Five Minute Fantasies 1

by Cathryn Cooper

  I raised a foot and placed it squarely on his chest.

  ‘Don’t push me soldier!’

  ‘Or what?’ he smirked.

  I whipped off my bandana, letting my hair flow free, and leaned over him, long dark strands tickling his forehead.

  ‘You’ve asked for it now.’

  I grabbed his arm and tied one end of the bandana around the wrist. The other end I attached to the slim base of a young beech tree. He didn’t struggle. I did the same with Rob’s bandana until he was lying before me, arms trussed up above his head, unable to escape.

  ‘Not so cocky now, are you?’ I ribbed as he made a show of trying to break free, wriggling helplessly on the ground. But it was no good. I’d tied the knots tightly.

  ‘I’ll never yield!’ he barked.

  ‘Oh, you will,’ I grinned as I lowered myself on to his body so our faces were just inches apart.

  My legs were spread over his muscular hips, my groin pressing lustily against his horny bump, a satisfactory swelling pushing against my ravenous little pussy.

  ‘Hmm, I think you’re beginning to already,’ I whispered, my mouth brushing tantalisingly close to his. ‘In fact, I think you’re already on the verge of standing to attention.’

  I gyrated my bare mound against his bulging packet, felt it grow harder under me.

  ‘Yes, you’re definitely ready to spill your secrets.’

  I yanked the zip of his muddy camouflage trousers down, popped the button and pulled his flies open. Beneath Rob’s boxers his erection was fighting to break free, forcing its head up against the straining cotton like a spring crocus trying to push through frosted soil.

  Immediately I set it free, tugging his pants down over his supple hips. I curled my fingers round the beefy muscle, deciphering every bump and groove, savouring its unrelenting rigidity.

  ‘You’re mine now,’ I crowed, grasping him in my greedy little hand.

  Rob’s body shuddered.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’

  He sounded endearingly vulnerable.

  I tightened my grip, making him squirm beneath me.

  ‘I’m teaching you to obey me.’

  His hips rose intuitively as he let slip a long low moan.

  ‘I’m not doing this for your pleasure,’ I snapped, peeling back his foreskin to reveal the gleaming head of his erection. The narrow slit was coated with an oily sheen of semen.

  ‘You’re going to make me come again,’ I ordered. ‘You’re going to make me come harder than I’ve ever come before. And you’re not going to come until I say you come, not a second before, not a second after. When I say come, you come, right, soldier?’

  ‘Right,’ he stuttered, barely able to speak.

  Loosening my grip, I caressed the length of his beautiful unbending shaft as I manoeuvred myself into position, raising my hips, positioning my cunt directly over the bulbous head of his penis.

  Slowly I lowered my body, teasing his cock as its glossy tip twitched back and forth, nudging eagerly against the fleshy gateway to my approaching love tunnel. I stopped and hovered there, aware Rob was pushing his hips up, trying to enter me before I give him the order.

  He looked up, realised he’d been a bad boy.

  ‘Did I tell you to move?’ I snarled.

  Dutifully he lowered his hips and I continued sinking slowly onto him, lips opening out, drawing him in, his unerring manhood stretching my love tunnel wide as I ground down onto him, rotating my hips as he drilled up into me until at last he was buried deep inside. The pulsing veins rippled delightfully against the slick walls of my pussy as my body tensed.

  I planted my palms on his chest, took a deep breath, and drew myself slowly up until only the tip of his cock was still inside me. Then I sank down hard. Rob groaned loudly, bracing himself as I rotated my pelvis against him, my clitoris rasping against his unyielding pubic bone.

  I threw my head back and began to bounce up and down on top of him, his cock coursing in and out of me as I arched my back, feeling his manhood rub ever hotter, ever faster, ever more intensely against my exposed bud.

  ‘Harder!’ I panted breathlessly, hands clamped to his writhing legs.

  My swollen clit was aching in ecstasy. But I couldn’t stop; I didn’t have the power in me to do that. I was consumed by him. Unable to tame his awesome power, all I could do was give in to it, let it bring me tumbling to my knees.

  Rob’s hands suddenly broke free from the ties that bound them. He grabbed my jacket and ripped it open. My T-shirt was quickly up, his big strong hands on my breasts, massaging them through my bra. I was unable to stop him.

  ‘I’m gonna come!’ he grunted.

  I felt his body tense between my legs, felt the muscles in his thighs contract.

  ‘No!’ I yelled, humping him harder and faster, riding him for all he was worth.

  I clamped my hands over his and ground them into my heaving chest, my jutting nipples caught in a fractious chaos of fingers and fabric. His hands drifted down, taking hold of my waist. He pulled me down harder onto his cock, forcing it further into me than I ever thought possible.

  Suddenly my body shuddered, my pussy muscles twitching and spasming uncontrollably round his stabbing cock. Sensational contractions snatched at my searing cunt, tearing through my sweating body. It was like an avalanche, totally out of control, crashing down on top of me.

  ‘Come!’ I commanded.

  ‘I’m coming!’ he roared. ‘I’m coming!’

  He jerked his hips up one last time and squirted sperm deep into me.

  I sat atop him, my body shaking, his cock still firmly embedded in my quivering vagina as I fought for breath.

  He’d finally surrendered to me.

  Cherry Strudel

  by Astrid L.

  Lucia loved food – the look, the taste, the feel, the smell, even the sound of it as she kept it that second longer in her mouth before she let it slip away. Maybe the reason she loved sex was because, the first time she was seduced, her hands were deep into some pearly dough.

  Lucia worked in a restaurant kitchen, learning, among other things, to knead the dough for strudel. Bruno, the Austrian cook, had convinced the restaurant owner that strudel – not just apple strudel, but cherry strudel, plum strudel and even rhubarb strudel – would be novel additions to the dessert menu of The Hungry Taste Bud.

  Bruno was an artist, and, like most artists, he preferred to get on with the creative part, leaving the routine of preparing the strudel dough to the kitchen help. Yet he always kept an eye on the way the dough was prepared.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty grams of flour, Lucia. Mix it with 1/8 of a litre of water.’ Bruno paused as the girl in her white wrap-around apron dress gingerly measured the flour, tipped it into a bowl and added the liquid.

  Lucia glanced up at the man. She needed him to give her time – time to see that it didn’t matter if some of the flour powdered onto the marble top counter.

  ‘Add two tablespoons of oil…that’s it…just pour it on…one whole egg, now…careful with the shell. Take the wooden spoon…stir it all about at first.’ His voice rolled low as Lucia stirred the dough, her silky black chin-length hair swaying to the motion of her arm, her eyes fixed on the changing matter in the bowl.

  ‘And now, Lucia, just a coffee spoon of vinegar and a pinch of salt.’

  She added the last with a flourish and a satisfied smile.

  ‘Take the spoon out now, this is where you have to use your hands – if you want to make a really good strudel dough.’

  Lucia scraped off the wooden spoon and watched as Bruno sprinkled more flour on the counter.

  ‘So that it won’t slip,’ he said.

  She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand causing tiny speckles of flour to trace her jawbone. As he lifted the mass of dough from the bowl and began kneading, a faintly sour scent rose up to her. She gazed at the long, strong and even movements of his hands as he kneaded the do
ugh until it had a pearly sheen.

  ‘It has to look and feel like silk,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go on for a while – just to get the feel of it.’

  Lucia nodded, wiped her hands on her apron and plunged both hands into the dough.

  ‘Push down, Lucia. Push with both heels of your hands. Draw the dough back with your fingers. Keep the rhythm.’

  Lucia pulled and pushed and pulled and pushed. It felt as though her whole body was moving in harmony. As she leant forward to push with the heels of her hands across the counter, her knees bent so slightly in a rolling motion, causing the hem of the back of her dress to rise with the swell of her shoulders bearing down on the dough.

  Bruno took a step back to gaze at the hypnotic movement. The only sound that could be heard was the cool flap flap against the marble and the sound of rhythmic breathing.

  Lucia kept on kneading, eyes half closed. She felt a hand brush a trace of flour from her cheek as another glided from her shoulder to rest on her hips. Lucia kept on kneading. She sensed the knot at the back of her dress surrender as the hands crept beneath the loosened cloth.

  ‘Hush,’ Bruno whispered in her ear. ‘Keep the same pace. It’s good for the dough.’

  Tiny shivers rippled up from somewhere deep inside her as the hands cupped her breasts and a finger and thumb gently tugged at her nipples to the rhythm of her kneading.

  ‘This will be wonderful strudel dough, Lucia.’ Bruno’s voice was softly hoarse. ‘But we must put it aside and cover it…then let it rest for half an hour.’

  Lucia turned, her hands at her back to tighten the knot drawing the white cotton of her dress tight across her breasts.

  ‘And what shall we do in that half hour?’ she asked.

  Bruno stroked a finger down her cheek and brushed her lips with his. ‘The strudel, Lucia. We have to finish it.’

  Her palms warm and her breast flushed, Lucia’s brown eyes searched Bruno’s.

  ‘We’ll need half a kilo of those dark red cherries, 60 grams of butter, 120 grams of bread crumbs and…about 250 grams…of sugar,’ he said.

  Lucia stroked a hand over her hip and turned towards the cooler chamber where the fruits and vegetables were stored.

  ‘Half a kilo of cherries,’ she whispered.

  The cherries lay in a basket, plump and red, a red so deep it was almost black. She took a pair and slipped it over her left ear. She took a single cherry, placed her lips against it to feel its shine, then sank her teeth slowly into the flesh. Juice trickled on her lower lip as she smelled the rich full scent. She held the stone in her mouth to suck the last of its pulp and, puckering her lips, spat the stone into the bin.

  ‘Lucia,’ Bruno called. ‘I’ll show you how to pip the cherries.’

  She came towards him, the basket propped on her left hip, the cherry earring laughing at him like her dark brown eyes.

  ‘I shall wash them first,’ Lucia said and emptied the basket into the enamel sink filled with cold water. She felt Bruno’s eyes upon her as she swished the bobbing cherries about in the water. She tried to ignore him but inside she was throbbing with a strange excitement. When she had strained the cherries, she turned to Bruno and looked him straight in the eye. ‘What now?’

  ‘Ah, Lucia. We must remove all the stones.’ With a small kitchen knife he made a cut down the cherry. ‘Now take it and open gently, so as to keep it whole. Then pluck the stone.’

  A flush rose past her neck to her cheeks as Bruno gently opened the fruit. They stood side by side, the tall blond man and the slim dark-haired girl, and worked the cherries until the fruit was ready. The fresh smell was heady and clung to their fingers, staining them dark red.

  ‘Now roast the bread crumbs in the butter, Lucia, until they are golden brown. I shall prepare the strudel dough, it should be ready now.’

  Bruno sprinkled more flour onto the marble counter and pulled gently at the dough, drawing it out to cover the counter top. ‘You have to be careful with the dough, Lucia, pull gently in all directions…take care not to make any holes – yet it must be as thin as you can get it…you should almost see through it.’

  The dough lay like silk fabric on the counter.

  ‘Stroke some liquid butter over the dough…yes, with your finger…all over. Now the bread crumbs, then the cherries. Leave a space at the end…about 10cm and then take some sugar, rub it between your fingers and sprinkle it over the fruit.’

  Lucia did as he bade her. The feel of the butter slipping across the fragile dough, the smell of the roasted bread crumbs, the rubbing sound of the sugar between her fingertips, how it fell like a soft snow on the cherries, plump and luscious, their juice on the verge of bursting, delighted her senses.

  ‘I’ll roll it up,’ Bruno said. Lucia watched as he tenderly rolled the dough and teased it into a horseshoe, making sure the cherries were well spread and that the dough didn’t break. He stroked some melted butter on a baking tray, brushed liquid butter on the rolled up strudel – to make it glow, he said – and popped it into a medium high oven.

  ‘Now Lucia, it will take 40 minutes to bake.’

  ‘And can I taste it when it’s finished?’

  ‘Come here, Lucia.’

  Lucia came to his arms and breathed in the smell of him. Bruno’s lips caressed her cheek. ‘We shall taste it when it’s finished,’ he said.

  Lucia pressed against him as if to quiet the ripples he aroused.

  ‘…and we shall taste it while we wait.’

  On Your Marks

  by Phoebe Grafton

  What a way to spend Saturday! Not that it was any different from last Saturday, or the Saturday before. As far as I could see there was no reason to believe that next Saturday would be different either. Nor the one after. An horizon full of dead Saturdays. What a dismal prospect!

  It was one of those moments frozen in time, when you look around at your surroundings and examine your lifestyle with a jaundiced eye. This general feeling of dissatisfaction was precipitated by the film I was watching on television.

  To say that I was watching it with great interest wasn’t strictly true. It was a swashbuckling tale of derring-do with handsome men leaping from one lady’s balcony to another, red rose clamped tightly between white, even teeth. When I got to the bit about the ball, ladies in low-cut gowns and men in tight trousers, my mind went off at a tangent.

  I looked down at my white blouse, cardie going thin at the elbow, and sighed. Then I looked across at George and sighed even louder. He was sprawled in his chair, unshaven, sweat-shirt, threadbare jeans.

  Consciousness had left him some time before.

  Half covered in a newspaper, head back, mouth open – asleep. What a bargain.

  There had to be more to life than this. I looked at the film, hating it. What happened to adventure? Where was the excitement, the romance, the passion?

  Ah yes, the passion. I looked again at the sleeping George. His passion was about as threadbare as his jeans.

  I recalled the time George came behind me and touched my nipples. The moment was so fleeting that it left me wondering if he was fondling them or counting them.

  I tried to concentrate once more on the film. It was no use. The thoughts it had triggered soured my interest. I stabbed the remote control in irritation.

  The sudden silence brought George back to life. At least I think it did. It’s difficult to know sometimes. He stirred, moved the paper and scratched his more than adequate belly.

  ‘I’m making a cup of tea. Fancy one?’

  ‘No.’

  A man of few words is George. I remember the last time he said ‘Thank you’. We were courting at the time. It was just before they tore the Berlin Wall down. He hasn’t found the need for such courtesies since.

  I got up to make the tea. George, now fully awake, sorted out his priorities.

  He put the television on to the football channel, went to the fridge, got himself a can of beer, then settled down in his seat again. From the kitche
n I heard the hiss of the opening can. That was him organised.

  We share a twilight existence, George and I. I watch TV in the evening – he sleeps. I go to bed – he watches television. It’s an arrangement he lives happily with: beats conversation anyway.

  I took my tea to bed. I said ‘goodnight’ on the way up. He grunted. The early retirement was essential. It enabled me to get a couple of hours sleep before George came up.

  The only time he became voluble was in the middle of the night, after a few cans, when his team lost. Then I got chapter and verse on what, in his opinion, had gone wrong. It didn’t occur to my spouse that people actually went to bed to sleep.

  I undressed and sat quietly on the edge of the bed. I put on my old negligee, more of a souvenir than anything else. An anniversary present, in the days when I got them – bought, I hasten to add, when my beloved was on his way to watch West Ham play and suddenly remembered just how special the day was.

  It was not a cold evening so I pulled back the curtains to look out on the night sky.

  It was one of those magical, romantic nights. The moon was whole and the sky full of diamonds. One or two cotton wool clouds caressed the moon’s smiling face, moving swiftly on so that the spellbound could enjoy its undisguised radiance.

  I settled myself down on the pillow trying hard to read. It was impossible to concentrate. I switched the bedside light off, lay back on the pillow, gazing out of the window at the enchanting night sky.

  Quite suddenly I was lifted clean off my bed by a huge unseen hand. There was a mighty rushing sound of wind. Before I could grasp what was happening I found myself flying through the air at frantic speed. I tried to scream, to call George, but no words came.

  Faster I travelled, the momentum causing me to spin, head over heels through time and space with such force that all consciousness left me.

  My mouth was dry. It was uncomfortable. The room smelled of rope, tarred hemp, lamp oil, spices. I listened to the creaking of timbers.

  ‘Lee helm.’ The cry came from somewhere above my head.

  The protesting walls around me creaked more loudly as the room moved violently. I was thrown across the heaving space with great force. I screamed as I crashed against the wooden wall. I clung tightly to one of the sacks beneath me, lest I get thrown again.