Five Minute Fantasies 1

by Cathryn Cooper

  I loved those little pasties – they were tiny sparkly butterflies that stuck over each nipple with a light adhesive. When I’d finished my act I was wearing nothing but silver stiletto heels, my butterfly pasties and the silver scarf I’d been wrapping and unwrapping around my body and dragging between my legs. The Armani guy was stunned; his eyes narrow with desire, and his breath half-hissing through his teeth, because he was so hot for me. But a stripper doesn’t fraternise with the punters and I could see Murray, the club owner, giving me the evil eye because I was still onstage when my music had ended. I winked at Mr Armani and strolled off, with my scarf trailing behind me. The whistles and cheers were the loudest of the evening. Pretty good, considering it was only my second night as a stripper!

  Last night was my first night, although nobody would have believed it. None of the other girls did, nor the audience. And this man, standing about a yard from me now, staring at me with his cartoon eyes in the street light glare, he wouldn’t believe it either. I’m his dream come true, his sparkly, dirty, supple dream. I’m the woman he didn’t believe existed. His gaze sent shivers up my spine and I couldn’t resist lifting my right leg, turning it outwards so the knee slid up the rough brick and my micro-mini-skirt lifted too. He could see I had one hand holding open the lips of my labia so two fingers of the other hand could dip in and out of my cleft, drawing the wetness up to my clitoris which had its own little shiver as the cold night air struck it. He groaned and leaned forward, pressing his hands to the wall either side of my shoulders to stare down at what I was doing. I pushed my hips forward – the way he looked at me was bringing me off – I was too close to stop but I didn’t want to come yet either, I wanted to hold the orgasm close to the edge and make him watch me as I played, touching myself under his eyes. I needed a distraction.

  ‘Do you want to know how we got here?’ I asked, and my voice was husky with lust and pleasure.

  He groaned again, shaking his head. I lifted my leg from the wall and tucked it around his back, pulling him towards me so I could feel the hardness through his suit as his cock pressed against my naked vagina. I let him rub against me for a moment before I pushed him away with my hips.

  ‘Wrong answer,’ I said.

  He blinked. He wasn’t used to women telling him he was wrong. Then he smiled and said, ‘Yes, tell me, how did we get here?’

  He was humouring me and I didn’t like it. I preferred him hot and groaning. I reached out and pushed my hand down his designer trousers, feeling the heat and hardness of his shaft in my palm. I squeezed once and let go. Now he was almost hanging off the wall because his knees had gone weak, and he was hissing with lust again. Good. I wanted him to pay attention.

  I strutted my way to the fire exit, which I’d propped open with an empty beer crate. By now the club should be empty.

  I pouted over my shoulder at him and he followed like a little dog. I loved the hungry way he looked at me.

  Halfway down the stairs I stopped him, pressing my hand against his chest. I felt his heart pounding against my fingers.

  ‘This is how we got here,’ I said. And I told him.

  It all began when Asha and I went to a leaving party for somebody at the Tax Office. I didn’t like the guy who was leaving, but I was the only member of the management team who hadn’t come up with a swift enough excuse to get out of it. So I told Asha she had to come too. She’s my best friend as well as my deputy, and although she grumbled, it was just for show – she likes a night out as much as I do.

  The person who’d collected for his leaving present had decided to book a kissogram. The girl they’d hired was dressed as a traffic warden. She was pretty enough, I suppose, but there was no oomph to her performance. I noticed Asha turning round in her chair to observe – she’s got a keen eye for a pretty girl. It makes me wonder about her relationship with the mysterious Sue. All I know is Sue’s a P.E. teacher at a girls’ school. I’ve never even seen a photograph. I remember what my P.E. teachers were like though, and I’m sure Asha goes home to a woman with a handlebar moustache and hairy legs.

  So I watched this kissogram girl and all I could think was that I could do it so much better. And by the time she’d finished I knew I would do it better. I’d watched the way the men looked at her. I wanted men to look at me like that, but they don’t look at a Tax Inspector with naked, hard desire. Men don’t shudder with lust, and run their hot eyes over you, if you’ve turned up to inspect their profit and loss account.

  So I picked up my margarita and took a long, thoughtful drink. Asha was still running her gaze up and down the kissogram’s legs and it gave me a moment to plan things. I had a couple of week’s leave owing and I’d always been a quick learner.

  By the next morning I’d gone online, and booked a course called, ‘please your man with pole and burlesque skills’, found a website selling strippers’ equipment, and sent the office an email saying I was taking a week off.

  By this time Mr Armani was almost on his knees, which suited me. He was a couple of steps below me as I braced myself against his body to tell him my story. Somehow, his fingers had worked their way up my thighs and he had begun to press his thumb against my clit, while his other hand was creeping higher and sliding under the silk of my top to brush the curve of my breast. I was finding it difficult to talk, my legs wanted to give way now, and I was fighting the urge to close my thighs around his hand and jiggle until I came. Instead I pushed my hand into his hair and pulled his head back until I could bend and kiss him. He had good strong lips and white teeth and he tasted of brandy. That reminded me that even though I felt completely blasted, I hadn’t had a drink all night. I’d got high entirely on the eyes of the customers.

  It took me less than a day to master the striptease. By day two I’d graduated to the pole and by day three I was doing what the instructor called aerial work. That’s when an artiste turns her body upside down on the pole so her feet are in the air and her head points at the ground. Men love it, they purely love it. A woman who can do it can name her price. I did it on my first night and the tips piled up under my flowing hair in nice ten and twenty pound heaps.

  By day five I’d had enough, I didn’t need to hang around for my coy pink graduation certificate – I wanted a paying job. So I decided to audition at a club far from home and the office. I found Murray’s Marvels in the telephone directory and drove down that afternoon to show off my bump and grind, and pole work. It was a huge buzz, so much better than performing in front of the other students and the teacher. I could almost feel Murray’s eyes running over me like a caress. The idea that soon a room full of men would look at me the same way was delicious.

  I finished by leading the Armani man to the stage. The lights were off, all except the emergency exit signs, and there was no music, but I imagined myself performing for the crowd anyway. So I dropped my bag, with my costume in, on the floor as I pressed up against him. I started to sway, sliding my hands over his cock, which was hard enough to jump against my palms, and into his pockets to find the condom I guessed would be there. He’d been pretty sure of himself.

  I unfastened his belt and slid down his zip. Immediately his erection pushed forward and in turn I pushed him down, until he was flat on the floor, right where my naked body had been gyrating a couple of hours before. He was a big lad, well-shaped and with a flared head to his cock that would bring a woman – this woman – to a fast and frantic climax. So it’s not surprising that I didn’t immediately realise we were being watched.

  It was Suzette, one of the other strippers. I’d watched her earlier in the evening and admired her technique, although I could never use it myself. She was one of those cool blondes who treat men with icy disdain. Her contempt for the audience seemed to inflame them and every man who watched her seemed obsessed with waving tenners at her, forcing her to acknowledge him. But she didn’t. She treated the crowd like so many shop-window dummies, slinking around the stage as though she couldn’t hear them baying and whistling.
She was slim and fair-skinned, with the peachy-tan pubic hair of a natural blonde, along with large, light nipples – as pretty as the pink icing on a cupcake – and a mass of blonde hair that swung across her breasts like a golden curtain.

  As I say, I’d admired the way her contempt made the men want her more, but it wasn’t a technique I could use myself. I liked being looked at, I loved being admired, and this whole stripper thing was the most exciting adventure I could imagine. It wasn’t better than sex but it was damn close, and now, with Suzette watching from a dark corner of the bar, I’d achieved perfection. I was about to fuck an anonymous, gorgeous man, with an appreciative audience. I was just about ready to explode and I hadn’t even got the guy’s prick inside me yet! I began to slide down his shaft, feeling my own wetness lubricating his length. Our mutual heat began to push me towards orgasm, way before I was ready. I reached out a hand to Suzette, beckoning her to join us, but she shook her head and smiled in a superior sort of way. I was way too far gone to concentrate on her, so I gave up and paid attention to what was happening.

  Armani man was a talented fuck. Though he was underneath, he wasn’t being passive – already he had the knuckles of his left hand pressing gently against my clit and was easing them slowly across it so I could feel each bone and trough like a tiny caress, in exact time with the throb my clit was giving. His right hand was up inside my top and he was pinching one of my nipples to the same rhythm. It was one of those times you could wish a guy had three hands. So I relieved him of his clitoris duty by slipping my own index finger down to rub the little button which was slick with moisture. Immediately he got the idea, pushing up the top so he could tease both my nipples with his hands, before lifting his head to suck hard on one, then the other.

  I looked down, and saw his shiny cock. It was wildly red and gleaming, from the scarlet condom and the dim lights of the bar – a bit like being Ferrari-fucked, I thought. I lifted my head and gazed at Suzette – who opened her mouth and slipped two of her fingers deep inside and pumped them as she stared back. It tipped me over the edge, and I felt myself begin to come.

  It was one of those orgasms that hits like a truck and is gone almost as fast, leaving a kind of dull ache. As soon as it was over, I knew I could come again, and it would be longer and sweeter the second time, so I braced my arms either side of his head and began to rock my hips fast. The waves of the first orgasm were still receding as the second one began to build. I could tell he wouldn’t be able to hold on for more than a couple of seconds so I slammed his cock as deep as I could into me, purely focused on my own pleasure because his was so close. I don’t know who came first. I know my second orgasm was so intense that for a moment I forgot who I was and where I was, and even who I was with.

  Under me, the Armani man sighed. I glanced up at Suzette. She held up her hands, flashed her fingers and winked. I must have looked puzzled because she did it again. This time I understood. Six out of ten. I’d have to admit it stung. Only six? I hadn’t been concentrating on performance, as such, being too engrossed in having a good time, but surely we rated at least an eight?

  Armani man spoke. He wanted my telephone number. He was definitely worth cultivating, but I could hardly give him my business card at the tax office. I hooked my bag over with my foot and dug around inside until I found my Filofax and a pen. I wrote my mobile number on a page and tore it out. He looked like a man who was ready to dance the horizontal tango all over again, but I simply pointed to the door. He would be back; I had him on a string, and I wasn’t prepared to have him perform less well the second time and maybe get a miserable four from Suzette.

  After he’d gone I rolled onto my back and lifted one leg in the air. Suzette strolled out of the shadows and ran her finger along the sole of my foot, making me shiver and giggle at the same time.

  ‘Only six?’ I asked, pouting.

  ‘He wasn’t good enough for you,’ she replied.

  I looked up at her. In the dark bar it was hard to read expressions, but she was smiling wickedly. As I watched, she wrapped her long hair around my foot, and the cool, silky feel of it against my skin made me shudder.

  ‘He wasn’t,’ she repeated. ‘I am though.’

  I thought about it for a second. I wasn’t exactly ignorant about the whole girl thing and I certainly wasn’t prejudiced – my best mate was a lesbian, after all. But somehow it had never happened to me. I suppose there were just too many men around for me to notice women.

  Suzette was running her tongue along my instep and around my ankle and down, down towards my knee and it felt so good, I forgot to think. She pushed gently on my foot until my knee began to bend and as I lowered my leg she followed it down, until she was kneeling between my thighs. I knew what she could see, I would be wide and wet, and my black pubes, shaped into a narrow Brazilian, would be glossy with juice. I felt her fingers opening me, gently spreading my vagina. As she began to lap at my clitoris with her soft tongue, those fingers began to dip into me, first from one side, then the other. No man would ever have thought of doing that, I thought. It was gorgeously teasing, and I began to swivel my hips as one hand withdrew so that the fingers on the other hand were driven deeper as I rose up to meet them. Her mouth was clever too and her lips rubbed and pulled on my clit so expertly that it was barely seconds before I came.

  She turned round and spread her thighs over me, lowering her own vagina until it was just above my face. I lifted my head, wondering what this was going to be like.

  It was amazing. Her tongue on me was holding me on the edge of orgasm and everything she did to me, I did to her, and I could feel her excitement like a mirror of mine. She even tasted like me.

  We came together. As she rolled away, she held up both hands, all fingers. A ten.

  We straightened our clothing silently, smiling at each other in the dark. It was romantic, until she kicked my bag and we had to scrabble around the stage to gather up my stuff. She had one of those little torches on a keychain, or we’d never have found all my lipsticks and tampons and keys. Outside, in the alley, Suzette put her arms round me and kissed me hard. I could taste my juices on her lips. She leaned back and touched the tip of my nose with something.

  ‘You’d probably better keep quiet about this to Asha,’ she said.

  My jaw dropped, how did she know about Asha?

  I took the thing she’d been waving in my face and moved over to the streetlight to look at it. It was my own business card. She must have taken it from my bag. I looked up but she’d vanished. Suzette. Sue? I giggled. I’d just met the mysterious P.E. teacher – no wonder Asha kept quiet about her.

  Picnic At Niagara

  by Astrid L.

  They say that the weather can change in Niagara, so it was important to come well-prepared.

  A bottle of Nuits St Georges, a jar of plump Spanish mussels, and a small box of hand-made dark truffle chocolates are the things that I’ll bring. And two glasses, a corkscrew and large serviettes. The serviettes are paper, but of good quality in the lush yellow and blue of my home in Provence.

  I’ll be wearing new clothes: a crossover top that might show a glimpse of black lace edging the bandeau of my bra. The top is not tight, but the fabric clings just enough for my nipples to show their change of humour. It should be warm and sunny so I’ll wear a mid knee-length skirt in a soft floral that I can push up gently should I feel the need to slightly spread my legs. But he won’t be able to see my new clothes, for I’ll still have my coat on; it is early and we’ll not yet have found the place for our picnic. I do hope we find an appropriate place, perhaps an abandoned path to the rapids. I must remember to take some mules, ones I can slip in and out of with ease.

  Rich liver paté; a ripe creamy Brie, a fresh French baguette are the things that he’ll bring. His grey herringbone jacket is pure wool against the breeze. I’m sure he has also thought of the weather. But he’ll wear an open-neck shirt which will be slightly darker in tone than the blue of his eyes. We are between se
asons and I can imagine the feel of his mustard cord pants. He has forgotten to go to the hairdresser this month and I like the way his thick grey hair touches his shirt collar at the back.

  I’ll follow him, a little blindly, yet trusting. I know he will find the perfect spot: a rough wooden table with two benches under the trees down by the lake away from the crowds in a place where we can feel the mist rising. I imagine the noise of the waterfall rushing, tumbling down, but we are too far for it to be a distraction. What I do hear is my own thrill and excitement. I wonder if he can hear it as well. It is as though I am looking in from the outside, a voyeur on a secret time of my life.

  We are the picture of old-world decorum. I spread out two of the lush serviettes. He has a penknife, but we have forgotten plates. We laugh at this part of our impracticality.

  I place the bottle of deep red wine on the table. He takes it and considers the label.

  ‘The proof of the wine is in the drinking,’ he says.

  I smile and place the glasses on the rough table. He unpacks the paté, the cheese and the bread. I hand him the corkscrew.

  It is getting warmer and I take off my coat. He opens the bottle, but his eyes are upon me. I feel his approval and it makes me start to blush and, as if he has noticed, he turns his eyes once more to the task of the bottle. What he cannot see is the sensual contrast: the warmth of my blush and the feel of a spring breeze beneath my skirt. I’m wearing lace panties, black over Bordeaux, sheer, the mid seam unsewn, a personal compromise between a thong and nothing at all.

  The cork pops and from his gaze I can see that my nipples betray me and hint at the thrill coming beneath. There is a swirling, a turmoil, as the falls tumble over. Again. And again.