The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (33 page)

Whenever I reached this point in my fantasy I would have to stop playing with myself or I would come to soon. This is the crux, the point where I submit irrevocably, where I present myself to an
older woman to do with as she pleases. In my daydreaming, I always say the next words aloud.

“No. I will never refuse you, thank you.”

She smiles and claps her hand. “This calls for a celebration. And what better way to cement a relationship than this?” She unzips her jeans and slides them down, kicking her way
clear. Sitting on the sofa at the corner of her office she beckons to me. “Lick, little girl. Lick.”

I get down on my knees and position myself before her. Gingerly, almost reverently, I place my hands on her knees and pull forward, towards her. I can smell her, a delicious blend of perfume and
pussy, and I nestle my nose against the rasping softness of her cotton panties. She grips my head with her thighs and pulls me closer, pushing my mouth harder against her. I begin to lap, at first
feeling nothing but the weave of the fabric, but as it becomes moist with my tongue and her juices, I begin to discern the shape of her lips, feeling them slide apart, open for my tongue. I press
forward, forcing the cotton inside her, smelling her musk, sensing her excitement. The constant rubbing begins to hurt my tongue, but I will not stop, not for anything. Finally, she sighs and
shifts above me, manoeuvring her panties over her backside. She kicks them off and I am presented with a view of her pussy lips, soaked and puffy, with a glorious crimson passage between them. Once
more I lower my mouth on to her and for the first time in my life experience the taste of another woman.

Only now, of course, am I able identify that experience, to know the subtle, silken perfection of a woman’s cunt: back then, a virgin, I had to use my imagination, and I wasn’t up to
the task. This is one way that my favourite fantasy has an extra resonance today: age has its compensations.

Hilary grips my head, forcing me hard against her, my tongue splicing her folds and entering her. I lick upwards, towards her clitoris, anxious to have it in my mouth, to service this glorious
woman. I circle it with my tongue, round and round, nibbling gently at its hood, sucking with increasing force. All the while, my hand is on my own pussy, middle finger pressed to my clitoris while
my index and fourth fingers slide up and down my lips.

And while I fantasized thus, lying alone in my student flat, I would be doing the same thing, bringing myself to a shuddering climax. I would cry her name, “Hilary, Hilary,” as I
came, my muscles tensing, thighs jamming together, whirls and whorls of tumult tracking through my body.

I used that fantasy hundreds of times, each time revelling in the control the older woman exerted over me. It never came to anything in reality, although in retrospect I think she may well have
been interested. I simply didn’t have the nerve to do anything to make it happen. Too nervous, too submissive: I needed someone to tell me.

I did experience lesbian love quite soon, however, while I was in my second year, and it set me on my life’s path. Only once did I have an older lover, a woman of forty, but she was too
kind to indulge in the sorts of escapades I craved. And so, while happy with my love life, there has always been something missing. While I have adored the loving environments in which I’ve
settled, I’ve always longed for that edge, that spark of nastiness. I thought it would never happen, indeed had resigned myself to it. As the years slipped by and I was no longer an ingenue,
it became evident that my chances of being seduced and abused by an older woman were disappearing.

Until I became the older woman.

I used to wonder, when I was eighteen and in the throes of my Hilary fantasy, what I would be like when I was thirty-five. Would I become Hilary? Would I be the temptress, on the lookout for
young virgins to corrupt? I rather hoped so, but it hasn’t worked out that way.

I still have the same basic fantasy today, only now I play the role of the older woman. And, of course, dominance isn’t really my thing so my fantasies now, like a mirror image of the old
ones, involve me being used by a younger woman.
Plus pa change,
I suppose. And the glory is that these fantasies may well soon come true.

I work in an office with four other women. I am in charge. Three of the women have been there for years, but the fourth, Paula, is new, fresh out of college. From the word go she’s been
trouble. I don’t think she has ever intended it, but she is full of self-confidence, almost to the point of bossiness. I like her enormously, but she is difficult to manage. There were just
the two of us in the office one Wednesday afternoon, and we were chatting contentedly. She had failed – yet again – to fill in her timesheet and I chastized her good-naturedly: it was
important, but not a treasonable offence.

“Discipline,” I joked, echoing the words of my fantasy Hilary, “that’s what you young people need. A bit of discipline – a proper regime.”

“Aye, aye,” she retorted, winking extravagantly. “Discipline, huh? Bet you’re a one for discipline, Louise.” I blushed profusely, an adolescent habit of which
I’ve never been able to cure myself. Paula saw, and immediately realized she had struck closer to the truth than she had realized. “Well!” she continued. “I think you do, as
well.”

I was mortified. I had long embraced these notions of submissiveness as being part of me, but they were a hidden part, which I had never shared with anyone. Now, they were in danger of
unravelling before the titillated gaze of this twenty-something girl. I changed the subject, but I sensed Paula would not let it go.

Indeed she didn’t. A week later, when we were alone once more, she broached the subject again. “So tell me, Louise, this discipline thing. How does it work? I guess you’re not
into heavy stuff. BDSM and the like?” I shook my head, which was a mistake. By denying that, I was implicitly acknowledging that there was an element of discipline to which I
was
partial. Paula seized on the chance. “Not that then, but something milder, I guess.”

She walked round the room, as though weighing up her thoughts. “So what we’re talking about here is something like, maybe, a little. . .” She paused melodramatically.
“Spanking?”
Again I blushed, but said nothing. “Now,” she continued, taking my silence as affirmation, “I would guess you’re not the one who administers
the spankings. Am I right?”

“I’ve never done anything like that in my life, Paula,” I said as haughtily as I could manage.

Paula was undaunted. “Maybe not, Louise. But I bet you’ve wanted to. Am I right? Well, am I?” Inside, I was cringing. This was the most excruciating conversation I had ever
had. It was my fantasy coming to reality, and as such everything I had ever dreamed of, but it was torture to endure. I gulped and stared into her eyes. She was gloating, relishing her control of
the situation. I sensed the power she had and knew, in my heart, that I could only submit to it. “Yes,” I whispered, “I have.”

She clapped her hands with glee. “Thought so! God, that’s kinky, who’d have thought it. Louise, you little minx, you.” For the first time, some sexual stirrings began
within me. I couldn’t stop myself: I wanted to end the conversation, to forbid any mention of it again, but as I observed her face, the casual, fresh-skinned arrogance of her demeanour, I
knew I couldn’t.

“Well, it’s not exactly like that . . .”

She cut me off curtly. “So am I right? You’re not the one to do the spanking?”

I had completely lost by now. “No,” I replied.

“So you want to be spanked?” She sounded incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Jeez. I’m going to have to think about this.”

“Please, don’t tell anyone,” I stammered.

“Relax, Louise baby. Your secret’s safe with me.” I smiled, and she grinned back. “As long . . .”

“As long?”

“As long. Now then, as long as you behave appropriately, shall we say?”

I went cold. I had known the drift of the conversation; I had known what was happening, but still I think I believed it would blow over and nothing more would be said. It would be something
Paula would tease me about, but no more than that. When she spoke those words, though, I knew that she had other ideas. And worse than that, I knew, deep down, that I wanted her to.

That happened last week. I’m going round to Paula’s tonight. I’m cooking for her, apparently, because she doesn’t like cooking. And washing up afterwards. I think
I’m going to be spanked. I think I want it.

No, I know I want it. I’ve waited eighteen years for it. I’m more scared than I have ever been.

Julia (San Francisco, USA)

The cool Scandinavian decor of the boardroom only amplified my raging heat. The five of us at the teak table projected sleek confidence and fashion savvy as we listened raptly
to Romaine present her buying strategy for the spring season.

I probably looked calm and collected, too – it came with the retailing territory. Buyers who lost their cool were forever branded as “difficult” or
“unprofessional”. Screaming at assistants or outside vendors was perfectly acceptable, but I made it a point to maintain my composure even with them. In this so-called
“glamorous” profession, appearances were as important as competence and I was careful to preserve mine at all times.

So, as Romaine spoke, others would have considered my relaxed but efficient cross-legged posture and passive facial expression primary indicators of an undisturbed mind. But they would have been
seriously misinformed.

I had no idea what Romaine was saying to us at the meeting. All I heard were replays of what she’d confessed to me at lunch.

“It’s crazy, I know. Theresa’s married, for crissakes! But I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“And she has two kids,” I reminded her between bites of my Nicoise salad.

“She’s starting to become the reason I come to work every day!” Romaine continued, oblivious to my comment. Her blue eyes glistened like they had when those panties from the
new Parisian vendor not only came in early but sold like hotcakes. “I feel like she’s been flirting with me, though, so she must feel something, too. Has she ever mentioned me to
you?”

“She’s my assistant, Rome, not my buddy. You don’t get chatty with
your
assistant, do you?”

“No, I guess not. Still, maybe she gave you some clues? I just don’t know what to do here.”

Romaine the Rigid, Romaine the Unflappable, Romaine the Lesbian had been bested not by an unanticipated lingerie trend or a vendor who failed to ship on time, but by a crush on a heterosexual,
married mother of two. Why Romaine’s confession should have affected me so profoundly, I was at a loss to explain. I only knew I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

Barbara, the divisional merchandise manager, whom I long suspected had had her limbic brain removed for purposes of workplace efficiency, began the meeting with her usual pedantic inquiries. The
woman’s warmth was buried somewhere with her empathy, and the only reason anyone showed her any courtesy was because she controlled the purse strings.

“Summarize this past season’s trends for me. What have you seen that you expect will carry forward?” Barbara asked.

Past trends. Let’s see . . . I’d known Romaine for six years and had confessed my own misguided love interests to her during that time. In her own restrained but caring way, Romaine
always listened and imparted advice only when I solicited it. Now that the tables were turned, I wanted to be as careful but supportive as Romaine had always been toward me. So at lunch today, I
sympathized, even consoled.

As Barbara shot the usual probing yet predictable questions at Romaine, I grappled with some questions of my own. First and foremost, had anything transpired between me and Romaine that set some
sort of tone or precedent for us?

I recalled the buying trip where Romaine took me to the batting cages to teach me how to swing a baseball bat. Though I had been a tomboy in my childhood, once adolescence set in, my ability to
crack a bat against an oncoming ball had long slipped into my past. But Romaine played softball often and had never lost the knack. With unfailing patience and a teaching stance that required her
arms wrapped around me, she imparted her secrets of slugging. I didn’t retain much from the batting lesson, other than the indelible memory of Romaine’s warm, womanly curves pressed
against my back.

Hadn’t Romaine felt that little charge of excitement at our physical closeness? Wasn’t my incessantly girlish giggle a signal of some sort? Shouldn’t Romaine have noticed that?
After all, Romaine was the lesbian. She was the one who should have known how to respond to a potentially sexual situation between women, wasn’t she?

And then there was the time, just after Romaine and her long-time girlfriend split up, when I spent the afternoon at her home. The place was enormous – four bedrooms and a kitchen designed
for entertaining, which Romaine never did – and now it nearly echoed from the loneliness inside. Romaine was working from home, and I knew it was because she couldn’t face the
continuing onslaught of questions about the break-up. I swung by to get her signature on some purchase orders. To my surprise, Romaine came to the door in her bathrobe.

The robe, a flannel-backed Natori classic in a luscious sky blue, emphasized her vivid blue eyes and imparted a soft sensuality Romaine never showed at work. Later, as we sat on the sofa in one
corner of one room in the excessively large house, the occasional gap in the robe’s front wrap mesmerized me. Romaine never wore clothing that revealed any part of her chest, so the
robe’s opening provided glimpses of skin I had never seen and would likely never see again. Once, and only once, I saw a pale strip of skin that followed the smile of one breast’s
slope. Thankfully, Romaine had been talking and never heard my quick intake of breath. But the memory of that vision still quickened my pulse to this day.

“What are your customer profiles like this season?” Barbara asked in her traditional monotone.