The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (9 page)

“Olivia,” he asks, “would you mind if I beat off?” But he does not wait for a response; he has already pulled out his cock and is stroking it slowly.

“Why can’t you do that in your room?” I ask him.

“No, no, you’re the one who made me hard,” he responds. “I want to look at your tits. You don’t have to do anything. They just look so nice as you brush your
teeth.”

Grudgingly I comply, resuming brushing my teeth and trying to ignore him. In the fantasy I am slightly put off, but in real life I am extremely turned on imagining this man so aroused by my
breasts. As he gets more excited, he begs me to lift my shirt, and I agree. By the end, he is fucking me over the edge of the sink. I can see his face contort in the mirror as he comes. My cleavage
swells seductively as I lean forward like a teenage singer in a publicity photo.

Perhaps my dearest breast fantasy, though, is the one that really happened to me, from beginning to end. I still think about it frequently, and it brings me to orgasm every time. It was a one
night stand – but with a man I’d known for some time, a friend of a friend whose expression of cocky intelligence I’d admired for quite a while. One late, drunken night, he ended
up in my apartment. Of course there was a lot of kissing and groping, but in the fantasy I skip that part; in fact, I skip to after each of our first orgasms that night. I begin the fantasy as we
laid in bed, sweaty and sticky and naked, tangled in the bed sheets and our discarded clothing. I sat up suddenly, planning on getting a drink of water. But before I could ask him if he’d
like some, he lifted his hand to trace the outline of my breast. “I don’t know if this is bad to say,” he began. I didn’t respond, mesmerized by the sight of my round, firm
breast filling his outstretched hand. “You have really nice tits,” he finished. His other hand slid across my other breast, and I felt too turned on to speak. “I guess
you’re offended,” he told me as his hands continued to move across my nipples, into my cleavage, out along my upper ribs, “but I just really wanted you to know.”

Shaking myself out of my daze, I responded, “No, no, you didn’t offend me at all.” After a moment I remembered my manners and responded to the compliment: “Thank
you.”

With this sign of permission, he rose to devour my breasts and collarbones ferociously. He wrapped his arm tightly around me tightly with one arm and began to make out with my left tit –
it pressed softly against his cheeks and chin as he sucked. I could see the outline of his cock as it lifted the sheets still stretched across his lap. I leaned in close to his ear and asked,
“Do you want to fuck them?” Perhaps this was an unusual offer, because he seemed pleasantly surprised, even slightly incredulous. “Really?” he asked. I lowered myself onto
the bed and pulled him up over me so that his cock aligned with my cleavage, pointing enticingly toward my mouth. As I pressed my breasts upward and he filled the space between them, I took the
nice, firm, mushroomy tip of his cock into my mouth. He moaned more and more loudly, seeming to enjoy this more than the intercourse we had just finished. As I arched my back and circled my tongue,
he began to talk dirty. “Can I come on your tits?” he asked, and when I nodded he continued. “I want to come on your tits,” he repeated breathlessly, “Oh, I’m
going to come on your tits!” His balls grew hard against my hand and I knew his prediction was about to come true, so I released his cock from my mouth and raised my upper body. He kneeled
over me and took himself into his hand, vigorously stroking until he began to shoot long spurts of semen all over my breasts. I repeat that image over and over – the come erupting from the
pretty pink head of his penis, hitting my jutting breasts, sliding down their curved slopes in creamy white streams. As we lay back down together, in a lazy, fatigued motion, he rubbed his hand
over my slippery breast. “I can’t believe this feels so good,” he murmured drowsily. “What?” I asked. His response was mumbled, and I’m not sure whether he said,
“Coming on tits,” or “Come on tits.” I thought about asking him to repeat himself, but then realized that either way, I agreed wholeheartedly.

Rachael (Toronto, Canada)

I’m in my mid-thirties and single, with a successful career in film and media. I love my job, but it demands long hours and leaves little time for serious relationships.
I have had a strong sex-drive since my early teens and a very active tendency for using sexual fantasy while I masturbate. When I was twelve, I discovered my older brother’s hidden stash of
porno magazines. The photos were instructive for showing me where things were “down there”, but it was the erotica and fantasy letters that really caught my imagination. Through them, I
learned how to masturbate. I started off with inquisitive fingers, but eventually graduated to penetration with the handle of a hairbrush, and then – most thrilling of all – I
experimented with the electric toothbrush against my clit, and have been hooked on fantasy and self-pleasure ever since. Over the years, I have grown to appreciate just how uncommon this is for a
girl. Imagine my horror, having figured out how to come at the tender age of twelve, to find that a lot of women don’t orgasm regularly – and some not at all! I feel very lucky to have
learned to take control over my own pleasure when I was so young.

Since my job takes up so much time, sexual fantasy has been a real sanity-saver over the years. I don’t like sleeping around, but at this critical point in my career I also don’t
have much time to develop the kind of relationships with lovers that I want. I know myself more intimately than any partner could ever hope to, and can give myself stellar orgasms, either with busy
fingers or by using one (or more) of the many sex toys I’ve acquired. My imagination has always been my greatest tool when getting myself off. I easily have a hundred different scenarios I
use to jack off with, but the following is an old favourite of mine.

During my undergrad years in Ottawa, I had a professor I absolutely adored. He wasn’t particularly handsome or flashy; in fact, he was fairly short with a careless style of dress. But he
had these amazing blue bedroom eyes, and a seductive voice that often had me secretly wet during class. I lusted after him throughout my degree, but he was married – and my instructor –
and nearly twice my age . . . in other words, very taboo. But that made him all the more fun to dream about.

In my fantasy, I am going to his poetry tutorial. It is the final class of the year before exams, and I want to leave a lasting impression. Though I have never been so brave or foolish as to
declare my feelings, I’d sensed a mutual attraction from the outset of my first year, and thought that, at the very least, I could look my best for him on our last day together. That morning,
I wear a flattering dress – casually sexy with a full skirt and a low neckline which shows off my large breasts.

My pulse is racing by the time I reach his office at the top of the staircase. His secretary calls me over to her desk just outside his inner door.

“Oh, Rachael. . . Professor MacLeod has been called away. He left a note asking if you would lead the tutorial.”

She hands me a file of notes and, as I read over the familiar scrawl for my instructions, I can almost hear his sultry voice in my head:

I walk into the tutorial room, glad I’m the first one there so I can take a moment to get over the pang of disappointment I feel at not seeing him. He has a huge old desk, with a long
table pushed up flush against it creating a “T” shape. I go around and sit in his leather desk chair, catching a faint whiff of his cologne. Maybe I can pretend to need help with my
final paper and book a private session, just to be alone with him . . . but would I ever have the nerve to act on my feelings? The thought makes my face flush red.

The others drift in and take their seats around the table, including my ex-boyfriend Brad who raises an eyebrow at me when he sees where I’m sitting. His disdainful reaction when I
stupidly confided my secret crush on Professor MacLeod was the main reason I’d broken up with him. I couldn’t bear his teasing. Even in bed, he wouldn’t leave the subject alone.
Slipping into me, he’d whisper things like, “Are you thinking about MacLeod right now? Wishing this was his cock fucking you?” The sex had been fantastic with Brad – he had
a long cock and amazing stamina, but the mean-spirited way he made fun of my feelings was too much, and I’d ended it before the start of the spring term.

“Hi, guys. Professor MacLeod is away and he left a note for me to lead the class.”

No one seems surprised. I am an A student, and I had taken over once before when he was ill. Brad smirks at me and I ignore him.

I pull the chair closer to the desk so I can reach the tape recorder and feel my leg brush up against something warm. I peer underneath to see Professor MacLeod grinning up at me and I nearly
jump out of my seat. His hand flies out to grab my knee, steadying me, and he winks and raises a finger to his lips to tell me not to give him away. At first, I figure it is some kind of weird last
day joke, so I go along with it.

But his real motive is soon made crystal clear.

I feel his hands gliding up my legs to slowly push my dress up until it is around my waist. His fingers trace along the waistband of my panties and begin to tug at them. I don’t dare move
and clear my throat.

“Let’s get started. Brad, could you get the door? We’re going to listen to Eliot’s
The Four Quartets,
then have a general discussion.”

I lean forward to press the play button, raising my ass off of the chair enough to allow Professor M. to pull my panties down. I lift my feet as I sit back, and he slides them completely off. He
nudges my legs open.

I can feel my juices beginning to seep onto the leather chair as he starts kissing his way up between my inner thighs. I’m so excited I could explode. The kissing stops. His face is right
in my crotch now. I can sense his hot breath on my damp skin, but he just hovers there – a maddening inch or two shy of my cunt. I can feel myself swelling and opening to him, juices pouring
out of me in a cascade.
Oh, God . . .

I look casually around the room. Everyone is listening intently to the reading and following along in their books, making notations in the margins with pencils. With one hand, I hold my
paperback text up to hide the lust on my face, and sneak the other hand under the desk to grab my professor by the back of his head and press him urgently into my desperate cunt. It is all I can do
not to scream as I feel that tongue start to lap up the seeming gallons of liquid running out of me. He swirls his mouth around my opening, sucking up the juice. Out of the corner of my eye I see
Brad’s head turn towards me. Did he hear the slurping sound? I reach out and turn up the volume on the tape recorder. I slump back slightly lower in the chair, my legs open as far as
they’ll go under the confines of the desk.

I can smell myself now, hot and musky. Can anyone else? I risk another peek at Brad. He’s looking at me with a strange expression, but drops his eyes back to his book. I don’t care
any more. It feels too amazing. I want to throw my head back and scream my lover’s name – not Professor M., but his first name, John – order him to lick me. I want to pinch my
nipples, grab his head with both hands and guide his wonderful mouth to my bursting clit . . . but all I can do is sit back and act calm with my dream lover lapping at my cunt in front of my
oblivious classmates.

The tape is nearly over, and yet he is still just teasing me, keeping me on the edge for the entire agonizing length of the reading. He licks all around, but has not touched my clit even in
passing. The bastard isn’t going to let me come before I have to lead the discussion!

The final line of the poetry dies away. There’s a moment of silence as the class absorbs the last image – and finally he begins slowly, lightly tonguing my clit. I give a stifled
moan that quickly becomes a cough, and ask in a husky voice:

“Any observations?”

Luckily, the two other class keeners immediately dive into a lively banter on Eliot’s use of melopoeia. I don’t even hear what they’re saying. Professor M.’s tongue is
increasing its pressure, dancing a wild rhythm on my clit. I grab the arms of the chair until my knuckles turn white. His finger is at my entrance, poised to plunge in. I tense my legs and in he
thrusts. He cocks his finger around until he is hitting against my swollen inner pleasure point and begins to pound and vibrate against it with the same tempo as his darting tongue.

I feel a tingling heat begin in my clenched toes soaring up and down through my body like someone has poured a shower of hot water over me. I bite the insides of my cheeks hard enough to taste
blood as the throbbing gives way to crashing spasms. My cunt clamps around his gifted finger and mouth again and again until the pulses subside. I want to weep from joy and sweet relief.

I realize I’ve closed my eyes, suddenly aware that the discussion has trailed off. I open my eyes to see that people are starting to pack away their books into knapsacks. Class is over. I
recover slightly.

“Okay. Well, I hope you all found that to be as illuminating as I did. See you at the exam next week.” I can’t help but smile. “It’s been a true
pleasure.”

(Usually by this point in the fantasizing, I’m coming all over the place. But sometimes I need more to get me there, or else I want to put off the big moment so that when it hits, the
orgasm is truly mind-blowing. My variation on the longer version – the director’s cut, you might call it – goes like this:)

Brad hasn’t moved. He’s staring at me. I wink and pretend to take some notes as Professor M. lovingly cleans me off with his clever tongue. I can’t wait until Brad leaves so I
can lock the door and thank John in kind. Finally, Brad gets up and goes to the door. But he doesn’t leave. He closes and locks it.