Five Minute Fantasies 1

by Cathryn Cooper

  We sit face to face, the table between us. He raises the screwed cork to his nostrils and breathes in the trapped bouquet. He closes his eyes for a moment before filling our glasses and then, raising his in a toast, he says ‘Here’s to what’s happening.’

  I cannot speak. I just nod and I sip. He breaks the bread and cuts some paté, spreads it on the dough of the baguette and hands it to me. I take the morsel and our fingers meet. I cannot resist drawing his fingers to my lips. My tongue touches the paté and bread and as my lips enclose the morsel and swallow, I draw him into my mouth just far enough to nibble, imperceptibly suckle. I cannot be calm and so break the spell.

  ‘Shall we play a game?’ I ask.

  His index finger wanders to my lips and traces the fragile moist skin. His finger lingers and I close my eyes. Then he withdraws his hand and spreads some Brie. ‘I’m game,’ he says, his voice quietly hoarse.

  We both know the rules. We do not want complications. Yet we are like children before an adventure. I lean forward for the jar of mussels and the movement catches his eye. His gaze lingers on my taut nipples. I open the jar. With two fingers I catch a slippery mussel. ‘They are Spanish.’

  He nods. ‘This one looks familiar,’ he say as he considers the folds of the two luscious lips. ‘There’s a pearl there,’ he adds and, as if as an afterthought, adds ‘I wonder if you are as I imagine.’

  I suddenly feel a throb deep and low in that part of me he cannot see, below the table. A moistness. I part my legs in the hope that a zephyr might cool what is happening. I sip and feel wine on my lips.

  ‘Do you have fantasies?’ I hear myself say.

  He nods. I am silent. Then he takes the mussel from my fingers and lets it slide into his mouth. I watch him, imagine a scene, and he says ‘Please share yours with me.’

  A couple approaches and with an envious glance at the food on our table move past us down to the lake. I hear the Falls thunder, hold my breath, breathe out slowly.

  ‘So tell me,’ he says.

  We wait until we are alone. The couple has gone, no doubt to look more closely at the thundering falls and watch the power of the river vibrating. I have my own turmoil and wonder what he would do if I came around to his side of the table…

  My fantasy is to be here with you. The food we have brought has just served as a prelude. I straddle the bench; you turn to face me. My skirt rides up, but still covers my thighs. I keep still and wait for you to move. You smile and stroke my cheek with your finger, then my neck. My nipples strain against my bra and blouse. You gently pull one side of the crossover top away; my bra is sheer and you push the black lace a little so that just the nipple peeks over it. I remain still but my pulse rushes, is racing. I feel flushed.

  Suddenly the light changes as clouds gather above us. A solitary drop falls. You lick your finger and rub the wet over my exposed nipple. The cool air makes it hard. I want you, but I do not move. You take your time, paying scant heed to the tightening clouds. You obviously enjoy watching me unable to stir. You take off your jacket and spread it over the remains of the spoils on our table. Then you straddle the bench and you face me.

  A bulge starts to strain in your pants. I pretend I don’t see it, but I do. It makes me hot, but I keep still.

  You move closer to me and your hand pushes back my skirt. You stare and I watch the bulge in your pants. You have seen the slit in the lace of my panties. Your finger strokes my inside thigh and then hovers over the lacy slit. I am trying not to gasp. Gently your finger enters the lacy opening and urges further between the Chantilly of my brush. I am wet. Thickly wet. You like this. You draw out your finger and hold it, slightly slanted, beneath your nostrils. You breathe in and half close your eyes. Imperceptibly you smile and slowly suck on your finger. I close my eyes. You have teased me and told me what it could be like, but it is much more than I ever could have imagined. You are driving me wild.

  ‘I love the taste of you,’ you say. ‘I want to suck that pearl of yours and lick your darling mussel folds. Lie back,’ you tell me, and I do.

  You spread my legs and gaze at my open swollen pussy, then your head comes down and in long strong licks you burrow your face into me. Sucking, nibbling my clit, slurping as if unable to get enough of my juices. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.

  You want to be there when I come. You want to taste it. And I do come. The clouds are breaking over Niagara and I come in waves, in clutches. Rain falls in plump warm drops as you lap all the while, lapping and stroking until the wild flow of the rapids suffuses to a satisfied calm. Then you pull me up and grin. I wipe your mouth with my fingers and kiss your lips, tasting me all over them. We caress gently, but even the lake has undercurrents of longing. The sun pierces the clouds as we kiss and drink from each other’s mouths once more, tonguing, nibbling, and sucking. I look down and reach out to unzip you. ‘We mustn’t be cruel,’ I say.

  You help with your belt and I free your bulging cock. You stand and face me now. I want my fill. I take this dear part of you – there is no foreskin as I had imagined – and stroke and lick the shaft as your hands hold my head and guide me. I lick the knob – a droplet – tasting of sea, inland and salty. I want more and flick my tongue about that little slit and gently suck for more. You are tensing. I hear your breathing. I cannot stop sucking, drawing your delicious cock deep into my mouth, slurping, wanting to draw from deep within you. I cannot stop. You are moaning now. I take your balls and fondle and squeeze them. You cannot hold back now, although you are trying. You are rushing to the edge. I want you to come. I am prepared. I don’t want to waste a precious drop. And there it is. The gush of your force is more than I dreamed. I swallow rhythmically as your essence flows and then fills me. I look up to you, my lips lingering on the tip of your knob and give a final tender lick.

  You wipe my mouth with your fingers and draw me to you. We hold each other, kissing languidly and long, tasting the last of a delicious lunch. You begin to straighten my top and give my nipple one last quick suckle. I zip your pants. We are both soaking and thank the weather. You take your jacket and we clear up. So well behaved, we know what we must do. You hand me the penknife and the corkscrew and I wipe them clean with the damp serviettes. Next time, we both know, there will be much more than just an appetizer in the park.

  I sit in the lobby of my New York hotel. Water gushes down a decorative wall. It is meant to be soothing, but it pounds like the falls where we were to have met. A page cries: ‘Mrs Benoit. A call for you.’

  I have been waiting and was so well prepared. An appetizer usually leads to a main course. But the wild card of a flight cancellation has wiped out our only window of time. Now all that remains is this last call across one of so many bodies of water.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘It was a wonderful lunch, though.’

  ‘You will write and tell me about it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘I will write and the words will make it true. Anyway, I still have the dark chocolate truffles.’

  ‘Then slip one in your mouth for me, darling.’

  ‘Yes, I shall do that. Yes, yes and yes.’

  Hardcore Counselling

  by Landon Dixon

  Last summer, my wife and I were going through a rough patch in our marriage that would’ve impressed even Brer Rabbit. To say that our relationship was strained was to say that Shaquille O’Neal is a ‘good size’. I’m not sure what the exact problem was, but the spark had died, the flame had gone out, and most importantly, our sex life had smouldered down to ashes. We were either constantly arguing, or invoking the silent treatment.

  So, when our new next-door neighbours, Ron and Isabelle, suggested that we all head out to their cottage for the Labour Day long weekend, I was opposed. Spending time alone with Lindsay had become as painful as a Devil Rays game, and being cooped up with the woman in a secluded cabin on a secluded lake could’ve been downright suicidal. Of course, whe
n I shot the idea down, Lindsay shot it back up again.

  ‘I’d love to go! Thanks!’ she enthused, giving Ron a warm smile, giving me its frigid counterpart when she turned her head.

  ‘Great!’ Ron enthused right back. He was a thirty-five-year-old ‘pre-owned’ car salesman, with the looks, intelligence, and fashion style of Ron Burgundy from the movie Anchorman. I trusted the guy with my wife about as much as I trusted an AMC Gremlin to get me around the block.

  ‘You’re not going if I’m not going!’ I fumed at Lindsay.

  ‘I’ll go if I want to!’ she retorted.

  Isabelle glanced at her husband and tugged on his arm. She was a petite, dark-haired girl about fifteen years Ron’s junior, with big, brown eyes and smooth, bronze skin. Her body was trim and tight, bumpered up front by handful titties and in back by oversized booty. ‘Maybe we’d better just go by ourselves, Ron,’ she said in her soft, sexy voice, flashing me a nervous smile.

  ‘Hell, no!’ Ron bellowed. ‘Lindsay says she wants to come.’ He whacked me on the shoulder. ‘We’ll take good care of her for you!’

  I almost swung at the guy, but I realized that years of selling lemons had probably just soured him on things like subtlety and sensitivity. Besides, his wife was already dragging him out the door.

  ‘We’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow morning!’ he hollered at Lindsay, before falling down the steps.

  I slammed the door, spun around. ‘You’re going over my dead body!’

  Lindsay smiled. ‘Don’t give me any more incentive.’

  One seething day after she left, I followed after her.

  It took me two angry hours more than it should have to find Ron and Isabelle’s cottage. It was sixty miles north of town, ten miles east down a dirt road, and then one mile south by foot along a pine needle path through the woods.

  The cabin was a cedar-logged breadbox that stood on an embankment overlooking a small, blue lake. The water sparkled under the hot afternoon sun, the surrounding forest lit up a brilliant green. The nearest neighbouring cottage was about a half-mile further up the shoreline.

  I swiped sweat from my brow and burrs from my jeans, then crept across the back lawn and cased the joint. It was as empty as the six-pack I’d brought along for the ride.

  I walked around to the front of the cottage, gazing out at the spectacular view of the lake and the woodlands. Then I heard a noise from somewhere down by the water. I trotted to the edge of the steep embankment fronting the cabin and looked down at a narrow strip of sand that served as a private beach.

  Lindsay and Ron were lying on the beach, while Ron’s wife – seemingly shy, demure Isabelle – was sitting on my wife’s stomach, rubbing suntan lotion into Lindsay’s big, bare tits!

  I almost took a header off the twenty-foot ledge and into the sand below. But I steadied myself, blinking sweat from my eyes and staring down at the sizzling scene.

  Yes, next-door neighbour Isabelle was actually straddling my wife’s stomach and smearing oil onto her bare chest, the girl’s little, brown hands working Lindsay’s huge, pale jugs, massaging those hooters like she meant more than business. Lindsay was sprawled out on her back on a beach towel, wearing just her sunglasses and blue string bikini bottom, her fiery red hair fanned out and her mouth hanging open. She clutched at the sand as Isabelle rubbed and rubbed her tits.

  The two babes were pretty well sheltered from the sides by the rocks that bracketed the pocket-beach. But not from above, where I had a dirty bird’s-eye view of the whole thing.

  I wasn’t sure how to react. But my dick was. It got hard as a bamboo fishing pole at the sun-seared sight of my wife getting her knockers kneaded like bread dough by another woman; another woman clad in only a hot-pink bikini, her golden body gleaming.

  I took a quick look around, saw nothing but gently swaying trees and glittering water, not another soul in sight. So, I refocused downwards, unzipping and unleashing old faithful. I started stroking my meat out there in the open air.

  Isabelle’s plush butt cheeks clenched and unclenched as she rode my wife’s stomach, rode my wife’s breasts with her hands. She pushed the ample, shining flesh together and squeezed the twin cones, hands slowly sliding up the slick skin until her fingers captured cotton-candy nipples, tweaked them. She did this over and over, my wife and I enjoying it equally.

  Hot, piney air blew over my wood and my hand, as I fisted harder and faster. Lindsay had once told me about a teenaged lesbian romp she’d had at teachers’ college, but whenever I suggested temporarily adding a second woman to our bedroom – to spice things up for the both of us – she always killed the idea. Well, times had certainly changed and minds had certainly opened.

  And as my brain flashed with those unformed threesomes of yesteryear, I suddenly remembered Ron. I’d completely forgotten about the glib glad-hander in all the Sapphic excitement. But there he was, lying on his side ten feet off to the side, docile as a Dodge Aspen, silently admiring his wife’s handiwork. He wasn’t interfering at all, just watching, his allegedly more reserved wife providing all the stunning action.

  Isabelle bent her head down, her short, shimmering black hair streaming over her face, and she tickled one of Lindsay’s fat nipples with the tip of her tongue. Lindsay and I both jumped. Isabelle spun her coral-pink tongue around and around first one engorged nipple and then the other. Then the luscious Latina engulfed one of my wife’s rubbery jutters with her mouth and sucked on it, tugged on it, pulling the edible appendage almost right off the woman’s tit.

  ‘God, yes!’ Lindsay cried, flinging her head back and forth, clawing at the sand.

  Isabelle sucked on my wife’s other nipple, greasy hands working Lindsay’s tits, as I worked my pole. My prick was a boiling length of pipe, the steam building to explosive levels. Watching my wife get her tits sucked and mauled by another beautiful woman was doing wonders for our sex life.

  Isabelle feasted on Lindsay’s over-ripe nipples, before finally sliding down lower on my wife’s body, till she was straddling glistening thighs. Then she untied Lindsay’s bikini bottom and pulled the flimsy garment away, revealing ginger-furred pussy all shiny with moisture.

  Lindsay pushed herself up on her elbows, her tits shuddering with the effort, and stared at Isabelle. The brown-skinned beauty smiled, then fluttered her fingers over Lindsay’s pussy, causing both me and my wife to gasp. Isabelle teased us a moment longer, then clamped her hand down over the top of Lindsay’s twat and started rubbing.

  I rubbed right along, Lindsay biting her lip and moaning as Isabelle polished her puss, buffed her clit. The girl’s tits trembled as she rubbed my wife’s muff, my own legs shaking as my balls tingled towards the boiling-over point.

  But before either Lindsay or I could blast off, Isabelle pulled her hand away. She wriggled down on to her stomach, in between my wife’s legs, pushing Lindsay’s legs apart and grabbing onto her thighs. Then she stuck out her tongue and waggled it, drove it into Lindsay’s slit.

  ‘Jesus!’ my wife and I yelped.

  Isabelle pulled Lindsay’s flaps apart with her clam-digging digits and eagerly licked the exposed pink, head bobbing up and down. It was a truly breathtaking bit of scenery – Isabelle lapping at my wife’s pussy – and I gave it the one-handed standing ovation it so richly deserved, fisting my meat in a frenzy.

  Isabelle tongued Lindsay’s gash from bottom to top, again and again, Lindsay’s arms shaking and tits shivering. Until, finally, Isabelle sealed her pouting lips around my wife’s clit and started sucking. She slapped her own ass as she sucked, rousing her dormant husband into action.

  Ron rose up and raced in behind his wife, his hard-on almost bursting his red Speedo. He shoved the swimsuit down and jumped out of it, dropped to his knees and fumbled with the strings on Isabelle’s bikini bottom. She impatiently smacked her ass a second time and Ron unravelled the garment and yanked it aside. He leaned over the top of her, gripping his dick and jamming it balls-deep into her pussy.

  Is
abelle squealed, but kept right on sucking and licking – and fingering now. She squirmed two digits into Lindsay’s slit and sawed them in and out, finger-fucking my wife, tonguing her clit, as Ron pistoned cock in her snatch from behind.

  Ron went faster and faster, rocking his wife, smacking her fleshy ass as his cock surged back and forth in her twat. Isabelle shook with the sexing, but she diligently pumped Lindsay’s poon with her fingers and lashed my wife’s clit with her tongue.

  Lindsay flopped on to her back and moaned like a wounded animal, her body shuddering familiarly with orgasm. I grunted my own ecstasy, jerking around and jacking thick ropes of white-hot semen out of my blasting cap. Ron made it three for four, growling with climax, pounding his wife, dousing her pussy walls with his satisfaction.

  The hot, hardworking Latina at the heated centre of it all was the only one who didn’t get blistered by orgasm out there in the sun-drenched open. She was too busy getting her face and twat drenched, doling out the joy, Lindsay and Ron and I wickedly getting off on her erotic antics.

  After tucking my sun-stroked cock back in and zipping myself back up, I retreated the mile or so through the woods back to my car. I was unsure of what to do next. I’d loved what I’d seen – my wife getting eaten out by my babilicious neighbour – but I wasn’t sure if that signalled the beginning of a new and provocative era in our marriage, or the stunning end of it.

  Had I driven Lindsay to lesbianism? Turned the stacked redhead permanently off meat and on to fish? Or were we on the creamy cusp of the forbidden world of threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes, our marriage blowing wide open as Lindsay’s legs to take on all comers?

  As I pondered those and other equally tantalizing questions, night fell on cottage country. The moon shone full and bright and stars twinkled the sky. All was silent and still; time for this animal to go on the prowl, I reckoned – find out just where he stood, or laid.

  I rolled out of the car and re-trod the forest floor footpath that led to Ron and Isabelle’s cabin. Only this time, without sunlight to guide me, I had a harder time of it, bouncing off bark and trampling bushes and snapping every twig in a four-mile radius. Raccoons gibbered with laughter and owls hooted their derision.