Five Minute Fantasies 2

by Cathryn Cooper

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘Now I just want you to wiggle your fingers in there a little bit. Not a lot, just enough to feel the room, to see what kind of reaction you get.’

  This time, Andrew didn’t hesitate. As soon as she said wiggle, his finger started moving, up and down, up and down, inside me.

  ‘Okay?’ Andrew asked. But this time he wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was asking if it felt good, if he was doing the right thing in there.

  My voice was all whisper and the pressure of not fucking his finger. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, please don’t stop.’

  Miss Suzanne click-clicked back to the front of the room, apparently trusting that Andrew had gotten the hang of things.

  After a few minutes she said, ‘Ladies, now it’s your turn to help out. Gentlemen, your job is just to hold yourself still. Maybe for the first time ever, your ladies are going to fuck you.’

  Andrew’s finger stopped moving in my ass. Light-headed, I pushed myself backwards onto Andrew’s finger, so far back his other curled knuckles rubbed against my skin. I let myself fuck him, showing him how much I wanted him like this, how much I wanted him inside me.

  With each thrust, Andrew’s breathing quickened. His finger burnt and rubbed the inside of me in pain and pleasure. I was so full back there that the rest of me ached, empty and untouched. With one hand, I reached beneath me and fingered my slippery clit, letting everything build inside me. The fullness and the emptiness. The sweet burn of Andrew’s finger in my ass, the soft roll of pleasure through my clit. And the best part was Andrew behind me, bracing himself against the table, letting me fuck him, I hoped, without fear for the first time. Seeing there was no pain, that there was only pleasure.

  I was close to coming, but I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to, if we’d been given the go-ahead, or if there was more I was supposed to do. And then Andrew moved his finger inside me, up and down, just enough to hit that spot and it didn’t matter if I was supposed to or not, it was happening. Everything sliding through me from Andrew’s finger out to my toes, up into my head. I cried out, and heard Andrew do the same.

  I pulled forward, off Andrew’s finger, and let my head hang on the pillow. ‘Holy shit,’ I said. I had no idea where anyone else was in the room, or if there was even anyone else in the room any more. And then I heard Miss Suzanne’s heels click-click up. ‘Once you two have washed up, meet in the front room to debrief and get your assignments for next week.’ She put her hand, still cool as ever, against my shoulder. ‘Nice job, you two.’

  When I sat up, Andrew’s face was pink and flushed. But he had the biggest grin on his face. Just seeing him like that, aroused and confident, made me wet all over again. He leaned down and kissed the lobe of my ear. ‘That,’ he whispered, ‘was awesome. I can’t wait to see what our new assignment is.’

  I thought of his cock, the tip of it entering me, the way it would feel when he finally pushed inside me. ‘I can’t either.’

  Afterdeath

  by Susan DiPlacido

  Morning is the worst time of day. Whether the bleating alarm suddenly jolts me back to reality or I swim up from the quagmire of sleep on my own, it sucks.

  It sucks because there’s that moment. As I’m brushing the dreams from my eyelashes, I become oriented all over again. It happens in those first seconds, even before I know where I am, or what day it is. The hazy softness is gone, and even though I’m still buried deep in thick blankets and downy pillows, it’s a nasty realization. It only takes a few stinging seconds. It starts with an off-kilter feeling of wrongness, and then it cracks with lightning dread before dissipating and mellowing down into the daily, draining, awful acceptance.

  Mike is gone. Mike is gone and he’s never coming back. I’m alone. I’m alone and Mike is dead.

  And it sucks.

  Thus begins my day. Sometimes there’s someone next to me, sometimes I’m alone. Either way, I pad to the shower and slip into a few more minutes of solace. I stand there with the steam surrounding me, skin slicked by the warm water raining down upon my shoulder. Meandering drops trickle a crooked line down my legs, barely having time to pool at my feet before draining away. But as one droplet slides across the sloped tile and plummets down unseen dark pipes leading it far away, another is released to follow the same course. Out of the pipe above, falling onto my neck, washing down my back. It travels the curve of my butt, losing momentum, trickling down my hamstring. Imperceptible amounts of it gather along my skin while the rest of it rolls along. It is fulfilling its destiny down the back of my calf until it, too, reaches the tile under my bare feet and gets whisked even further by gravity to those unseen and seldom imagined places it will finally meet its rest.

  One is lost, but another exactly the same takes its place. Until I choose to turn the faucet that controls it all and bring it to an end.

  It’s not a bad part of the day. Absorbed in my own thoughts, memories, and the calming cleansing of the water, I’m content. Sometimes the guy who’s not Mike joins me, and I pretend. A finger touches me at the base of my hairline, dead in the centre of my neck. I sigh. It traces a line down my neck, breaking the flow of the water there. My spine tingles directly beneath it, a chasing shiver in anticipation of where it’s going to land next. It doesn’t disappoint. With steady pressure, the finger moves slowly downward, gracing tiny bumps of my vertebrae. I straighten my back involuntarily, reflexively, as it passes down further. Back arched, head and neck now thrown completely back, the water falls directly upon my chest as the finger comes to rest in the tiny hollow of my back at the base of my spine.

  I sigh heavily as the whole hand is tangible there now. Human heat, bare skin pressing against me, rubbing and undulating, deciding where to move next. I’m happy.

  It lasts until the water goes cold. Then the reverie is broken, and I reach up and turn the faucet, stopping the flow so that no more drops can fall.

  Then I go to work. Or on days off I do other things. The details don’t matter, because it’s neither good or bad. It’s just filler. Time spent waiting to catch up.

  Sometimes, people get impatient with me. It doesn’t last long. They go back to their families and their lives and I smile extra bright for a few days or gamely date some guy who’s not Mike for a few weeks so they don’t worry. So they’ll stop saying things. Things like: you have to move on. Or: Mike is dead. Even after all this time, I’m still not quite sure how they expect me to respond when they say that. Once in a while, they’ll say I drink too much. This is something they usually say after popping a nice Prozac/Paxil mixture. Then they tell me again that Mike is gone.

  That’s the reality, to everyone else.

  It’s what they perceive and know through their senses. What is seen, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled. Those things are real. Everything else is an illusion. Or crazy. If it isn’t tangible, it can’t be fully understood.

  Or can it?

  Time. We can’t gather it in a box and label that box for later use. But it’s very real, especially to someone like me. Love. What is love? It’s not tangible. But it’s real. And real love doesn’t just fade away.

  When it comes to time, Mike and I were out of synch a lot. We grew up together, but he was older than I was by a few years. So when he first noticed me I still thought boys were stupid. Then when I thought he was cool, he was ready to start fooling around, but I was still shy. Then when I was ready to start getting busy, he was away at college with a girlfriend. Then when he was done with that and ready to play again, I was away and getting my footing with boyfriends. Then he was ready to slow down and get serious, and I was ready to celebrate and play. I was always behind. Then, one day, I caught up.

  Then we fell in love.

  Then he jumped ahead of me again. He died. Now, I’m just waiting to catch up again.

  They’re right, I drink a lot. I drink nearly as much as I pretend. I don’t drink to forget. I drink to get high. It makes me giddy and silly and horny. And that’s a lot like being in love.
And it makes them uncomfortable because that’s not playing by the rules.

  ‘Till death us do part.’

  That’s the rule I break. Vows are exchanges, promises made, and the rules are set. Rules for love. It’s a loophole. Necessary, yes. Logical, yes. Merciful, yes. But still a loophole. Till death us do part. I don’t need the loophole. We never took those vows or made those promises anyhow. He can’t move on and meet someone new. Why should I?

  For others, it’s only human. Grieve, mourn, and then move on. Build a new life, allow yourself a new love. And what is that love? Why is it so important that I have to have a new one?

  It can’t be tasted, touched, smelled, heard, or seen. But we need it. I need it too. Sure, the nuances of our love can be felt in the sensual way. But is that all it is? Our love is predicated on our beloved looking like a fox and tasting like a warm spice? Mike was foxy and spicy.

  But, no. Love is how they make us feel. It’s what it does to us. Fluttering in the tummy, an insistent heartbeat, a feeling of happiness. The way they look at us, the way they touch us. The things they do, the words they say. But there’s more. It can’t be bottled, and it may sound crazy. It’s their essence, it’s their energy. Simple physics, or mystical magic. Energy. We all have it. Those who think we don’t are the ones who are absurd. Molecular transfer creates it. That’s our basic building blocks. Beneath the skin, woven through our genetically granted dark, soulful eyes, smaller than the cells of blood that pump through our veins, we are made of molecules, and they create energy. Energy is never created or destroyed. Physics. But philosophy and religion will tell you the same. Buddhists say it. Energy is never destroyed, it merely changes and then re-groups. Nirvana.

  Love is energy. Love is never created or destroyed. It’s there. Waiting. Sometimes dormant. Sometimes hidden.

  Mike died. My love didn’t. So I go out and pass the time and have a few laughs and a few more drinks. Then someone catches my eye. Sometimes, it’s the way he stands. Sometimes, it’s his cologne. Sometimes it’s his dark hair. But there’s always a palpable similarity that reminds me of Mike. And that turns me on.

  I’ll be at least a little warmed up by rum. My mind blurry and easily confused. My body buzzing, prickling with the contagious excitement of flashing lights and pulsing bass. I stand close to him, the guy who’s not Mike, and wait to see if there’s a spark. There is. As he’s talking to me, his forearm brushes across my breast. Already wired, my nipple reacts to the contact and hardens. I lick my lips and lean closer. He brushes again, this time with his hand. My breath catches in my throat and I lean, just slightly, into the touch.

  He notices. He was flirting before. But now as my nipple pokes against the fabric of my shirt, he’s looking at it along with the rise and fall of my breathing, and the amped vibrations come off him. He gets brave. He runs his thumb across my nipple, roughly. He sighs on my neck, hotly. I get wet, immediately. He’ll fill the void, help me get where I want to be. Temporarily. And that’s enough.

  So I take him home. I fix us drinks and lead him to the bedroom.

  I strip languidly, because even though I want this, I want it to last. We’re kissing, his mouth on mine, warm lips and a hint of stubble, and when his tongue slips out the first time it sends a frisson up my spine. I lay him back on the bed and climb on top. I reach down and touch him. He’s hard already, and he sighs as I take hold of him. Head fogged, my crotch pulsing, I want to rub his cock against my clit. But I know if I started that I’d catch fire too quickly and I wouldn’t be able to stop. And I’m not really believing the lie yet, so it’d be an aggravating exercise in futility. I tease him, stroke him a few times. It’s hot but dry so I’m careful.

  The last vestiges of rationality tug at me, so I stop long enough to get a condom on him. Once that’s done, I take another drink of rum. It’s a slow, comforting heat, sliding down my throat, warming my belly, soothing my mind. Freeing me. I lay back and pull him on top of me, it’s exactly what I wanted to feel. The reinforcing weight of him pressed against me. He kisses me again, deeper, more insistent. It’s good. He works a hand down to my breast, rubbing it, teasing circles around the nipple I tempted him with. When he tugs on it, and slips me more tongue, I groan in approval. My eyes flutter open, and even in the dim light I pick out differences. His hair is lighter, his nose is smaller. So I take his free hand and place it over my eyes so I can’t peek.

  He obliges, this one. I reach down and stroke him again in appreciation. It makes him pant and squeeze my breast, sending a pulse right between my legs. Our breathing makes the air get dense and balmy. I flutter my eyes open and closed against the soft skin of his palm. Tickling, lashes grazing and teasing. Soft lips drop a kiss upon the side of my neck and my shoulders hunch up against the pleasing touch.

  Thick and sultry, human scents taking over, sweat and flesh, the tang of my now dripping cunt. Salty, but warm, always warm. Then warmer, near my ear, a presence can be felt. Moist and hot, breath tingling, whispering softly as lips graze close, barely touching, moving to my mouth. His hand moves off my face, but I keep my eyes closed, the physical details are swirling and taking over anyhow; I’m getting lost in them.

  Nipping, teasing with little kisses, our breath mixing, a line of kisses falls down my throat, a tongue licks my collarbone. I squirm and grab hold of him, start guiding him to me.

  A hand moves across my chest, smooth, warm, lower. Down to my belly, rubbing back and forth across it while my neck is still being kissed. Sucking on my lips, teeth grazing pleasantly, the weight and warmth of another body pressed into mine. Heavy, not claustrophobic, I breathe deeply, blindly stroking him, and he finally does the same. His hand moves from my stomach and dives between my legs. Like a cat in heat I arch into it, he rubs a few times and then finds my hot spot. Strong fingers make slow, firm circles around my clit.

  I writhe under him, using mental images of Mike doing these things to me to complete the illusion. The air is even heavier now, laden with humidity, soaked with lust, and vibrating with energy. It’s charged. I’m charged, lit up. Heart racing, pulse coursing, spine tingling, I’m alive, present, we both are, I can feel it. Rushing, breathing heavy, muscles tensing everywhere that a hand brushes over them.

  Nerves and sensors on edge, it’s all good. I inhale roughly, the moisture, the heat, the salt of sex goes in, courses through my lungs, some of it absorbed, the rest forced right back out again with a sexual moan. He stops rubbing my clit and I could scream, but right away he places his hand over mine on his cock and lines himself up. Sudden and deep, he thrusts inside me.

  And it’s intense.

  I buck and moan, eyes still clamped shut, wrap my legs around his waist, move into him, and then we’re fucking. I hope this one doesn’t leap ahead of me. Mike, sometimes, he was faster than I was at this too. He usually made it up to me or finished me off so that we’d be even. But now, I’ve had enough of being left behind. From the way he’s already sending silvery shivers down my spine, I doubt he’ll come before I do. But he’s panting and working, propped on his elbows, hips thrusting. Controlled power, but unrestrained passion. So as insurance I wiggle a hand down between us and start to stroke myself, conjuring images of my lover behind closed eyelids while my fingers rub away.

  He groans in my ear and speaks with a hoarse voice, encouraging me. ‘Yeah, work yourself up, baby.’ I wish he wouldn’t do that; talk. It’s not the voice I’m imagining. My clit is responding and he feels so good inside, all that friction and heat, burying deep, hitting the spot. But it pulls me back off the edge. At least he’s turned on by me and he feels so damn good and my eyes are still shut, picturing what I want. He talks again now. ‘That’s so hot, baby.’

  I gently shush him, then pick up the pace on myself to get the spark back. He puts his hand on my wrist, feeling me working myself that way, and picks up his pace too. I’m burning up and rubbing furiously, he’s driving into me, and I’m picturing everything that’s going on in my mind with Mike’s hand
holding my wrist, Mike’s cock deep inside me, Mike whispering to me, and then my skin flushed and sweaty, breath ragged, the tingles erupt and I’m right there. Intense pleasure that just can’t last forever. I only hover on the edge for a short time, sucking in a deep breath, so good and so extreme I can’t force myself to stop or pull away. Now, like a lighting crack, I come.

  My whole body jolts, my breathing stops, every muscle contracts. I don’t even try, I just think – Mike. He’s still thrusting, sending shockwaves all through me and I grab him and pull him close and hold him tight. We’re alive, it’s exquisite. He stops thrusting and starts shaking, coming inside me as I shudder back into relaxation. Exhausted, we lay still now. Still panting, still warm, still coursing with energy, I sigh again, stroking his back, hazy but just cognizant enough to whisper a pre-emptive ‘Shhhh.’ I hover in that state for a time before dozing off.

  It’s the twilight time. Not asleep and dreaming. Not awake and acclimatised. Sated. Dazed. Warmth next to me. A pleasant buzz. I feel in love with Mike.

  It’s the best time of the day.

  Am I crazy?

  Love is energy.

  Energy is never created or destroyed.

  It just shifts and changes, but then it regroups. And until I catch up, I have this. Flowing through me, all around me. I can’t just shut it off. Because I’m in love with Mike.

  Titus Loves Flowers

  by Jim Baker

  Titus Andronicus is alive and well in County Cork, Southern Ireland. I know, I’ve met him.

  It all began with the annual family holiday meeting…

  I live in London with my wife, Sheila, and the kids, Katie and young Steven. Every year we have a meeting about where we’ll go on our summer holiday. Each year one member of the family has their turn to name the destination.

  This year it was Katie’s turn to decide and, according to the rules, the rest of us had to abide by her decision, as long as the budget allowed it.