The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (52 page)

As if sensing this, he slivered his tongue down my neck and buried it in the sweet flesh of my pussy. I felt my pussy contract when he pushed his tongue inside me. His tongue was hot and hard as
it drove in and out. I gasped and bucked against his mouth.

Even in the darkness I could feel his cocky grin as he took me deeper into his mouth and tenderly sucked and nipped my horny little mound. I was dying, swimming in a sea of pure erotic
sensations, then suddenly his mouth was back on mine, his cock freed from his jeans, warm and hard, resting against the soft skin of my stomach.

Before I could think, he grabbed my buttocks and, using the wall for support, plunged his hard shaft into me.

Ah, pure bliss, having him there in me so hard and strong. I felt as if I would burst from the sheer size of him.

And yet I didn’t!

Instead, something magical happened in the darkness on that deserted stairway, as his cock continued to plunge deeply into me and his balls gyrated against my thighs. The pain was extreme and
immense, like nothing I had encountered from smaller cocks before, but then suddenly it gave way to such mind-blowing pleasure.

For I had two options in that moment while I was rammed up hard against the cool wall and he thrust into me. They were give up the pain and enjoy it or suffer.

I gave up the pain.

A moment later, I was coming, my hairy little mound tightening around his hard shaft. With a cry from his parted lips, I felt his seed warm and infinitely sticky enter and fill my pussy, my
womanhood. But then something totally unprecedented happened. I was coming again; wave after wave of pleasure coursed through my body until I believed I would die from it. I came again!

Burying my head and my grin in his neck, I laughed. Multiple orgasms really did exist – they weren’t just conjured up by fairies for good little girls or a figment of a man’s
imagination.

Was I happy?

Yes – and, a lot more, for the first time in my life I was fulfilled.

When I had come back to myself, he gently helped me dress and then escorted me back to my doorway.

Strangers in the night, we tenderly kissed; then he was gone, his footfalls quieter, his feet taking him further away from me.

I showered, but not between my legs, however; unconsciously, I wanted to leave his salty aftermath there. Just as I stepped out of the shower, there was for the second time a rat-a-tat-tat on
the outside door. Tucking a towel around my breasts, I went to answer it.

When I looked into the bright corridor – for the lights had come back on – no one was there. I still do not know what prompted me to look down, but when I did I saw my shopping
neatly collected in a pile on my doormat along with my torch, a little worse the wear but still functional.

Next day, as I chomped on a piece of burned toast, another overcast day greeted me, the tall Glasgow tenements seeming as grey and oppressive as the weather. The little
yellow-coated workers were still there, but to my disappointment sexy guy was nowhere to be seen.

Fifteen minutes later, I was walking through the persistent drizzle, a cup of Starbucks coffee from Union Street in one hand and a newspaper in the other. When I pulled up short, the man before
me did the same. When I looked up, my eyes encountered a pair of dark sunshades. Man, was the guy egoistic, was my first thought; my second was he had a right to be, for he was as gorgeous as the
first time that I had met him – better, even, in the light of the day, if that was possible.

I tipped my cup. “Hi.”

Blake tipped his cup – also from Starbucks – and, pulling the collar of his yellow worker’s jacket up, walked on by.

In that second I wanted a thunderbolt from God to incinerate him; then in the next I remembered how gorgeous his fingers had looked clasped around the plastic cup. In the third I wanted those
very same fingers to probe me. In the fourth I feared that I was losing my head. In the fifth I wanted him to fuck me and I
knew
I was.

He hadn’t shown any interest in me; in fact his cool rebuff told me all that I needed to know. Pulling up my hood – due to the drizzle which had became a downpour – I sipped at
my coffee and considered the facts. He was a hunk, and what did that mean? He probably had a long-legged, busty, blue-eyed blonde girlfriend and therefore no interest in me.

I was blonde but, at five foot two, certainly not long-legged; nor was I busty.

That night, around eight, the lights went off. My palms were sticky and my pulse rate sporadic. Should I?

There was only one way to find out. The corridor was as dark and as empty as the night before. Would he come? I hoped and prayed with my whole heart that he would.

And still I waited.

Then I thought I heard footfalls on the stairway. I couldn’t see through the darkness. My pulse rate accelerated. Had I imagined it?

Suddenly, strong hands encircled my waist and pushed me up against the door. My scream was cut off by a warm probing tongue.

I smiled and wrapped my arms around the large man’s neck, for I recognized that tongue. It was my lover of the night before. While his lips devoured mine, I reached behind and pushed open
the door. This time, I wanted to have him naked, gliding over me, just like my prehistoric man in the cave; I wanted to feel every piece of his flesh.

The apartment was dark, but the light coming from the street lamps below allowed me to make out the shapes of the furniture easily enough.

I took his hand to lead him through to the bedroom. He had other ideas; sweeping me up in his arms, he dumped me on the sofa in front of the window. Sitting there, I had to watch him undress,
the orange glow from the lamps reflecting off of his muscular skin. It was extremely erotic; sliding my fingers under my skirt, I began to fondle myself; slipping my fingers in and out of my wet
pussy, becoming hotter and hotter with each piece of his clothing that fell to the floor. When he turned, I caught a glimpse of his cock and almost climaxed right there. For it was huge and thick:
another thing this man had in common with my prehistoric lover. I hungered to touch it, to feel it. I got my wish; stepping up to me, he tangled his fingers in my hair, tipped my head back and
pressed his huge cock into my mouth.

My lips parted, but this was no mere blow-job; the man was actually fucking my mouth. Using it as if it were a pussy, he pushed his cock in and out, quickening the pace.

I was wetter than ever before in my life. He had taken all control away from me and I loved it. I shoved several fingers into my pussy and my left hand cupped his buttocks. I sighed, feeling the
strong muscles bunch and contract with each of his thrusts under my palm.

It was heavenly.

He withdrew his cock from my mouth, and my tongue followed it. Hungry for more, I placed my lips against his groin and kissed the furriness there. He bent before me and kissed my lips, oh, so
tenderly. His tongue gently probed my mouth; I thought that my heart would break. Then he pulled my jumper off and pulled down my skirt and pants until I was sitting there naked before him. He
parted my thighs and slithered his tongue from my hip down my right leg to my pussy, while his other hand squeezed and kneaded my breasts.

A moment later, I gasped when he buried his face between my thighs. Expertly he slithered his tongue in long languid strokes down the length of my pussy and back again. He nibbled on first one
lip then the other, before pulling them wide open, plunging his tongue deeply into my warm creamy centre. I gasped as I felt his tongue wiggling and moving deep within me. The little guttural
sounds he was making deep from the back of his throat got me as horny as hell. Sliding his tongue a few times over my clitoris, he parted my lips and plunged his cock into me.

He was hard, his stroke powerful; I gasped.

In fact, I was making so much noise the neighbours could probably hear but I wasn’t in any state to think about that just then.

He continued to thrust into me. With each thrust I was pushed further against the back of the sofa until, in the end, he was standing, gyrating into me, supporting my parted legs high up around
his waist.

My breasts were bouncing wildly out of control. Slipping a hand down, I cupped his jingling balls and gently squeezed, then I fiddled madly with my breasts. My clit was swollen and poking
between my lips; I could feel it rub against him.

Watching his magnificent muscular body, I climaxed, my milky come exploding over his balls, down my thighs and onto the floor.

He shuddered and, with an animalistic groan of male satisfaction, delivered his seed into me.

I still hadn’t come properly back down to earth when the door closed softly a moment later with a gentle click.

Next evening, I knew from the clock on the wall that it was eight. The lights hadn’t gone off and they probably wouldn’t either. The little yellow-coated workers
were gone and that could only mean they had fixed the problem. Pushing the crossword I hadn’t been able to get into to the side. I paced the room. I flicked off the lights, and unbolted the
front door; naked, with a bottle of red wine in one hand, I sat down to wait.

The tick, tick of the clock was maddening. Pouring myself another glass, I strained to see through the darkness. There was a flash of light from the corridor behind, a glimpse of a tall man, and
then darkness again.

I could hear his breath. I stood up, hands out before me; I came to his chest. He stood there silently as I slowly undressed him. When he was naked, I swirled my tongue around the tip of his
cock, smelling his desire that was salty and something altogether man.

Pulling me to my feet, he kissed me then with a thoroughness that left me shaking; then, flipping my legs out from beneath me – for he was so strong and I like a doll in his arms –
he lay me down on the floor. Taking my glass he poured droplets of wine into my mouth.

I gulped, while his hands rubbed the wine running down my chin, over my shoulders and breasts. Then he plunged a finger into my pussy, the lips opening easy for him while he dribbled wine over
my breasts.

I shivered; the wine was cool and my skin hot. He rubbed the wine in over my nipples, making them even harder, more sensitive to his touch.

With his tongue he licked it off. My thighs clamped around his finger and my nipples tingled unbearably. He bent and took my left nipple between his teeth and bit down. I bucked against him,
wanting the muted pain along with the pleasure.

I moaned when he poured the whole glass of wine over my stomach, then whimpered with desire as he lay his body over my sticky flesh. I parted my legs, inviting him, and when he entered me,
stretching me with his fullness, I buried my head against his shoulder. I could feel warm sensations begin to work their way outward from the centre of my groin. Each stroke took me to a new and
higher plateau of pleasure.

Just as I was about to climax, he withdrew from me and turned me to face the floor; just like in my fantasy he spread my thighs wide and then hard, almost brutally, he moved into me, his thrusts
hitting the back wall of my pussy. His hands spanked my buttocks; male grunts filled the dark room. It was good – it was better than good, it was fantastic.

But something was missing!

Blake’s face appeared before my eyes as the man above me continued to thrust into me. It came to me then, I couldn’t do this. I had hardly met Blake but it was him that I wanted, not
this fantastic faceless lover of a man.

Hell, my prehistoric cave-man had a face; this guy was just a body. I wanted Blake.

I shivered. Every sweet impulse shut down as if it had never been there. Sensing this, he withdrew.

I stood and pulled on my jumper. “You should go.”

Silence.

I flicked on the light and turned, expecting to face a put-out man. I gaped, sitting before me buck-naked, looking unbelievably sexy, was Blake. He had been my secret lover all along. When he
looked up, I was snared by a pair of icy blue eyes.

I could have laughed with joy. Blake was my prehistoric lover, living and breathing in the flesh. In fact, the man of my dreams and the man of my flesh were so similar, they could have been
twins.

He stood. “I’m going. Look, listen . . .”

“No!”

He ran a hand through his black hair. “But you just said.”

“I know. That was before I knew it was you. See, I was thinking about you. I wanted, well, to ask you on a date maybe. Hell, I’m making this worse, but do you like me? Oh, tell me to
shut up.”

He grinned sexily. “I’m crazy about you.”

“You are.” I licked my lips. “In that case, how do you take your eggs?”

“Scrambled.” He tugged my jumper off and entered me before we had even tumbled to the carpet.

Jade (Derby, UK)

Personally I blame it on the nuns.

I didn’t have a Catholic upbringing, my parents weren’t even lapsed, but when I was fourteen everything changed. When they caught me in their bed with the next door neighbours’
oldest son, a bottle of vodka, a joint and a Polaroid camera (what can I say, I’m easily led) they decided some repression was exactly what I needed.

And after that shock, my mother’s subsequent turn to Valium and my father’s consequent turn to an even younger mistress, they decided religion could be the answer for us all.

To say it didn’t work is rather an understatement. At eighteen, when I finally escaped the ridiculously strict convent school, the years of repressed bad girl behaviour came out with a
vengeance.

So now, more than a few years later, not only have I done pretty much everything with everyone (except a nun, which, admittedly, remains a huge fantasy, but is another story . . .) I have all
the conditioned guilt to go with it.

So my fantasies aren’t exactly conventional.

But fortunately I seem to have found someone even less conventional than I am.

Or should I say that he found me?

It always starts in the shower. I’m using some lavender shower gel that’s supposed to be relaxing me, rubbing it slowly over my body, but it does nothing for my
knotted shoulders. I just can’t relax, and I know that I need someone’s sensual touch to release the tension inside.