The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (12 page)

That’s when he draws the rope taut. It forces my hands behind my head, forces my feet close together – and forces me to straddle wider. It opens me and makes me vulnerable.

You would think he’d want to take me right then and fuck me viciously, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my breast. When he cups it, his grasp is sure and confident. I can feel
determination in his grip, a determination that turns to steel as he squeezes my breast. Hard.

I cry out at the pain and squirm. His hand slips to my nipple. He pinches and pulls, once, twice, thrice, before he stops. I continue to struggle against the pain, whimpering and shuddering.

He laughs at me, but what he declares is far more wicked than how he laughs. “That feels good on my cock.”

And he pinches me again.

Yes it hurts, but paradox that it is, it also feels wonderful. I crave this intensity, this mix of pain and passion and prerogative. It is a dance of macabre pleasure – dark but thrilling,
thrilling but luxurious. My cunt, so ready to respond, clenches at what he does, and it’s all the validation I need to know I like the sexual trials and tribulations he designs for me.
Impaled on him, forced to hold this position by the ropes, I am at his erotic mercy.

But this is what makes fucking wonderful. Lacking control, I never know what his next move will be, what his next twist of fate will be. It’s like riding a roller coaster blindfolded.

When we first met, our S/M scenes were long and drawn-out – mini-series of sexual sharing and discovery. He would tie me to a post in his basement. A spreader bar would force my legs open
while my head was forced upright by a length of string that ran mere inches from the leather head harness to the post. And while he played rough with my body – while he whipped my cunt and
tits or simply teased and tormented them with the force of his own grip – a bit gag exaggerated every facial expression I made in response to his manipulations. Often, I’d be so aroused
that when he pressed his finger to my clit, I’d pop like a firecracker.

But heat fades. It exhausts itself. And so did we to some extent as our relationship matured, as we worked through all our untried possibilities. Now, we take our time. We play often but in a
brief, episodic fashion, and our appetities are more easily sated. Where we used to feast, we now snack.

And when he’s away, I dream of the junk food that he feeds me. Thus, the memory of being his sexual puppet stays with me.

I remain lodged on his cock but the more he pinches and teases, the less I feel his cock inside me. My cunt has accommodated it thoroughly and short of riding it, I will not be afforded the
pleasure of its presence.

But he can feel me, clenching and clutching, my cunt giving every clue to what his manipulations do to me. Soon, though, this game comes to an end and he tells me to climb off. As I do, I long
for him to lay me down and take me, but I suspect he hasn’t toyed with me enough. I know better than to think I’ll get off that easily. Just as pain and pleasure are paradoxes,
immediate desire and delayed gratification have their own strange mutuality and, as much as I ache to be fucked, I also long to see what he’ll do next.

He blindfolds and gags me using lengths of denim fabric cut for those purposes, then leads me away from the bed. Unable to see, ropes hobbling me, every step feels like a stumble waiting to
happen. It’s a clumsy, uncomfortable procession and never have a few steps felt so uncertain.

This is why I miss him, why I fantasize in his absence: because I want to relive what he does to me. What he does for me.

He sits down, puts me over his lap, and re-routes the rope so it runs under the chair. It still runs from my wrists to my ankles and he pulls it tight the way an equestrian would “tighten
up” on the reins. The effect is astounding. Draped down, my arms and legs drawn together enough to feel the stretch in my muscles, I feel played. Like a puppet.

Few puppets, I suspect, find themselves bottom up across their master’s lap, but there I am, acutely away of the cock that presses into my belly, sticky from the juices of his earlier
manipulation.

I know what is coming: a spanking. His hand will strike my fleshy bottom, sending shivers of pain into me, a sensation that will cull arousal from the depths of my pleasure centers. What I
don’t know – what I never know going into a spanking – is how strenuous it will be. Will he start out slow and sensual and acclimate me to his hand, then crescendo to an intense
and thoroughly arousing climax? Or will he start off hard and swift without a care for finesse or subtlety, just so his cock can feel my body squirm and suffer? But that’s where the thrill
lies: in not knowing.

His first six strikes tell me everything. They are mild and no two strikes hit the same spot twice. They’re meant to warm cold flesh, to condition it for more. He is warming me up, slowly
and methodically. Six strikes make a pass and, between each pass, he strokes my skin, lightly and with care, as if to pace me, and each time he reaches these reprieves, I go limp across his lap. I
can’t help it; his touch is golden.

And it arouses me. As my body responds, I become aware that, rounded over the edge of his lap, my arse allows my naked cunt to peek out from between my thighs. I can imagine its slitlike
appearance and I know that the more he spanks me, the more it will grow engorged. Soon, it will glisten.

Now his strikes become more intense. His volleys sting and send pain deeper into my flesh. Initially, I groan and take it but by the sixth, seventh, eighth strikes, the sting has accumulated in
such unrelenting pain that I can’t help myself. I cry out. I squirm. I buck across his lap. And I feel his cock lurch underneath me in response.

His hand caresses me again. I have reached another reprieve. His soft touch competes with the burn left behind from his hearty hand, a light tickle over stinging skin. But as the burning
lessens, his touch becomes delicious, so luscious that I moan. It makes me want more – more intensity, more arousal, more of him – and my cunt begins to throb. I suspect that my
vulnerable slit has begun to glisten and I hope he will notice my wetness.

Another volley begins and its sudden viciousness replaces kind respite, signaling a grand finale across my ass. It’s swift, cruel, and hurried, and I can no better tolerate this round than
I could the last. I lurch across his lap, shooting forward as if I’m trying to escape his hand. Perhaps I am. Perhaps the instinct to flee has overtaken me, even though I love what he’s
foisting on me. But he knows how to keep me in my place – he clamps his free arm down across my back and pins me. I can struggle but I can’t escape.

Relentlessly, he continues. The blows merge and I can barely tell where one ends and another starts. My ass is a thing of stinging pain and the pain’s so great, it feels like it’s
leapt into my throat. Consumed by pain, I’m choking on the lump that has formed there.

And, just as swiftly as the volley descended upon me, it ends. Abruptly. My sprint through pain is over. I want him to caress me again, to hold me and tell me I’ve done well. But his hand
finds my cunt instead and its first touch sends a shiver through me.

Fingers probe me and discover just how aroused I am. My labia smack in wet delight and my cunt tightens, begging for attention. I long for his fingers to stroke the length of my lips, to coax
and tease me, to explore me in nuanced, subtle movements.

But he is too pedestrian for that. He pries me open and sticks his thumb into me. It’s a crude gesture, one meant to remind me that I’m just a wet, ready piece of meat. He never has
to tell me I’m a slut; my own cunt does that for him.

His fingers spider up from my slit and find my clit. While one finger massages it, the others grab and pull at my mons. He manipulates me yet again, except now I’m a puppet to his hand
– and that hand wants to grope me until I come.

I’m surprised to find my cunt tight and heavy; I’m far more aroused than I expected and, as his hand probes and pokes and strokes, I shudder. Where his touch once soothed, now it
coaxes, drawing me into a spiral that will culminate with my orgasm. It’s so lusty – lecherous even – that I try to writhe in concert with the hand that strokes me. I want to ride
the thumb that plumbs me. I want to feel my hard little clit against a knuckle. Or better yet, against the callous of his rough fingertips. I want him to feel how aroused I am, how I’ve
forgotten all decorum, all passivity. I want to hump until I come.

Except that’s not what he wants. His fingers close around my cunt flesh and he pinches me. Sharp pain shoots across my cunt.

“You’re not to do that,” he orders.
“I’ll
make you come.”

I collapse under the pain and comply. When he loosens his grip, I throb from within fiercely. He feels its against his thumb and he laughs. Like a cruel puppet master, he laughs.

The whole incident leaves me conquered and compliant yet its drama brings me even closer to coming. He puts that callous fingertip I longed for against my clit and strokes me hard and fast. I
moan and feel close, so close, and the more I reach towards coming, the harder he breathes. Lustful, he sounds lustful, and, in tandem, his cock swells beneath me. And, like my cunt telling me
I’m a slut, his breath and his cock tell me the same thing: I’m a slut.

Slut. I’m a slut.

The knowledge pounds in my head, its message is more than I can bear. My cunt clenches as my clit explodes in delight. Pleasure and release and sensation and resolution converge and overtake me.
I come. Throbbing, I come. Again and again and again, orgasm rakes me in hard contractions and, when it subsides, I’m left dumbfounded.

Good sex does that to me.

I must admit: Here is where things get fuzzy in my recollections, where my longing and fantasizing become disorganized and incongruous. Like a dream where the storyline all too easily jumps from
making sense to going surreal, my fantasy loses its sensibility. Maybe longing has fatigued me. Maybe the very thought of such hefty sex play and such a big orgasm leaves me needing to simplify
things. Maybe because no matter how heady the memory or how ingenious the eroticism, I still need to end it with simple penetration.

And that’s how I end this fantasy: I’m naked and half-asleep, spent from all he’s done to me. Maybe the cuffs and collar are still in place, but there’s no longer any
elaborate bondage or pain play. Just me, lying there and available.

Drowsy, languid, I am barely aware. But I feel him near. He parts my legs, moves my arms to my side. As he climbs on top of me, his hand goes to my breast and squeezes it. He lowers himself onto
me and his hard cock searches me out. When it finds its mark, it pushes. It pushes me apart, pushes itself into me. He takes me.

He fucks me efficiently, concentrating only on what my body provides, on what his cock feels, on what fucking culls up in him. And then, he spits into me. He’s gruff and fierce when he
comes, as if he must conquer me even as his orgasm conquers him. He stabs me, fills me, spills into me. My one response is to shudder.

He doesn’t linger over me after coming. He pulls out and leaves me as I am, still drowsy and ever available, an object to passion. And the only thing I’ll feel before sleep overtakes
me will be his warm come leak from me. It will wash from my slit and over my labia, evidence of my objectification. Finally, I will slumber.

Just as I sleep alone now, wanting his return. I long for him and though he is gone from me, I count the fantasies until he comes home.

Donna (Montreal, Canada)

I’m a thirty-five year old woman, married to a great guy. Even though we’ve been married for almost ten years, our sex life is still pretty steamy! We keep it that
way by sharing our fantasies with each other. Not too long ago my husband confessed to me that he’d always fantasized about watching two women go at it together while he is tied up!

Well, seeing as we were in true confessions mode, I told him my big fantasy is to have sex with a woman while he watches and that sometimes I meet incredibly sexy women at the fitness club, and
I daydream about bringing them home to him as “gifts”.

He was stunned that I’d actually “give” him another woman to enjoy. I told him I didn’t think I’d be able to handle doing it for “real” but it was fun
to fantasize about it. In my fantasy it seems like the ultimate way to express my love for him and absolute trust in our marriage. Don (my husband) got rock hard talking about it. That night we had
the best sex we’d had in ages. This is the fantasy:

I meet a girl in the sauna after my spinning class. She is lying naked on the bench – a beautiful, young cocoa-brown girl. Her long dark hair is twisted into hundreds of tiny braids
framing her come-hither face. She is always young and sexy with smouldering brown eyes that pull me right inside her. Her lips are nice and full, the way so many black women’s lips are. She
even has a shaved snatch (which Don loves) and I can see her clit all moist and swollen, bulging between its folds. Just imagining what she looks like gets me excited and a warm tingle rushes
through my body. But I don’t stop there. The daydream goes on!

For me to get turned on there always has to be conversation, even in my fantasies. So the girl props herself up on her elbows to talk to me. This gives me an eyeful of her great tits.
They’re always big, at least a 36D, and for sure the
real
thing! No silicon! She looks me directly in the eye and says:

“I saw you in the spinning class. I was right behind you.”

I figure she must like my arse. In spite of having two kids, I’ve gotten into shape with daily spinning classes. It’s my escape from motherhood. While the kids are at school, I go to
the gym. My efforts have paid off, and now I have a nice round, firm arse. Thinking about my nice arse also turns me on.

The young girl and I talk about how cute the spinning instructor is. I start thinking about tugging and sucking her nipples and making her moan while my Don watches – helpless! Pretty soon
my nipples are tingling and hard and my own clit starts to swell. I always get wet thinking about us sucking each other’s tits.