The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (64 page)

Kneeling between her legs, I spread her thighs as wide as I could. “Look at that. A sight to behold.” Using my thumbs, I opened her crudely and leaned forward to give a firm lick up
the crease of her pussy lips. “Firm strokes with your tongue, boys. First you poke around a little, licking, maybe a nibble or two, avoiding the clit.”

I demonstrated with them watching over my shoulders, my fingers keeping Emma’s thick pussy lips spread so she was totally exposed. Her scent was strong and musky, her taste a mixture of
sweet and tart. Once I could feel her tunnel grasping at my thrusting tongue, I backed away and urged Nick into my place.

“First prize, Nick,” I whispered in his ear. “I want you to give her multiples. All you need to do is stay at it nice and steady. Firm strokes, a nibble here or there and then,
when you know she’s almost there, suck on her clit. Use your fingers, tongue, and teeth. Anything goes when you’re in this situation. Listen to her moans and read her body’s
signals as to what pleases her most.”

I turned and pulled Steve over to stand behind me as I leaned over Nick’s back and braced myself on his shoulders. I pulled off my soaked panties and nestled my arse backwards until
Steve’s prick rested between my arse cheeks. I pulled one of his hands around me, and placed it on my own pussy. Needing no further encouragement, he began to explore between my thighs, his
thick fingers parting me and sliding into my hole, thrusting in and out briefly before his thumb found my clit and he began to work me over good. Not wanting to be left out, Tom stepped in closer
and began to massage my tits, pinching and rolling the nipples around as he watched his friend eat Emma’s pussy.

I kept whispering words of advice into Nick’s ear, occasionally taking a nibble of my own on the side of his neck. Emma’s cries were getting louder, and getting all of us hotter. I
reached down between Nick’s legs and grasped his rigid dick firmly. He grunted and his tongue hesitated in working Emma for a second.

“You can’t get distracted, Nick. She’s almost there.”

So was I. I spread my legs wider and arched my back, pushing against Steve shamelessly.

Emma’s hands reached down and she laced her fingers through Nick’s hair, pulling him tighter against her. I could see her hips moving and heard the whimpers I knew signalled an
oncoming orgasm.

“Don’t stop,” I called out. Both Steve and Nick followed my instructions. “Keep it gentle for a minute. There, that’s it, she’s coming, I’m coming,
harder now, harder, yes, there, that’s it.
Yess
.”

“Yesss,” echoed Emma.

“Stay there, Nick,” I commanded breathlessly. “A little push and she’ll come again.”

Nick tickled a finger lightly over her anus and he sucked her clit into his mouth. Sure enough, Emma’s cries filled the room again.

I shifted my hips a little, and Steve read my silent instruction perfectly. Swiftly entering me with his cock, he moved both hands to my hips and began to pump me full from behind. I bit my lip
to keep from moaning aloud. With one fist still pumping Nick’s cock, I pulled Tom over so I could suck his cock into my hot mouth at the same time and be surrounded and filled by hard
cock.

The pre-come flowed steadily from Nick’s cock head over my fingers and I knew he wouldn’t last much longer. The throbbing of Tom’s dick in my mouth testified that he was close
as well. I closed my eyes and revelled in the sensations assaulting my body from all sides. A soft hand stroked under my chin and I opened up to let Tom’s meat slip from between my lips.

Opening my eyes, I saw Emma urge Tom to straddle her on the sofa, where he began to fuck her mouth. From where I was I could see his buttocks clench and release with each thrust between
Emma’s lips, but Nick’s view of this act was the breaking point for him. I heard a guttural moan rise up from his chest and felt his come rush through the veins of his cock and shoot
into the air.

I pulled my hand away from his shrinking dick and placed both my hands on his shoulders. With Nick resting his head on the sofa between Emma’s thighs, watching Tom shaft her mouth, he was
still well positioned for me to brace against Steve’s thrusts.

My head fell forward and I arched my back for deeper penetration. A whimper of pleasure escaped my lips as Steve’s cock hit deep in my womb. He grunted and picked up the pace, his cock
hammering into me as he watched Tom pull out of Emma’s mouth and spray jism all over her tits.

“Oh yeah, Steve,” I urged. “Let go, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

His hands gripped my hips fiercely and he panted loudly and fought to hold back his own orgasm. My belly tightened and I felt my cunt clutching at him. Then the tremors started. From deep inside
I could feel my orgasm building. “Yes, that’s it. Harder! Yes. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chanted until I felt my pussy walls spasm and juices run down my spread thighs in release. A
few hard thrusts and I felt Steve’s come shoot into me hotly before we both collapsed onto the floor, only to stay there in a languid heap trying to catch our breaths.

I must’ve drifted off to sleep because then I heard Steve’s voice from a distance as his hand gently shook my shoulder.

“Excuse me, Miss. Are you okay?”

I smiled up into his polite gaze, his polite distant gaze. Confused, I looked around at the near empty space surrounding us and realized I had drifted off to sleep . . . on the train!

Heat flooded my cheeks and I scrambled for my bag on the seat beside me. Mumbling thanks and apologies, I dashed for the exit before the doors slid shut, not caring if it was my stop or not.

It wasn’t my stop. It was one stop past where I usually got off, but that was okay. Placing one foot in front of the other, I started off for home, a smile slowly spreading across my face
as I felt the wetness between my thighs. My sojourn into fantasy-land had prepared my body well and I wondered if Emma was home from work yet. After I tell her about my dream, it shouldn’t be
too hard to convince her tonight would be a good night to go on a manhunt.

Lydia (New Orleans, USA)

As the Italian-looking shoe salesman slips a sleek red heel on my right foot, I see him look up my skirt. I feel an immediate rush and do my best to pretend I don’t
notice.

Wearing a navy blue mini-skirt, my foot up on the stool and my knee high, he has a clear view of my crotch. He blinks, looks at the shoe he just slipped on my foot, then looks back up at my
crotch and says, “How does it fit?”

“Fine.” I feel nice and hot as I switch feet, lifting my left knee now, my skirt climbing even higher. I run my hands through my long brown hair and lean back. He takes another look
at my panties. I can see the top of my thigh-high stockings, so I know he’s getting a great view.

According to two ex-boyfriends, my legs are my best feature. But the shoe salesman isn’t looking at my legs. My panties are extra sheer, skimpy white panties, with enough of my dark pubic
hair sticking out the sides to make it interesting.

At thirty, I’m several years older than the salesman, who’s brazen enough to
stare
at my crotch as he finishes slipping on the left shoe.

I stand and walk around, catching the attention of a heavy-set man who has been dragged into the store by his equally heavy wife. He stares at my legs as I step around and watches me sit.

I point my knees in his direction so he can get a look. I cross my legs like a man, knee outward, and toy with the shoe’s instep. Then I lean back and let the shoes salesman take off the
shoes and slip on a black pair.

A very skinny man, passing in the mall, stops and pretends to look in the windows at the shoes. He watches me as I lift one knee and then the next. With my knees this high, he can’t help
but see my panties, even at his distance.

My shoes salesman looks as if he’s counting pubic hairs.

The black shoes don’t fit and I thank him and grab my purse. He smiles and puts my blue heels back on, taking his time, taking another long look.

He’s the fourth salesman I’ve flashed today. Standing, he adjusts his crotch as I leave. Two men follow me as I head down the mall. I love it, turning them on. I slow, but pass the
next ladies shoes store. It’s one of those where you have to try the shoes on yourself. Without a salesman’s face a few inches from my crotch, what’s the point?

The last store in the mall has no customers. I spot the shoe stools, so I know the salesmen help you here, so I go in. A short, balding man comes out of the back and smiles at me. I ask to try
on a pair of white heels, give him my size, then sit facing the mall.

As the bald salesman arrives, and I lift my knee, I see the skinny man is back, looking in the window. My bald shoe salesman doesn’t seem to notice at first, but I catch him stealing a
peek as I switch legs.

Two pair of shoes later, I walk out, my crotch damp now. The skinny man shadows me, but leaves me as I walk out to my car and drive off. On my way home, I fantasize about driving over to New
Orleans next weekend. I’ll visit the ladies shoe stores on Royal Street. In my fantasy, I don’t wear panties. I hope I’m brave enough.

In a white blouse and my extra-short, red mini-skirt, I wear thigh-high stockings again and red heels. I feel the summer breeze on my bare arse as I move down Royal Street from
the Monteleone Hotel. I’m dolled up, extra make-up, crimson lipstick, my hair curled with the wet look. As I pass an antique shop window, I catch my reflection. I have “fuck me”
written all over. I stop outside my first shoe store and see the mandatory stools inside and two male salesmen. On my way in I see the police station is across the narrow French Quarter street. Two
young cops give me a long look.

The two salesmen each ask if they can help. Both in their forties, the white one is dapper in a blue suit. The second is dark, African-Latino looking. He needs a haircut and his white shirt is
dishevelled.

“Size six, please,” I tell the dishevelled man as I pick up a white high heel. He smiles at me and eagerly goes to fetch the shoes.

I move to a row of chairs facing the street, subtly pushing the stool closer to the chair before sitting to face the street. Draping my purse across the seat next to me, I cross my legs to
remove my shoes. I roll my hips to either side to tug down my skirt, which does little to hide anything. As soon as I uncross my legs, my entire crotch will be in view. The two cops are still
across the street, still looking this way.

The dishevelled man moves to the stool, lies two shoe boxes next to it and sits. I put my right foot up on the stool, my knee extra high because the stool is closer than normal. The man digs out
a shoe and starts putting it on. The top of his head rises slightly and I know he’s getting a full bush shot.

His hands tremble. I reach for my purse and pretend to look for something in it. He finishes with my right foot, so I throw it over the side and bring up my left knee, my legs open for a second.
Then again, with my left knee high, my pussy’s right there, about a foot from his face.

The man in the blue suit moseys over in front of me and takes a look as he passes. I close my purse and sit back up and then rise and walk around with the new shoes.

“They’re a little tight,” I say as I sit again, my knees pointed at the dishevelled man.

“I have a half-size larger,” he says, digging into another box.

I kick off the shoes, lean back and put my right foot up on the stool again. Leaning back opens my crotch even more. The blue suit moves back. “They’re Parisian,” he says,
pointing to the shoes.

He’s getting a nice look at my French-American pussy, but I don’t say anything. I dig into my purse again and pull out my lipstick and mirror. The dishevelled man finishes with my
right foot and I throw it over the side as I open my mirror. I take a second before lifting my left knee, my knees open wide for them.

I reapply my lipstick as the man takes his time with my left shoe. Peeking around the mirror, I see both men leering at my bush. When I stand up to walk around, I have to pull my skirt down,
it’s risen so high.

“No,” I tell them. “I don’t like the look, actually.”

“What about these?” The man in the blue suit shows me a different shoe.

“No,” I tell them as I slip on my shoes and leave them panting, maybe not on the outside, but I know I got to them.

The cops are gone. I shrug and continue down Royal Street. The breeze flows up my skirt and I’m damp already. The next two shoe stores have women sales staff. I pass two more without the
mandatory stools.

I almost miss a narrow one sandwiched between two art stores. No customers here, either, but the stools are there. As I step in, a young salesman steps out of the back. He’s in his early
twenties with straight dark hair and a nice square jaw.

“May I help you?”

I pick up a black heel and ask for my size.

Sitting, I pull the stool closer, kick off my shoes and wait. A blond-haired clone of the salesman comes out of the back. Square-jawed too, he smiles at me, moves around and glances at my
crossed legs.

“It’s beautiful out there today, isn’t it?”

“The weather’s gorgeous,” I tell him as my salesman returns with two shoe boxes.

As soon as I raise my knee, they both look and their silence is exquisite. It takes a second for my dark-haired salesman to get started. These guys are too young to be subtle.

They try small talk. More about the weather as I open my knees to switch to my left foot, then lean back to give them a clearer view. Smiling at one another as I stand and walk around, they
watch me – captives of their hormones.

I like that in a man.

I sit and cross my legs like a man again, playing with the shoe’s instep, my legs open. They stare at my bush. I wonder if they can see pink.

“Do you have this a half-size larger?”

They both nod. My salesman reaches for the second box without looking at it as I sit in front of him again. Leaning back, I raise my right knee. As he slips on the newest shoe I reach down and
start working my stocking up.

“These things always slip down,” I say as I pull up the stocking, my fingers rising higher and higher until I have the elastic between my fingers. I open my leg slightly to pull the
stocking all the way to my crotch.