“What?”
“Saw Watkins yesterday. I’m going to be more and more in the city. Can’t get on with all this travelling, it isn’t good for me. We should get a good price for this place and pick up something convenient for the subway. The children would prefer the city too.”
“You think so? Have you asked them?”
“No point in asking – we’ve no choice.”
“There’s always choice.”
“Not for us.”
“Is that what you really think? You really think I have no choice and the children have no choices?”
“Have to be in the city; nothing more to say about it.”
“It’s you that has to be in the city, not me, and not the children.”
What is this man talking about? Do I know him? My painting is a grey canvas with huge blotches of red as if someone has been shot through it. We’re at the same spot where I had painted my unicorn. The grass is still flattened.
He says, shaking his head, “I don’t understand you at all.”
Anger bubbles. “I think you do. When it suits you – then you understand me very well. You can go to hell. You can go to your city and leave me and the children here.”
“Can’t be done.”
Something funny in his voice: there’s a dead certainty, a sureness, an authority even greater than is usual for him.
“And why can’t this be done?” Be patient. Give him time. Let him speak.
“I need the money from the house.”
“What?”
“Said I need the money from the house and we have to sell it. There’s no question or choice for any of us.”
“Go and find an apartment somewhere – like others do when they find family life too much.”
“I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, it’s as if I’m the one who’s being illogical and stupid.” He stands right in front of me and looms above me. I’m a fly waiting for the swatter. “This is silly. Only yesterday you were normal. Today you’re acting like a goat.” He smiles and his eyes become blue and clear as the stream. “All this rubbish about you keeping the children and the house, and me finding an apartment. . . . I don’t know where it comes from.” He laughs in a friendly, normal manner. Strokes my face. He strokes the cat the same way. Harder and harder all the time until the cat jumps away.
I move his hand from my face. “It sounds a sensible thing for people to do when they’re splitting up.”
“Wake up, and stop this stupidity!” The bully in his voice. I do not like this painting. Will change it and start another.
“I think I have just woken up,” I say too loudly.
I’m a tiny speck compared to his elephantine size. That white, blank face . . . Have seen this look twice before and each time he struck me. I brace by pushing myself against the tree. I swore I would leave if it ever happened again. Silence!
“Bitch! Don’t know who or what you think you are. Think you’re something special. Think you can turn my life upside down, and I can’t do anything. You know what I think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think I’m not going to let you get away with it this time. Not this time.”
His leaden hands on my shoulders. Bark cutting into my back and his fingers move up to my throat and . . .
“You think that you can take everything I’ve worked for from me? Think this: I could squeeze the life from you right now and leave you here. I could do that. Say you went on a trip . . . you were having an affair . . . went away. I could say anything at all and no one would miss you. Bury you here and you would never be found. Never.”
I whisper, “Where would that get you?”
He laughs. “Where would it get me! I’ll tell you where it would get me. It’ll get me my children, and my home, and my house and everything I’ve worked for all these years.”
His fingers tighten the pressure. Discomfort changes to pain. Must not fight.
Frame 8: Branches gather, come together. It’s dark as black velvet. Through this night is one shaft of light. It shines on me; it’s my circle, my spotlight. My face is red hot in the light while the rest of my body freezes; it’s getting colder and colder as the hands on my throat turn into a tourniquet.
Now the circle of light on my face gets larger and larger. Reach up behind me and find the piece of horn and grip it. Power flows into me. Release the piece of horn and take his hands in mine and gently lift them off my throat.
Unicorn. Footman. 905 874 1414
Frame 9. “That was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?” I’m speaking to a wicked child. His eyes bulge, pupils huge. He looks about and trembles.
“I don’t know what happened,” he stutters.
I start walking up the path and mumble, “We had best be getting back. It’s getting late.”
As I walk I pick foxgloves and white bryony and black nightshade and monkshood and aconite.
“What’s the flowers for?”
“For the dinner arrangement. We have company. Remember? They smell good. Granny scattered the seeds. Wanted them to be wild as they should.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Your grandmother and her flowers. Her herbs.”
Birds sing once more and sun floods into the darkness.
This is how things should be.
‘Nice Tits”
Olivia (Ann Arbor, USA)
In my sexual fantasies, my breasts are like a cock. I don’t mean they look like a cock or that I use them to fuck people. But the images that get me really excited are men and women admiring my breasts, which represent my sexual power. I imagine a woman’s breathless whisper as she slides her hand into my blouse: “You have the nicest tits I’ve ever seen – would you let me touch them?” she asks shyly. Or I picture a man’s rough hand pulling my nipple up ever so slightly over the border of my bra, closing his eyes in pleasure as he lowers his face to kiss it. I have quite an active imagination and my fantasies range from the mundane (sex with a rock star, for example) to the taboo. And yet my most treasured imagined scenarios, those that have driven me to frivol away countless afternoons feverishly orgasming over and over, involve some good dirty talk about my tits: so big, so soft, so hot, oh turn me on so bad, baby.
My first serious boyfriend figured out my fetish. When I first met him halfway through college, he loved to touch my breasts, to suck on them before my shirt was even off, pulling at the cloth of my T-shirt with his teeth until he could close his lips around my hard nipple. He would reach his strong arm around my ribcage to hold my breasts protectively as he fucked me from behind. I loved the contrast between his soft, reverent touch on my tits and the rough, desperate thrusting of his hips against my arse. If this is what sex is all about, I thought at age eighteen, I see why people like it so much.
Now let me tell you a bit about this boyfriend. Like me, he was a big fan of tits. I know this because he freely pointed out pairs that he liked especially, either on TV or when we passed them on the street. This made me a bit jealous, and I often fantasized that I was one of the women he admired. I would imagine him pulling my shirt open, button by button, to slowly expose inflated silicone breasts like those of the actress or model. But I never seriously minded his wandering eye, because he used to give a lot of attention to my breasts, too. That is, until he realized how much I liked it. It took him a while to notice; in fact he often apologized for focusing so much on my breasts, evidently believing that I merely tolerated his fetish. But one day while he was trying to give me an orgasm my own breast fetish became obvious. I had always orgasmed easily when I masturbated but had not yet been able to with him. This troubled him and scandalized my sexually liberated friends, but it didn’t bother me too much. Orgasms were something I could have by myself. Many of the sensations I felt with my boyfriend – being fucked, licked, sucked – did not seem to lead my body toward an orgasm but were horribly, torturously pleasing in themselves. I loved being penetrated from behind, feeling so full of his cock that I thought I’d burst. And I l
oved riding on top of him, watching his face contort into an expression of so much pleasure that it looked like pain as I slid slowly up and down his shaft.
But my favourite thing, our least common position, was when I lay on my back, vulnerable to the whims of this large man hovering just above me. With just one of his hands, he would grab hold of both my wrists and pull my arms up above my head. He liked to use his boxer briefs to tie my arms tightly to the bed frame. His excited cock would approach my face as he worked, and I would strain upward to run my tongue along its length. Instinctively he would press it into my mouth and let me suck on it for a moment, but then would pull back, denying himself the pleasure he was saving for just later. But the best part came after he finished tightening the knot. Hungrily he would admire my stretched, exposed body for a moment. I would not dare to look down at myself, but I would imagine what he saw: the delicate ribcage, the round, full breasts swelling up from the curve of the waist, the rosy pink aureolaes against creamy white skin. Gently he would lower his head and graze his lips over my nipple – then he would pull his head back in surprise, as though he had not meant to lower it. He would stare at me, his face intense with desire, until he could no longer bear it; then he would attack my breast like a starved dog, growling and biting. My back would arch and my hand would stir instinctively, trying to move to the back of his head to control his motions. “No,” he would say with a wicked smile, “you can’t stop me.” His pelvis would grind against mine as he stabbed his cock all around my pussy until finally, with a great groan of relief, he slid it inside. This all was too much for me, and I would moan with the despair of unbearable, unimaginable pleasure. I remember whispering to myself, “I can’t stand it!” I think perhaps at those moments I was close to coming, but it was a very different, more intense type of orgasm than the ones I gave myself, and I didn’t recognize it. So I tried to focus on his pleasure, matching his thrusts and pauses, until with a final shudder he came, crying out loudly enough to wake his room-mates through the flimsy walls of their apartment. He lay his head down between my breasts, and I wanted to embrace him, stroke his hair, but couldn’t – my arms were tied above my head. Lying still and bound, his cock pulsating gently inside me, I felt just a little jealous of this orgasm that seemed so final and satisfying.
At other times he worked diligently to try to give me an orgasm, but none of the tricks in his twenty-year-old repertoire did anything for me. They were the same things that my female friends recommended: fingers, vibrators, and oral sex. This last was the hands-down favourite of all of my friends. “If he were doing it right,” they told me, “you would come.” But watching his head disappear down into the nether regions of my body did not interest me in the least. I imagined that anybody might be down there – perhaps a useful possibility for women who were bored with their partners, but I wanted to see mine. I had never believed in penis envy until I realized how much I would prefer a blow job. That seemed like the hottest imaginable experience, to watch as my enormous, engorged genitals slid completely inside my lover’s mouth. I could watch his face as he concentrated on my pleasure, see my cock disappearing between his rosy, parted lips. One day during foreplay, as he lay on top of me kissing my lips and stroking my pussy, I suddenly realized what would be the next best thing – maybe even a better thing. With one hand, I pulled my shirt up over my breasts. Grabbing the back of his head, I pushed it toward my nipple. “Suck my tits,” I told him urgently. Surprised but compliant, he began to move his lips to my breast. His hand moved from my pussy as he focused attention on my chest. But I pushed it back, sliding it up under my skirt. “No, don’t stop,” I told him. Watching his mouth filled with my breast, the pink nipple matching the pink lips, my clitoris come to life as it never had under his touch before, I came in minutes.
At first my boyfriend enjoyed this new discovery, that I could come as long as he sucked my tits. Soon, however, he seemed to realize that he was, in fact, giving me a blow job. Sucking my tits suddenly ceased to be his self-indulgent fetish; now he could seldom maintain interest for the several minutes it took to bring me to orgasm. Soon we stopped having sex altogether. One evening as I napped on his bed, I awoke to find him sucking on my exposed breast. I watched for a moment in disbelief – for weeks I had been longing to see his face at my breast.
Excited, I ran my fingers lightly through his hair. But when he realized that I was awake, he froze. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. “That was nice.”
Instead he sat up on the bed, turning his back to me. “No, I don’t want to any more,” he said brusquely. He emphasized the final word hostilely – evidently I had ruined his fun by waking up. Over the next few days, I pondered this episode, growing increasingly angry that he would desire me only when I was unable to enjoy it.
Once I broke up with him, my breast fetish grew more intense. Often, as I undressed in front of my mirror, I noticed how good my tits looked. Many of my more flat-chested friends had admired my picturesque curviness in underwear or bathing suits, and I often thought of their compliments as I viewed myself. The sight of my tits filling up the cups of my bra was in itself enough to make me want to come. They had a nice fullness and plumpness and curved seductively where they met to form my cleavage. Looking in the mirror, I would arrange my clothes like the women in men’s magazines. One of my favourite pictures in my old boyfriend’s porn collection was of a giant-breasted woman wearing a T-shirt that extended only as far down as her armpits. Her huge creamy-coloured tits stuck out provocatively from under the half-shirt, almost as though she were unable to find a shirt large enough to fit. Thinking of her, I would roll my own T-shirt up over my breasts, leaning forward so I spilled gently out of my exposed bra. When the round weight of my tits had fallen nearly all the way out, I would reach around to slowly unhook my bra, causing my chest to jut outward as my arms stretched back. I wouldn’t take the bra off right away; instead, I would slide each strap off and, with one hand, hold the now functionless article of clothing against my breasts, just covering my nipples as I leaned forward, my tits seeming all the more exposed against the T-shirt above them and bra dangling at their tips. Finally I would let the bra drop to the floor, and my nipples would pop into view. I was always impressed with this view of myself – I looked as hot as one of those models baring their breasts in the magazines. My breasts were not so melonous but they were full and quite pretty, with soft pink aureolaes and nicely turned-up nipples. It thrilled me that I was as turned on by my own image as by the women in magazines – and I thought of how stupid my boyfriend had been not to appreciate such good-looking tits. With my breasts still exposed, I would lie down on my bed, rub my vibrator across my nipples, and then lower it to my pussy while I imagined elaborate fantasies of people admiring my breasts.
Many of the fantasies were inspired by real events in which people had lusted after my tits. My friend Jackie, for example, really did run her hand over my exposed cleavage as she waited our table at the bar. Jackie is a dedicated lesbian but looks like a sorority girl. She wears tight black pants or little tiny skirts, both of which show off her lean legs and pert arse. She probably has nice tits but generally wears rather high-cut T-shirts that detract attention from them – working at the bar, legs increase your tips but cleavage attracts stalkers. I also generally kept my breasts well-covered. On this particular night, however, I wore my tight T-shirt over a long, shimmering burgundy slip that I had bought at a thrift store and wore as a dress. “What a pretty skirt,” she told me. I lifted my shirt to show her the top of the slip. The neckline was shaped like a butterfly, its wings cupping my breasts so tightly that I didn’t need to wear a bra. It was quite low cut, however, a fact that was not lost on Jackie. Before this, she had never exhibited any signs of attraction towards me, which is not surprising considering she generally dates boyish, muscular women. But seeing my chest decorated with the slinky butterfly she gasped, reached out and ran her hand lightly across my cleavage. “You look so good,” she murmured. “I’ve n
ever seen you in anything like that.” Embarrassed at this unexpected attention, I lowered the T-shirt back down. “I know you like butterflies,” I told her awkwardly. But she was undaunted, and attempted to show off my chest to the rest of our friends. “Have you guys seen Olivia in this dress?” she asked them. “She should wear stuff like this all the time.” She badgered me until I lifted it to show the table, after which she provided a free drink.
Since Jackie’s girlfriend was sitting at the next table, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t actually trying to sleep with me. But as I thought about this event later that night, I became increasingly turned on remembering her appreciation of my tits. In my imagination, after she runs her hand across them, she leaves her hand holding my breast, exploring it gently with her thumb. It reaches down under the edge of the slip and teases my nipple until it grows hard and pokes out indecently through the cloth. Then, realizing the inappropriateness of the setting, she leads me by the hand to the back room. There she wraps her arms around me and begins to make out with me, rubbing her hands across my tits and leaning down to suck on them. She doesn’t lower the top of my slip but pulls my breasts out of it so that the butterfly wings lie crushed just below my nipples. As she stands with her pretty face pressed firmly into my breast, her girlfriend enters the room. I think she’ll be angry, and I start to step back from Jackie. But the girlfriend has evidently been invited, because she walks right over, grabs me from behind, and kisses the back of my neck. She leans over my shoulder toward Jackie, and soon the two of them are kissing passionately just next to my ear. I feel the girlfriend’s hands slide over my breast and then lift it to Jackie’s waiting lips. The girlfriend caresses my tits as Jackie sucks on them – even in a fantasy, this is too heavenly for me to believe.
Soon they have me sitting on the table, underwear off, Jackie’s head buried in my pussy while the girlfriend kisses my face and tits. As in all my fantasies, the admiration of my breasts is ongoing: “Oh, your tits are so hot,” the girlfriend murmurs. Jackie raises her lips from my clit long enough to say, “I told you they were hot.” Looking me straight in the eye, she adds sweetly, “I’ve been telling her for weeks how you have the nicest tits I’ve ever seen.” If I make it past this point, I add another scene: Jackie’s girlfriend undoes her pants to release a strap-on dildo. She sits me on her lap facing away from her, and I can feel my clit under her fingers jutting forward like it does when my pussy is totally full and turned on. Jackie spends some of the time sucking my clit, but then cannot resist my tits. She climbs up onto the table so that she is straddling me and her girlfriend. Then she lifts her shirt, exposing her own small, round breasts. Shaking slightly from excitement, she rubs her small firm nipples against my larger, softer ones, grinding her body against mine until – well, if I haven’t come by this point I always do right then, both in the fantasy and in reality.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 6