The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies (3 page)

Jeanne, age 81
Heterosexual
Widowed, celibate but looking
Children
Author/Pensioner
Wiltshire, UK

I fell madly in love with Errol Flynn at ten years old, though I
knew nothing about sex then. In film I was also turned on by
The Three Musketeers
and
Dracula
, particularly the bit where
Jonathan Harker is seduced by Dracula's vampire bride/sisters.
I loved the hippy era, where men wore flowing hair and kaftans,
loons and sandals, and lots of beads. I've always been a bohemian
in dress and taste. Then there were the dashing cavaliers
of the seventeenth century, again long hair and fancy clothes,
with much swashbuckling and swordplay. This was down to
early reading of historical novels. Turn-ons now are Johnny
Depp in
The Libertine
and male ballet dancers in classical and
modern pieces.

My fantasies feature young handsome men with long hair
and chiselled features. I'm cynical now, no longer romantic, but
I'd still like to find a knight on a white horse to carry me away
to Neverland. I like young men, and this is difficult to fulfil now
that I'm older. In my fantasy I'm in a pub in Glastonbury. This
ancient town is one of my favourite stomping grounds, absolutely
heaving with personable young men, the long-haired
hippy type that turns me on. I'm at the bar, ordering a G&T. A
guy comes in, a Cap'n Jack Sparrow look-alike. I have noticed
that several are aping
The Pirates of the Caribbean.
This one in
particular has tight jeans, a promising bulge, a baggy-sleeved
white shirt, gold hoop earrings, locks halfway down his back
and a headscarf.

I want him.

'That one's mine,' I warn off Maggie, the friend I came in
with. She nods and shrugs. I know he isn't her bag. She's into
the sophisticated male, but is happy to indulge me. Following
her own agenda, she heads off in the direction of half a dozen
business executives who are slumming it.

I feast my eyes on my boy. It doesn't matter that I'm twice
his age. I have always gone for men who are my juniors. Don't
find those of my own years in the least attractive. They don't
rouse my lust, stir my blood, or fill me with the desire to stroke
their curls or unzip their pants. I lean on the bar, eyeing him
boldly, never mind that he may think I'm his mother. So what?
Isn't there such a thing as an Oedipus complex? I'd spoil him,
indulge him, buy him whatever he wanted. I'm not proud.

I've kept my looks, worked on my figure, dress trendy, not
frumpy.

'Come to me, baby,' I croon inwardly. 'Let me hire a room,
take you upstairs and give you the benefit of my considerable
experience and the best blow job of your entire life.'

He drops his money and bends to retrieve it. So do I. Our
fingers meet. I don't draw back and neither does he. He grins
and there's that flash of chemistry between us without which
sex rarely, if ever, happens. I'm creaming my panties for him.
I smile across at Maggie. She shrugs and takes herself off in
pursuit of her own ovarian stimulation, knowing what I'm like
and leaving me to it. She's on the hunt, following a quest of
her own.

'Can I buy you a drink?' is my opening gambit.

'Sure,' he says, glancing at the mates who are with him,
some dressed as pirates, too. They give him the thumbs up.

I don't intend to get him plastered – just enough alcohol to
make him unaware of the age gap. This doesn't seem to be
bothering him, however, and we sit together on a bench. We
don't talk much, maybe remark on the historic building, and
he tells me he's in a band (what else?), plays guitar and they
are going on tour soon. I could be talking to my youngest son.

I don't care about this. All I want is to be alone with him. I
lean closer, my thigh pressed to his, feeling his heat through
my thin skirt. Thrills run up and down my spine and my cunt
spasms. It has been some time since I've had one who so closely
fulfils my ideal. He's lovely, and I shall be sorry to see him
leave.

'Shall we go outside?' he murmurs, his stubbly jaw brushing
my cheek. He even smells nice, of joss sticks and patchouli oil
and the faint whi- of cannabis.

'Better than that,' I promise, and leave him for a moment to
visit the reception desk. It's all so easy if you have money.

We go along the main corridor and mount the curving oak
staircase. I have the key for Room 14, the gateway to paradise.

It is everything I had requested of the receptionist, darkly
panelled and with a log fire burning in the stone grate. (Mock
electric but no matter.) There are velvet drapes at the windows
and the pièce de résistance is the massive four-poster bed.

'Cool,' remarks my pick-up, Luke.

'Come on, then, pirate! Show me how you rape and pillage!'
I urge, already sprawling over the duvet.

It amuses me to see that he is rather shy, but this is endearing.
Does his mummy know he's out? I spend a second speculating
on his background. Is he really a drop-out or is this simply a
pose? Maybe a student? Does it matter? No. He joins me on
the bed, carrying the bottle of wine and two glasses. We drink.
Then I've had enough of fucking about and want to get down
to business. I take off his bandanna and his long black hair
comes snaking down, making him even more irresistible. God,
but he's a handsome beast!

He's swarthy, with dark eyes, sort of Italian looking. I push
open his shirt and his skin is tanned. His chest carries a sprinkling
of hair that thins out, like an arrow pointing past his navel
to be swallowed up in the inky thatch covering his lower
belly. Losing any reserve he might have had, he holds me in
his arms and kisses me. His kisses are thorough, lips, tongue,
teeth, everything. Moist and warm and fragrant. Not a hint of
halitosis.

I want to screw, yet want it to last. I remind myself that he
is young, so could probably perform several times in a row,
unlike older men who have to rest after they've shot their bolt.
Even so, 'Slow down,' I say, and tug at his belt.

The mattress sags as he sits on one side and pulls off his
trainers. White socks follow and then he stands up, wearing
only his jeans. He unzips and peels them off, presenting his
tight buttocks to me, then turning so that I can see the complete
emergence of his cock. What a beauty! It is all that I had hoped
for and more, long, already at full stand, brown-skinned and
au naturel.
No knife had robbed him of his foreskin.

'Are you going to let me fuck you?' he asks, with a boyish
grin.

'Try and stop me!' I growl, and grab him in a bear-hug.

Common sense prevails and I get a packet from my bag, rip it
open and take out a silvery condom.

He stands before me and I revel in the pleasurable task of
preparing his rock-hard dick. I lick it from base to tip, concentrating
on the flange, feeling him shudder, hearing him moan,
slurping the milky tears that emerge from the slit. He is oh-so
ready. I take care not to tip him over the edge and lose that
first, fierce rush of spunk. I slip the rubber on from tip to base.
I wish I didn't have to cover that delicious cock but needs
must.

I keep him on the boil, working my tongue around his peatdark
nipples, closing on the taut nubs, making him gasp. He
takes control, pushing me on my back, parting my legs and
going down on me, his face buried in my wet minge. He holds
my labial wings apart and sucks my clit, drawing it between
his lips. I want to come so badly. He slurps and licks, his tonguetip
giving me divine sensations. My climax breaks and I yell,
bucking on the bed, fireworks exploding in my brain. Then he's
on me and in me, my knees pressed apart, his cock entering
easily despite its size, lubricated by my love-juice.

It's wonderful and he rides me fiercely, coming in savage
thrusts. I feel his heat filling the condom. He jerks once, twice,
thrice, and then rests his head on my shoulder, breathing
quickly and muttering, 'That was wicked! You're one hell of a
fuck!'

If I was a cat, I'd purr. What a compliment! My kids would
never believe it. And what about my husband who tells me
I'm too middle-aged and that no one else but him would be
interested in me? I know he's banging his young secretary.
Screw you! I think savagely.

I'm far from finished with lover-boy, just warming up. 'On
your back,' I command.

I sit astride him, knees on each side of his body, then go
higher until I'm straddling his face. He gobbles at my cunt
eagerly, his tongue swirling around my engorged clit. I grab
him by that lovely hair, using it as a rein to bind him to me. I
let myself go, another orgasm rising in waves, taking me to
heaven again. I peak, yelling, digging my nails into his scalp.
Then, leaving his mouth, I slither down, impaling myself on
his upwards-pointing prick.

I take it deep inside me, pumping hard, determined to bring
him off. He flips me over, wanting to be on top, and I clamp
my legs around his waist as he rams harder, releasing a further
hot spurt of come into the condom. It is time we changed this.
I don't want a little accident, although I could always say it
was my husband's. Neither do I want to pick up something
nasty with a long name and fatal results.

We lie there satiated for the moment. The condom is replaced
by another.

'You want some more?' He seems surprised and impressed.

'Am I too much for you?'

'Hell, no!' he protests, his manhood under question.

He is utterly charming and I'll have to keep a tight hold on
my emotions. Don't want to turn into a pathetic older woman
who is besotted with her toyboy.

We drink more wine, and he is obviously intrigued by his
surroundings. 'I'm used to sleeping on people's floors or in
tents. Never seen anything like this. Only in movies. It must
have cost.'

Is he getting mercenary? The thought pops into my mind.
I hope not, though it's hard to kid myself that he's there for
the sake of my girlish figure and lovely face. I'm not that dumb.
He's dipped his wick twice, and the first urgency will be gone.
Good thing I lit the candles. It's always more flattering.

I change the subject. 'Have you ever had a massage?'

'One of the girls on a stall at the pop festival was doing
them. It was cool.'

Bitch! How dare she touch his body? I'm jealous and determined
to put this right.

'Roll over,' I command.

I oil my hands, admiring him all the while. There is something
so appealing about a young man's body. His arms are
folded and his face rests on them, turned to one side. His shoulders
are wide and ripple with muscle. His torso sweeps down
to a narrow waist. His buttocks are tight, more musclemoulding
plains and hollows, and his thighs meld into the
backs of his knees, his calves, ankles, and tapering feet. I could
watch him for ever.

I start at the nape of his neck after pushing aside those raven
curls. He lies still as if sleeping, perfectly relaxed. I've learned
how to give a massage and, almost gloating, allow my worshipping
hands to knead his flesh. I know he is enjoying the
sensation, though he doesn't stir. Along his spine, working the
sinews like dough, absorbing his youth, masculinity and sexuality
through my fingers, then around his supple waist,
enjoying the curve of his lower back, diving between his arse
cheeks, so excited that I can hardly function.

I get a grip, promise myself a treat very soon, and continue to
work on his thighs, knees, lower leg, and finish with his Achilles
heel, thinking of Brad Pitt in the movie
Troy.
Luke could be a film
star. I daydream of introducing him to a director I know,
wondering if he could act. But then, if he were successful, I'd
have to share him with a million cock-struck fans. I decide not.

He stirs a little restlessly and I guess that his prick is getting
excited again under my ministrations. I'm glad I've another
packet of three. I work around each toe.

'D'you want me to turn over?' he murmurs.

'Oh, yes,' I reply, straightening up as he moves with the grace
of an athlete, presenting me with the wonderful sight of his
dick.

I was right. It's swollen to half mast again.

I give myself a stern talking-to. Don't go for it right away.
Concentrate on the rest of him. Leave his bits till last. I obey,
and there's tingling anticipation in deliberately avoiding his
intimate parts. But he is unable to hide anything from me and,
before long, his penis is sti-, pointing upwards like a flagpole.
He is unable to control his urges as he attempts to bring this
mighty weapon within range of my busy hands. I get a kick
out of tormenting him. So near and yet so far. Skimming
around the base of his cock, tickling his balls, circling his navel,
tweaking his puckered nipples, then bending and dropping a
kiss on the mushroom-shaped dickhead. It is red and weeping
needy tears.

'Do me!' he begs at last.

I've been waiting for this, testing myself to the limit, determined
not to weaken until he asks.

'You really want me to?' I whisper, my cunt hurting with
longing, my clit throbbing.

'Bloody hell!' He grabs one of my hands and plonks it on his
knob.

This is too much. I'm kneeling on the floor while he mounts
me, doggy-fashion. I'm rubbing my clit and coming. He pumps
like crazy, throwing back his head and barking. His sperm
bursts hotly into the rubber. I fall flat on the carpet with him
on top of me. I rejoice in being squashed by this rampant male,
a thing of little consequence before the power of his passion.
Jeez! This isn't like me! Am I getting soft or something?

He lifts me and he is tender. We're under the covers, his arm
around me, my head pillowed on his chest. Our pulses are
slowing and we are so comfortable together. 'Can I see you
again?' he wants to know.

I have been rather dreading this question. It would be
terribly easy for me to fall in love with him and I don't want
to be hurt. 'Why? Because I'm a good fuck?' I ask, not really
wanting to know.