Quickies: A Collection of Short Fantasies

by Abigail Grey

  Slowly, I put my tongue out, closing my lips around it. She bent close, wiping her pussy on my tongue. I could taste the bitterness of the clinging drops, but also the flavor of her wet pussy. She used my flat tongue to rub her clit, humping against my face. I tried to move my tongue against her, which earned me another slap.

  "No, potty, tongue out!" she insisted. I opened my mouth, just letting my tongue lay flat against my lower lip for her to please herself against. She pushed her cunt against my mouth, rubbing until I felt her shiver and gush with her orgasm. As she came down from it, she looked at my upturned face, a cruel glint in her eye.

  "Did you really think those bottles of water would all be gone?"

  My eyes went wide, but her grip kept my mouth sealed to her. I felt it start and I squealed, the sound changing to a gurgle as it filled my mouth and began to spill out.

  She stopped soon enough, not forcing me to swallow more than I did with my gagging and sputtering. I spit what I could out. Steph gripped my hair, pulling me to stand as she turned on the shower. Two of her fingers pressed into my pussy.

  She stood behind me as the water rinsed me, her fingers playing in the baffling wetness between my legs. She turned me toward the wall, pressing my upper body against it as she started to finger me harder and deeper. My eyes fluttered closed when she pressed downward against my g-spot, rubbing it firmly, hitting it with every thrust of her fingers into my cunt. My legs spread wider, my ass moving with her rhythm until my world broke and I cried out with my orgasm.

  I rested against the wall as my breathing returned to normal. Steph, still behind me, lathered a bath sponge and began to wash me gently. She pulled me back against her body, the sponge gliding over my neck, shoulders, and breasts. Her other hand, still holding the bottle of shower gel, moved back to my pussy. She slowly worked the tube into my hole, fucking me slowly with it. I was quickly ramping up to another good cum when she removed it. Another bottle was placed on the tub floor. This was her shampoo and was decidedly bigger than the other had been. She put me on my knees, facing her, and lined the bottle up. She pressed me down slowly, rearranging the folds of my pussy until I felt the bottle's top open me. Steph then stood over my face, her hands on my shoulders. I licked her as she pushed down on my shoulders, pressing more of the bottle into me. She bucked against my mouth when I sucked on her clit. When she came, she shoved me down, filling me completely when my pussy lips hit the bathtub floor. The complete violation of it triggered my own orgasm, making me squeal and writhe with the bottle still embedded inside me.

  The Spot

  I used to tell them. I used to lead them to the spot and see what they would do. I just stopped so it wouldn’t be disappointing anymore.

  You know how everyone has that one spot; the spot that, when gripped, held, stroked, whatever, just right, makes your whole body heat up. When I told them about mine, they never got it. But now I stared up at my wrists. The rope was purple. And I had to smile.

  I had known that Jason would be different from the first time we spoke. His easy smile stuck out among the practiced scowls populating the bar I managed. He had leaned across the bar to say hello, rather than barking out an order for the trendiest draft with which to be seen. He didn’t intentionally tip big to get my attention. I found myself gravitating to his end of the bar more often as he sat there quietly watching the screens behind the bar.

  As the night wore on, the bar began to empty of its regular crowd. The college students drifted out, belatedly aware it was a school night. The business crowd had long since finished wining and dining the clients, and the sports fans had exited sullenly with an epic loss under the local team’s belt.

  I made small talk while cleaning up. I had a habit of talking, almost incessantly, to fill the silence. He revealed his need to travel for work, leading to the obvious question.

  “So what do you do?”

  The question had been asked by bartenders for ages. I employed the staple tender talk daily, sometimes with interesting responses.

  “I make rope.”

  My eyes met his, each scrutinizing the other. He calmly took a sip of his beer, his deep brown eyes not leaving mine. They seemed to question and challenge in one expression.

  “What kind of rope?” I asked, refusing to back away from the suddenly charged situation. He chuckled. That was all, just laughed. My brain jumped to fill the silence.

  “You know, people around here are no strangers to rope. I mean, it used to be a big shipping port, so we had giant boats right out there-“ I gestured to the docks beyond our windows. “I suppose that’s why you’re here, right? A new contract or something?”

  He smirked into his beer. “Yes, something like that.” Jason stood, his hand going to his wallet.

  I suddenly didn’t want him to leave. “Last call?” I interjected, feeling shrill and needy as I said it. To cover my shakiness, I lined two shot glasses up on the bar. He gave a brief nod and sat again, watching me pour the chilled vodka.

  I lifted one in a toast, which he matched, our glasses clinking together as mine shook. “To new acquaintances”, I began. His fingers circled my wrist, stilling my hand with a firm grip. I flinched, the pulse under his fingers seeming to thud loudly in my ears. I stared at his hand, my entire existence having been narrowed to the clasp of his hand on my wrist.

  After a pause that felt far too long, I heard him correct my toast. “To new friends.” He released my arm, tossing back the shot. I did the same, the dry chill of the vodka doing nothing to help me speak.

  He once again stood, pulling his wallet from his pocket. After removing bills to pay for the last beer and both shots, he regarded me with curiosity. “Could I wait? To make sure you get home okay?”

  My brain realized his intention and didn’t seem to want to analyze it. My agreement came, almost a surprise to me. “Sure. I won’t be long.”

  The spell wore off as I resumed my routine. I began to chatter again, talking about anything from the movie that had just come out to the books I had read to the weirdest history facts I had heard about our little town. As I got closer to completing my work, my nerves hummed and my lips flew in a random babbling I couldn’t have stopped had I tried. That one touch had my world flipped and in chaos. I thought now, my mind working as it should have minutes ago. I never took guys home from work like this. A stranger comes into town and propositions me? I had seen this horror movie; I knew how this could end.

  Still, I let him lead me out to my car, let him open my door for me, nodded my assent when he mentioned that he could follow me home so we wouldn’t be leaving a vehicle behind inconveniently. I drove on auto-pilot, aware but not alert. Pulling in to the old farmhouse my grandparents had left me, I judged it poorly. The crumbling barn, the faded floral curtains, and the tire swing in the yard made me cringe. I waited by the door for him to approach.

  He carried a small bag with him. I stepped away from it, hoping my fear was unfounded. He smiled. “It’s okay. I just thought you might like to see my work.”

  I nodded, taking up my monologue as I unlocked the door. I rambled through the obligatory apologies for the mess I left and began to explain the history of the house.

  Jason asked thoughtful questions when I paused to breathe. He acted interested in the past of the antiques that were still displayed as homage to childhood memories. My verbal barrage persisted until reaching the archway to the great room. I gestured for him to precede me, inviting him to take a seat. Despite this, he stood in the entry, transfixed.

  The room had been my grandfather’s pride. The fireplace was enormous, its grey fieldstone crawling like so much ivy up the wall. The timbered walls were dark and rough, drawing the eye to the exposed rafters. The entire room beckoned with warmth and the feeling of home. I took it all in as a stranger would and turned back to Jason, who still stood motionless in the doorway.

  He stared, unblinking, at the rafters. The heavy beams had been salvaged from one of the ships my grandfather had worked
on and every mark, scar and scrape on them had been softened by his hands. They were beautiful.

  “Perfect.” I heard it exhaled, less a statement, more a sigh. The bag dropped, his hands fumbling at the zipper. From the bag he drew yards upon yards of woven purple nylon.

  I trembled. He held his hand out, a length of it across his palm. I watched his eyes light as my fingers caressed the rope he held. His other hand came up, his fingers circling my wrist. It was then my turn for tunnel vision, my existence shuddering to that one contact. My pulse thundered through my limbs.

  “Can you trust me?” He whispered the question. I nodded slowly.

  He stood, leading me to stand below a junction of the beams. Gently, almost reverently, he removed my t-shirt. He drew a length of cord around my wrist. I closed my eyes, feeling the play of the weave over my pulse point. It coiled around the bone and tightened slightly with each pull.

  The knots were intricate and strong. He tossed the other end of the rope, bundled together, over the beam. In a torturously slow wind, he pulled until my arms lifted above me, captivated solely by my wrists. He wound the rope around his own hand to keep it anchored. His hand flexed, pulling at the rope surrounding my wrists.

  I inhaled sharply when I felt the tightening of the rope. My pulse thundered through my veins. Jason leaned forward slowly, his lips brushing over mine gently while his hand pulled on the rope. And I smiled.

  Beautiful

  When I answered the ad on the campus bulletin board, Eddie didn't match my mind's picture of the photography type. Even on the phone his voice gave me a mental image of a whip-thin, beret-wearing smoker, most likely with a man-purse and dark room tan. We spoke of the opportunity, building his portfolio while allowing me to keep some pictures I could use when submitting my acting CVs. He talked the tech up, elaborating on the camera he would use and the effects one would achieve with this lens or that filter.

  I must have made the appropriate sounds of approval because he seemed eager to meet for coffee the following day to show me some of his work and discuss the style of shoot we wanted to do. I dressed carefully, trying to highlight my favorite qualities. As I stared at myself in the mirror, I prayed that through his camera he could make me appear how I always wanted to: beautiful. Growing up as a Plain Jane had derailed my ambition for the stage more times than I cared to admit, the roles I yearned for having gone to the beauties with the adorable button noses and anorexic-chic bodies.

  I was deliberately not early for the meeting. I didn't want the time to get nervous and chicken out, so I walked into the grungy coffee shop two minutes late. My heels seemed to echo on the old and uneven wooden floor. I saw people turn toward the door at my entrance, but only one kept their eyes on me. I smile shyly, looking around for my imagined Eddie. At the counter I ordered a latte, simple vanilla with whip. I jumped slightly as a credit card was handed to the bored, pierced girl behind the register, the arm having reached unseen from behind me. I turned and looked up.

  The one whose eyes hadn't left me looked like he belonged in a frat house, not a dark room. His tan was real, as was a body that seemed fit because of activity, not affectation. He smiled at me and I realized how out of my league I truly was.

  "Hey, Jess", he said in greeting. "I was afraid I'd lost you already."

  I wished I could take back the laugh as soon as it bubbled out of me. I mentally kicked myself for not perfecting a girly giggle. "Thanks, but I need this as much as you do." I knew he would interpret it as my curricular needs, not my personal confidence ones. I collected my caffeine fix and followed him to the table.

  His portfolio wasn't the ostentatious poster-sized attache I expected. There was no man-purse in sight. He drank a bottled water, not pretentious loose-leaf tea. I was so over my head, and I had no idea it was going to get worse.

  He asked me questions about my major, my shows, my vocal coach, and what seemed like a million other things. No matter how many times I tried to turn the conversation topic away from me, he brought it back. My espresso was empty before he leaned back in his chair.

  His canvas backpack came up to the table then, where he removed his camera and a tasteful leather book. He slid the book across the table, but didn't remove his hand from the cover.

  He seemed to take a deep breath before he spoke. "Jess, I would really like to do the shots for you that you need. I would also like to do others, if you're willing. Look at a few of these and let me know if you'd be open to it."

  I shrugged, unaware of the rabbit hole I was about to jump down. "Not a problem. It should be fine." I reached for the book, prepared to look them through.

  "Not here." His quiet statement seemed to ring with warning. I yanked my hand back, suspicious at his caution. We stared at each other while my emotions flipped from shock to anger, disappointment, and then to curiosity. My hand came back out, but only to take the book and hold it close to my chest.

  Eddie smiled slightly. "The first pictures are some that you'll recognize from the events we've done in the program. Some of the others, though, are examples of what I'd like to try. We can do as much or as little as you like. All I need is a yes or no. Just call me with your answer, okay?" At my slow silent nod, he stood and walked out.

  It wasn't long before I realized I was hugging the book and staring at nothing. I left the crowded shop, knowing I couldn't go anywhere but my room to assuage the burning question in my mind: what was so secret about these pictures?

  I found myself locking my dorm room door, checking the window and the door to my shared bathroom. My behavior made me feel secretive and guilty, even before I cracked the book open. I flipped through the first pictures quickly; he was right that I recognized the shots of classmates and school spirit events. I got to the first blank page, staring at it in confusion. Another followed it, and another after that. I started to flip the pages quickly, which made me miss the first few pictures. Recovering, I opened the next page wide and stared.

  The lines were beautiful, two hands together as if in prayer. The fingers were long and graceful, the fuzzy background implying candlelight. And there were coils of rope around her wrists.

  The next picture was of another series, the lighting boldly throwing shadows across the face of a woman on her knees, thick rope winding between her breasts, across her stomach and even between her legs. The next was the same woman, but even more personal. Her eyes bored into the camera, the intention clear and smoldering. With my attention drawn to those eyes, I didn't notice right away that a leather strap held a ball between her lips.

  One after another, the pictures drew me into their mysterious seductive nature. Ropes bound wrists to ankles, leather cuffs were hooked to something high, elongating a body to sleek curves, and the nudity... I was seeing these women and men bared, physically and emotionally, and drinking it in like it were the only water in my sexually-naive desert. And every single one of them was captivatingly beautiful.

  I woke the next morning, having never changed out of my clothes and with the book open under my cheek. I scrambled for my phone. As the call connected, I stared at the eyes of the gagged woman. When Eddie answered, I said only, "Yes" and hung up.

  I like to think he understood my hesitations, knew that I would waffle about my decision, because the rest of our arrangements were made over e-mail and text message. The separation helped me not think about what he wanted to do. Despite the distance I found myself falling asleep each night after staring at the images he had sent home with me. The emotions behind each one was as varied as the subjects. The ones showing a tall black man radiated with his pride and strength, even as his hands were bound behind him. A blond in a frilled skirt conveyed a damsel in distress with the strip of fabric wound across her mouth. And the woman in the ball gag brought me back every night with the blatant challenge in her ice blue eyes.

  The day arrived without time seeming to have progressed. I felt numb, almost like I wasn't real, as I walked up to the private studio space Eddie had reserved. My
subconscious seemed to have dressed me, the high-collared shirt and long jeans covering me nearly head to toe. Eddie greeted me with the detachment of a professional, taking my signature on the project sheet he would be required to turn in to his instructor. He continued adjusting equipment, leaving me standing and staring at the space in which my world would change.

  I sat on a stool, my hands propped between my knees on the seat. I stared at the floor before me until I heard the click and whirr penetrate the silence. I looked up to see Eddie click again on the camera. He changed positions and I heard the camera click several times in succession before he lowered it. He smiled at me.

  I started laughing. Something about his smile, easy and friendly at its core, made me realize how silly I felt. His smile widened and he drew the camera back up to capture the spontaneous laughter that I could feel was relaxing my shoulders and the knot in my stomach.

  When my laughter tapered off, Eddie held a hand out. "Come on, chuckles, let’s get you in the light." I let him position me in front of his lights and followed the directions on tilting my chin, looking in that direction, dropping this shoulder, pursing my lips, placing my hand just so.

  As I grew more comfortable in his spotlight, I could see the change in him also. His eyes didn't see me anymore; they traced every angle, line and beam of light that were pieces of me, but not the whole. His detachment made me bold and I began to flirt with the camera. My cardigan came off, as did my shoes. My movements became languid, like the aftermath of fantastic sex. I played with my hair. I bit my lip. I removed my shirt.

  Eddie stood up straight, stepping out from behind the camera for the first time as the shirt hit the floor. I could see the calculation in his eyes as he measured the space for some unknown purpose. He stood still for so long I nearly lost my nerve, my hands creeping up to cover the black lace bra I had revealed. He breathed out, almost on a sigh, gave a silent decisive nod, then flew into action.