The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (32 page)

“My younger sister, who is into a completely different thing, is into this capital I, capital T thing, you know, the IT Jack talks about in the book . . .”

He touches my hair some more and says, “Another influence is Rimbaud and, have you ever heard of the French poet Rimbaud? There’s a famous poem called ‘The Drunken Boat’
in which the poet himself is like a drunken vessel going down this powerful river without a destination, saying good-bye to the ancient parapets of Europe, parapets meaning the old castles and
palaces of Europe. And he went to Abyssinia, and he had certain similarities to Kerouac. Bisexuality.”

“I thought he was pretty definitely homosexual.”

“Yeah, but then he went straight in Abyssinia and had been homosexual with Verlaine, and violent. He stabbed him. So, yes, you get that wildness which verged on criminality. Kerouac
himself was not vicious. Kerouac was basically kind and he always thought people would get along together if he liked them, that all of his friends liked one another. But they couldn’t.
That’s just not the way the world works. Everyone doesn’t love everyone else.”

“Didn’t he get pretty alienated from his friends?” I say, thinking of Christine.

“Yes. In the end, Ginsberg . . . you know, he always had this anti-Semitic side to him and his mother hated Jews so . . . they had this narrow, bigoted French Canadian Catholic outlook.
It’s hard to imagine the primitiveness of that life.”

He reaches over and kisses me.

Fuck it, I let him – a sixty-five-year-old man making out with a twenty-seven-year-old woman –

We kiss for a while but my head is somewhere else.

“Will you, uh,” he says, “will you suck my cock again?”

But what I discover, when I open my eyes, is that I’m sucking on a Hebrew Nation all beef hot dog, not on this man’s cock. The man doesn’t even exist, although I have to admit
it would be nice if he did.

Oh well.

I can’t masturbate all night with these images in my head, alone in my apartment. I have to get back to writing my thesis concerning image and metaphor in
On the Road.

If I could just keep to the scholarly writing rather than lapsing into pornographic fancies, I may just graduate this year.

I erase everything I have just written, except for one line:

Route 66 exists only as a fragment of its former self.

Louise (Leicester, UK)

Now that I’m fifteen years older (though not necessarily any wiser), I actually find my childhood sexual fantasy even more exciting than I did at the time. The
application of knowledge to juvenile imagination helps to turn a once quaint notion into something which sets my heart racing.

But there’s possibly more to it than that. As years go by, as age transforms me into the object of my childhood fantasies, I’m left with a yearning to experience, once more, the
simple pains and pleasures of naivety. And it’s the desire to revert to that gauche and uncertain being I once was which has fed the transformation of my old fantasy into the version I have
now – a version I believe may finally be about to come true.

I was a bit of a slow developer, and aged eighteen I was the oldest virgin in the world, or so it seemed to me. I wasn’t shy, but as soon as conversations took a romantic bent I was
overwhelmed by terror and my frightened mind invented problems: I wouldn’t know what to do, or I’d smell, or I’d fart – and in the face of such prosaic fears, romance had no
chance to bloom. In its place grew an active imagination and agile fingers, an outlet for my frustrations and inquisitiveness.

And I was aware, around that time, of something new entering my thoughts. Previously, my daydreams had revolved around boys, around cocks and penetration, sperm and copulation; but gradually my
fantasies began to change. The first couple of times I barely even noticed: it was only at the end, as my fingers flashed myself towards climax, that a solitary, unconnected image came into my mind
and sent me over the edge into tumult.

The image of a woman.

At first it was Everywoman, a generic lover to take my hand and show me the road. I was rather embarrassed about it, because I came from a small town, and lesbianism was the stuff of sniggering
and finger-pointing, not a serious prospect. So I enjoyed my dreams but tried not to let them dominate my fantasy world.

Eventually, though, they did.

And as they did, Everywoman became one woman, a particular person, a woman with whom I could feel myself becoming obsessed. Reserved people don’t like to lose control, but increasingly I
was finding it difficult to maintain the ambivalence I habitually used as a screen from reality, and that gradual unbinding of my thoughts was truly frightening.

She was a research student called Hilary Wentworth. She was older than me, probably in her early thirties, and to me – a Business Studies fresher – she seemed impossibly
sophisticated. She had very short hair – remember this was in the eighties, when hair was long and wild – and she exuded self-confidence and grace. Her mouth was permanently set in a
satisfied smile – not smug, just contented. Her eyes were hazel, dark and exotic and deep-set, seemingly etched into her face, glinting above a long, slender, delicate nose.

She was certainly attractive, but what really entranced me was her independence. At a time when I was dowdy and nervous, her positive demeanour was utterly beguiling.

There’s no question I developed a crush on her – how could I not, when she embodied everything to which I aspired but couldn’t dare? It all started innocently enough, borne of
simple admiration and gently developing into a desire to be like her; and from there, inevitably, it took flight into fantasy. I couldn’t help myself.

Those early fantasies were simply a product of my circumstance. She was an older woman, confident and worldly wise, while I was quiet and introspective. Naturally, my fantasies revolved around
seduction by the older woman. To begin with there was no plot, the fantasy resting purely in the realms of sex. I imagined being taken by her, made to undress, made to play with myself in front of
her. I pictured her stripping – slowly, seductively, making me watch in silence – then sliding on to the bed and beckoning me between her thighs, my face to her pussy, tongue pressed
between her lips and then up, up against her clitoris. She would leave me there for minutes, hours, forcing me to lap her, love her, and I would obey her every whim.

Satisfying though such dreams were – and they satisfied me comprehensively, I assure you – I gradually found a need to elaborate on them. I wanted a context within which to set the
fantasies to make them seem real, and so I created a Utopian existence which revolved around Hilary. Indeed my real world was increasingly dictated by her, too: I would try to pass her in the
corridor, timing my walks to coincide with the start or end of the teaching sessions she did to help pay her way. I would be successful every couple of days, and my heart would hammer as I saw her
saunter down the corridor towards me, hips swaying, head tossed back confidently. Forcing myself to look up, I would smile and try to look alluring. She must have thought I was a simpleton, but at
the time I didn’t know what else to do.

And with each failed attempt to make contact, my fantasies became wilder and wilder. It was no longer enough to simply make love to her: increasingly my dreams focused on Hilary dominating me
completely, turning me into her plaything. There was one particular fantasy I came back to again and again, refining it slightly each time, but always keeping the basic outline. In fact, fifteen
years later I still occasionally revisit its hoary delights.

In it, I enrol on one of her Scottish literature classes. In reality, my Business Studies degree would have precluded such a course, but fantasies can overcome trite reality. I begin the course
full of anticipation. She wears tight jeans which show off her backside and a T-shirt which clings to her body, affording a tantalizing view of slightly raised nipples. Needless to say, I spend the
lesson ogling her, listening to her sweet, husky voice without taking in any of its meaning. And, thus, I become a poor student.

Exam time and I discredit myself. With an expression mingling reproach, annoyance and indulgence, she returns my exam script, crossed through with red ink.

“Tell me,” she says, “what century do you think MacDiarmid lived in?”

“Eighteenth?”

“Hmm, that kind of explains things. Not really good enough, Louise, you’re going to have to work much harder if you’re going to pass your final.”

I ask for a private tutorial to go through my exam paper, and she guides me through each question in turn, pointing out my inadequacies. As she does, I fall more and more under her spell. I
stare and dream, glorying in the strictness of her tones . . .

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m, I’m sorry . . .”

“How the hell do you expect me to help you if you won’t help yourself?”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’ll try . . .”

“Makes me really angry. I work my bloody guts out here, you know. I’ve got plenty of my own work to be getting on with.” I try to interject but she carries on.
“Discipline, that’s what you lot need.”

As she says those words a frisson of excitement shivers up my spine. I know she means discipline in work, but my mind creates its own interpretation. Clearly, my face gives me away, as she
stares at me curiously. I can see a glimmer of understanding in her eyes and I begin to redden with embarrassment. I squirm in my chair.

“Don’t you think?” she says, after a weighty pause.

“Yes,” I whisper.

The compact is made.

“You need some remedial attention, I think. Come back at eight this evening.” I nod and stand, my breath shallow and heart pounding. I turn to leave. “And, Louise, wear
something nice – not those boring old jeans.” I am too scared to reply.

By eight o’clock I am in a state of panic. In reality, I know I would chicken out, but fantasies are wonderfully liberating things. I knock and follow her instruction to enter.

“Lock the door.” I still can’t believe what is happening, and every confirmation – such as this instruction – comes as both a relief and a shock. I lock it and turn
towards her. “Very nice,” she says. I am wearing my only dress, a dark blue, flouncy effort riding just above my knee which I like because it makes my breasts look fuller. Smiling at
her flattery, I follow her hand and sit in the seat beside her.

“I can’t decide,” she says, “whether you were being provocative or just dense in your exam. You must know MacDiarmid was twentieth century. Don’t you?” I know
no such thing, but nod anyway. “So you were being provocative? What for? Were you trying to annoy me? Taunt me?” I make no reply. “It’s inexcusable behaviour, anyway.
Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I murmur.

“Deserves punishment, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“Discipline. Like I said earlier.”

“Yes.”

“You agree?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes, dark and erotic, gleam with anticipation. “I think we understand one another here, don’t we?” I nod. “It’s late, there’s no one about. I’m
free to do whatever I want.”

By the time I reached this stage of my fantasy I would generally be squirming in my bed. The point of surrender is the most thrilling part, the moment where I lose and put myself in her hands
totally. In my fantasy I nod acquiescence.

“I’m going to spank you,” she tells me. I gulp but say nothing. “Stand up. Turn round. Bend over.” I follow each instruction in turn, aware of the blood pounding in
my head and my heart hammering in my chest. I hear her move and feel her heat as she presses close. Her hand rests on my arse cheek, feeling me through my dress. Slowly, she lifts the dress,
peeling it inch by inch up my thighs and backside, exposing me to her gaze. I stop breathing. She bunches my dress over my hips and guides my hand towards it to hold it in place. Walking round, she
stands in front of me.

“Look up,” she says. I stretch my neck and look into her eyes. “I’m going to take your panties down and spank your bare bottom. Is that okay?” I nod. “Is that
okay?” she repeats.

“Yes, it is, thank you.”

Walking behind me once more, she rolls her palm over my panties and I feel her fingers – cold and firm – on my flesh as she grips my waistband and tugs the panties over my cheeks and
thighs. She is kneeling, her head almost touching my skin, and I shiver as I feel her breath waft over my crack. Pulling, she eases my panties to my feet and makes me step out of them. I am bared
in front of her, and I feel an extraordinary mixture of humiliation and excitement. She remains beside me for what seems like minutes, examining my most intimate areas, her breath whispering across
my flesh like a silent portent.

Finally, she rises. “Touch your toes,” she commands. I grip my fingers around my toes and wait, tensed. She strikes me once, twice, three times in succession, each on the same part
of my left buttock. None are particularly hard, but my arse stings all the same. Then she spanks me again, this time on the other cheek, and much, much harder. I yelp in alarm but remain in my
position. Five through to ten are increasingly firmer and by now my backside is burning, cheeks alive with pain. She doesn’t let up. On to twenty, twenty-five, and I am crying now, my knees
buckling. I want her to stop, and yet it is the most thrilling experience imaginable.

Finally she finishes. “Stand up,” she tells me. I straighten my back gingerly and run my hands across my arse cheeks. They are burning, and I can feel a swathe of raised marks,
parallel lines identifying the progress of her fingers over my once-smooth skin. Hilary wipes tears from my cheek and smiles. “Discipline. Don’t you feel much better for
that?”

“Yes,” I reply.

She observes me curtly. Her eyes narrow, her lips purse, and I can tell she is considering her next course of action. “I’m a very busy person,” she says. “I need an
assistant – a menial really, someone to do the crap jobs for me, take away my drudgery. You could be that person.” I raise an eyebrow. “No pay, of course. You’ll do it
because I ask it of you. You’re not going to refuse me, are you?”