The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (42 page)

Multiple orgasms have torn me apart as I watched Tyler face-paint my boyfriend with semen, but I still stumble out of the closet, weak as a kitten, and reveal myself and my need for yet further
sexual adventure.

“Hi . . . Heather,” Tyler gasps, catching his breath, seemingly not at all surprised to see me or my nudity.

“Hi, babe,” Brandon chimes in, standing up and grabbing me in his arms and kissing me, the taste of Tyler’s come still thick on his lips and tongue. “I got an idea how
you guys can get me off, now,” he says.

Tyler grins and nods. “I think I’ve got the same idea.” He reaches under the bed and pulls out a strap-on that I’ve never seen before. “Think it’ll fit
Heather?” he asks Brandon.

“Mate, the question is: will it fit me? Right, babe?”

I smile up at him, realizing that I’ve been had, bad. Brandon has obviously pre-planned his “seduction” of Tyler, with Tyler, well in advance. I’m not complaining,
though. Far from it. Instead, I snatch the strap-on out of Tyler’s hands and quickly fasten it around my hips and over my cunt. The flesh-coloured imitation cock is almost as long and thick
as Tyler’s cock, and I wave it threateningly at Brandon. “Let’s see if you can take what momma can dish out, big boy.”

Brandon laughs and jumps on the bed and assumes the doggy-position, sticking his hard, round, sun-burnished arse in the air and wiggling it, daring me to shove my faux-cock inside of him. He and
Tyler have obviously rehearsed their positioning ahead of time (which leads me to briefly, and enviously, wonder just how much “rehearsing” they’ve been doing together), because
Tyler climbs onto the bed, rolls onto his back, and slides his head in between Brandon’s muscled legs. The lusty men quickly begin sixty-nining each other as I gape in astonishment.

“If you wanna stay, you gotta play, babe,” Brandon says to me, sucking and stroking his cocky friend to a second incredible hardness.

“Yeah, come join the party, Heather,” Tyler says in a muffled voice. He smacks Brandon’s studly cock against his lips, then sucks it into his mouth and gets a good, steady, wet
rhythm going. His cheeks billow in and out with the effort, and Brandon groans.

It’s about time I get into the act. I climb onto the bed and position myself such that my plastic man is pointing straight at the pink entrance to Brandon’s beautiful bum. He stops
blowing his fellow cocksman for a second, and reaches back and spreads his arse cheeks, inviting me to penetrate his pucker.

I glance uncertainly from my humungous, veined cock, to Brandon’s tiny, tight starfish. Then I shrug my shoulders, slicken my artificial hard-on with spit, and press the size-large head up
against Brandon’s size-small opening.

“Fuck me, babe,” he grunts. “Fuck me in the arse with your big cock.”

I never would’ve thought I’d ever hear a plea like that from any boyfriend of mine, but his words drive me crazy, and I push my hips forward until the swollen head of my cock
penetrates his arsehole. I begin to sink inside him as he moans encouragement, his own cock now buried almost to the balls inside Tyler’s mouth. I recklessly push ahead and my cock plunges
deeper into his arse, until, in a matter of tense, erotically charged seconds, I have my entire waist-mounted dildo stuffed inside of that boy’s golden arse.

“Yeah,” he groans, getting it from both ends. He tries to gobble up Tyler’s cock, like he did before, but my thrusting hips smack against his bum faster and faster, jolting his
body, making cock-sucking all but impossible. So, instead, he polishes Tyler’s prick with his hand.

I grab onto Brandon’s narrow waist and churn my hips, sliding my cock back and forth in his arse ever faster and more boldly, until I’m banging his pretty petoot like a drum,
splitting him in two with my big-headed battering ram. His taut butt cheeks tremble with glee each and every time that I pound his bunghole with my cock, ripple joyously to the beat of my frenzied
anal plunging.

And as I’m butt-fucking Brandon, Tyler keeps right on sucking him off, craning his neck so that he can gulp down as much of Brandon’s glistening cock as he can, the breath whistling
out of his flared nostrils as he mouth-strokes Brandon’s meat. Brandon can only hang his head and arch his arse in dizzy disbelief, as he gets pumped from the rear and sucked from the
front.

“Oh, man, I’m gonna come,” he whimpers. “Babe and mate, I’m gonna come!”

I hang on tight to his sweat-slick hips and hammer away at his arse, my pussy blazing with the friction of the butt-pounding I’m giving my guy. My tits jounce up and down as I relentlessly
plunder the stud’s anus, my joy-toy diving deep inside his sun-kissed arse.

“I’m coming!” Brandon yells, and then his body spasms over and over in the throes of all-out ecstasy.

If he thinks that his warning is going to make Tyler disgorge his spurting cock, he’s thankfully mistaken. Tyler keeps Brandon’s dick firmly locked between his lips, buried in his
throat, as Brandon sprays load after load of super-heated jizz into Tyler’s mouth. Brandon’s big, sweat-sheened body jerks in ecstasy each time he blasts another wad of semen up against
Tyler’s tonsils.

“Fuck almighty!” Brandon hollers, as I plug his arse and Tyler drains his cock.

When Brandon’s heaving, brown body is at last still, I slowly slide my cock out of his violated bum and slap it up against his twitching arse cheeks. Tyler hand-jerks himself a few final
drops of salty goo from Brandon’s slick, softening meat, and captures them on his tongue.

Brandon lifts his head from Tyler’s swollen cock and looks back at me. “Hey, babe,” he gasps, exhausted and exhilarated, “let us know if you have any more fantasies.
Maybe Tyler and I can help you with them, too.”

. . . That’s just one of the various hotter-than-hell man-on-man-on-woman fantasies that fill my free time, my idle hands. And there really is a good-looking guy named
Tyler, only he’s about as gay as Sean Connery, as is my beau Brandon, so the chances of the two of them ever getting together, let alone with Mr Connery, are just about nil. Thank God for
Technicolor dreams and multi-speed vibrators!

Anya (Toronto, Canada)

I’ve made most of my living for the last few years as an erotic model, sometimes porn actress. At times that has led to a lifestyle that’s admittedly pretty
decadent, and situations that are unusual to say the least. People ask me all the time what I fantasize about – what is it that you like? Is there anything left that you’ve yet to
experience? Do you still have fantasies at all? – but what I’ve found is that it’s not what, but who. My fantasies are inextricably linked to a person, to somebody, and sometimes,
to a particular place. I saw a man in Baltimore . . . I’ve tried to recreate the circumstances just as they were, and the fantasy just as I experienced it, so vividly it’s become a
memory all of its own.

He pulls the Audi up to the hotel entrance, glancing at his watch. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and he smiles at me, almost shy, shooting a quick glance up from underneath his long grey
bangs. “See you tomorrow,” he says, “about two o’clock.”

I smile back into his pale, thin face. Edward’s not a bad guy. He’s got a lot of money, owns a company of some kind. Computers. Something like that. I wave and smile again as I climb
out of the car, actually, I keep the smile plastered on for the benefit of the uniformed doorman and next the desk clerk, all the way to the elevator. I can let it go as the doors sigh shut, but a
trace of it lingers on the corners of my mouth. Not such a bad day today, being touristy in Annapolis, eating seafood – chowder, crab cakes – and there’s enough daylight left to
take some pictures.

I discovered North Charles Street earlier, on my way to the Walter Art Museum and an afternoon of art through the ages. Without knowing anything much about architecture, I’ve become
obsessed with beautiful buildings. There were so many along the way! Baltimore is an eclectic jumble of styles and periods, full of nooks and crannies that wait to be discovered. I hurry to my
room, just grab the camera and run back to catch the elevator back down before someone else commandeers it.

The sun’s just above the skyscrapers as I hurry along, still in my silk dress, the same blue as the early evening air, and mid-heel sandals not designed for hurry. Scuttling down the
street as the light begins to fade, taking the pictures furiously. I frame the ornate storefronts, a church, businesses, they begin with skyscrapers and then drop to older levels. I like to
discover their hidden angles, and look at them in opposition to the sky that they push against. It’s never just glass and steel here (is this one neo-Baroque? neo-Classical?), even the
concrete is ornate, doorways open to vast marble foyers. I snap and snap. The Baltimore & Ohio Railway Company, from Monopoly boards, B&O, from various angles, from just underneath the
shadow of its doorway, then up against the doors and down the hallway to the now empty reception desk at the end, dwarfed by marble columns and a gallery above. My flash reflects against the glass
doors and I push buttons on the camera to take it again without, although I doubt there’s enough light to pick up much. Restaurants and bars and stores, all the way down to the museum again,
then back to record the metal sculpture behind a government building.

Two films down and packed away, I’m just now noticing the way my feet are beginning to throb. I turn down another street, now just a block away from the hotel as the sun gasps its last
violet breaths before disappearing from view. He’s there on the sidewalk, along the side of an office building. He’s wearing a loose red shirt, short-sleeved to show sculptured arms,
and baggy jeans but I can see his strong neck. Full lips. Dreadlocks fall on his shoulders, just barely streaked with grey. I’m never scared in strange cities, even alone here as dusk is
setting in – and maybe I should be – but here, with this purple falling over the buildings, I’m so taken with it, with the beauty and charm that seems to saturate the very air
around me, I can’t feel threatened by strangers.

“You look after yourself, young lady,” he says. His skin is dark, chocolate brown, warm, his big eyes and generous features take in my silk dress, blonde hair and oh-so-much eye
make-up.

“Oh, I will,” and I smile into his earnest face, the lines around his eyes drawn into what looks like real concern. “I’m only going one more block,” and I point to
my hotel.

He nods approvingly. “Well, God bless,” he says with a Maryland lilt. “You be careful.”

I love their
God bless
around here, but I don’t think I can pull it off, so I smile wider, he back in return, and he looks so warm, warm enough to touch, I’m almost drawn to
lift my hand to his cheek before I stop the impulse. It’s the mood of this place. But I hesitate only a moment, turning to continue to the hotel, still smiling.

My cell phone rings as I’m entering my room. “Hello?”

“It’s Edward,” he says, his voice is low and gravelly, like a good radio sports announcer.

“So it is,” with a question in my voice. “What’s up?”

“Listen, there’s a meeting I forgot about, after lunch tomorrow, I won’t make it over till 3:00 or 3:30,” he says.

“Okay, Edward, I’ll see you around 3:30, then.”

His voice registers slight relief, “Good, good,” then, “Damn!” he explodes. “I’m supposed to be meeting my partner and some . . . others.” He stumbles a
bit, and I think
why bother? Have I ever showed any interest in what you do for a living? You won’t even tell me exactly what kind of business it is!
“For drinks in about ten
minutes.”

“Bye, then, or you’ll be late.” But I’m speaking into a dead receiver, he’s already hung up.

I set down the phone and readjust to my hotel room, much the same in a generic chain in hundreds of locations around the world. I can finally kick off my sandals, sit in the generic armchair and
watch TV. There’s a bottle of wine I got earlier. I shrug out of my dress and take the bottle from the tiny beer fridge, flick on the television set and collapse in the chair. I could always
go down to the hotel bar, like I did last night, flirt with the bartender and joke with travelling salesmen and conventioneers. Maybe it’s all the walking today, but right now I just
don’t want to move. I stare at the flitting images of news reports, sitcoms and reality shows and drink a nice pinot noir. But at the back of my mind, he’s hovering, the man on the
sidewalk. Edward’s never concerned about me, never even asks how I am. But then again, it’s not really part of our deal, is it? I’m supposed to look out for myself.

He’s never bothered to find out, never so much as wondered how I’ve been amusing myself until he gets here. Whether I feel safe. Even if I do, but should that matter? Edward leaves
me alone till late tomorrow afternoon, so much time between my early morning swim and 3:30 in the afternoon. I wonder if he works around here, lives around here. My friend, I mean. My warm hearted
friend. If I could find him, somehow run into him again. What would happen if I got all dolled up again for breakfast tomorrow morning, and as I’m coming down the sidewalk right around that
same block, he was there? I can see him so clearly, rounded face, so dark, such gorgeous smooth skin, and the body of a man who might’ve once been an athlete, or maybe a construction worker,
solid with big shoulders. I search my memory for his image, peering into the neckline of his shirt, trying to follow the line of his shoulders to the skin of his chest.