The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (2 page)

But I do wish I had a willing man, a naked willing guy who would fall to his knees when I snap my fingers. He’d find me astonishing as I stand before him, dressed in black – sheer,
dark hosiery offset by severe heels, black panties, and a waist cincher. I’d leave my breasts exposed to tantalize him with promises of either reward or punishment, either of which hinge
entirely on his ability to concede to my whim.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he’d use his teeth to pull down my panties. Oh, it wouldn’t be easy, you know. My panties aren’t just going to slide off my hips as if
by magic. If anything, they’ll hug my hips and they’ll resist abdication. He’ll have to work at it, tugging at the waistband, pulling at the crotch, manoeuvring to set free that
which he longs to worship.

And once he does, once my panties are at my feet and I step from them, he’ll be there, at my feet, ready to ply his tongue to the patent leather that covers my feet. That’s where he
begins his pursuit of me, at my feet, and what begins with a tentative kiss progresses to that full tongue licking that makes me hot.

Think about it: a naked man at my feet, crouched down so tightly on all fours, he’s in like a foetal position on knees and elbows. His protruding, rounded butt entices me as he faces my
feet. I can’t see the look on his face, but when he commences to shine my shoes, the little grunts and groans of abasing pleasure that rise from him tell me he’s thrilled to follow my
command. The more he licks, the more he slobbers, and the wet noises that issue from him remind me of sloppy sex. I wonder if his cock drips from the lust he feels.

I don’t have to wonder whether his cock is hard, however. I know it is. It always is when he’s at my feet. In the deepest of my fantasies, his cock’s trained to stay hard in my
presence. It never loses sight of its reverence for me. But the man attached to that appendage is more human and in his desirous haste, he forgets his place easily. He starts for my ankle, kissing
and caressing it with lips and tongue – without my permission to proceed. He takes a liberty I haven’t granted.

Without hesitation, I raise my crop and lay the full brunt of his misdeed across that rounded rump of his. It’s a harsh smack and he answers it with a startled moan. His body quivers
– not just his ass but his whole body, as if the impact resonates throughout him. It’s not the surprise of the crop upon his ass alone that makes him cower like a timid mouse, nor is it
just the pain. It’s the knowledge that he’s done something to warrant the crop, something wrong.

Before he can surmise his mis-step, I speak.

“Did I give you permission to kiss my ankle, slave?”

He shudders at the sound of my voice, at my bark. “No, ma’am.” At least he’s able to eke that admission out.

“Then what were you doing at my ankle? Answer me!”

“I–I – don’t know.”

“Start again and don’t you dare leave the leather of my shoe until I tell you to. Understood?”

He grunts affirmatively and, as his tongue touches my patent leather once more, I ply the stinging crop to his backside again, just for good measure.

“Don’t try anything slight,” I tell him. “If I so much as get a hint that you’re sabotaging my intentions just to get a beating with this crop, this scene will end
faster than you can say ‘I’m a worm.’ Got that?”

His head nods as he slathers my shoes anew.

Oh, I’ve played this scene out in my head so many times, but that’s how fantasy works, isn’t it? You get an idea and you dwell on it, each time building into it new details,
new twists and turns. You yearn for its realization and your longing grows each time you visit these thoughts. Fantasy – it snowballs on itself, doesn’t it?

At this point, I let him work on my shoes for so long that the entire matter becomes tiring for him and tiresome for me. But it’s best that way because, no matter how dull it might seem, I
know he’s learned his lesson. He’s learned not to move without my explicit direction. He’s learned he’s to do things at my behest, not at the behest of his cock or his
desire. He’s learned this is all about me and that he’s an afterthought. Or better yet, a tool. A tool for my pleasure.

When I finally allow him to stop, he’s panting. I suspect his diligence has left his throat dry, but I don’t have time to show him mercy. Being nice is the last thing on my mind.
Reinforcing the message is first and foremost.

“Do you understand now that you’re not to take it upon yourself to make decisions about what your tongue should be doing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And who should decide how you employ your tongue?”

“You should, ma’am.”

“Good. See to it that you remember this lesson well. Forget yourself often enough and I’ll look for another slave to serve me. That wouldn’t be hard to do, would it? After all,
your type’s a dime a dozen and I bet I could even find one who wouldn’t think to forget himself.”

He’s quivering and moaning again. Threats do that, you know, no matter how hollow they may actually be.

I extend my left leg before him and tell him that he can kiss my ankle. I instruct him to slowly work his way up my leg.

“But you’re to stop at the lace of my thigh-high stocking, slave. Go further without my permission and you’ll run the risk of being dismissed from my sight.”

These words are harsh but I know they’re part of his fantasy, part of his desire to be treated roughly, punitively, perhaps even cruelly. He moans at what I tell him and again when his
lips first touch my ankle, yet he adheres to my instructions. Slowly he kisses his way up my leg, savoring each spot as if that one spot of hosiery is the center of his existence, as if he lingers
there long enough, he’ll feel skin through the nylon barrier.

Barriers. That’s what this scene is all about – creating barriers to his pleasure while slowly opening the gates to mine. Denying him is such an arousing, hot way to gift myself.
Watching him work so conscientiously when I know his dick would like nothing better than to force me down and plough into me – having that level of control is sheer diabolical pleasure.

His lips reach just past my knee. He has risen up from the floor, and, still kneeling, has almost wrapped himself around my leg. His hands, long tired of being behind his back, embrace each side
of my leg as he straddles it to reach beyond the curve of my knee, to reach towards that sacred place at which he longs to worship. Yes, my cunt is a place of worship to him and no matter how
vulgar mere words might make it sound to others, to him it will always be a shrine.

He strains forwards to close in on the border of my stockings. Tempted, I raise my foot and press it into his cock. Hard resistance meets my foot and, as I press harder and rub rougher, I can
feel the skin of his cock roll over its erection. The sensation makes him moan and he pulls ever so slightly away from me, lost in the intensity of feeling my foot against his hardness.

“Like that, slut?” I ask him.

He pants affirmatively, slack-jawed, eyes fuzzy with lust.

“Just how much do you like it, hm?”

I expect him to mouth something worshipful or meek, but words fail him completely. His cock, however, doesn’t. And next thing I know, I feel it humping my leg.
He
is humping me
– like a dog and with a lolling tongue, no less!

“Beast!”

I push him from me and grab him by the hair. I push against his chest and attempt to wrestle him to the ground. It’s a messy affair, full of stumbling uncertainty on his part and
inexperience on mine, but I get him there. I get him on his back. Quickly, I straddle him, planting my lap firmly over his cock. Oh, I’m not going to fuck him. I have no intention of enjoying
the thick penetration he’s capable of at this moment, but I do want him to feel my wet luscious cunt lips against his firm erection. I want him to feel what he’s not getting. I want to
taunt him.

“Hump me like an animal, will you!” I castigate. “Always the dog, aren’t you?”

I don’t wait for an answer as I grab my forgotten panties from the floor.

“I bet you could smell me when you kissed my thigh, couldn’t you? That’s why you couldn’t answer me in words, isn’t it? Because of my smell. It’s my smell you
like.”

“Your perfume,” he offers worshipfully.

“Perfume, schmerfume,” I counter. “You like cunt, pure and simple, don’t you?”

He stammers a “yes” while I find the inside crotch of my panties and bring it to his nose.

“It’s this you like, isn’t it?”

He barely has a chance to inhale before I mash it into his face. I can only pretend to smother him with this bit of well-worn, well-scented fabric, but I do overwhelm him with my force and
cunning, and my effort leaves him gasping and panting as if I had actually robbed him of air. He tries to rise, but I push him down with as much force as I can muster. I grab the crop and, reaching
behind with it, slap whatever thigh muscle I can find as fiercely as possible. The slaps are sharp, as staccato as little firecrackers, but as I apply the crop, I focus on words so castigating they
have their own smarting slaps.

“This is what you like,” I repeat myself. “Cunt smell.”

It’s an insult to him, this observant worshipper of mine, to call his place of worship a cunt, but I love to thwart him. I love to push the sacred into the profane while the crop stings
red and painful.

“Yes!” he admits. “Yes! That’s what I like.”

He trembles as he admits his coarse desire. Which makes me smile. I feel like a wily fox that’s outwitted the rooster and expelled him from the henhouse. But it’s premature to gloat;
I’ve yet to catch the chicken.

I cast aside the crop and pull my panties over his head, roughly, swiftly, leaving the “perfumed” crotch at his nose. One hole of one pant leg allows him to see while the other
dangles from his chin. He looks ridiculous and a soft laugh from me is all it takes to make him blush, humiliated.

I climb off of him and, taking my crop, return to my chair. I spread my legs as he rises to kneel before me.

“This is what you want?”

I point to my cunt with the crop. He nods, weak, submissive, and conquered.

“This is what you want?” I repeat as I use the crop to play with myself. I rub its flat bat over my clit, use it to spread wide my generous labia. I use it to toy with myself until I
gleam. And, finally, slowly, I insert the handle into my hole.

His pantied face watches me. Slowly, I masturbate with the handle and a finger from my free hand to my clit. It feels delicious.

I moan and suggest, “Maybe I don’t need you. This feels so good that maybe I just don’t need you.”

That’s when he breaks and literally begs me for the opportunity to please me.

“Please, no! Please let me serve you. Let me taste you and bring you pleasure.”

His words form common cliches. They’re what every hopeful submissive says, online or off. But here, in my fantasy, my panty-compromised slave speaks them in desperate sincerity. He longs
for access, for permission, and whatever I grant him will be his bliss. He won’t care if, as portrayed in countless female domination fantasies, he never gets to fuck me. He won’t care
if I never suck his cock. Those typical male fantasies don’t have a place in his desperation. The only thing he’s focused on is whether I’ll permit him or deny him.

“Please allow me, ma’am.”

He’s whimpering as he speaks. He looks sad and near defeat, like a mama’s boy who’s been scolded into staying away from the cookie jar yet clinging to one string of hope, one
final chance at a cookie. It’s delicious and it’s my teasing that puts him there.

If I were a greater woman, I’d keep him there all day, hanging onto my every move for the slightest permission, but my lust weakens me and makes me impatient. I beckon him to me. I remove
the crop from my wet depth and make him lick it clean.

“Do you think you can lick me as good?”

The taste of my juice upon his tongue makes him speechless. He can only nod.

“Then I want your tongue on my clit. Make sure it keeps to its target. No wandering. And put your hands behind your back.”

It’s difficult for him to balance himself, to perch his tongue on my clit while placing his hands behind his back. He bobbles back and forth on his knees, struggling to find his balance,
but as he finds his footing, he leans forward and his tongue touches me at last. That first touch is electric and I’m almost instantly delirious, it feels so good. I lose myself in the
sensations he imparts as he presses, strokes, and laps at me.

He sucks lightly every now and again, so sweetly that I deem him diligent, proficient, and worthy. I won’t ever need to send him away; I won’t
want
to. My cunt agrees; it
tightens and throbs, responding to every flick of his tongue, every circle he makes, every grab and release of his little sucks and nips. Yet it’s not enough. My cunt yawns and begs to be
filled. I want him in me.

“Your tongue,” I whisper. “Fuck me with it.”

As he shifts lower, I reach for my clit. Wet with his spit, it lurches under my finger and, as he enters me, my cunt clutches at his tongue. His tongue works in concert with my finger and
although the tightening within tells me I won’t have long to wait, I want still more. I am greedy with lust.

“Stroke yourself,” I decide. “And be a pig about it.”

Together, we masturbate in mutual raunch. My hand and his tongue curries me while he pulls and strokes on his cock. We utter sounds of sex gone wild; we’re lost in our realm of commands
and compliance, and as I near my own orgasm, my mind runs wild with images: of his cock, bound tight; of a dildo anchored in his mouth and me riding it, hard; of caning him while he beats off; of
locking his dick away and denying it any freedom for days on end, of that rounded rump of his awaiting the approach of my strapped-on dick. They’re mad thoughts, formed in lust. They’re
ideas and intentions, bold and brilliant.

They’re my greed let loose. I want to tease him and use him and deny him, and these raw desires drive me right over the edge. Orgasm seizes me and rips through me, strong enough to leave
me weak and breathless, limp.