“Then the doctor pulls open my gown and runs his hands gently over my naked body as he describes his methodology. ‘First I will caress and kiss the subject’s breasts to illustrate their sensitivity and the concomitant swelling and lubrication of her genitals. Then I will locate her clitoris and outline various methods of stimulating that female organ of pleasure to increase sexual tension in the pelvic region. I encourage you to pay close attention to changes in her vulva throughout this process, and in particular evidence of muscular contractions when she climaxes, which will be evident by loud moans and convulsive movements of the buttocks, legs, and torso. The subject’s orgasmic display is most instructive, and I encourage you to review the tape several times to appreciate her reactions fully.’”
Melanie paused. If she kept on with a detailed description of the “examination,” I might indeed have to excuse myself or risk a public orgasm of my own. I forced myself to take several deep breaths. No one else was running for the door. I could do this.
“The fantasy goes on from there,” she concluded, “but usually that’s all it takes to be . . . effective.”
The tension broke as laughter rippled around the room.
“Now what would the people outside this room call such a fantasy? Perverted? Exhibitionist? A doctor fetish? Let me suggest another word.” Again Melanie paused. “Healing.”
Several women sighed in agreement.
“This has been a go-to fantasy for years, but it didn’t make sense to me. As a teenager, I had a very bad experience at my first gynecological exam. The doctor hurt me and scolded me for crying out. I’ve always chosen women doctors since then, but the pain lingered, unexamined. Yet in my fantasy, beneath the traditional power dynamic, my doctor not only pleasures me, he teaches other doctors to understand what really turns a woman on. Wouldn’t it be a better world if the medical profession respected our sexuality in that way?”
It certainly would. We broke into applause.
Melanie nodded and smiled. “Now your assignment for this evening is to write down one of your own fantasies—on paper or your laptop. I encourage you to bring the scene to life in vivid detail. Fantasies are ridiculous when you reduce them to an elevator pitch: ‘medical students watch while their hot professor brings me to orgasm.’ The real meaning of the scene lies in the beautiful details and the deep feelings. If you have any thoughts on the roots of your fantasy, jot those down as well. Then, I’d like to invite you, on a voluntary basis, to share the fantasy with me by email and sign up for a private session tomorrow so we can name the healing energy of the scene together. My workshop students have told me this is a very empowering experience. However, if you’d like to keep the exercise private, the real benefit comes from focusing on your fantasy for your own enlightenment. We’ll meet here tomorrow at one.”
With that, we wished each other a cordial good night.
“A female Mr. Rogers of sexual fantasy, that’s what she is,” observed Maya as we lounged around on her bed with our chocolate chip cookies.
I laughed. “Yeah, she makes it all seem so wholesome. That’s a shift for a mother figure. One winter break during college, my mom walked in on me while I was rather discreetly engaging in the solitary vice in the rec room downstairs. You know what she said?”
Maya’s eyes widened. “Do tell.”
“‘I think of that as something to share with a partner. What you’re doing is selfish.’ Then she turned and walked out of the room. Of course that didn’t stop me from masturbating, but I always felt a little selfish after that.”
“Melanie invited us to share with her. Is that what your mom had in mind?” Maya’s eyes twinkled.
“Probably not, but I do need to get started on my homework. ‘Sunrise Yoga’ at six?”
“See you there. Have fun being selfish!”
As I headed off to my room, I realized why Melanie had encouraged us to take singles at the retreat center. Privacy was a must for this exercise.
I knew exactly what I had to write about. My go-to fantasy always made me feel exceedingly selfish, but come to think of it, it definitely involved a lot of sharing. I fired up my laptop and created a new file entitled “Antarctica.”
I wondered if Melanie would notice that my choice of forbidden words had given her a preview of the unorthodox sex act I would lovingly describe. Still, this was my truth, origin story and all. The frozen continent has been the quickest way to get me hot for some time. The seeds were planted when a friend of Haruki’s came to visit some years back. Ryan had spent a whole year at McMurdo Station, about 850 miles north of the South Pole. He showed us pictures of his time there—snow and ice, penguins and seals. At the summit of Mount Erebus, twenty-five miles from the station, you can gaze down into a lake of lava that bubbles on through winter days of fifty degrees below zero. It thrilled me that such a frigid landscape could harbor a cauldron in its depths, ready to explode at any moment.
But what I remember best of all is the crazed look in the eyes of the men Ryan worked with. He said there were a few women at the station over the winter, but they attached themselves to boyfriends pretty quickly “for protection.” The other men had to make do one way or another for the duration.
At the time, the idea of all of that frustrated male lust made me feel tingly between my legs. In the decades since then, that feeling blossomed into a scene that never fails to light my fire.
In my fantasy, I’m a psychologist doing research on the effects of the Antarctic winter on mood and cognitive control. Along with two hundred men and a dozen women stationed at the American base, I’ve committed to endure six months of night, relieved only by a few hours of twilight each day. Being savvy to the local sexual politics, I found a steady boyfriend as soon as I arrived, but the other guys keep flirting and some of them are incredibly appealing. As the darkness of June closes in, I tell my boyfriend I’ve had enough of being owned. He can have Tuesdays and Saturdays, but I’ll have the option to invite any other man I fancy to my quarters the rest of the week.
When I inform the fellow of my choice that it’s his lucky night, his eyes light up like the aurora australis. I tease him a little, brushing my backside against his crotch as I pass, smiling when I see his erection. Later that evening, I greet him at my door in nothing but a red satin robe that barely covers my voluptuous buttocks. I’ve tied it so the collar gapes open, giving him a peek of my rosy nipples, already stiff and aching for the wet heat of his mouth.
By way of welcome, I hold out a jar filled with folded rectangles of paper and tell him to close his eyes. On each slip I’ve written a sex act that always brings me to a screaming climax: oral, woman astride, doggy-style, anal. My paramour of the evening reaches in with an eager, trembling hand.
Other times, when I’m feeling selfish, I tell him there’s no sex lottery tonight, what I’m really in the mood for is to have my ass fucked bareback because studies have shown that hormones in semen have a calming effect on the female nervous system. A direct deposit in the ass will be the surest way to get maximum benefits. With all the claustrophobia of the Antarctic winter, regular doses of come help me keep both oars in the water.
But first I make my lover promise he’ll treat my backside with exquisite care. He has to warm me up for a good long time, then fuck me nice and slow with plenty of lube until I’m ready to come. Then he can go wild, but he absolutely has to shoot his come deep inside me for maximum absorption of his seed. I tell him if he can’t follow directions, I’ll send him out to find a colleague who will.
He swears he’ll please me, so I lead him to my bed and shrug off the red satin robe. He gasps at the sight of my naked breasts and carefully groomed bush. I pull him against my bare flesh and kiss him gently, then with more urgency, welcoming him deep into my mouth. He can’t help moaning, a low and desperate sound, so grateful is he for this chance to be with a woman. I let him suckle and fondle my breasts until my nipples are throbbing. All the while I stroke his cock; the tip weeps a few sweet tea
rs of hunger for my body. When I’m so wet that my own thighs are slick with juice, I tell him to set up the special bench for anal and doggy-style that one of the engineers at the base made to my specifications. I bend over to rest my stomach on the narrow platform and plant my knees on the special supports to keep my legs steady. I designed the contraption so that my breasts hang free and my vulva is positioned over a wide opening that also allows access from below.
At my instruction, my lover secures me to the fuck bench with thick leather straps. The feeling of constriction excites me. As the leather warms to my skin, it feels like my lover is firmly embracing me, even as he positions himself behind me, ready to carry out his duty. He hands me my vibrator, turned to a slow purr. I press the tip to my clitoris and tell him it’s time to play.
He begins by stroking my ass cheeks with his fingertips, then gradually circles closer to the tender cleft. He slides a finger down the sensitive valley and taps my anus lightly. I pull the vibrator away, the better to prolong the delicious electric jolts in my belly and thighs. True to his pledge, he continues to tease and torment my forbidden orifice with one hand, while tweaking my nipple wantonly with the other.
I grunt and moan without restraint. I want the sounds of my pleasure to carry. I know that on any given night, several male colleagues have their ears pressed to my bedroom door while they jerk off.
The diligent attention to my asshole makes me so crazy with lust that before long I’m sobbing for my partner to fuck my ass now.
Ever obedient, he anoints his tool with lube—fortunately I brought a case of the stuff with me to the base. Slowly, very slowly he slides into me until I feel his balls brushing against my swollen vaginal lips. I touch the vibrator lightly to my clit. I don’t want to come too soon because I love that itchy in-and-out stretch of hard cock stimulating my anal muscles. Nothing makes me feel so full, so possessed. I’d swear his penis is penetrating me all the way to my throat.
My lover turns perversely tentative, pulling out and pushing in, pulling out and pushing in as if he can’t decide what to do, his languid pace driving me deeper into blind ecstasy. I try to pull the vibrator away to ration this gut-searing, skull-shattering sensation, but I literally can’t stop masturbating. When I come, I milk him so hard, he shoots his wad into me at the same time, clutching my hips so he stays buried to the hilt through the spasms of our mutual climax.
He collapses over me, sighing his gratitude.
Afterwards I let him make love to me in a more romantic way with kissing, condoms, and sweet words of mutual regard. Other times I dismiss him with an order to send in one of the guys outside the door because I’m especially stressed and need an extra dose of spunk.
And we start all over again.
As I hurried from “Walking Meditation” to my private conference with Melanie, I had to laugh at myself. I’d already come to peace with the fact she’d just read all about my fantasy fixation on anal sex, but would she guess that I brought myself to a mind-blowing orgasm after I wrote it? Could she picture me as I was after I finished my assignment, the blanket pushed down to my knees, as if a bunch of Antarctic explorers were watching me pleasure myself, ready to shoot their spunk all over my naked breasts and into my open mouth?
If so, she still greeted me with her accepting smile. We seated ourselves on the cushions as soothing music played from a portable speaker in the corner of the room.
“Thank you so much for sharing such a beautifully written piece. I learned a lot about Antarctica.”
I blushed.
“This is such a generous fantasy. That’s the first word that came to mind—generosity.”
“Generous? I never thought of it that way.”
“Which word would you use?” she asked gently.
“Selfish. Insatiable. Obsessed with anal sex. Even though I haven’t done it much in real life.”
“I see a woman who is confident in her desires and partners who honor her pleasure. Imagine a world where a woman could be so open about what she wants with such a positive outcome. The sex jar is a lovely detail.”
“Thank you, I’m glad you liked it.” I laughed nervously. “Um, actually I had a question. I want to share this with my husband, but I’m a little hesitant.”
“What are you concerned about?”
“That my husband will think I’m unsatisfied with him. We’ve shared some sexy texts and all, but this takes it to a new level of . . . vulnerability.”
“Indeed it does. Here’s what I’d suggest based on feedback from previous participants. If you feel it would be beneficial to share, warm up your partner to the idea first. Explain some of the themes we talked about last night—that fantasy speaks in its own language so it’s not about the specific acts, but the pleasure of breaking through society’s hostility to our erotic selves. Ask your partner to read your fantasy with a generous mind and perhaps share his own fantasy with you.”
I had promised Haruki a full report, and we were used to navigating cultural and language differences, but I still felt . . . selfish. “Do you think it’s better if I send it from here? I’m not sure I could bear being in the same house when he reads it.”
Melanie nodded. “Some participants have tried that approach quite successfully. If your partner has shown a supportive interest in the workshop, you may want to give him a chance to rise to the occasion.”
We both smiled.
I swiped off my alarm—set for six a.m. “Sunrise Yoga.”
Don’t check for messages until after breakfast. I didn’t care in the least if Haruki had responded to the Antarctica fantasy I sent the night before, complete with a report on fantasy as a foreign country. I had vowed to enjoy every minute of the peace and quiet of my women’s sex weekend. How often did I get “me time?”
My resolve lasted half a second.
Haruki had answered my email and texted. Was one to call me a sick, butt-fucking nympho and the other to ask for an immediate divorce?
My heart was pounding as I opened the email.
“WHEW!!! This is the hottest thing I’ve ever read in my life! I’m not as good of a writer as you are, but I can tell you my fantasy has always been to be with a sexy woman like you. I hadn’t realized you were so interested in Antarctica—I’m thinking it would be fun to go. Counting the hours ’til you get home!”
I sighed with relief. No immediate divorce.
When I opened the text, I laughed out loud.
It was a photo of a jar filled with slips of paper: “Waiting for your return.”
Now I was counting the hours myself. I wouldn’t mind taking Haruki to Antarctica when I got home. I had a feeling we’d have a lot of fun being selfish together.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ANGELA ADDAMS (angelaaddams.com) is an author of many naughty things. She believes that the written word is an amazing tool for crafting the most erotic of scenarios and tells stories about people getting down and dirty and falling in love. She loves anything covered in chocolate . . . except for bugs.
SALLY BEND (sallybend.com) is an author, editor, and reviewer. Although shy and polite (she is, after all, Canadian), she loves to boldly and boisterously express herself through stories that bend the binaries of gender while exploring submissive sexuality.
CC BRIDGES (ccbridges.net) is a librarian by day and author by night. She writes about amazing worlds with honorable heroes and plenty of romance.
HENRY CORRIGAN (henrycorrigan.blogspot.com) is an author, poet, playwright, and recent Virginia transplant. His erotic fiction has been published by both Literotica and Bright Desire. His first self-published work, Carnal Theory, is available at both Amazon and Smashwords, and the author himself can randomly be found on Twitter (@HenryCorrigan) and Face-book (facebook.com/henry.corrigan.35).
CLAIRE CUPP (clairecupperotica.com) is a new author and lifelong overthinker. She writes erotica to force herself to have fun. She works in the technology industry and lives with the love of her life—her dog. She publishes fr
ee erotic flash fiction when inspiration strikes.
ELLA DAWSON (elladawson.com) is a sex and culture critic whose writing has been published by Elle, MTV, Vox, Women’s Health, and more. Her fiction has appeared in short story collections including Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 and Erotic Teasers. Find her on Twitter and Instagram as @ brosandprose.
VICTORIA DIANE is a sometimes writer and fulltime procrastinator. Though she prefers creating with a variety of artistic mediums at her home in West Virginia, she gets dressed and goes to work at her day job in the financial industry in order to pay for her addiction to craft supplies.
RENEE DOMINICK (reneedominick.com) writes erotica and erotic romance, stories often inspired by the places she’s traveled. When home in the Pacific Northwest, she can reliably be found enjoying life with her partner, her dogs, and a glass of Chardonnay.
KATRINA JACKSON is a college history professor by day, who writes romances by weekend when her cats allow. She writes high heat, diverse, and queer erotic romances and erotica. She also likes sleep, salt-and-pepper beards, and sunshine.
GABRIELLE JOHNSON is a non-profit professional by day and a romance writer by night. When she’s not consuming all things romance across television, film, and literature, you’ll find her wherever strong drinks and cute animals are. Or, on Twitter, @geminianxiety.
LOUISE KANE (louisekanewrites.com) is a queer erotica writer who lives by the motto: Write smut. Read smut. Live forever. She lives in Seattle, Washington, by way of Chicago, Illinois, with her feline companion, Marge.
D.L. KING (dlkingerotica.blogspot.com) lives somewhere between the Empire State Building and the Coney Island Wonder Wheel. The winner of multiple awards including six IPPYs, three NLA-Internationals, a LAMMY, and a Goldie, she has edited fifteen anthologies and has over one hundred short stories in print. She knows what gets her off.
Coming Soon Page 21