The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (29 page)

I relax into the feel of finely muscled thighs, and grip them instinctively as they pull me back and into their warmth. As I crouch in the shelter of a vast muscle of chest, my feet leave the
roof and I am encased in another body – a body all around me with an erection curving against my tailbone. I feel the thinness of surf baggies with nothing underneath, and my dress of sheer
rayon is just a whisper between us. A languorous sexuality surges in me, and I reach around lithely and grasp for the firmness. This one is for me.

Two hands brush fleetingly over my chest, the mountain of muscle moves, and I lose my grip but slide firmly over the erection on my way to the ground. I knew from his own forward sway and pulse
that he welcomes my touch, and once I can stand on my own, he leaves one hand on my ribcage to keep me close.

“You okay?” I hear a voice whisper. “It’s too far to dive from here.”

“I’m fine,” I say, struggling to take in fresh air and appear composed. He thinks I was going to jump? “I was just looking for a place to sit.” He steers me gently
further into the puddle of darkness beyond the arc of lighted roof. This is bad. Should I scream? I have to face him, explain calmly that I am not a lunatic and make sure he isn’t either.
Even though I’m the one who was holding him by the dick.

I turn around and then a gust, like a fist gathering up a handful of my hair. My head tilts back and I open my mouth to scream, but it is smothered by a ravenous kiss. My tongue tastes lips and
teeth, then another tongue, tangy as the ocean brine. I relax and suck gently on it and then take it into my throat. This is so easy, to forget everything except this tongue touching mine.

I feel like we are dancing, taking tiny, languorous steps until we discover a tattered chaise and sink down, still entwined. I gasp at the frigid feel of the damp plastic strips under my thighs
contrasted with the burning warmth all over the front of me. I open my eyes to a halo of light all about me, and then a dark, featureless mane swims into focus. All about me, I think and giggle as
I imagine his swollen lips, his startled eyes wondering at me.

“Who are you?” I sigh, and regret asking immediately. “Never mind,” I whisper, and trace a line of shadowy stubble. “It doesn’t matter.”

I watch raptly as the darkened lips seem to move, but any sound they make must be blowing away in the warm wind. Or maybe I am just that drunk. I am so drunk. What am I doing? I look at my hand
lingering on his chin. My other hand is moving his shirt, moving back down to the bulge in his surf baggies. This is all I want. I feel him nod, as if he is as dumbstruck as I am.

I stroke my hand along the rigid length of him, as confident as an actor in a porno movie. If he doesn’t want me to, he can stop me. But instead, he leans in to kiss me again. My sudden
relief surprises me a little, and I sigh with pleasure. His dark hair tumbles around us, stroking my neck, and I imagine our bodies merging blonde and black in a private spotlight.

My dress buttons down the front and his hand follows the buttons down as I caress him. Please don’t come fast, I beg silently. I want this to last.

I slide my palm down and into his shorts and pull loose the drawstring where the tip of him pokes out. The thought of what I am going to do gives me a thrill, and I murmur, “I want to
taste you,” as I slide down until my tongue reaches his velvety knob.

He shapes his hands to my breasts, still encased in the filmy rayon. “Suck on me,” I hear from somewhere, and so I pull his shorts down and take him fully into my throat.

His shaft pulses around my lips. I feel reckless and nasty. I suck him to the hilt and back, my own jumbo lollipop. “Fuck my mouth.” I order and plunge my lips around his throbbing
shaft. I hear no answer, just a faint pant of pleasure or surprise.

I want him to pump into me, to fill my mouth and stroke my throat. He rocks his hips and sends his shaft plunging into me. I suck, release and then grip tight with each thrust. He pauses and
straightens from the waist and I feel a rush of panic.

“Turn around,” the air whispers to me urgently. I spin under him so he can penetrate deeper into my mouth. My dress slides above my knees, open to the navel, and my toes grip the
head of the recliner. He kisses my exposed thighs and slides a finger under a corner of my soaked panties. The finger strokes my frothy lips as his cock swells to fill my throat.

I swallow him to the hilt, until I can feel the tip of his cock expand against the skin of my neck. One finger, then another stretches the liquid walls of my vagina. I ease his cock back out,
fluttering my tongue along the underside of his ridged and veiny shaft, swirling it around the flare of his head as it bumps the roof of my mouth. His head swells with a sudden surge of blood.

“Don’t come yet,” I moan and suck him into me again. One hand feels for the bony extension behind his balls and I press there to stem his orgasm while his fingers search for my
clit. He gasps, pauses and shudders with restraint, then begins again to pump into my throat. I hold him there on the edge of orgasm, my tongue teasing his shaft and my hands cupping the softness
of his scrotal sac, until I feet his balls tighten.

I tickle his balls with one hand and suck in hard one last time as warm semen courses down my open throat. He collapses, kissing my soaked crotch and cradling my arse in both hands.

I whisper, “You have to finish. I have to feel you inside me.” He kisses my salty lips, tentative and then insistent. His mouth closes over mine as if to capture my breath, and I
shiver with my own answering effort. He pulls back suddenly and I catch an image of a wicked smile, like a teenager copping a feel, and I know he’s not finished with me yet.

“Maybe we should go inside?” I suggest.

Somehow I button, arrange, and make my way downstairs to the darkened apartment. Maria and Greg are asleep on one end of the sectional couch, and I hang back in the shadows until I see a pile of
blankets left out for me. Have I been gone that long, or did they just pass out? Did I miss an amazing menage a trois? Well, I can compete with that, I giggle to myself.

I arrange the blankets a few feet away on opposite ends of the long sectional and then crawl over to the coffee table and swallow the warm dregs of an abandoned beer. Maybe I should lie down for
just a minute. The sound of the stereo startles me awake. All about me, heat and hands invade my blankets, opening my dress again. He’s back. Where was he?

“Quiet,” I whisper at the formless mass. I smile and wonder what he’s up to, whether it’s my turn now. My bra drops on the floor and lips nibble at the tip of one breast,
just the way I like it, until I feel it swell and harden. He sucks firmly on one tit and rolls the other between his calloused fingers until I groan in ecstasy and bloom again with moisture.
“Bite it,” I gasp.

I feel my nipple in his teeth and slide a hand down to hook my panties. He pushes them below my knees, and then I hear a delicious sucking sound. Three slick, roughened fingers trace a burning
line down my belly. When I open my eyes to the soft green glow bathing my busy blankets, I am sure that it is my own molten desire lighting up the room. I can just make out the tinny strains of
“Watermelon Man” and remember the stereo. Did he turn it on to cover up the noise he knew we would be making, I mused. Or did I? I can’t remember with that hand circling around my
centre but never getting any closer.

Finally, I feel his prickly chin, then his hair caress my belly. His head follows his fingers down my torso and his tongue touches just the tip of my clit. More, I whimper silently and arch
upward. But his hands hold my hips down as he moves lower, teasing the burning root with soft licks. I open my hips wide and bring my feet between his shoulder blades, willing his tongue to touch
the white-hot centre of my clit again, but he pokes his tongue into my womb and pushes a finger into the smaller opening behind.

“Please,” I hiss, grasping my own breasts in each hand and squeezing my nipples between fingers and thumbs. I contract inside against the poking pressure of his finger and finally
feel the meat of my throbbing clit against the warmth of his mouth. Now, I know I will come. That’s all it takes for the contractions to explode around his fingers and tongue. Just as sudden
and violent, he pulls out to replace his mouth with his rigid shaft.

The shock of his entrance makes me contract again harder and I struggle to throw off the blankets tented over us. “I have to see you,” I cry, frantic with need and sensation.

“Shh.” The sibilance rises as if from inside me. “You want everyone to see you?” Shit, that’s right. We aren’t alone in the room, this isn’t my husband,
and I don’t even know his name! The blankets billow and a surge of heat escapes and suffuses my face. I see a glint that could be his eyes reflecting the low light from the stereo. He nuzzles
between my breasts and rises up onto his hands, pumps once, twice and then slows. I love that feeling, of a turgid cock filling me, motionless but still throbbing from within. When our hips
separate again, the tip sucks apart from my own lips with the sound of sloppy kiss. He inches back in halfway, then out, then halfway in again as I buck to receive him. “You’ll make me
come again,” I warn, and feel him slide into me until his balls rest silky and cool on my arse.

“Not yet though,” I whisper. “Fuck me hard and I will,” and I grip his arse cheeks to pull him deeper. Wouldn’t those balls feel even bigger from behind, I think
idly and then hear a throaty animal moan. Is that me? Did I say that out loud?

“From behind,” echoes in my ears and he must hear it too, because he withdraws just as I roll over onto my knees. I turn my head, aching to see the pussy-slick dick before it plunges
back inside. First, he presses it into the cleft between my arse cheeks. His solid warmth pulses against my arsehole and I feel it grow pliant and yielding. Tad never touches me there. I
didn’t know it could open so much, so easily. He could fuck me in the arse and I think I would like it!

Instead, he slides down until his slick head finds the more familiar entrance. He grips my hip-bones with his hands and plunges in. The instant his head reaches the top of my womb, I come again
from deep inside. I hear a satisfied, animal grunt and then his solid middle finger finds my tighter hole and plunges in, impaling me in both places. Nothing could feel better than this –
except two cocks? I imagine that his finger is just that, another cock filling me to the hilt.

Make me come hard, I order my phantom lover, and finally peak and ride on a wave of pleasure. He wraps one arm around me and pulls me against him as he drives into me. I feel his balls sway
loose, then gather up and tighten. Come now, I urge him, as I watch a fine funk of sweat rise in a golden halo around us. If I hold still against him, let him pound me deep, I know he’ll
come. He does, pulsing inside me over and over, shooting sperm deep into my belly as he sinks his finger just as deep into my arse one last time.

I lie gasping and listening to the sound of my breath against the rhythm of a blues melody. Time to turn that off. I can’t sleep with music playing.

I roll off the couch and crawl over to switch off the stereo. Just before the light fades, I look over at Maria and Greg, but it’s obvious that we haven’t disturbed them. We must
have been quieter than it seemed inside my head. Beer makes everything sound louder.

I creep back under my blankets, and snuggle over against the spine of the couch. No warm body greets me. Maybe he went to the bathroom. Just as well, there isn’t that much room, I think as
I drift off to sleep. Even though he is gone, in that last involuntary twitch of limbs and synapses that fire before sleep invades, I can still feel a cocoon of heat all about me.

Valerie (Los Angeles, USA)

A Preface, of Sorts

Possessing little money and no job but a few credit cards, I was ready to track Jack Kerouac down the big sexy American highway. I also wanted to fuck his ghost but
I’ll get to that later. I’d just finished graduate school, all but my thesis, and had managed to convince my professors that – aside from giving me a great chance to see the
country – retracing Kerouac’s steps across America would yield this last bit of required scholarship. My thesis committee consisted of two men and one woman and I was casually sleeping
with all three, so my “convincing” obligated me to do a lot of sucking dick and eating pussy. I didn’t mind, of course, which will later become quite obvious; from the beginning,
after all, my journey with Jack Kerouac would entail a lot of sex . . .

O! Jack Kerouac!
my heart sang to hidden desire and fancy:
my lover!

Route 66 exists only as a fragment of its former self, so I headed east on Interstate 10. Leaving Los Angeles in a rented Buick, I drove through the backside of the sunset into
the empty deserts of Arizona, the endless stretches of land called Texas, the bogs and bayous of the South. The only thing we had less of than money was time: we were re-enacting Jack’s
cross-country scrambles far more closely than I had ever intended, or wanted. Like Jack (my secret lover) when he complained in
On The Road,
we too were “rushing through the world
without a chance to see it.”

Moving at this pace, my experience of place transmuted into a kaleidoscopic slide show flashing by at warp speed. I had less than six weeks to hit as many cities, straddling both coasts –
legs spread, of course, and pussy wet and willing. The effort left me dazed and uninformed about the deeper histories of my ever-changing surroundings, mottling me in an intense mosaic of sensory
impressions.

And, as I said, my pussy was always wet.

New York City in Two Days

Day 1

1
A.M.

Let’s say I’m on my way to New York. Let’s say I’m on the train. Its rhythm keeps rocking me to sleep, and then I wake up, worried about missing my stop
– the route is, after all, unfamiliar. Let’s say the movement of the train makes me horny and I’m thinking about shoving my hand down my pants and fingering my little cunt.
Let’s say I’m thinking about Kerouac’s declaration that the East is “brown and holy and California is white like washlines.” Let’s say I’m thinking brown
is like a puckering arse and white is like thick gooey semen – I can taste both in my mouth as the train lurches forward. Ah yes: the difference between old and new. Old being decrepit and
historic. New meaning clean and vacuous. Brings to mind the TV ads I saw when I was a kid, ads for cleansers. The whole homogenizing kind of television commercials that were so popular back then. I
think about fresh-smelling bed sheets (the kind you sniff in a hotel room just before you’re about to get fucked by a stranger you met in the bar) and the scroungy apartment that’s got
old dirty laundry on the floor (underwear stained with come, piss and shit) . . . yet has
all kinds of stuff
there. Like a vibrator in the drawer; a two-headed dildo under the bed; secret
butt-plugs under the pillow.