Sort By
Search results
Back form my dayliy walk

Posted by mirandakitten 5 years ago  |  Categories: Hardcore, Masturbation  |  Views: 530  |  

The Stranger

i just got back fome my dayliy walk and there he was standing next to my in tabel he hade his playboy bunny boxers on he took me and made me get on my hands an knees pulling my hair makeing me curl to my room ...

i go to take his boxers off with my teeath (him) no no no
bad girl ... (him)stand up i do . B/c i want to plz my master . he bends me over my desk...puts two cups filled with blue faygo on both of my hands ..says if you spill any of it u will be punished ..(me) ok master (him)good girl as he pulls his fingers through my hair ... he takes off my shorts off...(him) take off your thong (me) but master i cant spill any of the blue faygo..(him) move ur hips rly slow and sexy and thay will fall off..(me) yes i move my hips in a back and forth moshion and thay start to fall off..(him) keep them there..(me) ok master he takez my dildoe and rubs it on my clit back and forth geting me so wet then im bout to cum and he stops ....(him) do you want this inside of you (me)yes i do (him) how much as he starts to rub it on my clit a gin (me) YyyyEEEss mater (him) how bad do you want it in there? (me) varry bad master..he puts it hafe way in and out then slams it in me my lages are shakeing and i spill my cups..(him)I TOLD YOU NOT TO SPILL THEM(me) im srry master as he makes me lick it up ...then he puts he big dick in my mouth and makes me gag on it he say you will NOT get off befor i do then he fucks my face and as he is i sate to play with myself he cums on my face and walks away and i squrt alover the floor... Continue»
Posted by mirandakitten 5 years ago  |  Categories: Hardcore  |  Views: 1287  |  
  |  2

Living Back With My Mother

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I contemplated the sequence of events that has led me back here to my c***dhood bedroom. It all started when I lost my small building business as the recession hit, then my wife ran off with someone else when the house was repossess.
It was better for me to take my mothers advice and come back home than waste money on renting a flat. That’s basically why at the grand age of 38 I am back living with my mother, having my own room was a lot more attractive than sl**ping on some friends sofa also.
I stared at the ceiling again, wondering how many 38 year olds live at home with their mom now a days. I hear mom letting the water out of her bath, then the bathroom door closing, and her switching on the TV in her bedroom. Her house is very modest, just a two bedroom semidetached house that I helped her buy when times were good.
My mothers is now 58 but you could easily knock 10 years off her age at least, she is a good looking attractive woman , 5 foot 5 inches tall and with shoulder length brown hair that looked well looked after. Her smile instantly made you return one back but I can never remember her ever having another man in her life.
She still works in the same department store where she got her first job after my dad saw fit to walk out on us whilst I was still a baby. She is now in the woman’s underwear section and dresses accordingly to store policy, white blouse and knee length navy skirt, which she complains about as she is a little on the plumper side, not fat just well built.
I sat down at the table the next morning and mom had breakfast on the table ready for me. Over night, I seemed to have reverted back to my c***dhood, willing for mom to look after me. As I thanked her, I glanced over the table and looked at her and notice the fullness of her breasts straining at the fabric of her store policy blouse. There is no indication of her bra lines or anything like that.
I’ve always had a thing for older women, even having fancied my wife's mother and now I am looking at my mother in that same way, a sexually way.
“What have you planned for today?” She asked
“Nothing much, I have my stuff to sort out, that‘s about it” I replied
I think she is afraid that I will just vegetate all day in bed, which was a strong possibility.
“There some house work if you want; you can get the dyson out”
Mom stood up and went to the bathroom and I noticed her tan covered legs with her tight skirt stretching across her bum. When she came back, she was ready for work, make up applied and hair done. I must admit she looked quite sexy for my mother and she hugged and kissed me on the way out.
There must be something wrong with me when I decide to get the hovering done first but if it’s done, I have the rest of the day free. I do downstairs first then decide to do upstairs as well. It was when I entered my mothers room I felt a strange feeling of naughtiness come across me. I started to look in her drawers finding all sorts of nice lacy underwear,
sexier than a lot of my ex wife’s. .
There was a drawer of girdles and basques all with suspenders attached. She had quite a selection of suspender belts in all of colours and stockings that were mainly tan for work I presume. I particularly liked an emerald green suspender belt with black inset lace. I guess she just liked using them with stockings, as she didn't have any traditional tights that I could find.
I could not help but feel the lacy bras, knowing her 38 DD tits sit in these cups and felt the crotch of her knickers knowing that it has rubbed against my mother’s pussy. My cock felt like it was about to explode and I unzipped myself, just the feel of the cotton crotch on my cock end made me come, I was so excited. I watched as a weeks worth of cum filled my mothers knickers, hot creamy sticky cum covered the white cotton gusset.
Shit what have I done I thought to myself as I stood there with my cock in hand holding her knickers, wet with her sons seed. Quick thinking, I washed the gusset and dried them with the hair dryer before putting them back in the drawer; Just as well, I had plenty of time.
Mom came back from a full days work and started cooking our tea, why did I not think of that, I could have had it waiting for her. She still had on her works blouse and skirt and I could not take my eyes off her over our tea. Afterwards she changed out of her work clothes while I washed up and when she returned she kissed and hugged me.
“What’s that for” I asked
“You’ve done a good job with the hovering, that’s why”
Bedtime came and I was looking at the ceiling in my bedroom again with sexual thoughts running through my mind, listening to probably to my mother undressing in her room as the floor boards creaked.
In my masturbation fantasy, she was wearing black stockings with high heels and the lace and satin basque I had seen in her drawer. I could see her touching her ample breasts, cupping her hands underneath them, just as I came. I felt guilty afterwards wanking to my mother.
I remember trying to catch a glimpse of her naked when I was a c***d, but all k**s do this, don't they? This was different, I'm a grown man now and having unhealthy thoughts about my mom, this can't be good.
The next few days got a little easier as mom and I got a routine. She regularly hugged me, and we kissed with a quick peck on the cheek. We would have breakfast together and she would ask if I minded doing some jobs around the house for her. This morning she asked if I would do the washing for her, she had sorted the colours from the whites already for me and just to add my stuff to the piles as well.
“There is a bag, just put it in with the colours as it is, it has my stocking in, then hang them out separately on the clothes horse” She said
I was in masturbation heaven when I went in to her room, she did not try to hide any of her underwear in the piles of washing, her knickers and bras lay as she had sorted them.
It wasn’t long before my cock was squirting in to a used lacy pair of white knickers, wrapped around my cock thinking I was fucking my mother’s cunt.
I had time to recover while waiting for the first load of washing to finish and looked in this bag she had mentioned, it was all stockings, mainly tan but some black ones as well. The feel of soft stocking on my cock made my squirt again in to one while thinking about last nights masturbation fantasy.
There seemed to be an extra long kiss and hug that night when mom came back home after seeing her washing hanging on the clothes horse in neatly hung rows of stocking,, knickers and bras with two girdles.
“Let’s go out for something to eat,” she said
The pub is only a 10-minute walk and she didn’t bother changing from her work clothes as it was usually filled with workers having something to eat before going home. We sat in a booth side by side having our meal and she kept touching my arm and lightly patting me on the leg while smiling. I did the same back but I had a want, I wanted to feel her stocking leg and her suspenders.
We’d had three drinks each by the time we left and mom was feeling happy and giddy as the cold air hit us outside. She linked her arm through mine and put her hand in my pocket to keep it warm; we clutched each other’s hand and carried on back home.
We got through the door and took our coats off before she hugged me
“Thank you for tonight” she said
I was going to politely kissed her on the cheek but somehow she turned her head and our lips touched, she didn’t pull off, just the opposite I could feel her tongue parting my lips and pushing inside my mouth and her hand holding my bum firmly. Them she broke off
“Sorry I didn’t mean that to happen,” she said
“It’s alright mom, it‘s just the wine”
“It’s more than that,” She said as she ran upstairs
I waited a while for movement upstairs but it was silent, I knocked on her bedroom door
“Mom it’s me can I come in”
I pushed the door open when there was no answer; she sat on the bed in the dark room with her skirt and blouse removed
“Are you alright mom?”
“Sorry son, I tried to kiss you”
“It was nothing,” I said
My eyes adjusted to the room and mom, she had on a white slip covering her underwear and I went and sat next to her on the bed. I slipped my hand on to her back feeling the silky, smooth softness of her slip and rested my other hand on her leg.
She turned to face me
“What must you think of me trying to kiss you?”
“I liked it mom, I would like to kiss you now”
Before she could say anymore I kissed her mouth, just a little kiss first then again but longer this time as she responded back. I slipped my hand from around her back to under her arm, accidentally on purpose brushing against her silky covered breast.
I held my breath and waited for her to move away but she didn’t, feeling I had the green light a started to slide my other hand up her leg under her slip. The silky feel of her stocking and slip made me hard as I felt her chunky leg, she responded by kissing a little more f***efully.
Now on her stocking top, I could feel her suspender clip and bare flesh squeezing out over her stocking.
“I'm not sure we should be doing this," said mom through a muffled kiss
"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
There was no response just a will to kiss me again and her legs parted giving me better access to her pussy. I was now in unchartered waters here, but was pretty sure I could blame anything on the wine that we both had. I slid my hand in between her legs and grazed the front of her knickers with my little finger. Again, she made no effort to stop me. I started to rub very gently when she let out a little moan.
I was so nervous; I was trembling as she was gently moving her hips rhythmically against my finger now. All of a sudden, her legs gripped tight shut on my hand
“We can’t do this, this is wrong” mom said as she broke off kissing me
I pulled my hand from under her slip
“I so want to let you go further but it’s wrong,” she said again
“I understand mom”
“Let me change and I come and watch some telly with you”
She dressed in to a cotton top and skirt and still had her stockings on; she has never been a woman for trousers from what I can remember. That night I lay in bed again thinking how sexy my mother is and drifted off to sl**p with that thought in my mind.
I was rudely awaken with a bang and a spray of water hitting me, jumping out of bed naked I knew what had happened and ran down stairs to turn the water off. The cold-water tank has came through the ceiling leaving the feed in pipe to spray gallons of water over my bed. mom stood at her bedroom door in a lacy nightie as I came back up the stairs
“Are you alright son?”
“Yes I think so, just a bit wet”
Then I realized I was naked and standing in front of my mom, it was just as well the water fused the lights circuit at the same time. We looked at the mess and I found some boxers to cover myself up with. We did as much as we could and put as much of the wet stuff in to the bath for the night.
“I’ll take a blanket down stairs and sl**p on the sofa,” I said
“You can’t do that it’s too cold, come in with me”
I followed her into her room, and felt a little strange knowing what nearly happened in here only a few hours ago. It was when I got accustomed to the light from the streetlight in her room I notice how sexy her nightie was. Just long enough to cover her pussy and low enough to show her ample breasts straining at the two thin straps holding them in.
I was already under the covers keeping warm when she got in the other side facing me, moved in towards me, she kissed me on the lips and thanked me for looking after her again. She then turned to face the other way and backed into me slightly.
“Yon can snuggle up in to me to keep warm if you want,” she said
I lifted my arm and wrapped it over her, accidentally this time touching her big soft tit as she backed herself in to me. She let out a low purr of pleasure as she nestled herself in.
I could feel the heat from her ass and pussy against my slowly stirring cock. I didn’t know what to do; I knew it was only a matter of time before I had a fully-fledged hard on and nowhere to move it to.
I could feel it getting bigger and stronger between us, it was now starting to touch flesh
as it slipped out from the slit of my boxers and in between her ass cheeks. Mom gently moved slightly, allowing my cock to slid between her thighs and brush passed her lips as she let out a little whimper. I could feel her hairy bush sticking in to my delicate cock end.
I kept still as she adjusted herself and then started to grind very slowly against my hard cock, she surly know what she was doing to me now.
“Are you awake?” she whispered
I didn’t reply, I could feel the heat from her pussy on my cock as her movements picked up the speed.
Any thoughts of keeping it discrete had evaporated as her breathing started to get heavier. She then went a little too far with her gyrating and her pussy slipped past over the end of my now, rock hard dripping cock. She froze as my huge throbbing head became stuck at the tight entrance to her pussy.
It was her finger and thumb on my cock I felt next, gently stroking my shaft back and forth and making it rub against her pussy lips. I was getting more worked up as time went by, until I knew I was going to come.
Shit what do I do, too late as a twitch of my cock signalled the start of ejaculation. mom’s body shivered in response to my cock squirting hot creamy cum on to her pussy lips. I lay motionless as my cock spurted its good out and she kept wanking my cock on to her pussy. Squirt after squirt pumped on to my mom’s open lips, encouraged by knowing it was one of the most erotic things ever to happened to me, a mother touching her sons cock. Being masturbated by your mum is a feeling that I still find difficult to put into words.
My cock softened in a pool of cum at the entrance to my mom’s pussy and her breathing began to settle down too. I felt myself dropping off to sl**p as I always do after sex, still cuddled in with my arm over her.
It was light the next morning when I heard mom coming back from the bathroom
“Are you awake?” she whispered
I kept still and sneaked a look, mom was bent over, looking in her underwear drawer, her nightie ridden high over her ass cheeks showing her hairy pussy hanging down between her parted legs.
She turned around and I lay still as she pulled her nightie up and started to wrap her girdle around her tummy and fasten it up the side. Next was the nightie to be pulled off her
head, with her big ample tits hanging down, she scoops them up in to her bra before fastening it up.
Little did she know what affect she was having on me while I tried to pretend to be asl**p. She sat on the dressing table stool facing me and after rolling her tan stockings in her hand, she began to unroll them back up her legs. Six suspender clips held them up before pulling on a white pair of knickers, a casual dress was pulled over her head to finish off her dressing. Mom came and shook me
“Are you a wake yet”
I give a sl**py stir and a yawn before speaking
“I am now mom”
“Time to get up, we have no water remember”
“Ok I’ll just get dressed”
“I’ll go and start breakfast and phone work to say I’m not going in today” mom said
An old stopcock on to the burst pipe fixed our water supply for a cup of tea and I spent all day replacing the water tank in the loft. Mom spent her day trying to sort and dry my bedroom but the bed was sodden through and the hole in the ceiling would have to wait for another day.
It was getting late by the time I was finished
“I’ll put tea on if you want a shower,” said mom
When I came down she kissed and hugged me
“What’s that for”
“For being such a wonderful son, I wouldn’t even know who I could of call to help me”
We eventually managed to sit down after tea and I felt shattered
“Looks like we will have to share the bed again tonight” said mom
“I feel like I should be there now before I fall asl**p”
“I feel that way too but I need a bath first for my aches and pains,” she said
Mom went up first and I followed when I heard her in the bath, I lay in bed thinking of last night when she masturbated her son and nothing has been said about it today.
She came out of the bathroom wearing another short black lacy nightie with the bra cups struggled to support the weight of her fleshy breasts. The lace was thin enough to see her nipples surrounded by wide brown areoles and tonight she had on a little pair of black lacy knickers under her nightie. I'm sure mom caught me looking at her but she said nothing.
She turned away from me after about five minutes and on to her side, I snuggled into her and kissed her on the back of her neck,
“Thank for looking after me mom”
“Don’t be silly, that’s what mom’s do”
I put my arms around her, and gently stroked her arm, mum whimpered gently,
“That feels nice“ she said.
By this stage, my cock was pressing hard against the material of my boxers and with a gentle movement, it was now touching against mom's ass as I spooned into her.
I was waiting for her to move away, but she didn't. If anything, she pressed closer into me. I continued stroking her arm, accidentally brushing against her breast and she continued to moan,
“I haven't felt so relaxed in a long time” she said
My hand continued brushing against her breast, eventually spending more time on it than her arm. It was now or never as I pinched her hard erect nipple,
“Stop it, this feels wrong” mom reluctantly seemed to say
“I will if you want me to” I said before kissing her neck
“It’s so wrong,” she said as she squeezed my hand firmly on to her breast
I kept kissing her neck and I could hear her whimpering again, her hand pushed my hand around her breast in a slow circular motion. After some time she turned over and faced me, I stroked her hair out of her eyes and kissed her lightly on her lips.
Her hand fumbled with my boxers before finding the slit, as she grabbed my cock, it felt like a touch paper had been lit and had set off a mighty explosion of passion between us.
We kissed wildly and passionately for mother and son before mom rolled on to her back,
her breasts heaved up and down with her breathing and I caught a nipple in my mouth through her nightie. I sucked like a new born on my mother’s breast before moving down over her tummy.
Her legs parted instinctively as my head became level with her panties and I gave them a long suck on the thin gusset covering her fanny. I moved and better positioned myself down between her legs and started sucking her gusset again
I could taste her newly washed pussy through the fine material of her knickers and felt her legs trembling as I moved the gusset with my tongue to one side. The texture of her pubic hair was so soft and I loved that she didn't indulge in any of this new fad for shaving.
I probed through the bush before finding and licking her lips, they tasted so clean with just coming out of her bath. My tongue found her fleshy clit and I swirled it around occasionally darting my it in between her lips.
By the way, she was squirming on the bed and moaning, I could tell that she was enjoying it. She put her hands on the back of my head, pressed me tighter into her pussy and shuddered strongly as my tongue probed deeper in to her pussy.
I felt like I was in heaven and began to crept up her body, kissing her stomach and on to her breasts
As I suckled her nipple through her nightie, I massaged her other breast before slipping the thin lacy material off it completely. I looked at the large round brown area surrounding her nipple and started to lick and suck on that one. My mum cradled my head before releasing her other breast from her nightie and swapped me from breast to breast.
I eventually made my way to her face and saw little tears trickle from her eyes, I was worried I had hurt her in some way
“Are you alright mom, you’re crying”
“I’m fine, It’s just shocked me how I’ve miss a man’s love for so long”
I kissed her gently on the lips, little tender kisses that she seemed to enjoy
“Do you want me to stop mom”
“Oh no don’t stop now son, I want you more than ever“
“It might hurt if it’s been that long”
“It’s not sealed up if that’s what you mean, I do have a rubber cock to see to my needs”
The thought of mom having a rubber cock and fucking herself with it whizzed around my brain, I kissed her more passionately and she responded. I felt mom preparing herself under me and raised her legs up, causing her knickers to slip over her pussy lips.
My cock twitched and jumped, making it rub against the wet lace of her knickers, as I gently poked my cock against her. I could feel it pushing her knickers slightly further inside her pussy each time and she reached down and slid the delicate material to one side and guided me in at the same time.
That first thrust felt like nothing I had felt in my life, smooth and effortless but at the same time, her pussy walls grabbed my cock with friction. I didn’t want to hurt mom and took it very slow in and out, so slow that the effect on my cock made me want to come just after a few strokes.
“Yes I know, come in me”
I came, shooting my creamy load inside mom pussy, I just let my cock fill her up without any more thrusts. Her pussy clung tight around my twitching shaft as she moaned aloud.
“Sorry mom”
“Don’t be that was lovely and gentle”
We lay kissing and cuddling together before making love again that night, so lovingly and tender that lasted a lot longer this time before falling asl**p in each other’s arms.
I heard mom come back from the shower the next morning, pretending still to be asl**p I watched her get dressed just like yesterday.
Today she fished out from her drawer the emerald green suspender belt with black inset lace, matching bra and knickers finished off with black stockings, then covered with one of her dresses. She woke me up as she left the bedroom.
Unaware to know how she felt about her son making love to her last night, I was a bit hesitant when I went in to the kitchen but she set my mind at ease as she kissed me full on the mouth. As we sat at the table, she hitched her dress up slightly to sit down and showed off her black stockings.
“I’ve phone work to say I’m not going in today” mom said
Her hand squeezed my leg as we had our breakfast, brushing across the tip of my growing cock as she did. It was when she was washing up I kissed the back of her neck, she stopped what she was doing and whimpered. Slowly kissing her I started to pull the zip down on the dress, it fell to the floor where she stood, still kissing her, my hand moved over her bra covered tits and down in to her knickers. Her bush was soft and lips felt wet as my finger found her opening. Mom spread her legs to take more of my finger inside, then her wet hands came on to my crotch and fumbled with the zip, I give her a helping hand and undid my trousers for her.
She pushed back in to me so she was leaning over the sink with her ass in the air, she pulled her knickers to one side and I replaced my finger with my cock in her pussy. We fucked frantically and I held her swinging tits as we came together, squirting long and hard in to my mom.
Mom spun off my cock and dropped to her knees, taking my cock head in to her mouth to suck, it was wet with our love juice and her fanny fragrance. Needless to say, we did little work in my bedroom that day. The ceiling has been fixed for a month now but I still share mom’s bed with her. I may have lost my marriage and my business, but I'll always have my mum...

The End

... Continue»
Posted by nckboy 3 years ago  |  Categories: Mature, Taboo  |  Views: 11549  |  
  |  18

Back with My B.F.

This tale that I’m about to tell ought to be kept in a diary and left to remain there. If Alex, my husband, ever get to stumble his eyes upon it – I know there’s absolutely no way that I’m going to tell him about it – there’s going to be hell to pay. Still I can’t shake off the day Charles stepped back into my world, so here I’m going to tell it all as it went down.

It was a hot and sunny day in the month of May, four and a half months ago. I was at work pouring through my office computer, trying hard not to think about my upcoming wedding which was two weeks down the road. Already I’ve been working hard getting things set for the scheduled date. I was just as excited and couldn’t wait for the day to arrive. Alex too couldn’t wait; we’d already booked ourselves a one-week honeymoon trip in Vail, and then another in Baja – courtesy of Alex’s rich folks of course – and just the thought of being a married woman was all the spark I needed to keep myself shinning for the rest of the year.
My face was still glued to my computer screen when my cell phone started ringing, startling me. At first I figured it would only be Alex, calling to check up on me, see how I was doing and if maybe I could meet him for lunch. I couldn’t have been farther from the truth and I just about gasped when I recognised the number that was calling me.

Charles. Oh my God, Charles!

I was double-minded whether or not to answer it. Now that I think back on it, this was the beginning of a string of events which I later realised would have taken my life unto a different route had I not answered the call. Old time’s sake was probably the reason why I did.

“Hello,” said I.

“How’re you doing, Vicky?” Charles’ voice floated into my ear. The sound of his voice stirred a lot of feelings inside me. Much of it a****listic feelings: the type that can only be gotten when your former lover calls on you from out of the blue.

“I’m doing alright, Charles. Long time no see.”

“Same here. How’re you been, girl?”

“I’m fine, thanks. And how about you?”

“Same old, same old. Just living life one day at a time. It’s been a long while.”

“Gosh, I’ll bet. Where have you been all this time?”

“I’ll tell you about it if you’d care to meet me for lunch.”

I paused for a moment. This was where I ought to have said I’m sorry, Charles, but I can’t do that. I’ve got loads of work to do...

Instead I said: “Sure, tell me where.”

The restaurant cafe was almost a block away from where my office was. I decided to walk it since it wasn’t that far, and my intention was that I would be back behind my desk on or before one o’ clock. Once again I was wrong, but at the moment how was I to know how the day would go.

I spotted Charles easily as he was seated by the window sipping a drink. I felt buoyed just standing there observing him. Even though it’s been almost a year since last time I saw him he still was as handsome as always. Charles had been my last lover before I ran into Alex. Although there have been a couple of one-night stands in between, but he was the one person I’d missed deeply and had Alex not stumbled my way, I doubt if I ever would have gotten over him. Tall, chocolate-brown skin, shaved head, excellent lover in and out of bed ... tell me what else would any woman want?

I pushed through the glass door of the restaurant and waved at him. He looked up from his drink and waved back. He rose to his feet as I approached and opened his arms for me to hug him. I felt him press my body towards his. We stood like that for almost a minute, and I figured he was just as reluctant to let me go as I also was, but eventually we both did. I ordered something to eat just as we sat down and started catching up on old times. I was still reeling with the surprise of seeing him after so long, I couldn’t stop myself from touching his hand ... but still, how was I to know.

Charles was a freelance journalist. He told me he’d been under contract with an NGO organisation based in the U.K.

“By the way,” he said, “I hear you’re getting married. Congrats.”
“Thanks. But how did you know.”

He shrugged. “I’ve still got my ears to the ground about you. When I got the news, I need I just had to see you again.” He placed his hand upon mine. I ought to have pulled mine back, except I didn’t. Instead I turned my hand upside down and wrapped my fingers around his while our eyes remained locked on each other. “I really missed you, girl.”

I could feel a tremor running through my heart. I know I should have done the right thing right then: retrieve my hand, push my seat back and say those well rehearsed words: I’m sorry, Charles. It was nice seeing you again, really. But I’m getting married soon and can’t be seen around you again. Please take care of yourself ... and don’t call me anymore. I should have said all that and more. Except I didn’t; I couldn’t. Right there and then, I threw whatever hindrance I’d built in my mind concerning him.

“How about I show you some recent photos I took while in Scotland,” he smiled and said.

“I’ve got to be back at the office in the next hour and a half.”
“My place isn’t that far from here. Come on, let’s stop.”
Without waiting for a reply (not like I was going to object his invite), I let him take my hand and pull me up from my seat.

He wasn’t lying when he said his place wasn’t that far where I work – less than three blocks away. It was a rented apartment; he wasn’t working full time yet, but he could get called at any moment’s notice, he told me.

His pad was cool and shabby-looking and very inviting. He offered me a glass of wine and we drank to our good health. He showed me a portfolio containing several of his award-winning photographs.

While I glanced through them, he refilled my drink and gradually sensed myself growing a bit tipsy. I leaned on his shoulder while still flipping through his snapshots with him reclining his arm over my shoulder. I felt movement in his arm coming down to brush lightly over my breast while his other rubbed against my thigh. I was a bit high, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t still possess my senses. A strong part of me wanted him, and even then I sensed a bit of wetness occurring inside my pussy just from perceiving his manliness. I forgot about his photographs and let it slip from my lap to the floor while I rubbed my palm against the tiny growth of beard that lined his chin. I bent his head towards mine and our lips came together in a kiss. He tasted so good. After all these months, he still tasted deliciously good. He rested me on the sofa, his lips still glued to mine while his hands explored my tits and felt up my thigh. I moaned when his hand pushed past my thong panties and his finger began probing my wetness. I opened my legs further for him as he rubbed his thumb against my clit while his middle finger went in and out of me; it was followed by a second finger. His other hand which hung over my shoulder kept massaging my breasts, and eventually began squeezing my nipples. Only Charles knew this was a quick means of bringing me to orgasm, and even then he was succeeding. I had to recline myself and widen my legs enough and before you knew it I was grabbing his shirt and crying out as my body shuddered from the incoming wave of orgasm that suddenly crashed into me. He pulled back his fingers and offered them to me. I took his fingers into my mouth and licked them clean of my pussy juice. The taste was delicious.

Charles was used to having crazy sex with me, and it was something I’d missed all the months he’d been out of my life. But here it was once again.

He unbuckled his pants and pulled out his semi-erect black dick and brought my hand to grasp it. It pulsed with life as I stroked it. It looked as if it had added an inch or two in growth since the last time I held it ... but still it looked inviting. Charles pushed my head down on it and I opened my mouth and choked myself on it. I stroked his cock at the same time while my lips were wrapped around it, cleaning up the small amount of pre-cum that leaked out of it. All it took was a couple of seconds and before you knew it I was sucking that cock of his like it was yesterday since we last had sex. Charles groaned, his hand remained on my hair, pressing my head down on his cock, forcing me to deep-throat him. I f***ed my mouth open as wide as I could to take in much of him; saliva dripped from my mouth as I continued slurping his shaft. Charles rose up and let me lie on the sofa with his cock hanging two inches above my face. I opened my lips once again to receive it and moaned through a mouthful of cock as once more he began finger-fucking me vigorously. I gripped his thigh and groaned aloud as he made me climax again. I lay there for a moment whimpering, my lovely hair s**ttered on my face, though Charles didn’t give me much chance to rest; he moved in for the kill right away.

He came on top of me and fed my pussy with his cock. I dug my fingers into his back as my body shuddered from him entering me. I was so wet, my pussy needed no lubricant for his cock to slid in nicely. Charles pushed his cock all the way into my pussy and I could do nothing except moan and hug him tight. He felt so good inside me; my let my muscles squeeze his cock and raised my hips to meet him. He dug a hand under my back and pulled me up from where I lay. I noticed the way his arm muscles bulged as he raised me into the air, his hands grasping my bottom as he slammed me with his cock fast and furiously. I wrapped my hands around his neck, shut my eyes and cried out each time his cock slammed in and out of my pussy till suddenly I felt myself cumming a third time. Just when it felt as if I was slipping off him, he pulled me up and gripped me tighter and resumed fucking me terrifically.

I was nearly out of breathe when he dumped me on the sofa and I rolled off it and collapsed on his carpet, weak from my head to my toes. I lay there gasping heavily, staring up at him and muttering ‘Oh my God ... Oh my God’ over and over again. My pussy felt so sore, I knew it would remain like that till the following morning. He seemed to tower over me like a muscle-bound giant with his cock still standing erect with cum dripping down from it. I started to giggle. A long time has passed since I got fucked this good; how I so much missed the feeling.

“Oh my God ... Charles ... darling, I’ve really missed you.”

“I know, babe.” He knelt beside my face and started stroking his cock. His face broke into a grimace and I shut my eyes just in time as his cum shot out and sprayed over my face. When he was done, I took his cock and sucked the remainder that oozed out of it, and then licked off the amount that was on my face.
“Just like old times,” I said, smacking my lips when I was done consuming his load of cum.

Charles laughed. “Yeah, it’s just like it.”

“Though next, I want it all in me.”

... Continue»
Posted by dsoul-60 3 years ago  |  Categories: Interracial Sex  |  Views: 1022  |  

The bitch on the back of my bike

The bitch on the back

The bitch on the back of my bike, she’s just some random slut. Just some middle age piece of ass that I picked up at a dive bar while I was out bar hopping with the crew.

Now I’m going to take her on the ride of her life. Going to take the bitches cunt and make it mine, going to use her like a whore. You d***ken bitch, you’re going to be sore in the morning. Not only with a hangover but with a raw ass and a worn cunt, Hell; I’ll bet you’ll have aching jaws.

I was leaving the Magic Cavern Bar, this random d***ken slut walked up and asked for a ride, really you want a ride? So I gave her the once over, looked her up and down, told her to turn around I wanted to see that ass, because I just don’t let any old piece of ass on my machine. She spun around so I could get an eye full, for a middle age hoe she had a bit of eye candy going on.

Ok you want a ride?

Hell yes I want a ride, I want to wrap my legs around that big machine of yours and let it thump between my legs, she said and starts grinding the air and laughing, like it was a joke and only she knew the punch line.

Ok I’ll give you a ride, but then I get to ride you, was my response, she laughed and said I’m down with that.

d***ken sluts, man u just got to love’m.

So now I’ve got this d***ken slut wrapped around my waist, it’s funny I’m doing 70 and I can still smell the cigarettes and beer on her. Really what is it about sluts that they have to use quarts of cheap perfume, which just reeks, along with the smell of menthols?

This slut is throwing her hands in the air and screaming Yaw Hoo! as loud as she could, I guess she’s not been on a rat bike before, or it’s been a while since her last good d***k.

Go ahead have your fun soon I’ll be having mine.

After about 30 minutes we’re at my stays, rolling down the drive, I stopped, kicked the stand down and dropped the bike to the side, now, get this and I k** you not, the bitch fell off the god damn bike! Just fell right off, I guess all that liquor caught up to her. So there she was, d***k on her ass laying in my drive and laughing like it’s just the thing you do to get off a bike.

Looking back to my bike I noticed that the bitch seat was wet. Looking at this cunt laughing on the ground her god damn crotch was soaked.

Did you piss yourself on my bike?

No that machine is like a big vibrator I loved it, I fuck’n loved it; she squeals and starts rubbing her cunt through her jeans. Now that’s something I've never seen before, a chick cumming on a hard tailed bike bitch seat.

Shit man; I’m going too need to clean that god damn seat before it starts’ to draw flies it was that fuck’n soaked.

Putting my hand out to her, she grabbed ahold and I lifted her to her unsteady feet and half dragged her half carried her into my crash pad. No more than getting her in the door she falls down on her hands and knees to steady herself like she was going to fall off the world if she didn’t get a good hold. Slowly she looks up at me with one devil of a wicked smile, grunts out I got my ride so now it’s your turn.

Cool, I tell this bitch come here and suck this thing, so I grab a kitchen chair and sit down and pull my cock out and lay it on my thigh. She starts to crawl across the floor lick’n her lips heading for my cock, now get this scene in your head I’m setting in a chair pants around my ankles’ and this d***k slut is crawling across the floor on her hands and knees towards me growling and licking her lips. Now if that don’t make your cock twitch you’re fuck’n dead.

When she gets to me the first thing she does is start licking my knees then my thighs towards my cock, but she goes right past my cock to my balls tonguing them, putting her hands on my knees she pushes them apart as far as I’d let her. Then her hand is on my chest pushing me back as I lean back her tongue moves from my balls to my corn hole, damn; her tongue is working my ass from my hole to my balls her tongue is work’n it good. Soon she just focused on my asshole tonguing around and around it trying to relax my ass so she can work her tongue in there, fuck it was good, hell; her mouth was good, she was good, it was good.

Now my cock is standing up, it’s starting to throb so I start work’n it in my hand up and down as that mouth of hers is still work’n my ass. I can’t take any more so I grab her hair and pull her mouth to my cock and pushed it in slowly, with my hand in her hair I pushed her all the way down, down the shaft, all the way down her throat, till her nose is buried in my pubes. I start to feel her gag, gag and choke, feeling her throat flex around the head of my cock. She’s trying to pull back but I just hold her there, till I’ve had enough.

So this bitch grabs my balls and squeezes them hard, I let her up she gags some more then gets some air into her lungs, now that she got a breath, down I push her again balls deep. Soon she’s squeezing my balls so I let her up, this is the game we play. I gag her she squeezes my balls. I gag her she squeezes my balls. I gag her she squeezes my balls. Over and over we do this.

Pulling her up by the hair I grab her shirt and jerk it open, shoving in down to her waist, I grab her tits and pulled them out of her cups, fuck shes got some nice tits firm and bouncy. Taken them in my hands I pull them up to my cock and start rubbing them with it. Looking at her I can’t think of anything sexier than a woman with mascara smeared on her face and spit and slobber on her mouth with a cock between her tits with the look of she’s fucked and just expecting more of the same. Holding her nipples between my thumb and fingers pulling them tight I wrapped her tits around my cock and started to bounce my cock off her chin.

Now the pained look on her face was a priceless moment.

Grabbing her hair again as I stood, I dragged her over to my sofa, pulling her to her feet I undid her pants and shoved them to the ground along with her thong, wow! A slut and her thong are soon parted, funny.

Slamming her down on the sofa I pulled her legs up and apart, as far apart as I could get them. Hell; that cunt was wet, fuck’n wet from her navel to almost her knees looks like shes a squirter.

Leaning over to her tits, I started to give them little bites on the bottoms of her hanging fun bags. Working my way to her nipples biting as I went soon I was suck’n on those hard treats. After working her tits for a bit she starts to grind her cunt against my belly, fuck; it was warm and wet.

Moving down her body to her cunt, I start to smell her cunt, it had the smell of piss. Holding her legs open I looked at her cunt for a bit before moving my mouth down to it. That cunt was red and swollen, her lips were wet and slick looking, because I was holding her legs spread she was gaped open giving me a good whiff of that hole. It smelled like it was ready to be used, if not used up.

Letting go of one of her legs I put 2 fingers into the cunt as I started to mouth her hard clit. Pushing her clit hood back with my lips I bit down on her clit with my teeth, she jerked her legs tight around my head and grabbed at my hair as I started to, to work that clit. Squeezing down hard with my teeth then letting go as my fingers worked her lips and searched for her g-spot. Soon this bitch was getting me wet not pissing herself but actually cumming and her cum was gushing out, wild.

Working her cunt till my jaws were sore I figured it was time to fuck that cunt pushing her legs open again, I lined my cock up and shoved it in, fuck; she was wet and sloppy and somewhat loose. Letting go of her legs I grabbed her tits and started to paw and knead them as hard as I could while I slipped in and out of that loose sloppy cunt. Soon I decided that her used loose cunt was not going to cut it, I pull out and lined up with her shitter, work’n it around till I found the ass knot I started to push in. I was so wet with her stuff I slipped right in. After a couple of strokes to get it worked loose I start to grind that ass.

Work’n her turd shoot for a bit I pulled out and stood up and grabbed her hair and pulled her to my cock but she would not open her mouth, so I slapped her face with my cock. Wap, wap, wap, wet sticky cock right on her face. She opened her mouth to protest, when she did pop right in I went all the way, I had my balls bouncing of her chin, gaging her in the process.

After a bit I told her to get up on her knees and lean over the back of the sofa I was going to fuck her ass some more, she did as she was told and soon I was balls deep in that loose cunt. Spank’n her ass as I slammed my cock in to her cunt over and over as my balls hit’n her clit, she reached back and grabbed my balls and started to knead them as my cock work her wet cunt soon she got wetter and a little tighter. Then a little more wetter and a bit tighter, the combination of her cumming and squeezing my balls I needed to cum.

Hooking my arm under her waist I flipped her over and started to jerk my cock at her face, as the first drop cum out her mouth shot open a caught as much as she could.

She has my cum on her face and tits, but enough landed in her mouth that she is rolling it around on her tongue and gargling it blowing bubbles.

d***ken sluts, man u just got to love’m.

Wiping my cock on her face, I tell her I’m going to bed and to find her own way home.

... Continue»
Posted by MountainMan66 3 years ago  |  Categories: Anal, Hardcore, Mature  |  Views: 1123  |  
  |  5

Back in my early age it seemed older men were attr

I was only about 16 years old at this time. My mom, me and 3 s****rs moved over to the east end of this city. It was sort of a welfare building, your normal row housing. On welfare, you can't afford that much, especially with a lot of mouths to feed.
I wasn't doing to good in school at this end of town. I had a bad habit of playing hookie from school. Naturally I was skinny and had very little clothing that fit me properly. I just couldn't consintrate in class, with my stomach rumbling all the time.
I used to go down to the docks where all the k**s hung out on the weekends. I felt that was a good place not to be seen by a truancy officer or police. I used to make up a fishing line out of whatever was laying around down by the docks and try catching fish. I figured if I caught something to eat mom wouldn't be as mad at me when I did get home.
This day, I started out early. Everybody was in school at 9 am so I headed down to the docks. Through the bush and down over the railroad tracks and across the old road. It was a nice hot sunny day, perfect for relaxing and cathing fish.
I sat on some rocks right beside a place called Tullock Fishing. I dangled a line in the water and let the rip tide take it out further. Boy was I ever hungry. My stomach was growling and I didn't have a lunch to take with me, naturaly.
It was noon now and some of the men that worked on the dock were sitting around eating thier lunch. An older man, I guess in his 40s wandered down to see what I was doing. He asked, "Hows the fishing?' I stated, "Not so good." He asked if I wanted half his sandwich. Wow, I jumped at it as he handed it to me. "No school today," He said. "No, I said, I had a dentist appointment this morning, so I thought I would spend the reat of the day down here."
He then said, " I got some juice up in the truck, your welcome to come have some." "OK." I said, and tied my line to a log and followed him to the truck. We got in and he opened his thermus and poured out a cup of juice for me and handed me some cookies out of his lunch box. "Thank you", I said. We started talking about fishing and ended up talking about a little girl that used to come down here and have lunch with him once in a while. He said that she used to play hookie from school and come down here to hide for the day. "Ya", he said. " She used to put out to most of the guys that worked down here". I was dumb. I asked, "What do you mean?' Then he told me that she used to let guys feel her all over and and finger her. He then said that she liked it especially when they would give her a couple of dollars after they were done. That sent ideas through my head. All I could think of was money. But I am not a girl, How was I going to make money? Then I remembered the time when I was younger and that male baby sitter that made me feel him and the first time I ever saw or felt a male cock.
All the time I was thinking about that, the man was rubbing my leg of my very tight pants I was wearing and causing my cock to harden. I didn't have any underwear on so my cock was showing through my pants. I think he could see that because he moved up to my crotch area and started rubbing my cock bulge, which wasn't much, I was small in size and still haven't been able to cum yet. Not from the lack of trying though. I used to masterbate all the time since that babysitter. I also used to put things up my ass hole because it felt so good.
As time went on, the man said, "I still have half an hour of lunch time left, and you look like you need some attention," while staring at my crotch. He then unzipped my fly to see my cock of which sprang out of my pants and stood up about the size of a mans finger. " That's a nice little toy", the man said, as he started to stroke it with his two fingers. He then took his other hand and pulled his own fly down and fumbled with his clothing to get his cock out for me to see. This was different to me. It was sort of pointed and didn't have a head. He then pulled back his forskin to reveal the hole at the end. It was getting hard as he stroked his own cock, and the skin was tightening to show his whole cock. It was sort of big but not huge like I had experienced before. I didn't know there could be different looking cocks. "Go ahead and touch it," he said. I then reached over and touched it with my small hand. I actually atarted to stroke it like he was doing with mine. I wrapped my little hand around it as much as I could and went up and down as it grew even larger. At this time it took quite a big stroke to get up and all the way down to his ball sack of which he pulled out all the way. Then he told me how the little girl used to go down on him with her mouth. I was hesitant at this time. I never did this before. But down I went to his cock and placed my lips on the end of it. He gently placed his hand on the back of my head and guided my mouth over his cock even deeper. I was choking a little. He could tell so he would lift my head a little then reintroduce me again. While I was doing this I could feel his hand over my back and down to my ass hole. He was rubbing around my hole and pressing his finger in to it. This I had felt before. It felt good but I didn't say anything to him. He then reached over to his compartment and opened it to get out a tube of something. He squeesed some onto his finger and replaced his hand to my ass hole. I could feel him pushing his finger in deeper and moving it around. This was really turning me on. He then pulled me up so that I was laying across the seat over him and he was able to continue pushing his finger into my ass hole even deeper. I could hear his breathing start to get heavier and he would push his cock deeper into my mouth. All of a sudden I felt this warm fluid start to shoot into my mouth. I had to swallow a lot of it, I couldn't spit it out anywhere. He kept pushing it in deeper. I thought I was going to choke to death. Finally he relaxed and stopped pressing jis finger into me. I guess this ment he was finished. I felt good, but didn't cum.
The man then pulled me up so that I was sitting facing him behind the steering wheel. By this time my pants were off me all together. I felt a little freer to move around now. He reached down and started playing with my little cock again and I could feel his spent cock below at my ass. Just a lump between my cheeks at this time. As he played with my cock His lump was getting hard again and he was moving it around my ass crack. It was slippery because of the stuff he put into my hole. He was hugging me to his chest and I could hear him breathing heavy. "You are even better than that little girl," he said as he kept pushing his body up to meet my ass crack. I then felt him reach under and direct his cock to my ass hole so he was able to push it into the hole with every push up he did. I could feel it enter my ass hole and go even deeper as it grew larger. It felt really good to me but I still didn't say anything. Obviously he was also feeling good. Deeper it went and he started to move a little faster. Again that warm feeling of fluid was entering my ass. I could feel it all the way up to my stomack this time. He was breathing heavier and pushing it deeper until he was making jerking movements with his body and ramming it in further to my not so virgin ass hole. Yes, this felt good. Now I know why that little girl was doing it. Soon, he was finished, as I felt his cock pull out of my ass slippery and wet. He helped me over to my side of the truck and gave me some rags to wipe myself off. I then was able to pull my pants on and finish my drink and cookies.
"well," he said. "That was great, how do you feel?' I just nodded and said "ok"." I got to get back to work" he said. "But I hope to see you again". Then he slipped me a two dollar bill and told me not to be a stranger. I was so happy. I told him I come down a lot then left his truck and started over the tracks and up through the bush toward home. I thought, now mom can't be mad, I made some money. Well I'll tell her I found it. HA HA Till next time. ... Continue»
Posted by 1superhornyguy 4 months ago  |  Categories: Anal, Gay Male, Mature  |  Views: 3169  |  
  |  4

I fuck my coworker in the back of my car.

Ever since I saw this knew chick thats started training at my job, I wanted to fuck her. She was in uniform so it was hard to tell if she had a nice body or not. She was short, with a long ponytail down to her back. She was just to my shoulder height and im 6'1" so she was good height. As time went by I got to. know her and got on her good side, I tried my best to. work this chick into my bed but she would just ignore me all the time. Then one saturday evening I called her up and asked her if she wanted to go hang out and she said ok. I took a quick shower and was on my way in a matter of minutes. When I picked her up she was wearing some tight jeens pants and a cute little blouse, all covered up with a nice black coat, as the nights was vety windy and cold. But I didnt care I just knew what I had in mind....wheli driving along we talked about any and everything but I tried my best Mension anything about sex or anything to do with it. because I didnt want to scare her off. We went walking down to. the peer in the very strong cold wind and I tried to get close to her using the cold weather ass an excuse but she wasnt having that. so I backed off. Then we got something to eat at a nearby restaurant, while in there we were talking and laughing about all sorts of fun stuff that happen at work.. we left the restaurant and went back to my car by this time it was 1 30 in the looking across the water we couldnt see the lights from nyc glistening on the water.. It. was a bit romantic but I didnt want to jump the guns...we couldnt decide on what to. so next so we sat there for a few minutes going back and forth on what we should do. Finally I kind of gave in and said you know what let me take you home. On the way home I decided to show her my old workplace.. While pulling up to the place I couldnt help myself I just touched her chest and I realized that she was not pushing me away or saying no as usual... I was like, this is it... Im taking advantage this while I can. I pulled in really quick The whole place was dark with only a few lights here. and there. I pulled in a park ed in a dark spot. Then started kissing her she started kissing me back hard breathing hard and climbing up on me. My dick was so hard I could feel it wanting to rip a hole in my pants to get out. we kissed and we started stripping each other.... Then I kissed down to her chest and oh my gosh, her tits were nice...she had long nipples and they were hard. I sucked and licked them making them even harder. one hand worked its way down her pants. She was so wet and her pussy lips were soft and warm....I couldnt help myself. I pulled off her pants and pulled her panties to the side and slid my tongue into her pussy as deep as it could go and she gave a deep moan....I was like yes ready...I sucked her clit and flicked my tongue across her pussy lips and stuck my tongue deep inside her pussy again and she was going wild, clawing and, Bucking her heads in the headrest . I was so hard myself ... I quickly took out a condom and rolled it on.. I parted her legs and slowly inched my dick in to her pussy as she squirmed and sink her nails into the car seat.. I could feel the pressure in my dick like it wanted to go in faster and deeper. but I wanted to be gentle ... T B C....

... Continue»
Posted by phuccer 4 years ago  |  Categories: First Time, Hardcore, Interracial Sex  |  Views: 3096  |  
  |  6

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 come to a grassy patch
beside the road and I pull my husband down to the ground so that
he is on his back. I take his penis in my mouth and then mount
him and we fuck in full view of the passersby. If I had been
fucking with my husband while having this fantasy we would
now have reached the point where I would be telling him of what
was happening in my fantasy an that he was the man doing it so
that we could work up to wonderful finish. [Letter]
It has taken me some time to write to you, even after
consulting my husband, Who had been in favor of my doing so
since we first read your letter. The reason for my not making up
my mind earlier was because of the results of my fantasies, and
not so much because I practiced them. Whether you will find
them surprising or shocking only you, of course can say.
I am forty-two and have been married for twenty-five years,
and have four c***dren now grown up. Our sex life was, we think,
reasonably satisfactory, except that I thought, for a long time, that
something was missing, and that it was often rather humdrum.
About a year ago my husband apparently guessed this –
probably from my attitude at times to sex, and also (and far more
likely, I think) because he came to realize more and more that he
could not give me enough to satisfy me. He had asked me often if
he did have enough for me, and usually I said that he had – partly
because I did not want to make him feel inadequate, and also, in
retrospect, I am sure that I knew once I really started thinking of
another man giving me more, that it would so obviously show in
my reactions that my husband would notice, and might take
serious exceptions to another man fucking me, even if it was only
in my imagination. But one night, when he was trying to fuck me
himself, he suddenly said that was not of much use, and that I
had become far too large for him to manage; that he could put
what he had right into me without me feeling it and that what I
now wanted was a man who was able to give me a thicker penis.
I amazed myself with my reaction to this, and he obviously felt
it, because he then proceeded to talk to me about it, and we had
the most wonderful fuck. I admitted to him that I had often
imagined. other men on top of me, and I even let him know
which men I had imagined doing it. He became very worked up
over my fantasies, and started going through our acquaintances,
noting my variations in reactions as he mentioned their names.
He knew I had a soft spot for at least two of them – his cousin
and my s****r’s ex-husband – and we both reached a fantastic
climax together, both imagining that I was being fucked by his
cousin. He even made me call him by his cousin’s name.
Having experienced this, we then of course practiced it more
and more, and after about two weeks, during which time he had
fucked me more than ever before, we were in bed one Sunday
afternoon, which was about a week before we were going away
on a holiday with his cousin and wife. This afternoon my
husband was taking no precautions, as he normally did; he
wanted to put it in bare, and he told me why once he had it in:
this time he told me that when we were on our holiday he wanted
it to be what he termed "a holiday of fucking," now that he had
discovered how much nicer everything was, and that he wanted
me to let his cousin fuck me if the opportunity arose. His idea
being that if he put his cock into me bare, it would be reasonable,
should I do as he suggested and let his cousin also fuck me, that
if I became pregnant I could say that the baby was my husband’s.
He wanted me to agree to this and also to expose myself to his
cousin, so I could find out what another man could do for me.
Being miles away from home, he said, no one would know, and if
I liked it, then there would be ample opportunity to enjoy it to the
full, and as often as I wanted to.
By this time, of course, I was so worked up that I held him
close to me with my legs around his back and for the first time in
years I felt his come shoot right into me, as I promised to try what
he had suggested. During that week before we went away, he
rode me several times each night, and as I took his come every
time, he could not say that if I was pregnant that it was not his.
He made certain that I was well-shaven before we went on our
holiday, and now I began to really feel like my husband did; I
was far more ready to wear even shorter skirts and no panties,
and found no difficulty in doing this once we got to Italy. We
experimented to find out how I could expose myself without
being too blatant, even though I knew in my heart that his cousin
would not need much encouragement. We found it was easy for
me to show what I had – bearing in mind that my cunny was
absolutely bare, and that my slit would show clearly – and as
soon as I found his cousin taking more interest and more liberties
with me than ever, it was not long before we could slip away to
our room and I was able to find out what another man was like.
The experience was something out of this world, and far better
and easier than I had imagined. I also found that there are men
with tools that can still open a woman, even after they have had
several c***dren, and I would have been content to have lain there
for hours, watching myself being opened and really fucked.
Although he was quite a lot bigger than my husband, it was not
just this that gave me great satisfaction, it was the variation, and
the different ways we did it – mostly with me lifted on pillows,
but also often from the rear – a position I had not thought I liked,
nor often indulged in. But with this man it took on a different
The history is that during that holiday I enjoyed both these
men regularly and to such an extent that I was probably fucked
more during those two weeks than in any year previously. My
husband also enjoyed every moment, and what was surprising to
me, even though he suggested it, was how much he liked to talk
about it – to talk about me having had his cousin, and the fact
that another tool had been in between my lips added spice, so that
I had to promise him to continue our experiment. My s****r’s exhusband
was now brought into it, and I had to promise that I
would take him if he showed interest after we got back home.
Since he had parted from my s****r he had lived alone in his
house, and my husband now suggested that we ask him to come
live with us. We invited him after we got home from Italy, and he
was put in a bedroom through which we had to go to reach ours;
it was proposed by my husband that if things worked out, he
would go on to bed earlier, and that I could then go to bed with
my b*****r-in-law on the way to our own room. My husband
could then enter me, immediately after I had taken my
This also turned out as we had thought it might, but in this
instance I really found out why my b*****r-in-law had parted
from my s****r. He was large enough to put off most women,
particularly those who had not had c***dren, as my s****r had not,
and I found my fullest satisfaction in having some difficulty in
taking him, and in being stretched after years of being told I was
too large. When I got into bed afterward with my husband, it was
obvious to him what I had taken, and of course this gave him
even more pleasure to insert his own tool only a minute or two
after in the same place where I had just taken this larger tool.
I realize that this letter may not be exactly what you asked for,
as in the main, it is an account of actions that followed after
fantasies and not what occurred during them, but I would hope
that you may be able to obtain some information from it. The
point I would try to make is that it has benefited both my
husband and myself. Him, because he is so much more a superior
lover now than before, and quite frankly, I feel no regret or
feeling of shame. [Letter]
My fiancé is writing this letter as I speak. This should give
you some idea of how open we are with one another. I am
nineteen years old and we are soon to be married.
My fantasies during intercourse and masturbation are always
of him; he is always present in them. It is only during foreplay
that I sometimes think of another man, in particular a man I work
with. I imagine various situations that I have been in with him,
but these thoughts end when I have intercourse, probably because
I have never had intercourse with him.
Even when I think of another woman, my fiancé is present in
my fantasies. He is usually watching as the woman goes down on
me, or me on her. In reality, this would give us both a great deal
of pleasure. In fact, anything I think sexually seems to turn him
on. We don’t talk too much during sex, but I do like him to tell
me at the outset that he is going to "fuck me." Words like this can
add a lot.
When I was about eleven years old, there was a rather
good-looking young man, about twenty, who lived next door.
Some weekends he used to have his girl friend come stay with
him. In the evenings I could hear him in his bedroom with her –
clearly the wall between our houses was not that thick. It did not
take much imagination to know what they were doing, even for
an eleven-year-old. My fantasy was very straightforward. I would
simply imagine that he was doing, whatever it was, to me instead
of her. I would lie there for hours listening through the wall and
wishing I were in her place. I would never go to sl**p till all was
quiet next door. To this day I remember their lovemaking noises.
The only fantasy I’ve been able to put into practice has been
one that indulges my exhibitionist tendencies. With my fiancé’s
encouragement, I will sometimes leave off my panties when I am
wearing black stockings and a garter belt. With my mini-length
skirts, it is not difficult to subtly reveal myself in public places.
Later, I repeat all of this in great detail to my fiancé. I wouldn’t
think of leaving him out of my fantasies; having him involved or
telling him about them heightens everything for me. Even when
indulging in my favorite lesbian fantasies, I like to have him
there watching, or in reality talking to me. [Letter]
I just recently became aware of my fantasies. I fantasize far
more about black men than white; they appeal to me more
sexually. But this is not just fantasy; my husband is black. The
only other man I balled more than once was white, and I rarely
felt satisfied with him. Since I am very satisfied with my
husband, I would imagine that this has much to do with my
preference for black men in my fantasies. I should add that up
until last night, the men in my fantasies were always anonymous.
In my fantasy last night – I’ve never had one like it before –
the person I found myself fantasizing about was one of the three
pastors at the church my husband and I attend. My husband is a
student pastor at this church, and this man is his advisor.
Physically, the man is not my ideal at all. My ideal is tall and
slender (my best friend would call it "skinny"), whereas this
pastor is no taller than myself, perhaps shorter, and stocky. He is
middle-aged, which also hasn’t before appealed to me. But last
night was the first time the anonymous lover in my fantasy has
ever been given an identity.
I do have another strange fantasy in which I walk into a store
which deals exclusively in sexual aids and accessories – dildos,
false breasts, sucking apparatus, etc. My desire is to buy a
"mouth," though I never really picture what it would be like, just
what it would feel like. [Letter]
My husband and I do talk during sex, especially when he is
feeling me. But the best sessions we have are when we both
imagine that we are giving an exhibition on anything to do with
sex. I usually strip while my husband lies on the bed describing
every detail of me. I stand in front of our large mirror and have to
do what he says. The language we use on these occasions really
excites me. I end up caressing my titties and masturbating. When
he strips, I part his legs and take the penis in my mouth. We have
a session of oral sex, then we rub oil over each of us and go
through a pattern of different positions. Rear entry in front of the
mirror is best. Then we can see how we look to our imaginary
audience and I can see it in me and also play with my clitoris,
which by this time is really on end. [Letter]
I am fifty years old, and my husband is fifty-four. We have two
c***dren, both married. We are both college graduates, and my
husband has an above-average income, which permits us to travel
quite extensively. Since I was about twenty-eight, we have
enjoyed a very active and. varied sex life. My husband (I will use
the name Bill) approves of all my sex activities, whether
participating, assisting, or merely looking on. He would never be
jealous or angry at anything I might tell him, if it enhanced my
sex feeling. He insists that I mention the fact that my body is firm
and trim, with about the same weight and measurements I had at
thirty. We both believe that lots of sex is the best figure control a
woman can practice.
I do not often fantasize during coitus with Bill, but it does
happen on occasion. We vocalize a lot, giving directions, telling
each other how it feels, etc.
I fantasize continuously while I masturbate. I conjure up many
images at different times, depending how I am doing it. My most
frequent image is of my boxer screwing me (this actually happens
about every other day). Sometimes I fantasize sex with two men.
I do it by alternating dildos between my vagina and my mouth,
pretending that I am being screwed by one and Frenching the
other. At times I have carried this further to include three men, by
inserting a small dildo in my anus. Less elaborate fantasies have
included my b*****r, my s****r’s husband, an uncle, and
numerous attractive men we know.
When Bill or the boxer perform cunnilingus on me, I often just
lie back with eyes closed and imagine all sorts of oral situations.
They are often lesbian in nature, and mostly are concerned with a
beautiful girl friend with whom I made love many times between
the ages of fifteen and s*******n. Unfortunately, our f****y was
transferred, breaking up our relationship. I had sex with other
girls, but none were as lovely or skillful as my first friend. I have
told Bill that if our paths should ever cross, I would go to bed
with her, if she were willing, and I am sure she would be.
I began fantasizing at a very early age; at eight, I believe. At
that time, my uncle, then about f******n, showed me his erect
penis, and showed me where it was supposed to go. He gave me
a demonstration with his finger, which I enjoyed very much, and
rubbed the head of his penis against my small hole. We engaged
in similar sex play many times, and I began to masturbate
regularly. Always, it was accompanied by thoughts of his finger
screwing me, or his penis caressing my inner lips and clitoris.
When I was thirteen, I began having sex with my b*****r, and
this continued irregularly until about my sixteenth year.
I enjoy imagining that I am on exhibition. I have performed for
Bill so often that I am accustomed to an audience, albeit of one.
In our travels we have had several opportunities to view sex
exhibitions, and strangely, perhaps, I always identify with the
girls, and how, and to what extent, I felt that I could improve
upon their performance. I am sure that I have a decided streak of
exhibitionism in me. I love to pose for pictures; the sexier the
better. In mild ways (with Bill’s approval), I have indulged in
exhibitionism. For instance, I have not worn panties in many
years, except (honest injun) when I am expected to take them off;
at the doctor’s or the dressmaker’s. I have given lots of strange
men an unexpected peek at my pussy, while Bill and I observed
their surprised and pleased reactions. Usually, this occurs on a
motor trip, and I will have applied lipstick to my labia, to be sure
they are unmistakably visible against the background of dark
brown hair. Being rather moist and swollen, their visibility is
enhanced. On trips, we always have a dildo handy and, of course,
the boxer. I have let him screw me many times as we traveled,
much, I am sure, to the surprise of passing truck drivers, who
must have wondered what a large dog was doing with his paws
on the back of the front seat.
Speaking our fantasies out naturally decreases the novelty of
the particular situation to some extent. But we have discarded
few, if any, of our fantasies. Actually, we have experienced many
of our best fantasies, but even so, they remain effective sex
stimulators. The most effective, the favorite, and the one which
has withstood the test, is the one concerned with b********y. It
began about twenty years ago, and became a reality about three
years ago. Our present dog is the third one, and he should be
good for five or six years. The first two were German Shepherds,
and we have trained all of them. Until the k**s went away to
college, dog-screwing was mostly reserved for special occasions,
although I had cunnilingus often. I kept the dogs satisfied with
masturbation and, when Bill was there to help guard against
being surprised, I would fellatiate them. I know this may sound
terrible, but it is really very pleasant, especially as I always
thoroughly bathe that area with a nonirritating alcohol antiseptic
which can be had in any d**gstore. Precautions are unnecessary
now, but I still enjoy giving him a suck sometimes.
I hope that none of what I have written has been offensive.
Please use it in any way you wish, if it has any value. [Letter]
I am forty-seven years old and have only been married to my
present husband for two and a half years. I was previously
married for twenty-four years; he was a violent man and sex with
him was something hateful. But my new husband is a very good
and kind lover who has taught me that sex is a wonderful thing to
be enjoyed. I find with him that talking about our fantasies makes
them even more exciting when they happen again.
What I always like to imagine during sex with my husband is
that I’m doing it with someone who doesn’t belong to me. This
"someone else" is no one in particular, and not always a man. Far
from being jealous or angry, my lover tells me to talk to him and
explain in detail things that go on in my mind, and it makes our
lovemaking fantastic.
One of the favorite devices in my fantasy is to think that
someone is watching me, and it becomes so real that it is this that
heightens my climax. I do have lesbian fantasies, which really
aren’t great, as I’m a man’s woman, but sometimes I do wonder
how I would react to seeing another woman feeling her breasts
and cunt, actually manipulating herself. I don’t want to be doing
it, I just want to watch her.
We often indulge in fantasies together, acting out little plays as
though we had just met and he has never had a woman before. I
seduce him, teach him what to do. Or we switch the roles around
and he becomes the instructor. Either way it’s enjoyable. [Letter]
I have actually acted out one of my fantasies, that of having
sex with a colored man. When I describe this to my husband it
really gets him going. If I add on top of this image the idea of
being on exhibition, it gets me so keyed up I can even see the
expressions on the faces of the people watching.
When my husband and I talk about these things it is easier to
explain what we really, think and feel, but of course most people,
especially women, don’t want to talk about taboo subjects. If you
brought up the subject they would think you were sex-mad, when
really it’s the most interesting thing there is, and you are able by
talking, and only by talking, to find out what makes people
different. [Letter]
I think my fantasies began when I was quite young, but q I
have always remembered the first thing that really started me off.
I still find it exciting to think about. I was about twelve and knew
as much about sex as the next girl, I suppose. One day, two other
girls and myself were in the park with several boys fifteen or
sixteen years old. They bullied a younger boy to expose himself to
us. This obviously fascinated all three of us girls, and as you
might have guessed, the next thing that happened was an
intensive petting session between us and the older boys. It may
sound strange, but I can’t really remember if one of those boys
really got all the way inside me or not. But throughout it all, and
still to this day, I can remember seeing that small red knob
coming out through the foreskin, and I remember wondering
whatever that little red thing was that was coming out toward me.
Seeing that first exposure got me started on fantasies as well
as sex. I am fifty-five years old, and until quite recently kept
secret my fantasies of exposing myself. In my fantasies it is I who
expose my cleanly-shaven cunt to younger men, even youths, so
that they can see what a real woman’s cunt looks like. I have
always wondered about the size of other men, because after our
third c***d my husband felt like a finger inside me. It was then
that I began to really look at men and to urge my husband to tell
me what other men were like. I couldn’t believe that some men
were as large as he described, and in my fantasies I would
imagine them, egged on by seeing my shaven cunt, mounting me.
I would think of an abnormally large man with a tool so big it
would take me a long time to accommodate it. In my fantasy I
would watch my bare slit being stretched further and further
open, as his huge penis penetrated me to the hilt. (I have even
pictured taking two men at once – as I know that this can
happen.) And as my slit, totally free of hair, is visible in its
entirety, the man in my fantasy can watch me as well, the
movement, the reaction of my cunt. I see him thrusting, stretching
me, stabbing away and then withdrawing completely for our
mutual inspection of the red shining knob, over which the skin is
then f***ed back just as hard as the man can stand without too
much pain, which broadens the knob, making it just as wide as it
can possibly be made before reinserting it again.
Eventually, of course, when my husband began to see the
reaction his stories of other larger men had on me, he began to
suspect I fantasized. At first I was rather loath to admit them to
him. I didn’t want to talk back to him during intercourse; I
wanted to stay with my fantasies. I also thought he might be hurt.
But I soon realized how excited he got when I shared my
fantasies with him, even told him that in them I was exposing
myself to other men. He urged me to tell him more and our
lovemaking suddenly took on a whole new excitement. He began
to encourage me to think of other men. My husband is jealous of
me, but he gets a definite kick from this "near attempt" at
flaunting his wife before other men, even if only in fantasy.
Eventually, however, this developed to the point where he did,
in fact, encourage me to have other men. We have also got so
worked up at times that we have fantasized together about i****t,
which brings on a fantastic climax.
When my husband talks to me during sex – now that he knows
that I have other men, and with his consent – he asks me all sorts
of questions about the other cocks I have, and this gets him into
such a state because, although he knows very well that he cannot
fuck me like they can, he gets pleasure from at least trying. He
now even encourages my real exposures to other men; in fact, he
loves to shave me. These exposures later add a great deal to our
sex as we fantasize together, talking back and forth, what it
would be like if I had indeed taken on the man to whom he
watched me expose myself – which, of course, is done simply by
parting your legs a bit if you’re sitting across the room from a
man. Other times, of course, I do indeed take on the other men …
and then tell my husband all about it. Now my husband even
assures me that having other men regularly – and sharing the
experience with him makes me a better ride and far more relaxed
and able to give of my best in bed. [Letter]
Adele’s husband
I have read and reread your article, and having eventually
decided your research work is a serious one, I have at last
decided to write to you.
I am a heterosexual male, a widower, in fact, but I think you
may find it quite interesting to read of the sexual fantasies of my
dear late wife, who sadly died five long years ago.
We were married in the latter part of the last war, and when I
was demobilized I was twenty-three years old and she was
twenty-one. Right from the word go our married life was
wonderful, both sexually and in every other way.
To come to the matter you’re interested in. We had been to see
a film with Alan Ladd in it at her instigation, because she always
said how much she liked him. How much, I did not realize. The
film had only been on ten minutes before she was kissing me
very passionately and, of course, I slipped my hand in her blouse,
undid her bra, and found her breasts hard and her nipples really
erect. So naturally I went up her skirt with my other hand, having
spread my raincoat over both our knees. She was wearing those
silk panties without elastic – very handy – so I slipped my hand
under and found her absolutely soaking wet. She had already
come and as soon as I felt her clitoris, she came again. I finally
had two fingers in her and she went wild. I hardly saw the film
myself because she got my cock out and slowly tossed me off.
When we got home I asked her if seeing Alan Ladd always did
that to her, and she replied that it was so and that she often
fantasized about him when we were making love. But she said it
wasn’t the same as seeing him in a film because I wasn’t tough
enough with her. In fact, she thought I was too kind with her, so
there and then I knocked her onto the settee, stripped off her
clothes and mine, switched out the lights and told her to call me
Alan and to do what she wanted with me or tell me what she
wanted Alan to do to her. It was fantastic! She told me she had
always wanted him to fuck her while he was on his horse and she
was sitting astride facing him. So we pretended this, with me
sitting on the settee while she played jockey on me.
Unfortunately, that first time didn’t last long, as you can well
imagine. Now I realize how totally uninhibited we were then for
such a young couple, because all the time she was crying out,
"Fuck me harder, Alan – what a lovely big cock you have," and
so on and so forth; no wonder I came quickly. As soon as I had
come, she knelt in front of me and said, "I’ve always wanted to
suck you off, Alan, and now I am." And my God, so she did! We
went to bed and she was insatiable. In fact, it was so wonderful
that next day I went to an army surplus store and bought an army
officer’s trenchcoat and also a felt slouch hat of the type he wore.
I wore them home from the office, and when I went in the house
she burst out crying. Apparently she had been afraid of what I
might have thought about her behavior ‘and would regret what
had happened the night before. May I say that I am one man who
never objected to my wife – I should say, my late wife’s –
fantasizing with Alan Ladd. In fact, I must have seen more of his
films than any other man in the world.
This, however, was not the end. When Sean Connery made his
debut as James Bond in the films of the books by Ian Fleming,
she found that he "turned her on," as the modern idiom says, and
away we went again. Of course, we had become more
sophisticated as we grew older and would have looked silly
necking in the cinema. But as soon as we’d left the cinema, and I
was driving home, she would have my slacks open and would
suck me off, while I was driving with one hand and bringing her
off with the other. This is not advocated in the Highway Code, by
the way, but as I always drive an automatic, there was no hand
brake or gear lever in the way.
I trust you do not mind my writing to you and I do think you
may be surprised that there are some men who encourage their
wives to fantasize while making love. It certainly enriched my
life, and how lonely these last five years have been. [Letter]
 This is as far as some women got in telling me their
fantasies … just a fleeting thought or two off the top of their
… I imagine I am at the shore with the water running out from
under my feet. The dizziness and the feeling of flight are
overwhelming. I am being sucked out to sea. It is incredible …
… I am being ****d by a Harlem gang, or seduced by my
boyfriend’s roommate, or I am seducing a virgin myself, or being
filmed for a porno flick, or being discovered in bed by my parents
or younger b*****r, or being in bed with other couples (that act
works wonders!) …
… I think of my lover as a madman … , or conversely as a
virgin …
… I pretend that my lover is the boy I loved and wanted to
marry when I was sixteen and we were separated …
… just knowing that this lover controls my life, since becoming
pregnant again was something my doctor warned me not
to consider …
… in my fantasies I always have my clothes on. I’m sure it has
to do with ****, or why else would I be dressed? Having my
clothes on adds to the urgency; there is no time for preliminaries,
or even time to think. But it’s the most exciting sexual image I
have … me dressed and being totally and fantastically ****d by
some unknown man, who will then disappear into the night,
leaving me wonderfully satisfied and yes, dressed …
… I fantasize very typical stuff … our running through the
fields, making love at the beach, whispered talks in bed, his
asking to marry me …
… I discovered the existence of sex through a chance encounter
with mating guinea pigs and was then filled in on the
human details by a girl three embarrassing years younger than I.
Once I knew the act existed, I did everything to try and visualize
it: stung Kleenex up my vagina, then sitting down to watch hours
of television, wondering if it felt like that. Picturing some
crew-cut boy looking at me naked (he’d undoubtedly have been
repelled by my almost non-existent breasts) and wondering what
we’d do from there. Trying to imagine the actual penetration
painful? disgusting? joyous? I really couldn’t picture it. When I
tried, it seemed so intimate you could only do, it with someone
you really … cared for. But if you really cared for someone, how
could you do such a terrible thing? It was a dilemma, and nearly
stopped all my sexual fantasies … until I fell in love at sixteen …
… I imagine I am my husband’s mistress while he is making
love to me. I imagine I’m trying to seduce him away from his
prudish wife. Or I think of myself as a call girl or prostitute. After
my husband and I once went to an all nude bar, I imagined for
about a week that I was one of the girls we had seen. Strangely,
when we are actually making love, I never fantasize that he is
someone else. I’m always the one who is different …
… I used to have sex dreams, when I was reaching puberty; it
all centered around the penetration. I was fascinated by how
wonderful it seemed in my dreams, and thought I would simply
die and go to heaven when I actually engaged in sex some day.
The dream was so potent that I would engage in fabulous
masturbation, which I loved, imagining that real sex between
men and women would be even better. I ran into some trouble
later on with priests who said it was "dirty" and a "mortal sin" to
masturbate. So for a while I didn’t, or if I did, I felt guilty. And
finally I didn’t do it anymore …
… I imagine what various men would be like in bed. I’m very
happily married, so I would never go to bed with them, but if a
friend of my husband’s is attractive to me, I have fantasies about
the two of us making love. As we are seated across from each
other having cocktails, etc., I will picture him without his clothes.
I get to the point where I am actually physically aroused by this

… I had just broken up with a lover and in my masturbatory
fantasies I would imagine I was making love with a woman, one
of my best friends and a very attractive girl. In my fantasies the
ex-lover would discover my friend and me and would be bitterly
hurt …
… I wonder what it would be like to masturbate with a dildo
and it always arouses me to see pictures in sex books of these
devices in use. Explicit sex books (you know, the full-color
pictures of men and women in all those positions) really turn me
on. My husband and I have two of them and every once in a
while we look at them. If we didn’t make love after this, I would
have to masturbate! However, I never fantasize about perverse
sexual acts, like doing it with a horse. That turns me off …
… I began to have sexual daydreams about the age of four.
There was a dark-haired, mysterious-looking man in the
orchestra that played for Saturday night dances at my
grandfather’s country club. He played bass, and I would
daydream from Sunday on through the week that he would come
some night around dusk and whisk me off in the bass case. To
this day I am attracted by dark-haired musicians, especially bass
players, and have allowed myself time and time again to be
carried off by them (not in their bass cases), only to discover that
their lovemaking, no matter how wild, can never live up to my
now quite grown-up fantasies of what I’d really like them to do to
me …
… I am not with the obvious he-man muscular type. My sex
orgies are with intellectual, almost shy men, who you think
wouldn’t know what to do in bed, but I picture them as experts
under the surface. As if I’m the only one who knows their
prowess …
… I am chained, being beaten, f***ed to make love against my
will. This surprises me, because I’d never allow a man to lay a
hand on me … yet I keep coming back to this situation …
… I just think how much I love him when we make love. But
every once in a while, I play the pussycat and he the affectionate
owner …
… I have had erotic dreams which have produced orgasm. I
am making love with a black man, a mysterious stranger,
teen-age boys, once, to tell all, even with a woman, and there was
one with a stallion who looked like a man I know but was a horse
all the same …
… I imagine, while I am masturbating, that I am being ****d
by a man who has just k**napped me because he couldn’t resist
my fantastic beauty … or I imagine I am making love with an old
high-school sweetheart who was maddeningly sexy but whom I
never went to bed with because I was too virginal (my husband
really is the only man I’ve ever been to bed with!) …
… I guess it’s a submission fantasy, having my will overcome
by sexual arousal. The man, my partner, has no identity, he is
depersonalized. He never becomes another real person, like a
movie star or my first love. He is not sadistic but he is not loving
either – more like a cold unfeeling machine. Sometimes
conditions are put on my achieving climax … I cannot make any
noise or move or something like that. Sometimes there are two
men … or more. I guess you would say my fantasies are
somewhere between ****, victim and prostitute, sort of half and
half. I never imagine being beaten or hurt in any way, and I never
do anything myself; I am just acted upon. The man is an
impersonal manipulator. There is no definite setting to these
fantasies, no props or anything or fancy clothes. Sex fantasies are
quite recent with me. I never had them when I was younger. I
don’t now have fantasies unless I know a man well and the
sexual routine is familiar and comfortably old-shoe …
… I conjure up this ultramasculine, coarse, strong fellow, and
in my most climactic moments he becomes very tender, very soft
in his lovemaking to me, very, very much the right man for me. It
turns me on to realize how fully this man can give of himself to
me. Usually my men are totally indulgent …
… I am Queen Elizabeth (the First), ensconced in a castle with
Hannibal, Rhett Butler, and Elke Sommer. The four of us do a
variety of filthy things together. This is a serial fantasy, and I
always take up where I left off. In my c***dhood fantasies I
tortured various other women; but now that I am grown up, I
don’t have this particular type anymore …
… I’m spread-eagled on a huge roulette wheel that hangs on a
wall. As my partner penetrates me, the wheel spins faster and
faster and faster …
… I am attacked by a pack of German Shepherds (sexually,
that is) …
… I have been smuggled into a male prison and am being
passed from cell to cell. It is the "long-termer" section (they are
ravenous!) …
… I am completely passive having things done to me against
my will. It is not actually ****, I don’t struggle, I enjoy it but
against my will. Sometimes I hear a voice, like on a PA system,
describing what is being done to me and my reactions …
… I am out on the street with no underwear. I approach two
men walking together, lift my skirts, and offer to do anything …
… I often borrow some of the more vivid scenes from The
Story of O, like the one where she wears no underwear all day
long and is constantly on call for her lover, who requests that she
make love with other men while he looks on. And straight
whipping scenes, like the bit from that same book where she is in
the special beauty shop, sitting naked on the chair, having
various interesting parts of her body prepared for sex. For orgies,
I lean heavily on My Secret Life …
… I am not very imaginative. I simply fantasize scenes that
have actually taken place between me and my lover which I have
found particularly interesting …
… I am a stripper, performing on stage. Then I enter the
audience and have sex with various men …
… yes, I’m ashamed to say I’ve had fantasies about love and
sex ever since I was at school. My headmaster never suspected it,
but I was often his mistress in the most romantic surroundings. I
sometimes fear that I am a nymphomaniac, but only in my
"Walter Mitty" world. My favorite "trip," while plodding down
our local Main Street, is into the harem of some virile potentate.
When I awake, I am carrying … a load of shopping …
… The men in my life have all been a bit wishy-washy. My
fantasies are always about a he-man who knows how to put his
foot down. In my dream, he puts me across his knee and wallops
my bare bottom. Then we make love …
… I daydream about a certain bulky lump of male muscle I see
pass up the road each day right in front of our house. He has a big
black beard and marvelous twinkling eyes. Well, daydreaming’s
free, isn’t it? …
… my erotic fantasy is to walk stark naked through a spring
meadow on a really hot day. A great "horny" hulk of a man (also
stark naked) grabs me, and without a word spoken throughout,
makes wild erotic love to me. (I think it might be as well if you
only use my initials.) …
… my fantasy love takes me for a trip up the Empire State
Building. He knows of my love of music, my fear of heights. As
we soar skyward, he calmly takes me in his arms, first very
affectionately, then more possessively, until he becomes very
demanding. Once at the top we make love, accompanied by
Scheherazade type music. A wild, passionate affair, a
conglomeration of sounds and sensations, all madly exhilarating.
(How I’ve enjoyed writing this!) …
… my secret fantasies concern sex in the air or on the sea. If I
won the state lottery, I’d hire a plane and a boat, just to find out
which rocking movement is better combined with sex …
… why is it when I’m a happily married mother of four lovely
c***dren and have a darling husband, why is it I always go off in
a trance when I see our good-looking delivery man walk up the
path on Monday and Wednesday mornings? My heart misses a
beat as I open the door. While I wait for him to put down his
packages, I stand there transfixed, my mind wondering what it
would be like to make love to this six-foot hulk of a man. I’m
sure I would die if he knew what I was thinking, as I’m only four
feet ten inches tall …
… my fantasy finds me swimming in a pool, filled with
champagne, along with two handsome men, one blond, one dark.
I clamber out of the pool and lie on the table, while they massage
me gently, but possessively, all over. The three of us dive back in,
and I make love, right there in the champagne, to first one and
then the other; tempestuously with the dark one, then languidly
with the fair one …
… I go to my doctor and find a gorgeous Doctor Kildare type
instead of my usual doctor. He asks me to go behind a screen and
undress. I do so, and when I’m down to my bra and panties he
comes behind the screen, looks me up and down, and
compliments me on my body. I am embarrassed at first, but
afterward feel flattered. He asks me to undress completely. I do
so. When he examines me with the stethoscope, he repeats how
much he admires me. When he says he would like to make love
to me I willingly agree. Then he undresses and we make love on
the examination couch. Afterward I dress and leave as though I
had just paid a normal visit to the doctor. My husband, of course,
knows nothing of my little daydreams and our marriage is a
happy one…
… I’m lying on a low, large bed, wearing a long, bright red,
see through, antique Roman toga that would suit my long blond
hair. Near me are two pet snakes and a cat. Lounging about are
eight tall, slim, long-haired men, wearing short roman togas,
pure white. They serve me and talk to me on erotic topics.
Meanwhile, another eight sexy guys, wearing purple or red
bell-bottom velvet trousers, black belts and flowered shirts, are
singing and dancing to the sound of stereophonic, psychedelic
music. I can choose any of them at any time to make love to me.
(I’m not u******ed.) …
… whoopee for those delightful dirty daydreams. I often dream
about what sort of bed partners certain men would make, and my
little mind went berserk recently when we had these lovely men
installing a new central heating system. Our house may have
been cold that week, but my thoughts kept me pretty hot …
… when sex got a bit mundane, I found myself imagining one
night that I was "Jane" in a jungle but being made love to. I
screamed out "Tarzan!" and tore at my lover’s hair. The fantasy
ended miserably when some .of hubby’s last strands came away
in my hands …
… I am being made love to in a huge, dimpled, whiskey
bottle, hung from top to bottom in tiger skins. My lover is dressed
as an executioner, with eyes glittering through his mask, and
when he takes me, the tiger skins slither down to reveal my entire
f****y gazing in shock, horror, and bewilderment. Please don’t
print my name or my f****y really will be shocked! …
… I have only one romantic fantasy about men, and that is that
I would love to walk out dressed to kill with my three c***dren
looking like TV model c***dren. As I pass, every man looks at
me and desires me, thinking how beautiful I keep myself for a
woman with three c***dren …
… my fantasy always takes place on a deserted beach. I am
taking an evening stroll when I meet my heart-throb. I have had
this fantasy ever since I was a teen-ager. Of course, the
heart-throb changes from time to time …
… although I am over sixty, I am still a romantic at heart, and
a very happily married woman. I must confess I often look at an
attractive man at a social "do," or while waiting for the bus, and
wonder what sort of partner he would make on a stolen weekend.
I suspect not all the virile types make the best lovers! It is an
exciting fantasy, and I’m thankful no one can read my thoughts,
most of all my dear husband …
… I’m tall, elegant, and intelligent. I am always at a masked
ball where I am made love to by every man I desire. I never take
off the mask. Of course, in reality I’m short, thin, not very
intelligent, and middle-aged. But I’m happily married …
… killing my daily traveling boredom, my mind always drifts
to the jungle. Tarzan has me prisoner in his treetop home. He is
wild, passionate, making love like the primitive man that he is.
But how I enjoy every rough, clawing moment, so different from
civilized delicacies. I’ve lost count of the times Tarzan has f***ed
me to indulge in his a****l sexual pleasures, but they keep
getting better …
I’m the seventh wife of Henry Tudor,
Each night he comes to my boudoir.
By day I am Olde Englande’s Queen,
But by night it’s a different scene.
There’s love, there’s passion, and there’s lust,
On Saturdays an orgy’s a must.
I know I shan’t go to the Tower,
For through my sex I have great power.
Of all his wives from one to seven
I only transport him to seventh heaven .
… I am a divorcee and live alone, but am not ever lonely, even
though I do not go out and about much. My "fantasy" lover is
always with me day and night, and I find her very exciting. She
is a "masculine" looking woman dressed in "drag" (men’s dress).
She is very sweet and she takes me out every Saturday and
Sunday evening. She works in the Ambulance Services as a
driver (senior). When we go to bed she is very gentle and
understanding and a great lover – much better than a man. I
would never exchange her for a man. Every time we have sex it is
more exciting than the last time, and we manage to make love
often (about twelve times per night – when I feel hot). Each
action short, fast, but satisfying. Of course, this is just a fantasy
or daydream, but the woman exists; however, not in my life
(lucky devil who has her). I have only seen her in passing. I have
been holding the "torch" for her for nearly six years now …
… there’s this giant centipede or prawn, or a cross between the
two, crawling into me head first, my legs being really wide apart
to accommodate him. As he crawls into me, his thousands of
fuzzy legs fall off onto the sheets around me. He tickles and
excites me as he undulates and wiggles from side to side getting
further and further in, and he becomes drenched with my nectar,
which he licks up and is strengthened by. He goes on up and up.
This all takes hours as he is ten thousand feet long, but I like
every inch of it …
The next morning, happily exhausted, I begin the ritual of
carefully gathering up the thousands of orange fuzzy legs that
surround me, and take them in a wicker basket to the kitchen.
There I dump them into my blue enamel jam making pot, and
add sugar, orange peel, lemon, nutmeg, banana peel scr****gs,
and a bit of hash when available (very optional). At the hard-ball,
or so-called crack stage of cooling, I pour the orange mass into
penis-shaped molds (can be bought in your nearest sex shop),
and allow them to cool and harden. To be sucked later when
desired, but I usually give mine away to my friends, as the
penis-shaped mold itself is far more satisfying and I share him
with no one. You’d be surprised how many of my friends drop by
for their sucks.
As you can tell, these aren’t things I really think about while
fucking. They’re not even masturbatory fantasies, just the kind of
idle daydreams I have after a bath, while I’m lying down for an
hour or so, half asl**p, half awake, waiting until it’s time to get
dressed and go out for the evening …
… once every three or four months my husband trims off all
my pubic hairs. He first uses scissors and then a small lady’s
electric razor. I always like him to be naked when he performs
this task. Throughout the exercise I hold his penis in my hand,
and with gentle movement insure he maintains an erection. When
I know he is nearly finished, I can feel in my mind a mounting
impression of wanting to turn his penis like the throttle of a
motorbike to make the noise of the shaver louder. This gets me so
aroused that I almost climax, and so I turn the throttle even more
to increase the noise of the motorbike in order that my husband
will not be overwhelmed by my cries of passion …
… showering together, we occasionally have intercourse
standing face to face. I like to lean back and watch as he puts just
the tip of his penis into me. Then, as the water cascades down
between our bodies, I imagine that I can feel an enormous
quantity of his semen flowing out of the shower and into my
stomach and pubic area. It heightens my sensations so much that
I actually feel he is pumping gallons of semen into me and I
always have a prolonged orgasm, even without there being any
mutual motion between our bodies. I only experience this fantasy
when he holds just the head of his penis inside me. I have to be
able to look down and see some part of his penis between our
bodies … if he is in too far and I can’t see it, I can’t have the
fantasy …
… having sex with two men who are going down on me
simultaneously. Or having sex with the television on inspires the
fantasy that the TV performers are watching. Or masturbating in
front of a crowd and turning them all on. Or fantasy of reaching
down a man’s pants on a crowded bus and masturbating him. Or
being ****d by a strong, handsome stranger, with constant
profanity: "My cock is in your cunt and it’s on fire," "I want to
come all over you, in your eyes and your ass, etc.," plus assorted
"Fuck me’s." …
by Martin Shepard, M.D.,
author of The Games Analysts Play
and A Psychiatrist’s Head
Frequently when we condemn, criticize, poke fun at or
derogate traits in others, we are refusing to accept the same traits
in ourselves. "I can’t stand her being so dependent" often means
"I’m ashamed of my own dependent feelings." "I think his
rudeness is terrible" can be translated as "I won’t accept my own
rude moments." Similarly. "I think her fantasies are the products
of a diseased mind" means "I would never allow such thoughts to
enter my mind – for if I did I would be either sick or disgusting."
On the other hand, deepest contentment occurs at those
moments when we are fully accepting of ourselves. At such times
we respect our actions, feelings, bodies, thoughts. Failure to
accept any of these aspects of ourselves is synonymous with
One of the highest states of consciousness attainable is that of
the nonjudgmental observer. In such a state, freed from the
distortions of needs and value judgments ("If a pickpocket sees a
Holy Man he will see only his pockets"),* he will begin to see
WHAT IS, both in the world about him and within himself.
Gurdjieff, the Russian philosopher-mystic, tried to teach people
to develop "the Witness" within themselves. "The Witness" could
detach itself and non-judgmentally witness and thereby accept
both inner and outer events. Zen Masters and Yogis try to teach a
similar acceptance to their students. All of these thinkers
appreciate the fact that you don’t think your thoughts, but rather
that your thoughts think through you. They recognize that you are
no more responsible for thinking than you are for digestion,
breathing, for life itself. You may bear a certain degree of
responsibility for what you do with your thoughts, but you
certainly bear none for having them.
My Secret Garden is a compilation of uncensored data on
women’s most secret sexual thoughts. This is something that has
not been done in our time. As a psychiatrist who has listened to
such fantasies before, I consider it an honest accounting. It is also
a useful book, for it can help other women witness and accept
their fantasies and themselves. And yet I am certain that many
people in our society will attack this work. They will do so by
attempting to ignore it, condemn it, ban it, laugh at it,
intellectually dismiss it, or psychoanalyze it. In doing so such
critics will only reinf***e their own and others’ self alienation.
The attacks on My Secret Garden will come from three
directions. The most primitive charge will be that the women Ms.
Friday interviewed are tortured or abnormal in some way and
don’t represent the average woman. The second and more
sophisticated attack will be the intellectual/psychoanalytic
approach, which will attempt to demonstrate why certain
fantasies are not "healthy." Lastly there is the attack to be waged
by the anti-Eros f***es – those who regard such a frank sexual
discussion as this work as either pornography or perversity. Both
* Had Dass Baba
the nature of these lines of attack and the bankruptcy of such
charges are themes I would like to explore more fully.
1. The Women Interviewed
Are not Representative *
It might be argued that Ms. Friday’s respondees were not
representative of the average woman; that those who would talk
about their fantasies are by nature exhibitionists or sexually
preoccupied; that only the most "sensationalistic" fantasies found
their way into print; that the sampling leaves out women who
don’t fantasize and therefore gives a misleading picture of female
There are two basic troubles with this argument. The first
concerns the impossibility of obtaining a representative sampling
in any study about anything. Indeed, there is as axiom in physics
– the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle – that recognizes that the
very act of measuring distorts that which you are observing. And
what is true of atomic particles is even more true of
measurements in the field of human events.
Freud, for example, wrote books about the development of the
psyche. Yet his samplings consisted not of “average people” but
of patients he treated. Studies are presented of marital problems –
and yet such studies, by their nature, omit marriages that don’t
have such problems. Still, the observations such works contain
have a certain relevance for us all. Given the heterogeneous
cultures of England and America – black/white, rich/poor,
educated/uncultured, urban/rural, Christian/Jew, old/ young –
only a massive computer program could dare begin to claim a
* The 400-odd biographies and descriptions of the women do seem rather "average." No social
or economic groups predominate. Ms. Friday has gotten a balanced sampling with the one
exception that her subjects admit that they fantasize.
"representative sampling." And even then, the question arises of
the biases of those persons who program the computer.
The second weakness of the argument that the "average
woman" won’t find herself in this book is that there is no such
person. The "average woman" is an abstraction, a statistical
fiction, not a reality. She has 2.3 c***dren, had 11.6 years of
formal education, married when she was twenty-one years three
months and two days of age, is now thirty-two and a half years
old, has intercourse 2.7 times per week, and will die at age 67.
Charges, then, that Nancy Friday’s interviewees are
unrepresentative are misstated. One should ask, instead, "Can a
reasonable woman find fantasies within this book that she can
relate to?" And here, I think, the answer must be "Yes." In my
roles as ther****t/husband/social being/ lover, I have heard
similar tales told by "ordinary" people. Dr. Seymour Fisher,
author of The Female Orgasm, a book based on a more scientific
study than Ms. Friday undertook, has found the same
predominating themes in the fantasies his respondents reported.
Not only that, but he found no correlation between any given
fantasy and the life style, education, orgasticity, sickness, health
or any other life function of his respondents.
2. It’s Not Healthy
For all its liberating value, psychoanalytic thinking is also
used (misused, in my opinion) in the service of containing and/or
negating a healthy eroticism. I am sure some misapplied
criticisms of this book will also come from this direction.
Yet how could it be any other way? For Freud, like all great
teachers, taught best to others that which he had to learn himself.
The essence of his message was that our sexual urges are our
prime motivaters and that this is how it should be. He taught that
sexual appetites and curiosities are okay. Indeed, his life work
revolved about and satisfied his own exquisite sexual curiosity.
Still, as long as a message is being preached, you may be sure
that the preacher has not yet mastered it himself. And such was
the case with Freud. He showed a remarkable patience
(inhibition?) in losing his own virginity (after he married at age
thirty) and, as far as his biographers knew, ceased further sexual
activity somewhat over ten years later.
Freud’s ambivalent attitude about his own sexuality was
naturally reflected both in his own life and theories and by his
disciples. He paid homage to the immense motivating power of
lust, yet seemingly blunted his own. He preached that the sexual
appetite (Id) was natural, yet worked at fortifying the barrier
(Ego) between lust and gratification. For he cautioned against
abandoning oneself to one’s pleasurable impulses ("acting out,"
as he called it) and preferred, instead, to analyze these f***es.
Why expect more? For a Viennese intellectual with a seductive
mother, mind games might be more stimulating and less
anxiety-producing than the mindless pleasures of the body.
Among his followers the story is not much different. Few
analysts live what they teach. How many openly sexy
psychiatrists have you seen lately? How many Freudian analysts
would even dare to give a patient a warm embrace? How can one
truly teach that Eros is okay if one is afraid to be erotic?
Still, analytic arguments (by sophisticated lay people as well
as professionals) will be used to derogate and invalidate many of
the fantasies expressed in this book. We will be told that it is
unhealthy to fantasize. Or that fantasy is a substitute for reality;
that if there is "real satisfaction," there is no "need" for fantasy.
Yet the term psycho-analysis means nothing more than an
analysis of psychological material, as presented in word or deed.
We can just as fairly psychoanalyze these analytically critical
The question ought to be raised: Who are these arbiters of
what constitutes "health" or "real satisfaction’"? Are the
analyst’s pleasures the only "healthy" ones? It he doesn’t
fantasize and you do, does that make him healthy and you sick? I
would prefer simply to say that you are just different. "Real
satisfaction" for one person is not necessarily "real satisfaction"
for another. It takes a person of overwhelming conceit and
arrogance to determine what "true pleasure" or "right pleasure"
ought to be for others.
How can a critic state that fantasy is a substitute for reality?
Isn’t a fantasy as real as anything else? It is as real a thought as
are the thoughts and words that the critic uses to dismiss it. And
if the critic tells you that he, with his "real" or "healthy"
satisfactions, has no "need" to fantasize, who is to determine
whether it is the critic’s inhibitions that prevent his adding
pleasurable fantasy to his current pleasures or your "inferior"
pleasures that cause you to fantasize?
This is a question for gods to answer, not men, and necessarily
remains unanswerable. My point in raising it is to underscore the
arbitrariness and the gamesmanship involved when dealing with
the more intellectually oriented critics.
More traditional analytic remarks are bound to revolve around
the theme of submission that runs through so many of the
fantasies presented in this book. We will be told that these are
examples of "masochism" – a label that conjures up images of
mental illness or perversion. What of that charge? Is a woman
who fantasizes being dominated, tied up, or f***ed to submit
showing signs of mental disturbance? Does it "truly mean"
(whatever that means) that she desires pain with her pleasure? Or
that she needs pain in order to feel pleasure?
Writing in the journal Medical Aspects of Human Sexuality, a
California psychologist, Dr. Andrew Barclay, reports a similar
theme of so-called masochistic "I – am – being – exploited –
during – intercourse" fantasies among women. But Barclay
makes a less hackneyed interpretation of this phenomenon. He
suggests that such fantasies serve the purpose of providing
reassurance to the woman that she is being passive rather than
aggressive sexually – thereby conforming to our cultural sexual
I could suggest another interpretation of this submissive
theme. Many women in their c***dhood have been strongly
conditioned to say "No" to sex. They have been taught that the act
is exploitative, naughty, indecent. To them, willingly to enter into
such a lustful exchange with total commitment and abandon is
not acceptable. But if someone else, by f***e, assumes total
responsibility for the love-making by forcing them into it, they
can finally lie back and enjoy it.
Neither Barclays nor my "non-pathological" interpretation of
this submissive element is more correct than the traditional
pathologically oriented psychoanalytic one. But I do affirm that
they are equally plausible. Besides which, it is important to bear
in mind that psychoanalysts, by vocation, are trained to seek
pathology everywhere. To paraphrase Hari Dass Baba: "If an
analyst meets a Holy Man, he will see only his Oedipus
The same reasoning applies to the other side of the submission
coin: that of the dominator. Does a domineering fantasy mean
that the dreamer has it in for men? That she wishes to humiliate,
control, enslave, or torture them? Is it a sign of unresolved
Might it not just as logically be an attempt to mentally try on
exaggerated cultural male stereotypes? Or a declaration of her
own passionate sexual desire ("I am so horny I must capture and
hold my frightened, reluctant stud"), or a way of affirming her
responsibility for initiating the sex act ("I f***ed him into it")?
An analytically oriented critic could have a field day "proving"
abnormality in the case of Stephanie (Chapter Four, Seeing and
Reading), what with her preoccupation with tribal sexual
punishments, Nazi tortures and sexual organ mutilations. And
perhaps such is the case. Yet, if the critic accepts the reality of
Stephanie’s fantasy, can he fairly omit or negate the reality of her
statement that "although I might be a perverted sadist 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"?
So again we have these unanswerable questions. Is a gentle
woman who has sadistic fantasies disturbed? Might it not be
nature’s wisdom to enable her to handle and discharge negative
feelings in dreams and fantasies instead of doing so in her
interpersonal relationships? Would she be "healthier" if she were
nastier in person and had less violent fantasies?
I contend that analytic criticisms of these fantasies do a great
disservice to people. By declaring certain fantasies "No-No’s"
they reinf***e self-rejection. (Your fantasy is as much you as any
other part of you.) This is the direct opposite of the the****utic
goal. What is wrong with thoughts which improve one’s sex life?
The true masochist is one who avoids thinking "masochistic
thoughts" once she has discovered, by accident or design, that
such thoughts excite her.
There are additional factors to bear in mind in evaluating
analytically oriented criticisms of these fantasies. One concerns
the fact that psychoanalytic theory has been, by and large,
formulated by males. Freud, Sullivan, Adler, Jung, Reich …
became the arbiters and interpreters of what woman’s "normal"
sexual response should be. Yet, not being women, how could
they possibly know on a cellular level what they were talking
about? Is it really likely that these men were any more
appreciative of what a "normal woman" might dare think than
were the lover and former editor whom Nancy Friday mentioned
in her opening chapter?
Another difficulty in interpreting these fantasies analytically is
that the very act of analysis – of labeling ("Sadist, Masochist,
Castrator, Oedipal, Self-destructive, Exhibitionistic") – creates a
self-consciousness that is antithetical to the sexual mystique. One
of the effects of sex is the self-transcendence that can be obtained
by losing one’s "self" – one’s ego – in an act of embrace. To be
conscious of self (self-conscious) and transcend self at the same
time is an impossibility. Pity the bind that so many analysands
are in who seek sexual freedom while being prodded by their
analysts to be suspicious of and act analytically toward their
erotic impulses.
The only "labeling" process that has impressed me in recent
years came from a woman I met who only recently began
enjoying her life. Painfully self-conscious during her first
thirty-eight years, she woke up one day "and decided to stop
criticizing myself. I resolved, instead, to label everything I do as
`good.’ Since then I’ve been doing exactly what I want to do and
enjoying every minute of it." Self-conscious female fantasizers
have more to learn from this woman’s labeling process than from
many of the followers of Sigmund Freud.
The greatest weakness in analytical evaluations of these
fantasies, however, is that such intellectual dissections represent
a rational approach to what is essentially an irrational process.
For fantasies, like dreams, arise from the twilight zone of ancient
experiences, future expectations, social conditioning, unfinished
business, and complex biological and biochemical processes. The
separation of these elements is possible if one recognizes that we
make these evaluations as an intellectual challenge – much as
one can find satisfaction in solving a crossword puzzle. But to
suggest that such evaluations yield "truth" is either pretense or
3. My Secret Garden Is Nothing More than
Thinly Disguised Pornography
Paul Krassner, in his satirical newspaper The Realist, once
wrote a story about a pornography case appearing before the
Supreme Court. If the Justices got erections while reading the
material, it was declared pornographic. This raised a very ticklish
question. Might the Court next be asked to rule on whether or not
Vaseline was pornographic?
Krassner’s exaggeration was funny. Yet the reality of the
situation is apparent. Society often considers that which turns you
on to be wrong. Unless there is a "redeeming social function,"
such turn-ons are seen to be a threat to the morality or the fabric
of our society.
As I write this I find myself in somewhat of a box. I do think
that My Secret Garden performs a useful service in that this open
sharing of various sexual fantasies might allow many readers to
accept, without shame, guilt, or anxiety, various fantasies of their
own. Yet, even if that were not the case – even if every purchaser
of this book bought it solely to be sexually turned on – I would
also say, "Well and good."
What is wrong with healthy erotic responses? Why should
anyone have to justify a desire to "turn on"? If you believe in the
right to turn on to your own fantasies, don’t you also have the
right to turn on to the fantasies of others? Is turning on some evil
that requires a "redeeming social function" to justify it? I see
more moral harm being done, not by the authors or publishers of
"sexy" material, but by those censors and critics who attempt to
foist and enf***e their values upon others.
Bernardo Bertolucci, defending his film Last Tango in Paris
against charges of pornography, put it well when he said,
"Pornography is not in the hands of the c***d who discovers his
sexuality by masturbating, but in the hands of the adult who slaps
The demand for a "redeeming" aspect of frankly sexual
material puts those who would simply enjoy erotic pleasures on
the defensive. For we then have to justify that which should be
our birthright. We are told that an absence of erotic censorship
would lead to social add cultural decay. But if that is so, why is it
that so many members of our cultural aristocracy can and do
respond to unadulterated erotic material?
The current craze over the movie Deep Throat, which consists
of a thin story line to account for endless scenes of fellatio,
underscores not only the absurdity of our anti-erotic critics but the
absurd conditions that those who enjoy the film must also endure.
Throat is an "in" film to see, and as such has been reviewed and
commented upon by serious critics. Doctors, lawyers, members of
Mayor Lindsay’s administration, jet setters, and businessmen
have been turning on to this movie for months. Yet they still
remain productive members of society. And how do they justify
their attendance at Throat? By pretending that the film is making
a serious social point – that it is commenting on the morals of the
day and/or poking fun at our sexual foibles. Serious film critics
have gone to court to make this very point. No one seems willing
to be quoted outright as saying the simplest truth: "I went in
order to turn on."
Throughout Nancy Friday’s commentary, the gentle message
is: sent to accept these fantasies for what they are – poetic/erotic
daydreams that provide enjoyment for the fantasizer. As a
mental-health rule, such a message makes eminent sense.
Also, Nancy Friday attributes to fantasy the functions of
foreplay, excitement, and the allaying of anxiety – thereby
allowing excitement to grow. Fantasies can also be used, as she
points out, as a rehearsal – a situation worked through in
imagination before one actually lives it out. It is also true that
fantasy can be used as compensation for a most dreary existence
or as an escape – a way of procrastinating or avoiding taking
more affirmative action in the outer world. Monica (Chapter
Three, The Transformation Room) is a case in point. Described
as a short, messy-looking overweight nineteen-year-old who has
toyed with the idea of suicide, Monica would rather fantasize
herself as her beautiful s****r than attend to prettying herself up.
Yet, even here, one can say "Why not?" After all, what
alternatives are left? You can’t make someone else’s fantasies
disappear anyway. And even if you could, would that cause
Monica to make herself more attractive? Or would robbing her of
a precious daydream make her even more despondent and more
unkempt? Rather than discouraging her fantasy, I world prefer to
see her live it out.
There are some types of fantasies that I’ve shared with others
that have not found their way into print. This is no criticism of
this book, for it does not claim to be a definitive encyclopedia of
female sexual fantasies, but rather an attempt to show the range
and variation of such material. One common fantasy left out is
that in which the fantasizer thinks of herself as part of a machine,
as an a****l, as having the body of a man, as some creature from
another world, as insect, or as God, or a part of the Buddha, or
the petal on a lotus.
Many fantasies of this type occur under the influence of
psychedelic agents (marijuana, hashish, mescaline, psylocybin)
and are accompanied by exquisite sexual pleasure. So "real" are
these fantasies that one truly becomes them – is not aware
enough of "self" to realize that a fantasy is occurring until after
the orgasm, which is often explosive and felt, seemingly, in every
cell of the body.
While I feel quite strongly that the fantasizes ought to allow
herself to accept, enjoy, and fully give herself over to her reverie,
I also feel a word is in order lest non-fantasizers feel
self-conscious over their lack of reverie. One should no more feel
pressured to produce fantasies than be encouraged to avoid them.
It is, for example, quite possible and quite "normal" to be
totally free of fantasy while making love. There are states in
which a man or a woman may be so lost in bodily sensations that
not only are daydreams absent but such people could not tell you
where or who they are at that moment. This is not to say that such
sexual experiences are better or worse – merely that they are
Finally, it is my belief that our interest in matters sexual – be it
as critic or defender – is related to something far more basic and
inclusive than deciding whether stimuli are "decently erotic,"
"pornographic," "perverse," "scientific," and so on. Whatever we
are attracted by, we are always looking, exploring, thinking.
These are the constants.
And these three constants have to do, I think, with the neverending,
unsolvable, and therefore always intriguing questions of
creation and ego transcendence. How is it that motion and
friction upon a small part of the body can make people for a
moment oblivious of themselves, can cause – what the French
refer to the orgasm as – le petit mort (the little death)?
If we are intrigued by the sexual appendages of the world,
what could be more natural? We were all sired by an ejaculating
penis, grew in the womb, passed through the vaginal vault,
emerged between the labia, were nourished at a breast, and will
most likely re-create again when we perform the rites of
procreation ourselves. That the mysteries of life, death (ego
transcendence), and intense pleasure are so closely linked with
353... Continue»
Posted by DrunkenDiablo 2 years ago  |  Categories: Fetish  |  Views: 36949  |  
  |  4

for my 3 satin ladies

** Jeannie's POV ***

Friday night at the hotel was very educational for me. Nicole had been sending me the chat logs of the conversations she had been having with Sandra posing as Mistress D, but I didn't believe her. I didn't think she could have wrapped the obviously intelligent and strong woman around her finger that quickly and easily. Nicole told me she always had the gift of sensing when a woman was submissive. After that, it was just finding out a pressure point and pushing. I was quickly figuring out she was right.

Nicole told me about her plans for Sandra at the hotel. I told her she was full of shit that Sandra would never do what Nicole had planned, but she was confident. I told her maybe Mistress D could get Sandra to follow the instructions but if the tasks came from Nicole instead, Sandra would pass since she'd only talked to her the one time. Nicole was confident, however, that Sandra really craved submission and that she could get the woman to do anything she wanted.

We ended up betting my ass, literally, on the outcome. As I told you before, although I never told Nicole in so many words, I secretly loved when she would order me make love to her. Sure I played hard to get, but I did enjoy it. So when Nicole offered to prove her dominance over Sandra, I was quick to join her merry gang to aid Sandra's seduction. To make things interesting because I didn't understand how she could get Sandra to go along with her plan, Nicole offered me the following bet. If Sandra followed every order, Nicole would get to spank me in front of Sandra and then I had to eat her out. Nicole had told me the broad outlines of what she intended to have Sandra do. I didn't believe she would give her soiled panties to a stranger and I didn't believe she would flash the bartender so I figured I would win the bet. When I asked Nicole what I would win she said $100. I questioned her about putting up cash instead of having her pleasure me and she said mistresses don't eat pussy on command. I told her my virtue was worth more than $100. It's not, but I wanted to see how confident she was in her success. She immediately went to $200. We haggled a bit and end at $250 for her side of the bet. To me the offer was win/win. I'd either get to watch Nicole fail and take her money or I'd get to indulge my secret pleasure of submitting to her.

We met at the hotel and immediately I began to feel less confident about winning. She introduced me to Erin who was the night manager. I could see from the look in Erin's eyes that she was totally smitten with Nicole. I also met Liz who was walking through the lobby on the way to her shift in the bar. Nicole briefed them both. They both were obviously willing to help Nicole in any way they could. Apparently Nicole had a harem of older women on call to do her bidding.

Erin gave us the swipe card to room 909. Nicole told Liz her task was to watch out for Sandra's safety in the bar and to give her a napkin with the room number at the appropriate time. Nicole showed Liz how to write the numbers and hand the napkin to Sandra so she would think the room number was 606. Nicole had a devious mind when it came to practical jokes. If her plan worked, Sandra would be completely frazzled by that time she got to our room. I only wish I could have seen the look on her face when she went to the wrong room. Erin said the hotel was less than half full on a typical weekend and she would make sure room 606 was empty. Liz asked how she would know what the right time was to send Sandra on her way and Nicole told her not to worry. It would be obvious. Liz was satisfied with that answer and then left to go to the bar. Erin e****ted us to the surveillance room behind the check-in counter. There was another woman working the counter but I didn't catch her name. We had about 15 minutes before Sandra was due to arrive.

Erin showed us where the controls were for the hotel's security system. It was obvious Nicole had been in the room before because she sat down and immediately began panning certain cameras into the positions she wanted. Erin smiled and left us alone. Nicole was obviously in charge. Suddenly I decided maybe my bet would not be so easy to win after all.

Right on time Sandra walked into the lobby. Nicole followed her every step. I could tell she was nervous, but she looked stunning. I could only watch and drool a little. I prayed I looked that good at her age. I had to laugh a bit to myself as Erin handed her the instruction envelope. My pussy was getting wet at the thought of participating in this game. Nicole seemed to have everything planned perfectly and I now put her chance of success above 90%. I wiggled my ass a bit involuntarily thinking about her spanking me. We watched Sandra move to where she thought she was unseen in the lobby, but of course a different camera picked her up and showed her reading the instructions. It was deliciously naughty to watch her reaction as she assumed she was alone.

As if on cue, she walked out of range of the lobby camera, but Nicole shifted to the one which captured the area around the meeting rooms and Sandra quickly reappeared. I didn't bother to ask how Nicole knew she would pick this isolated area. Of course there are no cameras in the bathroom itself, but based on the way Sandra was walking when she exited, I knew she had followed Nicole's instructions to the letter. We then switched to the camera behind the front desk. Nicole panned the camera to focus on Sandra's face while she waited for her turn at the counter. I almost felt sorry for her. Even through the poor resolution video I could feel the conflict within her. I also felt a sense of relief in her facial expression when she handed over the envelope as if a huge weight had been lifted. It was almost as if once she crossed the line of admitting why she was there she now felt like everything was going to be alright. We then switched to the camera outside the bar door. Erin also came back into the security office carrying the envelope with Sandra's soiled thong.

I wasn't paying close attention to Erin. I was watching Sandra pausing at the bar door as if she was willing herself to continue playing the game. In fact I didn't notice that Erin had dropped to her knees and was crawling between Nicole's legs. I had not stopped concentrating on the monitor until I heard a mewing sound coming from Nicole's lips. Looking down at the older woman between her legs I knew I'd lost my bet with Nicole. It was only a matter of time. I felt a rush of arousal.

We continued to monitor Sandra in the bar. Nicole would send her a text message every few minutes. I was still a bit shocked that Sandra followed every command, but as I watched Erin bring Nicole higher and higher I guess that shock began to wear off. For the record, except for Liz the bartender, nobody else in the bar was in on Nicole's game. She would later tell me she wished she knew that the swinging couple was going to be there because she would have had Sandra play with them. At least not everything went according to plan :-)

I was getting more and more aroused watching Sandra act as Nicole's puppet. The sex show happening in the chair next to me didn't hurt either. Once Nicole came, I knew Sandra's time in the bar was coming to an end. Nicole stood up and motioned for me to do the same. She then positioned the 6th floor camera to watch room 606 and asked Erin to email her the footage. She then typed out the final message and told Erin to give us 5 minutes and then send it. I followed Nicole out of the office like a lost puppy. I was now totally under her spell. Erin had the same look in her eyes. I knew she too would do anything Nicole commanded.

Room 909 was a spacious one bedroom suite at the end of the hall. I was sure Erin had not booked anybody near us to give us privacy. Inside Nicole had obviously been busy preparing the room before I had arrived. Arranged on breakfast bar of the kitchenette she had several cameras, both video and still, assorted sex toys to pleasure a woman, a few cuffs, a riding crop, a couple of cans that looked like paint and some brushes, two different blindfolds and a bag which probably had some more implements of pleasure and pain. Nicole had me take the cans and a few other items into the bedroom.

Nicole also had a suitcase with some clothes for the occasion. She told me to relax while she went into the bathroom to change. I paced around the room. I knew Sandra would be there in moments. Now was not the time to relax. I looked out of the window from the living room area. There was a small balcony and I stepped outside to get some air. There was a cool breeze, but it felt invigorating. There were two small plastic chairs and a tiny glass table. The balcony was maybe about 10 feet wide and 4 feet deep. There was a waist high iron rail which protected people from the 9 story drop into the parking lot. Behind the hotel were office buildings. I could see a few people working late, but they were mostly dark by this time. I heard Nicole clear her throat and turned to walk back into the room.

Nicole was standing in the center of the room. She had transformed into a vision of pure dominance. Her blouse and skirt had been replaced by a leather corset. She also had leather opera gloves, thigh high leather boots with a silver tipped stiletto heel and a leather choker with the word BITCH embroidered into the neck.

"Do you approve?" she asked me. My mouth was suddenly dry. All I could do was nod.

"I expect you to pay off your debt soon, but first we will need to attend to Sandra."

Again all I could do was nod my approval. Nicole took a bag and put the thinner blindfold into it. She then slid another sheet of instructions into it and hung it on the doorknob for Sandra to find.

"She's going to strip in the hallway. If she does, you lose the bet."

I already knew I had lost my bet and I wasn't overly upset about it.

"When she knocks, you can watch her through the peep hole. Let her sweat for a minute or two. Erin will give us the hallway surveillance feed later. When you let her in, don't say a word. In fact, don't speak the rest of the time you are here. I'll stand near you so she doesn't know you're here. I've got a few training tasks for her. I want you to get a good feel of her body. I'll take some pictures. When I give you the signal, finger her until she comes. When I took her in her living room I used two fingers and my thumb on her clit. Do it the same way so she thinks you are me. After she comes, you are going to pay off your debt. I want you to then take the memory card from the camera. I'll email you more pictures later and some video. I want you to copy the files to her computer's hard drive. You can then tell Rose you were snooping remotely on her mom's computer for more websites she was visiting and found these pictures Rose might be interested in. Do you understand?"

Finally I found my voice. "Yes. I understand." Seconds later I heard the first knock. I quickly ran to the door to look out the peep hole. I had not noticed any sound from my shoeless feet on the thick carpet. I'd be able to move silently around our victim. At least I'd be silent if I could control my breathing and my racing heart. I peeked through the security eyepiece and Sandra had already stripped off her skirt and blouse and was standing motionless in the hallway. I looked back at Nicole wondering how long we should make her wait. It felt like an eternity to me and I'm sure it felt longer to Sandra, but eventually Nicole nodded and I opened the door. I took Sandra's hand in my own and led her into the suite. Our touch sent a shiver through my body. I'd never felt that before. This was going to be fun.

*** Sandra's POV ***

The electric touch of Nicole's hand was like an aphrodisiac. Although I'd long since lost any thoughts of hesitation, her touch made me lose all my inhibitions and any thoughts that I was making a mistake were vanquished. This was where I belonged. I was born to serve her and whatever she commanded, I would do.

I was e****ted slowly into the room. This must have been a suite because the room seemed huge to me. Nicole stopped me and let go of my hand. I could sense her walking around me. Then I felt her hot breath on my ear.

"You've done well tonight pet. You have pleased me with how well you followed my instructions."

I could feel myself blushing.

"Tonight we begin your formal training for your new life as my submissive."

My new life? I guess this wasn't a game after all. The thought excited me even more.

"The first thing you must learn is how to properly present yourself. You are already dressed, or shall I say undressed, in a way which pleases me. From now on no pantyhose... ever. Only stockings with garters from here forward."

I was trying to pay attention but the lust in my heart was distracting me. I could hear myself breath and felt every heartbeat.

"The heels are good, but should be a little higher. You have tremendous legs and a great ass. Don't be afraid to show them off."

I felt her hand slide up my thigh and touch my butt. Her hand then continued up my torso and gave my breast a firm squeeze.

"The same goes for these tits. They are wonderful. Never be shy to show them off a bit."

She continued to massage my breast and tweak my nipple. My pussy was on fire. Nicole now slid her hand down toward my pussy. If she touched my clit I think I would have cum right then. Instead she twirled her finger through my public hair. I'm neat and trimmed, but this apparently displeased her.

"This mess will have to go. You will shave it later, but you'll have to keep it waxed going forward."

I'd always resisted doing a Brazilian wax. It hurt enough when I'd get my legs done to make me decide waxing my cooter was out of the question. Of course, that wasn't my decision anymore and I welcomed Nicole's grooming suggestion.

"Spread your legs and put your hands on the back of the top of your head."

Immediately I did. I could feel my breasts popping forward.

"This is called inspection. When I say inspection, this is the position you will take. I don't care where we are, who we are with or what you are wearing. If I say the word inspection, you will immediately comply. Do I make myself clear?"

I could sense she was still walking around me. But I now felt her hands wrap around me and take both breasts into her hands. I heard a sharp intake of air at her sudden touch and realized it was me making the noise. She squeezed my left breast and then right lifting them up and down as if weighing them. Now I absolutely love having my lover wrap their arms around me like that. If that was what inspection would bring, I was all for it. I told Nicole I understood.

Her roving hands covered every inch of my body including pushing a solitary finger into my pussy from behind. I was shaking with sensation tingles as her hands worked me into a frenzy. Any clitoral stimulation at that point would have sent me over the edge. I knew her fingers were talented from the first night we met but tonight they were both familiar and new at the same time. What was she waiting for?

"Inspection went well. Before I share you my friends may want to inspect you. You should never hesitate from their touch. You are my property to do with as I please. Do you understand?"

I responded that I did. I felt her finger press into my overheated pussy, although she did not apply the pressure I desired to my clit. I could sense her thumb tantalizingly close to my clit just like it had been the night she seduced me. I began to beg. I began to plead. I was lost in the moment and overcome with the desire to climax. I heard her give the command "now" but the sound was in the wrong place.

Her voice was now over in the corner of the room. But her hands had never left me. How was that possible? I felt a thumb press against my clit while the two fingers continued to penetrate me. The thumb was rubbing my clit back and forth, snapping it really. One of the fingers curled and hit the spongy tissue of my g-spot. I didn't have time for rational thought. My orgasm crashed over me at the same moment I realized it wasn't Nicole's hand I'd been gyrating on. It was unlikely she had ever touched me since I came in. This realization flashed though my brain like a white hot poker as I f***ed myself down onto the fingers and screamed in ecstasy. I rode the hand for all I was worth until it was pulled back. I couldn't see it but I knew I'd slimed it good. I hope whomever I just used to finger bang myself had a good time as I slumped down onto the thick carpet.

Whoever it was didn't say a word. Instead they wiped their cum covered hand across my face. I guess they thought that was what I was worth. They were probably right. Whoever it was her touch was as thrilling as when she led me through the door. I tried to move my head to maintain contact as long as she would let me. When I heard Nicole speak again I turned my head to where the sound was coming from.

"As long as you are down there, we'll work on another position. Get up on your knees."

I was still weak from my orgasm so it took a moment to roll onto my knees and then, as instructed, to sit with my ass on my heels and my body straight up in the air. I was then told to cup my breasts and lift and separate them. I was also told if my nipples were not hard to play with them at this point. Of course that wasn't necessary and I failed to see how they would ever be soft if I found myself in this position again.

"This is call presenting yourself. When I say present this is the position you will take. Inspection will frequently follow. Unless otherwise directed you should be looking down during presentation and inspection. You are not an equal in this relationship. You will show me and the people I choose to share you with utmost respect at all times. Do you understand?"

I replied, "Yes."

"Yes mistress," quickly came the correction.

"Yes mistress," I replied.

"The next position is a variation on presenting yourself. After you present yourself I may say down. If I do you will lean forward instead of sitting on your heels. You will place your head on the ground with your palms open and your fingers spread. Try it now."

I did and I immediately realized what would happen. My ass was now the highest point of my body. Given my level of arousal and having just cum, I knew my now exposed pussy would give away what I was feeling. I felt the hand I had just come on rub my backside. I was hoping she would finger me again. There were obviously at least two women in this room I would do anything to be with.

"As you just realized, the down command puts you in a very vulnerable position."

I felt a single finger slide into my pussy and then, nicely lubricated, begin to push against my back side. I was glad Mistress D had given me stretching exercises for my ass as the finger slipped inside me with relative ease. How strange it was that I was now proud of having an ass someone could push their finger in without resistance.

"The second benefit of this position is you may show your devotion to me."

I felt the tip of her boot graze against my lips.

"Lick my boot pet. Show your loyalty to me."

I stuck my tongue out. I couldn't see the boot and hoped it was clean. It tasted a little salty which surprised me. But it wasn't too nasty and the combination of my submissive act combined with my anal penetration had my emotions climbing again. The finger in my ass now began to pump in and out. I realized if I stopped licking my mistress' boot and raised my head enough to moan, the finger would stop. Thus my pleasure was restricted to when I actively showed my subservience to my mistress. I'm sure that was exactly what she wanted and that is exactly what I gave her.This went on for maybe a minute. I was sure I would not be granted another orgasm until I'd done more for my mistress and her friend. When I felt the finger pull all the way out of my ass and a hand squeeze my butt, I knew this part of the lesson was over. I sensed the boot pull away, but I held the position with my ass high in the air. I remembered an instruction Mistress D had given me to never assume the game is done just because the players change. I wondered if the friend would now present her foot for worship or whether my mistress would be using a toy on my ass or pussy. Even if neither of these were true, I didn't want to move until commanded to do so.

I sensed the two women moving around the room. Perhaps they were moving to the bed. I heard the opening of a bag and then the opening of a sliding door. My mind was ablaze with deliciously naughty thoughts about what came next. Lost in my fantasy, I almost missed the command to stand.

"I need to settle a bet with my friend now, slave. You may relax for a few minutes. I think you should get some fresh air."

A rush of adrenaline flowed through my body. The sliding door was for me. There must be a balcony on this suite. But I was naked!?!

I felt a hand take mine. It was slightly larger than the hand which brought me through the door. It must belong to Mistress Nicole. I was too far gone to care when I felt the carpet change to concrete as I was led out the door. I tried to remember what the exterior of the building looked like and then I tried to picture where this room was located. The hotel had three wings. Two ran parallel to the street and one out to the back. I wasn't sure but I thought we were positioned to the back. There wasn't much traffic noise so I decided I was right.

I tried to picture what was behind the hotel. There were some office buildings I thought. That would make sense since this was a business hotel. I felt the cool night air begin to dance on my skin as a light breeze suddenly gusted. I felt someone brush against my pussy. Mistress Nicole spoke again.

"I don't want you getting into any trouble out here so I am going to bind you. Stand in inspection position while I get some cuffs."

I was completely humiliated. I couldn't tell if anybody could see me or was already watching as I stood naked for the entire world to see with my legs spread and my hands clasped behind my head. I should have ripped off the blindfold and ran out of the room. But my pussy wouldn't let me. It was having too much fun even if my brain was telling me this was wrong.

I heard one of the women walk back onto the balcony. I assumed it was Nicole. I was guessing the other woman might have been Erin from the front desk. I felt a plastic rod of some kind tap against my leg.

"Open a little wider my dear," Nicole ordered.

Doing so in my high heels put more pressure on my calves than I was accustomed to. This would not be pleasant for long. I felt a leather cuff being buckled onto my left ankle. I then felt a hand pulling my legs just a little wider.

"We have to work on your flexibility."

I felt an identical cuff being attached to my right ankle. I tried to move my legs together just a bit to relieve the stress I was feeling, but I couldn't. I felt my mistress run her hands simultaneously down both my legs and then back up again until she gripped my ass. Spreading both my butt cheeks I felt her kiss my pussy.

"You will find closing you legs quite impossible until I decide to relieve you. The cuffs are attached to a spreader bar. I'm sure you can picture in your mind the balcony railing you are standing in front of. Bend over it now."

Mistress Nicole was 100% correct. I could picture the railing. I bent forward but I didn't feel it. As I approached the horizontal plane I began to feel dizzy. For a fleeting moment I had the thought that there wasn't a rail and I was going to fall to my death. Then I felt the cold steel at waist level. I must have been right next to it.

"Hold that position," was the command as I felt hands once again on my butt. Instead of playing with it, however, this time they pulled me back. I had to shuffle my feet in terrifying fear of falling or breaking my ankle due to the heel. Slowly she positioned me further away from the railing until I felt my breasts touch the cold steel. Mistress then told me to stop and to put my hands on the rails.

I was quickly secured with soft ropes around my wrists holding me fast to the rail. My arms were outstretched as far as my feet were. What a sight I must have made. My legs were spread obscenely and I was bent over with both my holes exposed for whatever deviant desires my two protagonists had in mind. I could feel my breasts pushed together by the railing and my head hanging over into the abyss. If anybody was working late in the offices behind the hotel they were getting quite a sight right then. I should have been horrified by my position, but as the helplessness of my situation became apparent, a feeling of euphoria began to wash over me. My body was stressed by how far my legs were spread, the angle my heels were forcing my ankles to contort into and my neck having to hold my head up. But I was smiling as I pictured faceless business men looking out their windows and whacking off. Even the cool night air could not overcome the heat from my pussy. I even pictured steam coming from my inner core. Mistress Nicole knew exactly what I craved and was giving it to me.

*** Nicole's POV ***

Sandra had exactly the reaction tonight I knew she would. From her initial humiliation asking for the envelope to her handing over her smelly wet thong to a stranger to her exposing herself in the bar, I knew it was all leading to her cumming like an out of control slut all over Jeannie's hand. And now with her safely disposed of on the balcony, it was time for me to make Jeannie pay for her stupid bet against me. She didn't even put up a fight. As soon as I walked in from the balcony I told her to strip and get on her hands and knees.

Quick as a flash she was on the floor. I positioned her so she could look out onto the patio at Sandra's bound form. I also left the sliding door open so Sandra could hear what was happening. I didn't know if the sound would carry enough for other guests to hear, but I figured they would see Sandra and not me if they looked so who cares. If anyone complained Erin would run interference.

I efficiently tanned Jeannie's butt. She howled, but I could tell she loved it. She could try and hide her feelings, but her pussy told the story. Her cries of pain quickly became moans of passion. She started to beg to be made to cum, but I quickly shut her up with my hand. I didn't think Sandra would recognize her voice. She would be too worried about her own needs dreaming of the moment I came back to her I theorized. But I wasn't about to take a chance.

With one hand covering Jeannie's mouth and the other manipulating her pussy, I allowed her to give in to her pleasure and cum. I can be a strict mistress and taskmaster, but I'm also a softy when it comes to giving a woman pleasure. Especially one that was so instrumental in bringing Sandra to me. I left Jeannie as a quivering mess and walked over to my selection of toys. I had brought two strap-ons to the party tonight. I chose the smaller one first and brought it back to Jeannie. I could tell by the look in her eyes she assumed I'd be using it on her. I could also tell she was scared. I'd fuck her sometime, but that wasn't part of tonight's plan.

Instead I helped lift her to her feet and told her to put on the strap-on. Now her look of fear became one of confusion. But that didn't stop her from doing what I asked. She might have though I wanted her to fuck me, but that wasn't going to happen. I don't let women fuck me. I fuck them. Instead I pointed to Sandra and grabbed our compact digital camera we'd been using to take pictures of her learning her new positions. Together we walked out onto the balcony. I gentle rubbed my palm on Sandra's ass and then briefly pushed two fingers inside of her. She moaned and my fingers came out very wet. I knew listening to Jeannie would excite her. I also knew one of her fondest wishes was to be strap-on fucked. That wish was about to become reality.

I whispered into Jeannie's ear to take it nice and slow and then sat down in on of the balcony chairs. I clicked the camera into movie mode and framed the shot. I didn't want to identify Jeannie as Sandra's partner. Fortunately the widescreen capture format allowed me to focus entirely on Sandra's bent form. I couldn't see her cuffed ankles, but from about the knee up to just above her horizontally bent torso, I could see everything.

I held the camera as still as I could as Jeannie slowly began to penetrate her. Once she had the dildo buried to the hilt, I slowly panned to the left to show how Sandra was bound to the rail. I then moved back to her face as Jeannie began to build a rhythm. After establishing a close-up view of Sandra's face showing just how much pleasure Jeannie was giving her, I zoomed back out so I could see the a few inches of the dildo and the rest of Sandra's body as Jeannie took her from behind. With each stroke I'd see Jeannie slam into Sandra's butt. The ripple shock waves from their contact flowed across her ass. I didn't know if that would show up on the video, but I must admit I was a little jealous of Sandra as I watched her get pummeled.

Sandra knew she was outside, but obviously her libido had overridden any anxiety she had been feeling. She quickly turned more vocal than she had been in her living room or earlier when Jeannie had fingered her. This was the first time I'd shot video on this camera, but I had no doubt her vocal styling would be preserved. Preserved and quite embarrassing when I had Jeannie show Rose what her mom was up to.

Jeannie continued to fuck Sandra like a champion. I was thinking I should have used the better video camera I brought. We could have sold this video for a fortune. But all good things come to an end. Sandra "suffered" through three quick orgasms in a row. I say "suffered" because after the first one she was begging me to stop. It was cute that she still thought I was the one taking her. Jeannie for her part had no intention of stopping so soon. Maybe she was practicing for the night she finally takes Rose. Maybe she was really getting into being the dominant member of the tryst. Maybe she thought the dildo would rub her clit just right and she could get off again. I don't know the reason but I had no intention of stopping her. I just let her bang away at my new slave until she finally stopped on her own.

Although she had been begging for the pounding to stop, when Jeannie plopped the dildo out of Sandra's well used pussy, I could tell the moan was from frustration. I whispered in Jeannie's ear to go clean herself up and she walked back into the room. I lightly touched Sandra's clit. She jumped again. I then removed her blindfold.

I was standing behind her so she still could not see me. Instead I pointed over her shoulder at an office window in the building across the parking lot. There was a solitary figure watching us from an office. I couldn't make out if it was a man or a woman. It really didn't matter. I told Sandra I would wave to her fan for her and did so. I also told her I would untie her in just a few moments. She begged me to remove the spreader bar and in a moment of pity I did. I knew she had not experienced that kind of stress before so I gave her some relief. I told her I had to say goodbye to my other guest and that I would untie her wrists after she was gone. I left her staring at the office building in her post orgasmic glow and headed in to give Jeannie her final instructions. Jeannie had removed the strap-on and was getting dressed. I handed her the camera and repeated my instructions to her to download the files to a hidden directory on Sandra's computer. I then told her to make a backup on CD to give to Rose and to setup a meeting at her house with Rose next Friday night. Jeannie said she understood and left. I picked up the strap-on. I needed Sandra to clean it before I released her. I also wanted to do it while we still had an audience.

*** Sandra's POV ***

I was unbelievably sore at being stretched into this position for so long, but the fucking I had just received made it all worthwhile. I didn't even care that somebody in the office building had watched. I knew from my view that we were too far away for the person to see any detail. Plus it was a bit of a turn on to know somebody had watched me be defiled. The only thing I didn't know was who was with Nicole in the room. Was it Erin from the front desk? That would make sense. She was obviously in on the plan. I didn't think it was the bartender as she was still working when I left. But maybe that is why she handed me the paper upside-down so she'd have time to get in front of me. In the end it didn't matter. I'd already had four orgasms since coming upstairs and I didn't think Nicole was done with me yet. When I felt her reach around me and push the strap-on, still slimy with my juices, into my mouth, I knew the night was far from over.

Mistress Nicole instructed me to clean the implement of my pleasure. It was wickedly decadent to be sucking on the dildo in full view of whoever happened to look up at the balcony. With my hands still fastened to the railing I could not decide how much of the fake cock to take. That decision was left to Mistress Nicole who seemed to delight in alternating short pushes with deep thrusts. With my feet now free, I found myself starting to push my butt back up against her as she reached around me to feed me the dick. I looked back up at the office building and our voyeur appeared to be taking great pleasure in our show. I would have been happy to stay on the balcony all night, but Mistress Nicole had other plans. Eventually she untied my wrists and led me inside.

For the first time I got a look at the room. There was a large living room, a kitchenette, a breakfast bar, a small dining table and a large flat screen TV. I assumed the bedroom was around the corner along with the bathroom. Mistress Nicole told me she had drawn a hot bath for me and that I should relax and rest for a few minutes while she made some other arrangements.

I followed her into the bathroom. It was unlike any hotel bathroom I'd ever seen. It was more like the master bath of a fancy house. There was a standalone claw foot tub. Mistress Nicole had lit tea-light candles all around and they cast a soft shimmering glow around the room.

"I'll be back in a little while," she told me. "Just relax and enjoy the soak. We'll play more when I get back."

I nodded and gave her a big hug. "Thank you mistress," was all I could say. It was all that needed to be said.

Nicole turned to leave. I stripped off my shoes, stockings and garter belt and sat down in the tub. It felt heavenly as the warm water soothed my sore limbs. It was so relaxing that I drifted off to sl**p. I woke with a start as I heard the suite door shut. I didn't know how long I'd been in the tub but the water had cooled significantly. I scrambled out of the tub and grabbed a towel. I wrapped the towel around me and walked into the living room to see who had come in. I had expected my mistress to have brought more guests, but it was just her. I think my facial expression may have shown what I was thinking. Nicole as always could read my mind.

"You look disappointed it's just me," she said.

"No, not really," I replied. After a pause where she just looked at me I added, "Well maybe just a little."

"I could tell you enjoyed my friend earlier, but she had to go."

"I did enjoy her, mistress. Will she be coming back?"

"Not tonight. We may have another visitor later, but right now we have a lot to do."

I nodded and didn't press the issue. Mistress Nicole told me to drop the towel and added that I should be naked at all times in her presence unless told otherwise. I made a mental note of this new rule to go along with the positions I'd learned earlier. I also immediately dropped my towel.

"The first thing we need to do it shave off that bush," she told me. "I like my girls clean and pure. You will keep it shaved at all times. We also need to shave your legs, armpits and butt."

"You want to shave my butt?" I questioned her. That brought a stinging slap across my cheek.

"Next rule," she replied. "Never question me. However, since you are new, I will allow you a little leeway tonight so you only got a light slap."

I was still rubbing my cheek as she began to speak again. "Yes I'm going to shave your butt. There are two very good reasons. First and foremost because I want to. That is the only reason you need. Second, however, it is necessary because of something else I have planned. So get to the tub and get to work. I'll help you in a few minutes with your backside, but you should be able to do your legs, pussy and underarms yourself."

I still had no clue why she would want to shave my butt, but as she said that wasn't for me to know yet. I keep my pussy neatly trimmed although I'd never shaved it bare. I admit I was a little nervous trimming so close to my pussy lips, but I managed. My legs and underarms were easy, although I must admit my focus was on why Nicole wanted to shave my butt. I called out to her when I was done and waited for her to help me.

It was surreal when Nicole bent me over the tub and shaved my ass. My skin is very smooth and it felt like the razor was doing nothing. Still having my most intimate areas exposed for to her view as she did her work was exciting. After she finished with my butt she toweled me off and had me turn over. I thought we were done but then she wanted to shave around my breasts. This was getting too weird, but of course I let her do it. My curiosity was certainly piqued.

Now that I was freshly shaved Mistress Nicole helped me back up. She then ran her hands over my pussy and complemented me on how soft and inviting it was. I felt myself blush. Nobody had ever complimented me that way before.

Mistress Nicole then did something I was not expecting. No she didn't begin to finger my newly bare pussy. I kind of expected that. What she did do was take the shower curtain off the shower rod. She then told me to follow her into the bedroom.

The bedroom was generously sized and included a king sized bed. Perfect for our continued amorous pursuits I hoped. I watched as Nicole spread out the shower curtain on the floor. Just what did she have planned for me? I looked around the room. There were night tables on either side of the bed, a recliner, another flat panel TV and a long low dresser. On the dresser were two cans which looked like quart paint cans, a couple of brushes, a roller, the spreader bar with cuffs attached and some, a role of blue tape, a box of talc, a hair dryer and a couple of small plastic tube like things I didn't recognize. I also noticed a digital SLR camera and a professional looking video camera. I stood just inside the doorway waiting for instructions. I watched as Nicole fiddled with the cans and then pick up the cuffs and spreader. I was afraid my legs would once again be stretched painfully wide. It turns out this time it was for my wrists and arms.

Nicole motioned me over to her, had me stand in the middle of the shower curtain and affixed the cuffs to my wrists putting the bar behind my neck. It wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as when the bar had been strapped to my ankles. At least not yet. I was fidgeting a little which brought me a reprimand to stand still.

"I'm sure you are wondering what I'm doing," she said. I didn't answer since she had not asked a direct question. Nicole looked at me as if to see if I would speak out of turn and then smiled when I did not."Since you cut up your blouse and lost your underwear, we need to provide you some new clothes before we can go out. Have you ever heard of liquid latex?"

I'd heard of latex, of course, although I'd never worn any and certainly didn't know about its liquid form. I shook my head.

"Liquid latex is fun, but if you are not clean shaven it can hurt when you remove it. It can stick to your hair."

All of a sudden the extensive shaving made sense.

"I'm going to paint your body. When the latex dries it becomes like a second skin. It's like a cat suit but very flexible and when we're done, it just peels off. Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes mistress," I replied.

"Good. Stand still and let me do the work," she instructed.

I watched intently to see which item she would pick up first. It was the first of the plastic tubes, a cylinder really. She also picked up a syringe I had not noticed. Mistress Nicole walked up to me and grabbed my left breast. She gave it a good squeeze causing my nipple to pop out a bit. I looked down at what she was doing.

"Most people cover the nipple when making a latex bra. I prefer to have them available. This is a called a nipple sucker. The tube slips over your nipple. I then draw out the air with the syringe. That will cause the sucker to stick to your skin and will hold in place. That will mask the area so I don't accidently cover the nipple. Oh, it will also cause the bl**d to rush into your nipple and cause it to swell significantly. The nipple will become highly sensitive. Some women love it. Some hate it. I guess we'll find out what kind of woman you are. "

That made sense to me and I relaxed briefly. I say briefly because the first thing she did was lick the edge of the cylinder and then place it over my nipple. The tube was about three quarters of an inch in diameter so it covered my nipple with little room to spare. With a well practiced move of her other hand, the syringe was quickly attached to the top of the cylinder where there was a valve and used to draw the air out. The result was my nipple was drawn into the cylinder and grew to about twice its normal length. It was both painful and arousing at the same time.

I watched my mistress turn a small knob on the valve between the cylinder and the syringe which held the air pressure constant while she pushed the plunger on the syringe back in. That accomplished she drew another syringe full of air out of the cylinder. My nipple swelled again. It wasn't any wider than normal but was probably a good inch and a half long. This time I didn't consider the sensation arousing. The lack of air pressure pulling my nipple out was now just pain.

Mistress Nicole secured the end of the cylinder and removed the syringe. I looked down as she walked back to the dresser to get the second sucker. My nipple looked angry, but with my arms secured there was nothing I could do about it. The process was repeated on the other nipple. Once they were both secured Nicole flicked her finger against them to make sure they would hold if they were bumped. I wasn't fortunate enough to have them fall off. I was now straining in my position from the sensations.

I thought my preparations were done, but I was wrong. A slightly larger sucker was used to "protect" my clit. This was turning into cruel and unusual punishment. My poor kitty screamed in pain as it was drawn up into the confining piece of plastic. I twisted as Nicole drew the air out leading to a stern warning that she knew what she was doing and that if I moved I might hurt myself. I didn't care that she knew what she was doing. I wasn't sure I wanted to go where she was taking me. She told me to relax. Yeah right. That was just what Mistress D told me to do before I stuck the anal plug up my butt. It didn't work then and I was sure it wouldn't work now either.

Nicole promised the pain would die down and I would appreciate her handiwork soon enough. She then said she forgot a couple of things in her bag and left the room. I looked at myself in the mirror. My nipples and clit had never been so hard. I barely recognized the woman I had become. I was still staring at myself when Nicole reentered the room.

"You look fabulous. You are so hot," she said. I did not detect any sound of condescension. I think she meant it.

Nicole was holding two other plastic tubes. I was scared what else she was going to suck up. These were different, however. They were solid and had a slightly wider rounded base, about three inches wide I'd estimate. Without ceremony the first one was pushed into my pussy. Of course lubrication was not a problem. I always seemed to be wet around Nicole or when I chatted with Mistress D. Nicole told me to look in the mirror. The base stuck out just a little around my labia. She told me she could apply the latex evenly but leave easy access to my pussy this way. I nodded in a warped sense of agreement as she held up the last tube. When she pulled the first special tube out of my pussy I instantly understood what she was doing.

"Turn around and bend over," was her command.

Suddenly I was glad Mistress D had introduced me to anal plugs as it made taking the tube into my butt much easier. Slick with my natural lube and my ability to relax my sphincter learned through using the plugs, the cylinder quickly found a home in my backside. The last cylinder was then inserted into my pussy. There were five locations thus protected from the latex and I was getting very excited from the constant stimulation.

Next was the talcum powder. Nicole explained that my skin needed to be absolutely dry to make the latex adhere better. She used a large amount of talc causing a white cloud to fill the air. I coughed as I breathed some of the fine powder into my lungs. Nicole then brushed off the excess leaving me with a fine white sheen over my skin. Finally she grabbed the blue tape and began to mask out the rough shape of a very small tube top. She wrapped two strips of the 3/4" tape around the underside of each breast and then used long strips around my torso just below the bottom of my breasts to hold the edges of the first strips. She then used a second strip around the top of my breasts and around my waist at the top of my hip bone. A final strip around each leg about an inch below my pussy completed the masking. While she was kneeling in front of me with her face in front of my crotch I'm sure she could tell exactly how aroused I was. No amount of talc would hold back the flood in my pussy.

"OK pet, I think we're ready," Nicole announced. I took a deep breath.

Nicole shook up the first can and then opened it up. As she walked over to me I looked down. The color was fire engine red. With a fine brush she began to trace the outline of the tape around my breasts. It tickled a bit and I squirmed a little which brought another command to stand still so she could do a good job. I tried to maintain my pose, but it was tough.

Once the undersides of my breasts were done Nicole chose a larger brush and quickly worked around my back. She also used the large brush to paint around the cylinders still encasing my nipples in their abnormally large state.

Did she "accidently" brush against my nipples causing a shooting pain to rock me to the core? Of course she did, although always with the latex end of the brush away from my body so I didn't screw up her "art."

Once the borders were done an even larger brush made quick work of my new latex bra. The process was then repeated for my new bright red hot pants. If my new latex were real clothes they would have been the smallest pair of shorts I'd ever worn. They just barely covered from just above my clit and the top of my ass crack down to just below my pussy. Nicole told me to be still for just another couple of minutes when she could remove the tape. I looked at myself in the mirror again. Except for the cylinders protruding from my body, the latex as it started to cure began to look like real clothes.

Soon Nicole peeled off the tape and then she grabbed the hair dryer. A blast of hot hair soon hit my face. The output was then directed at my new latex to speed the curing time. As it dried I could feel the latex constricting to form a second skin. I also could see in the mirror that it was following every contour of my body, especially my breasts. Never before had I worn clothes so form fitting.

Once the latex was cured, Nicole grabbed the second color, black, and began filling in the rest of my "outfit." She used the medium brush to carefully trace the edges of my bra and shorts. Of course I had to hold desperately still for that. Once that was done she switched to a roller to complete my transformation. From the tops and sides of my feet to the underside of my chin, my hairline on the back of my neck and out to the cuffs on my wrists I was covered in shimmering black latex. The only exceptions were my fire engine red bra and micro shorts. Oh, and my nipples, clit, pussy and asshole which were all uncovered and soon to be available. It was a stunning look I must say.

Nicole then carefully removed my pussy and ass "masks" as she called them to use a painting term instead of dildos which block latex how I would describe them. She then warned me that when she released my clit and nipples there would be pain. I'd almost forgotten about my suction trapped naughty bits. The pain had subsided and with my full concentration going to what Nicole was painting, I'd basically ignored them except when Nicole would bump the cylinder. I told her I was ready. She asked where I wanted to start. I told her my clit. She released the pressure and the cylinder popped off. I don't think I can adequately describe the pain I felt right then. As the bl**d rushed back into my clit I felt thousands of needles hitting me at the same time. But I also felt euphoria. I know I screamed a bit, but I think I also moaned. I watched as Nicole took hold of the cylinder on my left nipple.

"Ready?" she asked. I took three quick deep breaths and then nodded.

Again the pain was an intense mix of torture and arousal. Nicole didn't even ask if I was ready for the last cylinder to come off. She just did it. My nipples were on fire and my pussy was leaking like a faucet. My new outfit was finally complete. Well almost. Mistress Nicole removed the spreader bar from between the cuffs, although she left the cuffs themselves on my wrists. With the latex painted right up to the edge of the black leather cuff, they looked seamless. In fact she loosened the cuffs just a little and slid them over the edge of the latex before retightening them just to be sure the look was what she wanted. The final item was a pair of fire engine red stiletto heeled pumps whose color matched the latex covering my boobs, ass and pussy. The heels had to be at least five inches high. I'd never worn shoes like them and as I teetered in them looking at myself in the mirror I doubted I could even walk. The toe and the heel sank slightly into the soft carpet leaving me to feel unsteady and afraid to move. The shoes were strapped to my feet and ankles and a small padlock held the buckle closed. Once I heard the clasp mechanism snap I knew the shoes would be on feet until Nicole removed them.

Mistress Nicole was helpful by taking my hand and steadying me as she led me around the suite. I had to take short careful steps. The now fully cured latex gripped my skin making me feel warm all over. I looked at the clock. It was almost 1am but I didn't feel tired. I felt exhilarated and ready for Nicole next command. At least I was until I heard it.

"Our guest should be here soon. Be a dear and go get some ice."

Caught up as I was in looking at myself I never considered other people were going to see me like this. Worse yet, Nicole wanted me to walk out into the hall. I felt my pussy gush. How could I refuse?

Nicole said she had to clean up. She handed me the ice bucket from the kitchen counter. I commented that I remember seeing the ice machine near the stairs just outside our door. That was a mistake. Nicole ordered me to use the ice machine on the north wing. She said the ice tasted better from that machine. I had my doubts as to her reasoning, but I understood her intent was for me to walk much further thereby increasing my chance to being seen. I'd already learned not to argue with Nicole once she had made a decision. I took the bucket and slowly walked out the door. My sense of apprehension was palpable. Here I was in a public hallway essentially nude. Sure my body was now covered in shimmering latex which glistened in the florescent light of the hallway, but my nipples, clit, pussy and asshole were on display for anyone to see. My nipples and clit in particular both remained swollen from the suckers to a size far larger than they normally would be when I was aroused. Of course I was also far more aroused than normal.

I looked down the hallway. At this hour hopefully everyone was already in for the night. Of course anybody just getting back to their room had probably been drinking. That would not be good. I wish I could have moved faster. I don't think I could have run in my latex cocoon anyway, but the heels made any kind of good pace impossible. I had to take short tiny steps in order to maintain my balance. The hallway looked a mile long as I passed the icemaker near our room. Walking through the elevator lobby I saw myself in the mirror. I couldn't believe the reflection. I don't think my nipples had shrunk at all and my clit was still standing out proudly from its hood. The cat suit looked like it was real latex clothes, at least from a distance. Close up my exposed naughty bits would instantly tell the tale of what I was doing in the hotel. I had the vision of the police having been called to another room for some kind of disturbance discovering me and hauling me to the station on an indecent exposure charge. I felt another rush of excitement flood my pussy.

Looking down the next hallway I began to feel a little dizzy. For a moment I thought I might faint from the stress. I had to stop and lean on the wall for a moment before I could continue. I heard the TV on in several rooms. I could only pray they didn't decide they needed ice right then. Finally I reached the little room with the ice maker and two vending machines for soda and snacks. I pushed the bucket under the dispenser but nothing happened. I tried again. The machine made a bit of a racket and shook, but only two cubes fell into my bucket. The damn thing was broken.

I didn't waste any time trying to decide if my mistress knew this machine was broken and that is why she sent me to this wing instead of the south one. For all I knew Erin had arranged for it to be emptied as a big joke. All the machines were probably broken and Nicole would start sending me to the other floors next. Disheartened I began the slow trek to the south wing to find ice. My legs were starting to get tired from the stress the heels were placing on my calves. Looking at the mirror at the elevator lobby for the second time I had to admit the shoes did make my legs and ass look amazing. The latex didn't hurt either.

Fortunately the south ice machine was working. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that the north one was broken and not some kind of cruel trick. I actually stopped in front of the mirror and admired myself on my third pass. How many other forty-something woman look as good as I did right then? Suddenly I was overcome with a feeling of pure lust. I set the ice bucket down on a table next to the mirror and began to rub my clit. The pain from 10 minutes ago was long gone. My clit was still very erect and distended from its extended stay in the vacuum tube, however, and very sensitive to even the lightest touch. The same was true of my nipples. Looking at myself in the mirror was one of the biggest turn-ons I'd ever experienced. I quickly brought myself to the brink of an orgasm when I heard the rush of air coming up the elevator shaft.

I suddenly remembered where I was and the fear of being caught masturbating triggered my flight instinct. I shifted toward the east hallway and took four or five slow steps before I realized I'd left the ice bucket on the table. The sound of air from the elevator shaft increased as I returned to grab it. I looked up at the display showing where the elevator car was located. I watched the display count 6-7-8 and listened as the wind noise intensified. I was so screwed. Damn my lust making me stop instead of just continuing back to the room.

I think my heart skipped a beat when I saw the number 9. I know I stopped breathing momentarily. But then I saw the number 10 and then 11. I heard a faint bing as the elevator arrived at its destination two floors up from me. Was I tempted to finish what I started? Yes. I have to admit that my lust was out of control. But then I heard another rush of air from the second elevator shaft and decided not to press my luck. Grabbing the ice bucket I tried to make my best speed back to the suite.

I'd scarcely made it back around the corner when I heard the sound of the elevator bing. This time the sound seemed deafening as the synthetic bell rang in my ears. I kept moving, my brain alternating between having a 1 in 3 chance that the person's room was in my wing and the thought that I'd get caught by a couple of d***k guys who would usher me into their room and have their way with me.

I silently crept down the hall slowing my pace to remain quiet. I don't know why I did that. There would be no reason for the person to come this way unless they had a room near ours. But my fear of being caught had me trying to elude my unseen pursuer. Moments later it dawned on me that if the person was coming this way they would have already found me. That let me relax just a bit.

I continued my maddeningly f***ed slow pace until I was finally at the end of the hall and in front of the suite's door. Truthfully I wasn't surprised when Nicole didn't answer the knock right away. This time I was sure she was leaving me out in public on purpose. She could have been in the bathroom or even out on the balcony getting some air, but in my mind it was all a plot to expose me. I heard the elevator bing again. It was softer this time, but it was obviously on this floor. I heard the sound of heels on the tile of the elevator lobby. I recognized the sound from my own three trips over the tiles. I saw an elegant form round the corner and begin down the hall. It was the form of a beautiful woman in a formal dress. As she came closer I realized she looked like she had been out on the town. Her hair flowed around her head. Her dress exposed just the right amount of leg and her cleavage was not too big and not too small. She looked refined, distinguished and sexy as hell. It was obvious her destination was our room as she began to make eye contact with me about half way down the hall. I was captivated by her beauty and began to shake as I waited for her to arrive. Although I was mesmerized by her beauty, my anxiety over actually being caught went through the roof. I'd been in the hallway about 10-12 minutes total hobbling around the floor. My dread of being caught had also been fueling my arousal as I had tried to convince myself that Mistress Nicole had everything under control and this was all part of her plan for me. My trepidation of being exposed should have been tempered by my trusting my mistress, but now as this gorgeous woman approached me, a new wave of terror washed over me. What would she think of me standing in the hallway obviously excited, aroused and dressed like a fetish wet dream? She clearly was into this kind of behavior or she wouldn't be here. But what was she expecting me to do? What would Nicole order me to do with her? I felt my legs begin to get weak. But then, deliverance struck.About 10 feet from me she smiled and I recognized her. She looked so different earlier in the evening I had not realized it was the bartender. She had been dressed very conservatively in the bar. No doubt if she dressed like she was now every guy would constantly hit on her. She must have changed when the bar closed. She now looked taller and much more authoritative. This was obviously Nicole's guest and one that I had already flashed. She must have liked what she saw in the bar and as she looked me up and down in my latex I had no doubt she preferred this look to my blouse and skirt.

She introduced herself as Liz. I introduced myself as Slave Sandra. It was the first time I'd use that name but it was now the correct one. Liz produced a swipe card and opened the door. She signaled I should go in first. I felt her hand on my latex covered ass as she ushered me inside. Nicole was standing in the living room waiting for us. She was wearing the same strap-on I'd sucked before. She was stroking it like a guy with her right hand. She looked menacing. In her left hand she was holding a larger strap-on.

"Glad you could make it Liz," she said. "Do you want to help me fuck the hell out of this slut?"

I looked at Liz pleading with my eyes. I wasn't scared or nervous any longer. This was where I belonged.... Continue»
Posted by bobafettshelmet 1 year ago  |  Categories: BDSM, Lesbian Sex  |  Views: 1142  |  

My Nephew's Christmas Present

The year my nephew turned 14, both he and I had the best Christmas ever! I
think you'll enjoy hearing all about it... but... I get ahead of myself.
Before I can tell you what made our Christmas so special, I need to tell
you a little about myself, and about my nephew.

My name is Dave. I'm an architect, and I live in New York City. I'm also
gay. My c***dhood wasn't anything out of the ordinary. At least not for
the first eleven or twelve years. Things changed for me though, shortly
after I hit puberty. That's when I began to realize it was boys I was
interested in, rather than girls.

Like most boys, as I grew up, I had a normal, healthy curiosity about my
body - which suddenly became magnified as I started to mature, and I spent
a good amount of time involved in self exploration, which of course
involved simple fondling and caressing of myself, various forms of
masturbation, and a little anal exploration as well.

When puberty began, I was still unaware of my preferences, but was
overjoyed when I began producing semen, which my father had told me would
happen, and of course I had also heard about from other boys my age, and
older. Naturally, this new development led to more self exploration, which
I found greatly relaxing and satisfying.

As I became more active with myself, naturally, my friends were going
through the same experiences. And, like some boys will do, a few of them
wanted to talk about it! It was then, when I heard some of them discussing
girls... specifically girls' tits and dripping cunts that they couldn't
wait to shove their cocks into, that I began to realize I was different
from them. I realized I had no interest in girls breasts, and really
didn't relish the idea of sliding my hardon into a girl's hot, wet hole.
At the same time though, when I saw how hot the other boys were getting as
they discussed their desires, and noticed they had lumps in their pants, I
too quickly developed a lump of my own. My lump though was caused by their
lumps, and visions that suddenly flashed through my brain of these other
boys, naked and hard... touching themselves, just like I touched myself,
and jerking off, just like I did. When I began to realize that my thought
patterns weren't the same as my friends', my life suddenly became more
stressful. Was I 'Faggot' like they thought certain other boys were - the
boys who they thought liked boys instead of girls???

As it turned out, both happily in one way, and to my great distress in
another, it didn't take long for me to figure out that I was indeed

One particular friend of mine, as it turned out, was going through the same
agony I was! I of course didn't realize this though, until one Saturday
night, when he invited me over for a sl**pover. sl**povers weren't
anything new to us. We'd been good friends since we were little, and often
slept at each other's houses as we grew up - always sharing each other's
beds, as both of us had double beds. At this particular invitation,
anticipating our usual fun night, I happily accepted his offer.

Once his parents had gone to bed though, and we were in his room, with the
door closed, and had changed into our pajamas, I was surprised when he
broke out a Hustler magazine! He said he'd found it sticking out of a
stack of magazines, heaped up by a garbage bin as he walked down the street
one day. Having never seen such a magazine, I didn't give a rat's ass how
he came to have it, and eagerly grabbed it and began poring through it.
When I stopped at one particular photospread, which included a guy as well
as a girl, both of whom were posed to suggest they were having sex, Zach
told me that was his favorite article too. I couldn't help grinning back
at him when I looked up and saw the broad smile on his face. As my eyes
fell back to the magazine, out of my peripheral vision, I was suprised to
see a prominent tent in the front of his pajama bottoms. It was then, I
suddenly realized, I too had a chubby, and quickly blushed! Apparently
was watching me as my face darkened, and had already noticed my own bulge,
as he started to snicker. When I heard him snort, I quickly looked up and
saw he was looking right at my crotch. He saw me look up, and blushed as
well though.

For a moment, we sat looking stupidly at one another, then he started to
smirk and said "I always get hard when I look at this magazine too!"

Not knowing what to say, I just smiled and nodded.

"Can you believe how big he is?" Zach asked then, and I looked up at him,
and saw that he was looking down at the picture of the guy as he laid fully
exposed, with his hardon in his hands, pointing it up toward the girl who
was apparently about to go down on him.

Smiling I just said, "I know."

"And look at this one of his ass! I wonder if all guys get this hairy back
there?" he said, as he looked wonderingly at another picture of the same
guy. This time he was on his hands and knees, with his ass toward the
camera. He was leaning down and about to suck on the girl's tit. As a
result, a good portion of the picture was of his wide open cheeks, in the
center of which, deep in his groove, was a cute tight pucker. And, the
insides of the guy's ass cheeks had a good coating of dark hairs sprouting
out of them. As I looked at Zach, I suddenly realized that like me, he
seemed more interested in the guy, than the girl.

Glancing down I saw the front of his pajama bottoms stir slightly. My
penis surged then, and I felt my heart rate increase.

"I-I don't know," I said, responding to his curiosity over how much hair
guys got between their buttocks.

He told me then he'd seen some men naked before, but never hard. He
wondered if all grown up guys got as big as the guy in the picture when
they got hard. Again, I said I didn't know. As you might expect, this
then led to Zach asking me how big my penis got when it got hard. In
response, I asked him how big his got. I was surprised when he smiled
shyly and stood up and slid his pajama pants down over his ass and let them
drop to the floor. Then he pulled his shirt up and proudly showed off his
dick to me. My cock surged again when I saw his boner. It was about five
inches long, and the base of it was nestled in a small mound of curly brown
pubic hair. Dangling behind it, in a smooth, hairless sack, were two nice
sized, eggs. I thought his genitals were gorgeous, and wished I could just
reach out and touch them!

"So let's see your's," Zach said, surprising me a little then, as I sat
gawking at his privates.

For a moment I hesitated, but realizing he had already dropped his pants, I
grinned, stood up and dropped my PJ bottoms, and pulled up my shirt too,
and let him have a look at my equipment. I couldn't help smiling when he
grinned with delight, and his penis stiffened and grew slightly larger for
a moment, before returning to its normal erect state.

Although he sounded a little depressed, he told me then he was impressed,
because I looked a little bigger than him. Of course he wanted to compare
dicks then. I asked if he had a ruler, and he said he didn't, but had an
easy way we could check. He stepped out of his pajama bottoms then, and
over to me, and as we both looked down at our dicks, which were sticking
straight out toward each other, he boldly reached down and grabbed both at
once with his left hand. I couldn't help gasping, as his warm, soft hand
lassoed my penis and pressed it together with his hot, hard, throbbing
cock. He gasped too, aapparently equally as aroused by the sensation. I
looked up then, and he did too. It was then, we suddenly both saw
reflected in each other's expression, our mutual desire and arousal. First
Zach smiled knowingly, then I did too.

I groaned a second later then, when he squeezed both our cocks together a
little more firmly. We both looked down then, as he pushed his body
towards mine. I felt the tip of my penis press against his pubic bone, as
it nestled in his bush. The tip of his never pressed into me though,
although the tip of it was buried in my curly mound as well.

"Guess you are bigger," he said, sounding disappointed.

Smiling I reached down toward our dicks and said, "Let me try!"

Zach let go of our members, then I quickly wrapped my right hand around
both of them, and pressed them together. As my hand encircled Zach's
hardon, he drew in his breath sharply. Smiling, I pushed my hips forward,
but at the same time, pushed one hip forward a bit more, so the side of my
body his penis was closest too, was pushed forward a bit more than the
other side. A second later I finally felt the head of his penis press up
against me.

"See?" I said, smiling as I looked up at him. "You're really pretty much
the same size as me."

Zach looked up and smiled somewhat ruefully, and said, "Thanks, but I know
you're a little longer."

"Doesn't matter," I said, still holding both our cocks in my hand. "We're
both still growing and will both probably get bigger down there yet too

"I hope so," Zach sighed.

He gasped then, as I gently squeezed us both a little, and added, "Damn! It
feels so different with you holding it, instead of me!"

"I know," I said. "I felt the same way when you were holding 'em."

"Um... wanta let go of your's and let me grab it again then?" he asked,
both hopefully, and a little warily yet.

I couldn't help smiling. Obviously he was enjoying my touch, as much as I
had enjoyed his!

As he smiled in return, I released both our cocks, but quickly wrapped my
hand around just his. As he gasped happily again, he quickly grabbed mine
again, and I too gasped.

We both stepped back just a bit then and looked down. Then, Zach began
squeezing and fondling me. Quickly I began doin the same to him as well.
A few seconds later, Zach a bit more boldly, began to pump my cock, like he
was trying to milk me. Smiling, I began to masturbate him as well.

Within seconds, we were both breathing heavily, and swallowing thick saliva
that had formed in our mouths, as our penises flexed and relaxed, and
flexed and relaxed, continually, in each other's hands, as we pulled back
and forth on each other.

Way too soon for either of us, Zach suddenly gasped and said he was going
to cum if we didn't stop.

"Me too," I said, as I'd begun to feel my orgasm building as well.

I dropped Zach's cock then, and looking a little disappointed, he too
reluctantly released mine. For a moment, we stood looking at each other,
not knowing what to do.

Finally, Zach said, "That felt really nice. A lot better than when I do

"Yeah," I agreed.

Zach had a funny look on his face, and he started blushing.

"Um..." he began. Then, after hesitating, he drew in his breath, and
looking even more aroused, he said, "I suppose we could finish each other
off. .... If you want to!"

My dick surged, and I couldn't stop the grin from spreading over my lips.
Without my having to say a word, Zach grinned and reached again for my
cock. I grabbed his again then too.

I was surprised though when after just a few luxurious strokes of his hand,
he cried "Stop!"

"What?" I cried, shocked.

Chuckling, he said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. I just thought,
maybe we could lie down on the bed next to each other, instead of doing it
standing up, facing each other. I mean... it might feel better, and,
there'd be less mess on the rug afterward!"

"OK," I said, chuckling. He chuckled then too.

Quickly, Zach let go of me, and I let go of him. I stepped out of my
pajama bottoms, and we both stepped over to the bed. Quickly then Zach
pulled off his pajama top, and I yanked mine off too. Then, Zach got on
the bed, and moved to the other side. I got on the bed too. Then, because
he was left-handed and I was right-handed, it worked out well, except that
our arms were crossed, when we reached over and grabbed one another. As I
looked at Zach, he smiled and began jacking me off again. I quickly
started in again too.

For a minute or two, we lay there jerking each other off. As we did, all
you could hear in the room was some soft music that was playing on the
stereo, a little squeaking of the bed, and our heavy breathing.

As I began to feel my orgasm forming again, I noticed that Zach had sped
up, and was breathing faster and more deeply. Smiling slightly, I sped up
a bit too. Quietly we both continued beating each other off.

Not long afterward, I could tell that Zach was nearing his peak. His body
was tenser, and had started to twitch somewhat spastically every so often.
His breathing was deeper, and he was pumping me even more swiftly, as I was
doing to him. I realized then that I was in the same state he was in, and
was pumping him faster too.

Suddenly, as we both pumped away on each other, Zach gasped, and I was
surprised when I felt a slight lump move through his urethra beneath my
fingers, just before a glob of glistening cum shot from the end of his
cock, and landed in a blob on his chest.

Grinning, I continued pumping on Zach's cock, and even though he was
cumming, he continued pumping on mine! About every second, Zach gasped or
grunted, and blew more spunk. AS my own orgasm built, I continued working
on him, until he told me he was finished. I let go of him then. Quickly,
he sat up, and reached for my balls with his right hand, as he continued
pumping my dick even faster with his left hand. It felt awesome when he
cupped my scrotum and began coddling my eggs. The feeling of both his
hands working on me at the same time was too much for me, and a moment
later, I suddenly began to cum as well.

"Shit!" Zach gasped, when my first load shot so f***efully from my dick
that it landed in my hair!

Grinning, he wildly continued jacking me off, and rubbing my balls, which
had pulled up close to my body. As he did, I blew load after load, until
I'd streaked and dotted my chest and belly with a copious amount of semen.

When I was finished, Zach grinned and said appreciatively, "I never saw so
much jizz from one cum!"

I couldn't help grinning, as I looked down at my mess.

"Usually," I said, as I reached for the glob in my hair and tried to pull
it out, "I don't shoot this much. Must've been your expert touch!"

Zach chuckled, and I did too.

I was surprised though then when, as I was watching him, he automatically,
and obviously without thinking, held up his hand, which some of my semen
had dribbled onto, and licked my cum off his finger.

As I looked at him, a little shocked, he suddenly realized what he'd done
and began to blush profusely. He looked so embarrassed, I thought he might
start to cry.

"It's OK," I said, smiling at him. "I've tried my own too."

"Really?" Zach asked, suddenly seeming very relieved.

Still smiling, but blushing a bit too, I nodded.

I was surprised again then, when a minute later, after we'd retrieved our
dirty underwear and were both sitting wiping ourselves clean with it, he
got a strange look on his face, and asked if I'd ever had a blow job
before. I told him I hadn't.

"Me either," He blurted, and suddenly seemed a little agitated. He
hesitated and looked carefully at me for a moment, then blushing deeper
again he suddenly blurted, "I don't suppose you'd wanta try sucking on each
other, so we can see how that feels???"

I was shocked, but not enough so that a moment later, my cock suddenly
lurched back to life, as I stared unbelievingly at Zach, whose face quickly
went beet red.

As my shock wore off, realizing he was afraid I was upset with him, I
smiled and in a voice, muffled by thick saliva that had again suddenly
formed in my mouth, I croaked, "Sure!"

Zach's eyes ballooned for a moment, but then he smiled in an odd way, and
the color began to drain from his face again. Then, quickly, before I
could even consider the idea any further, or had even finished wiping
myself clean, he pushed me onto my back and leaned over and took my cock in
his mouth.

"Fuck!" I gasped, as his hot, wet mouth began sucking up and down my still
mostly soft cock. Of course, within seconds I was fully hard again.

"How was that?" Zach asked, panting a little, when a few seconds later,
having sucked me rigid again, he suddenly pulled back off me.

"Fuck!" Was all I could gasp, as I looked incredulously at him.

"Is that good, or bad?" he asked, confused, and looking a little worried.

In answer, I just smiled, sat up and got up off the bed, then pushed him
over onto his back, then leaned over and sucked his hardon into my mouth.

"MMmmmmm..." Zach moaned, as I sucked on him for a few seconds, before
pulling off and asking, "that answer your question?"

Zach looked incredulously at me and grinned, and nodded. Instantly, he sat
up and pulled me back onto the bed, and rolled me back over onto my back
again, and went back down on me again. A moment later, I felt his hands
cupping my balls again as well. This time, as I lay luxuriating as he
pleasured me, he didn't stop. And, a minute or so later, as he seemed to
realize I was becoming more excited, he sped up a bit.

Finally, I gasped, "Zach! I'm gonna shoot again!"

I figured he'd back off, but he didn't. And it just kept on feeling better
and better as he continued sucking on my cock and gently rolling my balls
around in his hand.

"ZACH!" I rasped urgently again a couple seconds later, having begun
squirming, as as I tried my best to keep from cumming in his mouth.

Still Zach continued rapidly and luxuriously sliding his hot, wet, mouth
quickly up and down my rod.

A couple seconds later it was too late. Even if he had been expecting a
last warning, I couldn't hold back any longer, and suddenly gasping loudly,
I blew a huge gush of jism forecfully into the back of Zach's throat! As I
groaned happily, I couldn't believe Zach calmly just swallowed my load and
kept on sucking up and down on my dick.

For several seconds then, he continued pleasuring me, as I spasmed over and
over several more times, pumping more and more semen into his mouth.
Finally, when my orgasm had ended, he slowed down, then sucked up and down
a few more times, before he finally stopped.

"God Damn!" I gasped, when he finally pulled off me, and sat back smiling
at me, with sloppy wet lips.

All I could do was lay there grinning stupidly at him, breathing heavily,
as he grinned at me, and automatically reached for his own genitals and
began fondling them.

"Give me a minute," I said, panting a little. "And I'll do you too!"

His grin expanded then, as he continued fiddling with his prick a little,
until I had finally recovered.

Eventually, about a minute later, I told Zach to lay back. His smile
broadened, and he quickly fell backward into the pillows. I got up and
rolled onto my knees, then got between his legs and leaned over him. Gently
then, I cupped his scrotum and I lowered my mouth over his throbbing cock,
the tip of which was already a little moist. As I sucked his penis into my
mouth, I could taste a slight saltiness on my tongue as it washed over his
glans. Slowly and sensually then, like he'd done for me, I sucked on and
fondled him, until within a couple minutes, he was writing under me, and
giving me a final warning, which I too ignored. A moment later then, he
too had blown a huge load of slightly salty, gelatinous cum into my mouth,
which I too swallowed, as I continued servicing him, until he too had
finally finished. When he was done and I backed off him, he wore the same
incredulous, but deliriously happy expression I expect I had had on my face
few minutes earlier as well.

Naturally, we spent the rest of the night then, repeatedly sucking each
other off. After the next round, Zach suggested we try sucking each other
together in a '69', which he had pictures of in the back of the hustler
magazine. We found that worked nicely as well.

Of course, from that night forward, and all the way through high school,
Zach and I got together regularly - daily when possible - at one or the
other's house, and spent as much time as possible pleasuring each other.

Eventually, we experimented with ass fucking too. We weren't too
successful at first, as we didn't take our time, and, although we used
liberal amounts of lubricant, we tried to enter each other too fast,
without taking adequate time to prep each other. As both of us enjoyed
anal play though, we perservered, and once we figured out that we needed to
spend more time playing with each other's holes first, and especially once
we'd found out about rimmming and tried it out and perfected our technique,
we ended up both thoroughly enjoying copulation, and the preparatory work
as well. Generally Zach preferred to 'bottom' more than 'top', and
although I enjoyed his ministrations to my ass with his fingers and mouth,
I seemed to prefer being the 'top', more than the 'bottom', so it worked
out well for us. Although, at times we did switch for a little variety.
As we both loved being rimmed, we quickly learned to make sure we were very
clean for each
other, and regularly enjoyed eating each other's boy pussies.

Sadly, when high school ended, we both ended up going off to different
colleges that were too far away from each other for us to continue getting
together. Fortunately for us though, while we did care for each other, and
were best friends, and had awesome sex together all the time, we oddly had
never become romantically in love with each other. We did try kissing a
couple of times, because we were both curious about how to do it, and what
it was like. The first time seemed awkward, and didn't seem to do too much
for us. We had been standing though. The second time, we were laying on
my bed. I was on top of Zach, and that time, as we kissed and ground our
pelvises together, we did both get hard... although I think it had more to
do with our pelvic grinding, rather than our lip and tongue action.
Neither of us was very impressed with kissing, so we never kissed
again... although our sexual activities continued with great alacrity of

So, sadly, after several years of regular, and very satisfying sex, on top
of heading off to school on my own, I was also left on my own, with only my
right hand to keep me company! While most k**s who were heading off to
college were excited about starting a new life, I wasn't. I was lonely, a
little scared, and very frustrated.

Fortunately, that only lasted about a week! Not long after arriving at
college, I met another freshman, who lived down the hall from me, who I
could tell was also gay. He was cute as Hell, and apparently just as
lonely as I was! After having looked each other up and down a few times in
the hallway, we ran into each other in the showers late one night. We were
both quietly going about our business, but happened to nearly walk right
into each other when we were both wearing only towels wrapped around our
waists. Making matters worse, or better, depending on how you looked at
it, it was obvious we were both sporting serious wood under our towels too.
Scott had just finished showering, and was exiting a shower stall, that I
was trying to enter. At first we both were embarrassed as of course, our
eyes fell immediately upon each other's lumps. But within seconds, as I
realized he was as aroused at seeing my tenting towel, as I was at seeing
his, I couldn't help grinning as I looked up at his face. When he saw me
smiling at him, he relaxed visibly, and smiled slightly himself. As I
looked at him, a look of utter arousal washed over his face. I realized we
were alone in the bathroom, and being that it was so late, I doubted we'd
be disturbed, or even discovered if we were quiet. So, being I was so
horny, I pretended to accidentally drop one end of my towel I was
clutching, as I held it together wrapped around me. It dropped, and
swirled behind me, leaving me fully exposed up front. For a moment, as I
looked at his suddenly bewildered expression, I wondered if I had been
correct in my assumption that he was gay. But then Scott's eyes dropped
too. He let out a tiny gasp, and stared with big eyes for a moment at my
equipment. When he looked back up at me, he blushed deeply, but at the
same time, I could tell he was very aroused. Our eyes met for a moment,
then he purposely
pulled his towel off. As we both looked down, I saw he was very well
endowed for a smaller-framed boy. I so wanted to reach for his cock, but I
didn't. Instead, smiling a little, I blatantly grasped my own dick and
gave it a couple strokes. A small smile appeared on his lips finally, and
he reached for his own cock and did the same. When we looked back up at
each other, I motioned for him to turn back around and go back into the
shower stall he was just leaving. As his nostrils flared, he instantly
spun around and walked back into the shower stall. I followed him, and
closed and latched the door. Before Scott could turn fully around to face
me, I surprised him when without a word, I spun him back around, and pushed
him gently against the wall. As he craned to look behind himself at me, I
quickly squatted down and placed one hand on each of his buttocks, then
spread his ass cheeks wide open, leaned forward, and went to work on his
freshly washed, tight, boy pussy with my mouth! As my tongue touched
Scott's pucker, he gasped with surprise and delight. For several seconds,
as I lapped away at his rose bud, he just stood there, his feet spread
apart, and his ass pushed back, while his chest and the side of his face
were plastered up against the tile wall. His respiratory rate was fast and
deep, and he let out tiny gasps of pleasure every so often, usually each
time I felt his sphincter clench, as my tongue washed over his anus. After
a minute or two, as my tongue finally pierced his anus, and entered his
rectum he groaned with ecstasy, and clutched at the wall for support.
After a minute or so of tongue-fucking the boy, I stood up. Then as Scott
craned to look behind him and see what I was doing, I quickly reached for
my bag with my shower supplies in it, reached in and pulled out a bottle of
lube, which I'd planned to use to masturbate with. As Scott grinned and
nostrils flared, I quickly poured some into my hand, and rubbed it around
the head of my cock, then around the shaft. Once my cock was glistening, I
set the bottle down, then I pressed my slick glans up against Scott's
somewhat loose opening. Hungrily, he pushed backward, as I pushed forward,
and a second later, as my hard tool slid up into his love canal, he groaned
loudly and passionately again. Gently then, but firmly, I started to slide
in and out of Scott. I fucked him slowly for a while, then as we both
became more and more excited, I sped up, until in the end we were fucking
like a pair of rabid a****ls, until suddenly, nearly in unison, we both
began exploding over and over, very rapidly, as I filled his intestines
with my hot cum, and he sprayed his all over the shower wall in front of
him. When it was over for both of us, I pushed all the way back into him,
and wrapped my arms around him. As I held him, we stood there silently,
both nearly ready to collapse, as our knees felt like jelly. I held him
up from behind, while he used the wall to support both of us from in front.
When we'd both pretty much recovered, my penis had shrunk back down enough
so it slid out of him as his kegels flexed. I stepped back then and he
turned around. Neither of us had spoken a word to each other yet at that
point. And still, neither of us spoke. We just looked into each other's
eyes. In Scott's eyes I saw gratitude, contentment, a little relief, and a
little remaining sexual hunger. Although I'd never really enjoyed kissing
Zach, something inside me made me want to kiss Scott. I smiled, and he
smiled in return, then I leaned forward and bent my head down to kiss him.
Eagerly, he met my embrace, and we wrapped our hands around each other, and
kissed passionately for a couple of minutes. Eventually, I needed some air,
so I pulled back. He released me as well, and we stood
looking at one another, wonderingly. Finally, I smiled and said, "Hi, I'm
Dave!" Chuckling a little, he smiled and said "Hi, I'm Scott!" And,
that's how the best school year of my life began. From that moment on,
Scott and I spent as much of our free time together as possible.

Fortunately for us, Scott's roommate, who was a jock, turned out to be a
homophobe, and right from the start, he could tell that Scott was gay. He
also happened to be friends with my roommate, who was also a jock. Both of
them were on the football team together too. My roommate didn't suspect I
was gay, and we got along OK, until Scott's roommate pointed out to him
that Scott and I suddenly had become very friendly. He also told my
roommate that he was certain Scott was gay. Instantly I noticed that my
relationship with my roommate chilled a little. A few days later the two
of them came to Scott and me and suggested, we swap roommates, because they
were friends and wanted to be together, and it seemed to them we might feel
the same way too. Scott and I looked at each other, and gave each other
the slightest of smiles and nods. I looked at them and told them that
would be fine with us, that I'd move down to Scott's room, and his roommate
could move down to mine. We went to the administration and filled out the
paperwork, and later that day, we switched. After that, whenever we
weren't in classes, both Scott and I holed up together in our room, and our
semen flowed! I never had so much sex each day in my life! It was
awesome. I thought I was horny as Hell, but as it turned out, Scott was
just as bad. He couldn't get enough of my cock, and I couldn't get enough
of his ass! We were a perfect match for one another!

In addition to being so physically drawn to Scott, it was more than just
sexual desire for me. I felt differently about Scott than I had about
Zach, or anyone else for that matter. And apparently Scott had similar
feelings for me. Whenever I just thought about him, my heart raced. And,
unlike it was with Zach, I was surprised to find I wanted very much to kiss
Scott, and we did kiss - a lot. Scott was obviously my first real love!

Scott's and my beautiful relationship lasted for our entire freshman year
at school. And, because I was in love with him, and had no reason to
believe it was going to end, it was the catalyst to my finally coming out
to my parents. Similar to my older s****r's reaction a year earlier, when
I'd come out to her, my mother just smiled and told me she'd figured it out
long ago. She told me it made no difference, and that she loved me just
the same. My father told me he loved me, and always would, no matter what,
but asked that I please not flaunt my sexuality in his presence. While I
was relieved and thankful he hadn't turned on me completely, his request
that I hide part of who I am, stung me a little. Never-the-less, I honored
it, and never talked about my relationships, hopes, or dreams in his

Tragically, at the very end of our freshman year, Scott came to me, and
broke down in tears and told me he that because of some things that had
happened at home - his parents had suddenly divorced, and money was
suddenly tight as well, he wasn't going to be able to return to school the
next fall. In fact he was moving a good distance further away as well!
Abruptly, and much to my great dismay, and Scott's too, our relationship
ended. To say I was devastated, is an understatement! The only nice thing
that came from our breakup was that when I got home and told my mother what
had happened, she must've told my father. A while later, he came to my
room and gave me a hug and told me he was sorry I'd lost my boyfriend. I
couldn't believe it, and burst into tears. I couldn't believe it again
when he just took me in his arms and held me, until I'd cried myself out.
When I'd calmed down, he asked if I wanted to talk about it. I knew he
really want to, and I really didn't want to either, so he left. From then
on though, although I still didn't ever bring up my relationships in his
presence, at least I was more content with my father's seeming acceptance
of my lifestyle.

After Scott left, my life progressed rather normally for a gay college guy.
During my relationship with Scott, several students and staff on campus had
come to realize I was gay, so I stopped trying to hide it, and began living
as an openly gay young man. Although there were a few people who gave me
snide looks, I was never really hassled. I was very fortunate that most of
my peers seemed to accept me for who I was. My studies went well, and I
did enter a few relationships, all of which were rather short-lived. I
also had some one-time encounters with other gay guys on campus. I even
made it once with a straight guy who told me he was curious about gay sex,
and wondered if I'd be willing to help him experiment a little. At first I
was dubious, but he seemed sincere, so I agreed. He came to my room, and
we got naked. I was surprised when he didn't start out trying to get me to
suck on him, as I figured he was just looking for a blow job
and would leave right after he got off. Instead though, as soon as our
clothes were off, he surprised me and sank to his knees, looked me over
carefully, then tentatively opened his mouth and lowered it over my
semi-erect cock and began sucking on me! After a few strokes, I had to
stop him and explain that he shouldn't rake me with his teeth. He said
"OH... OK", and started in again, only this time, being careful with his
teeth. He sucked away on me then, until he began to taste my prepcum. He
stopped then, saying he was sorry, but although my pre-cum tasted nice, he
couldn't stomach the thought of a mouthful of actual cum. I smiled and
told him it was OK. I went down on him then, and sucked him to completion,
which he thoroughly enjoyed, and so did I. I hadn't sucked on anyone in a
while and his jizz tasted great! When he'd finished and I backed off, I
fully expected him to get dressed and leave, but he surprised me by going
down on
me again. Then, when he again tasted my pre-cum, he stopped, but quickly
switched over to jerking me off. As he pumped me, he cupped my balls and
played with them as well. He didn't stop until finally, I blew a huge load
of jism all over myself. He smiled when it was over, and finally got up
then and started to get dressed, while I started to clean myself off. When
we were both dressed, he thanked me, then blushing, gave me a half-hug, and
left. Although we saw each other on campus often enough after that, and he
nodded or said Hello to me, he never asked me to be with him again. I
guess his curiosity must've been satisfied.

As the levels of my classes went up, my studies became more intense, and I
was surprised by how fast time flew by. Before I knew it, four years was
gone. After I'd completed my bachelor's degree, I decided to continue on
and get my master's degree right away. Then, once I had that under my belt
too, I started to look for work. Fortunately, I landed a position as a
junior architect in a small, but successful firm in New York City, and
that's where I've been working ever since. Of course, over time, I rose in
the ranks, and currently am one of the principals and a lead architect in
the company!

* * *

Now, while I was going through college, my s****r Carol, who's a few years
older than me, had already finished college and was working as a nurse at a
hospital. During my junior year of college, she met and married a guy
named Bud, who I thought was a nice guy. He knew I was gay, and seemed to
accept it well enough, telling me he had an aunt who was a lesbian, and he
had no problems with gays. A year after Carol and Bud were married, they
had their first c***d, a beautiful little girl named Lisa. As I was away
at college, and was very busy with school, I didn't have much of a chance
to get too involved with Carol, Bud, and Lisa's lives. Once I landed my
permanent teaching job though, as my s****r was again pregnant, and our
parents had begun having health issues, and Bud was often on the road for
work, I began making trips home more often. So as not to add any strain to
my parents' lives, and to help Carol out when Bud was away, Carol and Bud
begged me to stay at their house whenever I was up, so I did. Happily,
this brought us all a little closer together. At the same time, I wasn't a
burden on my parents by crashing with them. Although I did go over to
their place a lot during the day, and took care of things that they
couldn't do anymore. It was a big help to Carol, and gave her a much
needed break now and then. It was also rather thrilling for me to share in
Carol's pregnancy as it progressed.

It was during this time that one of the most extraordinary things that ever
happened in my life, occurred. Bud was off traveling for work, and wasn't
due to return home for several days. The timing was perfect, as I'd taken
off a week from work to spend at home. So, as soon as I was finished for
the day, I drove home to spend the week with Carol and Lisa. It was a cold
February afternoon, and as I neared home, it began snowing lightly.

"Thank God you're here!" Carol cried as I walked in the door upon arriving
at her house. "Grab Lisa and our bags, the baby's coming! You have to
take me to the hospital! And we're dropping Lisa at Mom and Dad's on the

Instantly my eyes flew open, and my heart began to race. As I stood there
staring dumbfounded at her, she hollered at me to hurry up and get moving.
Quickly, I grabbed Lisa's and Carol's bags, as she'd told me to, while she
bundled Lisa up.

"Everything's all set here, let's go!" Carol commanded. "You'll need the
babyseat from the back of my car for Lisa though. Leave her here and go
get it and put it in your car."

Quickly I moved the baby seat to my car, and then went and got Carol and
Lisa. We dropped Lisa and an overnight bag for her off at our parents'
house, then I drove Carol to the hospital. I was mightily relieved when we
finally got there, and the baby hadn't arrived early in the car, as I was
driving! I was shocked though when after getting Carol admitted, and into
a labor room that everyone, especially my s****r, insisted that I stay, as
a replacement birthing coach, as Bud wasn't there, and wouldn't be coming!
Daunted, I took off my jacket, and nervously settled in for the long haul.

Fortunately Carol's labor went well, although it was quite an eye-opening
experience for me. In the end though, several hours later, I was present
for, and even participated in - they asked me to cut the umbilical cord -
the birth of my nephew Adam! And the crowning glory, for me at least, was
when after one of the nurses had washed off, weighed and looked little Adam
over, then swaddled him, because my s****r was still being worked on, they
placed little Adam in my arms. Other than the doctor and nurse, I was the
first person to hold my nephew! Although I'd held Lisa quite a bit as a
baby, Adam was a newborn, and I was nervous. Especially since he was
bawling as they handed him to me. The moment they put him in my arms
though, and I wrapped my arms firmly and protectively around him and looked
down into his face, he looked up at me, stopped crying, and smiled
slightly. Then, apparently finally feeling safe and secure, he contentedly
right to sl**p! At that moment, my heart melted, and Adam became the
apple of my eye, which he has remained to this day.

A while later, after they let Carol hold Adam a while, and feed him, they
took him to the nursery for the night. I went back to the house to catch a
nap and take a shower, but went right back to the hospital the next
morning, and spent the entire next day at the hospital with Carol and Adam,
who they let stay in Carol's room with us all day. Most of the time he was
there, I held him, as he slept peacefully. The next day, they were
released and I brought them home.

Of course it should've been Bud who was home with his f****y afterward,
but, because he was in Asia, and was the only one who could participate in
the business deal he was involved in, he couldn't come home til the end of
the following week, and over the phone, he begged me to please take over
his duties, which I was happy to do. Fortunately, as I said, I was already
planning on spending the week anyway. So, when he if I'd stay til he got
home, I told him that'd be fine. My mother said she would've moved in for
a few days, but was glad I was there so she didn't have to, as she thought
it would be better if she stayed home with my father. Since they took care
of her all the time anyway, the two of them offered to keep Lisa at their
house with them though, until Bud came home, so Carol and Adam could rest.
She told me I'd be able to handle whatever they might need, and that she
and Dad and Lisa would drop in each day, which they did. So, for
the next several days, it was just me, Carol, and Adam. During that time,
as Carol was exhausted, she slept and rested much of the time. Being he
was a newborn, Adam slept much of the time as well. Never-the-less, I kept
him by my side the whole time, in his cradle, and whenever he needed
something, I'd either change his diaper, or bring him to Carol to be fed,
or if Carol was asl**p, I warmed up and gave him a bottle of her milk,
which she'd expressed and put in the refrigerator. During that time, if
Adam was awake, he'd usually fuss til I picked him up and held him and
nuzzled him. They say babies don't really smile for a while in the
beginning. I was amazed though that Adam seemed to smile at me every time
I picked him up! That week, my nephew and I formed an unbreakable bond.
And by the time it was time for me to go home, I was heartbroken that I
wouldn't be seeing him for a while. Bud grinned when I said that, and he
told me to
come up as often as I wanted. I took him up on that, and began visiting
every three to four weeks. And, a couple months later, I was thrilled when
Carol and Bud asked me to be Adam's Godfather as well.

Through the years, as Adam grew, I saw in him, a miniature me. Right from
his toddler days, and all through his c***dhood, I could see that not only
did he look somewhat physically like me, but he seemed to have all the same
likes and dislikes I had as well - from foods, to favorite activities. And
he even seemed to mimic certain of my physical movements and habits as

As a little boy, Adam was absolutely adorable. He was of average height,
but slender. He had smooth, light, unblemished skin, luxurious dark hair,
and intensely blue eyes, with long thick eyelashes, and thick eyebrows.
His face was handsome, and his teeth grew in straight, and were very white.
He was a smart boy, who loved to make people laugh, and to have fun!

During his c***dhood, Adam didn't want for anything... except one thing in
particular - a father to adore him. Although Bud loved Adam, oddly, he and
Adam never seemed to bond with each other, at least not like Bud and Lisa
had bonded! At first I thought it might be because Bud hadn't been present
for Adam's birth, or during the first week of his life. As Adam grew
though, I began to see that it seemed to have to do with the fact that Adam
and Bud had nothing whatsoever in common - they had no common likes. While
just this shouldn't have stopped them from having a good father-son
relationship, the situation was exacerbated because although Adam and Bud
didn't like any of the same things, Lisa and Bud did! Lisa was a little
tom boy, who loved all sports. And Bud loved sports too. As soon as Lisa
was old enough to start playing pitch and catch, or kick ball, or basket
ball, Bud spent all his time with her, teaching her to be proficient in
whatever sport they were working on. While there's nothing wrong with
that, and Lisa in particular loved the attention, as well as the
activities, it left no time for Bud to spend with Adam, who it appeared
didn't care in the least about sports. He was more into arts and crafts,
helping to bake cookies, and things that many would consider to be things
girls should like. Fortunately for Adam, he didn't seem to care so much
that he and his father weren't close. The reason he didn't, I finally came
to realize, was because he had me. Somewhat like Bud's relationship with
Adam, I had never grown too close to Lisa, although I loved her very much.
On the other hand, also like Bud and Lisa had done, Adam and I had formed a
strong and loving bond. So, I usually spent most of my time at home, with
Adam, doing whatever it was he felt like doing. A couple of times Carol
told me it was remarkable how close the two of us were, and that Adam never
happier than when I was visiting. She said he always anxiously counted
the days until my visits. And, as soon as I arrived, we all noticed that
he'd plant himself by my side, as if we were glued together. Because I
loved him so much, that was fine with me. Nobody else seemed to mind
either. In fact, I got the idea, Bud felt a little relieved that Adam was
busy, so he could spend more time with Lisa, without feeling guilty about
it, and Carol was happy that Adam had me as a best friend and male role
model. So, most of the time during my visits home, I spent playing and
hanging out with Adam!

As time went by, and the k**s grew older, the gap between Adam and his
father became more noticeable. Lisa developed into quite the athlete, much
to Bud's delight, and he happily spent all of his free time with her, going
to her games, and practices, while Adam, who had no interest in sports,
stayed home. It wasn't as if Adam hadn't tried though to forge a bond with
his father. Even though he really didn't want to, he'd actually gone with
his father a couple of times, and tried to take up baseball and soccer, but
after hardly having just begun, when his father made a couple of negative
comments, and compared him with Lisa, Adam felt completely inadequate, and
any spark he'd felt to embrace sports was promptly extinguished. And so, a
pattern began. Usually both days on the weekend and one or two evenings a
week, Bud took Lisa off to some sporting event, without even asking Adam if
he wanted to go along to watch, and the distance between father
and son grew wider.

As the distance between Bud and Adam became more and more noticeable, Carol
became annoyed with Bud and tried to talk to him about it. Bud somewhat
reluctantly appeared to make a little more effort with Adam, but again, Bud
couldn't help comparing Adam with Lisa. And, at the same time, it was
greatly apparent that neither father nor son could find anything that both
of them enjoyed that they could do together, and in the end, neither knew
what to do with the other. Eventually, Bud reverted to spending all his
time with Lisa again, and poor Adam, was left on his own, at home. As I
noticed the situation worsening, I tried to increase my visits home, much
to Adam's delight. And because I was willing to indulge Adam's every wish
and desire, whether what he wanted to do was something I was interested in
or not, it brought Adam and I even closer together. As a result, as he grew
older, whenever Adam had a problem, or questions about something, he
would wait for me to arrive, to discuss them with me, rather than seeking
out his father. I was more than happy to help the boy, and again, Bud was
happy enough to let me take over his duties with his son, so although it
wasn't the most desireable situation, everything worked out well enough.

Because Bud and Carol had only three bedrooms, and both k**s had double
beds, ever since Adam was moved into his double bed, whenever I visited, as
long as neither of us was sick, I would bunk in with him, much to his
delight. He loved our "sl**povers"! I enjoyed them quite a bit myself,
and they created the perfect opportunity and atmosphere for us to discuss
anything Adam needed to talk about. This added level of intimacy most
definitely contributed to how deep our relationship became as the years
went by. When Adam was little, when it was his bed time, I would take him
up to bed and stretch out on the bed next to him and tell him stories,
until he fell asl**p. Then, I'd go join the others for a while. Later,
when Carol and Bud went to bed, I'd go crawl in next to Adam. In the
morning, I'd always find him happily snuggled up to me. Most often, I'd
feel his little hardon pressing into my thigh as well. Later, as he grew
older, and
stayed up later, he often stayed up a bit later than usual when I was
there, as long as he didn't have school the next day. Then, we'd go up to
bed together. Usually, he would snuggle up to me right away then, before
we went to sl**p. It was during those evenings and mornings, when we were
in bed together, that we usually had our heart to heart talks, and Adam
would tell me his problems, or ask me questions he had about various

Being a smart and inquistive boy, Adam was always curious about everything.
And as you might expect, like me when I was his age, he had a very healthy
curiosity about his body. In particular about how it was developing as he
grew older. And, of course, once he got an inkle about it, he was very
curious about sex as well! Of course, he came to me with his questions
about all of that. And too, on more than one occasion when I woke up in
the morning, I felt his small hand carefully touching me in various
"private" places. Like all boys, Adam was curious about my nipples, the
hair in my armpits, my ass, and of course most importantly, my genitals.
Remembering how I'd felt at his age, I decided to quietly pretend to sl**p
on and let him check me out until he was satisfied, and withdrew his hand,
rather than stopping his exploration, and possibly embarrassing him.
Usually his exploration didn't last too long. However, when he took my
in his hand, and I felt it beginning to expand, which rarely took long at
all, I usually pretended to start waking up, and he'd quickly rip his hand
away from me. When I'd open my eyes, he was usually flushed and looked a
little worried. When he saw that I hadn't realized what he was up to, he'd
relax, and start talking... usually about men's bodies!

At no time as he grew up, did I ever try to hide my body from Adam. I
didn't want him to think there was any reason to be embarrassed about his
own body, so I thought I needed to set a good example. It wouldn't have
worked if I tried to hide myself though anyway, as he often saw me
completely naked, as I was changing. And too, because we were so close to
one another, he thought nothing of barging in on me when I was in the
bathroom, no matter what it was I was doing. Oddly, he didn't do this with
anyone else in the f****y - just me. As a result of all this, he had no
problems with me seeing him naked, or with using the toilet in front of me.
And too, when he was a little boy and was old enough to learn to use the
shower, instead of always taking baths, he announced to his mother that he
wanted me to teach him how to shower, instead of her! Carol couldn't help
smirking as she looked questioningly at me. Naturally I said I'd be happy
help out. Since we were so used to getting naked in front of one another,
I just had him get into the shower with me a couple times, and gave him
lessons on washing in the shower. He seemed to be very happy with my
method. I noticed though that he took the opportunity to take a good, very
up-close, look at my cock and balls. One time, when he saw me watching him
as he looked me over, he matter-of-factly said he couldn't believe how big
my "wiener and nuts" were. I chuckled and told him his would get bigger
too. As he smiled up at me, I noticed his hand was in his crotch, and when
he pulled it away, he of course, had a boner. I was a little surprised
when suddenly, he shyly he asked if he could feel my wiener. I told him
that normally people didn't ask that of each other, nor did they go around
feeling each other's private body parts, but I also told him that it was OK
that he'd asked me, because we were so close. Before I could say
anything else, he took that to be my agreement he could check me out, and
grinning, he quickly grabbed my cock. I was surprised, but decided to just
let it go, and let him satisfy his curiosity, so for a minute, he gently
felt, squeezed, and pulled on my cock. His little hand fondling me caused
me to partially bone up then of course, so after a while, I had to stop
him, before I ended up poking him in the eye with it! Of course, seeing my
penis becoming engorged, caused a few questions about hardons, which I
fielded as matter-of-factly as I could, giving him basic information about
how and why a guy's penis stiffened on occasion. He shared with me then
that his got stiff quite often, which, as I said earlier, I'd noticed
rather often while sharing his bed, so I knew he was telling the truth! I
told him simply that was a normal thing. He said it felt good when he
fiddled with it when it was hard too. I told him that was normal as well,
he was happy to hear that. I did mention though that while it was OK for
him to have fun with his penis, it wasn't polite to play with it when other
people were around... that he should only do it when he was alone. His
comment on that was a simple "Oh." I never really noticed him groping
himself anytime after that though, unless I came upon him somewhere when he
thought he was alone. Usually then he'd rip his hand away and blush. I'd
just smile and wink at him, then start talking about something else, and
that was that.

The other thing I never hid from Adam, was the fact I'm gay. As I hadn't
been in any long-term serious relationships during his early years though -
my sexuality never was discussed. In fact, we never talked about it until
he was nine years old. It came up after some boys bullied him in school
toward the end of fourth grade. Naturally, part of the bullying included
the boys who were harrassing him calling him a fag, and saying he was gay.
At that point, Adam knew about sex, but only as much as it was necessary
for him to know that it was how babies were made. Otherwise, he didn't
know much about sex. When he told his parents about being bullied, Carol
of course immediately called the school and made an appointment with the
principal. Bud on the other hand somewhat dismissively advised Adam to
punch the bullies in the face. Adam told him that would be wrong, so he
couldn't. He then asked Bud what a fag was, and what being gay meant.
A little uncomfortably, Bud tried to explain, and Adam got the general
idea. In the end, Bud said, "Since he's gay, why don't you just wait til
your uncle gets here this weekend, and ask him." Adam was very surprised
to hear I was gay, but apparently dropped the discussion then, and chose to
wait and talk to me further, once I got there. As soon as I arrived for my
visit, he followed me up to his room when I took my bags up to drop them
off, and quickly closed the door behind us.

"Unca 'D'?" he asked.

"'sup Bubba?" I asked, using my personal pet name for him.

"Are you gay?" he asked.

Although I knew it was going to come up someday, I was surprised by his
question, as nobody had told me what was going on, so I asked him why he
was asking. He told me then about being bullied, and being called gay, and
how he'd tried to talk to his father, but he'd suggested he talk to me,
because he said I was gay.

"Oh, OK, I see," I said, somewhat annoyed with Bud for not taking a more
proactive approach to Adam's problem, as well as for not giving me a heads
up at least.

"So, are you?" Adam asked, sounding a little urgent.

We had a rather long conversation then about what it meant to be gay. By
the end of the conversation, he understood the basics about heterosexuality
and homosexuality, and that there was nothing wrong with either, but that
some straight people thought that it was wrong to be gay. I also had told
him that I was indeed gay. I explained too that he really shouldn't be
talking about any of what we'd just talked about, with anyone else, except
his parents if they asked. I explained that sex wasn't something k**s
should be talking about, and nobody should talk about other people's
preferences either. He said he wouldn't tell anyone anything.

We then talked at length about his being bullied, and what his options

By the time we'd finished talking - nearly an hour later, he was pretty
well educated for a nine year old about everything we'd discussed. We
dropped the subject then, and, later, when I told Carol about it, she
apologized for not warning me about what was going on, and said she'd
handled the bullying situation. She said she'e talked with the school
principal, who said he'd handle it. What the principal did about things, I
never heard.

Every so often after that, I asked Adam how things were going at school,
and if he'd had any more problems being bullied. He always told me
everything was OK though. Often though I got the idea he might be hiding
something from me, and I looked at him carefully, and questioned him a bit
more. Eventually, he'd get a little annoyed and, uncharacteristically,
he'd snap at me that things were OK. Once or twice though, he dismissively
told me there was nothing happening that he couldn't handle. I realized
then that there must still be some were problems, but as he didn't seem
upset, took him at his word that he was OK and able to handle them himself,
although I did tell him he could talk to me anytime there was a problem.
Finally, a year or so later, I stopped asking, because it only seemed to
upset him when I did ask, and he seemed relatively happy when I didn't.

It wasn't until a few years later, at Christmastime the year Adam turned
f******n, that he finally shared with me some things that had been going on
over the previous few years, which he'd chosen not to share with me at the
time. I was completely dismayed that he'd silently gone through as much
agony as he had. At the time, I initially felt as if I'd failed in my role
as Adam's uncle and "protector". In the end though, as you'll soon see, it
turned out that our relationship would change at that point in our lives.
In fact, our lives changes quite a bit! During that Christmas week, which
we spent together, Adam and I became even closer to one another than we'd
been previously.

* * *

When I first 'came out' to Adam, I was worried that maybe it would affect
our relationship in an adverse way. I was greatly relieved - overjoyed in
fact - that his revelation that I was gay seemed to have no affect
what-so-ever on him. If anything, as I look back on it now, it seemed to
me that he almost seemed to feel closer to me after he found out. I also
noticed that on the occasions we shared his bed, when I woke up in the
morning, more often than previously, his hand was somewhere on my body that
it shouldn't really have been. Of course, he was nearing puberty, and was
becoming increasingly more aware of the fact his own body would shortly be
maturing, and that he'd start looking more like me, so I chalked up his
early morning exploration of my body to his curiosity over how his own body
was going to begin changing soon, and as I'd done in the past, pretended I
was still sl**ping, and let him satisfy his curiosity... Of course, I did
enjoy what he was doing to me as he touched and fondled me, but I let my
theory that he was just curious about how he was going to turn out,
override this fact, and I let him do as he pleased.

Adam hit puberty when he was just about to turn 13. I still remember the
call I received from him in the middle of the night one Thursday night
early in December. When I answered the phone at quarter to three, and
heard his voice, I was terrified that something awful had occurred. Before
I could ask though, he very excitedly, but in a stage whisper, told me he'd
just had his first wet dream! I couldn't help chuckling a little as I
relaxed, realizing nothing was wrong, but that instead he was just very
excited about finally starting to become a man. From around the time he
was 11-1/2 he'd often asked me when I thought he was going to start growing
pubic hair. Of course, this also lead into more questions about wet dreams
as well. When he turned 12, he began expecting to enter puberty at any
given moment, probably because I'd made the mistake of letting him know I'd
had my first wet dream when I was 11 yet. As the months dragged out toward
his 13th birthday, Adam became increasingly worried that something was
wrong with him, because nothing was happening to him. Every time I visited
then, at some point, usually while we were laying in bed, after I'd "woken
up", prior to which his hands explored my body, which more than once caused
me to develop a full erection, which Adam seemed to delight in handling,
he'd ask me when I thought his penis would grow bigger and get hairy, and
more importantly - when would he start having wet dreams???

So, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when he called so exuberantly
after having experienced his first nocturnal emission. And, once I'd
relaxed after I realized that was all he was calling about, a warmth spread
through my chest as I realized it was me, and nobody else, he had wanted to
share his exciting news with! Naturally, I congratulated him and told him
that he was indeed on his way to becoming a man then. I could hear in his
voice how deliriously happy he was, and I wished I was there with him to
see his beaming smile. I couldn't help grinning when he told me then in
great detail how he'd been woken up suddenly from a good dream - one in
which he admitted to me he'd been playing with himself - to find that at
the exact same time in his dream as he began cumming - he'd actually
started to really squirt semen as well. "I can't believe how messy it is
though," he said, somewhat distastefully when he was finished. Naturally,
started to chuckle. I laughed even more when he asked if he would always
squirt so much! He didn't sound too thrilled when I told him he'd probably
ejaculate even more as he grew older. I reminded him then though about our
conversations about masturbation, during which I'd mentioned that if he
masturbated often enough, he probably wouldn't have wet dreams very often.
At the time he'd asked how often I thought he'd need to jerk off to have
this happen. I'd asked him then how often he played with himself.
Sheepishly he'd admitted that he usually did it about 3-4 times a day - in
the morning when he woke up, in the shower, after school, and before he
fell asl**p at night. Sometimes he said he did it more often as well -
usually on weekends, or vacations from school. I'd assured him that he was
having a normal amount of fun with himself, and also that I would think
that if he continued doing it that often after he started producing semen,
that he wouldn't have wet dreams often. At the time, he wasn't sure if he
cared. Later though, as we were talking on the phone about his first wet
dream, he seemed happy when I reminded him of this, and mentioned too that
he was looking forward to having his first mature orgasm as he masturbated
sometime the next day. I told him I hoped he enjoyed it, and I could
practically hear his grin coming back at me over the phone line. We said
our good-nights then, and hung up.

The next evening of course, I received another call from Adam. Again he
was whispering. This time he was very excited because he'd masturbated
after he got home from school, and for the first time, as he finished, he
had a mature orgasm, squirting a good amount of semen onto his belly. He
was ecstatic because in his opinion it was the best orgasm he'd ever had!
And, he didn't mind the clean-up from it either! I told him I was very
happy for him. Snickering, he told me he wanted to hang up then, to go
jack off again. I laughed and told him that sounded like fun. I told him
then to take a bottle of his mother's hand lotion from the hallway linen
closet, and use a little of that as lubricant. He didn't respond
immediately, so I described in a little more detail what to do, and
suggested he go really slow and try to hold off as long as possible before
cumming, and what to expect. He thanked me then and said he'd give it a
try. After we
hung up, I was so hot, thinking about him laying on his bed slowly
stroking his lotioned hardon, that I had to go jack off myself. Barely a
minute after I had had a hellaciously good orgasm, after stroking off
really slowly myself, as I'd advised Adam to do, the phone rang again.
Again it was Adam. He was panting, and sounded incredulous as he thanked
me so much for the awesome advice. He said he had no idea sex could feel
so awesome! Tears of happiness formed in my eyes, as I told him I was glad
he'd enjoyed himself so much!

Shortly after Adam had his first wet dream, I noticed the next time I
visited, that he seemed to be staying naked in front of me longer than it
normally took to change clothes. At first I didn't understand what he was
doing, but finally, when I failed to notice soon enough, he couldn't help
himself, and proudly cried "LOOK!!!" and pointed at his penis. I looked,
then realizing he was pointing at the base of it, I leaned in further, and
suddenly saw that his first few pubic hairs had sprouted. I also noticed
that his sex organs looked a little larger than I'd remembered them being.
As I straightened up, I grinned and congratulated him on starting to get
bigger and starting to grow hair finally. He just beamed!

From then on, over the course of the next few months or so, until he'd
finally finished growing a respectable pubic bush, I made sure to notice,
and remark favorably about, Adam's continued growth and maturing. He was
very proud each time I made such a comment.

As Adam grew, I began to realize that I was going to have a little problem.
As he grew, he became increasingly more and more handsome, and sexy
looking! As his body turned from a boy's into a man's, albeit a young
man's, everytime I saw him naked, I began to realize I would start boning
up. And more than once, I was shocked to realize I was wishing I could
reach over and touch him, and give him some pleasure. Naturally, even
though I was berating myself over starting to lust after my nephew, I
couldn't stop my thoughts from expanding to wishing I could go down on him,
or dive tongue first for his tight little asshole, which I occasionally
caught a glimpse of as he bent over while facing away from me. Sometimes I
even pictured myself stepping up behind him and sliding my well-greased
cock up inside him and fucking him! All of these sinfully i****tuous
thoughts I was having began to really cause me to feel guilty, in
particular, as Adam matured
even more, and my desires to 'be with him' increased. It made my visits
home increasingly more and more difficult. And in particular, it was
difficult for me to share his bed with him... especially since he still
snuggled up to me most nights!

Oddly too, I began to notice that even though Adam had grown, and his body
looked and functioned like a man's, his curiosity over my body never
diminished at all. If anything, he seemed even more curious about my
genitals, and almost every visit home, most mornings I would wake up to
find him fondling me! Naturally, I became instantly rigid, and although I
loved the feeling of Adam feeling me, and even occasionally pumping away on
my hardon, I had to begin "waking up" earlier than I did when he was
smaller, for fear if I didn't, we'd have quite a mess to clean up, and a
very embarassing situation for us both.

Looking back now, after I know so much more about Adam, I realize I
should've known it wasn't just curiosity on Adam's part anymore. Rather,
Adam was simply very horny, and completely enthralled with my
body... because, as it turned out, he too was gay! For whatever reason, I
didn't come to realize this though, until the Christmas he turned 14.

And so, finally, we get to the point behind my story... My Christmas gift
to Adam when he was 14, which turned out to be a gift we actually both
enjoyed very much!

* * * I went home for the holidays that year,
just like I did every year. And again, as usual, I stayed at Carol and
Bud's. And, as usual, Adam shared his bed with me. My visit was most
pleasant, as always. It was a very nice holiday for us all.

Over the years Adam had visited me in New York, but he was always
accompanied by his parents and s****r, or at least by Carol. During his
f******nth year, he mentioned a couple of times that he hadn't been down to
visit me in a while, and that he'd like to come down again, only this time,
he thought it would be nice if it was just the two of us. He said he felt
he was old enough that he could stay with me without his mother being there
too! When he first brought it up, I told him it was never that anyone
thought he couldn't spend time with me alone - rather his mother enjoyed
visiting the city so much that, the opportunity for Adam to visit me alone,
had just never come up.

"So when can I come visit by myself?" he'd asked.

"We'll see," I told him.

I made a mental note to myself then to check with Carol and see if it would
be OK for me to have him come down for a visit, by himself, on Christmas
vacation. When I did finally ask Carol, she had no problem with it, except
that she said she'd love to come along too. I explained then that for
whatever reason, Adam felt he wanted to have a vacation with me alone.
Carol thought about it a minute and smile and told me she thought it was
probably some sort of "coming of age" thing he was going through, which I
agreed with.

So, although I showered Adam with other gifts he could open as well that
Christmas, I also wrapped up a box with just a note in it, telling him it
was good in exchange for "One Awesome Week in NYC with Your Uncle!" I
purposely held that present for last, and as I predicted to myself, when he
opened it, it seemed as though he liked that gift the best of all!

Lisa was a little surprised, and maybe a little hurt I thought, when she
realized she hadn't received a week in the city with me as well.
Thankfully Bud jumped in and saved the day, reminding her that she was
going to a special hockey game with him, while we were going to be in the
city, so she couldn't have joined us. I quickly added that she'd get a
chance at a week in the city with me too, later on, if she wanted. She
seemed happy enough with that, although Adam looked a little annoyed when I
said she could come to New York for a visit sometime later. I guessed,
correctly I think, that he thought spending time in the city with me should
be something special that just he got to do. I grinned and winked
conspiratorially at him, and he relaxed, apparently thinking maybe I'd just
said that to appease her.

For the rest of the day, our upcoming trip was all Adam could talk about!
Thankfully, I intended for us to leave the following morning, so that
evening, we spent some time getting him packed up and ready to go.

That night, when we crawled into his bed together, he immediately snuggled
up to me and d****d an arm over me. He again thanked me for our upcoming
trip, then he yawned and drowsily told me he loved me. I smiled and told
him I loved him, then turned and gave him a peck on the forhead. A few
minutes later, we were both asl**p - much earlier than usual. I guess we
were both tired out by all the excitement of the holiday, and the planning
for our week together.

The next morning, Carol made us a big breakfast of bacon, eggs, and
pancakes. After we helped pick up the kitchen, Adam and I grabbed our bags
and headed off together in my car, for the city!

Our drive to New York was uneventful, but cheerful. Adam and I talked all
the way, about a myriad of subjects that flashed through his brain as we
drove along.

When we arrived in New York, we went directly to my apartment. I told Adam
to drop his bags on my bed, which we were going to have to share, as I only
had a one-bedroom apartment. Quickly I checked my phone messages and
watered a few plants, while Adam used the bathroom. Then, after I peed, we
took off and headed out into the city to explore.

We spent the rest of the day wandering the streets, checking out stores and
shops, and stopping here and there along the way to eat. We also saw a few
points of interest. Eventually, we stopped in a restaurant and had a nice
dinner, then headed back to my apartment. We were both pretty tired when
we go there, so I suggested we get changed and crawl into bed to watch TV,
rather than staying up to watch it in the livingroom, and he agreed.
Together, we used the bathroom, and washed up and brushed our teeth. We
went into the bedroom then, and both stripped to our boxers, and climbed
into bed. We watched a half hour sit-com, then a movie was coming on that
looked interesting, so we left it on. Adam fell asl**p within 20 minutes,
and I kept feeling myself dozing off then too, so I turned off the TV and
the lamp, and within minutes, I too was asl**p.

When I woke up the next morning, just like when I was visiting at home, and
Adam and I were sharing his bed, I felt his familiar hand feeling me all
over. Instantly my penis, which already felt partially boned, began to
stiffen even more. As Adam noticed this, he gently wrapped his hand around
my shaft and began slowly pumping on it. It felt awesome!

I let Adam jerk me off for a minute or so, but finally, "stirred in my
sl**p" and he ripped his hand away from me. I rolled onto my side then,
facing him, and at the same time scooted lower in the bed, so he wouldn't
be able to reach me as easily. Finally, I also d****d an arm around him,
thinking it might "trap" him a little, and keep him from starting in again.
Because I had sank down in the bed, my arm was around his lower belly -
almost on top of his pubic bone. As I was really tired yet, I pretended to
go back to sl**p, hoping that at the same time, he might doze off again

My plan didn't work though, and within minutes of my "falling back to
sl**p", Adam's hand was on the move again. This time though, he did
something he'd never done before. He carefully picked up my hand, which
was laying hanging off his right side, and at the same time, gently picked
up the rest of my arm as well, up at my elbown and slowly he moved my arm
back toward me, and downward. I figured he needed to get up to go to the
bathroom, so I moved my arm back with his "help". That wasn't Adam's idea
though. Suddenly, before my arm was completely off of him, he stopped and
gently lowered it back down, so that suddenly, the palm of my hand was
laying on his balls and the base of the underside of his cock, which was
rigid. It was at this point I realized too, he didn't have his boxers on
anymore, like he had been when we got into bed together! He was completely

For a moment, we lay there, neither of us doing anything, as my hand cupped
his scrotum. Finally, just about as I was making the decision to roll over
and pull my hand off him, he began to squirm a little under me. Curious,
and hard as a rock myself, not just because of his earlier fondling, but
also because I was now touching his bare genitals, I couldn't help myself
and decided to see what he would do if I turned the tables on him, and I
began to feel him up for a change!

Slowly and gently then, I began to massage and squeeze his balls. I
startled him at first, and nearly snorted and chuckled, but managed to
stifle it. Then, as his surprise wore off, he began to gasp softly.
Although I shouldn't have been, I was surprised when he never made a move
to stop me! After just a few seconds, under my hand, I began to feel his
testicles pulling upward then relaxing, several times. Apparently he was
enjoying my touch!

Although I was surprised at myself over what I was doing to my nephew, and
I knew I should stop, because of his reaction, I couldn't stop myself from
taking things further. In the back of my mind, I knew what I was doing was
very wrong, but I was so horny by then, I wanted more! I justified my
further m*****ation of Adam, by thinking that if I took things just a
little bit further, it would teach him a lesson. That he'd feel violated,
and realize he shouldn't be secretly feeling up anyone else either. Yeah
right! OK - I know. In reality - I knew I just couldn't help myself
anymore! So, finally giving in, but by telling myself I was teaching the
boy a lesson, I moved my hand up just a little and gripped his penis, and
began masturbating him!

Almost instantly, by his tiny joyous gasps and how his dick was dancing in
my hand, and the fact he didn't try to stop me, I knewt he was loving what
I was doing to him. Again, I realized I should stop. Again though, I told
myself he needed to be the one to stop me!

Determined to see if he actually would stop me at any point or not, I
abandoned his penis, and moved down, past his scrotum, and began gently
rubbing the lowest portion of his ass crack with my finger - sliding it
slowly up and down in the lower end of his groove. Again, he didn't stop
me, and I could hear his breathing had become heavier. I was genuinely
surprised when after only a few caresses of his crack, he suddenly moved
his leg that was lying furthest from me, farther away! He was spreading
his legs apart for me, in an inviting way.

At that point I realized for sure that it was more than just curiosity on
Adam's part when he repeatedly m*****ed me. I began to realize the boy was
most likely gay, and at the same time, was obviously always very horny! I
knew I should stop, but by then, I was beyond stopping. I was too horny
myself, and I knew Adam wanted me to go further too. Besides, I wasn't
going to hurt the boy. So, I followed Adam's lead and as his legs opened,
I laid my index finger along Adam's crack, and gently pressed inward, until
my finger began to slide inward - between his buttocks. Adam never stopped
me. Not even when I pressed more firmly and suddenly sank all the way in
and poked into his anus! He just gasped again, with delight, and tried to
open his legs even further.

No longer thinking about right and wrong, I automatically began rubbing his
tight pucker. I was surprised when a moment later he reached for his penis
and began gently masturbating as I continued massaging his anus! As his
breathing became heavier and faster, I was soon in agony, as my cock, which
was pressing into the mattress beneath me, was in severe need of some
attention! Gently I began to grind my cock into the bed!

Preoccupied with my own situation, I automatically began pressing a little
harder on Adam's opening. I pressed on it, then let up, then pressed again
- a little harder, then let up, until suddenly, as I pressed even harder, I
pierced his hole, and my finger passed through his anus, and slid easily,
up into his rectum, right up to the second knuckle of my finger. Adam
gasped loudly, but never stopped me, nor did he stop masturbating. In
fact, his self-pleasuring quickened and became more intense.

Nearly ready to cream my boxers, I abandoned any farce of being asl**p yet,
and pushed my finger deeper up inside my nephew's ass, until I suddenly
felt his prostate under my fingertip.

As I pressed into his gland, Adam groaned deep in his throat and began
jerking off even more diligently.

Instantly, I began gently rubbing his internal love nut.

About a minute later, I could tell that Adam's orgasm was building. He was
breathing so heavily, and beating off very quickly. Periodically his kegel
muscles had begun clenching and releasing rapidly.

Suddenly, and I don't understand what caused it to happen, but just as he
was really starting to work himself into a frenzy, I realized how wrong
what we were doing was. And I rezlized I needed to stop, before he came,
and made a messy and very embarrassing situation. I realized then,
although all I wanted to do at that moment was rip his hand off his cock
and go down on him and finish him off, that I'd taken things way too far!
I decided too, it was finally time for my nephew and I to have a discussion
about his sexuality and what had been going on with his morning
explorations of my body.

So, I stopped rubbing Adam's prostate gland, although I didn't pull my
finger out of his ass, and again, I don't know why I didn't. Instead
though, I left my middle finger stuffed up into his rectum, touching his
prostate, and simply opened my eyes. He wasn't looking at me though. He
was too busy pounding his pud, and looking down at what he was doing,
obviously so that he could watch himself cum, which he was nearly about to

My cock surged with desire as I watched for just a mooment, but then, as I
realized he was nearing his final few strokes before he burst, I finally
spoke and said, "So you don't really think I'm asl**p yet do you?".

Poor Adam shrieked in terror and literally flew up off the mattress a
little, because I'd startled him so. Then, as his body relaxed back down
onto the bed, he finally looked at me. Instantly his face began to darken
and I saw tears beginning to fill his eyes. Immediately I felt awful for
what I'd done, and too for the things I'd let him go on doing to me.
Obviously the boy had gay inclinations and now, on top of his exploration
of my body having been discovered, somehow despite the fact he knew I was
gay, he was suddenly "outted" on top of it, and was obviously was very
embarassed and also appeared a little scared.

"Aw Bubba!" I said, smiling sadly at him. I reached up for his head and
stroked his hair with my free hand. "It's OK! You haven't done anything
wrong! And no matter what, I love you man! And I always will!"

My sentiments were too late though. I'd taken poor Adam so completely by
surprise, and too maybe because it had occurred just at a point he was
about to enter his orgasm, so that his emotions were extremely heightened,
then add to that the gravity of suddenly being "outted", that he couldn't
control himself, and couldn't stop himself from beginning to cry. I felt

Although my finger was still up Adam's ass, I scootched up a little on the
bed, so that I was laying a little more next to him, and snuggled up to him
and wrapped my free arm up and around his head and hugged him to me. I
leaned over and kissed his cheek then, and told him again, it was OK. For
about a minute then, as Adam fought to stop crying, I just held him.

Eventually, Adam got control of himself, as I continued to cuddle and
stroke him, and spoke softly, telling him repeatedly everything was oK.

Finally, giving a huge deep snuffle, he looked at me, still rather
red-faced, with wet cheeks, and said, "I'm sorry Uncle Dave!"

"Dude," I said softly. "There's nothing to be sorry about! Everything's

"Yeah Right!" he scoffed, and he looked away from me, snuffling a little

"Adam," I said. "More than anyone you know, you should know that I'm going
to be OK with you, no matter what! You have to know, that no matter how
you turn out, I'm always going to love you!"

"Even if I'm gay?" he burst out, swiveling his head to look at me. He
looked almost angry.

"Um... well, Dude - I'm gay. You know that," I said. "Why would you think
I'd have a problem with you being gay?"

Adam continued looking at me for a moment, directly into my eyes. His own
eyes moving back and forth sideways slightly, almost as if he was reading
my thoughts through my eyes. Suddenly then, he gave a huge sigh, as his
body collapsed, completely relaxing. Then, in a near whine he cried
softly, "Why did I have to turn out gay on top of everything else?????"

My heart nearly broke then, as I recalled how several years earlier, I'd
voiced the same question to the ceiling as I lay on my bed, having just
finished crying over the fact I'd figured out I was gay.

"OH God!" he burst out suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. "I didn't mean
it that way Uncle Dave! I don't mean it like it's a bad thing... it's not
- not for you at least. I love you and don't care if you're gay. It's
just... well... I have so many other problems, I don't get why I had to
have this happen too!"

"Oh Adam," I said, and I hugged him tighter. "I get what you mean. And
Dude, I felt the same way when I was your age and figured out I was gay. I
know just how you feel."

"Really?" Adam asked, a little surprised.

"Hell yeah," I snorted. "Do you seriously think anyone wants to be gay? I
think everyone who figures out they're gay feels the same way!"

Adam didn't respond immediately, but he did look a little more calm, and
the redness started to fade from his face. Smiling sadly, I awkwardly
reached around his head with my one free hand, the middle finger of my
other one still being lodged in his rectum, and wiped the wetness from his
cheeks with my thumb.

When Adam didn't say anything right away, I smiled slightly and said, "You
said something a second ago though. You said, 'I don't mean it like it's a
bad thing...'. Well, you're right. It's really NOT a bad thing to be gay.
You and I, and everyone else who's gay are NO different than anyone else in
the world - whether they're straight, gay, or bisexual. People are all the
same. It's just that some people - more than not - prefer to have
relationships with people of the opposite sex, while we gays prefer to have
relationships with people of the same sex. That's really the only
difference between us. And it's genetic - um - bioligical. We're born
this way. So there's no choice really, and no way to change it. So, we
just have to accept it. It's just an unfortunate thing that everyone can't
figure this out, and just accept that there are people who are one way, and
people who are another way. It's actually rather similar to how
some people are white, and other's are black. Think about it - way back -
blacks were thought of as inferior. Unfortunately, some white people still
think that way, but it seems now that most do not any longer. They've
become educated enough to realize that there's no difference between whites
and blacks other than the color of their skin. Well, the same thing is
true of straights and gays, only people still aren't as educated about
sexuality as they are about race. Back several years ago, it was really a
bad thing to be gay - as far as straights were concerned. Well, over the
years, things have gotten better, and in many areas, more people are
accepting of gays, and realize they're no different really than straights.
It's just that at this point yet, we still haven't come as far in our
struggle to overcome people's thoughts on sexual diversity, as we have on
racial diversity. It is getting better though. Look at all the states
are beginning to allow gay marriage now! I believe it'll keep getting
better, until someday gays will be thought of as equals to straights, like
blacks are thought of as being equals to whites."

Adam, who'd been looking at me as I spoke, sighed, and said, "I wish I'd
been born later on, once things will be better then!"

I chuckled slightly and said, "You and me both Bub!"

Adam actually smiled slightly then himself. I was surprised though when a
moment later, his smile faded, and he looked at me seriously and asked,
"Are you going to tell Mom and Dad about me?"

"Absolutely not!" I said. "I'm not going to tell a soul. It's completely
up to you to do that, when you're ready to. I do believe though that if
you want to tell them, they'll both be OK with it. I'm especially sure
your mother will be! So you really don't have to be afraid to come out to
them. And remember - no matter what - I'm always going to be here for you!
So if you have any problems dealing with them, I can help. And, if you
have any questions or concerns about yourself, and the fact that you're gay
- you know you can always ask me about them!"

"Thanks," Adam said, and he finally looked completely relaxed again. Then
he smiled a little shyly and said, "I love you Uncle Dave!"

"I love you to Bubba!" I said, and I grinned and hugged him again, and
leaned over and kissed his cheek.

We both lay there smiling at each other then for a few seconds, until Adam
began to look serious again. OUt of the corner of my eye, I saw his arm
had started moving a little again. Looking down I saw him he was squeezing
and tugging on his penis, which he'd never let go of, and it was rapidly
stiffening again. A couple of seconds later, I felt his sphincter grip my
finger. When I looked back up at him, his expression had become serious
again, and I could see he was quickly becoming very aroused again.

Adam was carefully studying me when I looked back up at him. As our eyes
made contact his face began to darken a little. I don't know if he was
mildly embarrassed, or if his level of arousal was causing it. A moment
later though, in a somewhat raspy voice, as I saw his arm still moving, and
suddenly felt his sphincter muscle contract firmly around my finger again,
he asked "So... since we're both gay, will you help me finish then?"

I was actually a little surprised. I had figured he would've realized that
any sexual activities between us wouldn't be appropriate. Apparently he
felt differently.

"Uhhh... you know we shouldn't do that," I said. "As much as I love you,
and yes, we're both gay, I'm your uncle, and I'm a lot older than you. I'm
an adult, and you're not yet. So, it really wouldn't be right. You
understand that don't you?"

"I know what you're saying," Adam said. "But, i-it's different for me and
you, isn't it? I mean... yeah, I know there's perves out there who like to
m***** k**s, but... that's not the way it is with us. Like you said,
you're my uncle and we love each other. It shouldn't matter that you're
grown up and I'm not yet. If we're both gay then we're gonna both like the
same things, and I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. And, you
always teach me new things. Besides... we're ... well... we share
everything, at least we always have. And you know I'd never tell anyone if
we do anything. So, there's no way you could get into trouble!"

Adam paused for a moment, during which I just looked at him in surprise.
Before I could respond, he quickly continued.

"I love you Uncle Dave - more than anyone in the whole world. And I always
will!" Adam said, and I could see he meant it. "I've never done anything
with anyone, and well... they say the first time should be special. Well,
I can't think of anyone who would ever make it more special for me than
you! Please??? I really really want you to teach me all about everything!
And-and you can have a good time too!"

I was truly surprised by Adam's plea. He'd apparently thought it through
pretty well. So, for a few seconds, I just lay there looking up into his
eyes, studying his face, as I felt him continuing to gently jerk off. Adam
has a very expressive face, and I could always read his feelings whenever I
looked at him. As I watched him, I could see the levels of his arousal and
desire building rapidly. Then his asshole clenched my finger a couple more
times too.

As I felt my own cock, which had begun hardening as well, reach its full
erect state again, it suddenly flexed involuntarily. I so wanted to take
Adam up on his offer, but, at the same time I knew I needed not to. As my
own levels of arousal and desire continued to increase, I struggled to find
a way to stop what was going on, yet also provide a reason the boy would
find acceptable. But, as my emotions swirled, I couldn't come up with
anything. Finally, all I could do was say, "I love you very much Adam, and
I can see why you feel the way you do, but it's just wrong."

"Why?" he demanded, beginning to sound a little testy. "What about it is
wrong? We love each other, and see each other naked all the time. We
sl**p together all the time. We do everything together. I know you'd
never ever do anything to hurt me! And I know you'd do it so that it would
be gentle and make me feel really great, and you'd be teaching me
everything I need to know too. Besides - I can tell you want to as much as
I do?"

"Oh?" I asked, unable to come up with anything else.

"Well, for one thing, your cock's hard as a rock again!" he pointed out,
smirking a little. "And then there's your finger, which is still up my ass
too! - NO! Don't you go and pull it out now either!"

As he finished his sentence a little more shrilly, he clenched his kegel
muscles and grabbed my wrist and kept me from sliding my finger out of his

A second later, as he continued gripping my wrist, more quietly, he looked
directly into my eyes and with a somewhat desperate, and wanton look in his
eyes, and said, "Please don't pull it out. It feels awesome!"

Adam's sphincter, which had relaxed, suddenly and violently clenched again
then, as if in confirmation of what he'd said. This of course caused me to
flex, which pressed my hardon into Adam's thigh a little more firmly for a

As Adam smiled, his grip on my wrist loosened, so I quickly slid my finger
out of him. He gasped and got a hurt look on his face. It only lasted a
moment though, then he smiled devilishly and said, "Fine! If that's the way
you want it!"

Then, swiftly, and before I knew what was happening, Adam flipped over and
backed up onto his hands and knees, next to my legs. At the same time, he
grabbed my penis and dove for it with his mouth.

"AAAaaahhh!!" I cried, in surprise, mixed with desire, and a bit of pain,
as I felt his hot, wet mouth and sharp teeth slide down over my stiff

Adam didn't stop though, rather he started sucking up and down on me. Not
knowing what he was doing, his teeth raked sharply back and forth over my
tender penile flesh, cause me a good amount of discomfort.

"Jesus Christ man, Stop before you kill me!" I cried, and I grabbed his
shoulders and pushed him off me.

Apparently Adam hadn't expected that kind of reaction from me, because more
than looking hurt, he looked confused.

"H-how would that kill you?" he asked.

As I lay there recovering from his attack, I looked at him a moment, as he
stared at me, completely confused.

"Well, there's two things wrong with what you're doing... actually three,"
I said. "First, unless you're sure the person you're going to suck on
wants his cock sucked, don't just assume he does and go for it."

Adam's expression changed then to frustration.

"And?" he asked, confrontationally.

"Well, there's still the fact that you and me shouldn't be doing these
things," I said.

As Adam's expression hardened, he raised an eyebrow slightly.

"And the third thing?" he asked, testily.

"Your teeth!" I said, trying to sound neutral about it.

"What about my teeth?" he asked, suddenly totally confused again.

"Look," I said, sighing. "Your mouth felt great, but you can't let your
teeth sc**** over a cock like that! Your teeth are sharp... at least they
felt pretty sharp... they could've cut me. The skin on your cock is
delicate. You have to be careful not to let your teeth rip back and forth
over it when you suck a cock."

"Oh!" Adam said, his expression softening. He looked thoughtful a moment
then added, "I'm sorry Uncle Dave. I didn't mean to hurt you. But, see?
This is just what I'm talking about. I need you to teach me how to do it

For a moment, as we looked at each other, I saw Adam's hand return to his
penis, and he began masturbating again. Almost instantly, his nostrils
opened a little wider, and his eyes glazed over a bit, as he quickly became
aroused again. At the same time, he looked down at my penis, which had
softened again, and reached over and picked it up and examined it.

"Well, I guess you caught me in time - no cuts," he said, smiling. He
began gently pulling on it then, and of course I quickly began to harden

As Adam manipulated me to full stiffness again, I just watched him, not
sure what to do. I knew we needed to stop, but I didn't want to hurt or
upset Adam, and ruin our time together either.

Suddenly then, Adam went down on me again. This time though, he was very
careful with his teeth, and his mouth felt awesome as it slid back down
half way over my manhood.

"Adam..." I said.

He didn't acknowledge me, but began sliding back off me. His mouth felt
magnificent. I so wanted him to keep going, but knew I should stop him.
Before I could though, he started his descent, back down onto me again, and
it felt glorious. As he started sliding back off again, as I looked down
at the top of my nephew's head - the boy I loved so much - who was making
love to my penis, I broke. Horrifically, I realized I wanted nothing more
than to let the boy keep pleasuring me, and that I wanted to do the same to
him too.

And so, I finally gave in and lay there as Adam slid his hot, wet mouth
sensually up and down my shaft.

When Adam realized I wasn't stopping him as he sucked on me, he gently
cupped my scrotum and began fondling my testicles too. Within seconds, I
felt myself beginning to ooze pre-cum, and wondered what Adam would think
of it. He didn't stop, so he must not have minded.

Adam must've instinctively been able to tell that I was beginning to
approach my climax, because shortly afterward, he sped up a little and
fondled my balls a bit more roughly.

Before I started my final climb to my orgasm, I gripped Adam's shoulders
and gently pushed him off me.

Adam looked at me with a confused look.

"Did I do something else wrong?" he asked, looking worried.

"No," I said. I was still extremely aroused, as I added, "It's just I'm
almost ready to cum, and I don't know if you'd want me to blow a load of
jism down your throat!"

Adam grinned then and said, "Well, your precum is delicious... tastes
pretty much like my cum, so I'd like to try it!"

My cock surged then, as I saw the look of extreme desire in his eyes. As
my eyes dropped, I noticed the tip of Adam's cock was moist. My cock
surged again.

"How 'bout I take a turn on you first?" I asked.

Not waiting for him to respond, I told him to lie down on his back.
Grinning, he did as I instructed, and I quickly moved between his legs,
which he happily spread wide open for me.

I glanced up and saw a look of utter love and devotion on Adam's face then,
as he looked happily down at me. I knew then that what I was about to do
to the boy couldn't possibly be wrong!

Smiling I leaned fully over my nephew and nibbled at his left ear lobe a
moment, and listened to him giggle as I licked his ear, delving into his
opening slightly. I tasted faintly of his ear wax. Quickly I moved down
to the side of his neck and suckled his delicate skin for a moment. Before
I made a love mark, I licked around to the front of his throat, enjoying
the slight saltiness of his skin. I kissed his slight Adam's apple, then
licked downward into the center of his chest. I stopped then and moved to
his right nipple. He gasped slightly as I sucked on it and gently nibbled
its tip. He gasped again when I did the same to his left nipple. He
giggled after I pushed his left arm up and away from him and nuzzled the
little wisp of dark hair in his armpit. His delicate musky scent was
intoxicating, and my cock throbbed as I breathed in deeply of it.

I licked down the center of his torso then to his navel, and he giggled
again as I stabbed into his belly button with my tongue. From there, I
began kissing and licking at the smooth skin of his lower abdomen, just
above his pubic bush. I sensed his penis flexing repeatedly the closer I
got to it.

Finally, I came to his penis. I paused for a moment, holding it up,
closely examining it. As I looked at it, I thought it was the most
beautiful male sex organ I'd ever seen! It was about 6-1/2" long, and
perfectly proportionally thick to match. Its skin was smooth and silky,
except for the darker ring meat. And its head was a perfectly shaped
mushroom cap with just the right length piss slit at its tip, from which a
bit of glistening liquid was seeping. As my hot breath washed over Adam's
rigid boyhood, it flexed violently a couple of times between my fingers and
thumb as I held it. The tip of it became even more moist Adam's pre-jizz.
I couldn't wait to taste it!

Tentatively I stuck my tongue out and licked Adam's wetness. My cock
surged with desire as I finally tasted my nephew's procreative juices!
They were a little tangy, and delicately salty. I loved it, and couldn't
wait until he pumped a full load of actual semen into my mouth!

"OHhh MYyy GODDDdd!!" Adam gasped loudly, in a surprisingly deep tone, a
second later when I finally opened my mouth and lowered it over the
complete length of his hardness, sliding my tongue along the underside of
it, until my nose was nestled in his thick, curly bush!

As Adam's penis filled my mouth, I felt it flex to its full stiffness for a
moment, as the tip of his glans lodged in the top of my throat.

"Awwww..." Adam moaned passionately, as I slid back off of him, making sure
my tongue pressed firmly against his thick urethra, which bulged from the
underside of his dick.

"OOOooohhhhh..." he moaned, and he flexed again, as I slid back down onto

As I began to pull back off him, I remembered, as he flexed again, and his
sphincter gripped at me, that my finger was still up his ass. Immediately
I began to massage his prostate gland again, with the tip of my finger, as
I slid back up off of him.

"OOOhhhh Goodddd!!" Adam groaned, ecstatically.

For the next minute or so then, as I sucked up and down on the boy, and
prodded and rubbed at his prostate gland, he gasped, grunted, and moaned
with delight, and squirmed about a little, under me.

Almost as soon as I'd begun, I began to taste more saltiness. The
knowledge that what I was tasting was fluid produced by my beloved nephew,
due to the pleasure I was giving him caused me to start oozing precum

All too soon, I realized Adam had stopped making any noises... except that
his breathing had become heavier. At the same time, I also noticed that
his scrotum, which had been dangling flacid and smooth, had drawn up closer
to his body, and his leg muscles had begun to tighten up. Adam's climax
was quickly approaching! My cock surged with desire. I couldn't wait to
bring the boy off! Still, I wanted it to be as wonderful as possible for
him. So I couldn't rush things.

Gradually I began steadily increasing the speed I was sucking on him at,
and I began fucking his asshole a little harder with my finger, which I let
rub at his gland a bit more roughly. Soon enough Adam had begun groaning
passionately again.

As I continued working on him, I noticed Adam had begun squirming about and
flexing and relaxing a lot more. His breathing had changed. It was coming
in harsh gasps then, and his moans of pleasure had turned in to soft urgent
whimpers. I could tell he was struggling to hold back, like I'd instructed
him to do in the past, while masturbating, in hopes of having a better

I sped up just a little yet, and all of a sudden, Adam's movements became
urgent and spastic.

"Gonna cum Unca 'D'!" he managed to gasp.

I couldn't help smiling just a little around his penis, as I sped up just a
bit more, which caused Adam to begin whimpering a bit more, and tensing and
relaxing. His hands closed into fists then, as has grasped handfuls of the
bed sheets tightly in them, as he fought with every ounce of willpower in
him to hold out as long as possible.

Suddenly then, Adam's body tensed up violently, and as he gave a
high-pitched cry, which came out a little more like a gasp, I felt a large
glob of hot, thick, cum blast from the tip of his cock and smack against
the back of my throat.

"Awwwwwww...." Adam groaned with joyous relief, as his body relaxed.

Almost instantly though, before he'd had a chance to fully relax, Adam's
body convulsed again, and he softly cried "Fuck!" in a high-pitched voice,
as another glob of semen burst from him, this time flooding over my tongue,
giving me the full flavor of his seed! It tasted awesome, and my cock
surged and suddenly began leaking copious amounts of precum!

For several seconds, as I sucked and fingered Adam, he thrashed about under
me, tensing and relaxing, and whimpering and gasping, as his body spasmed
over and over, and he spewed more and more loads of his love juice into my

"Holy Jesus!" he gasped, when his orgasm finally ended, and his body
relaxed under me. I quickly slowed down considerably what I was doing, but
continued slowly sucking up and down on his still fully engorged organ, and
I continued to gently slide my finger in and out of his rectum.

For a moment, as I continued pleasuring Adam, he lay smiling and panting,
fully enjoying my attention, and basking incredulously in the aftermath of
what he felt was the best orgasm he'd ever had.

Suddenly I felt him tense up a little again, and he gave a soft, surprised
gasp as he spasmed one more time, pushing the last of his semen through his
urethra, and into my waiting mouth. Only then, did I finally slide off of
him, sucking his cock, which had finally begun to soften, dry as I pulled
off it. At the same time, I finally slid my finger completely out of his
asshole as well.

"Damn!" Adam gasped, looking up at me incredulously, as I sat back on my
feet and smiled down at him.

"My thoughts exactly!" I said, grinning. "So I guess you liked it?"

"Holy Shit!" Adam declared, grinning incredulously at me. TThat was so
fucking awesome! I can't believe you could think there would be something
wrong with you doing that to me!"

I couldn't help chuckling slightly then, as I savored the flavor of his
last bit of jism, and finally swallowed it.

"Glad you liked it so much," I said thickly, smiling at him.

"That was the most awesome thing that's ever happened to me!" Adam gushed,
grinning at me. "Thank you so much! There's nothing that could possibly
ever be better! And really Uncle Dave - a lot of the reason is because
it's YOU who was doing it! I love you so much!"

I couldn't help grinning at him, as I felt the inside of my nose tingle,
and my eyes stung slightly.

"I love you to Bubba," I said, as I rolled over onto my back and laid down
next to him.

"I can't wait to do that to you now, and taste your stuff too!" Adam
chortled happily.

I was a little surprised to hear him say that, but my cock surged with
sudden arousal, when he did.

"You sure that's something you want to do?" I asked.

"More than anything!" He cried, beaming at me. "Why would you think I
wouldn't want to?"

I snorted slightly and said, "Well, once some guys get off, they're not
interested anymore - at least not right then - in doing anything else."

"Well... Why?" Adam asked. "I wanta make you feel as awesome as you just
made me feel! Besides, I can't wait to taste your cum too!"

"Really?" I asked, still a little surprised.

With that, Adam just grinned a huge, and devilish grin. Quickly then, he
hopped up and rolled over onto his hands and knees. At the same time he
lifted his leg that was closest to me and moved it over, so when he lowered
it, he was kneeling with one leg down on the bed between my legs, and the
other on the outside of my leg.

"Spread your legs apart Unca 'D'," Adam said, smiling slightly. I noticed
his penis was already looking a little chubby again.

For a moment it occurred to me that I should still stop him from what he
was about to do, even though I'd already given him sex. But then his
fingertips gently brushed against he inside of my upper thigh, and my cock
surged again. All thought of stopping Adam left my brain, and as he lifted
his leg, I slid mine sideways, then opened both of them more fully, so that
when he settled down he was postioned perfectly between my legs. Adam
leaned over me then, and smiled down on me. A moment later, he shocked me
by leaning down and beginning to nibble my earlobe, just as I'd done to

"Seriously Dude," I said, "You don't have to -"

"Hush!" Adam drawled softly, and he held his finger over my lips. "Let me
make you feel really good too!"

My cock surged again, as Adam began to kiss and lick his way down my neck.
Adam copied, nearly exactly, all the things I'd done to him then. He spent
a little time sucling and nibbling my nipples, and he nuzzled both of my
armpits, although he seemed to spend a bit more time investigating them,
and I think it caused him a good amount of excitement. Eventually, he
licked his way to my navel, washed it, then licked down my glory trail, and
into my pubic bush, which he nuzzled a bit. Finally, he picked up my
penis, and spent a moment examining it, as I had his. Then, I'm not sure
which of us moaned louder as he finlly slid his mouth down over nearly my
entire length, this time being careful of his teeth! His mouth felt

As Adam began sliding up and down my manhood, I felt his fingers touching
my ass crack, and smiled, and spread my legs a bit further apart.
Instantly, I felt one of his digits slide between my buttocks, and a second
later, the tip of of pressed into my pucker, causing me to gasp slightly,
and my cock to surge in Adam's mouth.

Adam rubbed my anus for a few seconds, but then stopped and began to press
inward. Smiling, I gently pushed with my ass muscles. I gasped again a
second later, as my nephew's finger pierced my opening, and began to slide
up inside me!

"MMmmmm..." I moaned happily, as Adam's finger invaded my inner sanctum.

"Aww!" I gasped when a second later he poked my prostate gland.

As Adam began sliding up and down a little faster on my cock, he also began
rubbing my love gland, which caused me to begin oozing more pre-jism, which
Adam must've been enjoying, because he moaned happily for a moment as well.

For a minute or so then, Adam sucked up and down on me and slid his finger
in and out of me, making sure to rub back and forth over my prostate with
each entry and exit stroke. As he did, my level of excitement grew and
grew, continually, until after a short while, like had happened to Adam a
few minutes earlier, I was then squirming and tensing up and fighting to
hold back my orgasm too.

Adam sensed my heightened arousal, and doubled his efforts then, sucking
faster on my cock, and rubbing my love nut faster and a bit harder.
Automatically, my hands moved to my nipples, and I began tweaking them, as
Adam worked deftly on me.

Within seconds, I was so worked up that my body was beginning to contort
due to my effort to hold off my orgasm. For a moment, I stopped breathing
as Adam swiftly sucked and fingered me, and I squeezed my nipples tightly.
Then for a moment, I f***ed my body to relax slightly. A split second
later, I suddenly tensed up violently, and gasping, blew a huge load of cum
out of my cock, and into the back of Adam's throat. The poor boy hadn't
expected it quite yet I guess, nor how much I was going to ejaculate. He
gagged, and for a moment, although I was spasming a second time already, I
wondered if he was going to be OK.

As my second load of cum burst from my urethra, Adam pulled back, and my
juices flooded his mouth. Again he gagged slightly, and some of my cum
leaked out of the edges of his mouth. as he tried to swallow it all.

Although he initially had a little trouble handling how much cum I was
spewing, Adam was a trooper and swallowed as best as he could and continued
sucking up and down on me. All the while, he continued massaging my gland
too. And, for the next few seconds, I spasmed several more times, each
time, injecting more jism into Adam's mouth.

Eventually, as my orgasm waned, I let go of my nipples and reached down
with both hands and lovingly rubbed Adam's head, as he slowed his
movements, but continued sucking up and down on me. His finger that was up
my ass, slowed as well. For a minute then, I relaxed, until as had
happened for Adam, I too gave a finaly shudder and oozed a last bit of
semen from my urethra. Finally then, I dropped my hands from Adam's head
and he backed off me and slid his finger from my ass.

The edges of his lips sloppy with a bit of my sperm, Adam sat back on his
haunches then and looked a little incredulously at me. As he licked my
goodness from the corners of his mouth, he smiled a little and declared
"Jesus Christ you blow a lot!"

I couldn't help chuckling then, although I felt my face heat up a little
self-consciously as well.

"Sorry about that," I said, finally.

"It's OK!" Adam said, and he grinned and added, "I love your stuff! It
tastes awesome! Can't wait to drink some more!"

I chuckled again, and felt my cock stir slightly at the thought.

"Glad you liked it so much!" I said.

"It was fantastic! I love sucking cock!" Adam declared.

As I chuckled again, Adam just grinned happily back at me.

After a moment, his grin faded, and he got a serious look on his face.

"Unca 'D'?" he asked, looking a little uncertain.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"I was wondering..." he began.

"Wondering what?" I asked, when he trailed off and didn't pick up his
thought again.

"Well... c-can we try fucking now too?" he asked, and his face turned a
little pink as he looked cautiously at me.

I snorted and gave another chuckle and said, "Well... fucking's another
story. Are you sure you want to try it?"

"YEAH!" he cried adamantly.

I looked at him for a moment, and his face darkened a bit more.

"Um... I mean, y-you fuck guys, don't you?" he asked, turning even redder.

I chuckled and said, "Stop with the getting embarrassed already. You can
ask me anything, and not have to be embarrassed."

"OK," Adam said sheepishly, and naturally, he turned even a bit darker.

I chuckled again and said, "Now to answer your question, yes, I fuck guys."

Adam had a curious look on his facke then and said, "um... do you do the
fucking? Or... do you get fucked?"

"Depends," I said. "Most of the time, I'm the one doing the fucking,
although I've been fucked sometimes too."

"Really?" Adam asked, sounding surprised.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "Um... usually a gay guy is either a 'top' - meaning
he likes to be the one sticking his dick up the other guy's ass. Other's
are the 'bottoms' - they're the ones taking it up the ass. There's no
right or wrong - you usually either like one or the other, although some
guys are 'versatile' and will do either. I'm mostly a top, but I'll bottom
sometimes too - so I guess I'm kinda versatile... although more of a top."

"Oh," Adam said.

"So... do you have any idea which you think you'd prefer?" I asked him.

"I don't know," Adam said. "I guess I kinda wanta try
both... although... I really kinda wanta feel a cock up my ass."

"Well," I said. "Maybe you're gonna be more of a bottom then. Have you
ever had anything up your ass, other than my finger?"

"Yeah," he said, and his face tinged a little again.

"Like what?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" Adam asked.

"What things have you stuck up your ass?" I asked.

Adam turned a little redder, and looked uncomfortable.

I chuckled and said, "It's normal to try all kinds of things. A lot of
guys, even some straight guys, like to stick things up their asses. It's
because of where our prostate gland is located, - it feels good if we stick
something up there and rub it. So... a lot of guys will try a lot of
different things to see what feels the best, and is easiest to use."

"Oh," Adam said, and the color drained from his face.

"So what've you tried sticking up there?" I asked, again.

For a moment Adam looked uncomfortable, but then said, "Well, my finger of

"Of course," I said, encouragingly. "What else?"

"Um...well, I've stuck the end of a thick sharpie marker up there, and
um... I've tried a candle, and um, a carrot once," Adam said, and he looked
sheepish again.

I grinned and said, "Me too."

"Huh?" Adam asked, looking confused.

Chuckling I said, "I've used all those things too.... and I've tried a
knockwurst, and a screwdriver handle, and a hammer handle, and OH! My
mother had a vacuum cleaner once with a nice big, rubber-coated handle.
It's kinda fat, and hurt the first time I tried it, but once I figured out
to take my time and work up to it, and greased it up good, I found that was

"You mean the vacuum cleaner in her cellar?" Adam asked, with a strange
look on his face.

"Yeah, actually, I think she does still have it down there maybe, why?" I

Adam's expression became mixd then and he gave a snort and said, "Um, I-I
kinda tried it too!"

"Really?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yeah," Adam said. "But like you said, it was kinda fat and hurt a little.
Especially when it finally shoved through my hole!"

"Yeah," I said. "So, you didn't hurt yourself then?"

"No," Adam said, "although at first I thought I'd ripped my hole opene
wider than it should be!"

"I know what you mean," I said. "But then I looked at the handle and
realized I've taken craps bigger than it, so if I could push a log out that
was bigger, I should be able to get that handle into me, so I worked at it,
and finally figured out that I had to start with something smaller, and
then try something thicker, until I worked my way up to it. And it worked!
And then, once I got it up there and it felt OK, I had remembered using the
cleaner and feeling the handle vibrate when it was running, so I tried
turning it on. It didn't really vibrate enough to suit me, but it was
better than nothing, and I blew a huge load when I jacked off with it up my
ass and running!"

"Oh my God!" Adam cried, and he grabbed his cock, which was fully hard
again and gave it a squeeze. "I can't wait to go home and give that a try
next time I go over to visit! It sounds awesome!"

I laughed and said, "Well, remember - work up from something small to
something larger, and larger, and eventually the vacuum handle. Don't
forget the lube too. And um... probably not a good idea to turn it on
though if anyone's home. They'll wonder what the hell you're vacuuming and
come looking for you. No way do you want them to walk in on you when you
have that up your ass!"

Adam grinned and said, "Good thought. Still... I can't wait to try
it... especially, cause it's something you've had up your ass before too!"

I chuckled and felt my own cock starting to balloon up again.

"So..." Adam said, and I saw he noticed I was hardening again. "W-would
you fuck me now?"

I chuckled and said, "How about we wait just a little while on that.
Besides, we should be good and clean for that. How about we go take a
shower, grab a bite to eat, and by then, we'll both be clean and ready for
more action."

Adam grinned and said, "Cool... um... can we shower together though? Like
married people do?"

I chuckled and said, "I kinda thought that's what you'd wanta do!"

We got up then and headed for the bathroom. As Adam dashed out the door, I
quickly reached into my bedside drawer and grabbed one of my smaller, dick
shaped vibrators.

* * *

"What's that?" Adam asked, when he saw my toy in my hand as I followed him
into the bathroom.

I grinned and said, "Something I think you'll enjoy better than anything
else you've tried on yourself so far."

Adam's cock went very rigid for a second, then relaxed slightly, as he
grinned at me. I could see a wanton look had formed in his eyes as well.

Grinning yet, Adam stepped into the shower, which was an over-sized,
custom-built, shower stall. It was fully tiled, and had glass doors that
covered the entire front wall. There were three shower heads, all of which
had hand-held attachments, with varying pulsating heads. I usually spent a
good amount of time in my shower enjoying myself once or twice a day. I
couldn't believe I was going to enjoy it then with my hot little nephew!

I turned on and adjusted the water, then we both got wet. I reached up
then, and paused the waterflow, so we didn't use up all the hot water, and
reached for a bottle of body shampoo.

"Let me wash you," I said, to Adam, who grinned gratefully at me.

Quickly I filled my hands with body wash, then began working on Adam, from
the head down. As my hands slid all over Adam's smooth slick body, both
his and my cocks danced with joy.

"I love how your hands feel on me," he oozed, when I began gently fondling
his soapy cock and balls, and the groove of his ass.

"And I love how your body feels," I replied, as his penis danced in my
hand, while I masturbated him for a moment.

Finally, I couldn't take it any longer, I was so fucking horned up, that
all I wanted to do was go down on Adam's boy pussy! Quickly I rinsed him
clean, then paused the water again and told him to turn around, lean
forward, grab the safety bars in front of him, and spread his feet apart.
Smiling, adam did as I said.

I squatted down behind him then, and put a hand on each of his buttocks and
spread them completely open.

Adam's asshole was beautiful. The skin inside his buttocks was smooth,
blending in the center into a tight little button hole shaped opening,
which was a little darker pink and lightly puckered. I think he was
expecting my vibrator, because he gasped and sounded shocked when I leaned
in and began licking him. Within seconds though, his surprise wore off,
and he began groaning passionately, as I lapped away at his little boy

"AWWWwww...fucckkk..." he gasped when I eventually pressed directly on his
anus with the tip of my tongue, and a moment later, finally pierced through
his sphincter.

"Oh My Gooddddd!" he groaned, a little incredulously, as my tongue
continued sliding through his anus, invading his rectum, as far up into him
as as I could shove it.

I could tell that Adam was again shocked, and was craning around to look
down at me as I began to tongue fuck him.

Within seconds though, he'd turned back to face the wall, relaxed, and was
standing still, thoroughly enjoying what I was doing to him.

It didn't take long before he began to get more excited. I heard him began
gasping softly, and his sphincter began clamping firmly around my tongue.
I decided then to switch over to my dildo.

"Ohhhhh..." Adam whined in a sad tone, obviously disappointed, when I
pulled out of him.

"Hang on," I said, snickering, as Adam craned to look down at me again,
while I quickly popped open the top of a bottle of lube and poured some of
it onto the vibrator.

Quickly I held the tip of the well-lubed toy up to Adam's hole, and began
gently pressing forward. As I did, I glanced quickly up at him, and Adam
was grinning down at me. As I looked back at his ass, and gently began to
press my toy into it, Adam turned to face the wall again. Because of all
the action I'd given him with my tongue, Adam's hole quickly and easily
opened up and accepted the dildo.

"AAAWWwwwwmmmm..." Adam groaned happily, as my toy, fluidly, and quickly,
slid all the way up into him.

"OOhhhhhhHHHHH!!!!!" he gasped, gradually getting louder, as I turned it
on, and slowly twisted the knob, until it was vibrating at full strength,
pulsating against his prostate gland.

Gently for a while then, I fucked Adam with the vibrator, and he thoroughly
enjoyed every moment of it.

"Turn around so I can suck you too!" I said, finally.

Quickly, Adam, who was grinning, straightened up, and turned around, while
I held the vibrator, which was still going, firmly in his ass as he shifted
around. As Adam spread his legs apart, I dropped from a squatting
position, so that I was kneeling in front of him. I reached between his
legs then for the end of the vibrator that I was still holding shoved up
his ass, with my arm wrapped around him. Letting go with one hand, and
taking the toy with my hand I'd just shoved through his legs, I began
fucking Adam with the dildo again. At the same time, I went down on his
rigid cock again as well, using my hand at the hairy base of it.
Instantly, as he gasped again, I tasted Adam's saltiness.

Quickly Adam grabbed the safety bars again, clutching at them for support,
as he began moaning happily while I fell into a steady rhythm, sucking on
him, and fucking him with the vibrator.

I was mildly surprised when after a minute or so, as I began tasting more
of his precum, and was noticing that his body was tensing up, Adam placed a
hand on my head and pushed me off his cock.

"Will you fuck me now???" he asked, a little breathlessly, as I looked up
at him and saw him looking desperately down at me.

I was so horny by then, and he obviously needed me badly right then. that I
no longer cared about waiting to make his first real penile penetration
absolutely perfect for him. I grinned and nodded, and gently pulled the
vibrator from Adam's ass, as he smiled gratefully down at me.

"Turn around and bend over again, like you were before, when I was rimming
you," I said.

Quickly, as I lubed my rock-hard penis, Adam spun around and faced the
wall, spreading his feet apart. As I stepped up behind him, he firmly
gripped the safety bars.

Smiling, I reached down and held the lower portion of his buttocks
completely open with one hand, while with the other, I directed my tool,
pressing the slippery tip of it up to Adam's pulsating opening. Gently, as
he leaned further forward, still using his hands to hang onto the safety
bar, but letting his forearms rest on it, then resting his forehead on his
wrist, I began to push my hips forward.

As I pressed into Adam just a little, I was surprised, because I'd just
been using my dildo on him, that I suddenly felt quite a bit of resistance.
Obviously he was nervous. Probably because my penis was a bit larger than
the dildo.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to - just say so. But, if you
do want to do it, you have to relax," I said. "Otherwise it won't go in."

"Oh!" Adam said, and I noticed some of the tension in his muscles drain
away. "Sorry. Try again."

Slowly again I began to push. This time, the resistance was less, so I
pushed just a little harder.

"Just keep relaxed, and once I'm in, it won't be bad," I said.

Adam must've relaxed even a bit more, because as I continued pushing, all
his resistance suddenly vanished, and instantly, I burst through his
sphincter and began to slide into him.

"OOHHHH!!!" Adam cried loudly, and I instantly stopped moving, with just
the head of my cock, and about an inch of the shaft stuck inside him.

"YOu OK?" I asked, worried.

Adam didn't say anything for a moment, and I saw he was cringing, and I
figured we'd best abort. Just as I was going to pull back out of him
though, in a gasping tone, Adam said, "It's OK. Don't pull out. Just wait
a sec."

"YOu sure?" I asked, not moving afterall.

"Yeah, I just need to get used to it a minute," he said, in his normal
tone. Then in somewhat of an incredulous tone, he added "You're a lot
bigger than anything I've ever tried putting up there!"

I couldn't help chuckling at Adam's remark about my size, and even he
looked back at me then and smiled.

For several seconds then, we stood there, Adam bent over with the end of my
cock embedded in his ass, until finally he said, "OK, go ahead and start
pushing again."

"OK," I said. "But if you want me to stop, just say so."

"It'll be OK - I think," Adam said, and I heard him breathe out a little
harder than usual through his nose.

Very slowly and gently then, I began to press forward, and slowly my penis
slid up into Adam's ass! Adam never stopped me, nor did he seem in any
pain, so I continued slowly and gently pushing forward, until finally, my
pubic bone pressed firmly up against his ass, crushing my pubic hair
between us. My cock was completely stuffed up inside my nephew's ass!

I smiled as I felt Adam's anal muscles attempting to clamp around me.

"Damn!" Adam declared, sounding quite pleased. "I can't believe you got it
all the way in!"

"How's it feel?" I asked, as I slid my hands up his smooth back to his
shoulders and began giving him a gentle massage..

"Big!" he said, and he chuckled. "It doesn't hurt though."

"Good!" I said. "It's important that you not feel any pain during sex!"

"Well, I think you can start," Adam said. "I'll tell you if I want you to

"OK," I said. Slowly then, I pulled my hands back to his hips, and began
to withdraw back out of him.

I slowly pulled my hips backward, until nearly all of my dick was back out
of Adam.

"I feel so ... empty," he chuckled, as I paused a second.

"MMMMmmmmm..." Adam moaned happily, as, chuckling a little, I began slowly
pushing my way back up into him.

From then on, slowly for a while, I continued sliding sensually in and out
of Adam, causing both of us great delight.

After several repititions, I began to slowly, but steadily increase my
speed, so that shortly I was moving my hips back and forth at a relatively
good rate of speed. Occasionally I felt Adam's sphincter tighten slightly,
around my shaft. Each time, I flexed involuntarily, in response.

It wasn't too long before I noticed Adam's right hand had moved from the
safety bar. A moment later, he had wrapped it around his penis, and had
begun pumping it.

For a minute or so then, I steadily fucked my nephew, and he jacked off in
time with my strokes in and out of him. I could tell after a while that
like myself, Adam was steadily becoming increasingly more and more aroused!
His muscles had tightened up, and his breathing was heavier. His grip on
his cock had tightened, and his hand was flying back and forth at a good
rate of speed. I sped up to match his strokes then, which merely served to
cause both of us to become still more excited. I could feel my orgasm
beginning to build, and expected Adam was having similar feelings too.

As I felt my climax beginning to approach more quickly, I forgot about
taking it easy on Adam because he was a virgin. All I could think of by
then was how much I wanted to blow my hot load deep inside him, and
hopefully, at the same time, cause him to get off as well! Automatically,
I began fucking him faster and harder!

Adam didn't seem to care that I had stopped being careful with him. If
anything he seemed to appreciate it and became more excited himself, and
quickly began beating off even faster!

Within seconds, both of us were grunting periodically, and gasping for
breath as I pounded in and out of Adam's ass, and he pounded his fist up
and down his stiff rod, just like we'd been fucking each other that way for
years, and the rougher it was, the better we liked it!

I was almost at my peak, and suddenly really began rutting in and out of
poor Adam's tender hole. At the same time, his hand began flying even
faster, and I could see his nostrils were wide open, and so was his mouth
as his lungs began screaming for air, and I knew at that point, that like
me, he too was both desperate to get off, yet trying his damnedest to hold
off as long as possible, so that when he did blow, it would be the best
orgasm possible! And then, beneath me, as my own body began to tense up
fully, I felt Adam's muscles tightening the same way as well.

A couple seconds later, I heard Adam whimper desperately in a high-pitched
tone, ever so softly, and a split second later, he suddenly instantly
tensed very hard, gripping at my dick with his asshole, and he cried out,
as a huge stream of hot semen shot out of his cock.

The onset of my nephew's orgasm as I fucked him, caused me to blow over the
edge as well, and as he spasmed and cried out a second time, I too tensed
and gasped, and released a river of molten jism from my loins, flooding
Adam's insides! I groaned happily and relaxed for just a split second,
before my next spasm began.

"OOOOHhhhhhh..." Adam groaned passionately then, as he again sprayed the
wall and floor with his love juice, gripping at my dick at the same time.

I groaned in response, and blew more cum deep into his intestines. His
insides felt very sloshy then as I pulled out of him, and immediately
slammed myself back up into him.

"MMmmmmmmm..." Adam moaned, as his sphincter feebily clenched at me then
relaxed yet again, and I too groaned and pumped still more spunk into him.

For a few more seconds, as I continued rutting away on the boy, and he
continued pumping his prick, we both spasmed joyously a few more times.

At about the same time, both of our orgasms finally began to slow down, and
automatically, Adam's hand movements slowed, and so did my hips.

For a few more seconds, I pumped slowly in and out of Adam yet, and he
continued gently squeezing and tugging on himself.

Although it shouldn't have surprised me, it did, when a moment later,
Adam's entire body trembled a little violently, and he gasped slightly. I
realized he was having his last post orgasmic spasm, expelling the dregs of
his semen from his cock.

Excited by Adam's last tremor, I too flexed, and felt my own final
ejaculation as well.

"Holy Fuck!" Adam declared in a somewhat hoarse gasp, his hand finally
falling from his penis, which I expected finally was starting to shrink.

"Yeah," I oozed, as I stopped fucking Adam, and leaned over him, wrapping
my arms around his middle, and pulling him up to me in a hug.

"That was so fucking awesome!" he declared, as I gave him a loving squeeze,
and he snuggled up to me.

"Glad you liked it, I thought it was pretty awesome too!" I said, panting a
little, but grinning. I leaned around to his side a little and nibbled
gently on the back of his ear, causing him to giggle slightly, before I let
him go.

"Is it always that good?" Adam asked, increduloulsly then.

"It can be," I said. "You just have to be with the right person, and take
your time and truly do what you think will feel the best for each other."

I could see Adam grinning at the floor, as he continued leaning against the
safety bar, while I hugged him from behind. I could feel his legs
trembling a little as they pressed against mine, and I could also feel his
sphincter clamping a little every few seconds, around my softening dick.

For about a minute we stood there that way, still coupled, with Adam held
snuggly in my embrace from behind, neither of us speaking, as we slowly
recovered our strength, and enjoyed the warmth of our closeness. Finally,
my dick had shrunk enough, that when Adam flexed again at one point, he
f***ed it out of his ass.

"Oh!" he said, sounding disappointed.

Chuckling, I let go of Adam then, and stood up, stepping back from him.

As Adam straightened up and turned to face me, I noticed numerous streaks
and spots of semen all over the wall and floor in front of him. I was a
little surprised by the look on his face when he looked up at me. He was
very serious, and his eyes were large, and glistening.

"Thank you so much Uncle Dave!" he gasped after looking at me for a moment.
Then, he stepped over to me and wrapped his arms around me, burying his
face against my chest. "Thank you for making that so awesome for me! I
love you so much!"

Suddenly I felt myself tearing up as I hugged him back. I pushed my mouth
to his ear and whispered "I love you too Bubba! And you made it just as
great for me too - so thank you too!"

For a moment, we just stood there crushing our naked bodies together in a
loving embrace.

When we finally parted, Adam was grinning from ear to ear, and I was too.

"Let's get cleaned up now," I said.

As I reached up though to turn the water back on, Adam suddenly got a
funny, concerned look on his face.

"You better go ahead without me. I think I'm gonna have diarrhea1" he
cried, and quickly he burst through the shower door and leaped over to the
toilet and sank down on it.

I couldn't help smirking as I looked over at him, which caused him to look
hurt for a moment. Quickly though he cringed slightly, and I could tell he
was defecating.

For a moment, his face relaxed, and he looked relieved, but a moment later,
he cringed again and said, "Ewwww!!!"

Chuckling, I opened the shower door and said, "So... I guess my stuff's
leaking back out of you?"

"I guess," Adam responded. "I took a big crap, but now it's guck drooling
out of me."

I chuckled again and told him to relax and sit there, and that in a few
minutes, it'd be over. He shot me an annoyed glance, but then, sighed and

I stood for a couple minutes then, watching him and waiting, til finally,
he started to unroll some toilet paper and announced he felt like he was

Adam wiped his ass, then stood up, unrolled some more toilet paper, and
squatting a bit, cleaned himself some more, then dropped the soiled paper
in the toilet and flushed.

"Wow!" he said, as he padded back into the shower stall with me. "I didn't
expect that!"

Chuckling, I told him that whenever he took a load up the ass, if there was
enough jism involved, he might have a similar occurrence.

"Hmmm..." was all he said. I could tell he wasn't very thrilled by the

Chuckling, I suggested we finish showering, and reached up and turned on
the water.

I thought maybe Adam's episode on the toilet would've caused him to lose a
little steam, and that he'd probably wash himself, but as soon as I had
gotten wet, he grabbed the body wash from me and announced he'd take care
of me. By the time Adam was done, I was squeaky clean all over, and very
hard! I believe he figured we'd just have sex again, but I stopped him and
told him to get wet, which he did. Then I washed him, similarly to how
he'd washed me, making sure though to be gentle, though thorough, with his
ass. He was appreciative of my efforts, and when I finished rinsing him,
he was stiff as a board as well.

Together then, with our hardons bobbing in front of us, we got out of the
shower, and each dried ourselves off. Both of us lost some of our rigidity
by then, so I quickly suggested we grab some lunch, which Adam, whose
stomach I heard growling, easily agreed to.

"Do we have to bother dressing though?" he asked, as I started discussing
what we had in the kitchen to eat.

I laughed and told him that we could be nudists if he wanted, and his grin
broadened. At the same time, his dick hardened up all the way again too!

* * *

I'd bought cold cuts, bread, chips and soda on our way into the city, so we
were well stocked. Together we pulled all of the provisions out of the
refrigerator and cupboards and put them on the table. Then, naked, we sat
down and started making sandwiches. For a couple minutes, until we'd each
downed one sandwich, we didn't speak. We were both too hungry. As Adam
began making himself a second sandwich though, he looked at me and grinned.

"This has to be the best Christmas present I'll ever get!" he said,

I chuckled and said, "Well... I didn't expect what we did to happen. I
thought it was just going to be a fun visit to the city for you. But... I
gotta say... I think your present has turned out to be a present to me too!
We have had an awesome morning, huh?"

"Best ever!" Adam oozed. Then as he poised to bite into his second
sandwich, he asked, "So what're we doing after lunch?"

I swallowed the last of my first sandwich, and as I reached for some more
bread, I smiled and asked Adam what he wanted to do.

As he chewed on a huge bite of sandwich, he couldn't help grinning. He
quickly pushed himself in his chair back from the table with his feet, and
motioned downward into his lap. I snorted when I saw his rigid cock
standing at attention.

"Yeah," I said. "That's kinda what I figured you'd wanta do!"

"Ammd ou bon'd??" he asked, his mouth full. I took him to be asking "And
you don't?"

Snickering, I pushed back and displayed my own stiffness for him to see.

Adam cracked up laughing then, nearly choking on his food, as watched,
mildly concerned that I might have to heimlich him. He was still chuckling
a moment later though, when he finally swallowed what was in his mouth.

"I was so hoping you'd agree!" he said, grinning at me, his eyes sparkling.

"Well," I said, getting serious. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to
do it with you again. What we did earlier was absolutely awesome Adam, and
I'd love to do it with you like that several times a day, everyday for the
rest of my life!"

"That's exactly how I feel!" Adam cried, grinning jubilantly, his eyes
glistening even more. I thought maybe he was getting tears in them.

"We need to discuss this though," I said, still serious. "While it was
awesome, what we did wasn't exactly a good thing."

"What do you mean?" Adam asked, suddenly confused, and looking a little

"Listen Bubba," I said. "I love you very much, and I know you love me too.
And what we did was really awesome. We weren't just having sex. We were
pretty much making love to each other, and that's exactly how it should
always be when you have sex with someone. So for that reason, it was good.
And understand this - what wasn't so good about what we did has nothing to
do with the fact we're two guys and it was gay. There's nothing wrong with
being gay! The point is, I'm an adult, and you're not yet. And... on top
of it - you're my nephew too!"

"That's shit!" Adam burst out. "So what that you're my uncle! You love me
and I love you, and we were both showing each other just how much! So,
what's the problem with that? And I'm almost 15 - I'm almost all grown up!
It's not like I'm a little k** who doesn't know what he wants. I really
wanted to do it, and you know that! I know there're laws against adults
doing it with k**s though! But, I love you Unca D! I'll never tell a soul
what we did, and you know I mean that! I'd never let you get in any kind
of trouble! Especially when all you did was love me so much! So, stop
worrying about it! Forget I'm not grown up yet. Nobody will ever know
about what we're doing! And you better not say we have to stop now

Adam looked very determinedly at me then, and I could see he was searching
my face as if he could read on it how I was going to respond.

He relaxed a little when I couldn't help a slight, somewhat sad smile from
spreading over my lips.

"I do love you more than you can possibly imagine," I said, smiling a
little more broadly, and instantly bringing a smile to Adam's lips, and a
sparkle to his eye again. "And, yes, the way you see it and explained it,
seem to make it all seem OK. Still, there are a couple of reasons that
aren't so obvious, that could cause us problems. Maybe not if we were to
stop now. But if we were to keep going, in the future they could cause us
big problems."

The smile faded rapidly from Adam's face, and he looked both petulent, and
betrayed, as he stared back at me.

"The reason it's wrong for an adult to have sex with a k** is because k**s
brains aren't completely developed yet, like adults' brains are, and they
don't think the same way," I said. "An adult has more knowledge and
experience than a k**, and pretty much knows exactly what he wants. k**s
haven't learned as much yet, and while at the time they may think they know
what they want, when they finally finish growing up, their ideas may have
changed due to the extra knowledge and experiences they've had as they've
finished growing up. So... while right now, you may think you're gay and
want to just be with guys, and that you really liked what we did, when
you're older, that might change, and you might be sorry I allowed us to
have sex together."

I was surprised when Adam suddenly began laughing.

A few seconds later, still chuckling, and wiping his right eye with the
back of his hand, Adam's smile faded, and he looked seriously at me and
said, "Uncle Dave. Seriously? You know me better than anyone else on the
planet does. Can you tell me that you truly feel I'm going to suddenly
turn straight? I mean look at me! There's nothing at all about me that's
straight! I don't like girls - never have, and just the thought of even
trying to do anything with a girl turns my stomach! So that argument is
crap. I'm a fag, and I'll always be one! And there's no way I'll ever be
sorry for what we did together! Today's been the most awesome day of my

As Adam looked me directly in the eye, I waited a couple of seconds,
gathering my thoughts.

"OK," I said, finally. "First of all - you are not a FAG! You are gay.
Never use that term to describe yourself or anyone else who's gay. It
makes it seem as if you're disrespecting yourself and any other gays. Now,
about what you said about yourself, I'll admit, I know you're gay, and
because I am too, I do understand what you're saying. I do believe you
will always be gay. Still, there could be reasons when you're older that
you might be sorry we did what we did, and in the end, because I'm the
adult, I should bear the blame for it - not you. ... I have to admit
though, I remember how I felt about things at your age, and honestly, after
this morning, I wish I had had an uncle like me when I was your age, to
show me the ropes, like I showed you! So... I can understand why you feel
you'll never be sorry about it. And I expect that you never will be."

"Thank you," Adam said, smiling just a little.

"That's not all though," I said.

"Fuck!" Adam swore softly, and he sank back against the back of the chair,
and gave me an annoyed look.

"You swear too much," I said, suddenly changing the subject. "Your mother
isn't going to like it!"

Adam looked surprised and confused for a moment.

"I only swear when I'm alone, or with you really," he said, finally. "I-I
thought I could be myself around you."

"You can," I said. "I swear too, but I'm careful who I do it in front of.
I don't really care if you swear when you're alone or with me, but be
careful not to get too used to it, or you'll forget and swear in front of
the wrong people sometime."

"I'll be careful," Adam said.

"Anyway," I said. "I get that this morning was wonderful for you, and it
was for me too. I'm sure you learned a few things, and we both know it
felt awesome. And, I think it brought us even closer to each other
emotionally too - which is really cool!"

Adam smiled again.

Before he could say anything, I quickly continued. "I can tell you want
more, that you think that since we've done it once and there were no
problems, we should be able to keep on doing it. And I know you've got the
physical urges too of course. And, I'm not going to lie to you - I do too.
If we were to have sex again after this, it would be harder to not have it
again after that, and again after that, and so on. And while it might not
do any real damage at first, if we were to fall into a pattern of always
having sex together, eventually, down the road I can see that there'd
probably be some problems. Big problems that could ruin our relationship."

"What do you mean?" Adam asked, looking surprisingly concerned for once.

"If we were to keep on having sex," I said, "both of us would expect it
everytime we got together, and we'd probably find a way to get together and
have sex. But, each time our visits were over, I'd be back in the City,
and you'd be up home, and we'd each be alone. It'd be very frustrating for
both of us to not be able to be together."

"But," Adam interupted, looking confused. "Wouldn't it be better to at
least have those times together, than never to be together again? I think
I'd be more frustrated if we stopped altogether, and I had no hope of us
ever doing it again."

I thought a moment, and let the air out of my lungs.

"Well," I said. "Yeah, in a way, that's true, but, there's more to it than
just that too. Right now we see each other about one weekend a month.
Let's say we did keep on messing around whenever we got to see each other.
All those days - no - weeks - during the month that we couldn't be together
would be hard to handle."

"That's what hand jobs are for," Adam quipped.

"True," I agreed. "But, as you grow older, you're going to want more, and
at the same time you'll be forming new friendships, and eventually, you'll
meet a guy who's gay, who you are attracted to. What are you going to do
about that?"

Adam snorted and said, "In case you hadn't noticed, I have no friends. And
I seriously doubt I'm suddenly going to start making any."

"You keep putting yourself down too much," I said, again changing the
subject for a moment. "We're gonna talk about that more later, so you
really come to understand what I mean, but for now you just need to know
that I do not see you as anything other than a normal teenage boy - albeit
one who's gay, but otherwise Adam, you're really just a normal guy. You do
not wreak of homosexuality as you seem to feel you do. Honestly, if
someone meets you, I don't see how they'd think you were gay. You don't
act it in a stereotypical way at all. So unless you tell someone you're
gay, they're not going to know. They could start to wonder after a while,
why you don't have a girlfriend I suppose, because you're a really handsome
guy. But seriously Adam, you need to stop thinking about yourself so
negatively. And, you need to open up a little, and let other people into
your life - I think you yourself are the only reason you don't have any
friends. I
think you're afraid of taking the chance of being shot down, so you don't
even try. It's not your fault man... it's all the bullying you went
through. I'm so sorry that's happened to you. Later on we can talk about
this some more, and maybe I can help you figure out how to loosen up a
little bit, so you can try to make some friends. It'll be hard at first,
but, I think you can do it."

When I paused, Adam was looking at me with big, sad eyes, and I thought I
could see his chin trembling slightly. Smiling sadly, I leaned over and
kissed him on the forehead.

When I sat back upright, I said, "Like I said, that's another conversation
- one we'll have later. For now though, I need to finish explaining to you
why it might be a bad idea if we keep on having sex... Like I said before,
if we keep on doing it whenever