The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies

by Sonia Florens

  With a quick sudden motion, I slid the fabric out of the box and into my briefcase. As I stood up, I reached into the box one last time, grabbed the chain, and dropped it into my suit pocket, before making my way, calmly and professionally, to the restroom, all traces of inebriation eradicated by curiosity and adrenaline.

  The bathroom door securely locked, I placed my briefcase on the shut toilet seat and opened it. The pile of lace and ribbon eyed me suggestively. I shook my head, smiling to myself – this was definitely the most intriguing birthday present I’d ever received. When I lifted up the fabric, it took form and I laughed out loud. Barely enough material to cover anything worth covering. I knew it would cover enough to make anyone lucky enough to see desperate to know what was underneath – and I knew it was the perfect size.

  Within a matter of moments, my suit hung neatly on the hook behind the door, and I was wearing a decadent mass of material – all criss-crossed and tied and finessed around my breasts – the underwire fitting perfectly under my cleavage, the ribbon wrapped around my waist and lacing up the back of the corset, the red silk creating a pattern of Xs against the sheer black lace of the rest of the garment. The box had also thoughtfully contained a pair of black thigh-highs topped off with an inch of red lace.

  I didn’t dare leave the stall to look at myself in the mirror, for fear someone would walk in, but I didn’t need to – I knew it fitted me perfectly. Slipping on my heels, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Running my finger against the ribbon’s smooth satin, I tried to remember how long it had been since someone had stroked me the same way. It had been a very long time.

  My last boyfriend and I had split up almost a year earlier and between my work schedule and my distaste for bars and one night stands, I’d slept alone every night since, which made this gift all the more mysterious. No one had shown much interest in me in a while, and the only appointments I made these days were with co-workers and clients.

  As I ran my fingers back and forth over the trail of red ribbon, eyes closed, breath quickening, I let my mind wander. By the time my fingers reached between my legs, I was all wet. With a rush of need and desire, I shoved first one, then two, inside, pressing along the curve of my body, breathing deeply as every inch of me focused on the hot wetness of my insides. I slowly started to push them in and out, my left hand making its way along the fine bone of the corset’s underwire, cupping my breast and pinching my swollen nipple between my fingers.

  The pain from my nipple, combined with the swelling of my clit and the pressure of my fingers, following a martini lunch, almost made me pass out. I slid back against the wall of the stall, falling into the corner, sweat glistening on my face, my hair in my eyes, as I pressed in and out, harder and faster, feeling every inch tighten, every inch beg for more, my clit craving the pressure of my fingers, my pussy craving the pressure of a cock. I alternated as quickly as I could – a few seconds outside, a few seconds inside, my fingers darting across the edge of my clit, back and forth, round and round, and then inside – quick, as deep and as hard as I could shove. In and out, round and round, back and forth, every motion of my right hand echoed by my left across my breasts.

  Both breasts had long since been liberated from their lacy confines, and they swung over the underwire, quivering as my hips thrust forward and my entire body began to shake. I could feel myself starting to come – the hint of delicious pleasure teasing me on the edge of my horizons, a promise of what would come if I kept at it, if I didn’t let up, if I shoved harder and deeper, if I pinched stronger and tighter, if my fingers moved faster and my hips pushed further.

  Leaning against that damn bathroom wall, my hair around my shoulders, my breath heavy, my face flushed, my wetness leaking down my thighs, I kept moving – my fingers, my hands, my hips, until I could feel the sensation building and building and building and then – with one big rush, I exhaled as millions of tingling sensations rushed through me.

  A huge grin on my face, I shoved my briefcase off the toilet and sat down. My chest was heaving, my head was spinning – and I felt amazing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d masturbated, and I certainly couldn’t remember the last time I’d done it in a public restroom. It had been way too long. What a birthday present.

  Ever since David left, I’d gone into autopilot. Getting close to someone else seemed like way too much work and way too much risk. It was easier to focus on my friends and my job and my apartment. Without anyone to run their hand between my legs, without being woken up in the morning by someone pressing up against me, it was easy to forget that my body served anything but clinical purposes.

  The last ten minutes had been a delicious reminder.

  With my clit still throbbing and my nipples still swollen, I unhooked my corset and stepped back into my suit. I’d almost forgotten the day wasn’t over. I looked at my watch – an hour or so until I could leave without guilt. I bent down to pick up my briefcase when a loud clang startled me out of my daze. I glanced over to see a pile of silver chains against the edge of the toilet.

  I smiled to myself. I’d totally forgotten. What the hell was that? Reaching over, I picked up the large circle at one end and lifted – it was a very delicate, very finely linked leash, the clasp attached to a matching very delicate, very finely linked collar. I smiled to myself. Whoever put this gift together certainly spent a lot of money, I’d never seen a chain so expensively made, and whoever put this gift together definitely knew how to pick things out. That outfit had fitted me perfectly, and my flesh already tingled at the feeling of cold metal against it.

  Suddenly remembering a small make-up mirror in my bag, I fastened the collar around my neck, letting the leash hang down over my shirt. I couldn’t resist. I opened up my mirror and looked at myself. I looked naughty. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt naughty, much less looked naughty – and it felt good. I loved the way the chain looked against the collar of my white shirt, the metallic glitter of the leash against the sober grey of my suit. I ran my fingers down the metal and felt chills down my spine. Delicious.

  I unclasped the leash from the collar and slid it into my bag. I kept the collar on. I wanted its cold reminder to stay with me for the rest of the afternoon. Doing my best to keep a straight face, I made my way back to my desk. I felt as if everyone must have heard my moans or at least noticed the excessive time I had spent in the bathroom, but no one paid me any attention, no one commented on my pinkish cheeks or my unruly hair. I patted my hair anxiously as I sat back down at my computer, realizing I had forgotten to check my appearance in the mirror.

  “Urn, excuse me?”

  The meek voice came from behind me, and I spun around guiltily. The girl had long curly brown hair and huge brown eyes behind small tortoiseshell frames. I noticed her lips, which were large and seemed just slightly dry and cracked. For an instant, I wondered what it would taste like to lick them wet.

  “I really hate to bother you, but –”

  “It’s no problem,” I said reassuringly. “What can I do for you?” She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think from where. I tried to remember if I owed her any paperwork.

  “This is terribly awkward,” she flashed a nervous grin, her hands anxiously twisting together, “but, you see,” and then it all came out in one sudden rush. “I went out at lunch and I bought myself a present and I left it on my desk while I ran to answer the phone and the lunch receptionist thought it was for you because my name is also Dahlia and the regular receptionist told her it was Dahlia’s box, and I don’t know exactly how it happened but she told Michael and somehow he thought it was yours and then I asked him if he’d seen it and he said oh no, he had thought it was for you, and he gave it to you, and I don’t know if this makes any sense, but I wondered if you knew where my box was?”

  I smiled. Of course. Of course it wasn’t for me. Of course not. How ludicrous. Only in my life. I smiled at her, at this darling girl with the dry lips and the nervous hands.

  “Nice
to meet you, Dahlia.”

  She laughed shyly, her hands resting for an instant against the edge of my desk.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” I asked, motioning to my extra chair. She sat down and stared at me, clearly wondering what I was going to say next.

  “The box is here.” I gestured under my desk, showing her where I had tucked the package before my trip to the bathroom, “but the contents are in my bag. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at me, confused.

  “I couldn’t resist. I had to try it on.”

  She laughed again, a bit longer this time and a bit less shy.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out Dahlia’s outfit and slipped it back into the box. The leash I placed carefully on top, before handing it all to her.

  “I’m really sorry about this. You must think I am terribly strange.” Her eyes stared straight into mine, wondering what I thought of her.

  I smiled back at her. “Not at all. I think you are wonderful. It is the best birthday present I have ever had.”

  “It’s your birthday today?” she exclaimed in wonder.

  “Yes, yes, it is.” I couldn’t help smiling at this delightful girl.

  “Oh, God, I had no idea. Why, then you must keep this. It should be yours.” She pushed the box back at me.

  “No, no, no. It is yours. I got to try it on. That was amazing enough for me. It’s your outfit. It belongs to you.”

  There was a pause while we both thought about what to say next.

  “Please. I’d like you to have it.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at her lips. “No, no, that’s okay, it’s not really me, anyway. I like my underwear to be brighter than the clothes I wear on top . . .”

  She laughed again, this time the shyness almost gone, the brown eyes seemingly bigger and browner than before, and I began to notice little hints of gold inside them.

  “You know,” she leaned over to me and said, in a soft whisper, “they have corsets in red and pink and blue . . .”

  My first thought was that her lips were only inches from mine. My second thought was that I’d never kissed a girl. My third thought was that a pink corset might be the best thing I could ever buy.

  “Will you take me to the shop? I want to go.”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “If you won’t let me give you mine as a birthday present, perhaps you can let me buy you another?”

  “Only if you let me buy you a drink after?”

  I couldn’t believe it. I was flirting with a girl. I was flirting with a girl also named Dahlia. I was sitting at my desk, flirting with a girl with my name, and all I could think about was how her lips would feel between my teeth.

  “I would love it,” she said as she stood up. “Shall I stop by your desk at six?”

  “That sounds great.” I couldn’t stop smiling at this creature.

  She leaned over again, her lips inches from my face, and my breath stopped. What was she doing? Was she going to press her lips against mine, her tongue in my mouth, running against my teeth, her breath mixing with mine? Was she going to kiss me at my desk?

  “You can keep the collar,” she whispered, and then she turned to walk away.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for my heart to return to normal. Two more hours to six.

  Amanece’s Story

  Arnanece (Puerto Rico)

  I am Arnanece, and I am a 50-year-old woman. Ever since I remember, I have had sexual fantasies of dominating a male. Being from San Juan, Puerto Rico has not helped develop that fantasy to fulfillment, although it has become an addiction since I was eight years old and masturbated to Robin Hood kneeling at having recognized King Richard, or Pedro Infante apologizing to his father. The earlier fantasies involved father-son, king or queen and military knight, but soon developed to woman dominating man, and from words and looks moved to sexual and conscious consent. The Internet has helped fulfill a lot of these fantasies virtually and has helped to fulfill some in real life, but what a woman develops in her fantasy world is hard to meet. Therefore my hands and my best lover, my mind, play an active role in my sexual life that maybe no man will ever satisfy, although I do not give up in my search.

  My fantasy man is always the same one, a man I have never met and cannot describe the image of him, but I know how he is, how he feels, what he wants. He is sure of himself, with a lot of self respect and respected, sensitive, and all he wants is to live for me and fulfill all my desires, be my complete slave.

  I have many fantasies with him; the one I am presenting now is one of my favourites as it shows him apologizing and grovelling. This one goes:

  To be Mine

  I call him from work and let him know that I am looking forward to getting home and finding him ready for me. I know that he realized the call was from me and he felt that slight tremor inside him, an excitement immediately recalling his submission.

  “And, by the way, I need to talk to you seriously tonight.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he would whisper with a trembling note, knowing that that sentence meant that he must have done something that needed correction.

  He would come home early and get himself ready and in position. Since we were leaving together he had to have his work done in time to be home before me. As I open the door he takes my briefcase, puts it away and follows me to the living room where he kneels, taking off my shoes, massaging my feet, my glass of wine ready. I breathe deeply and relax, letting his feeling of submission grow, feeling it in the intensity of his massage, in the way his whole body expresses it by the perfect form, correct position of his feet, the way he holds them and the veneration I feel as he lowers to suck my toes and continue with the massage.

  I snap my fingers for him to stand for inspection. He stands, legs separated, straight, pushing his nipples out, hands on his head, face straight ahead. I like him to have a slight erection if not a full one. This evening it is a shy one, which makes him more nervous. He is trying to take sideways looks at me, checking for my anger, feeling humble.

  He is totally shaved for me, from head to toes . . . all of him. I check for any hair on his body as he must keep himself this way. His balls are hanging with the clamp-on weights he has to wear; I want them to hang low. I make them swing a little, hearing him gasp. As I touch his nipples they harden quickly, as trained, and he is wearing his chastity belt. I move to his back and ask him to bend over. I put on plastic gloves which make a distinct sound and, lubricating my fingers, insert two; he is open and clean. I pick the butt plug he is to wear tonight and slowly push it in, it always makes his knees quiver but he knows that this is only in preparation for what is to come. He is ready. All my toys are out and easily available.

  After I am done he places his hands on his back and, lowering his face, begins his apology.

  “Mistress, I have done, or not done, something that has upset you. Please will you correct me now or would you prefer later?”

  I walk around him, letting the tension built up in him. His mind roams, looking for his fault, apprehensive about my next actions.

  “I expected you to fall on your knees as soon as I got home and recognized your wrong-doing. It is understood that you must announce your misdeeds and ask for punishment. You have not even acknowledged your fault. I am very surprised.”

  He kneels. “Mistress, please forgive my lack, for which I have just increased your anger and my punishment; I beg to be told so I completely grovel at your feet, asking for your mercy. Please, my Mistress, correct your slave.”

  He is visibly perturbed and willing to be humbled and be called to his place, to stand corrected.

  I love to hear my slave apologize; I have taught him a ritual. To recognize the misdeed, preferably explaining his own deficient thought that led to it, to confess and say how wrong it was, to ask for forgiveness and beg for punishment and atonement and then promise that it will not happen again. After the punishment he will thank me again and then we will have a tender moment by me taking him in my arms making h
im feel better, while he is still contrite and making up. He is mine and only my wellbeing counts.

  “I am tired, had a long day today, but I cannot go on like this, cannot tolerate your lack of training! I was told that yesterday at lunch a lady came into the restaurant you were in, with a lowcut blouse and a very nice body. You seemed to have lusted after her, even bending a little on your chair and the chastity must have bitten on your erection. This I was told by friends that were there. If you are going to embarrass me in this fashion, I think you should move out of my house.”

  He prostrates himself to the floor.

  “Amanece, Mistress, punish me hard. I will take all, but please do not tell me to leave. I did look at the woman and had a problem with an erection. Mistress, I have no excuse. I know you are very generous at taking me out of my chastity and letting me masturbate, even you doing it yourself, up to the point of almost coming, every day. I know I am only allowed to come, if you wish, every three months and that it has been two months and three weeks without coming; in this manner you keep me correctly aroused for your use. I know I must not look at another woman, and never in a lusting fashion. I should have averted my eyes, especially at this point when my penis is so out of control, as I am a week away from you permitting me to come. I promise you I will not embarrass you again. Please punish me harshly for this and let me display the marks, so that people will see that I was corrected. Please forgive me, permit me to atone. You are the only woman that matters to me. I know I should have remembered this and admitted it to you as soon as it happened; I have been wrong.”

  He was squirming like a worm on the floor while saying these words. He knew that I must be very mad.

  “Get me the belt that hangs in the living room.”

  He crawled out and came back with the belt on his mouth and, prostrating himself on the floor, offered it to me with extended hands.

  “Position!”

  He got on all fours, shoulders to the floor and arse in the air, and received fifty strokes. Every stroke pushed the butt plug deeper, his face rubbing the floor. I have a strong hand and the belt was thick. I hit him on the arse and thighs and legs, so that when he wore shorts friends would see the mark.