With a shudder, and a series of rapid thrusts, Mike ejaculates in my mouth. I hold it there and swirl it around with my tongue before I swallow it down. I’m so turned on, it tastes nasty and sweet all at the same time.
Mike zips himself up, embarrassed now, and quickly retreats to the corner.
I still hear one man’s laboured breathing coming from the shadows.
“Doctor,” I call, “I believe it’s your turn. I still need a little help to get me over the top.”
He lets out a long sigh. It’s those last shreds of cool professionalism evaporating into the steamy air. Reluctantly he walks over, pausing every few steps, like he’s being drawn to me, a fish on a line. He stops at the bottom of the chair. I can see his huge erection through his pants and a little stain of wetness at the outline of the tip. He tosses his clipboard on the floor and fumbles with the chair. The footrest snaps down, and he yanks off my pantyhose and kneels between my legs, cock poised to enter me. Clearly he expects I’ll have intercourse with him. After all he’s the doctor, the real man, the grand prize.
I smile. “Oh, no, Doctor, I have different plans for you. I want you to eat my pussy while you pull on your peter like the naughty boy you are. Isn’t that right, Doctor? All this talk of scientific research when really you just want to see ladies play with themselves so that you can watch the video later in your office and get off. The truth is, Doctor, you are nothing more than a dirty little masturbator.”
He can’t really answer because he’s already buried his face in my muff, his nose poking out over my fur. He is doing a good job, though, very professional. His tongue makes little figure eights on my clit, so that I’m squirming and squealing like some kind of crazed animal. And of course his hand is down between his legs yanking his own tool, and that’s when I come, thinking about him on his knees doing exactly as I’ve commanded. Or sometimes I wait a little for my satisfaction, until after he’s come. I like to watch him wiping himself with his handkerchief and mopping the puddle of his own spunk from the floor.
My second fantasy is a little different, though I can spin this one out for hours, too. In this one, I’ve just been hired by a very prestigious company far away from my home and my fiance. However, the job has great benefits and bright prospects for my career and I can’t turn it down. Because rent in the city is prohibitive, new employees are allowed to stay in furnished company apartments. I’m in a spacious one-bedroom place with a huge, soft bed and mirrors all around.
One day, late in the afternoon, I am called into the president’s office for a private meeting. I’m nervous, thinking I must have done something wrong or my probation period isn’t going well, but he’s very cordial and offers me a sherry and asks with apparent concern if I’m enjoying my work at his company.
Then he says there’s something important he wants to ask me, but first he’d like me to watch a few video clips. A rather blurry image comes on the TV he’s set up by his desk. At first I can only make out a flesh-coloured form moving sinuously across the screen, but then it hits me what I’m watching. A movie of myself, naked. There must be some kind of video camera hidden behind the large mirror at the bottom of my bed. I’ve hardly gotten over the shock of seeing myself stripped and exposed, when I have to watch myself do worse. The me in the video starts squeezing my breasts and pouting at the mirror in my best porno queen imitation. Which is exactly what I was doing the night before because I was missing my boyfriend so much and pretending I was dancing for him, the way he likes me to. Now I have to watch again as I slowly sink down and spread my legs and frig myself to a frenzy. A quick cut to a night the week before: me straddling the edge of the bed and staining it with my pussy juice as I thrust and grind my arse into the mattress. This time the camera picks up my loud moans as I come. And then another night, the naughtiest of all, when I was so horny for my boyfriend’s cock, I used a hairbrush to get myself off. At first I slide the handle in and out gently, but by the time I near climax, I’m jabbing myself with it and sobbing with delight. It’s all on video, even me licking my own juices from the handle when I’m done.
I’m blushing fifty shades of scarlet and practically melting into the leather sofa with shame, but the boss puts his hand on my arm and says soothingly, “I didn’t show this to embarrass you, Jessica. I think it’s wonderful that you are a very sexual woman who knows her own body and how to pleasure it.” He tells me he has a proposal for me. An important part of his business strategy for his clients, especially international clients, involves a special team of attractive employees, mostly female, but there are a few males to allow for a variety of tastes. He would like me to join this team. It involves special training, but also very special bonuses.
I’m not sure if I’m being blackmailed, but I’m also curious and I agree. He tells me the first training session will be the next afternoon in his office. I should have workout clothes and anything I’ll need to take a shower afterward.
I show up the next day with my gym bag and am met by the president and a handsome young woman in skin-tight exercise clothes. Her short black hair stands up in spikes and her body is lean and beautifully sculpted. I can tell she’s used to being in charge. Even the president seems a little afraid of her.
“Jessica, this is your teacher, Mira,” he says (sometimes I change the name, but usually it’s Mira). “She is going to train you in the Technique.”
With a firm hand, Mira leads me into a room that adjoins the president’s office. It’s like a dance studio with a mirror along one wall, some ballet bars and exercise mats and a strange apparatus that look like a barrel that has been cut in half. A set of handlebars is attached to one end and the rounded top is fixed with something resembling a saddle. In the centre of the saddle is a leather clip. I’m eyeing this weird object, trying to figure out what it is, but Mira is busy laying out some other devices, a set of small bubblegum pink barbells. The smallest is the size of a pinkie finger, the largest a plump bratwurst. She explains that the company Technique is actually a form of strengthening “your most secret feminine muscles”. Her dark eyes twinkle.
Before we start, however, she has to evaluate me. She tells me to lie back on the mat and pull down my pants and underwear. She puts some kind of lubricant on her finger and slides it into my vagina. “Squeeze me as hard as you can,” she commands.
I notice the president is standing in the doorway watching. I squeeze.
“Can you do it any harder?” Mira asks.
I try, but I can tell from her frown she is disappointed in me.
“Well, it’s a start.” She looks over at the president. “She’ll need a lot of work.”
“I know Jessica has what it takes.”
Mira then goes on to explain that the Technique involves using the vaginal muscles to milk a man’s penis to orgasm in such a way that he doesn’t have to move at all, just lie there and have the woman do it all. My muscles have to be stronger and I have to learn several other tricks first but, if the president is right about me, I’ll make the grade eventually. The first exercise is to practise squeezing my muscles down there every day, with and without the barbells. Mira shimmies out of her pants and invites me to put my fingers inside her, to get an idea of what I’m working for. “No lubricant necessary,” she winks.
Trembling with embarrassment and excitement, I slide two fingers into her pussy. The sensations are amazing. Her hot, satiny walls close in around me and begin to undulate, rippling and kneading with perfectly controlled timing until my finger is tingling and my shirt is damp with sweat.
Mira smiles and eases my fingers from her body. Then she informs me that the second exercise requires that I come into the studio after work. She glances up at the president.
“Do you have a friend for Jessica?”
“Oh, yes,” he says apologetically. Mira obviously calls the shots in this relationship. He leaves the room and comes back with a box. Mira opens it. It’s a very realistic dildo, the kind with veins and rubber testicles danglin
g down. She grins at me. “It’s company policy to give these guys a name. What shall we call yours?”
I’m at a loss for words and blushing furiously. “Henry,” I murmur. It’s my boyfriend’s name.
“Okay, Henry,” she says cheerily to the obscene rubber tool. “Wanna go for a ride with your pal Jessica?”
I almost have to laugh. Mira is strapping “Henry” onto the barrel. Just then I remember where I’ve seen these things before. Long ago in my older sister’s women’s erotica magazine there was an ad for something like this, except in the picture there was a woman straddling the barrel, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The ad said you could buy your own device or get an instructional video. I always thought I’d like to try one or at least see that video, but of course I didn’t have the nerve to order such a thing in the mail with my mum asking questions.
“We call this our ‘horsie’,” Mira says with a wicked smile. “It’s a crucial part of mastering the Technique, which, of course, works best when the female is superior.” The president clears his throat nervously.
Mira helps me onto the “horsie”, I’m already quite wet and slide right down onto the saddle. “Henry” is just the right size for me, very close to my boyfriend who is about six inches. I realize that the front area, around my clit, has a patch of furry material, like a man’s pubic hair. In spite of myself I start grinding against it.
“Good, good,” says Mira. “It looks like our Jessica has had a little riding practice before.”
Bashfully, I murmur a yes.
She reaches under the horsie and flips a switch. A small screen at the centre of the handlebars lights up. “This gives you your pressure reading. Squeeze those pussy muscles as hard as you can.”
Again I try my best. A feeble “two point one” appears on the screen.
“For the Technique, you need at least a ten,” Mira says and pats my naked buttocks, her hand lingering there a bit too long. “But you’ll make it, my girl. Here’s what we do. Every time I clap my hands, you squeeze. At the same time you ride up and down, very slowly.”
She claps her hands and I squeeze. This time the reading’s a little higher. She claps again and keeps clapping at a steady rhythm, although sometimes it’s faster and sometimes slow and lazy. Before long I’m getting into it, and I imagine each clap is her hand coming down on my arse like a crop, urging me on.
“Concentrate, Jessica. Make those numbers go higher.”
I try, but it’s difficult and suddenly I’m coming and rocking on the horsie as I watch the meter numbers flutter with my contractions. The most I get is a lousy three point two.
But, as the president predicted, I am a dedicated student. I come to the studio every evening and even on weekends to practise on the horsie for hours. Within a few months I’m quite the accomplished equestrian and doing tens on a regular basis. After I carry off the Technique quite successfully on the president himself, Mira says I’m ready to go out on the job.
Actually the first part of the assignment is more of the same – practising on the horsie with Henry attached – but, this time, there’s a client in the office outside. I’m told to leave the door open and make sure I have myself a very good time, which I do. Then, when a special signal light goes on, I get up, dress in a skimpy skirt and midriff top – no underwear – and walk through the office.
That’s when the president invites me along to dinner. He always takes clients to dinner when they’re in the middle of important financial negotiations. I look over at the client and smile happily as I accept the invitation. The poor guy is red in the face and has a huge boner because, of course, he’s been watching and listening to my workout in the next room instead of paying attention to the numbers. After dinner we all go back to the office to continue negotiations, but this time I sit on the edge of the president’s desk, with my legs open just enough to fill the room with my natural perfume and give the client a view of my completely shaved twat. By now the guy’s sweating and trembling and he’ll sign anything to get me back to his hotel. Both the president and I have indicated I’m up for a very personal celebration when the deal is done. Sometimes in my fantasy I take the client back to the hotel and ride him until he’s a boneless blob of Jell-O on that bed, babbling about how I’m the most amazing fuck of his life. But usually I end up coming just as the guy takes the pen to sign, and he’s gulping and his eyes are darting over at my bald pussy practically hanging out of my skirt and I can tell he wants me more than anything, even all the money in the world.
I think it’s interesting that my fantasies start out with me being all shy and repressed, but as I get turned on, I take control and get the better of snooty guys in white coats and business suits. It’s a form of pussy power, I suppose. I’d say in spite of the shame my parents made me feel about my sexuality, it’s become a very positive force in my marriage. My husband and I have a great relationship, and we treat each other as equals. It’s different out in the real world, though. I don’t think women have an equal share of power in public life yet, but that’s a nice fantasy to have, too.
Jessie’s Girl
Jayden (Hancock, USA)
The lake wasn’t crowded that day, even though the temperature hovered around ninety. And it was humid – a steamy, dripping scorcher of a day when the only thing that mattered was keeping cool.
There were small knots of people scattered around the lakefront. They lay unmoving in the sun as if immobilized by her rays, but the three of us opted for the semi-shade of a scrubby ash tree. We too were motionless, feeling the sweat wind and trickle down our bodies.
I felt a tickling as a bead of perspiration slipped from under my bikini top and trailed down my torso. Jessie reached over and caught it, then lifted his index finger to his tongue.
“You taste great even when you’re well done, Jayden.”
I turned my head to face him, laughing at his mischievous expression. Jessie grinned, brushed a lock of his shaggy hair out of his blue eyes, and spread his hand over my stomach.
Lang rolled up on his elbow. He watched Jessie’s hand traverse the moist hills and valleys of my body and his face twisted into a mask of resentment. “I wish Crystal was here,” he said. It was at least the twentieth time he’d expressed this sentiment.
I felt sorry for him. We’d been planning this picnic for weeks, then Crystal had called and cancelled at the last minute. Lang’s disappointment was palpable, so Jessie insisted he come along with us anyway. He had, but he’d been brooding all day.
“I’m sure she’s just as bummed out as you are,” I assured him, rolling to face him, “and she can’t be having much fun – spending a day like this sick in bed.”
I stopped talking, because I saw he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring at my chest. I glanced down and saw that the strap of my bikini top had slipped down over my shoulder, allowing one breast to nearly pop free of its narrow confines.
Lang’s eyes were popping in a similar manner. “Anyhow,” I continued, adjusting my strap, “maybe we could plan another picnic for next week, when Crystal’s feeling better.”
“Maybe,” Lang agreed, but his eyes were still on my body. The undisguised lust in them made me a little uncomfortable but, in truth, I didn’t really mind him looking at me that way.
I’d always found Lang exceedingly hot, with his curly dark hair, olive skin, and solid, muscular body, and I knew he was attracted to me, as well. Lang had a weakness for tall, willowy blondes and I was just his flavour, a fact which he transmitted by an occasional smoky flash of his dark eyes. He’d complain how Jessie had always gotten the best girls and tease us both, singing that Rick Springfield song from the Eighties, Jessie’s Girl. “Where can I find . . . a woman like that?” he’d chant. I could tell Jessie got off on the fact that his buddy found me so attractive, but I sometimes wondered if he realized just how deep that admiration ran.
Of course Jessie had no reason to worry, not really. No matter how hot Lang and I found each other we’d n
ever act on it, because Jessie was too important to both of us. Lang and Jessie had been roommates since college and close friends since childhood. They were different as night and day – if Lang was dark and mysterious as the night, then Jessie was the bright gold of day, with his long blond hair, quick smile, and lean swimmer’s build. Each was intensely sexy in his own way, but it was Jessie I loved. We’d been a couple for two very happy years and I knew he was the one I’d be spending the rest of my life with.
Much as I adored Jessie, though, I couldn’t resist indulging in the occasional naughty fantasy about Lang. Some nights when Jessie and I made love, the mere thought that Lang was in the next room was enough to send me spinning into a potent, savage orgasm.
The way Lang was looking at me now made me wonder if he’d heard me on some of those occasions. His dark eyes seemed to lap me up and I flushed, shifting back against the comforting solidity of Jessie’s body. Despite the heat he readily spooned around me and I felt his crotch fit snugly into the hollow beneath my buttocks.
Jessie reached for the strap of my bikini top. “Leave it,” he commanded, drawing it back down over my shoulder. “It looks good that way. Doesn’t it, Lang-o?”
“It does,” Lang agreed, his eyes once again on my partially exposed breast.
Jessie kissed my shoulder, his hand moving around my body. As Lang watched, Jessie’s fingers surrounded the soft circumference of my breast and gave it a firm, deliberate squeeze.
Lang’s eyes widened and I was shocked speechless. Before I could recover, Lang scrambled to his feet. “I’m going in for a dip,” he said abruptly, heading for the water.
Jessie laughed softly and nuzzled my ear. Normally this melted me, but this time I pulled away and glared at him. “What was that?”
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 47