The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (43 page)

He’ll be right there, and it’ll be later in the morning, when all the office workers are already in their cubicles, leaving sparse traffic on the sidewalk around us. I’ll
smile, he’ll nod and smile back. And I’ll see it again, in his eyes, the connection, the understanding I felt. I know what people think, this well-dressed woman, travelling alone,
walking alone at night, frequenting downtown hotels and bars. Two plus two is always four. But he understood the part about being so solitary all the time, and maybe in the slight shabbiness of his
clothes I can guess at why, but it doesn’t matter, only that I saw his warmth and heard a sweetness in his voice. He’ll ask me how I got back to my room, politely, and I’ll
answer,
Just fine, thank you, that was sweet of you,
and hesitate as I walk by, I’ll wait for another sign of interest, but I won’t be able to wait for too long, so I’ll
probably turn back to him and ask
Would you like to go out for a coffee? Or something . . .?
with a small laugh.

He’ll be surprised, but in a happy kind of way, pleased, he’ll say
Well, all right, young lady,
with his musical intonation, and we’ll go about a block or two, just
enough time for him to take in my smile, my short skirt and Italian leather pumps. Maybe he’ll laugh, shake his head.
Where should we go?
I’ll ask, leaning close to him, looking
in his dark eyes, smiling
You tell me. This is the first time I’ve ever been to Baltimore,
and he’ll answer slowly,
I’ve got coffee at my place, if you want coffee. Or
something . . .?
He’ll look at my face carefully as he smiles, to see if he’s got it right, using my words, and I’ll simply tuck my arm into his, slide my hand into his hand
with a squeeze.
I’d love to.

We chuckle together as he leads me back to North Charles Street.

“I’m up there.” He points to big windows above a bistro, stairs that walk up in art deco, it looks like a loft with big rooms, the art museum, the square with a tall monument,
are just down the street.

“Looks beautiful,” I tell him. “I bet it’s full of light.”

He nods; his face creases with pleasure. “You could say that, for sure. It’s filled with light.” He goes ahead to lead me between the buildings to an entrance off the back.
“You be careful, watch your step.” And he stops to give me his hand. We must be behind the restaurant here, a hallway that goes around the back of the building. There’s a
staircase at the other side, big and wide, worn wooden floors that look more comfortable than shabby, the banister heavy and ornate. I take two steps and his hand snakes around my waist from the
step below, then drops to slip under my skirt and touch my cheeks lightly with his big palm. I hurry up the steps, that featherlight touch of his fingertips on my arse, I giggle and press up a
little faster.

“You’re tickling me,” I tell him, and he laughs low and deep and tickles me on purpose, till somewhere between the second and third floor, here, the sunlight filters through
dusty windows that look out on the street from the landing above, it splashes here in a pool of light and I turn, stop, take both his hands and pull them around me, I pull him down to lean over me,
to kiss him, my fingers sliding under his waistband to hold the muscle that curves underneath.

“Baby.” He just breathes it, our tongues find each other and we’re lost to time, soft wet lips and tongues, pressing myself up to the hard muscle of his chest, exploring the
contours of his arm with my fingertips inside his sleeve while his lips taste me softly, delicately, like he wants to carefully savour every single second.

“I want you so very much,” I tell him, I whisper it into his ear and stroke the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. “Do you want me?”

“Baby, I haven’t wanted anything this much in ten years!” It’s spontaneous, and unmistakably genuine. We both laugh at the urgency of his voice, till he whispers,
“Shh . . .” into my ear back, and I nod against his shoulder, still shaking with silent laughter. We listen to cleaners bump and bang around in the restaurant below, their distant
voices joke and gossip through the stairwell. He talks to me, the words run together and his voice is deep, and full now of a seductive music.

“Baby, let’s take that off,” and my dress slips over my head, my fingers pull at the buttons on his shirt. His chest is big, rounded.

“You play football?” I ask him, and he’s shy, sheepish in reply.

“Not for so many years.” He lowers his eyes under thick lashes, I have to laugh at him. “I’m way out of shape. Getting fat.”

“Oh, no,” and my hands reach for him, we switch places in a slow ballet. I ease into his lap, brushing his nipples with mine, pulling his arms around me again. “Not out of
shape at all. You’re so beautiful.”

“No, that’s
you
baby,” he says,
“you’re
beautiful,” and I watch his thick fingers touch my pale hair, stroke my pale skin, feel my breasts and
warm them, watch him flick his tongue over my nipples until they’re small and hard.

Omigod . . .
my chest against his,
omigod,
I feel it as it seizes me from inside, twists in my gut in a delicious thrill of wet desire, a stab of excitement and I gasp, I feel
myself melting against the hard bulge of his cock inside his pants, and, “We should go inside.”

He laughs at me, lifts me up out of his lap, steadies me when I can’t find my way to stand for a moment or two. I laugh and point at the strained zipper of his fly. Some shred of common
sense remains, I grab my dress from the step with one hand as he takes the other and we go upstairs, first he leads, then I start to run, giggling again, and he follows me up to the third floor,
just down the hallway, and a big wooden door marked 3B.

“Is this the one?” I ask, and he nods, he opens it while I wait impatiently. Then inside it’s as sunlit as I imagined, dark red carpet on wooden floors, old ornate furniture
and kitchen cupboards. I’m rarely more than a few inches from him, for hours that melt into our very own space and time. The afternoon is spent in his brown eyes, inside his strong arms, I
feel the different surfaces against my skin – wooden floor, carpet, kitchen counter, the sheets on his bed – because I won’t go until I’ve tasted him over and over.

“What do you like?” he asks me once, and I just tell the truth, “Everything,” and I laugh but I press against him so he knows it’s true. “I want everything,
that’s all, I want to do everything with you.”

I
want all of you.
I’m greedy for his warmth, his skin against mine, his lips, his warm skin inside of me, the way he holds me while he penetrates, slides in and out while
the only sound is gasping breaths, his hands around me, the way he fills me up, greedy on this golden afternoon for his tongue in my mouth, between my legs, his fingers that stroke and push inside
of me.

The hotel phone rings. It surprises me out of my imaginings, the fingers of one hand are still wet, still touching my pussy, and I reach for the phone without thinking with the other.
“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Edward. Meeting’s over, and I’m about five minutes away, as it turns out. I thought, since I won’t see you so much tomorrow, I thought I’d drop
by.”

“Sure,” and my voice is honeyed, I’m still bewitched and, now aware, I need to hang on to the mood, because to fall out of it, and straight into sex with Edward, that would be
too much of a crash.

So I take the second bottle of wine from the bar fridge, glad that it struck me earlier, maybe out of some glimmer of foresight, to take advantage of the two for one special. There’s some
pinot noir left, but I want the second now, a sparkling white, to keep me over the edge, to sustain some of this divine state of mind for Edward’s visit as I get ready for him. He’s at
the door before I know it. I let him in, and hand him a glass of my bubbly without a word, just a smile and his favourite view – from behind, with the black lace panties and high heels, (the
ones that tie around my ankles). His face flowers into absolute delight. It’s such a small gesture, really, dressing – or undressing – for him, and I’m feeling so expansive.
Edward is flabby and white, has little imagination, but at the back of my mind, just behind my eyes, the purplish dusk settles on the buildings of Baltimore, and my big warm lover waits down there
on the sidewalk.

Edward’s not sure what’s happening to him. I am
inspired,
I make love to his flesh in a way that was never before possible. He’s smart enough not to question any of it,
just go with the flow, and I let it all drop over him, the overflow, sublimely generous, leaving till tomorrow to think about how I can make one man so happy while my head’s so full with
somebody else.

Later, when Edward’s gone, I’m filled with lassitude but not tired enough to sleep. I pour myself the last dregs of wine, go sit on the windowsill to peer down at the street, and
wonder, can I get that magic I felt on the sidewalk, down there behind the courthouse as the night fell on Baltimore, there beside the sculpture, (and I can see the tip of it now,) can I get that
magic to work for me again?

Kim (San Diego, USA)

I am sitting on the bus after a long day at work (I’m a nurse in a small and dull hospital) and there are six men and one other woman here with me. They vary in ages, and
each of them I find attractive, one way or another. I begin wondering what they look like naked, what kind of lovers they are. I start to imagine that they are all my lovers. Not at the same time,
of course, this isn’t some kind of wild bus ride orgy. Each is a secret lover.

I. Who Are My Lovers?

Steve

He’s thirty, works as a medical engineer. He comes up with new equipment designs for doctors to employ – and he has lots of money, a good catch for any woman
with marriage on the mind (which I am not). He’s the younger brother of:

Curtis

He’s forty-three. He’s my boss at work (but in bed, I’m the boss and the one who holds the whip and uses it). He’s married and has two daughters
younger than me; it seems one of them briefly dated:

Tim

He’s eighteen, a senior in high school. He gets hard pretty fast right after orgasm . . . again and again.
Oh, the young boys!
say the older ladies. Hey, I
might as well have sex with a younger guy if I’m going to be with older men, eh? Speaking of older dudes, I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but you’re just going to have
to believe it because there is:

Hank

He’s seventy. Yes, that’s right.
Oh, wicked me.
He’s a professor emeritus type; he writes books on political history. Sometimes I do work for him,
and sometimes I let him fuck me. He has a lot of stamina and staying power for a man his age (I can’t help but be impressed by that); he’s quite fit, muscular, and probably the best
fuck I’ve ever had (really!), next to:

Larry

He’s fifty-two. He’s my stepfather – or should I say ex-stepfather? He’s no longer married to my mother, and now he’s one of my lovers.
He’s been my longest lover, off and on, which I’ll explain a little later. Yes, it sounds sordid, and it
is
sordid, but
I’m
sordid, and so is:

Ron

He’s twenty-two, my age. He’s your normal southern California guy with the tan, the muscles, the tattoos, and even the baseball cap. He doesn’t have much
in his head and that’s fine by me. I like hanging out with him and he’s a nice hard fuck, and so is:

Bethany

With all these men, I need a female lover too – variety, of course. Pussy (never “cunt”, I hate that word) can be just as good as dick. Bethany is pure
lesbian and if she knew I put dick inside me, she would probably vomit. She’s twenty-five, a lipstick lesbian, petite and bouncy. You see, I’d never gone to bed with a woman, I wanted
to try it, Bethany came along, it happened. I enjoy what we do in bed, so we do it a lot now and then, when I can fit her in my schedule with all these others.

II. How I Met My Lovers

Curtis

I’ve been sleeping with him for two years now, ever since I left Alaska and moved to warm and sunny southern California: San Diego. I’m not sure who made the
first move, but I was attracted to the man and had sex with him in the office, and later in motel rooms.

Steve

Curtis’ wife and kids were out of town one weekend so I spent the night with him. His brother made an unannounced visit. Curtis came up with some story that I was
helping with extra work but Steve knew what was going on. Steve had his brother’s looks. I slipped Steve a note:
Call me
with my number. When he called, I said, “I really
was
helping your brother with extra work.”

“Yeah?” Steve said. “With what? Mid-life crisis?”

“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Is
this
why you wanted me to call you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I was hoping you’d ask me out on a date.”

“Oh,” he said.

When he picked me up that night, I said, “Forget the dinner and the movie, let’s just fuck.”

“You’re very fast,” he said.

“I don’t like to waste time,” I said.

A week later, Steve told me that he didn’t want to fuck me if I was fucking his brother. “That’s
too
weird,” he said. I lied and said his brother was a one-time
thing, that I didn’t like seeing married men . . .

Tim

I met him on the beach. You got it: he surfs. His long blond hair is very cute. He thinks it’s cool to be fucking an older woman – five years and I’m
“older”.

Ron

Met him at a party; he and two of his friends got me into a bedroom. I knew what was going on. The three of them fucked me on the bed. Ron stayed, looking guilty. He kept
saying that he was very sorry that he and his friends raped me. I told him it wasn’t rape, I knew what they were up to, I played along, I wanted to get laid just like he and his buddies did.
He didn’t believe me, maybe he thought he’d get in trouble. To prove my sincerity, I gave him a blowjob and later went home with him where we stayed up all night and screwed our happy
heads off.