The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (8 page)

My first serious boyfriend figured out my fetish. When I first met him halfway through college, he loved to touch my breasts, to suck on them before my shirt was even off, pulling at the cloth
of my T-shirt with his teeth until he could close his lips around my hard nipple. He would reach his strong arm around my ribcage to hold my breasts protectively as he fucked me from behind. I
loved the contrast between his soft, reverent touch on my tits and the rough, desperate thrusting of his hips against my arse. If this is what sex is all about, I thought at age eighteen, I see why
people like it so much.

Now let me tell you a bit about this boyfriend. Like me, he was a big fan of tits. I know this because he freely pointed out pairs that he liked especially, either on TV or when we passed them
on the street. This made me a bit jealous, and I often fantasized that I was one of the women he admired. I would imagine him pulling my shirt open, button by button, to slowly expose inflated
silicone breasts like those of the actress or model. But I never seriously minded his wandering eye, because he used to give a lot of attention to my breasts, too. That is, until he realized how
much I liked it. It took him a while to notice; in fact he often apologized for focusing so much on my breasts, evidently believing that I merely tolerated his fetish. But one day while he was
trying to give me an orgasm my own breast fetish became obvious. I had always orgasmed easily when I masturbated but had not yet been able to with him. This troubled him and scandalized my sexually
liberated friends, but it didn’t bother me too much. Orgasms were something I could have by myself. Many of the sensations I felt with my boyfriend – being fucked, licked, sucked
– did not seem to lead my body toward an orgasm but were horribly, torturously pleasing in themselves. I loved being penetrated from behind, feeling so full of his cock that I thought
I’d burst. And I loved riding on top of him, watching his face contort into an expression of so much pleasure that it looked like pain as I slid slowly up and down his shaft.

But my favourite thing, our least common position, was when I lay on my back, vulnerable to the whims of this large man hovering just above me. With just one of his hands, he would grab hold of
both my wrists and pull my arms up above my head. He liked to use his boxer briefs to tie my arms tightly to the bed frame. His excited cock would approach my face as he worked, and I would strain
upward to run my tongue along its length. Instinctively he would press it into my mouth and let me suck on it for a moment, but then would pull back, denying himself the pleasure he was saving for
just later. But the best part came after he finished tightening the knot. Hungrily he would admire my stretched, exposed body for a moment. I would not dare to look down at myself, but I would
imagine what he saw: the delicate ribcage, the round, full breasts swelling up from the curve of the waist, the rosy pink aureolaes against creamy white skin. Gently he would lower his head and
graze his lips over my nipple – then he would pull his head back in surprise, as though he had not meant to lower it. He would stare at me, his face intense with desire, until he could no
longer bear it; then he would attack my breast like a starved dog, growling and biting. My back would arch and my hand would stir instinctively, trying to move to the back of his head to control
his motions. “No,” he would say with a wicked smile, “you can’t stop me.” His pelvis would grind against mine as he stabbed his cock all around my pussy until finally,
with a great groan of relief, he slid it inside. This all was too much for me, and I would moan with the despair of unbearable, unimaginable pleasure. I remember whispering to myself, “I
can’t stand it!” I think perhaps at those moments I was close to coming, but it was a very different, more intense type of orgasm than the ones I gave myself, and I didn’t
recognize it. So I tried to focus on his pleasure, matching his thrusts and pauses, until with a final shudder he came, crying out loudly enough to wake his room-mates through the flimsy walls of
their apartment. He lay his head down between my breasts, and I wanted to embrace him, stroke his hair, but couldn’t – my arms were tied above my head. Lying still and bound, his cock
pulsating gently inside me, I felt just a little jealous of this orgasm that seemed so final and satisfying.

At other times he worked diligently to try to give me an orgasm, but none of the tricks in his twenty-year-old repertoire did anything for me. They were the same things that my female friends
recommended: fingers, vibrators, and oral sex. This last was the hands-down favourite of all of my friends. “If he were doing it right,” they told me, “you would come.” But
watching his head disappear down into the nether regions of my body did not interest me in the least. I imagined that anybody might be down there – perhaps a useful possibility for women who
were bored with their partners, but I wanted to see mine. I had never believed in penis envy until I realized how much I would prefer a blow job. That seemed like the hottest imaginable experience,
to watch as my enormous, engorged genitals slid completely inside my lover’s mouth. I could watch his face as he concentrated on my pleasure, see my cock disappearing between his rosy, parted
lips. One day during foreplay, as he lay on top of me kissing my lips and stroking my pussy, I suddenly realized what would be the next best thing – maybe even a better thing. With one hand,
I pulled my shirt up over my breasts. Grabbing the back of his head, I pushed it toward my nipple. “Suck my tits,” I told him urgently. Surprised but compliant, he began to move his
lips to my breast. His hand moved from my pussy as he focused attention on my chest. But I pushed it back, sliding it up under my skirt. “No, don’t stop,” I told him. Watching his
mouth filled with my breast, the pink nipple matching the pink lips, my clitoris come to life as it never had under his touch before, I came in minutes.

At first my boyfriend enjoyed this new discovery, that I could come as long as he sucked my tits. Soon, however, he seemed to realize that he was, in fact, giving me a blow job. Sucking my tits
suddenly ceased to be his self-indulgent fetish; now he could seldom maintain interest for the several minutes it took to bring me to orgasm. Soon we stopped having sex altogether. One evening as I
napped on his bed, I awoke to find him sucking on my exposed breast. I watched for a moment in disbelief – for weeks I had been longing to see his face at my breast.

Excited, I ran my fingers lightly through his hair. But when he realized that I was awake, he froze. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. “That was nice.”

Instead he sat up on the bed, turning his back to me. “No, I don’t want to any more,” he said brusquely. He emphasized the final word hostilely – evidently I had ruined
his fun by waking up. Over the next few days, I pondered this episode, growing increasingly angry that he would desire me only when I was unable to enjoy it.

Once I broke up with him, my breast fetish grew more intense. Often, as I undressed in front of my mirror, I noticed how good my tits looked. Many of my more flat-chested friends had admired my
picturesque curviness in underwear or bathing suits, and I often thought of their compliments as I viewed myself. The sight of my tits filling up the cups of my bra was in itself enough to make me
want to come. They had a nice fullness and plumpness and curved seductively where they met to form my cleavage. Looking in the mirror, I would arrange my clothes like the women in men’s
magazines. One of my favourite pictures in my old boyfriend’s porn collection was of a giant-breasted woman wearing a T-shirt that extended only as far down as her armpits. Her huge
creamy-coloured tits stuck out provocatively from under the half-shirt, almost as though she were unable to find a shirt large enough to fit. Thinking of her, I would roll my own T-shirt up over my
breasts, leaning forward so I spilled gently out of my exposed bra. When the round weight of my tits had fallen nearly all the way out, I would reach around to slowly unhook my bra, causing my
chest to jut outward as my arms stretched back. I wouldn’t take the bra off right away; instead, I would slide each strap off and, with one hand, hold the now functionless article of clothing
against my breasts, just covering my nipples as I leaned forward, my tits seeming all the more exposed against the T-shirt above them and bra dangling at their tips. Finally I would let the bra
drop to the floor, and my nipples would pop into view. I was always impressed with this view of myself – I looked as hot as one of those models baring their breasts in the magazines. My
breasts were not so melonous but they were full and quite pretty, with soft pink aureolaes and nicely turned-up nipples. It thrilled me that I was as turned on by my own image as by the women in
magazines – and I thought of how stupid my boyfriend had been not to appreciate such good-looking tits. With my breasts still exposed, I would lie down on my bed, rub my vibrator across my
nipples, and then lower it to my pussy while I imagined elaborate fantasies of people admiring my breasts.

Many of the fantasies were inspired by real events in which people had lusted after my tits. My friend Jackie, for example, really did run her hand over my exposed cleavage as she waited our
table at the bar. Jackie is a dedicated lesbian but looks like a sorority girl. She wears tight black pants or little tiny skirts, both of which show off her lean legs and pert arse. She probably
has nice tits but generally wears rather high-cut T-shirts that detract attention from them – working at the bar, legs increase your tips but cleavage attracts stalkers. I also generally kept
my breasts well-covered. On this particular night, however, I wore my tight T-shirt over a long, shimmering burgundy slip that I had bought at a thrift store and wore as a dress. “What a
pretty skirt,” she told me. I lifted my shirt to show her the top of the slip. The neckline was shaped like a butterfly, its wings cupping my breasts so tightly that I didn’t need to
wear a bra. It was quite low cut, however, a fact that was not lost on Jackie. Before this, she had never exhibited any signs of attraction towards me, which is not surprising considering she
generally dates boyish, muscular women. But seeing my chest decorated with the slinky butterfly she gasped, reached out and ran her hand lightly across my cleavage. “You look so good,”
she murmured. “I’ve never seen you in anything like that.” Embarrassed at this unexpected attention, I lowered the T-shirt back down. “I know you like butterflies,” I
told her awkwardly. But she was undaunted, and attempted to show off my chest to the rest of our friends. “Have you guys seen Olivia in this dress?” she asked them. “She should
wear stuff like this all the time.” She badgered me until I lifted it to show the table, after which she provided a free drink.

Since Jackie’s girlfriend was sitting at the next table, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t actually trying to sleep with me. But as I thought about this event later that night, I
became increasingly turned on remembering her appreciation of my tits. In my imagination, after she runs her hand across them, she leaves her hand holding my breast, exploring it gently with her
thumb. It reaches down under the edge of the slip and teases my nipple until it grows hard and pokes out indecently through the cloth. Then, realizing the inappropriateness of the setting, she
leads me by the hand to the back room. There she wraps her arms around me and begins to make out with me, rubbing her hands across my tits and leaning down to suck on them. She doesn’t lower
the top of my slip but pulls my breasts out of it so that the butterfly wings lie crushed just below my nipples. As she stands with her pretty face pressed firmly into my breast, her girlfriend
enters the room. I think she’ll be angry, and I start to step back from Jackie. But the girlfriend has evidently been invited, because she walks right over, grabs me from behind, and kisses
the back of my neck. She leans over my shoulder toward Jackie, and soon the two of them are kissing passionately just next to my ear. I feel the girlfriend’s hands slide over my breast and
then lift it to Jackie’s waiting lips. The girlfriend caresses my tits as Jackie sucks on them – even in a fantasy, this is too heavenly for me to believe.

Soon they have me sitting on the table, underwear off, Jackie’s head buried in my pussy while the girlfriend kisses my face and tits. As in all my fantasies, the admiration of my breasts
is ongoing: “Oh, your tits are so hot,” the girlfriend murmurs. Jackie raises her lips from my clit long enough to say, “I told you they were hot.” Looking me straight in
the eye, she adds sweetly, “I’ve been telling her for weeks how you have the nicest tits I’ve ever seen.” If I make it past this point, I add another scene: Jackie’s
girlfriend undoes her pants to release a strap-on dildo. She sits me on her lap facing away from her, and I can feel my clit under her fingers jutting forward like it does when my pussy is totally
full and turned on. Jackie spends some of the time sucking my clit, but then cannot resist my tits. She climbs up onto the table so that she is straddling me and her girlfriend. Then she lifts her
shirt, exposing her own small, round breasts. Shaking slightly from excitement, she rubs her small firm nipples against my larger, softer ones, grinding her body against mine until – well, if
I haven’t come by this point I always do right then, both in the fantasy and in reality.

Another of my favourite fantasies never happened at all, in any form. I’m not really sure what made me think of it, other than perhaps it derived naturally from my sessions staring at my
tits in the bathroom mirror. In the fantasy, I am in my pajamas brushing my teeth at the sink. My breasts are particularly large, larger than in real life, so that as I brush my teeth they obstruct
my arm motion a bit. They also completely fill out the thin, worn top of my pajamas, bulging against the soft cloth. I haven’t closed the bathroom door, and a male roommate enters the
bathroom to grab something or other. He is vaguely good-looking and entirely made-up; he doesn’t even resemble anyone I know. He, too, is in old, worn pajamas. As I continue to brush my
teeth, he makes some small talk, then falls silent for a moment. I wonder why he isn’t leaving the bathroom already. Looking over at him, I see his hand is at his crotch. A giant erection
fills the front of his pants.