The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (55 page)

Now I know he wants just what I was afraid he wanted. I raise both feet to the dusty old windowsill. I have to fight a strange urge to scrawl something in the dust with my toes or to streak the
dirt around in an abstract design. I guess I’m just trying to forget what I know I have to do, to forget where I am and whom I’m with – anything to take me away from the further
humiliation I know I’m about to endure. I have to have some control back. I need to have some, even just a little bit.

Well, I’m getting nothing. He’s forcing me to look back up at his face and I’m feeling stupid that I even tried to fight him. Now, I’m spreading my legs for him. My feet
are at opposite ends of the sill. I feel the stretch and strain in the tendons of my groin and upper thighs.

Although my eyes are focused on his face, as he demanded, I can still see his beckoning cock. Both his grin and his erection are growing. He pulls his shorts away from his body to allow his
monster room to expand. The angry red head of his prick on its thick, veined shaft is swelling over the elastic and seems to be staring right up at me.

My mouth opens involuntarily, my pussy twitches. I lick my parched lips. I want to suck that big, fat cock, run my teeth along its hardness, lick it, nibble it, roll my tongue around it. I want
to milk him dry and feel explosions of warm, thick jism spurting down my throat, dripping over my face, my tits, my belly.

I try to inch my thighs imperceptibly closer to each other to give myself some relief. He’s been teasing and manipulating me, making me very angry and frustrated, but above all, getting me
insanely, desperately horny! Shit, am I horny!

Of course, the fucking bastard knows exactly what I’m doing and stops the progress of my legs with a warning finger. I’ll give him the damned finger! Oh, God, if I can’t have
his prick, I want his fingers, his tongue, something – anything stuffed inside me!

I slide back on the stool, just as he commands, and obediently lean back so he sees I’m ready to proceed with the command performance. I run my index finger slowly down the midline of my
body till I reach my hairy acre. I run my fingers through the thick, dark curls. A finger gets caught in a tangle and I wince at the sharp pain of the hairs being pulled.

He, of course, shows amusement and just to tease me, lowers his shorts further. I draw my breath back sharply. His fully erect prick is a beauty. He’s beginning to hypnotize me with his
wanking hand that’s moving relentlessly up and down his rearing organ. He seems a bit detached, off in his own world, so I do nothing more for the moment. I sit still, anxiously awaiting his
next instruction.

Suddenly, he blinks and it seems to rouse him from his private reverie. He nods and I jump. What is it in his nods that they hold such power over me? I don’t know and I can’t help
what I do next. I’m cupping my crotch and squeezing. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but somehow I’m managing to do it. I have to do it.

My cunt is pounding. I want so badly to snake my finger up into my slit. I just start to slowly insinuate it between my puffy lips when he stops me. It’s not time for that yet. Now, he
wants me to hold myself open for him, so I obey. With two fingers on either side, I stretch open my pussy for him. I’m sitting here, displaying the inside of my wet, gaping cunt just because
he told me to.

Oh, God, he’s showing me his balls again. He’s lifted his big, heavy bollocks up over his shorts to show off his entire package. One hand is squeezing while the other’s
stroking, pulling, twisting, steadily, maddeningly.

I am open. My cunt is so open, so open and wet and hungry for him. I’m craving him so intensely that my pussy is a spasming cave of convulsions. These mini-orgasms are taunting and
teasing, not satisfying me. They’re making me more and more desperate for a really good fuck!

Damn that bastard! He’s much worse than a cunt-tease. He’s sneakier than a voyeur, more full of himself than an exhibitionist. He is driving me fucking mad, contentedly playing with
himself like that. He’s a controlling son of a bitch. He’s tormenting me and I’m loving it, absolutely revelling in it – and detesting it, and him, at the same time.

With my lips still spread wide, I pull up the hood to expose my stiff female phallus. It’s sharply sensitive and when he has me run my fingernail over it, he seems fascinated by the pain
he sees registering on my face and by the jagged twitching movements of my body.

Finally, he’s making me slide my middle finger into my pussy. I can feel my muscles contracting gratefully around it. Just as I begin to push it in and draw it out to relieve the
unbearable tension inside me, he stops me, then gestures with a quick jerk of his head.

Following his direction, I withdraw my reluctant finger and hold it up for his inspection. He makes me suck it dry. That’s a thing I normally like to do, for I love the sweet flavour of my
juice, but he’s watching me do it. He’s staring at me while I lewdly savour myself. He’s watching me so closely, so intimately, making me feel absolutely naked. Hell, I am naked,
far beyond exposed. I’m sucking for him and it’s just not the same as doing it to satisfy my own desire. It’s much baser, it’s worse and, because of that, it’s so much
hotter, so much better.

He moves his eloquent head down and to the side. Obeying, I lower my legs to the lowest rung of the stool, climb down, and walk to the fridge. I’m opening the door, bending down to the
lower bin, once again being reminded of the heavy, naked weight of my breasts.

I pull out the bin, reach in, and grab the largest cucumber I have. It’s his decision, not mine, to pick that precise one. I swear he made me pick the biggest one. It’s really long
and thick – I wish it were his prick and not just a damned cucumber. I quickly walk back to the window, climb the stool, and settle back into the required position.

He’s wagging his big cock back and forth at me as a reward for my alacrity and obedience, or perhaps it’s just a cruel tease – “this is mine and you can’t have
it”. I’m not sure which he means to convey, but I feel both. Maybe that’s what he wants me to feel. Probably. He sure does know exactly what he’s doing, what he’s
doing to me.

He’s made me his puppet. If he were in my apartment right now, rather than across the street, he’d make me his abject slave. Actually, he already has. I guess I’m safer with
him not so close. Look what he’s doing to me from a distance. I wonder what he would do to me if . . .

He’s demanding my attention. Instantly, my mind stops wandering. I’m watching him stroke and squeeze in a consistent way, a regular rhythm, not slow, not fast. He has a lot of
control over himself, as well as over me. My God, he’d be a great fuck! I can tell that he’s an animal who’d last for hours. A man who could fuck my brains out and make me come
and come and come till I had to beg him to stop. No one’s ever been able to drive me to that. Not so far, anyway. I think he can. I know he can. I’m sure he’s the one, the one who
can give me more than I can take!

He’s beaming as if he heard me say those words aloud. Feet back on the windowsill, legs far apart, I’m spreading myself wide open with my left hand. I’m rolling the smooth end
of the cuke around and around my slick labia before attempting to push it into me.

It’s really huge! So big, I have to insert it in little increments. A tiny bit further each time. A little bit deeper, stretching the yawn of my tight, hungry cunt. My tender pussy is
stinging sharply, but I persist in fighting my tightness and my fear. It’s so thick. But I know I have no choice – I have to take it for him, and besides, the reward will be much, much
greater than this temporary pain.

With each push, I drive it farther into my sheath and with each stroke out, more slippery juice covers it, making it easier to coax it farther in. As he moves his hand, so I move mine. Our hands
are dancing together to the same primitive music, our bodies in heat and in sync.

As his other hand fondles his balls, so mine manipulates my clit. Our eyes are locked together and our breathing is in tandem. Just like a bicycle. Just like riding a bicycle. Just like fucking.
It feels like we’re actually fucking each other. In/up, out/down, in/up, out/down.

So good! So fucking good! So bloody fucking hot! Looking into his eyes, watching his quick, blurry hand, shoving it in, feeling so totally stuffed, then feeling the phallus pulling my walls so
deliciously, leaving me so achingly empty, waiting for the next welcome, hard thrust, all the while, pulling my clit to bits!

“Fuck me! Fuck me!” I’m mouthing wonderful obscenities to him as he calls me his horny bitch, his slut, his fucktoy. He’s growling at me, telling me how fucking great it
is to be banging my hot, wet cunt.

It’s a brutal, vicious, bestial fuck and I feel so uncivilized, so animal. We’re so dirty, so filthy, so bad! Our hands are flying. He closes his eyes, scrunching them tightly,
throwing his head back, the sweat’s pouring from his face. Maybe he’s telling me that I can close my eyes, that I should close my eyes, but now I want to watch. I want to watch my
voyeur, my sweet, cruel, demanding voyeur. My master.

So I’m watching him as I’m fucking myself. It’s making me even hotter, watching him, seeing his hand, a blur in contrast with his slow ball-handler. My hands are on automatic.
My mind is fixed on only one thing, watching him right now while he’s too lost in himself to be watching me. My eyes are wide open because I have no need for fantasy. He is my fantasy.
He’s pushed me to a strange, dangerous place I’ve only dreamed about.

I’m lost in watching him as his hand speeds up and then slows way down to clench his spurting prick, watching his spunk flying up out of him and arcing down to splatter on the sidewalk in
front of him, then up again and down, then up again and down.

That torrent pushes me up over my own climax and now I have to close my eyes. I have to close my eyes and just feel. Just feel that natural dildo, forcing my sheath apart when the walls just
ache to collapse, close down upon each other, clench and grip and squeeze. Just feel the piercing, shocking moment when my clit can’t take any more and its jagged sharpness slices through the
rounded rollings of my cunt.

Coming! Coming! Coming! Over and over again!

Finally, totally depleted from my shattering climax, I groan and pull the dripping artificial penis from my worn-out pussy. I relax as the contractions inside me become softer and farther apart.
I wait for my pulse and breathing to get closer to normal. I can hear myself sighing in relief and contentment as the sweat drips down my body.

My dreamy haze begins to clear and I straighten up and look out the window at him. He’s sitting there, with his big arms folded across his chest and a broad smile of satisfaction on his
face. All I see is a look of tired, contented pleasure, no more threatening stares and leers, no more demanding, severe expressions of dominance and mastery. I can look at him as I would look at
any lover lying next to me in bed. Now he is truly gazing at me in the same way, now that our game is over, now that we’re both sated.

He rises from the bench. His flaccid penis and emptied balls fall heavily over his damp shorts. He pulls out the elastic from under them, adjusts himself carefully, and tugs the tiny shorts back
up to his waist. He winks and waves, grandly blows a kiss at me, then turns and begins walking away.

I lean out the window, this time, because I choose to, and watch his lovely, tight arse receding into the distance. I watch as his fine body gets smaller and smaller, till he’s too far
away for me to see. I remain here a while longer, feeling the sweat evaporating and cooling my hot body. With him no longer in my sight, the lascivious and decadent experience seems almost like a
dream.

But it hasn’t been a dream. In my hand, the glistening cucumber, as hot as my cunt, tells me it all had to be real. I begin walking out of the room and the dripping onto my thighs confirms
it. I feel so deliriously content. I’m even moving differently than I usually do when I’m alone. I feel like a sleek jungle cat, slinking, gracefully prowling. I feel beautiful,
desirable, sexual, alive!

I love this sultry, sexy feeling, I don’t want it to end. I need this every night. I need him to come back and play with me again. I pray he comes back. Please, he has to come back to me.
I’ll be watching for him at the window. I’ll be waiting.

Wendy (Nottingham, UK)

My name is Wendy, I’m twenty-four years old and I’m from Nottingham, England. I’m studying for a Masters degree in business psychology and I’ve had two
previous sexual partners. Both men. I say that with some regret because I’ve always wondered what sex would be like with another woman. I suppose most women have thought about that at some
point in time. However, I like to think that my fantasy is a little different because I would like to be held captive by another woman, to be completely powerless against her and to be ruthlessly
dominated. It’s the contrast between a soft womanly body and a merciless female mind which excites me. The two opposing halves of the female psyche rubbing up against each other and making
sparks fly. I guess you could say that fantasies are all about vixens and very willing victims!

One of my favourite things to imagine is that I’m lying in the back of this rusty old Transit van. Actually I’m tied up. There’s an old musty mattress in there and a threadbare
carpet that smells of engine oil and grease. My movement is restricted by the baling twine tied roughly around my wrists and ankles and secured to some kind of make-shift hooks welded to the tops
of the wheel-arches. I am completely naked apart from a black lacy bra and panties and silky black hold-up stockings, a birthday gift that morning from my flatmate Simone. Will Simone be wondering
why I haven’t made it home tonight? Would she have called the police? I can’t see anything through the torn piece of rag that has been used as a make-shift blindfold. I can hear a
diesel engine running rhythmically and the dry stuffy heat from the vents in the passenger compartment is starting to make me feel increasingly uncomfortable. I wonder how long I’ve been here
and if I’m ever going to get out. What if no one knows I’m missing? How would anybody find me? Still, in spite of my anxiety, I find myself thrilling with the sheer anticipation of what
could happen next.