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`He made me do it your honour...`

... YOUR CUNT. SAY IT.` he shouted. `I loved Jim's cock in my cunt, ok`. It was all part of the humiliation, and i had to do it ... before he decided it was time to go and have a shower in his suite. When we got there he made me wash him, then ordered me ... ... Continue»
Posted by jilly11 4 years ago  |  Categories: Anal, Hardcore, Masturbation  |  Views: 1134  |  
  |  12

Becky Made Me Do It

(MF, MM, BI, MMF, 1st-gay-expr)

Hello, my name is Jason, and I'm gay. This story is essentially about a gay experience I had, or more accurately a Bi-sexual experience that I had a couple of years back. I thought it was unusual enough to share, so here it is...

It all started when I met Becky Anderson. She was a real hotty! She had a body that a guy might dream about while masturbating, you know the type; big innocent eyes in an exceedingly pretty face and a body that would be at home naked on any topless beach in the world. I knew that girls like her existed, but I never thought that I'd ever have one.

I met Becky at work. I'd graduated with a bachelors in Business Economics and found a job after only a few weeks of searching. It was at a well-recognized auto parts company in the corporate office.

Well, Becky was working as the administrative secretary to the head dude, the president of the company. And since I was working in the accounting department our paths crossed on a regular basis.

I still don't know why but for some reason Becky glommed on to me right from the start. I can still remember the first time she said anything to me. It was when we were both on our way out to lunch and we kind of bumped into each other at the front exit. She looked at me and said, "Looks like we're both in a big hurry to get out of this fucking place, huh?"

I was totally shocked that this beautiful woman who up until that moment had always looked so efficient and professional... That she would say the "fuck" word in the lobby of her place of work and to me a perfect stranger. But what really threw me off more was what she said next.

"Why don't you let me buy you lunch new guy. It'd be fun to get to know you I think."

I was nervous because I was new and she worked for the boss so I agreed even though under normal circumstances I would have preferred to spend my time alone, or if I had to share it I would have preferred Sid, the handsome guy from the mailroom.

We actually never did eat lunch that afternoon. What happened was that Becky told me that she would drive and we ended up in a vacant farm field about three miles away from work with her hand in my pants.

When we first pulled off the main road and then down a dirt one I said in alarm, still not knowing what was in store for me, "Hey, this isn't the way to Denny's!"

Becky glanced over at me and smiled saying, "Yeah I know. I thought I'd have a special meal today if it's okay with you."

Believe it or not I still didn't have a clue what was coming, but I soon found out when she pulled the car up under a bunch of tall trees and turned off the engine. We sat there for a moment listing to the hot engine ticking as it cooled, then Becky scooted over next to me so close that I found myself scrunched up against the passenger door.

She pulled my face to hers and gave me a long deep kiss. I could feel her tongue pressing against my closed lips as if she was trying to f***e it into my mouth. I finally opened my mouth and she jumped up against me and started to really kiss me like she wanted to climb down my throat.

Well, I'd never even kissed a female before, other than my mother and a couple aunts, and this was something I'd never even thought about in my life. I found to my embarrassment that I couldn't breathe and was about to black out from a lack of oxygen, or maybe fright.

I almost did, I think I fainted for a few seconds because I don't remember Becky opening the fly to my pants, but I certainly remember the feel of her hand on my dick as it came alive from the wonderful friction her "jacking" motions were causing.

Yes I know that I'm gay, but hey, stimulation is stimulation and she was good at it. Up until then I'd only had two sexual experiences, both with guys. One was at summer camp when I was 13; my folks sent me to a place in the High Sierras called Unalyee and I met another boy who was just as horny as me.

That camp had things set up so that two boys shared a tent. They did the same with the girl's camp across the stream. Anyway, my tent mate Rob and I got along pretty well and things were normal until we were into the second week and there was some fuss about one of the camp counselors and a girl camper.

That little incident got Rob and I talking about sex, while we were lying in bed after lights out one night. Being 13 and boys we tried to impress each other with our great knowledge of things sexual, until he finally blurted out that he was a virgin. At first I couldn't believe that he'd said it. I mean I was a virgin too, but I would never admit it to a fellow teenager.

Then when he said he hadn't even jacked off yet I was sure that I was in the Twilight Zone. It started with me telling him what he was missing and ended a week later with both of use giving each other manual and oral sex every night. You know, when you're 13 years old, whether you're gay or straight a guy can't get enough sex.

At least we had nothing to regret in the volume of sex we had with each other. I know that I was in heaven; I'd always wondered what it would be like to be with another boy and actually touch him and play with his body. That week was something that I'll never forget no matter how long I live. The freedom I felt with Rob; he'd let me do just about anything to him and I did. Just about. We never did do any anal stuff, but everything else you could imagine two teenage boys doing, we did!

Then it was time to leave for home and we packed up and while waiting in the area for the buses to show up to take us back to civilization, we could hardly take our eyes off each other. I know that I was in love. Even if it was a shallow love it was still love. I loved his body, and what he let me do to it, and I also loved what he'd done to mine.

After camp we met one other time and had a furtive little tryst that although was physically satisfying, was less than what we had at camp. Rob lived quite a ways from my house so we just never got back together again after that.

The second time I actually had sex was when I was d***k out of my mind on weekend during college and ended up being fucked in the butt by several grad students who thought they were "doing" a straight undergrad who was just too d***k to put up a fight.


So now that I've explained my lack of experience and my sexual persuasion, you'll understand a little better what a mind blowing experienced Becky's little "lunch date" was for me. Although I didn't really "like" girls her mouth worked wonders on my throbbing boner and when she'd made me come and looked up into my face for my "approval" with my come smeared on her lips, well what could I do but give it.

I think she knew that I was different, but she didn't say anything. And after that afternoon, even though I'd try to avoid her, she would waylay me whenever she was horny and we'd either end up at motel 6 down the street from Corporate Headquarters or down a dirt road in her car.

I quickly realized that I "could" perform in bed with a woman. I didn't enjoy it all that much, not like Rob at summer camp, but I did "get off" a few times and at least I could pretty much stay hard long enough to get her off, at least when she was on top doing the work.

I still don't really know what attracted Becky to me, but I kept wishing that she'd stop bugging me, although I never said it because after all she was the boss's right- hand person and had his ear.

Then things changed. I noticed that Becky was stepping out with another guy. Chad was a handsome fellow from collections and I had to admit that he looked like a stud horse in the crotch area. I'd noticed that the first time I saw him standing by the water cooler. There was an obvious bulge running down one leg of his pants even though he didn't look like he was aroused.

I guess Becky had noticed the same thing and had taken Chad to "lunch" within a couple of days of his starting work at the company. I was relieved, but for some strange reason I was a little jealous. Was it because I knew she was screwing Chad and I wished it was me doing him? Or heaven forbid did I feel jealousy because another man was plugging her.

I was confused, and pretty much in a bad mood until one afternoon Becky stopped by my cubical and told me that she wanted to see me that evening. Then my face turned bright red when she continued, "I've decided to try something new. I want you and Chad at the same time, what do you think about that?"

A threesome? With Chad? Well, I guess I should have said no. But if I was going to do that I should have done so several months before when Becky was bent over my crotch sucking me off. So I asked, "Is Chad alright with this?"

Becky looked a little board and said, "I'm not telling him. You just show up at my house around 9 and I'll have Chad eating out of my hand. I really want to do this Jason and I'm expecting to get your help. Chad has already said no to a threesome, but you know me well enough to know I don't accept no for an answer."

Normally I'd have said okay and just not shown up, but I was interested. The thought of seeing Chad naked and fucking Becky, well, it really turned me on. I could imagine in my mind's eye Chad's huge cock gliding in and out of Becky's slick pussy. I even imagined myself reaching down there and grasping his big dick in my fingers and feeling him humping her.

"Yes Becky, I'll show up. But I'm not sure that even you can make someone do something against their will." But I secretly hoped she could.


I showed up on the button right at 9 pm. And Becky was there to open the door for me. I soon found out how Becky had gotten Chad's compliance. Actually she hadn't she'd just kept plying him with alcohol laced with some over the counter sl**ping aid. I couldn't believe it when she told me that. What the fuck did she thing she was doing?

But I soon forgot my indignation at her caviler and frankly dangerous behavior when I walked into her living room and saw Chad comfortably slumped on the couch with his legs spread wide and no pants on. Apparently Becky had been working away with her magic mouth and Chad was half out of his mind from the alcohol and d**gs he'd been given.

I knew that this was wrong, but I also knew that I was going to get a piece of this handsome straight guy. I didn't think that Becky realized what I had on my mind, but looking at studly Chad's naked organ waving in the wind and his well muscled tan body lying there I just couldn't hold back.

Becky giggled and admonished me at my hesitation, "C'mon in Jason meet Chad. Chad this is Jason, and he'll be your lover for the evening."

Chad was too far gone to understand what Becky had just said, but I wasn't. "Becky, want are you doing?"

"Nothing you don't want me too." She looked up at me with those innocent eyes. "I've decided that I want to see two guys doing it, and I pick Chad and you. This will be really neat, I've wondered what it would be like to see for positively years!"

"But Becky, this isn't right..." I started.

"Fuck, Jason both of us know you want to do it. You want to fuck him and I want to watch you do it. So where's the problem? Ol' Chad'll never know what happened look at him; I don't think he was even aware that I was sucking his weenie a few minutes ago. Well, maybe he was," she realized when we both looked down at the woozy figure on the couch. His huge dick was still standing at attention and Becky had stopped sucking on it at least 5 minutes earlier to open the door for me.

I didn't say anything; I knew that she was right. I hadn't known that she knew I was gay, I guess I hadn't been as smart as I'd thought. So I pulled off my sweater and shucked my pants. (That's all I'd put on knowing what the nights business was going to be.)

By the time I was naked Becky had also shed her robe. I had to admit that her body was exquisite, so smooth and perfectly proportioned. She moved over next to me and rubbed her front against my side impatiently, hugging me. "Well, how does a guy get started with another gay?" she asked excitedly.

"How the fuck should I know?" I said a little irritated.

"C'mon Jason, I know you're into guys, a girl can tell those things."

"I won't deny that I like men better than women, but I haven't had all that much experience with it."

That's when Becky made me tell her "about" my experiences. When I'd finished she said, "Hmmm, I think you should do what was done to you in college. I think a good fucking would be very entertaining to watch."

I couldn't argue with her, relating my experiences had brought back all those feelings that I longed to experience again. And fuck it, if I had to **** a straight guy for this woman's pleasure, then I would. Actually I could have cared less if Becky was even in the room as I moved toward Chad's slouched body.

As I sat down beside him I could smell his arousal. The testosterone was fragrant in the air around him. Not caring whether or not Becky was still there I leaned over on to Chad's lap and sank my lips down over his still hard dick. As his hot cock-flesh slid past my lips I realized that this was something I had missed greatly. I began to bob faster and faster onto Chad's huge boner. I took him in deeper with each downward movement and began some tongue action around the head as I almost released him each time I came off him.

I could hear Becky's gasp as I started to really go to town on Chad's vulnerable cock. There was nothing he could do about it. He was so wasted that even if he realized what I was doing to him he wouldn't have been able to stop me. I had a momentary pang of guilt as I ****d Chad's dick with my mouth.

I guess I did a good job of it because only a minute into my blowjob Chad grunted, thrusting his hips up at my face and groaned a long low guttural sound as he gushed his seed into my throat. I swallowed his come gladly. I was glad that I'd brought him off. It would make us a little more even for what was coming next.

To my surprise I realized that Becky had been licking and sucking my dick while I was doing Chad. I guess I'd known it but then she'd done it many times and my attention was on this new cock. This cock that was mine to do what I wanted with. This body for that matter. A straight guy getting gay sex, it turned me on so much that I had to push Becky's mouth away from my dick or I would have had an orgasm then and there. I wanted to save myself for what I knew I was going to do to Chad.

After the hapless Chad was done coming I disengaged myself from his lap and gently lifted him off the couch and onto his hands and knees on the floor. He moaned softly as Becky took his flaccid dick in her hand from underneath and began to squeeze it like she was milking a cow or something. I didn't care I was centered on what I had to do. I wanted to fuck Chad like I'd fucked Becky and no one else.

Chad was a little conscious, awake enough to stay on his hands and knees with my help. I wasn't sure what would happen so I figured that the sooner I did what I had planned the better. I crouched over Chad's back and took my now totally semen soaked cock and positioned it at Chad's hetro-butt hole. I pushed, while at the same time running my slimy cock-head up and down his crack. God it felt good! The feeling of his smooth crack all slick with my pre-come. The feel of his ruffled butt hole as my sensitive cock-head ran over it from time to time. Yes, fucking wonderful!

Then I shoved and jabbed the head of my rigid cock into his yielding hole. Chad moaned in protest. I noticed that Becky was still working on Chad's dick and that she'd crawled underneath him to get closer to her work. He was still just dangling there in her hand.

Then I was home! Oh it was fucking fantastic! I was in this straight guys ass, all the way to the hilt. I could feel his ass-hole contracting then releasing my cock as his body tried to accustom itself to my invading shaft. God it felt so good to be balls deep in Chad's ass. He was much tighter than Becky ever was and the feel of his masculine body under mine, as I began to pump him was a heady experience for me.

I could hear Becky's muffled voice under us as she kept saying things like, "Yes, this is fucking great!" or "God Jason this is so fucking sexy I'm gonna come soon." All the while I could feel her fingers playing with my cock, Chad's ass-crack and sometimes my swinging balls. I had to admit that Becky was adding something to the experience.

Then I was brought off by her heavenly massage. Chad's ass-hole began a frantic tightening and release motion that actually milked me into a super-come. Something I'd never even dreamed about before. Apparently Becky had been busy underneath Chad and with the friction of me in his butt and her jacking and sucking him, he'd come again! His orgasm made his ass-hole spasm and f***ed me to unload the most intense come I'd ever experienced deep into his body.

It felt like my orgasm went on forever. Usually they're too quick, normally I could stand to come much longer than nature allows. But this night I felt every little spasm from head to toe and my come lasted until I was ready to black out.

Actually I did finally collapse onto Chad who in turn fell onto Becky, who yelled at me angrily for a while until I could muster the straight to move and dig her out from her covering of naked sweaty male bodies.


That was our one and only threesome. I never saw Chad again. He didn't show up for work on Monday. And although I had sex with Becky many times after that she apparently didn't need to see me perform with another guy again.

About 3 months later Becky left the company under a cloud called "sexual harassment" nothing to do with me, because I never complained to anyone about her. I never saw her again after that, and until this very day I have been celibate. But do I have memories. They're so hot; they keep me warm on cold lonely nights...


I originally wrote this story under a different author name, but it is mine and no others.
... Continue»
Posted by ab-2007 9 months ago  |  Categories: First Time, Gay Male, Group Sex  |  Views: 3905  |  
  |  1

My b*o Made Me Do It

The Continuation of my previous story “All Because She Was With-Holding”
Please read the previous story before continuing or it may not make sense as to how this night all got started!
As a reminder this story is 100% true the names were changed to protect the not so innocent!

I sat down on the couch next to Dan as the last few minutes of the game ticked away. At one point Dan’s little b*o Miguel was yelling at the TV after one of the players made a three point shot. They were excited and I could honestly care less about basketball and the NBA. We all were discussing the game and some players and statics. This went on for a little while as the post game show and player interviews were on. Finally I got them to change the channel and we watched a movie. It was a long movie and it was getting late so I suggested that we head down to my room and get ready for bed since they were staying the night.
We all walked sown stairs to chill and get ready for bed. I logged on to my computer to finish something I forgot to do earlier. Miguel asked if when I was done could he check something, so I said “Sure give me a minute.” When done I left the computer on for him and went to lie down on the bed. Dan had his spot on the left of my bed on the floor and Miguel was at the foot of the bed. Dan was laying on the top of the bed at first with me when Miguel asked me a question while still on the computer. “Do you think we can look at some porn” Miguel asked. I chuckled and was caught off guard by his question. So I looked at Dan and he was no help. He just lay there oblivious to what was just said. I asked Miguel “Why?” So he relied “Well I can’t at home because we don’t have internet and my cell phone has a weak signal so it takes years for anything to load.” So thinking about the question for a second I said “Sure why not, what the hell”
So I jumped in to the computer chair and Miguel moved to the chair next to my desk. I asked him if he wanted to look at anything special or what? He said “What ever I guess” So I surfed some videos and he was watching as I surfed a few pages. Next I logged on to XHamster and showed him some more videos. He saw a video that looked good to him and asked me to click on that one. While it was loading, I looked back to notice Dan lying on the bed watching what was on the screen. Dan was back and forth from the screen to his phone texting his girl while Miguel was basically locked on the screen. Miguel started asking some questions about what was going on in the video because he was still virgin and had yet to be with a girl yet. Answering as much as I could I ask if he had a girlfriend or was talking to anyone? He said he was and he was thinking about taking it to the next level and having sex with her since she was interested in him he thought. For a little horny guy he sure asked a lot of questions.
Dan chimed in from the bed and tried helping me out answering some of Miguel’s questions as well. I guess he gave up trying to text his girl and was now involved with the conversation. As we watched more porn I noticed Miguel’s shorts started to rise ever so slightly. So jokingly I pointed it out by saying “Getting excited are you?” He looked nervous that I had noticed so he looked down at it. So I said “Dude don’t worry about it its natural. Go ahead and play with it if it helps” He looked at me like I had five heads. “I’m not going to pull it out in front of you guys” he said “Dude me and Dan both have dicks like you do b*o it’s not like I’m asking to play with yours” I replied. Miguel thought about it for a second then slid his hand under the waistband of his basketball shorts and started to massage his growing boner. Over my shoulder I noticed Dan had starting doing the same thing. So I told Miguel “Look your b*o has a boner as well.” Dan looked at me all shocked that I said that. “See if your b*****r has one too, there is nothing wrong with it” Miguel looked back at Dan and said “You do?” Dan shook his head yes. What happened next is what started the night in motion!
Miguel asked Dan “Let me see it?” Dan looked puzzled and just stayed motionless for a second. He then shrugged his shoulders and began to stand up from the bed. He reached down opening and unzipping his jeans. Slowly he pulled down the waist band of his black Fruit of the Loom Boxer briefs and let his rock hard seven inch dick pop out. It bounced around for a few seconds as Dan just stood there with his dick hanging out. After a moment of thought, I had an idea so I said “Ok now your turn.” Miguel looked at me and said “I’m not pulling out my dick that’s gay.” “Dude you just asked your own b*o to pull his out and you don’t think that was gay? I don’t think any one of us is going to say anything about this so you don’t have to worry about us telling anyone else about it. We all would be incriminated!” He looked away for a second really thinking hard about it. “You won’t tell any one and I mean any one about this then?” I stood up out of my chair, you could now visibly see the tent in my shorts from my rock hard dick, reaching down to my shorts and grabbing my waistband. I pulled down my shorts and boxers revealing my large seven and a half inch dick.
Now Dan and I are just standing there with our dicks hanging out and Miguel looking at both of us like we were crazy. “I don’t think were going to be telling anyone about tonight, right Dan?” Cracking a half cheesy smile Dan said “I not saying shit!” So I turn back to Miguel and said “Your turn.” You could tell he was visibly nervous but he started it and I was going to make sure he finished it. Reluctantly Miguel stood up from the chair and removed his hand from his shorts. The look on his face showed how nervous he really was and was hesitant. “Come on we won’t bite” I said. He took a step away from the chair. Then with both hands grabbing both sides and tracing the waist line of his shorts twice he started to push down from his hips to the front of his shorts. He had a little bit of a stomach for someone his age, looking almost like a beer gut, he started to reveal a faint happy trail of hair from his belly button down. He was moving super slow, further down went the shorts, and you could now start to see the shaft of his cock coming in to the light. Further down he pushed and now half of the shaft of his cock was visible. It was defiantly light brownish in color since he was Hispanic-Italian mix and the happy trail was dark black becoming more visible the further down he went. He reached the bottom of the shaft and all the way down, out bounced his five to five and a half inch rock hard dick. He was like his b*o nice girth caramel color head but had a well defined blue vein running from the base of his dick to the head. His balls looked to be very tight inside his nut sack and his dick was twitching ever since it became fully exposed. “Now was that so bad” I said
Miguel shrugged his shoulders and said nothing in return. I told him “Dude you have nothing to be a shamed of, most guys your size don’t have a dick as big or as good looking as yours.” He looked at me and grinned at first then said “Really?” in a soft nervous tone. I told him that I was not shitting him and that if he went after this girl he was interested in that she should be impressed with his dick or she was just not interested in sex yet. So all three of us are standing there, cocks in hand, looking at one another. So again I had an idea. I asked Miguel “Have you done anything other than masturbate?” He shook his head no. “How about you let me give you a blowjob, this way you will be prepared when the time comes?” I noticed he reached from his waistband to grab his dick and said “That’s gay what the hell is wrong with you!” so I replied “Hey look I’m only offering to help and from the looks of it you could use some. Trust me I wont say a word about this, it will be our little secret.” “But what about Dan?” Miguel said. I moved closer to Dan and whispered “Trust me.” Dan Nodded, I sat down on the corner of the bed and grabbed Dan’s dick and guided it into my mouth and went down on him! I went down on him for the second time today, my mind in total ecstasy that he just let me do it in front of his b*o. While sucking on Dan’s now throbbing dick I noticed Miguel starting to stroke his dick and his jaw was still dropped from me sucking off Dan. I continued on Dan for a few more minutes and then I pulled his dick out of my mouth. Looking at Miguel I said “I don’t think Dan is going to be a problem. So do you want to or not?”
Miguel said nothing and quickly started to move towards me. I moved now to the other side of the bed to make room from Dan to come around. Miguel is not standing in from of me still stroking his still rock hard cock. I try to reach out my hand to take over the stroking but he won’t let me. He is standing there still stroking his cock so I said “If you don’t let me take over I can’t suck your dick then.” He hesitated, then slowly removed his hand from his cock. This was my cue I leaned in and took him in my mouth. He let out a small gasp at first not sure if it was just surprise or maybe it felt good but I started sucking him off slowly. Dan was standing just off to the side stroking his dick watching the action. I was so turned on and I think Miguel was felling it as well. I stared to puck up the pace and go a little faster and his breathing started to quicken as well. Just so he did not bust his nut so fast and to make this last I slowed down and took it easy for a minute. I decided to reach out and try to jerk off Dan. At first I could not reach but he realized what I was trying to do and moved closer. Stopping only for a second to say “Get ready Miguel I’m go to go deep!” He was about to say something but I shoved his dick back in my mouth and to the back of my throat it went! What ever he was going to say he stopped mid sentence and just let out a loud moan. He was not hard to deep throat since he was only five and a half inches. I did this a few times and continued to suck him off while jerking off Dan. I decided to go for broke and went to town on Miguel, up and down deep and shallow, side to side. Then with out any warning just a loud grunt and a thrust of his hips he dumps quite a load of cum in my mouth. I was struggling to keep up with the streams of cum he was pumping out but I managed to swallow every last drop with out skipping a beat. I pause only for a second, then continue sucking his still rock hard pulsating dick. After another minute I take it out of my mouth still rock hard.
So I turn to Dan who I was stroking the whole time and begin sucking him off while still stroking Miguel’s still hard dick. While I was sucking off Dan, Miguel asked “Do you think I could fuck you?” I stopped sucking Dan Mid stride and pulled him out of my mouth “What did you just say?” He repeated his request, mind you his dick is still rock hard, and I said “I don’t know how I feel about that!” I was totally lying since I was fucked before but only twice, not even Dan had done that. But I thought to my self this time if he is going to ask I’m going to put up a little fight! Then Miguel says “Well I never have fucked before and I figured if you would be ok with it I could learn how so I’m not bad with my girl?” I stopped jerking them both off for a second as I’m contemplating, or at least acting like I’m thinking, about this decision. “Ok, fine but this cannot leave this room this stays between the three of us is that understood?” Dan just nodded his head but Miguel said “I thought that was understood already!” I cracked a smile at Miguel and said “Ok fine let me go get a condom.” In the back of my mind I was thinking safe even though I know I could have done this bareback but I did want to set an example for him so he knows to use protection and be safe. I stood up and waked towards my desk with my dick still out and bouncing around. I opened the drawer and pulled out some condoms. I walk back to the bed and hand Miguel one. He rips open the packaging and takes out the condom, carefully he rolls it down the shaft of his dick covering it and reaching the bottom and his pubic hair. He is still rock hard, I ask “You ready?” he replies “Are you?” I just smiled and moved onto the bed. I motion to Dan to move to the front of the bed. I pull down and off my shorts now revealing my nice bubble ass. I notice Dan took a look at it. “Like what you see?” I said. “Looks nice a little bigger than my girls.” He said. I smiled at him and move to lie down on the bed. Miguel pulls his shorts and boxers off and now only has on a red Nike tee-shirt and socks. He moves up and on to the bed and takes up his position behind me.
Dan is in front of me and I reach out and grab his dick and start stroking it. Miguel is now directly behind me and moving to make his move on my now quivering ass. He moves on top of me and I can feel his dick rubbing against my ass cheeks as he moves in to final position. In my mind I stop and think for a second this is now one of the best nights of my life. And I could not believe how it all got started. It all started over…… “OUCH!” I was jolted back to reality quickly by Miguel. He found my hole and pushed his dick inside of me really hard. “Next time take it easy, when you penetrate someone you want to go slow at first, you have to give them a chance to loosen up so that they can adjust to your dick making it easier to fuck them! Damn!” I said. I noticed Dan was smirking when I said that. “My bad” Miguel said. “Let it sit there for a second so I can regain my composure and then start slowly.” And that he did. He waited for about thirty seconds and then started to slowly begin fucking my ass. The pain subsided and it turned to pleasure, he was moving slow but started to pick up the pace. I was back at sucking Dan off since he was still hard watching everything that was unfolding in front of him. Miguel really started to pick up the pace, faster and faster, I was really surprised at just how quickly he was pulling out and slamming back into me. Thankfully I had Dan to suck off because he was really making me moan.
Miguel somehow either knew what he was doing or it was just beginners luck because he was fucking me good. I could not believe how good he was! He fucked me for what seemed like an hour. Moving quick, then slowing down, and then picking it back up again. I was in shock from his pounding. I could feel it getting warmer in the room. After some time I could feel his rhythm quicken again but even quicker than before. He was holding on to me for dear life, fucking my ass like there was no tomorrow. He was grunting pretty loud now I knew he was about to cum I could feel his dick pulsating inside of me. With one last very hard thrust he grunted and moaned very loud and emptied a second load of cum in my ass inside the condom. He pumped two or three more times in my ass and then just collapsed on to my back. I could now feel how sweaty he was on my back. I stopped sucking off Dan and just laid there. I could feel Miguel’s now softening dick retreating and slip out of my ass. He rolled off my back and I look behind to see him just exhausted. I took notice to the fact that his condom was filled with cum and that some was even oozing out the side. He busted another enormous load. Even I could not believe how much he had busted in the condom. So I reach back and help slide off the condom trying not to get any cum on my bed. I wish I had a picture of how full this thing was! He just lay on the bed almost completely motionless from exhaustion.
I turn back around to see Dan with a smirk on his face. “How about I have a turn?” With a shocked look on my face I said “Well I guess it would only be fair!” Dan removes his jeans and boxer briefs right in front of me and now he is only in a black tee-shirt and socks as well. I reach down onto the floor right in front of me and hand him a condom as well. He takes it and moves around behind me. Miguel has still not moved much since rolling off my back but I know he is ok because I can still hear him breathing heavily. Dan come up and straddles me from behind as he is putting on the condom. He positions him self and slowly pushes his way into my asshole. He did not have to wait since Miguel already tore me up. Once he was all the way in he let his dick just sit there for a second getting used to the feeling. He then started to fuck me slowly, but with a purpose increasing his thrusts. I’m in heaven right now because I wanted Dan like this from the start and I thought I would have to work hard and be very patient to get him, I never thought it would be his own b*o that got this night started. Dan is fucking me good not as fast as Miguel but I think that was because he was taking it slow to enjoy it or him self either one I really did not care he was inside me fucking me. He defiantly fucked me for a lot longer than his b*o because he was taking his time and pacing him self a lot better. Miguel finally moved from his spot and just laid back and enjoyed watching his b*o take his turn at pounding my ass! Dan really started to pick up the pace and I was moaning from his pounding. I was still rock hard my self my dick being massaged by the sheets the whole time I’m being fucked. Really slamming in to me hard now, Dan was ruthless with is rhythm. As he started to pound me really hard I could feel his dick start to pulsate inside of me and I lost it. I busted a massive load into the sheets of my bed, Dan still fucking me harder and harder until he lost all control and erupted deep in my ass. He looked strait up at the ceiling and let out a loud groan and just yelled “FUCK” as he was shuddering, pushing his dick as deep as he could in my ass.
Dan also collapsed onto my back and I could also feel how sweaty he had gotten. He lay there breathing heavily, moving and grinding his dick still in my ass. I could feel his dick start to soften while still in my ass, but he pulled it out before it could slip out. He stood up off of the bed and I could see he had the same problem as his b*o. He filled the condom to the brink with cum. I got up from my position to see the enormous spot where I blew my load and it was huge. I don’t think I have ever busted a load quite that big. Dan removed his condom, and just sat at the foot of the bed. I moved to sit next to him, and Miguel moved to sit next to me. All three of us, sitting there, in just tee-shirts. None of us said a word for a good five minutes. Then I said “Guys lets get showers and head to bed, were exhausted!” the both just smiled and we all one by one went to take our showers.
After we were all finished our showers, we lay in our beds and talked about the night and what had happened it was more relaxed, some questions were asked and answered. After that we all fell asl**p. When the morning rolled around I was woken up by a strange sensation. I was laying on my back which was odd because I normally sl**p on my side or stomach. As I was coming too I realized what the strange feeling was. I look down only to find my covers were pulled back and Miguel was sucking my dick through my boxers. I could not believe he was doing this. Call it curiosity or what ever you want but he was actually sucking my dick. He was not doing to bad of a job either. I guess he learned a few things from me. So I let him continue and think that I am asl**p. After a little while I felt like I was about to cum, part of me wanted to warn him but then I thought he did not warn me. I thought it was only fair that I do not deny him the same experience. I felt my dick start to pulsate and my balls tense up. This was it the moment of truth, I blew my load in his mouth and I could feel it caught him off guard like it did to me. He gagged for only a second but then caught up and stared to swallow my load. I was surprised that he would have swallowed my load, but I guess when you think the person your blowing is still sl**ping there really is not much else to do to with it. I still acted like I was asl**p just so see what would happen, Miguel put my dick back in to my boxers, put the covers back over me and laid back down on the floor. My guess is he did that so I would not think that he actually sucked my dick I guess. He went back to sl**p and so did I. To this day I have never let Miguel know that I was awake when he decided to suck my dick. I kept it to my self but one day I may let him know or maybe if he stays over again who knows it could be a repeat offence!?
... Continue»
Posted by romangladiator03 2 months ago  |  Categories: First Time, Gay Male, Taboo  |  Views: 2328  |  
  |  2

"We'll Do Your Mom First," I Said

"I've decided, we'll do your mom first, then we'll do mine," I told Kevin as I leaned over and clicked a key on his computer. A millisecond later the movie we'd been watching, a movie featuring an impossibly well endowed blond being fucked both anally and vaginally by two uniformed policemen, disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a picture of Kevin's mother.

Both of us had been sitting against the headboard of his bed, with the computer between us, as we stroked our cocks.

"Put the movie back on," my best friend ordered.

"I want to fuck your mom, not some porn star," I answered as I sat up and brought my engorged cock towards the screen and the picture of his mom that filled it.

"You're fucking sick," he said but his hand hadn't stopped moving over his virgin, eighteen year old cock. I hit another key and a second picture of his mom appeared. This one was an 'up her skirt' shot that I'd managed to surreptitiously snap a couple of weeks earlier.

"Where'd you get that?" he demanded as his eyes slid up his mom's legs to the triangle of white panty showing at their juncture. I laughed, then blocked his view as I touched the spot he was staring at with the tip of my cock. The drop of precum that had already formed slid onto the screen.

"You asshole, you'll ruin my computer," he complained as he watched the cum ooze slowly down the screen.

"Maybe I'll impregnate it and father a little notebook," I said, then laughed and shook my cock at him.

"You're a fucking idiot." Kevin was still stroking himself. We both froze when a second later we heard a knock on his bedroom door. It had to be his mom.

"Boys... boys?" The call, muffled by the door, came seconds later. Kevin, already out of the bed, was struggling to pull on the pair boxer shorts he'd dropped on the floor just minutes earlier.

"Kevin? William?"

I walked towards the door, my cock in hand. Kevin, shaking his head wildly, was looking at me in horror. "Don't!" he cried.

"Mrs. White?" I asked through the door.

"I didn't want to disturb you boys Will, I know you're studying," my friend's mother apologized. "But I was just wondering if you'd like another piece of apple pie and a glass of milk."

"Yes, please, I'd love a piece of your pie ... so would Kev," I answered. My hand was now flying over my cock.

Kevin, across the room, was still shaking his head in despair. His penis, fully erect, shorter perhaps than mine, but still well above average, was sticking out of the slit in his shorts.

"Okay, I'll be right back," Kev's thirty-four year old mom promised. My cock started to spurt as I listened to her words. Thick strands of sperm arched upwards and out before finally landing on the back of the bedroom door.

"You're fucking crazy. Christ, she'll see it, smell it," he croaked as he pulled his jeans up his legs.

"I'd like to put some of this in her hot and hairy little momma's pie," I answered as I trailed a finger through my cum and then held it up in the air.

"Get dressed ... clean it up," he begged as he threw me my boxers.

"She's going to be our first," I insisted as we waited for his mom to return with the goodies.

"You're a fucking pervert," Kevin answered.

"Somebody has to be our first."

"Retard. Have you by any chance ever heard the word i****t?"

"It won't be i****t when my cock's inside her," I said with a leer as I ran my hand suggestively over the front of my pants.

"She's my mother!"

"That's why I'm going to let you go first."


"But when we get to my mom I'll go first."

"Your mom! You are so fucking sick."

"Well who do you want to fuck then?" And of course Kevin had no answer to that one. I pressed on. "C'mon Kev, you read the study ... you know the first two or three weeks we're up there are going to make or break us."

"We have all summer to get ready, to find someone to teach us," he protested.

"So where do we start then? Who on your list do you think you'll be able to get to help us?" I challenged.

"Yeah, but what about my dad? And yours?"

We'd both pulled on t-shirts and shorts and were sitting at the long table that sat under his bedroom window, and which we used as a work desk, when his mother, toting a fully laden tray, finally reappeared. I knew we'd be continuing the conversation later.

Mrs. White was hot! A true MILF! Really she was far too young to be the mother of an eighteen year old. As fifteen year old Michelle Thomas, a neighbor of the Whites, she had ended up the prime baby sitter of Kevin's older half s****rs when Mr. White's first wife had died some twenty years ago.

The eight and nine year old girls, bereft after the loss of their mother, had latched onto Michelle immediately and would cling to her desperately at the first sign that she was about to leave. Apparently the then forty-five year old Mr. White had too because just weeks after her sixteenth birthday young Michelle was walking down the aisle to be married. Kevin, "in uterus" at the time, was present at the ceremony.

He was their only c***d but against all odds the marriage had gone along famously. My parents had moved in two houses down from the Whites when I was three. And so we had become best friends.

Kev and I grew up nerds. Boys who'd been oblivious to the charms of the other sex as we'd studied our way through high school. Until, that is, our cocks started to grow. And spurt.

The two best students in our school, already pre-accepted into Princeton before our senior year had even started, socially incompetent but relatively happy, had suddenly been thrust unprepared into the world of cocks and cum and cunts.

Our senior year had been disastrous -- week after week and month after month of uncertainties, rejections and self doubt. If we hadn't had each other I don't know what would have happened.

Hey look, I'm not stupid. It's impossible for a teenager to be ignorant of sex these days. Just turn on your computer! So, on a theoretical basis, we should have been prepared. And we were. We knew all the moving parts of women. We knew exactly what was happening to our bodies. We knew about sperm count. About shaven pussies. We'd studied tables and graphs published on the internet that showed the range of sizes of the human penis. We'd compared the slow but steady progress of our respective penile growth to those tables. We'd seen a hundred movies that demonstrated just about every sexual coupling imaginable. We knew it all.

But until the testosterone starts to flow that's all it is. Theoretical. But then it's not! It's all encompassing as soon as that sexual chemical tap is turned on. An emotional whirlwind that you find you have no way to control. Your thinking brain suddenly becomes trumped by the small reptilian brain that lies deep in the heart of it. A brain that sends bl**d rushing into your cock at the first sniff of a woman.

But of course neither of us had any ability to communicate with members of the opposite sex. None at all! Our supposed brilliant minds, minds that had easily delivered SAT scores in the top percentile, turned to mush the second an attractive female came within twenty feet of us. Womanless, we became serial masturbators and wet dreamers. Big cocked horny nerds who used their hands as sorry imitations of the real thing.

And so, in desperation, one rainy Friday night in late April, as we had sat commiserating with each other over another dateless weekend, we'd decided that we had to make an action plan. That if we didn't want to be losers the rest of our lives we'd better do something about it.

The first thing we'd done was simply write off the rest of our senior high school year. We knew there was no way to undo the previous four years. Instead we decided to use the four months we had left preparing for the fall and our new lives in faraway Princeton. Where nobody would know us or our high school reputations and where we could start over.

But start over as what? And how does one go about changing? We spent the first few weeks doing research and almost immediately found our first nugget of hope. Our problem turned out to be not that unusual. It turned out to be not only a common affliction but also one that a hell of a lot of men had written about later in their lives.

Again and again we found bios of successful men that reported that they'd suffered through their high school years only to be saved by somehow transforming themselves before they'd arrived at college. But that was the key that they all reported - the first few weeks of your university years offered a door of opportunity that might never reappear. Fuck those weeks up and you were probably fucked for the next four years. Initial impressions were damn hard to change.

So we read what other men had done. And how they'd done it. We found a hundred different suggestions that over the ensuing weeks we tried to distill into a coherent action plan. We finally boiled it down to three jobs:

1) Make an "Honest Assessment" of yourself.

2) Set "Attainable Goals".

3) Write an "Action Plan".

And so we'd both tried. I can tell you that it's not that easy. You're one of maybe two million male high school seniors in the country. Where do you stand in the group? What are the strengths of William Harold Sommers, an eighteen year old high school senior? I knew what I looked like but to tell you the truth had no real idea of how other people saw me.

I was six foot, one inch tall that spring and at just under one hundred and seventy pounds I felt myself too thin. Neither Kevin nor I had played organized sports much growing up but I'd swum a lot in the summers. I wasn't in terrible shape.

My hair was a mess -- even I recognized that the long, matted, usually uncombed nest of hair that lived on my head and tumbled down onto my shoulders wasn't anywhere close to being in style.

Kevin and I weren't great dressers! To say the least. No shots of us were going to appear in GQ. Hoodies and jeans were our norm.

My cock was largish -- I'd measured it enough over the previous couple of years and then compared it 'cock size' numbers I'd found on the internet to know that. In fact it could more fairly be described as very big. So that was an asset but how do you translate that into sexual success if no one will talk to you?

And after you've finished with outward appearance you get to the hard stuff. Why can't you talk to girls? Why do you get so nervous? How do you improve? Where do you learn about kissing?

In the end we finally boiled it down to the following three categories (and subcategories) we'd have to concentrate on. Later we'd penciled in various suggestions on how to do it.

A) Improve our appearance.

1 Body -- weightlift? muscles? posture

2 Clothes -- Ashley knows about clothes. will she help? cost?

3 Hair -

B) Communication skills -- Learn to talk to girls. how?

C) Sexual Techniques

1 Learn to dance -- hire a professional? from where? Natalie from strip club?

2 Kissing -- who could teach us?

3 Touching, arousing - study sex manuals? practical experience?

4 Lose our virginity -- professional call girl?

So we sorta knew what areas we had to attack. We had a starting point. Mind you we weren't that confident of success. But it was better than nothing.

We bought a set of weights and set them up in Kev's basement the day after we'd finalized our plan. Every afternoon thereafter we'd gone down and lifted.

Our second step was to convince my s****r to help. Fixing our appearance seemed vital.

Early June 2010 Ashley

"You asked them what?" my s****r asked. I could hear that she was pissed off that I hadn't asked her first. I'd hoped she would be.

"You're my s****r. Besides I know you're way, way too busy for something like this."

"And they're not?"

I'd caught my s****r's two best friends, Caitlyn and Brianna, like her, high school sophomores, alone earlier that afternoon and had asked them to help me. It was an important step in the detailed plan we'd worked out for the transformation of Kevin and I from nerdish, high school social misfits into suave, desirable, sexy college freshmen. Don't they say that clothes make the man?

"Do you think they know more about clothes than I do?" s*s was reacting exactly as I'd surmised. She was vital to the plan and not only because she had a better sense of style than any other girl in the school. It was also vital because we needed her salesmanship to convince our parents to finance the transformation.

I'd known we needed her one hundred percent onside and I'd finally decided that the oblique approach just might work best. Which was why I'd started by approaching her friends first.

Ashley Sommers, sixteen and only a sophomore, my s****r, was the most popular girl in the school. And even though she was smart and beautiful, it was her personality that was her greatest selling point. A cheerleader and A student, there had been serious rumblings that spring that she, only going into her junior year, should run for student council president. She's eventually politely demurred but almost everyone thought she would have won if she'd tried.

I'd heard it opined more than once over the years that it was incredible that a girl like her was related to someone as socially incompetent as I. Someone had even asked me once if I'd been adopted.

"It wouldn't be fair to you ... you're too busy Ash. Besides you don't want to spend your time dressing me."

"Gawd, I wish you'd asked me a year ago. You ... you and Kevin look like--" She didn't finish her sentence. But I knew what she was thinking. Having an older b*****r around who dressed like a bum couldn't have been pleasant for any teenage high school girl.

"I know I'm not the best dresser—"

"You're the about the wor--" she started to say but then stopped before finishing, her inherent niceness not allowing her to finish.

"I just thought I should try to start on a better footing at College. I was looking at the Princeton site the other day and there weren't many students who dressed like--"

"Thank god for that," my s****r interrupted as she raised her eyes to the sky. "Now let's go look at your clothes." My s****r, when properly motivated, was a take charge kind of person.

"You'll help me?"

"Of course I'll help you, I'm your s****r aren't I?" she answered, an answer that was voiced in a teenage girls exasperated tone. "Now c'mon," she ordered as she pulled me down the hall towards my room.

"Shouldn't we wait for Brianna and Caitlyn?"

"No! I'll do the preliminary scouting today and then tomorrow after school the five of us will have a council of war." Ashley was definitely going to be in charge!

"We will?"

"Yes, and tell Kevin he better be there too. No, I'll tell him myself," she said ominously as she marched past me into my bedroom. Which was pretty messy. It always was but that day I'd made it especially so. Ashley's head had already started shaking back and forth in dismay before she was half way across the room. I simply waited silently in the doorway as she started her inspection.

She opened my cupboard door first. She moved a few hangers back and forth before she slowly backed away. She was still shaking her head. Then she started in on my chest of drawers. Rifled through my t-shirts and sweaters and socks and hoodies before she finally got to my underwear.

"Well," I finally asked, "do you think that at least we have a good base to start from? That you'll be able to come up with something?"

"Yes Will, it's going to be sooooo easy."

I was smiling inside but successfully hid it when I asked back in my most dubious tone, "It will be?"

"Yes my dear Will," and now I heard the sarcasm, something my sweet s****r wasn't known for, "once the bonfire has died down we will then proceed to--"

"Bonfire?" I was laughing inside now!

"Do you think that there's one piece of cloth in this sad excuse for a room that should be transported over five hundred miles to one of America's finest institutions of higher learning?"Ashley was firing on all cylinders now!

"What about my sweatshirts?"

"Hoodies," she started, and before continuing she kicked the one I'd purposely left in the middle of my bedroom floor, "are not a fashion statement."

"At least my underwear's okay isn't it?"

"Well it might Will, it might be if said undergarments weren't full of holes and of a sickly gray color." Again I'd cleverly left my worst two pairs of underpants on top of the pile in the drawer. Ones that I'd been planning to throw out.

"Now let's go over to Kevin's," she ordered as she swept back by me and out into the hall. I scurried after.

"Kevin's? Today? We're already finished here? Don't you have to make a list or something?"

Ashley simply continued on her way without answering. I pumped my fist in the air as I rushed after her.

As we walked out the door I asked to her back, "How much do you think I'm going to have to spend anyway? As much as five hundred bucks?" It was another question I'd prepared for my s****r. It brought her to a sudden halt.

"Are you on d**gs?"

"Less than that then?" I said hopefully.

"I'll never understand how you got accepted into a university of that caliber." Ashley's sarcasm was gone, replaced now by the sad acceptance that her b*****r was hopeless.


"Will, to even get you to the minimum, the very minimum required," and here Ashley's voice emphasized the word minimum, "will cost at least ten thousand dollars and probably cost closer to twenty."

I put my most shocked look on my face. "Twentyyyyyyy thousand?" I screeched. "You're nuts."

For seconds my s****r stared at me, her disbelief of her b*****r's ignorance unhidden. I said nothing. Finally, slowly, her expression turned from hopelessness to determination.

"What do you think I spend on clothes every year," she finally asked.

I pretended to think it over before answering. "A thousand?" I finally offered tentatively. Ashley shook her head. "Higher?" She nodded yes. "Two?" Ash pointed here finger upwards. "Not as much as three?" the finger stayed pointed up. I jumped to five thousand with my next guess. Her finger stayed pointing up.

"That's impossible, no one spends that much."

Exasperation bloomed back into s*s's face. "How much do you think these shoes cost?"

I pretended to examine them. "Forty bucks."

"Over two hundred," s*s answered. "And my skirt?"

I pretended I knew something about skirts and quickly answered, "I know they're about twenty-five," I said confidently, "I saw one just like that in Target last week."

"You did not see one like this in Target!" s*s's gnashing of her teeth made her hard to understand. "And what about my underwear?" she finally spat out.

"Like your bra and panties?" She nodded yes. "Well I got a six pack of Fruit of the Loom for seven dollars last month. So maybe double that if you include the bra ... so what, f******n bucks divided by six, probably two, two dollars fifty for both."

From the look on her face I knew the plan was working. Slowly, her frustration clear, she spoke, "THE... BRA... AND ... PANTIES...I'M...WEARING... COST... OVER ... SEVENTY ... DOLLARS." If anyone had been within fifty yards of us they would have heard her.

"No way! That's nuts," I said, then turned and started towards Kevin's.

"THEY DO!" she yelled at my back as she started after me. I turned and waited.



"But how can they afford you? How'll they ever be able to afford twenty thousand for me?"

"Do you know how much your father makes as a lawyer every year?" I did but wasn't going to tell her. "Or what mom makes as a University Professor? Do you know what Dad pays for one of his suits?"

""Two, three hundred?"

"Twelve hundred minimum. And he has over twenty. And he has ten pairs of dress shoes.

And they're worth at least two hundred each." Ash was on a roll again. "Do you know what silk ties cost?"

"But still, you wouldn't spend all that money for a guy going to college would you?"

"Do you honestly believe your parents want you to be wandering around Princeton, New Jersey, dressed like a bum and wearing underwear that cost you one dollar a pair?"

"But what about Kevin?" I asked as we turned onto his front walk.

"He lives in a house worth almost a million dollars. His dad's Vice-President of Marketing for a Fortune 500 company." I didn't know how Ashley knew these things but she did.

Mrs. White was always delighted to see my s****r. Since neither Kevin nor I had ever brought females around the White's house, Ashley, and her friends, whenever available, had always been welcomed. And my s****r had always showed every sign of being as delighted to see Kevin's mother as she was to see her. And so, they spent the next ten minutes together in the kitchen, discussing everything under the sun but the matter at hand while I looked on silently. Female talk. Completely incomprehensible.

After Ashley had finished a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk, an offering I'd refused, she announced the purpose of her trip. "I've been retained by Kevin and my b*****r to assess their wardrobes in light of their impending relocation to university life. To evaluate their present holdings and jettison that which isn't appropriate and recommend what they're going to need to buy. Brianna and Caitlyn are going to help me."

It took a second or two for Kevin's mom to decipher Ashley's words but as soon as she did her face lit up. "Oh Ashley, I've tried to get Kevin out to the clothing stores for months, he and your b*****r are impossible."

"Most of Will's underwear has holes in it," my s****r confided.

"And those awful things with hoods," Mrs. White said with a grimace.

"We're really going to need your help Mrs. White," s*s implored. I knew I'd won! Leaving the two women to conspire together I wandered up to my pal's room. Mind you I didn't warn him of the coming visit. They rolled through it ten minutes later. Kevin's wardrobe was as harshly panned as mine had been.

Ashley and I of course were invited to join the Whites for dinner that night. In a concerted, clearly planned effort, my s****r and Mrs. White dominated the conversation with a critique of the wardrobes of Kevin and yours truly. By the end of the meal they'd also obtained a carte blanche from Mr. White to spend all that was needed to ensure that his son would be as well dressed as any student at Princeton. He seemed amused by the whole thing.

Later, after s*s and I had arrived home, Ashley disappeared into the den where mom and dad were reading. Five minutes later the three marched into my room. Ashley led them around, holding up various items for them to see as she moved from drawer to cupboard. I had to suffer hearing her running commentary on my complete lack of fashion sense for the third time that day. She also made it clear that my parents had to shoulder a large portion of the blame.

"It's bad enough in high school dad, but do you want Will wandering around one of America's greatest universities, a place where he's supposed to make business and social contacts for life, in ten dollar blue jeans with holes in the knee and a stained orange hoodie?" she asked as she held up the offending garment.

Dad, shaking his head, clearly didn't.

"Would you have even gone out with dad if he'd been dressed like that mother?" She asked my mom.

When Ashley finally led dad away to work up a 'Will going to college clothing budget' mom stayed behind. She actually apologized for her inattentiveness even as she lectured me on the horrid state of my clothes.

My Mother

Ashley had inherited her beauty from my mom. Laura Cummings had been an eighteen year coed when she'd met dad, who was a first year law student and four years older than her, at a frat party during October of her frosh year.

According to the oft repeated f****y history, my father took about two minutes to fall in love. Mom lasted until Thanksgiving weekend when she took him home to meet her parents. Like Kevin, I too was growing in my mother's belly when my grandfather walked his daughter down the aisle eight months later.

When Kevin and I had sat down and started our planning for our 'rebirth' one of the first tasks we'd posed ourselves was to, 'list in order of preference, the 20 best looking women you know (and who you'd most like to have sex with)'.

But before we'd actually sat down and made our individual lists we'd talked about the characteristics we'd like in our preferred sexual partners. To be honest we started out pretty hopelessly given neither of us had been on a date before or even knew that many girls to even talk to.

So our points of reference were few and far between. Movie stars. Porn stars. Some rock singers. Girls in our class. Teachers. Our mothers. My s****r and her friends. And when we made our lists neither of us was able to even get up to twenty.

By the end of the process my mother ended up thirteenth on Kevin's list. Ashley ended up tenth. I knew they would have ended up much higher if he hadn't been embarrassed to have my f****y members on his list. He didn't list his mom. At least not on his official list.

His mother was number nine on my list. Behind our schools head cheerleader, Lady Gaga, and a movie actress among others. Neither my s****r nor my mom appeared on my official list although I did list Ashley's friend Caitlyn number ten.

However, on my secret list, the list I never showed Kevin, his mother was number one, my mother number two and Ashley number four. Which I knew was a bit strange. Which is why I hadn't shown it to him.

And so, when my mom had sat down next to me on my bed after dad and Ashley had disappeared to organize the financial end of the deal, I had already begun to consider her as something else besides a mom. I'd become aware of her breasts. Of her lips. Of her long, silky hair. I'd also, and again I'd never told Kevin this, rummaged through my mom's underwear. Her bras. Her panties. I'd done things with said panties... bad things while they were wrapped around my cock ...

"I probably don't really need all those clothes," I started.

"Of course you do darling," my mother said as she put an arm around me.

"You shouldn't have to pay for me."

"Ashley's right, I never should have let it get this far. Your clothes are an embarrassment. To all of us."

"I can use some of the money I've saved," I offered.

"You will not use one cent of your money." It was delivered in a tone that brooked no argument.

"It'll probably just be a waste anyway. I'm a loser." I'd decided to play the pity card.

"Yeah, like losers get accepted into Princeton," my mother scoffed. I knew my mom, a Professor of Philosophy at our state university, wasn't going to be easily swayed by whining. Still, I figured I'd try a little.

"I can't even get a date. Look at me."

"You're handsome," she protested.

"I'm hopeless."

"It'll be different when you get to university," mom promised, then added, "Ashley's so right about the clothes though, I should have thought of it before." Ashley was getting the credit for my plan.

"I can't even open my mouth when a girl gets within ten feet of me."

Mom laughed but as she did she put her arm around me. "Boys are always slower. You should see my first year classes. For the first two months I can't get a boy to say a word."

"You can't?"

"Then I can't get them to shut up."

"Did you like university? Were you scared when you left home?"

"Everyone is honey," she answered as she tousled my hair. "You'll love it. They'll be the best years of your life."

"Maybe," I said dubiously.

"You're becoming a handsome young man Will," mom said as she lifted the hair falling over my forehead and combed it back with her hand.

"Yeah right."

"You are you know. It's sneaking up on you."

"It's not sneaking up very fast," I complained. But I said it with a smile.

"You know, you're even better looking that your daddy was when I met him."

"No way."

"Uh huh. Taller. Cuter. They'll be falling at your feet the second you get to Princeton."

"Even if they do I won't know what to do with them."

"You know Will, I have a sneaking suspicion you're going to know exactly what to do with them." Mom then leaned over, gave me a quick motherly kiss on my lips and then was up and gone.

I dreamt of mom that night. She was naked. She was crying out my name in ecstasy as my penis spurted inside her.

The idea had been slowly growing in my mind since we'd made our action plan -- who better than mom and Mrs. White to teach us about sex? Would it be so wrong to lose our virginity to the two women who loved us most?

The Girls: Shopping for Clothes

My s****r was not one to sit on her heels. At four o'clock the next afternoon she, Brianna and Caitlyn were sitting on our living room couch. All three had legal pads dangling on their knees and a pen in hand. Two measuring tapes sat on the coffee table before them. On top of about twenty men's fashion magazines. All three had serious, 'I'm all business' looks on their faces.

Kevin's and my mom were hovering in the background. Meanwhile he and I were standing uncomfortably in front of them. We were both starting to regret our plan.

"We'll have to get your measurements first," my s****r announced to the room. "Take off your shirts," she ordered.

"Our shirts?" Kev asked. Ashley ignored him as she handed Brianna one of the tape measures and Caitlyn the other. A minute later, two shirtless eighteen year olds were standing embarrassed in front of the eyes of five women. We were both slouching.

"Stand up straight, chest out, stomach in, shoulders back," my s****r ordered. She was not to be trifled with.

"They're not that bad," Caitlyn suddenly announced from her seat on the couch. Both Kev and I looked up. "Their bodies, I mean."

"Have you guys been working out?" Bri demanded as she put the tape around my chest.

"Kevin bought some weights two months ago," Mrs. White chirped in from the back. "He and Will have been down in our basement just about every afternoon."

"Ma," Kev complained. We'd never really told anyone when we'd started our transformation. I was still thin but I had gained six pounds since we'd started.

"Forty-one inches, that's not so bad," Bri said as she lowered the tape down from my chest until it was around my waist. "And look, Will's even got biceps."

"So does Kevin," Caitlyn echoed.

For the next ten minutes Kevin and I were subjected to continuous poking and prodding while five females kept up a running commentary on the state of our bodies. In a way it wasn't much fun. But in another it was pretty darn exciting. It was the closest the two of us had been to members of the opposite sex in our lives. My cock actually woke up and looked around.

And surprisingly to Kev and I, the consensus when it was all over seemed to be that we were much better than expected.

Caitlyn then took a series of pictures. "We need them for reference purposes, when we're checking the fashion magazines, the internet sites," Ash instructed before I could raise a protest.

We were then dismissed, told that the five of them were going to spend the next two or three days preparing a shopping list. It was obvious to both of us that all the women were enjoying the process -- a chance to spend twenty or thirty thousand on a shopping spree, even if it wasn't on themselves, was clearly going to be the highlight of their year.

Later, alone in my room, Kevin said, "They didn't seem to think us that bad. Do you think they were putting us on?"

"Maybe we're not as bad as we thought we were," I answered. First mom had given me a compliment, now Ashley and her friends had, I thought to myself. It made me feel good. I didn't know it then but I do now - no matter how good a plan you have, if you don't get positive feedback you'll never effect change. Mom and Ash's words were as important as the clothes we were going to buy.

"You know Kev, I think your mom was checking me out."

"Bullshit," my best pal answered.

We had been instructed to be ready at ten a.m. on the dot on the following Saturday morning. We were. Surprisingly, Mr. White offered himself as our chauffeur. "I just gotta see this," he said with a smile as he jumped behind the wheel of his wife's Mercedes SUV.

We weren't led to K-Mart. Or Target. Or even J.C. Penny's. Frankly I would have happy in any of those places. But not the girls! Nor the mothers. They had assumed responsibility for the finished product and none of them were prepared to accept anything less than producing the best dressed college freshman of the class of 2011. It had become their mission. All five of the women had pages of notes and cutouts from every male fashion magazine ever produced. They were in shoppers heaven.

From a short term standpoint it turned into one of the worst days of my life. Fifteen different stores. At least. A hundred trips to the dressing room. Clothes that looked perfectly good to my eyes rejected ruthlessly. More changes. Endless discussions about stripes versus solids, checks versus who knows what, wool versus cashmere versus linen. Who knew?

About which color of shirt would go best with my eyes. Silk socks or whatever. We were even f***ed to suffer the indignity of having five women hold up different styles of underwear and discuss their relative merits. Kev and I were too embarrassed to argue. Mr. White didn't stop grinning the whole day.

The women should have driven the clothing salesmen at the stores we visited crazy but in fact the opposite happened. They were delighted to be able to discuss every aspect of male clothing with people who were clearly interested. To a man they ignored Kev and I. And my s****r charmed them even as she negotiated lower prices on every item she bought.

At one store, the last one we visited, perhaps our cities most elegant male haberdashery, a store we'd spend almost two hours in, Ashley, with dad's and Mr. White's credit cards in hand, had softly and sweetly insisted on a twenty percent discount on the eleven thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars the owner had just rung up. He stared at my s****r for about thirty seconds before capitulating, his, "of course Miss Sommers," stunning us all.

Mr. White, a man who'd been a professional salesman and a manager of salesmen at the highest levels all his life actually stood with mouth agape. Then he offered Ashley a job as a summer internship on the ride home.

"I'm going to leadership camp in July sir, with mom, a mother-daughter camp," she replied sweetly. "And then in August I'll be at Caitlyn's cottage for two weeks and after that--"

Bedraggled and beaten Kev and I were finally released some eight hours after our trek had started. But even as we stumbled towards my room, Ashley announced one final order "You're scheduled at the Salon de Paris at four Tuesday afternoon."

I trudged on, hoping that ignoring Ashley would make her go away. Not Kevin. "What Salon?" he asked.

"Renee's agreed to do you Kevin and Monsieur Pierre's doing Will."

Kevin had no idea what Ash was talking about. I guessed but continued to trudge up the stairs. Looking back when I reached the top I saw Kev surrounded by the five women. Brianna had her hands in his long hair and the others all seemed to be talking to him at once.

"We're having our hair cut at some women's hair salon," Kev announced when he arrived in my room five minutes later. He looked beaten.

"I know."

"They were talking about dyes ... and gels ... and other things," he muttered. "We have to do something." Yeah right!

The girls e****ted us to the Salon three days later. The two moms tagged along. Mr. White, clearly knowing when enough was enough, wisely chose not to come.

We both had our hair shampooed. Which wasn't that bad given the fact that the two girls who did it were way cute. And of course neither of us had ever had a girl run her hands through our hair before. Other things were done to our heads. I'm not exactly sure what. At one point, while Monsieur Pierre stood poised with scissors in hand, our five ladies, plus three shampoo girls, two dyers, four cutters and six other customers, spent ten minutes discussing what exactly should be done to my hair. It was humiliating.

Unfortunately we had to go to school the next day. Neither of us had worn any of our new clothes on the Monday and Tuesday. Ashley had insisted that we wait until our hair was properly prepared before we trotted out our new duds.

Wednesday, the second last day of our high school career, was brutal. Why hadn't we waited to do all this after school had closed for the year I'd continually asked myself all that morning. A thousand whispered comments, pointed fingers, giggles, smirks, etc., etc. almost drove me home by third period. The only thing that saved us was that Ashley somehow orchestrated things so that a steady stream of girls, mainly sophomores and juniors, just happened to stop at our cafeteria table at lunch time and glowingly compliment us on our 'new looks'.

I knew of course it was Ashley and her friends work but you know what? It felt great! It's surprising how just a few words of compliments can change your view of the world.

Thursday Night Mrs. White's Negligee

"Are you staying over tonight Will?" I heard asked by Kev's mother. She was standing in her son's doorway when I looked up from my computer. I clicked away from the screen I was working on - I definitely didn't want to Mrs. W to see what I'd been doing.

"If it's okay." I answered. Of course it was okay. Kev and I had been staying over at each other's houses since we'd been like five years old. I had my own bed at his place and he had the same at mine.

"Your mom knows?" That was the one rule. Let the mothers know.

"Uh huh," I agreed. She turned to go. "We're going to watch a movie later Mrs. W, maybe in a half an hour if you want to join us," I offered. Kev looked up from his computer screen, a question in his eyes.

"You boys don't want me there. It's pretty late." Shyly said, yet clearly hoping to be argued with. Mr. White was out of town again on another of his never ending business trips and I knew she'd love to have some company.

"Of course we do. And there's no school tomorrow so it doesn't matter how late we stay up."

"Really? You're sure? Kev?" Offer accepted!

"It'll probably be thirty minutes before we're ready."

"In the playroom?" I nodded yes. "I'll have time for a bath then. I won't be late," the number one most desired woman on my list announced before scurrying away.

"What movie?" Kev asked after his mom had left.

"Kevin, it's time to move on to some of the other parts of the plan."

"What's mom got to do with it?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I answered as I pulled my t-shirt over my head. "I'm going to go grab a quick shower, get cleaned up," I added, then turned my computer screen toward him and then walked out of the room.

"What's this? Are you crazy?" he asked to my departing back. I'd figured the picture of his mom, or her face anyway, a face I'd just spent the last half hour on, photoshopping it onto the nude body of a porn star, would get him going.

"What are you planning?" he demanded when I reappeared five minutes later clad only in a towel.

"Moi?" I asked as I let the towel fall. I shook my hips.

"You better not do anything," he threatened.

"Go have your shower Kev," I advised as I grabbed the bottle of after shave from the bag I'd brought with me.

"What's that?" he asked when he saw it.

"Ash and the girls recommended I use it. They said that women would like it. It acts as an aphrodisiac."

"They did? An aphrodisiac? What's that? Should I use it too?" Neither of us had ever used anything like it.

"No, Ash said this one would be better for you," I said as I dipped my hand back in my bag and came up another bottle.

"She did? Really?" he asked as he took it from me.

"Yup. And you owe me eighty-three bucks for it."

"What! Are you crazy?"

I thought we just might surprise Mrs. White with our cleaned up, showered, shaved and aphrodisiac aroma'd bodies when she arrived but it was she who instead surprised us.

I actually whistled. Kevin stood for seconds with mouth open in surprise before Mrs. White finally said, "What?"

"You look greaaaaaaaaat Mrs. W.," I said near reverentially, then whistled again.

"It's just my nighttime robe," she stammered out in reply as her face reddened. She'd definitely put on some perfume.

Ashley, or one of the girls, could give you a perfect description of what Kevin's mom was wearing that night. They'd be able to tell you what the material was (silk?), the cut, the color, the style, heck, probably the designer and its approximate price.

I can't. All I can tell you is that she looked great in it. It wasn't particularly revealing in terms of amount of skin we could see. But it was definitely sexy and anyone who saw Kev's mother in it would know without question that it was saved for special occasions.

It was some sort of Chinese kimono type robe in a shimmering, almost translucent ivory color with a subtle pattern woven in. A piece of cloth that seemed to float over her suddenly evident curves. Kevin and I had never seen her in anything remotely resembling it before. You could see her full breasts dancing under the cloth as she walked.

"You look beautiful Mrs. W.," I told her as I offered her my hand and e****ted her to the couch.

When she sat down between her son and me on the playroom couch the sashed robe opened slightly and let me see that she had a matching gown under it. A negligee?

We watched a movie together. A 'chick flic' as Kevin derisively described it when it started. A tear jerker about some older babe who, a couple of years after losing her husband, goes on a vacation to Italy and has an affair with a guy twenty years younger than her. Of course I'd picked it for that very reason. Time to get Kevin's mom thinking about younger men.

It wasn't x-rated or anything but it did have a couple of pretty risqué scenes, especially when you're watching it with your mother. One was a shot of the muscular young stud from behind as he walked naked into the shower. Another showed the women topless in bed. Her tits weren't anywhere close to being as nice as Mrs. W's.

Mrs. White was excited. Don't ask me how I knew it but I did. Was it that her body was exuding those pheromone things the sex manuals are always talking about and I'd subconsciously picked up on them?

Or was it the little tremors that I felt when our legs accidently touched?

And had she noticed the almost continuous erection I had through most of the movie even though I'd tried to hide it?

With only fifteen minutes left in the movie I clicked the pause button, excusing myself to go get us some drinks. When I came back into the room I was carrying a tray with three cokes on it. I made sure Kev's mother took the right one.


"She's fallen asl**p," Kev announced when I got back from the washroom. I'd rushed off to the pisser the second the movie had ended.

"She has?" I asked innocently.

"Do you think she's okay, I can't seem to wake her."

"It's late. She was probably just tired, maybe we better help her to her room," I suggested.

"Why, do you think something wrong with her?"

I smiled. I watched my friend and saw as realization suddenly dawned. "You didn't put something in her drink did you?"

"You get her arms, I'll get her legs," I answered as I moved over and stood between her legs.

"What was it?" Kevin asked as I put my hands under Mrs. White's legs and slowly pulled then up off the ground.

"Don't let your mom fall," I ordered as I started to pull her up off the couch and towards me. The kimono spilled open as I did and the hem of the matching nightie she wore below rode high up onto her thighs.

"We can't," Kevin said even as he grabbed his mom's shoulders.

"Michelle's wearing sexy white lace panties tonight," I told my friend as we started across the room with his mom in our arms.

"Don't call her that ... she's Mrs. White to you," he answered, trying to assert some authority even as his eyes strayed to his mom's legs. At his angle he couldn't see her panties.

"She dressed up in her sexiest panties for yours truly, I'll bet she was hoping I'd get to see them."

"She did not."

"You go first.... go backwards," I instructed as we neared the playroom door.

"Don't look at her," he ordered as, backing up, he struggled to hold his mom up. My supporting hands had moved up even farther and were now right under her bum.

I ignored him and then when he stumbled a bit I told him, "God Kev, don't touch your mother's tits!" One of his hands, slipping, had grasped his mother's breast.

"I'm not. Fuck, you should have gone first." A minute later, after struggling down the hall to the White's master bedroom, we deposited Kevin's mother in the middle of her king size bed.

"We'll have to take off her robe," I instructed as I undid the sash that held it together. "Lift her shoulders up so I can get it off."

"Do we have to? Couldn't we just--" He stopped as the outer robe slipped off his mom's shoulders and down her back. The matching nightie, once exposed, was décolleté and tightly hugged the full breasts that were clearly braless. Both of us could easily see the dark circles of her areolas and the nipples that protruded up from them. "Will, we can't--"

I ignored him.

"Nooooo." A moaning protest as he watched me slip one of the spaghetti straps of the gown off her shoulder. Then the second. Mrs. W's breasts were perfect.

"What are you going to do?" he asked as I worked the garment down over her hips. She was wearing matching lace, bikini panties. I pulled them slowly down. Mouth agape, he said nothing as I arranged his mother's hands at her sides and spread her knees slightly. Her blond bush stared up at me. He said nothing when I turned and left the room. He was still sitting in the same position on the edge of the bed next to his mom when I reappeared thirty seconds later. Except he had a huge hard on sticking out from his now undone fly. I had my digital camera in my hand.

He came out of it when I took the first picture. "She's my mom." he said. I handed him the camera.

"I want you to film me," I told him as he took the offered camera, then I scrambled up the bed between his mom's legs.

"Film what? You're not going to--"

"My first nipple," I answered as my hand closed around Michelle White's left breast. Seconds later I'd bent over her and captured her right one between my lips. For minutes I feasted on her, my sucking lips continually darting from one nipple to the other.

"She'll wake up," Kev protested in the background. I finally pulled back from the succulent orbs.

"Your turn," I offered as I cupped one of Mrs. White's breasts in my now sweaty palm and squeezed it.

"It's wrong," he protested.

"Touch it."

"No." I took his hand and placed it on his mom's tit. He groaned but he didn't let go. "It's so wrong," he said as his other hand closed on her other breast.

"Put it in your mouth, like you did when you were a baby," I encouraged as I pointed the camera and pushed the record button. He did. It had been eighteen years since he'd sucked at his mother's nipples. As his hands and mouth worked I slipped back off the bed and then quickly shucked my shorts. Then I climbed up back between them, my hard cock bobbing up against my stomach.

"She trims it," I said as my hands slipped up her inner thighs.

"Trims what?" he asked as he looked up from his mom's breast.

"Her blond bush," I said as my left hand slipped over her mound.

"Don't touch it," he ordered, watching intently as I spread the lips of his mom's sex.

"Jeeesus Kev, look at this man," I said as I bared her pink insides.

"What?" He'd forgotten her breasts. "What is it?"

"Her clitoris, look, right here," I said as I gently nudged the little bud with my finger.

"She'll wake up," he said as I dipped my head and then lightly put the tip of my tongue on her bright pink protrusion. "Are you sure that's her clit?"

"Oh fuck... oh fuck... oh fuck," I groaned into her slit as my tongue ran up and down the moist channel.

"What? What is it?"

"Look how pink she is inside. You have to taste it Kev."

"What's it like?" I moved back. A second later Kevin White's tongue was inside his mother's vagina!

"It's my turn," I ordered two minutes later, but Kev ignored me until I f***efully pulled his head back. It was my cocks turn.

"What are you going to do? You're not going to put it inside mom are you?" Kev asked as I moved in.

"Not today," I answered as I brought my straining, engorged erection right up to the now glistening lips of his mom's vagina. "I'm just introducing myself," I added as I slid my cockhead up and down her channel.

Then I pushed the middle finger of my left hand inside her . "What's it feel like?" he asked. In his excitement Kev was actually panting.

"Fuck, she's tight ... but wet ... Christ really wet Kev," I told my friend as I slipped a second finger inside.

"She is? Are they supposed to be?"

"But it's so tight. I don't think my cock will ever fit in here. Oh my gawd she just squeezed my fingers."

"She did? Let me try now, it's my turn," Kev demanded. I slowly pulled my fingers out of his mother. Then brought them to my face and smelled them. Then I held them under Kev's nose. His hand was slowly palming his cock.

I held the camera and stared filming once Kevin had positioned himself between Mrs. W's legs. Excited, he actually slipped the bulb that was his cockhead completely inside his mom. Then quickly pulled it out. Then, after looking at me, as if to get my okay, he pushed it in again.

"Push it in all the way," I encouraged. And then I filmed him as he pushed every inch of his long cock deep inside his mom. She groaned in her sl**p.

"It's tight Will, it's squeezing me too," my friend groaned as he slowly pulled it all the way out.

"Do it again," I told him. He immediately obeyed. "Again," I ordered.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to cum," he stammered even before he'd bottomed out the third time.

"Jesus, take it out, don't cum in her," I ordered. The first thick creamy strand of cum exploded from the end of his penis scant milliseconds after he'd pulled out. Scrambling to his feet, and still spurting, he raced to his mother's bathroom.

When he finally came out of the bathroom minutes later he found me cock deep in his mom. I'd told myself I'd just try it out. And then, once in, I'd been afraid to move. It was better than good.

"Take it out," he told me when he saw what I was doing. Knowing that if I didn't I'd cum in her I pulled it out.

"I'm going to fuck her tits," I told my friend as my cock slipped free.

"What if she wakes?" They were just words, we were both long past any worry about his mom waking.

There are things you do in life you'll never forget no matter how long you live. Sliding my penis, still sticky with cunt juice, back and forth between Mrs. White's breasts is one of those things. I didn't last long. But it didn't matter because it felt so fucking good.

The two of us washed Kevin's mom after I'd finished. Cleaned every strand and every drop of the sperm I'd spurted out. I'd gently washed her lips, removing that last drop of cum I'd squeezed out and down onto them. And when we'd finished we replaced her panties and negligee and placed her under her sheet.


"Do you think we're going to go to hell?" Kevin's voice. It had echoed up from his bed a half hour later. Neither of us had fallen asl**p.

"She belongs to us now Kev," I answered.

"But what about dad?"

"He's old. He's away so much. Your mother needs us."

"He can't find out," came back from Kev. It was a plea to the gods as much as instructions to me.

"They hardly ever have sex. You felt how wet she was, how ready. Even when she's sl**ping."


"Your dad uses viagara."

"He does?" How--"

"I saw it in his medicine cabinet. He needs us as much as your mom does. If we don't do it he'll lose her to somebody else."


"When we're at the cottage we'll do it. We're going to have more than two weeks alone with her. We're going to make her happy Kev. We're going to fuck your mom."

"At the cottage? Both of us? Without d**gging her?"

"Then when we get home, in August when your parents are in Paris, then we're going to do my mom. We've got to learn everything before we leave for school."

"I thought the plan called for us to hire call girls or prostitutes."

"It'll be better with women we love and who love us."

"But your mom and dad are ... more in love ... you're dad's younger," Kevin stammered out into the darkness.

"I think they're having problems," I answered.

Ashley Saturday

"So who are you guys taking to the prom anyway?" Looking up I saw the three girls in my doorway. It was two days after Kevin and I had d**gged his mother.

"We're not going," Kevin answered after he realized I wasn't going to say a word.

"That's stupid," Ashley announced as she stepped inside. Her friends followed.

"Especially after all the work we did," Caitlyn added.

"Yeah, what are you guys going to do? Stay home and look at dirty movies on your computers?" Brianna contributed. Then all three started to natter. Sixteen year old girls can be more than irritating. I was prepared to wait them out but Kev folded.

"We don't have dates."

"Duh! You have to ask someone, that's how it works," Caitlyn said in a voice that easily conveyed her distain for not only us but the whole of the male race.

Again Kevin couldn't refuse the bait. "It's too late. I mean who'd go with us? Everyone's already got a date. Crikey, it's next week. Everyone thinks we're losers." Ashley smiled as she heard his words, recognizing the look I knew immediately she had something up her sleeve.

"I talked to Monica today, she told me there are four or five girls that don't have dates that would love to go with you."

"Monica Evans? You talked to Monica Evans?" Kev asked. Her name certainly got our attention. Monica Evans was the head cheerleader, the best looking girl in the senior class, and the odds on favorite to be named Prom Queen. She was one of the recurring main players in both of our wet dreams.

Watching Ashley I knew that if I didn't act immediately we were going to end up going to the prom with who knew what. "Hey, you're not going Ash," I quickly interjected, trying to forestall hearing who she'd plotted to set us up with.

"Sophomores can't go to the Senior Prom Will," Caitlyn informed me.

"Unless they go with a senior," I corrected.

"Here are the names Monica gave me," Ash said, clearly trying to get back to her game plan.

"Ash could be Kevin's date," I said.

"Who can?" Brianna asked. I'd also got Kevin's attention.

Ashley immediately realized I was trying to escape her manipulations. "I have a boyfriend Will. Besides, someone going to Princeton certainly would never even consider going to his senior prom with a mere sophomore. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"I'd go with you Ash." Kev said enthusiastically. I figured my suggestion and his offer would send the girls packing in retreat.

"And what about Will?" my s****r asked. She clearly wasn't ready to throw in the towel yet.

"Well, I could double date with you," I offered with a smug smile.

"If you're going to double date with us you'd need to have a date you idiot." We all probably would have laughed off the whole thing if I hadn't said what I said next. Kev and I would have escaped whatever girls Ashley had planned for us and we'd have not gone to the dance. But the troublemaker in me let it slip out.

"No, you're probably right Ash, girls your age really aren't old enough for a senior prom." Immediately the faces of all three clouded up. But before any of them could say a word, Kev, clearly inspired, and who definitely had liked the idea of dating my s****r, came up with the one killer comment that sealed the deal.

"I hear Karen Miller's going, but of course she's more mature than most sophomores."

"She's what?" Caitlyn almost shrieked.

"She's a slut," Brianna said with scorn. My s****r, silent, sat fuming and looked like she was going to explode. Karen Miller was Ashley's one contender for the crown of the best looking and most popular sophomore in the school.

"She's going with that jerk Billy," Ash finally hissed through gnashed teeth.

"Still," I said. I could see the decision as it formed in my s****r's eyes.

"You're going to be my date Kevin," she announced.

"I am?" Kevin couldn't keep the happiness out of his voice.

"And Will, I personally am going to get you a date from this list whether you like it or not," she threatened.

"I told you I'd double date with you," I answered amicably.

"And I tried to explain that double dating would require that you acquire a date." Her words were delivered fairly aggressively.

"No, I meant I'll double date with both Brianna and Caitlyn. If they'll go with me."

"You can't take two dates to the prom."

"Why not?" I asked as I looked at Bri and Caitlyn.

And so, after arguments back and forth, it was decided. The five of us would attend the prom. Notwithstanding who their dates were, the girls, once they'd accepted, were obviously delighted.

Going to the senior prom, even if it meant going with Kev and I, was a coup.

"Now, we have a hundred things to do to organize," Ashley announced once the decision had been made.

"We do?" Kev asked. Bri and Caitlyn quickly started to list them: Hair, gown, corsages, shoes, tux, limo, nails, tickets, etc., etc.

"And we'll have to arrange getting invited to the right parties," s*s added.

"What parties?" Kevin asked. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"We'll tell you later, we don't have time right now," Ash answered. Seconds later the three had swept out of my room in a sea of excited chatter.

Natalie's Dance Lessens

At about ten-thirty that night Kevin called. He had one question. "Can you dance?" Fuck! Of course neither of us could.

It was however one of the items we'd highlighted on our 'get ready for Princeton' list. Item C 1: Learn to dance.

Next to that item on my master list I'd written in pencil: hire a professional? from where? Later on I'd added: Natalie from strip club?

Natalie was a sweet young girl. A sweet stripper? Yes she was. At least that was my impression from our one fleeting previous encounter. Well, it wasn't that fleeting I suppose. She'd given both Kevin and I two lap dances each when we'd visited the 'Lady Pussycat' emporium of drinks and dances some four weeks earlier. Using fake ID's, we'd talked our way into the club on one of our dateless Fridays just weeks after we'd started our planning sessions. We justified it as being an important, fact finding, part of our research.

And Natalie had talked to us the whole time she'd danced for us. Perched on a stool between first Kevin's legs and then mine she'd somehow managed to put the two nervous high schoolers at ease. And she hadn't treated us like k**s even though we quickly admitted under her questioning that we were high school seniors. And she didn't rush away the second she'd finished.

She'd just finished her second year of university. She was beautiful. First 'live' tits we'd ever seen. And could she dance! This we'd observed when she'd been up on stage. When we finally worked up enough courage to ask one of the girls to dance for us, we'd chosen her.

And so, when I'd got home from the club that night, I'd written her name on my list as a potential dance instructor.

Which was why, when I'd hung up my call with Kevin the night we'd agreed to go to the prom, I put on some jeans, grabbed my wallet and after borrowing mom's car, set out for the club. Not sure how I'd be received I decided not to tell Kev my plan.

"Hey you," she said as she sidled up to me. There was a friendly smile on her face. I figured there was no way she'd remember me.

"Will? It's Will right?" Then she ran a hand through my hair and said, "hey, your new look is cool, you look great."

"It is? I do? You remember me?"

"You're like by far the cutest guy in the club." I blushed even while wondering if this was some stripper come-on line. "I mean it," she added as she saw the question in my eyes. "You shoulda seen the last guy I had to dance for. He was like two seventy and I don't think he'd washed in a week. At least fifty years old. Garlic on his breath. Yuck!"

I had never really considered the travails of a dancer in a nude club before. "I guess you have to dance with anyone who asks you, don't you?"

"Unless a cute guy like you asks me first." She could see the momentary indecision in my eyes and so quickly added, "Please. I really need a break. I've just got to talk to someone normal. I won't even charge you," she lured as she took my hand and tried to pull me to my feet.

"In a booth?" She nodded as I followed her towards the back room. "Do you want a drink first?"I asked. She nodded her yes. "And don't worry, I'll pay for your time," I added.

Two minutes later I was sitting in a booth in the back corner of the private lap dance room. It was very dark. Natalie was perched on the stool she'd placed between my legs.

"How come you're not out with your girlfriend?" she asked between sips of her drink.

"That's sorta why I'm here?" The music started up.

"It is?" Natalie asked as she started to undo the buttons on her blouse.

"You don't have to do that," I said as my eyes darted to her cleavage.

"You don't want to see them?" Natalie asked as she undid the last button. Her blouse, hanging open, drew my eyes. Of course I wanted to see them! And she knew it.

"We're losers," I finally blurted out.

"Who are?" Natalie asked as she slowly pulled her blouse apart. Her nipples were erect.

And so I told Natalie the sad story of the life of myself and my friend Kevin. Of our dateless weekends. Of our plan to change ourselves. And as I told her the story my eyes danced back and forth between her face and her nipples.

"You're a virgin? Really?" she interrupted at one point. I nodded. "No way! You guys are hot. You especially," she added. For a second her fingers lingered on my thigh.

I told her about our 'Action Plan'. About our weightlifting. About Ashley. About our makeover. About the impending prom. From time to time Natalie's knee accidently brushed my penis. Her hands took turns curling through my hair and across my cheek. Trying to keep on track with my story became difficult. But I finally got there.

"You can't dance? At all?" I shook my head no. "Okay, I understand the virgins thing, I mean you are high school guys, but everyone can dance."

"Not me."

"And you have to learn for next weekend?"

"That's why I was hoping you might know someone who could give us lessons this week. I was going to look on Craigs List but then I thought of you. About how good a dancer you were. I figured you'd know someone ... we'll pay her. Whatever she wants. We're totally desperate."

"And what's wrong with me?" Natalie asked as her fingers closed around my penis. She gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it. I think I actually squealed.

"You're probably busy. Your boyfriend, if he's got any brains at all, probably wants to spend all his free time with you. Besides I'm sure you make all sorts of money here."

"My ex-boyfriend's an ass."

"He is?"

"Yes. And with school out I have lots of free time during the day. I'd love to teach you."

And so, that's why Kevin and I, two very nervous high school seniors knocked on Natalie's apartment door at two o'clock on the following Tuesday afternoon.

For some unknown reason, at least to me, Kevin picked up the whole dancing thing much faster than I did. Which worked out okay -- he was delighted to be better than me at something and I got more dancing time with the beautiful coed. And Natalie seemed to enjoy it too.

We had a second lesson Thursday afternoon. And by the time we left we were both pretty confident that we wouldn't make complete fools of ourselves at the prom.

"Hey, I want to hear how you guys did, okay? And I want a report in person," Natalie ordered as we were leaving.

Kevin had already gone out the door. I turned back to the beautiful coed. "I'll be over first thing Monday. If that's okay with you?"

"Give me a hug," the best dance instructor in the world demanded. It's weird, you've got nothing, nil, nada, the big zero, and then all of a sudden there are girls everywhere. And you're the same person you were when you were a loser. Makes no sense at all. She felt fucking great to hug.

Mom Can Dance Too!

It was nine p.m. Friday night and I was less than twenty-four hours from my first prom. Alone, I was sitting on my bed dubiously contemplating the tuxedo that was hanging on my cupboard door. Clad in just a pair of cotton gym shorts I was asking myself what I'd gotten myself into.

A light rapping on the door woke me from my zombielike state long enough for me to see mom standing in my half opened door.

"Can I come in?" I nodded yes and then watched as she walked over to the hanging suit.

"You'll be the handsomest man there," she said as she sat down next to me.

"It won't be that easy," I predicted.

"Nervous?" I nodded. "You'll remember tomorrow for the rest of your life."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I answered ruefully.

"I still remember mine."

"You do?"

"Uh huh, I danced all night," mom answered.

"That's just one of my many worries."


"Uh huh," I agreed.

"It's not that hard."

"Yeah right."

"C'mon, I'll show you," my mother said as she got to her feet and then held out her arms.

"You will?" I hadn't made any mention to mom or Ashley of Natalie's lessons.

"Yup," she said as I let her pull me to my feet. "Music?" she asked. I kept hold of her hand as I led her over to my desk and my computer. A minute later I'd clicked open a golden oldie FM station from my radio list.

"Good, it's a slow one," mom whispered as she put one arm around my neck.

"Should I change it? I don't think I'm very good at these ones."

"It's perfect. I danced to this very same song at my prom."

"You did? Really? Should I put on a shirt first?" I started to pull back out of her grasp.

"It's okay. C'mon back here," she invited as she held out her arms. A second later she had both arms around my neck and back.

"Aren't I supposed to put my arm out like this?" I asked as I held my arm extended out in a classic pose.

Mom laughed. "No, put them both around my back," she invited. I did, tentatively.

"Now what?" I asked.

"First you have to learn how to hold a woman just right. Not too tight but also not too loosely."

"Is this okay?" I asked nervously as I held her a little tighter. Mom led me through it, giving me instructions as I tentatively started moving.

"You see honey, you are a wonderful dancer," mom whispered in my ear. We were dancing pretty close -- I could clearly feel her breasts poking into my chest.

"I'm not so sure," I answered. My cock was definitely growing. "Am I too close?"

"No, we're fine like this," mom answered even as she moved an inch closer to me.

"What if I get a--" Hell, I already had got one! My mom was about to feel my cock!

"Get a what?" mom asked into my ear. Somehow I knew that I wanted mom to say the words and not be the one who said them.

"You know ... if my thing..."

She laughed again. Her mouth was now so close to my ear that I could feel every breath she expelled. "What thing?" There was a teasing tone in her voice I'd never heard before. And then, just for a second she moved her body closer until she couldn't help but feel the thing I was talking about.

"You know."

"No I don't," she denied even as again she pressed herself back against me. I moved back slightly but didn't respond. "Your erection?" she finally asked into my ear. "Your penis?" Again she pushed her pelvis against it. "Its normal honey, all boys get them." Then she moved back a bit, breaking contact.

"But what if I get one while I'm dancing with someone? They'll think I'm a pig. What if she slaps me or something?"

"Sometimes girls like them." Mom moved back against me. She was smiling.

"They do?"

"It's tells a girl something about the boy and the reaction she's having on him."

"Yeah, that's maybe okay with your girlfriend or something but not with a girl you hardly know."

"You'd be surprised," mom answered as she again brought her pelvis into contact with my cock. "Sometimes we girls used to giggle about which boys had erections .... and how big they were," mom added with a giggle.

"Girls do that?"

"The most important thing to remember is to let the girl in your arms tell you what's okay and what's not. There's nothing worse than some guy who grabs you and pushes himself against you. Then holds you so tight you can hardly breathe."

"But how will I know what they're thinking?"

"Most boys get nervous and excited the second their penis brushes against a girl. Almost involuntarily their fingers and hands tighten. It scares a girl Will."

"It does?"

"Uh huh. But if you relax, even move slightly back at the first contact a girl feels safer. She may move closer again," mom said as she again brought her mound up against my prick. "No, you have to relax honey."

"I'm trying," I answered.

"Let her feel you without being scared. Let her feel you, explore you, listen to her body," mom said as she slowly but insistently rubbed her mound against my penis.

"Do girls like being poked, isn't it uncomfortable?"

"Sometimes they like it very much," my mother answered. Mom seemed to!

"I probably won't dance that close to anyone tomorrow anyway."

"But you will at Princeton."

Mom released me when the song ended. If she hadn't, if she'd danced even one more dance with me, I'd have ejaculated into my shorts before the song had ended. And she would have felt it.

"Night hon," she said. "You'll do fine tomorrow, promise."

"Thanks mom." My cock was sticking straight out, tenting my shorts.

"Give your mother a goodnight kiss." I did. Mom put her tongue in my mouth. My cock poked into her stomach. She didn't complain. I started to masturbate the second she'd left the room.

Prom Night

Ashley and the girls had scheduled a full evening for us. Christ a whole night. How they'd done it so quickly was a mystery that I knew I'd never solve. Kevin and I were presented a schedule by Ashley at nine the morning of the prom. It included six parties besides the actual prom!

The limo arrived at three. Kev and I were driven over to first Caitlyn's house and then Brianna's. We hardly recognized them in their gowns, high heels and fancy hairdos. I somehow managed to attach the two corsages without injuring anyone.

Both Bri's and Caitlyn's parents were delighted that I was e****ting their girls to their first prom. They had followed the girls involvement in my transformation and of course loved Ashley. Who could be a better, or safer, date than Will Sommers? Pictures were taken. Lots of them.

Then we returned to my house where Kev corsaged my s****r in front of my and Kev's parents. More pictures were taken. Tears flowed from the mothers. Ashley looked fantastic! Which was no surprise at all.

We started at a backyard garden party hosted by Greta Smith. She was one of the leaders of the "in" crowd. I don't think she'd said three words to me in four years. Ashley and the girls were warmly welcomed -- Kevin and I trailed in their wake. People actually talked to us.

Then we went to a dinner party held at the house of the student council president. "He'd do anything for me," Ash explained as we entered his parent's house.

Then the prom itself. I'd never been to a school dance before and so was both surprised and overwhelmed when we finally entered the gym at just after nine-thirty. This was like no gym I'd ever imagined. Kevin and I stood with mouths agape for second after second as we took in the transformation that had taken place.

"Who did all this?" Kev finally asked.

"Duh! What did you think the Prom Decorating Committee does?" Caitlyn asked as she grabbed his arm. I'd never heard of the decorating committee. I'm pretty sure Kev hadn't either.

It went off better than I'd ever imagined. Like a thousand times better. When we first got out on the dance floor with the girls we didn't embarrass ourselves. Nor did we have people pointing or staring at us. People said hello. Smiled.

And even when the three sophomores deserted us - they'd been inundated with dance requests almost from the second we'd come through the front door -- other people seemed to want to talk to us, even to dance with us.

Monica Evens was the icing on the cake. It was pretty late. She'd been crowned prom queen hours earlier. I was sitting alone at our table, watching the action swirling around me as I rested from the almost continuous dancing I'd been doing, when she suddenly appeared at my side.

I'd always had a bit of a secret crush on her. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?" she asked as she sat down next to me. I think I'd first met her when we'd both been in grade three. Smart, popular, beautiful and the head cheerleader to boot, our worlds hadn't intersected in high school.

"I'm not very good," I cautioned as she took my hand and encouraged me to my feet.

"That's not what everyone's saying in the girl's washroom," she answered with her warmest smile. The music stopped just as we arrived on the floor.

What the heck do you answer to that? Woman's washroom? Then a slow one started! And Monica's arms curled over my shoulders. I tried to remember mom's lessons. I had to because the second my arms were around her back my penis started to twitch.

"Uh huh, like I must have heard at least twenty girls tonight ask who the handsome new guy was. The one who sorta looked like that Will Sommers guy who used to hand around." Monica was teasing but I recognized it immediately for kind, friendly teasing. I laughed.

"His body was taken over by aliens," I said. Monica threw back her head and laughed. Then she snuggled just a little closer. Her body brushed my cock. But thanks to mom I didn't panic. I simply casually moved back a fraction of an inch.

"Does everyone on your world look like you Mr. Alien?" she asked as she reentered my space and rubbed herself up against me.

It only lasted about five minutes in all. We talked as we danced. In a friendly normal way that I would have been incapable of doing just weeks before. Her niceness simply broke through my shyness. She asked about my plans, when I was leaving for Princeton, what courses I was going to take, what my plans were for the rest of the summer, etc., etc. After just five minutes with her I knew why she was the most popular girl in our class.

We had a normal conversation! Even while my cock was raging up against her stomach. She did nothing to discourage contact! She was clearly one of those girls who liked the feel of a hard penis poking into her.

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek when the song finally ended. My night had been made. Heck, my high school career had been made.

"We should get together sometime before we all go away to university," were her last words.


Ashley and the girls led us from party to party after the prom ended.

After having left the fourth or fifth stop, as the five of us sat exhausted in the back of the limo, Caitlyn, out of nowhere started to laugh.

"What?" Brianna finally asked when Caitlyn didn't stop.

"Do you know what Cindy Thomas just said back there," she asked, then broke into another fit of giggling.

Of course none of us had any idea. She kept us waiting though before finally saying, "Some of the girls in Will and Kevin's class think their bodies have been taken over by ... by aliens," she said as she again started to laugh.

"They did not," Kevin denied.

"Aliens from a planet where all the males have big--" She didn't finish the sentence out loud. Instead Caitlyn whispered the missing word into her friend's ears. They all started to giggle.

"Big what?" Kev asked. Which produced another round of giggles. Girls!

Breakfast -- Mom

Our final engagement was at seven a.m. Sunday morning and listed on Ashley's typed schedule simply as: Closing Breakfast at the Whites.

Mr. White had gone all out. Or his wife had. A beautiful tent like pavilion had been set up in his back yard. A gorgeously appointed table awaited us. Party surprises were waiting at every placing. He'd invited the four sets of parents and the five of us. Champagne and orange juice to start the catered brunch. Everyone was delighted. It was conceded by one and all that the evening had been a total success.

The girls were allowed one glass of champagne. Excited, they regaled their parents with a complete blow-by-blow description of every second of the evening.

Mr. White then proceeded to give a speech. A speech in which, to Kev's embarrassment, he thanked the three girls for saving his son from a life of loneliness, despair, dirty hoodies and messy hair.

A half hour later the best night of my life ended.


"So how was it?" Mom asked from the doorway.

"You were right," I said. I was standing in front of my mirror undoing my tie.

"A night you'll remember all your life?" she asked. I nodded. "Can I help with the tie?" A second later she was standing in front of me, her hands at my tie's knot. "The girls all said you were the handsomest guy there."


"They did. And I think they were all pretty surprised."

"They did all the work." I was quite happy to credit s*s and her friends.

"So you had fun?"

"Uh huh ... mind you I didn't get even one kiss," I complained.

"Not even one?" mom teased.

"Not on the lips anyway. But it was probably better that way. We haven't got there yet. On our plan I mean. It's item number C 2 and is only scheduled for the first week of August."

"Your plan?" Mom did know that Kevin and I had written a 'get ready for Princeton and girls' plan but had never seen all its details.

"Learn to kiss -- first week of August -- get professional help," I said with a laugh.

"I think you two need professional help," mom teased back. She was looking up into my eyes, a dazzling smile on her lips.

"How about one last dance?" I offered as I put a hand on mom's arm.

"You're all dressed up, I look like a--"

"You look perfect," I told my mom. And she did. And the second she slipped into my arms I had an erection. And within seconds she felt it. I relaxed completely and moved slightly back. Mom chose to reestablish contact.

"You're doing it exactly right," she whispered in my ear. She was plastered against me. "Did you dance this close with anyone last night?"

"Just once," I admitted.

"And did you follow my instructions?" I nodded against her cheek. "And what did she do?"

"It was Monica."

"Monica? Not the Monica?"

"Uh huh," I answered as I let my hands slide onto mom's rear.


"She's nice," I said dreamily, then lightly kissed mom's cheek. And then her lips were on mine.

"A man as handsome as you certainly deserved at least one kiss on his prom night. I don't know what all those high school girls were thinking." Mom said when our lips finally separated.

"It's the best kiss I've ever got," I told my mom. Our faces were still millimeters apart.

"Me too," mom whispered into my mouth as our lips rejoined.

"I better go," my mother finally said.

"Do you have to?" It wouldn't have taken much for me to pull her back into my arms. She nodded yes as she backed towards the door.

"One last kiss?"

"We can't," she whispered. For what seemed like minutes our eyes stayed locked. I watched silently as a tear slipped down her cheek.

"Are you and dad okay?" finally slipped from between my lips. But she'd already gone.


I could have made love with Natalie on the following Monday morning. The invitation was unstated but clear. Clear in her eyes and voice, made clear by her fingers as they lightly brushed my arm or swept my hair off my forehead.

"So?" she'd asked when she opened the door just after nine-thirty in the morning.

"Thanks to Miss Natalie yours truly was judged the best dancer at the 2010 prom," I said with a laugh.

"You were not!"

I spent the next twenty minutes telling her the highlights of our night. She had a hundred questions and clarifications.

And the whole time we talked she was sending me a message. How did I know? I certainly wouldn't have known a couple of weeks earlier. But as I sat next to her on her living room couch I simply knew it. All you have to do is lean over and kiss her I told myself. Even though I wanted her I knew I wasn't going to do it.

"Are you really a virgin?" she asked as my story neared its end. Her eyes, staring into mine, were sparkling. "You know Will, I'm a pretty good teacher at other things besides dancing," she added when I didn't respond.

"I can't," I finally said.

"You don't like me?"

"Yeah right. Look," I answered as I pointed down at the tent rising out of my pants.

"So how come?"

"I want to ... so bad," I said, "but I've sorta arranged it for someone else... next week... I hope."

"She's lucky."

"You know there are other things we can do about this," Natalie said as she slipped off the couch and knelt between my legs. A second later my zipper was down and her fingers had found my penis. "Have you ever had this done to you?" she asked as she lowered her head.

A blow job! On a Monday morning. Out of the fucking blue. Kev, when I told him what had happened three days later, wanted to know every detail. And was pissed off I hadn't taken him with me.

But how can you possibility explain to another man what it feels like when a woman's tongue trails wetly up the underside of your cock if he's never experienced it before.

Of what it's like when she slips her lips over your cockhead. What it feels like as your cock slowly slides inside. Or how can you describe the feeling as your penis spits out strand after strand of thick, creamy cum. Or how can you tell him that your legs were so wobbly as you finished that you almost fell down. You don't!

"I wanta see you again ... after," Natalie pled as we hugged in her doorway. A girl in college wanted to see me again? To do it? I floated home.


Kevin and I had been going up to the White cottage for most of July for the last fifteen years. Then, while Mr. White and his wife took their vacation together in early August, usually a two week affair to some foreign destination, we'd stay with my parents. It had worked out perfectly for both sets of parents.

Which was why, seven days after the prom, and six days after my blow job, Kevin, his mom and I packed our things and headed to the lake some hundred and fifty miles northeast of the city. While only twenty minutes away from the rural but now touristy town of Frelisburg, the waterfront cottage itself was located on an isolated bay and had no close neighbors.

Kevin and I had made no plans for how we were going to seduce his mother before we'd left. In fact we hadn't even discussed it in the days leading up to our departure. But I knew he was as committed to the venture as I, that any misgivings he'd originally felt, had been blown away by our success at the prom.

We didn't arrive until nearly seven that night. And by the time we'd unpacked, organized ourselves and the cottage, and then barbecued some hamburgers up for dinner it was nearly ten.

"We should all probably get to bed early, we've had a busy day," Kev's mom suggested at just after ten.

"We've got to swim first Mrs. W.," I told her, then both Kev and I ran laughing into our room. Seconds later we were back.

"You boys are too old to be playing these games," Mrs. Michelle White chastened as the two of us ran across the living room, before we rushed out the front doors.

All we had on were towels wrapped around our waists. It was a ritual, a ritual Mrs. W had never fully approved of, a ritual that had been part of Kevin's and my summers at Muffin Lake for years. The late night skinny dip.

"It's too dark," Kev's mother yelled after us as we ran down the twenty yards of sloping hill that separated the cottage from the dock, beach and lake. We both let the towels drop before we'd gotten halfway. "It's dangerous," she warned, a warning that was an echo of hundreds of similar ones she'd made over the years.

"Turn on the lights when we're in the water mom," Kev called back over his shoulder as we both hurtled ourselves off the end of the dock and out into the cool lake water. When we surfaced the two lights were on, the one that shone down towards the dock from the porch above and the closer one, the one hanging on the corner of the beach shed and whose light was aimed at the small beach and the water behind it.

We both knew without looking that his mom was watching us from behind the porches screens, her worry simply made her incapable of not continually checking. Her call of, "Don't go out so deep," soon followed.

As we splashed and swam my mind kept drifting to the woman standing in the shadows of the porch above. How well could she see us from up there? I knew that if we'd stood directly in the light she'd be able to see us clearly. As shy teenagers in previous years we'd always yelled up to have the dock light extinguished before we'd rushed out and grabbed our towels and then rushed up to the cottage shivering. And then, with our towels around us, we'd stand warming in front of the fire as we drank our cocoa.

I think Mrs. W. had enjoyed the ritual as much as we had. But never in a sexual context.

As we swam that night I slowly edged closer to shore while Kevin stayed in deeper water. And when I finally stood, laughing and splashing water at my friend, the water only reached to my mid thigh. Laughing and joking , I turned and displayed myself for Kevin's watching mom. The next time I spun around and faced shore my penis sticking straight out.

Kevin swam over. "Don't," he whispered.

"You're mom's watching," I whispered back.

"She's not, she's preparing the cocoa," Kev denied.

"Stand up, show her," I ordered.

"I can't ... I've got a hard-on." I started to walk out of the water. A quick glance upward revealed his mother lurking deep in the shadows of the porch. I picked up my towel and slowly started drying myself. Seconds later Kevin tentatively emerged from the water. His cock was pointing upward. The lights remained on. The second the two of us started up the hill I saw his mother slip through the door and into the cottage.

"You didn't turn off the light," I chided Mrs. W. as I walked into the kitchen seconds later. I'd wrapped the towel tightly around my waist.

"Ohhh ... You're back already ... I was just getting the cocoa ready." Michelle White blushed as she said the words. She'd seen her sons cock. And mine. And for the next half hour, as we sat around the kitchen table, until we all headed off to bed, Kevin's mom continually cast furtive glances down towards the towels that hardly hid the penises that were struggling to escape them.

"We'll start tomorrow," I promised Kevin as we lay in our beds in the darkness an hour later.

"Do you still have a hard-on?" he asked back. Of course I did.


We gave Kevin's mother a present at breakfast. "It's not my birthday," she said as she looked from Kevin to me. She lifted the small, brightly wrapped package. Shook it. I smiled at her as she threw me a questioning glance.

"The girls said it would be perfect for you, for your build ... that the color was a perfect choice for your hair and eyes."

"My eyes?" she asked as she tore the package open. "Oh my gawd," she whispered as she watched the soft cloth slip through her fingers.

"It's French ... the latest style," Kevin said as his mom picked up the ivory colored bra from where it had fallen.

"I couldn't wear this. It's too--"

"Mom and Ashley said it would be perfect for you," I lied.

"Your mother? She did?" I nodded yes.

Of course Mrs. W. eventually accepted it. And, two and a half hours later, after we'd had breakfast, cleaned up and done the hundred little jobs required to open up a cottage after a winter of nonuse, she went to put it on.

"I'll join you down on the dock," she promised us when we'd finished our last job. "I just want to take a quick shower first."

We were pretending disinterest, casually lying about the dock, when we heard the screen door bang shut. Mrs. W., a towel over her arm, was wearing a loose, unbuttoned shirt over her new bathing suit as she walked down the hill. We pretended not to look. She sat down without saying a word. After checking to see if we were staring she let the shirt slide down off her shoulders.

Neither Kevin nor I said anything for about thirty seconds. Then I let out a hardly audible wolf whistle. She heard.

"Stop that," Michelle White said as the blush flooded into her cheeks.

"You look great mom," Kevin enthused.

And she did!

And the view was even more spectacular after she'd gone for a swim. The darkness of her aureoles was unmistakable through the lightly colored, wet cloth. She caught us staring. Smiled. Blushed. Looked away. Then looked back and caught us staring again. Her nipples hardened into hard little nubs before our eyes. Her eyes returned to her book. Then back to her admirers.

Mrs. White was almost as excited as we were. Later the three of us took a tour of the bay by canoe. With Kevin's mom's derriere perched delicately on the cross bar, yours truly, sitting in the back, spent the whole trip contemplating her perfect bum. And with her innocently facing the front, and while the three of us carried on a normal conversation, I spent most of the trip with one of my hands inside my shorts. Fondling myself. Neither of the other two had a clue.

I even, just for a couple of seconds, pulled it right out into the air. Somehow I stopped myself from jacking off and splattering her back.

"What do you boys want for dinner tonight?" Kev's mom asked as we paddled up the dock.

"You don't have to do anything, Kev and I are taking you to Armando's Mrs. W.," I said as I climbed up out of the canoe.

"Don't be silly .... we've got lots of food." I offered her my hand and helped her up.

"It's for us as much as you mom," Kev said as he exited the boat. "We've got to learn."

"Learn what?"

"It's going to be so different when we're in Princeton, Mrs. W," I answered. "How are we ever going to be able to know what to do if one of these sophisticated college girls wants us to take them somewhere fancy?"

"You want me to teach you?"

"Yeah," her son answered. "Like what should we wear, how we should act, what should we talk about, our table manners..."

"Ashley told us you'd be the best person to help us. That we should take you out while we we're up here, that we needed someone more sophisticated than her or her friends to help us."

"She did?" Mrs. W. was clearly delighted at both the idea and that Ash had suggested it. "Well I suppose," she started. I interrupted.

"But if you don't have something to wear..."

"Of course I have something to wear," came right back. "Armando's will be perfect. Then maybe next week I'll take you boys to the country club. It's a very good idea. I should have thought of it myself. You're lucky to have such a wonderful s****r Will."

Armando's was Frelisbergs number one restaurant and owed its success and survival to the moneyed summer set that flocked to the area from May to September. A Bistro in front that served authentic Parisienne cuisine, the rear housed a more intimate, darker room that was later in the evening transformed into a more night clubby ambiance by the addition of a DJ and the clearing of a space for dancing.

"You'll have to tell us what to wear mom," Kevin encouraged later when we were getting ready to go. She took her time choosing. A Caribbean shirt and a casual sport jacket over lightweight, beige, silk dress pants was eventually chosen for me. A similar look was chosen for her son.

"Now it's your turn to help me. Which would you boys prefer I wear tonight?" she asked twenty minutes later. The words were shyly offered. Mrs. W. held a dress in each hand. She was wearing the famous Chinese kimono. Her long blond hair, still wet and uncombed, hung loosely down her back. She'd just got out of the shower.

"Heck, we're not experts mom."

"Maybe you better try them on for us," I suggested. She rushed off. A minute later she was back. She looked great.

"You'll have to do it up," she invited as she offered her back to me. Made of silk, the dark crimson sheathe, with a décolleté cut, accented every curve in her voluptuous body. As I pulled up the zipper I peeked over her shoulder and down into the deep hollow between her breasts. She was wearing some kind of lacy black strapless bra that just covered her nipples. There was absolutely no need for her to try on the other dress.

I tentatively put my nose just below her left ear and inhaled. "Are you wearing perfume Mrs. W.?" I asked as I lightly nuzzled her. "You smell so good." Before she could say anything I invited Kevin to come over and check it out.

"You smell much better than the girls at the prom," Kevin contributed after he'd inhaled his mother's scent.

"Way better ... more womanly somehow than those girls were," I added.

"Sexier too," Kev enthused after a second inhalation. Then both he and his mom blushed.

"You'll have to teach us about perfume too Michelle," I said as I zipped her up. I leaned in again and inhaled her scent again. "You don't mind if I call you that do you? Seeing as we're sorta on a date tonight."

Mrs. W. wasn't one hundred percent sure. I could see it in her eyes.

"Yes Kev, we're about to go on a date with the most beautiful woman in Frelisberg." Michelle's eyes smiled. All protest was stilled.


We ate dinner at a small round table in the darkened back room. A candle flickered. Being a Monday night the room was only half full and we had almost complete privacy. Mrs. W. ordered a bottle of wine to accompany our dinner. Our knees touched under the table.

I tried to keep the conversation centered on our plan as we ate. "Ashley did a wonderful job," Michelle agreed when we discussed our clothing makeover.

"We couldn't have done it without you Michelle," I corrected, letting the 'Michelle' slide from my lips as slowly as syrup, then let my fingers linger on her bare arm.

"You've been great mom," Kev echoed.

"We still haven't built ourselves up very much with the weights," I said, hoping to invite an argument.

"That's not true, you're looking wonderful. Even Ashley and the girls noticed it," Michelle replied.

We sat back and let her lead us through a quick seminar on perfume. And later Kev asked her about women's clothing. How a guy should react to what his dates wearing. What was considered a compliment, what was verboten. Finally I seized the opening.

"This is sorta a weird question Michelle ... you probably won't even want to answer it. It's personal ... it's just there's so much we don't know," I stammered out.

"What? You can ask anything. You don't have to be shy with me ... I'm almost your mother," she answered. And she was truly morphing into Michelle and away from the Mrs. W. I'd always known.

"It's just I saw your bra ... when I was zipping you up," I said.

"My bra?"

"I shouldn't ask," I said as I let a blush escape onto my cheeks.

"Will! Don't be foolish."

"It's just that I couldn't figure out how it stays up ... there didn't seem to be any straps." Michelle laughed. I went on, "We sorta investigated ladies bras before--"

"Have you?" there was a challenge in her eyes. "You and Kevin?"

"We didn't do anything bad. We were just trying to figure out how to open and shut them. It's all part of our plan. What if we ever get in a position to undo one and we can't."

"We'd look stupid," her son agreed.

"And whose bras were they?" I think she expected I'd say hers. That we'd been messing around in her underwear. In fact I think she was hoping it was in her drawer that we'd been exploring.

"You won't say anything? You won't be mad? Promise?" I asked.

"Of course I won't be angry with you."


'Your mother's?" I nodded.

"And Ashley's."

"There's so many kinds mom," Kev threw out. "Some of them were almost impossible to open."

"We didn't do anything Mrs. W." I'd gone back to the more formal address on purpose. "Nothing really wrong."

"It's absolutely normal for boys to be curious."

'It's just that when I saw yours tonight it looked different than Mom's."

Michelle White then went on to give us a ten minute mini-class on bras. The one she was wearing, which she let us have a pretty darned good look at as she explained its structure, turned out to be something called a strapless, seamless, push up bra in satin. In a leopard skin print pattern. As she leaned over for a second both Kev and I saw it when a nipple popped free. She leaned back but she didn't rush doing it. Her nipple had been excited.

"Will you show us all of your bras, maybe tomorrow?" Kev asked somewhat boldly.

"We really had trouble when we didn't have anyone showing us how they worked," I immediately added.

"You boys will be studying too hard to have any time for bra mechanics," she answered, but with a smile. We both took it as a yes.

When the DJ appeared and the music started up I asked Kev's mother for the first dance. She refused at first. "We probably should go home."

"I'm not that bad," I protested.

"That's not why--"

I interrupted her. "Mom taught me. Before the prom. Showed me how to do it."

"She did?" she asked as I took her hand and got her to her feet.

"She told me it's all in how you hold the woman. Gently but firmly," I said as I put my arms around her back. Involuntarily her arms snaked around my head. Her breasts brushed my chest. We fit together perfectly. For the first minute of the song we were silent as we slowly swayed. She moved into my cock.

"There's something we have to tell you. We don't want to do it behind your back."

She lifted her head. "Tell me what?" My hands slid lower.

"It's just something we want to do before we go to Princeton. To get it out of the way." I was in no rush. I wanted Michelle to slowly draw it out of me.

"Get what out of the way?"

"Maybe it'd be better if we didn't tell you. You might think we're bad."

"What Will? I'd never think you boys bad." I put my hand at the back of Michelle's head and caressed her hair.

"We're virgins Michelle."


"Both Kev and I." Her mound was comfortably pressed against my cock. She didn't answer. Instead she simply buried her head against my chest.

"We've decided to hire someone ... before we go to school," I whispered into her ear.

"WHAT?" I felt her body tense at my words but my hand kept her from pulling back. I waited. Slowly I felt the tenseness drain from her body.

"You can't. You'll remember your first one all your life. It's important Will," Michelle said as she looked up into my eyes. I simply held her against me.

"A girl will come along ... someone you'll fall in love with ... you just have to wait," she pled.

"It could be years."

"You just can't ... not with a prostitute. I won't let you. I won't let either of you."

"We're already in love. It's just that--"

"Just what? Who is she?"

"I'm dancing with her," I said, then released her and led her back to the table.

"Michelle wants to dance with you Kev," I said as I offered my friend his mother's hand. Michelle still had a look of shock on her face as Kevin put his arms around her. They talked animatedly as they danced. And as soon as they returned to the table Michelle White insisted that we go home.

It was a silent twenty minute ride home, a silence only broken when we pulled up in front of the cottage. "We're going to talk about this tomorrow morning." It was an order. Mrs. White rushed into the house the second she'd uttered it.

She was in her room when the two of us got in the house. "You shouldn't have said anything," Kevin grumbled as we looked at her closed bedroom door.

"I'm going for a swim," I answered as I threw my sports jacket over a chair. My shirt quickly joined it.

"I gotta pee first," Kev answered.

"Grab the towels." When he got back I was standing naked in the center of his living room floor. He shucked his pants while I wrapped the towel around my waist.

"Should I tell mom?' he asked as I turned towards the door.

"You better," I said, then flicked the switch on the two outside lights. I was already halfway down the hill when I heard Michelle's voice, "You can't, don't you boys dare! Not tonight. You've both been drinking, I won't let you."

"You better watch us then," I heard Kevin say he rushed out of the cottage. Just as I launched myself off the dock I heard the screen door slam shut a second time. I knew Kev's mother was following us.

She was standing on the end of the dock when I resurfaced, clearly angry but beautiful in her crimson dress. She was barefoot. I knew it was now or never.

"So aren't you going to get the cocoa ready." Kev asked. His mom responded angrily. As they talked I swam to the shore and walked up onto the beach. Then I silently walked down the dock.

When I was less than five feet from her she asked her son, "Where's Will? I don't see him." Before she could panic or move I quickly moved right up behind her and then bent and lifted her in my arms.

"WILL!" Her screech echoed across the lake. Before I could talk myself out of it I jumped off the end of the dock. Michelle White was in my arms. I was naked. So was her son.


We gave her a few minutes up at the cottage alone before we finally trudged up the hill with our towels around our waists.

"You boys are terrible," were her first words when we entered the house. But there was a shy, almost girlish smile on her face. And she was holding a tray with three cups of cocoa on it. She was wearing her silk kimono. It was obvious that she had nothing on under it.

I turned off the overhead light and then turned on the music before I joined mother and son on the couch in front of the fire. For minutes we were silent as we sipped the warming drinks. The flickering flames of the fire danced across our bodies.

"Well, we better all go to bed." Michelle finally announced. She rose. We rose with her.

"One last dance," I invited before she could escape us.

"It's late," she whispered but still let me put my arms around her. I unhooked my towel and then pulled her against me. In the darkness, in her nervousness I'm not sure she even noticed. But she couldn't help but notice the hardness that was trapped between our stomachs. As I watched Kevin over his mothers shoulder I slowly let my hands slide down over the roundness of Michelle's bum.

"Don't," she whispered in my ear.

"You're so beautiful," Michelle," I answered as my hands explored.

"We can't. It's wrong." Softly, almost sadly breathed into my ear. I slowly pulled the hem of Kevin's mother's kimono up until I'd bared her. The music ended. I let the kimono fall. "Do you want Kevin's first woman to be a--" I let Michelle fill in the blank.

"Your mother wants one last dance with you Kev," I told my friend as I put Michelle's hand in his. As they came together I grabbed Kevin's towel and pulled it off him. I watched them dance. I watched Kevin's hands as they explored the same area I'd just caressed.

And then I moved right up behind his mother. I gently moved her long blond locks to the side before bringing my lips to the hollow on the side of her neck. I kissed her. She groaned. Kevin, plastered against his mom, watched from inches away.

"Kiss your mom," I encouraged as I let my hands slide down his mother's arms. He did. She moaned softly when their lips finally parted.

"Move back ... just for a sec," I told her son.

"Move back?"

He stepped back about a foot. His cock was sticking out, bobbing and an angry red as it tried to bridge the distance now between them. He watched silently as my arms circled his mom. Michelle made no protest as my fingers undid the sash that held her kimono closed. In fact, she arched back into me. I slipped the kimono down off her shoulders. Kevin watched as it pooled on the floor at his feet.

My palms closed around the ripe, pink tipped melons. Michelle groaned as I squeezed and caressed them. But my hands didn't linger, instead they slid off and downward, two separate probes that met as they trailed into her pubic nest. I pulled the lips apart.

"Take Kevin's cock," I whispered in his mother's ear as I held her open, as one of my fingers slipped inside her moistness. She was wet ... ready. Her hand had closed around his shaft.

"Put it in, put Kevin's big cock inside you," I urged as I pulled her even wider apart. A second later my friend's thick knob was rubbing against his mother's opening.

"Put it in Kev," I ordered, then watched as my friend pushed his penis deep inside his mom. I stepped back. Michelle cried out. Her son grabbed her ass as he thrust deeply a second time. A minute later they were on the floor, the colorful Navaho rug the only thing protecting Michelle's body from the hard pine floor that her son's urgent, thrusting spear was driving her into. Neither of them noticed.

I sensed the imminent arrival of his orgasm and pulled him back. He fought me, unwilling to leave his mother's sheathe before he'd flooded it. "You can't, your mom can't have your baby," I yelled. Finally, reluctantly he let me pull him out of his mom.

"Nooooo ...pleeeeease," his mother cried, clearly lost in the pleasure his cock had released, a cock bigger than any that had ever entered her.

"I'm cumming," Kev groaned.

"Put him in your mouth Michelle," I ordered.

Without hesitating, beyond any rational thought, Michelle White dipped her head and took her son into her mouth. Seconds later Kev's cock started to jerk. She swallowed his cum in hungry, sucking gulps.

And then, a minute later, with Kev still on his back and his chest heaving, I leaned down and picked his mother up off the floor. A strand of her son's sperm was dangling from the corner of her mouth.

"What?" she groaned as I picked her up. I carried her to her bedroom. A second later I was inside her. Fucking, thrusting, possessing, spearing, pumping, owning, loving...

She was tight and moist. Her legs curled around my back. In my need I hardly felt her nails as they sc****d across my shoulders.

I came quickly but she was ready for me. The excitement of the evening, our dances, the thrusting's of her son had all brought her close. And so, as my cock jerked for the first time inside a woman, Michelle's vagina was spasm-ing into its own orgasm. I didn't pull out even though I knew I should. I couldn't. And Kevin, still back in the other room, wasn't there to do it.

Michelle screamed as her orgasming cunt squeezed my spurting cock.

I fucked her a second time. I didn't even pull out before I started again. As I was fucking his mother Kevin walked into the room. He was naked. Hard. He stroked his penis as he stood at the edge of the bed watching me fuck his mom. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, she didn't notice him.

As soon as I rolled off he replaced me between her legs. His second time inside her he didn't pull out.

That first night I came inside his mother four times. Kev matched me.


"Morning," I whispered when I saw her eyes open. I'd been lying watching her for twenty minutes. The sun had been up for hours.

She stretched languorously in response, then leaned over and gave me a gentle kiss on my lips.

"You're beautiful." She kissed me again. Then she kissed a nipple. Then her lips drifted lower. I lay back, then groaned as she took me into her mouth. Kevin woke sometime during the blow job. I felt it through her mouth when he pushed his cock inside her.

We stayed at the cottage another s*******n days. We hardly left the property. We hardly ever put our clothes on.

She taught us all she knew about sex. In the end I think we taught her more. Mrs. White discovered in those s*******n days that she loved sex. We found out it was impossible to give her too much.

August - Mom

We got home from the lake on the second day of August. It was a Monday. Dad was home but mom wasn't scheduled back from her trip with Ashley until the following Sunday afternoon.

I called Natalie on Tuesday morning. My penis was buried deep inside her by nine forty-five a.m. It was a completely different experience from what I'd had with Michelle. It wasn't love. There was nowhere near the emotional attachment that I'd felt with Kev's mom. But it was great. She taught me how to eat a woman. Then, on all fours in her apartment, she begged me to fuck her ass.

Ashley, fresh from the 'leadership camp' she'd attended with mom, chose not to come home on the Sunday with mom -- instead she joined Caitlyn's f****y for two weeks at their cottage in the western end of the state.

Father, who'd been preparing for a complicated copyright trial for most of August, was due in Chicago for the openings motions on Monday morning. His team flew out on Sunday afternoon two hours before mom was due home. I drove him to the airport.

It was perfect! I couldn't have planned it better. I'd been with Natalie all week and now it was mom's turn.

"Hey," I welcomed after running outside the second I saw her car turn into the driveway. She'd called fifteen minutes earlier on her cell warning me she was on her way.

"Oh my gawd, look at you, you're as brown as a berry," she answered as she held out her arms in welcome.

"You look great," I said as we hugged. "Your hair, its--" Mom had changed her hair style in her weeks away. Unleashed from her normal tight bun on top of her head, her brown curls now seemed to float as they cascaded down onto her shoulders.

"Ashley thought maybe--"

"It looks great, you're beautiful," I said as mom blushed under my scrutiny of my eyes.

"Are you sure? You don't think it's too young a style for me?"

We weren't looking at each other in a normal mother/son way. Nor was the embrace a typical one.

There was an excitement, a sexual excitement between us that I knew she felt as much as I did.


"We've been talking ... your dad and I," mom said once we'd settled ourselves on the couch. "About the future," she added.

She talked almost non-stop for over an hour. My parents were going to separate. They'd grown apart. They still both loved us. It was to be an amicable split. "It's just we've both decided we want different things now that you guys are almost grown up," mom explained. She'd already told Ashley. Who'd been very supportive. In fact from the sounds of mom's words Ashley was hard at work planning mom's move back to a single person's life. Apparently the hairdo change had only been step one.

I tried to sound sympathetic. I hugged her. I was elated.

"So how was the cottage? Did you have a good time?" she asked after she'd finished.

"It was great."

"Have you got everything organized for college? Do we have lots of things to get done before you go?"

"Kevin and I still have a few more lessons to take."

"Lessons? For what?"

"We still haven't quite mastered all the important dating techniques required of Princeton freshmen."

"I taught you to dance, what more do you need?"

"Well, kissing to start ..." I gave mom a teasing smile as I said the words. "One of the 'How To Be a BMOC' books we read emphasized how important good kissing technique is. It said that just a few poorly performed kisses can ruin a college freshman's social life."

"Did they?" She started to grin.

"Uh huh. And it's not that easy."

"And how do you plan to overcome any kissing shortcomings you have in the short time left to you?"We were both smiling broadly now.

"Professionals!" I said confidently. "I think that's what I've learned most from this whole process mom. Why fool around? Go find someone who knows what they're doing. Then pay them to teach us."

"That's not very romantic," mom answered, then slowly ran her tongue across her upper lip. "And besides, as I remember it, you're already a pretty good kisser."

"That was just one. The kissing manual said you have to learn all sorts of kisses. That it's pretty complicated until you get your tongue wet, so to speak."

"Did it?"

"Uh huh. How many do you know mom? Did you have a kissing instructor when you were young?"

"I know a few," mom whispered back. Our lips were now only inches apart.

"Maybe if I learned a few from you beforehand my lessons won't be as expensive," I said just as our lips lightly touched.

We went straight to one of the most advanced kisses. A hungry, moist, needy, tongue filled kiss. An urgent attempt to swallow the others mouth.

When you kiss it's not just the lips and mouth that move. Your hands, unbidden, do too. They explore. They caress. They squeeze. They undress. And all the while there's that excitement growing in your groin. The filling, the hardening, the need.

Why didn't mom stop us? I know looking back that she could have. That only a few words from her could have stopped me in my tracks. But she didn't say those words.

Was it because of dad and the impending separation? Was it a need for reassurance? Had she been carrying around and dreaming of the dance we'd had weeks before?

I think now that I awoke something in her. Something that had lain dormant deep inside her for much of her last five or ten years with dad. That her untying herself from my father had unleashed a long suppressed and deep sexual hunger.

And she was hungry. There was no 'we can't' or 'it's wrong' in our coupling. We used each other as hungry a****ls might. Urgent hard sex that we repeated three times before we fell apart.

My mother's head was resting on my chest, her eyes locked on mine. One of her hands lightly held my sticky and spent penis while my hand caressed her hair. There were tears falling down her cheeks. They were tears of happiness.


"Kevin's coming to stay with us ... this aft, the White's are flying out at four." We'd just woken. I had a hard-on. It was four days since mom had returned home. We'd spent them in my father's bed.

"We'll have to be careful," mom answered, then kissed my cheek. Her fingers trolled down across my stomach until they found my cock. Her fingers closed around it. Squeezed.

"We slept with his mom," then added when her mouth opened in surprise, "when we were at the cottage." I had no idea how'd she react to the news.

"Both you and Kev?"

"We shared her," I answered as I rolled on top of my mother.

"Shared her?" mom asked as I pushed my penis inside of her.

"In every way," I said. The only sounds either of us made for the next five minutes were the sounds of intercourse, the groans, the gasps, the moans, and the grunts that always accompanied an orgasmic union. When we'd finally decoupled we lay silent on our backs, the only sounds in mom's bedroom the deep panting sounds of emptied lovers.

"And are you going to share me?" mom finally asked.

"Yes," I answered.


Kevin arrived just after five-thirty that day. He'd known, I'd already told him two days earlier, that I'd already made love to my mom. There was a nervous excitement in him as he stowed his bag in my room.

"Does she know?" he asked.

"She knows we both fucked your mom."

"You told her? What'd she say?"

"I told her that tonight I was going to share her with you."

"You did? Was she mad? What'd she say?"

"Mom's never had two cocks in her at the same time," I told my friend.

Kevin had mom for dessert that night. Literally. I'd put them so that they were facing each other from either end of the dinner table. They'd both been nervous throughout the meal. Conversations started and then suddenly stopped. Quick, shy glances followed by dropped eyes. Sitting between them I stayed silent as I ate, watching them both as my left hand stroked my mother's thighs.

Kevin knew what I was doing. Mom knew that Kevin knew. But she did nothing to discourage me as my hand explored her sex.

Mom finally rose. "I'll get the dessert," she said.

"Come here first," I asked, then reached for her hand.

"We're having apple pie and ice cream," she told Kevin as she moved up beside me.

I put my fingers on the hem of mom's dress and slowly raised it. "Don't, please Will," she whispered as my fingers seized the top of her panties. She didn't move. I pulled mom's panties, panties made of soft white lace, slowly down. And then I heard a gasp from behind me when my mother's dark triangle of pubic hair was exposed to Kevin's stare.

"We're having you for dessert," I told my mother. Seconds later I lifted her up on the table so that she was facing Kevin. Her legs were open, her sex exposed. I helped her lie back among the dishes while Kevin dipped his head. He was licking his lips. Her little cries of pleasure soon followed, they were expelled into my mouth as we kissed. I felt it when he pushed his cock inside mom. And I kissed her the whole time he fucked her.

Later she sucked Kevin while I made love to her.

Later still she found herself the filling of a three person sandwich. Lying on top of Kevin, vagina stuffed, while I creamed her ass.


I called Monica Evans five days before I was due to leave for Princeton. Just to say goodbye, to wish her well.

"Why don't you come over, I'm just hanging by the pool," she invited. So I did. Expecting nothing even while hoping for everything. What I'd already learned in my few short weeks of sexual activity was that the more sex you had the more you wanted. Even while Kevin and I had been occupied with my mom over the previous week, I hadn't been able to stop myself from sneaking over to Natalie's just about every day.

The more cum I spent the more that seemed to be produced.

We sat talking while sitting on the edge of her pool with our feet dangling in the pool. We were both in our bathing suits. We each had a beer in our hand. She was nice. It was just a nice comfortable conversation. About university. About our hopes. Our plans. About her long term boyfriend Greg who was already off to play football halfway across the country. How they'd put their romance on hold. It was a conversation that I never would have been capable of carrying on three months earlier.

When my beer was finished I slipped off the ledge and down into the water. "C'mon down here," I lured as I looked up into her eyes.

"It's too cold." I held up my arms towards her. Without another word she let herself go and fell into them. I enveloped her in them as I pulled her against me.

"Has that bad alien taken over Will Sommer's body again," she asked coyly. The invitation was clear.

I shook my head. "It's just me." My hands had slipped inside the back of her suit and onto her bare bum.

"Are you still a virgin?" One of her hands slid across my stomach. I shook my head no.

"The alien made me do some very bad things," I said as I disengaged my left hand and then used it to undo her bra.

"What bad things? With who?" she asked as her fingers circled my shaft.

"He made me do it with three different women."

"WHAT?" Three?" And then she started to giggle.

"What," I asked back when she didn't stop. I was pushing her panties down her thighs as I spoke.

"It's not fair. Here I'm the Prom Queen and I've only slept with two boys in my whole life and you, who's never talked to girls in his whole life has all of a sudden slept with three." Her hand started to move up and down my shaft.

"We could make it three for you," I offered.

"You'd still be one up on me," she answered as she placed my cock against her slit. My hands tightened on her ass and pulled her forward.

Every single woman is different. Each in her own way delights. Monica and I had a fun fuck. It was athletic and fun. No great words of love or promises. We spent a wonderful afternoon together.

"You're bigger than Greg," she said much later. I was lying on my back on the lawn next to the pool. She was kneeling over me, examining me with her fingers. 'Much bigger."

"Is that good," I asked.

"Very," she answered. Then she took me into her mouth.

It was an easy parting. We'd both enjoyed ourselves but without any sense of commitment. We promised we'd see each other again at Christmas or even, if it worked out, one of us might visit the other some fall weekend. Our schools were only about an hour apart.


I slept alone with mom that night. Kevin's parents had returned from their vacation and were anxious to see him, especially his dad who only had a couple of days at home before he had to leave for another business trip.

"Are you okay? Is everything going to be alright?" I asked my mother as we lay entwined. It was close to midnight and the room was eerily lit by the moonlight that was flooding in through the glass balcony doors.

"I'm going to miss you so much," mom whispered.

"I love you." I kissed her.

"Of course you do. I'm your mother." I felt the tear as it slipped down her cheek.

"It's not over. It'll never be over, never" I promised. And it won't be. I know my mother will always be the most important woman in my life.



Ashley returned two days before I was scheduled to leave. The next afternoon I caught up to Ash, Caitlyn and Bri. They were doing teenage girl things in her room while the music blared in the background.

When I sat down on the bed they turned the music off.

"I just want to thank you guys," I started.

"You've certainly changed," Caitlyn threw out.

"Due to your good work," I complimented.

"I think we may have done too good a job," my perceptive s****r opined. I laughed.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just have to call." My eyes stayed locked on Ash as I said the words. She looked for a second like she might cry. Ashley?

"You could update my computer before you left," Brianna asked. She was quite willing to take advantage of any offer.

We joked around for a couple of minutes. Finally, ready to back out, I started to take my leave. 'Goodbyes', 'good luck', 'thanks', 'see you at thanksgivings' flowed.

The new, reformed Will Sommers, the Princeton model, couldn't resist one parting shot. "And if you ever need any advice about boys, you know, if you want a more mature take on the world, a more sophisticated man's view, a college viewpoint your high school boys can't supply, you should feel free to e-mail or call."

All three girls started to sputter out words. I interrupted them, "I'm serious. And you know what, I'm going to make you all an offer that you can keep on the back burner just in case you need it down the road."

"And what offer might that be mister college sophisticate?" Ashley asked with a wry smile.

"If by any chance you three can't manage to come up with a suitable date for your senior prom--"

"It's not for two years," came from Caitlyn.

"Like why would we not be able to get dates?" Brianna.

"—I promise that both Kevin and I will make ourselves available."

"Like we'd be interested in dating two nerds." Caitlyn. s*s was smiling.

"Two handsome, sophisticated, well dressed Princetonians," I said smugly.

"Princeton?" Ashley. Dismissively. "Now if you were going to Harvard that might be another thing entirely." My s****r was nice. And I knew I'd never really get the better of her.


We left the next morning. In the car I told Kevin that he had to reserve June 17th 2012 on his schedule. That we had to pay back our debt.

Mrs. Michelle White, the mother of my best friend and the woman who'd taken my virginity, opined from the front seat, "Those girls would be lucky to have you boys."

"Yes they would," agreed my mom as she nestled in against me on the back seat. She absentmindedly stroked my penis through my pants as we drove off.

It was a four hundred plus mile trip to Princeton. It had been decided that mom and Michelle would drive us up in Mrs. W's Mercedes SUV. The mom's had insisted that we plan it with an overnight stop to break the trip into two manageable pieces.

We reserved two rooms with king size beds. We only used one. The two manageable pieces turned out to be Kevin's and my cock. And our mother's managed them very well.

The next day we started our University careers. We were ready for all cumers...

It was only when we got home for Christmas that we learned that both our moms had been pregnant as we'd made love to them that September night. However, it'll be a while before the paternity of the two c***dren is officially confirmed. Don't tell Kevin but I'm pretty sure they're both going to be Sommer's babies. Will Sommers.

THE END... Continue»
Posted by kap007 4 months ago  |  Categories: Taboo, Voyeur  |  Views: 15540  |  
  |  9

mom made me her sissy

"Mom! I called out as I got home from baseball practice, "I'm home!"

"Hello Danny, we have to talk," she responded, while exiting my room.

When I saw what was in her hands, I became nervous. Some of the guys I pal around with talked me into shoplifting a few things from a department store.

"Please explain where these items came from."

I should have told her I was sorry, and that it was just the one time,

But instead I said, "Tommy made me do it. He said it was a dare. I didn't want him to think I was a sissy."

The next thing I knew, I was in big, big trouble with Mom. I got into trouble before but never anything this bad.

"You are grounded young man!" she remarked. You will come home immediately after school. You had better be here when I get home."

"But I've got baseball practice after school," I pleaded. I loved playing ball with the guys and I was a pretty good fielder and I batted over 300 last season.

"You should have thought of that before becoming a criminal. I've already called your coach and told him you were grounded for the next two weeks. After I explained why, he said you would not be allowed to play this year, as an example to the other players. So, you no longer have baseball practice, and are to come home immediately after school."

I haven't held a bat or seen any of my friends since my punishment began a few weeks ago. This was some spring training. At first I thought that was the worst punishment imaginable but boy was I wrong. One day during my second week of punishment, I was a little late coming home from school and unexpectedly found mom waiting on the porch. I would usually get home about a half an hour before she did, so I had stopped by the ball field to watch a little of the practice I was missing so much. She was pissed even more. "I thought you might have learned your lesson when I had given you the ultimate punishment by taking away your baseball, yet here you are disobeying me. I guess I'll have to try something a little more unique," she said. At that, she dragged me upstairs, told me to shower and come into her room wearing my robe.

When I entered her room I saw she was looking in her drawers for something. She turned holding a pair of pink panties in her hand. "Here, put these on. I'll teach you to disobey me. You want to see who's the boss, you or me? Well now you'll know for sure that I wear the pants in this f****y."

Even though I begged Mom not to do that to me, she wouldn't change her mind. In a matter of minutes she had me wearing one of her old dresses too. Once I was all dressed as a girl, mom said, "You worried about your friends thinking you were a sissy, so you chose to steal. Now you won't have to worry about that anymore since you will be in dresses for the foreseeable future just like a sissy. When you come home from school, you'll find girl clothes waiting, and you will get dressed in those clothes as soon as you get home. Disobey me again and your friends will find out just what sissy you are," she informed me. "I want you all dressed when I get home or else! I'll get you a few things that fit you better tomorrow."

I asked why she was doing this to me and she said that was my punishment so I would not end up being a criminal and find myself in jail for stealing. Mom would not tell me how long she planned to keep me in girl's attire. I hated wearing those stupid clothes, especially the panties, but I didn't have any choice. Mom said she should send me to school in a dress if I argued with her, but I didn't think she could get away with sending me to school dressed like that. At least I hoped she couldn't, but I now knew better than to tempt her.

Sure enough, the next day when I got home, I found the dress on my bed along with another pair of panties. Worst yet, that day when she got home she had a few shopping bags that I knew contained things for me to wear. She had me follow her to my room and she sat on my bed.

"Here are the things I promised to buy you, Danny."

She dumped the bags out on the bed and started handing me the various items. I was surprised and worried that mom bought me so many different things, including some girl's shoes. "Put the socks and hosiery in the top drawer and the panties and bras in the second drawer of your dresser," she ordered as she handed me each item.

Then she had me get some hangers from her closet. Returning with the hangers, she showed me how to properly hang the dresses and petticoats. Then I had to hang them in my closet. She also had me neatly stack my shoeboxes in my closet.

Finally as I took each dress to hang them up, mom explained how important it was to hang them properly, what slips or petticoats I should wear underneath them, and which shoes matched the dresses. "I hope you paid attention to what I just told you young lady!"

"Young lady?" I thought. Having that many outfits meant I was in for a long punishment.

"I expect you to pick out an appropriate outfit when you get home, and to be fully and properly dressed by the time I get home, unless I get home a little early. Do you understand?" She asked.

I was in tears, but managed to answer, "Yes Mom!" So every day after I got home from school, I had to put on one of the dumb dresses she bought me, along with the appropriate underwear and shoes.

Before I continue telling you my story I should tell you a little more about myself. As you now know, my name is Danny. I'm thirteen years old and just finishing seventh grade. I am a fairly normal teenager who likes music, sports and just hanging out with my friends. I have a younger b*****r Mike who's eleven and a real pain in the butt. He always wanted to be just like his older b*****r. At least he did before mom started putting me in dresses and calling me Danielle. Now he no longer wishes to emulate his big b*****r. He just enjoys tormenting and teasing me incessantly, but mom warned me that I better not hit him or do anything. If I did I would find myself in dresses forever. My mom works part time in my school. She's like a secretary or an administrator or something. I always hated having her there since she could keep tabs on me all the time. My mom and dad have been divorced for almost as long as I could remember. Mom is always telling us that dad was a macho jerk and that's why she divorced him. Mike and I only get to see dad for a week each summer since he lives cross-country. Mike and I always enjoy spending time with him. We go camping, hiking, fishing, all cool stuff

Anyway, back to my current problem.

Since mom started making me come home right after school and change into girls clothing, I've become more of a recluse. Quitting my baseball team really killed me and my friends wondered what was going on, but I can't tell them the truth. I'd rather die. I'm scared to death that if any of my friends found out I was wearing dresses and stuff, the news would be all over school the next day! So I just told them I had been grounded. I'm even dreading summer vacation, which will start in a few days, since I think mom plans to keep me in dresses all summer. But even worse than wearing dresses is putting up with my stupid b*****r, Mike. I used to pick on him all the time; now he gets to make fun of me every damn day. Last week I found out mom even took some pictures of me getting dressed up as a girl. Mom told me she'd show them to all my friends if I didn't do exactly what she said. Mom said I better behave as a good little girl or else. Girls listen to their mother and don't fight with their younger b*****rs she told me. Imagine referring to me as a girl. I even hate the sound of that word. Mom also was starting to convince Mike that I liked wearing dresses. She was always saying little things like that and he actually is starting to believe her. I wanted to scream out that she was lying but I knew I would be in big trouble if I did that. Those pictures would be the ruin of me if they ever got out. I realized then that there was no way I could win.

My birthday is also coming up this week. Mom always made our birthdays a special event. We'd sometimes go to a movie or a play and then go to a nice place to eat. One year she even took me to Yankee stadium to see the Yankees play. Mom would always get dressed up for our dinner and Mike and I always wore nice clothes too. We didn't wear suits or anything but nice pants and dress shirts. I hated wearing suits but I would gladly wear a suit now instead of girl's clothes. I knew mom didn't have any fancy girls dresses for me to wear so I was pretty sure she'd let me wear one of nice pants and shirt.

The Friday before my birthday mom told Mike and me to meet her by the office right after school since she was going to drive us right home. Mike had a baseball game she cleaned his uniform yesterday and it was in his closet. She also told me she laid my clothes out on the bed at lunchtime since she had plans for me this afternoon as well. She told us to hurry since Mike's practice was early.

Sure enough when we entered the room we were now sharing (my room was being painted), Mike's uniform was in his closet and my bed had a mini-skirt, a light summer top, panties, bra, pantyhose and shoes. Mom walked up behind us and told us to hurry. Most times mom only had me wear girl's panties and a dress so this was unusual for her to have selected all of this stuff. But whenever I had to wear bras and pantyhose, I usually changed into these girlie things when Mike was in the bathroom or somewhere else. I hated for him to see me putting on these frilly girl things. He would invariably tease me whenever I had to change in front of him and I hated that. But this particular day mom quickly ran into the bathroom we shared to clean it up a little so I had no choice but to change in our room with Mike. Mike was smiling at me when he saw me step into the panties Mom selected for me to wear. I wanted to die as I pulled the pretty pink panties with little flowers on them up to my waist. I couldn't wait to hide my panties from his view so I quickly stepped into my denim mini-skirt as Mike pulled up his baseball pants. When Mike put on his undershirt, I had to endure his stares as I hooked on my bra and slipped on my top. Mike then pulled on his white baseball socks and tied his cleats. Since his socks were a lot easier to put on then my pantyhose, he got to enjoy seeing me slip them up my legs. I was so embarrassed as I sat on the edge of the bed and rolled up the pantyhose just like mom showed me. I slipped them on one foot and then the other. Since I still was not used to wearing pantyhose, I struggled as I pulled them up over my knees. Once I got them that high I realized I couldn't get them any higher unless I lifted up my tight fitting skirt. I had no choice but to lift my skirt up to be able to get the pantyhose all the way to my waist. So in spite of my embarrassment I lifted my skirt, pulled up my pantyhose and then did a little wiggle to get them snug. I knew Mike would get another good view of my pretty pink panties but I had no other choice. Mike's giggle left no doubt that he enjoyed my struggles and that he did indeed get to see my panties one more time.

As soon as I had my shoes on, Mom grabbed me and led me towards her room. As we were leaving the room she said in a voice loud enough for Mike to hear that she would do my hair and makeup like I wanted. "I know you said you want to look like the other girls in your class." She was always saying things like that to reinf***e the idea that I really wanted to dress and act like a girl. Once in her room, she sat me down at her vanity and combed my hair into a feminine looking style, adding a few barrettes to hold it in place. She then took some makeup stuff and put in on my face. She said it was just some thing to give me a little color. I think she said it was blush. She then applied some light lipstick on my lips and mascara on my eyes. Mom never made me wear any makeup so I wasn't sure why she did it today. I asked her what she was doing but she told me to hush.

"I told you that we have plans this afternoon."

As Mike grabbed his baseball glove, mom handed me a purse and said let's go. Oh my God, she's not really going to make me go out is she? I mean she never made me go outside dressed like this before but she sure was now. A minute later I found myself sitting in the back seat crouching as low as possible. Mike and mom were in the front seat. I used to always get the front seat but now that I was dressing like a girl, Mike just took my place and I was too embarrassed to say something to him.

During the drive over to the field, mom asked Mike if he liked my makeup. Mike just looked at me a little strangely. "Danielle insisted on wearing makeup if she was going outside. She said all the other girls at school wear it and she wants to be just like them, right sweetie?"

As I cringed at her comments, Mike just laughed at her little lie (which he thought was true) and said I looked really cute in a real condescending way.

Once we reached the ball field, Mike jumped out of the car. Mom said we would be back before the game ended. Mike kissed mom and he waved to me as he yelled, "Bye, Danielle. Don't let any boys smudge your lipstick." I wanted to kill him for calling me that name and saying that about me. Imagine me letting a boy kiss me. Mom just laughed as she told me to sit up front with her. I almost died getting out of the car for fear that one of Mike's team mates might recognize me.

As soon as I realized that mom was not heading back towards home, I asked her where we were going. She then told me we had to go to the mall to get a nice new dress for my birthday dinner. I don't have time to buy something without you being able to try it on to make sure it fit you properly. I was practically in tears as I begged mom not to take me to the mall since a lot of the k**s hung out in there after school, but she didn't care. I told mom I didn't need a new dress for dinner.

"I can assure you honey that you will be wearing a nice new pretty dress on Saturday when we celebrate."

I pleaded with her not to do this to me but she just told me this is how bad boys get treated and it was all for my own good. "I've done a lot of research on this type of petticoat treatment and I can promise you it, it works. You were the one shoplifting and being a brat so this is the price you pay. I'd much rather have a sweet daughter than a rotten son, so you just better get used to acting like my precious little girl. If you do good it will remain our f****y secret but if not, all your friends will know." I cried and sobbed but to no avail. In a few minutes the car was parked and we were walking towards the mall.

I wasn't sure if mom was k**ding or serious about making me dress completely as a girl for dinner on Saturday, but since I now found myself entering the mall while wearing a mini-skirt, I kind of thought she probably wasn't k**ding.

As we entered the mall entrance, I quickly forgot about our dinner and began to worry about running into some of my friends. As we walked mom was all excited about finding me the perfect dress. I wanted to die right there but before I could Mom pulled me into the first of many girl's clothing stores. I was in constant fear that I would run into one of the girls from school as mom and I went from rack to rack. I wasn't too worried about running into any of the guys since they would never be caught alive in a girl's store. After selecting four or five dresses, mom informed me it was time to try them on. I almost fainted as she led me towards the ladies dressing room. The room was one large area with some benches and a few private stalls at the one end. Those private rooms were all taken so Mom put the dresses and her purse on the bench and told me to take off my skirt and top. Much to my relief there were no teenage girls in the room, at least I didn't see any in the open area. There were only some women and a few younger girls, maybe eight or nine years old. I breathed a sigh of relief until I realized that I would now be standing in this room in my underwear trying on dresses. Somehow I managed to get through that trial but as soon as we left the dressing room, I told mom I had to go to the bathroom. My nerves were shot and I guess that made me need to pee really bad. Mom informed me that the ladies room was right around the corner, so we could go there now. Even though I was wearing girl's clothing, I never thought about the fact that she would take me into the ladies room.

"As this is your first time going in a ladies room you must sit down when you pee or you draw unwanted attention to yourself. Remember, girls don't stand and we use toilet tissue to wipe ourselves when we are finished. And when you're done, wash your hands." I still remember how embarrassed I was sitting down to pee like a silly girl. As I sat there I could see my panties and pantyhose around my knees. So within the first half-hour of our shopping trip, I had tried on five dresses, two of which mom bought and had my first visit to a ladies room.

We continued shopping for another hour or so and I had acquired some girl's shorts, a few tops, a pair of girl's sneakers, a pair of open-toed heels, two pairs of sandals, one pair of sheer white pantyhose and the two new dresses. I thought the worse part of the entire trip was when mom took me into the sl**pwear section to pick out a pale yellow baby doll nightie to wear to bed. Up to now I was still allowed to sl**p in my old boys pajamas. However, the worst part was when we stopped and got my ears pierced. Mom said it was an early birthday present.

When we got back to the car I really began to believe that she planned to do what she said and that I would be wearing one of those dresses and those stupid white pantyhose at dinner on Saturday! Even worse I knew mom would have me dressing all summer now based on all the stuff she just bought. Mom said she was aware of my fear, but she had decided this is what's best for me and I had little choice but to agree. I remember she told me she didn't want me to end up like my father, a mean-spirited, tough guy, who was always in trouble.

That is not the life she had planned for her c***d.

"I know you're not too happy about celebrating your birthday this year, but traditions are important. So our tradition will continue with a few minor changes. Your hair will be done, your nails will be polished, you will have perfume on and you will be wearing your new dress. And one more thing, don't forget you live with me and you'll continue to live with me. So, if you don't want your friends to find out about your cute little panties you better do exactly what I say. Do I make myself clear, honey? And you can start right this second with your little b*****r, so you'd better play along or else. From now on I expect you to be mommy's perfect little girl and Mike's s****r. We wouldn't want all your friends to see those pictures of you, would we?"

By now we were back at the ball field to pick up Mike. I was sick to my stomach just thinking about the rest of tonight and tomorrow. Mike, oblivious to my feelings, jumped in the car, shouting they won the game and he hit a home run. Mom was all excited for him telling him that was great and she was sure dad would love hearing about it tomorrow at dinner.

"What! Dad's coming to dinner tomorrow?" I asked.

"Oops, ruined the surprise didn't I? Yes dear, he said he was going to be in town and asked if he could join us for your birthday." she answered. "I haven't told him about your current situation, so Mr. Macho is in for a surprise too."

"But Mom. Dad won't like this one bit."

She interrupted, "He'll have a say in how I raise you as soon as he pays me the three years of back c***d support he owes. Until then I'm the boss. Neither you nor your father has a say in this matter." She then gave me a warning look.

Because of that look I just shut up. Mom made it even worse when she told me to tell Mike about all the cute things I bought at the mall. So for the remainder of the ride home I was telling my stupid little b*****r about my dresses, pants and shorts that I bought. Mom also had to tell him about my baby doll nightie that I would be wearing tonight. Mike cracked up when he heard that one.

When we returned home, mom told Mike to go upstairs to change and wash up for dinner. When I asked if I could change mom said there was no need for me to change since I looked so cute. Besides, girls like to help cook dinner. After dinner, I had to help her clean up and do the dishes while Mike was allowed to go watch television. As soon as we finished, mom took me upstairs to have me try on the two dresses with the white pantyhose and my new shoes. She wanted to see how it all looked together. As she walked past Mike she said to me in a loud voice that she didn't know why I was in such a hurry to try everything on again, especially my new nightgown. After I tried everything on again, Mom decided the pink and white dress would be best for dinner. She then ironed it and hung it in my closet. She told me to take a bath and put on my new nightgown and then join her downstairs to watch TV.

Mike totally cracked up when I walked into the den wearing that stupid baby doll nightie. He teased me quite a bit but I just sat there quietly and watched television. I knew I would be the one punished if I said anything so I just endured his stupid comments. However, I didn't sl**p very well that night knowing what shame and embarrassment tomorrow would bring.

When I woke up that Saturday morning I felt sick to my stomach knowing what was in store for me. I couldn't decide if it was worse to get dressed into one of the casual outfits mom bought yesterday or to stay in my stupid nightie. I decided the nightie was worse so I put on a pair of pink shorts and a pretty short sleeve top with lace at the neck and sleeves. Mom and Mike were already downstairs by the time I got down. I heard Mike tell her that they had another game today. Mom said he could play but he had to be home by five to get ready for dinner.

That afternoon, Mike got his glove and left for the field on his bike. About an hour later Mom grabbed me and led me into the bathroom to wash my hair. "Its time we get started on you, honey."

When I complained that it was so early, mom just smiled and said "Now honey, you know it takes us girls a lot longer to get dressed and I know you want to look extra pretty for your birthday." Pretty! I don't think so. Being pretty was certainly not on my list of birthday wishes. But as soon as I finished showering and washing my hair, mom took me into her bedroom and sat me down at the vanity where she proceeded to set my hair in rollers. "I wanted to do this early so the curl has a chance to set. I think you'll look cute with curly hair." First she was calling me pretty and now cute. Things were going quickly from bad to worse. I felt so stupid sitting there with goofy pink curlers in my hair. I wanted to die as I sat there staring at my reflection in the mirror. As soon as she finished the last curler, she took out a bottle of bright pink nail polish and proceeded to polish my fingernails and toenails. "You know something. I think pink is your color. We'll do another coat after I finish my shower and get dressed. By then your hair should be dry enough to take out your curlers and see how you look with some curly hair.

Mom rejoined me in my room wearing her robe 30 minutes later. She watched as I applied the second coat of polish to my own nails. After I was done with this task, mom sat me down on the bed and removed one curler to see if my hair was dry yet. "It's still a little damp. I think we need to wait another half hour or so. So, lets get your started on dressing. You can at least put on your lingerie and pantyhose now."

I stepped into my panties and then removed my robe to put on my bra. As mom helped me hook it into place I asked her what she told dad about me. "I talked to him last night and told him you decided you want to spend the summer as a girl. I explained that this started out as a punishment for your thievery but after dressing this way for a few days you discovered that you enjoy showing your feminine side. He wasn't very happy but considering his situation he really can't say or do anything."

After I put on my slip, I sat on the bed to slip on my sheer white pantyhose; I asked mom how she could that. "Mom, how could you tell dad that lie? You know I hate dressing like a girl. I'm a boy, mom!"

"Well, that doesn't matter, does it? You're being punished for the summer and that's final. Your father isn't too happy about this little turn of events but he agreed not to put up a fuss. And he certainly would never consider having you live with him. You'd cramp his life style and he couldn't afford to keep you anyway especially when I told him you have been behaving much better since you became my little girl. Sit down over here so we can get your make up on. By then your hair should be dry. Now, getting back to your father. Since I told him you like all this stuff, you'll have to be on your best behavior tonight. I expect you to be the perfect f******n-year-old daughter. That means not a word of complaint from you all evening. And you better remember all your lessons and manners. I expect you to sit very ladylike, to eat slowly and daintily and to speak softly. One slip up and I'll be parading you to the ball field every night next week in a different dress. And you know I'm not k**ding."

As she continued talking, she was expertly applying makeup to my face. A little foundation was followed by a very light application of blush and a hint of brown mascara on my eyelashes. Mom then applied a light pink lipstick to my lips followed by an application of lip-gloss to make my lips shiny. "Oh, one more thing. Tonight, you will call us mommy and daddy. And I want you to do a little curtsy for your daddy when you greet him tonight."

"Curtsy? That's dumb, mom."

"Who am I?'

"I mean mommy."

"That's better. Now stand up. I will show you how to curtsy." When I didn't get up right away, mom gave me a look and said, "Or if you prefer, you can practice doing them at the ball field tomorrow."

With that I quickly stood up. Mom told me to place my right foot behind my left foot and hold my slip with my right hand and then bend my knees a little. I never felt more stupid then practicing curtsying for those few minutes. "Ok, I think you got it. You can do a few more after we fix your hair and get your dress on. In fact, let me get your dress now and then we'll do your hair so it doesn't get messed up." With that she went to the closet and brought over the pink and white dress we bought the day before at the mall. She told me to be careful not to let the dress touch my face since I already had on my makeup. She unzipped it and helped slip it on me. Once I had it on, she zipped me up and I felt trapped for the evening.

Mom sat me down again and started removing the curlers. "Wow. You're hair really holds a curl. You're going to look so pretty after we get it all combed out and styled a bit. After about 15 minutes of teasing and combing she seemed satisfied that my hair looked nice. Handing me my sandals, she said, "Here honey, put these on and then we'll let you take a look at how pretty you are."

After slipping on the dressy sandals I walked over to mirror and stood in silent shock at my reflection. I could not believe the pretty young girl in the mirror was really me. From head to toe I was all girl. All of a sudden the events of the day and the preceding week overcame me and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I didn't want my father to see me like this. As I started crying, mom yelled at me. "You'd better not cry young lady. I just spent all afternoon fixing you up so you look like my little princess and I will not have you ruin everything with your tears. But if insist on crying like some baby girl, I'll change you into an outfit more appropriate for a five-year-old girl and take you out like that. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sure mommy. I'm sorry. I'll stop crying."

"That's better. Why don't you sit on the bed and I'll get dressed. Your father should be here any minute now. I think our reservations were for 6:30 or 7:00. And honey, don't forget to smooth out your dress like I showed you so it doesn't get all wrinkled."

As I sat down mom slipped on her stockings and then removed her robe to finish dressing. I guess she really did think of me as a girl now since she was rummaging in her closet wearing only her lingerie looking for a dress to wear. "I want to wear something nice too since you look so pretty, Danielle."

As I sat there I couldn't help but think how horrible tonight would be. Birthdays were supposed to be fun but tonight would be no fun at all. I could not believe I would be spending such an important day dressed as a girl. And to make matters worse my dad would be there for the celebration and I had to convince him that I actually enjoyed all of this crap or else mom would take me to baseball practice dressed as a girl.
... Continue»
Posted by momandboys 1 year ago  |  Categories: Fetish, Mature, Shemales  |  Views: 3169  |  
  |  7

I just read this. It made me so hot!

It began one day when I was feeling really horny in class. I had only General Studies in the afternoon so I decided to skip the afternoon and go home, knowing I could masturbate. Dad and Steve, my elder b*****r, were out at work, Lucy, my younger s****r was still in class. Our Mother had left us years before and had not been seen since, though I suspected Dad had some idea. I didn't often do that, skip school to bring myself off. I had once before, but it wasn't a regular thing.

After I reached home I decided that I would sneak one of Dad's dirty videos and watch it. I felt bad about skipping school and taking the video but the forbidden was fuelling to my arousal. Upstairs I undressed quickly and put on my new grown up satin wrap and padded downstairs. I could feel my lips thickening and my nipples hardening as I found the videos and choose one. Bobby our Alsatian wanted to play so I shut him in the kitchen and sat on the sofa in front of the TV. I'd seen it once before but that didn't matter, it really turned me on. Soon I had opened the robe and was squeezing my tits and rubbing my clit. I was laying back wantonly and my legs had spread out wide. It was all too much, my original sexual frustration, the naughtiness, the feeling of giving in to my lusts and the sights in front of me. My fingers felt so good on my tits and sliding around my wet cunt. I came once fairly quickly but knew I could get a better one. As I concentrated hard on the thread of the next it just grew and grew, it was going to be a big one, I could tell.

Then it began to overtake me, I was falling, falling into the abyss, over the edge. Oh God! I felt Bobby between my legs. I saw his hairy back between my legs, I could feel his cool wet nose on my thigh and his muzzle at my cunt, but it was too late. I tried to push him away but it was difficult in the position I was in and I started coming. Fireworks were exploding behind my eyelids and it ripped through me. Bobby must have thought I was playing and he had lifted his paws up onto the sofa. As I was coming round I tried to push him down again but more lights were in my eyes. It took me a few moments to realise that these weren't coming from my orgasm!

I looked up to see Steve standing taking photos of me! Frantically, almost crying, I pushed Bobby away and Steve dashed out of the room. Without thinking to cover myself with my wrap I chased after him with Bobby bouncing up the stairs with me. His room door was locked. I banged frantically on it with no result before realising that I was naked and dashed down for my wrap. Still he wouldn't come out or answer. Finally I slid down the door and cried, the realisation of what he must have seen dawning on me. He wouldn't answer me so I went downstairs and put away the video and then put on some clothes.

Steve finally appeared at the door of my room. I had decided that I was going to give him hell but knew I wasn't exactly on safe ground. When he stood there leaning on the door jam all I actually did was blush as I looked up at him. Eventually Steve broke the silence and told me to look on my email. There was something in his voice. With that he went and I could hear him going downstairs.

Numbly I opened my computer and watched as the list of emails appeared. The last one was from Steve. The message simply read - 'open the attachments and come and see me'. I did and couldn't believe what I saw!

They were all photos from downstairs. The first showed me sprawled on the sofa, legs splayed, with my fingers obviously at my cunt, my eyes closed, my gratification obvious. The next were even worse! Bobby was now in the frame. His muzzle was between my legs and although I knew I was trying to push him away it actually looked as though I was holding his head to me! The next one looked as though he was either about to mount me or already had and my mouth was open as I orgasmed. The final one showed my face looking directly at the camera in a state of shock with Bobby still over me. As I looked at them I could feel cold sweat covering my face. I couldn't believe it. It looked really bad. He must think I was twisted or something. It was so awful that he had seen me like this. If anyone else saw these I would die! I'd never be able to face anyone ever again! I didn't even know if I could face Steve. I just didn't know what to do. I sat there in a state of shock and just didn't know what to do. In a daze I turned off the computer and went downstairs.

Steve was in the kitchen sitting drinking coffee at the table.

"Steve that's disgusting I can't believe you did that!" He just sat looking at me and drinking his coffee. "Look it wasn't what it looks like." I was blushing scarlet.

"What does it look like s*s'?"


"I take it you didn't expect me to take the afternoon off as well."

"Steve! You let Bobby out didn't you?"

"Yes, yes I did. You do realise that I could send these to all sorts of people? My friends, your friends, even put them on the web."

"You couldn't! You wouldn't! Steve! You wouldn't do that would you! I wouldn't be able to look at anyone ever again! Steve! Don't, I'll do anything."

"I know you will."

"What do you mean?" I felt a sudden tightening in my stomach. I felt strange.

"It means, s*s', that you are going to be real nice to me from now on. You are going to do all I tell you or you will be seen by lots of people who are shocked."

"I'll be nice to you Steve."

"Yes I know. You can begin now. Suck my cock."

"What! You're my b*****r! I can't do that!"

"Start believing. My prim little s*s is going to be really bad for me!"

I couldn't believe it! It took me a long time to take it in. We sat there in silence as what he was really demanding sink in. What was all too apparent to me was the strange feelings that what he had said had ignited in me. Steve eventually got up and made us both of us a coffee before speaking again. He told me to begin. Tears could be felt in the corner of my eyes. Eventually I realised I had no choice. I got up and stood, then knelt before him. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I'd only done it once before with a boy. Slowly, as if hoping that it would all stop and I'd wake, I began unzipping his trousers. I opened them up and fumbled to get his erect cock out. He was certainly turned on by me, by what he'd seen. The smell of his masculinity hit my nose. This was my b*****r! I held it in my hand tentatively, then moved my hand up and down it. It was certainly not a small one.

"Come on s*s, in your mouth."

I moved forward and kissed the knob. It twitched and I pulled back. He scowled at me and I continued. I licked it once, and then resigning myself to it I carried on, finally taking the end into my mouth. He shuffled a bit in his chair to get comfortable and it went in deeper. His fingers curled into my hair and moved my head up and down. I couldn't take much, only about half of it at the most with my fist around the base but he was obviously enjoying it. It felt so big filling my mouth.

Suddenly he told me to stand and let him see my body. At first I was going to argue but I knew he had seen it before. After a while I struggled out of my jeans ridiculously ensuring that my knickers didn't come down at the same time, before shrugging my T-shirt over my head. Then I had to remove my bra and knickers too. It was really humiliating. He also made me take a swill of my coffee and hold it in my mouth before continuing. The coffee must have heated up my mouth, when I took him inside again he let out a groan. I thought he was going to come then but he didn't. He carried on moving my head up and down on him. It began to be a kind of routine and my mind wandered to the cocks in the video and that I must look like some porn actress kneeling on the floor naked. I was so ashamed but kind of hot too. He passed my coffee to me a couple of times more as I sucked him, so my mouth was hot around him, and though I am ashamed to say so, I got into it as well. I could feel him holding back but then he started coming in my mouth. I couldn't move away, he held me down on him as I felt his spunk spurting out into my mouth. At first I gagged a little and thought he would let me off but he held me there until he was through. I just had to adjust to it and swallow. He tasted kind of salty but it wasn't much like anything other than spunk.

He let me off him and told me to stand up. I had to lick some spunk off my lips and I was still really embarrassed about being naked but he told me off when I tried to cover myself. His cock was still sticking up and it was covered in my saliva. His hand came forward and he touched me, touched my fanny. I jumped back in horror. He sat back and told me to remember I had said I would do anything, and that I had better learn to accept it. Eventually I edged forward and accepted his hand as it cupped my fanny. I wanted to cry.

"Oh, so little s*s is wet!"

"It's from before," I sobbed.

"When you were fucking Bobby?"

"No! You know I didn't! From when..."

"From when you were frigging?"

"Yes." My head lowered as my face heated up again.

'Is that why you're still hot and wet. From half an hour ago?'

'Yes. I don't know. I don't know." When he pushed a couple of fingers inside me I knew I was wet and he began to finger me as I stood before him as though on display. It was incredible! I couldn't be doing this. I couldn't accept this. But I was standing there as he fingered me! Stark naked! I had to sit on his lap. I could feel the wetness of his cock on my leg and his hand on my buttocks. I could see my nipples hard on my breasts. He pushed my thighs apart and felt me again. At least on his lap I could look away.

"It's your turn now s*s". You want to come for me don't you?'

"No!" But even though I didn't want to do this I knew my body seemed to think otherwise as his fingers slowly moved in and out of me. He began to play with my breasts too, my nipples ignoring my anger and embarrassment hardened even more under his wet touch. His fingers rotated between playing with my breasts and playing with my fanny until I was so aroused. My eyes closed to hide me from the humiliation of knowing. I just couldn't help it and finally he f***ed an orgasm from me. I cried out and grabbed his wrist, not certain if I were holding it to me or attempting to remove it, but whatever my hips continued to jerk against him and my orgasm just rolled on and on.

"There, there s*s". I sagged against him, panting, my head on his shoulder. "That's a good girl. I told you that you wanted to come. You must learn to trust my judgement. Now say thank you."

"What! Thank you. What have I thanked you for?" My voice sounded weak even to me.

"For giving you pleasure of course. If you're good you'll get lots of pleasure."

That night in bed I couldn't believe what I'd done. I couldn't see a way out. I just hoped that Steve would see sense and realise we had to stop. Nothing happened the next day and I began to hope, but the evening after I had to use my mouth on him again. This time Dad and Lucy were in the next room! They could have come in at any moment! I baulked at it, trying to make him change his mind, arguing with him. Steve told me that I was a naughty girl who was going back on her word and that he thought he should send one of the pictures as a punishment. I was devastated. I begged him not to, told him I would suck him off and that I promised to be good. At least he didn't make me undress this time when I did it, being naked would have been difficult to explain even if I could get his cock out of my mouth in time. Afterwards he had me admit I had been a bad girl.

"Bad girls are punished."

"No! No! Don't send the pictures, please."

"OK, but you must accept the consequence."


"You must be naked for the first three hours after noon on Saturday."

"But Dad and Lucy!?"

"Dad's going out all day to one of his antique auctions, Lucy will be out all day on a revision course. You'll accept the consequences of not doing as I told you?"


"This will be your last chance you know."

"Yes. Steve, I'll be good I promise."

Did I really have to do what he said? Couldn't I have called his bluff? How could I face all the people that I knew if even one of them had got out? There was nothing I could do! I realised I had to simply do as Steve wanted and hope that he would tire of his game.

On Saturday Dad took Lucy out and returned before departing again. I had slept late and was completing schoolwork at the dinning room table. Of course I remembered but hoped he'd forget. But of course he didn't. A few minutes after noon he wandered in dressed in a pair of shorts and T-shirt and looked at what I was doing. Then he asked me why I was wearing clothes when I had promised him.

"But Steve... Bobby's here." I couldn't think of anything better.

"I don't think Bobby will tell anyone, do you? Besides I'm sure you can behave yourself with Bobby if I'm here." He grinned.

"Steve! That's not fair! You know!"

We seemed to look at each other for a long time, and then I stood up slowly and began the inevitable. It didn't take long, I was wearing shorts and a top. Soon I was standing there without any clothes on, my body on display for him, totally and utterly embarrassed.

I expected to have to suck him off there and then, but he surprised me. He calmly suggested that I get on with my work and went back into the lounge. Thankfully Bobby trotted after him as he always did. It was strange sitting there with no clothes on. The seat of the chair was tickling my lips, my nipples were hardening, I couldn't fully concentrate on my work. After about fifteen minutes he called me through to where he was sitting. He was naked! Sitting on the sofa, watching one of Dads videos. Steve's body was quite good I had to admit, a sudden unwanted thought, and he was slowly rubbing his very hard cock. I trembled when I remembered sucking that cock. I was told to sit next to him and watch the video. I sat on the edge with my knees together and stared at the scene of a woman being fucked from behind. It was either that or look at the real life cock only touching distance away.

"You've a good body s*s". I tried to ignore him. "Yes you have. I didn't fully realise before but I do now. Really good tits and bum, nice legs. You give good head too." I was blushing ridiculously again due to his words. Blushing at his words when I was sitting stark naked with my b*****r!

'Watch the movie s*s. Remember what you did last time you watched one?'

It was so humiliating, I was trembling all over. I looked over at the TV. An ugly man was licking a woman's fanny. It was wet and puffy looking as he pulled her apart and licked over her flesh. She certainly appeared to be enjoying it. He made me play with my tits for him to watch. I swallowed, my mouth dry. Arguing seemed futile. I knew I wasn't going to win. I felt like the slut on the video. My hands found my nipples hard and secretly I felt a shudder run through my nerve systems. I wondered what it felt like to have someone's mouth at my fanny, wondered if it tasted foul. The ugly man seemed happy enough to do it and the woman was beginning to jerk around on the bed. I was squeezing my tits and I sighed. Suddenly remembering where I was and what I was doing. Sitting naked and feeling my tits with my naked b*****r. I looked at him. He was watching me not the screen.

"Now between your legs. Rub your cunt." The harshness of that word not lost on me, even in the circumstances.

"I can't Steve. I just can't."

"I've seen you do it before."

"I didn't know though. I couldn't have done it if I knew. And you're my b*****r."

"I'm beginning to get a little annoyed at your reticence. If you can't be a good girl you might as well go and get dressed. Just know the consequences."

I was beginning to understand what he meant by being a good girl. It meant doing exactly as he ordered. Being a bad girl. Being dirty. Acting like a slut.

'You can't just make me do things, rude things, time after time.'

"Why not?"

"I don't know. You cant. You just cant."

"I can."

He pulled my shoulders back and down until I was laying back in the same position as I had been when he caught me. I was still holding my tits, my hips high at the edge of the sofa. I saw Steve's erection wobble as he moved me. On the screen the ugly man was fucking the young girl now. My legs parted slightly, then more.

"That's right, you're going to do as I tell you. You know the consequences."

I closed my eyes to the young girl writhing in orgasm. My hands slid down my body and reached my mound. I was laying naked in front of my b*****r. The images of the ugly man fucking the young girl cascaded behind my closed eyes. The man became Steve. I became the girl. A shudder ran through me. I had touched myself softly. My body responded with a jerk and a sigh escaped my mouth. I did it again with the same result.

"That's better isn't it?" I knew my b*****r could see this. It began to take on a new significance. It was arousing me. I couldn't escape the fact. I opened my thighs wider, offering him a better view, though my own eyes were still firmly closed. I was wet too, maybe he saw. My fingers began their work on my flesh, scooping all the juices I could get onto my clit. It was so embarrassing and yet so exciting. Teasing my clit, going round and round, my body beginning to really respond to this ludicrous situation. It was exciting doing this for Steve to watch, Steve my b*****r. It was so wicked.

"That's a good little girl. Get all wet for me. Get that little cunt of yours wet s*s. Think of your b*****r's cock." His rude words, the words of my audience pushing me further. The hand at my breast now squeezing my nipple hard. My pussy and nipples seemed connected. Somehow I was getting near to coming I realised. Whimpers were coming from my mouth. I could visualise his hard cock. It looked so big and vibrant. He was watching me frig myself! I was such a slut! He was right, I was such a slut! I was doing it for him! I was pushing up desperately now, up to my fingers, up to his eyes. I wanted to wee, I wanted to come. I wanted to come for my b*****r to see!

My body suddenly went rigid, time and motion ceased for a moment. Then crying out as the fireworks exploded and I felt my head thrashing from side to side totally out of my control. I heard noises, suddenly panicking until I realised that they were mine, me grunting like an a****l. Steve was holding his hard cock next to me. His body naked. I was naked. Waves crashed through me, tossing me around wildly. I felt hands pulling me. I didn't want to move but couldn't resist. My body was moved, I felt the warmth of his skin, his body. Lifted over his thighs with my legs spread I opened my eyes looking at him. I was so hot and throbbing. I couldn't stop shaking as I squatted obscenely over him. My hand was moved, to his cock. It was so hot, burning my hand, my mind not focusing properly. I clasped it and he moved my body down. I was holding it up, toward me, toward my pussy as it throbbed between my legs. I felt his hardness at my pussy.

"Steve we can't do this! We can't! I'm a virgin! You're my b*****r!" My body refused to accept what I was saying, I continued to rub the head of his cock over my pussy lips, I even moved so I was kneeling over him more. "Steve please!" I began to cry. Tears welled in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks but still I rubbed him over my wetness. Suddenly his cock was just inside me! I knelt still as I felt the stretching of my entrance, felt him just inside. "Steve!" I cried out as I lowered myself onto him further. Oh the stretching of my pussy! He was taking as little notice of my words as my body was. He held my hips and pulled me further onto him. My breathing almost ceased, just shallow gasps came as I began to feel the stretching and fullness of another persons body intruding within mine. My b*****rs cock! It filled me like nothing I'd ever known. Suddenly pain hit me, stabbing, tearing inside, but was gone in seconds as he slid fully into my tight sheath, stretching me almost unbearably. Oh god it was so good to be full of him! I pressed further wanting all of him, until I could feel our mounds rubbing against each other. Hands took my breasts, squeezing and exploring. They explored further, coming back to my breasts each time as I knelt caught on his flesh like a butterfly on a pin unable and unwilling to move. I began to feel him move in and out of me slightly, my juices lubricating him. In and out with movements of his hips which mine echoed naturally in this unnatural union. I lowered my hands to my stomach and pressed in. I could feel him inside me! His cock pressing against my insides, pressing against the top of my vagina.

"Now come on s*s, do some work, fuck me now, fuck your b*****r well." I began to slide up and down him loving every movement. I was really wet now but still stretched around him tightly. I leant forward and braced myself on his shoulders as I moved now. I needed it now. Once at the top of my movement up his cock I overestimated my control and he slipped out. I could hear the flesh spring wetly against his stomach as a feeling of pure emptiness took me. I grabbed it quickly and returned it into me without the need to be told. My fingers were covered in my juices where I had touched him. I carried on with desperation gripping me. He took my head and pulled it forward and kissed me. My b*****r kissing me in ways he shouldn't as he fucked me! His tongue took my mouth, his cock in me as I frantically pumped myself up and down him..

My previous orgasm was still echoing around as a new one made itself evident in me. I heard myself whimpering when my mouth was released for seconds. I was being fucked. My b*****r! I was going to come with cock for the first time. His body felt good against me, so hot and hard. I ground my groin down hard onto him. It was coming, so near. A precipice. So ready to fall over. Then it hit me. My body feeling as though it would never move again, then the frantic movements almost fit like, jerking desperately as my body was overcome with electricity. I flailed around, vaguely aware that his hands held me in place, helping me. His movements too becoming totally a****l like as we bucked together, fucking unrestrained. He must have come too, though I couldn't tell. When I became aware, my pussy was awash with sticky liquids. I lay on him as we both gradually calmed. It was amazing, but it had been my b*****r.

Steve seemed to get over it far quicker than me, within minutes he had rolled me off him and gone to shower. I needed a cuddle. Eventually I needed to rouse myself and wipe myself before it all leaked onto the sofa. I went upstairs feeling a little sore and lay down on my bed. Thinking about what had happened was difficult, I couldn't cope and eventually I fell asl**p, still naked, on top of the covers.

I don't know how long I had slept but I woke gradually becoming aware that Steve was with me and playing with my breasts. I tried to stop him but, as before my body did not respond to the words I said to him any better than he did. Soon his hands had wandered all over me, especially exploring in my wet liquid filled pussy. Arousal filled me again regardless of my soreness at being taken for the first time not long before. He turned me over and positioned me on my hands and knees as I groaned at his ministrations.

"You must realise little s****r that you are my fuck toy now. You have to understand that you are to be available for me. Not only that you must make sure that you make that you are available for me whenever I choose. We are going to fuck a lot, me and you. You had better learn how to please me. Then you will enjoy our little i****t games much more because I'll consider pleasing you more too."

All the time his hands played me like a violin, arousing me to new height, leaving me incapable of disagreement even though the words sank slowly in. His shorts and top were quickly discarded while I waited in position and he climbed on the bed behind me. His hands took my hips and he opened me in the most disgusting manner before he again sunk into me. In fact I realised that in this position he seemed to be further inside me than before. I felt like I was some a****l to be rutted, some a****l being rutted. My face was in the covers, my breasts rubbing the covers, yet my hips were thrust up wantonly to him as he plundered my cunt again.

All the time he kept up a litany of dirty obscene words, describing me, what I was doing, what I looked like, what he was going to make me do. His cock ploughed into me savagely. Yet I was unable to hide from the fact that whatever crude words he used , however harshly he used me I could not stop from getting more and more excited by it all. Just before we both orgasmed again he had me repeating over and over to him, 'I am your fuck toy, I am my b*****rs fuck toy' , until we both came yet again and with the orgasm the words seemed to be imprinted onto my mind. After he had finished I had to clean his cock with my mouth, kneeling between his legs and sucking off our combined juices from his still hard cock. My own liquids and his. As I took him in my mouth his spunk dribbled obscenely down my thighs making me feel so obviously a thing to be used.

In the coming days that feeling became much stronger. My period started a day after so at least I wasn't pregnant but Steve sent me down to the health centre to fix myself up with birth control pills and condoms for the period until they were effective. Even during my period I was required to use my mouth on him and to be touched whenever and wherever he felt like it.

The second occasion he fucked me was when I was babysitting. He came round, after the c***dren had gone to sl**p, totally unexpectedly. When I answered the door to him he took me into his arms and whilst kissing pushed his hand down the inside of my joggers.

"Please Steve not here." I was afraid the c***dren would see us in the hallway from the stairs. Then it suddenly hit me I wasn't asking him to not do it but it was simply a matter of geography. He pushed me into the living room and continued and thoughts of this type simply disappeared as his fingers opened me and I became quickly receptive both physically and mentally. He stripped me and took me on my knees again on the floor, I was soon to learn that this was his favoured position. I didn't have the pain of losing my virginity this time and he f***ed me into accepting the pleasure that soon built up inside me. Two full orgasms hit me as he used me. After his cock had opened and stretched me to accommodate him deep inside my body he began a slow rhythmic thrusting alternated with a teasing of me by only moving a fraction inside my pussy. It drove me to distraction. It f***ed me to beg him to finish me off. It was so humiliating.

He would use me about twice a week. There was no routine though, I was always on edge waiting or surprised at his sudden demands. He would always refer to me as s*s, his fuck toy, his bitch on heat or some such name when we were alone, never use my name. It made me ashamed yet strangely hot. Initially I fought my position but gradually I came to accept it in a strange way, and though I would never admit it to him there were many times I began to look forward to the times he used me like this. He was, after all, giving me regular sexual fulfilment even though it was a type that I knew to be wrong. However he must have noticed the change. At times he would even gently tease me about my eagerness which I found embarrassing but was unable to disagree with him. Inside, I am ashamed to note, I realised my ready acceptance. The threat of exposure that he threatened me with the first time disappeared. He must have been aware it wasn't necessary.

In fact, I made little objection when he wished to add to his collection of photographs of me and on a couple of the many times I was told to masturbate for him he took the most disgustingly erotic pictures. These he too posted to my email address but they did not have the same effect on me as the first. The sight of me submitting to his wishes, the recollection of him fucking me afterwards simply made me horny again. Being fucked like a slut was bad enough but knowing I was being fucked by my b*****r made it really wrong. However I found that this feeling of being a wicked girl added immensely to my excitement. I also enjoyed the fact that he didn't use a contraceptive now, relying on the pill which was now working. I could feel him better and it gave him a greater freedom to use me in unexpected situations.

The one thing that always worried me was being found out by Lucy or Dad. I also became quite jealous of the time that Steve spent with Lucy. I hadn't noticed before how much time he spent with her. Now there were many times when I was feeling horny when he appeared to be unaware and spent time with Dad or his youngest s****r. Still I was never left frustrated for long. He fucked me at home, in his car, even outside in the countryside. I liked it outside, it was even more wicked of me. We even did it in his bed when Lucy and Dad were asl**p.

One afternoon he made me bunk school again. He picked me up from home. He had told me to change into a skirt and wear no underwear. I knew he would fuck me. I was even eager. We drove into the countryside and parked by a wood. We took a path and soon the sounds of town life receded and the outside world seemed unreal. My breasts bounced slightly as we walked, my nipples rubbing against my top. I felt the air wafting against my damp lips. After a while he took something from his pocket. It was like one of those eye covers that you get on planes when you want to sl**p. He made me put it on. It was tight the elastic strong around me, I could see nothing. This was new. I felt a little panicky but he was resolute and then calmed me. The feeling of helplessness overcoming me. Strangely with Steve there it made me hot. I felt him lead me by the arm. It was strange, other people could theoretically come on the path and see me without me being aware.

I felt the floor change in a little while from hard soil to soft grass underfoot. I felt the sun on me again.

"We're in a clearing. Strip."

"Steve, please."

"Please what?"

"Can I remove the blindfold?"


"I feel scared."


"It don't know." I admitted. I began to undress. It didn't take long wearing so little. The grass felt good between my toes. His hands played with my breasts then over my stomach and down. My mouth opened a closed a few times in response to his touch, I trembled and I moved my thighs apart a little.

"Eager little slut now aren't you s*s?"

"Yes. Yes." I was. God I was.

His fingers found my wetness and he laughed. His fingers took me, inside and out. I was so easily subdued by them, his fingers, his use of me. I knew I was a slut. I knew it and didn't care. I imagined others watching, others seeing me being so sluttish. See my naked body, my excitement on view obviously. I liked the idea, it excited me. His fingers on and in me had me bucking before he stopped.


"No I want to watch you."

I'd done it often by then. I even enjoyed his enjoyment of my acting obscenely for him, in front of my fantasy audience as well. I did what he wanted. I fingered my cunt openly for him as I stood not being able to see. I wanted to see his cock. Before I could cum I was told to get into position. I knew without being told what position. I wasn't f***ed into it any more. I wanted my b*****r to fuck me. I knelt for him, pushing up obscenely, the sun hot on my flesh, my flesh hot for him.

I heard him move and undress. Juices dribbled from me I was sure. His hands on me, on my back, splaying my hips even more. His cock felt even bigger as it stretched me. Oh I loved it. I loved the feeling of his long cock invading and possessing my body. He took me. God it was good. His cock so hard. So demanding of my body yet so giving in its pleasure. My breasts rubbed over the grass as I began to lose control, my fingers clasping the warm damp of the grass. His cock hard and using me, so big inside me. Oh God. I cried out. Everything overtaking me. Whimpering into the grass, thrashing around impaled on him. On my b*****rs cock. Such a wonderful cock. Grunting another climax hit me before making me jerk again. I was simply full of cock. Simply a receptacle for his cock.

I felt myself suddenly warm and fill inside with his cum. I was half sobbing with pleasure. The blindfold came off. Light hit my eyes even through my eyelids. Eventually I could open them. Steve was in front of me. But I was still full of cock!! I cried out, my eyes wide in shock. "Steve!" I pulled forward off the still hard flesh and liquids spewed from me. I looked around frantic.

"Daddy!"... Continue»
Posted by landjintucson 16 days ago  |  Categories: First Time, Taboo  |  Views: 10256  |  
  |  3

Please - Don't Make Me Do It


Carol was alternating between despair and furious anger. After 30 years of marriage. How could he, the absolute mean-hearted, two timing, treacherous devious bastard how could he?

She had been aged 22 years and freshly out of University when she met him. She quickly fell in love and he equally quickly bedded and wedded her. Now she was 52 and he was the only man she had ‘known’ since that time. Oh yes, of course there had been clumsy fumblings as a young teenager, and somewhat unsophisticated and uncomfortably messy sex at University…after all ‘everybody did it’. But Bernard had taught her the true pleasure of giving herself without reservation or embarrassment, submissively and in total trust to his every need. He had demanded and she had surrendered, gifting all that she possessed, all of her ‘self’, body and soul, to please him. And he had brought her to pinnacles of ecstasy she had never previously known or thought could exist. Her wailing sobbing fulfillment had matched his own urgent calling, crying, throbbing, pulsing end to their passion.

The years passed, the frantic searching, each of the other lessened in its intensity. Now 30 years on it was their wedding anniversary. After 30 years - a very special anniversary she thought.

A week ago as Bernard had made no mention of any special evening, she had mentally prepared for a memorable meal at home, hopefully to be followed by a return to their former passionate loving. That evening she had laid the table carefully. The silverware polished, candles in their holders, flowers from the garden as a table centrepiece. A dozen oysters on ice in the ‘frig (his favourite starter), succulent veal strips with a little fragrant basmati rice for her to rapidly yet tenderly cook in a cream sauce as he finished his oysters and sipped his Muscadet wine. Afterwards, a crème Brûlé, Armagnac , coffee. And then, bed. Or hanging from the ceiling if he wanted her like that !!

All preparations made, she showered, sparingly used her favourite L’Air du Temps talc and cologne (and just a little touch in her pubic hair – and why not – at the base of her spine too).

Her mind drifted back to her first true intimacy with him, the time he had shown her that his needs were sudden and f***eful. The time that she had become his nervously willing and submissive girl. They had dated twice before and when he had kissed her good night she had felt the maleness of him as he held her closely in his arms.

That evening they had gone to a disco and she had dressed in yellow, her mini skirt cut two inches above her knee softly hugging her hips. Her top had been a boob tube, nothing beneath, helping keep her cool during the heat of a summer evening. As she twisted and turned to the music the full skirt flared just below her hips revealing the white lace of her brief panties. After a while he led her outside.

In a dark corner of the building he had pulled her to him and his pressure was again instantly there. They kissed and she had felt his hands gentling her, smoothing her back, her hips, sides, his thumbs just nudging the side of her breasts. As she reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck he put his hands on her firm rounded cheeks and pulled her to him. She felt his need for her prodding against her tummy. One of his hands cupped her breast and she let it explore the outside of her, tingling at his touch and then he was pushing the material higher, revealing her firm uplifted breasts with her nipples straining to reach him. There was a searing flash between her legs as he rubbed his thumb over her and his other hand lifted the hem of her mini dress. She tried to pull his hand away as he let it slide up her thigh, over her silken inner skin but he took both of her hands and held them high above her head, gripped tightly in one of his.

“Don’t move” he whispered “just stand like this.”

“No, no Bern , please don’t, someone might come, someone might SEE” she said urgently.

“Carol will you just do as I tell you. Now STAND STILL and don’t take your arms down. I’m going to let go of your wrists but DON’T take you arms down. Do you understand?

“Please don’t, not here. Please Bern let me go.”

“For the last time Carol, stand quite still with your arms up or I’ll take you into the middle of the car park and do it there where anybody can see.”

Scared at his strength and the threat of being exposed to any couple who came out for a cuddle, she closed her eyes in silent submission. The grip on her wrists relaxed and he cautiously released her. She stood as he had demanded, her back to the wall, the covering of her breasts pulled high, her breasts now naked to the night air and her arms raised above her head. She again felt him lifting the hem of her mini dress, his fingers drifting higher and then the electrifying touch of his finger in the gap between her legs. He slipped his finger under the edge of her panties and she felt the cool kiss of night on her lower lips. The back of his fingers had brushed her pubic hair then turned to feel along her slit. He grabbed the gusset of her panties and pulled down to give himself more room to feel her hidden womanhood. His hand was inside her panties, feeling her hairs, her slit, and the wetness running from her. His middle finger discovered her hole and pushed for entrance. She whimpered as her tight muscle tried to deny him but his skilled finger probed and circled and finally pushed again, her body yielded and she felt the tip of him inside her.

“ Bern , please don’t, please stop, its hurting me. Pleeaaase no not here” she whimpered.

“Open wider. Spread for me. DO IT NOW” he commanded.

Her mind whirling she felt her feet move apart, opening for him as he had demanded. His hands moved to the waistband and she felt him tugging, felt her panties begin to slip down and over her hips. Her tiny protection was slipping down her legs leaving her helplessly exposed to him. He pulled them down to her knees

“Now take them off. DO IT CAROL just DO IT.”

She stepped out of her shoes and obediently reached down and slid them over her feet. His fingers had fumbled with the catch at the waist of her skirt. She felt it loosen around her and as he released her zipper, it tumbled down her legs to lie puddled at her feet. His hands grabbed the boob tube and pulled it over her head, discarding it with her skirt. She was now totally naked in the night air. She stood before him, one hand covering her pubic hair and the other arm across her nipples shielding the nakedness of her heaving breasts.

“Put you arms over you head and open your legs” he ordered her.

“No, Bern please don’t make me do this. Somebody will see me” she pleaded.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the darkness of the corner. She saw a couple walking to their car and he dragged her towards them.

“NO BERN NO, please, please NO” she whispered “Don’t let them see me like this.”

He pushed her back into the corner.

“Right, arms over your head and legs spread wide for me.”

She mutely raised her arms and spread her legs. He was fumbling at the front of his trousers and she heard the sound of his zipper. She couldn’t help looking down as he opened himself, reached inside and pulled out his rampant cock. He held it in his hand, massaging its length, preparing it for her. He looked at her and saw the pale ivory body before him with its patch of dark pubic hair, her breasts proudly lifting as she nervously panted. Her nipples were hard, pointing, a deep bl**d red in the moonlight. He stepped closer and she felt the roughness of his cotton shirt pressing against the soft skin of her naked breasts. His hand cupped a breast, the other holding his cock and nudging the end of it between her open thighs. He stooped slightly and rubbed the blunt knob end on her clit and she jerked and whimpered at the erotic touch. He coated his cock with her juices, flowing heavily into her slit.

“Good girl, Carol. Good girl. Good girl” he crooned. “Now take ONE hand down and open your cunt with your fingers. I’m going to fuck you.”

Now totally and submissively under his control, she reached down and as she slipped her hand between her legs she felt the hard silky cock that was going to penetrate her. Her finger found her hole and slipped inside. She stretched herself and inserted a second.

“That’s it. That’s a GOOD girl. Are you ready for me now Carol? Do you want my cock in you? Do you want me to fuck you?”

She moaned and pumped with her fingers inside herself.

“Carol you must answer me. Are you ready for me? Do you want my cock to fuck you?”

Her reply was a strangled “Yes.” He told her to hold his cock in her hand and as he lifted her, to put it against her hole. As he lowered her gently she felt it penetrate her, possess her and as he began to pump inside she responded and began to grind her clit against his pubic bone.

“Is this good, Carol. Do you like it?”

“Oh god, oh god do it to me. Give it to me. Don’t talk just do me” she begged.

She emerged from her reverie, conscious that her breasts were now tight with the anticipation of the evening, her pussy already moist and impatient for his homecoming.
... Continue»
Posted by adel5000 3 years ago  |  Categories: Mature  |  Views: 1368  |  
  |  4

husband made me expose myself to others

While my husband was at a conference in southern california I had several adventures at the nude beach. I went with him as I wrote in my blog and stoires and then went with girl friend Jen. We met the waiters from the night before and had quite a time....first time in a long time I had been so close to another cock and actually held and stroked it and he came on me on the beach. We were at an uncrowded part of the beach and it was the most exciting experience I had had in a long time. Strange cock in my hand and mouth..and cum all over my tits public too.

Jen and I told our husbands about returning to the beach but left out the part about one of the waiters cumming all over me. But I think he suspected something because that night I was a wild women...I was so hot I came so hard and strong that he knew I was thinking about something other than his cock....He made me tell him about the waiter and that I took his cock in my mouth on a beach....even though I think we were far enough away to not be noticed. He told me because I had been a bad girl he was going to make me do something.

The next day he had a break in the afternoon in the schedule and he told me we were going back to the nude beach. He told me not to even wear my bikini, just a cover up. The cover up was patterned but you could kind of see thru it in the light. He made me wear it from the hotel room and thru the lobby. My 34B tits wiggled under the material and in the light you could see through it. Several men did double takes as I passed. The experience actually got me moist and hot. I could feel my labia swelling and even a little droplet of juice run down my leg as we went to the car for the drive to the beach..When we got in the car he made me pull my dress up to my waist and ride to the beach naked from the waist down and unbutton the top. He told me if I wanted to be a slut he would help me. He was not mean about it and we laughed as we had introduced some excitement in our sex life.

We went down to the beach and carried towels and chairs. On the way down the beach he told me he wanted me to sit by myself and he would sit a little bit away from me. He said take your iPhone and I will message youwhat to do. I thought we were going to be together but he told me it would be better if I were alone. He told me to stop and remove my cover up....I was now naked on the beach but not too close to others. He took my dress and told me to walk closer to where about 30 others were and pick a spot near them. He told me to take my phone and turn on the messages and he would tell me what to do. So I walked totally nude just with a towel and chair until his message said stop, spread out towel and lay on your back. I did so with several couples nearby...the women were topless and there were several groups of 1 or 2 men near...they were mainly nude. Some were young from the college and several older single men. There were younger college women but they were primarly just topless not nude. So for the moment I was the only totally nude woman on the beach. My husband sat about 30 feet away from me. He texted me to lay down on my back.

After about 15 minutes others starting came to the beach and I felt not too exposed laying on the towel but some single men and a group of college boys laid down their towels nearby. Several couples came and two other women slightly older stripped nude. My body was definitely better than theirs as I had a flat tummy and had just shaved smooth my pussy. I felt relaxed and wonder what my husband had in mind. Soon he texted me and told me to stand up....put lotion on my body...rub it on my tits and walk over to the young men nearby and ask them to apply it to my back.
I had no choice so I approached the 3 young college age boys who were definitely watching me approach and asked the cutest one if he minded applying lotion to my back. Of course he said yes and stood up.....he was naked and tanned and in good shape. His cock was average and flacid but as he stood by me and sprayed my back his cock slightly began to grow more erect. I had my phone in my hand and my husband said to turn toward the young man and ask him to spray my neck and shoulders on the he did his hand rubbing in the lotion on the top of my tits and my nipples got erect..i looked down and his cock was growing but not yet fully erect. Another said to thank him and go back to my towel...I smiled at the boys and said thanks....I have to make a phone call. I went back to my towel only about 20 feet away and called my husband . He told me he wanted me to walk to the water go up to my knees and walk down the beach a little. I felt vulnerable doing that alone but he told me unless i did it he would leave with my dress. I felt a tingle at the thought of being alone, and naked but knew he was bluffing. After having the boy rub me with lotion and seeing others on the beach watch it I was not hot, wet and breathing hard...and a trip to the water would be nice.

I passed several groups of men and couples as I walked to the water. The water felt good and I liked showing off a was exciting to be watched by others. By now the beach was more crowded and more people were coming. Some were just looking and other walking to thier spots on the as I walked I was the only one naked...I was excited at the attention I got...much more than if I had been with my husband. As I walked several men followed from a distance and as I turned I know they wanted to see me approach...I slowed down and pretended to be looking at something so they could get a good look as my husband had directed me to do. My pussy throbbed as it swelled up and got even more wet. My husband walked down to the water but since he was sitting away from me no one knew we were together. He walked up to me and told me to squat down as he stood there... I was eye level with his growing cock..and he moved close to my face with it. He asked me if I wanted it...I did I told him but that was impossible in this public place...he then told me to go back to my towel ..lay on my back in the direction of the 3 college boys and instead of being flat...bend my knees and put my feet apart. That would totally expose my pussy. He told me to even drop one knee and let my lips be even more exposed.

I walked past the college boys and they watched my every move...I did as my husband said and he sent me a text that said the boys were very attentive to me. He said others were watching on the beach and indeed several single men moved their towels close to my position. As I laid there I was totally exposed...not doubt that my pussy was exposed and swollen. I could see others walk by close and pause and look at they did I even reached down and touched my pussy and even inserted a finger to open up the lips for someone to see. After a while my husband told me on the text to turn over...and as I did to pretend to straighen out my towel...on my knees spread apart and but up in the air. This totally exposed by pussy to several men nearby, who had moved in close to me. Two of the men got brave and walked over to me. The squatted down as I lay on my I looked up I was looking at their cocks.....they asked me if I wanted company...and I told them okay. I turned over and sat in my I did my phone rang...and my husband told me to let them sit and make sure I faced them and spread my legs. So I did.

The men sat down..and I did as my husband told me...I kept my legs open and enjoyed having them look at my pussy and I even casually rubbed more lotion on my belly and let my hand go down to my pussy. As they talked I even put a finger in my pussy and spread my lips....I looked at them as I did it and then looked down at thier rising cocks...Ah I told them I see you like what you see....the laughed and told me of course you have a nice pussy...I asked them to spray my back..he stood and as he did his cock was now almost fully erect..he appoligized but I told me I liked it, especially since it was uncut and I liked to see the wet glistening head come out. He stood as I sat...his cock right at my face....while others on the beach watched I reached up and stoked his cock and precum moistened my hand and then like liked my fingers........ Continue»
Posted by missjill 5 months ago  |  Categories: Mature, Voyeur  |  Views: 4859  |  
  |  13

she made me do it..

after Donna's work trip away i told her what i did but she knew any way cos she had already arranged for Jack to come was her gift to Jack for his b*****r H her black friend who fucks her when he wants or she wants..

at the weekend Donna said we needed a night out to let our hair down and have some fun,that sounds good we could do with just us going out..
Donna went out shopping on the morning whilst i cleaned our cars and then did some repair work in the house,Donna came in laughing and said wait till tonight you will love what i've bought you.
show me now you can't say that without showing me..No you will have to wait..

tea time came and it was time to get showered and get my clothes together to see what i should wear,i put out a nice pair of trousers and my new Ralph Polo t'shirt,Donna walked in and said you can put them away i have something new for you i told you earlier..
she pulled out the bag a mini skirt and some skin coloured tights a white shirt and a padded bra with some false tits what women wear to enlarge there small tits and a pair of heels. i said what the fuck is that you got no chance i,m wearing that,come on love for a laugh we can have some great fun with it.

Donna was so up for it so to keep her happy i said i would see what its like,i got out the shower and it was all laid out ready for me she said whilst i get showered try it on and i will do some adjustments when i get out,i put it all on she had even got a long blonde wig for me to wear,Donna walked out and seen me she said bl**dy hell you look awesome some make up nobody would know.

so with me all put together and Donna ready we headed out,the taxi came for us and he said where to ladies we both just pissed ourselves laughing,in to town the town there is a bar where we know some black guys drink and are always on the look out for white women. Donna said sit there i will go to the bar don't talk to anybody if they speak to you improvise..
Donna was at the bar and i could see that 4 big black lads were looking at her Donna had a low cut top on with her big tits showing and her mini skirt on showing her chunky calf's and thighs.
you could see the lads pointing then one of them pointed over to me and you could see he said she's with her over there, i was bricking it..Donna came back and said did you see them looking.
yes i did and they pointed over here,one of them walked over and said are you ladies with somebody or waiting for somebody if not could we sit down and have a drink with you's..

Yes come over we are alone just out for some fun. he waved his mates over and this was the hard part how do i talk in a woman's voice,Donna said i looked like one but could i now sound like one.
they sat down introduced them selves,Terry,Dave,Sam and Robbo. well i am Donna and this is Paula she has a sore throat so excuse her she has been really bad with it..good get out Donna.

we sat and talked Donna did most of the talking but you know when people look at you and think why are they looking me up and down,they were really looking me up and down.
Donna said would they like to come back to ours for a drink as we were going home,the lads straight away said yes they must have thought we are in here. i was shitting it,Donna lets go to the toilet first,what the fuck if we get back and they don't like the idea that i,m a bloke and they think we took the piss i could get a good kicking..No it will be OK i will tell them its just our way of fun and i will let all 4 of them just fuck me and you can watch but we could fall in lucky and they could fuck us both,lets play along till the shit hits the fan..OK

so we get home and we are sat talking for a bit when Donna disappears up stairs and comes down in her see through sexy gear,would anybody like a drink hot or cold,we have shorts larger beer cider you name it we have it,she is stood in the kitchen when Robbo get up and walks over to Donna he places his hand on her arse and ask if this is on the menu,if you want it to be on the menu you can have that as well,he slides his hand under short night wear and starts to rub her arse then the other hand is rubbing her tit whilst he's kissing her neck,Terry walks over and he starts to feel the other tit and his other hand went straight for her pussy,i just sat watching Donna getting rubbed up and i could feel the eyes of Sam and Dave looking at me,out the corner of my eye i seen one of them stand up and i went straight into the kitchen,Donna can i speak to you please.

we walked off and i told her its got to stop this could turn ugly. so Donna came out and said look lads this is what's going down Paula is my Husband and we go out looking for black men to fuck us but if this is not what you are in to that's fine i can just have fun with you's but look at what you could be getting,you could be fucking me and Paula?? its only a hole..

they all stood looking and one said we suspected something cos Paula sounded like a bloke and sort off looked like a bloke but as you said we are here and we want to play. Donna said well lets take it upstairs to our bedroom.
Donna stripped off letting loose her big tits and chunky body she loved showing it off,yes she is a big girl but sexy with it and her pussy and arse hole are tight.
well who want's me first,she laid out on the bed like a star fish,as i stood there waiting to see what happens. Robbo really liked Donna you could tell he went straight in on the freshly shaven pussy,he was eating her out while Terry stripped and released his huge black cock straight in to her mouth,Dave looked at me and said come here on your knees and suck this,he undid his jeans and his black cock was slack but bigger than mine on the hard,i took it in to my hand and i started to suck him off,Sam was also stripped naked now he stood over me wanting his cock sucked,i took his in my hand and started to wank him hard,i was swapping cock to cock both in licking balls and poking there little tight arse holes,they seemed to like what i was doing,now they were both rock hard Sam had a 9 inch cock it was a nice size but Dave's was 10/10 and a half and really fat.

Dave grabbed me and placed me on the bed next to Donna he pulled my skirt up and tights just showing my arse hole and he placed 2 fingers in me and started to finger fuck me dry,i was looking at Donna we were head to head she said Terry's cock was huge and she was loving him being inside her whilst i could see Robbo's cock it was in her hand wanking him and it looked a decent size to.
i told Dave that the lube was in the top draw for when he was ready.

Sam passed him the lube and he fingered it in to me and put it all over his cock ready for the fucking i was about to get,i felt his head enter me and it was tight his cock was far to fat for me but he kept pushing i must have been fighting it cos it would not go in,so Sam said let me stretch it for you mate,so Sam placed his 9 incher in me and that slid in,he started slow and then he went ball deep he was on a mission my legs were tight together cos of the tights but straight up and he was just hitting me hard,take them off he said and bend over doggy.

so i took my tights off but he wanted the skirt left on,he lifted the skirt and he entered me again,he lent right over me with his chest on my back and he banged me hard,my cock was flapping about all over then he pulled me right in and said i have filled her up for you Dave she shout be stretched and wet now,Dave was semi hard cos he had just been watching he tried to put it in but it was to soft so i took him in my mouth and i sucked him off whilst fingering his arse hole,he really liked it cos as soon as i fingered him he started to get hard,so said to him you would love the feeling of a big black cock up there??

now he was hard and Sam's cum was still inside me so it would make it nice and easy for him to slide his huge fat cock in me,Donna said you will love that one Darl inside you its fat as..
Dave slid it all the way down me it felt like it was in my stomach he was so deep and had stretched me wide,Donna had Terry in her arse and Robbo in her pussy they were rocking her world she was loving it,she said i told you it would be a fun weekend..

Dave had me on my knees with my arse right in the air but he wanted me on my back so laid ther for him and he slid his cock in me again but this time he started to wank me whilst fucking me,he said he liked my cock and he wanted to make me cum.Dave was fucking me really deep and hard whilst wanking me,my cock was now so hard i loved him wanking me its the first time i have been wanked by a man and i told him i was ready to cum he started to fuck me harder and wank harder at the same time just as i was cumming he pushed deeper inside me and he must have cum a pint inside me i could feel it,it was like a jet,he pulled out and he rubbed his cock all over my cum and he then sat on my chest and made me clean him down,whilst he was sat on my chest i felt my legs go in the air again it was Sam again he was that hard after watching us he wanted another go.

Donna was just about finished also Robbo had cum inside her and Terry was just about ready he said to fill her arse up,Donna said wait Terry go over and fill Paula up with it,so Sam pulled out and Terry fucked me until he shot his load in me then Sam jumped straight back in and he had a little load also,my hole was dripping cum,Donna said bring it over here and pour it on to my pussy then clean and suck me dry,i dripped all the cum over her pussy and i licked her out and sucked her dry.

the lads stood and watched us they loved the show we put on for them,they asked if we could wait for an hour down stairs have a drink and go again but this time swap it all around..well we said we only live once and it is the weekend so why not,,the fun started all over again and we had an all nighter..
... Continue»
Posted by naughtydarksecret 8 months ago  |  Categories: Anal, Group Sex, Interracial Sex  |  Views: 1017  |  

27 Minutes

July 2014

In all my travels, the Paris Metro is one of my favourite transport systems. Whether whizzing across to breathtaking views of La Tour Eiffel or hopping up to Anvers to marvel at the gleaming Sacré Cœur and bustling artists of Place du Tertre, it's an essential piece of kit to explore what is arguably the most romantic European city.

To plan a Metro journey -- just like most other underground systems -- the rule of thumb is to allow roughly three minutes per stop. While transit time between stations is only about a minute, the remainder comprises stopping; starting; doors releasing; people crushing on and off; and walking to and from trains.

Such ready-reckoning is founded on averages and I know enough basic statistics to understand this can vary at different times of day -- rush hour being one of them. And, although not an accurate measurement, perception is another factor that alters journey time; usually proportional to how important the meeting is and how late I'm running.

The extrapolated time period of this particular journey, however, was due to an external agent: my fiancé Adam. Nine little stations, start to finish. Funny how twenty-seven minutes can feel like a lifetime in the wrong hands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To be fair to Adam, it wasn't entirely his fault. I can hold up my hand and claim fifty percent responsibility. Well, maybe forty.

It had started on the Eurostar that morning as we looked forward to a relaxing few days together. After a bit of wrangling we'd managed to align our leave at short notice and secured a last minute train-plus-hotel deal. Nothing fancy, just a much needed break from the windowless office and smell of printer toner.

Huddled in a pair of seats that evidently had legroom designed by someone shorter than me, I watched the early morning sun streaming in from the opposite window as it flickered across Adam's face while he read. His eyes scanned quickly and the pages turned as he absorbed the latest Jack Reacher escapade. From experience I knew there was precious little chance of drawing Adam's focus away from one of those stories once he got stuck in, so I just continued my contemplative observations, appeasing the anthropologist in me.

The carriage was a comfortable, constant temperature but by all accounts it was going to be a hot day in the capital, so we'd dressed accordingly. Adam was in his customary T-shirt and baggy shorts sporting more pockets than strictly necessary. With Vans, shades and Lego Darth Vader cap rounding off the apparel he resembled some kind of skateboardesque, comic-con reject, though the nerd factor was lessened with a large side order of cute. The impish grin he had flashed at me as we were queuing to board -- a grin that ended in tiny dimples by prominent cheekbones -- always finished the package for me. Such spark, such lust for life. It was infectious and still made me all melty inside when our eyes met.

I'd similarly kitted out for summer, but with a cheeky twist. A fairly low-cut, pastel blue halterneck top and matching bra allowed my long, dark plait to swish behind me -- Lara Croft style -- while a miniskirt and strappy sandal with a sizeable heel gave my legs a chance to breathe, bringing me up to Adam's height. Partway between chic and à la mode, with a dash of ooh-la-la, I certainly felt fabulous and powerful. Dressing up in gorgeous clothes always excited me, and the fairy dust that only the Parisian air could sprinkle was sure to magnify this fervour.

My percentage of blame stemmed from the fact I'd deliberately chosen the outfit to give Adam something to lust over: in a city full of beautiful, tanned foreigners, I wanted his attention to remain squarely on me. Insecure? Probably just a little. After all, I'm not classically pretty and in truth somewhat ungainly, with a tiny extra bit of belly of which I'm not proud. Plus, at the back of my mind was the thought of how many more years I could get away with such an outfit in public, so I was determined to make the most of what assets I had while I still had them in some kind of presentable package.

As large agricultural expanses of French countryside whipped past en route to Gare du Nord, I concluded my clothing was making the correct impression. On more than one occasion I caught sight of his shorts bulging as he glanced away from his book and flicked his eyes up and down my body, pretending not to be checking me out. Victory! Me 1; Lee c***d 0.

One time when he broke at a chapter point to appraise me, I tickled him, ignoring the disapproving stares from the more serious folk around us. I used the intimacy as an excuse to brush against his lovely erection a few times -- accidentally on purpose. Feeling him jump and swell at my brief touches started to make me hot and horny; made doubly delicious by having to exercise restraint when all I really wanted to do that minute was slip his dick out, marvel the firmness I had shaped, climb on top of him and sink it inside me to the hilt. The urgency of the vivid, slutty thought surprised me and I blinked to clear my mind, sitting back in my seat and eyeing my man lustfully, trying to calm my raging salacity before it landed me in trouble.

As a distraction I looked across the aisle. It was midweek so there were plenty of business people tapping spreadsheets into laptops, or pecking and stroking phones; as if being caught not working at any time of day was a crime. I assumed most of them didn't even qualify for overtime during the commute and shook my head in sympathy. What a world we inhabited, where corporations ruled over personal life with the unwritten fear of unemployment shackled to every soul. Almost everywhere I looked, up and down the carriage, was the embodiment of 'live to work'.

While I was similarly employed in the IT sector, my job thankfully came with the perk of regular travel. If 'perk' was the right term for being catapulted in a metal tube from city to city and staying in budget chain hotels devoid of character and decent food. Even then, I was firmly in the 'work to live' category and made a conscious effort to constrain my work activities to the nine-to-five time slot I was paid whenever possible. Adam too. His philosophy was that if it didn't fit into the working day then it could wait until the next. And for a manager, that was a refreshing outlook which earned him respect from his team and disdain from his superiors.

Another train rocketed by in the opposite direction, scaring me half to death. The blast of noise only lasted a few seconds but my heart jumped and beat rapidly after the unexpected interruption. I grinned at Adam whom it seemed had been similarly startled, then he returned to reading and I remained content to just watch.

By all outward appearances most people would correctly peg him as a computer buff. He just had that look; the slim frame; the indoor complexion; shoulders slightly rolled forward due to excessive laptop use. But to me, he was simply sexy. It wasn't any particular element in isolation, but the combination that appealed. Although his smile and soft-spoken manner had been my initial attraction, his off-the-wall humour added to the allure as I got to know him. He could also cook a mean pasta sauce from scratch and knew how to listen when I needed to let off steam: two qualities that I'm quietly convinced made some of my friends jealous in comparison to their partners' laddish -- and somewhat Cro-Magnon -- behaviour.

As if that wasn't enough, when the time came for Adam and I to make love for the first time, my fate had been sealed. I was totally unprepared for the size of his tongue, and what he could do with it. His utter devotion to my pleasure blew me away and soon had me arching my pelvis up off the bed, pressing hard against his face, uncharacteristically begging for more and being delighted to receive it. By the time he flung off his rumpled clothes, crawled up so our eyes were level, made my heart thump uncontrollably as he gazed into my being, and entered me, I was already two orgasms ahead and well on my way to a third. If I hadn't stopped him from eating me, I sensed he'd have stayed down there until I collapsed or turned inside out, whichever came sooner.

At the time, I couldn't reflect on whether it was luck or destiny that had drawn us together. There was no past or future, only the moment; his mouth drenched in my come, the heady sweet mixture invading my senses as our cheeks and lips brushed while he drove into me. Stroke after stroke I was powerless beneath him: legs spread, pussy drooling, eyes closed, mouth open; panting his name between thrusts, pulling him against me, digging my nails into his back, and inhaling his manly musk that was oh so new and oh so right.

Our bodies seemed to fit perfectly together and we had none of the usual first time awkwardness or apologies for misplaced elbows and knees. Like opposite poles of a magnet we just connected and our limbs locked as his girth easily split my slippery channel, seeking the depths his tongue hadn't already reached. I let him take me, content to be filled as my pulse raced and mind could barely keep up with the volume of messages it was being asked to process.

I remembered how magnificent it felt to once again be on the receiving end after a fairly lengthy barren spell of having just my hands, toys and innermost thoughts for company. Though unladylike to admit it, I hadn't realised quite how much I missed hot, hard cock until that day. I clung on when he picked up the pace, then let go as my body automatically stepped up through its orgasmic gears; finding myself only able to writhe beneath him, bunching fistfuls of bed sheets in the process. As I bucked against him and wrapped my legs around his torso, our moans synchronised and actions became one. He erupted inside me and I came shortly after, my cries echoing off the walls of the rented house as our juice collided.

While that night had been eclipsed many times since, I still treasured the feeling of that first union. The heat inside; the wetness; the far-off explosions that wracked my body and were so other-worldly that I wondered if they even belonged to me. It was only when the white noise had ceased, the room began to take shape once more, and I found his lips still smelling strongly of my sex that I could be sure. We lost ourselves in that kiss and stayed joined for goodness knows how long; elated and spent.

Returning my thoughts to the present, I found Adam settled in his seat, gazing ahead over the seatbacks and I just watched him thinking, aware of my body churning inside at the reminiscence. I watched the way the dimples along his jaw line rhythmically formed and disappeared as he clenched his teeth; his hazel eyes always alert, examining, taking everything in.

He leaned into me, and I had to strain to hear him, even over the fairly low background noise of the train. "Ever notice how the luggage rack is a bit reflective?"

I looked directly up at our reflection. "Not until you mentioned it."

"Look ahead a few rows."

I shifted my gaze forward and focused on the strip of angled glass that ran the length of the carriage.

He leaned conspiratorially further. "See the girl there. Low cut top. Big chest."

Trust a man to notice that. Her opened book was in her lap, and sure enough from this angle it was possible to look right down her blouse at generous cleavage.

I tutted. "So that's why you've been getting hard all this time? Her not me?"

"Hardly! But I've been wondering if anyone else has ever noticed."

"Her chest?"

"No, silly! The luggage rack."

"I doubt you're the first."

"Right. That got me thinking. What if you swung your legs up into my lap?"

He reached down and gently guided my legs across him so my feet dangled into the aisle a few inches. I leaned against the side of the vibrating train and let him position the back of my knees over his groin. I was already quite aroused after the daydream, and figured this could become interesting.

With the barest touch, his hand brushed my thigh. "What if I ran my hand up like this?" The motion made me shudder, a trail of goose bumps immediately forming in its wake. "And what if I nudged your skirt a little higher?"

It didn't reveal much -- maybe half an inch more skin -- but the fact the skirt was already short amplified the distance. I furtively looked across the carriage at our nearest neighbour with potential line of sight. Podgy and pallid with greasy hair swept back in a pony tail, he was engrossed in his laptop and I sensed only a direct atomic hit would draw his concentration away from his quest to climb the corporate ladder.

Adam's half-whispered monologue drew me back. "What about another inch? How does that make you feel?"

"Uncomfortable. Curious. A little excited. You showing me off now?"

He smiled. "Would you like that?"

I weighed up either side. "I guess. Up to a point."

He indicated my clothes. "So this is you being conservative is it?"

Silence answered on my behalf.

Adam let the question hang a few moments longer as the train banked. "Thought so. You like to tease don't you? You like the power play."

It was more of a statement than a question, but I nodded anyway. He knew the answer; just liked when I admitted it.

"Being in the saddle gets you off. It's the control. That's why you're a little unsure now. You don't know what'll happen next because I'm threatening to take away your reins. To make you mine."

"Enough of the horse references; I'm not My Little Pony! Unless you're planning to ride me, then give me a sugar lump?"

"Cheek will get you a slapped bottom, young lady."


He ignored that, to my slight irritation at the wasted bait, and went on. "What if I called the shots today? All day. You have to do my every bidding. Would you like that?"

I actually quite liked the sound of it, looked down at my hands in my lap and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Though his tone remained measured, his voice tightened a little. "Imagine what I could show people. What people could see right now. Besides perhaps giving that guy over there an early coronary, what about other people? Some of them could look up at the glass and see what my hand just did to your skirt. See whatever we did."

My heart skipped a beat at the idea. It was devilish but I was curious how far he'd go. We trusted each other to the point we'd never push too far at the expense of the other's distress, but we both loved exploring the dark fringes of our relationship. Even if things became heavy I knew I could always back out and he'd respect my decision, but being ever so slightly out of control was something I had discovered was a tremendous turn on. So I played along. "What exactly could we do in this tiny space?"

"Plenty," he confirmed, his hand still resting on one leg at the base of my skirt, just three or four inches below my centre that had well and truly woken up, stirring at the lewd thoughts flashing through my mind. I wiggled against him suggestively, parted my thighs ever so slightly and liked the reaction.

He fondled the hem of my skirt. "Just having your legs like this is driving me crazy."

"I noticed."

He grasped the hem between his fingertips. "What if I..."

Pensive, I waited, skin alert, breathing irregularly. His eyes found mine and stared deeply.

"... did nothing."

I deflated. "Nothing?"

"Yes, just sat like this and related what I wanted to do to you later. Described all the parts of your body I want to touch, stroke and lick when we get to the hotel. Tell you exactly how much your sexy curves turn me on. How much your clothes tease and hug your shape. How I long to see what's beneath them, even though I've seen you naked hundreds of times before. How I want to stand behind you and free your hair while whispering that all I've been able to think about the whole day was the moment I had you all to myself. I want to run my hands down through your hair, untie your top, then undo your bra and watch it fall to the floor from your soft shoulders. I long to reach round and feel the weight of your breasts, roll your nipples between my fingers and listen to the breath catch in your throat as they harden. Listen to your tiny whimpers as I squeeze and pinch the tips of your gorgeous breasts, only being able to imagine how it must feel."

I knew how it felt: divine. Quite often when alone with my own thoughts and hands, I'd lay back and massage my nipples just the way he described. Slowly at first, then gradually faster and harder until my twin mounds were capped with what resembled two lychees floating on small pools of molten caramel. I'd squeeze and tweak relentlessly until my hands were needed more urgently in other areas of my body.

Adam continued. "I want to spin you around to face me, watch the way your chest heaves. Just observe you topless. Then I'll step back and demand you dance to a beat only you can hear. I love the way you move and swish your hair about and sway your body; love the way you tease me with your gyrations and turns, bending away from me, showing off your beautiful behind, lifting the skirt halfway and slapping each exposed cheek. The sight of the crease beneath your bottom and the sound of the spanks echoing round the room turns me on immeasurably."

He paused for a moment and I breathed deeply, using his words to transport myself into the scene; to feel what it would be like to perform for him; to imagine how excited I would become. Perhaps it was the onset of summer, perhaps the clothes, perhaps the risqué circumstances -- or a little of all three -- but I was feeling the itch inside already and wanted to be there with him now. Just the two of us alone, to take our time exploring parts of our bodies we already knew intimately, yet would find intensely pleasurable to rediscover.

"When you've finished dancing and cheeks are flushed pink I'll beckon you forward and bend to take a nipple into my warm mouth. Lick it. Suck it. Bite it. Hear you moan. Do the same to the other one. Make you hot. Make you wet. Make you ready for me, because you know how much I love the taste of you when you're dripping. How I'd love to sink to my knees in front of you, lift this titchy excuse for a skirt, yank off your panties and just dive in to eat you. Listen to you cry out as you reach down and grab the back of my head, pulling me up against your soaking pussy, forcing me to service you. You know what it does to me, how hard it makes me to slide my tongue inside you, to run it up your shaved slit all the way to the top. Flick it over your jumping clitoris. Feel you guide my face to the perfect spot, clamping me against your little button as you gasp with each stroke, making your knees weak when my tongue slithers south and drives back up into your hot box."

Damn he was good. I was beginning to liquefy inside and felt the need to touch myself; imagining what it would be like to do it right here, right now. To just inch up the skirt a little bit more, slip my fingers inside my underwear and make contact with the tiny smooth gemstone peeking out from its hiding place. To wet my fingers then draw circles around it. Flick it. Tap it. To close my eyes as I give it what it wants. To give myself what _I_ want: raised heart rate; electric current zapping every erogenous zone on its rapid circuit of my body; a steadily increasing inner heat that would spur more finger movement beneath my knickers. Yet fighting the desire to let go completely and give in to my needs; having to hold back because of the people around us.

Adam's vision continued. "With each stroke of my tongue making you dizzy with excitement, I'd have to hold you steady with my hands, one supporting each buttock. I could then press my fingertips into your gorgeous crack, seeking your arsehole, fingering the dark knot, longing to sink my fat prick into your behind. How I love the feel of your tight bottom wrapped around the end of my dick. Love the sounds you make as you cry into the night with each dirty thrust; not caring what the neighbors think."

It was true. I was that girl. The horny, loud-mouthed slut who would beg for cock in the heat of the moment. The girl every boy's mother warned him about. The one who was truly happiest when the man she loved was thrusting inside her body. My skin flushed but there was no respite from Adam's lust-filled descriptions. No sanctuary where my mind could take stock of his words.

"First I'd make you come against my face of course, because the way your juice dribbles over my chin makes me rock hard. The taste of you, the sweet smell of your intoxicating nectar drives me wild with lust. Once is never enough. I have to lick you over and over again until you can't take any more. Until there's almost no friction between us; just a slick film of clear sap that is constantly replenished from inside you."

Oh, that was insanely hot. The combination of his syrupy voice and loaded words, along with his fingertips wandering over my silky smooth legs were having a profound effect on my body. The fact that someone could look up and see us at any time, or breeze past, or be listening in; it all heightened the fantasy.

"There's something about the noises you make when your orgasm grips you. It's so erotic. The way your pussy flutters against my lips when you come gives me such pleasure. I'm addicted to your taste. I'd be compelled to slide my fingers around from your bottom to your naked, wet pussy lips and push them inside you repeatedly, hear you moan, coat my fingers with your juices so I can suck them and savour every drop of your delicious sap. No doubt there would be too much for me to handle so I'd have to glide my fingers back inside your drenched tunnel, scoop out your nectar and drift my hands up your body so you could lick it from me. I know you love the taste of yourself almost as much as I do."

That was also true. He knew me so well.

"After we've both had our fill of your scrumptious cream I wouldn't be able to resist pulling you down to the floor on top of me. I'd be so revved up I'd have to plunge my cock straight into your wetness; to feel you from the inside. I want to watch you wearing nothing but that sexy little skirt; head tipped back; your hair tickling my legs; my hands kneading your breasts as you ride me from this orgasm to your next. And the one after that. I love the way you do that little belly dance and grind against me, wiggling and writhing as our bodies crush together and you start to come again. There's nothing more beautiful than watching the joy in your face as you lose control. The way your lip trembles a little and your breath stutters just before you groan deeply at the onset of your orgasm. It makes me want you more than anything in the world. It tips me over the edge, making me fire hot come deep inside your spasming body, to mingle with the juices that flow from your tight, heavenly slit, the mixture drizzling out between us as you scream to the rafters."

He paused, probably for effect and to gauge my state of mind, which I guessed was easy to read. "Would you like to feel that?"

Ask a stupid question. I nodded emphatically, mesmerised by his fingers tracing up and down my legs, nerve endings fusing parts of my body as I half expected him to slide out of the seat and either go down on me, or grab me by the hand and drag me to the train's toilet where he could ravage me.

But he did neither. He sat there, watching me, stroking me. Enjoying the discomfort his words had inflicted on both my body and mind. His masterful imagery had me internally panting; yapping like a puppy at the sight of its lead. And I suspected that was exactly how he wanted me to stay; bouncing around the hall trying to snatch the lead from his grasp; ready to bolt to the field at his command.

Expectantly I raised my eyebrows, signalling that it was ok for him to take me. He just smiled. "Do you think the people up the carriage can see you squirming like this? Do you think they'd start to take notice if I let you touch yourself?"

I shot him a surprised glare, as if he'd overstepped the mark, but it wouldn't fool him. He knew part of me wanted to do exactly that. Knew what a tangled mess of hormones I was. Knew that touching myself was the third most exhilarating experience in my world; the second being when I touched myself for his benefit and could see the effect I had on him. In first place was being eaten out by him.

He also knew I was rarely about the quick fix or the shortcut to Big O. Certainly there have been times when the moment presented itself, and I've been swept away on a wave of passion that startled even me. From zero to a white hot explosion before I've had a chance to realise it's my body shaking and my underwear that's soaked.

But, given a choice, I'm a long haul girl. The slow build up, the drive through sexual hills and valleys, the smouldering glances, the prolonged tension in my body and twisted realities in my mind bringing me to fever pitch; making those precious flashes of release all the sweeter. Whether this situation was the former or the latter was too soon to tell. It could go either way depending on the next few minutes; and either direction was a win for me.

My stillness made him chuckle. "That's what I love about you. Resilient to the core. Never take the path of least resistance if the other track takes you to new heights."

"You've made your point. I'm all hot and bothered. What do you want?"



"How much you want me."

As thoughts began to take shape and a rough plan appeared in my head, a slow smile formed. It was going to be fairly easy. Shortcut time; or so I'd make it seem.

I gazed at him and slid my legs side to side in his lap, feeling his erection straining against the material of the shorts, desperate to touch my bare flesh. My feet wiggled in the aisle as I teased him. If he wanted to play hardball, so could I.

Tipping my head into the crook of the seat against the carriage wall I closed my eyes, bringing my hands to rest once more in my lap. Ever so slowly I ran my fingers over his, then drew my hands together and moved them upwards over the lightly bunched skirt, skimming my tummy and top, before they converged just below my breasts. I bit my lower lip and touched the base of my 36Cs, brushing fingertips over the soft fabric, feeling decidedly naughty at being so blatant. I shivered and traced my fingers around their circumference a few times, the circles gradually becoming smaller as I neared the peak, like following a series of contour lines on a mountainous map. As I reached the summit I grazed nipples that stood to attention and longed to be sucked. Bonds formed between pleasure receptors, rushing me with warmth that swirled around my tummy on its journey to my sex. It reached my core and I involuntarily opened my legs a little, hearing Adam take a short breath. Ha! Who was in control now? Moi.

My eyes snapped open as a businessman nudged my feet, lurching by our seats and continuing unsteadily up the aisle carrying a brown paper bag stuffed with goodies from the onboard café. If he saw up my skirt or noticed me touching myself he didn't show it. But he could hardly have missed it. Maybe later he'd let his mind wander when he reached the privacy of his home or hotel room, wondering what had possessed the girl on the train to be so bold, as he stroked himself to sticky release.

Adam was smiling at me. I could see the outline of his cock trying to burst from his clothes. Peeking across the aisle and up ahead at the glass canopy I saw nobody was paying us any obvious interest and reopened my legs. Just an inch. Then two. Adam's gaze shifted to my lap and he sneakily lifted the skirt a further tiny amount. From that angle he would have been able to see the beginnings of my panties; the delicate combination of pale blue cotton and lace stretched over my dampening mound; maybe even catch a whiff of my arousal.

It was exciting. Dangerous. One glance from Laptop Guy and he'd get an eyeful. Another inch of motion from Adam and my skirt would be bunched enough that our antics might begin to draw attention. Anyone else passing by the seat would easily see my open legs and have their eyes poked out by my prominent nipples.

I liked this game.

It was new. And it turned me on.

Brain-induced chemicals rushed through me, spiking my alert levels, making every soft hair on the surface of my skin stand on end; imagining what might happen next; what he'd have me do. Or, more wickedly, what he'd do to me as I pretended it was against my will. If we made it as far as the toilet cubicle I envisioned he might well issue me with a sharp spanking for dressing in such a provocative manner and trying to seduce him. The trouble with being spanked when I was in this mood was that I enjoyed it way too much. The distinctive cracks of palm meeting reddened buttocks and my subsequent cries of pain laced with pleasure would no doubt travel outside the cubicle to anyone passing who dared listen.

I sighed at the thought and Adam's voice hardly registered, floating in the background of my consciousness. "Take them off."

Blinking, I focused on him. "What?"

He briefly adopted an American accent. "Take off your panties, sugar."

"What?" I repeated.

The Englishman was back: "They're the proof that you want me. Take them off."



"I can't... you're crazy."

"You can, and I know, in that order. Now take them off." He was quietly insistent but I didn't comply. I was thinking of the ramifications. And the possibilities. Then of the logistics of how I might do it undetected. Then what would happen if I was caught.

Adam spoke calmly, evenly. "When we get to the hotel, if you want me to treat you to everything -- and I mean everything -- I said earlier, you'll take them off."

Argh! Maybe this was long haul after all. He'd made me think I was running the show when I wasn't. Coiled me up like a slinky at the top of the staircase, knowing he had control of exactly when to send me head over heels from stair to stair. I gave him The Look; one that he knew well. Defeated yet defiant. Subservient yet willing. Desperate yet trusting. He always dubbed it my Oscar-winner because it conveyed so much in a single expression.

I knew I had to do it. Despite every thought to the contrary I knew I'd regret it if not, or would always wonder what could have happened if I'd just been that little bit bolder. It was insane really, yet recent history indicated that similar acts of insanity were the ones in which I gained most; all of them part eccentricity, part trust and part leap of faith.

Whether his threat of withholding services was real or not, there was no doubt I wanted his touch later and didn't want to risk losing out, so it had to be done.

The decision made, I sighed again -- rather theatrically like I was beaten, while I back-flipped inside. More hormones coursed my veins as I slid my hands down the sides of my body, mindful of any external signs of discovery yet striving to act naturally. As if there was such a thing as acting naturally when trying to take off underwear in public.

Reaching the hem of my skirt I weighed up the options. Slow, hoping to keep movement to a minimum to avoid detection. Or fast to try and get it over with in the shortest amount of time.

Slow or fast.

Long time; short time.

It was risky either way. I slid my fingers up beneath my skirt and hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, feeling the elastic give a little, then raised my hips slightly off the seat using Adam's legs as a pivot. Was I really ready to do this? To undress in public? What would it make me? It didn't bear thinking about.

Last chance to back out; to call his bluff. But a look into his eyes convinced me he was telling the truth, and I knew it would ultimately be worth my while, whatever the short term cost. My pussy leaked a little to offer substantiation, staining the underwear I was about to remove, so I solidified the plan: the quick approach.

I inhaled deeply and in a flurry, yanked my panties down, immediately feeling the coolness of the air conditioning drying my damp, bare lips. My body temperature rose to compensate, and the butterflies jostled wildly inside me as the material rolled and slid quickly down my smooth thighs. The knickers caught momentarily on my knees and I didn't have the reach to carry on, so I had to lean forward and draw my legs up out of the aisle to continue the garment's descent over my shapely calves. Mere seconds later at my ankles, I rejoiced inside at being home free and wrestled the panties over the straps of my sandals. They snagged on the heel and I frantically fought to pull them off.

And froze.

Laptop Guy was staring straight at me. Well, not into my pupils. The atomic bomb had landed, its epicentre between my thighs. With my legs raised and me hunched forward trying to release the underwear from my shoes he had a clear view right up my skirt.

A sinking feeling of dread took over; probably enough embarrassment for both of us. Why hadn't I swung my legs down into the footwell and done it discreetly in my seat? It seemed so obvious now. So fucking logical.

I cursed myself under my breath, unable to move and unsure whether it was out of terror or from the cold, hard realisation of what I'd done. For what seemed an eternity, I stared at this stranger like I was the proverbial deer in his headlights, his gawp locked and unwavering on my puffy nether lips; all his birthdays arriving at once. Common decency dictated he should look away, even though I was far from decent, but he didn't. Just kept on staring, becoming visibly hard beneath the table.

By rights I should have been utterly mortified, but something didn't add up. Something inside me buzzed and it took a few beats to figure it out. Maybe what I was feeling wasn't alarm at all; maybe that prickle was... excitement? Perhaps deep down I'd subconsciously wanted to get caught; wanted some third party to lust over me.

That thought rocked me. It couldn't have been one of my thoughts... could it? Was I defective? Wired wrongly: a bad model from the production line awaiting recall. The fact I was now tingling all over in the face of discovery seemed to corroborate the evidence, and the change of state caught me off guard. I was somehow disgusted at myself for not taking more care, yet elated at the thrill of exposure.

One thing was clear: there wasn't much point pretending it hadn't happened, so when my motor functions restarted I demurely continued to disengage the material from the heel, handed Adam his prize and settled back in my seat with my legs closed across his lap, smoothing my skirt down in the process.

Open-mouthed and clearly very aroused, Laptop Guy's spreadsheet was a distant memory. I smiled sheepishly at him, electrified inside from the rush. Poor bastard probably never got anything like that. He looked the type of person that constantly missed out while all the good stuff happened to everyone else. Like he was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or right place and right time for once.

I went light-headed, delirious with lust, unable to comprehend every emotion that was battering at the gateway to my mind. Nothing and everything made sense and my elevated heart rate wasn't helping. In that instant of turmoil I felt a surge of wildness bubble up and inundate my very being; maybe I wanted to verify that what I'd felt moments before wasn't a fluke, or that I'd interpreted the signals inside me correctly. Either way, this guy's luck would change today.

Almost on autopilot, I flirtatiously batted my eyelashes at him and let my knees drift apart. Slowly but surely, inch by sordid inch I revealed my sex, this time deliberately. He looked like he was going to pop from excitement as he returned to staring straight up my legs at my pussy, traces of my obvious arousal surely glistening on the smooth outer lips in the flickering sunlight.

God it was such a turn on, flashing this poor stranger. My skin shivered and a lump caught in my throat as I realised my mouth was suddenly very dry and my nipples wanted to burst through both layers of clothing. The extra oxygen and hormones flooding my head gave me immediate clarity and fired wake-up messages to every corner of my body, which glowed as if I'd just eaten a piece of the Merovingian's chocolate cake. My heart hammered so loudly I half expected the people three rows ahead to turn in their seats and tell me to keep it down.

I stayed that way like still life, each passing second heightening the pleasure as my body fuelled itself on the sheer rapture in Laptop Guy's features. I was being revered: Lady Godiva to his Peeping Tom. His gaze fixed squarely on my rapidly moistening cunt, no doubt etching the image in his mind so he may relive the memory in private. Such thoughts filled me with an intense heat. I was his personal centrefold; the object of his night time fantasies. And right then it suited me perfectly.

Letting him bask in my innermost secrets a few moments more, I broke the spell and brought my finger to my lips to quietly make a "shhhh", then closed my legs. His wistful expression lingered but he soon realised the show was over and self-consciously returned to his spreadsheet, rearranging his underpants in the process. I bet the figures on-screen now seemed dull in comparison, but the damage was done. He glanced over our way a few times just in case I changed my mind, before concluding that truly was it.

Adam smiled at me when he was sure I'd finished, shaking his head and whispering, "You fucking hussy."

"Stop complaining! You got your proof. So I got a little... carried away."

With my insides far from returning to normal, he pulled the tray table down over my legs and placed my panties on it, spreading the material out so we could both see the crotch. I noticed Laptop Guy sneaking another glance in our direction to view the unmistakable wet spot; off-white, translucent and sticky. Adam proclaimed, "I present Exhibit A. Does the lady have anything to say in her defence?"

"A scoundrel seduced me with promises he'd better keep."

"Oh he'll keep them. Along with these." He snatched up my knickers from the table and stuffed them in one of his pockets.

I protested half-heartedly. In truth, the possibilities were back, running ideas through the forefront of my dirty mind. And those corrupt thoughts, along with the fact I was now travelling without underwear, kept me aroused for the remainder of the journey through the French landscape.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was still early when we reached Paris -- too early to check into the hotel near Gare de L'est -- so we picked up a carnet, ditched our bags at the station and went sightseeing.

Being just the right side of Bastille Day, the city was baking and heaving. Within two or three weeks it would become a comparative ghost town as the locals flocked south for the holidays. But today the throngs of indigenous Parisians and tourists gave Adam plenty of opportunity to show off his chattel. He took full advantage.

We did all the touristy things: ate crêpes; wandered the sun-drenched Rues hand-in-hand; watched street artists making silhouettes and caricatures of passers-by; sidestepped hawkers trying to sell us novelty statuettes of the city's most famous landmarks; and shopped.

Despite the hordes, Paris somehow retained a laid back atmosphere. Maybe the heat slowed people down enough that they took time to enjoy the environment; admire the stunning architecture; sit and drink in cafés, content to watch the world go by instead of hustling. Even those in suits who clearly had a destination, moved with a grace and poise that seemed incongruous to the busy surroundings.

The place also had that indefinable smell about it; as if the very act of the sun beating down on the buildings and uneven pavements that bordered the backstreets released some pheromone that bound people. It made them hold hands, smile, laugh, kiss, belong. As with every other time I'd visited, I wasn't immune and was very much under the city's hex. But this time it was different -- invigorating -- because of what I was wearing. Or rather, wasn't.

Adam started my humiliation gently by making me bend over a fair few times to look at things on the bottom shelf of department stores, standing back to watch my skirt slowly rise along with my temperature. I'd like to say having him perv at me from behind didn't turn me on, but I'd be lying. Each time he made me do it, I flushed and loved it.

Bending like this also afforded people standing beside me a peek down my top to catch a dose of cleavage. In one shop, I swung from a crouch up towards a couple of guys browsing wine, and as I sashayed past them down the aisle, I'm sure I heard one of them comment to his friend, "Y'a du monde au balcon." It was lost on me at the time but I looked it up later to find that its literal translation of "There's a world at the balcony" was an idiom for "She has large breasts." Maybe I was a little better endowed than the typical French lady and would have preferred "Elle a une belle poitrine" (a beautiful chest) but since I was acting like a brazen strumpet I guess I deserved it.

Hurrying from the shops giggling like mischievous teenagers at our new game, we boarded an up-escalator in Les Halles and Adam gently exposed me, giving a bunch of lads a few stairs lower something more than shopping to think about. The whoops and delighted banter as they feasted on my bare bottom caused a trickle of juice to escape and roll down my thigh.

Even iconic structures weren't sacred. Beneath the glass pyramids of the Louvre, Adam made sure I hiked my skirt higher than necessary as I took the stairs so anyone behind us would be able to see the treasures usually hidden underneath. It was debauch and I swear the Mona Lisa's expression seemed judgemental.

While we ate lunch, I thought maybe a respite would be in order, but I was wrong. In a crowded and noisy café I was instructed to slide two fingers inside myself beneath the table and feed Adam the contents. "Just to check you still want me," he had claimed as I self-consciously reached across the table and brought my glistening fingers to his lips, watching him hungrily suck my juices from them amid a few disbelieving stares from nearby patrons.

I ought to have felt shame. I ought to have felt abhorrence at my reckless disregard for decorum in such a public setting. So why did I love the feeling so much? Why was there a fierce undercurrent of stimulation jetting around my body? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I turning into a sexual adrenaline junkie and would soon find myself craving a naked skydive to get my rocks off? Or was the city's mystical air to blame? I didn't have any concrete answers, just a barrage of questions, the conclusions to which were laced with equal parts uncertainty and euphoria.

During the hottest part of the day, we sought shade at the Tuileries garden where he told me to bask opposite him in a pair of chairs we were lucky to find. At his insistence I lifted my feet into his lap, unable to resist pressing the sole of a sandal against his obvious bulge, watching him fight his own body's reaction and briefly closing his eyes.

Regaining his composure he diligently and sensually massaged my calves and ankles, which he knew damn well was one of my hotspots, until he deemed I'd taken enough.

Plenty of people -- mostly men -- did a double-take and caught a glimpse of my hot pussy and it kept me on a sexual knife edge all day, to such an extent I considered more than once sneaking off to the ladies' and fingering myself to completion. Although it took every ounce of resolve and discipline I could muster, I resisted my own urges on the basis that it would heighten things later. Adam was good on his word -- always had been -- so I found a way to tap into my willpower reserves and keep myself in check for the sake of the final event.

Mid-afternoon, my display of restraint and obedience earned me a very special treat. He led me up Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to queue outside a shop that made me rub my eyes in disbelief. I gawped at him, and when he confirmed it was no joke, I was unable to wipe the silly grin off my face until we were let inside, whereby the grin turned to awe.

To a self-confessed shoe-lover, being in the gaudy dream world of one of Christian Louboutin's grottos was sheer heaven. I didn't even think Adam had paid much attention to the fact I'd splashed out on a pair a few years earlier, let alone that he knew where the shop was. But maybe I'd mentioned them a little too often, prompting him to look the place up.

Regardless, I was totally immersed in the spectacle, where each pair of shoes on display was lovingly tucked in an arched pigeon-hole like a prized work of art. Gushing at the designs, from the extraordinary to the downright bizarre and impractical, I wanted to try at least a quarter of the stock on.

Adam brought me back to planet Earth, patiently explaining that we wouldn't have time so I needed to be selective and, of course, there was a condition attached: I had to show my pussy to the sales assistant with each pair I tried on. Bah! Even being spoiled had a proviso.

In light of this information I went straight for an elegant pair of Simple Pumps; the 85s. Classic and practical styling with those to-die-for red soles. As the assistant knelt to slip on the gorgeous footwear I 'accidentally' parted my thighs. The reaction was fleeting but definitely there, and the double whammy of wearing such powerful shoes in this dream location and acting like a slut in them made me colour. I suddenly craved my man. Wanted to charge him, slam him against the wall in the three-and-a-half inch heels, mouths connecting, tongues duelling, hands irrepressibly clutching at each other through our clothes until they snaked down between us, seeking the nucleus of our desires without concern for the surroundings. Me breathlessly rubbing his steel outline; him probing my impatient honey trap, nibbling my ear as the clientele and assistants stopped to stare at the sight of two people lost under each other's spell.

Realising I had to get out before I actually did it, I quickly paraded in the heels, loving the power they gave me. Despite myself I couldn't resist trying on a couple more pairs of equally elegant shoes -- flashing the assistant again as Adam had instructed -- before deciding on the 85s after all.

Clutching my purchase like a k** with a new toy robot as we left to continue our sightseeing, I was on cloud nine and figured things couldn't become any sweeter. Then everything changed: the journey back from La Defense truly took my breath away.

After admiring the view along the Axe Historique from the mighty superstructure of La Grande Arche we boarded the Metro from the business district at the start of rush hour. The carriage was packed full of commuters and we were jostled about for the first few stations, shoved this way and that as people pushed past in both directions. It was sweaty and unfresh and for the first time in the city I wished there was a nicer way to travel.

Things settled down around Porte Maillot a few stations later, and we found a spot near the centre of the carriage where we were not pushed as much. I was strap hanging so my belly button was exposed and skirt was riding a little high; a small mercy in the hot, sticky confines of the train. The skin-to-air ratio no doubt kept me cooler than the suits around me.

Adam had one hand on my waist to steady me and was gripping the overhead rail with the other. I sensed him pressing right up behind me and knew the closeness of our bodies would make him horny. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn't tried to jump me at numerous occasions throughout the day and admired his patience. Certainly he had opportunities, and I was partly disappointed he hadn't. The things he'd made me do -- things I didn't expect to enjoy to the extent I did -- were as much for his benefit as mine and I'm sure he was equally relieved to be going to the hotel so he could have me all to himself. That thought alone made the journey bearable. It went without saying that I'd give myself completely to him; whatever he desired he could take. I doubted he'd hold out very long anyway, so whatever he chose would have to be rapid and unbridled. Perfect!

As part payment for all the day's torture I pushed back a little, using the irregular momentum of the carriages to gently grind and swish against his cock. It quickly and predictably began to swell as he felt what was mere millimetres away from him; so close yet so far. I smiled to myself. Even under these unpleasant conditions I still had it.

Then I felt him ease me away and creep his hand down over my perspiring midriff onto my skirt. Very slowly, he circled his palm over my bottom, tracing the curvature and making me shiver at the touches. As my erogenous zones switched on yet again, my senses sharpened while his hand travelled lower to cup my butt. He rhythmically squeezed my cheek, then gently slapped my behind. I glowed, longing for him to do it again. Instead I felt the material of the skirt begin to pinch up, and shot him a sceptical expression over my shoulder. He gazed back at me, eyes twinkling, and continued edging the skirt ever higher. He couldn't be serious? Here?!

I tensed and looked fearfully around the carriage as the skirt slid higher to reveal my pert cheeks, his hand meeting the crease of bare flesh at the base of my curvy rear. Nobody seemed to be paying us any attention as he walked his fingers around into the cleft and nestled the leading edge of his finger right into my crack, again kneading the flesh of one cheek.

Everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder around me was oblivious to what was happening below waist level and my mind flashed, figuring out ways in which he might fuck me in the middle of the commuters without detection. Inexplicably, I began to grow excited at the prospect, wondering how I'd keep quiet enough to not cause a ruckus. On reflection, it was interesting I chose to consider the logistics of the act rather than immediately rule it out. That probably said more about my character than an army of psychiatrists could; although they'd ultimately arrive at the same conclusion: I was a dirty bitch.

Adam pushed his hand firmly into my crack, making sure to massage the entrance to my anus in the process, and little sparks of joy leapt from thigh to thigh. He knew it would turn me on and gently eased me forward. At that moment I knew I was in trouble. I should have left him alone instead of trying to be clever and torturing him. Should have remembered my role. Now I sensed I was going to pay for the insubordination, and obediently bent at the waist a few degrees from vertical, pulling on the strap for support. His hand followed the contour of my arse lower until his finger met the base of my pussy. Before I had time to react, his digit snaked inside me to the first knuckle.

I must have gasped, as the guy reading the paper a few feet away shot a curious look in my direction then returned to the business pages. The density of passengers made it impossible for anybody else to tell what was going on, but it wouldn't take much to alert them so I battled inwardly to control my actions while Adam probed.

As passengers fought their way on and off at Argentine and the unmistakably French odour of new bodies assaulted my senses, I was confident the only person that appreciated what it felt like to be fingered on public transport was me; the tender persistence, somehow hurriedly executed, making me hotter. A bead of sweat trickled slowly from the top of my sacrum, around my side and caught on the waistband of my skirt, its path across my pores a momentary welcome in the stifling closeness.

Adam continued, in and out becoming more of an abstract concept than a series of discrete movements in one locale, setting my fires smouldering and connecting regions of my body through neural pathways and spiritual meridians. Although my skirt was still just low enough to cover my pussy at the front, it was lewdly scrunched up at the rear and the thoughts of how the everyday people would react if they caught sight of my naked bottom fuelled my body into producing more of my very own sex d**g. It flowed rapidly from head to toe, then returned and I felt myself radiate heat as nerve endings stood in readiness.

The only problem being, I wanted more.

And more.

Finding enough space between someone else's feet, I stepped out my left foot half a pace, still straddling the bag containing my new shoes. That was all the encouragement Adam needed. He lowered his position against me slightly further and I felt his index finger glide all the way into my sticky chute. It was exactly what I needed; more love d**g coursed my veins and my body eagerly lapped it up. With no requirement for extra lubrication, Adam sawed his finger back and forth as I closed my eyes and let the situation take me away.

The swaying of the carriages made me feel as if I was floating; as though my legs were drifting behind me while I dangled on a rope from a hot air balloon. In my mind I looked down to see Paris from the air; the slow-moving traffic along the Champs-Élysées; Montparnasse towers; the bustle of people in the streets trying to complete their purchases before the boutiques closed for the night. And as I passed overhead, people would look up and point because they could see up my skirt; catch a glimpse of my pussy glistening in the early evening sun as fluid oozed from it, clinging to my entrance. The shoppers couldn't help staring up at the strange British lady, sans panties, who had spent the day discovering the sheer release and electric thrill of a little exhibitionism. Someone for whom this latest chapter in her sexual awakening would continue to define her as she explored her desires more and more with the man she loved.

That man chose that moment to glide his finger out of my tunnel and I returned to the reality of the carriage as my body craved his next touch. I arched my back cat-like and pressed against his hand, willing him to continue. After a long, teasing moment he didn't disappoint: his finger went in again, slowly, tantalisingly, and I felt fuller than before. It took a few strokes to register he was using two fingers: wow, that felt wonderful. He slid them forward time and again, plumbing my depths, trying to locate the source of wetness and produce more. The angle made it difficult, if not impossible, for him to reach the spot that would really set the juice generator in motion, but that didn't stop him trying. He wiggled and pressed the back of his fingers against the front wall of my sex, patiently adjusting and refining the technique, hunting for the button that would give me ultimate pleasure.

Truthfully, at that point it didn't matter to me if he found it or not: I was already well on my way to a crushing orgasm. The receptors in my brain were processing signals as fast as they were fired, shooting waves of energy downward to the train floor and back up my legs, circling my engorged labia, punching straight through my proud clitoris, swirling my hips to where Adam's hand supported my bare bottom, and racing up my spine to meet the next wave.

Amid the electrical disturbance inside me, I became vaguely aware of the train stopping and a surge of people pushing us forward, almost losing my balance as I struggled to recognise where external heat ended and internal fires began. If it wasn't for Adam stepping with me to keep me steady I'd have toppled into the lap of the man whom I found myself facing. People milled around us, pressing, shoving, settling into the cramped train. The driver made a tinny, mumbled announcement and those that deciphered it shuffled more before the buzzer sounded and the doors promptly rolled shut. Over the seated man's shoulder I could just make out the station name as the Metro rumbled forward: Charles de Gaulle - Étoile.

As the train was swallowed by the blackness of the tunnel, the gentle in and out of Adam's fingers resumed in mine. Sometimes the motion of us hitting a corner would thrust them deeper inside me and I'd bite my lip or let out a tiny gasp that was absorbed by the noisy carriage and dense body of passengers. Other times he'd slip right back to the entrance and I'd feel my petals close in his wake, trying to return to shape despite the imprint of his fingers remaining like memory foam, only to be split again moments later.

There were people nudging against both sides of me, hips banging hips as the train lurched and I clung to the strap, hardly believing what was happening. I looked down at my body through glazed eyes; long bare legs, slightly parted to allow for Adam's continued onslaught; skirt barely covering my pelvis; a strip of clammy stomach reflecting the fluorescent lighting; the halterneck trying to contain my straining bosoms; nipples proud and clearly defined as heat spread through them on its way to flush my neck. I was probably quite a sight, and I wondered if the man ahead of me might notice.

He was barely into his fifties, very French with thin rimmed glasses and silver hair, reading Le Monde and seemingly ignoring his wife chattering next to him; responding only with the occasional grunt or "Oui". I could only partially see her because of the passengers flanking me, but from what I could tell she was a matronly figure, wizened by the European sun.

Inside me, Adam's fingers continued to glide and my breathing was becoming more laboured. I wasn't sure how much more I could take, rapidly approaching the point where control of my actions disappeared and raw instinct took over to decide the fate of my body's release. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he didn't, but he gently pulled out and I'm sure I whimpered. Something at least caused the Frenchman to look up from his paper and make eye contact. He looked quizzically, fleetingly, then self-consciously returned to his paper.

My insides screamed for Adam's touch. What the hell was his game? He couldn't leave me like this, balancing on a sexual tightrope without a safety net. All I could feel were his fingers curled and supporting the crease beneath my bottom. Maybe he was fiddling with his dick, freeing it from his pants. Perhaps the next thing I'd feel would be his rigid shaft pressing at my drooling entrance. I nearly came with anticipation of what I was sure would be the most daring sexual act we had ever entertained, bracing myself for the invasion of his magnificent cock in my silky confines.

Instead he pushed his finger between my exposed cheeks to touch my rosebud with its tip, circling and tickling the nerve endings all around my dark opening. My body responded immediately, bouncing delightful messages along my subcutaneous network, joining the neural with the physical and leaving me yearning for more. I wanted him inside me so badly I felt like screaming at him to drill me where I stood.

His finger probed a few millimetres into my back passage, preparing me. But for what? He couldn't be serious? Fucking me was one thing; anal was off-the-chart depraved. How did he expect to slip his dick into my butt -- even just the first adorable inch or three, the hardness pressing against all the right places despite barely moving inside me. The simple act of thinking about it made me shudder at the memory of his many conquests in my dark, tight behind. Recalling the suffocating orgasms and hours of joy afterwards as I floated in the afterglow.

He shifted a little and I tensed, waiting for the moment to arrive, trying unsuccessfully to relax the muscles in my groin to make whatever he had planned easier and less likely to cause a commotion. The wait was almost painful and as I concentrated on the areas between my legs I was startled to feel his breath on my ear, whispering urgently.

"You want more?"

I nodded impatiently, unsure what "more" meant but almost past the point of caring: I wanted showtime. Naturally, he knew I was going to say yes and I'm sure he was enjoying my discomfort, even though it must have been almost as tough for him to hold back.

There was a further excruciating moment of nothingness as I geared up for him. Yet instead of the expected hot sword ramming into one of my eager passages, his fingers dutifully and gradually inched south again. They tucked into my wet folds as if they belonged there permanently. Then immediately something else: his thumb pressed against my backside, seeking my crinkled hole, circling and sending ripples through my hips, finding the target and quickly pressing home. I let him of course. The familiar, dull ache in my rear, senses igniting as he pressed forward to clutch me in the classic bowling ball grip: two in the slit, one up the arse.

Managing to catch my emotions just in time, only a tiny cry escaped my hastily bitten lip and I thrust back against his palm as he fingered me. Though I truly wanted it to be his cock -- and I'd have willingly taken him any way he dictated right then -- his fingers were a superb surrogate and I squirmed and writhed in ecstasy. The spasms set up around each orifice radiated and collided somewhere in the centre of my body just behind my clit; different types of message for sure, but ones aimed in a single direction: my satisfaction. It was as if my little jewel was an electromagnet, humming powerfully and trying to draw every atom of my body towards the source.

With every passing moment, the intensity grew. Proud and firm, the gatekeeper to my sloshing insides, my clit stood defiantly, begging to be touched; daring me to complete my Holy Trinity of erogenous zones and send me off into the orgasmic abyss.

I had one free hand. But could I really do it? Here? The people either side of me had their backs or shoulders squashed against me. Adam and his relentless invasion shielded me from behind. So the only wild card was the Frenchman. I took in what I could, with any remaining brain power that wasn't diverted to keeping me aroused, weighing the risks. Although he was reading, I noticed he wasn't altogether concentrating. His eyes kept flicking up in my direction, glancing at each part of me in turn. Maybe my earlier noises weren't as subtle as I'd thought and he was keeping tabs on me in case things became interesting. Perhaps he'd already figured what was going on and was biding his time, hoping to see more.

From his seat I guessed he saw a desperate, dishevelled, very hot woman, leaning forward from a strap with her mouth agape and her eyes partially closed. Definite signs of arousal if the prominent state of my nipples wasn't enough of a clue. Whether he could see Adam's hand driving fingers between my legs was questionable, but I couldn't rule it out. The thrill that he could guess or see what was going on knotted my insides.

Did I have the courage to touch myself in front of this stranger? I'd already shown myself during the day. I'd flashed Laptop Guy and the sales assistant, and it had given me a massive buzz to do so. Heck, I'd once masturbated into the night, naked against a hotel window, so how hard was this?

My bottom clawed Adam's thumb and my pussy tried to swallow his fingers as we set up a steady rhythm. I stared dead ahead through glassy eyes. It came down to whether I trusted the Frenchman to take this for what it was -- a horny woman taking advantage of a situation and giving herself ultimate pleasure -- or whether he would cause a scene. I was having trouble focusing and found it hard to process, waiting to see some validation of either outcome but unable to properly concentrate. We exited another tunnel and the station flashed by as we slowed, its name and the new wave of bustling commuters hardly registering.

As the train picked up speed and Adam did likewise, continuing to turn my insides to molten lava, I eyed the Frenchman. I could feel my thighs becoming stickier as my juice flowed freely; could practically smell my arousal over the unsavoury body odour. And if I could, there was a good chance those swaying against me might. If the Frenchman dared look at my legs, he'd see the gooey trails of liquid for sure.

Such a rush. The indecency of being there and wanting relief was at odds with my sensibilities, yet I found myself once more in that stage beyond reason. Some kind of primal desires welled up inside me, beyond anything logic could contain. One way or another I knew the decision would soon not be mine to make. My creamy, frothing pussy and tight rear being raided by Adam's fingers would soon be the party to which the rest of my body would attend. The question was whether I was content jogging towards a mind-blowing orgasm or wanted to accelerate towards it.

As if he could sense my dilemma, the Frenchman chose that moment to make eye contact and I detected willingness in his expression. While there was the initial possibility it was my skewed interpretation -- part of me reading into things that weren't there or my desire to do it anyway and to hell with the consequences -- his languid downward gaze that traced my figure and centred on my skirt was unmistakable. As was the forming of an erection in his flannel trousers.

He'd taken in my aroused state. No doubt he'd seen my wet thighs. He'd put two and two together and his body had responded. That simple reaction gave me the boost I needed -- the Power Pill -- and was my cue. With heart hammering and spin cycle in my belly, I drifted my free hand to the hem of my skirt, right in front of my pussy. And with the leading edge of my fingers, I started to lift it.

The Frenchman's eyes widened and he shot a nervous glance at his wife, then returned glued to the scene unfolding less than a metre from him, trying and failing to pretend to be reading his paper. If he hadn't been able to see what Adam was doing before, when I flashed my slick lips at him it was conclusive. I'm quite sure the repetitive spreading and closing of my wanton entrance as fingers entered and vacated would be forever burned in his mind. He couldn't possibly tell how delightful it was to be the recipient of the actions -- and from his vantage point had no idea my bottom was also part of the experience -- but had he the presence of mind to drag his eyes away from my snatch, the picture my features painted would go most of the way toward describing it.

But it was clear he had no intention of diverting his stare anywhere other than my sopping centre. Twice in one day I'd deliberately and despicably shown my wet bounty to strange men: I was so not going to heaven.

The tension was electric. I felt enrapt just revealing myself, like I was caught in the path of a huge wrecking ball swinging against my stomach. The commuters all around us, disembarking and shoving into position were of no consequence; it was just Adam, the Frenchman and me in the hot carriage.

The urge to touch myself spiked and I couldn't delay it a second longer. With the gritty resolve of someone hovering over the key to launch a nuclear strike, I hit the button and nearly sent myself through the roof. Fireworks immediately ignited in my groin, sending pleasure waves to the farthest reaches of my body and it took just a handful of desperately executed, ungraceful yet f***eful, grinding circles against my nub before I came.

Incredibly hard.

Everything collapsed inward, sucking every emotion that was currently in my body into a vortex with its epicentre on my flaming clitoris, and then burst in a kaleidoscope of light and sound. A roaring in my ears drowned out the chatter and rhythmic clanking of the train around me and I felt myself involuntarily flop forward like a rag doll, mercifully still maintaining grip on the ceiling strap. Adam slowed his actions and then stopped, burying his fingers deep as he must have felt the contractions begin in my soaked tunnel and the winking spasms of my arsehole; clenching him; drawing him in; thanking him for bringing me such joy.

My spine was a pulsing superhighway, ferrying messages at what felt in excess of the speed of sound to each area. It prickled and fizzed as each zone in my body lit up, starting with overloading the circuits connecting my nipples to my belly. Lightning struck both pink tips of my swollen chest simultaneously and it arced across them, racing down my front to connect with the raging knot between my legs. My breasts tightened yet momentarily felt several cup sizes larger, straining against my clothes as hoops of fire raced down their slopes to spread throughout my rib cage.

The Y-shaped electric charge was quickly gone, dissipating its energy to nearby regions of my body, making them glow with an intense white heat. But the bolt still retained its power at the top of my pussy and dispensed its payload in rhythmic surges to every corner of my stunned frame. About once a second I was paralysed as a contraction took hold, my pelvis seizing up and firing a searing spark of energy outward, which was caught by my limbs, momentarily locking and warming them. I had fleeting glimpses of the Frenchman as my vision came and went, unable to focus on any one thing. Riding out each contraction as heat spread through my pulsing body, I basked in the fabulous high of orgasm.

Lolling this way and that with the swaying of the train, my mind took me on a journey elsewhere; a place where I was flying over deserts and seas, cities and villages. A place where nothing but the spirit of release could take me; impossible lands, a tropical paradise; open sea between them. In my head, cold water sprayed me from a speedboat as I lay spread-eagled on its nose and careened across the ocean; just me and my open sex between the boat and never ending horizon. No cares. No worries. Nothing but deep contentment and a hollow vacuum in the pit of my stomach as wave after wave of excitement effervesced from my groin to the extremities of each limb.

As quickly as each travelled outward, they were rapidly sucked back to the source in the next instant, eddying around my appreciative clitoris before the next would shoot out, carrying sexual current to the fringes of my body and over-stimulated brain stem.

Emotionally I felt nothing at first, it was purely physical: mechanical and electrical. The emotional response always came as my brain gradually switched that part back on and made sense of the feelings that the physical components induced. Now I felt full and satisfied; strong and invincible; terribly naughty and dangerous.

The endorphin rush washed through me and renewed juices drizzled from my core to coat Adam's clamped fingers. Without him to plug my saturated pussy I would probably have been standing in a sizeable wet patch.



My eyes shot open and body jerked to attention as I felt the train decelerate. Adrenaline flooded my system, unceremoniously putting the brakes on my orgasm, I blinked a few times and the commuter train reality hit me like a boxer's sucker punch. Snapping my head frantically from person to person, I noticed the Frenchman smiling, newspaper forgotten and tented in his lap. His wife was peeking past the nearest passenger and staring at me agog while the small circle of businessmen and women in my immediate vicinity were either gawping or shuffling uneasily and overtly avoiding eye contact with me.

What had I done?

I panicked and unsteadily bolted for the opening door, wrenching myself free of Adam's fingers and only just remembering to grab my shoe bag. Feeling more than a little empty, I wrestled my skirt down to cover what little of my dignity remained and charged through the wall of people for the doorway. With steely determination and angry grunts from the inconvenienced, I burst from the carriage, the cooler air of the station hitting me like a tidal wave. Adam followed at pace and just made it off the train as the buzzer ended and doors rolled shut. He ran after me as I stalked off through the crowd, and caught up with me by the stairs, spinning me round. Reflexively, I punched him on the shoulder.

"What the fuck did I...?"

"What?" He smirked just a little.

"Oh Jesus, did... was I loud?"

He smiled and I hit him again, gasping in a couple of lungfuls of air which I hadn't realised I'd needed until my body thanked me.

A nearby guard approached.

"Mademoiselle? Vous allez bien?"

"Oui," I panted. "Ça va."

He didn't seem convinced. "Il y a un problème?"

"Non. Pas problème... pas de problème," I corrected myself. "Merci, monsieur. Merci."

He remained a little unsure, but retreated when I grabbed Adam's arm and started to ascend the stairs. I hadn't noticed until then we were at Châtelet -- perhaps the biggest and busiest station on the line -- but I was fuming, mainly with embarrassment, so the rest of the ascent to the surface was in brooding silence.

At street level, things were still bustling and I led the way to an intersection. I didn't want to admit what had just happened and paced this way and that, not wishing to look anyone in the eye for fear of being recognised. What had I been thinking?! With my temperament, there was no way it could have ended in any other manner: I was a sexual train crash.

For the second time that day I cursed myself for getting caught up in events. And yet there was no denying how it had felt at the time. The release; the heat; the power. Being elevated beyond the physical constraints of my body and experiencing the electrical impulses on a metaphysical plane was something I had thoroughly enjoyed savouring. If I was being honest, parts of me were still aching with desire and whether I wanted to face it or not, deep down I knew I'd have to find a way to repeat those feelings in future because they were incredible and afforded me a balance I needed; a way to find out more about who I really was.

The packed streets seemed overbearing as commuters and tourists alike strode, ambled or nudged around us. I was still shaking inside as we threaded our way from the station -- destination anywhere -- but progressively began to calm the more distance I put between myself and the Metro.

Eventually I came to a standstill and allowed myself to take in the sights and occasionally sulphurous smells from the drains of the early evening city. People criss-crossed the roads ahead of me, some of them ignoring the green pedestrian walk symbols and risking their lives crossing lanes of stop-start traffic. Although in Paris, like in other major European cities, even a green man doesn't guarantee safe passage to the other side.

Adam caught up after being snagged behind a troupe of slow moving Japanese students. "We're a few miles from where we need to be."

"Which way?"

He pointed up Boulevard de Sebastopol and I followed his finger.

"Let's walk," I said, adding, "I've had enough of the Metro for one day."

Adam laughed and poked my ribs playfully.

We set off along the wide street and after a few minutes I reached for his hand. "Sorry for hitting you back there."

"Apology accepted."

"It's just... God, did we really...?"

He nodded.

"And, seriously, what happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Well, yeah. Kind of, up until the end."

"Was it good?"


"Then that's all you need to know."

"Oh come on!" I begged. "Please?"

He shrugged. "Yes you made some noise. A long, low groan which made a few people around you suspicious, but you might have got away with it until you started panting as well with your hand stuffed between your legs."

I blushed. "No! Really?"

"'Fraid so."

"Shit. I think we'll avoid that line tomorrow."


We ambled arm in arm up the road a good kilometre or so, where the street became Boulevard de Strasbourg, stopping off shortly after for a light dinner at a nondescript yet perfectly Parisian brasserie.

As we waited for the bill to arrive, watching a shop owner opposite closing up for the evening, I sat back and looked at Adam while freeing my hair, shaking the kinks out and fluffing the life back into it, looping the hair tie round my wrist for safekeeping. I knew there was one thing he still wanted and, despite myself, knew I owed him an apology for humiliating us both on the underground. Even if it had technically been his fault. Plus he'd bought me an incredibly expensive pair of shoes for being his personal harlot for the day.

I reminded him about confis**ting my underwear and whether he intended to make good on his promises in return. He considered it while I ran my foot up his leg under the table.

"I'm not sure. You've been a very bad girl."

"Yes, I have." I drained the remaining mouthful of house white. "But don't bad girls get a chance to redeem themselves? You know, through their actions maybe?"

He seemed amused. "After everything you've done today, are you throwing yourself at me?"

"Pretty much."

"You're incorrigible."


"What can you offer?"

"What do you want?"

"I asked first."

I submissively lowered my face a little and shot him a coquettish look. "How about a few more-than-willing places to slide into? I could really make your day."

"You've already made my day." He paused. "It's tempting, but you've been exceptionally naughty. I'm not sure you deserve such riches. Anything else to sweeten the deal? To make it worth my while lowering myself to your filthy level?"

After all the build-up I was a little crestfallen at the thought of him breaking his promise. But unlike me, he hadn't come yet and there was something behind his eyes, some flicker of thirst that belied the charade. Then I got it. Dammit he was testing me again. To see how far I'd go in my subordinate role.

I thought for a moment, playing along, trying to find something to fire him up. Something he couldn't resist.

Of course.

"Take my panties out."

He did as instructed, right there at the table, then waited.

As dirtily as I could muster, with bags of loaded intent, I hissed, "Smell them."

Adam didn't need asking twice to bring them to his nose, making sure to align them so the crotch stained with my earlier arousal was upward. He breathed deeply and I could see the desire well up in his face. Yes!

Knowing he'd be rigid beneath the table I ran my foot up and pressed the sandal against his groin like I'd done earlier, watching his excitement levels soar again. "How about I give you as much of that as you can take, directly from the source? And I promise to be a good girl from now on."

He sniffed again, clearly aroused and pleased with my offering, then hastily pocketed the garment as the waiter brought the bill.

Adam paid, left a customary tip and we continued up the Boulevard, towards our left luggage and ultimately the hotel. The suspense was killing. I pressed him for an answer. "So, do we have a deal?"

He looked across at me. "Yes. You surrender your buttery pussy to my face and this time you can be as loud as you like when you come."

I beamed, relieved. My kind of deal. "Thank you, Sir. You won't be disappointed."

"I should hope not. When you've had enough of my tongue I will take you in any manner of your choosing, on one condition."

"Name it," I breathed, already anticipating the feeling of my lover's hard pole inside my body as he pawed my tits and nuzzled my neck from behind.

He grabbed my bottom through the skirt and said, "Never stop being bad."

Then he ran ahead and I gave chase.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The luggage only just made it through the door ahead of us before it was forgotten. I wriggled out of my sandals and flung them in the doorless wardrobe as Adam hopped on one foot removing his second shoe, then we crushed together and spiralled into the room, kissing and groping as we went.

Stopping just short of the bed, he grabbed my butt again and hiked the skirt up to my waist as our tongues duelled wetly. The sexual tension of the day had made us both on the brink of boiling point and there was no need for foreplay; if anything, the entire day had been foreplay and this was our main event: raw, passionate, frenzied lovemaking.

Breaking the kiss I stepped back, panting, and pushed him backwards. Half a pace later he reached the bed edge and dropped to a sitting position, just looking at me. The air crackled between us with the supercharged promise of torrid sex.

Without taking my eyes from his, I stepped over to the shopping bag, crouched and retrieved my new shoes. Then as flirtatiously as I could muster I set them on the floor directly in front of him and slid into them one at a time. I could tell he approved of the transformation -- the subtle change in my centre of gravity that accentuated the curves he hankered after -- but didn't give him any time to dwell. Reaching out, I placed my hand on his chest to feel his heart beating quickly, then shoved him backwards.

He flopped onto the sheets and within seconds I clambered on top of him, crawling forward quickly, hungrily, keeping eye contact the entire time. As my knees neared his chest I raised my upper body to straddle him, and shuffled forward, still looking down until my chest obscured our line of sight.

Hovering inches above his face I held position, teasing him with the smell, listening to his irregular breathing as he excitedly anticipated my sex. If there was anything Adam truly adored in this world, it was eating me out. And he was damn good at it.

"You want this pussy?"

"Yes," he whispered.



"Remember who you're speaking to."

"Yes, Mistress Belle!"

"Good. Are you sure you want it?"

"Absolutely. I want to drown in your juices, Mistress Belle."

He couldn't see me smiling at the role reversal. The magic red soles had brought Her out. I always loved it when She came out to play.

So did Adam.

Knowing full well that dirty talk fired him up, I layered it on thick. "I've been knickerless all day and I'm rampantly horny after you made me expose myself to pretty much the entirety of Paris. Can you handle it if I smear every drop from my dripping pussy over your face and tongue? Will you completely surrender yourself to my hot, wet, naked cunt?"

I knew the answer already and didn't wait for one. Without warning I plunged and his tongue quickly and expertly found home.

Riding his face was far and away the most eye-popping experience of our relationship. It wasn't simply his technique in which he probed his long tongue deep into my folds, slipped it back out coated in my juice and slathered it all the way up my slit to circle my waiting clitoris, before returning for more. While that was terrific and his inventive pussy eating always left me spent yet praying for repeats, it was the sheer selflessness with which he went about it that drove me to the highest highs. It was as if he couldn't get enough and wasn't satisfied until I'd drenched his face, often more than once. Like I was a Goddess and my nectar was the elixir of youth that he craved.

Unless lucky enough to be on the receiving end, it's difficult to appreciate the power of being revered that way. To be wanted and adored for what I could give him while simultaneously achieving the most incredible orgasms was a significant trip, and regularly produced staggering quantities of come. The fact She was in the room could only make things better.

I ground my pussy against his nose and lips, completely smothering him at times, each touch causing me to jump as if his tongue was a taser. For his part, like a pussy-eating version of the Terminator, he never stopped; never gave up; never missed a stroke. Within minutes I was a quivering wreck on his face, escalating cries of passion echoing off the badly decorated walls. He reached up and grabbed my thighs to draw me to him, to pull me harder against his insistent tongue, to ensure his teeth grazed and nibbled the edges of my burning pearl, to give my body exactly what it needed.

Past caring about my earlier misdemeanours onboard public transport, I let go of my feelings, indulging in the freedom to finally express myself without moderation. As my orgasm inevitably bubbled to the surface and I began to boil over, all I could do was shut my eyes tightly, lean back and support myself on his thighs. My impromptu triangle allowed him to drive his tongue deep into my wetness and as I dug my fingertips into his legs, I found myself grinding against his face and screaming as I came.

Clamped against his nose and chin, I flooded him with my sticky nectar. The walls of my pussy convulsed and I rode each contraction hard, pressing myself so fully against him that his air supply was often momentarily cut off. The vibrations of him humming in pleasure against my sex, the supremacy I held and the wet suction of him struggling for air added to the deep pulses that were broadcast from the epicentre; sexual sonar waves at the perfect frequency to which my body could respond.

And respond it did: each part of me feeding back its own signal to acknowledge reception of the orgasmic beacon. Disparate components became one; connected by an invisible f***e that throbbed and spun to the rhythmical drumming that was pounding from my very essence. My heart beat rapidly and I was suddenly very hot. My internal jukebox chose those two factors to cue up 'Paris is Burning' by LadyHawke:

My heart is yearning, but Paris is burning.

Paris is burning all night long.

My heart is dreaming, but Paris is screaming.

Paris is screaming all night long.

The lyrics went round and round my head as my hips bucked against Adam's face, movements intensifying then gradually lessening as the convulsions slowly began to wane and my other senses switched back on one by one.

The sensitivity of my midsection peaked and I shot my pelvis up as if electrocuted. He tried to pull me back to him for more, but I was locked in position above him, the only thing joining our lips being hair-like, translucent strings of my come.

I stayed that way for as long as my arms would allow, mind racing, body fused, eventually drifting downward and back a little to straddle his chest and leave an imprint of my sticky sex on his T-shirt.

Looking down past my heaving chest at his face smeared with my juices, along with his expression of pure joy, made me melt all over again. I dragged my hands up along his thighs as I righted myself and used the motion to lightly brush his rigid cock. Straining against his shorts, proud and ready, it wanted to enter me. And it would get its chance, just not quite yet as I needed to recuperate.

Reversing from him the way I had approached on all fours, I crawled away, maintaining eye contact. Over his stomach, past his groin and willing erection, sliding between his legs and over the edge of the bed to kneel on the floor, I came to rest looking up at his shorts. Snaking my hand along his leg beneath the material and back again I watched his manhood tenting, then reached across for his zip.

With deliberate slowness I crept the zipper down and glided my hand inside to feel the tumescence within. A wet patch was evident in his boxers and I hooked my hands into the gap, fighting to release my prize. It sprang free and pointed straight up from his fly; hot and delicious.

Without wasting a second I ran my fingers over its veined length, marvelling at the contours of the mushroom head and the way the whole muscle jumped to my touch. The smooth, flanged and tapered tip of his circumcised rod symbolised power, yet the tool was next to useless without a willing participant to share its influence.

I was more than willing, drooling at the thought of feeling it split my still aching insides. Wanting to ride him until I went numb from exertion.

Circling my fingers into a loose fist I jacked his shaft a few times, gratified by the extra intakes of breath my actions drew. His staff was jerking and I could tell he wasn't going to last long at all when he made it into the soft confines of my channel so I decided to be brief.

Gliding back up onto the bed, we wriggled to the centre and I crouched between his spread legs, bringing my tongue to his cock head. Licking all around its bulbous circumference elicited a sigh from his lips and his manhood twitched in appreciation. Then I parted my lips and went down on him, rapidly swallowing what I could of his meat. As I bottomed out an inch or so from the base and began the upstroke he groaned lightly.

"Mistress Belle, you're so hot."

I clamped my lips around his thick shaft, drew upward and wetly popped the end from my mouth. It glistened in the evening fingers of sunlight that found their way through the wooden shutters, giving it an ethereal quality.

"I know. Your hard cock brings out the best in me."

Once more I descended then rose, pre-come forming at the tip of his wet glans which I lapped up. Sweet, unlike the thick goo that would soon be forging its way up the tubes to coat my hungry snatch. Eagerly down again I went and thought his cry of anguish might signal that I'd gone too far and he was going to erupt in my throat. I quickly backed off and just sat on my haunches, watching him lying there battling to keep his orgasm down. Luckily I'd made him come the day before so his longevity was extended.

Even so, he barely managed to keep himself from exploding and eventually calmed a little, but his eyes were wild as I stared down at him. They implored me to finish him off; to give him the release he had waited for all day. My loose plan had been to let myself recover a little before taking him inside me, but it was becoming evident that wasn't going to happen. I was still glowing and, by rights, I should have been sated. Yet the raucous part of me -- the side that She had brought into the equation -- wanted more. It was almost as if She had totally separate needs to my own. I wanted to feel loved and cherished for who I was; She wanted to be abused and fucked raw like an a****l. Both sides of my psyche needed fulfilment to make me whole.

I regarded the state of Adam's arousal: Mistress Belle, the filthy slut, craved it and needed it to last as long as possible to achieve another climax, yet it was clear there was little chance of that. So I had to improvise on Her behalf.

Rolling the hair tie from my wrist, I doubled it, placed it at the head of his knob and rolled it down. It caught in the dip below his flared head and I had to delicately tease it out to continue its journey. Although not particularly strong, at the base of his shaft I hoped it would act as a makeshift cock ring, delaying his eruption for as long as possible.

Repositioning myself so my thighs were outside his, the sleek black sides of my Louboutins pressed against him. I shucked forward until our groins met, provocatively sliding my still wet lips along his length and shuddering at the touch. Feeling his tool bob up into position as I reached its end, I angled my hips downward in readiness. As much as I loved relinquishing control, She loved taking charge more.

With the bulb nestling at the entrance to my pussy and Mistress Belle screaming in my head to fuck, fuck, fuck, I simply stared deep into his eyes and waited, the shared anticipation heightening our love; the desire welling up between us, warming us, binding our souls as a tornado of emotion ripped its way through me, dragging my heart with it. The storm reached a crescendo as I fought to deny our bodies the ultimate act for just a few seconds longer; the tempest raging and threatening to tear me limb from limb.

Abruptly, as if the eye of the squall had moved directly above my head, everything ceased. Calm overcame me and I felt the last vestiges of my resolve crumbling as I watched his pupils dilate in readiness.

He wanted me.

I wanted him.

I pushed back.

His entire shaft sank completely and wetly, and my already trembling insides felt full and stretched. We both gasped in unison as the entire six inches split me and disappeared. Savouring the closeness, we sat still and I rippled my walls around his girth, charting each vein and involuntary spasm, trying to become one with him. My eyes rolled skyward when he started to respond, so I sat up straight and began a rhythm on top of him, my skirt bunched around my hips and the cool button of his shorts branding the hot, sensitive folds at the top of my slit.

I bounced up and down, his wonderful erection almost totally exiting my body on each upstroke and our pubic areas grinding together as they met on the return. There was simply no substitute for a hard, warm cock buried in me and I moaned into the room as I drew him inside over and over, our bodies slapping together as the pace increased. Patrons in adjoining rooms would have no choice but to listen to our rampant fucking; there was no pretence and no need for any further self-discipline. I needed this man inside me as much as he needed to be there, and nothing was going to stop us.

Reaching up I grabbed and pinched my nipples through the halterneck, shortly afterwards feeling his hot hands around mine, cupping my weighty tits and squeezing. His actions were becoming erratic and I knew there was not much time left before I would be treated to his release so I slammed up and down on his shaft, the clicking of wetness being f***ed from my body adding to the moans and sounds of flesh on flesh in the room.

"Fuck me, Adam," I commanded between gasps. "You've brought me so much pleasure today it's my honour to take your come deep inside me." I bounced roughly a few more times, hearing the telltale signs of him beginning to lose control, sensing the end ever closer, trying to bring myself as near as I could to another orgasm in the process, racing against his clock.

Looking down at his face, I saw it contort as he neared the brink. Domination never felt so good. I was wet and open, taking everything he could give, my distended petals splayed as he pounded mercilessly up into my engorged chute. I gritted my teeth and snarled, "Fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME! Ohhhhh fuck me with your beautiful, big cock." His rhythm changed and face screwed up. "Yessssss. Fill me, that's it. Shoot inside me. Flood my slutty wet cunt with the boiling come you've wanted to give me all day."

I felt his cock pulsing inside my channel as it spewed forth his sticky load; adored the feeling of his thick jets splashing against the entrance to my womb and dribbling down my inner walls as we continued to slam against one another, groaning and encouraging each other with dirty words.

We sparred and ground throughout the entirety of his orgasm, fingers entwined against my chest as he roughly squeezed me. It was depraved but I loved the sensation of being filled and used as his fuck toy. Loved giving myself to him completely, clothed or not. Loved the sensation of our come mingling inside me and drizzling out to pool around the base of his gorgeous prick where it squished into his boxers as we gyrated in the aftermath.

Above all I loved the freedom he gave me. The freedom to express myself and explore my sexuality in ways I could never have done without him. It might cost me a load of indignant stares or a heap of embarrassment along the way, but time and again I pieced together more of the jigsaw that made up who I really was. I knew full well it may take the rest of my life to complete the puzzle and find the true me, but it was a journey I was willing to take.

As our movements gradually slowed and we disentangled and rolled apart to lie hand-in-hand in that so-called three-star Parisian hotel, I wore something other than just my sweaty, creased clothes, fuck-me heels and an oozing pussy full of my lover's spunk. On my face was the elation of someone at ease with their quirky body and at peace with their sometimes sordid fetishes. Someone who was prepared to tread the path into the unknown if it meant learning more about the way her mind worked. Someone who used those experiences to give herself the sexual highs she craved, however warped. Someone who had a lifetime to discover more about herself and had a kindred spirit with which to share it.

Our eyes met across the bed, pulses still racing, and words were the furthest thing from our minds.... Continue»
Posted by kap007 4 months ago  |  Categories: First Time, Voyeur  |  Views: 845  |  

Nancy Friday My Secret Garden Women’s Sexual

My Secret
Women’s Sexual Fantasies
who believed in this book
when it was just fantasy
FOREWORD by "J," ......................................................... 1
THINKING ABOUT,” HE SAID.............................................5
FRUSTRATION.................................................................... 17
Madge, Dot
INSUFFICIENCY.................................................................. 21
Louella, Irene, Annette, Maria
SEX ENHANCEMENT......................................................... 27
Patricia, Suzanne,
FOREPLAY .......................................................................... 34
Bertha, Bellinda
APPROVAL.......................................................................... 38
Sally, Vicki, Francesca, Sondra
EXPLORATION.................................................................... 46
Karen, Abbie, Hilda, Heather, Kitty
SEXUAL INITIATIVE........................................................... 53
Carol, Faye
INSATIABILITY................................................................... 60
Clarissa, Annabel, Iris, Nora .............................................. 65
DAYDREAMS...................................................................... 66
Corinne, Molly, Alicia, Lily, Eliza, Esther, Shirley, Lillian,
MASTURBATION................................................................ 74
Patsy, Norma, Adair, Mary Beth, Elizabeth, Mary Jane,
Amelia, Alix
THE LESBIANS.................................................................... 86
Marion, Jeanne, Lisa, Zizi, Kate
ROOM NUMBER ONE: ANONYMITY.............................. 100
Linda, Pamela, Marie
ROOM NUMBER TWO: THE AUDIENCE......................... 108
Caroline, Elspeth, Mary Jo, Melanie, Celeste
ROOM NUMBER THREE: ****....................................... 116
Julietta, Gail, Dinah, Sadie
Barbara, Edith, Rose Ann, Amanda
ROOM NUMBER FIVE: DOMINATION............................ 133
Nathalie, Poppy, Heather, Ingrid
Johanna, Anna
Emma, Donna
Monica, Betty, Phyllis
Vivian, Marina
ROOM NUMBER TEN: i****t........................................ 168
Bella, Dominique, Lola
ROOM NUMBER ELEVEN: THE ZOO.............................. 175
Jo, Rosie, Dawn, Wanda
Margie, Raquel, Lydia
ROOM NUMBER THIRTEEN: YOUNG BOYS.................. 185
Evelyn, Victoria
ROOM NUMBER f******n: THE FETISHISTS ........... 188
Christine, Dolly, Bee, Venice, Lilly, Rita, Mary Beth,
Viv, Lee, Willa, Dana, Cara, Celia, Theresa, Tania,
Michelle, Sandra, Patty
c***dHOOD...................................................................... 209
Theda, Lindsay, Fiona, Felicia, Sonia, Phyllis, Marlene,
Kay, Trudy, Mona, Stella
SOUNDS............................................................................. 221
June, Nina, Meg, Holly, Evie
WOMEN DO LOOK ........................................................... 225
Fay, Sukie, Constance, Deana, Anna, Vera, Una, Lois,
Liz, Winona, Rudy, Gale, Imogene, Francine, April,
Myrna, Laurie, Jeanie
SEEING AND READING.................................................... 234
Mary Jane, Miranda, Margaret, Alexandra, Stephanie
RANDOM ASSOCIATIONS ............................................... 243
Susie, Adrienne, Doris, Lulu, Daisy, Kit, Flossie, Josie,
Brett, Sarah, Maud, Gelda
WOMEN’S GUILT.............................................................. 257
Christiana, Hope, Lil, Alison, Clare, Penelope ................. 267
MEN’S ANXIETY .............................................................. 268
Tina’s husband ................................................................ 269
FANTASY ACCEPTED........................................................271
Gloria, Hannah, Sophie, Bobbie, Paula
FANTASIES THAT SHOULD BE REALITY ....................298
Sylvia, Babs, Elizabeth, Winnie, Loretta, Sheila,
Claudine, Jocelyn
SHARING FANTASIES ...................................................... 311
Lynn, Jacqueline, Doris, Bonnie, Jessie, Esther, Posie,
Marx, Joan, Adele’s husband
Quickies .................................................................................327
by Martin Shepard, M.D., psychiatrist, ................................ 340
author of the Sensuous Woman
 I’ve never met Nancy Friday, but I feel that I know her, for I
still have pictures of her wedding tucked away in a drawer. She
had what I consider a perfect wedding – romantic, glamorous,
inexpensive and private – and the reason I know about it is that
Cosmopolitan Magazine covered the event in its April 1966
The article was titled "Marry the Man Today…in Rome," and
when the manuscript of My Secret Garden was sent to me for
comment, I dug out Cosmopolitan and took another look at the
author. My memory was accurate. Nancy Friday looks like a
former Miss America – pretty, wholesome, well-scrubbed,
glowing. This girl has written a book on women’s sexual
There couldn’t be a more perfect author, for it’s time that we
removed the veils of misunderstanding from this subject and
made it respectable. Too many people assume that anyone who
has sexual fantasies is mentally sick or oversexed – or both! Ms.
Friday’s healthy attitude and common-sense comments will do
much to alleviate guilts, fears and ignorance, and the fact that she
is somewhat of a girl-next-door type will be comforting to readers
who feel that sexual fantasies aren’t well-bred.
Admittedly, the reader will at times have to fight off shock,
prurient interest and distaste while reading My Secret Garden.
This is no coffee-table book. Nor should it be left around where
c***dren might pick it up. My Secret Garden could bring plain
brown paper wrappers back into vogue, for not only is it a
serious, informative study of a facet of human sexuality that has
been largely ignored, it is also painfully personal,
uncompromisingly candid and unabashedly erotic. There has
never been anything quite like it. You are going to have to f***e
yourself at times to remember that this is a clinical work.
I began to be interested in sexual fantasies several years ago
when I realized how much you could learn about the person you
love by examining his or her fantasies. For it is pretty certain that
sexual fantasies do reflect one’s secret vision of ideal sexual
activity. That doesn’t mean I think you should take your lover’s
dreams literally (most fantasies feature highly exaggerated
behaviour), but you should become aware that buried in his or
her favourite sexual fantasy is a core of desire to experience a
special psychological attitude or activity and the accompanying
physical sensations. You won’t really know your lover until you
have unearthed those hidden desires. Nor will you have achieved
complete trust and intimacy until you have been able to share
your fantasies with each other and have them accepted. Perhaps
this book will break the barrier of silence.
Very little space was devoted to sexual fantasies in The
Sensuous Woman. Most of the women I interviewed were
uninhibited in their discussions of the subject and I incorporated
some of their comments into several chapters. I even considered
doing a separate section detailing the fantasies that were repeated
to me most often, but I dropped the idea when the companion
chapter on men’s fantasies proved so difficult. That was one of
the shortest chapters in my book, for, much to my astonishment,
asking a man about his sexual fantasies triggered a response
similar to that of hitting an exposed nerve. In both individual and
group interviews the men reacted as if I had suggested ****, and
clammed up immediately. Even swingers and habitual orgiasts
seemed to be struck by a bolt of instant amnesia. After The
Sensuous Woman was published, I got a number of letters from
women saying they thought the chapter on men’s fantasies was
interesting, but not one comment was ever received from men.
My heart goes out to the poor soul who attempts to compile the
first book on men’s fantasies. It would be easier, to train turtles
to outrun greyhounds.
In all fairness, I should mention that my own sex has its area
of sensitivity. I had an extremely difficult time getting many
women to discuss masturbation. They would volunteer every
detail of their lovemaking, acknowledge extramarital affairs, etc.,
without embarrassment, but be unable to even say the word
masturbation, much less admit to engaging in this very normal
activity. Only when they were describing a sexual fantasy were
these women able to relax enough to speak of masturbation.
I mention all this to explain my opinion that men and women
will react very differently to My Secret Garden. I suspect that
women generally will be fascinated by the revelations in this
book, but not surprised. Nor will these readers have trouble in
acknowledging that they too fantasize. Those women, however,
who consider sexual intercourse unpleasant and/or unsatisfying
will be revolted by the explicit and enthusiastically carnal sexual
daydreams of the women in this book and will reject and deny
their own fantasies both to the world and to themselves.
And how will the male react? The first man I gave My Secret
Garden to was so turned on by the book that he went on a
lovemaking marathon. But, unfortunately for the women in
America, I suspect that this reaction was not average. The next
few male readers were much like the men Nancy Friday tells us
about. Since many of the women in this book regard their sexual
fantasies as more intimate than the sex act itself, the men felt that
their masculinity was threatened (how could any dream be more
satisfying than, me?). These readers were especially furious at
the fantasies where women imagined that their husbands were
movie or sports stars during their lovemaking. (A common male
fantasy, by the way, is to imagine while he is making love to his
wife or girlfriend that she is Raquel Welch, Ava Gardner or
whoever else excites him. The double standard seems to extend
even to dreams.)
Some men, already unnerved by the onslaught of women’s lib,
will be angered that they are treated as sex objects in most
women’s fantasies and be shocked and frightened by some of the
contributors’ lusty, dominating, twisted dreams. The possibility
that Susan, his demure little wife, could imagine even one of the
outrageous acts in My Secret Garden will be more than this type
of man can handle emotionally, and my advice to Susan is that
she let him know that she approves of the book but keep her
fantasies to herself until he matures a little more. Women are
going to have to do most of the work of helping men
acknowledge that it isn’t freaky to fantasize.
I know I haven’t told you any of my fantasies. I’m not about
to. So much of my sex life was revealed in The Sensuous
Woman, all I have left are my fantasies! Variations of them are
in My Secret Garden though (the first thing I did when I got the
manuscript was look through it to see if I was represented), and I
bet your secret garden is here, too. Nancy Friday has collected
enough fantasies so that there is something for everyone.
Whether you like it or not, My Secret Garden is a milestone in
sex education, for it explores one of the last uncharted areas of
female sexuality and f***es us to acknowledge the probability
that fantasies are as necessary to our sexual well-being as dreams
are to healthy sl**p. More scientifically oriented books will
follow as sex researchers start to give fantasies the attention they
deserve, but I doubt if the experts’ book will be as human and
readable as My Secret Garden.
December 10, 1972 "J," author of The Sensuous Woman
 In my mind, as in our fucking, I am at the crucial
point:…We are at this Baltimore Colt-Minnesota Viking football
game, and it is very cold. Four or five of us are huddled under a
big glen plaid blanket. Suddenly we jump up to watch Johnny
Unitas running toward the goal. As he races down the field, we
all turn as a body, wrapped in our blanket, screaming with
excitement. Somehow, one of the men – I don’t know who, and
in my excitement I can’t look – has gotten himself more closely
behind me. I keep cheering, my voice an echo of his, hot on my
neck. I can feel his erection through his pants as he signals me
with a touch to turn my hips more directly toward him. Unitas is
blocked, but all the action, thank God, is still going toward that
goal and all of us keep turned to watch. Everyone is going mad.
He’s got his cock out now and somehow it’s between my legs:
he’s torn a hole in my tights under my short skirt and I yell louder
as the touchdown gets nearer now. We are all jumping up and
down and I have to lift my leg higher, to the next step on the
bleachers, to steady myself; now the man behind me can slip it in
more easily. We are all leaping about, thumping one another on
the back, and he puts his arm around my shoulders to keep us in
rhythm. He’s inside me now, shot straight up through me like a
ramrod; my God, it’s like he’s in my throat! “All the way,
Johnny! Go, go, run, run!” we scream together, louder than
anyone, making them all cheer louder, the two of us leading the
excitement like cheer leaders, while inside me I can feel whoever
he is growing harder and harder, pushing deeper and higher into
me with each jump until the cheering for Unitas becomes the
rhythm of our fucking and all around us everyone is on our side,
cheering us and the touchdown…it’s hard to separate the two
now. It’s Unitas’ last down, everything depends on him; we’re
racing madly, almost at our own touchdown. My excitement gets
wilder, almost out of control as I scream for Unitas to make it as
we do, so that we all go over the line together. And as the man
behind me roars, clutching me in a spasm of pleasure, Unitas
goes over and I …
“Tell me what you are thinking about,” the man I was actually
fucking said, his words as charged as the action in my mind. As
I’d never stopped to think before doing anything to him in bed
(we were that sure of our spontaneity and response), I didn’t stop
to edit my thoughts. I told him what I’d been thinking.
He got out of bed, put on his pants and went home.
Lying there among the crumpled sheets, so abruptly rejected
and confused as to just why, I watched him dress. It was only
imaginary, I had tried to explain; I didn’t really want that other
man at the football game. He was faceless! A nobody! I’d never
even have had those thoughts, much less spoken them out loud, if
I hadn’t been so excited, if he, my real lover, hadn’t aroused me
to the point where I’d abandoned my whole body, all of me, even
my mind. Didn’t he see? He and his wonderful, passionate
fucking had brought on these things and they, in turn, were
making me more passionate. Why, I tried to smile, he should be
proud, happy for both of us….
One of the things I had always admired in my lover was the
fact that he was one of the few men who understood that there
could be humour and playfulness in bed. But he did not think my
football fantasy was either humorous or playful. As I said, he
just left.
His anger and the shame he made me feel (which writing this
book has helped me to realize I still resent) was the beginning of
the end for us. Until that moment his cry had always been
"More!" He had convinced me that there was no sexual limit to
which I could go that wouldn’t excite him more; his
encouragement was like the occasional flick a c***d gives a
spinning top, making it run faster and faster, speeding me ever
forward toward things I had always wanted to do, but had been
too shy even to think about with anyone else. Shyness was not
my style, but sexually I was still my mother’s daughter. He had
freed me, I felt, from this inappropriate maidenly constraint with
which I could not intellectually identify, but from which I could
not bodily escape. Proud of me for my efforts, he made me proud
of myself, too. I loved us both.
Looking back over my shoulder now at my anything-goes
lover, I can see that I was only too happily enacting his indirectly
stated Pygmalion-D. H. Lawrence fantasies. But mine? He
didn’t want to hear about them. I was not to coauthor this
fascinating script on How To Be Nancy, even if it was my life. I
was not to act, but to be acted upon.
Where are you now, old lover of mine? If you were put off by
my fantasy of “the other man,” what would you have thought of
the one about my Great Uncle Henry’s Dalmatian dog? Or the
one member of my f****y that you liked, Great Uncle Henry
himself, as he looked in the portrait over my mother’s piano, back
when men wore moustaches that tickled, and women long skirts.
Could you see what Great Uncle Henry was doing to me under
the table? Only it wasn’t me; I was disguised as a boy.
Or was I? It didn’t matter. It doesn’t, with fantasies. They
exist only for their elasticity, their ability to instantly incorporate
any new character, image or idea – or, as in dreams, to which
they bear so close a relationship – to contain conflicting ideas
simultaneously. They expand, heighten, distort or exaggerate
reality, taking one further, faster in the direction in which the
unashamed u*********s already knows it wants to go. They
present the astonished self with the incredible, the opportunity to
entertain the impossible.
There were other lovers, and other fantasies. But I never
introduced the two again. Until I met my husband. The thing
about a good man is that he brings out the best in you, desires all
of you, and in seeking out your essence, not only accepts all he
finds, but settles for nothing less. Bill brought my fantasies back
into the open again from those depths where I had prudently
decided they must live – vigorous and vivid as ever, yes, but
never to be spoken aloud again. I’ll never forget his reaction
when timidly, vulnerable, and partially ashamed, I decided to risk
telling him what I had been thinking.
“What an imagination!” he said. “I could never have dreamed
that up. Were you really thinking that?”
His look of amused admiration came as a reprieve; I realized
how much he loved me, and in loving me, loved anything that
gave me more abundant life. My fantasies to him were a sudden
unveiling of a new garden of pleasure, as yet unknown to him,
into which I would invite him.
Marriage released me from many things, and led me into
others. If my fantasies seemed so revealing and imaginative to
Bill, why not include them in the novel I was writing? It was
about a woman, of course, and there must be other readers
besides my husband, men and other women too, who would be
intrigued by a new approach to what goes on in a woman’s mind.
I did indeed devote one entire chapter in the book to a long idyllic
reverie of the heroine’s sexual fantasies. I thought it was the best
thing in the book, the stuff of which the novels I had most
admired were made. But my editor, a man, was put off. He had
never read anything like it, he said (the very point of writing a
novel, I thought). Her fantasies made the heroine sound like
some kind of sexual freak, he said. “If she’s so crazy about this
guy she’s with,” he said, “if he’s such a great fuck, then why’s
she thinking about all these other crazy things…why isn’t she
thinking about him?"
I could have asked him a question of my own: Why do men
have sexual fantasies, too? Why do men seek prostitutes to
perform certain acts when they have perfectly layable ladies at
home? Why do husbands buy their wives black lace G-strings
and nipple-exposing bras, except in pursuit of fantasies of their
own? In Italy, men scream "Madonna mia" when they come, and
it is not uncommon, we learn in Eros Denied, for an imaginative
Englishman to pay a lady for the privilege of eating the
strawberry cream puff (like Nanny used to make) she has kindly
stuffed up her cunt. Why is it perfectly respectable (and
continually commercial) for cartoons to dwell on the sidewalk
figure of Joe Average eyeing the passing luscious blonde, while
in the balloon drawn over his head he puts her through the most
exotic paces? My God! Far from being thought reprehensible,
this last male fantasy is thought amusing, f****y fun, something
a father can share with his son.
Men exchange sexual fantasies in the barroom, where they are
called dirty jokes; the occasional man who doesn’t find them
amusing is thought to be odd man out. Blue movies convulse
bachelor dinners and salesmen’s conventions. And when Henry
Miller, D. H. Lawrence and Norman Mailer – to say nothing of
Genet – put their fantasies on paper, they are recognized for what
they can be: art. The sexual fantasies of men like these are called
novels. Why then, I could have asked my editor, can’t the sexual
fantasies of women be called the same?
But I said nothing. My editor’s insinuation, like my former
lover’s rejection, hit me where I was most sensitive: in that area
where women, knowing least about each other’s true sexual
selves, are most vulnerable. What is it to be a woman? Was I
being unfeminine? It is one thing not to have doubted the answer
sufficiently to ever have asked the question of yourself at all. But
it is another to know that question has suddenly been placed in
someone else’s mind, to be judged there in some indefinable,
unknown, unimaginable competition or comparison. What
indeed was it to be a woman? Unwilling to argue about it with
this man’s-man editor, who supposedly had his finger on the
sexual pulse of the world (hadn’t he, for instance, published
James Jones and Mailer, and probably shared with them
unpublishable sexual insights), I picked up myself, my novel, and
my fantasies and went home where we were appreciated. But I
shelved the book. The world wasn’t ready yet for female sexual
I was right. It wasn’t a commercial idea then, even though
I’m talking about four years ago and not four hundred. People
said they wanted to hear from women. What were they thinking.
But men didn’t really want to know about some new, possibly
threatening, potential in women. It would immediately pose a
sexual realignment, some rethinking of the male (superior)
position. And we women weren’t yet ready either to share this
potential, our common but unspoken knowledge, with one
What women needed and were waiting for was some kind of
yardstick against which to measure ourselves, a sexual rule of
thumb equivalent to that with which men have always provided
one another. But women were the silent sex. In our desire to
please our men, we had placed the sexual constraints and secrecy
upon one another which men had thought necessary for their own
happiness and freedom. We had imprisoned each other, betrayed
our own sex and ourselves. Men had always banded together to
give each other fraternal support and encouragement, opening up
for themselves the greatest possible avenues for sexual adventure,
variety and possibility. Not women.
For men, talking about sex, writing and speculating about it,
exchanging confidences and asking each other for advice and
encouragement about it, had always been socially accepted, and,
in fact, a certain amount of boasting about it in the locker room is
usually thought to be very much the mark of a man’s man, a fine
devil of a fellow. But the same culture that gave men this
freedom sternly barred it to women, leaving us sexually
mistrustful of each other, forcing us into patterns of deception,
shame, and above all, silence.
I, myself, would probably never have decided to write this
book on women’s erotic fantasies if other women’s voices hadn’t
broken that silence, giving me not just that sexual yardstick I was
talking about, but also the knowledge that other women might
want to hear my ideas as eagerly as I wanted to hear theirs.
Suddenly, people were no longer simply saying they wanted to
hear from women, now women were actually talking, not waiting
to be asked, but sharing their experiences, their desires,
thousands of women supporting each other by adding their
voices, their names, their presence to the liberating f***es that
promised women a new shake, something "more."
Oddly enough, I think the naked power cry of Women’s Lib
itself was not helpful to a lot of women, certainly not to me in the
work that became this book. It put too many women off. The
sheer stridency of it, instead of drawing us closer together, drove
us into opposing camps; those who were defying men, denying
them, drew themselves up in militant ranks against those who
were suddenly more afraid than ever that in sounding aggressive
they would be risking rejection by their men. If sex is reduced to
a test of power, what woman wants to be, left all alone, all
powerful, playing with herself?
But if not Women’s Lib, then liberation itself was in the air.
With the increasing liberation of women’s bodies, our minds
were being set free, too. The idea that women had sexual
fantasies, the enigma of just what they might be, the prospect that
the age-old question of men to women, “What are you thinking
about?” might at last be answered, now suddenly fascinated
editors. No longer was it a matter of the sales-minded editor
deciding what a commercial gimmick it would be to publish a
series of sexy novels by sexy ladies, novels that would give an
odd new sales tickle to the age-old fucking scenes that had
always been written by men. Now it was suddenly out of the
editors’ hands: Women were writing about sex, but it was from
their point of view (women seen only as male sex fantasies, no
more), and it was a whole new bedroom. The realization was
suddenly obvious, that with the liberation of women, men would
be liberated too from all the stereotypes that made them think of
women as burdens, prudes, and necessary evils, even at best
something less than a man. Imagine! Talking to a woman might
be more fun than a night out with the boys!
With all this in the air, it’s no surprise that at first my idea
fascinated everyone. "I’m thinking of doing a book about female
sexual fantasies," I’d say for openers to a group of highly
intelligent and articulate friends. That’s all it took. All
conversation would stop. Men and women both would turn to
me with half-smiles of excitement. They were willing to
countenance the thought, but only in generalities. I discovered.
“Oh, you mean the old **** dream?”
“You don’t mean something like King Kong, do you?”
But when I would speak about fantasies with the kind of
detail which in any narrative carries the feel of life and makes the
verbal experience emotionally real, the ease around the restaurant
table would abruptly stop. Men would become truculent and
nervous (ah! my old lover – how universal you are) and their
women, far from contributing fantasies of their own – an idea
that might have intrigued them in the beginning – would close up
like clams. If anyone spoke, it was the men:
"Why don’t you collect men’s fantasies?"
"Women don’t reed fantasies, they have us."
"Women don’t have sexual fantasies."
"I can understand some old, dried-up prune that no man would
want having fantasies. Some frustrated neurotic. But the
ordinary, sexually satisifed woman doesn’t need them."
“Who needs fantasies? What’s the matter with good oldfashioned
Nothing’s the matter with good old-fashioned sex. Nothing’s
the matter with asparagus, either. But why not have the
hollandaise, too? I used to try to explain that it wasn’t a question
of need, that a woman is no less a woman if she doesn’t
fantasize. (Or that if she does, it is not necessarily a question of
something lacking in the man.) But if a woman does fantasize, or
wants to, then she should accept it without shame or thinking
herself freaky – and so should the man. Fantasy should be
thought of as an extension of one’s sexuality. I think it was this
idea, the notion of some unknown sexual potential in their
women, the threat of the unseen, all-powerful rival, that bothered
men most.
"Fantasies during sex? My wife? Why, Harriet doesn’t
fantasize . And then he would turn to Harriet with a mixture of
threat and dawning doubt, "Do you, Harriet?" Again and again I
was surprised to find so many intelligent and otherwise openminded
men put off by the idea of their women having sexual
thoughts, no matter how fleeting, that weren’t about them.
And of course their anxiety communicated itself to their
Harriets. I soon learned not to research these ideas in mixed
company. Naively at first, I had believed that the presence of a
husband or an accustomed lover would be reassuring and
comforting. Looking back now, I can see that it had been
especially naive of me to think he might be interested, too, in
perhaps finding out something new in his partner’s sexual life,
and that if she were attacked by shyness or diffidence, he would
encourage her to go on. Of course, that is not how it works.
But even talking to women alone, away from the visible
anxiety the subject aroused in their men, it was difficult getting
through to them, getting through the fear, not of admitting their
fantasies to me, but of admitting them to themselves. It is this
not-so-conscious fear of rejection that leads women to strive to
change the essence of their minds by driving their fantasies down
deep into their forgotten layers of mind.
I wasn’t attempting to play doctor in the house to my women
contributors; analysing their fantasies was never my intention. I
simply wanted to substantiate my feeling that women do
fantasize and should be accepted as having the same unrealized
desires and needs as men, many of which can only find release in
fantasy. My belief was, and is, that given a sufficient body of
such information, the woman who fantasizes will have a
background against which to place herself. She will no longer
have that vertiginous fright that she alone has these random,
often unbidden thoughts and ideas.
Eventually, then, I developed a technique to enable an but the
shyest women to verbalize their fantasies. For instance, if, as in
many cases, the first reaction was, "Who, me? Never!" I’d show
them one or two fantasies I’d already collected from more candid
women. This would allay anxiety: "I thought my ideas were wild,
but I’m not half as far out as that girl." Or it would arouse a spirit
of competition which is never entirely dormant among our sex:
"If she thinks that fantasy she gave me to read is so sexy, wait till
she reads mine."
In this way, without really working at it too hard, I had put
together quite a sizeable, though amateur, collection. After all,
everything to date was from women I knew, or from friends of
friends who would sometimes phone or write to say they had
heard of what I was doing and would like to help by being
interviewed themselves. Somewhere along the way, though, I
realized that if my collection of fantasies was going to be more
than just a cross section of my own narrow circle of friends, I
would have to reach out further. And so I placed an ad in
newspapers and magazines which reached several varied
audiences. The ad merely said:
wanted by serious female researcher.
Anonymity guaranteed. Box XYZ.
As much as I’d been encouraged by my husband and also by
the spirit of the times in which we live, I think it was the letters
that came that marked the turning point in my own attitude
toward this work. I am no marcher, nor Red-Crosser, but some
of the cries for help and sighs of relief in those letters moved me.
Again and again they would start, "Thank God, I can tell these
thoughts to someone; up till now I’ve never confided mine to a
living soul. I have always been ashamed of them, feeling that
other people would think them unnatural and consider me a
nymphomaniac or a pervert.
I think it fair to say that I began this book out of curiosity –
about myself and the odd explosive excitement/anxiety syndrome
the subject set up in others; the male smugness of my rejecting
lover and that know-it-all editor kept me going; but it became a
serious and meaningful effort when I realized what it could mean,
not only to all the sometimes lonely, sometimes joyful, usually
anonymous women who were writing to me, but to the thousands
and thousands who, though they were too embarrassed, isolated,
or ashamed to write, might perhaps have the solitary courage to
Today we have a flowering of women who write explicitly and
honestly about sex and about what goes on in a woman’s mind
and body during the act. Marvellous writers like Edna O’Brien
and Doris Lessing. But even with women as outspoken as these,
they feel the need for a last seventh veil to hide acknowledgement
of their sexuality; what they write calls itself fiction. It is a veil I
feel it would he interesting and even useful to remove as a step in
the liberation of us all, women and men alike. For no man can be
really free in bed with a women who is not.
Putting this book together has been an education. Learning
what other women are like, both in their fantasies and in their
lives – it is sometimes difficult to separate the two – has made
me gasp in disbelief; laugh out loud occasionally; blush; sigh a
lot; feel a sense of outrage, envy, and a great deal of sympathy. I
find my own fantasies are funnier than some, less poetic than
others, more startling than a good number – but they are my own.
Naturally, my best fantasies, my favourites of the moment –
numbers 1, 2, and 3 on my private hit parade are not included
here. One thing I’ve learned about fantasies: they’re fun to share,
but once shared, half their magic, their ineluctable power, is
gone. They are sea pebbles upon which the waters have dried. Is
that a mystery? So are we all. 
 Most people think women’s sexual fantasies fill a need, a
vacancy; that they are taking the place of The Real Thing, and as
such arise not in moments of sexual plenty, but when something
is missing. Since frustration, therefore, is the beginning of
popular understanding of why women fantasize, let’s begin with
two fantasies from frustrated women.
What a relief it is to admit to fantasies and to tell them to
someone as understanding as you obviously are. I have a regular
fantasy brought on by lack of interest by my husband. He fucks
me every five or six weeks, and it is always the same: We are in
bed with the lights out and he starts to play with his prick. This
goes on often for half an hour or even longer. (He used to get me
to do it, but he doesn’t bother now.) I feel him start to really rub
hard and breathe heavily, then he pulls up my nightie (still under
the sheet), says, "Open your legs," and after about two seconds he
comes inside me, rolls off, and goes to sl**p.
All this time, and especially afterward when I know he’s
asl**p – I play with myself then – I really enjoy my fantasy.
I find myself at the door of a big house; the door opens and a
very big black man with a buxom black woman behind him are
inside. He grabs me and pulls me inside, with the woman
pushing, helping him. They drag me into a room in which a large
Alsatian – very obviously male in the full sense! – is tied up with
a boy of about f******n. The boy is naked. I am ordered to strip
naked. "Let’s see what you’ve got," the black man leers at me. I
protest and he produces a whip while his wife forcibly undresses
me and ties my hands behind my back. She takes his trousers off
and exposes his prick, which is abnormally big and stiff as she
rolls his foreskin back and forth. I am f***ed to kneel in front of
him, and when he tells me to, I am f***ed to use the words "cock"
and "prick" to describe it. I am made to beg to be fucked and he
makes me say the word "fucked" several times to emphasize it.
Then the dog is unleashed, and I am f***ed on my back while
the dog is coaxed so that my head is by his cock and he licks my
cant. I have to feel its cock and rub it gently. Finally I am made to
turn around and suck the dog’s cock as the black man watches
me to make sure I really yuck it. Then I’m made to lie on my
back on a long stool and the woman gets the dog between my
legs, held wide open, and guides his prick and I feel it go right
inside me. I am watched by the boy and the wife is naked now. I
have to beg for a fucking as the man rubs his prick against my
mouth until it becomes big and wet. I am made to lick it and
suddenly he holds my head and f***es his massive prick in my
mouth and holds my nose so that I am f***ed to suck and
swallow his come. It seems to squirt endlessly dawn my throat.
As a final act, I am f***ed to suck his wife’s tits and finally to
lick her cunt until she is completely satisfied, while the boy jerks
himself off over my cunt and belly. The fantasy fades and I am
wet as my finger urgently strokes my cunt to orgasm.
Do you suppose this is all due to lesbian tendencies and my
secret desire to be watched by a young boy? [Letter]
 As is so often the case when human beings are faced with a mass
of unexplained or bewildering experience they have been taught not
to discuss, riot only does Madge not have the answers, she doesn’t
even know the right questions. The inadequacy of her final
paragraph, wondering about the meaning of her fantasy, is almost
Although we have been sl**ping together, regularly for two
years, and I have had three short affairs during that time, my
husband and I have been married only eight weeks. I thought I
was well prepared for all the post marital disillusionments that
young brides are prone to, but one took me by surprise. Prior to
our wedding, our sex life had been varied, quite spontaneous and
imaginative. Although I had masturbated since puberty, it was
only a year ago that I discovered my clitoris and experienced my
first orgasm. Since that time, my mate had been only too anxious
and willing to make use of that knowledge, and in his
consideration, never failed to masturbate me to orgasm either
immediately before or during intercourse.
Since we have been married, however, our mutual sex life has
come to a standstill in relation to the life we had beforehand.
Granted, we are now on stricter schedules and he is often too
tired, but even on Sunday afternoons (what used to be our
spend-one-day-in-bed-fucking day) the most I can expect is an
uneventful nap. Now this hasn’t been going on long enough for
me to become angry or even frustrated, so I will deal with this
myself. All this rambling has been my disorganized way of
building up to the subject of fantasies.
When my husband does decide to get down to business, it
generally becomes a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am affair. Here’s
where my imagination comes in. I found that no matter how long
I concentrated on achieving an orgasm, he was simply not giving
me the time. So gradually I discovered that it was quicker to snap
together a mental vision, a situation that would give me a quick
dose of eroticism that would carry me through. Second, I
discovered after trying several fantasies, that the process was
much quicker and more effective if I relied on one fantasy each
time. And the more use the fantasy gets, either during intercourse
or masturbation, the more vivid and realistic it becomes.
This particular fantasy is brief, and I generally repeat it several
times in my mind, omitting the finale until I feel the wave of my
orgasm. It consists of a room of men, well-dressed, wealthy, and
at least middle-aged. One man acts as my husband or guardian –
the is anonymous and I never really assigned him any specific
relationship to me. He is in command of my actions and seems to
be the leader of the men. I appear in this room of men dressed in
a lovely summery dress, light and full-skirted. The man tells the
men that I am easily embarrassed but am basically an
exhibitionist. He tells me to undo the bodice of the dress, leaving
my bare breasts exposed. He then has me lie face down across the
coffee table with my breasts hanging freely at one end and my
rear at the other. He tells the men that I am aroused by anything
icy and wet and suggests that they cup their half-full champagne
glasses around my breasts. (When my husband and I were having
better days and nights, we often applied ice to one another.) The
fantasy goes on as he slips his hand under my dress and
underwear and massages my rear. He does not pay any attention
at all to my clitoris or vagina, only my rear. He speaks to the
other men and tells then what a marvelous white broad ass I
have, and would they like to see it? He feels my rear some more
and then slowly lifts my dress to expose my butt, still in panties.
He rubs it some more, praises it to the men. By this point, my
orgasm is beginning to build and when I am ready, I imagine him
very slowly peeling my panties down my thighs. If I have not
experienced my climax by now, I either repeat the fantasy from
the point of the champagne glasses, or else I add to the ending a
light spanking. During the spanking, he explains to the men that
he enjoys seeing my white cheeks turn pink.
This fantasy originated while I masturbated in the bathtub.
Now it gets used almost daily, if not in bed with my husband, in
the tub with a well-aimed stream of water. I’m curious to know
how long this one fantasy will suffice before it becomes boring.
I’m beginning to think that just the concept of this fantasy is
what turns me on-sort of a reflex action. But as long as it works,
it’s keeping our marriage – including our sex life – joyful.
 Before we go on to more provocative reasons for fantasy,
positive reasons with which I personally identify but about which
I still feel – even after putting together this book – an odd mix of
excitement and anxiety, let me give you four more variations on
this theme of frustration; it is one of the great and universal
themes of sexual loneliness, one whose reality we can all
understand. The first interview below is with forty-five-year-old
Louella, a totally sexually deprived woman; the second with
Irene, twenty-five, who might as well be. Next comes a letter
from Anisette, who was young enough – nineteen – and frantic
enough to have probably done something about her frustration by
now. I think the v******e and alienation of some of the themes
these women explore is a measure of how much the human being
will rage against sexual famine. The well-fed diner will idly
choose between this dessert and that; the starving person will
dream of "eating a horse." 
Perhaps the basis for my fantasy about my stepson is the
humiliation I feel because my husband only married me to be a
housekeeper and in order to look after his son. My husband is
sexually impotent, but the boy is blatantly sexual. Sometimes I
feel I cannot tear my eyes away from the bulge in the boy’s
trousers. I know what’s there, it seems to run the full length of
his belly.
In my fantasy I call for him to get up out of bed, I know he
isn’t sl**ping. I listen outside the bedroom door and know be is
lying there playing with himself. I am about to call him again but
another boy, a school friend, comes to call and I let them go off
by themselves because I know what they are up to.
They go into the woodshed, and after a little time I creep down
and peek through the planks. They are standing facing each other,
their cocks out, stroking each other. I feel so bl**dy cross, but yet
I still feel myself getting wet. I go back to the house and shriek
for him to come in. I still feel like hitting him over the head. He
comes in half ashamed and sneering; I myself sit down with my
legs trembling. I see he has a big bulge there, he seems to be
sticking it out more, then, I don’t know, I open his buttons and
pull his shirt up. I didn’t think it was so big. I stroke him, it is
hot and throbbing and he comes as quick as that, covering my
hand. Later I take him to my bedroom, he sits on the edge of the
bed, I play with him, pulling his skin right back. I am shaking
with sex, I pull my dress off and he sucks my tits, then I back up
to him and guide it in, with my thighs closed. But he comes too
soon, and I send him away. I watch him go down the lane and get
out my dildo, it is thicker and goes all in. [Letter and interview]
My husband is studying for his master’s degree, but I have
only about one year’s worth of college credits which I have
earned by attending college part time. I am twenty-five and my
husband is one year younger. We do not have any c***dren and I
believe I would prefer not to have any.
My husband talks a lot about sex, but he is not very active
sexually. As you can probably guess, I am sexually unsatisfied,
and have never had an orgasm. Only lately have I thought of
someone other than my husband during sex. I imagine what it
would be like to have sex with a man who could continue long
enough for me to be satisfied. I know several men who I think
could do this. Unfortunately, sex with my husband lasts for such
a short time I don’t get much of a chance to even fantasize for
very long.
He often asks me about my thoughts during sex, but I
wouldn’t dare tell him about the other men. I’m sure it would just
make things worse if he knew I was pretending that he was
another man. Anyway, when I do make up innocent little sexual
thoughts to tell him, he just gets more excited and comes even
more quickly.
I often search for "fantasy partners" when I’m in public. If I
see a man who interests me, I imagine that my large breasts are
bare. Seeing them, he is unable to resist me and he takes me then
and there, and finally and fully satisfies me. I even look at
attractive couples, wondering whether or not the man can satisfy
the woman, and what it must be like for her to have an orgasm.
That usually just leaves me feeling jealous though.
I have also tried thinking of other women, not frequently but
sometimes. I imagine having sex with a girl like myself. We
know each other’s desires better than any man could, and we are
far better able to satisfy them. The fantasies include cunnilingus
because I have heard that is a good way to help a woman have an
orgasm. My husband will not do it to me though.
I’ve tried masturbation, but even with fantasy I’ve not been
able to reach a climax. During masturbation, I’ve tried imagining
that it is a young, good-looking man doing it to me. I close my
eyes and imagine his head pressed against my breasts and that
my fingers are his lips. Or I imagine that an entire fraternity
house has k**napped me for an orgy. I am the only girl there. I
imagine them one by one taking their turn with me, in the dining
room, in various beds, on the floor, everywhere and with
everyone watching. They come at me one right after the other and
this way I imagine I can finally have an orgasm…but I never
really do reach one.
My latest and most unusual fantasy is that I am both a woman
and a man and that I am having sexual relations with myself. I
imagine that I am able to give myself all the sexual satisfaction I
have ever desired. It is a complicated fantasy to work out, but I
think eventually it will work. [Letter]
I have never confided my sexual fantasies to a living soul, but
I feel I must tell someone about them, and so I welcome the
opportunity to unburden myself. I have always been ashamed of
them, because I feel that other people would think them
unnatural, and consider me a nymphomaniac, or something
I am nineteen years old, and have been married for a year now;
my husband is twenty-three. We have a satisfying sex life when
he is at home, and indulge in every kind of sexual activity,
including long sessions of oral lovemaking. The trouble starts
when my husband is away from home, which is sometimes as
much as two weeks at a time, as he travels abroad on business
quite a lot and cannot always take me with him.
By the end of the second week, or sometimes sooner, I am
getting desperate for intercourse, and I have to resort to
masturbation, as for various reasons I do not wish to get involved
with other men. At first, I used to fantasize that my husband was
with me, and he was fondling my breasts and my vulva, licking
and sucking my clitoris, and – as I thrust a banana or the smaller
end of a cucumber into my vagina – I closed my eyes and
pretended it was my husband’s penis that was penetrating me.
This was sufficient to give me a satisfying orgasm at first, but
after a while I found it more difficult to reach one. So, I started to
imagine that two men were making love to me – my husband and
a man I strongly fancy at the tennis club. I imagined that one was
kissing my breasts and sucking my nipples while the other was
loving me with his mouth between my legs. Then, as I pushed the
banana into my vagina, I imagined that the other man was
fucking me while my husband put his penis in my mouth.
Now it has gone a step further, and to get my orgasm, I lie
down on my back across our double bed, with my legs apart and
a two-inch-thick cucumber thrust into my vagina, and close my
eyes while I imagine that four men are making love to me all at
once. As I thrust the cucumber in and out with a screwing
motion, I imagine that one man kneels between my legs, kissing
my slit, which is hairless, by the way; another kneels beside the
bed above my head kissing my mouth; and two others kneel on
the bed each side of me, sitting on their heels, and leaning
forward to suck my nipples, while I stretch out my hand and take
hold of their penises to masturbate them.
From there the fantasy progresses. I tip my head back over the
side of the bed, and the man there inserts his penis in my mouth.
The man between my legs gets onto the bed and inserts his penis
in my vagina, and with my mouth, my hands, and my vagina, I
make all four of them come at once. After a while, when I start to
want another orgasm, I imagine that I am taking them on one at a
time for a session of soixante-neuf. One by one, I suck them to
erection, and proceed to drain them dry; swallowing each offering
of semen from four men, leaving them limp and impotent (for the
time being), thrills me immensely, and I enjoy a whole series of
wonderful orgasms in this way.
I know that if ever I had the chance to make my fantasy come
true with four virile men, without the possibility of my husband
getting to know about it, I would grab the chance. I feel that once
I had experienced the sensation, which I am sure would be out of
this world, I would no longer be tormented with the need to
fantasize about it.
I shall be interested to hear of other women’s fantasies, and to
know if I am alone in having such wicked thoughts. And if you
know of four strong, sexy men who want to take part in an orgy
with an attractive, passionate woman (37" 24" 37"),send them
along to me! [Letter]
I have been married three years. I think my husband would
mostly react with surprise if he found out that I think about other
men sometimes when we are having intercourse. I have led him
to believe that I do not often think about sexual things. If
anything, he might have his feelings hurt by such a revelation
because he often expresses doubts about his sexual attractiveness
to women.
I sometimes try to imagine my husband being so sexually
excited about me that he would tear my clothes off and "****" me.
His actions when we have intercourse are so much the opposite of
that, though, that it is almost impossible for me to imagine.
Often, lately, I have resisted having sexual intercourse with my
husband when he wants it (which is only about once a month
anyway) so that he will have to f***e me to have it with him, in
the hope that he might sort of **** me. So far, though, he has not
done so. [Letter]
 If you like, you can read almost any female sexual fantasy
as a cry of frustration. We are all prepared to think of women,
any woman, as potentially frustrated simply because it is our
historic sexual role. Traditionally, we are the frustrated sexless
experienced, less mobile, and less accepted sexually. We have
spent less time at it, and been less informed by art, literature, and
commerce (to say nothing of our parents and husbands) as to just
what our sexual role is – except usually that of desireless virgin
or prisoner. Even the most daring sexual adventuress I’ve talked
to admits that her role in her fantasies may still lag behind her
real sexual activity: somewhere, even in her wildest, most sexual
fantasy, she still plays the inhibited role her mother taught her. In
her life she may feel perfectly free to initiate sex, to play the
active seducer’s role, to take on a man for a guiltless, one-night
stand just for the fun of it, but her fantasy will often still be of the
"it is not my fault, he made me do it" type: She was doped, or
****d, or subjected to cruel and overwhelming domination. Ideas
like these, so deeply rooted in the mind no matter what the
relatively free body does, will take another generation to outgrow.
But it would be too simple to say that anyone whose sexual
imagery conflicts with her sexual reality isn’t getting what she
wants, that all sexual fantasy is dominated by real frustration.
Some of the happiest, most sexually satisfied women I’ve talked
to fantasize, and are all the more sexually satisfying partners
because of it. What I am saying is simple: that we women are
traditionally prone to and expert at fantasy; that even when we
are being fully fucked our minds can imagine the sexual
exploration and variables that our bodies are accustomed to do
without; that sex itself – and not only lack of it – can inspire
fantasy; and that for some women there is almost a chain reaction
between sexual fact and fantasy, that the one feeds and stimulates
the other. 
 Patricia is a tal l, blond American beauty who lives in Rome.
For the past year she has been separated from her husband and
living with Antonio, an Italian. Patricia and her wealthy English
husband have an agreement that when they’re tired of their
individual adventuring they will leave Rome, that nothing either
of them has done there will have counted, and that they will
return to New York or London together. Because, as Patricia
says, "We really love one another. We simply want to explore
now, without guilt." 
When he is going down on me I close my eyes and imagine
myself at some incredibly proper place, some very elegant
restaurant, for instance. On the surface, it’s like a hundred
different "smart" dull evenings we’ve spent at as many smart,
dull restaurants: the men are in dinner jackets, the women
divinely coiffed, the headwaiter aching with savoir faire. (I think
this fantasy is my own rerun of the old Paulette Goddard story.)
We are all sitting around this table with its glittering crystal and
silver on a very deeply hemmed, heavy linen tablecloth – the
tablecloth is important because it hides the man underneath who
is between my legs. I chat away amiably with the people on
either side. How has this man got under the table? Interesting you
should ask. Because in my fantasy I’ve taken care of that detail.
Either he has quietly slipped under the table on the pretense of
picking up a dropped napkin, or he’s excused himself –
supposedly gone to the gents – but in fact raced to the cellar
below only to emerge through a trapdoor at my feet, there gently
to part my willing legs. It’s funny how little time during a fantasy
it takes to sort out the mechanical details…but time, during a
fantasy, is not like normal time. Sometimes this man is black,
more often he is unknown. Perhaps he is a new face in our dull
little group, a face I have responded to all evening, as I respond
to his touch on my thighs. I want him, this fantasy man, as much
as I want the man who is actually between my legs.
There is always the most amazing amount of detail. in the
fantasy at this point: me, casually arranging the tablecloth over
my lap so that no one can see he has, raised my skirt, or see his
head tight up against me, or his tongue…yes, there is a lot of the
lips, actually seeing them, and the tongue. Or there is the intricate
arranging of feet, like a ballet, under the table, with me praying
that no one will bump into him with their feet! Funny thing is, all
this detail makes it even more exciting. But mostly there is the
fear – sweet agony – that someone may ask me to dance! Or,
worst of all, that the man under the table will stop…that someone
will call for the bill and say, "Okay, everybody up, let’s go."
What I am really afraid of, I suppose, is that the real man, the
man who is making love to me, will stop, will tire. I do take a
long time to reach a climax…mostly because I enjoy getting there
so much. And there have been men in the past, lovers, who get
impatient, who will suddenly stop before I have reached an
orgasm, when I already know that I am going to…and you know
what a letdown that is.
All of this suspense in my fantasy, of course, heightens the
real excitement, and what ultimately makes the pleasure
excruciating is the thrilling fear of what in the hell I am going to
do in the fantasy restaurant when the man between my legs
makes me come. So I put one hand on his head – don’t stop! –
and with the other hand I accept a cigarette or toy with my salad,
always this perfect social smile on my face, but always the
clutch: What am I going to do when I come? (I’m pretty noisy.)
The closer I get to actually coming, the realer the suspense in the
fantasy becomes, until, thank God, there is a sudden power
failure in the restaurant. All the lights ‘ go out. Then pow! In the
darkness and shouting of the fantasy restaurant, I have my very
real, very loud orgasm. [Taped interview]
 I realize how much anxiety is aroused by the mention of
fantasy during sex…but was there anything threatening in that
fantasy? It’s an exciting little scenario, and it’s also fun; as a
follow-up, Patricia states that it made her real lover feel and enjoy
her own excitement…without ever having to know what caused
it. (And as he was Italian it would be better that he never did
know.) Most people – men and women – understandably don’t
like to hear that their lover’s minds are on anything but them
during sex. Anxiety in bed is one of the most contagious
emotions going; the smart woman will know just how much her
lover wants to hear. The only way Patricia’s lover will ever know
about her fantasy is through the added emotion that fantasy
communicates to him through her body. Because you don’t
always feel that it would be an unalloyed joy for your partner to
hear about your fantasies doesn’t mean you yourself should not
have them. How much she tells and how much she keeps to
herself is a true measure of a woman’s subtlety.
Patricia and the other women who contributed to this book are
admittedly in a minority; the average woman is not consciously
aware of her fantasies, and if she is, would not dream of telling
anyone. Most women never get beyond this; their fantasies are
not merely unspoken but unacknowledged even to themselves,
never deliberately put at the service of their sexual lives. In the
end, both these women, and their men, lose what fantasy might
have added.
I know there will be some men who will say that Patricia’s
fantasy is no example of how sex can be enriched by sexual
fantasy, for the simple reason that when a man goes down on a
woman, it is not real or complete sex at all; that of course a
woman has to fantasize in that position: She isn’t getting the full
benefit of him. If she were – if he were giving her a good oldfashioned
man-into-woman fuck she’d have no need to fantasize
at all.
For myself, when Patricia says her fantasies make her (and her
lover) enjoy sex more, I feel I have nothing to add. However, if
that is not enough, here is Suzanne’s letter which argues the case
for fantasy in all positions. 
When I was sixteen, I read a sex instruction book in which
there was a case history that had a great effect on me. This girl
described how she was alone in the cloakroom at a dance,
bending forward, when a man came in behind her, lifted her
dress, put his penis into her (obviously before the days of tights)
and had intercourse with her without her looking around or even
knowing who the man was.
This excited me. I had not had intercourse at this stage, but I
would think about what I had read while masturbating and, of
course, after a while I started to put myself in the girl’s place,
imagining that it was happening to me.
This basic fantasy went on for a long time. I started having
intercourse when I was s*******n, but I am sure you will agree
that to carry through a fantasy while having intercourse it is
necessary that neither partner should talk too much or the theme
is lost. As this was not the way it usually went in those early
days, I did not fantasize very much during intercourse, but I
always did when masturbating.
I met my husband when I was nineteen and married him at
twenty. Once we had settled into a pattern of prolonged
intercourse, I found I could have fantasies, which of course
increased my pleasure, also my husband’s. I was able to tell my
husband of these fantasies, and he was very understanding and
The fantasies expanded from the original, but there were
always similarities. The idea of the anonymous approach from
behind continues to excite me, but the fantasies took on more
scope, although the man would always do whatever he wanted
without any form of lead up or courting. I am rarely nude, usually
wearing a dress; but never panties or tights so that I show myself
very easily and am always available. The scene is usually at least
partly public, at a party, in a park, at the office so that other
people see what happens. They never get in the way or object in
any way.
A typical example: We are at a party, all nice attractive people
standing around talking. I am talking to two men. I am wearing a
dress just long enough to cover my crotch, with nothing else.
They each put an arm around me and play with my breasts. One
puts his hand between my legs. The other people carry on as
before while I am led over to a settee where I am laid down, my
dress pushed up, my legs spread and I am entered by one, then
the other, and then by all the other men in the room, last of all my
husband. At this point where the fantasy is returning to fact, my
husband and I will work up to a wonderful climax.
I would like to say that we do not use the expression "making
love" as we feel that love is the feeling we have for each other all
the time, and the enjoyment of sex is something else, so that
while we love each other while we are having sex, which
includes me thinking of other men, of being fucked by other men,
we prefer to use other words. I feel sure you agree. I have never
felt there was anything unusual in fantasies. I cannot imagine
masturbating without them, and my husband’s attitude during
intercourse was a big help.
No doubt you have given some thought to the connection
between fantasy and fact, where one might try to make the
fantasy come true. In many cases where perhaps unobtainable
people are involved, this would not be possible. In my case,
whereas the people are just ordinary, the circumstances are larger
than life, so it would still be very difficult to do what I fantasize,
impossible really to fuck with maybe ten men in full view of
passersby. Even going around without panties can be risky,
although I realize that a great many men, including my husband,
are turned on by the idea of women doing this, so that when I do
have intercourse with another man it is usually under fairly
conventional circumstances, which I later enlarge on in fantasy. I
have at times been able to have sex in some degree like my
fantasies, but invariably it has been contrived to some extent, so
that it is not quite the real thing.
We have tried group sex for this purpose, and in this way I
have had sex with up to five men in one evening. I do not want to
make too much of the panties thing, but going back to the
original incident I read about, which was not only before tights
but before minis too, it simply said that her dress was lifted,
without any reference to whether she wore anything below, as if
they were the wide-legged type that would not get in the way. But
whatever, there was no obstacle, and this is very important in my
fantasies. I have read of girls saying they go out every day
without panties, but frankly I haven’t the nerve for this, although
my husband supports the idea, so I tend to pick occasions when I
feel there will be no danger, as when I am in the company of
people I know will approve. Simply, I love sex, but I don’t want
to be ****d.
I would just repeat that I get much pleasure from my fantasies,
and wish you well. [Letter]
 In my desire to lessen the anxiety about fantasy during sex, I
don’t mean to imply that if you don’t have sexual fantasies there
is something wrong with you, or even that you yourself may not
prefer it that way. What I am trying to do is establish a more
acceptable climate for fantasy, so that women who do fantasize
will not feel so alone, so estranged, and will realize that there is
nothing wrong with it – that in fact, for them as well as for
women still unaware of their fantasies, a more conscious use of
them can add an exciting new dimension to sex.
But we all respond differently to different stimuli, and some
people, I realize, do not fantasize, just as there may be some rare
people who do not dream. I happen to believe, however, that
most do – and that while reading this book, many will, in fact,
discover theirs beneath the thin skin of c***dhood training or
prudery – call it what you will.
I’ve already said why I think women’s fantasies are often far
richer and more adventurous than men’s. They are a true
women’s underground. But just as some people do and some do
not fantasize, some fantasies are meant to be shared and others
not. By opening up the underground, I am not suggesting we
have to tell or act out all our fantasies to be sexually happier; just
accept them without anxiety for what they are.
For example, no one objects to the idea that certain props like
a martini, music, low lights – elements outside the man – can get
a woman "in the mood"; then why should he feel threatened by
what is going on in her mind? Some people get warmed up
looking at erotic pictures or reading a bit of porn; does it matter
that the people in the pictures are other people or that the words
that excite her were written by another man? Then why should it
matter what, or of whom a woman is thinking? A woman doesn’t
need an erection to have sex; she can be entered at any time, and
a man can have an orgasm while his wife’s thinking about the
grocery list. Is that preferable? Wouldn’t they both enjoy it more
if, say, at the outset, during the preliminaries, she deliberately
changed mental reels, put on something a little more highly
charged than what to give the k**s for supper tomorrow? And
would it really matter whether her imagery were a rerun of one of
their own earlier more erotic sessions together (such as in
Bertha’s fantasy which follows), or if she got her sexual charge
by imagining that she was being fucked by some tennis stars she
doesn’t even know (as does Bellinda)? What matters is the
quality of the real sex, and if a private screening of her own
favorite erotica gets her in the mood quicker than a martini, and
ultimately gives him a better fuck, then why not? It’s not telling
him your fantasy that’s important, it’s telling yourself it’s okay to
have it. For some women, fantasy is the strongest sexual foreplay
of all; what they should both remember is that it’s the real man
she really wants – or presumably she wouldn’t be there. 
While having intercourse with my husband, I will sometimes
go over our past lovemaking sessions in my head, ones that were
particularly exciting, where we both did and said things we don’t
normally do. I’d like it to be that way all the time, of course –
with the bed practically torn apart and us ending up on the floor,
wet and sticky and happy – but of course it doesn’t always
happen that way. So I re-create it, rolling him over in my mind
when, say, all he’s really doing is lying there on top of me and
thrusting away.
We’ve had some incredible times in bed and out, especially in
the shower playing catch-me-if-you-can with our bodies covered
in Sardo oil. Those are the times I remember. I do it especially if
I’m not particularly excited and it helps me to reach the aroused
state I want. Then when I get there he does, too. My husband
knows of this and fully approves; I sometimes think he even
relies on it, say, when he’s tired. It’s as though he were saying,
"Come on, baby, remember how it was, get us up there."
We’ve been married two and a half years and enjoy a good sex
life. But I’ve invariably found that re-creating these scenes with
my husband (in my mind) leads to a more erotic session, which
in turn gives me new material for the next time. For me, my
fantasies are money in the bank, if you know what I mean.
[Taped interview]
 While I was putting this book together, I met and talked
with Dr. Robert Chartham, psychologist and author of The
Sensuous Couple. He showed me a letter he’d received from a
woman we’ll call Bellinda, in which she complained that her sex
life was dreary, that her mind wandered to the day’s trivia during
sex, and that she felt guilty that the only sexually exciting
thoughts she seemed to have were of tennis star John Harrison’s
"Last year," she wrote, "I went to the Albert Hall to watch
John Harrison in person play indoor tennis. I was sitting on
purpose near the umpire’s chair so I could be near his legs. I just
could not take my eyes off him, and when he was toweling down,
he stared back for a lovely long moment, our eyes were really
locked. He may have been wondering what this stupid woman
(me) was looking at, but I prefer to think that my message got
through, which was, `My God, I’d like you to thrust yourself
inside me.’ If it’s possible for a woman to say that with her eyes,
then I said it."
Dr. Chartham’s advice to her and her subsequent reply follow.

Dear Bellinda:
By believing yourself to be, as you put it, a "sexual dud," you are
making yourself one.
You have quite the wrong attitude toward lovemaking, and your
husband seems no better.
You have got yourself all worked up about sexual responses and the
quality of them, when you ought to be fully relaxed, and letting things
just happen to your body. Instead of thinking about next day’s lunch
while you are being made love to, why don’t you think of John Harrison’s
thighs, or better still imagine that those are John Harrison’s hands
and mouth caressing you, and John Harrison’s cock that is up you. Try
it and see what happens. Let me know.
We call it fantasizing, and nearly all of us, men and women, have
our sexual fantasies – at least from time to time. It’s quite a legitimate
way of awakening our sexual senses. The only thing is, don’t let on to
your husband that you are imagining that he’s John Harrison; he might
be hurt.
Best wishes,
Robert Chartham
Dear Dr. Chartham,
Thank you so much for your letter. I am perfectly certain you were
aware of the effect that phrase "John Harrison’s cock that is up you"
would have on me. Of course I have thought of this and longed for it,
but being able to tell some one and see the words written down was
somehow extra exciting. In my thoughts I have used the word penis, but
your phrase sent a sort of electric shock through me. All that day (last
Friday) I felt very odd, warm and sort of open and receptive. I bought a
black scanty garment because I know that color turns my husband on. I
just couldn’t wait until we were in bed, as we have two c***dren around.
I was in bed first, so my husband hadn’t seen the little black thing I was
I must say it had a dramatic effect! He came into me right away and
in a few seconds had come off. Needless to say, I couldn’t quite match
his speed, but came soon afterward and it was more intense than usual.
We made love twice that night and again in the morning, and were both
in a daze of wellbeing the next day. It is thanks to you, and I feel that
it’s now much more likely that I shall not have to fight for my orgasms
in the future. To make things even more sexual for me, there was John
Harrison himself on television doing a "B is to"commercial! Not a very
erotic product, but I wasn’t watching the gravy! I just hope I behaved
naturally, as my husband was watching and it came as a bit of a shock.
The orgasm in the morning was the best, as I threw all guilt to the
winds and imagined John Harrison begging me to let him make love to
me. In this fantasy he is completely unable to control himself and is
holding his penis in an effort to suppress his erection. He fails, and
comes white he is standing there, the semen spurting through his fingers
onto me.
I agree with you that this must be kept from my husband, as it would
hurt him and might wreck future developments.
I have never told anyone these things in my life before and I thank
you for releasing thoughts which made me feel so guilty. My husband
says he never thinks of me as a wife but as a mistress, so I suppose that
is his fantasy. I shall have to be careful to keep your letter hidden; I
don’t want to lose it, as it is stimulating to see "John Harrison’s cock up
you" written down.
I realize I can’t feel this way every day of the year, but I have made
a start and shall now enjoy my fantasies instead of trying to push them
 I said earlier that I didn’t want to act too strongly as
advocate in this book, that I wanted to let the material speak for
itself. Aside from believing in sexual fantasy as an interesting
side of women’s sexualitybeing a fantasist myself – I had little to
say on the subject before I began collecting this material. I’ve
learned a lot from the women who contributed to this book; in
fact, all I have to say comes directly from what they’ve told me,
and have imaginatively illustrated for me in their fantasies. But if
I haven’t interfered with the fantasies themselves, I have selected
certain ones to appear in the book, and grouped and classified
them in a definite order of progression.
Any number of people could have done this according to
whatever arbitrary system of classification they might have
chosen. That I have chosen this order therefore i means to me that
I am acting as advocate after all. This book is designed to win
you over, unequivocally, first to the idea of female sexual fantasy
as an introduction to love play, and eventually to the validity of
sexual fantasy at any time.
I began by thinking that it was obvious that it doesn’t matter
what a woman is thinking of during sex; if it excites her, it’s
good, and thus adds to the joy of both. But I know how the
material in this book has been received even by friends I’d call
sophisticated and "liberated." Their reactions tell me how difficult
it will be for other people to accept, even to believe, some of the
sexual images women say they have, especially during sex. Even
harder to believe will be the statements of these women that these
fantasies occurred during happy, satisfying sex with men they
That is why I broached the topic of fantasy during sex 3 with
the easily understood idea of fantasy as sexual foreplay; I assume
we are all in favor of that, of anything that leads to sex. As the
next step, I would also assume that we are all in favor of anything
that gives us stronger feelings of reassurance or approval during
sex. (I need not explain to my women readers the
misapprehension in the idea widespread among men, who have
done most of the writing on sex, that because women don’t have
the outward giveaway of inner sexual anxieties – the limp cock –
that women suffer less and need less reassurance.) Therefore, in
the fantasies you are about to read, the fact that women like Sally,
Vicki, and Sondra get the desired approval from such universal
judgment figures as Mother, the doctor, and even Jesus Christ,
should strike a sympathetic chord. If you can understand and
accept the idea of female fantasy as a form of sexual foreplay and
excitement, the idea that fantasy, by allaying anxiety, can allow
the excitement to grow cannot be too strange a progression of
 My friend Sally owns her own small boutique. She’s in her
early twenties, has long, multilayered black hair, and the kind of
figure that looks perfect under one of her own flowing chiffon
designs. She recently finished a yearlong affair with a man twice
her age, who, as a parting gesture, set her up in the boutique
business. She considers this latest affair "the greatest education of
my life." She is still terrifically fond of Alan, her benefactor, and
talks of him with enthusiasm. Having known him briefly, and
knowing Sally’s zest for anything new, I would imagine that the
"education" Sally refers to would include some fascinating new
chapters in sexual exploration. She admits that he will be a hard
act for any new man in her life to follow; "I really am so bored
with younger men now," she says. 
I’ve thought about this fantasy quite a bit, ever since I started
having it, dreaming it. I’ve analyzed it ten different ways, but I’m
still not quite sure what it means. I don’t think I had it before I
knew Alan, but maybe I did. He brought me out in many different
ways, so maybe the fantasy had been there all along, but I just
never acknowledged it until him. It’s really a very simple fantasy
on the surface; I have a variety of twists I add to it depending on
my mood. Basically, it’s that while I am making love I have this
image of me lying there, naked, just as I really am, with the man,
or men, and while we are fucking I’m talking on the telephone to
my mother. Isn’t that weird? What I have to do, of course, is
control my voice, talk to her normally as if nothing unusual is
going on. Every now and then she’ll ask, "What was that I
heard?" Every time she becomes suspicious, I get wildly excited,
but even during those long periods while she and I just chat – far
more amiably than we do in reality – I lie there in a great warm
bath of arousal. It’s very comfortable talking to her like this, also
wildly exciting.
She used to come on very heavily with Alan – after all, they’re
about the same age. She’s an incredible flirt. Also, she never
really approved of me and Alan; either that or she was jealous.
But she’s always very sweet and understanding to me on the
fantasy telephone.
The funny thing is, when I do come, when I reach an orgasm
and I can’t control my voice any longer, she doesn’t scold or hang
up as you would expect, she just keeps on chatting in this kind of
nice warm voice that she never uses with me in reality. [Taped
 Vicki is thirty -two and single, just out of her second
divorce. Her exotic good looks appeal to a variety of men, but
Vicki’s own preference has always been limited to the rat
bastards. She’s already set her sights on her next conquest (I
mean victimizer) and is the first one to laugh at the hard knocks
that lie ahead for her. "That’s how I am," is how she puts it,
adjusting the fall of a tight little T-shirt over her boyish figure,
before sailing forth to meet her Waterloo.
When she’s not being knocked, Vicki’s generally to be found
in the archives of some far-flung museum; she is a
well-established art historian, appears regularly on TV, and
writes for art publications in half a dozen countries. You would
think she’d seen enough suffering on the cross without adding
her own.
Interesting you should ask, my dear, because I’m sure I’ve got
you to thank – or blame – for these strange new thoughts that
have entered my sex life ever since we talked about this book of
yours last year. That’s how long they’ve been going on. No,
wrong, I’m sure they were there all along, but it was our talking
about fantasies that brought them to the surface. Nowadays I
can’t seem to go to bed with a man without having this image
that he is my doctor. I can’t really say whether this focused
fantasy has really heightened sex for me or not. All I know is that
there he is, cap and mask, bearing just the slightest resemblance
to my real doctor. Or is it just the cap and mask? You know the
old line about doctors: They all look alike when you’ve got your
feet in the stirrups. Not that I’ve had one of those examinations
for years. Okay, I know it’s dumb when you’re over twenty-five
not to, but I’ve always hated those check-ups. Remember how
you screamed at me in college for not seeing a doctor when I
hadn’t had a period for six months? And me still a virgin. Well,
that turned out all right, didn’t it?
You know, the only thing that bothers me about this doctor
fantasy is that I don’t understand the association. I’ve never had a
romance with a doctor. God knows, I’ve never been excited
during one of those examinations. I never even went through the
ritual c***dhood games of Doctor and Nurse with the
neighborhood boys. But get me in bed with a man these days and
there we all are – me and the guy in bed, and me and the doctor
in my head. The more excited I get, my legs up, the doctor
between them – my lover I mean…well, you know what I mean –
anyway, the more intent the examination, the more intense the
excitement. The closer the doctor gets to his prognosis, the closer
I get to orgasm. And then, without fail, right before orgasm, the
doctor’s masked face zooms in close to mine and those loving
eyes tell me even before he speaks that I’m in great shape,
everything’s just where it should be.
Now that I think of it, tell it out loud, I realize I should edit
what I said earlier, the part about blaming you for bringing all
this up. Whatever it means, all I know is my sex life has never
been better. [Taped conversation]
 Francesca is a pretty Jewish mother of three. Her sweet
disposition goes a long way in running a house constantly
teeming with her teen-age c***dren’s friends and her non-stop
husband’s business associates, who seem to fly in hourly from all
over the world. Under her quiet but firm hand, all generations
and nationalities meet and merge around the f****y dining table.
Her mother lives with them three months of the year. "I have very
ambivalent feelings about my mother," she says. "I suppose I love
her and accept her more now than I ever did, but it’s very rare
that I can even kiss her on the cheek. I used to sort of shrink from
being touched by anyone, but now I’m much more liberated…
with everyone except my mother. I’ve often wondered if there
was anything homosexual about this fantasy; when I was
nineteen I had an unfulfilled lesbian experience in Paris. But I
don’t know, as often as I fantasize about women, I fantasize
about men, and my real sexual life is very much only with men."
(This interview with Francesca shows how women often talk
about their fantasies. Even though Francesca was an interested
volunteer, she begins by trying to tell it all in one semiabstract
sentence. Only as she reworks the almost u*********s images
again and again in her mind as she tells it to me, will she
remember the elaborate details.) 
I’m afraid my fantasies are just the usual ones. This is my
favorite: I am brought at the age of thirteen or f******n, as a
pubescent girl, by my mother to be sold to an Oriental potentate.
Actually, it’s a faceless mother, not really my mother, because
I rather have this thing against my mother. But she’s somebody
of authority and she’s brought me here to sell me. She’s told me
in advance exactly what I am to do. In fact, she’s trained me
herself since c***dhood to perform sexually, she’s raised me as a
purely and perfect sexual object, demonstrating on me herself to
show me just how everything should be done. She’s performed
cunnilingus on me, done everything to me, and showed me with her
own body. Actually, it gets a little confusing here as to whether it’s
a mother or who it is…but it is a woman.
We enter the palace. And there is the potentate sitting on his
throne like a great Buddha, a rajah. I have been instructed by my
mother exactly what I must do; there is no hesitation on my part,
I must perform well, it is the culmination of my training, or I will
not be bought. And it is a great honor to be bought. My mother
begins by describing my abilities to the Rajah. In fact, she begins
by demonstrating on him herself just what it is she has taught me
to do. She fucks him, sitting on top of him on his throne, she goes
down on him, she plays with him all the while talking to him of
Then she performs on me, she goes down on me, she fucks me,
but not with any apparatus – there’s never any of that – she does
it with her finger. I lie there, responding just as I should as her
finger or her tongue enter me, my beautiful body reacting
It gets confused here…let me think…The Rajah himself is
passive throughout all of this. But he’s pleased with my
performance, very pleased, that’s the most important thing, of
He says, "Yes, she will do, she’s marvelous, she will have a
high position in the court …"
It never has anything to do with, "She’ll be the most bejeweled
or the richest"; it’s not that kind of harem. The idea is that I’ve
performed beautifully and that I’m the most sexual figure he’s
ever seen and he wants me there by his side. (I suppose this all
has to do with pleasing the man, but it does get me worried
afterward sometimes just why he is so passive, why I’m always
doing to him. Let me try to remember more.)
He, the Rajah, never leaves his throne. He sits up there and my
mother and I perform below him on a kind of stage, a platform.
We are naked at this point, but when I was brought in I was
beautifully robed. I was taken to him and he parted my robes and
murmured appreciation. But it’s my mother who undresses me,
pointing out all the beautiful parts of my body as she uncovers
them, "Look at this body, the beauty of the breasts …" (That’s
another thing; I used to be very hung-up about being flat-chested
– I’m over that now – but certainly in fantasies I’m beautifully
endowed.) "Look at how I’ve nurtured her," she continues, her
hands moving over my hips, parting my ass for him to see, "look
how beautifully she’s shaped, just to please you."
Then she has me lie down and she parts my legs, exposing my
cunt so that he can see how perfect it is. This is when she
performs on me. All this time he’s masturbating. And so are the
courtiers, oh yes, it’s a big M-G-M court, with Nubians standing
around holding torches (they’re very tall and they aren’t
masturbating, but the others are, and the women courtiers too).
Then I go and sit on the Rajah’s lap, he just parts his gown,
and I fuck him…after I’ve gone down on him. I sit there naked
on his cock on his throne and through it all he does nothing,
nothing to me, nothing for me. I do all the work…which is what
I’ve been trained to do, so in the fantasy it doesn’t matter, but
now that I think of it, it’s strange that there’s really nothing in it
for me sexually. What matters is that I’m the best, I’m accepted.
The sex part with the Rajah isn’t what counts – whether he’s big
or skillful or anything; I have other fantasies where size and skill
and three men at once are what turns me on – but this one, and
it’s my favorite, it’s all about being accepted. What I mean is, if
I’m being fucked in real life, and I have this fantasy…it’s the
greatest pusher in the world. [Taped interview]
Music is playing on the record player. As I sit listening to the
plucking of the harpsichord, I wonder if Dali must have dreamed
up this fantasy to torment me. You see, one of my fantasies
concerns him…not that I want a wispy end of his mustache to
tickle my cunt (a word I prefer to clitoris, which sounds so
clinical, or clit, which is so flip) but I want that big black octopus
to take me in every way all at once, with every tentacle going full
f***e at the same time since I tire so easily.
The big black octopus, I must explain, was in a gallery off
Fifth Avenue. It was a Dali vernissage and included a huge
painting of Jesus preaching his Sermon on the Mount. Well,
exactly opposite this hedonism were several beautiful and erotic
drawings, and the one I really fancied was this octopus having a
girl. As I stared at it, I lived it…each black rhythmic finger in
and out of her body and my body, winding all the way up
(because I’m a very deep person) and ending in a thin point – not
like a knife, but all the same gentle and definite. A corkscrew
arrangement follows the end of the point with a kind of rubbing,
twisting power and f***e; it makes me reel and scream with
delight. One after the other, each tentacle makes me come again
and again, many comings per black thing, and there is Jesus still
talking to these poor infidels from his lofty place, but really He is
watching me while I gaze into the eyes of my taker, this huge
body – head like the end of a giant orchid penis as it fucks me
and engulfs the whole of me with those spent fingers but with
many more still poised, still ready to come as I come again and
again…aaaahhhhhh! "Bless you, my c***d … " [Conversation]
 The next three fantasies are from women who are sexually
happy in their beds. At least they say they are, and I’m prepared
to accept what a woman tells me about her sex life. The
alternative is to say that because each of these women fantasizes
beyond what is actually happening, it follows that the real sex is
inadequate and she dissatisfied. But that would be playing more
than amateur psychiatrist, it would be playing God. No thank
For many women, fantasy is a way of exploring, safely, all the
ideas and actions which might frighten them in real. ity. In
fantasy they can expand their reality, play out certain sexual
variables and images in much the same way that c***dren enter
into fantasy as a form of play, of trying out desires, releasing
energies for which they have no outlet in reality. Thinking about
it, even getting excited over the image, doesn’t mean you want it
as your reality…or else we all, night dreamers that we are, would
be suppressed robbers, bisexuals, murderers, or even inanimate
I have this fantasy quite often while Ben is fucking me. In fact,
I’d say I have it during our best sessions, when my body is most
relaxed and inventive. Ben gets so excited when I’m into this
fantasy it’s as though he were having it too. Yet I know if it were
to really happen it would scare the hell out of him – and out of
me. I don’t think we have any room in our lives for any kind of
group scene; it simply wouldn’t fit in; we wouldn’t know how to
handle it. But in fantasy, it’s fantastic.
The three of us are in the living room, me, Ben, and my friend
Helen. Our living room, here at home. Only the windows are
larger, big bay windows with large panes and no d****s, no
curtains, the way those windows are in the endless little houses –
all lit up along the endless roads that stretch across the
countryside, the people’s lives exposed, like…We have just come
in from shopping, the three of us, and as I go into the kitchen to
put away the groceries and start dinner, I see Ben help Helen out
of her coat. I stand at the sink, watching them behind me
reflected in this huge polished window. Ben is standing behind
her with his hands on her shoulders, on her coat, but she takes his
hands quickly and slips them down, cupping them around her
breasts, holding them there. They don’t realize that I can see, as
their backs are to me. I make little noises with the groceries to
reassure them that I am busy putting things away. I run the water
in the sink, giving them time to go on. Ben hesitates, letting her
press his hands against her breasts. Then she presses back
against him, rubbing against his groin. I can feel the rush of
excitement that charges Ben, that gets him instantly erect as I can
get him, as I so often have by rubbing my bottom against him.
I go back into the living room, but first I clear my throat and
start talking so they will know I am coming. I walk through the
room, telling them I’m going up to have a quick bath, telling Ben
to fix Helen a drink and keep her company. But I don’t go
upstairs. I stand just outside the door and wait, watching them.
Ben sits on the sofa, shy as always, and it is Helen who moves in,
kneels in front of him, unzips his fly and takes his penis in her
hand, puts it into her mouth. Ben’s hands start to push her
away… He looks quickly in the direction I’ve gone. But the
pleasure is too much. He sees Helen, sees her lips round his
penis, her mouth full of him, her lips bulging around it as though
she’s going to swallow it. He reaches for her breasts again and
fondles them; they seem to grow in his hands, to swell in size.
Until they are as large as mine. Her blond head moves faster and
faster, up and down on his penis, pushing her lips back so that
Ben can see her teeth, small and white, moving as though she is
eating some delicious piece of meat. The tip of it slips farther and
farther down into her throat; Ben is practically paralyzed with
ecstasy. He falls back against the sofa, his hands reaching for his
trouser front, unfastening it altogether so that she can really get at
him. He is no longer the Ben I know at all. Helen undoes her
blouse, never letting his penis rest, sucking away on it. She takes
her breasts in her own hands, and kneads them so that drops of
milk gush from them onto Ben’s pubic hairs, soaking them. I
move quietly into the room, knowing they won’t stop now, and
wanting to watch them more closely. They have forgotten now
that I am even in the house. Ben is about to come in her mouth,
but he wants the milk even more and he lifts her, drags her onto
the sofa, so that he can suck her breasts while his hands undress
her, fondle her until she moans for him to put it into her, there on
our sofa, their clothes half on, half off, in front of the huge picture
window. I shake off my clothes and naked I go over to them. I get
on the sofa behind Ben. I want so badly to join them, to give Ben
even more pleasure in return for all the pleasure he is giving
Helen – who is really part me and part Helen – and suddenly I
have this warm wet thing to put into him, a penis, my penis. I
press it into him slowly, but all the way in. Ben gasps with
excitement, and I feel the same wild sensation as though it really
was a port of me going into him, as if it really were my penis.
Firmly. quickly, I move it in and out in rhythm with his fucking
Helen, whose pleasure I can also feel. Having it both ways,
having everything, it is overwhelming. I can’t stand it, it is too
much, and I press deeper and deeper into my husband until it
seems my penis goes through Ben and into Helen, into me
myself, and I die with pleasure. [Conversation]
I’ve been thinking more and more about my fantasies lately.
I’ve even tried talking to my husband about them, that is, the
ones I think wouldn’t make him angry. I wouldn’t dare tell him
that I often think of my old boy friend, of how it used to be with
him, nor of my thoughts of some unknown man who has f***ed
himself upon me, which in my imagination I seem to enjoy.
For some odd reason, while having sexual relations with my
husband I prefer him to be fully clothed, and while we are in bed,
I’d rather not see his "parts." I’d rather we have sex when I didn’t
have to see his penis. Although he enjoys studying my "areas," I
cannot bring myself to do the same. It turns me on more when
things are left to the imagination. But my husband tends to
parade his "parts" in front of me, even though I’ve asked him not
to, and mentioned that our sex life might improve if he didn’t.
You may therefore find it strange that in my latest fantasy I tell
my husband that I think I would enjoy watching him having sex
with another woman. Not really someone we know – preferably
some strange female. That way we’d know no relationship could
come of it. But if it were to come true I don’t know if I’d have the
nerve to allow it. Yet I keep thinking it would be fun.
I also have fantasies of me with other women. But these
women have no face, I mean they are no one in particular. These
occur usually during masturbation, which is maybe two, three
times a month. I don’t really have lesbian fantasies, because for
me to do the act on a female, to me it seems repulsive, but the
idea of a female doing it to me seems pleasurable. (Selfish,
I know I began this letter by saying I do discuss some
fantasies with my husband, but I’m afraid that even that is a
fantasy! I can’t think of any fantasy we’ve discussed, but then we
have a communication problem! [Letter]
I am thirty-seven years of age. My marriage is a happy one and
the sexual part of our life together extremely satisfying. I like to
think of my husband’s penis as being small but very powerful. I
often get on top of him, squatting in a knees-up position. He
strokes my buttocks and caresses my anus while he thrusts from
underneath. When I feel his fingers exploring my bottom, my
fantasy is that a very long but delicately thin penis is penetrating
my anus. I can feel this thin shaft penetrating me from behind
and the feel of the palms of his hands pressing against my
buttocks reminds me of another male attacking me from behind.
This causes me to relieve the muscular tension which I have built
up in my pelvis as though to admit this second party to my body.
As my husband and I come to our climax, I imagine that this thin
shaft inside my rear is pulsating and thrusting to fill me with a
double ration of semen, thus ensuring that the act of intercourse,
if not successful by my husband, has been achieved by the
fantasy "thing" behind me. I have no feelings of who might be the
owner of this aggressor from behind me. He or It is a nothing in
my mind, but is a very real sensation of additional intrusion
within my body. Sometimes the tension in my rear is so great that
I lose all control, and the moment after my husband has come,
my bladder relaxes completely and I pee, flooding back to him
the semen that he has just shot into me. We have only once tried
to have anal intercourse, but because of the thick dimension of
his mighty dwarf I just could not take him. The fact of my
involuntary release of just a little urine gives my man a
tremendous thrill.
I have seen cows being served by a bull on a farm that belongs
to some friends. One particular bull is very broad across the back,
like the flat top of a. table. My husband and I frequently have sex
in the lounge or the kitchen after the c***dren are in bed or away
for the weekend. Then I imagine that I am lying on the back of
the bull, while the bull is mounting a cow. I experience a distinct
feeling of the kitchen table or the lounge settee on which I lie
heaving up and down. My hands automatically go down on either
side of the table to grasp the legs, to prevent myself from falling
off the back of the frantic bull as he works away at the cow. I can
feel my body thrusting up and down in time with the thrusts of
the bull into the cow. Sometimes my husband has extreme
difficulty staying inside me. Invariably I experience a climax
before my husband in these situations, and his continuing action
to bring off his own climax results in me having a second
orgasm, which I imagine in my mind to be the bull flooding the
cow with his sperm. On these occasions I imagine my husband’s
penis to be even greater in girth than it really is. In fact, I imagine
it as thick as the bull. To make this even more realistic, I
sometimes insert a finger into my vagina at the moment of his
climax to swell his real dimension to what I imagine would
represent the bull’s erection. My husband enjoys this routine,
feeling that my finger’s there to help stimulate him. However, it
is my desire to feel filled by an enormous penis that is really the
key to the whole situation. [Letter]
I’m twenty-two and very shy, and group gropes aren’t my
scene at all. But my imagination isn’t the least bit shy. When my
husband and I are making love, or when I masturbate, I visualize
my husband screwing another woman while I am screwing
another man. We’re all in the same room, or in two double beds,
and I can see what they’re doing in a big mirror. It excites me
very much. I can’t remember when this started or what started it,
but I very rarely reach orgasm without thinking about it. [Letter]
Sometimes during sex, or just during the day, I think of what it
would be like to trade husbands, that is, for me and my husband
to have sex with a couple with whom we are good friends…me
with the guy and my husband with the other wife. This can be
one of several couples that we know, or any new couple we meet
and hit it off with.
I often tell my husband of these "group sex" fantasies, that is,
of imagining trading off with our friends and imagining what
they look like naked, and he reciprocates. We often talk of what it
would be like to swap with Virginia and Dick or Fran and Ernie
for instance, but never do so, and are quite sure we never will.
It’s just the imagining it, thinking of what it might be like, and
their bodies, what we all might do that is so exciting. But if I
happen to be around a friend when she is dressing or nude, which
of course doesn’t happen often, I make mental notes and then
describe to him in great detail her feminine charms. He does the
same for me if he happens to see someone I know in the men’s
room. We both thoroughly enjoy having this nude mutual
fantasizing about our friends; we find it very stimulating and
exciting, even if it will never happen…especially so, I guess. You
can go so much further in fantasy than you can in reality. [Letter]
 Society encourages women to find sexual partners; a
woman without one is disturbing, she is only half a woman
(spinsters and nuns are downright creepy to some people).
Society demands she have sex (a marriage must be consummated
to be legal), yet she is barred from initiating sex. She is granted
sexual desires, urged to fulfill them, but discouraged from taking
the active role…except in fantasy, where, in her own way, in her
own time, she can take what she’s been told is hers rightfully as a
What is meant by "She’s a real woman"? Men say it with such
loaded admiration that every woman within hearing distance
freezes in envy and anticipation of finding out, at last, what it is
that the "real" woman has. (Women don’t say "She’s a real
woman" of one another; how would we recognize one? We’ve
been trying to find out what it is to be a woman since we were
Information’ is so scarce and contradictory on the vital
essentials of womanhood, you would think someone (Mother?)
was intentionally trying to mislead us from the beginning. Not
only contradictions within, but contradictions without; the clues
we do get seem to go directly against what we feel, what we want
to do.
Our first toy is a baby, a doll baby; our first "play" role is that
of Mother, and while we dimly know this all has something to do
with our sex, we are given no clues about that. Some step seems
to have been left out, and the anger and anxiety our mothers show
beneath their fixed smiles when we ask questions about it show it
was left out deliberately, and we’d better Keep Off that particular
grass. We play house with our play babies, but it’s a daddyless
house. Little boys don’t play house; it’s not an accepted role. Nor
is there any accepted play role in which the little mothers can
explore their first sexual drives, which often come so
unexpectedly. Little girls with lots of suddenly newfound energy,
who want to run and holler, swing in trees and climb walls, are
called tomboys. Clearly, spontaneity and action are not the
quickest route to womanhood. But if it is not an acceptable outlet
for these mysterious, perhaps troubling new energies, what is?
We are not told. We only know there is a mystery here. We can
go wrong somewhere. All about us is silence. We learn to be
still. Passive.
Eventually a girl grows out of doll babies and begins to get her
first signs of having miraculously arrived at womanhood.
(Without understanding how she got there, because to her
knowledge she has done nothing, learned nothing, experienced
nothing at all. Can this be it? Doing nothing, avoiding the
mystery, being passive and ignorant – is that being a woman?)
Whatever the answer is, boys are apparently aware which girls
have solved the problem. They begin to ask those girls out on
dates. Dates lead directly and naturally to those desires and urges
she’s been stifling. And wonder of wonders, the way to get asked
out most (to be the most womanly?) is to do what you really want
to do, and stifle nothing at all! Freedom, excitement and "real"
womanhood suddenly and magically seem united and integrated,
beckoning at last.
Wrong. Once again it is pointed out by Mother and the
other girls, if you’re slow in catching on that action, the
seemingly easiest way to womanhood, is not the nicest way. Is
maybe not the way at all. In fact, once again, it seems
womanhood has something to do with not doing what you want
to do, with frustration and passivity. Suddenly c***dhood’s vague
distinction between "nice" little girls and girls who were not
"nice" becomes a decided hard-line distinction between women:
there are two kinds. The ones boys like to go out with, and the
kind they marry. But which of the two is the "real" woman? The
choice is more bewildering now that she’s had a taste of the
forbidden fruit: Whether to reach out and respond, or to hold
back, to hold out for marriage.
No one is taking any chances: Marriage is now painted – by
Mother? – as the glorious answer to every maiden’s prayer, the
end of the rainbow, the beginning of "happily ever after …" And
just to be sure the marriage sticks – the maiden doesn’t wander,
the "real" woman is further defined as not only married, but also
a mother. Or to put it another way – Mother’s way – one isn’t a
real woman until one is a mother.
But just as with baby doll toys that arrived out of a sexless
void, a vital step between herself as she is now and this new
"real" womanhood has been passed over in silence. With each
new man in her life she could have learned something new,
maybe contradictory things (one man’s real woman is another
man’s dull or cutting tool), but always something that might have
brought her closer to the enigma of herself and of what
womanhood could indeed be for her. The prospect of this
exploration of the variousness of men and women and life itself is
fascinating, frightening, and forbidding – if not forbidden (by
Mother and the other girls).
I’m convinced this is why so many women marry early: For
every woman who holds out for the unknown, for sexual
exploration, there are hundreds who anxiously grab marriage,
motherhood, and the symbolic surface manifestation that she has
at last arrived: She is a real woman. The wedding ring certifies it
and motherhood guarantees it. Who is there in the world to doubt
these majestic reassurances? Only herself, the self in her fantasies
who picks up where her real self left off in trying out and trying
on women’s various sexual roles.
One role she’s been denied from the beginning is that of
sexual initiator, innovator. A woman may ask a man to dinner,
but she may not ask him to dance. She may ask him to pass her
the salt if she wants more of it, even reach across the table to get
it, but she may not put her hand on his knee under it. She will
coax him to try her new dishes and urge him to have more
because Mother told her his stomach was a quicker (nicer) way to
his heart than the telephone. Traditionally, women wait to be
asked, or acted upon. To reach out for the man you want is to be
aggressive, and to reach out for the way you want him in bed
isn’t just aggressive, it’s unfeminine. The fact that he might enjoy
what follows her first move isn’t what’s at issue: the point is that
it isn’t done, hasn’t been done, and won’t be done until men and
women are convinced that changing the traditional sexual roles
doesn’t constitute a threat.
Meanwhile, if he’s too shy to telephone, or perhaps less
imaginative or worn out in bed than she (might be, given the
chance), then two people who’d like to never do get started and
the sheets barely get rumpled. He never knows what he’s missed;
she does, but only in her fantasies. And if in those fantasies, as in
so many in this book, she comes on like a tiger, in a startlingly
aggressive role – she tying him down on the bed, don’t hastily
put the little lady down as a secret dominating sexual sadist:
Sometimes you have to shout just to be heard.
Even as sexually self-accepting a woman as Carol (below) has
to fantasize a sex-instruction class where an imagined instructor
tells her to take the initiative before she can, in reality, do
something as loving and natural as climb on top of her husband.
Faye’s fantasy, which follows Carol’s, of initiating her lover into
a three-way sex scene, is something she has always longed to do
and feels he would enjoy too, but only if she took him by the
hand. Why not? Think how much more active the dance floor and
the bedroom might be if women (and men) felt easier about
taking the first step, making the first move, assuming a second
position…or a third, or a fourth. 
My husband and I are expatriate New Zealanders. We live in
Papua. My husband is fifty-five years old and I am nearly
thirty-eight. We have been married 18 years. We have two
c***dren, and have had and continue to enjoy a highly satisfactory
sex life together.
My fantasy, which often occupies me, is that we are a
demonstration couple for a class of young couples being
instructed in the art of intercourse. I can hear the instructor telling
the class of our progress toward climax. Every so often the
instructor wants us to change position so that his pupils can get a
better view between my legs. At this point I usually climb on top
of my husband. sometimes adopting a squatting attitude over him
to enable our audience to see our connected organs together.
Sometimes I hear the instructor tell me to take the active part.
whereupon I actually tell my husband that I want our movements
to come only from me until he ejaculates. He will usually
cooperate. unless I have misjudged hi, progress and he is about to
come off anyway, in which case I will mentally apologize to the
instructor. But on most of the occasions when my mind runs this
way, I can hear the instructor accurately telling the audience my
feelings while we are having each other, and he keeps talking the
whole time in a soft voice so as not to distract the pair of us.
Every time he instructs his class to watch more closely I become
even more excited, feeling their eyes on us. The instructor’s
voice, as he calmly tells me to do all the things I want to do, is
not like any voice I know, no particular friend or acquaintance.
But he is a friend in that his role in my fantasy is that of
benefactor, someone who is looking after me and knows my
every desire. He and I have a wonderful rapport. [Letter]
I’m not sure what got me started on this fantasy. I really like
Richard; in a way we’re more than just lovers, we’re great
friends. Marriage will never be our scene; we could go ages
without seeing one another, but whenever we are together it’s as
lovers, and we can pick up wherever we left off. I do love him,
but maybe it’s because I love him without the possessiveness that
so often goes with love that I have this fantasy. I don’t think
Richard’s ever had a conscious queer notion in his head, I mean I
don’t think he’d ever acknowledge being attracted sexually to
another guy. But I think there’s a bit of the bisexual in all of us,
and in some way I think I bring it out in Richard. Maybe it’s
because I want to. You see, I really get turned on by this idea of
me and Richard making it with another guy. I’d just love to see
him expressing some of that good solid love he has for sex, for
women – sharing it with men too.
And I’d love to be the one that makes it happen. That’s it, I
guess: I’d really love to initiate him into a happy little group
scene, and as long as I’m there, involved, I think he’d do it and
enjoy it. What’s interesting is I know I’d never be turned on with
this idea if Richard and I were serious about each other, because I
am too damn jealous and possessive. But I’d love to turn him on,
him and another man and me. It would be so friendly and
I am kneeling in front of a fireplace, poking the embers back to
life. Only it’s not a real fire, it’s papier-mâché, and the room is
like that chalet we once rented in Switzerland; in fact the room is
a set, a stage. Because of the stage lights I can’t see the audience,
but I know they’re out there. Also, the fake fire throws out a
semicircular pink glow that surrounds me, making it hard to see
who the other man is.
He has just come into the room with Richard and they stand in
the shadows behind me, talking. As Richard goes into the other
room to mix us all a drink, the other man starts to follow him,
then changes his mind and comes and stands behind me. He puts
his big sheepskin coat around me, as I’m shivering. Then he
kneels beside me and takes the poker, but keeps my hand under
his, pressing it hard around the grooved handle. I watch my
fingers whiten under the pressure of his. Richard’s voice comes
warm and happy from the other room, and the sound of the ice
clinking in the glasses. I can smell the other man’s warm brandy
breath and feel the hardness of his thigh against me, and the
unrelenting pressure of his hand. I let the coat slip from my
shoulders, feeling the pain in my nipples as they harden visibly
under my sweater. The audience murmurs appreciatively. Now I
reach for a log to put on the fire and in the movement let my
nipples graze his shoulder. My gesture lets him know I won’t
resist; his pressure on my hand lessens. The audience claps very
quietly, approving. Squatting as he is, I can see the sudden bulge
in his trousers as I acquiesce. His cock moves like a quick
heartbeat, just above that mysterious place between a man’s legs
where all the seams of his trousers meet. Behind us is the
familiar sound of Richard’s voice, like a hum. He is humming as
he puts on the music, Shirley Bassey’s voice, heavy breathing
music-to-get-laid-by, Richard calls it. With his finger, just the
finger tip, the man lifts my sweater and bends his head to press
his warm lips around my breast, holding me in his mouth, just
his tongue flicking the nipple until I gasp. And the audience
gasps, too. My body begins to move with the music, my body and
this man’s mouth in a dance, all wet and warm now. With my
finger I begin to trace the seam between his legs and his mouth
responds, his tongue circling downward as my hand spreads
round his crotch, the fingers arched and separated over the
pressure beneath. In one motion I unzip his fly, setting him free
like some giant bird. Now his tongue is in my hair, reaching for it
just below the top of my low-slung pants. His hands tug to ease
them down so that he can get at me. I can feel his breath just
above my clitoris and can feel him inhale the scent of me; I am
wet with my own juices. His hands work quickly at the fastening
on my pants and I am free, too, his mouth open wide now, his
tongue full out for where I want it. I lean back, resting on my
hands, raising myself up to him, and he holds my buttocks,
pressing my upturned cunt to his mouth like some big, wet
persimmon. The lips of my cunt seem to move like real lips in
anticipation, begging him for his tongue until I feel it, warm and
full on that little spot, sucking it in a kiss. I strain, arching my
back to give him that whole part of my body, the music all
around me, Shirley wailing away for more, my head thrown back,
so far away from that other part of me, so lonely, until I open my
eyes and see Richard watching us, fascinated, his own erection
big and eager to share. "Come," my own lips form the word, and
he is on us, on top of me, his grateful mouth on mine, his cock
dangling in front of the other man’s face. But only for a second,
as the man raises his mouth from my cunt to Richard’s cock,
while thrusting his own cock into me with such f***e that my
scream of pleasure is drowned in the thunderous ovation from the
audience. [Taped interview]
 Why do women fantasize about sex when they’ve got it, when
they’re right in the midst of it, Why do unashamed and sexually
satisfied women like Carol and Faye imagine more sex when they
already have their hands (etc.) full? Maybe because physically
women, most women, are never full, never sated sexually beyond
their imagination.
It need have nothing to do with reality, with whether the real
man can (or even would if he could) totally satisfy her; as I said
earlier, to reduce fantasy to the "nothing but" kind of thinking,
which says it is "only" frustration, is too simple. Fantasy, by
definition, is about something that isn’t happening, and some of
the most vivid fantasies I’ve collected are from women who are
clear about not wanting their fantasies to be reality.
No, rather than a frustrated cry for more real sex, I think that a
lot of female fantasy is a psychic need for a more complete
exploration of everything that was kept from them as girls, of
everything that conceivably could be thought sexual.
"The Road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom," wrote
William Blake, and the u*********s mind knows this is true.
Fantasy means more involvement, more spontaneity, more take
as well as give, more focus on herself, and maybe more noise,
more black men, women, dogs, audiences, parents, experiences,
attitudes, roles. For women, sex is still the infinite and
inexhaustible variable, the one way she can unravel the mystery
of what it is to be and feel a woman. I think women have
enormous sexual appetites – far greater than is publicly
Of course, these appetites could be fed in reality; often they are
not. But they do exist and can be made known to the woman
herself in fantasy. 
When my husband first begins to make love to me, just feeling
me and kissing me, there is one imaginary scene that comes to
my mind, and that is that I am an African fertility image or
statuette with long pointed breasts grotesquely exaggerated in
size, and that instead of my husband I am being loved by the
male counterpart, a fertility figure with an enormous penis far out
of proportion to his body.
This image seems to turn itself on without my trying or doing
anything about it, almost as soon as I am sure we will have
intercourse, and continues until I have had an orgasm. It has
nothing to do with my being dissatisfied with my husband’s
penis, which is a very good-sized one that fully satisfies me. I just
somehow seem to imagine that this enormous, long, thick penis
(with a giant knob on the end) is entering me. When we are just
starting, I imagine this huge organ is rubbing my enormous
breasts, and especially is more or less dueling with them, trying
to slide up between them and poking at first one and then the
other, and that I am holding it off from me by sticking my huge
breasts in the way. This is when my husband is stroking or
sucking my nipples. Again, it is not jealousy on my part or any
feeling of inadequacy, since I am quite sure he thinks I am
adequate in this respect.
For example, I’ll try to describe our very relaxed and loving
habits with one another and our happy appreciation and
acceptance of one another’s bodies: We sl**p nude, and he
almost always is in bed before my hair is put up. I do this in the
nude, standing in front of the large dresser mirror in our
bedroom. He watches because he likes to see my breasts lift as I
raise my arms to put in curlers, and then lower them. While we
ordinarily are very old fashioned in our language, he almost
invariably tells me, "You sure have yummy tits, k**," at such
times. When I am done, I walk to the bed, bend over so he can
nibble each nipple in turn for a moment, then turn the covers
down so he is exposed, and bend over and give his penis a quick
kiss. We do this every night, although we have sex only every
second or third night on the average. If he already has an erection
or a partial one, I linger longer on his penis since I know this is
"the" night. If it is not, but I feel I would like a little loving and
don’t think he is tired or worried or something, I will work on his
penis a bit more to see if he responds. But many nights it is only
a wifely kiss and nothing more happens. (Of course we kiss
mouth to mouth before going to sl**p, too.)
So you can see by the above that my fantasy of these
over-enlarged sex organs doesn’t come from any feeling of
frustration or lack of appreciation. Looking further back, I can’t
remember any fantasy as a c***d other than that of erect penises.
Although I don’t do it much now, I can’t remember when I
wasn’t masturbating some as a c***d…I am sure it was as young
as eleven years old, because my mother caught a girl friend and
me doing it together with candles when we were twelve, and I
had been doing it a long time then. The candles were my friend’s
idea, since she had found some of those wicked comic books in
her b*****r’s room, showing Dagwood and Blondie and Harold
Teen and Lillums and others having sex, both genital and oral,
with the man in each case always endowed with an enormous
and constantly erect penis. I kept that image in my mind the
whole time I masturbated…the sort of scary and exciting pictures
of those hug comic book penises. Actually, they weren’t scary in
the forbidden sense; sex was not a forbidden topic in our house.
My mother had given me very full and complete sex instruction
from a very early age, including the fact that sex is fun, which
most parents never mention. Mother didn’t scold us and didn’t
even tell my friend’s mother what we had been up to. She just
made us stop and told us to be careful not to hurt ourselves using
candles or anything like that. Although I did not experience my
first intercourse until I was f******n, I always was definitely
interested in boys’ penises from that day on, as well as before. I
do not know if this has anything to do with my African sex-god
fantasy or not. It may have, I suppose.
I might mention that I’ve never told my husband of this
fantasy, and I’m afraid I never will, because he would think I
thought he was too small, and I really don’t at all. [Letter]
My fantasy is nearly always the same: I am being ****d by not
one man, but three or four. But the strange thing is that as each
man takes his turn, I have to take a bigger penis. Some of the
sizes of them in my fantasies are nine and twelve inches. And as
I have to open my legs wide to take them, the erotic pleasure I
have always brings on the most wonderful orgasm. The pleasure
I get is so intense that my husband also gets added pleasure,
thinking that it is he alone who is giving it to me. [Letter]
I am twenty-three years old, have been married two years, and
have two c***dren. The earliest fantasies I can remember were
when I was nine or ten years old; I would imagine that the boys
in my class were looking at me and touching me and discussing
my anatomy. Nowadays my fantasies are similar. I often fantasize
that the man I am with is closely examining my sexual organs,
not as a doctor, but as a lover. Sometimes I imagine he’s
discussing me with a friend while they both examine me and
bring me to orgasm manually while they watch. I often practice
this fantasy in front of a mirror while masturbating.
It was only recently that my husband and I admitted to one
another that we had fantasies. We have never described them,
just simply acknowledged their existence. I do sometimes think
of other men while my husband and I are making love. I most
often imagine men we know whom I find particularly attractive. I
usually imagine that these men have begged me to have an affair
with them and I’ve finally given in.
I don’t think my husband would be jealous if I told him of this
fantasy. Perhaps if I fulfilled it, he would be. He does know that I
enjoy thinking about men, and that I always wish I knew what’s
behind the zipper of every man I look at. [Letter]
My husband is not an imaginative man and our lovemaking is
not at all varied. I used to attempt to get him to try different
things, but he never wanted to. The reason that I was more
advanced was not that I’d had more experience before marriage
than he had, but I had had some, and I guess what took place was
what the man wanted, in all cases. Anyway, he was clearly
offended, for example, when I tried once to push his head down
toward my cunt, and he stubbornly pushed it up again to give me
a conventional kiss on the mouth. He doesn’t even seem happy
with me on top, although he lets me once in a while.
In every other area except bed I consider him an ideal husband
– or at least a good one, so I’m determined to reconcile myself to
a somewhat deprived sex life. The way I do it is I achieve variety
with my fantasies, and I achieve an orgasm almost every time by
using them. I think variety is the key to the whole thing, and the
reason so many marriages go stale is that they just do the same
thing over and over. Well, so do we, but in my head it’s different
every time.
I do it all quite deliberately. I can tell, when I’m getting ready
for bed, whether my husband is in the mood or not, and if he is I
get myself all sexed up mentally, even before I get near the bed,
while I’m brushing my hair and undressing and so forth.
Sometimes I linger longer in the bathroom just so I can get to the
right point in my fantasy. Then, when we’re having the same old
version of sex, I’m having my old Arabian Nights. I mean it; it’s
like the one thousand and one nights, with me as Scheherazade
telling myself a different sex story each time. For the first dozen
or so times, it was just me and a man; I’d describe all the
different things we did. Then I went on to think of different
settings, like doing it on the kitchen floor (maybe with a delivery
boy) or in my neighbor’s garage when I went to borrow a tool
(Freudian slip). Then I got involved for a long time with doing
sixty-nine with people watching. Then I started thinking of
myself with two men, and just lately I’ve been in a whole group,
both men and women (but the women were involved with the
other men, not touching me). I’ve never imagined myself with a
woman, but other than that I’ll try anything mentally. I’m able to
pace the flow of my thoughts to what’s really going on, and this
way it works for me almost every time. [Letter]
 You could say that a woman’s life was made for fantasy.
All those idle hours, the boring repetitive jobs that her hands do
automatically, the endless opportunities to reflect, construct and
reconstruct. In a sense we were born to dream, to stay at
home…it is how most men dream of us. Even today’s
superwomen who leave the house to go to work have at least as
much opportunity for the odd idle fantasy as the guy at the next
desk (and more natural talent and practice at it) – the tedious
subway rides, the dull business conferences, hungover days when
you just can’t concentrate on anything except the erotic
possibilities of the boss’s moustache, the provocative way the
new account executive dresses on the right, last night’s
abandoned fuck with Harry, the prospect of tonight’s with
Does the adage "The idle mind is the devil’s playground"
indeed apply only to one sex? Why do advertisers consistently
use a picture of a pretty girl with a faraway look in her eye to sell
almost anything? Because it’s universally accepted that women,
dreamers all, dream the good pure thoughts that hold us all
together – especially material things connected with the home.
(And homemaking.) Whereas men, those lusty scoundrels, will
dream only of things that might make their naughty dreams come
true. What are men in advertisements wistful for? Automobiles,
whiskey, rugged pipe tobacco…anything that might lead them
more successfully to sex.
I suggest that next time you see that pretty female face with the
Mona Lisa smile you consider, just consider, that she may not be
thinking of a knight on a horse, just the horse.
This lifelong habit of rumination is what makes women so
good at fantasy; daydreams are often as close as they ever get to
what they really want. A man finding desire upon him can pick
up the phone, go see someone, ask a girl out, or order one. But it
is not so easy for a woman to reach out as readily and
shamelessly for what she wantsto take his clothes off, take him to
bed, take him from above, below, and if he won’t take her from
behind, take a whore to bed who will ….
Instead, women dream about it. 
This fantasy really happened. What I mean is that it was told
to me by the guy involved; it happened to him and another girl.
But I’ve always loved the story so, and I like him so much, even
though we’ve never made it together, that I fantasize that I am the
girl, that he and I do make it in this very jolly way. Sometimes
I’ll be on the subway and find I have this foolish smile on my
face as I think about this fantasy. I wish it would happen. Even if
it never does it’s helped me pass a lot of otherwise boring hours.
I’ve agreed to help a bachelor friend paint his new apartment,
and since it’s a hot day we’ve both shed our clothes to do the job.
He’s up on a high ladder slapping paint on the ceiling with a
broad brush, while I’m standing below painting the walls with a
roller. It’s a water paint, pale grey and at one point as we are
laughing at some joke – we’ve been smoking a joint, and the
record player is on loud – I glance up at him as he grins down at
me, and from below his balls look so funny (and nice) even
though he and I have never been to bed together and I don’t really
know him well enough to know how he’ll take it – even so I
reach up with my roller dripping grey paint and slather his
bouncing balls, and on up to his collarbone. He lets out a yell,
and risking his life he’s down the ladder like a flash and lets go –
slap! slap! – with his brush, on my tits, left then right, and I go
spinning around and he whops me on the can, left then right,
with his big, fat brush. So I run my roller up one of his sides from
the ankle to the armpit, so he dabs me in the navel, and I double
over laughing and he’s on top of me, and we go down in a puddle
of grey paint, writhing and wrestling and struggling and both of
us suddenly aroused; hot as hell and panting and I’m saying "Put
it in" and he’s trying to get me in position so he can, and I get my
legs up around his neck in a frenzy so he can find my cunt and
it’s all impossible with all the goddam paint, and suddenly I see
his eyes widen with panic and I feel it the same second: the paint
is burning us up, but it’s only the first second we mind it, then it
becomes the greatest sensation in the world and we both start
sliding together and the slimy stuff on all our surfaces glues us
together and we get it in, and we slide around fucking and
fucking and FUCKING and
[Taped interview]
 Molly specified that this fantasy is not something she thinks
about during sex, but that it’s more of a daydream, a little episode
she likes to think about while driving to pick up the k**s, or
while she’s doing housework. As Molly puts it, "It keeps my
sexual machinery charged." She has never been a teacher, nor
does she want to be, but she does admit to finding the young men
her k**s bring home attractive. She was married at 18.
"Maybe," she admits, "a little too early for an imaginative girl.
Sometimes I think there is so much I’ve missed." 
The scene is a one-room schoolhouse, somewhere out West.
The teacher is about my age, thirty-five, or even older. But she is
a virgin, a frustrated old maid. She has kept one of the pupils
after school, a strong, six-foot-tall boy who isn’t too bright. She
goes through a stern lecture with him about how he’s not been
paying attention during class, etc. She asks him two or three
tough questions, and when he can’t answer says she’s going to
have to punish him. She tells him to take down his pants; he’s
embarrassed but she insists. She sits down on a chair and makes
him lie down over her lap, face down, with his pants pulled down
around his knees, and she starts spanking him. He gets an
erection and she spanks harder, but at the same time more
caressingly. Then she starts fingering his penis with her other
hand and she keeps spanking. He gets a bigger and harder
erection. She asks him if he’s ever fucked a girl and he says no
and she moves around on the chair to get her skirt up; she has no
pants on. She also moves him about until she can maneuver his
penis into her cunt, and at this point she goes back to the
lecturing tone she’d had earlier, and tells him all about how he’s
going to have to improve his work; etc., while she’s still
spanking him, but the spanking is more of a pushing him into
her. She’s also moving her pelvis back and forth rhythmically,
very actively, so she’s controlling the whole thing for her own
mounting pleasure but also giving him a fantastic time.
He starts shouting, "Oh, teacher!" over and over as his climax
begins, and she keeps trying to lecture him but the words fuck
and cunt keep popping up in the middle of her lecture. They both
work up to a noisy climax, by which time they’ve slid off the
chair onto the floor. Afterward, she primly buttons her clothes
and very mock-disapproving tells him he’s going to have to stay
after school again the next day unless he can bring his school
work up to scratch, and he agrees that he certainly has been lazy,
etc., and he just doesn’t seem to be able to do the work. [Letter]
 Alicia has never really left school. She is thirty-four, an
associate professor at a Midwestern university, and is to go to
Africa to complete one of her many papers on anthropology.
When you meet her, it’s hard to believe she is so professional and
self-sufficient, as she looks as vulnerable and appealing as
Mississippi honeysuckle. But behind those violet eyes, there is a
mind like a precision tool. She has a penchant for difficult men,
types who beat her up either physically or mentally. I’ve never
known her to be attracted to a "nice guy," and I get the feeling
that there’s something in her that would turn even a nice guy into
a bastard. I do know one of her former lovers, and he’s as much
as said she invites or incites a put-down reaction from her men,
that there is something in her that brings out the worst in a guy:
"Maybe it’s just that you always know with Alicia that she isn’t
sexually satisfied. No matter how often you tell yourself it’s her
and not you yourself that’s sexually unsatisfied or unsatisfying –
that there must be something wrong with her because you know,
always, that you’ve not really moved that dame – still, a guy
can’t help feeling inadequate with her in bed. She just isn’t all
I don’t fantasize during sex. My fantasies fall more into
occasional daydreams. I like to imagine that I am a unique
creature of the future. Ethereally beautiful, of course, but this
isn’t central to the idea. What is important is that I am the
triumph of some incredibly advanced geneticist’s work aimed at
breeding a strain of people equipped for the ultimate in exquisite
sensual pleasures – with nerve endings and sensory circuitry so
highly pitched that they can experience ecstasies unimaginable
for normal, limited human beings.
For me, for those like me (and are there others like me? The
excitement of this is that I don’t know; I’m living my intense life
in the midst of people who appear to be enjoying the same crude
little pleasures as their ancestors and no more)…for me, the touch
of a tip of a feather on my knee can produce – if my mood is
erotic – a sensation so intense that it would be like twenty
orgasms at once for another woman. I experience this all right,
but it is invisible, secret, known only to me. It’s not simply a
hypersensitivity over all my surfaces – no, I can be impervious, I
can make my way through a jostling crowd with only the usual
discomfort at the unwelcome human contact. I’m inexhaustibly
tuned up exclusively for sensuality, for carnality, for all the
feeling and desires of the sexual a****l. My sexuality, while
a****l, is capable of such subtlety that a glance, received a
certain way from a man I fancy even mildly, can bring on wave
after wave of the sort of piercing sensation that would cause
gasps and moans and even screams from another woman. All I
may show is a small; smile in his direction, but what I am
enjoying inside – just in a split second – is like the sum total of
anyone else’s lifetime of erotic experience.
The climax of this fantasy, of course, will be when I meet up
with a man whose senses are as fantastically heightened and
refined as mine, but I haven’t gotten to that point yet. There’s too
much going on here, and I’m only getting started. He’ll come
along a few chapters from now, and then I’ll really get going.
[Taped interview]
Joe and I have been living together for three years now, but
we’ve been making it for eight years. I think we’ve got a pretty
imaginative sex life together, and I enjoy discussing my fantasies
with him. Unless I were to tell him that I’d been thinking of
another manduring a particularly passionate session, I don’t think
he would ever be jealous of my fantasies.
But I can truthfully say that I’ve never had fantasies of another
man while Joe was making love to me. I think most of my
fantasies are of the daydream type. I have had several recurring
1. I never had an affair with my ex-boss, but he was extremely
attractive and had a moustache. At times I’d find myself staring
at him and wondering what it would be like it he were to fondle
and kiss my breasts with his moustache rubbing across my
nipples. I imagined it would be a very erotic sensation to have
him suck my nipples and feel his moustache next to my skin.
2. I find myself staring at well-dressed black men on the
subway. I begin by looking at their hair, then their faces, then I
let my eye slowly, casually move down their bodies. I try to judge
from the bulge just how large their penises are and with a little
imagination I see them undressed and feel them inside me. I
judge them as lovers individually. Occasionally I will do this
with white men, but generally they are black. Joe is black, but I
don’t think this is why I do this.
3. Sometimes on my way to work I think about the way Joe
made love to me the night before and I get quite aroused. I can
feel my clitoris get hard and it starts throbbing. It is always a
sudden jolt back to reality when I suddenly see the crowd of
people squeezing out of the station.
I enjoyed answering your request. Yours is a great idea.
Even when going about my household chores I sometimes
think of how it feels to have a man run his hands all over my
body. I often remind myself of the pleasure of having a firm penis
sliding in and out of my mouth and try mentally to recreate any
delicious experience. [Letter]
I daydream a lot, which probably accounts for the fact that I
enjoy sex so often. I do my housework in the tops of baby-doll
pajamas, stay in a half-hot mood most of the time, what with
touching myself, or rubbing against different objects. The nozzle
of the vacuum cleaner hose, for instance, played lightly over the
pubic area is terrific and will bring on an orgasm if desired.
Sometimes I wear a dildo inserted while doing housework. I
imagine it to be my boxer dog’s prick. [Letter]
I am a nurse and have been married ten years. During boring
lectures at the hospital, I often fantasize going down on the
lecturer. I try to imagine just how long he could go on talking all
that mumbo-jumbo while I was kneeling there in front of him
with his penis in my mouth.
I also often find myself fantasizing about those patients who
fill my particular fantasy type – usually strong, overwhelming,
cavemen types with great staying power. It’s funny: there they
are, lying helpless in their little white beds or on the table, but
when I’m looking at them and imagining, it’s me who feels
helpless and small, as they protect me and give me pleasure.
This has nothing to do with not loving my husband. I do.
Sometimes when I’m, say, peeling potatoes, I imagine that Bill
will come up behind me, bend me over and enter me, right there
at the kitchen sink. [Conversation]
When I’m making love, I don’t think of anything else but
satisfying my lover. Would he be jealous if he knew I were
thinking of someone else? Probably. Which is why I concentrate
wholly on making love.
I save my fantasizing for when I’m alone. I wait till evening,
take a couple of drinks, and curl up in bed with a sexy book.
Then when the drinks take hold I can imagine my hands are those
of my lover.
Other fantasies are just daydreams, which I have constantly.
My favorite daydream is of me cooking or washing dishes, my
lover comes in, puts his arms around me, and as we kiss and
press against one another and our passion builds, I just reach
behind me and turn off the stove, the dishes are forgotten,
everything left wonderfully unfinished in this very interrupted
state, as we go off to the bedroom to make love. [Interview]
 Not all idle minds drift to sexual fantasy, as not all sexual
fantasy (and idle hands) leads to masturbation. In fact, it’s the old
chicken-and-the-egg routine. Fantasy and masturbation: which
comes first? But one thing seems certain: that masturbation
without fantasy is unlikely, unhappy, unreal. Masurbation
doesn’t just require fantasy, it demands it. Without fantasy,
masturbation would be too lonely. I don’t even want to think
about it.
In my researches I didn’t find one woman who said she had
never masturbated. You could say that this has something to do
with the nature of my subject, that the kind of people who talked
to me were bound to be more sexually candid. Perhaps my
surprise at finding that all the women I talked to masturbated is
more a comment on me than my contributors. Possibly. But you
see, it wasn’t that I didn’t expect women to masturbate – to have
tried it or stumbled upon it at some point in their lives – I simply
didn’t think my own experience was all that universal. It goes
back again to how little women know about one another, how
inclined we are to feel isolated, different, not like the other girls,
because we don’t know about other girls.
We all know about men; they masturbate. Little boys and
masturbation are a normal, even charming part of the women’s
magazine stories as to how little boys are. I suppose that’s it;
we’ve all read so much about it, about little boys discovering it,
and being discovered. It’s charming.
But women? We’re as hidden as our clitorises. By the time
we’ve found them, hidden away up there, we’re guilty at having
located them. If it were meant to be found and enjoyed, wouldn’t
it be in the open, hanging down and swinging free like a cock?
(No wonder little girls suffer penis envy.)
That, I suppose, is why I was so surprised to find we all do it:
I simply assumed without thinking that I was as alone in my
discovery as I’d been alone while growing up, with my other
female thoughts about my femaleness. Logically, I accepted my
similarity to other women – why should I be different? – but
emotionally I was as uncertain as to how I stood on the subject of
masturbation as I was on whether I was oversexed. No one talked
about girls masturbating, it was not a part of the prescribed myth
of innocence, of growing up, of becoming a woman. Actually, I
don’t think there is a female version of that popular myth: neither
Heidi, Nancy Drew, or the Little Women masturbated; there is no
female equivalent to Studs Lonigan and Huck Finn.
I’ll tell you some things I’ve learned about women and
masturbation. Despite their long training to reticence, once
you’ve engaged their confidence, women talk about it easily.
Once they realize they aren’t the only ones, they admit to
masturbation as readily as to sex, they accept it and, unlike men,
seem to feel no less a woman for doing it. You could reduce this
to a sign of our times, to the nature of my research or of the
women who would talk to me. But it’s more than that; it’s the
essence of what all this research boils down to: that women, once
opened up and allied to other women, are indeed less ashamed,
more adventurous, more accepting sexually than men. If books
like mine help women to be more trusting with each other, to
talk, to explore, we may find that the whole chapter on sex in our
permissive age has not been written. Only half.
Here is some incidental data on the subject of fantasy and
masturbation that I found interesting: Most of the women I talked
to remember their first sexual fantasies and their first
masturbation to have occurred at about the same time, usually
between seven and eleven (for reasons I don’t understand, these
two ages, seven and eleven, are the specific years most often
mentioned). Also, when they do masturbate they don’t fantasize
about the same things that they do during sex.
In fact, many fantasies during masturbation don’t even
concern active sex; sometimes just the fantasy of being nude on a
beach is all the sexual imagery a woman wants or requires. One
last thing: I think women’s invention in the choice of their
masturbatory tools is worth a mention – from the familiar finger,
the dildo, the increasingly popular vibrators (although everyone
mentions being put off by the noise of the batteries) to
cucumbers, vacuum cleaner hoses, battery-operated Ronson
toothbrushes, silver engraved hairbrush handles, exotic
phallocrypts made by native houseboys, down to simple streams
of water. Sometimes the tool is everything, appearing in both fact
and fantasy in the same form – and sometimes the hairbrush
becomes the desired lover’s cock and the water from the bathtub
faucet the pee from a very black man’s cock. Shocking? Not
when you think about it. 
Hope this letter will be of some help to you. To give you an
idea of what I am like, and maybe help in working out why I
think like this, I am twenty-nine years old, married six years, no
c***dren. We have sex an average of three to four times per week,
but my husband does not know I am writing to you, as there are
some points I think might make him wonder about me.
First, I would like to say that I do masturbate. I use a vibrator,
usually in the mornings and after I have a bath. I seem to get
excited as I stroke my breasts and think of or look at some of the
books we have. My breasts are not very big and when I see some
of the girls with big full titties I really get excited. One of my
favorite fantasies when I masturbate goes back to something that
actually happened:
Once I went to a sauna bath with a friend who I thought had
lesbian tendencies. What happened can still bring me on. My
nipples and clitoris get firm just thinking about it. We both
stripped. put towels around us, and went inside. There was one
other woman there. She lay down on her back, showing all.
When she left, my pal undid her towel and stretched out on her
back. It was the first time I had seen her in the nude and the way
she was talking soon made me feel sexy. I took my towel off and
she remarked how much darker and bushier my pubic hair was
than hers. She was very fair, but her bust was a lot bigger than
mine. She got up and came over to me and started massaging my
legs. I let her carry on. Soon her hands were all over me. She
asked me to go back to her flat for tea and said if I wanted she
would finish me off. When we got there I was stripped by her and
given a most satisfying thrill. She licked and sucked my breasts
and went down between my legs and performed cunnilingus on
me (better than my husband). I could feel her sucking my clitoris,
and just to feel her breasts was enough to makeme come at least
twice. I often thinkof this and then give my husband a good time.
 I think of Norma’s name as being just right for her; to me it
has an old-fashioned, prim ring. And so I was not surprised that
Norma was reluctant to give an interview for this book. She
thinks there is nothing wrong with it, however, and believes
wholeheartedly that it can have a liberating purpose. She would
even like her daughter ("if I’d had one") to read it. "I wouldn’t
want any girl to be brought up the way I was."
Norma also told me that she hadn’t slept with a man since her
husband, who was more homosexual than not, left her over
fifteen years ago, just after their son, Ted, was born. 
I’m very brave and aggressive in my fantasies. In fact, I take
the lead. My fantasies are always about young men. You are
probably thinking there is some element of i****t there – some
desire for Ted. But I don’t think that’s quite right. I think the
reason that I imagine that the man is always fifteen or twenty
years younger than I am is that it makes him less frightening to
me. In fact, he’s always someone who is a virgin, close to it.
Somebody who doesn’t really know what it – the bedroom, you
understand – is all about. So it’s up to me to teach him, and
nothing he’s going to do can surprise or worry me. He’s just a
I may as well tell you this: I always have my fantasies in the
bathtub. Whenever I feel the urge, I just go in there and get in the
bathtub. But I do it in a very special way. The way I was trained,
brought up, I can never bring myself to touch myself there. Yes,
there. Or to put anything inside myself. What I do is turn the
water on to a nice warm temperature. Then I lie down flat on my
back, with my bottom right up against the end of the tub where
the faucet is, and I position myself with my legs open, feet up on
the edge of the tub, directly under the running water. I usually
have a towel under my head. The warm bubbling water plays
over me; I can pace my fantasy by either just lying there and
letting the warm pressure of the falling water find its source, or I
can hold my lips apart so that the rushing water excites me
Fantasies get worn out; somehow they finally lose their erotic
charge. So you have to keep making up new ones. The one I
recently made up is one of this beautiful young man and me.
We’re completely dressed, in fact, he’s in black tie, and I’m
wearing something long, black, and very dramatic. We’re
waiting for some people to arrive; the boy and I are strangers to
each other, having only been invited to this house by mutual
friends. Finally they phone to say they had to take a plane, and so
will not arrive till midnight. They beg us not to go, however, but
to pass the time as best we can until they arrive.
I suggest to the young man that we play some cards. I tell him
that while cards without risk is a boring game, I still do not like
to play for money. So he laughs and asks what would I like to
play for. I suggest we play poker, and that the ‘winner can get the
other person to do anything he or she wishes for five minutes
after each winning hand. What I have in mind is a game of strip
poker, you see, because I am a very good poker player and know
that under the disguise of the game I can get him to do what I
want, almost as a joke, without embarrassing myself.
The young man agrees, and in ten or fifteen minutes he finds
himself sitting dressed only in his stiff shirt, black tie, and shoes.
The rest is naked Sometimes I imagine that he immediately
develops an erection, other times I vary it a bit by having him so
embarrassed he is unable to have one until I "carelessly" make
some revealing gestures with my body. Or touch him. Then I
suggest that we play for higher stakes. He asks what this means.
I tell him we should play for more imaginative forfeits, and the
penalty period should be increased from five to fifteen minutes or
even a half hour. He becomes even more excited, and I see a
gleam in his eye. He agrees. But of course I win again.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks. I tell him to lie down
on the bed, half undressed as he is, and then I proceed to tie his
hands and feet to the bed.
When I feel he really can’t move, I go into my act. In my mind,
I become the kind of sexy woman I’ve always wanted to be.
While he’s lying there, tied hand and foot, I go into the sexiest
striptease you can imagine. This is the real part of the fantasy. All
the rest has been a buildup. But when I get to this part, I can feel
almost a flush of heat. My stomach muscles begin to cramp – but
not with pain – with the feeling of approaching orgasm. I come
and sit on him, but only for a second, so that before he can have
an orgasm of his own I’m off him again, leaving him all the
wilder, his face redder, his erection hard as a rock. I talk to him,
asking him wouldn’t he like to put it in me? Sometimes I pretend
I’m angry with him, and say that I’d rather stick a candle up
myself than him. Sometimes I imagine that I do, and I can see
myself, naked, with a large red Christmas candle sticking half
out of me, dancing around this beautiful young boy. I tell him
that if he’ll push the candle all the way in with his teeth, I may
untie him and let him make love to me. Or I use that stiff erection
like a ramrod, kneeling over him so that his own erection – it’s
now so hard he couldn’t make it soft if he tried – pushes the
candle all the way in for me.
And all the time I’m having these thoughts, I can feel the
lovely warm water touching me, stroking me, bringing my own
rush of bl**d there. Then suddenly my muscles do cramp, and I
have an orgasm right there in the nice clean bathtub. Then I just
have a real bath and get into bed and have the most refreshing
nap you can imagine. [Taped interview]
Sometimes when I masturbate there is this lovely person, who
is, of course, my lover, and he gathers together a bunch of darling
gentlemen who want very much to fuck me…seems there are
always these guys in my fantasies just dying to get at me.
Anyway, they all have wonderful members with remarkable
proportions and they tell him that they think I’m swell, and I’m
really having a bit of a ball myself. But the funny thing is that my
gentleman friend who has gone to the trouble of finding me all
these screws gets a little angry because I start liking it a bit too
much when one of the fellows in the crowd gets to propositioning
me for doing other things (which aren’t included in the package
deal). I am tempted and my lover gets angry with both me and
the other guy and gently tells us not to be so familiar. Does that
sound crazy? I suppose so, but you asked for it. [Taped interview]
Mary Beth
On the rare occasions I masturbate, I use the engraved silver
handle of a hairbrush, and think about my former lover, who used
to let me fellatiate him…an act I love to do, but which my
husband doesn’t permit. I visualize my lover’s prick getting hard
in my mouth, the veins coming out on it, and then, just as I’m
about to come, I love to look down and see my own juices caught
between my husband’s engraved initials …. [Letter]
I imagine a variety of things when I masturbate. Sometimes
it’s that a man has come to the door selling something and I
invite him in. While he stands there displaying his Fuller brushes
or whatever, I begin to caress myself. He watches, obviously
aroused, and finding it harder and harder to continue his sales
spiel. Then I remove my clothes and begin to masturbate, all the
while watching his efforts to control himself. He’s in a real state,
and of course I’m very cool in one sense, but I’m also getting
very worked up. Sometimes at this point I’ll invite him to
penetrate me, much to his surprise and delight. He can barely get
his trousers off, his erection is so enormous. And he breaks half
of whatever it is he’s selling – steps all over it – in his haste to
get at me. While imagining this I will insert a carrot or some
similar object into my anus while I stimulate my clitoris
manually or with a vibrator to enhance the fantasy.
Sometimes I change the plot: I make no attempt to entice or
encourage the man. But once in the house, he is unable to
withstand my quite formidable charms and he ****s me, right
there in the living room – taking care not to cause any real pain or
damage to me. I imagine him to be an extremely skillful lover, so
that although I start out repulsed by him and trying to dissuade
him, I end up begging him for more while he teases and entices
me and demands that I do various things for him…many of
which I’ve never done before, never been asked to do before, and
often wish my husband would ask me to do. [Letter]
Mary Jane
I almost never masturbate, now that I am married, but when I
do, my fantasies involve only myself in most cases. I will list a
few of the fantasies that I can remember. In one, I think of being
alone on a beautiful white ocean beach. The sky is clear, the sun
is shining, and warm breezes are softly blowing. I walk along the
beach for awhile, and then I stop and take off all my clothes.
When I am nude, I go for a leisurely swim in the ocean. When I
come out of the water, I lie down on the soft, warm sand and feel
the breezes blowing over me and the sun warming my body. In a
variation of this fantasy, I think of doing similar things by a
mountain waterfall. Most of my fantasies involve thoughts of my
taking off all of my clothes, and often the setting is outdoors. A
few times, I have begun masturbating while I was fully clothed
and, as I was masturbating, I removed all of my clothes. [Letter]
When I masturbate, I have a recurring "daydream" of a
salesman approaching a lovely white cottage on a beach and
finding the door partly open. He calls and, getting no answer,
wanders through all the rooms looking for some sign of
occupancy. Finally he comes to a closed door and hears water
running within. Opening the door he finds a woman showering
and he proceeds to undress, climb into the shower, and make love
to the woman. By this time I usually have my climax. [Letter]
 "I have never cheated on my husband, even though before
our marriage I was rather promiscuous," says Alix. "Even on our
wedding day, I wondered if I could be happy with one man. But I
Alix is twenty-four, married four years, and mother of two. Her
husband’s frequent business journeys give her a lot of time for
her fantasies. These fall into two principal categories, lesbian and
Alix has told her husband of the latter, and as he has his own,
they often share their masturbatory fantasies together. But Alix
has never mentioned her lesbian fantasies to her husband, even
though, as is characteristic with many men, he thinks of a lesbian
episode as essentially a frivolous matter, of less serious import
than male homosexuality; for instance, he has told her he
wouldn’t think it "cheating" if she had sex with another woman.

Most of my lesbian fantasies occur during masturbation. The
most common is one in which I am watching women
masturbating themselves in demonstration for me. I visualize
many different positions and techniques, all under spectacular
For instance, I fantasize that I am held captive by native
women who dance around me in a kind of pagan rite and then
make me watch them masturbate. Then there is the fantasy where
I am walking through the woods and come across a woman
making love to herself. These fantasies of women masturbating
really stir me up. Then, while I am actually masturbating myself,
I fantasize that someone, like a neighbor or my husband, has
walked in the room just as I am at the height and am climaxing
over and over, but I can’t stop – even though someone is
watching – because it is so good.
My preoccupation with masturbation extends to idle
daydreaming, or imaginings when I see or meet someone
attractive: I invariably wonder whether that woman or that man
"eats" his or her partner, and whether he or she masturbates. I
don’t think of these things in connection with myself, but I
simply wonder whether or not they do these things.
My husband does not know of my fixation with masturbation
and of my secret desire to have a woman make love to me.
However, the fantasy we engage in together is very enjoyable and
leads to wild times together. I love to hear him tell about
masturbating himself that day (if he did that day, if not he tells
the circumstances of another time, which excites me even though
I’ve heard it before).
My husband is a carpenter and he will tell me, for instance,
that during his noon hour he went to a part of the building that
was finished – all the other guys were nowhere around – shut
himself in a closet, took out his penis and jerked off for ten to
fifteen minutes, then shot his semen on the floor. All the details
of these circumstances really excite me. Sometimes he
masturbates in the bathroom during his coffee break. He says he
gets to thinking about me giving him a blow job and he just has
to masturbate. Sometimes he tells me about masturbating in the
woods when he goes hunting. When I take the k**s to see my
mother – she lives 350 miles away – I am gone several days. He
masturbates while I am away and tells me the details during our
lovemaking when I get back.
Then he says, "Honey, did you do it today?" and I tell him the
circumstances under which I was masturbating and where I did
it. He gets very excited. He always wants to know if I took my
clothes off or if I just put my hand up my panties, whether I used
an object in my vagina or if I used my two hands – one to
stimulate my clitoris, and the other rapidly in and out. However, I
do not tell him of my lesbian fantasies during masturbation. I tell
him that I was thinking about us.
All this time, while we are exchanging tales, we are engaging
in serious foreplay. We also like to masturbate together and
watch each other masturbate.
My orgasms during masturbation are very different from those
I have during intercourse. Eventually we do have intercourse, and
by this time we are wild for each other. I must tell you that before
we brought this aspect into our lovemaking, that we made love
infrequently and all passion on my part was fake. For three years
of our marriage ‘l never experienced an orgasm unless I
Then one night during foreplay, I said to him, "Do it like this,"
and tried to guide his fingers.
Then he said, "You do it, baby," so I played with myself, but
very inhibitedly because I didn’t want him to know that I had
done it very often before. He saw how excited I was getting,
though, and said to me, "Fuck yourself, baby," and he played
with his penis while I did it.
That was the start of our new great sex life. It took several
more sessions before we both made full confessions, but it turned
out that he had been masturbating since our marriage and long
before. I never tried it until we were married one year, and I had
never done it as a teenager. The guilt I felt was awful until I
started looking into the subject and learned that it is common and
natural. I still, felt guilty, though, until we started doing it
I really think I am more intrigued with masturbation, both
sexes, than with lesbianism. The latter is just part of the former.
What I mean is I’ve always been fascinated with men and would
never want to live with a woman. I remember as a c***d of about
seven, when I saw my father and some pals of his urinating
behind a barn. Penis envy was my first fantasy, and how I wanted
one. I used to think that if Daddy put his penis between my legs
that I would grow one too. I think men, their penises, are
fascinating; sometimes I think how much I’d love to "catch" my
husband masturbating, to secretly see his actions and passion
when he was completely alone and uninhibited.
I find that with time, with talking about them, our fantasies
and our love life get better and better. I wish we’d started talking
earlier. [Taped interview]
 There is nothing consistent about women and fantasy, the
reasons and circumstances for it. It varies from woman to
woman. And with each individual woman, from night to night
and lover to lover. Even with the same lover within the same hour
a woman may or may not fantasize, depending on so many
things, all the uncharted tides and moons of a woman’s psyche.
But lesbians are different. Their whole lives contain an element of
fantasy – that they are both their own sex and another. It is my
belief, therefore, that lesbians fantasize more often than other
During sex a lesbian’s fantasies have to be especially active to
help make rational to herself her often wildly veering changes of
identification between one sex and the other, as she switches
from the male to the female role and back again. In Marion’s
fantasy, the first in the group that follows, she admits she has to
fantasize when she’s actively exciting her girl friend just so she
can be excited too. And even though Marion is the butch lesbian,
her favorite part of the fantasy is when Lilly grabs the Ronson
dildo and becomes the man, and she, Marion becomes "just a
simple cunt, being fucked by some motorcycle guy."
Most women, I have found, have what they call their "lesbian
fantasies" from time to time, that is, sexual fantasies that involve
other women. They have these even though their real lives are
totally or predominantly heterosexual. Some women accept these
images as naturally as their own female anatomy – "of course
women think about other women"; for others they raise a
question, the possibility of their own latent bisexuality, while still
others ponder guiltily over whether thinking about it means they
really want it. Women’s secret thoughts of other women; it’s like
a mystery within a mystery, and a topic I’d like to save till later.
For now, these fantasies are from lesbians, women who accept
and/or practice their preferred attraction to women. 
 Marion was born on a farm in North Dakota, and her first
name is really Marianne; she changed it to the more sexually
ambiguous Marion when she came to an understanding of herself
later in life. She has never liked men. 
Maybe it was my father’s jokes that turned me off men so
strong. My father wasn’t really intelligent. Even as a k**, I knew
he was hopeless. A big-boned, large – I don’t know, unfinished –
kind of man. I remember even today the phone calls that would
make my mother cry. Other women phoning him. I remember
thinking about one of these other chicks – Why does my father
like her over my mother? This other one sounded so stupid. Once
there was a terrible fight over a letter he got from one of them.
But I remember more than anything else in, my c***dhood the
phone calls, and my mother crying. I can even remember saying
to myself as a k** that I never wanted to be like her. Like my
You won’t laugh? Fuck you if you do. What the hell do I care
what you think. What I want is for a lot of cunts like you to
understand how it is with people like me. Lesbians. The fuckin’
word sounds so rotten. And I don’t like to be called "gay." I’m no
faggot. But why should the word sound so rotten? You like
lettuce and I like apples.
You like men and I like women. So what? What the hell is so
criminal about that?
Shit on the soapbox. I mean, on preaching. But it’s a downer –
always having to defend yourself. Okay, here’s what goes
through my head:
Lilly and I, we like to use an electric toothbrush. The
battery-operated kind, so you don’t have to worry about the
electric wires, or plugging it in. [Laugh] Except that’s just what
you do – plug it in.
You ever go to a doctor or a dentist, and he’s cut his finger,
and he wears a little rubber cap on his finger? Like a little
condom? Anyway, we use that – we use epoxy glue to glue the
toothbrush itself onto the little metal head otherwise the
vibration’ll shake the brush off. Then I use the same glue to put
the rubber cap on the brush, so that it covers the bristles. Some of
our friends do this, too. It’s like our own "in" joke. "What are you
using tonight, Jack?" we say to each other, when somebody’s
picked up a new girl. "A Schick?" We trade brand names. I like a
Ronson. It’s got four, or maybe six batteries, I forget, but it really
I have a kind of strap. It goes around my waist and up over my
shoulders, crossing in the back and then down under my ass and
coming back up to the belt again. I had a sandal-maker make it
for me. So the Ronson is really anchored right down low and in
place. I mean, it’s rigid. [Laugh]
Look, you talk to any guy, and the first thing he wants to
know, Has he made the girl come? That’s their mark of virility.
That’s what they’re anxious about. But me and my Ronson, I can
make any girl come, every time. It’s simple biology. Men have
this business, they don’t even understand. to get deep inside. To
plant the seed. That’s biology. Okay, I’m butch, I’m also a
woman. I understand the clit. I don’t have that urge to go deep
into a woman. Maybe I’m competitive with men. Or maybe I
don’t want to just give in to biology. But I don’t care about going
in deep. I know about myself and I never forget that the clit is
where it’s at.
So I know what Lilly’s getting out of it. But there I am all
alone in my head, very excited, but still somehow ally. alone. I
know Lilly is going to be okay, but I have to make up these
images in my mind so that I can get excited, too. What turns me
on is that I’m r****g a motorcycle rider. One of these butch studs
in the polished black leather, and the big machine. I’m moving in
and out of Lilly, giving her a little bit of clit, a little bit of cunt,
and then a lot more of clit. But meanwhile, I can see myself in my
mind, I’m still wearing that Ronson, but it isn’t Lilly anymore.
It’s this stud, and I’ve got him over his bike. He’s got his ass to
me. He’s that big, butch faggot, get it? And I’m giving him the
Ronson up the ass. And he loves it. He’s shoving that ass up at
me. He can’t get enough. And in my mind, I reach down under,
to tickle his clit. As if he were really Lilly, and I was deep inside,
but I knew she wanted her clit tickled too. And – I can feel it
right now – I’m suddenly surprised. He doesn’t have a cock at
all. He is a cunt. He does have a clit. I have him from the back,
and I reach down under his hips and push my finger through the
hair and he’s got a cunt. A clit. And then he flops over on his
back, and I can feel the Ronson really plugged into him, and my
own clit is vibrating too. He’s got his legs wide open and then he
puts them up over my shoulders. He’s all cunt and I know the
vibration is going all through Lilly, but it’s going all through me,
too, and sometimes at this point, Lilly grabs the Ronson out of its
holder and shoves it up me and I love it.
She suddenly becomes the guy in the motorcycle leather, and
I’m just a cunt, just a simple cunt, being fucked by some
motorcycle guy, and I love it. I love it that Lilly is so excited that
she’s changed roles. Changed positions, so that suddenly I’m not
the guy any more, but she is. Then I put my finger inside her
cunt, and when I feel her stomach muscles begin to heave, that
terrific contraction, spasm after spasm, I find myself almost
screaming. I’m coming myself. [Taped interview]
 Jeanne was born in Belgium, but has lived most of her
twenty-five years in the USA. She had her first lesbian experience
with her cousin Renee, who was a year older, and with whom she
was sharing a summer at their uncle’s farm.
Jeanne considers herself a lesbian still, "by choice, rather than
the result of `unhappy home-life,’ economic conditions,
socioeconomic factors, etc…." At one time she felt ashamed of
her desires, but now "a lover who really cares brought me to the
realization that I’m not mentally ill simply because my sexual
preference is for another woman." Jeanne has been living with
this lover, Paula, for the past two years.
The incident that became imbedded in Jeanne’s mind, and
forms the seed from which her very elaborate fantasy grew, took
place in the hayloft of her uncle’s farm, where she and her cousin
Renee were lying in each other’s arms. The two girls were
interrupted in their love play by the sight of Anjou, the cousin’s
young dog, mounting a bitch on the floor below. Both girls were
intrigued by Anjou’s "bevel-pointed maleness" entering into the
bitch, and took turns describing to each other what an experience
with Anjou might be like. Today, those descriptions have become
ritualized into sexual fantasy, extremely detailed and lovingly
elaborated. As with any work of art, it is this exactness of detail
which makes the emotion of the fantasizer so real to the reader. 
Knowing that we will not be discovered, my cousin calls
Anjou into the barn after he has finished with a bitch he has been
mating with. Anjou’s a****l maleness has not receded into the
sheath beneath his warm belly, and as Renee puts her arms
around him she whispers to me, "Help get him on my back; I
want to try, too." I am out of my mind with passion and emotion,
and after closing the door, I quickly return to the rear of the barn
where Renee is already pulling hay down and making another
"nest." I’m fascinated with Anjou’s a****l maleness; the
enormous length of the glistening red, arrow-pointed organ is still
exposed, and as Renee kneels on her hands and knees, saying,
"Help me, put him up on my back," she lifts her dress up over her
beautiful young hips and back, exposing her white rounded
buttocks, spreading her legs apart, the moist flesh of her outer
lips now totally exposed. I try several times to lift Anjou, but he
growls, and then Renee reaches around and puts her hand around
his organ, saying, "Jeanne, put your hand on my puss and then
put it on his muzzle." All the while she is sliding her hand back
and forth on the now vanishing organ of Anjou’s maleness. As
soon as Anjou licks my hand, his head moves at once to Renee’s
exposed bottom, and I become more excited as I see his long
tongue flash out and he begins lapping Renee’s exposed vagina.
Renee begins to moan softly, her voice comes to me from
somewhere. Anjou is already mounted on her back, shifting from
one leg to another as he tries unsuccessfully to introduce his
bevel-tipped glistening organ into her youthful virgin vagina.
"Help him, put it in for him, hurry, Jeanne," and I put my hand
around the vibrating, hot, glistening red maleness, and holding it
gently I move it back and forth between the wet, fleshy, parted
lips of her vaginal canal, until I direct it into the exposed mouth
of her vagina.
I sit fascinated, rooted to the spot, as Anjou’s red, arrow-like
organ slips from its short hairy sheath and disappears into my
cousin’s exposed cunnie. She gasps and soon moans as Anjou
begins to pump, my cousin backing her exposed bottom to meet
his a****l thrusts. Renee cries and moans with pleasure, and
finally she begins to rotate her hips as I watch Anjou’s long
a****l maleness move in and out of her exposed cunnie. The
fleshy lips cling to his a****l organ as he withdraws it and then
with his forward thrusts it disappears into my cousin’s belly. I
can’t stand it any more, and I get on my knees and crawl around
my cousin, finally squatting in front of her so that she can apply
her mouth to my fiery vagina even While Anjou’s maleness is
still pumping inside her.
Even today, I close my eyes and wish for all the world that
Paula had an enormous, bevel-pointed organ stirring within me.
As yet, I haven’t confided to Paula that I fantasize that her
elongated clitoris is Anjou’s a****l maleness, since I feel she
might be disturbed, thinking I would prefer an a****l to herself,
which is quite absurd. And yet the association persists, – and I
like it. [Letter]
Although I am married, most of my fantasies are about
lesbians, and I continue to have occasional lesbian experiences.
When my lesbian friend is making love to me, masturbating me,
I climax to the thought of her having intercourse with me using a
I suppose I began having fantasies about the age of sixteen.
Then, my fantasies were of going to bed with a man, having
intercourse, but not having a climax. Now, when I am with my
husband, my fantasies are often of a****ls. I imagine that he and
I are lying on the bed, when a dog comes into the room and
begins to lick me. I then masturbate the dog, get onto my knees,
and the dog mounts me. I like to imagine that the dog ejaculates
into me. I imagine that my husband mounts the dog as it mounts
My other fantasy is of a donkey. I imagine that my husband
has sold me to an Arab, and that I am in the desert. My slave
master brings his friend to watch me, their new entertainment. I
am told I must entertain the a****l, the donkey. I follow this
through from beginning to end: the a****l is led in and I
masturbate and suck it. When the donkey is excited, it mounts
me from behind. I like to take all of its tool and it ejaculates into
But my fantasies with my lesbian friend are the most exciting;
it is then that the man’s tool, her dildo, becomes real and totally
satisfies me. [Letter]
My name is Zizi. I am French and militant in the "Mouvement
de Liberation de la Femme" [Women’s Lib]. As far as my
establishment in time is concerned, I’m twenty-three years old.
I think that female sexuality is too hidden by taboos and
inhibitions, that is why I don’t hesitate to express some of my
so-called fantasies. (In spite of my poor English, your curiosity of
searching in that area excites me, I must admit.)
My first sexual experiences were the reflection of my
submission to the patriarchal ideology, so I will not speak about
that. My last relations with guys were more in connection with
my subjectivity. What was significant for me was the overcoming
of the stereotype "occidental basic position." I find my pleasure
by climbing on top of the guy. I stick his penis in my cunt and I
ride him like a horse. Then I squeeze my thighs (his penis is still
inside me). His legs are spread – I have the feeling that I am a
boy making a passive girl, the feeling that I have literally a
phallus that is penetrating a cunt. That is a kind of revenge that I
take after years of docileness. When I reach the orgasm, I feel my
penis which ejaculates.
Through my love affairs with guys, I become to be conscious
of my strong desires for other girls. Before I had re= ally had sex
with a girl (in Paris) I used to play some underneath
"perversions." I’ll summarize one: I lived in a fiat in town; on the
other side of the courtyard I noticed a middle-aged woman
(housewife type) who was often leaning out of her window. One
day, for some reason (!), I had the idea to walk nude in my room
with the blind half down. She could not see my face. So she had
the feeling’ that. I could not see hers (no guilt). In fact, I was
looking’. at her thanks to a subterfuge of mirror. I pretended to
wash myself. She was extremely into her peeping trip. I began, to
masturbate my clitoris with my finger while I was half cleaning
myself. The more her attention seems to increase, the more I was
caressing myself till I came.
Some months after that I had a love affair with a girl. We like
the sixty-nine position, but we sometimes did unusual things
(sort of in connection with my former fantasies). We decided to
look at one another masturbating. We both sat in an armchair (we
were half-dressed in order to make it more obscene). We looked
at the movements of our fingers rubbing our clitorises – terribly
exciting. We did not touch one another at all. The pleasure of one
worked on the other and vice versa.
I could write more, but the fact that I don’t know you really
limits my pleasure in writing. Although it is a kind of trip to send
some intimate sensations to an unknown girl (that I could
eventually seduce? Who knows.).
Je m’aventure a te donner un baiser, ma douce inconnue.
I have a permanent girl friend with whom I still sl**p on
occasion. I got married with her agreement and on the
understanding that I give her detailed accounts of all that
transpired when my husband did anything. Which I do in very
complete detail.
Both Mary and I were virgins, as we only used our fingers
vaginally with a homemade dildo which had a tube through it
and a bulb on one end so that we could squeeze hand cream or
something similar when used up our bums…which we both
found very exciting. Apart from watching men masturbate and
teasing them, neither of us was really interested in men, and I
was still a virgin on my honeymoon, which Mary proved with her
finger on the wedding eve. I was wondering what would happen
on the first night, as I had agreed with Mary that I would stay a
virgin but didn’t think it would be possible. In our bedroom on
that first night I waited until Fred went to the bathroom, then I
quickly got into my nightie and into bed.
(We had twin beds and still always have.) He came back and
undressed and walked to my bedside naked (I hadn’t seen him
naked before nor felt his prick outside his trousers), and I judged
his prick to be about 5 inches long and it was slightly bent. He
pulled the bedclothes off of me and held his prick and started
rubbing it as he pulled my nightie off my shoulders, exposing my
tits, which are well developed and firm with prominent teats
when roused. By now he was stiff – about 6 inches long and he
just looked at me.
Then he said, "I’m going to christen you," and he knelt over
my shoulders.
He kept on rubbing, with his balls swinging and touching my
nipples, and suddenly he started rubbing faster and breathing ard
and his spunk went all over my face and mouth. He’ got off, put
the light out, and got in his bed.
After that night he always tossed off like that, either on my
face or my tits or cunt, and left me to satisfy myself. Often at
night when he thought I was asl**p I watched him rub off,
hearing those little squeezing noises as he rubbed his wet prick
dry on my nightie. It was then I acted my fantasy as I lay in bed. I
pulled my nipples and fingered my cunt with my legs wide open,
imagining a big dog was coming at me and watching him lick his
prick and then my cunt until I was somehow compelled to open
my legs wide, raised up, as he fucked me hard, stimulated by
suitable action with my finger.
I was able to produce a wonderful thrill as I imagined the dog,
who was always with a man who carried a whip in case I
I actually bought a long, low stool, such as I imagined lying on
in my dreams, and in the days when I was alone would strip
naked and lie on this with a dog whip by me, legs wide apart,
dreaming my fantasy as often as I wanted. I was able to place the
stool in such a position that the man in the house opposite would
– and often did – watch me from his bedroom window while I
would watch him in a carefully placed mirror.
One day Mary came in and caught me and made me confess
everything, and later on helped me make my fantasy a fact. We
had several times watched dogs and found it very exciting when
they couldn’t pull out of the bitch for a few minutes afterward. A
new neighbor moved in and his wife had a lovely Alsatian dog,
and one day when I was with Mary he came into our garden.
Mary called him in and right away he put his nose to my cunt.
She made me fondle him and get his prick out, and I was quite
surprised how big and hard it was. She made me wash it and
then lie down and actually suck it, giving me a flick with the
whip to help. Finally, she made me lie on the stool with my legs
open, and rubbed my now very wet cunt with her fingers and
rubbed her hand over my nipples. She coaxed the dog astride me
and got him to lick my nipples and she rubbed his cock and got it
into my cunt. He knew what was required and obviously was
experienced. It went right up me and he thrust hard and fast until
I felt my cunt go wet as he squirted inside me.
This was the culmination of my fantasy, though I still dream it
very often. It’s lovely to be able to tell you – with Mary’s consent,
as you can see.
I confirm this. (Signed) Mary. [Letter]
 You already know, or can easily imagine, many of the most
popular themes and devices of sexual fantasy, leitmotifs as
familiar and beloved to the medium as the toad prince and the
moustached villain are to fairy tales and vaudeville (nor is the
comparison accidentally chosen). And although a woman will
cast and style her sexual imagery as individually as she would a
dinner party, she will probably – as I have found after collecting
over four hundred fantasies – select as her own one of the
archetypal dozen or so constantly recurring "stock" situations to
build upon; she then embellishes her chosen situation with the
subjective detail which makes it most alive to her, just as a
woman will use accessories to dress a basic dress up, or down, to
suit her desires of the moment. 
Many artists have painted the female nude, but each picture
speaks to different audiences and different emotions, and in
different ways. The theme is classic, or, if you like, "stock"; the
details are subjective, personal, and make `the difference.
Therefore, if I say there are sixteen principal themes (more or
less) which run through all sexual fantasy, I don’t mean this as
simplistic reduction. Knowing this does not mean one knows
"all" there is about fantasy, nor are these sixteen themes what
fantasy is "only" about. This is how I have structured the
material, letting the recognizable, the familiar, act as a frame for
the unique, startling, and exotic; it gives understandable content,
and hence meaning, to the most fascinating stuff of fantasy: the
emotion-packed detail.
Take, for instance, a standard fantasy situation: the masked
**** scene. What could be more predictable? What is new,
though, and what is different each time is the way each woman
will "dress" that scene – the setting, the lighting, the nuances of
action and dialogue. It’s almost as though she chose the obvious
cardboard fixtures as a kind of diversion or cover-up for the
incredible amount of sexual detail she is giving away about
herself in the actual fantasy. For instance, who do those masks
cover? Her stepfather? A priest? Her s****r? Nine black men?
Perhaps this is why so many women don’t remember more
than the vague bones of their fantasies, why they keep their
descriptions one level of abstraction removed from the
all-revealing detail. To recollect more, not just to me but even to
herself, would be too highly charged, too naked, too close to
acknowledging the extent and complexities of her sexual appetite
– an appetite women aren’t supposed to have (or there would be a
less pejorative name for it than nymphomania). Nine times out of
ten, therefore, when a woman tells her fantasy, it begins and ends
with something like, "I have these strange thoughts of being
humiliated"; that’s all, or that’s all she chooses to remember. (As
with recalling dreams in psychoanalysis, however, having
acknowledged this much, she will probably remember more the
next time if encouraged.)
And so for every rich, highly stylized, and imaginatively
plotted fantasy I’ve heard or read, there have been a dozen
concise repeats of the obvious favorites, the Big Sixteen. (For a
psychoanalyst’s interpretation of these themes, read the afterword
by Dr. Martin Shepard.) They are the old tried-and-true darlings
that never really do grow old, or wear out; and no male house of
prostitution should fail to take account of them, giving each
female client at least a starting chance of getting what she’s paid
for. As Genet’s characters in his play The Balcony come to the
female bordello to live out their sexual dreams, so should women
in a true House of Fantasy be encouraged to do the same by an
understanding and sympathetic management.
In time, I think, women would go far beyond the obvious,
building new wings beyond the Domination Room, finding new
roles for the staff to play in addition to the Big Black Bully. But
for now, let no House of Fantasy call itself complete unless it has
rooms with the following signs above their doors. 
 Anonymity is fantasy’s best friend. It heightens romance
and adds drama; it increases pleasure and eliminates guilt,
fantasy’s enemy. Whether the concealing device be simply
night’s darkness or a sudden power failure in the fantasy
restaurant; whether the mask be an unfriendly r****t’s
handkerchief or the familiar hygienic face mask worn by the
doctor; whether the man fucks her from behind so that she cannot
see him, or is a visible total stranger…no matter how it’s
achieved, a woman will try for anonymity, even in passing, for its
known sure-fire power of release and lift.
With it she is Madame X, sexually free at last to do and be
done to; with no relationship beyond the purely physical one of
the moment, she is free for a one-night stand, free to play Sailors
Ashore, with all inhibitions thousands of miles away. The not
knowing – her not knowing who he is, and his not knowing who
she is – reduces them both to sex objects, reduces the relationship
to a purely physical one with no previous or promised
commitments. While there are none of the more tender emotions,
they are not what is wanted for the moment.
Anonymity frees a woman to take what she’s always wanted
sexually, taking it the way she’s always wanted it, with no one to
face; no known face, either, to account to afterward. As long as
no one will ever know, since the strangers by the law of fantasy
will never meet again, and while this is the first time with all its
sexual excitement, it is also the last, with all the urgency that
comes before farewell…why not try anything? 
 Linda is an old friend of mine, and in my mind she’s always
just come back from Paris. She is a syndicated fashion illustrator.
When you see drawings in your local newspaper of the latest
European collections, chances may well be that Linda did them.
She has been married twice and now lives in New York with a
man who is not her second husband. He has a certain amount of
money, and Linda herself makes a good salary. They live very
well and quarrel constantly, not always quietly. I sometimes
think their relationship is spiced by – if not based on – a certain
amount of antagonism, like so many couples whose highest
sexual moments follow their bitterest quarrels.
Linda is about thirty, small featured, blond – pretty in a kind of
old-fashioned movie star way (which by the time you .read this
will probably no longer be old fashioned). I’m not surprised by
her fantasy of "the hair store" (as she’s always called a beauty
salon). She was talking freely and imaginatively about sex before
it was fashionable to do so. 
Gerald doesn’t know this one. I can’t wait until he reads it…I
suppose that’s why I’m telling you. He thinks he’s such a stud
that there isn’t anything he hasn’t done, or wouldn’t do. But this
fantasy…well, he doesn’t even enter into it, does he? But I don’t
want to be unfair to the guy. He really is fantastic in bed. And
what kind of a man – except some nut, and even I don’t want that
– could give me this kind of thing? But that’s what fantasies are
for, right? For what you don’t get in life?
I’m at this hair store, a very posh number like Lizzy Arden’s
or one of the Revlon emporiums. Some fag with a very vulgar
idea of elegance has decorated it with chandeliers and fountains,
gold basins and shocking pink Barca-lounger reclining chairs
where you half lie while your hair’s drying and you’re having a
manicure or a facial. All these chairs are in a long row, with a
discreet distance between each, where green potted things grow,
giving all us ladies the feeling of privacy.
I’ve just had a facial, so I’ve got this mask on, and there are
cool cotton pads on my eyes. I can’t see a thing. Not that I could
see what’s going on anyway, because there’s a white silk curtain
that falls from the ceiling down to my waist, then on down to the
floor. No one can see me from the waist down. Neither can I. I
can’t see what’s on the other side of the curtain. But I know.
Over there, on the other side, is a young man – actually, lots of
them, a row of young, big, strapping types, half nude. They’re
wearing a kind of loin cloth, and their bodies glisten with sweat
as they go about their business. Their business is us ladies. They
are there to service us. But as posh as our set-up is on our side of
the curtain – with the chandeliers and fountains and privacy –
these guys are over there on their side of the curtain working like
galley slaves, one alongside the other, no nice lights, no pretty
music, just the crack-crack of the whip as the guy in charge
strides up and down making sure none of them misses a stroke –
so to speak.
My particular guy is dark, good-looking in a hard, impersonal
sort of way. After all, he can’t see me either; to him I’m just
another cunt. For all I know, he could be a fag…which doesn’t
lessen or heighten the enjoyment for me. But the important thing
is that this is his job, his employment. He is a service this swell
salon offers, like a masseur. He crouches there between my legs,
and with the greatest expertise in the world, he goes down on me.
That first moment is wildly exciting: I’m lying there, my legs in a
big V, waiting for him, and I can’t see him approach, I don’t
know he’s near, until his tongue, the tip of it, suddenly flicks me
with the most excruciating Zing!
So there he is, working away on me wonderfully, and me lying
over there on the other side of the curtain, my expression of bliss
concealed by my mask, the fountains and the Muzak playing
away. His head moves from side to side as he expertly, but
mechanically, builds and teases me, builds and teases…but
mostly builds. Now, generally, he gets nothing out of this himself
– except his pay. His little cock just dangles there, small as a
thumb between his legs as he squats and nibbles away
perfunctorily. But suddenly, with me, it’s different. I’m special.
The life he’s aroused in my cunt communicates to him, this
incredible sexuality I have…maybe it’s the pulse in my cunt that
he can feel beating. Haven’t you ever felt the pulse there? With
me it’s like drums when it starts…when I start.
But back to my mise en scène. Suddenly the mean old
whipmaster realizes that my guy has slowed down on the job. By
that, I mean that he’s giving it too much valuable time, that he’s
really into what he’s doing, giving the client more than is
required. He gives my guy a smart flick of the whip, but my boy
doesn’t even turn around. He’s groaning and pressed into my
cunt as though there’s no tomorrow, and his cock is enormous
now, his hand stroking it, bringing himself to climax as he brings
me closer. The whiprnaster gives him a terrible blow, but the guy
is lost to everything but me…we’re getting closer and closer,
together now, and I suddenly start praying that the ogre
whipmaster won’t drag him away just as we’re about to reach the
most glorious climax of our lives. The whipmaster grabs him by
the shoulder – my heart almost sinks – he can’t understand it.
He’s never seen one of these gorgeous flunkies behaving like
this, getting turned on by a client, by a client’s cunt! Then, just at
the crucial point, the whipmaster, dumbfounded, loses his
professional cool, our excitement communicates to him. Like
when the cynical stage manager hears little Judy Garland
audition "Over the Rainbow" and realizes a star is born.
"I’ve never seen this happen before!" the whip guy yells. "Why
this man is so delirious with pleasure he refuses to be paid!" (I
don’t know how he’s managed to communicate this, with his
mouth full.)
But that does it: The whipmaster is so whipped up himself, he
takes out his cock and works feverishly to our pitch, so that when
we come, he comes…and oh boy, it’s quite a day in the old hair
store! [Taped interview]
I am on an absolutely deserted beach, lying on my back, sound
asl**p. I am wearing only a bikini, the bottom part fastened on
each side with only a tiny bow, and the top fastened in front only
with a bow, too, between my enormous breasts, which are
already almost overwhelming the little bit of cloth that is the bra.
I breathe deeply and evenly, shifting positions lightly as I sl**p.
A man’s shadow falls across me; he stands looking down at me
as I sl**p. He’s very tanned and wears only swimming trunks. He
watches, and as he watches me sl**ping he gets excited. He
kneels beside me, very softly and gently so as not to awaken me,
and very carefully unties the bow at one of my hips, then reaches
over me to untie the other side. He lays the bikini back, exposing
me to his gaze.
For a moment he just sits there, taking me all in. I murmur in
my sl**p and shift position slightly, separating my thighs
somewhat, which angles my slit upwards. His erection grows
enormous; he slips out of his shorts and then kneels over me with
one knee on each side of my thighs. Although I don’t even open
my eyes, I glide one hand out to his penis and caress it gently,
and then glide it, to his surprise, right into my cunt. He then
fucks the bejesus out of me and I rock along with him. But I
never open my eyes, just murmur as if I were sl**ping and
enjoying a good dream. [Taped interview]
 Marie has the scrubbed good looks of the other young
women who live in the suburban area where she and her husband
moved following the birth of their second c***d. She told me that
she was a virgin when she and Phil married, that she’s been
tempted once or twice to continue one of the idle flirtations that
started up at the country club or at some neighbor’s party, but
that she was always scared off by the consequences. 
I don’t think I could look Phil in the eye if I ever really went to
bed with another man. I’d really like to be able to do it, because
I’ve had so little sex, and I feel so out of things, so
inexperienced…so dull. But I just haven’t got the nerve. I really
envy girls a few years younger than me who’ve been able to cash
in on all this sexual freedom. I even feel guilty about having this
fantasy, but I can’t keep it from popping into my mind every time
we do have sex now. It makes it so much more exciting, and I try
to tell myself I deserve it…just the fantasy, if not the reality. Who
knows? If it ever happened in reality, as it does in m y mind, I
just might go through with it. I even find myself thinking about it
if I’m standing around at someone’s party outdoors. I stand there
holding my gin and tonic, wishing he knew what was on my
mind, the man I’m talking to.
In my imagination I picture this garden party, very much like
one of the evenings that go on around here two and three times a
week during the summer. I practically landscape the setting in
my mind: the sloping lawns, the big trees, the rows of hedges, all
very nicely kept up. I can even hear the gardeners delicately
snipping away at the shrubs somewhere off in the night… not
that gardeners work at night, except in my fantasy. It is night,
because all the men are in black tie. I’m in a short dress, the only
really short dress I ever bought (my concession to the mini craze).
More important, I’m not wearing any stockings.
Not even panty hose, which is not at all like me. My dress is a
very pretty blue – like the real one was – and all the waiters are in
short red jackets. Is it normal to fantasize in color? Well, I do.
I’ve wandered off to a rather distant corner of the garden on
my own. That’s typical, as I love flowers and always investigate
every new garden I see. Suddenly I meet a man, another guest,
and we begin to discuss flowers and things. I don’t know him.
I’ve never seen him before. He’s probably someone’s husband;
most of the men at these parties generally are. In fact, I know in
my fantasy that he belongs to someone else…which both makes
it easier and more exciting.
He bends down to pick a flower for me. But he doesn’t get up;
I mean, he doesn’t stand up. He comes up under my dress. I
stand there, not protesting, just holding my drink and smiling
vaguely at the other distant guests, who can only see me from the
waist up because I’m standing behind this rather high hedge. I
think it’s a boxwood, or a yew. Anyway, it’s very thick and
sturdy, which is meaningful because it almost supports me as I
lean against it in the excitement that follows. You see, this man
has discovered that I’m not’ wearing any underwear, which so
surprises him (no woman where we live would think of going
without something) that he doesn’t waste any time: He presses
his mouth right up against me, sticks his tongue right up into me.
I practically fall into the hedge, I get so weak in the knees. There
might have been a minute there, when he first came up under my
dress, when I would have stepped away, but his mouth is too
much and now I pray for him to go on.
I look down around this point and see that he’s unzipped his
fly, and that he’s playing with himself and has an erection the
size of which I’ve never seen. I keep staring at his penis, which
grows as my own excitement grows. His mouth is like nothing
I’ve ever felt before, it’s like magic, it’s tender and demanding,
and his own hand on his cock, the veins are as strained as the
veins in his penis. My legs become so weak, it’s almost as if I’m
poised there on his mouth, that it’s holding me up, and I feel if I
take my eyes off his hand, his penis, that I’ll faint. Suddenly, as
I’m just about to climax, but not quite – just as I know I’m going
to, though – these little bubbles begin to appear at the tip of his
penis, bubbles, faster and faster, one after the other, and I begin
to worry he’ll finish before I do and .that he will stop.
And then, on top of everything, the other people begin calling
to us, I can even hear Phil’s voice calling to me to come in to
dinner. I don’t know what would be worse at this point…if they
were to find us or if he were to stop before I’d finished. For an
instant I hang there in space, totally dependent on this unknown
man; I couldn’t move if Phil were to walk straight toward me,
which he is just about to do. But then, thank goodness,
everything happens at once: Just as Phil is about to be close
enough to see the expression on my face, the entire garden party,
all the other people, turn as a body to follow our hostess in to
dinner, and at that moment, this man’s bubbles turn into the most
incredible jet, ejaculation, and I climax. I suppose I almost drown
the poor man. [Interview]
 We spend most of our fucking lives trying to be alone,
trying to improve the privacy of our fucking with sound-proofed
bedroom walls, No-Lite window blinds, and locked doors. We
race miles with our lovers to "get away from everyone," and if
sexual desire overcomes us at a crowded party or in a restaurant,
the first impulse is to get out of there and be alone before Act
That is reality, and with no moral judgment intended, it’s
probably just as well.
But fantasy goes in the opposite direction: more often than not
there are other people present. I’m not talking about orgy
fantasies. They exist too, but often the other people in fantasies
don’t join in, in fact their presence isn’t meant to imply even the
possibility of an orgy. A fantasizer will indeed go out of her way
to point out that the other people aren’t really watching her and
what she’s doing with the six baldheaded waiters. The audience
is simply there. Doing what? Perhaps lending their tacit approval
simply by their presence. ("It’s okay to fuck.") Or by adding a
touch of suspense with the implication that at any minute they
could turn, and see what’s going on: "My God, look at that,
Harry and Isobel are having it off and her husband’s in the next
room!" (Alternatively, the point of the audience’s surprise could
be that Harry and Isobel are not in the accepted missionary
position, or that they have a second man or a dog in the act,
whatever it is that makes the scene particularly exciting to the
fantasizer, and so particularly "loaded" when discovered by the
audience.) The possibility of being seen, watched, discovered,
can be more exciting than the actual presence of an audience.
Anyone who has ever fucked in the warm sunlight of a
(seemingly) secluded beach, or within earshot but out of sight of
others, must admit the added excitement which the imminence of
an audience brings to an already fine fuck…or she’s a liar.
But not all fantasy audiences are passive bystanders,
inoperative in the fantasy story line. Some creative women give
their fantasy audiences the active, participating role of a real
audience they have them applaud, Oh! and Ah!, and she, lucky
lady, becomes not only the Sarah Bernhardt of Fucking, but also
the Fellini of Fantasy, controlling both her own performance and
that of the audience, her critics, pacing the one against the other
so that her fantasy audience reinf***es her fantasy performance,
which in turn heightens the ebb and flow of her very real fucking.
Complicated? Read Caroline’s fantasy below, keeping in mind
the newspaper reports of what happened to some of the members
of the cast of Oh, Calcutta!: they became so dependent on the
excitement the audience brought to their performance in the
theater, they were unable to perform sexually without an audience
back home. 
 I met Caroline, a young actress, in London through, mutual
friends at a party. Right off, she seemed to me to lack that
narcissistic self-involvement that I had always thought of as the
curse and/or blessing necessary to achieve theatrical prominence.
Therefore, I was not surprised that I had never heard her name,
although she said she was currently playing in a hit in the West
Mostly we talked about Italy, and she told me briefly about the
village where she and a lover had spent six months "trying out
the idea of being married." They had decided against it. She was
enthusiastic to hear about my years in Rome, and my own ideas
on marriage.
A few nights later, I saw Caroline’s name on a theater poster
on Shaftesbury Avenue, and on impulse bought seats for that
night. Her role required her to spend the entire evening onstage
almost totally nude, and the first curtain fell on a protracted,
tumultuous scene in which she was required to have (just barely
simulated?) sexual intercourse on stage, front and center. The
audience loved it, and her. It made me curious about a girl who
was so reticent to speak about herself privately, but was so
uninhibited otherwise as to be able to perform this role on stage.
We went backstage afterward, and a group of us went on to
dinner, during which the subject of this book came up. She told
me she would like to contribute. Hers wasn’t a typical fantasy,
she said, but I might find it interesting. 
Ever since I had to do this love scene in the play you saw – it’s
been running now for six months – I’ve needed to feel that the
same audience is there when I’m making love at home or
anywhere else offstage. I suppose having to be, or at least to
appear to be, so excited on the stage every night in front of so
many people has really affected me. At first I tried to tell myself
that it was just another role…you have to act so many emotions
in the theater, and there’s all that "Method" business of feeling
yourself into the part …. But as I said, in the beginning I tried to
keep a little "distance" between the personal me, and me, the
actress, making love in front of all those people.
But I couldn’t. As I got more and more used to the role, more
comfortable in it, I found that instead of dreading the moment
when I had to begin, I was looking forward to it. My nipples
would become tight and erect. It was a surprisingly seductive
feeling, one I enjoyed. I began wearing tighter and tighter
blouses, filmier ones, more see-through, so that the audience
could see my excitement, could see the excitement I felt right
down – or up – to my nipples. I needed the audience’s excitement
for my own…a form of complicity was set up between them and
me, a sexual conspiracy which heightened my ability, or rather,
desire to play the part.
The silence, the tension in the theater during the scene
communicates itself through the house – from me to them, from
them to me – and at the end of the night’s performance, when
they clap and call me back for curtain call after curtain call, I feel
it’s not only the actress they’re applauding, but me, Caroline, the
woman, too. Acting often tends to split you off from yourself, and
you don’t know who you are. But in this role, the audience’s
applause – their approval – somehow reunites the actress in me
with the private self in me. Now when I make love privately, I
sometimes think, Oh, what’s the use… it’s all so dull and
unstimulating. And there’s this feeling of anxiety. It’s as if I’m
not sure I’m doing it well, you see, no matter what the man says.
Before this play, I didn’t need fantasies. Or that’s what I
would have told you six months ago. I realize now that
somewhere in the back of my mind I’d always had someone
watching while I made love: me. This split between the me who
is in the act, actually making love, and the me who is watching,
this split is healed by the audience taking over the role of watcher
and applauding me for my efforts. I can’t tell you the feeling of
satisfaction it gives me.
I remember the first time we did the love scene before an
audience. The rehearsals had naturally been private, and I had
been able to be professionally cool and clinical about it. But on
opening night I was very nervous and apprehensive, I imagine
because I was afraid that they would think I was not very good,
or wouldn’t give me their approval by becoming excited
themselves…that they would just think the scene odd, and me
very strange for being in it. But when they applauded …
Now I need an audience; without it, there’s just no excitement.
So even if I’m with the man I’m in love with, somehow in my
mind I twist his face around so that it’s the face of the actor I’m
in the play with. The funny thing is, I don’t even like the actor.
Maybe that makes it even more exciting for me, I don’t know. I
haven’t really figured this out. But I think it’s because behind
him, behind his back is the audience, and they’re applauding him
for making love to me and applauding me for responding to him
in such a loving way. And as my own excitement mounts and
mounts, the applause gets louder arid louder…[Taped interview]
As I am sure most women do, I have had the usual
exhibition-type fantasies. I especially enjoy the thought of being
watched by someone who is not aware that I know he is watching
me. Or I imagine that I am making love to someone, perhaps a
close friend of the f****y, and my husband comes in and watches
us, as prearranged between my husband and myself without the
knowledge of the other man. It would be equally intriguing to
walk in and catch my husband with another woman, also by
prearrangement. I don’t think about this with my husband; I only
think about it for excitement. [Letter]
Mary Jo
In the first sexual fantasy that I can remember, I thought of
myself undressing while a boy I liked watched me. That became
one of my most common fantasies when I was a teen-age girl.
I am twenty-five years old and have been happily married for
four years. My earliest memories of sexual sensation go back to
when I was about three years old. I remember after my parents
put me to bed that I would take my clothes off. I enjoyed being
nude. Then I would put them back on. That is all I can remember;
the exciting feelings of my own nude body.
My fantasies during masturbation are generally of my old boy
friends. I never had intercourse with any of them, but when I
masturbate I wonder what it would be like. Often, during the
fantasy, my husband watches. He doesn’t do anything, he simply
is there.
My fantasies during sex with my husband are quite different.
Mostly my thoughts are on what we are doing, although
sometimes mentally I take it out of the bedroom and imagine we
are on a quiet beach, quite nude, or lying in an open field with
green grass all around us. I often think of us skinny dipping on a
lonely beach. The idea of nudity, of the two of us being nude
outdoors, excites me.
I have no desire to tell my husband of my fantasies, of the
excitement it would give me for the two of us to be nude outside
the privacy of our bedroom. I think speaking them out loud
would definitely lessen their effectiveness. [Letter]
 Celeste is a pretty, very bright-faced, red-cheeked blonde in
her early thirties. She had been a legal secretary when she met
Charlie, and had liked the work, but gave it up without a qualm
when Charlie asked her to when they got married. They’ve been
married twelve years. Today they live in a comfortable suburban
home and have two c***dren. Celeste works for the League of
Women Voters and is an officer in the local PTA.
She describes their sex life as "very satisfactory." 
We still enjoy making love at unusual times, like when we’re
already late for a party, or an impromptu session on the living
room rug, the kitchen table, etc …. time we can steal while the
k**s are away at a Boy Scout meeting or football game. I’d say
we have sex most nights of the week, even when Charlie’s so
tired he just comes and falls asl**p while he’s still on top and
inside me.
But something different happened the other evening when
Charlie got home early and we thought we could steal some time
before the k**s got back. Suddenly we were interrupted – we
were in the living room – by the unexpected arrival of our
next-door neighbor. I just had time to pull my skirt down before
Charlie let him in. He only stayed five or ten minutes, but all the
time he was here, I knew something was up. I couldn’t help
noticing the way this guy kept fidgeting…and then I noticed this
big bulge in the front of his trousers while he was talking to me.
It was only after he’d left that I realized that in my haste I’d
forgot to put my tights back on; all during our talk, my short skirt
had ridden up, leaving me totally exposed to the man. For a few
minutes I was mortified, absolutely embarrassed. Then the shock
wore off and I was left with this odd feeling of excitement, which
is still with me when I think about it, although I consider our
neighbor about as exciting as a graham cracker.
I could hardly wait for us to get to bed that night. It was one of
the most exciting sessions that I’d ever had. But I couldn’t sl**p,
I really couldn’t, until I’d told Charlie what had got me so
aroused. I expected it would make him angry, just as I thought it
would make me angry, too. But the idea that another man had
been’ staring at the quim he had just enjoyed excited Charlie so
much, he put out his cigarette and got on top of me again. He
didn’t wait the usual time it takes him on those nights we do it
more than once. He wasn’t in me more than a few seconds before
he came again, almost like an explosion. It’s as though this idea
has given our sex lives a whole new dimension. Now when we’re
in bed together it’s almost become a necessity for us.
Instead of Charlie whispering things into my ear (that really
didn’t excite him, they were more or less routine words to him,
but he knew they excited me), I tell him of imaginary
experiences. For instance, that I’m on one of those stirrup tables
that gynecologists have, where they spread your legs and look
deep into you. But the table is in the middle of the ring, in
Madison Square Garden, and it’s mounted on a revolving
platform. Thousands of men have paid fifty or a hundred dollars
each for tickets, and the ushers are selling binoculars so they can
get a better view. I tell Charlie that the table is slowly turning
around and around, with the bright lights illuminating me, and
the men in the seats all around begin pushing forward, jumping
out of their seats, the whole giant mob wild with excitement to
see, thousands and thousands of men in a circle all around me, all
wild with excitement to see me better, to fuck me, to get deep
inside those wet, red lips they can see so plainly.
And all the time I’m lying on the table, I never move, except
once in a while I put my two hands down, and with my fingertips
just delicately open the lips so they can see the juices inside,
glistening inside me, and then all the men begin to cream and
some of them have unzipped themselves, and from under my
closed eyelids I can see hundreds, thousands of erections just
screaming to get inside me.
But all the time, I know that Charlie is waiting for me in a
dressing room off-stage where he has a warm bed, and where in
just a minute or two more, the uniformed ushers will wheel the
table in, and lock the door behind them as they go out. Charlie is
there, waiting for me, but it’s a strange Charlie, naked, standing
up, with a giant erection so big that the skin is stretched and I can
see the purple veins. What’s strange about him is that he doesn’t
speak to me, or smile at me. He’s wearing the same kind of
emotionless, unmoving, unmoved face that I had just been
wearing when I was outside on the platform with all the men
screaming around me. Charlie doesn’t even wait for me to get out
of the stirrups, but just pulls me to him without a word, standing
up, standing between the stirrups, and sometimes at this point I
imagine myself on a kind of operating table, the kind where they
strap you down at the wrists and ankles so you can’t fall off. And
I feel the tip of that enormous hard-on just touching the lips as he
pulls me onto him. He still doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word,
shows no pleasure, no excitement, but I can feel myself tighten,
my stomach muscles tighten as if anticipating some sexual blow,
some sexual assault…but it’s really my inside muscles, doubling
over on themselves, that intense, silent moment before orgasm
when your stomach and vaginal muscles almost feel as if you’re
having cramps, and it’s at that moment when instead of a blow, I
feel him penetrating me, impaling me on his body, that I finally
get free of the stirrups and wrap my legs around him as my
cramped muscles release…release and release again in an ecstasy
of pleasure all the greater because of the almost-pain of the
tightness they had felt a moment before. Release after release
after release. I sometimes finish this fantasy weeping. With just
the pleasure and happiness of it, you understand?
You always hear about men exhibiting themselves on trains or
on deserted beaches or somewhere. I wonder if other women have
this hidden exhibitionistic desire the way I do? [Interview]
THERE, f***e ME!"
 **** does for a woman’s sexual fantasy what the first
martini does for her in reality: both relieve her of responsibility
and guilt. By putting herself in the hands of her fantasy assailant
– by making him an assailant – she gets him to do what she
wants him to do, while seeming to be f***ed to do what he wants.
Both ways she wins, and all the while she’s blameless, at the
mercy of a f***e stronger than herself. The pain she may suffer,
the bruises and indignity, are the necessary price she pays for
getting the kind of guiltless pleasure she may be unable to face or
find in reality.
It’s worth repeating my conviction that fantasy need have
nothing to do with reality, in terms of suppressed
wish-fulfillment. Women like Julietta (coming up), whose
fantasy life is focused on the **** theme, invariably insist that
they have no real desire to be ****d, and would, in, fact, run a
mile from anyone who raised a finger against, them, and I believe
them. The message isn’t in the plot – the old hackneyed ****
story – but in the emotions that story releases. 
 "I believe I can love more than one man at a time. That’s not
a theory. I always do. That’s why I don’t want to get married, and
why I prefer my affairs with men who already are. They are in no
position to demand monogamy from me." That’s Julietta.
With strong views like these, it didn’t come as any surprise to
me when she told me during our conversations that she is a
strong believer in Women’s Lib. "But it would frighten my
mother to hear me say it," says Julietta. "I grew up on a little
farm, but I left as soon as I was old enough to travel by myself.
My mother stayed on the farm. That’s the difference between
women of her generation and me." 
It may sound freaky coming from me, but while I enjoy going
to bed with some guy I dig almost anytime, I especially like it if
there’s something in the air that lets me think I’m doing it
against my will. That I’m being f***ed by the man’s
overwhelming physical strength. Something like that. The
doctors call this kind of thing a **** fantasy, but that’s as far as I
want it to go. On the fantasy level, not the real thing. I don’t go
out by myself on dark nights, and if any horny stud threatened
me, even with a gun, I’d scream my head off. All this doesn’t
sound like me, but you might say that the person I am today is
totally at war with the girl my mother tried to make me. So
whatever there is left in me of the girl my mother preferred, that
girl wants to think that it’s not really her fault, that she’s being
f***ed into this sexual scene. That I’m really good little Julie.
So when I’m in bed with someone, I don’t mind if he wants
the lights on or if it’s daylight. I like the look of a man…all of
him. But when I get to a certain point, when I really become
excited, I close my eyes, or bury my face in the pillow, or fling
my arm or the pillow over my eyes. That way, while I can feel
everything, I can also be back there in the dark, having my own
thoughts. In fact, having something over my eyes gave me a
fantasy I really dig. I imagine that I’ve been brought to some
warehouse, or place like that, against my will. I’m stripped naked
and the only thing I’m allowed to wear is a black silk mask. This
is because whatever powerful person has brought me there does
not want the men – yes, always more than one in this fantasy –
for whom he has procured me, to know who I am. In this way,
though he’s brought me there against my will, he somehow
wants to protect me too. I never know who he is, and he himself
never fucks me. I just know that he’s somewhere in the
background, enjoying this feeling of power he has, not only over
me, but over the men, too. That’s because they’re so hot with
desire for me that they can barely control themselves. But he can
take me away from them whenever he wants to. In my mind I can
imagine the men, all big and powerfully built. They’re naked,
too, while they wait their turn with me. I think of them watching
each other as each of them performs, talking about various
techniques, and what they’re going to do when their turn comes
with me.
Meanwhile, the guy who is really with me, every time he tries
a different position, or a different idea, I pretend to myself that
it’s the next man in line. So it’s always exciting this way,
because I seemingly have an endless supply of men fucking
me…but .they never know who I am. Even if I met one of them
on the street the next day, or had lunch with him, he wouldn’t
But that’s all I think of, me naked on this rough bed with just
this little black mask on my face, and these five or six naked men
all waiting their turn to fuck me. That picture in my mind makes
me come every time. [Taped interview]
I am thirty years old, have two c***dren, and have been
married for nine and a half years.
I have a frequent sexual fantasy about being ****d, by one or
more men. These fantasies do not take place, however, while
having sex with my husband. They take place when I am alone,
and with time on my hands. I know it sounds weird or even
crazy, but at times I feel as if I want to actually act my fantasy
out, as if it were truly happening! I don’t know why this happens,
or why I should even feel this way.
At the age of s*******n I was almost ****d by a boy who was
my best friend’s boy friend. The act was never completed…he
was finally stopped by my crying. This all took place in his car,
while he was supposed to be taking me home from a party after
he’d had a quarrel with his girl friend. She left the party, and he
stayed and drank pretty heavily, as did the rest of us. He
volunteered to take me home, after my boy friend, who is now my
husband, called me at the party from his job and told me he had
to work late and couldn’t make it.
I remember wondering what my girl friend actually saw in the
boy, who was nothing but a rough, tough, and more or less
foulmouthed bully. He had always been nice to me, but treated
her like dirt. And yet she loved him, and took any kind of abuse
from him, including getting pregnant by him, and then losing the
baby by miscarriage in her fourth month.
Anyway, on the way home he pulled into a deserted spot in our
neighborbood. l immediately sensed what was about to happen
and I had mixed emotions about it. I thought to myself how
awfully exciting this was in one way, and then again I was truly
He immediately pulled me to him and wanted to kiss me, but I
automatically refused. I really wanted to, just to find out if it was
his a****l charm, so to speak, that my girl friend was in love
He told me to relax, and that he wouldn’t hurt me, and not to
be afraid. He then asked what I saw in my boy friend, and
whether he had really ever satisfied me sexually. I went to my
boy friend’s defense, of course, explaining that he was decent,
kind, and a gentle person, in contrast to this fellow. He laughed
and told me to cut out the "mushy stuff," in his exact words, and
to relax and let him show me how it should be. I let him kiss and
hold me, but when he started to explore me with his hands I
panicked, and started to struggle to make him stop. He became
angry and said he wasn’t going to stop. We struggled for what
seemed to be hours, and I was physically exhausted and by now
really terrified. He kept saying that he wouldn’t make me
pregnant, if that was my worry, and to just let it happen and
enjoy it. But I couldn’t, and then just as it seemed that nothing
would or could stop him, I started to cry uncontrollably. That did
something to him, because he finally stopped, let me go, and
started straightening my clothes, etc. He said he’d take me home
now, but that I’d better not make trouble and tell anyone at all. I
promised, of course.
When we got to my home, as I was getting out of the car, he
suddenly took my arm and told me that he was sorry, and
couldn’t I please forgive him, and he started to cry, actually cry. I
felt so strange then, actually sorry for him. I told him to forget it,
and that everything was okay, that I wasn’t angry or anything. He
left, after giving me a kiss on my forehead. And that was that.
Since then, we’ve always acted as if nothing had happened, have
remained not good friends, but friends nevertheless, as he finally
married my girl friend, the one who worshipped him so.
But he is still an a****l, as everyone knows. He beats her, is a
very heavy drinker, and is still foulmouthed.
My whole point in telling you this is that at times, even though
I know it’s wrong or crazy, I have fantasies that he is trying to
**** me – either in his car, my home, his home, or even in his
own gas station. I become awfully excited at these thoughts.
I also have fantasized that he and a couple of his rough tough
friends attack me. At times, however, it’s not him at all, but
anyone I happen to dream up.
I don’t know why I have these sexual fantasies. At other times
I envision **** scenes, and actually shudder and become
nauseated at the idea or thought. So, at times I enjoy my
fantasies, and at other times I become almost sick.
I hope all this has helped your work in some way. I know it
has helped me to finally get my experience off my chest to
someone at last, after all these years. [Letter]
Hi! I just read about your work and wanted to contribute. I am
twenty two years old, white, Latin, and a university student. And,
of course, female. That is, bisexual. Actually, I don’t fit any
categories. I have been a lesbian, also I thought you might want
background info. But to get on with the fantasy business. I have a
few really interesting ones. I fantasize not only when I
masturbate, but also when I am making love. (Then I feel a little
guilt, but it’s such fun.)
Fantasy 1: I walk into a d**gstore in a small Southern town. I
am a stranger. I am dressed outlandishly, like a whore. There are
several local men in the store and they all look at me with lust in
their eyes. I go to the counter and order a tube .of contraceptive
cream. The d**ggist gives it to me. I take it and try to leave, but
the men close the door and tell me I should "try it out" (the
cream). They **** me. They squeeze cream into my vagina and
anus. They make me go down on all fours and come in from
behind. At one point I have to get on top of a man and come
down on his penis while another is coming in through my anus
from behind and another is inside my mouth.
Fantasy 2: I am speeding on the New Jersey Turnpike. Two
policemen stop me. I tell them I will "do anything not to get a
ticket." They make me get in the back seat and spread my legs
very wide (one of them is in the front seat, the other in the back
seat). While one of them drives, the other one has me. They take
turns. And then they meet a friend and he gets in on it too.
Fantasy 3: I am in a woman’s prison. I tried to escape or lead
a demonstration or something i*****l like that. The warden is a
big black woman. While two women guards hold me, she pulls
up my skirt and pulls down my panties and spanks me with a
ruler. Then she takes out a dildo and fucks me with it very
roughly. When I get excited, she laughs. Then she tells the
guards to hold me down on her desk. She looks over my cunt and
says, "Mmm mmm, this is some nice pussy," and then she licks
my cunt and sucks it till I come.
Fantasy 4: I am at a convention. I am the only woman there. I
have no choice: I bend over a chair and all the men are in line to
fuck me. I act very nonchalant.
I could go on…. [Letter]
I have always fantasized during intercourse and masturbation.
I am being ****d by one man or a group of men, while many of
them watch the others "abuse" me. My attackers are always very
handsome – dark hair, muscular, sexually well endowed – and
brutal, in that they take what they want and the hell with what I
want…or pretend I want. (I’m after what they are, really.)
My husband is very curious about my fantasies, will
occasionally enter into them, but puts them and me down as
c***dish and immature. He doesn’t know what he’s missing, in
my opinion.
Other fantasies of mine include a fraternity initiation where I
am tied to the bed hand and foot and all the b*****rs take their
pleasure with me while the initiates. watch. Then the new ones
take their turn with me. There is always a certain "officer" in the
fraternity’s organization whose sole purpose is to arouse the girl
chosen so that she can’t help enjoying herself – although she’s
protesting. Or. I fantasize that I am a "bottomless" waitress; every
time I bend to serve a customer, someone attacks me from the,
rear. As waiting on tables is my sole means of support, I’ have no
choice. Even if I do one of those "Bunny Dips" (that the Playboy
Bunnies do so that they don’t have to bend over), I will then be
assaulted from the customer in front of me, who simply pulls me
forward onto his lap, onto his prick, which is erect and exposed.
I know that they say that women aren’t turned on by visual
stimuli; I think it’s untrue. It’s another unexplored area where
women are silent or ashamed. I am very aroused by hard-core
pornography. If I see a picture, for example, of a black man and a
white woman, I’m ready for sex almost immediately.
Incidentally, I am twenty-four, have a B.A., M.A., am white,
Catholic, married six years and no c***dren. [Letter]
 Women are always being tied up or down in fantasy. They
use "f***e" words liberally, almost involuntarily – "He made me
do this …" "I then had to …" – in describing their fantasies, even
when the fantasy has nothing to do with **** or pain. We are
made to understand that even in her fantasy the fantasist doesn’t
have control over what’s happening to her – unless, of course,
control is what she is after, as in some of Barbara’s fantasies
But even when the f***e is intended, there is a clear distinction
as to whether what is going on is indeed ****, or a
pain-for-pain’s-sake number. I would hope that whoever is in
charge of the Masochist Wing of our House of Fantasy – he of the
mask and heavy hand – would be familiar with the subtleties of
his specialty. He must have separate rooms: the first, for the ****
fantasists; the second, for the masochists. Otherwise, the "Ouch!"
cries from the latter would disturb or distract the ****es, who are
more intent on being f***ed than on feeling pain. For them, any
pain felt is merely the cost of fulfilling their desire, a means to
their end. For the other women like Sylvia (below), the desire is
for pain itself and the pain is everything. Carried to its extreme,
as in Amanda’s fantasy, this desire for pain becomes genuinely
disturbing and shows to what ends – imagined though they may
be – a woman will go to feel something at last, to feel at least
 We have not yet come to the difficult question of people
who want to turn their fantasies into real life actualities, but
while we are in this room, I think we can appropriately say that
Barbara’s fantasy of being spanked or caned is the type my
contributors most often feel driven to experiment with. This may
sound contradictory, since many of them go on to say that they in
fact hate real pain.
But as Barbara says, I think the explanation lies in the fact she
feels she can make a bargain with the spanker about just how
many strokes she will receive, and how hard – and that if the
sexual experience should turn out to be more painful in fact than
titillating in imagination, the proceedings can be called off at a
I am not a lesbian, and I preface my letter with this comment
because it may be thought that I am one when you hear about my
fantasies. My particular fantasy concerns punishment with the
cane, and by talking about it once, I was introduced to a woman
who looked normal outwardly, but within a few minutes at her
home, when I first went there, I realized that she wanted to whip
me before having her usual larks in her kind of sex. I made the
bargain with her that the only instrument to which I would
subject myself was the school cane – not a garden cane or
something about an inch thick. I cannot tell you why, but my
fantasy has always been that I like to imagine myself as a
naughty girl of about s*******n, hauled up in front of the
headmistress for a caning, and that I am wearing the
old-fashioned type of gym tunic and Directoire knickers down to
my knees. From this stage I like to be told to bend over, after a
lecturing, and then get caned with my gym tunic raised, the cane
corning on my knickers. Therefore I told my lesbian friend just
how far she could go, and the date and scene were agreed upon.
Naturally I found that the whipping I got with the cane wasn’t
half so thrilling as the fantasy, and while I had no heart in
masturbation with the lesbian woman, it came easily after the
Since then I’ve found a young man – much younger than I am
by the way – who enjoys playing these caning games with me,
and in addition allows me to flog him with the cane, on his
bottom. When our bottoms are red and smarting, but not horribly
marked with a real thrashing, we get down to sex. All my
fantasies are concerned with various methods of being caned, and
various methods of me giving the cane to someone else. For
instance, I would like to be tied hand and foot, and then given
twelve strokes of the birch, but if this happened, I would probably
faint with the awful pain. Another of my ideas is to be
strapped down on a wide seat of a swing, secured to the ceiling.
As the swing comes backwards, my bottom would make a fine
target for the person caning me. Another idea is that I would like
to be strapped down over a flogging bench, just in knickers and
bra, and the flogging bench would have handles in front which I
would grip with my hands. As I pressed these bars down, by
leverage there would be a rubber penis at the other end, and this
would come right into me between my legs. I imagine myself
being caned in this way, and enjoying masturbation via the
rubber penis once the caning got going.
Yet another fantasy is that I would like a man to get on top of
me, both of us naked, then gently lower himself until his
enormous erect penis was resting in between my breasts. I would
like to watch it as he moves up and down, then when it is getting
near his time I would like him to lower himself and push it into
me in the right place.
I must tell you that whenever I have sex with a man, all the
time I am pretending to myself that I am wearing long knickers,
bending over in the headmistress’ study, and getting soundly
caned on my bottom. I can only think of two possible causes of
my fantasies. The first happened when I was about six or seven. I
had an elder s****r who was then about f******n, and for probably
a series of misdemeanors, my stepmother said she would cane
her. My s****r was ordered out of her frock, in front of me, and
then stepmother pushed her over the settee arm. My s****r Jean
was wearing the usual school Directoire knickers at the time,
much longer than those worn today, of course, and with her
bottom in the air and her feet off the ground, the knickers
tightened around her buttocks.
Stepmother then started to smack my s****r’s bottom with the
cane, and I don’t suppose it was a terrible thrashing. But ‘it was
stinging enough to make Jean yell out at every stroke of the cane.
The second incident happened when I was fifteen, and getting to
know a few things about sex. There was a boy next door aged
about s*******n, and I used to get him to help me with my school
homework. We used to cuddle and kiss. One night he said that I
was so bad at math that what I needed was a good spanking, and
then he pushed my face downward across his lap. After making a
pretend resistance and wriggling, I had my gym frock well above
my waist; I knew he could see my knickers from waist to leg.
Moreover, I also knew that this had given him an erection, which
I could feel. So he spanked me, good and hard, but I still enjoyed
it. After that, almost each night I went to see him it ended up in
me first getting spanked, and then he turned me round in the
armchair and got on top of me, and we both masturbated. Later, I
asked him . what it was like at his school when naughty boys got
the cane. It was a loaded question, and it brought the answer I
wanted. He said he would give me a demonstration, and when he
told me that "tonight was the night," before going in to see him I
put on some very thrilling white knickers, long in the leg, and
with fancy pink lace at the leg ends. His parents were out, and
having the place to ourselves we lost no time in the caning demonstration.
He showed me how to bend over the end of the settee
with my arms stretched forward, and in that position I felt my
knickers tighten up round my legs and thighs. I’d slipped out of
my short frock beforehand, and we’d kissed and hugged, so that
already he had a big erection. Then for the first time I got the
cane on my knickers. He gave me four terrific swipes, and they
certainly made me wince and yell. When he’d finished, I took
hold of the cane and told him that it was his turn for punishment.
I found that I was terribly thrilled on seeing his trousers tight
round his bottom as he bent over, and I gave him a severe caning,
enjoying the feel of the cane in my hands.
Another of my fantasies is when I imagine I am secretary to
the headmistress of some school for girls between the ages of
fifteen and nineteen. One of my jobs, being a big strong girl, is to
cane girls who have been sentenced to be caned by the
headmistress. Two or three nights in the week I imagine I have
about six girls waiting outside my office in a queue for the cane,
and one by one they enter at my command, strip off their gym
tunics, and are then ordered to bend over the whipping block,
where they get the number of strokes of the cane ordered by the
headmistress. Then I change the fantasy and imagine that I am
one of the senior girls, aged about eighteen, caught smoking and
sentenced to twelve strokes of the cane. We stand outside the
door of the secretary’s room and listen to the sounds of the caning
going on inside. Then it is my turn. I go in, get out of my gym
tunic, and stand there feeling tense in my tight knickers. The
secretary points to the flogging block, says Bend over, girl, and I
get across it, ready for my thrashing with the cane on my
knickers. While I am pretending that I am getting caned, I
I’ve read many stories of how women used to be punished in
the old days, and many of these appeal to me in my fantasies.
There is a lovely tale of a rich man, in the 1880’s, who employed
a governess for his large f****y of eight daughters and six sons.
Frequently the c***dren were caned, and at all such canings the
master was present while the governess administered the
punishment. The boys had to drop their trousers before being
lashed down across a bench, and the girls had to remove outer
clothing, the caning being given on their frilly long white
drawers. I picture myself as the governess, first because I would
enjoy giving the cane, and secondly because I fancy that after all
this corporal punishment I could go to bed with the master of the
house, who was widowed.
In another book of stories about the Midwest in the early days,
there is a story of how girls found guilty in the courts were
publicly punished. They were taken to the front of the courthouse
in the one main street, and there had their wrists fastened above
their heads to a whipping block, so that in their underwear, and
bending forward, they were unable to move. The number of
whacks with the cane varied according to their crimes, but after
the sentence had been passed, the girl was left there so that
passersby could pick up a cane and give her another whipping.
The culprit was released after three hours.
What happened, of course, was that whenever there was a
public caning of a nice young woman, practically the whole
population was present, and when it was over, most of the men
had erections and were ready to take their own females back to
the bedrooms. Then again, in the Middle Ages, and even in later
years, there were some priests who used the cane as punishment
for young girls after confessions. The girl was made to undress
and lie over the priest’s table, where he caned her bottom,
afterward getting into bed with her, so that many young girls who
fancied their particular priest simply went and lied in the
confession, knowing what it would lead to. [Letter]
Several years ago my parents became members of a certain
religious denomination, and I began to receive religious
instruction in preparation for my own acceptance. At first I was
very happy about this, until a friend told me something about the
man giving me this instruction.
I know you will think I must have been stupid, because at
twentythree years of age I saw nothing wrong in anything that
had happened and I really thought it was all part of the
instruction, even though I felt that he touched me a lot. In the end
he began to undress me altogether, although I want to say that
nothing else then happened except that he handled me all over
and did things to hurt my body, especially my busts.
The disgusting thing was that although I then knew it was
very wrong, I did nothing to stop him. I even longed for him to do
it to me, even though he sometimes hurt me dreadfully.
Afterward I used to feel very ashamed, and eventually I told my
parents what had happened. Although they, too, were disgusted,
they asked me not to make a complaint in order not to upset their
own position in the church.
In the end, and as a direct result of all this, I left home.
Although at the time I was very unhappy about this, it seems now
to have been for the best. My husband, who is a Methodist
minister, is the kindest man and most sympathetic. I have no
complaints, except that at the times when my husband is being
very attentive to me, my thoughts return to this man and what he
did to me all those times. I know this is perfectly dreadful, but it
happens every time. [Letter]
Rose Ann
My husband has tried to get me to tell him about my sexual
fantasies, but so far I have told him that I have none. It’s almost
as though he knew there was something or someone, in addition
to himself, that was exciting me…perhaps because of the cries and
noises I make while he is making love to me. They are not just cries
of pleasure, there are also the cries of pain that I feel in my
fantasies. In fact, I wouldn’t know where to draw the line between
the two.
My fantasies occur whenever I am beginning to feel any real
sexual arousal, and real pleasure. They don’t distract from the
pleasure, but on the contrary, enhance it. I am sure it is very hard
for anyone to understand this, and how can I possibly tell my
husband, whom I love, that I am dreaming that the most
atrocious things are being done to my body while he is being so
loving to me?
These fantasies or dreams usually begin with my body being
stretched, one brutal man on each limb, pulling me in opposite
directions, literally spreading me wide open so that some
immensely huge penis – there is no one or nothing on the end of
it – begins to enter me, stretching me, ripping me, my vagina,
wide open as it pushes its way deeper into me. The men twist my
arms painfully as well as pull them, and I can hear my bones
breaking and cracking, while the sound of my skin, around my
vagina, also rips audibly. I cry out in reality even as I cry out in
my fantasy. But I love it, even though my intelligence and logic
tell me that I am being ghoulish, that this is not a normal way to
enjoy sex. And I do enjoy it. I hate what is happening to me in
my fantasies, but it is inextricably involved with my very real
pleasure. [Letter]
I read your interesting letter and thought that I would like to
write to you about my own experiences, which I hope are of
assistance to you in your book. I am thirty-six years old, married
with two c***dren, and often indulge in fantasies, even during the
day, as a relief from the pure boredom of my life.
I do not remember when I first started fantasizing, but when I
was very young I used to lie stretched out on my; bed and dream
that I was a princess who had been captured and who was
waiting to be tortured, and this made me feel pleasurably
aroused. Later, as I became more sophisticated and my thoughts
developed, I imagined myself being racked, impaled, flogged,
branded, and every other thing that you can think of, ending with
vigorous and orgasmic masturbation. I masturbated frequently
and, for that matter, still do, because, although my husband is the
kindest man, he is the world’s worst lover.
As a girl I longed to be subjected to the most outrageous forms
of abuse, and could embroider little incidents to enormous
fantasies of atrocities. Toward the end of school we underwent
the usual examination, and in. truth the doctor barely looked at
me, although I hoped, and dreaded, that he would find it
necessary to carry out some dreadful form of surgical mutilation.
For years afterward in my dreams I imagined myself being
prepared by male nurses and then voluntarily submitting myself
to the most atrocious vivisection, scornfully refusing anesthetics
and bravely absolving my tormentors from any guilt in my slow,
lingering death (in the name of science, of course).
From all this you will think that I am masochistic, but the truth
of the matter is that I am not and I just cannot stand pain. My
parents never punished me and once, after stealing some money, I
was threatened with the strap and this sent me into howling
hysterics. In fact, you can say that I was overindulged in every
way possible, and, to a degree, this has continued right up to my
present circumstances.
About two years ago a friend described to me, in some detail,
the lewd suggestions made to her by a man who had pierced her
ears. Despite her warning, I visited him in the hope that he would
make them to me, but, arriving at the door, I lost confidence and
would have fled if he had not come up the garden path behind
I think my friend’s account had been grossly elaborated,
because when I warmed to the true purpose of my trip, he nearly
had a fit when I insisted upon removing my dress and slip.
Eventually, and not at all at his suggestion, I ended up stripped to
my shoes, stockings, and garter belt, and submitted to a few
half-hearted fumblings and gropings before going home with my
ears pierced lopsidedly and decidedly sore.
Despite the shabbiness of the incident, in my dreams I regally
and serenely present myself in front of a huge audience for the
ritual piercing of my nipples with hot needles, after which huge
rings are inserted. More recently this has expanded, so that in
taking a simple bath I am being prepared for an elaborate ritual
of circumcision, ceremonial ****, and final sacrifice (by
disemboweling) to some awesome god. This is my latest and
most protracted fantasy, and one which drives me to distraction
whenever I indulge in it.
I hope that what I have written is of interest to you and I do
assure you that every word is true. [Letter]
 I’d put this room next to **** and Masochism. Not for the
convenience of the clients – a woman is faithful to her favorites,
and there’d be very little running about from room to room – but
for the economy of the management: the costumes and props are
interchangeable among the three. There, however, the sharing
stops; f***e may be applied in all three rooms simultaneously –
but to different degrees and in different directions, and the precise
emotions being aroused and released will differ dramatically. Or
"deliciously," as the clients themselves might say.
Whatever their reasons for wanting it, the domination
fantasists long to feel low. They relish being debased and;
reduced by whatever means to a state of abject humiliation. How
they get down there doesn’t matter: Poppy (below) doesn’t even
bother to say how she is "made" to perform her humiliating tasks;
Nathalie may get spanked into submission, but spanking is such
an obvious c***dhood symbol of domination that we don’t need
Nathalie to tell us that it isn’t the spanking itself that turns her
on. It’s the state to which that humiliating act reduces her that
matters. And the more exactly specified those depths can be, the
better. Heather doesn’t just long to be knocked off the pristine
pedestal her lover has put her on, she wants to be fiat on her ass,
in the lowest, most purely sexual, position; Nathalie doesn’t stop
at yearning to be reduced to that bane of proud and liberated
women, an object – she wants it all the way, to be a thoroughly,
exclusively sexual object at that.
As women move more strongly into their recently won sexual
freedom, and leave their historic role of second (and "silent") sex
behind, I predict that they will, ironically, get into domination
fantasies more and ,more. But the move will be in two different
directions. First, the new reality of being man’s equal makes
them u*********sly nervous about their identity as women, and
so throws them back into longing for the traditional, safe, and
"known" role vis-à-vis the dominating man; but second, they will
want to explore, and signal even to themselves, their new
liberated age by putting themselves into the dominant position of
the sexual brute. Whether as brute or brutalized, in fantasy at
least the centuries of female submission are about to be avenged.
But what it all comes back to in the end is that if you’re into
the sadomasochistic thing it really doesn’t matter, of course,
which end of the stick (or whip!) you’re on; turnabout can be
lovely play, and as long as somebody is being debased, and
you’re in on it, it’s great. 
You are so right that one tends to feel one’s sexual fantasies
are too "odd" to admit to or discuss. I have never "card another
woman mention the topic, although I’m sure we all have some
fantasy or another. I have finally been able to mention my two
fantasies to my current !over, amidst much "fear and trembling"
and aided by the effects of several martinis. The feeling of relief I
have from just getting this out into the open has made me feel
free enough to broach the subject to several of my closest women
friends, who agree that we all have weird notions, but who are
too reticent to share theirs with me!
I don’t know if you want background or not – I’m assuming
you do. I’m twenty-nine years old, swinging and single. I
consider myself to be liberal and liberated sexually. I’ve had
more than twenty semiserious affairs since I was relieved of my
virginity seven years ago. I adore sex and will try anything to
enhance my lover’s pleasure. I masturbate regularly, and climax
within minutes, especially if I fantasize, although I don’t need to.
I’ve always loved the whole sex thing, from the first touch to the
last kiss, even though I never climaxed with a man until about
three years ago.
I enjoy being sexually aggressive at times, and at times I crave
to be dominated. I think about sex a lot and can get turned on
easily by erotic reading material.
Now, for my fantasies, neither of which has been fulfilled –
yet. The thought that my lover is now aware of them and is
planning our next encounter around them is driving me wild.
My first fantasy is that of being spanked: I have always
provoked the spanking, it’s never unjustified. My innate female
bitchiness causes my lover to say very quietly, "All right, that’s
enough!" I say, "Don’t order me around." He says, "You’re
asking for a good spanking." I say, "I’d like to see you try it," in a
very taunting manner.
At which point, he grabs me, grasps both hands firmly behind
my back, pulls down my panties, turns me over on his knee, and
traps my kicking legs between his. I am embarrassed and scared.
He usually uses his hand, spanking me maybe two dozen times,
very hard. Sometimes I fantasize that he uses a hairbrush or ruler.
Usually his hand, though. I am sobbing and enraged. The rage
turns to humiliation, which turns to submission. At the end he
f***es me back on the bed and enters me, not roughly, but
without foreplay either. Or sometimes I like to think of myself
staying at the enraged part throughout the spanking. He pushes
me back on the bed, hovers over me, and shoves his erect penis
into my mouth, ordering me to suck it. I refuse and bite him,
which brings on another, still more painful spanking, at which
point I am eager to do whatever, he asks. I’ve never fantasized
being brutalized; I don’t, think I’d care for whippings (although
excerpts from The Pearl or The Story of O stimulate me
tremendously). As a rule I hate pain, except when approaching a
climax, when I find pleasure in being bitten on my inner thighs
hard enough to bruise the skin. But this spanking fantasy has
been with me for years and years. The thought of being spanked
used to arouse sexual feelings at the age of six or seven, even
though I didn’t recognize them, and, of course, I didn’t know
about intercourse or fellatio at that age. If it matters, I have never
in my conscious memory been spanked by either of my parents.
My second fantasy is as follows. Screaming and scratching
and struggling, I am tied or strapped on my back to my bed. I am
spreadeagled, and my arms and legs are f***ed just past the point
of being comfortable. He has f***ed a pillow under my hips, and
of course I am naked. The pillow has the effect of raising and
exposing my vulva, and I can move only an inch or two up and
down or from side to side. I am extremely panicky. I am pleading
and begging and crying. He is never angry; he responds to me at
all times as if I were an object, very matter of factly. He is fully
clothed as he moves around checking the ropes to be sure they’re
ME: Please let me go.
HIM: Not yet.
ME: If you let me go, I’ll suck you dry.
HIM: You’ll do that anyway, honey, in a minute or two.
ME: If you don’t let me go, you bastard, I swear I’ll never let
you in my mouth again.
HIM: Yes you will, love.
ME: But I don’t want to be like this!
HIM: It really doesn’t matter what you want right now, honey.
ME: (Assorted obscenities, mixed with sobs and twisting at
the ropes)
HIM: That’s enough. (All the time he’s very cool and calm.)
ME: My legs hurt, my arms ache, my crotch is splitting.
HIM: A little pain is good for you.
ME: (More obscenities)
HIM: Honey, stop that.
ME: (More obscenities)
He reaches out and pinches the inside of both my thighs, very
HIM: You will be quiet now, darling, please.
ME: Yes. (Crying more from pain and rage)
He then leaves the room for what seems like hours, because of
the strain on my arms and legs. When he returns he is nude and
he has an enormous erection, which makes me whimper in
anticipated pain. He doesn’t touch me. He kneels at the foot of
the bed, gazing at my exposed vulnerable pubic area. I am utterly
mortified, because I have no control now. I can’t shield myself or
put my legs together or roll over. My whole crotch is so exposed
and open to his eyes and mouth and/or penis. I’m totally at his
mercy. I keep saying, "What are you going to do to me?" and he
just sits there. Then the fantasy takes one of several courses.
Sometimes he loves me all over with his mouth, until I beg him
to enter me. Sometimes he enters me without foreplay and
seemingly just takes me as if I’m nothing. Sometimes he enters
my mouth, from above, which I hate because of the control he has
and the gagging depth he can achieve. (In real life, I love
performing fellatio, but only when I’m above him, so I can keep
it shallow.) Whatever he does, the fantasy ends with him
releasing me and hugging me and massaging my sore muscles
and my sobbing with relief and thanking him – not for letting me
go, but for tying me up!
This second fantasy is extremely fascinating to me, although
both ideas really turn me on. I’ve just recently added this one to
my repertoire, but it isn’t quite as powerful as the other. It goes as
follows: I manage to tie him to the bed, spread-eagled exactly as I
was. This is done by some sort of "innocent" playfulness, like,
"Honey, show me how to tie that knot. Oh, I see. Let me try …"
and so on. When he realizes he’s been tricked, he reacts with
rage and fear, much as I did in my second fantasy. As a matter of
fact, we pretty much change roles – he’s helpless and scared,
while I’m cool and matter of fact. He doesn’t cry, of course, but
he feels, if anything, more vulnerable, exposed, and helpless than
I did, because of his absolute inability to protect his genitals.
Usually in this fantasy I just start out kissing him ever so gently,
all over, gradually working down to his pelvis, and then up inside
his thighs, just tantalizing him. I avoid all contact with, his penis
or testicles, but just keep on caressing and licking, etc., until he
begs me to touch his genitals. But I delay until he’s really in a
frenzy before doing so, and even then I hardly touch himI just
keep up the teasing, tantalizing, etc., until he can’t take it any
more. Then I either suck him till he comes in my mouth or I have
him climax in my vagina. Occasionally, during the. tantalizing,
nongenital phase, when he seems to relax and give himself up to
me, I put a little fear back into him by giving him a painful nip or
pinch inside his thighs. Usually, though, I am just gentle and
loving. I never threaten his genitals, nor do I hurt him there
unless he asks me to bite him, which in real life he likes.
P.S. A few thoughts I’ve had on sexual fantasies: It seems that
the more liberated I become (I’m really digging Women’s Lib
now) the more I fantasize about the spanking and the bondage.
Since I’m fully liberated in my work situation, social life, etc.,
it’s almost as if I’m trying to achieve some sort of counterbalance
to this liberation in my sexual life. I’ve always had the first two
fantasies, but never so intensely as since I’ve been involved in
Women’s Lib, or rather, since I’ve embraced the principles
behind the movement. I am sure there are other women like me,
who having emerged from being under male domination, crave to
return to it in bed.
Another thing – the more I think of it, the more I feel an ideal
male-female relationship would be one in which both feel free to
confide their fantasies to each other and both care enough for
each other to endeavor to make these fantasies come true. It
would be great, for example, if my fantasy were to mesh with his,
i.e., if he craved to
spank me or tie me down while I craved to be spanked or tied
down. This is not the case, but he loves me enough to be willing
to try these things. Now I intend to discover his fantasy, and if
it’s at all possible, I shall attempt to fulfill that fantasy. Again, it
would be too much to expect (but maybe it’s true) that he
fantasizes being tied down. But if he should desire to paint my
body, say, or be whipped, or, have me wear some kind of
costume, I’ll do all in my power to accommodate him. What’s
wrong with playing out these inner desires? Why are we so afraid
to share them?
I hope you can use my experiences. I feel really turned . on just
writing about them! Good luck with your project. [Letter]
I am a white Catholic American woman, 32 years old with
three sons. I have been married twice. My second husband and I
have been married more than eleven years.
I always entertain a sexual fantasy while having sex which
results in an orgasm for me. Over the years the fantasy has
changed, as we have moved about the country a great deal, and I
am thus always meeting new people and finding myself in new
My fantasy is about the man with whom I recently had. an
affair which lasted seven months. He is married and is eleven
years younger than I. He has two younger college age b*****rs. I
fantasize that his f****y, he, his two b*****rs, his wife, and his
father take my clothes off and make me wait on them, doing
anything they ask. I am required to suck off all the men in front of
everyone, and if the man does not feel I have done a good job, he
spanks me. I receive many spankings. After I have performed
fellatio on them all – including cunnilingus on the wife – I am
tied to a bed spread-eagle style and they play with me, sometimes
. roughly, i.e., one of the men will put his anus over my mouth
and request that I tongue him. His wife usually performs
cunnilingus on me, and I get very excited looking at her and
having everyone standing around and watching. I am required to
say words like "fuck" frequently and must describe my aroused
feelings to them all. Usually I come at about this time.
Sometimes I am allowed to choose someone to degrade, and I
always choose the father, whom I didn’t like. I make him perform
cunnilingus on me for hours and I always end up whipping him
for poor performance. [Letter]
I am writing in reply to your request for female sexual
I do, fantasize, sometimes when I am having difficulty
reaching an orgasm (my boy friend always has to stimulate me
manually after he has come). I pretend that I am being humiliated
in some way. Or that I am being displayed by a man, such as a
slave owner, for the benefit of his friends. Heaven knows why,
but if I can think of this intensely enough, I have a fantastic
I don’t think he would be jealous if I told him about these
fantasies, just angry. I think he just wouldn’t be able to
understand, and would be rather disappointed in me and
disgusted. You see, we are both university graduates; he has
always been proud of my intelligence. He can’t stand girls who
can’t discuss a variety of topics with him with some degree of
knowledge. He likes to think of us as being down-to-earth,
sensible people. I am reserved, rather tall, dress in a fashionable
but sophisticated way – he doesn’t like fluffy, giggly girls. He
dominates me in ordinary things – I never get my own way when
deciding when or where to eat, what film to see, etc. But he does
not dominate me sexually, at least in – the way I want him to.
He will make me massage his back or scratch it until I am
bored to tears; he expects me to fondle him and kiss him for long
periods of time without actually doing anything to me. But he
would never dream of forcing me to make love, or hit me or
Actually, he is very good in bed. I have slept with eight other
men, so I have grounds for judging him. There are times when I
reach the heights of ecstasy, but there are times when I feel
strongly frustrated and restless. This is when I have these strange
domination-humiliation fantasies. I even have them during
masturbation. (I don’t actually fantasize during masturbation, I
simply have to think about the threat itself.)
From what I’ve told you of our relationship, I suppose you are
wondering why I don’t tell him about my domination wish. After
all, he will listen to anything I care to tell him about myself or my
desires without being shocked (although he never offers up any
thoughts of his own). Well, the reason is he spent a year in digs.
His landlady was a nymphomaniac. She slept with any man she
could lay her hands on, and she seduced him. He was young and
inexperienced, and he admits she taught him everything he
knows. She used to creep into his room at night, leaving her
husband in bed, and make love to him. Her husband knew, but
because he couldn’t satisfy her, he was resigned to letting her get
satisfaction elsewhere.
My boy friend enjoyed the lovemaking but felt dirty and
disgusted with himself afterwards. He has always said how he
enjoys our "pure" lovemaking. He loves me and says it makes
him feel happy afterward. I felt very inferior when he told me. He
made her sound so much sexier. Of course, she had so much
more experience than I did. However, whenever I suggest
extending our lovemaking, in particular to fellatio, he says he
doesn’t want me to do it because he’s sure I won’t like it. He
admits he enjoyed it very much when she did it to him, however.
He refuses to believe I really want to do it. I have done it with
other men and enjoyed it, but he just won’t let me. At least, he
will to the point of ejaculation, then he pulls me away.
So you see, he has put me on a pedestal in a way. He sees me
as pure, clean, and wholesome (even though he knows about the
other men) and doesn’t want that image destroyed.
My first sexual fantasy occurred soon after puberty. I was
about eleven or twelve. At night I would lie in bed and imagine I
was walking in the woods. A strange man followed me, and
when I started to run away, he caught me and beat me. Every
night I would go through varieties on this theme – the man would
overpower me – take me away and f***e me to do things against
my will. The sex part was rather hazy. I had no clear ideas on that
at that age. By thinking about this before going to sl**p, I could
make myself dream about it, too. Later the fantasy changed to me
being taken away to the East and sold as a slave. There were an
infinite number of possibilities to the story, as I was bought and
sold by a number of men in succession. Very occasionally I still
fantasize about this. My fantasies obviously fall into the "being
on exhibition" category in the humiliation sense rather than one
of showing off.
My farfetched slave girl fantasies seem absurd, but there is one
I will never tire of until something definite happens to end it. I
went out with a boy four years ago. I was still a virgin and very
green. He flirted with me, made me fall madly in love with him,
and then dropped me flat. The main reason I fell for him was that
he had a sense of cruelty in him – not vicious, but enough to
satisfy my desires. He would grab hold of my wrists and pin me
against a wall or on the bed, and f***e me to kiss him. I would
struggle but he would always win, being extremely strong. We
both enjoyed these encounters, but we never went further than
that and I was still a virgin when he finished with me.
The strange thing is that we still know each other, and we are
always very aware of each other’s presence. When we met at a
party a few months ago, we flirted with each other, and he did
things that other people didn’t notice, like crushing my hand
when he held it, and biting my lips when we kissed until I nearly
cried out in pain. He saw this and was obviously enjoying it.
Then we had a serious talk, and decided we should stop messing
about and be sincere friends (we didn’t mention the pleasure we
both got out of pain in our different ways…we never have and no
one else knows). Since then he has been very kind to me…when I
was upset about my boy friend, he comforted me and let me stay
with him. We slept together, but I was too miserable to enjoy it
and he was doing it out of concern, not desire, so it was not a
success. He treats me very normally, usually, always when in
front of his friends…. But when they’re not around, there are
flashes of the old treatment. He knows – I can tell by the way he
looks at me – of my need for domination, and likes to tease me by
sometimes cooperating and sometimes refusing to, just in little
things, this is.
However, I fantasize constantly about what would happen if
we were completely alone somewhere, away from all our friends,
and we could let ourselves go, and not pretend to be
I can never get him out of my mind. It is now four years, and
yet when he walks in the room, I still tense up. I can never relax
when he’s there. Other girls, many of them, have come and gone.
All of them have been hurt by him, and I am the only one who is
still a friend. He has strong ambitions, he wants to travel abroad
and make a success of his career, and he has no time for a steady
girl friend, much less a wife who will tie him down. There has
always been a bond between us, and I only wish I had met him
about five years from now when he had got settled in his career,
because I think he is the only person who could fulfill all of my
needs. He has more or less said the same to me.
As it is, I am going to marry my boy friend. He will make a
good husband and father, but I am afraid that I may go through
the rest of my life feeling something is missing.
Well, I hope that somewhere in this long, confused letter you
can find something of use to you. It has been a relief to talk about
it, anyway. [Letter]
A few days after my wedding, I read about a young woman
who on her honeymoon was taken every day to a tattooist by her
husband, and during the two weeks they were staying there she
had to agree to whatever her husband wanted, and she was
tattooed on every part of her body.
I don’t know whether it is true or not, but I thought about it a
lot and I even asked my husband if he would like to have me
tattooed. He thought I was kinky or something and that he had
married a crazy woman, so I never dared mention it again.
Since then, whenever my husband fucks me I just think about
being tattooed and I imagine myself having to strip and be
tattooed without being asked if I want it or not. I think of what it
would be like to have really cheeky words and pictures put on
me. This gets me steamed up and really going and my husband
thinks it is him that is getting me like that, and it is not at all.
At one time I used to collect pictures of tattooed people and
patterns that I thought would be nice as things to have done, but
then I threw them away because I got frightened that he might
find them. I really would like to be tattooed, but of course it is not
possible. But just to think about it gets me going. Mostly though,
it only happens when I am having it off with my husband; and
there is another little thing: If I get too randy, I start rolling about,
and if my husband loses it out of me he gets mad at me. So I have
to be a bit careful.
I have never told anyone else about this and I know you will
think I am silly but it really does happen. [Letter]
 I may be making work for myself, defining differences in
the emotions behind fantasy where they may not exist, setting up
two rooms in the House of Fantasy where there could be one. It
would be easier – certainly more obvious – to relegate Johanna
(below) to the **** Room, instead of arranging for a completely
separate space just to satisfy her slightly different, though none
the less real, sexual desires.
But this House has no precedent, nor has my work, and
therefore I choose to specify a whole separate area of fantasy that
is occupied by fear. Not just ordinary fear, but the kind of total
and complete terror that can be strangely sexual when you see it
as leading to loss of control. It’s the only way I can account for
the different quality in the fantasies that follow. You don’t have
to be a psychiatrist to understand that for some women who never
reach an orgasm, it may have to do with their fear of letting go,
fear of the helplessness, the lack of control, that goes with orgasm…
you just have to be a woman. And for some women –
especially highly independent, self-contained women like
Johanna and Anne (below), who manage their lives unto
themselves – the loss of this control must be terrifying, the
experience of orgasm impossible without, and synonymous with,
the terror.
You don’t have to have been "scared shitless" to know what it
means. Continue the sensation of the pounding heart, the open
mouth; the helpless, limp attitude of the body on to orgasm, and
you’re halfway to understanding the sexuality of fear for these
 During the time my husband and I were living just outside
Mexico City, we met another couple who lived about a mile
down the road, named Charles and Johanna. One day while
Johanna and I were alone in their house, she opened a drawer;
inside it was a gun. "Charles leaves it for me when I’m alone,"
she said. "I was once ****d here, before we were married.
Charles always makes sure I have it when he has to go away."
More recently when I saw Johanna and asked if she would
contribute to this book, I got more of the story. 
You could say that my inner sexual life still revolves around
the **** I told you about. I don’t think a day goes by without my
remembering it. I was in this little house, where I was living
alone before I met Charles. A man came in. He wasn’t Mexican;
I don’t know what he was. He pretended that he was interested in
selling me something, but I knew something was wrong. He
asked if I was alone, but in such a smooth, easy way that he
didn’t frighten me. But maybe something in me was frightened.
Because I almost knew before he did it what he was going to do
next. He took a knife out with the same easy manner with which
he had asked me if we were alone. He put the knife on the table,
near his hand. Then he told me what he was going to do. He told
me that he wasn’t a pervert, and that if I did everything he said,
he would not harm me. He even told me I would enjoy it. All the
time he was talking, I could see the front of his trousers begin to
bulge. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I kept my eyes down. He
may have thought I was staring at the ground. I was watching
that huge mound in the front of his trousers. I remember thinking
what a cruel, powerful bulge it made.
He told me to take off my clothes. I did, with one eye on my
buttons, the other on the knife that was so close to his hand.
Then, when I was naked, he told me to unzip his trousers. I did.
"Take it out," he said, "and kiss it." I did.
I didn’t understand what I was doing. It all seemed so natural,
it almost seemed as if I was in a hurry to help him. I did
everything he told me. Then he told me to lie down on my back,
on my work table, but with my feet on the floor. While I did it, he
picked up the knife, and came to stand between my legs. "Spread
them wider," he said, and as I did, he stepped between them even
closer to me, and suddenly raising the knife above his head,
plunged it point first into the table, right beside my hips. Then he
knelt down in front of me, his two arms on either side of me, one
hand still holding the knife that was stuck into the table, and he
went down on me. I tried to think of how terrified I was, how
much I hated him. But I felt myself becoming more and more
excited. I closed my eyes and tried to turn from side to side, as if
trying to get away from his tongue, but it was also to have that
tongue touch different sides of me, inside. Once I opened my
eyes. All I could see was the dark top of his head, his hair, and
the hand holding the knife just beside me. Then I closed my eyes
again, and I suddenly couldn’t help it, I pulled his head right into
me, pulled his tongue right into me as high as possible, and then
I came, over and over again.
The next thing I saw was his face. He was smiling. He was on
top of me, still on the table. He was on me. "Put it in," he said,
and I was now eager to do anything he said. With one hand I
held the lips open, with the other I guided his erection right into
me. I remember he wasn’t very big around, but very long and
slim. I wanted to feel it all the way inside me. In just a few
thrusts I could feel him coming, and I came again, too. I had
forgotten to think about how much I hated him. I could only think
of his long thing, long and slim, all the way up and lost inside
me, and I came and came again. Then the man just went away:
Just as he had promised.
I told my husband about what had happened before we were
married, but I never told him how it made me feel. The time
when this happened, I was going with a Mexican boy, and there
was another man before I met Charles. Neither one had ever
made me feel so sexually in heat the way that man did when he
****d me. Neither has Charles. It’s no good when I’m in bed
with Charles, telling myself that I love him, and that I hate that
other strange man. It just kills whatever erotic feelings I have.
Other times, Charles can bring me to the point himself, and I
don’t have to think about that other man.
But sometimes when I’m not really in the mood, and I know
Charles is… or that funny kind of way that a really erotic mood
will overtake you and then just drift away for no reason at
all…that’s when I deliberately think of that man. I close my eyes
and imagine myself back on that table, with my legs hanging
down from the knees over the edge, and him in between them. I
remember how, much I hated him, and the, I don’t know, the
fear, the frenzy of the experience, and how I responded to it.
Whenever I imagine that, I still respond the same way. Every
time. [Taped interview]
 Anne is a widow and older than most of the other
contributors in this book, and therefore her language is more
restrained than most. But this does not mean that her life has
been in any way less adventurous.
Anne is a long-time friend of my husband’s, who also knew
her husband John very well until John’s sudden accidental death.
She works in the fringe land of the films, and is around movie
people a great deal. She had been married once before and
figured in a Hollywood divorce trial written up by all the
newspapers in the early 1950’s. "But once I met John, he was the
only man for me, ever," she told me. Romantic talk, if a teen-ager
had said it. But from a woman of Anne’s experience and honesty,
positively breathtaking. Nevertheless, she is such a vital, warm,
attractive woman that I find it hard to understand why she has
never remarried. I don’t doubt that she’s been asked, and I don’t
understand how such a sexual woman can live alone.
I have always thought of Anne as the most intelligent, good,
openminded woman I know…of any generation. She is fun to be
with and never lays her problems on you, though she’s got them.
Her vivid stories of her own sexual-social explorations of twenty
or thirty years ago stand up to anything I’ve seen in the past
world-changing decade. If I ever thought that I was alone (i.e.,
not like the other girls) in my 1960’s explorations, how very
"different" Anne must have felt back there in the thirties.
It’s one thing to be the first girl on the block to smoke pot, take
a lover, etc., but for all the zest that being an adventuress can
bring, it can also bring, very early on, a seemingly contradictory
feeling of the need for self-control. Mountain climbers have to be
more careful than earth dwellers. At least, that’s my explanation
for my own late arrival to a full appreciation of sex. Anne, I am
sure, has her own explanation. 
Now that I think of it, I find it difficult to describe. I mean
what goes on in my mind during sex. I don’t think I can … I am
in the dark, but it is not just dark of night; it’s a blackness of
infinite space. This is probably scientifically incorrect, because I
guess the astronauts, the cosmonauts, whatever they are, find
light. My own blackness is a more mythological thing … that
"outer darkness" … but it’s not death. It’s being way, way, far
out somewhere in infinite space. I’m somehow in my body, but
also outside of it. I’m liable at any second to fall down through
infinite, unimaginable darkness, sort of like Lucifer … that’s my
second reference to Paradise Lost; I wonder what that means?
Maybe another way to put it is that it’s like falling out of a space
rocket, only in absolute darkness. It’s frightening and thrilling. I
suppose that’s what I think of men. Unless they’re a little bit
frightening … without a touch of the devil, I don’t find them
thrilling. There…that explains all the Lucifer associations. He
was supposed to be the most beautiful angel of all.
I don’t know why I should have this particular fantasy … I
certainly didn’t deliberately choose it … because I have that fear
of heights, what’s it called? … cannot look out of a plane
window or even an office window high up in Rockefeller Center,
never can go near the edge of anyone’s penthouse terrace … am
terrified because I want to jump. And I never had this until after I
started to have really satisfactory sex relations. I suppose I never
really understood that terrific loss of control, that falling down
into you don’t know what, that letting go of everything that
orgasm brings. Before then, as a c***d and as a girl, I had no fear
of heights, no frightening impulse to jump. I think that’s it. The
fear so many women have that they’ll leap from the heights is
some kind of desire to leap into orgasm. I suppose that’s the
connection…do you? [Taped interview]
 At full strength, the sensation of guilt contains an element
of discovery, the possibility of being discovered…by someone.
You could say, therefore, that fantasies wherein guilt is the
motivating emotion belong in the Audience Room (I even think I
have one there), where the desired fuel comes from the presence,
or imminent presence, of other people. But guilt is too prevalent
and powerful an emotion to be carried as an addendum to another
idea. It can bring, all of its own, such vitality to sexual fantasy
that I give it a room of its own.
My own fantasies often ride high on the risk of doing the
forbidden. I am by nature, like a lot of other women, what could
be called "the faithful type," and for this type, men other than our
husbands or current lovers are taboo. (This is simplistic language
for defining both myself and the idea of fidelity, but I choose to
be clear rather than analytically thorough.) For us, fantasies
which involve us with this or that sexually attractive man in some
compromising situation give us the desired sexual kick without
the real guilt; in fact, guilt, the deterrent in reality, has been
transformed by harmless fantasy into guilt the exciter. We win
both ways.
Some people rob banks for the sheer thrill of getting away with
it. Or, to put it another way, for the excitement of maybe being
caught. In every suspense-thriller the clock ticks ominously…it is
only a matter of time. This idea of time running out on the guilty
act heightens everything. It’s especially so when the guilty act is
sex. Whether it’s the illicit affair in reality (the only sort some
women enjoy) or the forbidden sex in fantasy, with both it’s only
a matter of time before that time runs out, before the whistle
blows, the footsteps come closer, the bedroom door is opened and
the discovery made. In fantasy, time is on guilt’s (sex’s) side, in
that it adds to the thrill by threatening to run out. You only have
to think of the added charge in a shipboard romance, summer
love, sex in another town. To really appreciate the thrill of guilt,
add the element of "stolen" love to "September Song." 
I am hiding from the others. We are playing a game of
sardines and I have been given a head start to find a hiding place.
At the top of the house I have found an empty room with only a
bed in it. Quickly, in the dark, I slide under the bed and wait for
the others to find me; their voices are very distant now. They are
far away, except for one pair of footsteps, one person, who is
getting closer and closer. He comes in such a direct line toward
me, it’s as though he knew where I was, as if I had left him a
trail, a scent. As if we had planned this hiding place together. I
catch my breath, my heart pounding, because I know who it is,
the one person in the group I want to have find me, to find me
before the others. It has to be him. I will it to be him.
He comes straight to the room, quietly and quickly so the
others won’t hear him, and slides under the bed beside me in the
darkness. We lie together, hardly breathing, our hands beginning
to move over one another. Hands that have never before touched
me move all over me. Hands I put a face to in my mind, that face
I’ve always found exciting but that was never mine to kiss. I
hardly dare breathe as I listen for the others’ voices, moving in
and then away as they explore room after distant room. We both
move slowly. My skin is alive, the excitement running all through
me as my own hands help him to ease up my sweater, direct his
mouth to my breast. I help him work the zip on the back of my
pants, and then with the most incredible daring I push my
buttocks up and his head down. His mouth caresses me all over.
My hands, braver and braver in the dark, move over him, find his
erection like a rock, and all the while we seem to move in slow
motion on this bare floor, scarcely breathing, our bodies moving
against the background noise of the voices on the floor below.
They are calling to one another, "Have you found them?" Then
calling my name, "Emma! Where are you, Emma?" With every
step they move closer. The louder their approaching voices get,
the more urgent our bodies grow. They laugh and call to one
another, suggesting places I may have hidden; they are aware
now that we are the only two missing. Then their voices fade and
I pray, dear God, don’t let them find us yetl Then I hear my boy
friend Larry’s voice, and though there is not a note of suspicion in
it, the fear and anxiety I feel make me hotter, make me do the
most incredible things with this man whom I hardly know. Now
there is nothing I wouldn’t let him do to me; even pain, even
words in my ear that no man has ever said. "More." My own
whisper is in my ear. "More!" I demand of him and I am wet
through before he is quite in me. We are like two conspirators in
the dark, breathing so hard it seems incredible they can’t hear us.
Now that they know we are together, the search takes on new
urgency. "What are you two up to? Where are you?" they call,
laughing, teasing now. Their urgency becomes ours, hidden,
sopping wet all over now with one another’s sweat, with our
clothes half on and half off…how will we explain to the others?
But it’s too late for that now. There are footsteps on the stairs,
someone’s found the little door that leads to the attic. It’s just one
pair of footsteps coming. We need more time, just seconds. We
hear the searcher stumble in the dark, and as the cock inside me
thrusts deeper and deeper, my teeth are tearing the skin on my
lower lip and our fucking is paced in doubletime to the steps
outside in the dark, coming closer and closer, as we get closer
and closer to something we can no longer avoid. Now as I know
it is beyond my control, I also know that the person coming is
Larry. He calls down,to the others below that he thinks he’s
found us. As the footsteps and voices move closer and closer, so
do we, until I come. [Written down on request]
I am thirty years old and have been married for twelve years.
I think my favorite fantasy is of my exciting someone to the
point where they have to masturbate. I am not the sort of person
who can openly or deliberately excite a stranger. I am very
bashful and even somewhat backward sexually. However,
accidents happen, and I have excited people in the past and I like
the idea. Someday I will work up the courage to excite someone
else besides my husband.
During sex with my husband I sometimes fantasize we are
having sex where other men and women can watch, and they get
so carried away by the sight that they begin to masturbate. I also
think about other men who have. made passes at me, and picture
them masturbating or becoming so excited looking at me that
they get carried away . and even fondle their penises in full view
of the public.
I was very slow developing sexually and was in my late teens
before I masturbated at all. Then it was in very secretive
circumstances for fear of being caught with my fantasies. As I
dated and would often come home aroused, I would fantasize
about what could have happened while I masturbated. After
marriage I again became fearful of being caught with my
fantasies. However, as our experience grew and my husband
became a better lover, I would fantasize that his penis became
erect in a very embarrassing, compromising situation…and then
he would climax.
I don’t know how my husband would react if I told him about
these fantasies. He is a very liberal man, but if put to the actual
test might think differently. He has expressed his fantasies to me,
and while some excite me, others disgust me. [Letter]
 Women respond so directly to the promise of m ore beauty
that even factories have discovered that better mirrors in the
ladies’ room mean higher production from the women workers.
Certainly a House of Fantasy – where the most beautiful act of all
relies on the promise of greater beauty – needs a room where
everything can be transformed: the plain woman into the
beautiful, the beautiful into the even more beautiful, a drab life
into a dazzling one…in such a room even sex could be made to
seem beautiful to those who fear their own ugliness.
We are told that some of the most beautiful women in the
world have lonely doubts about their own desirability and the
essential glamour of their lives; magazine sales thrive on it. So no
matter what her beauty in reality, or her favorite sexual imagery,
every woman who enters the House of Fantasy will want a
reassuring moment in the
Transformation Room before going on. Illusions of greater
beauty, even fantasy illusions, heighten sex by heightening the
woman’s own awareness of her desirability. Some women, like
Betty and Monica (below), will look no further than this. The
Transformation Room is all they want. Without the complete
transformation of themselves and of their narrow, almost sordid
view of sex itself, there could be no sex at all, imagined or real.
Fantasy releases them from the dead grip of self-contempt and
neurosis and into life itself. 
 Monica is nineteen years old, short, messy looking, and
about fifteen pounds overweight. She’s always been
overshadowed by her older s****r, who was the pretty one in the
f****y, she says. "She was the one who always got the lovely
clothes, and after a time I just didn’t bother."
Monica idolized her father, and in her daydreams the man was
rarely a film star; he was more often her father.
"I didn’t dream about him as if he were my lover," she says.
"We would be a father and daughter. But I would lie in bed, or sit
in school for hours, and imagine that he and I were about to go
out to dinner in some fabulous place, or go dancing. Sometimes
I’d imagine that we were going to do something exciting like
driving to some secret place where they i*****lly allowed you to
play roulette."
In all, a typically romantic, adolescent girl, somewhat scruffy,
but with her father playing the principal idealized male role in her
youthful imagination, and a pretty s****r to envy.
Monica’s parents belonged to a religious sect that believed
very strongly that sex was a temptation to be resisted, and there
was almost never an allusion to the subject in her house. "But
somehow it made me admire my mother and father more," she
says. "I knew that they were different from other people, purer
and cleaner; even when my parents’ religious ideas left me
entirely unprepared for the beginning of my menstruation, I
didn’t entirely blame them. Oh, maybe I did blame my mother a
little for not warning me, but not my father. It was a nasty, ugly
business. Why should he talk about it?
"In fact, it left me with a greater admiration for my father. His
silence on the subject, I mean. I knew even then, somehow, that
men were more interested in, sex than women. But here was my
father, this glamorous, wonderful figure who – my daydreams
about him were more real to me than he himself was – only cared
about the beautiful things in life, like taking me to the theater.
Why should he talk to me about ugly things like my period? You
see how I built him up?
"Then one day I was in my parents’ bedroom. They were away,
and I just couldn’t resist the temptation to open my father’s chest
of drawers and see what I’d find there. I don’t know what I
expected. Some glorious symbol of that vague, secret world that
men lived in, I suppose. What I found there, under the shirts,
were a little pack of those nasty rubber things – even today I hate
to say the word – and a copy of Henry Miller’s book, Tropic of
Cancer. I’d never heard of Henry Miller. I quickly opened the
book and began to read it. Or maybe I had heard of Henry Miller.
Maybe it was because the book was hidden under my father’s
shirts. But I knew I was doing something wrong."
The experience, Monica said, did not leave her so much
disgusted or angry or, on the other hand, excited, as filled with
fear. The book was a denial of all the pure and noble ideas she
had formed about her father; and the description of the sexual
acts in the book immediately made her realize that such
performances must go on between her mother and father. "I felt I
had nothing left to live for," Monica said. "My father wasn’t
secretly thinking about living with me some day in a world where
we went to the opera, or ran a ranch together out West; he was
thinking of all the things in this book. There was nothing left for
me but this frightening world that Henry Miller described, filled
with all these horrors. I was just a stupid k**, and I tried to
commit suicide that night. I swallowed a full bottle of aspirin and
all the other pills I could find in the house. Luckily or unluckily,
there was nothing very lethal in the; house. I just got sick and
vomited all night. But evens today, suicide, it’s never very far
from my mind." 
I began having these ideas the very first time I had sex.
I’d never thought of it before in my life, and suddenly there it
was in my mind. I’d met this good-looking boy at a dance, and I
was very surprised that he even looked at me twice. Boys like
him never did. But we got into his car and pretty soon I knew
why by had singled me out after all. I usually shied away from
that kind of thing, but then I suddenly thought, Well, you have to
learn about this thing for yourself sooner or later. Everybody in
the world knows about it except you. Why not with him? I was
also very attracted to him, and maybe I was hoping against hope
that if I said Yes, I would see him again.
And to tell the truth, it was very exciting. We got into the back
seat of his car, and it was cozy and dark there. We were all alone.
Maybe it was the first time I had ever been alone for so long with
a boy in a car when he wasn’t driving. I always feel that empty
places are sexy. Empty rooms, especially. I think that was the
feeling that took me’ into my parents’ empty bedroom that time.
There’s always something about an empty room. You never
know what’s in there.
Anyway, this boy was an expert lover. Or maybe he had just
read a lot of books and knew all the tricks. I was somewhat
aware that he was doing these things to me, but all I could think
of .was about the moment when he would get on top of me and
open my legs to push it into me. I knew somehow that it was
going to hurt. But just the idea that he was going to put that thing
into me was all the excitement I needed. I wanted to scream at
him to forget the, sex techniques and to hurry up. I remember
helping him to get my underwear off, and when my panties got
stuck on my ankle – wewere in some awkward position, imagine!
– I practically tore them off myself, I was in such a hurry.
After all that, it went in without any pain at all. I remember
looking for just a second, being surprised that it grew out of his
front, instead of down inside between his legs, like mine. But
then when it went in, I felt almost nothing. No pain. Nothing. I
just felt dead inside, with all the excitement gone. I was just lying
there while he was going through all these funny motions. And
then this thought came to me right out of the blue. I was suddenly
not my own self. The body he was screwing was not this funny
fat thing of mine, it wasn’t me, it was my s****r. So it all became
a picture in my mind. I could see him just as he was, very
handsome. But the body he was putting it in – it wasn’t me. It
was my beautiful s****r. Part of me was glad it was her. I hated
her, and I became angry and happy to think of her in this
humiliating position, being fucked by a stranger in the back seat
of a car. But the other half of me wanted to be like her, wanted to
feel the man inside me. If it was my s****r, it was all right. And
right with that picture in my mind, all the excitement came back.
I could feel the boy, I could feel myself moving up and back in
time to him, but all the time it wasn’t me, it was all happening to
these two beautiful people in my mind.
Ever since then, the girl is never me. If it is, I always feel cold
and lifeless and a little disgusted with both myself and the boy.
But as soon as I get this picture, I feel the wildest excitement.
During the last phase of intercourse is when I fantasize. I
pretend I have changed into a very beautiful and glamorous
woman (in real life I know I’m somewhat plain), and that my
husband and I are in bed in very luxurious surroundings, usually
in a hotel, far away from where we live. I can see the bottle of
wine in a silver bucket waiting for us when we finish. I think of
the people walking along outside our room in the corridor who
are unaware of what we are doing only a few feet away from
them, and how they’d envy us if they did know. Most of all, I like
the idea that it is not our house but a hotel room, because hotels
are only temporary, anything can happen. When I was a little girl
I always imagined that only the most beautiful women lived in
the huge marvelous hotels I’d see in the movies. There weren’t
any large hotels in the town where I grew up, and so I only saw
them in the movies, and of course, since it was in films, all the
women were beautiful.
I am quite myself before the stage mentioned above, but when
I begin feeling myself to be this other woman, I usually mount
my husband and give myself a good working out on his gorgeous
cock. This is still part of what I think of as the "final stage," and
while I am sitting there above him, moving myself up and down
on him, I close my eyes and seem to be watching this other
beautiful’ woman who is me from some other place, outside
myself. I can see her so vividly that I want to shout
encouragement to her…she loves it so much. "Go on, go on, give
it to yourself," I want to say to her. "Enjoy it, you deserve it." The
funny thing is that this other woman isn’t me. In fact, she’s not
always the same woman. [Letter]
Hi. I am twenty-six, upper middle-class background, and had
three and one-half years of college before I dropped out and
bummed around the world. I have been legally married for almost
four years. I am presently employed as a bartender. I am in favor
of self-determination for both men and women in all areas, sexual
In general, I would say that my fantasies are pretty free, but
my actions, though perhaps more far out than those of many
people, are still conservative when compared to the possibilities
of human sexuality.
I’d separate my fantasies into those I had before I had LSD
and those after. Before, they included fucking everything from
guys I knew (kind of tender scenes) to very repulsive or "lewd"
dirty old men. Or a fantasy where I would make it with a girl,
including kissing, rubbing tits, lying on top of one another. Or
dreams of making it with a three-year-old girl, a priest, even an
erotic kind of image of walking upstairs inside of an elephant
(very erotic). One fantasy included my being ****d by twelve
black men (though I haven’t any conscious prejudice against
blacks when awake). And, of course, there were the general lewd
fantasies of making it with my father, an uncle, or a cousin.
Other rather general fantasies I’ve had involve seeing myself
as a kind of pin-up in a porn magazine…sticking out my tits,
playing with my nipples, making little catlike expressions,
moving my pelvis in slow circular motions while keeping my
eyes just slightly open. I’ve thought of myself this way when I’m
with guys I like, as well as guys I find distasteful. Actually,
sometimes if I’m fucking a guy who fills me with disgust or
anger or resentment, I think to myself, "Okay, you want to fuck,
you creepy, slimy bastard, I’ll fuck you all right. I’ll fuck you so
hard you’ll die from it." Other times, I fantasize about the guy
I’m with being with another guy, or a lot of other people
watching us, or the guy I’m with watching me make it with
another girl. Once I fantasized about lying back on the floor and
having ten different people (men and women) fondling different
parts of my body.
Sometimes, if I love a guy, think his body is beautiful, but hate
his technique, I have a kind of "mystical" fantasy: visions of
stained glass, the suffering Christ, Virgin Mary, the organ
playing…but I haven’t had this for about four years.
It’s important to me how the guy talks about what we’re
doing: I like to hear the word "fucking," and even more, "balling"
(calling it "cunting" would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Whereas
"intercourse" is too scientific and detached, and "making love" is
too liberal and has become an offensive cliché, though if I really
love somebody, "making love" is not offensive as long as both
people understand that it’s also fucking…then it really feels like
making love). But I love to get myself worked up thinking or
saying things like fuck, cunt, cock, dick, tits, sucking,
cocking…it really makes me feel good and lewd, just so long as
it’s natural and doesn’t sound like we’re trying too hard, using
these words.
When I’m really into a fantasy, really into fucking, I love
sucking a man – although my arm and hand and mouth
sometimes get tired and I hate getting that choking feeling in the
throat – and when I’m really aroused I like him to come in my
mouth, in my hair, in my eyes, on my tits, on my ass, etc. When
this happens I can imagine that he is doing the same thing to me:
licking my nipples, running his tongue down the middle of my
stomach down to my crotch, licking my clitoris and then right up
my back. Do you understand? In my fantasy I can change the
whole thing around, and that’s great.
As for my lesbian fantasies: girls that turn me on the most are
not usually friends but relative strangers. They are not necessarily
"pretty"; usually slender, feminine, but not "cutesy pie"; often
tomboyish; occasionally mysterious or gypsylike in appearance.
Sometimes a super-bitch appearance turns me on. (Very
fascinated to watch superfeminine idiotic types or super-feminine
cool sexy type…but I can’t really fantasize this type in sexual
activity with me. Not particularly turned on by "Mother Earth" or
clean-cut cold look.) I’ve always fantasized about making it with
this kind of women. In high school I used to parade around my
room by myself with a very tight sweater on, having stuffed my
mother’s bra with Kleenex (although I was very modest in
public). I’ve had three real sexual experiences with women.
Usually I have to fantasize that they are men, or I think about the
time I felt up this crazy chick in a car (I loved her tits!); I think
about them when I’m with a girl…those tits. The last time was
with a real lesbian, for whom I felt a kind of compassion. I tried
thinking of myself as the aggressor, but it just didn’t work.
Now for my fantasies and sex since LSD. I should mention
that I was a virgin until I was twenty-one. I’d had this strong
feeling that "being felt up" or screwing would make me
considered to be a whore. I really wanted to be respected. It
seemed to me that all guys had this double
standard: they wanted me to give in, but if I had, they’d have
thought me a whore. Finally, when I was s*******n, a guy f***ed
me to feel him up – he tore off my blouse and played with me –
and I did it – jerked him off – but I felt a total disgust and hatred.
Then, when I was twenty-one, I met this guy I loved (not my
husband) and we took LSD and fucked. It was unlike anything
that had ever happened before: I had none of those feelings of
"dirtiness." My mind wasn’t really thinking about the sexual
organs; I lost myself in a very tangible, three-dimensional,
colorful, blissful something I can’t describe. For the first time I
had this strong feeling that this was another human being that I
loved it was a kind of fantasy in that it all went on in my mind. It
was what I was thinking more than feeling with my body that
made it all so beautiful, and I felt good and not at all paranoid.
For the first time I wanted to make love to everything in the
universe (very unlike me). After that first trip, whenever I was
fucking I’d remember the images in my head when I’d done it the
first time, the thoughts of love, of thinking love, and I began to
have orgasms. Then I had a bad trip on LSD, and for the next six
months I had, maybe, one half an orgasm.
After that, I tried thinking my old lewd thoughts: I’d think
about the guy who’d once stuck a hose up my cunt, and a wine
bottle (pouring in the wine). It wasn’t that I’d enjoyed these
things, but thinking about it later made me feel very liberated in
the sense of letting go, trying new things, and loving a relative
stranger as a human, a man whom I really didn’t like. I didn’t
think about him, but the fact that we were doing such weird
things, it made me feel better, more relaxed about myself and
other people. Once I had a fantasy about hitchhiking, of being
picked up by a dirty old man and being ****d; I thought that if I
made love to him and loved him, then it wouldn’t have to be
****; it was an exciting idea, and I rethought it when I was with
other guys; it made me enjoy their fucking more.
I really think your book is a good idea, since nonfictional
female sexual fantasies and experiences are rarely openly
discussed. They are usually only in works of fiction written by
men. Thank you. [Letter]
 The letters in the words above this room should be woven in
wheat, or embroidered by hand onto a baby-blue sampler. They
axe that homey and acceptable. Images of fertility rites, even the
fantasy of a matriarchal society where men are fed to satisfy
women’s sexual appetites, (as in Marina’s fantasy below, are
close enough to mythology and to "nature" to be as acceptable as,
for instance, Grimm’s fairy tales – which, despite fashionable
psychoanalytic horror at their content, nevertheless put c***dren
to sl**p.
Many women do, in fact, live the earth mother fantasy from
day to day without arousing anxiety in anyone. Of all women’s
sexual fantasies, those that depend on the idea of woman as the
symbol of fertility are probably the least threatening to both men
and women. Other women – women other than the fantasist –
even breathe a sigh of jealousy-free relief at such a Ceres, who is
usually so all-accepting as to be almost sexless. This accounts, I
suppose, for the many mothers who pray that their daughters
(should they fall into such a House) would go straight to this
But for all its Mother’s Oats cycle-of-life connotations, the
image of fertility is as potent to some women as the idea of
watching a girl being fucked by an Alsatian might be to the
average Playboy reader. 
 Vivian works part time as a secretary for a friend of mine
who runs a theatrical production company from his home. She
works for him in the evenings and has a fulltime job during the
day. She is saving to go to medical school, "but when I start, I
want to have enough money saved so that I can concentrate
entirely on medicine," she says, "and not have to hassle for
money." Her mother and father died in an auto accident, and she
lives with a maiden aunt. She is twenty-one, pretty in an
unfashionable scrubbed kind of way, and very intense. 
I had this fantasy the very first time I had sex. Jimmy was the
first man for me. He’s still the only one, but no matter who I
sl**p with later on, I think I’ll always have these thoughts I have
with Jimmy. They just seem to automatically spring to mind
whenever I open my legs.
Anyway, that first night, I don’t think we slept very much.
We’d had some grass, and so I can’t remember just how many
times. It didn’t hurt a bit and there was hardly any bleeding.
Maybe the second or third time that night, he put me into this
position; I think it’s the position that inspired this idea in the first
place, the idea that I was being planted. I mean, you can’t have
the feeling that you’re being planted unless your cunt is pointed
straight up at the sky, can you? Because that’s what it was: I was
lying on my back, all my weight on my shoulders, really, with my
legs straight up and over his shoulders. He was high above me –
I remember looking up and seeing him looming large over me
and coming down into me, boring down on me. Straight down
into me. Not a frightening picture – on the contrary, I felt very
large and accommodating, very wide and open, waiting for him
to fill me up with his thrust. Waiting for him to plant seed like I
was a large, warm, fertile hole in the earth, there just for him, just
for that purpose, to be planted. I was the earth and I was the hole
in the earth. In fact, I was all hole, and he, he was like some great
International Harvester Seed Planter moving down the field, me,
moving from hole to hole with each thrust. And I was all the
holes, I was the earth. I was planted again and again. It was so
exciting…and so, well, so right, so natural. Lying there on my
back with my legs up in the air, my feet facing the ceiling, it
seemed, at last, the most natural position in the world. And to be
fucked, to be planted by an earth planting machine, this
enormous International Harvester that could plunge deeper into
the earth than anything, could fill me up and leave me planted,
ripe…that was it, I guess: not just the excitement of being
planted, but of knowing that with each thrust I would be left
whole, complete. Can you understand that? It wasn’t the machine
that was exciting – though the inexorable size of it was. What
was exciting was the seed part. Or me being the earth. God, I
don’t know…but I love that feeling. [Taped interview]
 Marina belongs more to her nomadic social set than to any
country. Now she lives in Boston. Last year it was Paris. Her
current lover is an Italian banker: her former an English lord. The
only thing they have in common is that each is almost three times
her age. She is twenty. Her mother is French, her father Swiss,
her bank balance high. For all the miles she’s packed into her
life, she remains incredibly naive. She speaks half a dozen
languages and works for an ad agency. 
I had masturbated systematically from a very early age, around
three, I think, and so much and so often that my parents
consulted a doctor about it. As a c***d, I used to think of a
favorite friend or playmate, or a beautiful lady neighbor of ours,
whom I worshipped at the time. Around nine or ten, I started to
be aware 9f men and think of them while masturbating. I had a
vague idea of what lovemaking was, but it stopped at French
kissing. My ignorance was set right by a girl friend, also aged ten
– c***dren mature very early around the Mediterranean – whose
father was a gynecologist, so she was obviously au courant. I
remember we were munching g****s by a stream in my parents’
country place on a sweltering summer day, and constantly,
obsessively discussing boys, boys, boys, love, love, love, kissing,
necking, petting…Then she said did I know what really happens
between men and women, and how, and she told me, more than
lucidly. Immediately I thought: "But that must be like
masturbation, only instead of rolled sheets, my favorite tool, there
would be juicy, moist flesh." The prospects seemed heady, and I
started floating on a lovely haze of possibilities. "And if you’d
really like to know what it feels like," she continued, "the thing to
do is to get a kettle, fill it with warm, but not too hot, water, open
your legs really wide, and slowly pour it in.". There was no time
to be lost. We both rushed indoors, pinched Mummy’s best
Russian silver, teapot, locked ourselves in the bath, sat at
opposite ens of the bathtub with legs wide open, and took turns at
pouring the contents of the teapot all over our clitorises, while
caressing our bodies with infallible, instinctive verve. I thought of
myself alternately as Mother Earth, watered by fertility rain, in a
lovely ritual in Eygpt, or Crete, and an autocratic empress, who
sampled all the young men of her kingdom at the beginning of
spring, to renew herself. (All were handsome because I’d
exterminated the others.) I can’t tell you what my friend thought,
as I was lost in self-absorption. [Written down on request]
 Each of the remaining rooms in the House of Fantasy
depends upon the presence or embodiment of a specific fantasy
character or characters in order for the female client to fully enjoy
her fantasies. I start with the i****t Room because, despite Dr.
Freud’s casual disinterest in the female equivalent of Oedipus,
for women the first sexual imagery of fathers, b*****rs, etc., is
often the most potent and lasting. It was interesting, I think, that
though Freud at first accepted as fact his female hysterics’ tales
of **** by fathers, stepfathers, or older b*****rs (and became
concerned should the Austro-Hungarian, Empire be founded on
the sick secret saga of daughter-****), he later came to view these
tales as the fantasies of women brought up under the paternal
dictatorship of an age when the image of the Man of the House
was so strong as to present an almost unconquerable u*********s
rival for any man who came along later.
I am not qualified to discuss the psychological significance of
i****t, pro or con, even as fantasy. But I do think – despite the
relative lack of evidence or interest in literature – that women can
have as strong an i****tuous preoccupation as men. Not all
Sunday-mornings-in-bed-with-Mom-and-Dad have to end as
traumatically as Bella’s, below, but I can’t help wondering how
many seeds fore later fantasy are sown in this kind of f****y
romp; the adults may be satisfying some very grown-up,
harmless image of their own, may have very clear and controlled
ideas as to just what is going on with the whole f****y in their
marital bed, but what about the c***dren? 
I am a thirty-two-year-old registered nurse working in a
London hospital. I have one son almost f******n. I was pregnant
when I was married. My husband is a doctor.
My own fantasy is so shocking to me that it has been a lifelong
secret, and only because it has taken a new twist have I decided
to write it down to get some of it out of my system. My fantasies
revolve around i****t, almost any kind of i****t, and over the
years I have sought out every: bit of information I could about
"i****t," and know all the Greek myths where it occurs. To make
a man sexy to my self I just imagine him a member of my f****y.
I make friends more firmly if they happen to show interest in
my subject, and one affair some years ago was almost
i****tuously inspired. It happened in a Midlands hospital. I was
looking after a\nice young man, a probation officer, who had
been in a car accident. Among his cases was a father who had
come out of prison after giving his daughter a baby. The law
would not allow them to live in the same house, though they had
recommenced sexual relations. The probation officer was happy
so long as the girl remained on the pill. I talked to him at night
and most of our conversation was on my favorite subject. One
night, when we were both excited, he asked for a bottle. I put
screens round his bed and put the bottle under the bedclothes. I
took hold of his penis, which was exceptionally large, and held it
for a few moments. It became such an erection that it would not
enter the bottle. I began to masturbate him gently, and when I felt
him go rigid, I kissed him as I felt his semen spurt along his
shaft. I caught most of his semen in the bottle and our lips parted.
He said, "Thank you, s****r." I replied, "Oh, b*****r," and a sexual
link was established. As he got better, I had intercourse with
him many times and we always called each other s****r and
But my principal fantasies have always been about my father. I
was an only c***d and had a good home, receiving lots of
affection from my parents, especially my father. He has, since I
was about eight years old, been my fantasy lover during
Dad went to work very early, six days a week, and as a c***d,
when I went to my parents’ bed in the mornings, it was only on
Sundays that both parents were in bed. This particular Sunday
morning, I know I must have been eight, because the Sunday
papers carried news of a hotel being bombed in Jerusalem, and
this was in the summer of 1946. I was in bed only a short while
with my parents when my mother decided to get up and go to a
nearby farmhouse for some fresh milk. Alone in bed with Dad, I
had a wrestling match with him. I remember enjoying the
cuddles and embraces as Dad tried to subdue me and then he
decided, I suppose, to let me win. He lay on his back, his
pajamas were undone, my own nightie was up around my waist,
and when I straddled and sat on my father, my naked pubic area
came down on my Dad’s very large and, I now know, erect penis.
It was like sitting astride a broom handle. At first it lay flat
against my Dad’s tummy. I rocked my bottom back and forward
while Dad lay very still. It was at this precise moment I learned
to masturbate. Eventually Dad reached for a hankie and rolled me
off him. He got out of bed and dressed in the bathroom. I
continued to lie in bed and touch myself lovingly with my fingers.
I then began to do this all the time in bed or when I was alone in
the house, always thinking of that hard thing Daddy had, and
how nice it would be to feel it between my legs again. But this
was not to happen. Every other Sunday morning I went to my
parents’ bed, but Dad was already up and about. As I began to
learn more about sex from other k**s at school, I became more
adventurous in my fantasies, until they settled into a set pattern
when I was almost thirteen.
It was at this age that I was playing around with a slightly
older girl. She talked a lot about sex and one day told me her big
secret, that was having sex with a much older married b*****r.
She told me what the word "i****t" meant; part of the sex she
explained was fellatio. She said how she loved to do this to her
b*****r, and how he sometimes went down on her privates as
With this new information buzzing in my brain, I was out for a
walk with my Dad one Sunday afternoon. Deep in the woods he
decided he wanted to urinate and did so against a tree. But he
turned toward me before he put his penis back in his trousers,
and I gazed for a few loving seconds at my Dad’s beautiful
monster. It has remained the main erotic feature of my
masturbatory fantasies ever since.
All I have to do is imagine myself walling in a silent woods,
and I can almost feel that my Dad is somewhere else in that
woods, and that if I can almost hold my breath long enough,
we’ll meet. The way I meet him is always the same. I turn a
corner or come around a tree, and there he is, with his back to
me, peeing against a tree. Then he turns around toward me, his
penis still out and being held in his hand to guide the stream of
pee. I find this too exciting to write about even now, and find
myself thinking about my Dad even in real life.
Please open up the subject of i****t. Is there any cure? Is there
the same risk of prosecution in this permissive age? I know I
can’t hold out much longer. I’m certain that if I tried this
experiment, the shame would kill me, but other times what
frightens me even more is the idea that I would become even
more deeply involved with him. [Letter]
I’m in my apartment. I’m not really a call girl, but I am
certainly someone who is experienced in the sexual arts. The
doorbell rings and it is this father and his son. The father has
been a lover of mine and I have given hire what no other woman
has: I have given him the ultimate in sexual pleasure. (I am a
giver, I mean, I think of myself as a giver in both real life and
fantasy; that’s what I mean when I say I’m not a call girl in this
fantasy: I don’t get paid for it.) So the father comes in and says,
"This is my f******n-year-old son, and I want him to be as adept
as I am, as I think I am, and I want you to teach him everything
you know."
So the son and I begin, the father sitting there watching as I
undress the boy, caress him, totally initiate him. But it’s not the
boy that excites me in this fantasy, it isn’t the idea of having a
young boy, it’s the idea of being watched by the father. I don’t
know if it’s voyeurism, or if having the father there, having him
bring his son to me, is some kind of sexual approval. Or if it’s
having him watch the son, watch me with the son. Part of the
excitement is that he’s brought the son to me. That of all the
women in the world, he has picked me to initiate the boy. Or
maybe the real turn-on is i****t. Because I also like to
fantasizef****y orgies. Not my f****y, but whole families,
mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons, all come to this flat of
mine. Yes, my husband is here, too, but a faceless husband.
Everybody performs on everybody: The mothers show me what
they’ve been doing to their daughters, and to their sons; and the
fathers to the daughters…everybody! And it’s a very happy
scene, very happy, very sensual. The f****y that fucks together
stays together…I guess that’s the message. [Taped interview]
I was pregnant when I got married at s*******n. But as I’d
begn fucking when I was f******n, I’d had a good’, three years of
fun playing around on my own…all of which I owe to my two
b*****rs. One was a year older than me and the other a year
younger. What happened was one day they found me messing
about quite innocently with some boys at school. They
blackmailed me, threatening all sorts of things; they said that if I
didn’t go all the way with those boys – and let them watch –
they’d, tell our parents what I’d been up to. Since what I’d been
up to was far more innocent than what they wanted me to do, I
don’t know why I gave in to their threats. I suppose because I
quite simply wanted to be fucked. I remember; my b*****rs
standing on the sidelines, instructing the other boys how to "do"
me (we were all virgins at that point), and I remember to this day
the combination of fear and: excitement that their presence added
to what was happening. Although neither of my b*****rs ever
entered me themselves, they do in my fantasies, they always
After that blackmail episode I used to lie awake at nights,
alone in my bed at home, and imagine that my b*****rs were
creeping through the house toward my room. Every sound in the
quiet house was like their footsteps. Often I would imagine the
two of them coming fore me together. They would get into the
bed on either side of me. I remember one night in particular,
when I was just past f******n, when I was lying there, thinking of
my oldest b*****r’s prick – I had, of course, seen it – and
imagining it going into me and growing in me. Suddenly I could
not seem to control myself, and I was certain that the noise I was
making – I was actually whimpering out loudwas bound to wake
my parents up. But I put my hand over my mouth – imagining it
was my youngest b*****r, while I masturbated with the other
hand – imagining that was my older b*****r. I seemed to be
flogging myself almost into a state of u*********sness. The more
I thought about how wrong the whole act was that I was
imagining, the more exciting it became.
Even to this day when I’m being fucked – and I’m fifty-one – I
imagine one of my b*****rs standing over mejust as it really
happened that time they f***ed me – while I pretend it is the other
one fucking me. The one standing has his prick exposed, and I
play with it (while the other is inside me) until he comes all over
my face. Then they switch positions and we continue until we are
all satisfied.
Sometimes I include my b*****rs’ wives in my fantasies,
making it a larger f****y scene, and I imagine the pleasure my
husband could give those women while I’m having it off with
their husbands, my darling b*****rs. But usually it’s just me and
the boys. Are you shocked? You shouldn’t be; more of this sort of
thing goes on in reality than you imagine. I know. And not just in
poor families, as mine was. b*****rs and s****rs…well, it
happens in the best of families. [Conversation]
 Nice friendly doggies are everywhere. Even if you don’t
have one, the neighbors do. And Rover is a more perfect
gentleman than most: he’ll never look surprised at something you
may ask him to do, never make you feel ashamed, and will never,
never talk. Is it surprising then that of all a****ls, dogs star most
frequently in female sexual fantasies, and that with good old
Rover around the house all the time, dog fantasies are the ones
most often acted out in reality?
Dogs bring a very important, blameless quality to fantasy: it’s
never your fault, or the dog’s either, really; doggies have such
big, naturally inquisitive noses, and before you can do anything
about it, doggies’ big wet tongues automatically dart out and lick
anything that smells "that way." That’s putting it in simple
primer language, which is just where it all begins – with little
girls with private parts that no one, possibly not even the little
girl herself, has ever touched. The nice f****y bowwow comes
along, sniffsniff, and presses the buzzer. Zing! The first sexual
thrill of a lifetime has been touched off by Rover. It doesn’t
matter whether the little girl lets him continue (and more do than
you’d think, I bet); the memory of that first lick of pleasure can
stay with a woman for life. Later, hopefully, when she has
discovered with a loving man or through masturbation the full
potential of her clitoris, the dog with his remembered, natural
expertise (if she had let him continue), or with her imaginative
fantasizing of it (if she had not), can remain an exciting sexual
variation, laced with all the taboo quality that only the silent
complicity of an a****l can bring.
As for the other popular f****y pet, cats, well, my research
indicates that they just don’t make it as sexual fantasy pets.
Perhaps because they aren’t sniffers, or their tongues are too
small, or they don’t have that very male member hanging down
(oh, so visibly) between their legs – an image, especially with its
aroused "red tip" that is evocative and exciting to women in
reality and fantasy. As Libby put it: "My lover has suggested that
we rub cod liver oil on my clitoris and let our cat lick it off. This
idea does not appeal to me. A dog, maybe, but not a cat." But
obvious studs like donkeys and bulls, with their not-to-be missed
pricks, are another story.
With the farmyard a****ls there is no licking, no clitoral
stimulation either in fantasy or fact. I don’t think there are many
women who have actually been fucked by a bull or a donkey,
either – though it is supposed to be not entirely unknown at
"stag" (ah!) dinners. With barnyard studs, imagined or not, it’s
all about the visible turn-on of the prick, the incredible size of it
more than anything. Imagine something that big – which you
reacted to with such fascination, at least the first time you saw it,
even if you almost immediately glanced away with
embarrassment – imagine that penetrating you! How can a
woman look at a prick that big and not imagine it going into her?
It’s like looking at a racing car and ignoring the thrill of speed. I
don’t think it’s literally a desire to be fucked by these a****ls,
simply an attempt to imagine what it would be like to have so
much prick "filling" you up. In fantasy and reality, women
repeatedly refer to "being filled"; perhaps it’s a woman’s way of
expressing her sexual desire for more. But since everyone knows
that unless the man is abnormally small, it isn’t penis size that
really matters, I think this female cry only uses size as a kind of
visible metaphor to express a desire for greater sex, completer
sex, the essence of sex. Advertisers have found that the public
responds when they call their product "the coffee-ier coffee" and
"the chocolate-ier chocolate." Should it be any surprise then that
women desire sexier sex? 
I often have this fantasy when I’m alone, or with time on my
hands, or even when I’m making love with my husband.
I am alone in the house. My husband has left for work. I begin
my housework downstairs, clearing the dishes from the dining
room into the kitchen. I take off my nightgown and housecoat
and work in the nude. While I work, the neighbor’s dog follows
me. He always comes over to visit. I take no notice of him, but
his wet nose and warm breath move between my legs whenever I
pause. Briefly I will let my legs part, and his tongue will dart out
and lick me while I continue my chores as though he weren’t
even there. I keep moving about, not giving him or me too much.
Slowly, as if not noticing, I let him have more: now two licks,
increasing to three, four, his nose burrowing into my privates as I
allow him to get at me for longer and longer periods. Suddenly he
tires of the game and stops following, just as I have finished
cleaning all the downstairs rooms. Except the kitchen. I always
save the kitchen for last.
Quickly I call him as I go into the kitchen, and when he’s in I
close the door so he can’t get out. Now I speed up. I don’t want
him to lose interest. I get down a bowl and a box of Betty
Crocker chocolate cake, my husband’s favorite. I mix up the
batter quickly, and put half the mixture into a cake tin so we’ll
have at least a one-layer cake for dessert that night. The other half
I smear across my breasts, and as I bend down to put the cake in
the oven I let the dog lick the batter from my breasts. With my
finger I sc**** up batter and keep spreading it on my nipples so
that he lingers on them, lapping at them until they ache, until I
ache. Now I go to the refrigerator, take out the butter for the
icing, and from the cupboard I take down the sugar and a small
bottle of Bovril. I sit on the kitchen chair to blend the sugar and
butter, right beside the kitchen table with the bowl in my lap. I
smear my cunt inside and out with the Bovril, and as I stir the
sugar and butter, the dog nestles between my legs and licks me. I
hug the bowl to me, working on it, smoother and smoother. I am
slumped in the chair now, my legs spread far apart, the large
bowl obscuring the dog. The warm sweet smell of cake baking
fills the kitchen. Inside the oven, through the glass partition in the
oven door, I can see the cake slowly rising. My finger dips again
and again into the Bovril jar, smearing my cunt so that the dog
licks harder and harder, going from side to side now, excitedly
working around me as he might worry a bone. The sweet smell of
cake fills my head as I imagine the bright red thing of the dog’s
slipping in and out of his penis sheath. The cake is getting larger
and larger in the oven, so that it seems about to fill the oven, to
push open the door and explode into the room, engulfing us in its
sweet warmth. I pray that the dog will not stop and that the cake
will not explode all over my nice clean kitchen before my
husband gets home, before I am ready, before I have finished,
before the dog has finished…. [Written down on request]
My first sexual feeling that I can remember was one day, while
playing with my dog, I suddenly wanted it to lick my cunt. But as
suddenly as I thought it, I pushed the dog away and felt very
guilty. Now, years later, I do rather fancy at times having sex
with a dog, or letting it lick me. But only in my mind that is, the
idea of it excites me, but I would never actually do anything
about it. [Letter]
Once when I was about fifteen, I went downstairs in the
morning to get breakfast completely naked. It was summer and
my parents were out, and it just felt good to walk around that big
empty house naked. The dog was in the kitchen and he woke up
and began to bark, then he started to nuzzle up and sniff me (he
was only a young dog, not very well trained and a bit stupid). I
suddenly realized that the dog had this huge hard-on, and he kept
trying to climb up me. I think I was fascinated and I kept
stroking him. Half of me wanted to let him – let him do what? at
that age I didn’t really know what he’d do – and the other half
was ashamed. But God, it was a strong impulse, to close my eyes
and let his nose go where it would. I’ve always wondered what it
would have been like if I hadn’t got on with my breakfast. I’ve
elaborated the picture a thousand different ways, complete with
the dog’s prick inside me, and my f****y walking in on the
scene…you name it. [Letter]
My fantasy begins with two men breaking into my cottage,
making me dress, and carrying me off blindfolded. I end up in a
big farmhouse, and my blindfold is taken off. I find myself in a
room in which there are three couples, including a man and
woman who put donkeys to stud. I find out that they are part of a
group who hold wife-swapping, free-for-all parties every month
at each house in turn. It is the responsibility of each hostess to
provide sexual entertainment.
I am stood up in the middle of the room and they hold a mock
court. I am accused of being a peeping Tom, of watching the man
and woman manually mate two donkeys. This is a terrible
offense, and I am found guilty and sentenced to be fucked by the
donkey and also to be the slave girl at the party. I must do
everyone’s bidding or be whipped.
All the couples are high on d**gs and drink and they carry me
off to the stable where the donkey is; it is very well lighted. They
strip me naked and make me put on long black nylons and a
suspender belt and lead me over to a low table, where I am made
to kneel on all fours and open my legs wide. There are straps
fastened to the table, and they put these around my arms and legs
so I cannot move. There have obviously been other girls here
before me. To the cries and catcalls of the couples, the woman
leads the donkey up behind me. She has pulled into place a
wooden frame above my backside and lifts the donkey’s front
legs onto this. Then I feel someone spreading grease around my
cunt and right up the hole. They must have played with the
donkey’s prick to make it stiff, as I feel the hard stiff shaft against
my ass as they pull it toward me. I feel the long knob end against
the lips of my cunt. It f***es them apart and begins to enter my
hole as the woman guides it up me. I let out a cry of pain as it
stretches the walls of my cunt. Inch by inch it slowly goes in and
begins painfully moving up and back, in and out. The donkey’s
prick has been well greased, and after a few abrasive thrusts the
fucking rhythm becomes easier. When they have about six inches
of the donkey’s prick up into me, they hold me still while the
donkey pushes his massive prick up and down my cunt just like a
piston: I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I am being
fucked by a donkey!
Nimble fingers from the crowd feel around my cunt to feel the
donkey’s prick sliding up and down in me. The fingers begin
massaging my hard clitoris, which is hanging down with
excitement, and I am really excited now. Hands finger my vagina
and breasts, squeezing and fondling them, and just as I am
overcome with excitement and reaching my orgasm, the donkey
gives a sound. The woman knows what is happening and holds
the donkey’s prick inside my cunt. I feel it throbbing in me as it
begins tossing off, and she puts her hand around the entrance to
my cunt. She can feel the donkey’s throbbing prick pumping its
hot spunk into me. The donkey has just beaten me to it, as I was
just on the point of having my own climax when he did. My cunt
is on fire as his juices squirt up me. After a while I feel the prick
getting soft, and immediately the woman pulls the donkey’s prick
out of my cunt. Immediately my cunt is unplugged, the donkey’s
spunk pours out of my cunt in a stream. I look down between my
open legs and see the juices streaming out just like a waterfall.
Someone holds a basin between my legs to catch the juices. My
cunt feels so big after being stretched by the donkey’s prick; now
it feels like my insides are dripping out. It is so sore and I feel the
dripping will never stop. Then someone kneels down behind me
and begins to lick my cunt dry of the donkey’s spunk and quickly
to drink all of my own juices which now pour out. [Letter]
 The black man is cut out for sexual fantasy. Everything
about him, real and imagined, throws fuel on the fire: He’s
forbidden because of his color; his cock has been endowed with
mythic proportions; and the story’s been around for years that his
expertise at fucking comes close to black magic.
All black people are promiscuous…white people think.
They’re always fucking or they’re about to. They reek of
sexuality. The most loaded question in the contemporary
bedroom after "What are you thinking about?" is "Have you ever
made it with a black man/woman?" Most (white) women
haven’t, and for obvious reasons. But in their fantasies they do,
and everything that worked against it ever happening in reality
adds mileage to the fantasy.
The first thing a woman does in the black-man fantasy is to
remove the guilt by making it a ****. Being ****d allows her to
throw her (helpless) self more wholeheartedly into the act, so that
every determined thrust can be read as one of struggling protest.
After that, the black man’s rumored skill and size can go to work
on her. (I can’t help wondering how rough all this advance
billing must be on the black man in reality; it’s a great deal to
live up to, whether or not his desire for the forbidden white
woman is as strong as the real cases of alleged **** would have
you believe. Whenever I read of a white woman yelling "****!" I
half suspect her cry was more an accusation of disappointment
than a protest against her black assailant.)
Size is the real power of the black-man fantasy. It’s never just
a black man, it’s a big black man. Never just a black cock but an
enormous black cock. Though size is everything, I don’t think the
fantasist wants to really be fucked by a black cock the size of a
baseball bat…unless pain is an added turn-on. As with the
fantasies of stud a****ls, I think the idea of more cock, of so
much cock, is an expression of the wish for more of everything
sexual; the exaggerated size, the attack by something bigger than
life, represent the wish to know something bigger than her life.
She doesn’t want to have her cunt enlarged, but to have her
whole sexuality enlarged; to be filled, yes, but to be sexually
fulfilled too – to know more, to feel more, to have more novelty
and experience under her belt, thanks to the life-enhancing
mythical prick and promise of the sexy black man.
Someone has defined a puritan as one who is plagued by the
fear that someone, somewhere, is having a good time. When it
comes to sex, we secretly think we may be the self-inhibited
puritans ourselves, after all, and that someone, somewhere, is
having a better sexual time. In fantasy, the "big" black man
promises to take us to that final exploration of sex, the most
absolute orgasmic time it is humanly possible to experience. And
then, forever after, at least we’ll have known what "it" is "all
 Margie is a former model, now married and living in the
suburbs. Although she loves the creature comforts her husband
can easily afford to provide, I think she misses her bachelor girl
days in the city. She does the usual things suburban women do to
keep themselves from going crazy with boredom, but the last
time we met she said, "If I had it all to do over again …" and
I have this fantasy usually in the bathtub, masturbating either
under the faucet or using the hand shower. (I can’t help having
the idea that all across suburbia, at about four p.m., all us ladies
– the smart ones – are lying in our tubs or on our chaise longues,
playing dreamily with ourselves as we anticipate the imminent
arrival of our husbands, who will probably be too tired to lay us
that night anyway.)
I’ve never had a black man make love to me. In the days when
I was single, black wasn’t as chic as it is now, our eye wasn’t
attuned to it as a sexual turn-on yet. Now when I see an attractive
black man, I look at him with as much interest as I would an
attractive white man. More. But the idea that there is a black man
in the fantasy probably comes more from the old myth about
black men being bigger than from the current black-is-beautiful
fad. Because you see, size is very important in this fantasy. The
fantasy is really very simple: As I lie in my tub in the warm,
Estee Lauder perfumed water, with the water from the faucet
playing over my clitoris, I close my eyes and imagine that a black
man, a very handsome Harry Belafonte type, is standing over me,
peeing on me, directing it right on that little spot. His jet is as
warm and powerful as the real jet of water, and he teases me with
it, moving it around and around, up and down, just as I tease
myself with the bathtub jet of water. I lie there, becoming more
and more excited, and praying that he won’t stop, that he won’t
run out of water, which I suppose is why I’ve made him black,
because they’re so big, or supposed to be, and I need a kind of
black Gulliver to quench my fires. Finally, I’m begging him not
to stop, which he loves, and just as I climax, somehow his jet
turns to warm semen as he comes too, right on me.
Before I was married I went out with a real crazy guy, not
black, but very far out. I remember once lying on the beach, there
was no one else around, and I was lying on my stomach. He
stood up, and the first thing I knew he was peeing on my bare
back. I screamed and jumped up, but I was laughing – I was mad
about him – and our tussle on the beach ended up with him
inside me, needless to say. I have never wanted to be peed on in
reality, before or since, but this idea of the very well-endowed
black man peeing for ages onto my clitoris…wow, it’s a winner
every time. [Conversation]
I masturbate a great deal when my husband is at sea and this
is the scene I think of most:
I picture myself making love to a beautiful, large-breasted
Negress. I strip her and plant kisses all over her beautiful body,
bringing her to a climax by kissing her vagina. She then proceeds
to make love to me. Then when we are both relaxing, she asks me
if I have ever had sex with a dog. When I say no, she calls over
her large dog and opens her legs and lets the dog lick her vagina.
She lies back and soon has another climax. She then puts the dog
between my legs, and as I am getting close to a climax with the
licking, she puts her hand between the dog’s legs and gives him
an erection. She eases my hips over the edge of the bed and helps
the dog to mount me, bringing me to another climax. At this
point I usually reach a real climax. [Letter]
I have always found sl**ping with Negro men very satisfactory
(even when it isn’t satisfactory) because they are so sexy by
virtue of their forbiddenness…I mean…wow, if your mother
found out…so the whole Negro number is a nice fantasy when I
haven’t got one to sink my teeth into. I am really good at accents
(this is really going to sound freaky, but I .am trying to be
honest), so sometimes while I am whiling away an afternoon
jerking off, I think about some really fantastic black guy I know
(maybe it’s Melvin van Peebles or somebody like that), you
know, bright and sexy and a little scary, and I talk to myself in
spade talk. Doesn’t that really sound stupid? I don’t care…you’re
my friend, and if you must know, you must know that’s all there
is to it.
Let me see again…I really get too hopped up and confused and
can’t think when I try to about these things.: I shall make myself
a cup of Sanka and think about it …
I think. Just cleaned the house…the vacuum cleaner always
gives me the fantasies.
I was talking about Negroes. There’s a whole number one can
do on one’s self about them (they are never really so good at it in
person as they are in my head), which is part of our gross
national guilt about black/white relations: I kind of like it when I
imagine some heavenly looking black guy telling me I’m nothing
but a white bitch. I feel like a perfect idiot saying that, but it’s
true that it’s very exciting to me, probably since the black-white
love affair thing is always more exciting because of the taboos
connected with it. Dialogue is important anyway in lovemaking,
and black guys can usually come up with some very exciting talk.
 As there isn’t much call for this room in the House of
Fantasy, I’d put it in the attic at the top of the stairs. So far I
haven’t made any value judgments on these fantasies – a woman
is entitled to her thoughts, and it’s not the content of the fantasy
that matters anyway, but the emotions it releases – but I do feel a
certain female smugness at women’s seeming lack of sexual
interest in young boys. Could it mean that women, traditionally
the sexual passivists, have less need of the sexual reassurance
men have always sought in young girls? And if so, will all this
change when women have caught up with men and find
themselves sharing, along with the opportunities to explore and
lead, the self-doubts that go with initiating anything, especially
I don’t know why so many men prefer very young girls.
I could give a dozen easy reasons, of course, but that’s a man’s
argument to make, not mine. Mine is that I think most women
prefer the experience of a knowing lover to the superficial
pleasures of seducing a younger one. For a woman, even this
superficial satisfaction is lessened by the fact that it is almost
embarrassing to see or be an older woman with a conspicuously
younger man. A woman may occasionally like to take the
initiative in bed, but sexually she prefers an equal, at least.
I’ve been phrasing my ideas on the relative needs of men and
women as speculation; if the dogmatists now raise the old excuse
that it’s different for men, that they need more sexual bolstering
up than women because they have their constant and, above all,
verifiable limp or stiff barometer of their virility, I’ll yawn. I
dismiss them as old fashioned. A woman can feel just as sexually
inadequate as a man, or just as hot and eager and in need of a
good fuck as he. But for whatever reasons, it would seem that the
image of her desire, her fantasy, is seldom a young, i.e.,
inexperienced, boy. However, for some women, like the ones
whose fantasies follow, I’m wrong, and that’s okay too. 
This is the first time I have ever answered an advertisement,
but I was intrigued by your request.
You ask about sexual fantasies. I was beginning to think that I
was "not right in the head," because I must have my own fantasy,
otherwise sexual intercourse is impossible for me to enjoy. My
husband is very patient and willing to indulge in any variation we
can think of, but I very rarely think of him when actually engaged
in intercourse. I think of my past lovers, of whom there are many,
mostly under eighteen years of age (I myself am twentynine). I
wish myself into an erotic situation: what I want mostly is to
have several young men, about sixteen years old, tied up in a row,
all naked with their penises flaccid, and walk along the row
playing with them until their cocks stand high. Then each one has
to put his fingers inside me when I bend down in front of him.
When they have done this, I suck each cock until they are nearly
ready to come off. This thought gets me really wound up. Then I
see them all playing with their own cocks and shooting their lot
as far as they can. The one who shoots the furthest gets to fuck
me first, and so on down the line. I never get a climax until the
last one puts his tongue on my apex and nib bles it gently. Then I
come all over him. If this fantasy were offered to me in reality,
believe me I would not run from it.
This letter is quite true, and although it was hard to start I’m
glad I have written it. [Letter]
I am thirty-two, married, and have three c***dren. I would say I
am happily married, although my fantasies during sex with my
husband, or during masturbation, invariably involve young boys,
who are either masturbating themselves or being helped by me.
The picture in my mind is of a long line of young boys, as in a
school. And I am the school matron. I order the boys to unzip
themselves and take out their cocks. Then I walk down the line,
stopping at each boy to masturbate him until he is thoroughly
relieved. I don’t know why this gives me so much pleasure. I’m
sure my husband would never understand; how could he if I
don’t? [Letter]
ROOM NUMBER f******n:
 If the Young Boys Room goes in the attic due to a general
lack of interest, then the Fetishists belong in the broken-down
elevator that doesn’t really get anywhere. By fetishists, I’m not
referring to people who go in for black lingerie or even whips as
a preamble to fucking. The fantasies of fetishists like Faith
(below) are what the dream doctors call "aim inhibited," meaning
the fetish is an end in itself.
While I intend this book to be an introduction to the idea that
female sexual fantasies exist and can be talked about, I do not
pretend that my research can in any way be called complete.
Nevertheless it is extensive, and so I think some meaningful
conclusions can be drawn from the fact that Faith’s is the only
fetishist fantasy among all that I’ve collected. This correlates
closely with standard psychoanalytic findings that female
fetishism is rare.
I do not know why this should be so, except for a notion I’ve
talked about earlier: that since women were traditionally put into
the passive role sexually, they never have had to have doubts
about their ability. Inhibited or frigid, perhaps – but there is no
word in the immense English vocabulary which is the exact
female equivalent of impotent. On the other hand, the sexual
distortions of society often f***e men to see every erotic encounter
as a contest, in which the poor guy has to compete, at least
physically, with all the woman’s previous lovers and those still to
come – to say nothing of the imagined demands he may feel she
herself is putting on him; perhaps it is to avoid these pressures
that the fetishist sighs with relief when he can substitute the
symbol for the substance, and settle down with a nice pair of
fluffy, scuffed mules on a cold winter’s night. Are they so
different from Hollywood’s favorite image of our soldiers and
sailors as "regular guys," who randily kiss their dream movie star
good night, when it is only her photo that is present on the wall
above the bed, but who would be paralyzed with embarrassment
if that star should appear in the flesh in that bed? 
I am what is known as a urologenic. Through books and
materials I have been able to more fully understand my sexual
feelings, although it’s rather difficult for me to explain in words
just how I feel. I derive pleasure by seeing, thinking, or hearing
about uncontrollable urination. Every time I think about someone
(especially a man) trying to "hold back" just a little bit longer and
then not being able to make it to the bathroom, I get very excited.
Although I detest v******e extremely, I usually center my
thoughts around "tormenting to the point of urination," but
because of my dislike for v******e and cruelty, I always end the
scene with the tormentor having pity on the victim just as
urination begins. I try not to think of things that would really
hurt, because I get no pleasure out of pain.
It stimulates me sexually to see men, women, c***dren, or
a****ls urinating uncontrollably. Every time I see a c***d being
spanked or a person being beaten or tormented, the first thing I
think of is "I wonder if he’s about to urinate?" I guess I got the
feeling from c***dhood. I had a very rough father and we c***dren
were whipped much more than was necessary. I was very afraid
of him, and it got so that every time he would go to punish me
my legs would get very weak and I would wet myself.
I suppose that’s why I think of tormenting scenes in my
fantasies. I feel as though it’s a sure way to bring on urination.
 Just as many a difficult truth is told in the guise of a joke, so
are women more honest and revealing of themselves in their
sexual fantasies of other women than they are in their real
dealings with one another. Since most women are so blocked in
any physical rapport with one another in ordinary life, it’s no
wonder that the natural warmth and tenderness that one woman
may feel toward another is likely to come out only in fantasy. (For
instance, take the highly stylized kiss which it is allowed for
women who like each other to bestow when meeting, kisses
deliberately ritualized to convey affection without physical
consequences; very often their lips kiss air alone.)
I don’t believe that most of these erotic thoughts of other
women are highly charged fantasies of deeply buried desire, or
that they should necessarily be acted out, any more than I believe
that idle reveries of a New Yorker about green grass, brooks, and
trees really "mean" he secretly wants to be a peasant. But the
erotic imagery of women’s fantasies about other women is indeed
so clearly a projection of how the fantasizer really feels about
herself, what she really wants from both men and women, that I
was tempted to give this room an entire chapter of its own.
Instead, I’ve saved it for the last inhabited room in the present
chapter, because if I’d put Other Women fantasies in a chapter by
itself, it would inevitably have come to be called "The Lesbian
Chapter," and thus sensationalized beyond any hope of clarity or
perspective. In my research, women’s fantasies of other women
are revealed as fantasies like any other – no more, no less.
If women are a mystery to men, they are even more mysterious
to themselves and to one another. I’m convinced that any closer
sexual understanding between men and women must begin
somewhere in an acceptance of the. precise desires women
express in their sexual thoughts of one another. These thoughts of
other women are not nec essarily, to my mind, lesbian thoughts,
nor are all the women who visit this room lesbians. Nor should
they be cheaply dismissed as "latent lesbians," which is how
many of them resignedly sum themselves up: "I suppose all this
means I have a secret desire to be fucked by another woman."
The defeated tone itself is an indictment of the simpleminded
effects of universal d**gstore psychiatry on our age. Maybe she
does, maybe she doesn’t, maybe she is a lesbian, or a bisexual;
and maybe not. But in the end, I don’t care; that’s not the point.
What interests me is that if the emotional openness women
show one another in their fantasies could be extended to reality, I
am sure the result would be, not a soaring increase in lesbianism,
but the contrary: a broader, more meaningful heterosexuality.
And yes, when we have that, more real warmth and honest
affection between women, too. Who knows? In time women may
come up with a new definition of what it is for a woman to have
"normal" physical contact with another woman.
What is repeatedly made clear in what so many of the women
themselves call their "lesbian-type" fantasies is that they are
seeking from other women in their fantasies what they aren’t
getting from their lovers in reality. It’s not the real lesbian
relationship that’s wanted. (Not to the exclusion of the
heterosexual one, anyway; as one woman put it, "I wouldn’t go
out of my way to find a lesbian or female bed partner.") What
they specifically find with other women in fantasy is tenderness,
and complete and experienced arousal of their essentially female
parts, their breasts and their clitorises. When reality is lacking,
who knows more about tenderness, breasts, and clitorises than
women, being women themselves? And what safer area to satisfy
this need than in fantasy?
It’s the most natural thing in the world that, for the same
reason men do, women should turn to women for tenderness.
That they should, for the most part, have to resort to fantasy to do
so is life. Woman, the great giver of tenderness, has always been
on the short end of the tit. Take the great Cocksman’s Guide for
Real Men: Playboy. Where in those seductive pages are men
taught the values of tenderness toward women, and reassured
that giving a woman this instead of a constantly hard prick
makes him no less a man? One might as well impugn Hugh
Hefner’s heterosexuality!
The female breast, symbol of tenderness, is there for men to
cry on, suck on, lie on for life. But how about women? We all
begin on the breast, but little girls are soon turned from their
mother’s breasts into their mothers’ "little s****rs," and sent into a
comfortless world in motherdaughter, look-alike dresses. Dad’s
not much help; not only has he not got a breast, but even his
warm lap and hugging arms all too soon are out of bounds. No
wonder young girls like Bee, whose fantasy follows, develop
schoolgirl crushes on older girls and teachers. And later, when a
young man becomes the acceptable outlet for these sexual needs,
who then can she turn to for tenderness? Most young men are too
preoccupied filling their own sexual requirements for manhood,
which don’t allow much room for tenderness, not necessarily
virility’s best friend. So, a young woman may logically come to
fantasize about another woman (usually with big breasts) who
holds her, perhaps lets her suck on her breasts, and may even
stimulate her sexually, but always, as Tania (below) says, "with a
special gentleness."
Bisexuality is in vogue these days. The best thing about it is
you don’t have to do it, you just have to believe it; the pressure
isn’t on whether you are or aren’t, but on whether you put down
someone who is. The popular idea is that we all have a bit of it in
us. I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. And although I
wouldn’t call a man or a woman a liar who said he/she had never
had a homosexual thought in his/her life, I would wonder how
they managed to get around these recent years blindfolded and
with cotton in their ears.
One last comment on bisexuality, inside and outside of
fantasies. Some women, like Alix, introduce a man into their
fantasies of other women; the bisexuality makes it more
acceptable. For the same reason, as with Celia, the other woman
is sometimes made anonymous. Or the fantasist emphasizes that
she is totally passive with the other woman. Or simply is
watching other women and not involved herself. However they
handle this "other" side of their sexual nature, in fantasy or in
relating it to reality, I have found women to be remarkably candid
in discussing their erotic imaginings of other women.
Conversely, as straightforward with me as women have been
in discussing their sexual thoughts of other women, and as
accepting of themselves for having them, their men have been
just the opposite in regard to their own homosexual thoughts.
Women say that their descriptions of their own erotic fantasies of
other women may even bring a fond smile to their lover’s lips;
homoeroticism between women seems to be acceptable to men,
and indeed is often a sexual turn-on. But any suggestion that the
man might have these same feelings about other men is treated as
an insult or a threat. It’s one thing for women to have this kind of
thoughts, but quite another (ugly, dirty) for a man.
I’ve had this fantasy many times, as often when I’m with a
man as when I’m alone, masturbating. I think the first time I had
it I really was in a steam bath; afterward, I couldn’t wait to get
home to Ted, I was that heated up and ravenous for him. I’ve
never told him about it. Not because I’m ashamed of it or
anything; I have no real desire for another woman, would
probably jump a mile if one approached me "that way." No, I
simply don’t tell him about it because thinking it gives me such
immense pleasure when we’re screwing…and I’d hate to take the
chance of losing that by breaking the secrecy. This is it:
The steam bath is empty. I don’t know this when I first enter,
wrapped in my towel that the gym supplies. The steam is so thick
I can barely find my way to one of the tiled seats, where I sit,
with my feet up, hugging my knees. As my body begins to sweat,
and my eyes become accustomed to the steam, I realize that I am
alone. I begin to fondle myself, to gently stroke myself with my
finger, reaching inside myself for the warm syrup that always
begins when I, or anyone touches me there. But I don’t need the
wetness from inside my body because the sweat and the steam
run down my legs and my pubic hairs, that whole area is
drenched. I have not heard the door to the steambath open. My
eyes have been closed, my mind enveloped in the growing
excitement, and I only realize there is someone else with me
when I hear a noise, quickly look up and see another body on the
tiled slab opposite. I am petrified. Christ, did she see what I was
doing to myself? I am too frightened to move and I pretend that I
am drowsing, closing my eyes again. I lie down full length on the
slab, pulling the towel up so high that it almost covers my face. I
am asl**p, or so I pretend. The next thing I know, a hand is on
my thigh, slowly moving up it. I gasp, hidden beneath my towel.
The hairs on my legs bristle with excitement, part fear…should I
run? But the towel protects me, hides me, and I remain passive. I
leave the problem of another person entering and finding us to
her; she will watch. Her hands are on both my thighs now, slowly
massaging them, her fingers reaching up higher, higher, until
they gently part my legs. I wait for her mouth and she leaves me
thus for endless seconds. My lips beneath the towel now plead
silently – please, please, don’t stop, kiss me, kiss it! Her fingers
have parted me, exposing my clitoris to the warm heat, and it
seems to grow, to expand toward her, reaching for her
mouth…and then suddenly, softly, tenderly her lips are on me,
her tongue warm against me, moving. Half of my mind can’t help
but wonder what will happen now if we are discovered, but I
have no choice. I am hers. I cannot leave those fingers, that
mouth. The sweat pours over my face, the steam swirls all around
me, I feel, have felt nothing of her but her hands and her mouth.
Otherwise she is formless. I can feel the syrup pouring from me
now, and she drinks it, her saliva, her sweat, my sweat all
mingling in my cunt. Her lips are so full, and her tongue so
warm, slowly licking me, all the way from my ass up to my
clitoris, but stopping on it, lingering on it, then her tongue
moving in small circles all around it, teasing it, but always
returning, and when the tongue returns, the lips too, the full kiss
again and again. The heat is so intense, and my own excitement,
I am afraid I will faint, that I will scream out. I bite hard on the
towel, raising my buttocks suddenly so that her whole tongue is
in my cunt when I come. [Written down on request]
I have never had a homosexual experience, but I do have many
lesbian fantasies. While my boy friend is making love to me I
often fantasize about my best friend. We are not lesbians but we
are extremely close (she is twentysix, I am nineteen). Anyway,
the fantasizing begins when my boy friend starts kissing me. I
pretend it is her. She kisses me. deeply and passionately. Then
she gets on top of me and begins kissing my breasts and gently
biting my nipples. Then I kiss her nipples and start sucking them,
all the while in her arms. She tells me how much she loves me
and how she wants me to love her as much. I tell her I do. Then
she kisses me again. Slowly she licks my breasts all over and
then, still slowly, with much help from me, she spreads my legs
apart. She licks my inner thighs and then she finds my clitoris.
She knows that is my extra sensitive part and she takes great care
as she licks it. Her tongue is very soft. Then she spreads my legs
and places her buttocks between my legs. Both our clits are
protruding now from the licking and she gently rubs hers on mine
until we both reach orgasm. All the while I’m imagining this, my
boy friend is making love to me and I reach one orgasm after
At other times I fantasize that my boy friend is having
intercourse with me while I lie in her arms and she kisses my
breasts. With the two of them working on me, I soon come.
As you can see, lesbian fantasies play a great part in my
lovemaking. Although I have never had any lesbian tendencies,
perhaps deep down I’m bisexual. Who knows? It’s the only
answer I’ve been able to come up with as to why I have such
But not all my fantasies are of the lesbian type. I masturbate
fairly frequently, and when I do I fantasize. I picture a very
good-looking man with a beautiful body. He is standing about six
feet away from me and he has a huge throbbing penis. I am
strapped to my bed and I plead with him to make love to me –
but he refuses. He just stands there with his huge erection. I can’t
get at him because all my limbs are strapped. Gradually he comes
closer to me until he is right beside me. Then he stands on the
bed above my face – one leg on either side of meand slowly
squats until "it" can be touched with the tip of my tongue. But he
will not let me take it in my mouth. Still squatting, he slowly
backs up and rubs his penis on my huge breasts and my nipples
continue to rise, hard and proud. Then he rubs his penis on my
inner thighs and finally on my clitoris. Finally we have
intercourse. By that time I have reached an orgasm.
Another one of my favorite fantasies is to imagine myself
being the focal point in group sex. While men take their turns
having intercourse with me, the women are kissing me and
playing with my breasts. Everyone is telling me how much they
love me and I am brimming with love for them. [Letter]
I do not now have lesbian fantasies, but for a period of time
when I was a teen-age girl, I did. I had a young, pretty female
teacher on whom I guess I had a crush. She was very kind and
nice to me, and we had many long talks after school. When she
found out from me that my parents thought sex was bad and that
they told me nothing about the "facts of life," she got me a little
pamphlet that gave the basic information. She also answered a
few of my questions about what I learned from that pamphlet. I
did not learn any of the details about sex, but at least I learned
where babies came from. Anyway, as I said, I had a crush on this
teacher, and I would sometimes fantasize about her. I dreamed
that we would undress each other, and she would hold me in her
arms. Then I would kiss her breasts and suck on her nipples as
though I were a baby. Other times, I would fantasize about taking
a bath or a shower with her, and I would have thoughts about
washing and drying her entire body. When she got married, my
crush was broken, and these dreams stopped. [Letter]
I have had an occasional lesbian fantasy, but only about a girl
friend feeling my breasts; nothing more than that. [Conversation]
I don’t think you would call my lesbian fantasies "suppressed
wish fulfillment." I have often wondered what it would be like to
be aroused by a woman, to be engaged in foreplay with her, with
her kissing my breasts and sucking on my nipples, and also to
have her play with my clitoris. I wouldn’t want her to suck or
kiss it, just play with it – and not gently. [Conversation]
I must be very selfish, but I believe it would take quite a lot to
get me involved in "swinging" or group sex. I can’t stand the
thought of my fiance making love to someone else. I have,
however, imagined watching another woman perform fellatio on
him and later joining the two of them. However, even this
culminates in him and me having intercourse. [Letter]
Mary Beth
I enjoy a full sex life with my husband. Sometimes, however, I
do have lesbian fantasies, but it is difficult to describe them. I
think of best friends (past girl friends) and being in bed with
them, just touching and caressing. That is as far as the fantasies
ever go, although I would like to meet a lesbian and experiment.
I have thought about experimenting, finding a woman to make
love with, to see if I really feel that way or not. My fantasies are
rather muddled. Sometimes I think of an older attractive woman
(feminine looking, not butch) seducing me. And then other times
I think of a girl of my own age group, and in this case neither of
us is seducing. I suppose you would call it mutual exploration. I
told my boy friend about this (I can discuss everything openly
and frankly with him). He said he thought it quite natural, but
when I asked him if he had ever wanted to sl**p with another
man, he said, no, lesbian love seemed more acceptable than
homosexual love. [Letter]
In my lesbian fantasies, I can never put an identity to my
partner. She is no one I know and has no face or personality. In
my dreams she is just a female body who takes most of the
initiative, while I am merely passive and just lie there as she
makes love to me. I fantasize that she plays with my breasts and
sucks them while masturbating herself. Then she performs
cunnilingus on me. We do not kiss, and I do not touch her
genitals in these fantasies; however, I do play with her breasts. I
often engage in this fantasy while making it with my husband,
particularly when he performs cunnilingus on me. [Letter]
Once I had a lesbian fantasy. I hardly remember it, but it was
with my very closest friend. I was the aggressor. It was a
beautiful experience. [Conversation]
I am not lesbian in any way – I enjoy men too much but when
it is necessary for me to masturbate, I visualize any girl with big
breasts and proud nipples standing over my face so that I can see
into her cunt. My hands play with her buttocks and while I do
this she is sucking the cock of the man. This makes her cunt wet
and she drips on my face. Another girl is opening my knees and
putting a cold bottle in my cunt while gently pushing her finger
in my behind. When the girl standing over me brings the man off,
she sits down on my face and I stick my tongue up into her cunt
and lick it, while she writhes in ecstasy. Meanwhile, the man lifts
my backside up and pushes his rockhard prick right up my
backside, and the other girl works the bottle in my cunt faster and
faster, backward and forward, while I put my finger up her cunt
and play with her apex until she shoots her beautiful juice out of
her marvelous cunt. [Letter]
I have occasionally fantasized about two of my friends, both of
whom have very womanly figures. I do not mean "womanly" in
the Raquel Welch sense. That sort of body doesn’t appeal to me.
Rather, they are soft-looking, buxom women. I would imagine
myself as a man making love to one of these women. The breasts
were very important for excitation. I should add that I’ve had no
real experience with women, am married and prefer it this way.
I am nineteen, a secretary, and am due to be married this year.
My fiance and I do not have sexual intercourse. We have been
going out for just three years. We do, however, frequently have
oral sex and are looking forward to an extremely happy and
varied sex life together.
In sex, I often think of someone else (no one I know),
especially if I am not finding it easy to reach orgasm. I find it
particularly exciting to think of another woman and generally this
"does the trick." Generally, I make up situations – strip clubs
(watching or performing); slave girl (!) ; anything where I am
f***ed to take off my clothes and make love. Sometimes I
imagine there is just one other woman, other times that there are
two women and a man.
I get quite turned on by female nudity or pictures (I always
read erotic literature before masturbating, to give myself ideas!),
and it automatically shows up in fantasies. The women in my
fantasies are not friends; I just picture a faceless woman’s body. I
don’t think I actually imagine touching her. I just enjoy the
thought of the naked body. I prefer to imagine she is touching
When I was a little girl, about eight, I remember always
bullying my best friend into playing games where we had to
pretend to take off our clothes and the "wicked man" would make
us walk in the street, or the inevitable school situations where we
would f***e each other to do things. I remember when I was
about ten, wanting to be a stripper…and there may have been
some kind of intimate contact with my girl friend, but I really
can’t remember. I did have quite sexy ideas…like wanting
another girl to dry me down after showering, or being f***ed in
various ways to take my clothes off.
I would be interested to know how many women (what
percentage) are bisexual, as opposed to men. I can imagine
myself to be, but I suspect that my apparent interest in women,
having read through my letter, is just objective and a form of
extra stimulation.
I have told my fiance about my lesbian fantasies and he is
neither jealous nor angry. We discuss them regularly. He does not
fantasize himself, but quite understands why I do. He considers it
quite natural, in fact. We have great sexual compatibility and
understanding, and I only wish every couple in the world felt the
way we do about each other. [Letter]
Although photos of male homosexuals always excited me, the
thought of lesbianism did not, and was indeed repulsive to me.
However, lately I have watched myself do a complete turnabout
after reading some of the recent permissive literature. I was and
probably still am very naive. I had never condemned
homosexuality; I simply never concerned myself with it. Then an
attraction to another woman developed this year. We have so far
only talked, but I feel more will come of it. My husband is a very
f***eful and brutal man. I find her gentleness refreshing and feel
as if my relationship with her would be very satisfying. So now
she is in my fantasies. Just the thought of touching or holding her
excites me. No lovemaking, just closeness and gentleness.
I must have been a strange c***d, because the first time I
remember being aroused was when reading a marriage manual
just before being married at eighteen. I married the only man I
had ever dated. I have come to believe that I must be dull. It is
my husband, not me, who thinks up different things to vary our
sex life. Often he likes to talk dirty to me. I rather like this and
wouldn’t really mind being treated like a whore…an expensive
one. But he enjoys brutality almost to the point of ****. I hate
rough treatment. I like to be oh, so gentle, and won by kindness
and consideration. Although he is rough, he is very controlled,
and I often think how much I’d like to tease him to the point
where he’d blow his cool and just do what he really wanted,
instead of all the deliberate rough stuff. He is a very hard person
to bring to climax.
I used to think I was strange, unlike other women. Now I am
beginning to believe I’m not as bad as I thought all these years.
I am curious to know if I have any latent homosexual
tendencies; perhaps I’m just bisexual.
Most often, during sex, my thoughts drift to other women. I
either imagine myself being made love to by a woman, or
watching my mate made love to by another woman, or a
combination of the two. He and I have discussed this and he
confesses that this is often the case with him too. He encourages
my fantasies by acting out his own. He very often talks to me as
though he were r****g me, which encourages another type of
fantasy within me. I begin to fantasize that I’m tied, helpless, and
at the mercy of this very aggressive man. As a result of this I
begin to imagine that a woman enters the scene, dismisses my
mate, and begins to make love to me in an equally aggressive
manner, but with a special gentleness.
The first fantasy I can remember was about a group of people
(four or six) in a large bed, all naked and caressing one another. I
was never able to develop it much beyond this, but being quite
young at the time it didn’t seem necessary. The mere idea was
quite stimulating. [Letter]
I have been married five years, and until now have never
discussed my sexual. fantasies with anyone.
I don’t think of someone other than the man I am with during
sex unless he is performing inadequately, at which times I think
of someone who does perform adequately. This invariably gives
me enough pleasure to achieve orgasm. I think fantasies are very
useful for this specific reason. Every time we have sex, it can’t be
perfect; the other person (and oneself) is not always in top form.
The most frequent idea that pops up in my fantasies is "being
on exhibition." My fantasies vary a great deal, but this idea is
usually present. People watching, not necessarily saying anything
or doing anything, but just watching… that really turns me on.
What is interesting is that although I’ve never had any desire
for another woman, or even looked at another woman "that way"
in reality, I do often have lesbian fantasies when with a man. I
don’t know where this idea comes from. In my fantasies, these
women and I never actually touch, no bodily contact, I simply
think about them, other women, usually naked, usually
large-breasted. What they seem to be doing is trying to seduce me
by their erotic movements. I allow myself to get excited just
watching them, but then when I have built to a pitch and have my
real orgasm, the women simply smile, pleased for me, and
disappear. Maybe some day I will join them in sex within my
fantasy, but I don’t think that is what they are building toward. I
would never tell a man about these lesbian fantasies because I
don’t think a man would understand. [Letter]
Often when my husband and I are making love, I think of
another man (or two) and sometimes, not often, of a woman. The
man I usually think of was my dentist (I say was because he
moved to another state). I never had sex with him, but I would
have liked to. To me, he resembles my husband. He is soft
spoken, but not one to be bossed by a woman (which I like a
man to be: A Man). In my fantasies we have sex in every
imaginable position within reason. We even masturbate each
other. However, most of the time I think of my husband during
sex; he is my ideal sexual partner. He even smells sexy.
When I fantasize about the other men I find attractive, toward
the point of climax, I settle on one man (or woman). So you see, I
have lesbian fantasies. Usually I think of a woman who is
physically similar to a. man, meaning that she is heavily built but
still feminine, tender, loving (motherly sometimes),
compassionate. Very often she is in military uniform. She isn’t
beautiful, just attractive. She is assertive but open-minded, fun to
be with, likes music, sports, clothes, and a****ls. She is well off
but not rich, thrifty but not miserly. We usually masturbate, kiss
(on the mouth), sl**p in each other’s arms (she holds me mostly).
I feel secure with her. We suck each other’s breasts (me hers
mostly). Sometimes she and I go 69. My husband knows I have
lesbian tendencies and that I could possibly be ambisexual.
However, I don’t go out of my way to find a lesbian or female
bed partner.
I don’t know what it’s an indication of, but I love to think
about my husband and another man having sex with me.
Although my husband doesn’t encourage my fantasies, he
doesn’t discourage them either. When I ask him if watching
another man fuck me would excite him, he says probably. He
knows I would like him to be with me if I am fucked by another
man. We both like to watch our own fucking. Another idea that
turns me on is that of watching two homosexuals making love;
also, I wish women got a chance to watch some of the blue films
men see.
Please excuse my sloppy writing; I am usually neat, but I
wanted to put this down quickly so that I wouldn’t change
anything. [Letter]
I have just read your advertisement and feel compelled to help
you in your research. I will attempt to write as honestly as I can.
I am twenty-nine years old, have been married for eleven years
to a merchant seaman, and have two c***dren. My husband is at
sea for almost six months of every year, and during one of his
trips about three years ago I was introduced to lesbianism by two
young girls. My first experience with these girls was so
completely satisfying and wonderfully exciting that I now relive
the scene almost every time I make love with my husband when
he is at home.
The scene I picture is as follows: My husband is at sea and the
c***dren are at my mother’s for the weekend, because I am
having a night out with the girls at the office to celebrate one of
the girls’ coming wedding. I have invited two of the girls to
spend the night at my place, as they live in the next town and
they would have had to leave the party early to make the last train
home. We arrive at my place, late and tired after the party. I flop
down on the chair and say that I wish that I had a maid who
would undress me and get me ready for bed. The girls say they
will be my maids and proceed to undress me. When they take off
my bra and panties they are obviously very excited by what they
see, and both say they have never seen breasts as large and
beautiful as mine before. They ask if they could touch them. I say
they may do anything they want with them, and soon my nipples
become very large and firm with their caresses. Then they take a
breast each and kiss and suck my large but very sensitive nipples,
and at the same time they begin to caress my tummy and thighs,
and soon I am squirming all over the chair. When I start moving
they release my breasts, and one of the girls sits on the arm of the
chair and starts to kiss me very tenderly and lovingly and then
more demandingly. Soon our tongues are deep into each other’s
mouths. While this is going on, the other girl is kneeling on the
carpet between my legs caressing my thighs and tummy until I
am about frantic with desire. I am moving all over the place
trying to direct her fingers into my vagina, but she ignores my
attempts. Suddenly I almost go crazy when I feel her head go
between my legs and her tongue enter my vagina. I have an
orgasm almost immediately, and nearly scream the house down
in the process. While I am regaining my breath, the girls strip off
and make love on the carpet while I watch. We then have a
shower together and all three go to bed and make love all night.
 This room is empty.
When I began collecting fantasies for this book, and would
talk about it to psychologists, writers, and other people who I
thought had some information about the subject, they’d often
smile with amusement, and tell me that of course one of women’s
most popular fantasies was that of being a prostitute. And from
everything I’ve read and heard, I thought this was so myself. (For
instance, who hasn’t heard that old tag line again and again, that
at every costume party, half the women come dressed as call
But in the hundreds of fantasies I’ve collected, there is not one
prostitution fantasy gone into at length; the subject is only
mentioned fleetingly, glanced over en passant, by people
hurrying to the Anonymity, Humiliation, or Masochism Rooms.
This grand old theme, so beloved of Victorian women, is
apparently dead. And if I’m right, and Sadie Thompson is indeed
finished, it is ironically our permissive age that killed her;
contrary to what her mother said, the old girl died from lack of
In explaining what I mean, let’s consider the difference
between shame and guilt. Guilt concerns something about which
you feel badly whether anyone knows it or not, and guilty love is
still a very big fantasy of our time. It is an internalized judgment.
But shame concerns something other people may or may not
approve of; you yourself may feel neutral about it, or even like it;
the shame only comes in when some outside observer catches you
doing it. The woman who cheats at solitaire, for instance, will
blithely go along taking cards out of turn – until someone catches
her doing it, when she’ll grow irritable and testy.
Shame therefore enters when your personal code of morals or
behavior is felt by you to be at variance with what is generally
accepted and you feel at least a hypocritical need to pretend to go
along with the majority rules. Therefore, we can see that the
reason our mothers delighted so much in prostitution fantasies
was their feeling that The Girls were beyond shame; they gave
the fantasizer a kind of nothing-to-lose, gutter freedom. But
today, why bother to be hypocritical? From every corner we are
told there’s nothing in sex to be ashamed about.
Goodbye, Sadie. We’ll keep a candle in the window of your
room in case the wheel of repression takes another turn, and
backlash brings you back. 
 People invariably ask me whether a woman’s sexual fantasies
reflect her background. Doesn’t her education or economic
class determine the nature of her fantasy? Haven’t I found that
my material just naturally varied and fell into these categories?
By the way the question was asked – especially during my
researches in England – the "Yes" answer was always implied: a
woman’s background will out.
But my answer is "No." Wealthy women don’t necessarily
fantasize about masked dukes, any more than the uneducated
wife of a miner fantasizes in rough four-letter words. Nor is the
reverse true. It is meaningless to discuss the class or background
of the real woman behind the fantasy, except to deny that it is the
primary influence on what or how she is thinking. You can never
predict what is going to turn anyone on.
If you were to shuffle all the written replies to letters and
advertisements requesting contributions that I’ve placed in
various publications in the United States and England, plus all
the interviews I’ve conducted in person in the same countries, it
would be impossible to match the lady to the fantasy…except
perhaps by nationality.
So no, Mrs. Jones, don’t expect that by ""birth," or by virtue of
her happy marriage to Jack Princeton, that your Abigail would be
found in the relatively acceptable Earth Mother Room. With all
her Foxcroft training, she is just as likely to be rolling in the mud
with an Airedale, along with all the other fantasizers of sexual
humiliation. She will merely talk about it more grammatically.
I suppose the language and imagery of sexual fantasy is
shocking, and perhaps it has put some readers off when they first
read this book. But once it is agreed that the subject is worth
serious discussion, no other course is open. To try to convey the
emotion, meaning, and experience of sexual fantasy through
euphemism would be like giving a thirsty man a piece of paper
with the word "water" written on it. It’s either the real thing, or
I’ve had a few moments of revelation myself. I haven’t gone
passively and unruffled through all this material, sympathetic to
fantasy as I am. I used to open my fantasy mail – the replies to
letters and advertisements – in the morning, and more than one
gulp of coffee went down the wrong way. Wow! Not so much at
the language, or the situations…although they’re potent stuff for
nine A.M. But it was the amount of imaginative detail that
amazed me, the intuitive understanding that to prettify fantasy is
to take the life out of it, and above all the evocative creativity in
the fantasies of women whose lives, as described in their letters,
were otherwise as routine and predictable as sending the k**s off
to school in the morning.
Sexual fantasies are a great leveler among women. It’s a
shame women can’t speak to one another as directly or be as
honest about themselves in reality as they are in their fantasies. In
fantasy, everyone speaks the same language because everyone
wants the same thing. I sometimes think that’s what men
essentially get out of their sessions in the clubhouse locker room:
there, stripped of everything, they can talk of everything without
pretense or bullshit, slipping each other a little sexual
identification they find nowhere else. Who knows? Through this
book women may also lose some of their feelings of sexual
isolation, may find some mutual identification, perhaps even a
sense of female camaraderie. Sure they’re "dirty" thoughts, but
we all have them, men and women, and what makes them "dirty"
anyway, except possibly their secretiveness? This secretiveness is
one thing women do share, and it’s nowhere more apparent than
in their fantasies. Deprived of any real feeling of sexual
identification with other women, they resort to solitary
exploration within their individual fantasy worlds.
Having looked to literature for insights and answers to their
own deepest desires and sexual reactions, women have found that
most of literature’s insightful revelations have been directed at
men by men, and when the same men try to tell how it is for
women, no one knows more quickly than a woman how far off
the mark they are. Even the new women-for-women’s books talk
around it but not of it – as if the necessary vocabulary didn’t
exist; meanwhile, women continue to sigh and say, "No one has
ever really described `it.’ " Is it so surprising that in exploring the
mysterious "it" in fantasy, that they employ the strongest, crudest,
most "pornographic" terms and imagery to make real,
emotionally, something they’ve never had defined and which they
know to be just as potent and earthshaking as every pornographic
description they’ve ever heard or read of the male "it"? The
gutsiness of female imagery may belie the beautifully turned
brims on their Adolfo hats, or the pencil pleats in their Villager
calico dirndls, but the images and the words are universal and
classless – only incidental grammar and place names give any
identity away.
But where in the world, Pretty Lady, sitting in your high rise
fiat surrounded by diapers, or behind the tinted glass of your
trolls Royce, did you get an idea like that? Those lips that never
swore an oath, much less caressed a man’s cock, and that neat
little mind that "seems" to dwell on the c***dren’s education, the
new job, or an even newer summer outfit, where oh where did
you get the idea? And as often as not, should the lady deign to
answer, the reply would be, "Why, from when I was a little girl
and just happened to see…"
From such tiny seeds – a blink in c***dhood – springs a
full-blown sexual fantasy, embellished and altered over the years
perhaps, but all begun with a glance, a c***d’s quick
flash-in-the-pan peek into the secret garden. The fact that the
seed grew – and to such proportions – just shows what secrecy
and prohibition can do; what growth potential there is in "don’t."
For instance: A young girl for the first time happens on a
grown man peeing behind a tree…sees a bright red tip suddenly
shoot from a woolly dog’s prick…is provocatively’ bullied by an
older boy on the way home from school…or f***ed to undergo the
sexual trauma of a sadomasochistic experience at school (read
Mona’s letter below and weep)…what is she to do with this
mysterious and often unsettling new information? No one wants
to know, to hear, or to talk to her about it – she’s "not old
enough," the subject’s "not nice," and she knows that hearing
about it would make Mummy "nervous" – that much she does
know. All this only makes the forbidden bits of knowledge more
provocative. And so these thoughts join the other odds and ends
of exciting, sometimes disturbing sensations, daydreams, the
other secrets she’s been accumulating – or repressing – while
growing up. By the time she’s stopped playing with dolls, during
that long lull before she begins any meaningful contact with boys
(I don’t necessarily mean sex), she’s got enough powerful
imagery packed away in her head to stagger the horniest writer of
the most exotic porn she ever found in her older b*****r’s room.
Not specific knowledge that she can put together with any
understanding, but exciting pieces to elaborately embroider, all
on her own, and all the more imaginatively for her ignorance
(which the vulgar often call "innocence"). Forbidden things,
locked away in tight, dark places, grow out of all proportion.
And so, in time, that tiny seed, the glimpse or idea that
instantly sparked her imagination, emerges as a fantasy, clothed
in more outrageous gear and language than books, TV, films, or
dirty jokes can offer.
By the time you or I hear the fantasy – ten years or even twenty
after the seed (women are incredibly faithful to their first fantasy,
and often return to it after new and less potent ones have
strangely lost their zap) – by the time she tells us, it is usually
impossible to recognize the original seed. But she knows.
Women remember important firsts. 
The first sexual fantasy I had was on viewing a teacher’s very
rotund posterior. I would have been not more than seven or eight.
He wore a very short coat, was fat, and his bum filled his
trousers, sharply outlining his cheeks. I remember it giving me a
definite sexual feeling even at that age, also of finding an excuse
for going to bed early in order to have the privacy for being able
to dwell upon those inspiring orbs. This was before I
masturbated, but the infantile urge to slide my hand down his
bum cheeks and round to "the front" compelled me even then.
After being introduced to masturbation, my main problem was
obtaining the privacy in which to indulge. I had to sl**p with a
younger s****r who was aware of the slightest movement. The
movement of my hand had to be extremely surreptitious and slow
and the fingering of the clitoris would be prolonged to exquisite
lengths. This would inevitably invite sexual fantasy, based on
what I’d heard from other girls…my age could not have been
more than f******n…who had seen their b*****rs’ cocks. One girl
in particular, Monica, was a great source of fantasy. She allowed
boys to feel her while she undid their flies and "tossed them off."
The phrase still excites me, and on endless occasions I have
mentally substituted myself for Monica. Monica’s mother took in
a lodger, and after I had been sworn to the greatest secrecy,
Monica told me how she had witnessed him masturbating, and
the size of his genitalia. The idea of his orgasm in truth
enraptured me, and was the basis for more than fantasy: It
became an ambition. I still masturbate fantasizing myself as the
voyeur of this lodger’s solitary pleasures. [Letter]
My fascination with men and the whole idea of sex began
when I was about ten. I had never seen a penis before one day
when I was in the woods near our home and saw a man piss. I
was absolutely fascinated by his penis, but he saw me looking
and whisked it out of sight. I hung around those woods every
spare moment I had, hoping to see another one. If a man even
stood still for any reason at all I’d think, This is it! and saunter
over hoping for a glimpse. I spent hours trying to visualize just
what it had looked like and thinking up words to describe a
penis-proud, dominant, pulsating. I could go on. For years I
would lie in my little virgin bed and think about that glimpse of
my first penis. All those hours spent in the woods, hoping for
another chance, it’s a wonder I was never ****d or murdered.
When I was young, I played the usual "doctor" and "house"
games, exposing my genitals and exploring my little friends. I
know now that the strange, warm kind of quivery feelings I had
were of a sexual nature. At that time I associated urination with
these feelings, and often fantasized that I was sitting on the toilet
with my legs spread far apart, while one of my little boy friends
urinated into the toilet between my legs. [Letter]
The earliest fantasies I can remember involve my parents, or
my father and my older s****r (which made me very jealous). I
cannot remember actually fantasizing about my father and
myself, but I do remember that I had a strong sexual attraction to
I also fantasized about my parents and our boxer bitch. I
suspect that some experimentation actually did take place, as they
were very open-minded and at times had our dog shut in the
bedroom with them when she was in heat. We also had a stud
dog who would mount anything that moved when our bitch dog
was in heat. Our parents never knew it, but one of my s****rs and
my b*****r and myself used to get on all fours and let him mount
us for a few seconds – and then we’d turn chicken. I have since
fantasized about going through with the act and being penetrated
by a male dog. My husband and I had a magazine with pictures
of a woman and a male German Shepherd having intercourse.
When looking at these pictures I would become excited and
would have my husband mount me from the rear, simulating the
actions of a dog. [Letter]
When I was about eleven or twelve I used to sit in the back
seat of the car on trips and cross my legs very tightly. Our car
made a very bumpy ride, and by sitting clear to one side each
little bump and vibration would sexually stimulate me. The first
time I experienced this I looked out of the car window and saw a
horse in a field with his penis dropped way down. Every time
after that I imagined the horse was entering me. I didn’t have an
orgasm then from this fantasy, just stimulation. But now when I
masturbate and think of being penetrated by a horse, it brings on
a terrific orgasm. [Letter]
When my husband fucks me, I often think of a former
employer who gave me my first view of an erect penis when I
was a virgin, then sixteen. It made such an impression on me that
I have always remembered it, and like to picture the scene as it
happened. He opened his trousers and took out his cock and I
was amazed to see it standing up, so broad and stiff. He did not
fuck me, but in my fantasies I see his big prick and try to imagine
what it would have felt like if he had pushed it into me.
I always fantasize when I masturbate, which is usually when
my husband is at work. I picture a scene at school when I was
caned. The cane made me smart so much that I pissed in my
knickers, which made me feel sexually excited afterward. In my
fantasies I can see the headmistress with her cane, and when I
picture how she gave me those smart strokes, I soon reach a
I have not discussed my fantasies with my husband, but we
both use four-letter words freely during fucking, as we find that
the use of such words comes naturally to us and increases our
excitement. Please excuse me if my tendency to use such words
has caused me to use them too much in writing to you.
I think my first sexual fantasy was on seeing a man peeing
when I was about eleven years of age. I did not actually see his
penis (hence my surprise when I saw one for the first time, as I
said), but I could plainly see his stream of urine as he stood to
urinate against a tree when I passed close by. Seeing one of the
opposite sex standing to urinate instead of squatting like I did
made me so excited that I have always remembered it. I take my
fantasy further in imagining him deliberately exposing his prick
to me and rubbing it to the point of ejaculation. [Letter]
I am twenty-four and have been married five and a half years. I
usually fantasize when my husband is making love to me, always
have, and I believe he does, too. It has nothing to do with any
inadequacies on either of our parts; I have always found him
exciting in bed and he can never seem to get enough of me. It’s
just that when you’re married, and always with the same man, no
matter how great he is in bed, it varies the routine to think of
other men. With me it used to be a guy who worked in my office;
I was seducing him. Or I’m making it with a handsome black
guy on TV, again with me as the seducer. Whoever it is – I’ve
even seduced priests in my fantasies – I like to imagine that it is
someone who has not had sex for a long time and is therefore
The most important detail in my fantasies, even when I
masturbate, is my breasts. As young as five or six I was
fascinated by breasts and used to try to imagine what it felt like to
have them. I would stare for hours at photos of film stars. Not
naked breasts. My images were always of breasts with material
stretched tightly across them. They strained and pushed against
the fabric as if trying to burst through it. My own breasts, in
reality, are fine; no one’s ever complained. But in my fantasies
my figure is truly fantastic; my breasts are enormous and they are
my greatest weapon in my seduction scenes. I just have to close
my eyes, turn on this picture of my bigger-than-Raquel-Welch
breasts, and no man can resist me. [Letter]
I was a bit of a tomboy at age ten and I remember dressing up
as a pirate, pulling the trousers up very tight against my crotch,
and putting one of my father’s old leather belts very tightly
around me. I didn’t know what the reason was, all I knew was
that it felt good "down there," and that I ended up playing pirate a
lot. When I was eleven or so, I used to get distinctly excited by
"strapping" myself very tightly around my genitals and
immersing myself in a cold bath more or less fully clothed.
Around this age and later I had dreams about wrestling people in
a pit of slushy mud, completely encased in a wet suit, and being
completely buried in the mud. While thinking this I’d rub myself
against the scam of my pajama trousers. [Conversation]
Only now as I’m writing do I remember that my s****r and I
used to pretend that we were making it with our dog. He
cooperated quite nicely. My fantasies about dogs still continue, so
that when my husband is entering me from the back, I think of
dogs humping, something I remember seeing frequently since I
was three or four years old. [Letter]
I hope you will keep my name confidential, as I have never
told anybody this before. From what I’ve read, I think that I am a
sadist. I may be a masochist as well, as I very often daydream
about being tortured.
I developed sexually at about twelve, and as I was very wild
and disobedient growing up, my parents decided to send me to a
strict convent school. Corporal punishment was allowed in this
school. A strap was always used. The head nun, s****r Rosario,
would take an offender – which was very often me – up to the
front of the class, tell her to bend down and touch her toes, and
then, having lifted up her tunic, she would hit her across the
During a holiday break I met a lovely boy whom I fell in love
with. I made him promise not to write to me while I was in the
convent because I could get expelled for it. One evening after P.T.
class, s****r Rosario said she wanted to see me in her room. She
told me that she had intercepted a letter from a boy written to me
and that she had no alternative but to expel me. I pleaded on my
knees to her not to expel me, and eventually she said she would
not but that she would have to deal severely with me and that I
was to tell nobody. I gladly agreed to this, but I can tell you that
if I had my choice again I would not. She told me to take off all
my clothes, which I very embarrassingly did. I was nearly
thirteen at this stage and I was fairly well developed. I had to
kneel down in front of her while she asked numerous questions
which shocked and embarrassed me, for instance:
"What is your bust measurement?"
"Do you masturbate?"
"What color is the hair between your legs?"
"What do you call it?"
She wanted to know exactly what I did with the boy and what
he did. She then made me lie across a chair and gave me about
twenty lashes with the leather across the buttocks. I then had to
lie on my back and open my legs. She gave me six in between the
After this I had to come to her room regularly and she would
make me strip and would beat me with the leather each time. She
would always ask me about masturbating. I tell you all this
because after two weeks I definitely got a certain pleasurable
sensation from the beating. It was during this time that I first
started to masturbate. I still do it regularly.
Now I am a teacher and I get my pleasure from administering
the punishment. The boys I teach are between ten and f******n. I
regularly take one to my room where I administer the whip and
cane, having ordered him to strip naked. I enjoy punishing him
but I enjoy it most when I see him getting an erection. I wear
provocative clothes and I enjoy embarrassing him when he gets
the erection.
I have never punished a girl, mainly because I never had the
opportunity to do so. But I often daydream about it. I imagine her
being strapped to a bed with only panties and a bra on. I then
order one of my boy pupils to strip her and to torture her. The
tortures I normally dream about are pulling the hairs from her
pubic region one at a time, inserting needles into her breasts,
burning her with hot candle grease, whipping her, caning her,
while at the same time making her admit filthy thoughts,
masturbation, etc.
I also dream about having intercourse with one of my pupils.
Some of my thoughts and indeed my actions are very diverse and
queer, and I find it hard to put on paper. I have never before told
anyone about these things. Sometimes I feel frustrated and I
would like to know if my practices are very unusual. I would be
elated if you could give me some information on what other girls
think. It would make me feel easier to know that others like me
P.S. I find it difficult to get the type of whips that I would like
here in Ireland, so I would be grateful if you could help me.
My sexual fantasy goes back to an actual event that happened
to me when I was about eleven. On the way home from school a
group of girls and boys began picking on me. At one point the
leader, who was very good looking, grabbed me by the arm and
told me I would have to do whatever he ordered me to do. He told
me that from that day on whenever he ordered me to follow him I
would do so, and that he would then tell me what his wishes
were. Then he let me go. Afterward, whenever I saw him my
heart would leap into my mouth, but he never seemed to notice
me again, never ordered me to follow him or to do any of the
things I thought I would dread, doing.
During my early teen-age years I used to dream about what he
might have asked me to do to him. I imagined all sorts of things,
and still do. This is what all my fantasies go back to, that I am
f***ed by this good looking man to perform all sorts of sexual
acts, incredible things that no man has ever asked me to do, but
which would give me a great deal of pleasure – if I were f***ed.
This is my fantasy, even when I am with my lover.
I only began to masturbate eight months ago, although I am
twentyfour. My fantasies are different during masturbation, either
imagining that I am using a dildo, which I don’t have the nerve
to buy, or that one or two women and I are making love with a
Oddly enough, the only other thing that turns me on is if I see
a very nice male posterior. I can’t help imagining how it would
be uncovered. [Letter]
 This is as good a place as any to make a parenthetic
comment on noise during sex, on what it does for women. I’m
not talking about Frank Sinatra in the background; I refer
specifically to those words and noises and phrases that come
straight from the groin and have to do with fucking. Words and
noises that – if you are indeed fucking – are a more natural part
of it than a gentlemanly "I love you, Helen," or no noise at all.
Being fucked in silence, with the lights out, inhibits an act that’s
supposed to be the most liberating one in our lives. Some women,
like June (below), can’t even make it in silence; Nina (also
below) says what dozens of other contributors have mentioned in
passing…and would have dwelled on longer, I’m sure now, if I’d
asked them directly how they felt about it: "Our lovemaking is
always heightened by the use of words like ‘fuck,’ ‘cunt,’ etc.,
which we normally don’t use…only in bed." Both these women
trace the source of their fantasies back to their c***dhood, which
is where most adults think these "dirty," "low," "vulgar" noises
should be relegated, instead of including them naturally in the
most adult act of all. Who said "ladies" don’t use words like
"fuck" and "cunt," or that one doesn’t use them around "ladies"?
Maybe not when you’re having lunch with a lady, but when a
lady’s fucking, she’s not having lunch. 
What I can’t stand is quiet sex. It seems unnatural to me for
two people to be fucking away and all you can hear, if you’re
lucky, is some heavy breathing. Give me a good moaner, a
groaner, a real yeller any time. If I’m with a guy and he won’t say
anything, just breathes, and I’m too timid to start up all the heavy
moaning that really turns me on, I fantasize. I remember the first
time I ever heard people fucking, and remembering it, well, it
releases me.
I was only about eleven when this happened. We were living
in San Francisco, in a big apartment house with a center
courtyard. All the bedroom windows in the building opened onto
this court, and sometimes in the middle of the night in that
building it sounded like a mass orgy. I may have been only
eleven, but no one had to tell me what all that moaning and
yelling was about. I’d lie there mesmerized – that’s when I began
masturbating, I think – listening to the first couple. Invariably,
they’d wake up other couples, and like some kind of chain
reaction within minutes the whole building was fucking. I mean,
have you ever heard other people fucking, really enjoying it? It’s
a marvelous sound…not like in the movies…but when it’s real.
It’s such a happy, exciting sound.
So if I’m with some silent type, just lying there noiseless with
him thrusting away, I remember those noisy nights as a k** in
San Francisco, and within seconds I’m. moaning and groaning
like crazy myself, and sure enough, the old silent type picks up on
it, too…and we’re off on a great loud fuck! [Conversation]
I am thirty-three years old, a lesbian, and have been happily,
"married" for the past five years. My fantasies during sex are very
much a reflection of what is actually happening. Very often we
will "act out" our roles as Mum and Baby, as she sucks my
nipples and I sing her nursery songs. At other times she acts the
male role and I describe out loud what her "cock" is like and how
it is affecting me while we masturbate each other. Our
lovemaking pleasure is always heightened by the use of words
like "cunt ," "fuck," etc., which we normally don’t use…only in
bed. I should add that my fantasies are always about my lover,
never about some other lesbian. If I did have ideas about another
woman, I would never tell her, as she is terribly jealous natured.
When I discovered the delights of masturbation, at the age of
seven, even then I used to imagine it was my girl friend who was
rubbing between my legs. I suppose I’ve always been a lesbian
and it was just a matter of time before I made these early
fantasies come true. Sometimes, while masturbating as a c***d, I
would imagine her dog was licking my cunt (which it sometimes
did and which excited me greatly).
However, I never fantasize about a****ls now. My thoughts
are totally given, over to my love for other women. Often, I will
imagine a kind of religious orgy – lesbian, but watched by men
robed as priests. There are always lots of lighted candles, vestal
virgins, and a certain amount of sex on the altar with my partner.
There is invariably glorious music and brilliant colors as in
church. (I am a vicar’s offspring and attend church regularly, but
have no guilt about being homosexual.)
Every (frequent) session with my beloved partner is exciting
and satisfying, all the more so because of my thoughts and our
words. However, I would never talk about my fantasies to
anyone. [Letter]
When I am with my husband, I often think of my former lover
and of the time we were on a secluded, bushy beach together and
he pinned me to the ground with his: legs after I’d already had
one climax; he just steam-rollered me and moaned and groaned
when he came. That’s something else I miss – my former lover’s
lovemaking’ noises and talk – my husband doesn’t "talk dirty"
during; the act to the extent my lover used to, and he’s pretty well
noiseless at climax. [Taped interview]
My husband knows how much certain talk excites me, like his
telling me how much he enjoys oral sex, how much he loves my
big breasts; I like him to describe quite literally what we are
doing when we are making love. Except then, I like him to call it
"fucking." [Letter]
 Evie is in her late twenties, divorced, and now lives in Los
Angeles with her two daughters. Her frank comments about talk
during sex could be an inspiration to a lot of silent fuckers who
want to be remembered. It’s difficult to remember movements, to
reconstruct all by yourself what happened last night or last month
in bed, but a few heated groin-words can have total, orgasmic
recall. Remembering just those words, a woman can keep a man
erect in her mind for life. Women are the great collectors…love
letters, roses, souvenirs, words; in a sense, women hang on to
everything, almost live in the past, because we’re never quite sure
if "it" will ever happen again. 
About talking…that’s another whole realm and I don’t know
if it interests you, but I think it might to know that men who talk
to me can really make me cream in my jeans (just an expression)
over them…things like "You can do it"; "You can make it";
"Come on"; etc. I won’t bore you, but they really seem to make a
difference in my orgasm quotient. Sometimes when I am in bed
with a man and he talks to me…even if he just asks me what
time it is while he’s making love to me…I freak. And when I am
alone with myself I often reiterate what certain men have said, or
very often I allow myself the luxury of embroidering on it and
inventing things that men might say to me.
You wanted some of my girl friends’ fantasies, and I asked a
few of them but they don’t seem very imaginative. They
apparently speak little in bed and they are not interested in
imagining, or else they won’t come clean with me, which is
probable. One girl did tell me that a fellow used to send her
polaroid pictures of his erected cock and she would masturbate to
them while he was on business trips. [Letter]
 But it’s too easy to say that all sexual fantasy, like dreams,
was born of some inchoate spark in c***dhood. Pop psychiatry,
determined to reduce the most complete aspects of life to fast,
fast, FAST understanding, begins and ends with that premise.
All the foregoing reinf***es the idea that much of our most
potent sexual imagery does go back to that time in our lives when
we didn’t even know what it – the stimulus – was all about. Born
of the innocence and ignorance of our c***dhood, fantasies retain
their mysterious powers into our adult years of sexual exploration
(even satiety). They never lose their glamour. Bluebeard’s wives
had all the beautiful rooms of his house to roam in, but they never
could resist the one locked door.
But don’t despair if you’re over twelve and think you haven’t
had a fantasy. The most erotic fantasies I know of are ones that
first came to grown women on hearing just the right word, seeing
the wrong face. Sexual fantasy material is everywhere and
anything, but the spark that makes it a fantasy is inside, not
outside the fantasist. It’s not a matter of deciding "Okay, now I’m
going to make up, a great sexual fantasy," and then concentrating
on the two young men delivering the new TV set, on the
neighbor’s Great Dane, or even on your husband’s best friend.
There are no universal fantasy symbols; what works for one
woman may do nothing for another. Just as one woman may go
for the classic tall, dark, and handsome type, so may another like
cute blond cheerleaders. Flash a black man on the screen of one
woman’s mind and it will begin clicking its own rear projection,
while another woman’s inner voice may say "So what?" You
don’t will a sexual fantasy to take form and turn you on.
Nevertheless, I do think a lot of women are likely to begin
fantasizing after reading this book. Or rather, become aware that
they have, been fantasizing all along, and that those sudden odd
ideas or notions they have up to now forgotten, or repressed, are
indeed fantasies.
Much of the material in this book came through this kind of
setting up of associations, giving a woman not a direct request for
a fantasy, but giving her an idea to get her started. For example,
if I simply said to a woman, "Do you have sexual fantasies?" she
would usually reply "I don’t know," or "What is a sexual
fantasy?" or "No." But if I said, "I’ve found that most women’s
sexual fantasies have this element of anonymity, that when she’s
thinking about being fucked by another man, or men, that they’re
faceless, or strangers …" then the dialogue is on between me and
the woman, between her and her own imagery. She has a
recognizable starting point from which to take off. I don’t know
whether this freedom of the imagination takes place because
mentioning other women’s fantasies has set up a kind of
competition, or because that mention freed my interviewee from
isolation and guilt, or whether it was only because her up to now
dormant sexual imagination simply needed that association as a
springboard. I think all three contribute.
But I bring it up now, this power that association has in
getting women to reveal their fantasies, because in using it as a
method of collecting material, I gathered more information than I
expected, in particular on the subject of where women get the
ideas for their fantasies. And what especially interested me was
how often these ideas had a visual basis.
I had sent a letter to several magazines describing my research
and inviting contributions. Knowing how much more responsive
women were if the subject was discussed as normal rather than
extraordinary, and given a little personal background, I described
sexual fantasies as images that could occur anywhere – during
sex, while driving to work, or just walking down the street,
parenthetically adding that in my own strolls, I was an inveterate
crotch watcher. Not only did I look at men’s provocative fronts –
as automatically as men look at mine – but I also imagined, en
passant, the arrangement, the shape of what lay beneath. All very
natural, I made it sound…as I think it is. No matter what else the
women who replied to that article said about themselves and their
fantasies, they almost all remarked on the crotch-watching: They
all look. Maybe not at men’s flies (though most do), maybe not
even at men, but they admitted with conspiratorial glee –
whatever it was they looked at, it didn’t stop there. The looking
was only the beginning of the wondering, the imagining and, yes
“now that you mention it” – the fantasy.
My own feelings about women’s sexuality have changed since
I began researching this book. I always expected that women
were far more adventurous in sex than men gave them credit for;
that with the right man a woman would be game for anything.
Now I’ve come to believe that women aren’t just willing
followers in sex, but given just a word, the right "starting off"
association, women can be sexually original, can be an
as-yet-untapped source of new sexual ideas and fun. I think
women are sexually stimulated by many things; they simply
aren’t used to responding outwardly. But give them a clue they
can relate to without guilt, get them started with an encouraging
word and, as I said earlier, I think women are ready and willing
to write a whole new chapter in a book that’s been accepted as
closed. Think about it: it usually takes two sexes for sex, but after
all these years of going at it we’ve still only beard from one. Ever
since Adam, men have rolled over onto their side of the bed, lit a
cigarette, and asked, "What were you thinking about?" And the
woman has answered, "Nothing." Or the more outspoken, "You."
How can men have really believed them all this time?
For instance, men (and their tailors) may think women look at
them admiringly because of the cut of their suits, much as they
would look at a fashion photo on the men’s page, or that sane suit
on a coat hanger. And if a girl is asked directly, she will often
reply something like, "I was just thinking how nice you look in
gray." But in actuality, the stories women have told me indicate
that when a woman looks at a man, she’s seeing and wondering
many things.
When I walk down the street I constantly watch crotches. I try
to imagine what the penises are like. I am especially turned on
when a man’s balls bulge through hiss pants. Often I am tempted
to walk up to him, right there on the street, unzip his fly and feel
his balls. [Letter]
Looking at men, front and back, is a favorite pastime. I like to
study the shapes of their asses and wonder how they use them
when thrusting into a woman, or I wonder what it would be like
to penetrate their anuses with a dildo. [Letter]
My husband has sort of turned me into a fly-watcher, too. He
has been insisting for so long that his penis is too small (he is
always measuring it when it is erect) that he has made me
curious about other men’s dimensions. He has even made me a
little curious about his suggestion that I might be able to have
more orgasms if I had sex with a man who had a larger penis
than he does. So I find myself watching for crotches that indicate
there might be something fairly large hidden within. [Letter]
My mind doesn’t even rest when I’m outside the bedroom, as I
am continually stealing looks at men, at their private areas. With
trousers as tight as they are nowadays, it’s not difficult to
determine just what lies under those promising bulges. At least
one can dream about it and try to imagine what sort of lover a
man would make, what size he really is, etc. What I mean is, I
think so many men arrange themselves down there in such a way
that it’s hard to tell whether everything’s been sort of piled on top
of itself, giving a vast pyramid effect, or whether he’s for real. I
think it’s nice that men have entered the "Hey, look at me" arena
where women have been parading for years. Now, while men
continue to look at braless breasts under sweaters, or big bottoms
under tight skirts, we women have something to look at as well. I
often wonder why men stayed in those big, old-fashioned,
shapeless trousers for so long. Don’t they want us to look?
I’m amused to see that your habit of being an "incurable
fly-watcher" applies to me, also. Sometimes it can even be a little
fun when you suddenly realize that the guy is watching youl Of
course this all depends on who it is. I think it excites a man for
him to think that you’re interested in what he looks like under his
clothes. [Letter]
I, too, am a "crotch-watcher." I can’t help imagining the exact
shape and size of a man "there" when I look at him, and I
invariably compare him to my fiance. [Letter]
I myself am so u*********s of looking at men, of glancing at
their crotches as they approach me on the street, that I can be
thinking of what to buy for dinner while my mind is speculating
on just what a guy has done to himself to achieve a particularly
interesting arrangement of his genitalia. They can get the most
remarkable effects! In fact, my husband says that I notice on
which side a man dresses before I’ve even shaken hands.
A funny thing happened to me one day as I was hurrying home
from work, thinking about God knows what, but also checking
out the oncoming stream of men hurrying home. I suppose I
wasn’t even aware of how intently I stared at one particular
man’s well-fitting trousers until just as we passed – tweak! – he
reached out and tweaked my nipple! Just like that, on Fifth
Avenue! I was stunned. I stopped, turned around with my mouth
gaping open, watching him disappear…and then I laughed. What
else could I do? [Letter]
I love seeing the bulge beneath a boy’s tight jeans and
imagining what is underneath. I long to know whether he might
or might not be circumcised. I have always preferred
uncircumcised boys. [Letter]
I am also an incurable fly-watcher, and also a bottomwatcher,
imagining the reality beneath the clothing. I also have an almost
irresistible urge to run my fingers through a man’s hair when it is
well cut, reasonably long, and looks clean and soft.
I find men’s naked bodies very exciting (and often wish there
was the equivalent of "girlie" magazines for us women). [Letter]
Sometimes when I have been on a train or a bus I have found
myself looking at men’s trousers to see if I can trace the shape
and size of the penis. Sometimes I have noticed a penis stiffen
when the man has looked at my breasts or when he tries to get a
glimpse of my thighs and then it excites me to think that I am the
cause of his erection. [Letter]
I do daydream a bit; if I have heard that a boy is particularly
large, or good in bed, or something, then when I see him I
undress him mentally, wondering what he locks like naked.
I really do enjoy just looking at men. Any time I can catch a
glimpse of a man’s crotch I do; why shouldn’t a girl like to see a
crotch that’s filled well and shows its shape through the trousers?
It turns me on, just as watching my husband turns me on. [Letter]
Although my husband knows I’ve always been faithful to him,
I don’t think he realizes how much I enjoy looking at other men. I
do it all the time; most of the time I am almost unaware that I am
looking at a man’s crotch. If I see a man with a large bulge in his
crotch, I just tend to stare. It is an eye-catcher. [Letter]
Of course I Look at men. We’re supposed to, aren’t we? Why
else would they squeeze themselves into tight trousers that stretch
so smoothly across the front…except where they don’t? But it’s
certainly a young man’s game. I mean, what girl looks at an old
guy in a pair of baggy trousers full of pleats and folds, just a lot
of gathers hanging from the waist? It’s as though they were
ashamed, like women who wear dresses one size too large.
You’d think they’d catch on, wouldn’t you? After all, we all want
to be noticed, right? [Letter]
I wasn’t aware I looked until you asked. Sure I do, but as I’ve
never talked to anyone about it, I guess I just wasn’t aware,
consciously, of how I checked a man out…down below. I sort of
do it like a CIA agent: The eye goes blink, the man’s vital
statistics are recorded on my inner brain, and then the
information is just stashed away. What a waste! I’ll have to stop
being so secretive with myself about all this now that we no
longer live in the Dark Ages. [Letter]
Naturally I look. Doesn’t everyone? But I’m very canny about
it. You see, I have this wandering eye – an eye that really
wanders due to poor muscular control. What I do is focus my
good eye on something or someone legit, then I half-mast my
eyes in this seductive, lowered-lidded manner I’ve developed,
and then my wandering eye "looks." I really dig looking at men.
Even when I was in school I was very aware of how a guy’s
pants fitted him, the way they’d hang low on his hips, the tight fit
across the ass. I’ve always felt very sorry for guys who don’t have
an ass, just the way I guess guys feel sorry about poor
flat-chested girls. [Letter]
When I see an attractive guy, I find myself imagining what his
penis is like. I see it in my mind as I’m sitting there talking to
him, or when I think about him I see his penis erect. I imagine
my hand on it, I imagine it touching me, I see every little groove
and detail of it enlarged in great erection. I can even feel the heat
of it in my hand or in me. [Letter]
I have developed an unusual fascination about men’s buttocks.
When I see an attractive man from the back, and he is wearing
close-fitting pants, I often try to imagine what his buttocks would
look like with his pants off. Sometimes, I even try to imagine
what it would be like if he were bent over my lap and I were
spanking his bare buttocks. To a much lesser degree, if I see an
attractive man from the front, and he is wearing closefitting
pants, I try to guess whether his penis is larger, smaller, or the
same size as my husband’s. [Letter]
 I know popular theory has it that women are not as sexually
aroused by what they see and read as men. Men are supposed to
have this trigger response to the sight of a . breast or a bottom;
whole segments of our economy depend on it. Whereas women,
they say, feel nothing at the sight of a cock, except perhaps a
sense of embarrassed amusement, or even distaste. Several years
ago, the essential humor of a successful Broadway play (You
Know I Can’t Hear You When the Water’s Running) depended
on this idea. On the other hand, some people will concede that
the erect cock does arouse some women…but even there the
debate goes on.
Certainly if it were reduced to a contest of who responds
quickest to what, men would have the edge on women. Their
minds have been freer since c***dhood to respond to just the
outline of a breast, the mention of a word, the scent of a woman;
they were even encouraged, in this way, to be "little men." But
women…In the girl’s school where I went, there was a pale gay
fig leaf even on the dark bronze reproduction of Michelangelo’s
David (thought to have been added by the spinster librarian). It
was years before I got my first really good look at a really good
picture of a cock. And let no male expert tell me I wasn’t
stimulated. Even if I’d still not seen an erect one, my c***d’s
imagination graphically made up for what was missing, raising
that cock to uneasily exciting (if anatomically incorrect) erect
proportions. By the time I’d grown up, there still wasn’t (and
isn’t) a garden of sexual stimuli for women in the world around
us; but to go so far as to say that a grown woman – a woman
who’s not only seen but caused a few erections – requires the
already erect cock, the male sex symbol in full totality before she
can feel anything…it’s ludicrous. Who more than a woman
should feel aroused at the sight of a limp cock, at the provocative
thought of what she might do to it?
It’s exactly because a woman has been taught not to look, and
has been deprived of real outlets for what real visual and verbal
stimuli there are, that she’s more talented than anyone at` making
pictures do for the real thing in short, it’s why she’s so good at
Of course, there’s less to make up nowadays: men’s trousers _
have never been tighter, their shirts more bodyhugging, their own
awareness of their visual sexuality keener. Are we all playing
"The Emperor’s New Clothes"? I’m not surprised that so many
women say they’re sometimes (secretly) tempted to "just reach
out and touch it." Who’s it meant for anyway? The new visual
turn-ons have done worlds for fantasy, and now that we’re all
having a good look at it, fantasy can get on with the story
With all this happening, I find it baffling that sexually
informed writers and psychologists as generous and liberating as
Robert Chartham – whose book The Sensuous Couple begins by
saying that no couple is sensuous unless both parties are equal,
equal to initiate, lead or follow that even such a man as this
argues that women are not as readily aroused sexually as men.
Given a pornographic book, Chartham told me, a man would be
more fully and quickly aroused than a woman. "A man would
have an erection in seconds," he said, as if it is only man’s
outward barometer that is to be considered, the cock’s signal
readiness for use the only measure of a person’s depth and
quality of sexuality. When I staunchly replied that I, too, could be
aroused very quickly by just the right printed page, he looked at
me kindly, paused and said, "Then you are unusual. Women take
much longer."
What makes this entire argument difficult to discuss sensibly
is that buried within it – and usually given as proof of the male’s
more immediate sexuality – is the undeniable fact that he comes
more quickly. But what has that to do with how quickly and to
what depth either sex is aroused? While a man can come quicker
than a woman, she can continue to have one orgasm after another
in immediate, rapid-fire succession. Really, it’s all a silly
argument. We’re not in a race, and even if we were, supposedly
we’re in it together, men and women, running after the same
The closest I can come – especially after this book – to
agreeing with Dr. Chartham and others who say that women do
not respond quickly, or even respond at all, to reading or seeing
sexual stimuli is to say that if they respond more slowly than men
do, this is not nature’s decree; it is the way they’ve been trained
to respond. Women do respond immediately at times, but the
response is not the male’s socially accepted smile, come-on, and
erection. With the woman, it will more often mean the retreat into
a secret fantasy, with or without deliberately chosen stimuli. Here
are a few examples. 
Mary Jane
I am a little hesitant to respond because I do not think I have
as many sexual fantasies as many other women. I will try to tell
you about those I do have, anyway.
I feel ashamed to admit it, but my mind sometimes does
wander when I am having intercourse with my husband. Usually
I think about other men I find sexually exciting. Sometimes I
think about Paul Newman, the actor, because I think he is the
most attractive man I have ever seen. I close my eyes and
imagine that he is making love to me rather than my husband.
Also, I feel guilty about it.
I once dreamed I was making love to my father-in-law while I
was having sexual intercourse with my husband. My husband’s
father is one of the most handsome and attractive men that I
know personally, and I have often wished that my husband were
more like his father.
Several times, a really strange idea has come into my head for
no reason at all. In my mind, I will see myself kneeling in front of
Paul Newman, and I am sucking on his penis. I put those kind of
thoughts out of my head very quickly, though, because I have
never done that to any man, not even my husband.
A little while before I was married, I started to have fantasies
about statues of nude men that I had seen. Some had such
beautiful bodies that I could not resist thinking about making
love to them. My favorite was a statue of Hermes, the Greek god.
In particular, I was fascinated by its small, delicate-looking
penis. I have an aversion to large or gross looking penises,
although I have only seen my husband’s and those on nudes in
paintings or on statues. Even now, I sometimes fantasize about
making love to ‘that statue of Hermes, since it has become
something of an ideal of male beauty to me (especially after I
discovered on my wedding night that my husband’s penis is as
small as the one on that statue). [Letter]
During sex I occasionally think of a man other than the man I
am with. He is never someone known to me. Physically he is an
image of the "ideal" man. If I am in reality with someone young,
who has a beautiful and exciting body, I may change him in my
imagination into someone unknown that I have just met on the
If I told my lover, he would be jealous and would think it was
something lacking in his sexual performance that caused
fantasies such as this. (Not true; I think of things like the above
just as the mood takes me.)
The thought of two men having sex together really excites me
and I would love to see this. (Recently, the man I have been
living with for three years was "felt up" by a homosexual when
we were at a party where everyone had had a lot to drink. He was
horrified and felt "disgusted," to quote him, but I found it made
me immensely excited.)
Sometimes I imagine an audience watching me have sex with
my boss; sometimes young boys being given an intimate anatomy
lesson with me as the model. (Ridiculous, really, because I have
done art school modeling in the nude and merely felt bored.)
I also get pleasure imagining I am an empress who has
unlimited supplies of men and who lines them up to choose. I
imagine giving banquets where the servants are naked men, and
afterward accommodating the women guests with any male they
desire, all having been tested as to performance by myself
previously. This and variations of this theme I particularly like, as
the men can be erotically clothed or decorated if necessary.
I have many erotic dreams, often of transparently clothed men,
or Greek gad types, usually nude. Sometimes at night I dream I
am having sex, but in my dreams it is always with someone
familiar, never a stranger. My fantasy men are always beautiful
and blond and unknown.
One of my favorite fantasies is being invisible among crowds
of naked men and being fascinated by the way they move. In
reality and fantasy I simply love to look at men, their bodies, and
have had such imaginings, of which these are an example, since I
was about twelve. [Letter]
I am twenty-six, unmarried, and living in the country by
myself. I have never written to a magazine before. I was
determined, however, to reply to this letter.
Some years ago I was about to become a nun. I was at a
convent for a year and began to hate the environment, for I was
convinced that a vast number of the novices were indeed
sex-repressed. I certainly was from the outset and just had to give
it up. I had slight lesbian tendencies prior to going to the convent,
but they then enlarged. I masturbated frequently before I went
there, but this increased enormously. I just had to get relief
somehow. Fortunately, I grew fond of a novice older than myself
and secretly we masturbated together quite often. Then it was that
I started having fantasies. I would grow fond of a nun, and while
playing with myself I would think of her. I would imagine that it
was her fingers that titillated my clitoris. I would try hard to
imagine her standing by the bedside stark naked with hairs on
her pubic region. I also tried to think of her being played with by
another nun. This brought me to a climax speedily.
When I left the convent, I went in for teaching at a girls’
school. I would enjoy being present when the girls went for
showers each morning en masse. My thoughts would always veer
toward a particular girl whose body was fairly well developed.
Then, in the seclusion of my own room, I would strip, lie on the
bed, and think of the girl as I had seen her in the showers.
Then I met a man who seemed exciting. I have met three of his
male friends, and I might add that we are broad-minded and at
times have a small sex party at which we are all nude. Here again
I have fantasies. I am not in love with any of them, but enjoy
being fucked by them while the others watch. While I am
actually being penetrated, I think of one of the other men present.
One is dark-skinned, as he is Italian, and has a large penis. When
another man is inside me I pretend it is the Italian. I seldom come
when I am fucked. I come when I play with myself or use a
vibrator alone in my apartment. Yet I simulate a climax just to
make the man feel happy and often use obscene language. I buy
many sex books, and I even have an album of girlie pictures.
When I want to feel naughty I place this on a bedside table and
with my vibrator and tape recorder I actually speak out loud and
think of some man or maybe some girl whose body I long to play
with. I am not crackers. I am very normal but sex interests me
enormously. I will never marry. I would be faithless, I know. I
like my own body far too much and like other people playing
with it! [Letter]
I am s*******n and have had one intimate affair with a man.
Once, when we were making love in the car, we had stopped in
front of the public school that I attended as a c***d. I remember
now that I secretly laughed at the thought of how ironic it was. I
tried to imagine myself as a c***d looking upon this situation.
Perhaps because I was now doing something forbidden as a
c***d, it excited me.
My first masturbating experience was after I had read Candy. I
still remember because I pretended that I was the girl in that book
and for the first time I had an orgasm. I didn’t know what it was
then, but I soon found out. For a while there I was reaching an
orgasm at least once a day. I would read a "dirty" book and then
reread the lines in my head as I masturbated. After reading an
uncounted number of books, I began putting together my own
stories, or fantasies.
Off the cuff, I’ll describe some situations that used to turn me
on: being picked up on the corner while hitchhiking at night and
being ****d by three guys; same situation, only intercourse
willingly with all three; call girl with a good reputation; being
seduced while under the influence of d**gs; subject of sexual
experiments such as in the Nazi war camps; intercourse with a
dog with a friend looking on; intercourse with my b*****rs; sex
play with my father, s****rs (in the fantasies involving a mother or
father, they were not my own parents; likewise the faces of
siblings were changed – a point which I find interesting because I
do it u*********sly); intercourse with my favorite teacher…the
list goes on.
Many of my early fantasies involved some sort of sadism or
masochism, but after I experienced the emotional side of
lovemaking these fantasies very quickly wore off. I found them
really distasteful. Now I have just as many "favorite" fantasies to
choose from, but they all involve emotion, whether it be love or
hate. Usually gentleness surrounds the feelings of my fantasies
now: being accepted in a coven of witches through their love
ritual (I read that somewhere); making love with someone I’ve
just met, with whom I’ve instantly gotten along really well;
having an affair with my high-school teacher, which I’m sure
would not be a fantasy if I gave him a little encouragement. All
these fantasies are very close to reality.
I’ve also had occasional lesbian fantasies. In them I am never
a part of the action, but an onlooker. In the past I also had
fantasies of orgies, and again I was always the passive partner.
But I don’t use those anymore. Now I’m into emotion. [Letter]
When first thinking about your request for sexual fantasies, I
said to myself, "But this doesn’t apply to me, as far as I can
remember I have never fantasized." But upon reflection, I realized
that I had disciplined myself to forget them. Upon wracking my
brains, I realize I have fantasized but never realized I was getting
a sensual thrill from it until now.
After reading a book about Roman orgies, I imagined. I was
having intercourse with a donkey, having read an account of just
such a happening. But it quickly grew distasteful. Another
fantasy I’ve had several times, and usually when I’m afraid of
having sexual intercourse, say after having a baby or during times
of stress (am I rationalizing?), is this: I imagine myself in the
jungle with a primitive tribe. I am f***ed to watch punishments
being inflicted upon same of their tribe members far various
sexual misdemeanors. I go into great detail over the tortures. The
men have their penises or scrotum cut off, or red-hot liquid f***ed
up their urethra. The women hake red-hot pokers thrust up them
slowly. As the only civilized person there I am duly horrified by
these events.
Just now in recounting this fantasy to you, another upon
similar lines has entered my consciousness. In this one we are in
a Nazi camp. There is a fiendish woman torturing the men. She
makes them hold their urine until they burst. She has a machine
into which she inserts their penises. This machine keeps on
stimulating them so that they have constant orgasms. I remember
trying to conclude that particular torture, and couldn’t think of
anything except that their organs became flaccid and so another
torture had to be devised to follow that one – which I can’t
remember. The women in the camp were all very young girls and
were being ****d by a mad professor.
Their sexual apparatus was very immature and he always
managed to kill them. He adopted all sorts of techniques, but I
only remember this ward full of girls, each tied into a position
whereby he could examine their sexual apparatus and choose
which one was going to be his that day. By the way, most of
these fantasies are things I have read about and very little is
invented. Other events take place in theses fantasies, but all along
those same sadistic lines.
I told my husband of the jungle one and I think he was a little
taken aback, but it made me laugh when bringing it out into the
open. I certainly didn’t feel guilty about it, for although I might
be a perverted sadist somewhere down deep, it doesn’t seem to
show in my daily life; in fact, I am a gentle person, so I could
afford to laugh, feeling secure in the fact that I have disciplined
this part of myself.
As I say, I had difficulty remembering these fantasies, mainly
because I felt them to be a threat, and so I only indulged in them
two or three times and quickly suppressed. them. Never because I
felt guilty about them, but because I feel it a lack of
self-discipline to overindulge oneself in anything. [Letter]
 Things women see turn them on. It’s a simple proposition,
but I’ve spent a lot of time on it because it is so often denied.
Even a magazine as comparatively uninhibited as Cosmopolitan,
when it recently published its female reply to Playboy’s naked
"Playmate of the Month," went along with the myth that women
think the sight of the male body ugly or frightening; the male
model was nude all right but his oh-so-casually-placed hand and
wrist masked what one would have assumed was the very point
of the proceedings. This simple denial of the sources of women’s
fantasies is almost as endless as the fantasies themselves, even
though these sources are so obvious that just to name them is to
recognize how easily they can serve as the start of a fantasy.
Women fantasize about their former lovers, their first orgasm,
their first "different" sexual scene, say, with another woman or
several people. There are the fantasies that are continuations of a
real or remembered sexual moment – a stolen kiss, the pressed
hand, last night’s first dinner in an as-yet-unconsummated but
sure-fire affair – sexual sparks that haven’t yet, or never will get
off the ground, but do in fantasy. There’s the totally fictional
fantasy sprung from the fantasizer’s imagination inspired by an
attractive face at a dinner party, or the hero of a TV play, or a pop
music or film star. If this last possibility for fantasy hasn’t struck
you as endless, just think of the millions of women – perhaps one
sitting next to you right now – whose eyes glaze, palms moisten,
and lips part in half-smiles of anticipation at the sight of Tom
Jones or Paul Newman. Do you really think their minds are blank
or that they turn off when the TV does?
Less obvious are those fantasies that spring from a woman’s
effort to deal with emotions and desires too frightening or
destructive to be played out in reality. In much the same way that
dreams act as a healthy outlet for the violent emotions we would
not want to experience in reality, so sexual fantasy can give a
woman a chance to explore and thus lessen the anxiety of
jealousy and the conflict she feels when she has desires for other
men. That’s why I’ve included Gelda’s fantasy here; if her
fantasy, touched off by her jealousy of her lover’s former girl
friend, takes the form of a lesbian relationship with that other
woman, at least she doesn’t take her destructive feelings of
jealousy out on her lover during the day. 
I have been married for over three years and last year finished
a yearlong affair with a fellow executive civil servant (G.), who is
twice my age. Frequently, when my husband makes love to me, I
imagine it is G. on top of me again (difficult, as G. is heavier,
taller, and much hairierchested than my husband) and find my
own climax is intensified if I am thinking of my lover. Sometimes
when I come I even call his name out, but stifle it a bit.
(Fortunately in this respect, my husband is deaf in one ear!) I had
a much more passionate relationship with my lover, than with my
husband, even while we were engaged. G. and I only had to look
at one another and he would have an erection and I would
become wet. It even helps me to think that the bedclothes my
husband and I sl**p under are the same ones G. and I lay under
while my husband was away in another city on business.
Since my affair, I have tried to rebuild my husband’s shattered
ego by telling him what a good lover he is. (It helps now that I
have regular orgasms with my husband, whereas before my affair
I only came in the "superior" position.) Sometimes I have to keep
my husband convinced with a few white lies. I think he’d walk
out of the house if he knew what I was really thinking about.
When my husband fucks me I dream about G.’s favorite game:
for me to be dressed all in black with garter belt and stockings
under a long black skirt that buttons up the side. After stripping
down to his trousers, he would kiss me, then bend down and
stroke my leg where the skirt was split and bring his hand up
under my skirt until he felt my stocking tops and garters, which
would make him catch his breath. Then he would undo the skirt
buttons from the bottom. By this time we would both be pretty
worked up and I would "climb" him, swishing my nylons against
his trousers. Sometimes at this stage of my fantasy, having taken
my top off and unzipped his fly, we would start intercourse
standing up, with my legs around his waist and G. holding me
under my back. but more usually he insisted on sucking my left
breast and then we would undress each other completely. Then
we would admire each other in the dressing table mirror and
tease each other, and I would admire his erect organ and very
frequently go down on him, which he loved. (No other woman
had ever done that…at first he thought it was perverted!)
My fantasies, as you can see are all mixed up with what
actually happened. In the morning G. would pick me up in his car
and fantasize on what positions he was going to take me in that
night, often petting and kissing me to such an extent that once or
twice I ended up impaled on his prick at 8:15 A.M. in the front
seat, while his bosses wondered what had happened to old
reliable G! His particular ritual was to tease me so that I would
plead with him to enter and "quench my fire." This was okay so
long as he could control himself but very often he couldn’t,
especially in front of the mirror, and we would fuck ourselves
silly all over the floor. One night in particular he waltzed me
around the front room carpet on my back while I was having
multiple orgasms, and it wasn’t until half an hour later that we
saw that the skin had come off my back in about five places. I
told my husband I’d been doing floor gymnastics. All this, the
real and the imagined, gets confused in my mind during fantasy.
Also G. and I used to share a fantasy of what it would be like
when we were making love in his car in a secluded spot on a
promontory with bushes all around if the two hundred men on his
staff would suddenly appear from behind the bushes and see us at
it. In fact I think I would have really enjoyed it, and have since
wondered about seeing all that lot masturbating when they saw
that their boss was pretty good at things apart from work. I would
have liked to watch their reactions when I toyed with my lover’s
penis in my mouth – that would shock a good many of them, old
women that a lot of them are, especially when they saw me bring
him to climax that way and swallow his seed, or when I made G.
come simply by flexing my vaginal muscles (tricks my mother
taught me – ha! – I can’t do that with my husband though: he’s
not sensitive enough).
My husband never seems to really take the initiative in bed,
and a climax for him seems to be more of a relief than a release.
(Incidentally. we’ve been married three years and he’s
twenty-four.) What I miss most is my lover’s manipulation of me
during intercourse, and his more or less mastery of the situation.
Most of all I remember when I’m with my husband how G.,
when his climax came, used to grunt and groan with the pleasure
and kiss me fiercely, making me feel a complete woman,
completely possessed. I haven’t really felt like that for months
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get something off
my chest which has been weighing me down for almost two
years. Very often I’ve longed to tell my husband the details of my
adultery – it would heighten my opinion of my husband if he
could take joy in what my lover has experienced. But I know it’s
just not possible. After all, my fantasies are based on the real
thing. [Letter]
 Adrienne is one of those lively, gregarious types who are
easy to get to know. I met her on the QE2 trip from New York to
Southampton. Although the voyage is only, five days, a ship has
a way of bringing people together in terms of intimacy so quickly
that it seems incredible when remembered back on shore.
This was the case with Adrienne and me. We were introduced
at the Captain’s cocktail party. (The two of us being practically
the only unattached women under sixty on board, we were
naturally asked.) Nicknames, very quickly invented and
bestowed, are another part of shipboard life; and there was a man
on board whom Adrienne almost immediately named "The
Gambler." She had already met him by the time I got to know
her, and the three of us would often have a drink together before
dinner. The Gambler was one of those men who like to talk about
sex a great deal, and with, astonishing perseverance would want
to know more about the slightest detail ever mentioned. It was
after the Gambler had gone off on his own one night that
Adrienne and I had our talk.
Adrienne is a plump, almost professionally social thirtytwo or
thirtythree; as I said, I doubt if we’d ever have exchanged more
than first names on land, we had so little in common. But she
loved to talk and I listened. 
When you asked me the other day if I ever had sexual
fantasies, my first reaction was that I really didn’t think I ever
had. What had I been missing? Maybe the Gambler has
something to do with my "secondthinking." What I mean is, he
reminds me of this guy I used to know. Now, on reflection, I
realize that on more than one occasion my thoughts have run wild
and that I do have a vivid imagination. It’s just that I wasn’t used
to calling these ideas and images "fantasies."
Several years ago, I was going out with a man called Ted. He
was tall (like the Gambler), handsome, and I found him very
attractive but elusive. When I first met him we were at a dinner
party, which was held outdoors on a lovely terrace overgrown
with pink and white petunias. It was a warm night and we were
sipping buck fizzes – a drink which always makes me feel very
romantic and rather sexy. We had really only just been
introduced, but there we were, off alone on that terrace, and I
found myself telling him that I had a giant teddy bear back home
at my apartment, and he immediately replied that now I could
have another "Teddy, bare" that night. He said it so easily, and
with such a spirit of fun, that I thought to myself, "Well, why
He was a wonderful lover. You know how some people always
have to have a record player going when they make love? With
me, all I have to do to get into a sexy mood is remember the
conversation that first night. Time and time again I would
imagine him as a large teddy bear and me as a honey pot. He was
a very hungry bear and would suck and sc**** as much as he
could out of that pot and I kept wishing and wishing that my pot
could always be full. Just thinking of it right now…I can feel
myself getting all excited…Hey! Where did the Gambler go?
 "Here was this experience that was supposed to be the
climax of a girl’s life, and it was like a form of calisthenics," says
Doris, talking about her sexual initiation with Jim, then her
fiance. "My reactions were always the same. I’d find myself
heated up by the preliminaries, but then just waiting for what’s
called ‘the real thing’ to be over."
Doris felt obscurely cheated, and resentful of Jim. In the end, it
ended their engagement. But before it did, Dons told Jim of her
feelings. His response was to buy "something special." "It was
like a little fat rubber band," says Doris, "maybe an inch wide,
but on one side it had this funny little upward thing. I remember
thinking it looked like some kind of shark’s-fin, sticking up from
the middle of the rubber band." Jim slipped the rubber band
around the shaft of his erect penis. and with every thrust "the
little fin rubbed my clitoris both going in and coming out in a
way that Jim’s shaft never could. I never had felt anything like it.
I never had an orgasm like it in my life."
A year after the engagement was over, Doris married someone
else. Her husband refuses to buy "one of those little upward
things" like Jim used to have, but has learned to bring her to
orgasm with his finger. 
It’s dark – maybe that’s because I have my eyes closed so I
can see the picture better. I just think of that big shaft of Jim’s,
going in and out of me, like a great pink shark. I rarely imagine
that the man is my husband. Usually, it’s my old boy friend, or
sometimes some other man I’ve recently met. I picture it very
clearly. the man’s big shaft parting the hair, parting the lips,
sinking into me, with that little tip riding toward the clitoris as if
it’s hungry to touch it. I concentrate on that little rubber shark’s
fin, just touching me in the right place with each stroke. Rubbing
as it goes in, rubbing as it goes out. I’ve never mentioned it to my
husband again ever since he refused to buy one. But it’s one of
the nicest wedding presents my old boy friend could have given
us…this picture of it I have in my mind.
I like to imagine that we’re making love in some tropical sea
or a warm swimming pool. And I can just see this pink shark
swimming toward me, and I open my legs wider and wider. The
shark knows me, and he likes the warm feeling inside. He likes
to wriggle around just at the lips. Sometimes even when my
husband’s not inside me, I only have to think about that shark’s
fin and I start climbing the walls. I can see the picture in my
mind’s eye. That’s all I ever have to think about. Just the pink fin
rubbing me. [Taped interview]
Any lesbian fantasies I have go back to the time my husband
and I experimented in bed with another girl. It was the only time
this had ever happened – not for my husband, but for me. I must
admit I enjoyed it. It was my husband’s idea, and although he
asked me to make the advances toward the girl, I didn’t really
mind. Since that time I have sometimes wondered what it would
be like to pick up a girl all on my own somewhere and seduce
her, or to be completely seduced by a dominant woman,
especially as my own experience so far has been as the initiator.
When I am in bed with my husband I’ll go over this scene again
and again, imagining how that first girl really was with me, the
things I might have tried had I only known. If I like I can even
imagine that my finger is her tongue, as I remember it. That’s a
lot of memory from just one experience, don’t you think?
I’ve been having sexy fantasies ever since I got married three
years ago. I imagine that I am walking down the street when
suddenly a fantastic car screeches up beside me and sitting at the
wheel is Robert Redford. Beside him, of course, is Paul Newman.
They take me to an elegant dress shop where mannequins model
the most incredible clothes (just like in the old films from the
forties on TV). They buy me the most elegant, sexy clothes
imaginable. Then they take me to a ball.
Everyone is there, film stars and the most divine-looking men
any woman could want to meet. Naturally, everyone wants to
dance with me: Tom Jones, for one, whom I refuse, just to see his
face…Engelbert…Franco Nero is incredibly jealous…The one
and only Elvis asks to take me home, but I refuse them all and
end my fantastic night by going home and making passionate
love to Marc Bolan of T. Rex. [Letter]
I am a happily married woman of thirty-five, and often think
about other men and imagine how they would make love to me.
My most vivid imagery is of Tom Jones. Just the other day, as we
were driving along, my mind drifted off. Suddenly my husband
looked at me and said, "What are you smiling about?" I replied,
"I was in bed with Tom Jones." "What happened?" he asked.
"Everything!" I said. "And it was smashing!" We both had a good
laugh. [Letter]
I’m a James Bond fan, and often imagine ordinary tradesmen
have done fantastic things to me before sweeping me off to bed. I
was picturing the milkman that way recently when he asked how
many pints I wanted. "Oh, oh seven," I whispered dreamily!
I used to imagine in bed that my husband was Mick Jagger,
until the night when at the height of our sexual crescendo I
moaned, "Oh, Mick!" I still haven’t convinced him that Mick
isn’t the mailman, or the man who reads the gas meter, or a brush
salesman! [Letter]
I wonder what making love would be like with the
couldn’t-care-less Tony Curtis, or the sexy Roger Moore. I’m a
great-grandmother of sixty 36" 29" 38" – which I’m afraid is not
terribly sexy. When I see my fantasy lovers, I’m practically in the
TV scene with them; then the program is over and I have to go to
bed with my husband. [Letter]
It has always been my fantasy just to tell someone that I dream
of very young men. My favorite of the moment is Richard
Benjamin. I do feel so ashamed, as I am going to be fifty next
May. I also admit to having sexual fantasies whenever I see
well-dressed men with no tummies! I can’t tell you how exciting
I find a flat stomach. [Letter]
Thank goodness for your article. I was beginning to think I
was the only one with certain fantasies when indulging in sex.
I’ve never dared discuss my thoughts with anyone bepause of
being considered indecent. Even now I feel rather shy in writing
to you.
My first fantasy, I remember, was on the occasion when, as is
normal on most evenings, our love play started in front of the fire
with me between my husband’s legs fellatiating him. But on this
occasion the television was on with the sound turned down, and I
suddenly imagined myself doing it to the man on the screen
instead of my husband. The thrill I got was trying to imagine
whether the man I was watching had a penis to compare with my
husband’s. This certainly heightened my eagerness to please
hubby, and although he had no idea what I was thinking, he
certainly enjoyed my increased intensity because in no time at all
he arrived at a delightful climax.
The other occasion was inspired by the first: again, with the
television on, I was on my knees watching a play when he
mounted me from the rear, and while he was thrusting home I
was imagining that it was not him but the handsome brute in the
play. The effect on me was indescribable and I was putting up
such a performance that my husband did, I am sure, suspect
something, because he reached over and turned the set off, much
to my annoyance.
On other occasions, when he sometimes performs cunnilingus
on me, I lie back and imagine him to be a young fresh teen-age
girl (I’ve longed for that to happen). But alas, I never get the
chance to meet one, as I cannot get out on my own. He is far too
possessive to allow me out. [Letter]
Until I knew Sam, my current lover, I’d never had a fantasy
like this, that is, one that involved me with another woman. Lots
of fantasies, but nothing like this. And I’ve never even thought of
a woman that way in real life, just wouldn’t ever want a woman
sexually. It’s just that ever since Sam told me about her, the girl
he used to live with, I can’t help thinking about it; about them
together. I know how she changed Sam’s life sexually, made him
a better lover. I also know he’s through with her, that he loves
me; I am as convinced of it as one could rationally be. But
jealousy isn’t rational, is it? And I hate it, jealousy; I hate what it
does to people, and I’m not going to let it ruin. things for me and
Sam. Sometimes I feel that if I ever met that girl I’d scratch her
eyes out, at least I’d want to. But in my fantasies it’s all different.
This is more or less how they go:
The bed is one of those wrought-iron antique beds you see in
Italy. The Italians hang religious medals and ornaments on them,
and they make a chiming noise with the up and back motion of
fucking. The bed is painted red and there are gold balls all along
the spikes at the head and foot. The bed is in this girl’s room, in
her apartment. I can see the apartment just from Sam’s
description of it, complete with the little dog, small, with long
gray and brown hair. The dog is on the bed with us, licking the
asshole of the girl, who is between my legs. I can’t see the dog
but I know it’s there, that the girl has trained the dog to do this. I
feel the girl’s long hair on my thighs and against my lower
stomach, as she slowly kisses me, parting my lips with her
fingers, her tongue going straight to that delicate spot, touching it
gently, and then her lips, full and lingering against me, pressing
warm against me, and then the tongue, slowly, very slowly at
first – and not just the tip of the tongue, which would be too hard,
but the whole length and breadth of it, soft, warm, licking me in
slow, great, warm, repeated kisses. The blunt feel of her teeth as
her mouth presses against me. Sam is there, standing across the
room, watching us, watching me, my face. He is leaning against
the wall, cool, detached, interested, knowing how I am. He is
wearing his old khakis, the red Banlon shirt, the old blue
sneakers. His eyes never leave my face, he is fascinated, he waits
for the flush to start in my cheeks, as he knows it will, as I know
his cool look of detachment will change. My lips part, and as my
breathing becomes heavier. faster. so does his. I can see the bulge
in his trousers growing larger and larger and his hand moves to
it. Something in me fights letting this girl give me pleasure, any
pleasure, but she is so good at it, she knows every little trick. just
the rhythm, the right rhythm, slowly at first, with the full tongue
spread warm and lingering against me. Now the idea of her hair,
of all that long silky hair – the idea that she is a girl, the idea that
she is Rosie, Sam’s old girl friend. excites me. I watch Sam
unzip his fly, still standing there. still watching my face, but
needing my excitement now for his own. He takes out his cock
and his long thin hand begins to stroke it, the foreskin slipping,
slipping slowly up and down over the pink smooth end. His
rhythm is slow at first, like the girl with me. I watch his cock, I
know it so well, I watch it, the veins in it strained like the veins
in his hand, and I gear myself, pace myself to him. My hands feel
for the girl’s hair, the beautiful soft feel of it – Christ! is it another
woman doing this to me? – and with the slightest pressure I keep
her head,, the movement of her tongue, paced to Sam and me. I
don’t have to guide her though, she knows; she has always
wanted me. We don’t need Sam. Now Sam needs us. I relax; I
give myself to her. Push myself against her mouth so that her lips
are pressed against her teeth and her tongue slips into me.
wanting me. My face is hot, my cunt aches with wanting her. I
watch Sam’s hand moving faster, faster, he is bent over his body
barely able to hold him up, his mouth open, his hand moving up
and down, up and down the way he has taught me to jerk him off,
his eyes glued to mine pleading, begging me not to stop. The girl
moans, her tongue moves faster and faster. She is ready to come,
but she holds it back, waiting for me. The scream is in Sam’s
throat. I am almost there, but I poise at the height, not wanting it
to end, wait Sam, wait, not yet, not just yet? The little dog is on
his back now, under the girl, so that he can lick her cunt which
drips, but still she waits, her sucking lips pleading, her tongue
never stopping, until now! [Written down on request]
 Do women dress for men or women? I’ve always won dered
why that eternally provocative question is put in terms of
approval – as if the heart of the matter, the answer, were indeed a
question of approval by either sex. But the question is never
satisfactorily answered because it is incorrectly posed. It’s
disapproval, the fear of it, that motivates most women, and with
disapproval it doesn’t matter where it comes from.
It’s no different with sexual fantasy; the question is not for
whom do women select their sexual imagery, but out. of fear of
whose disapproval do they suppress it? And the answer’s the
same as above. Nor is the parallel especially contrived between
what a woman chooses to put on her body and what sexual
imagery it is that goes into her head.
In the marvelous climactic scene of an early Bette Davis film,
Jezebel, when she appears at the traditionally all white-dress
cotillion in a flaming red torch of a dress, whose hearts stop
(along with the music) in shocked disapproval and anxiety at
what she’s dared to ‘wear? Absolutely everyone’s, both men and
women. Everyone, that is, except handsome gambler George
Brent, who suddenly sees that his own private fantasy of a
woman is also Bette’s. And ours in the audience, too, of course.
For an instant there, we share the fantasy of being the most
daringly beautiful woman at the ball, who, rather than being
rejected for her daring, is chosen because of it by the manliest
man, the Hero.
Then the lights go up; we sigh and go home to reality, where
we would no more think of actually buying a dress like that than
we would think of responding to the next "George Brent" who
comes along. Not because a red sheath doesn’t suit us; there’s an
equivalent on the market for what that dress does, for every
woman, just as there’s an equivalent George Brent somewhere
who could do for every woman what George did for Bette. But
we don’t dress "out of character" (and in to fantasy) for the same
reason we don’t act unpredictably; it would arouse too much
anxiety. Anxiety in other women, in our men, and in ourselves.
What happens, instead, is that the guilt we feel in advance at
what we might have done – in our wildest fantasies – doesn’t
merely restrain us from doing it, it suppresses the fantasy as well.
That is guilt in its most repressive sense. You’ve seen what the
end result is: Women walking past shop windows of clothes
("Oh, that’s just not me") with the kind of indulgent smiles that
convince you they haven’t even seen the clothes; any more than
they really sexually look at "other" men. Having turned off their
fantasy like a light, they become blind to reality as well; it’s safer
that way. Repression is a defense line that is ever moving
forward, ever seeing threats further and further afield, and in the
end, even the fantasy itself, no matter how far removed it is from
being acted out, has become so sexually loaded that most women
who would not dream of "experimenting" in reality, won’t
experiment in their conscious dreams either.
To be fair, women have had little training for thinking about
sex (except in their almost u*********s reveries). Doing it
maybe, but not thinking about it. It’s why men’s burning
bedroom question, "Tell me what you are thinking about,"
usually goes unanswered, or he gets an honest, but right off the
top of the head "I wasn’t thinking about anything." Women’s
conscious minds, like the bodies of virgins, just don’t
spontaneously progress from the most obvious sexual possibility
to the next. It’s a matter of exercise, or lack of it, like learning the
scales. When the occasional sexual reverie does occur, it’s
generally on a straight line and short-lived. It’s like thinking in a
foreign language. It has nothing to do with intelligence or even
"liberation." Interested and unabashed as we all are getting to be
in this age where one can no longer be shocked, when it’s all
been written and filmed and become so socially accepted that the
only rule left is "let the sun shine in," women I know still grow
tongue-tied when the topic of sexual fantasy comes up.
While I was putting this book together, I met women who
were instantly in tune to what I was doing, who so intuitively
knew what it was all about that they were saying my words
before I could get them out of my mouth. They were encouraging
and enthusiastic and fantasizers, tooexcept suddenly, as they
were talking all over the subject, they couldn’t remember the
heart of it, their own specific fantasies. "But that’s ridiculous,"
one would say, perplexed. "I know I fantasize, I just can’t
remember …" Then, as often as not, after a lapse of days – during
which they would adjust to the idea, or perhaps have the fantasy
again but this time remember it – they would triumphantly tell it
to me.
I expect most women to say they don’t have sexual fantasies.
(Contributors to this book, aware of their fantasies, are the
exception, not the rule.) I even expect the same women who say
they don’t fantasize to be the ones who most want to discuss the
topic, to be interested and eager to pursue the idea. But what I’m
not prepared for (or at least wasn’t when I began) is the
inarticulate stumbling for words, the sometimes near-hysterical
half giggle, half groping for sentences, and the almost universal
disclaimer which tries to deny everything by admitting all: "There
must be something wrong with me; I never have fantasies at all."
Listening to an intelligent woman trying to put one word in front
of another in an effort to describe what sexual fantasy means to
her is like watching a healthy normal c***d who has suddenly
developed dystrophy trying to put one large block on top of
I mentioned in an earlier chapter that I think a woman’s
divorce from sex begins with her c***dhood exclusion from
adventure and exploration, both physical and mental, and those
limited, limiting toys and games allowed her. It’s as if it were a
crime for a young female body to get knocked about and bruised
in play, as if the crime were in the contact of anyone or anything
with her body. And the feeling that it’s a crime to be touched,
even by herself, increases in her teens, so that if she stumbles
upon it by accident, the ground for guilt has already been
If her own hands are hesitant to touch what’s obviously and
tangibly hers, how much chance does her mind have of exploring
the possibilities of that body? And where would she get the
rudimentary material her imagination needs to build with? What
books or magazines offer any more than her c***dhood toys,
incentive or ideas for sexual fantasy concerning this body that’s
so out of bounds? By the time she’s twelve they’ve got her senses
all tied up: Nice Little Girls don’t do "those things"; Nice Little
Girls also don’t look – thus the fig leaf, just in case they do. And
as Nice Little Girls don’t even think about "those things," even
the fig leaf become a mystery.
Later, when the mystery is solved and the fig leaf removed,
women look (at least some do), but they still don’t speak. The
conspiracy of silence that began with her mother, and which
makes each woman her own jailer, keeps women verbally
tongue-tied and as securely blocked off from their minds as their
minds are from their bodies. To me, the saddest part of this is not
that a woman feels guilty in her fantasy about what she’s doing
(that guilt is usually as buried and u*********s as the fantasy
itself), but the guilt a woman feels for having a fantasy at all. To
feel guilt, not for something you’ve done, but for something
you’ve only been thinking about – that is sad. 
I suppose my sex life is as normal as any twenty-eight year-old
woman’s. It’s happy, it exists, and I’ve never felt frustrated. Ted
and I’ve been going together for two years now and we’ll
probably get married, when and if we feel like it…and if it
doesn’t mean I’ll have to give up my job, which I love. I have to
travel a lot for the company, and Ted knows I probably sl**p with
another guy now and then. But jealousy’s not one of our
problems. We don’t really have any sexual problems. We hardly
ever go to sl**p without making love first. It’s just natural. The
only thing that isn’t natural is this recurring thought of mine,
what you would probably call a fantasy. If this is a fantasy it’s
the only one I’ve ever had, and I have it almost every time I make
love. It’s the only unnatural thing about me. Invariably, when a
man is on top of me, inside me, I have this desire, this image that
he is having me from behind. He’s not really, but it’s what I want
– yes, to be fucked from behind, again and again. It’s what I
always dream of. Perhaps if it happened, just once, I wouldn’t
feel so guilty thinking of it. [Letter]
Are you going to publish the results of this work? I really hope
so. I used to feel so guilty about my sexual thoughts, my
fantasies, about everything to do with sex, I guess, including
masturbation. But I didn’t stop, not the sex or the fantasies…I
couldn’t in a way, it all seemed so natural. But the guilt, that
seemed natural too, until I met my husband. He’s helped me out
so much.
First, let me say that I’m a married woman of three and a half
years. I am twenty years old. And though I say that my husband
has done a great deal to lessen my feelings of guilt about sex, I
must admit that I’ve never told him about my fantasies. I’ve
never told anyone. I’ve just had them and then felt awful about it.
I’m telling you now because deep down inside I believe it’s the
guilt that’s wrong and not the fantasy. Here’s how some of my
thoughts go.
It gives me an extra thrill to imagine that one of our friends,
another man, is making love to me while my husband is actually
doing it. I don’t really have any desire to have any relations with
another person, but I get this added excitement just thinking
about it. Is that so wrong? I’d never dream of telling my husband.
We are very liberal about our sex practices, but I wouldn’t hurt
his masculine ego for the world, and telling him these things
Sometimes when my husband. is going down on me I imagine
that this woman, whom I knew long ago but had no physical
relationship with, begs me to let her eat me. I imagine she does it
whenever I wish, which is often. This increases my ability to
have giant orgasms. Then, after orgasm my fantasy completely
dissolves until next time. It’s not that my husband doesn’t
perform well he’s great but thinking of her makes it even greater.
Except later. I sometimes feel like I’m cheating him.
Now I remember an even earlier fantasy…I’d almost forgotten
about it. When I was six or seven I can remember masturbating
and imagining my father inserting the handle of a large
screwdriver inside me and masturbating me. There never was any
other contact but this. It’s strange because I’d never experienced
being penetrated yet, and my father and I have never gotten along
at all. I had that one for a couple of years.
I think you’re going to find that all men are really going to get
upset about this book of yours. So many of them still think that
women are for their enjoyment only. Some won’t admit that
women (if handled properly) have strong sexual desires and
feelings, just as they do. Most men that I ran into before marriage
didn’t even know what foreplay was. If it becomes more open
and publicly known that foreplay is usually necessary to get the
ball rolling for the woman, I’ll bet there’ll be a lot more sexually
satisfied women than there are right now. I had sex with thirty or
so men before my husband and never had an orgasm; I always
got the ones who jumped on, then jumped right off and took me
home, and of course I told them they were fantastic lovers and all,
but I felt nothing but frustration.
I told you that my husband has done a great deal to make me
feel less guilty about sex, about what we really do, which is
anything that gives us pleasure. I don’t know why I feel so
hesitant to tell him about my fantasies; I don’t know why I feel so
guilty about having them. I don’t always fantasize while we are
having sex. Just as often my husband is enough. But other times,
even when he has his fingers as well as his penis in me and you’d
think there was nothing else he could do to stimulate me, still I
fantasize that I am being fucked by many different penises, that I
am a nymphomaniac who can’t get enough of different men. I
would like to feel easier about my thoughts. I already do just
writing them down and hearing that I am not the only one in the
world with these ideas. I sometimes think many women would be
ashamed to admit they have any sexual feelings.
I don’t pretend to know what makes people work, but I’d be
willing to bet that if more people were more open and let
themselves go during sex, their brains as well as their bodies, the
world would be a better place. I doubt that so many people would
be so aggressive and powercrazy if they found a suitable sex
partner who would accept all of them. If people could free
themselves of deeprooted sex guilts they’d spend more time
becoming good lovers and wouldn’t have so much time for
revenge and wars. Good sex makes my husband and me very
mellow. Who would think of hating and fighting and plotting to
get someone else if they’d just been very sexually satisfied…no
matter what means they employed to reach that happy goal? Not
many, I’ll bet. So I’m ending up defending my "dirty" thoughts!
Believing in them, I guess is what I mean. [Letter]
I only fantasize when I masturbate, and I suppose what I think
about is typical. I imagine it is a man making love to me, that he
kisses me passionately all over my body, concentrating most of
his ardor on my cunt, teasing the outer lips, loving me totally and
expertly. I simply lie there in ecstasy, which makes me feel a
little guilty later at having such a selfish fantasy, since I never
even imagine touching him. [Letter]
When I was f******n, I had the usual relationship with a close
girl friend (I think most girls have them). In my bedroom she
would pretend to be the madam of a house and I would be a
virgin girl. She would dress me in a sort of sexy bikini made of
chiffon scarves. She would then be the customer, a rowdy seaman
who would take me against my will. She would lie on me and
rub her vagina against mine. I experienced very intense orgasms
(more intense than from any man). After she moved away I never
had the chance of another relationship like ours. Now when I
masturbate I usually think that I am being seduced by a pretty
female. However, if it ever should occur again in reality, I would
need to be seduced by the woman in order to control my
I have spoken to my lover about my lesbian fantasies. He
knows I feel guilty about them. He has tried to enter into them by
talking to me during sex, telling me that he is a woman, and so
on. This does excite me to an extent, but I’m not sure if he does it
for me or for homosexual feelings of his own, although he says he
has none. He does like me to lie on top of him (my back to his
chest) so that he can feel my breasts. From things he says, I think
he wishes they were his. It’s an exciting thought to me and I
don’t understand why he won’t admit to the slightest interest in
homosexuality – after all, I have. As he sees no shame in my
lesbian fantasies, why should he feel shame at his homosexual
Not all my fantasies are in the lesbian category. The man I live
with has a good-looking cousin, a man; I used to fantasize that he
would come to the house and find me naked, and I would make
love to him, or sometimes he would arrive with friends and they
would all touch me, trying to arouse me; I would then make love
with the one I fancied most. I rarely have this fantasy now. The
men in my fantasies nowadays always take me by f***e and are
older than I am (usually about thirty-five). Sometimes my lover
will encourage me to think that lots of men are making love to
me; he will paw me, touching me all over very quickly, as though
his hands were many hands. This excites me very much at the
time, but later I can’t help feeling ashamed. I sometimes think he
enjoys my fantasies, that they excite him when we are making
love, but that later he looks down on me because of them, that he
blames me for them.
Am I a suppressed lesbian? I just don’t know. Perhaps I could
be less two-faced about my fantasies if my lover were. [Letter]
I am trying very hard to free myself of sexual guilts and
frustrations. Thanks to my husband, I’m hoping to soon be totally
sexually free – but I must admit I’m afraid to take the chance of
telling him about my fantasies. When we first met, he was
jealous of other men. (I never flirted, I just liked to look at men,
just as men like to look over a woman.) However, we are now
more broadminded, and he may not be jealous at all of my
fantasies. I suppose it’s not really that I want to tell him, I would
just like to feel that it’s all right that I think these things, that he
thinks it’s all right.
I don’t think that he would like to know that sometimes during
intercourse with him I think of someone else. It is usually of
another man whom I have just met, who was extremely
attractive, and who I would like to make love with. I love my
husband completely – he’s the greatest – but I think we’re
capable of loving others sexually, also. I wouldn’t tell him this, I
just wish he knew and could accept it without my telling him.
I do however think be might be ready to her about my fantasies
during masturbation. Most of the time I imagine someone very
slowly approaching me and moving closer to me to kiss my
genitals. As I imagine the person getting nearer, I become more
excited, and as I imagine the kiss I have an orgasm. Sometimes
this imaginary person is female – which makes me feel guilty.
These lesbian feelings do worry me, and I want to be open with
my husband about it, but I am afraid. Also, when I see the
excitement my husband gets from performing cunnilingus on me,
I sometimes wonder if my doing the same to another woman
would excite me also. All my lesbian feelings are imaginary; I
would probably be disgusted if I were approached by a lesbian in
My other sexual fantasies involve a certain amount of
voyeurism or exhibitionism. One particular one concerns
someone – no particular person – who walks into the room and
watches me masturbate, then possibly joins me. At other times,
while masturbating, just as I reach an orgasm I imagine I am
licked by a huge dog. During lovemaking I even fantasize that
people are watching us, and that possibly the man with me is
Even during the day my mind wanders. If I am extremely
attracted to a man, I can fantasize an entire affair, just as if I am
writing a book or a play about the relationship.
I think my husband might encourage these fantasies,
especially as our relationship has changed so for the better. I have
told him that as a c***d my earliest sexual thoughts were not of
intercourse, but more of nudity, naked people, many people
walking around naked at a pool or in a park. I, of course, was one
of the nudists, and being nude and seeing others nude would turn
me on.
We have only been married three years. For a while there
things were quite boring during our lovemaking. But we’ve
overcome that by falling more deeply in love and by throwing off
our many sexual hangups.
Thanks for wanting to know. [Letter]
I wanted to contribute to your work, even though my sexual
life is probably lacking and will add very little to your research.
But even that fact alone will tell you something, and I do want to
feel more in touch with the world, with other women. I say my
own sexual life is lacking even though I don’t know what is
normal or average. I am sure there is something more to sex than
what I’ve felt.
We’ve been married seven years, and our sexual life is no
different now than it was when we were first married, except that
there’s less of it. You would think, or hope, that as people lived
together longer they would discover new and interesting things
about one another that would help them to give one another more
happiness in sex. But it’s only when I imagine that someone is
performing cunnilingus on me, which my husband will not do,
that sex becomes exciting, and I’ve always felt too guilty to
discuss this with anyone. [Letter]
 Women waste so much time and emotion on guilt,
meaningless guilt; fingers of shame imagined in isolation and
ignorance. I sometimes think each woman goes through life
secretly pursued by her own particular demon, representing her
own particular brand of shame; a frenzy after her, not for
anything real, but everything imagined. Shame and
self-incrimination grow like mad in the dark. If nothing else, I
hope this book helps women who fantasize to feel less guilty by
letting them know that they aren’t alone…they aren’t the only
people in the world with these odd, often unbidden thoughts or
ideas; that thinking something "awful" doesn’t mean you are
awful or really want something awful; and in the end you
shouldn’t be found guilty for what you think. (No Virginia,
thought police didn’t go out with the Nazis; they’re very much
with us still.)
But not all the guilt that surrounds the subject of female
fantasy is imagined. The tension and anxiety the topic arouses in
men is very real indeed, and a woman can’t help but pick up on
it; if he feels the anxiety, she’s guilty.
I can understand a man not wanting to hear about other men in
his woman’s life – especially hearing that they are in her mind
while he’s making love to her. I also understand why some
women feel they want to tell their men everything – but can’t
understand why they do. Telling all isn’t necessarily the way to
overcome guilt feelings; sometimes it only spreads the anxiety.
(Though I don’t think one, can make a hard-and-fast rule about
this; only you yourself, knowing the man, can decide how much
you feel he really wants to know.) But more about sharing your
fantasies – is it a good idea or not? – in another chapter.
I mentioned earlier that I gave up talking about their fantasies
with women when their men were present because, despite the
initial interest the topic aroused in everyone, a more detailed
discussion always clearly brought on tension in the men. Exactly
why they feel threatened by the subject is no mystery.
A woman’s fantasy brings up in him the spectre of the
unconquerable rival, with magical abilities and unimaginable
proportions, and, above all, a rival over whom he has no control.
Some men don’t react with anger or panic, but with simple
denial. I was discussing this subject over drinks one evening with
a man friend, when he said, "You really have to talk to my friend
Harry. He’ll be here in a minute. Harry will be fascinated with
what you’re doing. Why, that man’s the original b**st in the
jungle. There’s not a sexual experience he hasn’t had, and the
number of women he’s been to bed with is like a telephone
book." Fair enough, I thought, I’ll meet a man of such vast experience,
who’ll be so expansive and broadminded, that at last I’ll
be able to discuss women’s fantasies with a man without making
him feel nervous. And so I smiled warmly at the b**st in the
Jungle when he arrived, and he smiled right back, until my friend
started telling him of my work. The b**st’s expression toward
me changed as he drew himself up to his full psychological
attack position and lit a cigar. "No woman I’ve ever fucked," he
said, "has needed sexual fantasies."
This book isn’t about men or their fantasies, but I do want to
print just this one letter from a man who not only tells me what
his wife thinks, but also writes the letter for her, even signing her
Tina’s husband
My modest wife has asked me to write for her. So I am telling
you herewith that I don’t think she has any peculiar fantasies.
Her fantasy, if any, and she expresses it to me (we have been
married thirty-five years), is that she gets a great loving feeling
whenever we have sex. She has a right like anyone to her secret
feelings or desires, which we discuss frankly. She is offended to
read of women who might fantasize about other women or
a****ls. She doesn’t have to tell me this, as I know.
She has told me that she could – as would I – be aroused to
see large a****ls like horses or elephants having sex. We would
very much like to visit a stud farm and see this sort of sexual
activity. But I am sure this is not in her mind when we have sex.
As for myself, I have no fantasies during sex. I enjoy thinking
of my wife as a healthy, clean-woman, and her one
preoccupation, or fantasy, is of herself wearing nice clean clothes,
which she knows pleases me. She has never masturbated, and
although she used to share a bedroom with her s****r, I am sure
she has never had a lesbian thought.
Her fantasy, I repeat, is the feeling of love for me she gets
when we have sex and she is giving me all the enjoyment she
I would, however, like to see more written on fantasies,
although I do not think the average woman has the sexual desires
and fantasies that many men apparently have.
Thank you for letting me write to you for my wife. [He signs
her name.]
 Some women feel no guilt at all about their sexual fantasies.
They accept them, act them out, share them with their lovers,
even live them on a day-to-day basis, as does Sophie (below). A
few have gotten this far on their own; more of them have needed
the encouragement of an accepting lover. And a very few, I think,
are just lucky; they were born guilt-free.
As you’ve read, most of the women who contributed to this
book did so with a feeling of anxiety, almost in a tone of
self-reproach or even disgust though many ended on the relieved
note of, “Well, thank God, I’ve finally told someone who
understands; I thought I was the only freak with these
This relief from the anxiety of being alone with their thoughts,
and the greater reality which sharing them can bring, was
sometimes such a powerful sexual stimulus in itself that it
excited several of my correspondents to interrupt themselves in
midletter to masturbate. Carried along on the euphoria of the
release, they even told me about this – so, more the****utic relief
from guilt. For example: 
Please excuse me if this is rather disjointed, but I am sure you
will understand that I could not write this without masturbating,
which I am doing at this moment…,
The only fantasies that I speak out loud are the ones I make up
to please my husband. I always keep my real fantasies locked up
in my mind. I have found it a little exciting to tell you about my
fantasies, and a few times I have stopped and manipulated my
nipples with my fingertips while I was typing this letter. (The
more I did that, the better I felt about telling you these things.) In
fact, while I am typing this sentence with one hand, I am
manipulating my nipples with my thumb and first finger on the
other hand.
Excuse me, I have got myself quite carried away, and so I
must go and bring myself off if I can …
After reading through this letter I am wet through to my
panties …
This has been a difficult letter to write. My recollections have
been so arousing that I have had to stop twice to masturbate with
a "phallocrypt" made by my houseboy. This is rather like a dildo
and is used by some native women when their men are away to
satisfy themselves. My particular one is made exactly to the size
of my husband in erection. My thoughts when I use it are that the
native boy who made it is standing in for my husband. But this
does not matter when I close my eyes and cannot see the boy, just
feel the delightful weapon working exactly as my husband does.
If only it could spurt semen or cream into me…right now. [From
a correspondent in the Pacific]
 A guiltless minority never seem to have any hesitations at
all about the subject. They contribute as readily as if I’d invited
them to a party where they know they’ll have a good time
because they already know the guests. "Fantasies? Of course I
have fantasies, doesn’t everyone?" In fact, Gloria (below) was
convinced that no fantasy anthology could be complete without
hers, which, she uses daily in her work as a model. For women
like her, there’s no wall between fantasy and reality; what you
think and what you do needn’t be the same, but they don’t have
to be separated as though they were at war with one another. A
woman who lives this close to her fantasy isn’t dragging out the
dirty laundry from the bottom of the pit when she talks to you; the
material is easily available to her. What’s significant isn’t
whether her real and fantasy lives coexist, or even whether she
acts out her fantasies, but that each does exist and is accepted.
Her fantasies are part of her self-awareness; there is no threat, no
anxiety. That’s how she is.
For women like Hannah, there are no secrets or shame in
fantasy: she keeps a photo of her fantasy lover in her mirror as
she would that of a real lover, and enjoys slipping into her
fantasy routine any night she happens to be alone and in the
mood. To Sophie, her fantasy is barely a fantasy at all – just a
desirable way to live, and she proceeds with no hesitation at all to
put her desire to live with two different, equally exciting men
immediately into practice. As I said, some people live so close to
their fantasies that they live inside them.
I don’t know how significant it is that the four women in the
fantasies that follow are young, but I suspect it is. I’ve included
my youngest contributor here – fifteen years old and technically
still a virgin – because of her simple candor and self-acceptance.
Maybe it says something for fantasy’s future. 
I really don’t think any anthology of sex fantasies would be
complete without mine. It’s got to be the greatest one there is.
I should tell you I use it professionally, when I model. Let’s
say I’m in a studio, standing there waiting for the photographer
to finish fussing with the lights and everything. I look bored,
because I am bored. Then, when he’s ready and we begin, I
deliberately "go to market"-that’s how I think of it, and as I get
more and more into my fantasy, even though I’m following his
directions (I am a genuine professional at this) I become more
and more interesting to look at. Every photographer I’ve ever
worked with has remarked on it. I don’t tell them how I do it
(that’s my business), but I have enjoyed great commercial
success with it. Of course I amplify it and change it all the time,
but this is what it is basically:
I am strolling with my flunkies through a market, an enormous
place with high vaulted glass ceilings, up one aisle and down
another, looking at the merchandise to decide what I want. All
the merchandise on display in all the booths is simply naked
young men, all sorts but all strong looking. I am the only
customer in the whole place, and dancing attendance on me are
all sorts of salesmen or hawkers or press agents, all trying to sell
me on one or another of these studs. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I
listen to them as they tell me fantastic stories of what these men
are capable of, and this is in itself exciting; at other times I brush
them off and stroll on. At some point my attention is caught by
one particular young man, then another two or three, or more,
depending on how I feel. When I’ve a few candidates, the
flunkies assemble them on one platform, while other flunkies get
the screen ready. The screen is gigantic, filling one whole side of
the hall, fifty times the size of the usual movie screen. All the
others in the market, except my own people, are now sent away
temporarily, and then the film begins. The film is of me, in
glorious Technicolor, stripped and reclining, with the camera at
my level at the foot of the bed. As my knees, which are together
at the start, move apart, I start writhing on the bed and the
camera moves in. The head in the distance thrashes on the pillow,
the breasts in the middle distance roll from side to side as the
hips churn, and the zoom shot – but slow – gets to the slit, which
becomes more and more gigantic as the thighs widen completely
and the feet go in the air. As all this goes on on-screen, the studs
are watching it and I’m watching them. I walk around to see each
of them from all angles, up on the platform above me, and as
their erections grow and grow I make my choice.
So I motion to the crew that this one will do, and as they get
cameras set for the next filming, I conduct this by now wildly
horny stud to a giant bed which is set-up in a curtained studio in
a corner of the market, all arranged for this. I get my clothes off,
which weren’t much anyway, and get the stud on his back on the
bed, and I get on top. With my knees one on each side of his
waist, more or less, I raise my ass high in the air and get poised
right at the top of his cock, and tease it a little. The poor bastard
is panting and heaving at this, but we have to get the cameras angled
just right: one camera is behind me, one above, others all
around. When everything is right, and with all my teasing his
erection has become even more gigantic and hard, we begin. First
I ease down on his shaft slowly, then up again, down again, up
again, now with a little swiveling, then it gets faster and rougher
until I’m riding him like a cowboy and he’s bucking and we’re
really fucking up a storm. As we do, up on the giant screen is the
multiple-image, split-screen picture of what we’re doing, or what
we were doing a second or two before, and everybody in the
market is back now, all watching the giant screen, and we see it,
too, out of the corners of our eyes, and that contributes to the
climax, too, when it comes, and when it does the audience
applauds. Sometimes we draw it out for a long time, sometimes
we come once and then go down on each other to get started
again. But in any case it builds up and up, with variations, until,
as we race each other to a fantastic finish, the applause builds up
and at the end the whole hall is roaring even louder than I am.
[Written down on request]
 My introduction to Hannah was a letter in which she
described what she felt were the most important facts about
herself. "I am twenty-three, married (separated), have a baby
daughter, and am bisexual – love both men and girls!"
When we met, I learned the rest: She is from Wales, as is her
husband; both their fathers were coal miners. But they met in
London and decided to marry when they learned Hannah was
pregnant. She had half wanted to have an abortion, but Harry had
strong feelings against it. "He never knew I was bisexual before
we were married," says Hannah. "In fact, I never knew it myself,
except that I knew I had these kinky thoughts now and then.
About other girls." After they were married, Harry and Hannah
fell in with a group of young London people who regularly went
to parties where sexual partners were exchanged.
("Wife-swapping" would be a provincial description of these
parties, since most of the participants, living together or not, were
not married.)
"It was at one of these parties that I discovered I was
bisexual," Hannah said. "While Harry would only get excited
when we’d get home and he’d make me tell him about what other
men were like, when he opened a bedroom door once and found
me with another girl, he blew up. The idea of other men never
made him jealous, only excited. But the idea of competing with a
woman drove him up the wall." She left him, and they’ve been
separated for several months.
I mostly have these daydreams when I’m alone. It puts me off
even to have the baby in the room with me. I discovered this
when I used to leave her with my mum when I wanted to go
away for a week-end. When I got back home, suddenly my whole
little flat was different. Just being alone in it made it all so sexy.
It’s strange, isn’t it? After all, what can an infant only a few
months old know or see? They don’t understand anything yet.
But there it was. When I’m alone in the flat is almost my favorite
time in the world. I sometimes think I like it so much that I never
want to live with a man again. With anyone.
What I like to do is when I come home at night from work, I
pull the curtains so that I feel really alone. I turn the radio on to
Radio One – the pop station – and I imagine it’s a man in the
other room, talking to me while he’s putting different records on
my machine. When I found photos of the best-looking disc jockey
in magazines, I’d cut them out and put them in the edge of my
mirror. This helps me imagine the man in the next room.
Then I begin taking my clothes off. I even talk back to the man
in the other room. I put on a G-string, suspender belt, black
stockings, fluffy garters (no bra), a frilly, or see-through, blouse
or transparent negligee, no skirt, and a blond wig. First of all, I
like to put a Tampax in. Putting in a Tampax is thrilling at any
time, but I get an especial thrill when I don’t really need it.
I like to walk around the bedroom while I’m getting dressed
this way, and imagine the man in the other room. Ire sounds very
cool, just putting these records on and chatting me up as he does
through the half-open door, talking away as if he had nothing on
his mind but the Beatles or bl**d, Sweat and Tears, but all the
time I know that he’s there, having a fantasy about me in here
getting ready for him. I like the idea of his voice sounding so cool
and friendly, so relaxed, while all the time I know he’s growing
an erection like a battleship underneath his trousers, for me. I like
to imagine his face – that’s when I like to look at the photo – as
he walks about the other room, trying to control himself. I like to
think that little beads of sweat are breaking out on his face and
rolling down his cheeks – he’s so impatient, you see, but he
knows that if he lets me know how hot he’s getting waiting for
me, that I’ll enjoy it so much I’ll just let him wait even longer. I
just reach down and give the Tampax a little shove further up
when I think of his sweating face.
What gives me another kind of satisfaction is practicing a
certain kind of walk when I’m alone and dressed like that. It
makes me laugh when I go to the films and see the way they
make the girls walk in one of those sexy movies. Girls don’t walk
like that. But it excites me to see it, even in films – I suppose
that’s why they do it. So when I’m alone, I practice it. Do you
know the way that Maurice Chevalier used to walk – with his
arse jutting out just that little bit? I practice that. I imagine that
I’m a teen-age girl walking like that – I peer at myself in the
mirror; that’s when I most like to see myself in a frilly blouse, as
if I were in the street, not at home. I think that I’m a young girl,
walking past myself, just to turn me on. And I imagine taking
this girl home with me. The first thing I do is take off her
G-string. (I act this out, while I think about it.) And I find that
she’s clean-shaven there. (That’s how I like to be – white all
over.) It makes me very excited, and I imagine myself kissing her
on her tiny little white triangle. The girl in this dream is always
younger than me, and she half doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She just likes to walk around with her arse stuck out like that
because she knows it excites other people, and excites herself.
But she doesn’t know what to do with the excitement, you
understand, until I teach her: So her little white thing is so fragile
looking, so vulnerable. I’m dark, you see, and I can imagine my
dark hand on that white piece of skin…my dark fingers slowly
disappearing into all that white flesh…just disappearing inside
her as if into a white cream jelly. It gives me goose bumps to
think about it.
My husband left some of his clothes behind when he was last
here, and the other thing I like to do is dress up in them. I
especially like to put on his underwear. The fly front just
fascinates me. That’s when I like to put another Tampax in,
through the slit opening, and I try to get it so that it hangs
out…not all the way in, you know? But the angle is wrong, isn’t
it? I mean, men have it coming out in front, but the Tampax just
points down, and you can’t sit down naturally. But it’s very
exciting, and I imagine that I’m Harry, just dressed in these
slit-front shorts, and there’s a black man with me. I like the idea
of the contrast of color. The black man is really black, and he’s
covered with sweat, so that he almost shines. It makes my own
skin even whiter. I like to imagine that the black man has an
enormous prick, and that he’s secretly waiting for me to tire of
walking around in this special way. He’s having a fantasy of his
own, you see, of putting that giant prick up my little white arse,
but I feel him, and come up behind him while I’m walking
around and shove my Tampax right up him, and grab him around
the waist, by the balls, so that he can’t move without me doing
him an injury. Every time he tries to wiggle away, I just give his
balls a twist, and finally, he has to give in, and in goes this giant
white prick I have, and in the middle, he begins to love it, and he
drops down on his hands and knees so that I can get in easier.
"Shake it!" I yell at him, and he begins to wiggle his arse in little
circular motions to feel it better.
I always enjoy these little games the most because I know that
I still have the whole evening and night ahead of me. I don’t
really have an orgasm when I have these thoughts, but I get very
excited and my breathing changes. So I usually have a bath and
turn on the telly. It makes me feel so peaceful. I’ll tell you
something – all this business about orgasms must be a lot of
twaddle. I’ve had orgasms with men and with girls. But they
always leave me feeling a bit on edge, anyway. Exhausted
perhaps, but still ready to have another go. But when I have my
fantasies, and I take a bath after they’re over, I can just drift off
into the most peaceful sl**p of my life. So somehow they must be
more satisfying than the real thing. At least, that’s how it seems
to me sometimes. [Taped interview]
 Sophie is eighteen but already has a full and varied sex life.
When she was sixteen her parents found out about it and she left
home after the subsequent quarrel. She took a bus to Chicago and
lives there now on the Near North Side, which is the Chicago
equivalent, more or less, of New York’s Greenwich Village. She
holds no steady job but finds various things to do when she – or
the friends with whom she lives – are out of money. Her job at
the moment is shampooing in one of the fashionable new barber
shops where both young men and women come to have their hair
trimmed and shaped, where loud music plays, coffee is served,
and waiting customers may even be dancing. She likes this job
and says she has no plans for leaving it at the moment.
Sophie lives communally, as she puts it. An older generation
would call it living with two men. It is also typical, I think, of
Sophie’s generation that she is very aware of her fantasies, and is
not only unembarrassed to admit having them or talking about
them, but indeed tries to live them out in her life. 
I never had any hang-ups about sex; it was something people
did when they felt like it, and so I didn’t like it when my f****y
came down on me so heavy about it. I told them they had their
scene, I had mine, we didn’t have to quarrel. But they insisted
that I only make their scene – two-by-two, married – so I split.
It wasn’t sex that was my hang-up, but the kind of man I
wanted it with. What chick wants to be alone? But all my life,
I’ve always dug two different kinds of guys. The first was always
tall and dark and’ I was never sure that he really liked me. Or
anybody else, if you stop to think about it. A hard kind of guy
who never took crap from anybody. Naturally, a guy like that, all
the girls were after him. Which was all right with him. I
remember one. Practically any chick who wasn’t a horror could
ball him for a night or two, but after that it was all over, and if
she cried or told him she loved him, that was tough titty, he just
laughed and took a walk.
My other type, Type B, is just the opposite. He’s mostly small,
and maybe with kind of washed-out blond hair. But good-looking
and sad, as if he had TB and wasn’t going to live very long. Type
A, the rough one, was a school dropout, but Type B was very
hipped on books and reading and had all sorts of theories about
philosophy…about the way the world really is. He has this kind
of appeal, you see, he could talk to you, and explain why certain
things were happening. He made you feel calm. But his main
appeal, of course, was that you wanted to take care of him.
So ever since I started going out with guys, I’m like a
grandfather clock, tick tock swinging between these two opposite
types, thinking about the one type when I was with the other. But
it wasn’t ever that clear to me. Until some movie house had a
Clark Gable festival and I dug right away that this chick in the
picture, Gone With the Wind, she was hung-up between Type A
and Type B, too. Clark Gable and Leslie Howard. Leslie Howard,
Jesus, what a Type B he was, perfect. So when you ask about
fantasy, I knew right away that my fantasy wasn’t some story I
made up myself to get it off better with some guy. Some of the
guys I know, they’re always reading to you from these books,
about lesbians, and eight people going down on each other. But
that’s all in the mind, it doesn’t affect me much. Anyway, it
doesn’t get me all turned on the way it turns on the men. I don’t
know what you’d call my own story. It’s just the way I live and
that’s what I think is so exciting for me in the bed scenes.
And the scenes we have! Like, when I’m in the sack with Type
A, he’ll order B to bring our big portable mirror closer so we can
see ourselves better. Or else he tells him to roll some joints for us
while we finish, and then the three of us light up and have a
friendly smoke afterwards. But all the time I’m making it with A,
I know B is there in the room, too, and he’s thinking about me,
watching out for me, digging that I’m enjoying it, and I’m
digging that B is enjoying it, too.
A lot of times I make it with B, too, of course, but it’s always
different with him. He’s not so freaky as A. He likes it when I
take the lead. Sometimes, with him, I get the feeling that it’s
almost like having a baby in bed with me. Once A got mad at
something I’d done, and slapped me across the face so hard that I
fell down. Then A took whatever loot we had in the house at the
moment and split. But B stayed with me, and he was so tender,
even trying to explain A’s psychology to me, so that I wouldn’t
hate him so much. He’s so cool that he dug it that down beneath,
I really liked A so much it would be bad for me to hate him.
Sometimes I get the feeling that B is in love with A. Maybe A
thinks so, too. He often calls him "sweetie" or "dearie" or some
other faggoty name. In fact, I think the reason B gets so excited
when I’m screwing A is because he doesn’t know which of us
he’d rather be fucking himself, A or me. Or both. In fact, we’ve
tried that, too, a few times. Talk about a chick living in a dream,
having the two of them in me at the same time and groping each
other, too, all at once. But we don’t do it often, because after one
of those scenes A gets mad and disappears for a day or two, and I
hear that he’s balling some other chick somewhere.
So you see, I don’t have to make up any stories to turn myself
on. I’m really living in one. I don’t like the word "fantasy." It
sounds like some neurotic thing you’re into, and the next thing
they’re coming for you with the psycho nets. So I wouldn’t say I
have a fantasy about sex. Or if I do, it’s my whole life. [Letter]
I am only fifteen years old, so I don’t want to tell you my
name, so that I can be sure that my parents won’t find out any of
this. I saw your questionnaire in one of my big b*****r’s
magazines, and I just felt like replying to it because I guess I
think about sex quite a bit of the time. I pet with boys a lot, but
the only guy I ever tried to go all the way with came before he
was able to get his penis into me. I thought you ought to know
that so it would help you understand my answers better.
Most of the guys that I have had sex with wouldn’t get uptight
about knowing that I was thinking about someone else when I
was having sex with them. I’m sure that sexy girls who turn them
on come into their thoughts, too. Besides, a guy has no right to
get angry about what I’m thinking about as long as I’m giving
him what he wants.
I masturbate almost every day, and I almost always fantasize
when I do. One of my favorites is to think about having a boy
who turns me on tied up. He is helpless, and I take down his
pants and play with his penis. When he is almost ready to come I
stop and just watch him suffer. Then I make him do what I guess
is called cunnilingus to me before I finally play with his penis
until he comes.
When I pet with boys I like to have them do cunnilingus (I
usually just call it eating my pie) to me, and when I masturbate I
like to think about guys doing that to me.
Sometimes when I masturbate I play with my nipples and then
I like to imagine that a boy is sucking on them.
Lots of the time, I just imagine that a guy is fucking me and
that my finger is his penis going in and out of me. I keep doing it
until I’m worn out from coming.
One of my weirdest fantasies is about being spanked. I
imagine that some guy who really turns me on grabs me, lifts my
skirt, takes down my panties, and spanks my bottom until it
really hurts. Then when I cry he kisses my bottom all over and
does cunnilingus to me.
I have sucked some guys’ penises when I’ve petted with them,
and every once in a while I’ll think about that when I masturbate.
I sometimes suck on my thumb when I try to imagine that.
I guess that the most common thing in all of my fantasies is to
think about having the boy under my control and being able to
make him do whatever I want him to do to please me. I think
about myself sitting on a big chair like a throne with my skirt
pulled up and my panties off and the boy is kneeling between my
legs doing cunnilingus to me. Sometimes if I really feel devilish I
imagine that I pee in his mouth and he has to swallow it. In the
fantasies like this the boy’s hands are tied so that he cannot touch
me except with his mouth. Usually he is naked and sometimes I
imagine that I am whipping him when he is kneeling in front of
me like that. I usually add to these fantasies in whatever way I
feel like at the time.
I have other fantasies, but these are my favorites right now.
A couple of years ago, an older girl and I did mess around
together some. Mostly we masturbated each other and I sucked
on her nipples some. She was the one who first taught me about
cunnilingus, too. When I masturbated myself then I would think
about the things she and I did, and I still think about them once
in a while now when I masturbate. Mostly I think about the way
she used to get so turned on and come so much when I played
around with her. Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be
like if I did those same things with a younger girl. Also, I like to
imagine what it would be like to have a penis like a guy and have
sex with a girl.
When I see a guy who turns me on I like to try to imagine in
my mind what he would look like standing there naked with his
penis erect. It is the thought of his erect penis that stands out in
my mind. If a guy like that is looking at me, I imagine that he can
see me naked, too. Once in a while, I have the same thoughts
about a girl. Sometimes at school when I pass by the boys’ rest
room I imagine the boys in there with their penises hanging out
of their pants. That makes me laugh to myself instead of feeling
The guys I have sex with don’t know my fantasies, but
sometimes without them knowing about it I get them to do things
that I have fantasized about before then. I enjoy making them
kneel in front of me and do cunnilingus to me before I will do
anything to them.
I like to imagine myself going all the way with some guy who
really turns me on with all my girl friends watching us. I imagine
that they get so turned on that they start masturbating themselves
and plead for him to have sex with them, but he stays with me. I
also like to masturbate while I am listening to rock music. I
sometimes imagine that one of the singers is having sex with me
in front of a big audience.
I like horses and I sometimes imagine that I am naked and
riding bareback on a beautiful thoroughbred horse. I feel bad
about thinking such a thing, but I once tried to imagine what it
would be like to try to get a horse’s big penis into me. That was
more like devilish curiosity though.
The only time that I’ve spoken any of my fantasies out loud
was a few times with that older girl that I told you about. Then it
got us more turned on.
I am sure that there are other things that I could have told you
about if I had remembered them, but I hope that this much will
be some help to you.
Peace. [Letter]
 Paula is a lovely, black Haitian, whom I met in Rome. Her
current lover, Tony, is a white Englishman. I would say she’s in
her early twenties. I’ve left my dialogue with her unedited to
illustrate how these interviews generally developed and took
form. Paula, as you can see, is no sexual shrinking violet, but she
originally refused to contribute to the book, saying she didn’t
have any sexual fantasies. It was only when I gave her several to
read that she exclaimed, "Oh, that’s a sexual fantasy! Something
that makes you feel good."
It’s interesting, too, and typical of women when they begin to
talk of their fantasies, that they find they have much more to say
than they thought. As Paula warms to the subject, she begins to
release information, new even to herself, as if she is verbally
getting in touch for the first time with up-till-now untapped
realms of her self. I don’t mean she deliberately withheld
information at the start of the interview – having decided to talk,
she was genuinely eager to tell all and, in fact, insisted that I use
her real name – but I think the depth of her fantasies and their
involvement with her real life only became more conscious as she
discussed them. As for myself, it wasn’t until I was halfway
through the interview and beginning to get confused as to what
was fantasy and what was fact, that I realized how much Paula’s
fantasy and real worlds overlapped; that she, in fact, totally and
happily accepted and lived her fantasies. 
Q: Have you thought some more about your fantasies since we
last talked?
A: Can I read some other people’s fantasies, just to see what
they’re like? What I’m thinking of may not even be a fantasy.
Q: Remember the one you read about the girl fantasizing that a
guy is going down on her in a restaurant?
A: When I’m making love I love to think that the guy is fucking
another chick, not me.
Q: Where are you, are you in the fantasy, too?
A: I’m in my mind, I mean I know I’m being fucked but I like to
think the guy is fucking somebody else.
Q: Anyone in particular, a girl friend … ?
A: No. Sometimes girls I used to go to school with, they’re the
other girls, and I love it so much, what’s happening, I know
they’d love it too.
Q: They’re fucking the guy you’re really with? That excites you?
A: That’s amazing, you know? To think, when you’re making
love, that somebody else is getting it, not you. I like
sometimes to have another girl in bed with me, I like to get it
together, with me and my boy friend, and to have him make
love to her, and make love to me. I get extremely jealous, but
it turns me on like crazy. The jealousy turns me on … how
it’s being done, just to look at it is fantastic, to look at him
fucking someone else.
Q: In your imagination, or in reality?
A: No, in my imagination. I really love it. I think about it when
I’m making love. What happens is I get the kinky feeling that
I know what she’s getting. I get really excited, thinking about
all the things that she may be thinking about as well … like,
oh, what a great fuck he is … even if she isn’t having a great
fuck, I think, Oh wow, that’s really … strong.
Q: Do you see yourself in your imagination watching them?
A: Oh, yes. When I’m making love my eyes have to be open,
even if I’m not really looking at anything. My imagination is
so strong, I have to be looking, I have to have my eyes really
open. If my eyes are closed, it’s no good.
Q: Most people do fuck with their eyes closed.
A: Not me. My eyes have to be open, staring at that object there.
It’s really real, it’s amazing.
Q: Do you ever feel any jealousy in reality?
A: I get jealous if I think I would be there and just looking …
but no, I am not jealous, basically. Because I know I’m really
getting what she’s getting in my mind, and that’s such an
enjoyment that it helps to stop the big jealous thing. I’m
jealous but happily so, because it’s so exciting for me to
know that she’s being fucked, and going crazy; that it’s so
Q: What’s nice is that you have your eyes open. It shows how
close you are to the whole thing.
A: And I actually can see it. The woman can be anyone.
Everyone I know comes into my mind. They come and then
disappear. I imagine everyone being fucked, everyone I know
… acquaintances, friends …
Q: How about men … do you sometimes think of Tony with
other men?
A: Yes. When I’m making love I love to see another guy making
love to him.
Q: Does that bother Tony?
A: It doesn’t bother him, no. I hate a guy to say they don’t like
me thinking that. I know most guys say they wouldn’t really
go with another guy. But to say they hate the idea of it,
thinking of it … I hate a guy to be that way. "Oh," a guy
should say, "that’s a wild idea, that turns me on like crazy." A
guy shouldn’t put you down for what you think.
Q: I think many guys feel threatened if you talk about their
making it with another guy; they say, "It’s one thing for a
woman, but quite different for a man" to get into some
homosexual number.
A: I know. But if you say it to someone who’s really groovy –
that you’re thinking about him with another guy – he’ll like
it, he won’t put it down. Which is nice. I love saying it to a
guy I really dig, "Oh baby, I’d love to see you with another
guy." I always say it if I’m really enjoying myself when we’re
making love. Even if it never happens, him and the other guy,
still it’s nice to say it, and if it does happen …
Q: Thinking it doesn’t mean you want it to happen, or, that it has
to happen. It’s just the thought that it could happen…
A: Right. Whenever we make love I like to think that everything
can happen, it doesn’t matter how dirty or how nasty. It just
blows my mind to think that it’s possible to do anything. For
instance, I wouldn’t mind being fucked on a horse. I like to
think that it could happen … that I was in the front, and
someone I really fancied was behind me, and he could just
slip it in as we rode off, slip it in and out. It’s something I’d
love to try. I know it sounds ridiculous.
Q: Nothing sounds ridiculous.
A: But these things do go through my mind. When I go to the
polo grounds to watch Tony play, I think, Oh boy, I’d really
dig being taken right now, right there on that horse.
Q: Guys on horses, they’re a very sexy sight.
A: Very. I asked him once, do you come sometimes when you’re
riding? And he said, "Nearly."
Q: Do you ever get into any group scenes in your fantasies … I
mean more than, say, just three of you?
A: Not really. I usually have this major thing about the other girl,
the girl in my fantasy, and when she’s going to come. This
picture’s always in my head when I’m making love. It
doesn’t matter which guy it is, it’s not necessarily Tony, but I
just like to think that this other girl is feeling what I’m
feeling, is getting what I’m getting.
Q: Why do you think this makes you feel more excited?
A: Because the excitement is something I want to share, because
I know that some girls would love that kind of excitement,
and I like to think that they’re having it at the same time.
Even if I’m really tired, I just have to open my eyes to watch
what’s going on in my head. It’s like looking at your own
Q: When you meet an attractive guy, does your mind start to
A: Oh, yes. But I would think that’s the most natural thing, to
think: I wonder if he’s a good lay. Even if it doesn’t happen,
or couldn’t, I think it. Later, maybe that night when I’m with
Tony, I’ll think about that guy, think that it’s him I’m
fucking. But that’s natural. I’m sure guys do it all the time,
fantasize about other chicks when they’re making it with their
Q: Are the girls you think about always people you know?
A: It’s much more exciting if I know the chick. Say, I haven’t
seen her for a few days, then when I think about her, wow, it
all comes back, the performance. It goes on for days in my
Q: You remember the scene with this girl, a real scene?
A: Right.
Q: I suppose these fantasies of other girls especially happen
when the guy’s going down on you.
A: Oh, yes. Because then I can open my eyes and see his head,
imagine everything, pretend everything. Seeing his head,
there, I can see his mouth, too, everything … and imagine
he’s doing this to some other lucky chick, as well as me.
Q: You’re a very generous girl, Paula.
A: I never just think about myself when I fantasize. I like to
think of lots of people getting what I’m getting, I like to
imagine a roomful of people, lots of color, and voices …
Q: So many people like to make love with the lights out, under
the sheets …
A: Oh, no. I like the lights on, my eyes open. I get some of my
wildest fantasies when I’m driving.
Q: So that’s why you like driving so much.
A: Always, when I’m driving a car, I feel sexy.
Q: I think lots of women feel that. Why do you think it is,
women, driving, get that feeling?
A: There’s like a whole scene going on sometimes when I’m
driving. It’s all happening. Most girls when they’re driving
… look at their faces next time you see one. They look very
… proud. They never look bored, never. A kind of look they
have when they’re making love, thinking of sex.
Q: Does Tony like to hear about these fantasies? Do you tell
A: Oh, yeah. When we’re fucking he loves to know what I’m
thinking, he’ll ask me and say, "Oh, that’s beautiful; go on,
tell me more."
Q: Many people seem to fuck silently. So many women tell me
they wish their guys would talk to them more.
A: It’s beautiful when you get someone to talk to you. I love that.
Fantastic. I can really lose my mind. It’s only half a fuck
when you do it silently, it’s like you’re by yourself. But when
a guy’s inside you and saying, "Oh baby, I love to fuck you
like this," and telling you about how it feels and then I tell
him how it feels and what I’m thinking and when he hears
that, oh wow, he just fucks me all the wilder. Oh, yes, I love
to chat while I’m fucking. It gives me encouragement, makes
me want to do even wilder things. If a guy doesn’t talk to you
while he’s fucking you, you don’t dare to do certain things.
It’s like he’s cheering you on when he talks. Guys spend a lot
of time wondering what chicks are thinking about when
they’re fucking them … I think it worries some of them. But
the only way fucking can get better is when you tell them, and
they like it. And you’ve got to say it right, you’ve got to use
the exciting words, you’ve got to be vulgar, or it doesn’t mean
anything. Because when you’re fucking, you should use
fucking words. You’ve got to be vulgar, really vulgar.
Q: Fucking is not about vaginas and other medical terms, it’s
about cunts and cocks …
A: You’re not going to the doctor, are you? You’re: being
fucked. I love to say, "Oh, I’d love to be naughty, darling, I’m
thinking such naughty things …"
Q: When you think of him fucking another guy, where are you in
your fantasies? Watching? Are you fucking, too?
A: My favorite is that he’s fucking me while another guy is
fucking him. That way I can imagine what he’s feeling, too.
It’s also like I’m sharing in what he’s feeling, like the cock
going into him is also going into me, so like there’s extra
pressure from above. I’m getting two cocks.
Q: When you think about other girls are you in the active role or
the passive role?
A: I like to be the aggressive one. Maybe because that way I’m
like a guy fucking a chick. I like to be able to think what he’s
feeling, because what he does to me makes me feel so good.
So I think about me doing wild things with these other
Q: Most women I’ve talked to say they have had thoughts about
other women. They seem to accept this; they don’t feel guilty
about it.
A: When I see a girl naked, I usually get excited. Then I think,
Q: Wow, you’d like to fuck her, or see her being fucked?
A: Mostly that I’d like to see her legs apart, see her being fucked
by some guy.
Q: Your guy?
A: Any guy, mostly my guy. It’s exciting. It’s the way most girls
react to being fucked that excites me. Because my mind is so
… I can imagine it being so strong, I can almost feel it for
them. I think, Oh wow, they’re really enjoying it.
Q: And no guilt feelings?
A: Oh, no. When I’m making love I’m not ashamed of anything.
If you’re ashamed, then your mind’s not free to create; and
your body’s not free either. I think maybe I wouldn’t do the
things I do when I’m making love if my mind weren’t really
free to create.
Q: I don’t think women always fantasize during sex, but to deny
that it ever happens, to deny it altogether …
A: Oh, you’ve got to fantasize when the time’s right. When I’m
fucking, I don’t fantasize about the guy I’m with. I know he’s
doing it. I mean, if I didn’t like a guy I wouldn’t be fucking
him, but the guy in my mind is always someone else. I know
it’s him inside me, but making it in my mind with another
guy at the same time, it’s fantastic.
Q: Tell me, what comes first, the fact or the fantasy?
A: The fantasies have always been there, very strong. That’s how
I knew I would really dig that sort of thing. Ever since I was
… eleven or twelve.
Q: That’s the magic age all right. Did the fantasies change, say,
the ones of you and another girl, after you started really doing
A: No. When I was young I used to sometimes see people
making love, and it used to make me feel quite good. I wasn’t
involved, I was much too young. Well, where I grew up,
sometimes people would get careless, forget to close a
window or a door, and I’d walk by.
Q: Gee, I wish I’d grown up in a place like that! When you tell
Tony your fantasies now, do the two of you sometimes think
of making them come true? Like another guy fucking him
while he’s fucking you?
A: Yes. Anything I tell him, my fantasies, are all things I’d
really like to have happen. Like, say we’re at a party and
feeling very good. Suddenly we both begin thinking this is the
night we will get it together. I’ll say, "Oh Tony, I’d love to
have a scene with that chick." He’ll automatically say, "Why
don’t you get it together?" Recently there was this American
girl staying with me, and Tony and I came home very late one
night. I’d never had any kind of scene with this girl before,
and Tony really didn’t fancy her, but he was enjoying our
scene, him and me, so much, and I said, "Come on, darling,
let’s get it together," so I called to this chick to come join us.
He enjoyed himself like crazy that night. I don’t think she’d
ever been in a scene like that before, but she really enjoyed it,
she never stopped talking about it. She wanted it every day
after that. But Tony didn’t want it again. He didn’t really
fancy her, it was just that that night he was already excited
and he’d got so turned on listening to me talking about my
Q: How about with another guy?
A: Only recently. Once I ‘got him so excited one day talking
about it, that the following night, there was a guy who was
always trying to get him, that we actually had a scene with
him. I don’t think Tony was very pleased in the end, because
it’s not his scene, he likes chicks too much. But he said I’d
turned him on so much about it, he thought he should try it.
Q: Are you more turned on with guys?
A: Oh, yes. Guys more than chicks … but it all depends.
Q: Generally, I think women can handle both sexual scenes,
even just thinking about them, with much less anxiety than
men. They don’t seem to be threatened by their fantasies of
other women.
A: No, I don’t think chicks feel threatened by it. Girls … there’s
something sort of innocent and beautiful for them in that sort
of scene. They think of it as beauty rather than vulgar, or
disgusting. And if they really do get into a sexual scene
together, they are very natural about it.
Q: Do you still fantasize about Tony and that guy he made it
A: Oh yeah, but I don’t talk to him about it, because I know he
really doesn’t want to do it again. But I think about it. I go
back through recent scenes all the time when we’re making
love, even if he wasn’t with me at that particular scene. I love
going back over the particulars of a scene even while I’m in a
new scene. It makes it all so fantastic. I even fantasize when
I’m in bed alone. I love it. I get excited all over again.
Q: Did any guy ever put you down for your fantasies, for telling
A: Oh, no. I’ve never found any guy who doesn’t like someone
being as naughty as I am. The way I say it, tell my fantasies,
they’re so beautiful, no one in his right mind would put me
down for them.
Q: When you were talking about jealousy earlier, you said it
excited you. What did you mean by that?
A: For instance, if there’s a girl in the room who I think Tony
would like to make it with, a girl I’m jealous of, then I start
thinking about making it with her. I’d like to say to him the
next day, "I fucked that girl." It would annoy him, but it
would satisfy me. Even if he went with her after that, I
wouldn’t feel too bad because the conquest would really have
been mine to start with. But that’s only because of jealousy; if
it weren’t for the fact that he wanted to fuck her, the thought
wouldn’t have occurred to me.
Q: Do you sometimes want these jealousy fantasies of making it
with the other girl to come true?
A: Oh, yes. Sometimes I’ll really get it together, me, the other
chick, the one I’m jealous of, and Tony. These scenes, I really
enjoy them, but even during them I ‘still feel jealous. But the
jealousy excites me, too. I mean, if I’ve been jealous earlier in
the evening, and then Tony and I are in bed, I get excited
because of the jealousy … even though I hate being jealous.
Maybe I’ll fantasize that the chick is also with us. I know
most chicks, normal people, get very aggressive when they’re
jealous, but me, I just become quiet, almost passive, and
wildly sexy.
Q: If you know Tony is fucking some other girl, and you’re not
in on it, you’re not there, how do you feel about it?
A: I fantasize what’s going on. If you know the person very well,
you can imagine everything. I get an almost satisfaction
thinking of their movements, it excites me, and I think, Oh,
wow. I feel jealous, but I know he’d like me to be there, too
… and I imagine myself with them. I imagine him thinking of
me while he’s fucking her and in a way I am there. Can you
understand that?
Q: Are your fantasies of black girls as well as white girls?
A: No, I never fantasize about black girls. They don’t come into
my mind at all. If you’re going to fantasize, it’s always the
opposite you think about. Except when I was at home, of
course, because there weren’t any white girls there.
Q: Do people in your fantasies dress strangely, wear masks, or
do the fantasies take place in strange surroundings?
A: No, I always just think of them nude. And it’s always in bed.
A bed that I know. And my fantasies are always in color,
never black and white.
Q: Some people, if they want to really do something wild while
they’re fucking, they have to fantasize about it first.
A: Sometimes, not always, I really need my fantasies to get me
started, I can’t get turned on without them. Maybe some
people, they only have to be touched and they get sexy. But I
really doubt that most people can think about absolutely
nothing and get sexy.
Q: If it’s somebody totally new, maybe then you get instantly
turned on.
A: But if it’s somebody you’ve fucked a lot though, even if he is
the greatest fuck in the world, I still think it helps to fantasize
… in the beginning, you understand, just to get you started.
Sometimes I get turned on thinking about the wild things he
must be thinking while he’s fucking me.
Q: Do you think men fantasize as much as women do, especially
in bed?
A: No; I think men often depend on the woman to start things
going. If a woman, for example, can just relax and confide in
her man and tell him about her fantasies, it really turns him
on. The other night, we were in bed, and I knew he was still
thinking about his work, that he wanted to fuck, but his mind
was preoccupied. He even said, "I’m too tired." I said,
"You’re not tired." And he just had to look at me to know
what was going through my mind, because I’d told him of my
fantasies so often. He could tell from a look that I was into
one of them and suddenly he was into it, too. That’s why
women really should tell their guys what goes on in their
minds. It could change their lives. [Taped interview]
 The content of a fantasy, what happens, is not the clue to
whether or not it should be acted out. (Always excepting, of
course, obviously dangerous or physically dam. aging notions
like playing Russian Roulette in bed, etc.) What may sound ugly,
even horrific, to you or me may mean sexual satisfaction to the
woman who thought it up In the end, she’s the only one who
knows whether a fantasy should stay where it is – in her mind –
or whether living it would add something to her life. Where
women seem to get confused is in thinking that accepting their
fantasies means putting them into action, and that unless they do,
they’re sexual hypocrites.
But accepting your fantasies can mean just that, and end right
there; there’s nothing that says you’ve only gone halfway if you
don’t act them out. Fantasy has no Hoyle’s Book of Rules.
What must be clear; however, to anyone who’s read this book
is how many of the fantasies in it should be part of a woman’s
real life. How many fantasies are sexual desires for things any
woman has a natural right to. And this right may go beyond the
satisfactions ordinarily understood by saying a woman is
married, or has a lover, or even that she is sexually satisfied.
Because, after all, what they want is so simple that it is a mystery
to me why a woman is afraid to ask. What it means, I suppose, is
that women just don’t talk, not even to their lovers, don’t express
their desires, whether through shyness or fear. This fantasy is
typical, except that its surprise ending makes it even more
I am a married woman of thirty-four. I would like to tell you
about my sexual fantasy. My own fantasy has a true base on
which I build. About eleven years ago, before I was married, but
was engaged, I went out a number of times with a married man
with whom I worked. This was no "love" affair. It was purely
Although I made it regularly with my boy friend, this man
really excited me. We were lucky that we had a room to go to and
didn’t have to make it in the back of a car. First we would
undress completely. He would always have the most incredible
erection. He would fondle, kiss, and suck my breasts. He would
caress my bottom and smack it. He would play with my clitoris
and insert his fingers up me. Then he would suck my clitoris and
insert his tongue in me. During all this I never used to touch his
penis. He would concentrate wholly on me, making me cry with
excitement, and he would talk to me, the language of lust: "Oh,
you beauty, you lovely little cunt, those lovely soft hairs I’m
going to bury my cock against them, right up your cunt. I’m
going to fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck you, and I’m going to wet all
those hairs with my come, and after that you are going to suck it
for me, all of it."
Then he would insert his fingers up my bottom and suck me to
orgasm. While I was still crying with pleasure he would put his
huge penis in me and with my legs around his waist would fuck
me to at least two orgasms. He would still not have come yet, and
would have an erection like an iron bar. He would push it against
my lips until I opened my mouth and took it in and I would suck
it. He was capable of withholding his ejaculation for as long as
he wanted. Still not having come, he would take it out of my
mouth and I would caress it with my hand, wrapping my fingers
round it. Suddenly he would roughly grab my legs, put them onto
his shoulders and f***e his cock into me again and work hard and
fast. Then he would come, and I would feel his warm semen
That then is my sexual fantasy. It never actually happened. I
did have an affair with this married man, but most of the rest is
just a daydream. [Letter]
 While only the woman herself knows whether acting out her
fantasy would enrich her life, even knowing herself isn’t a
guarantee that what worked in fantasy is going to work as well in
reality. It’s a gamble; some women have told me that just talking
about their secret desires – forget about living them – was not
only disappointing, but ruined the effectiveness of the fantasy
Some of the spine-chilling fantasies described back in the Pain
and Humiliation Rooms at the House of Fantasy are enough to
turn anyone off the idea of making their "dreams" come true.
Luckily, the women who have these frightening sexual images
usually say they have no real desire for the "Ouch!" treatment and
would run a mile to avoid any real pain. Their gory fantasies
would seem to be similar to the horrific, but beneficial,
nightmares dreamed at night. (But if your nightmare fantasies
aren’t the****utic – if they frighten you, not with the delicious
thrills of a Dracula movie, but instead tempt you to find your own
real-life monster – a little professional help might be in order.)
Women who see no conflict whatsoever in their fantasies, who
want to get closer to them rather than further away, look around
them and see everything changing and everything being tried;
from films, magazines, and billboards, it seems life itself is full
of fantasy, getting closer to each other every day; why not merge
her life with her fantasy? Here are some interviews and letters
from women who’ve had various degrees of success at doing just
I’ve been married for twenty years, have two c***dren, and I’ve
just celebrated my forty-second birthday. Both my husband, a
newspaperman, and I have college degrees; we are middle-class
Years ago, discussing dreams and fantasies with my husband,
we confessed to each other that we did, indeed, think of others
during sex. Further, like many. of my friends, I find it somewhat
of a relief during the course of a hectic day to masturbate and
fantasize about the red-haired producer and writer for television
who is a neighbor of ours.
But I’ve had disappointing results in actually experiencing my
fantasies. They both sort of just happened. The first had to do
with a lesbian fantasy that’s vague, in fact more just random
thoughts about what it would be like … after all, who knows
women’s vital sexual areas better than other women? Well, a few
years ago a close friend paid me a surprise visit early one
morning. Since I had not had the time to finish dressing, she
caught me in my dressing gown. As we sat on the divan and had
coffee, she gradually worked herself closer to me. That’s when I
began thinking about my fantasy, and wondering if this was it.
But before I could decide if I even wanted it, like a bolt out of the
blue she suddenly reached over and started fondling my breasts. I
started to admonish her for such behavior, but she was not to be
denied and gradually lowered her face onto my lap. I confess that
while it was quite a shock at first, I wondered to myself whether
she would be as good with her tongue as my husband (and a
couple of other males I know) or as exciting as some of the
lesbian scenes so prevalent in today’s films. Did you see The
Well, sadly she wasn’t. She did bring me to a climax,
masturbating with her hand. I can still see her doing it.
Fortunately, she has moved away. I really could never have
brought myself around to seeing her again.
The other incident has to do with what I am sure must be a
prevalent female fantasy: the male Negro and his reputed size
and talent. This happened during the last presidential contest. My
husband was called to Washington to cover some Senate
hearings. During his absence, I attended a dinner party which
brought together two presidential hopefuls and a group of
pseudointellects (forgive me). One young Negro, well groomed
and with a Ph.D. in political science, spent most of the evening
with me discussing subjects from sales to sex. He offered to drive
me home. By now, the fantasy had begun to play through my
mind, and wondering what he was like sexually, I had already
begun thinking about whether I wanted to find out. During the
drive he pulled into a parking lot and proceeded to make
advances. Of course you know what happened: he took out of his
trousers his very hard and pulsing penis which he placed in my
hand. I was actually holding it, this thing I’d imagined so often.
He pleaded with me to let him "go down on you," and before I
knew it, I was lowering my briefs and pantyhose. He ate as
though it was his last meal. Fortunately, the c***dren were away
at school, and so I thought it best that we drive to my home and
continue the action there. I’m not one who can relax in a sedan.
I don’t know if Charlie was any representative of his race, but
he was a lousy fuck. It was my first and last experience with the
other race. But I shall never forget the experience. I thought it
would also be the end of the male Negro as a fantasy for me, but I
find it hasn’t finished the fantasy, it’s changed it. I may not do it
again but I’ll always remember it … in a way. One more thing:
he begged me to suck him off – which I had done in fantasy – but
which I naturally refused to do. I admit his instrument was
mighty handsome to see and to hold, but beyond that, his sexual
talents were zero. Incidentally, a close friend of mine also had
intercourse with a black, and she, too, agreed that their sexual
prowess is just so much baloney. It is a status symbol, I fear.
Women would be smart to stick to their fantasies.
So, there’s my story. I hope that it has been enlightening. Of
course we mortals dream … for that is what life is all about.
My fantasies are so personal, and the pleasure I get from them
derives so much, I think, from the fact that they are private and
locked away in my imagination, that I wouldn’t dream of trying
to make them come true. I’ve thought a lot about this, especially
after writing this letter. I almost didn’t write it for fear of
diminishing this pleasure; I was afraid that putting them on paper
would lessen their effectiveness. Luckily it hasn’t, perhaps
because I don’t know you. I mean, if someone, even a close
friend, asked me to speak them aloud so that the words actually
made sound for someone to hear, I don’t think I could do it. And
if I could, it certainly would spoil them for me, especially the
ones involving love. But act my fantasies out? Make them come
true? No, absolutely not. My real life’s not what they’re about; I
don’t want those things to really happen to me, I simply want to
imagine what it would be like. So that’s where they’ll stay.
I am twenty-five years of age and have spent most of my life in
Kansas City. My husband and I have been married nearly five
years and we have a son four years old. I am a college graduate,
interested in painting and music, and after graduation I spent a
short time working as an actress in summer stock. My present
job is that of a telephone solicitor. Good luck in your research.
Here goes.
Usually during sex I concentrate on what I’m doing and who
I’m with. However, I sometimes fantasize that I am with an old
boy friend or a complete stranger, that another man in addition to
my husband is making love to me. There is a friend of my
husband’s with whom I once had a sexual encounter (at my
husband’s urging) and I often imagine him as the extra man. This
fantasy happens when my husband and I are having anal
intercourse. While I am stimulating my clitoris or my husband
stimulates it for me; I pretend that the other man and I are
enjoying vaginal intercourse while I’m having anal intercourse
with my husband at the same time.
I sometimes think about the other women I know my husband
has been with and wonder if he did the same things to them and
how they reacted. I imagine that I am he, making love to one of
these women. Also, when I am blowing my husband I try to
imagine how it feels to have a penis with someone sucking it or
tickling it with her tongue. I can almost feel the semen being
sucked out when I would (when he does) obtain orgasm. I
thoroughly enjoy my fantasies and find talking about them
increases the excitement.
My husband encourages me to fantasize and urges me to
describe my fantasies to him. He becomes very aroused for
instance, if I tell him that I masturbated that day and describe to
him what I was thinking about while I masturbated. I have even
at times told him of some of my fantasizing while we were
making love. Any verbalization of this kind adds to his
excitement. He has at times asked me to pretend he was an old
lover and to describe my feelings and reactions. I have also asked
my husband to pretend I am someone else while making love to
me. I have once or twice pretended I was a boy and asked my
husband to pretend the same while balling me anally. But
although it excites him to hear me telling him my fantasies while
we’re making love, he later becomes depressed at the thought of
what I’ve been thinking. He asks to hear my fantasies, but later
I’m afraid they repel him; he becomes disgusted with himself for
becoming excited by that kind of thing. All in all, I think I’ve
decided to keep my very pleasurable fantasies to myself in future.
Okay, here goes … (I may have to go and masturbate before I
can finish this, as my mind goes blank.)
I have often thought it would be very yummy (and now that I
think of it, very messy, too) if somebody would pee inside me
(depends on who’s washing the sheets). I never had this actually
occur, but often thought about it and talked about it to men who
seem to think it might be impossible. It is impossible – why?
think I – because they can’t pee and have a hard-on at the same
time? I suppose this is destined to remain a fantasy, unless I can
find some physical wizard.
Also, I’ve been thinking about something and can’t remember
if I talked to you about it when we met: I recently was wondering
if it isn’t unpleasant to have all. of your fantasies played out and
then you don’t have any more. See what I mean? Like … if a
person does all those things she thinks she would like to do,
where will she get any more fantasies? Just a thought. [Letter
from a friend]
The most significant thing I have discovered about my
fantasies is that they are far more exciting as fantasies than as
reality. I speak from experience. Carrying them out was a
disappointment. The fantasy was, in truth, more exciting than
doing it. I shall say no more than that my fantasy was to be
dominated, to be tied up. [Letter]
I was left a divorcee with two daughters at the age of
twenty-five, and after a while I began having fantasies about
young boys. I used to imagine them in bed with me, dressing and
undressing me and all sorts of peculiar things, such as kissing me
on the vaginal lips. It made me masturbate and also wear very
sexy underclothes.
I used to picture the newsboy who delivered my papers having
an affair with me. Then one day one of my daughters got lost and
the newsboy eventually found her, and as a result a friendship
started between us. Sometimes when he came to visit us he
would sit in a chair opposite me. Staring at him "there" – as I was
facing him – I used to imagine what his penis was like. Then one
night after we had all gone to the pictures and the girls were in
bed, he and I sat on the settee. Suddenly the urge came over me
and I asked him if he was fond of me. I felt his hand moving
under my dress, and before long one of my fantasies was realized
and I actually found that his penis was in excess of what I had
imagined. After two years we were married, even though I am
twelve years older. We are very happy and have three c***dren,
one of which was the result of the night we came home from the
Fantasies tend to keep one going. I certainly enjoyed them, but
the real thing is even more enjoyable. [Letter]
My most exotic and rewarding masturbatory/copulative
fantasy has remained a constant throughout my sex life, and this
from the age of perhaps s*******n or eighteen when masturbation
managed to find its way into my life more or less regularly every
day for about two years. Where this fantasy comes from is still a
mystery, but it has very often influenced my choice of lovers, and
within the boundaries imposed by society on those relationships
in which the fantasy has become a reality, I have truly been
"living" my dream on several occasions.
It is possible that the Scorpio/Sado-Masochistic/Florence
Nightingale superfuck that I imagine myself to be on these noble
occasions is a giant myth, but my ability to make it seem real is
very unmythical, and it is in that way I manage to bring myself
off to its sweet music each time it rears its lovely head.
The aberration explained away, I may now be capable of
explaining the fantasy with the lucidity it demands.
I like gangsters. When I was a teen-ager, the masturbatory
stories I told myself had to do with a sort of Mafia chief type of
fatso who hired girls or even had them captured by his henchmen
for his pleasure. Since all of the masturbation I ever do, or did,
was clitoral and I then thought that was blatantly abnormal, the
sequence of my fantasy is rather important.
These henchmen types would have me on a table and I never
had the chance to do much talking. I was being masturbated in
this artificial clitoral way to a peak of excitement which was
designed to turn the gangster guy on when he actually poked his
head through the door and suddenly got a whopping hard-on
from seeing me ready to come. Needless to say, he always had a
very big cock. He was dressed but would show me his hard-on
because the boys told him I liked big cocks. He would then say
that he wanted me to be brought off, because he didn’t want to
enter an "uncome" cunt. That gave me an excuse for having my
orgasm, and that was usually the end of my story and I went to
Now … there are variations on this theme which have had to
be dealt with throughout the years. This dangerous character of
whom the whole world is obviously scared shitless sometimes
comes through the door of the room where I am being
masturbated to readiness by the "boys," and when he sees me and
talks to me he decides he really thinks I am just the grooviest
chick he has ever seen or met, and that I have the most delicious
looking pussy around, so he tells the guys to lay off and he fucks
me good and proper and likes it and tells me that I will be his.
permanent old lady and get to have him every Thursday, for
which I shall be handsomely rewarded. The boys are very
surprised by this because the big boss never turns on to chicks,
and they even stop to remind me that I am just about the luckiest
girl in the world.
Aside from this variation, there are other things that
occasionally swim into the scene. Sometimes he likes me enough
to avoid entering me because his cock is so enormous as to have
actually been rejected by many, many ladies, and he feels a little
nervous about the possibility of hurting such a sweetie-pie as
myself. I reassure him a lot and tell him it’s perfectly dandy if he
wants to enter me before I come because I can handle it.
(I-am-a-champ sort of thing.) He’s usually reluctant, but tells me
that he will try it out first after I have come and am relaxed and
wet enough to accommodate him, but that maybe next Thursday
if we find it comfortable the first time … again this gives me the
excuse I need to bring myself off with my hand and not introduce
objects of unimportance into my vagina.
Anyway … this gangster guy is my friend and he would never
hurt me but he hurts lots of other people ‘cuz he’s really a killer
meanie. But … I am a nice chick and nobody would want to spoil
such an adorable number as me. He used to be called "Joe," but
sometimes now he is called by the name of whatever current
lover is absent from my own scene and whose memory I am
trying to call up.
I have had three gangster lovers in my real life, and all of them
have been excellent lovers and fallen quite nicely into my
preformed image of what a good gangster should be, i.e., they
might be murderers on the outside but they would never hurt me.
I never have bothered to tell any of them about this fantasy
because they have all acted the part so well without a script.
I have gone off gangsters recently in both real and fantasy life,
and have entered a period of recalling another fantasy which
blows my mind sufficiently during times of extreme stress to
enable me to have orgasms with myself: I imagine there are ten
or twelve men in a sort of amphitheater who are being taught
how to make a girl have orgasms. They all have to listen carefully
to the nice man who is in charge of the lesson and who is
showing them how to get girls to like them better. I get to be
screwed by the one of these callow types (after I have come) who
pleases me the most and whose cock is the hardest.
Boy, this really sounds stupider on paper than it ever does in
my head, but I guess that’s what fantasies are all about. Aside
from the two fantasies I have mentioned, I have the eternal
doctor-examiner, gynecological, freak-out number, and the very
occasional recourse to horse or dog trips. In the main, though,
doctors and horses I can do without. Generally speaking, it does
not interest me much to carry out my fantasies in real life, as
mostly when I have tried it has been a disappointment; morally
and socially I can’t go hanging around with gangsters all my life.
My fantasies have always concerned a****ls and nothing else.
Ever since I was a teenager, the sight of dogs copulating or a
horse in a field with his penis hanging down has excited me
I am now divorced but have a lover, and most times when we
make love I imagine it is the penis of a large dog or horse that is
entering me, or a dog licking me and hordes of dogs all screwing
madly. This really turns me on. I don’t know why this should be
or why it is only dogs and horses. My lover knows about this and
likes to talk about it, but he does not understand either. While we
are making love he says, "Don’t you wish I were a large Alsatian
or that this was a stallion’s penis between your legs?"
When visiting a friend some time ago, his very large German
Wolfhound was sitting beside me on the sofa when the pink tip
of his penis began to appear, and this excited me so much I had
to leave immediately. I dreamed about this dog for weeks
I have never owned a dog, and much as I would like to I
would be afraid of what might happen if I did get one. I am sure I
would not be able to leave it alone, so I prefer to stick to my
fantasies, which I really enjoy, and so I shall never buy a dog.
Another fantasy which I have, but which does not turn me on
so much as the a****l one, concerns a colored girl. My lover
talks to me as he is stimulating me, asking me to imagine he is a
young, slim, black girl and she is licking me, or that I am licking
her and her creamy juices are pouring into my mouth. Although I
have never had any homosexual experiences, I once saw a picture
in a magazine of two girls, one white and one black, stimulating
each other. Again, it was the little pink tip of the black girl’s
clitoris which got me excited, and it is this that I think about
when I fantasize about a colored girl. [Letter]
 A sexual fantasy shared with an accepting, encouraging
lover. What can I add? Like sex itself, it’s more fun for two. 
My fantasies during sex usually involve one or more men;
whatever we are doing, there is invariably a group of people
present, watching. In both fantasy and real life, I am an
exhibitionist. I enjoy having men look at the crotch of my
trousers, swim suit, or pantyhose. My husband knows of my
fantasies, and encourages them. He also knows of my
masturbation, which he considers heightens my sexuality. During
masturbation, my fantasies are usually exhibitionistic. Before I
was married I did have occasional lesbian fantasies, but no
longer do.
If in real life I sit with my legs apart to show my crotch, in my
fantasy it changes so that I’m wearing just a mini-dress with
nothing on underneath, and sitting wide-legged so that I show my
genitals. My husband is very understanding about my needs and
encourages and helps me in my fantasies. I give him a better time
this way. For instance, he will kiss and suck my genitals for an
extended time so that I can fantasize about other men without any
vocal interruption from him. When I am ready, I will indicate to
him and he will move up and put his penis in. He will say, "Have
you been fucked today?" and I will say, "Yes, three men fucked
me at the office," and he will ask me if I showed my cunt on the
way to the office, and I will tell him I sat in the train with my legs
apart so the men could see. It’s a game we play together and both
get a big kick out of this.
Here is my favorite fantasy:
It is evening. We are going to a party and I am in the bedroom
dressing. I put on a sling bra, then a short tunic dress, and
nothing else but shoes (I have a beautiful tan). I stand in front of
the mirror raising my arms so that my dress lifts well above my
cunt. We arrive at the party, where there are about six couples, all
handsome or beautiful, the men with tight trousers, the girls are
all fully dressed as far as their tits and crotches are concerned. I
sit down and enjoy knowing the men are looking up my skirt. I
stand up and bend over to pick up something from the floor. I feel
hands on my hips. I stay as I am and feel a great penis go into
me. I do not look around and he carries on until he has finished.
Then another man takes me and lays me on the settee and fucks
me. They all take turns in different positions while the others
watch. But none of the other couples have sex. Eventually we
leave. It is a warm evening and we walk along with my
husband’s arm around my waist. This pulls my skirt up enough
so that men passing can see my cunt. We com