The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (10 page)

At the sound of the door closing, John pushes my chair back and gets up from under his desk. He straightens up and looks at Brad with mild surprise. I still can’t move. The orgasm was
shattering and I’m luxuriating in the afterglow. I wait to see what will happen.

Brad looks at me like I’m a hateful stranger.

“How long has this been going on, Rachael? Is this the real reason why you broke it off with me?”

I can’t answer, but John does.

“Don’t be so jealous, Brad. You had your turn. And don’t blame Rachael. I just couldn’t bear the idea of her graduating and moving on – not without enjoying a taste
of her obvious charms.”

Meantime, he’s pulling me to my feet and taking my dress off. I’m left standing in front of two fully dressed men in nothing more than a bra.

“And you, Rachael. I think you enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

I pull him in close to show him just how much, kissing all over his wet face and diving my tongue into his mouth to suck up the flavour of my own juices.

John’s hands are fumbling with the fastening on my bra. He frees my breasts and cups them in his hands, lowering his head to flick his tongue over the nipples. I press his head against me
as he sucks each nipple, nibbling them into hard peaks. I sigh and glare over his shoulder at Brad. Why is he still here? I want him to go so I can finally get down to fucking this incredible
man.

“You can leave any time now, Brad. Show’s over.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

My eyes widen as he starts to get undressed.

“If you make me leave now, I’ll go straight to the Dean’s office.”

Both John and I freeze and stare at him. He seems serious. He’s also as hard as I’ve ever seen him. I look at John. He shrugs and steps away from me.

Brad comes around the desk and grabs my arm. I resist, but he pulls me over to the couch along the far wall. He pushes me so that I’m bent over with my ass arched up at him. I crane my
neck around to appeal to John. He’s leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, watching.

“The boy has a point, Rachael. If you don’t do as he asks, we’re both in a big mess.”

“John! You can’t mean –”

“Sssh, Rachael. I’ll be right here. Brad, do I have your word that nothing that goes on here today leaves this room?”

“Deal,” says Brad as he paws at my ass. I hear John heave a sigh.

“Then I’m afraid we have no choice but to give in. You win, Brad. Fuck her.”

Brad grabs my hips and rams his cock into me in one huge thrust that lifts my feet off the floor. I cry out and bite into my own arm to stifle my groans as he starts to pound in and out of me.
His cock is long and hits just the right spot deep inside of my cunt. I hate him in this moment, but at the same time being fucked in front of John is wildly exciting. I’ve never felt so out
of control. I have had no say in the matter of what would be done to my body since I entered the classroom earlier, and now I completely abandon myself to the wishes of both men. Brad is panting
hard as he swirls and thrusts deeper and harder.

“God, Rachael – you’ve never been so wet.”

“No one has ever . . . oh! . . . done that to me before – not that way.” (Of course, I mean John and his licking my cunt under the desk, but I don’t know or care what
Brad thinks.)

John has come over to join me. He sits on the couch, still dressed, watching me closely. He gently brushes my hair away from my face, locking his bedroom eyes with mine as I jerk with the motion
of being fucked.

“You look beautiful, Rachael. You like being fucked, don’t you?”

He starts to toy with my breasts, pinching at the nipples. I moan.

“Answer me, young lady. Tell me how you feel.”

“I . . . oh! . . . love being fucked in front of you. I love that you are watching me –”

“Are you going to come soon?”

“I want to come with
you
inside me! Hurry up, Brad . . . I can’t hold back for much longer.”

“Oh, no!
I’ll
make you come, you bitch!”

Brad starts to fuck me even harder. I can’t speak now – just moan, holding back with every muscle, saving myself for John. He stands up and gets undressed. Unhurried and elegant in
his movements, he goes to stand behind Brad.

“You heard the girl. Finish up now. I think you’ve made your point.”

I clamp down and milk Brad’s cock with my muscles, pushing back hard against him with every thrust. He could never resist that, and he shudders and spurts into me, gripping my hips hard
enough to leave imprints of his fingers in my flesh. I feel him slide out and John gets into position in his place. He is much more sensual, stroking my back and the sides of my breasts like a
virtuoso. My cunt is distended, oozing liquid, clutching at air . . . aching for his cock. I can feel the head of it straining at my entrance, slipping around in all of that hot juice.

But first, he makes me beg.

“Tell me what you want, Rachael.”

I practically scream: “For God’s sake, fuck me John! I need you to make me come!”

With a groan, he complies and eases his cock up into me inch by inch. I gasp in joy: this is what I’ve dreamed of for the past four years, and it’s really happening. He is
Brad’s match in length and hardness, but has infinitely more finesse. I wriggle against him, primed and ready.

He hits the wall inside and stops, holding himself for what seems an eternity before sliding back out so that only the very tip of him is still inside, then – just a little faster and
harder – he dives back in. I am moaning continuously now. Brad is panting, watching, hating us both – but he has given away any power he had over us by fucking me. John is igniting me
in ways he could never hope to, and I am swooning in ecstasy.

“Ah, yesss . . . fuck me, John. Show him how to make me come.”

He murmurs and strokes me . . . my entire body is ablaze with want and the impending fulfillment of all of my forbidden dreams. I actually fight to hold back, to make it last, but now John is
losing control . . . pounding away with double the power of Brad’s fucking. He is starting to gasp my name over and over and I know he is close, so I give in. I buck back against him,
shouting and moaning, as the waves explode through me with incredible force. (I have rarely achieved an orgasm through intercourse in real life, but the memorable times that I did have been like
that – being rammed from behind or with me riding on top, taking charge.)

My climax sets John’s off, and he squeezes me close to him as his cock gives a leap and spurts into me. I can feel every individual gush. We collapse onto the couch and curl up together in
a naked, sodden heap.

I peer up through half-closed eyes to see Brad doing up his jeans. He gives me a look that is both sad and a little bit triumphant. I smile at him. Nothing has happened that I can’t live
with. It felt too good. As the door quietly opens and closes, I turn to my greatest fantasy figure and lazily give into a long sweet session of melting kisses.

I have never felt such a strong desire to fuck anyone before or since my professor. Pity it couldn’t happen in real life, but even now, he is such fun to fantasize about. I haven’t
seen him for over a decade, but who knows? Maybe by chance he’ll pick up this book and read over my thoughts and recognize himself in it. The idea turns me on more than I can say.

These wild dreams are harmless, sexy fun – but I have found to my dismay over the years that men seem threatened by my voracious fantasy life. Do they honestly think I would really want to
be blackmailed into fucking an ex-lover while my professor eggs him on, waiting his turn? Very few men seem to understand that the edgier a fantasy is, the hotter it gets me. This one is relatively
tame compared to some, and I have all but given up telling them about any of my lusty scenarios. I have made a couple of male friends online with whom I exchange fantasies via e-mail. They live in
other countries, so the temptation to meet is not an issue. The distance gives us the safety to share these kinds of thoughts with each other – at times, they are my sex life when I am
between lovers and, except for the lack of physical contact, they are in many ways the best lovers I’ve ever had. Both of these men are very creative and work in artistic fields where
story-telling is important, and they get off on trying to outdo themselves in telling me wilder and wilder scenarios. They love it when I tell them how excited they get me, and how wonderful my
orgasm is when I read their letters. Fantasy is wonderful, alone or shared – if one is lucky enough to have a partner who can handle it. There is no point in being jealous of dreams and
shadows, and they can awaken a depth of passion that surprises and delights, if one gives in to their power.

Margot (Nottingham, UK)

I do love my husband. I want to make that clear from the start, because it may not sound like it at times in this fantasy. I don’t know how much of this I could do in
real life, even if I were to get the opportunity, but fantasizing about it makes me more excited than anything I’ve ever known.

He’s a good man, my husband. That’s the only way you can really describe him: good. He’s considerate and careful. He runs after me in the house, doing all the washing-up,
sharing the laundry and ironing, doing chores without being told. He always asks if we can make love, and if I agree his big spaniel eyes of gratitude make me want to puke.

And that’s the trouble. He’s just too nice. It’s boring. I’m bored.

I have lots of fantasies which I run through when he’s at work and our daughter’s at school, most of which revolve around not being nice. Sometimes it’s Brian who loses his
temper and finally lashes out. I have him rip my clothes off and throw himself upon me, spearing his cock inside me before I can protest and fucking me hard. But mostly those fantasies don’t
work: the trouble is, I just can’t imagine Brian really doing that, and I dissolve into a fit of giggles.

And so in the fantasy it becomes someone else. I prefer it to be someone I know – it makes it kinkier somehow. I don’t need to fancy them in real life, and in fact it’s better
if I don’t. There’s Dave, for example, a regular in the bar where I do evening work. He’s a bit of a shag monster, going from woman to woman in a constant cycle, and I never
understand how he does it because he doesn’t turn me on at all, but the very fact he doesn’t makes him all the more powerful as a fantasy figure. He traps me in the loos and forces
himself on me, his mouth all over my face and his hands gripping my tits. He unzips his cock and makes me touch it, then pulls up my skirt and twists my panties aside and before I know what’s
happening he starts to fuck me.

It’s a good enough fantasy, but in the end it leaves me kind of cold. I feel that it’s Brian’s relentless niceness which forces me to fantasize the way I do: I like to dream
about roughness as an antidote to his gentle approach. But those Dave fantasies go to the other extreme – they simply replace gentleness with force, and there’s no scope for sharing the
moment. That’s what I crave – a fantasy in which nasty things happen, but where everyone enjoys it.

So my fantasies turned to Brian dressing me up as a schoolgirl and spanking me, or chaining me to the bed – games where I was a willing participant – but they didn’t work
either: I still couldn’t imagine Brian doing it. The very fact that in reality I would never dare broach such a subject with him rather proved my point. And that’s how my favourite
fantasy came about.

If he wouldn’t do it to me, I’d do it to him.

Once the idea of dominating Brian took hold it swept all other fantasies away. I loved the idea, the notion that I could bully and cajole him into doing things he would never choose to do in
real life. But always, in my fantasies, it was important that however much he protested, he really did enjoy what was happening. As I said, I do love him.

They start out gently enough, these fantasies. I imagine a situation where he has annoyed me for some reason – sprayed all over the bathroom, for example (which is something he never does,
he always sits down to pee). In the fantasy I scold him terribly and he apologises, but I refuse to accept it because I am so angry. “Stand in the corner,” I tell him, more in
exasperation than with any genuine intent, but to my amazement he obeys. I leave him to see what he does next, but fifteen minutes later he is still there, facing the wall. I’m astonished,
but slightly intrigued. If he will do that, what else will he do?

At first none of my demands are sexual – they are purely to test his obedience – but he complies with everything I ask. I tell him to scrub the kitchen floor and he does it. I tell
him to wear my pink (well, peach – it’s the nearest I have to pink) apron and he does. I tell him to eat his tea outside, in the rain, and he trots into the garden with his plate.
Whatever I ask, he always obeys. So far this is probably completely true to life: if I was to ask Brian those things I’m sure he would look quizzical and a bit hurt, but would do them
nonetheless.

But now my fantasies begin to adopt sexual overtones. Seeing him scamper after my every command makes me horny and I get the sudden urge to use him. “Brian,” I yell, “come
here.” I’m lying on our bed, naked, and he blanches as he enters and sees me. “Lick me,” I tell him. He tries to say something but I tell him to shut up and get on with it.
The tartness of my reply shocks him and he immediately folds himself between my legs and sets his tongue to work. He isn’t very good. In reality, he has only done this to me three times, and
I haven’t had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong, but in my fantasy I have no such compunction. I make him concentrate on my clitoris and explain how he should roll his tongue round
and round its hood, sucking gently and occasionally drawing his tongue directly over the clitoris itself, slowly and softly. As I approach a climax I order him to speed up and to suck harder.
“Harder, harder,” I instruct him, gripping him between my thighs and pressing his head into me.

My fantasy climax is usually accompanied by one in real life, this thought alone enough to bring me off. But then Brian would come home from work, Mr Nice Guy again, and my frustrations with him
would grew ever stronger. Those frustrations have been instrumental in the development of my fantasies.