elizabeth Cage
Amour Noir Landon Dixon
B& E, & B Lynn Lake
No Surrender J. Carron
Cherry Strudel Astrid L.
On Your Marks Phoebe Grafton
Boss Leggy Landon Dixon
Mail Order Bride Kitti Bernetti
A Day Of Pampering Eva Hore
A Club For The Discerning Young Gentleman David Harvie
Striptease Carmel Lockyer
Picnic At Niagara Astrid L.
Hardcore Counselling Landon Dixon
Marital Aids Lynn Lake
Blame It On The Champagne Gwen Masters
The Hotel Room Dianne Cross
Playing To The Camera Stephen Albrow
Open-Bottle Policy Jeremy Edwards
Buccaneering Blarney Jim Baker
Associations: A Valentine’s Tale
by Astrid L.
I had come home from work early. It was Saint Valentine’s Day and my lover had promised me a surprise. We were to have dinner at his place. He loved to cook, he had said, but only on special occasions. We both loved to eat. I had bought him a cookbook, Cookbook for Lovers. I was buzzing with excitement as I took the lift up to my sixth-floor apartment off the Boulevard Saint-Michel.
I had met Alain in a small bistro when I first arrived in Paris. The restaurant was packed, but the patron seated me at the last free place at a table for two opposite a quiet-looking man with a head of thick dark blond hair. There was something so unassuming about him that I didn’t feel at all nervous. That only came later.
I ordered steak frites and green salad, the usual bistro fare, and a glass of Côtes du Rhône. He had ordered the same, he said, but with an entrée of six oysters.
‘Do you like oysters?’ he said as the waiter placed a small plate with six open shells before him.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Would you like to taste one?’
I shook my head and he shrugged.
‘They must be very fresh,’ he said as he squeezed a few drops from a quarter lemon onto one of the plump pieces of flesh in its mother of pearl shell. The flesh trembled slightly as the juice touched it. Then he lifted the shell and slid the oyster into his mouth. Mesmerized by the look on his face, a moment of pure delight, I couldn’t help imagining his tongue playing with this fruit of the sea before letting it slide down his throat.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try one?’
I shook my head. My cheeks felt hot and it was with a sense of relief that I placed my napkin on my lap when the waiter arrived with my steak.
After three weeks in Paris, I had grown more than accustomed to the rare tender meat that released a gentle trail of juice when my knife cut the flesh. I loved it. The act of eating calmed me and our conversation settled comfortably into a getting to know you.
We met again in the bistro. One evening we left together and he took me to his flat on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It was a simple studio, a one-room flat, with a large mattress-like divan on the honey parquet. A cluster of barley-coloured broad candles squatted in a corner by the window through which the lights of the city twinkled. Soft classical music was playing. His seduction of me was gentle and knowing, his caresses building a haven of trust, and so I fell in love with Alain.
We would meet in the bistro as often as possible, sometimes three, even four, times a week, and here and there he would ask me again to try one of his oysters.
‘They are an aphrodisiac,’ he said.
‘So they say.’ I was not convinced.
‘It all depends on associations,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘and how they are made.’
Now it was three weeks later and I wanted to ready myself for our first special occasion. I put the key in the lock and almost stepped on a large brown envelope in front of my door. Once inside, I opened it. A gift-wrapped red paper package with hearts was inside. Smiling, I ripped it open to discover items of lingerie and a note from Alain. ‘Please wear these. Till 7 o’clock. I love you.’
My heart raced as I gingerly fingered the brassiere in dark teal blue with its trim of black lace, the matching panties, suspender belt and the sheer black stockings.
I had an hour to get ready before walking over to Alain’s place, so I ran a bath. A bath would relax me, I thought. And it did. I watched my breasts float like islands in the warm, fragrant water.
Jasmine.
Musk.
My fingers strayed to play between my thighs, slipping between my nether lips and teasing down inside myself, tugging and pulling my clit. I had to stop, or I would be late. And I did so want to keep my appetite, although I knew that rather than be satiated, I would only crave for more. No. I had to get ready.
I dried myself and decided against perfume. The fragrance of the bath was enough, and there was a certain natural fragrance I wanted to maintain. I took the underwear Alain had sent. I slipped the brassiere on and gazed at myself in the mirror.
It cupped my breasts perfectly and the sheer fabric did little to hide the sudden tautness of my nipples. I fastened the belt about my waist and ran one of the sheer stockings over my hand; I slipped in my toe and peeled the fine denier slowly up to my thigh. Then I peeled on the other stocking. I gazed at myself in the mirror. Is this what he wants, I wondered. As I saw the brush of my russet pubic hair I realised that I had forgotten to put on the panties. I smiled. Alain was not to dictate to me. I shall not wear them, I decided.
As I dressed, a silken black blouse and a velvet skirt that was half wrap-around to expose one leg when I walked, I began to feel more and more aroused. I wondered if it had to do with being ‘sans’ panties for the first time in my life, or whether it was due to Alain’s Valentine’s gift. Probably both, I admitted to myself. Did I dare? Yes. I wanted to do this.
When I arrived at Alain’s place, I found the door ajar and so I pushed it open. Beethoven’s 6th was quietly playing and there was a familiar scent of vanilla and musk. Through the glow of a dozen large candles in the corner I saw large scarlet cushions scattered around the divan. A table for two was set in the other corner of the room. I closed the door and tiptoed to the table and then placed my cookbook gift on the heavy smoked glass. As I turned Alain stood before me. He was resplendent in a long midnight blue caftan. He held out his hand and drew me into his arms. Without a word, he kissed me. I had never felt so wholly ruled by my senses.
Then he spoke in a soft warm voice. ‘Ma chérie, I want to make this a special evening for you, but you must trust me.’
I raised one eyebrow, longing for more of his kisses.
‘It has to do with associations,’ he said. ‘Are you game?’
My pulse was racing again as I felt a tiny bit moist between my legs and remembered the panties.
But Alain was already opening my blouse and pushing the fro
nt pieces away.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A perfect fit.’ I felt my nipples harden as he traced a finger over the fabric of the brassiere. Then his lips kissed one and then the other veiled breast.
‘We shall not take it off yet,’ he said. ‘I want to see if the rest fits just as well.’
I didn’t say a word and just stood there and waited like a nervous schoolgirl who had forgotten to do her homework. With one finger he eased the fold of my skirt aside to reveal the tops of my stockings. Then his hands slipped under my skirt and caressed their way up my thighs to the back, and as he touched the curve of my bottom I heard him give a tiny gasp before continuing as if there had been no surprise. His lips came to my ear.
‘I was wondering if you would wear the panties,’ he whispered.
Before I could answer he pulled at the sash which fastened the skirt and the velvet garment slid to the floor.
‘Turn around, mon amour,’ he said and gently turned me towards a mirror against the wall. He was standing behind me and I watched through the glow, as if hypnotized, as he slipped my blouse from my shoulders. Then he undid my brassiere and it, too, fell to the floor. My breasts peaked firm as my heart pounded. I didn’t dare move, caught in some sublime trance.
Alain’s hands circled my midriff and gently explored beneath the belt. I was tingling. Then his fingers dipped into my russet hairs and I had to close my eyes. I was so wet and I knew that he would soon feel the moisture about to trickle down the inside of my thighs. He did, and I opened my eyes.
With one finger he grazed the soft pulsing flesh, now swollen under his ministrations, and brought it to his nostrils as if to breathe in the odour of a rare and precious wine.
‘I can smell that you are game,’ he said as he led me to the divan and gently laid me down on my back. ‘There is no need for you to do anything, my love. Tonight is your night,’ he whispered and peeled off my stockings and unfastened the last garment. All the while he still wore his caftan, a tell-tale sheen now shining through below his waistline. I closed my eyes. The music was still playing in the background, but there was a new urgency to the allegro. He began stroking my breasts and suckling my nipples, caressing my hips and the insides of my thighs, avoiding the source of my juices in a way that tantalized until drawing forth a sudden clutch from within me.
He took my hand and placed it on the inside top of my right thigh.
‘Can you wait for me a moment like that?’
I sighed and closed my eyes, enveloped in a heaven of senses, but left longing for more. It seemed as if my body had taken on a life of its own in a new world of sensations. My fingers began to explore the swollen lips between my legs, dipping deeper into what I thought must be a nectar, so thick it felt. The nub of my clit was hard and throbbing and my fingers would not stop moving and then suddenly Alain’s soft voice eased through my moans.
‘Hush now, my darling, but keep your eyes closed.’
I was torn between action and anticipation. My heart was now thumping almost louder than Beethoven.
‘Breathe deeply, slowly,’ Alain said and I did, and just as I was calming down his fingers eased their way into my pussy, displacing mine. Cool, they stroked the flesh of my swollen nub and then – the tremor of a new sensation – liquid, soft, a gentle cold – gave way to a myriad of tiny clutches. My fingers, wet still, tugged at my nipples, twisting, tugging, until I felt a warmth, a deep sucking, a soft caressing, a probing, all at the same time.
Heat and cool fused and I thought my core must explode, carrying me beyond all living memory and then subsiding to feel a gentle nibbling at my throbbing clit.
Alain stroked my belly and drew his head up. As his warm moist lips kissed mine I felt as if I must drown in the love of him and the appealing new taste.
‘Is that me?’ I whispered.
He gently nuzzled my neck. ‘You,’ he said, ‘and oyster. Would you like to try one now?’ He smiled at me and his finger swirled inside me, squeezing, pushing a plump softness until my cunt felt it was drowning in a liquid thickness. My voice was hoarse as I whispered ‘Oyster?’
‘My usual appetizer,’ he said. ‘But on this special occasion, I’d like to attend some more to a marinade.’ He rolled the ‘r’ with a low growl.
It was then I saw the silver plate. Six open shells. Two empty. Alain slipped a second finger into what had now become a receptacle of precious juices. I couldn’t help stretching my legs wider apart.
‘Wider,’ he said and pushed my fingers into my cunt. ‘Keep twirling, swirling.’ He took a shell and held it beneath my nose. I closed my eyes. The rough shell scraped my swollen labial lips. My fingers worked the juices. ‘Please,’ I moaned.
‘So you would like to try?’ he said as the fleshy mollusc slipped inside me. I gasped. My fingers were now toiling furiously. ‘You must beat more than that, mon amour. Come, I shall help you.’
There was no holding back. ‘Let me taste,’ I groaned. ‘Let me, let me.’
‘Just the last two, cherie. One stays there to warm a little. The other is for you.’ And he slipped two more oysters into my overflowing pussy. The last one he swirled about in the marinade and then scooped it to my lips. I put my head back, my mouth was open.
‘Let me,’ I groaned.
At last he slipped the oyster into my mouth. I caught it with my tongue, probed, until the thick liquid burst the fragile membrane and filled my mouth; slowly I swallowed the spent mollusc, heady almost as it slid down my throat. My breathing slowed and then a sudden final clutch spread a glow, a relaxation, a final coming, as Alain hungrily slurped the remains of his appetizer from its more than satisfied receptacle.
He moved his head, his swollen satiated mouth, over my belly, my midriff to reach my breasts and suckle gently, a trail of cunt and oyster nectar gleaming on my skin. He held me close in his arms for a time which seemed without measure, then got up and handed me an emerald silk caftan that must have been tucked behind one of the cushions.
‘Please wear this,’ he said. ‘It goes so beautifully with your hair.’
The silk rustled and caressed my body as I slipped on the caftan. I was speechless with wonder and also with hunger.
‘Shall we eat now?’ Alain said and held out his hand to lead me to the table. I leaned into him and held him close.
‘I have a side dish of asparagus,’ he said softly, ‘and then some tender, succulent beef.’
Alain knew how I loved asparagus, and beef, and I knew that my cookbook gift was filled with recipes for many special occasions. And my new love of oysters, I knew, I would always associate with Alain.
Charity
by Elizabeth Cage
‘All donations gratefully received.’
I rattled my empty tin. It was a humid Saturday afternoon and I was standing at the entrance to the railway station, wondering if I’d made the right choice. By now, my mates would have disappeared to Spain to soak up the sun and sangria. I could have been with them.
‘Come with us, Rachel, have some fun,’ Amy, my best friend, had said invitingly.
I was tempted, I have to admit. But I was still in the early stages of my ‘worthy’ period.
‘Sorry, but I can’t join you. I promised to help with the charity collection for the local animal shelter. I can’t go back on a commitment.’
‘It’s a pity Mike didn’t see it that way,’ replied Amy, an edge to her voice.
I’d sighed. Mike, my failed relationship number two, who had cheated on me not once but three times. Who then had the cheek to blame it on what he called my lack of spontaneity.
‘You just don’t have any sense of sexual adventure,’ he’d concluded, packing his case.
Before that there was Josh, who I thought was Mr Perfect – and who turned out to be Mr Already Married. I certainly knew how to pick them.
‘Cheer up, Rachel,’ Amy had said encouragingly. ‘Mr Right is probably out there somewhere.’
‘No such thing,’ I’d grunted. ‘Anyway, I
think I’ve had enough of relationships for a while. Even if Mr Right did show up I’d probably tell him to bugger off.’ So here I was, trying to do something worthwhile for a very good cause – something I believed in. In fact, I was doing exactly what the women’s mags tell you to do when you want to get over a man. Take up a hobby or interest. Get out and meet new people.
But although I’d been standing here for nearly an hour, rattling the tin and trying to look appealing, no one had given me any money. Bad timing. My speciality. Yvonne, my supervisor, who was standing by the other station entrance, already had a full tin. So what was I doing wrong?
‘Perhaps I should take my clothes off to get some attention,’ I joked to Yvonne when we took a coffee break. She stared, stony faced.
‘Try standing over there by the escalator,’ she suggested, without the merest hint of a smile, and I wondered if she’d had a sense of humour transplant.
‘Right, I’ll do that,’ I replied drily.
Another hour passed, and I pictured Amy and the others coming back from the beach, laughing and chatting about what to wear for their night on the town. Perhaps Mike was right, perhaps I don’t know how to have fun when the opportunity presents itself.
‘Here. It’s all the change I’ve got.’ The satisfying clink of coins in my waiting tin jolted me back to reality.
‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. Finally, someone had taken pity on me.
‘That’s okay.’ He smiled and I noticed he had warm brown eyes. He was wearing a seam-straining black tee-shirt and tight leather jeans. Very tight.
‘You’re my first today,’ I told him, returning the smile. ‘To put money in,’ I added quickly.
He laughed. We stood awkwardly for a moment, both wanting to chat, but not really knowing what to say. I decided to break the silence.
‘It’s a lovely sunny day, isn’t it?’ I burbled. God, what was wrong with me? Why was I talking about the weather?
‘Actually, it’s just started to rain,‘ he replied and I suddenly noticed he was carrying a dripping umbrella. ‘But I don’t mind rain,’ he continued, cheerfully. ‘I like the way it washes the past away.’
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