The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (3 page)

But I’m not so out of it that I fail to hear him nearing. He’s working his cock fast now, panting with every stroke. A huge groan tells me he’s there, then little whimpers of
“oh my, oh my” escape his lips as he spills his seed at my feet.

I make my final gestures of decadence when I examine the little white puddle that lies thick at my feet, then command him to put his nose in his come, leaving him abased one last time as my
fantasy fades and my mundane reality returns.

Yes, this is my fantasy, to demand his compliance, to command my pleasure. It fuels me when I touch myself and it never fails to satisfy me. But over time, it has grown stronger and with it, my
need has grown great, insistent. It’s a powerful potion and I suspect that someday soon I’ll overcome my hesitance. Someday soon, I’ll act on this fantasy and answer my needs for
real. It scares me, but I tell myself the same single word each time, after I come: Courage. Because that’s what it takes to realize your dreams. Courage. No matter how wild those dreams may
seem, no matter how long it’s taken me to embrace them.

Madeline (Toronto, Canada)

Lust has a hundred aromas and a thousand flavours. Whether my lovers are men or women, it’s the savory tastes of their bodies that I recall with the greatest pleasure. My
open mouth passes over heated skin, vacuuming its bouquet. My tongue relishes the sweet-salt of sweat, lapped from intimate creases. I dote on the spicy saliva I suck from beneath an amorous
tongue. The slippery, slightly lemony musk that oozes from the labyrinthine folds of an excited vagina delights me. When a man anoints my mouth with the hot wet cream-and-leather proof of his
passion, I am transported.

Perhaps it is strange then, that in my fantasies, I dwell more on my lovers’ oral pleasures than on my own. My favourite mental accompaniment to my solitary play is an appetizing little
scene I call, “Breakfast with Tiffany.”

“Tiffany” is a composite of every slender young blonde I’ve ever lusted after. She’s somewhere in her late twenties, with vanilla skin and enormous, creamy-lidded,
espresso-brown eyes. Her lips are raspberry cream; her nipples cones of milk chocolate.

My fantasy starts with me laying a table for breakfast. I set out a dish of thick sweet cream that I’ve whipped to stiff peaks and a bowl of fresh fruit. It is very important that the
fruit be perfect, without a single blemish, and arranged aesthetically. Setting the table is an act of seduction. My selection is always the same – two large thick, definitely phallic,
bananas that are a few days away from being ripe – a pair of Jaffa oranges that mimic the shape and size of Tiffany’s tender breasts – a bunch of big black seedless hothouse
grapes and one glorious peach that is juicy-soft to the touch but not squishy – just past “ripe”.

The fruit knife is silver, inlaid with gold. There are no napkins or fingerbowls. If either is needed, my tongue and mouth are ready to serve.

With the table prepared, I sit to one side and wait. What I am wearing doesn’t matter much. Sometimes I imagine it’s a short satin slip, sometimes a tailored shirt or perhaps the
tops of a pair of pajamas. Usually, I don’t even think about what I have on. I might as well be invisible, except to Tiffany. The fantasy is about her, not me. When, in the fantasy, she looks
at me, I’m seeing her looking, not what she sees.

When Tiffany comes down from upstairs she’s perfectly made up, cotton-candy hair artfully tousled, wearing a tiny white lace bed jacket that frosts her slender arms like a dusting of icing
sugar. Sometimes she has mules on her feet, sometimes not. I tried imagining hose on her legs once but they didn’t add to my pleasure so I don’t bother any more.

She ignores me, but not from haughtiness. Tiffany is enraptured by the banquet I’ve spread for her. With her butter-smooth little bottom perched on the edge of a delicate cafe chair, she
gorges her eyes on the feast that awaits her. Her mouth waters. I can’t
see
that it does but we have perfect empathy. I can
taste
the saliva that pools in her mouth.

A willowy arm reaches out. Her elegant hand hovers above an orange, over a banana, close to the peach. It is as if her fingertips test the textures of skins and rinds without actually making
contact. She traces each fruit’s contours with air-caresses.

I hold my breath. Which of my offerings will she choose first?

When she makes her selection, her hand moves with predatory speed. She snatches up an orange. With the fruit nestled securely in her left hand, she takes up the knife and bisects it with one
deep swift slash. One half falls to the table. She strikes again, and again, criss-crossing the pulpy interior of the other half with a dozen precise cuts. Juice, the orange’s blood, wells
up. The lacerated hemisphere is lifted to her breast. Tiffany squeezes. Pale sweet droplets fall in a slow steady stream,
exactly
onto her left nipple. She shivers. The juice is chill.

Her left hand bears the other half orange to her mouth. Her face transforms. Tender calm dissolves into ravenous ferocity. Her lips curl back from tiny white teeth. Almost snarling, she tears
into the succulence. Slurping, sucking,
devouring,
Tiffany gobbles shamelessly. Pulp smears her lips and chin. Juice flows.

And yet, even as she falls on one half of the fruit like a rapacious beast, her other hand continues its slow controlled squeezing of the other half. Orange juice drips from her left nipple. My
thirsty eyes follow its descent. Drops splatter a creamy thigh. Tiffany lifts her knee until her heel rests on the cross-bar of her chair. With her leg angled thus, the sticky fluid runs down into
the crease of her groin.

I groan in anticipation.

Half the orange is reduced to gnawed pith. The other half is concave from losing juice. Tiffany arches back and clamps the hollowed half over her breast. Her hand revolves it, pressing it as one
might on an old-fashioned juicer, with her nipple the spike that impales it. Like some sort of fruit-sadist, she grinds and compresses. Little translucent juice-sacs smear her delicate skin.

I half-rise, thinking to nibble those tiny nectar-filled gobbets off her loveliness, one at a time, but subside. There is a full bowl of fruit. My darling has sampled but one, so far.

Her hands open. Ruined orange-halves fall to the floor, discarded. Tiffany’s avid eyes are on the peach.
I
am that peach. I lie in my bowl, almost over-ripe, almost trembling with
anticipation. How will Tiffany choose to consume me? Will I be ripped asunder and gulped down? Or?

One finger strokes, savouring the texture of delicate fuzz. The peach is cupped and lifted on a palm. Tiffany takes up her cruel knife. Its gleaming blade rests on the peach’s skin too
lightly to indent it. Her wrist lifts, angling the cutting edge. Slowly, with a surgeon’s precision, Tiffany
slices.
Flesh parts. The incision is fine and deep, running a third of the
peach’s circumference. She prepares to cut again. The blade
slithers
through fruit-flesh, mostly parallel to her first cut but meeting it at the top and at the bottom. The twin points
of the knife lever the new-moon sliver free and discard it. A once-perfect fruit is now slotted but is not marred. It is as if peaches were
meant
to wear thin tight smiles, displaying hints
of the yellow wetness of their lush interiors.

Tiffany cradles her fruit in both palms. The nails of her thumbs rest in the wound. They press, move, press again. She is turning the raw edges of the cut inwards, creating lips for it. From
time to time, as she works, she looks down into her lap. I understand. She is a sculptress. The fleshy slit that nestles between her thighs is her model. She is transforming the lush fruit into an
effigy of her own, more luscious, sex.

Edible. I mouth the word, tasting it, tasting the peach, tasting the flesh. Succulence. The true meaning of that word is revealed to me.

Tiffany glances my way with naughtiness sparkling in her eyes. I understand. She is telling me, “This is for you.”

Holding the peach in her left hand, Tiffany scoops cream from the bowl with the forefinger of her right. She smoothes it into the slot, leaving a dab at its apex. I recognize the image. When
clever fingers tease me until my sex weeps and gapes, its lips ripe and plum-purple, and those fingers stoke the urgent hunger between my thighs until only ferocious abuse will serve to sate it,
and those fingers fold into vicious spikes that plunder me deep and hard and fast, they whip my clear dew into a thick white froth. So it is with Tiffany, for she is me and I am her.

She is showing me my, our, sex, as it is when most avid – in that excruciating nanosecond when climax is inevitable but not yet achieved. It is Tiffany’s sadistic practice, when she
has driven me to that peak of expectation, to pause, withdraw her fingers and slurp up the ambrosia I have leaked, suspending me in a delirium of desire.

Tiffany is reminding me.

Twisted on her seat so that she can maintain avid eye-contact with me, she extends her tongue. Hers is a tongue among tongues. All tongues were meant to be like Tiffany’s, but fail. It is
narrower than mortal tongues, and longer. Its tip is a supple arrow-head, bluntly pointed. Her tongue is pink, pink, pure pink. It is prehensile. I fancy that she could pick small objects up with
it, if she wished.

She rolls its width into a “U”. She flattens it and curls its tip up. Stiffening it, she trills, vibrating its end. Her hand brings the peach closer. By stretching her tongue to its
incredible limits, she is able to take cat-laps that
just
touch the fruit’s skin, a fraction below the slit.

My thighs squeeze together. I know what that lick feels like. I’ve felt it, when my thighs have been spread achingly apart and the skin immediately below my
own
sex has been pulled
drum-taut.

The tantalizing tongue drags up, up to where the slit parts the flesh. It twists, insinuating itself into that narrow slot.

Where
my
slot’s lips unite, there is a little lip that forms a subtle cup. It is in that little depression that my juices pool when my sex weeps. The nectar inside Tiffany’s
peach is a mixture of peach-juice and cream. Its flavour is different from mine but will suffice as a substitute.

Tiffany’s fresh-from-bed skin has the aroma of apples baked with cinnamon.
Her
pussy-dew always reminds me of pina colada – pineapple and coconut. We are all different. I once
had a lover, a Mexican barmaid, appropriately, who tasted like salty-lemon and Tequila. I push her from my mind. This is
Tiffany’s
breakfast, not hers.

Held rigid, a spike of flesh, Tiffany’s tongue stabs. With its tip buried, it vibrates. She drags it upwards, still quivering, until it “flips” free at the very top of the
slit. My sex feels each fraction of an inch of its progress, vicariously. It remembers the vibrant pressure of her tongue’s tip on the softness of its floor. It recalls how delicately it
trills the edges of my inner labia. It knows what her tongue feels like on the firm smooth plane, between my outer lips but above my inner ones. That even curve is crowned by the pink pea of my
straining clitoris. When she subjects me to that particular caress, at the moment of the “flip”, her tongue’s tip
flicks.

I moan.

Tongue still stiff, Tiffany moves the peach away and back, each motion impaling it, stabbing low, high, between. Its juices, as mine would, run. Her hand moves faster. Her tongue pierces
deeper.

The peach is fucking Tiffany’s tongue.

She returns the assault. Her fingers tighten, bruising the softness. Her tongue flattens and slavers, running up and down the full length of the drooling slot. She sucks hard, then curls her
lips back from her even white teeth.

Once more she looks at me, with erotic threat. Gazing into my eyes, she turns the peach sideways. Her lower teeth are inside the slot. Her upper ones rest on the delicate skin. Fascinated and
squirming, I watch as her teeth slowly sink into peach flesh.

She
bites!

Poor peach! Poor vulva! Savage and slavering, grunting her greed, Tiffany
devours
its sensitive vulnerability.

My legs cross and clamp. I vibrate. Pity and envy consume me. The thought of it, of her feasting on my flesh, of being eaten alive by this lovely young girl, even with a peach as my proxy . .
.

The thrill of it is too much. I surrender to the gleeful paroxysms of a convulsive, gut-clenching climax.

When my mental eyes focus again, Tiffany is looking at me, smug. We know that breakfast is not yet done. My first orgasm always leaves me on a plateau, ready to scale higher peaks once
I’ve caught my breath and my legs have ceased their trembling.

She arches a brow at me and beckons. I saunter to the table, hitch my bottom up on it and spread my thighs. Tiffany has to stretch round me to reach the fruit bowl. She takes her time selecting
the next treat by touch. My navel is inches from her eyes. The tip of her nose is even closer to the roundness of my lower belly. Tiffany’s breath warms my mound. When she inhales, the aroma
of my climax fills her mouth.

She has chosen the other orange. Looking up at me, she peels it. Orange curls drop between my thighs, to the floor. When it is bare, orange flesh showing through white pith, her thumbs dig in
and rip it apart. Precise fingers separate one section. She lays it on my bare thigh, ready, and reaches for a banana, which she sets on the table between my thighs, one end just touching the
wrinkled lips of my sex.

For the first time, in the fantasy, Tiffany touches me. Two fingers, forked, press on my mound, one to each side of my clitoris. My slit opens. My clit’s engorged head protrudes from
beneath its hood. Holding me like that, my naked clit exposed, Tiffany lifts the orange section to her mouth. Delicate little bites clean the pith away. A nibble exposes the tiny sacs of juice
along its narrow edge. She rests that naked oozing slice between my parted lips with the raw edge gently pressed to my clit. Her fingers slide it, up, down, up, frotting my clit delicately. Her
free hand guides my fingers to take the segment and continue the subtle teasing. Once I am moving the slice to her satisfaction, not too quickly, without too much pressure, just enough to
tantalize, she lets me take over.