The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (66 page)

I let him get up and make him crawl up the stairs ahead of me, which he will do, nipple-clip chain clinking on each step, leash dragging behind him. He will crawl all the way to our bed where he
will sit obedient and quiet, plug pushed deeply inside. I will unlock the chest that sits at the end of the bed and let him select a dildo. This is the only decision he is allowed to make inside
these walls, and he chooses carefully lest that privilege be taken away. I wait patiently; it’s the least I can do.

He chooses a pink tapered plug, not much wider or longer than two fingers, but I will let him do this as I’ve ridden him quite hard already tonight. He lubes it himself, leans back on the
bed, pushes out the ball-plug and slides this one inside himself. I tell him to show me and he spreads his legs, knees up so I can watch as he slowly slides it in and out.

I hook the leash over the bed post and adjust the length so it is taut but not pulling, letting him know that he is not in control, nothing has changed. I kneel between his feet and force his
knees wider and I tell him to look at me and fuck himself. I ease one knee up against his arse cheeks, forcing the plug deeper. I place his hands on his own knees and lean forward to remove first
one clip then the other, sucking the painful freedom from pressure into my mouth and never easing the weight of my knee as I lean into him.

I lean to one side and ease down on to the bed, replacing my knee with a hand and work him with the dildo as you would fingers in a pussy. I tell him that he is my pussy. I bite him, suck him,
lick him, kiss him, and he lets me; he wants me to fuck him again. I want him flat out on the bed underneath me and ease him round, face down, making him hold in the plug as I crawl behind him. I
know the angle that I need to take up to keep it inside him; he knows it as well and spreads his legs to allow me between them. He is much larger physically than me, muscled and toughened by too
many nights on the streets, but he gives it up to me here.

He knows that I don’t want to fuck him because he is weaker than me, more feminine; I want to fuck him this way because he is stronger; I want to fuck him like I’m fucking a man and
the noises I want him to make are the deep grunts and groans of a man taking it. I lie with my full body weight on him, forcing his hardness into the twist of bed sheets underneath.

I can’t reach his hands but am able to pull his arms to the sides and pin them out, cross-like, and here, unlike at the back of his police car, I can take my time with him and it is my
pleasure to do so. I grind into him increasing the pressure and speed until he grunts in time with each thrust, until he forgets his day and the world is no bigger than this room, this bed, me,
this fuck. Until his world right now is his arse, that it is full of me, that there are no choices or decisions to be made, he is being fucked relentlessly, and he will take it until I decide I am
done. He will always come this way but fight it as if the fact that no hand is touching his cock when he does is different. I bring him through his orgasm, slow the pace enough to allow him to
catch his breath and think that I’m done. I’m never done. I’m not done now, but I slide off and he turns his back to me and I curl behind him, plug still in place.

I let him rest and he does not protest when I ease him onto his back. Protesting will never work; I will fuck him again and harder, he knows that. I grope through my toy chest for a slightly
bigger dildo and lube it well. This one is realistically shaped and I know that he will feel each ridge as I work it in. I kneel between his thighs, take him in my mouth and lick and suck him until
he hardens again. When I release him, his hips strain, pointing his bobbing cock upwards, and I lean in and close my tits around it. He reaches down to hold them himself, squeezing them tight and
pinching my nipples between his fingers. He strains hard enough that on the upward thrusts I am able to lick the slitted head.

But I stop him, forcing his hands down and under his ass and he knows that he must leave them there. I begin to slide my rubber accomplice inside him; tightness becomes acceptance, the head
disappears and his arse clenches rhythmically around the stem. I suck him into my mouth to the same depth. The more he takes, the more of him I take. He begs for more mouth but must take more
rubber as well. Even I don’t think I could really synchronize this movement at real cock-sucking speed, but I will try until one action overtakes the other. I will either penetrate him deeply
and suck him off or penetrate him repeatedly and let him come in my mouth. Either way, he will come again, because I want it.

This is what I want; this is the way I want our life to be and I am working towards it. He has spent many years on the road and, every day, every shift he works is full of decisions and
he’s tired of making them. I don’t have my room, yet, but I will and it will be equipped with hooks for hanging and ropes for restraining, paddles and whips, collars and clips. I want
everything at hand and accessible, not hidden away. I do slide my fingers up his arse when he comes; he only said he didn’t want that the first time I did it and when I’m using three
fingers I tell him it’s only two. I do have a rubber cock that he helps me fuck myself with but I really picked it out for him. I talk to him as I ride him and I tell him that I’m going
to do all these things; I’m going to make him crawl naked down the hallway, I’m going to follow behind him and when I tell him to stop I will mount him from behind and fuck him, make
him crawl some more then mount him again, and again, and again. I’m going to collar and leash him; when it is warm, that is all that he will wear. When he comes home he will, in front of me,
grease himself and insert his own arse plug which he will wear until I tell him he can take it out. He will cut the grass, walk the dog, wash the dishes, and watch TV – always plugged.

I’m going to blindfold him, tie his cock down and string him up in the basement, toes barely touching the cold floor. After I have reddened his arse with a paddle I will line it with my
most delicate whip. I will lick each red raised welt then stand on a stool and fuck him.

I will meet him after work when he goes out with the boys for a drink. He will go to the men’s room and insert the plug I’ve brought with me and come back and sit on a stool and chat
and laugh with all his friends. I’m going to fuck him before he goes to work, and fuck him again when he comes back home. I will not take out the cock when I’m done and he will have to
learn to go to sleep with it inside and if I wake in the night I will ride him again. In the morning, if I want, he will allow me inside him again.

I am going to have an extra strap-on in the garden shed that I will use on him midday while the neighbours pull weeds in their vegetable patch. While they have afternoon tea, I will hang him
naked from the crossbeam in the shed. I will spread his legs, weight his balls and while they nibble on tiny sandwiches I will take his cock in my mouth and eat him. At night he will get down on
his hands and knees and I will ride him on the back lawn under the starry sky. I tell him that he will let me finger him whenever I want; that he will let me stroke his cock till he comes; suck his
cock when I want; that he will masturbate for me when I tell him to. I tell him these things now and I see in his eyes that he wants it that way – he wants me to take everything, leaving him
just whatever he is allowed or made to do – and I want to make him do all of it.

Karen (Albuquerque, USA)

When it comes to real-life sex, I’m about as straight-laced as my Minister’s united running shoes. But when it comes to fantasy sex, I’m a girl gone wild! I
see a guy or gal that turns me on, and right away he or she becomes a character in one of my wicked sexual imaginings.

Take, for example, a colleague of mine at work, a leggy Latina by the name of Vanessa Sanchez. When I first laid eyes on her, was when the first of my fantasies featuring her took shape in my
subconscious. There’s nothing more exciting than combining business and pleasure, in my book, and when I tossed Vanessa into the erotic mix I concocted one heck of a sexual fantasy to keep me
motivated on the job. The only problem was, Vanessa actually caught me in the middle of my super-hot daydream.

Well, here’s how that most satisfying day at work played out:

Vanessa tentatively approached my desk, unsure of herself and what I wanted. I was sure, though, very sure.

“You wanted to see me, Ms Williams?” she said in a soft voice. A voice soft enough and warm enough to suck into your mouth and swallow down.

Easy, I told myself, easy. You don’t want to scare her off. So I nodded in a businesslike manner, stood up, walked past her, and shut the door to my spacious, well-appointed office. Then I
turned to face her. Her green eyes briefly met mine, then dived down into the thickly carpeted floor.

She was dressed in a simple black skirt and white blouse. Like any one of a million other office workers, except that the skirt was short and the blouse was tight. The skirt showcased her large,
round, firm arse, and her long, toned, supple legs. Her dancer’s legs were sheathed in glistening, black, sheer stockings, all the way from her high-heel-encased toes to somewhere just above
her short, short skirt. Her large, full, blatant breasts pressed against the thin, see-through fabric of her blouse, and in the air-conditioned office her dark, erect nipples were clearly visible
through the flimsy material – big and hard and begging to bust free. Her hair was chestnut, with red highlights, and her face was delicate and doused a golden brown, advertising her sultry,
sexy Spanish heritage.

“Yes, Vanessa,” I said briskly. “Have a seat, please. I wanted to discuss your performance evaluation. Your three-month probation period is up today, as I’m sure you
know.”

She sat down in a comfortable leather chair in front of my large antique desk, while I stood before her, leaning against the desk. I watched her cross her slender legs, fight with the
ever-rising hem of her skirt. I felt my pussy go wet and my face get warm, as I stared at those long, lithe legs. I could now plainly see the bronze flesh of her right leg, between her skirt and
her stocking. My eyes journeyed on an erotic course from that hot starting point, down the sculpted length of her leg, past her fleshy thigh, her rounded knee, her muscular, moulded calf, her slim
ankle (narrow enough to easily wrap my fingers around), and down to her foot – a foot dramatically displayed in black, imitation leather stilettos.

“Yes, I do . . . know,” she mumbled. She leaned forward to nervously grasp her knee, interlace her fingers around it, her nails flashing silver. Her bountiful breasts almost tumbled
out of her over-stretched blouse as she leaned over her legs, and I could see and appreciate the warm, deep cleft between her two magnificent mocha mounds.

But I was a leg-woman from way back, from the days of ballet lessons and summer vacations at the beach and gym classes, and so that’s where my eyes returned, and lingered.
“You’ve been doing a good job, Vanessa,” I intoned. “Everyone thinks so. However, I’ve had a couple of complaints about your . . . business attire – the way you
dress.”

She squeezed her legs and her emerald eyes flashed angrily at me, her blood boiling instantly. “Who’s . . . I mean, what are these complaints about – specifically!?”

That was a good question, since I’d made them up. I stared off into the fiery jade depths of her eyes, momentarily lost. “Well, take your skirt, for example,” I said, making up
policy on the fly. “Our company dress code states that skirts cannot be more than four inches above the knee.” I reached back and picked up a metal ruler off of my desk. “Stand
up, please, and we’ll see just how far above the knee your skirt is.”

She rose from the chair, tugged down her skirt. “I think it’s petty of people to complain about their co-worker’s clothing . . . behind their backs. They’re probably just
jealous,” she added saucily.

“They probably are,” I agreed inadvertently. I flushed and swallowed hard as I gazed at her stockinged legs – legs that seemed to go on forever; then I licked my lips with a
wooden tongue and dropped down in front of her, in front of her silky legs. I could smell the faint, sweet, warm scent of her body spray, and perhaps even the musty, beginning dampness of her
pussy. She was a passionate girl, easily aroused. She jumped when I cupped the back of her right leg with my left hand. My fingers lingered on the soft sheen of her stockings, surreptitiously
caressed the fine, black material, and the hot, brown flesh that it covered.

“Okay, here we go,” I croaked. I grasped the back of her thigh more tightly, and then placed the cold, steel ruler against the bottom of her skirt, on the front of her leg. A quick
glance told me that her hemline was a good six inches above the knee, but I’d known that much from a mere visual inspection. To an experienced leg-watcher like myself, hem-length is all
important. I pressed the ruler firmly against her leg, and then slowly slid it up underneath her skirt, until the tip of the metal touched her burnished flesh.

“Oh,” she gasped, her emotions running quickly from anger to pleasure, hot to hotter.

I kept on sliding the ruler up her leg, until it touched the edge of her panties, while with my left hand I began openly caressing the back of her leg, stroking up and down from her thigh to the
vulnerable spot at the back of her knee, and then back up again – higher and higher each time, slowly and sensuously. My hand slipped underneath her skirt, touched the top of her stocking,
felt the rounded flesh that led up to her big, beautiful buttocks.

“Oh, Ms Williams,” she breathed.

I reluctantly pulled my eyes away from her lush, luxurious legs and glanced up at her face. Her eyes were closed, her red, pouty lips open, her body quivering with excitement, her big chest
heaving with mounting desire. “Call me, Karen,” I said, for lack of anything poetic to utter. My mind was muddled with the brazen leg-heat of the young, Latina hussy. I sensed that we
were well beyond words, anyway, and that’s exactly where I wanted us to be.