The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (59 page)

“No. Sorry.”

“You knew that it was to be a scaling and extraction.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Well, hold the vein and get him under and then set it up fast.”

The morning goes in the same way – snipe, niggle and childish complaints. I should leave this office. Nothing about me is right. Nothing. I will never fit in, not with this hard on,
throbbing between my legs. Damn my dreams of sex, sex and Dr Larissa Logan, Larissa, all the time.

As we finish the last case of the morning she says, “I want to do that dobe next. She’s just right. The stud’s coming in at twelve.”

The dobe bitch is as sweet as the rabbits in my dream. Soft and silky and female in every way. I can almost smell her femaleness. Its body, like Logan’s, is without an
ounce of fat, and is streamlined to an efficient, beautiful machine. Its coat glistens with health.

And, by god, the bitch is ready. She rubs her back end on the floor, she pushes it against the wall, she does anything to get some sensation to her bright red, swollen vulva.

The male arrives. He’s huge, and as male as she’s female. Big-boned, tall, well-covered, silky and lithe.

I stroke him and bend down to talk to her. The dog licks my face. In fact, this male is as gentle as the female, a wuss, a big cuddly bear.

The two dogs are introduced and sniff and then go to their respective owners and place heads on laps. The owners and Larissa Logan and I sip coffee. Both dogs ignore each other. I pull the
male’s collar and drag him to the bitch. The bitch smells me and nuzzles me and he lifts his head and looks at the ceiling. Big deal!

The humans have some more coffee. The dogs stare into air.

I have seen males like this in my dad’s kennel. They just need a bit of prodding, something to get them going. My dad used to joke that they are like men in their sixties, married to the
same woman for forty years. I stroke him and pat him and whisper to him. “Come on, come on, boy.”

The dog licks my face. Big sloppy kisses.

Ah, no, it’s not the dog I am teasing but Dr Larissa. She wants me, she needs me. I am here for her.

I rub the edge of the bitch’s vulva and wet my finger in her juices, I then touch the male’s nose with my finger, covered in blood. He sniffs. I let him lick my finger and place my
hand almost right into his mouth. He licks again and sucks my ear. If the dog could be as affectionate to the bitch as he is to me, then things would be just perfect.

Oh, this is Larissa I have here, on her knees. I have my finger in her cunt. I have her juice on my hands. I taste her in my mouth. It is she, here before me, waiting for me.

I stroke his penis through the prepuce. Back and forward I massage the organ under the skin. It pulses under my hand. I wet my finger in the bitch’s vulva again and let him lick it.

Now, Larissa has my finger directed against her clit and it’s soaking against it. I suck it and sniff it.

The penis is now sticking out of his sheath, bright and turgid.

My clit is so hard it’s sticking out of my lips, almost hanging down like a baby penis. It’s exposed and vulnerable.

The bitch backs into me, her vulva flagging, red, ripe, juicy.

The dog sniffs and half-heartedly attempts to mount the bitch. He loses interest when it seems too difficult.

God, I am over Larissa, doggie fashion, my cunt grinding into her soft, silky arse, my hands on her breasts, pulling on her nipples.

I again massage the penis until it throbs, and finally the dog, as if saying to himself, “Oh, hell, if I must, I must,” mounts panting and pawing frantically, shagging ferociously.
He’s in her and tight, so tight, right in there, his arse muscles pumping and pushing. He thrusts into her, rams his penis right into her, rams it in, pumps himself into exhaustion and they
are tied together. He tries to extract himself and can’t. They turn. They are tied bum to bum, like a double-headed monster. The bitch is panting, a smile on her face. He is quiet, dazed.

Larissa and I, sixty-nine, me on top, she panting, panting, screaming, pushing gyrating up to me, stretching her legs until it’s as if she would split into two. This is it. This is what I
want and dream. My legs crossed, leaning against the wall, I come silently, violently, without moving a muscle.

When the bitch is gone and the office is cleared up for the weekend, I make myself some coffee and open the paper to catch up with the world. So much for Larissa Logan.

This is my time. This is . . . my eyes are heavy. I want her again. I know she’ll be in Mario’s for her Saturday lunch. I have to mind the shop. My finger slides down my pants. It
curls round my panties.

Now, I order her here. She is to be here to service me.

She stands at the door. “None for the boss?”

“Didn’t say you wanted one.”

“Could have offered.”

I make her a coffee and take it into her office.

“Is there anything wrong with having it with me?”

“No.” I return with my coffee and sit across the table from her. I will not sulk. Actually sulking was the last thing from my mind. The show of the bitch and the male have made me
hotter for her. I have decided to call Maria and take her out for dinner tonight. Anything to get this woman off my mind. When a woman wants a shag, she has to have a shag.

She reaches in the drawer and pulls out a half bottle of Chivas Regal. “Want one?”

“Why not?” Now what? One minute she’s the bitch from hell and the next almost civilized. What’s going on now? Do I really need to know? Hell with it. Go with the
flow.

“Why not, indeed? It is Saturday.”

She pours a good slug into both mugs. The heady, aromatic, full, heavy spirit burns its way down my throat. I feel my face flush in response to the heat.

“I dream about you,” she says. “It makes things difficult. Try not to let it interfere.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Yes, twice I have a dream about you.” Her face is soft, tender, dreamy. “Such rich dreams. Dreams . . .”

“Me too.”

“Never.”

“Sure I did. Dreams about you. Such passionate dreams.” Her hand is over mine. I think I’ll die. I will explode. I smell that vanilla, sweet smell of hers. The smell of her
skin and her cunt. That heavy, loamy smell some women have.

“That’s so strange.”

“What were your dreams about?”

The phone rings. It always does in dreams, doesn’t it?

“Damn it,” she says. “Let the service get it.”

“My dreams were . . . rabbits and you in a field. A field full of rabbits.”

She moves her chair closer to mine. “Mine were of you on a swing and you were going up and down, up and down. A swing made of red rope, velvet rope. You were naked. And, as the swing came
down, your legs . . . sorry.”

“Go on.” She could not stop now. I have to have more of the detail. “Come on.”

“I walked up to you. And as you came down I was between your legs. Between your legs and you would have your legs right up to my face. So close I could smell your musk. So close and you
smelt of honey and clover. Rich fresh clover. I kept the swing right up to my chest. Bent down to you and smelt you. Put my face right into your sex.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. So close and your legs were round my head and my face . . .”

“Yes.”

I knelt before her and started to undo the small buttons of her blouse so it hung forward. She wriggled her shoulders and the blouse came off in my hands.

Reaching behind her, I unclipped her bra and let it fall off her shoulders. Her nipples stood, proud, heavy and turgid. Golden and red at the same time.

First I sucked one and then the other, on my knees, kneeling as if I were praying. Paying homage at the altar of my idol, my goddess. Sucked each in turn until they both shimmered and glowed as
if they were lit up from inside. She has enormous nipples. The kind with a knobbly area around them, little bumps, themselves the shape of tiny nipples.

I stood up and drew her up in front of me. We kissed. Her lips so . . . so very wet, as wet as a spring of fresh water. I sucked her juice, my tongue searching every part of her mouth. My sex
hard against her thigh. Her skin was all that I had imagined, her taste the taste I had created over and over in my mind.

Desperate and panting, she fumbled with my trouser zip and undid it, then pulled the trousers down. I stood in my panties. They too were pulled down. Her face was buried in them, she breathed in
deeply as if drinking the smell of my cunt.

“Yes,” she said. “I have wanted you.”

“I have . . . wanted this for so long.”

Her sweater was the next item to come off and then her bra and they were both dropped on the floor.

Her gaze was fixed on my sex. I looked down. My thick blonde thatch stood proud and luxurious.

She went onto her knees and soaked the tip of my clit, her tongue licking and red, red and quick round it. Then her mouth engulfed me.

Jesus, I could not bear this.

I pulled from her and sat down on the chair. I was not some horny teenager to come the first second she touched me. No, cool down, buddies, cool it. I pulled her skirt down and with it, her
slip. I then hooked one hand round her panties and pulled them down. I buried my face in the crotch, my tongue tipping her clit. My body turned into a river, into a pumping waterfall. I have never
feasted on such a sugary, opulent cunt. It was jasmine and vanilla and honey.

Her legs were open wide, exposing everything for me to examine it. A smile lit up her face, her skin had a deep rich blush.

I opened her lips and ran my tongue down from her clit into her hole. Up and down. Licking like a child licks a popsicle.

She moaned and leant back. Her eyes were shut.

I wet my finger and circled her clit until it popped up to meet me. Yes, now. I bent to her and ran my tongue round it, round and round, and circled and teased it. I wondered if I should pinch
myself to make sure I was awake. Or was this just another variation of the dream I have been cursing?

“Jesus, Christ. I can’t bear this.” Her eyes were shut tight and her lips a thin line. “It’s too much. Too fucking much. I have to come.” Her hand came to her
clit and a finger worked it round and round.

Yes. I stopped and watched her for a moment, wondering how long she could go on. My own finger found my clit and worked it just as she worked hers.

“Smells of heaven.”

“So do you.”

I pushed her onto her back and opened her legs. I buried my face in her pussy, licking and sucking. One finger deep in her heavy, mysterious cunt. I felt her begin her orgasm, felt her tighten
onto my finger. I rolled her over, rolled her onto her back. “Now.”

“Yes now.”

I was above her. My cunt to her cunt. She fingered me and I fingered her. God, I was right inside her, making her come. She had her hand round my back, her finger in my arse, rolling the finger
round and round. God, this was more, much more than I believed possible. Impossible.

I ground into her and no . . . no . . . wait until . . . until . . . I teased her, feathered her and then focused my activity, not stopping, she became rigid for a second or two, then her body
grasped me and a volcano erupted, as she panted, and moaned, “Yes, fuck me, for Christ’s sake, fuck me. Shag me silly, come on, you bastard.”

If that was what she wanted, that was what she would get. I pumped into her as if I was working out on the track, as if I was pumping for my life. And shafts of pain, pain and agony, and oh,
such ecstasy, such a high in my clit, a charge from my clit right into my brain, a bolt of lightning exploded in my body. I kept pumping, thrusting and ramming into her long after I was
finished.

She bit my ear.

I bit her arm.

I heard the door from the outside open.

I licked my finger.

She stood at the door.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything is just perfect.”

She turned her head and smiled. “Better than dreams.”

“Yes, much better than dreams. Even the best of them.”

Jessica (Berkeley, USA)

I come from a fairly conservative Catholic background. My parents didn’t say a word about sex to me, except when my mother gave me a scientific facts-of-life talk when I
was nine. I didn’t really discover sexuality – what a marvellous thing it could be – until I met my very open-minded and very loving husband. We’ve been married for eighteen
years and have two beautiful children.

My husband travels a lot for his business and the other day I read that most videos rented in hotels were porno and the average length of play was thirteen minutes. I told my husband and he
laughed and said, “That sounds about right.” But for me it’s very different. I wonder if it’s a gender thing or if I’m unusual, but I love to lose myself in long,
elaborate fantasies, keeping my body just aroused enough so that it feels like I’m floating above the bed with images and words swirling around me like caresses. When I have a morning to
myself, I can spend hours this way before I finally let myself climax.

My fantasies tend toward exhibitionism, although in real life I am very modest and proper and never wear anything you’d call revealing. I think people would be shocked to know what goes on
in my head! Here are two of my recent favourites.

In my first fantasy, I’ve volunteered to be interviewed for a new study on female sexuality. The interview takes place at the office of a researcher at the local university and it’s
funded by a prestigious organization – in fact I learn of it from the ladies I work with at the library, who assure me it feels good to do something for the advancement of science. At the
researcher’s office, everything is very proper and professional at first. The female assistant gives me consent forms to sign and promises my identity will be protected.

Then the doctor comes in for the interview. He is older, mid-fifties, and very sure of himself, the type of man who looks down his nose at ordinary folk without an MD and at least two PhDs to
their names. But, as is proper protocol with a subject, he is very cordial and smooth as he asks me questions about my sexual history, how old I was when I started masturbating, how I lost my
virginity, how often I climax with my husband. At first I’m shy but, as I warm up, I begin to tell him things I’ve never told anyone before.