The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (44 page)

Bethany

She’s a graduate student at the college where Hank is an emeritus. She had done some work for Hank; it was at Hank’s house that we first met. I knew she was
gay, I saw her give me The Look. I gave her The Look back. One time, we went out and had some beers. “Do you like to munch carpets?” she asked me. I told her no but said,
“I’d like to try.”

Hank

Okay, I saved the two sordid tales for last. Yes, the man is seventy and no, I never pictured myself ever in bed with a man his age. But it happened, and this is how: like
I said, he writes books on the politics of the past. History and the behind-the-scenes matter of governments. “Some call me a militarist,” he once said, “but I am, in fact, a
realist. And,” he added with a wink, “quite robust.” An out-of-town friend, a man in his early fifties, came in for a visit and I wound up in bed with him. One time only. But Hank
found out. “Why him,” Hank asked, “and not me?” So I said to Hank, “I’ll go to bed with you, one time and one time only.” But he was such a fantastic fuck
I came back for more, and more and more.

Larry

Well, like I said, he used to be married to my mother – not for a long time, something like two years. They were dating for a bit, went to Vegas, got drunk, got
married, and the next time I had sex with Larry he said, “Guess what? I’m your Daddy now!” I hit him and told him not to joke. When my mother told me about the Vegas marriage, I
was very angry at Larry. I told Larry that I would never sleep with him again as long as he was my “stepfather”. Oh, he tried, though, and despite the fact that I really liked sex and
liked sex with him, I did not give in. So the day the divorce was final, I went to Larry and gave him a big sloppy blowjob. “Oh, what I’ve been missing!” he said. “We have a
lot of catching up to do,” I said.

III. Six Cocks
&
One Pussy
–
A Brief Description of the Genitals of My Lovers

Curtis

It is short, maybe five and a half inches, but it’s very thick.
Thick is good.
I like the feeling of being stretched out. His balls are big and dangle to and
fro when he walks around without underwear.

Steve

He’s thick like his brother but about an inch longer . . . and his balls are small.

Bethany

Let me insert her pussy here, among all these dicks. Her pussy is shaved, unlike mine (but I’ve been thinking about it). It has tiny lips, unlike mine. It squirts
when reaching orgasm, unlike mine. It tastes so sweet, unlike mine, which I know is a little bitter (or tastes so when I suck a cock straight out of my cunt).

Hank

Big, thick, meaty, veiny – with a huge bulb of a head. And it stays hard for two to three hours. This is why getting fucked by the old guy is so great.

Ron

It’s uncut. I like staring at it, hiding under all that foreskin – and then peekaboo, it pops out!

Tim

It is curved like a banana. The curve does wonders on my clit and makes me have multiple orgasms.

Larry

It’s an average-looking, average-sized dick except a small piece of the head is missing, and he has only one testicle. The single testicle thing is a birth defect,
the missing piece, he told me, “is a war wound left by my first wife. The night she knew it was over she acted like everything was okay, so we fooled around, she was giving me head and then
she bit me. She spit the piece of me out and said: ‘Now you’ll never forget me.’ And I never have.” And I said the woman must have been fucking crazy.

IV. Crazy

And so am I – I’m sure that’s what you’re thinking. In this day, this age, I have this many lovers . . . and none of them know about each other . .
. I could have more, the opportunities present themselves but I manage to curb my enthusiasm. I work them into my schedule and try my best to avoid not having sex with more than one each on any
single day. But there is one day I have to confess about –

V. Oh, That One Wild Day of Pure & Constant Fucking

This was a Saturday. It started early, real early – at 5:30 a.m. I was sleeping in Tim’s bed and he woke me up for a morning quickie. That’s always a
nice way to wake up. Then he got into his wetsuit, grabbed his board, and said, “Gotta catch those early waves, babe.”

“Have fun.”

“See ya, babe.”

“Bye,” I said, watching his ass as he walked out the door.

I couldn’t sleep. I dressed and started to drive home. I was hungry. I called Steve on my cell, knowing he would be awake and working on some kind of engineering problem.

“Meet me at I-Hop,” I said.

“This is a surprise,” he said.

“I need pancakes,” I said.

“Pancakes sound good,” he said.

We had pancakes and eggs and then went back to his place for a quickie. He said he was on a breakthrough and wished he could spend the whole day with me. I told him that was okay, gave him a
kiss, and was back at my place by ten. I was just about to kick back and watch some morning cartoons when Ron called. He was in the area. I told him to come on over. I was suspicious about his
“being in the area”.

“Actually I’m on my way to the airport,” he said. “I wanted to see you . . .”

“Flying? Where to?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Gambling?”

“There’s a girl there.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I wanted to tell you . . .”

“What’s her name?”

“Rachel.”

“Nice name.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No,” I said, and smiled.

“You’re always evasive about getting serious,” Ron said, “and Rachel . . . she wants to be serious.”

“What does she do in Vegas? Black jack dealer? Dancer?”

“She’s just a teller at a bank.”

“Well, go see her,” I said.

“You’re mad, I can tell.”

“I’m not,” I said, and I wasn’t. How could I be? I had no right to be.

“We can still be friends,” he said.

“We can be
good
friends,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. “Let me show you what good friends can do for each other,” and I got down on my knees and sucked him off.

I watched him drive away, from my window, his semen still swishing in my mouth . . . and I felt sad. I felt like I’d lost something.

I laid down to take a nap.

At noon, my cell rang. It was Curtis.

“My wife will be gone all day, she took the kids to see her mom,” he said. “I’m alone here. Why don’t you come over . . .?” His voice was low and sexy.

“Isn’t that risky?” I asked.

“It’s always been that,” he said. “Hmm?”

“Well,” I said. “I don’t know . . .”

“I’m your boss,” he said.

“This is my day off.”

“You must do what I say.”

I could not resist, of course. I told him I’d be there in an hour. I showered, brushed my teeth, washed out my mouth with Listerine, and drove to Steve’s house. He asked if I was
hungry for lunch and I said I was. He made sandwiches and we drank some wine and kissed for a while. Then he took me to the bed he shared with his wife.

“I want your arse,” he said, “will you let me stick it in your arse?”

“Always, honey,” I said. I let him fuck me this way even though I didn’t care all that much for it; I let him do it whenever he asked because he said his wife would never let
him but when he got to do it with me, he always got giddy and happy – and that made me happy.

I was driving home at 3:30 p.m. when Hank called my cell. He said he couldn’t find a file folder he needed for his research. He sounded frantic. I told him to calm down and drove to his
house. Turns out this was a ruse, he just wanted to see me, to fuck me. I said I’d give him a blowjob but he said he really needed to be in my pussy. After that backdoor action with Steve,
leaving my arse stinging, some pussy action sounded nice.

While Hank fucked me for a couple of hours, my cell rang three times.

Leaving Hank’s, I checked my messages. It was Larry. His messages: “Please call ASAP.” I hoped nothing was wrong. I called and he said: “I just needed to hear your
voice.”

“What is it?”

“I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you too.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Nothing, I’m naked.”

“You’re driving.”

“I’m driving naked.”

“Touch your pussy for me,” he said, “touch it . . .”

So I had phone sex with him as I drove. I listened to him come and smiled, feeling powerful.

I called him back when I got home and we had more phone sex, I played with my clit and he listened to me come.

An hour later, the cell rang and I figured it was Larry, ready for more phone, but it was Bethany.

“Let’s have dinner,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Your sweet pussy,” I said.

“That’s dessert.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I want to make dinner for you,” Bethany said. “I want to cook for you, okay?”

“Okay.”

I got into a really short yellow dress, thin fabric, no underwear or bra; I arrived at Bethany’s apartment at 8:00 p.m. She was naked, but wore an apron and high-heels. I could smell pasta
being cooked, and all the lights were out, except for two candles on the dinner table. And a bottle of red wine.

“Wow,” I said.

“I want tonight to be special and romantic,” she said, kissing me deeply and grabbing my left tit with one hand and my right arse cheek with the other.

I grabbed her too.

Our tongues tangoed for three minutes.

“Tonight
will
be, sweet thing,” said I.

And
oh,
it was.

Rene (Edinburgh, Scotland)

I, Rene Mountbatten, sat in a little corner of the, oh, so elegant hotel lobby. I made a wish for action – any kind of action. My mouth grated, dry as the Sahara –
all the booze last night; my guts churned – too much food; my head thumped – a terrible flight.

My husband, Ben, had told me that he wanted to play cards with some idiots who were on the plane. Hated cards. I had wanted a good shag and it was plain he hadn’t.

A man sat near me and flicked through a
New York Times.
This was my chance. I did not want to talk to women today; I spent my life with women. Three daughters and a surgery full of nurses
and receptionists are enough for anyone. I am a sexist, bad, socially inappropriate bitch and need deep voices today.

He introduced himself as Solly Wittenberg. “My wife’s originally from Montreal. Jean. French. I’m from Buffalo. We live in Detroit.” A nice little potted bio.
Couldn’t have been much shorter.

The specimen of American manhood was incredibly sexy. Why and how? An orderly bulge vibrated between his pants. His face was the kind with hollows under his cheeks. I’m a sucker for hollow
faces. His lips curled as if about to smile. My headache was suddenly gone. Instead, I had an ache somewhere in my lower belly, an ache crying out for some medicine.

I tightened against the fine cotton of my shorts. He breathed as if a mass of electrons zapped in random – fizz, buzz all over him, vibrant. He floated across from me, his body hardly
putting any weight on the seat. I imagined the tight soft depressions in his behind; I dreamed his clean-man air. I wove fantasies of touching him, sucking him, tasting him, swallowing him. I
pulled his skin inside me, my skin inside his.

I cried in pain deep inside myself while they talked about the European Union, Scotland . . . I heard my own voice prattling on about the medical services in the UK compared with those in North
America . . . and he was getting pissed off. All I could think about was the movement of his back as he thrust deep into me.

My family had often told me that I don’t have conversations but give lectures. No foreplay is as good as listening to a man’s voice and having that same man listen to my voice. I had
to keep him with me. He had an aura of expensive body lotion. His hair curled and trembled off the tight skin of his face. I sensed myself feeling it between my fingers, comparing it to the fine
curly hair he must have around his balls and cock; I imagined myself familiar with all his sweat and pores.

I said, “There’s a part in Fay Weldon’s book
Darcy’s Utopia
when a character says . . .” Shit, this sounded boring. He was going to leave.

He replied, “Fascinating. Interesting. Something to be considered.” By the blank daze on his face, he was praying to some god to take this dull, tedious woman out of his life. Beam
me up, Scottie.

Oh, this man will have a long, thick, firm pink dink; I tasted it, the flavour made the skin of my mouth soft, warm; flesh, flesh, flesh. Lust always turned me into a guppy: mouth, no brain.

He asked politely, “You vacationing with your husband?”

“He’s around. Ben. Playing cards. Something like that.” I itched to get down and unzip him. Nothing filled my head but sex, sex, sex. All the time sex. Other people have proper
thoughts about politics, business, art, work, brain surgery, economics, buying bread. He has deep brown cow’s eyes. If he closed them, I could lick the lids gently. Run tiny kisses up the
uneven bridge of his nose.” . . . our problems in Scotland . . . “I sounded so authoritarian, so full of bullshit. Buddy, you are talking to the original nut here. He stood and held a
hand out for me to shake. Such manners! I took it, shook it. I did not bend down, kiss it, infuse the jasmine of his flesh into my head, slide it right up between my legs. He pulled me up. We held
hands for a moment too long. Too long in the best Harlequin fashion we were locked in gentle combat.

“See you around, no, doubt,” he said.

“Hopefully,” I said and regretted my shorts and shirt, my socks and my shoes; regretted the hotel, wild for a jungle, wild for a deserted beach, a wild underbrush. Blink. Life is
real. Life is wooden. “See you around.” Stood waiting until he was gone as if I were a statue, frozen to the spot. The Greek statues were blind. If I had no eyes I couldn’t see
him, couldn’t imagine sex with him.

Perhaps it was time to find husband? Must be time for lunch. In the daytime cave of the bar my “better half sat with three other people – two women and a man. They
were vaguely familiar. They had been on the same plane. I hadn’t talked to them. He talked to everyone, bouncing up and down the aisle like a bad child. Mr Sociability when it suited him.