The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies (11 page)

The only real variance in the above fantasy is that sometimes
the statue will come to life while I'm riding it and other
times not.

Cecilia, age 40
Bisexual
No children
Live-in relationship/marriage and steady relationships, not live-in
Master's degree
Writer
Massachusetts, USA

I discovered I could masturbate to orgasm when I was about
five years old. Even then, images of bondage and power/domination
turned me on – Catwoman and Batman on the old
Batman
TV show, the episode of
Star Trek
with the slave
people . . . I like to fantasise about men on men, bondage, roleplaying,
cock worship, large cocks and what to do with them,
domination, gay love, and beautiful young men. There are lots
more but in the past six to eight months those are the top
themes.

In my fantasy I'm a young prince whose father is involved
in a huge power struggle. The scenario can vary from the family
being modern crime lords, to medieval settings with magic
and spells. My safety has been entrusted to an older man whom
I gradually fall in love (or at least lust) with, but when my
father discovers that this man is actually a traitor working for
our enemies he is forced to flee, taking me with him. Sometimes
I start out as a hostage, sometimes I have secretly been
helping him all along to bring my father down. Either way, we
end up in a deeply sexual relationship, fuelled by the tension.
The scenario climaxes when my father catches up to us at last
– we know he's spying on us but hasn't yet made his move,
and, to protect me, my lover enacts a scene in which he 'rapes'
me, to make it look to my father like I've been his captive, his
slave all along, when in truth it is our goodbye.

Cynthia, age 31
Bisexual
Single, moderately sexually active
No children
Master's degree
Residence Hall Director
Ohio, USA

I'm turned on by sexual tension, especially when I can't act on
it. But flirting with the person and playing with fire is always
fun. I'm a little less caught up on hearts and flowers and champagne.
Romance is wonderful, but I'm also attracted to raw
sexuality, being sexually satisfied. When I was younger, I was
more worried about pleasing my partner than myself.

Lately, I've fantasised about having sex with a very alpha
male, one who is almost controlling. I have a favourite fantasy
about being taken (literally kidnapped) by a man who is superhuman
in some way (vampire, werewolf, wizard, etc.). He takes
me to his home, which is somewhere secluded, to be used as
his sexual plaything. Sometimes he locks me in a little cage,
sometimes he chains me to his bed, and other times he uses
some sort of magical power on me in order to bend me to his
will. He likes to tease me. He pulls my ass to the edge of the
bed and then ties my legs open so they are completely stretched
out. That way he has access to my ass and my pussy. The man
only wants me as a sexual servant but eventually develops
feelings for me. While I enjoy having sex with him, I am angry
with him for holding me captive. The fantasy usually ends
with me tying him up and leaving him unsatisfied as I walk
out.

Name withheld, age 46
Heterosexual
Live-in relationship/marriage
Bachelor's degree
Writer
Wisconsin, USA

When I was young I thought Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin (when
he was in his early 20s) was beautiful. Of course, I was very
young and inexperienced (thanks to a very protective dad), and
so my mind couldn't grasp anything beyond hugging and
kissing. Now I'm turned on by nude Greek statues, the kind
found in museums. You have these healthy, trim gods doing
their thing – chasing nymphs or what have you. The sculptors
should have shown these statues masturbating or getting their
cocks licked, because all that beauty is otherwise going to
waste. Walking through a major art museum is better than a
porn movie any time!

My fantasies mostly revolve around the theme of being put
in a situation where I can't really be held responsible for my
actions. For example, my engaging in the act is the lesser of
two evils. (It's like you have a choice: either the guy performs
cunnilingus on you and your friend, or you have to act as maid
for the 3-storey, 115-room whorehouse. And, may I add, you
have no help in cleaning the house. It's room after room of
scrubbing toilets, wiping down shower walls, and cleaning
someone's hairs out the sink. I hate picking hairs out of the
sink!)

Well, my actual fantasies are much more concrete than that.
This is to say, I don't fantasise about a guy sticking his prick
up my ass because I know from experience that, unless the
guy knows what he's doing, the act hurts like hell. I don't
fantasise about having two guys lick me at the same time
because I know someone is going to get pissed off at somebody
else. Someone is going to feel left out. And the United States
is still largely heterosexual, so it's damn unlikely that two het
males are going to feel comfortable about rubbing against each
other (and I'm sure if you have two males to one woman, one
of the males is bound to accidentally touch the other male,
and then you have two males ready to fight because someone
feels that his masculinity is being challenged. Every het male
I've talked with regarding multiple partners expressed indignation
about touching another naked male).

OK, here goes (blush). I'm on my hands and knees, being
slow-fucked by two witches. I don't mean they're fucking me
slowly. I mean the auburn-haired witch who kneels behind
me has his hands on my hips, and he pushes his huge dick in
me real fast, and then he pulls out really slow, so that I feel
every morsel of delicious friction as he withdraws his cock. He
never completely withdraws. He's just in real hard and real
fast, and out real tender and slow as though he knows how to
let his cock linger on the edge of my pussy. If I could, I would
scream, but the 6' 4" black-haired, blue-eyed babe who kneels
before me, well, he looks even better without any clothes. He's
cut, with the six-pack and the guns. He doesn't look like a high
priest in one of the most whispered-about covens in the region.
He looks like a weightlifter from one of those expensive California
gyms. This ain't California, though, and he wears
nothing but a blue tattoo of the Horns of Isis on his right
shoulder and a silver pentagram with an amethyst as its
centrepiece around his throat.

The auburn witch halts, leans into me a little, and begins to
finger my clit. The more the auburn pagan pinches the lips of
my pussy and squeezes my clit between his index and third
finger, the harder I suck the black witch. God in Heaven, he
tastes so creamy and smooth – like sweet yogurt when you add
a tiny bit of salt. He strokes my hair and shifts his hips a little.
Suddenly he pushes me backwards and the auburn one pulls
at my shoulders until I'm flat on my back. I stare at the ceiling
– a beautiful painting that depicts every known goddess
exposing her swollen cunt to the hungry mouth of a god with
a rig not to be believed. Auburn brings his face close to mine
so that I see his long straight lashes, which are rather pale when
compared to the sensual reds and soft browns of his hair. He
pins my wrists to the dirt floor and shoves his tongue inside
my mouth. The high priest thrusts my legs apart, revealing my
cunt which makes a wet smacking sound as the lips of my
vulva open a little. Oh goddamn! Resting his weight on his
elbow and knees, the black priest uses one of his hands to guide
himself inside me. I gasp for air as his tremendous-sized dick
tears its way through my walls. I scream from a good pain
because I need to be fucked raw. I am two weeks away from
my bleeding, and I have become mad, mindless and chaotic in
my need to have a dick inside me and my clit licked and nibbled.
My arms snake around his shoulders, my legs embrace his hips.
During the two weeks prior to my period, I can think of nothing
except making the horniness go away. His hips guide mine into
a rhythmic sway. His razor stubble rakes my face. He's deep
inside me, nourishing me in this crumbling, forgotten church
with its busted-out windows and the occasional crow flapping
through the mouldy air. Vaguely, I think if we're caught bareassed
and screwing inside an abandoned church, then who is
going to bail our asses out of jail? Actually, I'm thinking who
is going to bail
my
ass out of jail? Like many witches, Black
Hair is middle-to-upper class, well-educated, and a phone call
away from a lawyer who probably plays golf with the district
attorney every Sunday. Me? I'll be lucky if I land a cell above
the ground. 'Don't worry about it,' he lifts himself on his elbows
but he doesn't stop fucking me. He has the hard, angular
features of the Norwegians, but the full, pouting lips of the
Swedes. When he smiles, his face softens. 'I'm a witch,
remember?' Sometimes, balling a witch can get a little creepy
because he can be eerily telepathic. For now, though, his fucking
feels too good for me to argue with him.

Toy Stories
Astrid, age 58
Heterosexual
Live-in relationship/marriage
Children
PhD
Writer
Vienna, Austria

My fantasy is written as a story. The only time my mother
spoke to me about sex was when I was fifteen. It was an e-ort
to demystify the contents of my womb with the help of illustrations
in my zoology book. I do not have memories of ever
having been told to keep my fingers out of 'there', although I
do recall how I told my two-year-old daughter that one did not
do 'that' with people around. And although I cottoned on later
to what he was getting at, I'm sure that my mother, one of
those women who eventually gets everything right, never
wanted to go into the reasons for Mick Jagger singing, 'I can't
get no satisfaction'. Or maybe she knew that in the end it was
not satisfaction that was the game's name.

All these jumbled thoughts played through my mind as I
waited for my plane for New York and my menopause to strike.
My ovaries were having what I thought was their final fling,
yet I still wondered why I was suddenly in such a state of
enduring arousal. I told my muse, but his reaction did not solve
the problem, if problem there was.

'Are you still horny?' he asked me before I left.

'I think I'll be horny for ever.'

'Music,' he said.

Yes, my muse is a man. Who else could coax the unspeakable
from within my core to my breast and down the length of my
arms to my right hand, through my fingers, the pen, the keys,
to the page? Music, yes. But he wasn't around and it wasn't
really about him. It was about me.

More and more I wanted to explore. I would have dreams
of dancing naked in a roomful of dildos. There were black
ones and red ones, purple, yellow; there were big ones and
curved ones, ones with glitter and with little appendices; what
they all had in common were smiles on their dickheads. I
wanted books on my shelves about cock, clit and cunt, but
I wanted nice covers.

Just like Hook's Peter Pan before he could fly, I'd missed the
60s. But it wasn't too late to play with the forbidden. Four-letter
words. Fuck was one I had started to say aloud, but only when
swearing; then there was cock as in peak, cunt as in hunt, clit
as in split. And oh so much more in the name of love. I wanted
to play with anal and bang, blow, buns and bush, butt, come
and slit. I wanted oils and creams, candles and lubes. In an
orgy of the senses I wanted to drown. I wanted to learn how
to masturbate, do a course, start from scratch. I didn't want
mail order. I wanted someone to take me in hand. A shop.
Friendly sta-. I had questions to ask.

I'd sent an email from the town of Calvin in Switzerland
where I lived. No sex shops in the city? One. Two. Maybe more
tucked away in the red-light area behind the station. I scuttled
in once for a look and scuttled out again with my clandestine
purchase of pink pleasure balls, a present to me on my 52nd
birthday. My mother's day gift was the trip to New York and
a tube to the lower east side. Babes in Toyland. The musical.
No way.

My heart was beating as I pushed open the door. Over eithteen.
You betcha. So why did I feel nervous? Wow! It was gorgeous.
So was she. Like the girl next door. I've always had a soft spot
for tomboyish redheads. From my Pippy Longstocking days, I
guess. At the threshold I let slip the coat of being a wife, a
mother, from my shoulders. I only had that afternoon in the
store. It was now or never. I had to do the necessary research.
I was a writer, a lover, and I was going to learn how to write
erotica. My head spun. It was gorgeous, I felt dizzily free.

'So you made it?' she said. 'Come. Put your bag down and
I'll show you around.'

'Do you have the same size, but without the vanilla taste?'
The words floated across from a table of dildos. A voluptuous
black woman wistfully stroked a large curved purple number
and I stared as if in a trance.

'Do you want to start with the dildos?' the redhead said.

I put my bag down, shook my head. It was spinning. Then
I blurted, 'I don't know what I want. This is my first time. Can
you show me . . . the Hitachi wand?'

The redhead raised one eyebrow and then she smiled. She
was gentle and pretty. Freckles sprinkled her nose. She picked
up the biggest vibrator I had ever seen. Now this wasn't difficult
since I'd only seen the mail-order ones intended for easing pain
in the neck region. I could never get that 'wand' inside me.
Then I realised that was perhaps not the main intention. The
redhead turned it on.

'Do you have something a little more . . . discreet? In size and
in sound?'

She showed me a tiny finger cap. 'It comes with its own little
purse to slip on a belt.'

I could just see myself travelling with my bumbag and the
mini-vibe purse. 'Is it any good?'

She turned it on. It gave a low buzz. 'I need something a
little more powerful myself,' she confided.