The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (38 page)

“Come on . . . let’s get the hell out of here.” I try to move away but am held by my arms. “Joan? What’s happening? It is you?” Is it Joan behind that mask? I
feel myself being lifted, lifted high by the two people and the lights dim and the chains click and the woman on the stage is standing up, leaning against the ropes, a patronising smile on her
face.

The two remove my costume and tether me just as the other woman had been.

The naked woman says, “Now, my little fairy, it’s your turn. I saw your smile, I saw you lick your lips as I was getting it.”

I shiver. If only I knew who it is. If the angel isn’t Joan then this could be Joan. It could be anyone: the local doctor, the lawyer. God, she has a beautiful body. Why is she being so
mean, so evil?

Yes, there’s no need to worry. They had assured me that anyone could shout Red Alert at any time. The game would stop at once. I mean . . . I wouldn’t have brought Joan to anything
actually dangerous, not dangerous.

Cuffs tighten on my wrists and ankles. The ropes binding me to the corners of the rink tense, to poise me between the corners. Mentally I shout Red Alert.

The naked woman holds the whip and plays with it, weighing it in one hand first and then the other.

I should shout Red Alert now and get out of this den of obscenity. I should have known it would end up as something silly when the business with the costumes started. I am a fool. So . . . I
made a mistake. I pray it isn’t a fatal one. I pull on the ropes and just end up hurting myself.

The woman nudges me with her boot and the man in black leather kneels between my legs and breathes onto my sex. All I can feel is the warm breath. What is he doing? What is he intending to
do?

He stands above me, one leg on each side of my body and holds his cock. It sticks out of his costume, thick and pulsing, blue veined and gnarled like an oak. It’s the cock of a horse; it
has to be up to his waist. He squats and holds it and brings it across my lips. I turn my face away.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, it’s time to teach the bitch a lesson.” He takes the whip from the woman and sweeps it across my breasts. Then he lifts it and brings it
down onto the floor hard, with such a bang I would have jumped off the floor if I could. The room reverberates with the crack of the whip. Tears gather in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. Thank God
for the mask and for the privacy of my tears.

The woman slinks between my legs like a cat. She licks up the insides of my thighs and sniffs every inch of my skin. Up and up, she nuzzles. In a heavy dramatic melodramatic voice she says,
“I do believe, Master, that we have to show her what true obedience is. We have to . . . train her.”

The man nods. He holds the whip to my face. “Smell it, bitch. Smell the sweetness of her juice. Smell her perfume on the leather.”

I can’t help but smell it. My head is full of that fleshy, rich juice smell of woman. I want that whip between my legs, between my breasts, on my bare backside. I want the handle of that
whip up my anus; I ache for it to be thrust deep into my cunt.

The woman takes the whip and I turn from her, trying to blot the whole thing out of my mind. The whip cracks deafening, hard against the mat beside me. Then it’s feathered against my
breasts, hardly touching, just stroking. Spun and feathered. Gently, it vibrates between my legs. Just a touch. It jerks against my clit. Just a jerk, nothing more and then it’s pulled across
my mouth.

“Wet it, bitch.” I do as I am told.

The woman swings it across my belly then flicks it just hard enough to warm skin. It lashes against my breasts, just missing my nipples. I scream. I squirm. I ache to shout Red Alert, but my
body has its own designs. The man kneels over me and strokes my lips with his cock and the woman bites me hard in the inside of my thigh. I imagine small, perfect teeth sinking into the fine flesh
just where it joins the forest of thick black hair.

As a reflex, more or less out of myself, I lick the cock and take it into my mouth. The woman bites the other side. Hard. So hard, I scream and I hear myself scream. Yes. Yes. I relax my mouth
so the whole of that enormous cock sinks in easily, down, down into my throat. The stink of rubber and cloying perfume possessed by some condoms.

He moves above me. Something clamps onto each nipple in turn. A ratchet-like noise as each clamp is tightened. I can die with the pain. Die with the pain. The man withdraws his cock from my
mouth and angles above me, placing it just at my clit. He moves it back and forward. The woman tightens the clamps on my breasts slightly.

“Oh, doesn’t she have the most delightful nipples? See how they bloom and explode with the gold. Yes, she does suit gold. Better than silver on her skin, I think.”

The man agrees. “We should find more places to ornament her.”

“Not today,” The woman says. “We should tempt her back. Keep them for some other time.”

Yes, right! I do not think that there will ever be another time. I just want to get the hell out of this time.

Pain, and at the same time his flesh at my flesh. My body shouts for more. More. No, it’s time to shout. It’s time to get the hell out of here. No. Yes.

Now his tongue is licking me so gently, so kindly. The woman tightens up my nipples even more. Indeed they could explode, take wings and fly right off my body. They are as hard as gold or
ivory.

The woman is on my face, presenting herself. Tongue, which has its own life, lifts to find the woman’s clit, circles it, licks, strokes, tastes the fine taste of fish and honey and
vanilla. Yes.

The man whips my thighs. I imagine them bleeding. Pain, and when not pain a burning, yes a burning and a heat, as I had never imagined before.

My tongue is locked into this woman. It’s part of the woman’s clit and together they are moving to something else – the pain has become distant and, at the same time,
it’s right in front of me. I am pain and I am that tongue working the woman and the pain.

The man is stroking me and rooting in my bush. He has a finger in me then two fingers and then his cock. The body above me gyrates in rhythm to my tongue and juices drip down my face as the
woman grinds into my face. The man’s cock fills me so full I have no body left, and at the same time, his finger on my clit and curling and teasing until I can’t stand it any more and I
scream in agony. I come, pulling on my restraints, curving my body up to meet his. When I shout, I feel the woman above me gyrate and thrust in her own orgasm. I scream Red Alert. Red Alert. Yes.
Yes.

The man takes his time finishing. The next thing I know they are standing looking down at me.

I can’t breathe. I am numb. The restraints are removed. No one says anything at first. The man dresses me in my fairy outfit. The woman combs my hair and kisses me gently on the cheek.

I feel ashamed. Coward to shout. I still burn with the heat of the whip. I rub my wrists where the cuffs had scuffed the skin.

Once I am dressed and about to leave the stage the man says, “You new?”

“I guess.”

“Coming back?”

“I guess.”

The pilot announces that we are an hour out of Heathrow.

My hand is welded onto Joan’s thigh and pinching her so hard that she digs her elbows into me.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“God! Nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, everything is just right. How about you?”

“Oh, what do you expect. Bored. Bored out of my mind.”

I can’t say that. No, not at all bored.

Brittany (Minneapolis, USA)

I may have only turned eighteen just a few months ago, but with my extremely vivid imagination, I’d be willing to bet that I’ve had more sexual fantasies in my
short life than most girls twice, or even three times, my age. I’m horny just about all the time, but since I’m saving myself for my future husband, whoever that may be, I can’t
act on my hormonal impulses – except in my head, of course.

I’ve had more straight and lesbian threesomes, foursomes, and orgies, involving everything from anilingus to zoo animals, in my mind, than most porn stars have for real in a twenty-year
career. And two of the stars in my X-rated heaven are my best friend, Tracy, and her hottie of a boyfriend, Matt. Mix me and them together, add a dash of phone sex, and you’ve got the recipe
for one of my typical scorching-hot fantasies . . .

Tracy and I were sitting around yakking one night, about – what else? – sex, when she boldly declared that her boyfriend liked to talk dirty to her on the phone. I
yelled, “No way!” and dared her to prove it.

She scooped up her cell and punched some buttons, never one to turn down a dare. “Hey, Matt, it’s me!” she bubbled into the phone. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed,
right next to me, clad in a pair of pink panties and a sleeveless undershirt. Her nipples pressed hard against the thin material of her top, and I spotted a couple of blonde short n’ curlies
peeking out from the sides of her panties.

“It’s me – Tracy!” she yelled, her pretty face turning angry when Matt didn’t recognize her voice right away. Her hunky jock of a boyfriend had a reputation for
playing the field, and not just on the gridiron. “Yeah, whatever, anyway, I’m home all alone and, well, you know . . .”

She burst out giggling as Matt said something to her – something dirty, no doubt. Then the cute, suntanned blonde with the Jennifer Aniston breasts and Jennifer Lopez butt set the phone
down on her bedside table and pressed a button. “Can you hear me now, Matt?” she shouted, grinning at me and winking.

“Loud and clear, babe!” Matt responded, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine – right to my cunny.

“Okay, good. Now make with the dirty talk. And make it real dirty – filthy – or I’ll hang up and let Mr V work his magic.”

“Not to worry, babe. I’ll give you enough good vibrations to get you off.”

I pictured the tall, muscular, blue-eyed, black-haired stud in my mind and rubbed my thighs through my pajama bottoms. Tracy ran her own hot, little, brown hands up and down the sides of her
body, blatantly cupped her titties and squeezed. I wasn’t exactly sure just how far the horny hottie was going to take this, but I was willing to go along for the ride.

“So, what’re you gonna do to me, big boy?” Tracy asked, in a Mae West kind of voice.

“Huh? Yeah. Well, first I’m gonna get a good grip on those sopping wet panties of yours, pull them down your long, smooth legs – pull them off and sniff them maybe, before I
toss ‘em aside and –”

“Slow down!” Tracy squealed. “Let me get them off, will you!” She snatched up the phone and covered it with her hand. “Wanna help out, Brittany?” she asked
me.

“What?”

“Yeah! It’ll be fun! You do everything that Matt says he’s gonna do to me.” Her glossy lips broke into a sly smile. “That is, I dare you to do everything that Matt
says he’s gonna do to me.”

I stared into the turned-on teen’s baby-blue eyes, my face as red as a stop sign. So this was how far she wanted to take it; she wanted me to get lezzy on her!

“We’ll have a great time,” she promised. “And a good laugh at Matt’s expense.” She bit her plush lower lip and batted her long eyelashes at me, pretending
like it was all a big joke – which I knew she knew I knew it wasn’t; once we’d gone and done the girl-on-girl deed, our friendship could never be the same again.

Tracy and I have been best buds since kindergarten, grown up together, and we even kissed and Frenched and dry-humped when we were in junior high, just fooling around, mind you –
simulating what it would feel like to have a boy make love to us; but I’d never known that the girl had the hots for me. I swallowed hard and let my brown eyes roam over her luscious,
eighteen-year-old body – her lithe, honey-dipped legs, her small, delicately-arched feet with the sparkly nail polish, her perky tits with the jutting, porn star nipples, her warm, smiling
face – and the rising damp between my quivering legs convinced me that it was indeed time to explore a whole new dimension to our friendship.

“Bring it on, girlfriend,” I said quietly.

“Yes!” she yelped, fumbling the phone back onto the bed-stand. “You still there, Matty-boy?”

“Yeah, what the –?”

“Say again what you’re gonna do with my panties.” Tracy untangled her dancer’s legs and leaned back against the headboard, started caressing my legs with her playful
peds.

“I’m, uh, gonna slide your soaking panties down your long legs . . .”

Tracy slapped my leg with one of her feet and gestured excitedly at me, and I scrambled onto my knees, crawled closer, and slid my trembling fingers under the elastic band on her panties, as she
gave me a peck of encouragement on the cheek. My arms shook like willow branches in a hurricane, but somehow I managed to pull her panties down, as she lifted her bum off the bed. I slid the teensy
underwear off her legs, then stared, transfixed, at her glistening, blonde cunny. Her rosy-red pussy lips were slick with moisture, and she reached down and pulled them apart, showing off her
pink.

“Got your panties off yet?” Matt asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Tracy murmured, spreading her legs as wide as they’d go.

“Well, anyway, like I said, I’m gonna sniff your panties, smell your hot cunt juices, and then –”

“Wait!” Tracy shrieked, kicking me again.

I awakened from my trance and brought the sexy girl’s panties up to my face, my eyes still locked on her juicy, wide-open cunny. I pressed the soft, warm cotton against my nose and took a
good, long whiff, smelling Tracy’s sweet, secret scent, my brain swimming and my body going all hot and heavy.

“Then I’m gonna toss your panties aside,” Matt continued, “and start strokin’ that furry, blonde beaver of yours.”

Tracy grabbed my right hand and placed it directly over the top of her cunny. “Yes!” she gasped.

I dropped her panties and started rubbing her muff. There was no turning back now – once you’ve gone as far as stroking a chick’s cunny, you’ve just got to get her off. I
fluttered my fingers through her downy fur, rubbed her damp lips, as she gripped my wrist and moaned, squirmed around on the bed. I rubbed her like I’d rubbed myself so many, many times
before.