The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (37 page)

When his orgasm fades, I take my hand from his pants, careful to keep his runny come on me.

“I’m taking this with me,” I tell him.

He straightens his clothing and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish you could take me with you, too.” He tells me this is the first time toothing’s ever worked for him. I
don’t tell him that I’m a novice as well. Instead, I ask him which stop he gets off on, ludicrous pun and all. “Westport,” he divulges.

I dig out my PDA and tooth him my email address – as best I can one handed, that is.

“Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”

It’s a promise predicated on a word: maybe. Who knows if he’ll have the courage to meet me again. Where we’re all brave sexual explorers online, we’re just as often
absolute cowards in real life. And pressing the flesh successfully once in person doesn’t mean you won’t chicken out if given repeated opportunities.

Ah, you see? Even in fantasy, reality bleeds in! Still, I imagine what it would be like to have my hand caked with his come and her dried juices. Would both draw tight on my skin? Would the
smell of their sexes combine and give a lasting, musky fragrance to my hand? Would I beg off washing it “ever again” and thus promote their bodily fluids to celebrity status? Or would I
keep them with me only as long as memories of our meetings stay fresh in my mind?

Yes, it’s a lovely fantasy, “toothing” a series of sexual adventures, cruising my way home in more ways than one. I finish my tea and lean back in my seat. I close my eyes and
again my imagination wanders.

I imagine I’m home, perhaps reading, perhaps on the laptop, lost in thought and enjoying the peace and quiet I’ve carved out for myself. But my cell phone lies close and when the
opening theme from Dvorak’s New World Symphony sounds, I know my lover is calling. To my surprise, it’s a brief text message, in shorthand no less: LUVST. No polite, tentative
introduction, no hopeful inquiry, but a very clear message, one which means he’ll unceremoniously fuck me upon arrival. I set aside what I’m doing, undress, and make myself ready for
him. I bend forward over the back of my love seat and spread my legs just enough to await his cock.

I suppose most women would find this scenario terribly sexist or, at the very least, thoroughly unromantic, but I find it absolutely thrilling. Waiting to get fucked is far more delicious than
people are willing to admit.

I stand there, anticipating. The exposed nature of this position and its readiness make me wet. I wonder how long it will be before I hear him enter my apartment, before I hear his steps
approach my willing body. Then, those most exquisite sounds of all: that of his zipper in motion and his gasp of delight when he enters me.

Jump forward: he’s there, entering me. When he seats himself fully in me, he hikes me further over the edge of the sofa. My feet are off the floor now, dangling, and he pulls my hands
behind my back and tells me to “keep them there”. It’s a helpless position, but it’s one that’s highly attractive to him. In this state, I’m totally available to
him. I cannot escape what he wants.

He begins to fuck me and he works me as perfectly in this fantasy as I did the others on the train. He plunders me with an utterly single-minded focus, and that’s what I find thrilling
– that he’s willing to use me to achieve just one simple goal, to come.

Evidently, I’m not yet enticing enough. He takes one hand from my rump and, after licking his thumb, finds my asshole and pushed it into me. This, I don’t take too well. It’s
rough, it hurts. My body tenses against it and I scream into the pillows that accent the love seat. If I could use my hands, I’d brace myself against this intrusion and if my feet were
planted on the ground, I’d surely squirm. But I can’t. The only part of my body that responds to his thumb is my asshole and it clenches in protest.

Hovering in this awkward position, my legs and arms are ready to give out, but I have no place to anchor myself and my arms must stay pinioned behind me. I struggle with what little strength and
freedom of movement I have and again I scream into the pillows. All the while, he reams me. His cock drills me and his thumb tears at me.

It’s enough, though. He’s pounding me so fast now that I know he’s close. One last push of the thumb, one last protest from me, and he’s coming. He slams into me, jetting
his come, filling me with his liquid heat.

When he pulls out, I don’t move. I know he likes to watch his come drip from me. It isn’t until I feel his hand on my arm that I know he’s satisfied. He helps me up, takes me
in his arms, and kisses me with a passion that’s mixed with thankfulness.

“You’re a treasure,” he murmurs between kisses.

“One that only you can claim,” I remark as I fall to my knees. I take his spent cock into my mouth and claim it as my own reward. My tongue gently caresses him clean, a gesture that
tells him how thankful I am as well.

So there you have it: toothin’ for sex in a myriad of ways. Hot, isn’t it? So hot that maybe I shouldn’t wait for my cell phone contract to expire before I upgrade its
services. I’m too impatient to wait for that. It can’t come soon enough. Because, quite honestly, neither can I.

Christina (Catford, Canada)

I owe Joan one. She had taken me on that blind date to Nassau and I had suffered that boring jerk of a brother of hers for one week. I could have killed her.

This is payback time. The seven-hour flight back home is going to be my time to myself. I am going to do everything my way in this dream, this show for myself. If life doesn’t give me what
I want in reality, I’m going to create it in my dream. At least in a dream I can go the whole hog, be as dramatic as I wish. Gothic even.

I will create a building like a castle, battlements and turrets rising, elegant and imposing in a wooded landscape. It will shine like a beacon through the dark and mist. Keep it pretty. I did
not order this cold wind lashing against us, chilling us as we run from car to entrance, head down into the wind. In this story, this fantasy, I will fix her, that’s if I don’t get
pneumonia at the same time. Can I get pneumonia in a fantasy?

Once inside we shake off our umbrellas and coats and I look around for some indication as to what I should be doing. Whatever, it is, it has to be fun.

A cold hallway, marble and dark. Unwelcoming. Why had I decided to bring Joan here? Ah, yes; payback. A man comes to us, something out of the Addams Family, Lurch, perhaps? He’s just over
the top, too theatrical in his formal suit and shining black shoes. He takes our coats and umbrellas and says in a polite, deep voice, “Welcome, Ladies. Welcome to Hill Club. I am sure you
will be pleased to visit. You are both the expected guests of Rhona Degeneris.” He gives this speech and bows formally.

I grin back at him and nudge Joan with my elbow. “Yes, exactly. Miss Degeneris said that she would make sure we were expected.”

I lead her, hand in hand, like two little girls, to explore the club. Inside, the atmosphere is one of an airport or a railway station, rather than Gothic threat. People amble into rooms, leave
rooms, mill around in corridors or halls, eating, drinking, and talking. Every costume imaginable dons bodies turning people into a variety of characters from Queen Elizabeth to John Knox. People
join others and leave and join and leave.

“You, my dear Christina, are a pain in the neck. Why I let you bully me into coming here.” I squint at Joan. It’s plain she doesn’t want to be here and perhaps
she’s right. I’m sure that she thinks that there are better ways of spending an evening than watching men doing tribal things.

As if she knows what I’m thinking, she says, “I’d rather manicure my nails or wash my hair.”

“Oh, what a spoiled little princess you are. I’m sure that women will be doing . . . oh, stuff . . . Look, it’s a new experience. It was nice of Rhona to get us in as guests.
An honour. Something different. I mean . . . I’ve been once before so it’s not easy to get me in again as a guest and to get you in too . . “

“Some fucking honour! Besides, what’s so different?”

“Smile, sweetie.” I tweak her cheeks and she turns from me sharply.

“This is too, too much.”

“Come on . . . it’s something different. Try it. Give it a chance. You’re so fucking white all the time. WASP. Work, work, work. Let that hair down.” I have lusted to
bring her here. I know that she would never, but never, set foot inside a place like this.

“You’re being a racist bitch and, anyway, this stupid costume! I feel a real fool as a pink angel with the gossamer wings. Why an angel? Why do black women get all the fun? I mean,
just look at you. Bo Peep, for God’s sake.”

“You could have been whatever you wanted. Anything. I mean. . . you could have been an executioner if you like. Or Bo Peep like me. And besides, angels are sharp. You can wear
anything.”

She shrugs, sighing as if it’s the end of the world. “Oh, well, I guess no one would know us with these masks and it’s your night out. Birthday Girl had a right to pick
whatever you want. I mean . . . if anything is dumber than an angel in pink it has to be a black Bo Peep.”

“Be cool. She said that all we have to do is say, ‘Red Alert’ if we don’t like what’s going on. That’s all. Red Alert.”

“Like what? What could be going on to make us say that?”

This woman’s an idiot. I should not have got her into this. Boring. Boring. I think I’ll have to move onto another fantasy, another dream.

We stand at the top of stone stairs. The air heaves with a strange acid smell. Jasmine? Joss sticks? We step down into an area set out like a dungeon: stone flags on the floor, bare beamed
ceilings, barred windows and arched cubicles. In the quiet, a few people sit in the corridor, talking and laughing. This is supposed to be exciting! Two great iron-trimmed doors close off an
entrance at one end.

Joan opens one door. We are in a room the size of a movie theatre that must have been the main cellar. A fire at one end, logs crackling, takes some of the damp chill off the air.

A boxing rink, its ropes enclosing a man and a woman, is the attraction here. We move forward round tables and chairs to get a better look and we stand beside a stone pillar. The woman is naked
but for a feather mask and gold cuffs on each ankle and on each wrist. The man stands above her, covered from head to toe in black leather. He wears a small waistcoat over this bodysuit; it’s
studded with gold buttons and hung with long gold chains. The woman is tied to the four corners of the rink by gold ropes attached to her cuffs. His cock bulges through the leather, huge, thick,
plain in every detail.

I tremble and move closer to Joan to reassure her. Why would anyone humiliate herself that way? It has to be the most degrading thing to lie naked with a fully dressed man standing above her. No
woman with any self-respect would do that. Never. A childish spectacle. Kids playing at being grown-up, naughty, naughty.

The woman’s breasts rise and fall as she breathes deeply. The bright light turns her hair into a crown of fire. A small tongue slicks lips. Tears glisten in her eyes. The man places his
boot on the woman’s chest; up and down, up and down, it vibrates with her breathing. The high shine of the boot glistens in the soft light. The sharp spur seems to rotate with each movement.
I want to leave. I do not like this sort of thing. What sort of thing? No, I dream of this every day, every minute I can.

The boot is so hard, heavy looking and rough, such a contrast against the fine, fine white skin of the prostrate woman. The full dress of black leather shouts, vulgar, beside the elegant
simplicity of the naked woman.

I feel the boot on her chest, the cold leather on her skin. I turn to say something to Joan. She has gone. Charming. Nice to take off like that and not say a word. Where is the bitch? In this
vast hall, watching the performance of these two people, I feel acutely alone, out of it, strange, a stranger. I have no place here, a voyeur, a nothing. This is not my scene. What is my scene? Of
course, it is.

The man flicks his whip against the woman’s thighs so gently, so gently it’s hardly more than a breath. Then he takes the whip and turns the handle so it’s a stick. He places
it at the woman’s small pink mouth, slack and shining. She wets it and licks it and sucks it until it dribbles her juice. He spreads the woman’s legs wide apart with his boot and places
the whip’s handle at the entrance of her sex; her pink open lips curl round the knob. Her blonde hair, wet, flattens against her skin.

He pushes the whip handle into her, gently at first and then, with ever-increasing force, it’s thrust deep. The woman whimpers. It could be a horse’s cock buried in the mare. The
turgid swollen sex weeps and glistens.

He plays with the whip for a minute or two and, just as she’s screaming for more, he removes and snakes it across her mouth. She licks it clean, mewling and sighing.

He again whips her thighs, so gently at first and then harder, harder until they are red and covered by stripes.

The woman cries in evident pain one moment and at the next moment demands more.

Two people have moved close to me, one on each side. One is Napoleon and the other is an angel. I half turn and smile. Thank God. Now that I have found Joan, I can leave.

I whisper, “It’s barbaric. I don’t know how I could be watching this disgusting performance.” The angel says nothing.

Now the woman screams, “Yes, yes, yes,” and pulls on her wristbands. The ankles and wrists are red with the pressure of the cuffs, her thighs rosy and serrated.

Only five or six people seem particularly interested in this performance, while the rest talk, play cards or drink.

“I wish I was outside. Fresh air and sun.” At the same time my mind is saying, no, you want to be here watching this woman being tortured, tormented, to see her scream in pain, in
agony. I feel so . . . so superior watching, as if I am the queen and the woman on the floor my servant. Yes, my servant. Now my thighs burn. The moisture of passion dribbles down my legs. My body
is soaking; it’s drowning in its own juices. I want to leave, this has gone far enough. This is wrong. I am a businesswoman, I am professional, I am equal to men, I cannot tolerate this sort
of thing.