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The following is more of a collection of memories than a cohesive story. The video I reference is on my profile. ... get started I intervened and took her home. He was such a sexual a****l that it was like seeing a lion kill it's dinner close ... ... Continue»
Posted by exgfexposer 2 years ago  |  Categories: Fetish, Taboo, Voyeur  |  Views: 927  |  
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A Girls Sexual Growing Continues, by MarieL

I have finally lost my hymen and experience a man's cock inside me for the first time, now as time has moved on I need to explore all avenues for sex available to a girl willing enough to try anything, by now I have had experiences with many man, so now for something different.

Please read on and relive my experiences and please dont forget to get involved, I need to know you so please comment.


After Grandpa Gardener, I became an uninhibited girl, returning regularly to the scene of my surrender, there was no stopping my unquenchable thirst for that exquisite feeling of being penetrated.

Masturbation became easier too as I found I could orgasm with amazing regularity and without too much effort.

My crotch seemed to have a life of its own, not taking too much effort to crave physical contact, and with this female lusting, my body responded in leaps and bounds, pumping out sex hormones and turning me into every perverts dream.

My breasts became fuller, and firmer, this firmness was unfettered by a lack of brassiere, and my constant state of neediness, was psychologically transmitted from my protruding nipples, like little telegraph poles sending out messages to the surrounding men, 'This girl is on fire'.

My mind also was in a constant flux, soaking up stories and images to be put to my own use as a sexual outlet for me. Normal sex was great, but in an other way, unfulfilling.

I found myself needing that little something more, and during one session asked to be spanked, as we copulated.
The smack felt dull alongside the intense feeling of the sex act itself, but the sound, the loud smack of his hand on my bum, thrilled me, and I screamed out, 'Again, and again', this time my orgasm went through the roof, surely it could not get better, how wrong I was.

I entered the double decker bus just as the rain started falling, and sat on the full length seat, at 90 degrees to the rest of the seating, and at each stop the bus filled and soon our bodies were in physical contact, only I was sitting down.

Then I saw him. He was just staring at my knees, 'Shit', I thought, and immediately began to formulate his lusting for me into a scenario where his desire for me became an obsession, I wanted to feel his orgasm as well as my own, and as such imagined what it was he craved for me to do, positive feedback I think could describe my inner feelings.

I did nor realize the bus had passed my stop, with my deep thinking lost somewhere down in my crotch and the people blocking my view, soon I was right in town and the heavens had opened, with the incessant down-pouring rain.

I alighted the bus, much to the disappointment of the man looking at my knees, and ran like crazy to an awning in a building close to the stop.

It was very dark with the cloud cover and the heavy rain, I shivered as a gust of cold wind swirled up the street, devoid of people, then I realized I was in a side street, just off the main thoroughfare, I checked my watch and was about to make a dash for it when a man appeared from the side, 'Excuse me miss', he said.

My first Sex Toy Experience

I looked at him, 'Another Wrinkly', I thought, names of endearment young girls used to describe men of certain ages, 'Yes', I replied, straightening up as he approached, noting his eyes firmly on my breasts, the cold and wetness due to rain, did nothing to hide my stature of femininity, my nipples hardening even more, thanks to his keenness of them.

'Sorry love, I thought you were someone else', he apologized and smiled warmly, but my tits remained firmly in his focus, even I could see their naughty protuberance now, I was convinced they had doubled in size and firmed even more in their rigidity.

He swallowed hard, 'Caught looking', a catchword phrase being used back then, made me smile as I thought about it then, and he certainly was caught.

I could feel the old familiar feeling and heat rise in my feminine crotch, I was warming to his attention, 'Bet he wants to fuck me good and proper', flashed through my mind repeatedly, each time I thought it, the closer to reality it became.

Then it dawned on me where I was standing.

Even though I had never been here before, it was a backstreet cinema, 'A Dirty Old Man's Cinema' called 'Bio Rio'.

'Is this a sex cinema', I asked him in my sweetest voice.

He looked outside, left and right, seemingly content we were absolutely alone, 'Yes, it is', he replied, 'but it Ok for now', he continued, adding, 'given the weather and that'.

'I was about to go when you came', I defiantly stated, with a hint of teenage ire in my voice, but his mellowed softness quashed my rising heat, 'You look cold, like some tea', he countered?

I followed him down the darkened hallway into a small booth, where he stood and collected hard cash from the desperate men looking for sexual gratification from the celluloid imagery.

'Sit here'. He proffered me a seat in an old beaten brown leathered couch, and I put my satchel down on the floor beside it and sat down, letting my skirt hem ride high on my bare thighs.

As I sat and settled down my bum sank deep into its polished surface, and my knees high enough to put my thighs at a good angle relative keeping my skirt riding high.

'You like some milk', he asked as he turned to take note of me sitting in such a provocative position, his eyes falling on my ample bosoms, as if to emphasize some sort of relationship.

I smiled, 'They are not producing yet', I naughtily countered. He liked that, and I felt flushed he did.

'How old are you', he queried as he handed me the hot cup?

I reached down for my satchel and fished out my ID card, and handed it to him and watched as he studied it and counted the years since my birth, before handing it back to me.

'I should copy that', he said, 'can I', he asked?

'Why', I replied with a quizzed look on my face. 'Someday Miss MarieL, you will be famous and I want people to know I knew you'.

I laughed at that one, 'You're fucking crazy', I said, I used the expletive because suddenly I wanted something to happen, so I handed it back to him and watched as he went over to the copying machine.

'Wait', I said, and got out of the chair and went alongside him, 'Let me make it more personalized', and he gave me both the card and a look that said he understood.

I lifted the lid of the copier, and followed with my blouse and placed both the ID card and my bare breasts on the cold glass, pressing the button, all the time my eyes never left his face.

The A4 paper came out to reveal my perfect breasts and herd nipples in wonderful color and my ID card with all my details in perfect unity.
I straightened-up, picked up a pen, 'What's your name', I asked him throatily, my tonal verbosity tinged heavily with lust, 'Call me Johnny', he replied as he drank in the visual wonder of my young breasts.

I handed it to him, 'There can be no doubting as to who I am now', I said as he studied the paper, a smile breaking out across his face, 'What about your bottom half', he said confidently, 'Why not', I countered, getting into the total absurdity and naughtiness of the whole thing.

He watched and moistened his dry lips as my hands shot up my short skirt and my thumbs hooked my panties down and off.

'A souvenir', I said as I held them out to him, the soaked crotch now visible to both of us. He took them and without his eyes leaving mine he drew his tongue across the gusset, making me cringe with delight, 'You like my taste', I said as I climbed onto a plastic chair, turned and bared my ass and pussy to him before planking it down on the glass surface, 'Might be smudged as I am wet', I said, and he cam across to me and lifted my thigh high enough to place my ID card under it, then he reached up my thighs to my bum and pulled my cheeks open, 'We need to show just how wet you are', and at that pressed the button.

I literary slid with his help from the surface, leaving a familiar snail trail, young pussies will do that, and he bent across and licked it clean.

I studied the second paper and noted with pride it was not as smudged as I thought it might be, my pussy was showing every crinkle and fold, even my butt hole and clitoris could be seen, so I signed it, but only as he fucked me.

When we finished, all of a disappointing three minutes later, I signed it proper, explaining the first scribbling were due to my being fucked over the very machine.

I stood by the copier and continued to drink my tea, studying him, as his semen run down my thighs, 'You need a towel', he suggested?

I shook my head, 'Feels nice', I said naughtily, he just shook his head.

'Come here', he ordered, and as I approached him he pulled a drawer open. I looked inside and it was full of sex toys, dildos, vibrators, balls, dongs and butt plugs, things I had never really thought off until now.

'What,s this for'?

I held up a jelly like spike, blue with sparkly flakes embedded. 'It's a Butt Plug', he said, noting the puzzled expression on my face, 'You shove it up your tight asshole', I loved the way he talked.

'Here', I handed it to him, 'Shove it up my asshole', I ordered, I was warming to another fuck, I just hoped he was able too.

I turned away from him, raised my skirt and bent double, 'Pull your ass apart', he ordered and I complied, feeling him rub this silicon object along and up inside my pussy, 'That's not my asshole', I weakly objected, as it still felt good.

'I am just oiling it to go in you', he countered, then he bent between my ass cheeks and licked my pink crinkled butt hole, first lapping it full tongue, the more with the pointed tip as he started to penetrate it, he was 'Rimming me', and it was a massive pleasure to feel.

He withdrew the plug from my pussy and slid it all the way up my asshole, watching as I closed around the base, securing it firmly inside, 'Fucking hell', I screamed, straightening-up, 'is it all the way inside'?

He came across to me, his arms encircling me and we started kissing, I loved kissing, it was a very personal action, an acceptance to making love to the man inside you, and I wanted that sort of sex, not an quickie or an wham bang thing, no I wanted to be fucked by a man who knew I wanted him, so kissing for me made it that way.

He seemed to like the fact I was moving around with a foreign body inside of me, 'How does it feel', he queried after about fifteen minutes.

'I'm comfortable with it', I said, squeezing my bum cheeks together, in one way knowing it was there added to my libido, and the fact I was without panties added another, 'Do you want to fuck me again', I asked him pouting.

'Take some toys, have fun, keep them,'. I went back to the drawer and took some very colorful 'Rabbits', a 'Dong' and the 'Butt Plug', currently nestling up my ass, 'These will do fine I said somewhat triumphantly, and put the three item in my satchel.

'Lets go up to the 'Reel Room', he suggested. 'What's that', I asked him. 'It's where we show the videos and look down on the men having a wank', that did it for me, 'OK, lets do it', I said, 'can I leave this in', lifting my short dress to show the butt plug was still being chewed on by my sphincter ass muscle.

The story continues in the next part as I go amongst masturbating men and have my sexual experience expanded by group sex in the semen strewn seats and floor of the cinema, Please remember to add your comment as I go down these sexual memories






... Continue»
Posted by MarieL 1 year ago  |  Categories: Anal, Mature, Taboo  |  Views: 3229  |  
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Nancy Friday Forbidden Flowers MORE WOMEN’S

Forbidden
MORE WOMEN’S SEXUAL FANTASIES
This book belongs to the
women whose letters fill it. Many
wrote to question their own
sexuality, others to confirm it.
From them all, I have learned
about my own.
– N . F.
“Your book My Secret Garden reduces women
to men's sexual level.”
– Dr. Theodore I. Rubin, to
Nancy Friday, in NBC
radio interview, 1973
“Aren't women entitled to a little lust too?”
– Nancy Friday's reply
i
TABLE OF CONTENTS
AN INTRODUCTION ...................................................... 1
CHAPTER ONE............................................................ 13
c***dHOOD......................................................................13
Dorothy, Carla and Tom, Jennie, Sarah, Claudia,
Janice, Denise, Frank, Lana, Robyn, Ivy, Bonnie,
Sophie, Dr. John Harrison, Deedee, Loretta, Sharon,
Brenda, Gena, Joyce
CHAPTER TWO........................................................... 65
ADOLESCENCE .................................................................65
s*s, Beth Anne, Penelope, Jenny, Veevee, Katherine
Muffie, Carina, June, Tina, Toby, Penny, Cecillia,
Isabel
CHAPTER THREE ....................................................... 94
LOOKING ...........................................................................94
Roxanne, Sharon, Molly, Jackie, Sally, Marylou
CHAPTER FOUR ....................................................... 116
FRUSTRATION ................................................................116
Laura, Biba, Lyle, Dot, Gloria, Callie, Arlene, Bunny,
Sherri, Ginger, Ricky, Stella, Jill
ii
CHAPTER FIVE ......................................................... 156
DAYDREAMING ..............................................................156
Lulu, Jackie, Ethel, Samantha, Debbie, Connie,
Elaine, Sophie, Killie, Libby, Phyllis, Marilyn,
Moreen, Janet, Lucia, Lilly, Wilma Joan
CHAPTER SIX ........................................................... 187
MASTURBATION.............................................................187
Emma, Venice, Libby, Dorothy, Liberated Lady,
Noranna, Fanny, Liz, Anonymous, Diane, Cecilia,
Carole, Gabbie, Isolde
CHAPTER SEVEN ..................................................... 226
DURING SEX ....................................................................226
Lynn, Jan, lsabel, Kate, Helen, Riva, Beth,
“Shoulders”, Monica, Delia, Daisy, Vi
CHAPTER EIGHT ...................................................... 255
DREAMS COME TRUE ...................................................255
Carolyn, May, Chessie, Rose Ann, Nessie, Kellie
Lizzy, Joni
AFTERWORD ............................................................ 295
1
AN INTRODUCTION
Dear Nancy:
I finished your book this morning, and all I can say is Thank
God someone opened my eyes to this aspect of human sexuality
while I am still young enough to be just at the beginning of my
sexual life. Your book has totally changed my way of thinking.
I am s*******n and until a few months ago, had had
intercourse with only one person – my boyfriend for two years.
Perhaps that is why I have fantasized so much during our
sessions. But whatever the reason, it always made me feel
guilty, unfaithful, and perverted – and I suppose this negative
feeling about myself was another factor that kept me from
enjoying sex with him.
Reading My Secret Garden has shown me in the clearest
terms that sex and fantasies are not something to be endured,
but to be enjoyed. Your book has chopped years off the time it
would have taken me to make these discoveries myself. Thank
you for allowing me to be reborn sexually before it was too late
to change my beliefs, and before I got clogged down forever in
sexual guilt.
Sincerely,
Mary
 Sexual mores and practices have shown an age-old
resistance to change. Today, there is hardly any part of human
behavior we are more willing to question and alter. The acceptance
of new ideas of what is sexually okay is now so immediate
you'd think entire generations had been holding their breath
– people being born, living, and dying, yet never daring to explore
their own sexuality, afraid that only she/he ever felt certain
erotic desires, only he/she was aberrant and everyone else
2
was “normal.” Then, suddenly, The Word is out; without
seeming to pause for even a sigh of relief, everybody knows
without further discussion that it is not only okay, but that it
has always been okay.
To suggest you ever questioned it is to show what a hopeless
square you were to begin with. It took years for Kinsey's findings
in the '40s to make their full cultural impact, but the revolution
Masters and Johnson introduced in the '60s was immediately
accepted as not revolutionary at all. Right away, their
findings became part of everyone's workaday bedroom knowledge.
“Sure, what else is new?”
Oral sex, for example. In the '50s, I almost fainted when a
man suggested it. Yet I almost fainted with pleasure when he
did it. Today, who would dare suggest that oral sex was bad,
dirty, perverted – or even unusual?
During the five years I was compiling material for My Secret
Garden, I could not find a doctor or psychiatrist who would
intelligently discuss women's sexual fantasies. It was still a
taboo subject. In 1968, before I decided to write the book, I did
some research in the giant New York Public Library and the
even larger British Museum library in London. In the millions
upon millions of cards on file in these two vast repositories of
practically everything ever written in the English language, I
did not find a single book or magazine article that dealt with
the subject, even though, by definition, women's sexual fantasies
were of more than intellectual interest to one-half of the
human race.
I spoke to at least a dozen psychiatrists in both the United
States and Great Britain. The most any of these learned men
would concede was that perhaps some women did have sexual
fantasies when they masturbated; otherwise, they said, the
phenomenon was limited to the sexually frustrated and/or to
the pathological. They took the initial fact that a woman had
sexual fantasies as a sign of sickness. The idea that a happily
married woman, sexually satisfied by a beloved husband,
might still have erotic pictures in mind – perhaps of another
man, perhaps of ten other men – was totally foreign to their
ideas of feminine “mental health.” Too often in these discus3
sions, the medical mask would slip, and I would find myself
facing not the calm professional but the outraged man. The
disgusted son, husband, and father would look at me – surely a
hoax cleverly disguised as a “nice woman” – with ill-concealed
anxiety and dislike. “You are entitled to your subjective opinions,
Miss Friday. But have you any medical qualifications to
back up your ideas?”
As late as February 1973, the noted “permissive” Dr. Allen
Fromme would take a similar position in daring Cosmopolitan
magazine. “Women do not have sexual fantasies,” Dr. Fromme
wrote, and went on with patronizing kindness: “How do we
know? Ask a woman, and she will usually reply, No. The reason
for this is obvious: women haven't been brought up to enjoy
sex … women are by and large destitute of sexual fantasy.”
Needless to say, this reinf***ed the need to deny the practice
of sexual fantasy among the millions of Cosmo Girls who read
these words, not only when talking to eminent medicos like Dr.
Fromme but even to themselves. Of course, most women told
Dr. Fromme that they did not have sexual fantasies; no woman
wanted to be thought sexually “weird” when faced with what
seemed to be expert medical opinion, that if she did, she was
totally outside the “normal” experience of her s****rs. Dr.
Fromme may have thought he was being merely descriptive. In
fact, he was being normative. A self-fulfilling prophet.
Yet an example of the almost frightening speed with which
the experts can revise their ideas on contemporary sexual dos
and don'ts was recently printed in the same magazine in February
1975. When a practicing New York psychoanalyst and
Cosmo's own monthly psychiatric-advice columnist could say
this:
“… all women have sexual fantasies, though sometimes
they won't admit it, even to themselves. Fantasies are makebelieve
states used to enhance reality. A woman making love to
one man may imagine that several other men are watching….
Her fantasy provides a safe way to explore the erotic possibilities
of a situation that might be very threatening or guiltproducing
if she acted it out.”
4
The psychoanalyst goes on to say: “A fantasy can give a
woman an added sense of life and all its possibilities. It is the
unexamined corners of the mind that breed neurosis and fear –
not the portions of ourselves we know, recognize and accept.”
When My Secret Garden was published, I was happy to
find other doctors coming forward to support my feelings that
sexual fantasies were not necessarily a sign of neurosis, but
were, instead, a sign of a woman's sexual exuberance and life.
Dr. Leonard Cammer, chairman, Section on Psychiatry, Medical
Society of the State of New York, endorsed my views, as
did the noted founder and executive director of SIECUS, (Sex
Information and Education Council of the U.S.), Dr. Mary Calderone.
And yet the anxiety that the subject aroused in many
medical men would not abate: the validity of my statistical
methods was attacked. “But all the women you talked to volunteered
to do so,” was the way this objection usually ran. “They
are a self-selected sample. How can you extrapolate from what
these exhibitionistic volunteers tell you? How can you say that
their experiences are also shared by their s****rs in the silent
majority?”
This same argument was used against Kinsey and Masters
and Johnson when their research was published, but time has
proven that their studies not only voiced the views of the people
who volunteered but also spoke for the broad spectrum of
Americans in general. In addition, I note no reluctance in the
works of psychoanalysts themselves, beginning with Freud, to
base their theories of human nature on that tiny fraction of the
human race that has laid itself bare on the analytic couch. The
vast majority of the human race has never figured in any psychoanalytic
survey or clinical documentation of human behavior
– and still any psychoanalyst you talk to will unhesitatingly
tell you “all” people pass through certain stages of the Oedipus
complex. It is my feeling that if over two thousand women
from all parts of the country, of all ages, marital status, and
economic classes write that they have these or those sexual
fantasies that make them feel this way or that, their feelings
and experiences are going to be shared by the great majority of
all women. “In my practice,” says Dr. Sonya Friedman, a De5
troit clinical psychologist and marriage counselor, “I am continually
struck by how much more we are alike than we are
different.”
In the end, I must leave the validity of what I am saying to
you, the reader, to judge. If this book awakens no resonance in
you, if you feel no recognition or empathy between yourself and
the women who speak in these pages, it is not that you are odd
– it is only that I am wrong about you. But for the rest of my
readers, I offer the message that is contained in almost every
letter I have received. “Thank God you opened the discussion
about women's sexual fantasies. I thought I was the only one
who had these ideas. I was afraid to tell my husband [priest,
doctor, or whoever], because I was afraid he would think I was
some kind of weird freak. I felt like a pervert, so guilty and
alone….” My message is, Welcome. You are not alone.
I believe it is individual anxiety that makes so many people
unable to accept the idea of sexual fantasy in others. The portrait
of women it evokes is too new, too frightening – above all,
too much at war with all our past stereotypes of women as
maidens, mothers, “ladies.”
People laugh nervously when the subject of My Secret Garden
and sexual fantasies comes up. Some people turn red and
tell me they never read pornography or else they nervously light
a cigarette and dismiss the whole subject as “boring.” When
Garden was published, I became depressed by the anxiety/
dismissal/north the book aroused in many women and men,
friends and strangers. My husband helped me. “Freud was
dismissed as a scandal and a dirty old man,” Bill said, “because
he talked about masturbation and the sexuality of c***dren.
Up till then, people thought c***dren were `pure' as angels.
When Freud talked about sex and i****tuous desires, he
was called a pornographer too.” Of course, I am in no way
comparing my work or myself to Freud; but I do think we are
living through a time in sexual history as emotionally loaded as
Freud's own. By trying to understand the secret thoughts of
women – the emerging sex – we may succeed in unscrambling
the sexual bigotry of the past. Only in this way will we be able
to understand the distorted man-woman relationship that has
6
led to the frightening anger between the sexes today. I hope
this book will help.
Our real world … from the morning paper to the late late
television movie … is saturated with commercial sex, romantic
sex, and, yes, violent sex. These emotions and images stay in
our minds – along with all the other desires and drives we are
born with. What is a woman to do with all these ideas? One
thing she does is shape them closer to her heart's desire, using
the sexual stimuli she likes, softening or discarding the images
that turned her off, inventing her own sexual fantasies. If these
reveries stimulate her sexually while she goes about her daily
routine, I'm all for it. If a few lustful and erotic reveries make
the housework go by “as if in a dream,” why not?
Probably the most important thing to remember about fantasies
is that they are not facts, not deeds; they are not “acting
out.” Summoning up an erotic image in the imagination does
not necessarily mean we want to bring it into reality. In fact,
very often the fantasy itself discharges the forbidden energy
and entirely eschews the need for acting out. In the same way
that dreams at night can be said to be psychotic discharges of
the mind that allow us to be sane during the day, fantasies of
even the most primitive, regressive nature help us to be adult
and responsible in our real behavior.
If anyone, man or woman, lives out Freud's dictum that a
fulfilled life contains both love and work, I don't care what
fantasies that person has. If a woman has daydreams of making
it with Napoleon's horse, but says she is satisfied with her life,
who am I, or who is any doctor, to tell her that she is strange?
Today, for the first, time in history, women are encouraging
each other to be more sexually free and accepting. As we do, is
it surprising that men are now becoming the first line of defense
against the breakup of the old morality? It is men who
have become wary and critical of women's new role as sexual
initiator and free agent. “Love” itself is suddenly raised as the
banner under which many men march. “Don't you love me
anymore?” suddenly asks the husband who always claimed
that his own casual philanderings “have nothing to do with my
wife,” when he learns that she has been having a little after7
noon peccadillo of her own … or, yes, a sexual fantasy starring
his best friend.
I find men's sexual anxiety today understandable. I am sympathetic
to it; women have changed so much in recent years.
And men have not. In fact, if you are a woman who is not
sympathetic to men today, and you call yourself a “liberated”
woman, you should question your insensitivity. Are you happier
in your new freedom because it gives you a chance to “get
back at men” … or because you see it as an opportunity at last
to make things better for both of you? Sex never was the simple
piece of cake Hugh Hefner sells to men; women's questioning
of a sexual status quo that was questionable to begin with must
be disquieting if not threatening to men. I'm not saying that a
lot of men – the machos, for instance – don't deserve their discomfort.
But a lot don't. I suppose what it comes down to is
that if you're a woman who wants men in your life, you've got
to take your responsibility along with your liberation.
The as-yet-unplotted possibilities of women's sexuality,
given almost surrealistically vivid form and image in fantasy,
not only frightens men but women too. Think of all that desire
unleashed, desire he may not be interested in or able to satisfy,
appetites mother would never have approved of, sexual-power
she doesn't know what to do with. (How many women know
how to make the first move? Should she pick up the telephone,
reach for his hand, his cock? Should she say, “Please, I want
you to go down on me?” And how many men would reject her
if she did? Oral sex may be “intellectually” accepted today, but
as you will see from the women in this book – if you have not
already discovered it for yourself – there are a great number of
men who are unskilled, unpracticed, or unwilling to do what
they say.)
We are not yet ready to accept the simple proposition that
female sexual power added to male sexual power equals better
sex for both. And yet the truth is that the foundation of our
myth of male sexual superiority is riddled with deception and
fakeroo. Worse, it gives the poor man who believes it an awful
superman's burden to carry. Dominance and superiority are
words you use when you go to war, not to bed.
8
Henry Miller wrote me a letter about My Secret Garden:
“I've always suspected that women had richer, wilder, fantasies
than men. From my limited experience with women I must also
add that I have found them more capable of abandoning themselves
completely in intercourse than men. In a good healthy
sense I would say, to use an old-fashioned word, that they are
more `shameless' than men … . Men are only beginning to
perceive the true nature of women's being. They have created a
false image of her. She is neither an angel nor a bitch in heat. If
she is no longer an enigma, she is certainly an everlasting
source of wonder and rich in unexplored possibilities in every
domain of life.”
If I prefer Henry Miller's approach to women's fantasies to
that of many psychiatrists, it is because his view of life is large
enough to see fantasy as enriching human experience, and not
the mark of pathology.
Far from being a perversion of our deepest and most intimate
moments together, sexual fantasies answer the need for
variety that exists in the best of relationships. To those who
think it is a crime to consciously retreat into the secret garden
of your mind while in the arms of your beloved, let me quote
Dr. Ray Birdwhistle of the University of Pennsylvania. An
overly closed idea of marriage, he says, leads to pathology.
“Privacy is disallowed as being disloyal. But if the couple
wants intimacy, both partners need to refresh themselves with
privacy. That implies also being allowed to withdraw without
guilt. It is only in the private kingdom of the mind that one can
enjoy fantasies. And what held together romantic love in the
first place? A rich, lusty, sweet and sad, vengeful and even
violent fantasy life” [New York magazine, February 1973].
On the last page of My Secret Garden, I asked readers to
contribute their own sexual fantasies and comments for the
book you now hold. It is from the shape these letters took that I
have devised the form of this book. Part One deals with the
very frequent question of readers, “Where Do Sexual Fantasies
Come From?” Part Two, “The Uses of Sexual Fantasy” concerns
the role these imaginary, erotic scenarios play in the lives
of many women.
9
As you will see, I have not so much tried to theorize on my
own; I have tried instead to organize the material my readers
sent in to illustrate the answers to these questions they have
raised in their own lives. I believe we live in a time when it is
of paramount importance that women learn to speak unashamedly,
so that we may learn from each other. I did not ask my
readers for all the information they sent me, but I am very
grateful that they felt it “right” to try to trace for themselves,
and me, the origin of their fantasies and the context in which
they appear in their lives.
It is, of course, impossible to analyze any particular
woman's fantasy without knowing her, and understanding the
full meaning of why she has chosen any particular event or
symbol to express her erotic excitement. But that was never my
purpose. I began research for My Secret Garden in 1968 … I
began to work on this book in 1973. I wanted to see if the intervening
five years had made any significant difference in the
attitudes of women toward sexual fantasies. I am pleased to
say that while I would characterize the majority of fantasies in
Garden as various strategies women had devised to handle or
disarm sexual guilt, the fantasies I have collected for this book
are much more characterized by pleasure and guiltless exuberance.
Poets are often called the conscience of a nation; I believe
our sexual fantasies are mirrors of the women we would like to
become.
I don't think anyone can read the letters in the pages that follow
and not be as touched as I was, not only by the feelings
expressed but by the outpouring of honesty and the unglossy
portrait they give of their lives. What impresses me most is
that, although I guaranteed that all contributions would be
anonymous, over half the women who wrote signed their full
names and gave their addresses – as contrasted to one woman
in ten who signed her real name to the letters I collected for
Garden five years ago.
While I have kept my half of the agreement – all names,
professions, geographical, and other too revealing biographical
data have been changed – I am moved by the courage of my
readers in wanting to speak to me without disguise. As one
10
twenty-five-year-old woman wrote, “I believe that selfacceptance
is the first step toward maturity. So that I can believe
in myself, I want you to believe in me and what I wrote.
And so I am signing my full name.” 
11
PART ONE
Where Do
Sexual Fantasies
Come From?
12
13
CHAPTER ONE
c***dHOOD
It is evident that fantasies have value in and of themselves to the fantasizers
… . From the time they were little girls, women have been
told “not to think about such things.” By bringing women's sexual
thoughts into the open the book gives them permission to fantasize
and, in so doing, increases the possibility that women thereby also
derive permission to experience real life sex more fully, more easily,
more rewardingly.
– Dr. Mary Calderone
Review of My Secret Garden
SIECUS Report, May 1974
 In My Secret Garden, there was a chapter called, “Where
Did a Nice Girl Like You Get an Idea Like That?” It put forth
my feeling that many of our fantasies spring from a time long
before the world is ready to acknowledge our sexuality – c***dhood
itself. No great pioneering idea on my part, Freud's work
on infantile sexuality dates from the turn of the century. More
recently, the eminent authority on c***dhood psychology, Dr.
Arnold Gesell, conducted a study on infant behavior. He placed
a fifty-six-week-old boy in front of a mirror, naked. What the
c***d saw of his own body excited him so much that Dr. Gesell
was able to photograph him with an erect penis. If a boy barely
one year old can have an erotic experience, is it surprising that
little girls – usually more precocious than boys can also be said
to be sexual beings almost from birth?
And yet the idea is still unacceptable to most people. c***dhood
is pictured as a time of ribbons, fairy tales, and lemonade.
Adults notoriously forget that they were once c***dren too; they
close off their minds to early sexual memories – those embarrassing
or shameful events connected perhaps with anxieties
about masturbation. I am not suggesting that the sugar and
spice of little girls' c***dhoods are only a false facade. That
aspect is real. But so is our sexuality.
So far, I have received over two thousand letters from
women who sent me ' their sexual fantasies in response to the
14
invitation on the last page of My Secret Garden. Many were
from highly educated women; an equally great number were
from people who probably never read Freud. It didn't matter.
The cumulative truth of their personal experience confirmed my
view that sexual fantasies are often born out of remembered
c***dhood events. These letters cheered me in a very significant
way: I loved the self-acceptance they showed, the refusal to
continue to carry the age-old feminine burden of shame and
guilt. “Let me tell you a bit about myself first,” these openhearted
letters often begin. The writers want me to see them as
they are; they want some recognition for the courage with
which so many of them lead their lives, even if they ask me not
to print their names. “My first sexual experience was when I
was about four years old. The little boy who lived next door
came over and he … etc.” No apologies are given, no anatomical
details are glossed over or prettified. There is an intuitive
understanding that ladylike language would be counterproductive
to the purpose we are both striving for … that facts are
facts and moral judgments are irrelevant. While names, geographical
locations, and occupations in these letters have been
changed, I have preserved all other biographical details. I feel
only out of the richness and density of facts about someone's
life can we come to see that she is a woman just like ourselves.
I believe this is important work that women must do together,
and I am glad that there are so many willing to lay their
lives on the line to help tear down the curtain of silence behind
which we have had to hide our erotic selves. It left each woman
feeling isolated, an all-too-easy victim to the assumption that
only men knew “all about” sex and what “a real woman” was.
Behind this barrier, which was marked Innocence, but should
more rightly have been named Ignorance, the sexual exploitation
of women went on during practically all of recorded history
– a time that, thanks to women's new openness and honesty
with one another, is coming to an end.
Another significant difference between the letters of 1968
and these new ones is that in Garden the average age of the
women who contributed was about thirty; they were of the generation
born around the time of World War II. The world they
15
grew up in was very different than today's. In that book, the
greatest number of fantasies I collected centered around themes
of imaginary f***e and ****, a*****ion, domination, the
anonymous man whom the woman never sees again – all of
which are psychological strategies for allowing the woman to
have the most thrilling sexual experiences in her fantasies, but
all under the slogan, “It wasn't my fault; he made me do it.” In
other words, sexual guilt and its avoidance was the great emotion
shared by most women who contributed to Garden.
The average age of women who sent in their fantasies for inclusion
in this book is about twenty-two. They grew up in the
age in which Elvis Presley was bringing a new kind of blatant
sexuality to pop music, they entered their own sexual years to
the songs of the Beatles. I am not saying that the music of their
time directly influenced their approach to life (although often it
did), as much as it reflected a whole new era of freedom of
sexual expression. The fantasies in this book fill me with admiration
for these young women. I am struck by their pride in
their sexuality and their pleasure in its exercise – if not in their
lives, at least in their fantasies. They are not at all frightened by
the sexuality of their earliest years. They aren't into guilt at all.
In memory, there is security. One of the first signs that infants
are maturing is the ability to allow mother out of their
sight without tears of fear or rage. The baby has begun to believe
in the reality of memory – to recognize there is a correspondence
between her inner world and the reality “out there.”
Remembered figures do not vanish into a void, but come back.
In time, the baby is freed by this inner certainty and reliance
upon memory; she comes to enjoy her periods of solitude. Secure
in a base of remembered happiness, the little c***d can
turn her attention forward to learning new things: how to crawl
around her crib, perform experiments with her toys and/or
body, the pleasures of watching patterns of light cross the ceiling.
So it is in our sexual years. Whenever periods of sexual
boredom, anxiety, or frustration come along, we tend to return
to c***dhood scenes of remembered erotic happiness. These
16
will be images or events that happen to the baby that are of an
erotic nature. Something is imagined or felt by the little girl,
something comes into view that stimulates her. The c***d does
not yet know, nor does she need to know, that these are specifically
sexual feelings. She only knows that they make her feel
good … excited, stimulated, flushed with life. Nobody has yet
told her she is not to touch herself “down there” … that she is
not supposed to look at this or think that or do any of the other
999 things that “nice little girls” do not do. She goes over the
stimulating incident again and again in memory, almost as a
form of sympathetic magic to make the experience recur; it is
the same form of primitive logic that made the cavemen draw
pictures of deer when they wanted to meet them on the hunt.
This is truly our Age of Innocence. The knowledge of good
and evil (conventionally viewed) had not yet been f***ed upon
us. Is it any wonder that we withdraw to these happy memories,
these simple joys, during our grown-up times of stress,
frustration, or boredom? We were safe and felt alive then;
memory allows us again to draw upon these emotions in fantasy.
Unfortunately, it is a period of c***dhood that does not last
long. Very soon the little girl begins to notice that when she
says this or does that her parents frown or quickly change the
subject. The long series of don’ts are laid on her; the very lack
of explanation behind these illogical commands make them
more frightening and ominous. She becomes aware that various
aspects of her thought or behavior are not to be mentioned.
She learns concealment and evasion – but in her mind, at least,
she does not stop having these ideas that make her feel good.
They are too exciting to give up. Guilt and silence turn her
memories into fantasies. Again and again, I receive the wildest,
most ravenously erotic fantasies from women who begin by
writing, “I was very strictly brought up by puritanical parents
… .”
But while guilt is a heavy load to carry, it is not without innate
benefits too; it adds a terrific charge of daring and defiance
to sex, of forbidden thrills and excitement to heretofore
innocent memories. In the last fantasy that closes this chapter,
17
Joyce writes, “I think 'that what makes all my sexual activity
so enjoyable to me is that my parents were so strict with me
when I was growing up.” Behind the silence with which she
faces the world, the c***d begins to play over and over again
with her taboo ideas, elaborating, adding elements that
heighten their erotic charge, changing details with infinite care
to ever – increase the orgasmic effect. In our outlawed memories,
our first fantasies begin.
Like Joyce, Dorothy too begins her letter by discussing her
“strict upbringing.” She can remember lying in bed as a c***d
and thinking about her fantasies. “I was never able to banish
these deliciously nasty thoughts from my mind,” she writes.
What heightened her pleasure in these erotic scenarios was to
imagine them while she could hear her mother moving around
in another part of the house. Right under her mother's nose, so
to speak, she could play with these forbidden thoughts. In the
secrecy of her mind, she could be sexually defiant.
Carla's letter is not so much the work of an imagination like
Dorothy's as it is a collection of resummoned actualities. This
loving evocation of the past can be defined as sexual fantasy
too: it is the substitution of a remembered scene for present
reality. “I like to go over my memories when I have nothing
else to do,” writes Carla. “It gives me a warm feeling to remember
all the people in my life, because I liked so many of
them.”
I have found that this kind of fantasy, which sticks very
close to actual events of the past, is almost always the mark of
someone with low levels of sexual anxiety and/or guilt. When
memories carry too heavy a charge of psychic pain, the fantasizer
usually drops or disguises them, putting an emotional
distance between herself and the ideas that excite her. She
makes up imaginary events, uses imaginary people to express
her eroticism; she can almost be said to see herself in the third
person in heal fantasy scenes – all this incredible sex is not
happening me it is happening to her.
I hasten to add here that this does not mean that imaginary
fantasies are the work of puritanical or guilt ridden minds. I
would say instead that they are the work of creative minds that
18
need strategies other than memory over a distance of time to
overcome inhibitions. Dorothy's fantasies may be more the
works of imagination than Carla's, but nobody reading Dorothy's
six scenarios could feel they were invented by an inhibited
woman.
What is most interesting about Carla's letter to me is that
while her memories of past (and present) sexual experiences
would shock or horrify most, people, Carla herself speaks of
them all very fondly, with total acceptance of every man, every
sexual encounter – with less guilt about breaking even the i****t
barrier than most women would feel about kissing a
stranger at a party. She speaks of her memories with no bravado,
no shouts of defiance that might make us feel she was
protesting too much. “This is how I am,” her letter seems to
say, “this is what I do, neither more nor less.” It is her life of
which she always speaks, and it does not occur to her for one
second that she does not have every right in the world to do
with it what she will. 
Dorothy
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden,
and I can truly state that it has changed my life for the better. It
took my husband and I four evenings to read it, and those four
nights produced the most fantastic sex of our entire married
life. I had no idea that knowing about other women's sexual
fantasies would turn him on so, and now I think I have the
courage to describe some of my own to him, which I've never
done before. You see, I had a very strict upbringing. Actually, I
suppose it was no more strict than most women's, certainly no
worse than that of the other girls I grew up with. But looking
back now, I can see it's a miracle that I grew up with any feelings
of sexuality whatsoever, given the fact that the atmosphere
around our home was that sex just wasn't nice.
Let me say that I'm twenty-six, have been married for a year
to a wonderful man I lived with for a year before we married,
have no c***dren, and I have a good job as an executive secre19
tary. My husband and I are middle class, both with college
educations.
I know now that I have always engaged in sexual fantasy,
but up until this point, I felt very guilty and ashamed of my
fantasies, and even tried very hard to keep from having them. I
can remember how guilty I felt as a little girl when I went to
church with my parents, and knew what a terrible little sinner I
was for having had those wicked thoughts during the week. I
used to pray for salvation (although no one in my f****y was
terribly religious … it's just that I was terribly sexual, I suppose).
However, I was never able to banish these deliciously
nasty thoughts from my mind; lying in bed as a c***d and
thinking about them, even as I heard my mother moving about
the house, made them all the more thrilling. Many of my fantasies
stem from these early c***dhood daydreams, and have
never lost their impact. Now, your delightful book has finally
enabled me to relax with a guilt-free conscience and enjoy
them. As I have jotted down the basic themes before starting
this letter, I see that I have at least six basic fantasies – each
one involves a different position, and I adapt the appropriate
fantasy to coincide with the particular position I'm actually in
bed. Below are a couple of my favorites:
1. (I use this one while being manipulated by hand before
intercourse.) It's in the 1800s, and I am a beautiful, homeless,
penniless young maiden on a voyage by ship to America. The
ship's captain (handsome, rugged, much older) has agreed to
take me, even though I have no money for my passage. After
we are underway, though, I soon realize that there will be a
payment demanded of me, and I am helpless to resist. (Do I
want to be thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic?) I
am the only woman aboard a ship of rugged, lusty, men, and
they all stare at me with desire and longing for my exquisite
body. The captain, however, saves me for himself. Since he
knows I am a virgin and doesn't want to actually deflower me
(I justify this dubious morality of his by making the setting in a
very non permissive time in history), my requirement is to always
be by his side, where he can lift my long skirt with on
hand and enter me slowly and passionately with his fingers
20
while he is otherwise engaged in commanding his ship. I, of
course, am embarrassed and mortified and I wriggle around as
if to get away from his hand but he only continues with more
f***e and stronger manipulation of my clitoris, until finally I
am so excited and turned on (against my will) that I scream
out, “Oh fuck me, FUCK ME!” and the whole crew of the ship
gathers around to look and comment in amazement at this demure
little maiden panting and screaming, with their captain's
hand up her dress. At this point, I've usually had an excellent
orgasm, and do indeed speak those words, to which my hubby
happily accommodates, as that is what he has been waiting for.
He has no idea what has been going on in my head to bring me
to such a frenzy – he only knows his fingers drive me wild!
2. (This is for the male-superior position.) I am a schoolteacher
in a rural school, and several young, lusty farm boys
have cornered me in the one-room schoolhouse after school.
Their purpose is a bet: one of the boys (a huge, fair-haired
brute with an enormous cock) has bet the others that he can
fuck me until I beg for more. They throw me down across my
own desk on my back, pull up my dress, pull off my panties,
and while the other boys are holding my arms and legs, this big
stud goes to work, ramming it in, accompanied by the taunts
and encouragements of his friends. (Such as “Shove it in!”
“Give it to her!” “Make her scream!”) All the time he's saying,
“Come, baby, come cream on me!” while he massages my
body with his huge hands. The boys holding my legs spread
them wider apart so that he can get deeper into my struggling,
writhing body, and he keeps on thrusting away, all the time
using his filthiest words, imploring me in a strong but gentle
voice to come all over him. I prolong this part as long as it
takes me to reach my climax, and it's always a blockbuster. In
fact, writing this down seems to bring the whole image flowing
back to mind so strongly, I'm really getting turned on. These
images had never entered my mind before except during sex.
As I said before, I have a different fantasy. for everything including
cunnilingus and fellatio, but I'm not going to write
them all down or I'd end up writing a book myself. I will say
they include such participants as a horse, a dog, Indians, a
21
doctor, and a headmaster in a girl's school. I change roles in
each one, and sometimes I'm beautiful and sophisticated, while
in others I am c***dish or simpleminded. Each one is elaborate;
but so familiar and dear to me that the right one just pops into
my mind without my even consciously willing it. I've truly
always thought of these fantasies as my “private little world,”
and I use them also while masturbating. They make sex more
vivid and meaningful for me, and I don't think I could bear to
be without them.
As I said before, thanks to your wonderful book, I'm no
longer going to try.
I absolutely promise that these fantasies are legitimate, and
I'd be glad to write them all down for you if you should want
me to, so the name and address are legit also. I look eagerly
forward to your next book, and I do hope I may have been of
some small help – you've helped me more than I can tell you.
Carla and Tom
Since my b*****r and I read your book, My Secret Garden,
we have felt great relief to know we were not the only b*****r
and s****r who fuck. May we add our bit to your next book? I
hope it will help others like us. Tom and I don't consider what
we're doing “unnatural” at all. Being in bed with him seems
like the most natural thing of all.
I like to go over my memories when I have nothing else to
do. It gives me a warm feeling to remember all the people in
my life, because I liked so many of them. I remember when I
was six that my mother used to scold me when she caught me
playing with my cunt, but I always had the desire to expose
myself to the little boys who came over to play in our yard. I
would take off my panties, and I remember several times the
older boys would take me into a corner and play with my cunt.
Some boys took all their clothes off one day and laid me down
on their shirts and pants and worked their fingers up me. I
liked it, but it made me sore. I didn't say anything to my
mother, because she would stop the boys from coming over to
play at our house. The first time a bigger boy took me into the
22
back seat of a car in a garage, he removed all my clothes and
spread my legs so far apart I thought he would split me apart.
He kept getting closer and closer, and I thought he was examining
me. I like the idea that he wanted to see my cunt so
closely, but he suddenly proved my reading of what he was up
to wrong: he got his mouth into my cunt and was darting his
tongue in and out like a snake. I loved it so much that when he
wanted to stop I begged him to do it some more. He promised
to come over often and do this to me. We found places like our
attic, garage, or sheds in the woods. I was very sad the day his
f****y moved to another part of the state, but before he left, he
taught me a nice game. He used a weiner to jack me off with
and then told me to eat the weiner so that nobody would ever
discover I had a weiner in my bedroom. When he moved away,
I used to do this and think of him.
When I was old enough to go to school, the boys soon found
out that they could get to play with my cunt any time at all. My
uncle found the same to be true one summer we spent July and
August on his ranch in New Mexico. I have very happy memories
of the way my uncle loved to play with my cunt and took
me with him when he was making trips around the place. Uncle
was very kind to me, and when he suckers my cunt, he did
it very gently. I remember one time we were a long way from
home, and he found a spot where it was really quiet. He had
me undress completely, and he spread out a large quilt, laid me
down, and put his tongue in my cunt. At this time, I was nine
years old. We had fun, and then he undressed and showed me
his cock. I had never seen a grown man's cock before, and I did
not understand how it could be so big. He got on top of me and
told me to be easy in my mind; he was just going to put the
head of his cock up to my cunt. I asked him what would happen
then, and he said that he would just do with his cock the
way he had always done with his finger, so I wasn't frightened.
Instead, did that ever start my desire to have that cock in my
cunt. He spread my cunt lips open and gently shoved his cock
part way in. His actions just drove me to want that big cock all
the way in, just as I had gotten used to shoving a big, rubber,
imitation weiner all the way in when I wanted to jack off. (The
rubber one was bigger and better than the real ones I had
23
started with.) When my uncle shoved his whole cock in, he
found it was easier to do than he had thought. He asked me if I
had ever fucked before. I told him about the big rubber weiner.
He asked if I had brought it along. I had, and told him how I
used it when I was by myself. That made him so excited that
after our first fuck he spent two more hours just sucking my
cunt. Then he asked me to take his cock in my mouth. I was so
afraid that if I said no he would never fuck me anymore that I
took his cock and sucked him. He kept telling me to suck
harder, and after I had sucked awhile my tongue got sore, so
we stopped. When we returned to the house everyone had gone
to see a movie, so that left us alone. I was so tired that I just
fell asl**p. When I woke up, my uncle was sucking my cunt.
The next day my uncle and aunty had to go into town for a
meeting, leaving my b*****r and I alone. We spent the time
looking around because being on a ranch was so new to us. We
came across two dogs who were trying to fuck. We watched
and it got me so passionate that I stepped backward, up against
the front of my b*****r's pants. He was feeling the same way,
because without a word, he put his hands up under my halter,
exposing my little breasts and cupping my tits in his hands.
We soon were kissing, and he had me walk around to the back
of the milk house. When we were there, he pulled my bikinis
off and the halter of my sunsuit. We played a bit there that
way, and then we made a dash for the house – me running
naked all the way – and went to his bedroom. It started that
way, just as easy as that, and from then on we have been fucking
each other all along very happily and that was twelve years
ago. Do you know any other marriages that have continued
happily for twelve years? I don't. I wish people who read this
letter and feel bad about us would remember that before they
criticize. We now live together, and every one of our friends
think we are husband and wife. He is very considerate. Unlike
most husbands, he shaves every day so that he will not irritate
my skin, etc.
One of the letters in My Secret Garden spoke about dogs.
When Tom and I read this, we decided to see what it was like.
My b*****r and I started to fuck to get the dog excited. It sure
24
did – he got in between our legs and licked both Tom and me
while we were fucking. What a pleasure! When we finished,
Tom let his cock go off in me. (I'm on the pill) Tanzy licked my
cunt, and Tom just lay back and watched. We let Tanzy lick as
long as he wanted, and then he began to get up on his hind legs
and hug my leg. That told us he wanted to fuck. Tom had me
get up on my knees and he helped Tanzy get his cock in my
cunt. We did not know how much cock a dog has, but I soon
found out. When he got that knob in my cunt, he had over eight
inches of cock shoved, up me. Fuck, you never know what it
can do to a girl until she gets fucked by her dog. That pink
fleshy cock is in my cunt whenever Tanzy has a desire to fuck
me. Tom likes to watch his cock plunge in and out of my cunt.
One day Tom asked me how it made me feel, and when I told
him, we tried to get Tanzy to shove it up Tom's asshole so he
could feel what I was feeling. But the hole was too small for
Tanzy to get in. Sometimes I get up on top of Tom, and we
both lay that way, both our legs apart, bellies up, and Tom lets
Tanzy fuck me when we are in this position. Tom's cock rides
in the crack of my ass below, and Tanzy is giving it to me from
straight above. If I am alone and Tanzy wants to fuck, I place
the davenport cushions on the floor and lay on my back. Tanzy
is very smart and knows how to fuck me both from the rear and
front. I love to fuck him from the front, because I can look
down and see his cock entering my cunt, that pink shaft just
going in and out. He always licks my cunt clean after we get
through fucking.
It was Tom's idea that I write this letter to you, but when I
got started typing, I got so excited that he had to help me finish
it. My last thought is that anything you fuck that makes you
feel good is okay.
 Jennie is only s*******n, and her c***dhood isn't that distant.
She remembers it very clearly: “Where I was brought up,”
she says, “sex was pretty much taboo.” She is enough a c***d
of our time to say in one breath, “I always consider myself a
girl of high morals and always thought I would be a virgin
until I was married” … and then she goes on to describe her
25
sexual experiences with her boyfriend, whom she plans to
marry “in three years.”
What I like about Jennie is that she does not feel these contradictions
are important enough to comment upon; no apologies
or explanations are felt necessary. She is a girl who accepts
her own sexuality in her own time; she believes more in
her own feelings than the amorphous “rules” in the air. When
she says she has no guilt about her sexuality or her fantasies, I
believe her.
Jennie's mother clearly grew up in a totally different sexual
atmosphere, and although her daughter was aware of this difference
between' herself and her mother, even as a c***d of
nine, she did not blindly accept her mother's sexual authority:
she felt and believed in her own sexuality even more.
Jennie may not be typical of her generation, but there are
countless young women like her; the very fact that she wrote
me – and with such eagerness – indicated her interest in sex.
What I find more significant is the ease, acceptance, and utter
naturalness with which she treats that interest. 
Jennie
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden.
Throughout the book, I kept thinking what it would be like to
actually write to you. When I saw your address in the back, I
knew I had to write.
First, I'll give you some background information about myself.
I am s*******n, and my boyfriend is sixteen. We are both
seniors in high school, and plan to get married in three years. I
always considered myself a girl of high morals and always
thought I would be a virgin until I was married.
Where I was brought up, sex was pretty much taboo. No one
ever spoke about it, so I never knew anything about sex. I
know that when I was about nine years old I used to get sensual
feelings, although at the time I didn't know what they
were. I used to take my clothes off and rub my small breasts
and my cunt against the cold washing machine, and this made
me feel very good. At other times, I would take all my clothes
26
off and run around in the woods across the street. Sometimes
my girl friend would come with me, and we would sit and
masturbate ourselves or each other. Just thinking about doing
these things when I was a k** would get me excited, and the
next thing I knew I was doing them or thinking up something
new that would make me feel good. Given the puritanical
background where I grew up, it's amazing I didn't feel really
guilty as a k**, but I didn't. I just knew it couldn't be bad if it
felt that good.
Nowadays, I fantasize whenever I have time on my hands …
or my hands on myself. I don't think I masturbate any more
than the average girl, but I don't know much about the average
girl. It's a sexy world, so I have sexy thoughts quite a bit. I
don't usually fantasize when I have sex with my boyfriend. All
I need to hear is his heavy breathing and I get horny. My boyfriend
loves to experiment with sex. Sometimes we fuck with
him coming in from the back, sometimes sitting up; we even
tried it in the shower once.
He likes it when I use my mouth on him. Often, in public, I
can't refrain from touching him up. Up until recently, I would
never allow him to perform cunnilingus on me, but now I love
to feel him sucking my clitoris and slipping his tongue in and
out of me.
When I'm by myself masturbating or daydreaming, my fantasies
change all the time. My favorite fantasies include being
fucked by a lion, a black man, or a cousin of mine. I've always
dreamed about trying i****t, but I have no b*****rs. The closest
I can get is my cousin. He is ten years older than me. Recently,
my grandfather died, and my cousin came up from Georgia for
the funeral. We have always been attracted to one another, and
during the middle of the night, he came down to where I was
sl**ping on the sofa. We smoked a jay, and he kissed me. Then
we got into some petting. After a while, I told him to go away.
Since then, how many times I've wished I hadn't! My chance
will come again, but I know I won't let anything happen, because
I am very faithful to my boyfriend, and I know he would
never have an affair with another girl. But I love to use this
story of what happened that night with my cousin as my fan27
tasy; I try all sorts of different endings to it, thinking about all
the things that could have gone on between us.
I have no guilt feelings about fantasizing. I love to hear my
boyfriend tell me he's going to “fuck me” during intercourse. It
really turns me on. Some of my fantasies I share with him.
There is one we plan to carry out soon. I told him I wanted him
to f***e himself upon me, to **** me when I said “No” to him.
He wants me to fight him off while he tells me he's going to
fuck me.
We have not got into “the group thing.” It doesn't appeal to
either of us. My boyfriend says he doesn't fantasize. Maybe
someday he will. I have found that when I do fantasize during
sex, it adds to both of our excitement.
Thank you for letting me get this off my chest. I hope it is of
some value to you in your studies. Good luck.
 One of the pleasures in reading novels or going to the
movies is the feeling they give us of how other people live.
They seem to enlarge the possibilities of our own lives. Sexual
fantasy, too, will often serve the same function, but instead of
reading about other people, by an act of emotional imagination,
we put ourselves in their shoes and bodies, feel what they feel,
experience their sexual joys as if they were our own. In Sarah's
fantasies, which follow, I find the one about the male guardian
the most interesting. It is evidently born out of c***dhood experiences
– the emotions seem to be of such an early stage of
development that even the sexual lines are blurred: Sarah tells
us that she plays all roles, both male and female. This is not
uncommon in fantasy. We all wonder how other people are
sexually; in our erotic reveries, we can rehearse their emotions
within ourselves. Another signal, I feel, that this fantasy is an
imaginative recreation of very early scenes is that Sarah does
not really put herself into any of the roles, not even that of “the
girl.” It all speaks of a time when she was so young that she
could not choose to act, but was acted upon. It is not, “I did
this or that …” but “The girl is told to take a bath…” and so
on. 
28
Sarah
My fantasies have some points in common with those in
your book, which I loved, and others somewhat different. One
of them is recalling some good times with my ex-husband. He
would get me pretty excited with foreplay, and then he would
put it in, he would make just two or three thrusts, and then he'd
sort of back off with just the tip of it in and tease me – “Do you
want it, baby? Then you'll have to come and get it! Bring it up
to me, baby, climb my pole!” and I would have to raise my hips
up and down, and sometimes he would move around a little
and pretend he was going to take it out and quit, and I would
twist and. turn and raise and lower my hips frantically to keep
it in and keep the motion going – and of course I'd get hotter
and sweatier – doing all the work. And I had really great orgasms
that way. I could get on top, but it never worked with
me that way – only when I was underneath, and really working
at it. (I know some men don't like that at all.)
One other fantasy I have is about a lover I had who used to
have me sit on top of his refrigerator and sort of slide down one
rounded corner of it till his tongue was even with my cunt, and
he'd stand there with his hands sort of cupping my buttocks to
keep me from falling quite helplessly onto the floor, and lap it
up like an ice cream cone. Then he'd have me slide down off
the refrigerator right onto his big cock – nothing I could do
about that either – and waltz me into the bedroom with my toes
just off the floor. Our favorite joke was, “Do you want to come
over and defrost my refrigerator tonight?”
So much for recalling reality – now for fantasies that are just
fantasies. There's one about the little girl who has a male
guardian – father or uncle, I never really figured it out. One
day, the girl has a little boyfriend come over to play after
school and invites him to stay for dinner, The guardian agrees,
and the boy telephones home for permission, but is told his
parents are going out for dinner, and he has to stay where he is
till nine-thirty, if that's not too late. (I play all three roles in
this, alternating.) The guardian again says okay. But after dinner,
he tells the girl she must go and take her bath, which she
29
does, Then he calls to her and says just to come out in her bathrobe.
She does, and then he says to her, “Did you wash your
roses good?” She says she did, and he says, “Come lie down
over here on the sofa, and let's see if you did.” She says no, she
doesn't want to show Toby (her little boyfriend) her roses. At
this, the guardian gets angry and takes down a little paddle off
the mantelpiece and says, “So you don't want to show him your
roses, do you? Well, we'll just show him your little bare bottom
then,” and he takes her over his knee, pulls up her Bathrobe,
and proceeds to give her a good paddling, turning both of her
cheeks pink. Then he stops and says, “Do you want to show
Toby your roses?” And she says, “Yes, yes, yes!” So he puts
her on the sofa on her back and brings the lamp over, so it can
shine very bright, and pushes up a stool for Toby. “Sit there,”
he commands Toby. Then he opens the girl's legs and examines
her minutely, opening the labia around the vagina and the
clitoris. Then he scolds the girl, who has stopped crying by
now. “You didn't wash very good. We'll have to do better than
that.” He tells Toby to put his finger in her vagina and hold her
open with his other hand while he goes and gets the washrag
from the bathroom. Toby is afraid not to do as he is told and
gets more and more interested in the process and asks the girl
if his finger hurts her, and she says no, it feels good, but will he
move his other hand a little, which he does. The guardian
comes back with a washrag that he has surreptitiously wet with
the raspberry-tasting mouthwash, and telling Toby to keep his
finger where it is, he sponges the clitoris and labia – which
turn pink from the mouthwash color and the heat its slight antiseptic
content generate. The girl tries to twist and turn and
says the water's too hot, “It's hot, it hurts! Oh, Toby, kiss it and
make it stop hurting.” And Toby bends his head and kisses
her. By now in this fantasy, I would have come about twice.
Sometimes the guardian spanks Toby after this.
By now, I haven't got enough energy left to tell you many
details about my daughter's slumber party she had when she
was in junior high. The buzzing would kind of quiet down, and
I'd think finally I could get to sl**p. Then I'd hear a “Whap!”
and little moans and giggles. Since then I've imagined planting
a tape recorder at one of those parties. Wouldn't it be fun to
30
hear what games they really play and who gets whapped and
why?
 In the letters that follow, very early experiences are
brought to mind. While Claudia is clearly a very healthy and
erotic young woman, I like the way she gives herself permission
not to hurry into sexual experience before she is emotionally
ready for it. “I'm only f******n years old, so I haven't
screwed yet,” she says, adding, “but I do enjoy some sex with
my boyfriends.” Reading her letter, we get the feeling that
when she is ready for a full sexual experience, she will do it
confidently, easily, and well. She will probably be the one who
decides exactly when, where, and with whom it will take place.
The progress of Claudia's life toward full womanly eroticism
seems clear; the four next letters help us chart some of the pitfalls
that seem to have lain in the way for other women. The
difficult terrain is very clearly mapped in Janice's letter. “I
deeply love my husband,” she writes “(we have been married
sixteen years), but I have always been profoundly thrilled by
my fantasies, which go back to an episode in my adolescence
… . To me, now that I dare think about it after reading your
book, it seems only natural that women should be aroused by
incidents involving urination, given the fact that our sexual
parts are so close to our urinary parts.”
While the incident that Janice refers to in her fantasy happened
during her adolescence, her erotic interest in, and confusion
of, urinary and sexual processes most likely began far
earlier in her life. By the time “Aunt Bessie” came along,
Janice had long since been u*********sly prepared to find the
older woman's invitation enough to “drive me out of my mind.”
Denise's letter, too, reminds us that about the time mother began
our toilet-training, she also began telling us not to play
with ourselves “down there.” It is often a time of tension between
mother and daughter – perhaps the first of their lifelong
battles. All interest is focused on this one part of the body during
this period, the mysteries of sex and urination become intertwined
– because both seem to be forbidden. Eroticism and
31
excretion become emotionally combined – the vagina is experienced
as the seat of a double kind of excitement.
The woman Frank writes about is fascinated by anal play –
she calls herself an “anal-erotic.” I include his letter not so
much for what he tells us about himself, but because his lover
is such a clear example of Freud's dictum that the anal stage of
development precedes the genital. Frank's lover chooses to live
out with him those fantasies that are the outgrowth and expression
of early toilet-training experiences … as also seems true of
Lana, whose fantasy follows Frank's letter. Robyn daydreams
happily about the guiltless pleasure of her fiancé giving her an
enema. In these letters, I am struck by the marvels of human
nature, its recuperative power and above all, its overriding
drive for health and self-acceptance. Janice, Denise, Frank's
lover, Lana, and Robyn have all taken what might seem at first
glance to be behavioral hang-ups, but I have found in them
sources of erotic pleasure instead. I applaud them all. 
Claudia
I have just finished reading your book. Thank you, for it
really opened my eyes to the way many women think. Some
parts shocked me, other parts disgusted me, but most of it excited
me. And I truly believe there are women who feel excited
even by the things that turn me off … and that's okay for them.
I find it exciting that we women are all so different.
I have never been ashamed of my fantasies, but I just didn't
know that's what they were. I'm only f******n years old, so I
haven't screwed yet, but I do enjoy some sex with my boyfriends.
I have had fantasies ever since I can remember. As a
little k**, I imagined I was a harem girl, or a slave girl on sale
at a public marketplace. I was always well-developed in the
fantasy, although I was actually flat as a board then and didn't
have a single pubic hair. In my fantasy, men would walk by me
and examine me, but only with their eyes. It wasn't until. I was
eleven years old that I even began to think and fantasize of
guys putting their fingers up me. When I was ten, I stopped
being the submissive one in my thoughts, and became the se32
ducer. At night, I would (and still do) think of a foxy guy I
know or a handsome teacher and imagine me telling him to
suck my tits, while I softly play with his cock.
I “cock watch,” naturally. I can't help it. To me, it's just like
guys looking at boobs. I sometimes wear sexy clothes, and it
excites me to know that I have caused a guy to get a boner. I
then imagine what his cock looks like, how large his balls are,
how erect it (the dick) is, if he's circumcised or not, etc. You
know, all the things girls who like guys enjoy thinking about.
I hope you can use this in your next book. It has excited me
just to write about it, because I have never told anyone about
these things, except when I was a k**. Thank you again for
your book I think I got my first orgasm while reading it and
masturbating myself, but I'm not sure. Thanks anyhow, because
it felt good!
Janice
I am so pleased your book opened up an area of discussion
which so directly affects my sexual life. Until reading
other women's fantasies of urination – the sexual pleasure derived
from such ideas – I had felt myself to be “unusual” or
worse. I deeply love my husband (we have been married sixteen
years), but I have always been profoundly thrilled by my
fantasies, which go back to an episode in my adolescence. I
have thought about this incident so often, and embroidered on
it, that I am no longer quite sure what actually did happen and
just what I have added to increase the pleasure thinking about
it gives me.
To me, now that I dare think about it after reading your
book, it seems only natural that women should be aroused by
incidents involving urination, given the fact that our sexual
parts are so close to our urinary parts. I sometimes think that if
I dared think about many of the things that frighten me, the
fear would be replaced so easily by self-acceptance; all that
keeps me, and others, from thinking of these fearsome things is
the thought that it is sinful to consider them; and yet what can
be sinful in just thinking about something?
33
Here is my fantasy:
I am visiting at the home of an older friend, someone I call
Aunt Bessie, although we are not related. One rainy day, during
the visit, as luncheon time approaches, Aunt Bessie and I
have two large martinis. Afterward, we sit down at the dining
table to eat. Lunch starts with a delicious thin soup, of which I
have two servings. Soup is followed by cold cuts, accompanied
by steins of cold, foaming beer. For dessert, there are crackers
and cheese, with refills of the steins to wash it down. About
half an hour after lunch, I get up from my chair and start to
leave the room. Aunt Bessie asks where I am going, and I reply:
“Sorry, but I have to pee.” To this, Aunt Bessie says,
“Nonsense, you just think you have to go. Come back here and
sit down, and we will split a bottle of champagne.” Although I
have some doubts as to my ability to retain any longer, all the
liquid I have imbibed nevertheless I comply. At this point, I
begin to suspect that Aunt Bessie has something “up her
sleeve,” but just what, I cannot imagine. We sit for a while,
drinking the champagne and smoking two or three cigarettes,
me feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. As I
finish the last drop in my glass, I say to Aunt Bessie: “I really
must go now, I can't hold it any longer.” Aunt Bessie replies:
“Well, if you must, you must, but I hope you don't mind if I go
with you.” Upon arriving in the bathroom, Aunt Bessie asks
me to remove my dress and panties and then sit on the toilet
seat, but without dropping even a tear for a few moments. Aunt
Bessie then kneels down on a cushion placed conveniently to
one side of the toilet seat, reaches across my nearest thigh, and
proceeds to manipulate my clitoris. As soon as I feel my
friend's fingers playing with my clitoris, the desire to void my
urine recedes. Aunt Bessie tells me: “Wait until the exact moment
of the climax I am going to bring you to, and then let the
freshet flow. I guarantee you will have the most ecstatic orgasm
any woman can have in this world – or the next, for that
matter.”
Sure enough, just as Aunt Bessie's skillful fingers bring me
up to and push me over the edge, I let my piss come in a rush.
It is like coming in two places at once, and the hot piss flowing
34
down my slit and over the pulsating mouth of my vagina nearly
drives me out of my mind.
Denise
Thanks for doing My Secret Garden – one of the fantasies
electrified me, naturally: I saw myself in it. On p. 179, “Faith”
calls herself a “urologenic.” Obviously, there must be a lot of
us if someone put such a fancy label on us! What I want to
know is where I can find out more about us – also, I'd surely
like to trade fantasies with another like-minded gal – if at all
possible, I'd like you to forward my letter to Faith; if you can't
do that, it's okay, and I understand. Now maybe you'd like a
fantasy along these lines for your next book. I'm gay, by the by,
and ecstatically happy about it. Before I understood my fascination
with urination, I used to try to turn my fantasies toward
intercourse and ejaculation – I thought I had urination mixed
up with ejaculation, but I realize it's just not true. It's the accidents
people have, especially men or boys, that fascinate me.
My favorite fantasy takes place in a grammar school classroom.
Billy, a cute fifteen-year-old, raises his hand to be excused
to the bathroom. The teacher carelessly ignores him, then
puts him off with repeated “in-a-minutes.” At this point in the
fantasy, many variations work. A typical version now is that he
feels such pressure that he jams his knees together and scoots
forward at his desk, trying to “hold it.” It doesn't help, and
with his face burning, he finds it necessary to let go just a little,
every few minutes, to ease the pressure. Soon, the other k**s
notice, pointing and whispering at the growing puddle under
his desk. Billy always wears tight Levi's and has a very cute
behind. Sometimes he is made to stand in the corner at the
front of the room, where he wets himself in front of everybody.
I only wish I had a notion of how to look for information on
this “aberration.” Thanks a lot!
35
Frank
I'm a heterosexual male, and it would seem absurd for me to
comment on the sexual fantasies of women. In fact, I'm not
even interested in them to any extent; a I ran across your My
Secret Garden by accident and only thumbed through it idly.
However, I see you are collecting material, and I have a sort of
case history to give to you for what it's worth. This is a livedout
fantasy in which I participated, and frankly, I'm a bit troubled
about it in retrospect. It's rather extreme, or so it seems to
me, and I wonder if I have encouraged the woman in what may
become a harmful sexual aberration.
First, let me set the stage and describe the characters briefly.
I'm a middle-aged business executive and quite an ordinary
fellow, nothing special about me at all. The woman is nearing
forty, a rather intense emotional type but distinctly attractive,
married to a man she likes but who is totally impotent due to
illness. She is torn between resolve to remain at least technically
faithful to her husband and an urgent need for sexual release.
I like her, and am sympathetic to her in her problem. The
two of us compromised in a pretend affair limited to cunnilingus
and fellatio.
But this wasn't wholly satisfactory to either of us. For my
part, I enjoy this with an attractive woman, but mostly as only
a part of loveplay rather than as an end in itself. She felt guiltridden
and had difficulty achieving orgasm that way. It just
wasn't very good. Until we discovered something else, by a
quite accidental move on my part. I was caressing her vulva
with my hand preparatory to cunnilingus, when I inadvertently
let a finger stray into the crevice of her buttocks, and its tip
pressed into her anus. She stiffened and cried out, and almost
instantly went into orgasm.
Here at last we come to the fantasy itself. She was, in fantasy,
an anal erotic. Later, she confessed this to me. She
dreamed of having a man thrust his finger through the sphincter
of her anus and on up into her rectum. Going further, she
imagined his mouth on her there. And, in return, of putting her
mouth on him.
36
Later, we actually did this. I was personally a bit doubtful,
to tell the truth. There have been other women in my experience
who liked anal loveplay, and I am not particularly averse
to it. When I'm in the proper mood, an attractive woman's anus
can be exciting as a part of the whole of her. I like everything
about women, and although I have never done actual anal intercourse,
I often do caress a woman there during loveplay or
cunnilingus if she seems to want it. But it turned out that, once
released from inhibition, this woman was really avid about
this. It was not only the best but almost the only way she could
achieve complete orgasm. And for the ultimate experience, she
wanted it to be shared. So it became our regular custom to do it
to one another. Lying head to toe, I would fasten my mouth
over her anus while stroking her vulva and clitoris with the
fingers of a hand. She would tuck my penis down between her
breasts, hold my testicles aside with one hand, and suck with
lips and tongue at my anus.
The actual living out of this fantasy of hers seems to give her
a supreme experience. She goes quite mad in her ecstasy. Her
anus works in and out against my lips, her vulva positively
gushes fluid, she bites and sucks at my anus and crushes my
penis between her breasts, her climax when it comes is violent
and interminable.
All this is most enjoyable for me too, I'll admit. I'm something
of a voyeur, I like to look at an attractive woman in all
her intimate places, to see her vulva open pink and wet, her
clitoris swell, her little peeplace gape open at the touch of my
tongue, her vagina reveal its inner flesh to me, her anus stretch
and pulsate as I touch her there. I like to feel her, and smell
her, and taste her. And God knows it's a fantastic titillating
sensation to have a woman's lips and tongue sucking and probing
at me, to have her breasts caress my penis until it spurts
over them and her belly.
But all this, good though it is, somehow pales in comparison
to the real thing for me. I like giving her pleasure in this way; I
enjoy it myself. But it's all only play to me; I remain unaffected
in the ultimate sense. But for her, it seems to be rapidly assuming
the proportions of an obsession. She doesn't want it any
other way now. I'm worried – she's really a very nice person,
37
and I do like her – lest I may be encouraging her in a sexual
aberration that may eventually do her harm.
Oh, well, you've listened long enough. I don't expect you to
reply, and perhaps this report may be of no use to you at all.
But if you're interested in the sexual fantasies of women, here's
one that came to life. You're welcome to use all or any part of
this account as you like, no obligation. In any case, good luck
to you in writing more about this interesting subject of women
and their fantasies.
Lana
Congratulations on a sensitive piece which rightfully credits
women with a high degree of creativity.
After reading your book, it sounded like fun to write down a
fantasy I have been having – it seems a little more difficult to
share it. Actually, my fantasy does not materialize during sex,
but rather acts as kind of a “sl**ping pill” when I have had a
particularly tiring day at work.
It begins as I am sitting in a waiting room which is painfully
antiseptic and severe. I feel very uncomfortable being there, for
it seems it is somewhat against my will. Other girls are seated
around me also nervously shifting in their chairs.
Finally, my name is called by a woman who resembles an
old grade-school librarian. Very unchic and clinical. She shows
me into a huge office painted white, with a cold metal examination
table in the middle. She asks that I remove my clothes
and carry them to the corner of the room. When I bend down to
put them there, she tells me to stay in that position while she
prepares an injection to tranquilize me. She finally returns and
feels all over me for the correct site – usually on my rear. As
she is giving me the shot, three men enter the room. One is
deadly serious, and the others are his students. They are all
surprised at the position I am in. The teacher appears cross
with the woman for not doing a better job of relaxing me.
I am told to mount the examination table. I do and lie on my
back. But one of the students laughs and asks me to turn over,
saying he needs the relaxed end up. It is at that point, out of the
38
corner of my eye, with my head resting on my hands, that I see
a large machine being wheeled in with a tubular device attached
to a long rubber hose. One of the students asks me to
relax and spread my legs as far as they will go, while the other
student, amid sideways winks and donning rubber gloves, lubricates
my rectum with his fingers. The teacher then slowly
and with some difficulty (because I keep tightening my muscles)
inserts the tube into my rear and announces that this is an
enema designed with both an outflow and inflow suction.
Water swishes, legs are held apart, and I am constantly told
to relax. After a while, it is all over, and the tube is removed.
By then I am usually asl**p.
Should I need to fantasize further, I am prepared.
The teacher tells me I am to be the model for a mold or casting
of a dildo to better fit all women. Another injection, and
then I am turned over. My legs are spread on a t****ze affair
suspended from the ceiling. The students busy themselves with
a thorough douching of my vagina, while the teacher feels my
breasts and asks me if it hurts.
Then another machine is wheeled in with a larger tube inserted
into that clean vagina. The plaster oozes out of the tube
and seems to fill my whole body. It's warm and keeps expanding.
One of the students pushes his hand on my stomach, while
the other closes the slit with his fingers. Meanwhile, the doctor
inserts a lubricated thermometer in my rectum.
Others are called to help remove the casting – usually men
that I have never had affairs with, but have thought about it.
They enter the room slightly surprised to see me, but don rubber
gloves and aid in taking out the form.
The final bliss comes when it is tried out on the librariantype.
I am amazed that I wrote this, but really did have fun doing
it. It is a genuine fantasy.
Robyn
I just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden, and I
must admit I enjoyed it very much.
39
To give you a bit of my background, I'm female, eighteen,
and am presently engaged to be married in one and a half
years. Please, no comments! I've had enough objections from
my parents and relatives already! John and I are very much in
love, although we've known each other only eight short
months!
I've had sex with two other guys before John, but I never
really enjoyed it. With John, every minute we are making love
is heaven. I am the first girl John has ever fucked, and John is
the only guy who's made me reach a climax. We fuck about
three or four times a week (I'm on the pill), usually in his car,
occasionally we rent a motel room, although I have to be home
by 1:30 A.M. I guess I should tell you our favorite ways of
fucking before I tell you my fantasies. First of all, we both get
greatest satisfaction with me on top. He can touch my clitoris
when I'm this way, and I can fondle his balls. When in the car,
I kneel over him while he's sitting, and this way he can use one
finger on my clitoris, and another finger up my anus. I adore
the feeling I get when his finger is in my asshole. I come the
best this way. We use every possible word, while fucking. I
love to hear him say what he's doing, and really letting the
words flow. However, we never use these words any other
time. I also enjoy a good sound spanking on my bare bottom
before making love. (He can't stand me spanking him, though.)
It feels great when he puts a lotion on my fiery bottom afterward.
We both enjoy the sixty-nine position, with me on top. This
way he can also use his hand. I can't come when he's not using
a finger on my clitoris. Often, he'll go down on me before we
make love; I usually come while he's doing this.
Now, for fantasies. I guess mine are basic, not too unusual. I
often daydream of having sex with another woman, but I never
think of this while we're fucking. I'd really like to try it with a
girl, but truthfully, I don't know anyone I could do it with. By
the way, none of my girl friends, except one, know that John
and I fuck. If the opportunity ever arose, I'd definitely try it.
(And I'd never tell John.)
40
I'd also like to pretend that John was a doctor, and he'd have
to give me an enema. I can see him wearing the kind of white
gauze mask that doctors wear and leaning over me. I am on a
special gynecological table, with my feet in the stirrups, but
because he is going to carefully examine my anus before giving
rime an enema, I am lying facedown, so I am all spread open
for him, my cunt and my anus. First, he pokes his finger in my
asshole and tries to look in. But he can't see enough. So he
takes out a kind of surgical pliers and warms the cold metal in
a bowl of warm water. Then he inserts the pliers in my anus,
and when they are in good and deep, he slowly opens them so
he can have a good look in. For some reason of anatomy I don't
understand, he has to put his fingers in my vagina while he is
examining my asshole. Perhaps this helps open it up more.
Then when he has it figured out, he says to me, “Well, I will
have to give you an enema. That will fix you up.” But instead
of having me sit on a toilet, he puts me in a kind of swing, so
that I am supported under the shoulders, and from the knees
down, but my bottom is hanging naked down below. John
brings in an enormous enema bottle and hangs it up high over
my head. “This will really fix you up,” he says, and begins to
insert the rubber pipe into me. He is down below the canvas
swing, so I can't really see him, but he's shoving in inches and
feet of rubber piping, really shoving it in. And then as he turns
on the warm water, he leans over to kiss me. As he does so, he
puts his fingers on my clitoris and lovingly plays with it. I can
feel the water gently running up through me; John is holding
my cunt lips tenderly in his hands and telling me I'll be all
right soon. The feeling is very peaceful, but even as I write this,
I can feel myself almost beginning to come.
That fantasy may seem a bit gross, but I'd really like it to
happen. (Wherever could I get stirrups and the canvas swing
and such?) I don't know if I'll ever get enough nerve to ask
John to do this, but maybe if I get d***k enough … I'm sure he
would agree – he never refused to try anything. I'd also like to
shave all my pubic hair off, but he is repulsed by the idea.
We also masturbate together (I seldom do it alone), and
we've seen each other pee. It's most romantic in the dark deep
woods!
41
I hope I've helped you in some way. Please hurry and publish
your next book. I can hardly wait to read it.
Maybe, I'll invite you to our wedding! Remember – SEX IS
BEAUTIFUL!
P.S. He also loves to suck on my large tits. He can't wait till
I'm pregnant.
P.P.S. I also get turned on by hard porno. (He doesn't.)
 In all the fantasies that follow in this chapter, the writers
themselves describe their fantasies as growing out of c***dhood
experiences – or else their early beginnings are evident in the
emotions they express. I always feel grateful to women like Ivy
and Sophie who write to confirm the value of sexual fantasies
in their lives; just as their own ther****ts have told them that
sexual fantasies do not mean they are freaks, so have several
other psychoanalysts written to me of the usefulness to human
health and happiness of sexual fantasy. As part of their the****utic
approach, these doctors have begun to encourage their
more inhibited patients to invent their own fantasies, often
beginning by having them read My Secret Garden first.
I especially appreciate the generosity of Dr. Harrison's letter,
not just toward me but clearly toward all his women patients.
The fact that he would also enclose his own fantasy makes him
even more dimensional to me, not just a doctor but a man too.
We may not all be able to afford, or want, psychotherapy, but
the experiences these women have shared with us – acknowledging
how difficult it was for them to accept and enjoy the
guilt-ridden early sexual pleasures of c***dhood – can help us
all. You were sexual as a c***d; the thrills and sensations you
felt then are still with you. You may have felt guilty about it
when you were six or ten, but you are grown-up now and can
understand how unnecessary this guilt is. More important, you
can put those early sexual experiences and emotions to work
for you. When we were c***dren, many of us were made to
memorize a passage from the Bible: “When I was a c***d, I
spake as a c***d … . When I became a man, I put away c***dish
things.” I submit that this is not entirely correct. We may
42
put away c***dish words and games, but our earliest sexuality
is the foundation on which our sexual maturity grows. These
women recognize this. Maybe you can learn from them. 
Ivy
I've just finished reading My Secret Garden. For me, it was
one of many approaches I am currently taking to work through
numerous sexual hang-ups. Mostly it helps by confirming my
ther****t's statements that my fantasies and sexual desires are
normal, shared by many others.
I am thirty-one, married nine years, two c***dren, returned to
graduate school a year ago. Both my husband and I are in therapy;
hopefully this counseling, plus attending a clinic for sexual
disfunctions will enable us to remain married. But if not, I
think we will both be at the point that we can survive divorce,
and come through the whole experience with some positive
gains.
Fantasy 1: My ther****t (who is female) has arranged for
me to be sexually counseled by a male friend, also a ther****t. I
meet regularly with him, once a week, in his apartment. He is
very perceptive and sensitive; in the beginning, we only talk.
He is very slow to introduce sexual activities. The second time
I am there, he merely has me lie fully clothed next to him. It's
as though he always sensed at what point the fears I have regarding
sex negate the excitement, and always takes me on one
step beyond where I think it's okay, but one step short of what
would scare me away. This is my sweetest, gentlest fantasy,
and I haven't yet gotten us to the point of actually making love,
and orgasm (which I am only able to achieve while masturbating
in real life).
Fantasy 2: (This is wild.) The beginning part of this borrows
and adapts part of a science-fiction novel I once read.
There is some group of people who have instituted a colony of
“superpeople” … beautiful, strong, intelligent, etc. (Naturally,
they want me. Such egotism.) Anyway, they get their population
by k**napping desirable persons.
43
I'm k**napped, and awaken in a sparsely furnished bedroom.
For the next two weeks, someone comes each day and
takes me for different types of tests – a thorough physical
which I really enjoy, especially the rectal examination for cancer
(I never had this, but someone once described it to me), I.Q.
tests, physical stamina tests, tests for pain threshold, sexual
desire thresholds (i.e., they studied my physiological responses
to sexual stimulus à la Masters and Johnson). What is turning
me on, aside from the discreet experiences of pain, sexual
stimuli, etc., is the feeling of someone or something knowing
all of me in such intimate detail.
In the meantime, they are also carrying on at this place social-
psychology-type experiments. After a few days of testing, I
return to the room and see d****s parted so that I can see a
man in a similarly furnished adjacent room – apparently he
can't see me. Later (on a different day), we see one another and
try to talk through the glass; all we are able to communicate is
that neither of us understand where we are or what's going on.
Finally, usually the day I endure the pain threshold experiments,
I return quite shaken to the room, and see that now
there is a doorway in the wall, and I cross over to his room,
where he comforts me and holds me. Sometimes we screw,
sometimes not, but it is always a gentle act.
Sometime later, he returns from a similar experience, and I
comfort him. The sexual turn-on for me lies in the various tests
performed, but this man is still an essential part of the fantasy;
it occurs to me that maybe he is the safe place I can return to
when sexual feelings have become too strong and, therefore,
frightening to me (it is the loss of control I fear).
I have a couple of other remarks:
1: I think for me it's true that certain fantasies stem from
c***dhood. I can remember having feelings reading the parts of
Tom Sawyer where the schoolmaster switched c***dren. I was
raised a very strict Catholic and would never allow my “sexual”
thoughts in my head. But thoughts of spankings and pain,
which turned me on, didn't fall into that category, because I
was too young to recognize those pleasurable feelings as sexual,
or at least sensual. Likewise, a movie scene in which a
44
group of rough men were ordering a woman in a bar to undress
of they'd kill her male friend (knife at his throat) turned me on
at almost age twelve, and my ****-type fantasies have this
theme. The f***e is never raw strength, but psychological
domination, threat of what they might do to someone else who
is there (a male friend of mine) if I don't go along.
2: I would like to believe that the domination desire stems
from the freedom from guilt which that situation provides. I
very much identified with the woman in your book who said
that the domination thing grew as her involvement in women's
lib grew … the same thing happened to me, and it seemed like
such a contradiction: the more liberated I felt in my day-to-day
life, the more I fell back on and needed my domination fantasies
during sex. Perhaps women's lib helped me to believe in
my right to sexual feelings and experiences, but it's too difficult
to forget all that guilt at once … so domination lets me have
the pleasure without the guilt.
3: I liked the distinction you suggested between pain for
pain's sake and pain as an instrument of domination. As you
noted of other people, real pain turns me off; in fact, torture
scenes in movies, etc., have made me upset to the point of nausea.
I can't stand to hear people screaming, etc. But the thought
of my bare ass being spanked as a preliminary to sex really
turns me on, especially as the means by which a male f***es
me to suck him (which I have ambivalent feelings about, but
am really turned off at the thought of doing it till he comes …
something I've never done).
4: I found that fantasies of faceless people and unknown environments
never made me feel guilty. But thinking of someone
else I know while screwing with my husband still does,
possibly because our marriage is not all that secure right now.
However, I don't feel as cheap and shitty as I used to, having
read in your book how many women do think of other men.
Thanks. I don't have the nerve to sign this with my real
name. If any of the comments are helpful to you, let them be
my way of contributing something in return for what I gained
reading My Secret Garden.
45
Bonnie
Thank you for the first book. I couldn't believe how turned
on I could get. by reading, and ever since, I use your book to
arouse myself before masturbating. Sure, I've got fantasies, lots
of them! I'm twenty-one, lost my virginity at nineteen to someone
who fell in love with me, have had sex with maybe seven
or eight guys, no serious relationships, and over one hundred
forty “dates” and casual affairs. I discuss sex and fantasies
with my Mom and turned her on to your book (as well as
EVERY woman I know). I love sex, anytime, anywhere, and
am in the beginning of a beautiful relationship with an incredible
guy who is a fabulous lover and who is very open about
everything.
The one fantasy which started when I was about ten, has become
a well-developed, detailed, and (excruciatingly) arousing
little plot that I embellish whenever I want to. However, the
theme is always domination, and I always get spanked. One
important detail is that the guy is smoking cigarettes – I guess
this adds to his macho appearance. I only go out with very
sensitive men who are in the creative field, but they've all been
fairly dominating (but in a gentle, considerate way). I won't
take shit from any guy and refuse to be told what to do. However,
enough autobiography, here it is:
I am reading a book in his bed, wearing a fly-front skirt,
button-down shirt, and only underpants. He comes in wearing
jeans, a denim shirt, open very low down, and with a fitted
leather jacket (collar up, of course). He comes over to the bed,
sits down next to me, and tells me to put the book away. I refuse.
He puts out his cigarette and takes the book out of my
hand. Everything is done slowly, especially the stamping out of
his many cigarettes, which elongates the fantasy and arouses
me even more. I play innocent and do nothing except yawn or
consistently refuse. He lights up another cigarette and makes a
telephone call to his agent (he's an illustrator), and while on the
phone unbuttons my shirt and takes it off. He rolls me over on
my stomach and very slowly lifts up my skirt and pulls down
my underpants and leaves me like that while he leaves the
46
room to get a number for his agent. (As he puts the phone
down, he whispers, “If you move, I feel sorry for you, and you
can forget about sitting down for tonight.”) When he comes
back, I have sat up, pulled up my underwear, and pulled down
my skirt. He hangs up and makes me stand in front of him
while he sits at the edge of the bed and takes off my skirt. As I
stand in front of him in just my underpants, he makes another
phone call. While on the phone, he grabs me and puts me over
his knee (by this time I probably have come about twenty
times) and slowly pulls down my underpants. After the call, he
spanks me very hard, but I refuse to cry. Then he fingers me
while he makes another call, which lasts for maybe twenty
minutes. After that one, he spanks me again, always in between
each slap saying what a spoiled brat I am and how I've
had this coming to me for a long time He continues until I cry.
Then he tells me to lay down and wait for him. He goes into
the kitchen and comes back with rope and ties me up. He takes
off his leather jacket, and rolls up his sleeves (this turns me on
even more) and teases me for a long time (I love to be teased),
then he unties me, and we make love all night, but he NEVER
apologizes.
My thighs are locked together as I write this, and I'm trying
to figure out how to get my boyfriend to do it He has spanked
me, but not long enough and not slowly; he also said he would
act out my fantasies.
Hope this has helped, although I don't see how it could, it's
too typical! Thanks again.
P.S. I'm an art student.
Sophie
Just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your book,
My Secret Garden. I am twenty-five, single, and have had numerous
lovers, all male. I have a master's degree in French and
am a teacher by profession.
I have been fantasizing sexually since I was about five or
six, when I began to masturbate. I was always ashamed of my
fantasies – they were my private secret – up until about two or
47
three years ago, when I underwent therapy with a psychiatrist.
He practically had to drag these fantasies out of me – I didn't
feel comfortable enough to tell him about them until I had been
in therapy for close to two years. When I finally did tell him, I
felt great relief that he accepted them and didn't recoil in horror
and disgust when he heard them. Since that time, I have become
much more relaxed about masturbating itself, enjoying it
much more than before (now I can honestly admit that it is
pleasurable), and I now also realize that sexual fantasies aren't
dirty and disgusting, that indeed practically all women have
them. I still masturbate regularly and enjoy that sort of
“naughty” or even “dirty” feeling that used to repulse me. I
also like to feel naughty and dirty when I'm screwing.
I realize that if I had not undergone therapy, I might never
have discovered how pleasant and natural such fantasies can
be, and that guilt feelings are not a necessary psychological
“payment” for such pleasurable, but forbidden, thoughts. I
hope that by reading your book, other women will draw the
same conclusions about their fantasies, without the aid of a
psychiatrist.
Thank you for your outstanding contribution to the liberation
of the female sexual psyche.
I think I may attach some of my own fantasies to this letter.
You may use them as you wish.
P.S. I read your book while at work (I'm doing temporary
secretarial work during the summer) and beat off three times
yesterday during the day, right at my desk!! Once I almost got
caught, and it was ever so exciting!!
Fantasy 1: This one's an oldtimer – I used to use it exclusively,
but now I usually use variations on the same theme, two
of which also follow.
I am walking in the woods, enjoying the green scenery (I'll
bet the shrink would say this is like walking through pubic
hair), when all of a sudden I fall through a hole in the ground
into a sort of laboratory. Inside the laboratory are lots of men in
white coats (I guess they're doctors or something). I am undressed,
weighed, and then put on some sort of cart which
48
wheels me around to the various departments in the laboratory.
First, I am examined and proclaimed healthy (internally, that
is), and then the doctors determine that I am orgasmic and
suitable for experimentation. The last stop is a big room with a
kind of observation balcony. There are lots of men up there
watching me, all extremely interested in so lovely a specimen
as myself. The head doctor, or whatever he is, comes on the
loudspeaker and announces that the gentlemen will soon witness
a female orgasm. Then a large man comes in – he's usually
very strong-looking, and although he's not physically dirty,
he is perspiring and has a gleam in his eye that tells me he's
going to do a job on me. This man has been trained by the lab,
so that he knows precisely how to drive a woman into crazed
ecstasy. I am strapped onto a table, my legs wide apart. The
big man approaches me, explores me with his finger, smiles
wickedly, nods in approval to the head doctor and the men
observing the scene, then comes down on me, flicking my clit
with his tongue. The whole time this is going on, the doctor is
giving a blow-by-blow account of how I'm feeling and how
turned on I'm getting over the loudspeaker. He tells the men
that I'm getting very close to coming. Finally, the big man
sucking my cunt can't stand it anymore himself, and so he
drops his trousers, revealing a large, erect dick, and he fucks
me for all he's worth, while at the same time flicking my clit
with his finger, until I come, come, come, all over the fucking
table.
Fantasy 2: This one has the same setting (sometimes I skip
the beginning part and just find myself in the large room I described
above). Now the men who were observing before are
taking turns trying to turn me on, all this happening under the
head doctor's watchful and approving eye. Each man tries his
own special technique for exciting me, and the all-knowing
doctor can tell who does the best job on me. The men try hard,
because they know what the prize of doing the best job is – me
(who else?). At some point, the doctor tells one of the men he
has won me. This man then wheels the table I'm strapped to
into another room, where he uses his technique to bring me to
explosive orgasm by sucking, feeling, and fucking me.
49
Fantasy 3: Again the same background, except that now I've
been at this laboratory for some time and know what to expect.
I have come to enjoy this experimentation so much that, this
time, the doctor announces over the loudspeaker, I have begged
him to let someone work me over again. Same scene, same
ending, except that this time I asked for it.
I just want to add that these are all fantasies that I use while
masturbating. I don't normally fantasize too much while fucking,
except that if someone's eating me out, I'll usually use one
of these old standbys. I love to be fucked from behind while
having my clit manipulated, either by me or my partner, and
lots of times I can't come unless someone's playing with my
clit. At any rate, I have my best orgasms when someone's fucking
me and playing with my clit at the same time.
Dr. John Harrison
As you can see by the letterhead above (which I must ask
you not to reprint, for obvious reasons), I am a psychoanalyst.
This letter is to tell you that your book, My Secret Garden, is
already having highly beneficial spinoffs in my the****utic
practice. For example, a young mother says, “I can't reveal my
sexual fantasies to you directly, but if you will look on page xx
in Nancy Friday's book, you will read one that is something
like mine!” As you might guess, by the conclusion of therapy, I
hope she will be able to talk to me directly about all her sexual
fantasies in complete detail. That would denote selfacceptance,
maturity, responsibility, and a giant step toward a
more fulfilling life.
Your book provides a most welcome generalizing example
that encourages people to come to terms with themselves and
perhaps seek some of the excitement of which they dream. It is
known, for example, that people with true psychosomatic illnesses,
such as ulcers, hypertension, etc., are sadly lacking in
the capacity to fantasize. If they can learn to fantasize, their
nervous stress, strain, anxiety, and frustration may be given an
outlet in that manner, and not have to be expressed as destructive
f***es within their own poor bodies.
50
One other comment: many neurotics are entirely u*********s
of their most important sexual fantasies. Psychoanalysis
helps them make these conscious and acceptable. Most people
are genuinely unaware of what really excites them, but from
your “catalog” (if I may use such a shorthand term), they can
find one very similar to their own previously unrecognized
fantasies. In psychoanalysis, we find again and again that this
basic fantasy had once been known and treasured, but then
repressed out of shame, etc. I would compare your book to a
jukebox with old, forgotten favorite tunes which, when played,
bring back all the feelings of yesteryear.
Please continue with your good work. I know it must be
pleasurable; I hope it is profitable. Now that you know that in
the experience of at least one psychoanalyst, it is the****utic as
well, you must feel you have found the best of all occupations.
Your photo on the dust jacket does invite me to tell you a
sexual fantasy of my own. You have an intimate, sexual, and
candid look about you. Perhaps your appearance invites people
to be candid with you in return. To tell such a fantasy is a mild
sexual experience in itself – but you asked for it.
It is this: On any given day in my office, when a woman
comes in with a brief miniskirt and no panties, she is rewarded
with a gentle, moist, caressing of her cunt with my tongue. It
would be important for her to sense that this would happen
only if she gave a sign of acquiescence by the way she dressed
and sat.
Freud talked about the sexual fantasies that patients had
about their doctors, and went on to posit and discuss the counter-
transference this developed in their ther****ts. Which is a
stuffy, polysyllabic word for what amounts to a little cuntlicking
in my case.
I am sure you understand why I request that while you let
the fact that I am a psychoanalyst stand, I ask that you assign
me a fictitious name.
51
Deedee
I'm writing this because I think I may be a lesbian – I'm not
sure. I think it all started when I was six or seven years old. My
playmate and I used to take off all our clothes. Then I would
climb on top of her (I'm very aggressive), open her pussy lips,
and grind the hell out of her. Then I met her older s****r, Tish.
One day, Tish was alone in the house, and asked me to come
over. She had on a nightgown, but with nothing underneath.
She raised the gown and told me to rub her pussy. I did it, and
in my fantasies even today, I am often still seven years old. I
like to remember how I opened her lips and tickled her clitoris.
Even as I write this, I can imagine how she looked when she
reached climax. The reason I think I may be a lesbian is that
she didn't tell me to open her pussy lips and tickle her. I did
this all on my own.
When I became eight years old, I gave up my playmate for a
boyfriend named Teddy. Teddy and I used to go down into the
basement and take off all our clothes and fuck all day. (I know
that isn't the way it could have been, but that's how it seems in
my memories.) But he soon told his pals, and they joined us.
One day, seven boys pulled a train on me. I didn't tell my mom
or dad, because I enjoyed it so much. But I think that incident
is what made me dislike boys and want to go back to women.
When I say “Go back to women,” I mean, thinking about
them, fantasizing about them. I often find myself wanting to
have an affair with a woman rather than a man. As I've said
earlier, I am very aggressive. When I go out with a nice man, I
find myself being bossy. I like to make up fantasies about girls
with blonde hair and blue eyes. (I am black.) In my fantasies, I
always see myself going up to them on the street and propositioning
them. But in real life, I never do. I also want to **** my
best friend. I think I'm waiting for the right moment. She doesn't
know the real me. I've never told her how I feel about her,
and the part she plays in my fantasies. Perhaps I will grow out
of this phase. Maybe I don't know very much about life since
I'm only s*******n, and want to shock my parents. Am I really
mixed up, or is this a super, superfantasy?
52
P.S. To show you what thinking can do, even though I have
not described my fantasies in any complete way, I have been
thinking about them while writing this, and my cunt is dripping
wet!
Loretta
The idea of “innocence” being initiated into sexual pleasure
and orgasm is something I love to use in fantasies, my favorite
having to do with a “religious” experience. (Oddly enough, I
had no religious upbringing, and no religious experiences of
any kind.)
In the fantasy, I am a young girl who has been raised without
any sexual knowledge. My f****y are churchgoers; I am
meant to be pure and virginal. When I reach the right age (late
puberty), my parents take me to church for some special religious
instruction from the “priest.” He takes me alone into the
room for initiates. There are candles burning around a cushioned
table that is covered with purple velvet. The priest wears
long robes. He is a man in his thirties or forties, with a quality
of masculine virility, despite presumed celibacy. He has a deep
voice. He explains that I am now to undergo a very holy condition
– the supreme ecstasy of God's greatest power. I will experience
extraordinary sensations, quite beyond anything I've
ever known, but I must freely open my will, and my body, to
the Holy Spirit. I must allow myself to react without fear to
whatever frenzied state the Holy Spirit ordains when it takes
possession of me. And I must be in the pure state of complete
nudity. “Don't be embarrassed now; this is a holy thing that is
about to happen to you….” He helps me remove my clothing
and instructs me to lie down on the cushioned table so that he
may prepare both my soul and body. While I lie naked on the
table, he anoints my breasts, belly, thighs, with perfumed oil,
and intones prayers and chants. “Let this young woman be
filled with the Holy Spirit. Enter her body and soul and encompass
her in the greatest ecstasy. Fulfill her in joyous holiness….”
His touch is pleasant, strangely provocative, and mysterious.
His voice is hypnotic. I lie in an entranced stupor. He
53
waves a scepter over me. It is made of gold, with a rounded,
bulblike tip. “Let the holy scepter find the entrance to her soul
through her body…” he murmurs. He lays the round gold top
on my throat, my shoulders…. Every place he touches produces
a magic tingling – probing my breasts, nipples, stroking my
belly. It moves toward my loins. Cool metal stroking between
my labia. The sensation produces a soft moan from me, an
uncontrolled lift of my torso. “Ah,” says the priest. “This must
be where we will find the magic orifice … the pathway of the
Holy Spirit.” He opens my body with the metal scepter. It
slides into me, filling an orifice of my body that I never knew I
had until now…. “Yes, it is here!” he cries. “Do you feel it …
the beginnings of your experience of ecstasy? Is the Holy Spirit
beginning to work in you?”
“Yes … yes. I think so…’
“You must give in to it, my dear. You must give in completely
to whatever feelings the holy spirit creates as it takes
possession of you…. You will give in?”
I nod, and groan. The scepter slides in and out; as it slides
in, it fills me with unexplainable excitement. My body moves
in reaction, out of my control.
“Do you think it is coming? Do you feel the Holy Spirit,
coming to you?”
“Yes … yes!”
“Let it come … however it wishes….”
The priest is doing something unexpected, but I am too
overcome to be concerned at the moment. The table has a drop
leaf at the end, which he lowers so that he can move himself up
closer to me, between my legs. With a quick movement, he
opens the lower front of his robes, and brings out another scepter.
As the metal scepter pulls out of me, he pushes the other
one in, leaning over me, his face contorted with ecstasy, too, it
would seem. Perhaps we are both meant to be fulfilled with the
Holy Spirit together. He presses his other magic scepter deep
inside me. It feels smooth and warm, and extraordinarily tantalizing.
“Is it coming?” he cries.
“Yes … something is happening to me!”
“Let it come! Do what it wants you to do!”
54
It is making my body writhe and undulate. My orifice swallows
and squeezes his scepter with a sensation that is driving
me into a wild, delicious frenzy. Never have I felt anything like
this…. The Holy Spirit is about to overcome me. I can feel it!
He acknowledges my groans and thrashings with, “Yes … yes!
That is it! Here it comes! It is here!”
(Amen and hallelujah! You bet your sweet scepter, your holiness
… you have made it come, and it has come to you, too,
you devil you…. )
I return to the priest and the room of initiation time and
time again. I receive more instruction and more experience in
the ways of being entered and fulfilled by the Holy Spirit. I am
a devout young woman…. With the candles burning and the
scepter sliding into me, I experience, time and time again, the
greatest of all religious ecstasies. The priest and my parents
rejoice in my religious gifts. Sometimes the priest shows me
paintings of the saints having religious experiences – naked
bodies in the midst of ecstasy – arched backs, contorted faces. I
may wonder how these physical experiences can actually relate
to the soul. Secretly, I begin to doubt the authenticity of the
priest and the validity of this “church.” I think he is a bit of a
fraud. Even the most innocent have some concept of sexuality.
But I never let on; never mention my suspicions. I am having
far too much fun to give it up; and everyone (except perhaps
the priest himself) believes me a thoroughly pure, devout, innocent,
and religious young woman…. We pretend, and fool
each other, and continue to have glorious orgasms on the purple
table.
Sharon
Having read your book, I decided to write to you and tell you
my fantasies.
First, let me tell you a little about myself. I am a thirty-fiveyear-
old virgin (also Virgo!) and relatively happy under the
circumstances.
My divorced mother and twice-divorced grandmother live
with me – my mother is sixty-four (today!); and my grand55
mother, who cannot walk, is eighty-six. Both are in poor
health, and I don't expect them to live long.
My mother hates sex, and her attitude caused her twentyyear
marriage to come to an end when I was ten years old. I
was “word blind,” but overcame this and finally graduated
from the University of Ohio.
Presently, I work in a library where through reading have
“liberated” my own attitude toward sex. Actually, I realized
how sick my mother's attitude was long ago.
As a c***d, I enjoyed sex-play with several boys who lived
close by me, and recovered from my guilt while studying Freud
in high school.
I am a Methodist and a Republican, and I do believe more
and more in the new morality.
I attend church for social reasons, but disregard the Pauline
letters and believe in the occult sciences (I love to cast horoscopes!).
Starting with my present fantasies – I found in my student
teaching that I was VERY attracted to young boys. One of
them, a bisexual, used to come to my house (before my grandmother's
illness) while my mother worked. We spent the day in
bed “necking.” I gave him photos of nude people from Playboy
on which I glued male sex organs – aimed at the females. I got
these pictures from Sexology magazine.
We would look at the photos – he was s*******n and I was
twenty-eight – and become aroused. We would kiss and
breathe. Then he would masturbate under the covers or go to
the bathroom. Finally, he would leave – go to the bus station
and “make it” with a boy. We played this game day after day.
Our pleasure was to hold out. He wouldn't even bring a rubber
so I would be afraid to “let him” in case he would get me pregnant.
He and I both loved to know how much we wanted each
other – but neither would give over to the passion.
Many times when I was breathing hard, he would lie on me
and watch me struggle to not give in. Sometimes, I was on him
watching his face while he tried to get his hands to his penis in
order to jerk off.
56
Finally, we both got tired of our game and just drifted apart
with No hard feelings.
I believe we BOTH enjoyed being wanted by another and
JUST leaving it that way.
My fantasies stem from this experience.
Fantasy 1: We do live together, as my “f****y” have all
died. He discovers I need more sex, and I want it from boys in
their early teens and inexperienced. He loves money so he
gathers heterosexual boys once a week to come to “our” house
(they pay him).
I am now completely nude with my legs wide and far apart –
there are about six boys partly dressed (pants on) standing
around the bed.
George (my lover and former student) helps a boy about
twelve “mount” me.
I can feel his young penis move into me – then he starts to
move faster and faster. The room is silent.
One at a time, these boys “learn to be men” using my body.
But only until George enters me do I have a climax.
Fantasy 2: A short fantasy – I set up a movie camera, and
we have home movies of ourselves having intercourse.
Fantasy 3: I bathe George in the tub and then rub him down
with powder and oils. We then have intercourse.
Fantasy 4: George has a date with a young girl – she won't
let him sl**p with her – he comes home to my front door – it is
dark and his penis (very large) is out of his pants – we make
love on the sofa in the living room. He never leaves me again.
Fantasy 5: We decide to have a c***d, so I hire a real good
prostitute to live with us to take care of his sex drive. After he
has had intercourse with her, he comes to bed with me, and I
examine him to see if he is relaxed and soft. Then we go to
sl**p.
Fantasy 6: Sometimes he has to have a boy for sexual release,
so I give him money to go to the bus station to get what
he wants.
Fantasy 7: Most of my fantasies are just having relations
with him.
57
Fantasy 8: Sometimes I think it would be fun to go to the
basement of the library and have oral sex with him – while
everyone is having a coffee break in the next room.
Fantasy 9: Sometimes I dream (awake) of having oral sex (I
don't care for it performed on myself) with him lying on his
back. I watch his face as he feels great pleasure.
Whenever I am interested in someone or date them, I have
fantasies about them – I do NOT masturbate with my fantasies
– (much) maybe twice a year! I always wonder about the size
of a man's penis – almost EVERY man I meet. Yet I have
NEVER seen a man's penis except in photos (to me they are
beautiful!).
My fantasies take place normally in the morning!
Sometimes at night (I usually go right to sl**p!) and many
times at the library.
My sex drive is stronger a day or so before my period. Just
being around young men (in their twenties) will “turn me on.”
I almost always respond to my fantasies and photos of nude
men by getting very wet.
If I am around “George” – a few days before my period,
have been looking at photos (nudes), the wetness goes down
my legs, and I pull and tug.
People would be surprised to know that while I speak to
them on the street – I am “opening up” and ready to have relations.
As a young teenager, I dreamed of having relations with
black men and a****ls. Just recently have tired of the thought
of having relations with monkeys.
I have tried fantasies with women, but it seems too silly to
continue.
Ms. Friday, I don't believe in marriage – I think it is rotten
for all concerned. I plan to live with men, whom I really want,
at the death of both mother and grandmother.
I get along very well with men and am popular!! So don't let
Helen Gurley Brown tell you that virgins are not attractive nor
popular. Nuts.
I allow men to discuss sex with me. But I refuse to be insulted
with dirty jokes.
58
Because I really like men AS PEOPLE and accept their sex
drive – I am a popular virgin.
Many of the non-virgins have made fun of me at work (I
never say I am a virgin to anyone, but they seem to know it)
only to have the new men and boys employed at the library go
AFTER me. It serves them right! Ha.
Also, I accept my own sexual drive – enjoy it – BUT I refuse
to let it destroy my life.
I am enclosing my photo so you can SEE a thirty-five yearold
virgin! And a FAIRLY happy one at that.
Good luck with your research – because of people like you –
I know I am not alone with my “dreams.”
 In Brenda's fantasy, which follows, she uses words in a
very special way: to heighten her erotic moments. While the
sexual act is going on, Brenda verbally describes it to herself,
making a running commentary on events that one would think
are so vivid they would leave nothing to be described at all.
This internal monologue is, I feel, another layer of sexuality:
while her lover is exciting her body, Brenda's verbal description
to herself becomes a fantasy that excites her mind, making
sex itself more real to her … one more example of the idea that
the mind is the most powerful sexual organ of all. 
Brenda
I am twenty-one, a musician, and gay.
I loved your book, My Secret Garden, and congratulate you
on your bravery.
The first sexual fantasy I can remember is vague, but it had
something to do with bugs (the little black pill bugs that roll up
when you poke them) crawling on my clit. (I was only about
two or three). When I was sixteen, and was in love, I used to
dream of sucking his cock all day at school! And I would suck
it every chance I got in reality. After about a year, he was gone,
and I began to fantasize about my best girl friend who was
twenty-two and was a “bad girl.” (She had a couple illegit ba59
bies, abortions, etc.) When I slept with her, I couldn't sl**p at
all, thinking of how beautiful she was, and how any guy would
love to be in bed there next to her. (My real sex life was limited
to hetero.)
We went our separate ways, and when I was nineteen, my
new best girl friend would come to see me, and we'd talk about
sex and get ourselves all worked up, and then we'd have a hard
time sl**ping. I would think of how I'd like to run the tips of
my fingers lightly over her vagina walls and clit! And touch her
clit lightly again and again with my finger.
Eventually, we acted out our fantasies, and she swears it
was the best orgasms she ever had; however, she is now back
with men (for social reasons, strict upbringing, etc.).
I have had five affairs with women (from fifteen to twentythree)
that have lasted longer than my heterosexual affairs
lasted. (I have had about thirty men before discovering my
preference.)
I found my hetero experiences sexually unsatisfying. While
my girl friends get me off every time. Though once when this
girl I dug was going down on me, I had to envision the one girl
I wanted more eating me before I could come.
I like young girls (not really young, about sixteen), and
when they go down on me, I think “That beautiful long hair,
and lovely graceful body; she's sucking me. Now she's inserting
her fingers in and out of me, and it feels better than the
biggest cock.” When I am the aggressor, I think of what will
make her feel good; what I like, or if she'll tell me and show
me what she likes, I concentrate on this.
Gena
I wish first to compliment you on My Secret Garden. It is
truly what I believe to be the first book to take the giant step
toward really understanding female sexuality. It deals candidly,
openly, and honestly with women.
I should acquaint you with myself before I make my own
contribution to your next book. I am nineteen, married twoand-
a-half years, and soon to be a mother for the second time. I
60
consider myself oversexed – if there is such a thing! – and bisexual.
I hope I have gained a wider-than-average acquaintance
over the past few years with life, love, sex, and the selfimprovement
arts.
I can remember that my fantasies began at an early age; five
or six. At this age, I would often think how very nice it would
feel to have someone older do these “naughty, but oh so nice,”
things to me … as I lay in my bed, night after night, riding a
tightly stretched piece of sheet with my tiny “cunny.” In particular,
I hoped it would happen with a s*******n-year-old boy
who was a neighbor. I also couldn't wait to know what a boy's
“thingy” looked and felt like. Then one day, in the spring following
my seventh birthday, all my fantasies were answered.
Terry (I remember him well) asked me to join him in “listening
to some music.” The stereo was in his room, which was actually
a bunkhouse well away from his parent's house and the
rest of their farm. When we began talking, I soon felt we had
become close, and so I thought it would be “proper” for me to
ask him some pretty personal questions. He seemed to get a
strange gleam in his eyes and said, “Shoot!” I remember the
first and only question I had a chance to ask that day was,
“What do boys look like down there?” He made me promise
not to tell a soul, and then asked if I really would like to see for
myself – that would be easier than trying to explain, he said. I
very anxiously said yes. He took down his clothes and stood
before me. I remember staring at his penis and wanting so
badly to touch it. He sensed it. “You want to touch me, don't
you?” he said. “Take off your jeans, and I'll show you how nice
we can feel.” Again, I anxiously did so. He then “felt me up”
until I almost died because it only kept feeling better and better.
Then he showed me how to “bring him off.” How delightful
that first experience was, and I doubt it will ever be forgotten.
Through age ten, I continued having more and more sexual
adventures, but about that age, I began to have fantasies about
what it would be like to hold and be held by another of my own
sex. At age eleven, I found out.
My parents were good friends with another local dairy f****y,
and the c***dren of both families got on well.
61
In fact, they were the favorite playmates of my b*****r, s****r,
and myself, and we would often spend entire weekends
together. They were our ages exactly. Marie and myself were
the eldest at eleven, R. (my b*****r) and Ted were nine, and C.
(my s****r) and Rosalie were eight.
Both Marie and I felt funny in the world of c***dren by then,
as we were both wearing size 34B bras, and each had a healthy
bush. We had often told one another about out sexual encounters
and curiosities on the subject. So one evening when we
were in bed in her room (during one of our stays), I initiated
our mutual “female body” curiosities. But I did it only after I
thought she was asl**p. I reached around to her breasts (she
was lying with her backside to my tummy) and began touching
them ever so gently so as not to awaken her. But soon she was
breathing heavily and moaning softly. I froze, knowing these as
a sign of sexual excitement. Softly, I called out her name. She
answered with “What?” in the same soft voice. All I could say
were what turned out to be the two most beautiful words I
would say for years to come: “Touch me!”
She did it, and we then proceeded and spent the rest of the
night caressing one another's bodies with both hands and
mouths, although we did not know about cunnilingus; that was
the only act we did not perform on one another.
I grew to puberty with fantasies of lesbian affairs, but also
what it would feel like to have a man. Then in 1969, I met the
men who is now my husband. We lost our virginity to one another.
When I got married, my fantasies stopped until September
or October of 1972, after six months of marriage and the birth
of our daughter. Our marriage began to fall apart, and we separated
a year later. He left me with our daughter and went back
to Washington State where he was born, and where we had
made our first home. I remained in Arizona, which had been
our second home.
The fantasy that I began having in October of 1972 would
be to think of meeting one of two types of fellows. One was
Indian, easy-going, very considerate. He would be willing to
learn and experiment in sex. Above all, he would have great
62
control, so our sex could go on for hours. We would have no
problems, no jealousy or embarrassments.
The other fellow would also be an Indian, but very rich,
huge in structure, and very carefree in a kind of crazy way. I
would be satisfied with him sexually because of his willingness
to give wholly of himself, and his size; also because he
would introduce me to sexual trios.
As fantastic as it may sound, in the two months that my husband
and I were separated, I did meet these two types. I formed
a very loving relationship with them both; yet it was definitely
not the kind of love I had for my husband.
When my husband and I reunited after our separation, I felt
better, because I had lived out my fantasies, fulfilling them. I
had my shit together, and we both felt our relationship would
be better than it had ever been. We have become much more
open and honest with one another and are now expecting the
result – our second c***d.
I now see my husband in a new light sexually, physically,
and mentally. I bring myself to a mind-blowing climax in masturbating
or sex with him by thinking about his beautiful body
and how good he is to me. I can honestly say that with him life
couldn't be better!
Although I am satisfied with him as I've just said, honesty
does make me admit that I often fantasize still about other
women (and truly wish it would happen on a more adult basis).
I have a friend who might share these wishes for a sexual encounter,
and I often wish she would, but I never talked to her
about it at any length. I think of giving her as much pleasure as
I possibly could with both my hands and mouth. The idea of
going down on her excites me tremendously! Then after I have
fulfilled her completely, she would in turn give me the same
beautiful pleasures. It would be so good for both her and me,
because who could possibly please a woman better than another?
Who knows better what it feels like? I would definitely
do it if the opportunity arose.
Much good luck to you on your second book.
63
Joyce
I've just completed reading your book, My Secret Garden.
When I saw your address in the back of the book and the request
for comments, I felt compelled to write. I'm now a college
grad, age twenty-two, and was first turned on to the wonder
of having sex only one year ago. My first and still current
lover is a sexual dynamo. He can keep it up and going strong
for as long as one hour, in which I have so many orgasms that I
lose count. I don't fantasize while we're fucking, because I have
such a tremendous time enjoying the good fuck. Basically, I
read your book for more ideas to vary my sex life, and to bring
more enjoyment to my lover and myself. Whatever I think of, I
make a point of putting into reality, but tonight, my lover is out
of town on business, so I must resort to fantasizing in memory
that we are doing some of the things together we have done in
the past.
These are the fantasies I had tonight. My middle name to my
boyfriend is Linda Lovelace. Needless to say, I am now considered
a pro at this technique, and I imagined that I am eating
his whole cock by getting it down my whole throat as far as I
can to overcome the gagging reflex. I have a beautiful mouthful
of saliva which I use to further wet his lovely cock, balls, and
inner thighs. I also thought of a scene in which he was fucking
me from behind. While in this doggy position I bend my head
so as to watch him fuck me. He is doing various things too,
like, “Look, ma – no hands.” He is also fondling my breasts as
I massage his massive balls, and I can see and touch his beautiful
cock as it moves in and out of my cunt.
My boyfriend is also the greatest lover for me (I have had
three other men, by the way). For example, he will lick and
kiss my cunt and suck my clitoris. Then he sticks his tongue up
my wet, juicy cunt (that's what he calls it, “juicy”) and makes
like he's fucking me with his tongue. I just love this.
Writing all this down has resulted in my cunt becoming
soaking wet and ready for action. But alas, I must hold tight
until I'm with my lover again, and we can make up for lost
time.
64
So to all of you out there – Get Fucked (and have a Ball doing
it!).
P.S. I think that what makes all my sexual activity so enjoyable
to me is that my parents were so strict with me when I
was growing up. I was the last virgin in my crowd of friends,
and was always very fearful of what people would say if they
“found out.” So you can imagine what great pleasure I felt
when I came to sex, late as I did, and found it was so marvelous,
instead of being the frightening thing my parents wanted
me to feel.
65
CHAPTER TWO
ADOLESCENCE
 With the advent of menstruation, c***dhood ends, adolescence
begins. We are suddenly thrown into a larger world than
we feel prepared for, given more choices than c***dhood ever
offered. Much as we longed to be thought mature and adult,
now that it has begun at last, we suffer role and identity confusions.
“What are you going to be when you grow up?” – the
question throws us into despair. We wanted to do one thing
yesterday, but that's no longer true today, and we suspect we
will change our minds again tomorrow. Above all, we want to
say, “I don't know. I'm too young to make up my mind.” But
that's not allowed. Only k**s can say that. Instead, we lapse
into sulky silence or give top-of-the-head answers. The pressures
of f****y and society, the mandates of an educational
system that rushes us on express rails into the future seem to
give us no pause to rest and think about who we are.
It is at this age that we begin to fall in love – over and over
again. While this is obviously an expression of our growing
sexual maturation, it is also an expression of our search for
identity: one of the great wonders of first love is how each new
man seems to help us find a new person within ourselves.
For this reason, I think it is unfortunate that contemporary
mores demand that love be certified by sex. It may not really be
what the young girl wants yet. Sex itself can become one more
f***e pushing her ahead too far, too fast, in a direction she is
not yet sure she wants to take. “I love you,” she wants to say to
him, but is afraid: it may be the final signal he needs to open
the door to the bedroom. Put up or shut up. She may or may
not want sex right now, but what, she does want, desperately,
is for him to speak. She wants him to say he loves her too so
that she can ask him to describe this woman he loves. Who is
she? What is so wonderful about her? Is she really me? She has
a sense of unreality about herself; she needs to find herself
reflected in someone else's affectionate eye, shaped and formed
66
there into an image of herself she can see and understand. She
has been looking into mirrors too long. “Tell me the kind of
girls you like,” we ask the young men we know. Tell me how
to be. A little shiver runs through me every time I hear that
request in a young woman's voice, no matter what the actual
words are. It is the ontological question, a search for a base
upon which to build our being. We look to each other for clues,
but it is a question we all must answer in our own time, in our
own way. What makes “plastic people” not ring true is that
they have not listened within for an answer; they have built
their conforming, counterfeit selves out of the meretricious junk
that society has handed them. Dr. R. D. Laing (The Divided
Self) finds this question at the very heart of schizophrenia – or
perhaps, the lack of an answer to it. The job of creating our
authentic identity is one of the great tasks of adolescence.
It is why teenagers spend so much of their emotional energy
and time in talk: it is all work toward definition. In their endless
speculations about eternity, truth, beauty, good, and evil –
just as in their giggly bits of gossip – they are uncovering layers
of personality, assaying for the gold of their true selves.
One of the most hopeful developments of our time, I feel, is
that young women no longer listen only to young men for clues
of who they are. We ask that question today of other women
too, each one of us strengthening every other in our determination
to define our sex for ourselves – and not merely in terms of
what it is supposed men want. The Great Male Buyer's Market
is over; we will no longer sell ourselves out.
Fantasies that arise out of the crises of adolescence are characterized
by trying on different personalities, testing various
likes and dislikes, rehearsing our sexuality for events that are
yet to come. s*s proudly tells us in her letter that she is an Astudent
in school. But immediately she feels she must fight the
goody-goody definition this seems to bestow upon her by telling
us she has “a very strong sex drive and wants to make
love.” Does she? Or is this merely one of the okay things girls
of her age feel they must say? (Just as their mothers, a generation
earlier, felt they had to say the opposite.) When the opportunity
for sex is actually presented to s*s by a boy she knows
67
well and who promises to be “very gentle” with her, she literally
jumps up in alarm and cries, “I won't!”
I am very sympathetic to young women like s*s. Despite all
their brave talk, something deep within them knows they aren't
ready for sex. s*s doesn't know why this is true. She is not reinf***ed
by her peers – everyone around her seems to take sex for
granted. She is alone with only her feelings to guide her – but
they are enough. She doesn't have to know why she is not yet
ready for sex; she only has to be in touch with her feelings: her
body informs her mind, and her answer is no. I applaud her for
going along with her gut reaction, particularly so because it is a
self-determined response at odds with what seem to be the
accepted slogans and ideas of her friends. Our lifelong struggle
is to teach our reason and emotions to move in tandem on the
same tides. Just as I believe every woman has the right to say
yes if she feels like it – and is willing to take the responsibility
for her actions – so has she the perfect right to refuse, if the
mysterious ebb and flow of desire is not yet upon her.
In the fantasies that s*s sends us, we see that she is getting
ready for the truly sexual time she knows lies ahead. But that
time is not yet.
For Beth Anne, too, fantasies are exciting strategies for getting
used to an idea about which she is still ambivalent. She
tells us she is a virgin, and too shy to buy My Secret Garden at
the bookshop where she works, even though she could get it
there at a discount. In her fantasies, we see her other side: she
is a woman who would like to have sex with “a customer, a
stranger in the street, someone I don't know too well.” And
then she adds a sentence that reminds us how much she is like
s*s. “Boy,” writes Beth Anne, “when it does happen, I'll be
really ready after all these rehearsals in my head.”
Penelope's letter shows us another exploration of sexual
identity through fantasy. The c***d of intelligent, permissive
parents, she felt free enough with her mother to ask to be
taught how to masturbate, after reading Masters and Johnson
brought the idea to mind. In her letter, we see that she has
grown into the kind of young woman we would expect from
68
such a f****y: she is sexually knowing, sophisticated, one who
feels free and secure enough to ask men out herself “occasionally,”
instead of always waiting passively to be asked. But in
her fantasies, she explores a totally opposite identity, “the
woman I can't let myself be (dumb, naive, unaware of my
sexuality) … .”
Even if we had parents like Penelope's, something in us still
wants to establish ourselves as people in our own right by rebelling
against them. But when the parents are decent, reasonable,
and intelligent people, rebellion itself becomes unreasonable;
their very permissiveness is frustrating, giving us no firm
base to push off against. But our negative emotions want to be
expressed anyway. In fantasies like Penelope's, the problem is
solved. She is the woman she “can't let myself be.” That is, she
is the dumb broad that her parents' training has made it impossible
for her to be. She has circumvented them in her imagination:
rebellion at last. 
s*s
I am young (fifteen) and a virgin. I have met many boys I
like, but have never had sexual relations with any as far as
making out. I think the reason for this is I am very shy, and I
worry that boys are going to tell my friends what we do. I am
an A-student in school and popular, and I don't want to spoil
that, but I have a very strong drive and want to make love.
The latest turn down I made was while visiting some friends
that live a long distance from my house (we have known them
since they were small). One of their b*****rs' friends was my
age and came over to see us. The b*****r's friend has a swimming
pool, and they go there often. He invited us to go swimming
that afternoon. So we did. When we were fixing to leave,
they said they left a towel at the pool and for me to run and get
it. The boy my age was there and no one else, while getting the
towel. He said he liked me and to ask my friends that I was
staying with to let me stay awhile to swim some more. They
said yes. We swam awhile, and then we got out to get some69
thing to eat. His mother was on a trip, and he was staying by
himself.
As we walked through the door, he put his arms around me
from behind and began kissing my neck; I turned and kissed
him and we made out on the sofa about fifteen minutes, but he
was not satisfied. He e****ted me upstairs to his bedroom and
pulled off his swimming trunks while I was laying on the bed.
I jumped and said, “I won't,” and he said that he knew how I
felt and would be very gentle with me. He said that all he
wanted to do was show how much he liked me and only
wanted to explore my body with his fingers and mouth and for
me to do the same to him, that he didn't want to fuck unless I
wanted to. I ran out of the room and called my friends to come
and get me.
I often fantasize what would have happened if I hadn't run
out. Here is the best one:
After long persuasion, I would not let him touch me. He
says, “What if we go to the pool, get in up to our neck, then
you take off your swimming suit, and I feel you, that way I
won't be able to see you … .” I say okay.
We get in up to our neck, and he unfastens my top and slips
it off, the same with the bottoms. He kisses me once and then
slips his hand between my legs. He watches the expression on
my face as he does. He clutches one of my breasts. He then
separates the lips of my pussy and rubs his finger back and
forth over my clitoris, stimulating me out of control. Then he
takes his cock and slips it in between the lips rubbing it
quickly as with his finger. I can't stand it any longer and beg
him to suck me; still in the water, he lifts me up onto a raft
with my legs hanging over in the water and my pussy at the
edge, he sucks me vigorously and then slides his tongue as far
as possible in my vagina. I then change places with him, this
time he is on the raft. I take his cock in my mouth and suck
hard. THE END.
When I was little, my cousin, a male, lived beside me. One
day, he said he would check me himself so I wouldn't have to
go to the doctor. I agreed because I hated to go to the doctor.
He took off my clothes and did everything possible he could.
He opened the lips of my pussy and felt, sucked, and licked
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them, then he made me do the same to him. He put an ice cube
between my pussy, which drove me crazy. Then I told him I
had to use the bathroom, so he stood me up, placed his mouth
over my pussy, and I used the bathroom in his mouth. This
delighted me more than ever. We did this many times up until I
was eight. The first time he did it, I was four and he was seven.
Now the way I meet my sexual urges is to vibrate myself. I
lay on the bed, pants off, vibrator between my legs for two to
three minutes, and I stimulate myself to orgasm. It's a wonderful
feeling; I think when I get up the courage to let a man do it,
I will love it.
Beth Anne
Hello. I was already in bed (alone) and almost asl**p when I
got this urge to write to you!
I have just finished My Secret Garden, and I would like you
to know that the book was one of the most informative and
interesting ones I've ever read, and believe me, I read a lot.
I work in a bookstore here in Philadelphia. Your book arrived
last week. Our manager, who was very staunchly and
religiously brought up, was on vacation, so we all took turns
leafing through the book. Our assistant manager (who incidentally
is homosexual) told me the book was filthy. I'm s*******n;
he's thirty-three. I picked the book up occasionally, halfway
on the sly for a few, days, and then last week, I bought it
from a “rival” store, because I was too embarrassed to ask if it
could be “stripped,” or to write up the sale in the employee
discount tablet.
What follows now is a conversation that took place between
myself and the other salesperson, Tina, who is twenty-three,
married, no k**dies. It took place when we were sort of slow
and didn't have anything better to do than stand around and
B.S.
Tina: Have we sold any M.S.G. yet?
Me: Yeah, a few, considering we just put them out.
Tina: Hmmm….
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Me: I bought a copy today downtown, 'cause I was a little
nervous about buying it here.
Tina: Really? I'd love to read it when you're through. I said
it was filthy because Jim [Asst. Mgr.] was there; and I figured
he might get upset if I showed an interest…. I was also afraid
Mary [Mgr.] might walk in, and I'd REALLY be embarrassed.
So you see, it's something that just about every woman is interested
in, although it's probably considered more socially
acceptable not to be.
The sexual fantasies I have now occur usually at night when
it's quiet, and I have time to elaborate without being interrupted.
I'm still a virgin, although I'm not so sure I want to be
one that much longer. Just reading your book and thinking
about the guy I'm in love with have made me think twice about
resisting his advances. He's twenty-five, and really supernice,
although I'm not sure if he'll be around much longer, and I'd
kind of like my first sexual encounter to be with someone I
truly love.
The funny thing is, when I'm dating someone I really care
for, I never fantasize about them. It seems rather unfair to fantasize
about them when I don't even know if they could live up
to my fantasies in real life. I think I’d like to be surprised.
Usually, my thoughts center around a man I find fantastically
attractive and very nice, i.e., a customer, a stranger on the
street, someone I don't know too well. I can imagine him doing
all sorts of things to me, all the things I've ever read about.
And I can respond to him wholeheartedly, because there's no
problem about what will happen afterward (he'll probably go
away and just leave me totally satisfied). But, of course, what I
really want is that these fantasies happen with a man I love.
Boy, when it does happen, I'll be really ready after all these
rehearsals in my head! When I meet that man, I can be d***k,
stoned, angry, or happy, and so can he but as long as we love
each other it will be all right. I suppose this is all because I am
a basically insecure person and need to be assured of my attractiveness
frequently.
All luck in your next book. We need it! Take care. Peace.
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Penelope
At the end of your book, My Secret Garden, you ask for
suggestions, comments, or more fantasies. I'd like to share
some of my garden with you.
My earliest memory is when I was probably ten, or eleven.
A friend and I had somehow discovered that her f****y's electric
toothbrush when placed on a certain area, caused mysterious
sensations. I didn't know what I was feeling, but I remember
always taking the device off me when the extreme tenseness
began. I never continued to what I know now as an orgasm.
Aside from the few weeks my friend and I escaped into the
bathroom, I remember nothing sexual until I was fifteen. I was
attempting to read Masters and Johnson's Human Sexual Response
and asked my mother how to masturbate. She told me,
and ever since then, I've enjoyed myself almost every night.
That was seven years ago.
My early fantasies often started with me dancing around the
bedroom, performing for a hidden audience of aroused men.
Once in a while, a few were allowed to participate, and I'd rub
my breasts against the cold mirror and manipulate my clitoris
and eventually get back to the bed to come and collapse. Sometimes,
especially when I first began masturbating, I'd time the
“session” and see how quickly I could come.
Up until just a few months ago, I always stimulated my
clitoris only. I never enjoyed simulating intercourse, because
until recently, I never enjoyed it in reality. Even now my clitoris
is the focus of my masturbating.
My present fantasies are very varied. (My Secret Garden
helped me expand my nightly choices!) Sometimes the woman
is aggressive, but mostly she is what I refer to as “the dumb
broad.” She is busty and naive. She wears low-cut tops, but is
unaware of the lustful glances she gets. Usually, she is conned
into drinking more than she should or smoking some powerful
pot. She bends over and more boob comes out or a strap slips
down, and the man continues to move in, slyly. Eventually,
things get too hot for her to want to stop him. I never see my
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face in these fantasies. I either make up unknown people or use
scenes from movies and the stars from those scenes. When the
fantasy begins, the woman is not thinking SEX. The man is.
And what first begins me getting high, my climb toward orgasm,
is seeing the woman's chest; I am the man at this point
in the fantasy. During the man's approach, I am both feeling
the sensations of the woman's body and, also getting excited as
the man because of the progress toward and anticipation of
getting this woman. When the actual fucking is about to begin,
I and solely the woman, raising my hips, desperately anxious
for that cock to enter and satisfy me.
You spoke often in your book of how fantasies are often expressions
of what one would like to experience in reality. In
analyzing my fantasies, I found it really interesting that the
woman I can't let myself be (dumb, naive, unaware of my
sexuality) is exactly the woman who dominates my daydreams.
In reality, I am never passive. I ask men out occasionally. make
love when I want to (if the opportunity is present), and present
myself as a whole person rather than a game-playing female. In
some ways, I hate the fact that I get most excited when fantasizing
the “dumb broad” role. I'm hoping someday to be close
enough with a man to feel free and act out some of these fantasies.
I'd like to see if they get me more excited, quicker than I
actually get in reality. I'm usually too conscious and aware to
let go and enjoy myself. Actually, in three years of fucking (not
regularly all that time), I have come a few times from oral sex
and once during intercourse, only when my clitoris was stimulated
at the same time. I've rarely fantasized when with a man.
(I plan to start though.) I always come when I masturbate.
I'd also just like to support your comments regarding the
sharing of fantasies. Because of my f****y's openness, I never
felt strange or bad or guilty about my fantasies or masturbating,
But I've talked to many friends who had never shared their
experiences of masturbation or fantasies. And what a great
experience to be talking to a friend about fantasies and find
that we use the exact same scene from a book!
I thank you for your first book and hope your next is successful.
Please feel free to use any of what I've written. I've
enjoyed sharing it with you, and if there's anything else I might
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be able to write about to give you more material, please send
me a note, and I'll get something to you. I enjoy thinking about
sex and talking about myself.
Good luck.
 During the turmoil of our adolescent years, we try to find
our own identity and often over-identify with pop heroes or
movie stars. We become rabid Mick Jagger fans, we collect
photos of David Bowie, we join fan clubs for this or that television
idol. This is a particularly feminine attempt at the solution
of the problem of identity: young boys do not have our capacity
for loving identification, and so there are no female equivalents
to – let's say – David Cassidy. This was true of our mothers
too: there never was a female Frank Sinatra. Collecting photographs,
concert programs, and LP records, we lose ourselves in
being in love with someone whom everyone else loves too. For
the moment, we find our identity by losing it; if nobody else
screamed at a Sly concert, we would not scream ourselves. We
do not want to be uniquely in love with him; it is our joy to
submerge ourselves and our flickering sense of identity in that
powerful mass that adores him, but whose sheer numbers give
us power over him: he must please us.
In our fantasies, we go one step farther: the beloved idol,
whose fate and fortune are made of enormous numbers, sees
only one: us. Errol Flynn picks out
Katherine to dance with, among all the other beauties at the
ball. Elvis “picks me out of the whole crowd to come to his
hotel room,” writes eighteen-year-old Jenny (who is a virgin),
“and I end up going off to live with him … .” The star picks us
out to love; he seats us beside him at his table, takes only us to
his bed. Not only must we exist, but we must be beautiful,
exciting, lovable over all other women. In these fantasies, the
star gives us part of his magic and charisma. He shares the
plentitude of love he gets from his fans with us. We grow rich
on other women's envy; we are excited in ourselves by his
fame. He is the sun, and we are the moon, shining beautifully
in his reflected light.
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All of which is enough – plenty – when we are in our teens.
When we are women, these fantasies come to an end. We want
to be seen in our own light. 
Jenny
I enjoyed your book, My Secret Garden. It's for, by, and
about the female sex, and we need more books like that. I must
admit that I was shocked at first by some of the fantasies –
mine are never that explicit or far out. But perhaps they will
become more so as I grow older. They've given me some great
ideas, and I must admit that the pieces on a****ls fascinated
me.
I am eighteen years old, and a virgin. Perhaps this is why
my fantasies are so “mild” compared to the ones told in your
first book. I fantasize going to a Hollywood party, and there
meeting someone like Roddy McDowall or Gene Kelly (older
men really turn me on). They immediately fall for me, and end
up marrying me, or living together.
Sometimes I fantasize that I am at an Elvis concert, and he
picks me out of the whole crowd to come up to his hotel room,
and I end up going off to live with him at his home in Graceland.
Another fantasy I have concerns Mr. Spock from “Star
Trek.” He is very unemotional and calm, but I could be the one
to arouse him, and we'd end up making love, in a very dignified
manner, however.
I also have the “classic” fantasies – being a k**napped
maiden, tied up in scanty rags, and just as the evil henchmen
are about to attack me, the hero comes and whisks me off, but I
assist him in fighting off the bad guys, with karate, etc …. No
“weak damsel” for me!
I never plan on marrying, that's not the life for me – I want
to be someone, go places, and see things. But I am also a
Catholic, and that puts pressure on my moral beliefs. I would
like to feel free to go to bed with anyone I like, but my religion
forbids this. I don't want to be forever damned, but I don't wish
to become a hermit, either. It's a bad scene.
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Once again, thank you for the work you are doing. I hope it
serves to show women that they're not alone in their dreams,
and to encourage them to fantasize more. I truly believe that no
man can ever have as great fantasies as we women have!
Veevee
I have read and reread your book, My Secret Garden, about
a hundred times now, and I would like to make a contribution.
Before I start, I want to tell you, that book is the greatest. What
a relief when I learned that other girls fantasize too.
Now, about me. My name is Veevee. I am eighteen, I want
to be a rock singer-costume designer, and I am very horny. I
lost my virginity only last year to my boyfriend, who I am still
dating. We have sex regularly, every weekend, even during my
period. It's kind of messy, but he likes it, because he doesn't
have to use a safe.
The men in my fantasies are neither black nor white, but
Oriental. I find them extremely sexy, and I simply cannot warm
up to any other kind of man (I'm not Oriental, though, myself).
I detest hairy chests and faces … pale hair, eyes, and skin are
too milky to be erotic. I adore slim bodies, smooth golden skin,
and cute asses, and Orientals have it all. Japanese are my favorites,
and my boyfriend is a Japanese. I have also slept with
a delicious Korean boy whom I met in another city recently. I
haven't had a chance to lay out a Chinese yet, but I'm working
on it.
The star of my fantasies is in fact a star, a Japanese rock
singer superstar. He is incredibly gorgeous, with a mane of
dark hair, great big black eyes, a complexion that a girl would
envy, and a sensuous mouth just right for long deep kisses.
And, wow, what a body! Not skinny at all, but smooth and
well-muscled. I have some pictures of him wearing only shorts
and track shoes, and I don't know how many times I have masturbated
while looking at these photos. Anyway, I can fantasize
him onstage, wearing a white leather outfit, with high boots
and gloves, all studded with rhinestones. The pants and vest
are really tight, and the vest is low cut. He is sleeveless, and
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his golden skin is gleaming with sweat under the lights. His
hair is wild, and his eyes are flashing as he writhes and gyrates
to the heavy throb of the music. Thousands of girls are screaming
around him, but I watch him triumphantly, knowing that I
am the woman who will possess that beautiful body, straining
against the leather. Of all the women in the audience, only I
can close my eyes acid remember the exact shape of his cock –
something no one else in the audience has ever seen, except
tantalizingly when the excitement of his singing makes his
erection show to the audience of screaming women through his
tight trousers. Now he is taking his final bows, and I move off,
out of the crowd, to grab a taxi to his apartment. As I walk
through the crowd, nobody turns to look at me. They are all
straining for a glimpse of him, but I have the secret power of
knowing that if only they knew where I was going, and who I
was soon going to be with, they would be clutching after me
too.
Once in his apartment, I relax on his huge double bed.
It has satin sheets and a canopy with embroidered quilts. I
sip a drink, until I hear the door open. He strides in and regards
me for a moment through narrowed eyes. I can see that all that
heavy music and dancing has had its effect, and I quiver with
anticipation. I can feel the moisture begin between my legs.
Without bothering to take anything off, he seizes me in his
arms and kisses me firmly and urgently, meanwhile stripping
off my clothes. My panties get snagged, and there is a satisfying
sound of tearing, as he rips the cloth off my hips.
Now he removes his gloves and begins to caress my body,
his golden hands moving from my breasts down to my belly, to
my cunt (which I keep clean-shaven). He stands right in front
of me, one arm around my neck, pulling me closer to him, the
other hand down between my legs, his middle finger inside me,
stirring up the juices as his tongue inside my mouth licks mine.
I can hear myself sigh as I take a step with one foot to open my
legs wider for him to put in two fingers.
His kisses become more insistent as they now begin to fall
on my naked flesh lower and lower down, down, down, and his
tongue in my hot cunt is just too much, and I heave and writhe
in the most wonderful climax I have ever had – the cunt juices
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just flowing out of me and making a river down the crack of
my ass.
This drives him wild, and he leaps on me and drives his
long hard cock in so deep I moan with ecstasy. He is still wearing
the leather vest, and I can see him thrusting and my legs
wrapped around his ass in a mirror. He sees that I like looking
at us in the mirror, and with a strong lunge of his cock, while
he is still inside me, he pushes my ass around so that now we
are parallel to the mirror, and I can actually see his long cock
sliding in and out. I put my hand around it, as if to make my
cunt longer and more firmly gripping. It excites him even more
to be held by my hand and my cunt at the same time, and just
as I slip my hand between his legs and shove a finger in his
asshole, he shrieks as if he's being murdered, and he comes!
He is thoroughly exhausted by now, and I roll him on his
back and gently undress him. I go to the washroom and clean
myself up and fetch a cool towel to wipe him off with. I rub
him with the towel on his back and chest, while he lies there
watching me through half-closed eyes and smiling. Then I
massage his legs and back, and he sighs contentedly. I crawl
back into bed with him, and we snuggle together and go to
sl**p in each other's arms.
This is one fantasy which I hope to make come true, but I
don't know …. I intend to go to Japan this year. We'll see then.
I get a real thrill out of pampering a guy and being pampered
by him too. I like to be dominated somewhat. Because I am a
big girl, I do most of the dominating in real life, but I'd like to
take the passive role – in sex, anyway,
It was also great to find out other girls like to look at guys
too. I enjoy supertight hiphugging pants with button flies on a
guy with a pert, round ass and tapered thighs. I also like the
curve between the shoulder and hip to be well-defined, and
shirts to be unbuttoned at the neck. Tight high-waisted pants
are great. I find boots very sexy, while shoes for some reason
really make me cream my jeans. When my boyfriend wears his
white shoes, it takes all my willpower not to take him then and
there. White boots are superdynamite! I met a Chinese singer
in a rock group who wore them, along with a tight jumpsuit
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unzipped almost to his navel. Zowie! I would have given my
eyeteeth for just one round between the sheets with him.
Well, enough of what makes me horny. I hope you can use
my fantasy. I know it is nothing fantastic, but when I am feeling
low or nonsexy, all I have to do is imagine it, and I feel full
of zip again. It is especially good to imagine it on nights when
I am with my real boyfriend – it brings me to orgasm in ten
seconds flat.
Katherine
My fantasies are nearly always about public figures – movie
stars, baseball players, etc. I am twenty-two, pretty, single, in
love twice, both times disasters, now cautious about men.
I have one fantasy wherein I am a fifteen-year-old girl
named Marjorie, and Christopher Lee (the English actor) is my
godfather. He is visiting my parents, and I somehow spirit him
into the wooded area of our estate. I tell him I have a surprise
for him, and he should turn his back to me. Soon I tell him to
turn around, and he sees I am standing nude, smiling mischievously
at him. He tries to think of a gentle let-down, but I
throw myself at him, and he takes me there, in the middle of
the woods.
Another fantasy is one where I seduce Basil Rathbone as
Sherlock Holmes at 22B Baker St. In it, I am his twenty-yearold
niece. Dr. Watson (Nigel Bruce) is amazed his aloof pal
Holmes finally fell for someone.
I have another fantasy in which I am dancing at a ball; all
the women are in flowing gowns and everyone is waltzing. My
gown is so low-cut that my partner can look down and see my
rosy nipples. Since it is Victorian times, I am a real virginal
prude. My partner (let's call him Errol Flynn) takes me to a
dark stairway outside the ballroom and pulls the top of my
dress down. I object feebly as he massages my breasts. I get so
aroused I can't fight it, and he lifts my long dress up and puts
his fingers into me. The fear of being seen by the other guests
adds to the excitement.
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I have fantasies wherein a man fingers me under the tablecloth
in a crowded restaurant.
Another one is that I am really d***k, too d***k to know
what's going on, and I'm parked in a car with, oh, let's say
Robert Taylor. He lays me across the front seat, lifts my dress,
and pulls my panties down. Then he puts an empty wine bottle,
thin neck first, of course, into me and moves it in and out really
fast. I writhe in d***ken ecstasy!
Well, those are a few of my most popular ones. I just LOVE
those public figures! I often wonder how I'd react if I ever met
one in the flesh; oh, I know some are already dead, but Christopher
Lee, David Carradine (“Kung Fu”), Leonard Nimoy and
William Shatner (“Star Trek”), and many of the N.Y. Mets,
Nets, Jets, and Sets are still around. Sigh! I wonder what their
wives fantasize about – or if they have to fantasize at all!
Muffie
I know the will sound stupid, 'cause I'm not a silly teenage
groupie, but rock singer Cat Stevens turns me on something
fierce. I once stayed up until 3 A.M. watching a concert of his
on television and masturbating myself senseless.
I fantasize that he and I are on a deserted beach laughing
and running, naked. I trip and fall, and he rushes over to see if
I'm all right. His hand on my naked back makes me burn, and
with a moan, I roll over and pull him onto me, holding him
gently, kissing his face and his eyes, his lips, and then burying
my head in the soft hollow of his shoulder.
His caresses are gentle, like a thought, and his eyes are loving.
Then without speaking, my legs open, and he enters me,
pushing his cock against me easily, as if asking permission.
Then we are fucking, and it seems like we are one with the
sand, the sea, and the moon. When we finally come, it's graceful,
unhurried. We fall asl**p still entwined; when I awaken at
dawn, he's gone, and I find a beautiful seashell in my hand,
and it seems to be smiling at me.
I have really enjoyed being able to put the private me into
words, so thank you. I am trying to get my friends to write you,
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but most are wrapped up in their garden clubs and dinners.
Telling a fantasy to me and writing to you are worlds apart.
Maybe one day they can be really free.
God bless you, Nancy. I'm glad someone cares enough to
undertake understanding the whole woman.
Carina
I read your book and enjoyed it very much. Thank you for
bringing out into the open that women think about sex more
than some people realize. Here is a fantasy of mine for your
new book.
First off, my name is Carina. I'm eighteen and live with my
mother and two young b*****rs. My fantasy always takes place
in the shower when I stand in a certain was so that the water
hits me in the right spot of desire. In the fantasy, I'm washing
in the shower and don't hear the doorbell ring. James Caan, the
movie star, is at the door, and he walks right in (because he
finds the door is accidentally unlocked). He's there because he's
met a friend of mine who told him all about me. Well, he
comes (I mean he pokes his head through the shower curtain)
right into the shower, shedding his clothes and says: “Your
friend was right. You are as marvelous as she said you were!”
We make love while the water trickles over, around, and under
our bodies. By this time, I have an orgasm and the fantasy
ends.
I hope it is one that you can use.
 Though June is nineteen and married, she fantasizes
about a girl friend she has known since she was thirteen. “In
real life, as far as we got was to hold and kiss each other,” she
writes in lament about the c***dren's sexual games they used to
play in early adolescence. It seemed so easy then, so comforting
to our loneliness, to see our friends as our other selves. We
clung to each other for reassurance in young fear and bewilderment
of our burgeoning sexuality. In exploring our friend's
body, we explored our own.
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This element of narcissistic identification seems clear in
June's fantasy: she does not see her friend as a rival in the triangle
she wants to set up with her own husband; she is not
“the other woman” – she is an accomplice. Her fantasy reminds
us of those days when doing anything was much more
fun when we shared it with a girl friend … those early days
when the true excitement of a date was not so much when we
were with him but when we could describe it afterward to our
friends.
One important point remains to be made about fantasies like
June's: it is as common for women to have sexual fantasies
about other women as it is rare for men to have fantasies about
other men. The bugaboo of homosexual fear does not haunt our
sex the way it does the other, but this does not mean that every
woman who has a sexual fantasy about another woman is a
lesbian. (The phrase “latent lesbian” has no meaning. We are
all “latent” – it is imaginable for any human being to do something
sexual with any other human being in the right time and
circumstances.)
Some women who have fantasies about other women describe
themselves as lesbians. Many women who have similar
fantasies do not. You know yourself better than I do. Having a
fantasy in your mind is a very far cry from meaning you have
done something in actuality … or that you “really” want to do
it. June has sexual fantasies about other women, but does not
for one moment mention the idea that she might be a homosexual.
Tina writes about her attraction to Barbara in terms that
may well mean that in time she will enter a homosexual relationship.
s**ttered throughout this book are fantasies by other
women who have erotic reveries about sex with other females
… some letters are from women who have put this idea into
practice. None of these sexual paths is better than any other,
none is right or wrong. All that matters is how your sex life
makes you feel. If you feel whole and happy, released and vital,
it is nobody's business how you reach that goal. Some of the
women concerned call themselves lesbians, others do not.
What you call yourself is your business too.
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In general, it can be said that sexual fantasies of other
women can usually be traced back to feelings and emotions of
babyhood, when our mother was our first love object. In time,
as we grew up, we made the crossover to men – starting with
father, who we took to be our first model for all men. But some
leftover emotion about mother, some u*********s image of
how she smelled, touched us, and gave us our first idea of love,
is often still buried somewhere within us, just as there is a little
bit of the c***d left over in every adult. 
June
I have just finished reading your book. I have really enjoyed
it, and am glad someone has finally written about women's
fantasies.
I have a few, but this is my favorite. This fantasy is always
about a girl friend I've known since I was thirteen years old.
I've always wanted to make it with her. In real life, as far as
we got was to hold and kiss each other. I have had women
make love to me, but it's always turned me off. I know that (I'll
call her Sue) Sue would be the only one that could turn me on.
I am nineteen years old and am married. I have told my husband
before about my fantasy, but after I read your book, I got
really excited and decided to really describe to him my fantasy
and how I'd like him to be making it with the both of us. It
really turned him on. We had the best time in bed than we've
had in a long time.
We both hope someday our fantasy will come true. I think
then I would be the happiest. We live far from her now, but
plan on moving back soon.
Well, thank you for the book you've written. I'm looking forward
to your next book. I hope this can help you in some way.
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Tina
I am thirty-seven years old and have been with my husband
for fifteen years, the last ten of which I have known Barbara.
My husband is sexually okay, but not passionate – his value as
a husband is based on other qualities. My strongest emotional
need has been to be able to be open, to share all my thoughts
and feelings (including sexual fantasies). I have done this not
with my husband but with Barbara. She has also shared more
deeply with me than with anyone else until recently, when
someone new entered her life.
I have had sexual fantasies about her and other women for
as long as I can remember having sexual feelings at all. The
reason I am writing to you now is because of “the change” in
me – none of the fantasies in your book seem to cover that part
of me.
As time has gone by, the outward sexuality between Barb
and me has grown from no touching at all to spontaneous
kisses and embraces and back rubs that take me close to orgasm.
(I think the next time I will ask if she minds for me to
masturbate in her presence. I will have to think about this for a
while since we live in separate cities, and our direct contact is
only once or twice a year.)
Until last year, Barbara said that she wasn't sexually attracted
to women. Now she is living in a lesbian relationship.
You can imagine the mixture of joy for her and pain I felt for
myself when that happened. Until the beginning of that relationship,
my fantasies about women had always been about
Barbara. I would imagine her saying “Yes, I do have sexual
feelings for you,” and going down on me, hugging, kissing,
etc. Once I imagined Barb walking in while I was masturbating
and sitting down beside me and holding my left hand. Last
winter, I visited with her and her lover and had the deepest
back rub yet. The whole time she was much more open and
affectionate than ever before, but still clear that I wasn't to be
her bedmate. The next night, we three women did pot together
(my first time). Eventually, they went to the bedroom, and I lay
down on the couch. I felt like I was with them, part of their sex.
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And then suddenly switching from explicit masturbatory images,
I was talking to Barb, sharing with her words of love and
deep feelings, some of it even admissions of jealousy. But even
though what I was telling her was not all positive feelings, I
could sense Barb's understanding and love. Her nonsexual but
deep love for me wanting me to feel good and enhancing my
sexual intensity. Since then I have often incorporated this sense
of feeling close with a woman, feeling her love with my masturbation.
I told Barbara the next day, and she felt it was a
beautiful thing. I shared all the feelings too that I had verbalized
in the fantasy when I had imagined the two of them making
love in the other room, and she understood all of that too. I
suppose you might not call this a sexual fantasy, but it turns
me on deepest of all when I masturbate to imagine how deeply
a woman (Barb) understands me, accepts and loves me. Sometimes
I try to incorporate this feeling into my time with my
husband (but I do feel guilty thinking of someone else when I
am with him). I have since last winter slept with three women.
One of them touched my deepest feelings along with my body.
I fantasize about her both ways at once – the feelings that we
share, plus the memories of our sex. Love and sex together can
be a very powerful stimulant.
I see myself as bisexual, by the way, and have been working
within my religious denomination to spread understanding of
homosexuality and bisexuality. I initiated a consideration of
these issues in Barb's state last summer, before it was an active
concern to her. This summer, she stood where I had stood with
the others and carried it through, while I stayed in my own
territory. I am more than pleased by the feelings of togetherness
and s****rhood I get from these activities.
I told one of my lovers about this kind of fantasy, and she
tried it and really liked it. I hope I have explained it well
enough so that you understand. It's the strength of emotional
intensity and general closeness that heightens sexual feelings.
Also, one of my explicit fantasies wasn't mentioned until now.
I'll say it quickly before I lose my nerve. I am drinking breast
milk and eventually floating in it, and as I approach climax, I
feel myself drowning.
86
 Toby's first fantasy, like most in this chapter, stems from
a time in her life when she was not yet ready for sex. She was
fifteen, she writes, when she began to fantasize about the man
who lived next door. He was “about forty-five, with sexy gray
hair (sophisticated-looking).”
Ah, these sophisticated-looking, gray-haired older devils!
How often they populate the erotic reveries of women young
enough to be their daughters. The ambiguous mystery they
bring with them, of having slept in many beds, surrounds them
with an almost mystic, golden haze of romance. Sexual but
fatherly at the same time, the older man promises to guide us
safely into our sexual life, initiating us with his great skill,
forgiving us in his wisdom by joining us in the forbidden act.

Toby
I'm eighteen, white, single, and reasonably sexually liberated,
surrounded by people who frown upon sex. Right now,
I'm having an affair with a guy called Lou, who is twenty-six.
His divorce comes through in about one month. He's really
fantastic!
My first fantasy was of a man who lived next door to us. At
our summer cottage. I was fifteen at the time. He's about fortyfive,
with sexy gray hair (sophisticated-looking).
My parents have one cottage while I have my own.
At about one in the morning, a knock would come at the
door and V., the man next door, who had k**s older than I,
would come in and immediately we'd be locked in a mad embrace.
He was the best married man around.
Whispering gentle words, we'd fall on the bed and make
love. He's gentle and I get horny thinking about him. We'll
screw and talk until five A.M., when he returns home and
leaves me with memories.
Another fantasy I have is having a huge dog (German shepherd)
make love to me (doggie-style, of course). I would be
held down, and the dog would be f***ed to sniff between my
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legs and lick me out. Then he'd put his hard, moist penis inside
me, and we'd rock on to heaven.
Just the thought of his big nose probing between my legs
excites me.
Nothing really excites me as the thought of making love to
two men. Both of whom are familiar to me.
One to perform cunnilingus on me while the other (after the
first) can screw me.
While on a train, Lou and I made love on the seats of our
car. It was dark, at night, so no one really saw us (I hope). The
seats across from me were vacant, but there were people ahead
and behind me. We played with each other until that crucial
moment came. He pulled down his pants and put a blanket
over him. I had on a dress with no pants, so I just hopped on
his knee, and when he put his huge prick inside me, along with
the movement of the train, it was heaven. It was good! I experienced
my first real orgasm with him.
We fucked for about two hours, all the way to Boston, where
we had an engagement to play the next day.
I'll often fantasize that again he's home, and I can screw
him again and again and again.
Everytime I see a guy in tight pants … look out! I could just
grab him and wow!!
You seem like a fantastic lady, and I hope we could meet
sometime.
Penny
When I first became aware of my sexual fantasies, I was in
my early teens. They used to threaten me sometimes, particularly
the ones involving other women. I have not gotten to the
point even today where I can, or want to discuss them with my
husband, even though my best friend and I swap fantasies. Our
latest mutual fantasy is telling our men that we're going to
Memphis for a weekend shopping spree, but actually going
there to get fucked. As you can see, I have come a long way
with my fantasies, and can now enjoy them. In fact, I don't like
to read My Secret Garden while I'm at work, because it gets
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me too turned on, and that's not a state I want to be in at the
office.
One of my favorite fantasies when I was a k** was walking
along the superhighway near the school I went to. The people
weren't in cars – I would imagine them moving together in
small clumps or groups, but walking. As I moved into the left
lane to pass a slow-moving f****y, I had to turn sideways. I
passed close by a man with a hard-on. I smiled and said mmmm-
mm … as in mm-mm-good. He took my arm and tried to
get me to go with him. I smiled sheepishly and answered that I
really couldn't, because I was too young and inexperienced. He
tried to convince me again, and I said, why not. We got out at
the next exit. I had no pants on. We were sitting near the
school. Someone (I think the hard-on man) was twiddling my
clit. It felt good. Then I was in a room. I decided I had to get
out. So I sheepishly asked him if I could please have my pants
back. He gave them to me, and I hurriedly left the room. There
was snow on the ground; then the man was after me. All of a
sudden, I saw a train arriving. I yelled out, “Thank God for the
Southern Pacific!”
That was the end of that particular one. One of the first fantasies
I can remember in my whole life was a man lying down.
I opened his zipper – I thrust my hand inside his pants, but into
pitch blackness. At that time, I had never seen a cock.
A couple of years ago, when I went through the phase I described
of having fantasies about' other women, my sexual
images were very exotic. I would imagine myself grabbing
Miss America's tit, watching a pregnant lady undress. Many
times, I have had dreams about being bare-chested in public, in
which I usually tried to cover myself. Recently, I had celebrity
week. One night, I was part of the M.A.S.H. unit, and Alan
Alda was after me. The next night, Frank Langella (Diary of a
Mad Housewife, Twelve Chairs) was fucking me and said,
“The only problem is that I have a small dick. So you will have
to flex your muscle.” I remember in my dream feeling my vagina
tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen.
If you like, I can ask the friend I swap fantasies with to send
you hers. I hope I have been of some help.
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Cecillia
I love you, I love you, I love you!!!!
Your book was sensational and quite a turn on at times – a
turn off at others, but always devilishly good fun. I'd love very
much to submit a fantasy or two of my own. I'm s*******n, and
have fantasized (in one form or another) as long as I can remember.
My favorite (current favorite, that is) concerns this boy I
went out with several times (but unfortunately never slept
with). This was while I was still a virgin – but should I run
into him again, am sure I could get things to happen!! The fantasy
starts that we're in his bedroom, alone together, and I walk
over to him and just start to kiss him quite passionately while I
unzip his fly. I take his huge throbbing cock into my hands and
start caressing, fondling it, etc. He slips his trembling hands up
my sweater and starts to massage my breasts. He has to unzip
my fly and slips his hand right on my dripping pussy and sticks
a few fingers up my cunt.
We both undress each other (I stop while pulling off his
pants to fellate him). He lays me on his bed, props my legs up
and open, and his full red lips unite with my red cunt and
Zowie! I pull his head into me, and that tongue of his licks the
hell out of me. We have intercourse and both end up quite satisfied.
My next one concerns a girl friend of mine. I decide to sl**p
over her house, so we smoke some grass and are feeling rather
free with one another. We decide to take a shower together,
and that's when the fun begins. We offer to wash one another's
backs and naturally that's not all we wash of one another. We
get into her bedroom and first I towel her off, then she does me;
she has me sit on the edge of her bed so that she can dry my
feet and legs. She starts feeling my thighs and starts to kiss and
lick them. She opens my legs wide and starts to lick, suck, and
kiss my cunt. She works her way all over me, and we end up
69ing it all night.
I've told my lover these, and he enjoys them also.
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I too am an avid crotch- and fanny-watcher. I always enjoy
visually undressing men and imagining screwing with them.
Can't wait for your next book. Much love to you.
Isabel
I just finished reading your book called My Secret Garden,
and I liked it very much. I especially liked it because it made
me feel better about myself. I think about sex a lot, and I fantasize
about sex so much that I was beginning to think that I was
perverted. It makes me feel better to know that other women
fantasize about sex just as I do. I am going to be a sophomore
in college this next school year, but I am home for the summer
right now. I want to tell you about my fantasies, but I must
keep this letter anonymous, because I live in a very small town,
and I do not want anyone here to find out about me. As I said, I
have a lot of sexual fantasies, and I would like to tell you about
some of them. Although I have sexual fantasies almost anytime,
I have my most developed sexual fantasies when I masturbate.
I think I masturbate more than most girls. Almost
every night before I go to sl**p, I masturbate, and I often masturbate
at other times during the day when I am aroused and
can be alone for a while. Masturbation is the only kind of sexual
activity I have ever had. Although people say I have a
pretty face, I am overweight. Being overweight makes it difficult
for me to get dates with boys, so I have had only a few
dates with boys in my whole life. To be honest, I am a little
afraid of boys. I am afraid I might be frigid if I ever did have
sex with a boy. That's enough about me though. I had better
tell you about my fantasies.
I think I am the female equivalent of a “peeping Tom.” In
my sexual fantasies, I almost always imagine myself secretly
watching other persons engaged in sexual activities. One of my
favorites is to imagine an attractive boy undressing while I am
secretly watching him. I have never seen a boy undressed, so I
am not sure if what I imagine is completely accurate. I am
aroused by the thought of seeing a boy's sexual organs, but the
thought of actually touching them kind of scares me. They kind
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of attract and repulse me at the same time. When I have this
fantasy, I also like to imagine this boy masturbating himself
after he undresses. I am not sure how boys really do masturbate
themselves, but in my fantasies they do it several ways. My
favorite right now is to imagine a boy lying facedown on ,his
bed and moving his hips up and down so that his penis rubs
against the sheets. I like to imagine that when he ejaculates he
calls out my name as though he has been fantasizing about me.
Another of my fantasies is to imagine a couple having sex
while I secretly watch. The couples are usually persons I know
personally; when one of my girl friends gets married, I like to
lie in my bed on her wedding night and try to imagine what she
and her new husband may be doing. I imagine that I am there
secretly watching when she sees her husband undress for the
first time and when she undresses while her husband watches.
The thought of undressing in front of a boy scares me, but it
arouses me too. After fantasizing about one of my girl friends
and her new husband undressing, I imagine that I am secretly
watching them when they have sex for the first time. Unless I
know otherwise for sure, I imagine that she is a virgin. Her
husband's penis is very large, and she cries out with pain when
he pushes it into her for the first time. It hurts so much that she
starts crying, but in a few minutes, it starts to feel good to her.
This, too, is a part of sex that scares me, but also arouses me.
Besides newlyweds, I fantasize about other couples I know
too, both married and unmarried. I think about what they
probably do when they have sex. I like to try and imagine all
the things they might do when they are having sex together. In
my mind, I try to picture them having sex. One of my favorite
things is to imagine them having oral sex. Mostly, I try to picture
whatever girl I am fantasizing about sucking on her partner's
penis. The idea of doing that to a boy repulses me, and yet
it fascinates me too. I sometimes imagine that he ejaculates in
her mouth and that she swallows it. Thinking about that
arouses me very much, but I do not think that I would ever
really do that myself. I also like to picture in my mind couples
masturbating each other, and I get very aroused when I try to
picture the boy sucking on the girl's nipples.
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Most of my sexual fantasies are of the types I have already
described, but I do have a few other kinds of sexual fantasies
sometimes. Almost everytime I see a good-looking boy, I try to
imagine what he looks like with his clothes off. When I do this,
I kind of play a game.
I try to guess the size and shape of his sexual organs, although
having never seen a boy with his clothes off, I am not
too sure what his sexual organs ought to look like. Once I saw
a boy whose pants were bulging as though his penis were
erect, and it arouses me when I think about how he looked. I
really wish that there were a magazine for women that showed
photographs of good-looking men with all their clothes off.
Another fantasy that I have had a few times concerns two girls
I know at college. They have an apartment together, and I
found out from some of my friends that they are lesbians.
Sometimes when I masturbate, I try to imagine that I am secretly
watching when these two girls are having sex together. It
worries me, but I do get very aroused when I think about them
having sex. Sometimes I get, aroused thinking about some very
feminine and slim girl with all her clothes off, and occasionally
I fantasize about secretly watching a girl like that undress and
then masturbate. Sometimes I think that I would be less afraid
of having sex with another girl than I would of having sex with
a boy.
In almost all my sexual fantasies, I am just a secret' observer
of other persons' sexual activities, but in a very' small number
of fantasies, I do play other parts. Most of these fantasies have
a similar format. I imagine that I am trapped and am f***ed to
have sex with a good-looking boy. I will give you an example
of one of these fantasies. I imagine that I and a good-looking
boy, who otherwise would pay no attention to me, are snowbound
alone together in a mountain cabin together or some
other place like that. We have food and logs for the fire in the
fireplace, so we are comfortable. When night comes, we prepare
to sl**p in separate rooms, but when I begin' undressing,
he bursts into my room. He already has all his clothes off, and
he forcibly removes the rest of my clothing. When he sees me
with my clothes off, he gets even more excited, and his penis
becomes erect. It is very firm and very large, and I am scared
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by the sight of it. He f***es me down on my back on the bed
and gets on top of me. Right away he starts trying to push his
penis into me. It hurts so much that I start crying, but he just
keeps pushing his penis into me. After several minutes of that,
it begins to feel good. He keeps moving his penis in and out of
me for about ten or fifteen minutes, and then he ejaculates.
While he is ejaculating, he tells me how good it feels to have
sex with me. Afterward, we lie in bed together, and he is very
affectionate to me. In fantasies like this one, I imagine that
having sex feels very good, but I do not have an orgasm in
them. I do not have this kind of fantasy very often though. I
probably only have it about once or twice a month. I have to be
in just the right mood for this kind or else they make me feel
bad instead of good.
The first specifically sexual fantasy that I ever had occurred
when I was thirteen, and my oldest s****r got married (I only
have s****rs and no b*****rs). At that time, I asked my mother
about marriage and having babies, and she told me about sex.
Soon after that, I began to masturbate, and when I did, I would
fantasize about being able to secretly watch while my s****r
and her new husband were having sex together. Maybe because
it was the first kind of sexual fantasy I had, this kind of
fantasy is just about my favorite of all. I get extremely aroused
when I try to picture what a newly married couple I know are
doing on their wedding night or on their honeymoon. Second to
this kind of fantasy are those in which I imagine that I am secretly
watching while a good-looking boy takes off all his
clothes and then masturbates. I would MUCH RATHER imagine
watching this than to actually have sex with a boy.
I hope that what I have told you about my sexual fantasies
will help your continuing research. I can hardly wait to read the
results of this additional research. I lent my copy of your book
to a friend of mine, and she, too, likes it very much. Maybe she
will write to you too. I might even write to you again if I think
of more to tell you about.
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CHAPTER THREE
LOOKING
 Until very recently, it was a cliché even in the medical
profession that women were not turned on by reading pornography.
When I began researching My Secret Garden, one doctor
after another told me that women are unable to become
aroused through the same kind of visual stimuli that moved
men. “A woman does not look at sex as a kind of simple,
physical proposition the way men can,” went the usual explanation.
“Pornographic books or photos leave all emotion out of
sex, but unless a woman can see sex in an emotional context,
she just isn't interested.”
This may have sounded reasonable enough; on the whole, it
is fairly true of the way women lead their lives. The only problem
with the explanation is that it does not account for, or even
acknowledge, female lust.
It did not help explain to me why I would always find my
eyes riveted to attention when I passed a man on the street who
had a noticeable bulge in his trousers … why, when I went to
see The Changing Room, a play in which at least a dozen naked
men come on stage at one time, it was all I could do to
keep my head from swiveling from side to side. I had never
seen so many naked cocks presented for my inspection at one
time, and although I felt no emotion for any of the actors involved,
it was one of the most exciting evenings I had ever
spent in a theater.
Was I some kind of freak? I wondered. I had nothing to
compare myself to, no role-models whose footsteps I could
safely walk in. I had no cultural okay to give sanction to my
prurient interest, the way men have for theirs. If a man likes to
go to burlesque shows and pins photos of naked women on his
wall, it shows he is one hell of a lusty guy. There is even a
society based in San Diego – made up of young studs who
proudly label themselves “International Girl Watchers.” But
we are only supposed to collect photos of couples walking
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hand in hand in the moonlight. The whole business seemed
unfair to me – worse, it offended my sense of logic and symmetry.
There must be a reverse to the coin, even if I had never
heard it discussed, even if no doctor would agree with me. I
remember talking to a friend's young daughter not too long ago
about her experiences at the beach. “Men have these funny
bulges in the front of their bathing suits,” the girl said, “but
you're not supposed to notice them. How do you do that?”
How indeed? I get furious when I hear men and women
alike say that the naked male isn't as interesting or beautiful as
the naked female. Why? Why should tits be any more beautiful
than a man's buttocks or cock? I believe it is men themselves
who've set up the idea that their naked bodies are ugly – or at
least, too trivial or unimportant to look at, unless they have an
erection! If I am right, then it is also men themselves who will
have to help both sexes get over this absurd prejudice. Men are
going to have to accept their own naked bodies as aesthetically
satisfying, and not merely sexually useful; they will have to
learn to lie back and enjoy allowing a woman to look at them.
Once men can get away from the idea that they are not worth
looking at if they don't have a giant, erect cock, they will be
liberated from an enormous amount of their castration anxieties.
They will be freed from the notion that they are either a
giant penis or they are “nothing.” They can be men, instead of
perpetual fucking machines.
To see a naked man from the rear is a sight that takes my
breath away the awesome shape of power as the shoulders drop
away into narrow hips, the hard, muscle-bunched look of an
athlete's ass…. There are lines in the male body that have never
been mentioned, aesthetics of masculine anatomy women will
soon be writing poetry about … if we can give ourselves permission
to look.
Unlike men, women have been trained from birth to be exhibitionists.
Fashion is busily revealing one aspect of our anatomy
this year, hiding it the next. Who more than a woman
feels more deeply in her bones the erotic power of what the eye
can see? It is obvious to me that both sexes must be equally
stimulated by reading and seeing sexual sights, but that women
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– “ladies” – have been culturally conditioned to deny it, even to
themselves. Both sexes respond to natural things like sunshine,
furry a****ls, the feeling of speed, the sound of music – why
should there be this great divide in what turns on the individual
sexes? If both women and men like sex, both must like it in all
its manifestations, even the most fleeting. After I had written in
My Secret Garden that I was “an inveterate crotch-watcher,”
woman after woman has taken me aside to tell me, with a relieved
laugh, that she was too. (You will also find mention of
the pleasures of fantasizing what goes on under a man's tightfitting
pants in many of the letters in this book.)
Roxanne too sends evidence that I'm not alone in getting an
erotic charge out of things I see. Her letter contains eleven different
fantasies, all of which involve looking and being looked
at.
But her letter ends on a sad note, I feel – one that does much
to explain why women are so afraid to confess their excitement
at seeing something sexual. “… I must stop now,” Roxanne
concludes, “as my husband is coming home. He's great but
rather traditional, so I don't want him to see all this.” Instead of
seeing women's sexual response to things they see or read as
one more erotic avenue to explore together, too many men see
it as a threat, a sign of raging sexuality that they are afraid they
may not be able to satisfy. “My ex-husband would rather think
of me as frigid,” a friend recently said to me, “than think
maybe I wasn't getting enough.” 
Roxanne
I have a number of favorite fantasies – I say favorite because
if I described all of my fantasies I'd be able to write a book
myself. So anyway, as my vaginal juices start proliferating,
here goes:
Fantasy 1: There is a pornographic book and magazine store
fairly near where I live. The magazines are especially great,
with all types of pictures and advice, including how guys can
best fuck guys, and so forth. Anyway, I see myself going in
there with some type of revealing clothing on and definitely No
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underwear of any kind. Whatever the top material is, my nipples
will be clearly visible, and the bottom part will be some
sort of skirt-dress. I go in and start paging through some magazines
when I accidentally on purpose drop one. I bend over to
pick it up, thus revealing my ass and cunt in all their glory. The
young male proprietor naturally is watching me all along, and
he has all he can do to contain himself. Sometimes he'll rush
over and before I even get a chance to get up, he sticks his
enormous prick in me – in my asshole, in my cunt – no matter
– and pumps to our hearts' delight.
Sometimes he won't approach me, so I'll take a few magazines
to him to purchase and say, “Boy, I'll bet you get horny
working in a place like this,” or “You should have a back room
where horny females like me can get some fucking when they
need it – like right now.” He looks at me with lust and tells me
they do have such a room! He directs me and in I go with my
throbbing body. What should be in there but three gorgeous
guys, and I direct the show. Wow – have you ever had all three
holes fucked simultaneously?
Another great feeling is to be held by two guys and raised
up and down on a third guy's prick – first slowly and then with
progressive speed.
After all this, I still want more variety. I take one guy into
the adjoining shower with me and ask him to pee on me – yes
– pee on my boobs and tummy and cunt. That's exciting! After
that, I bend over on all fours and tell him to “stick it up my
ass,” which he obligingly does.
This particular fantasy usually ends about here. This very
morning, I went to the bookstore to act this out (at least in the
initial stages) only to find out they had gone out of business.
Would you believe that? And I was ready! All I had on was a
white peasant blouse off-the-shoulders and a short peasant type
skirt – no undies! If I had bent over or if a good wind had come
along, I either would've been arrested or ****d – maybe both. I
sure was disappointed and frustrated! I went home and masturbated
with an artificial banana, which, believe me, was no
substitute for a cock (or cocks).
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Fantasy 2: I have tremendous exhibitionist urges – like the
bending over previously described. I get a lot of these ideas
from looking at magazine photos. I'd LOVE to perform a strip
act which culminated in fucking the whole damn male audience.
I'd like to masturbate manually or with cucumbers or
whatever on stage and drive men to distraction.
Fantasy 3: I'd like to be casually dressed in some public
place as a department store with my button-down-the-front
blouse open just far enough to let a boob show from the side
for the benefit of male passersby. Occasionally, someone grabs
it and starts tearing my clothes off from lust.
Fantasy 4: Here's something I actually did a few weeks ago.
I again had on no underwear, and I parked my car in a parking
lot next to a tall building where construction was being carried
out. There were workmen a few floors above me, so I decided
to give them a treat…. I pulled my skirt up (in the car) and
began to masturbate with my finger. After a few minutes, I had
quite an appreciative audience. I would've liked screwing one
or more of them, but time pressures didn't allow. Alas!
Fantasy 5: I'd love to be seeing a porno film in a theater – I
can feel and see myself getting hot and wet because the film is
really turning me on. All of a sudden, I feel a strange hand on
my thigh slowly heading for my black tiny bikini panties. The
hand reaches its mark and finds me wet and ready. To avoid
creating too much of a disturbance, I remove the panties, and
he opens his fly. I move over and sit on his lap thereby causing
his twelve-inch-long sex tool to go easily and smoothly into my
burning sex hole-up and down I go till we exhaust ourselves in
climax. Then we part and he moves to a different location in
the darkened theater. I've never seen his face – it wasn't necessary.
I just now stuck my finger up my twat as I'm writing this –
my god – I don't even feel human – just one whole sex machine.
Fantasy 6: At other times, I see myself as a teacher of middle-
to-late teen years boys. They don't especially turn me on,
but I'd like to sit on the desk with my legs apart and turn
THEM on by letting them see my sex organs “accidentally.”
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Sometimes, a cooperative fellow teacher (male) comes into the
room, and we demonstrate to them “proper” oral lovemaking.
He undresses me slowly and completely, and I again sit on the
desk – now completely naked. He asks me to sit with my legs
apart so the whole class can see my cunt and asshole. He
spreads my labia part and describes my female anatomy to the
class. While he's touching and describing, I'm going crazy and
am moving my body about in wild abandon. The boys at their
desks are one-by-one opening their flies to let their cocks escape.
Here and there, I see a fountain of semen exploding. My
fellow teacher now goes down on me by titillating my clitoris
with his tongue. He goes down slowly until his tongue slips
into my vagina, and his finger is up my ass. I'm still on the
desk. By now, boys are fucking boys and several are clawing at
me – sucking my nipples and trying to move the teacher out of
the way so they can get at me. This goes on and on….
Fantasy 7: I really get turned on by looking at naked men in
Playgirl. While looking, I sometimes imagine myself at home
with minimal revealing clothing on – maybe a see-through
shortie nightgown. I've been looking at myself in the fulllength
mirror in the bedroom and admiring my body. In front of
the mirror, I've been executing some bumps and grinds in various
stages of partial disrobing. I've also been watching myself
masturbate, but this never really satisfies me, so I'm in one hell
of a bad way when there's a knock on the front door. I go to the
living room, peek through the blinds, and see a deliveryman
with a package for me. By this time, he's really banging on the
door, so I figure, “Oh, shit, if he's in such a hurry, I'll just open
up.” And open up I do – both the door and myself. When I
open the door, he asks me to sign for the package; as I am
signing, he is looking. When I finish signing, it is my turn to
look at his crotch. Needless to say, it is really bulging! He is
standing slightly inside the door, so as I reach to close it behind
him, my nipples brush his bare arm. That's all he needs.
He grabs me, lifts me up, and carries me over to a living room
chair, where he places me on the chair with one of my legs over
each arm of the chair, thus leaving me slightly suspended and
with my genitals completely exposed. He pulls up my night100
gown over my head and leaves me with nothing on. I am so
excited I can feel the juices coming out of me. He whips out of
his pocket an artificial cock and sticks it in me – up and down
it goes till I come and come and come. Then he picks me up
and puts me on the floor and fucks me till I'm delirious. While
this is going on, my dog enters the living room and starts sniffing
and whining, and his prick starts popping out. He doesn't
have a chance, though, because my deliveryman is delivering
too good for me to pay any attention to my dog … maybe some
other time.
Fantasy 8: I'd also like to find a guy who would like to lie
down in the bathtub with me straddling him and let me pee all
over him.
Fantasy 9: I occasionally visualize myself walking into a
college fraternity and announcing my availability for ANYONE
who's there and ready.
Fantasy 10: I'm a patron in a strip-bar. The girl on stage is
doing her thing and has nothing on but a G-string. I'm there
alone, and the room is filled with men who are all excited from
watching the stripper. Strippers excite me too – but I want a
MAN to satisfy me. One approaches me, sits next to me, and
puts his hand under my skirt. In a very short time, he's got four
fingers in my hole, and I don't give a damn who's watching.
Pretty soon, all eyes are on us. I'm laid out in the booth, and
he's undressing. He gets on top of me, and then me on him;
when I'm on top of him, my boobs are bouncing like crazy, and
pretty soon I feel another prick going up my ass. We're all
keeping time to the music. The stripper is still dancing, and she
takes her G-string off and starts masturbating herself with a
candle from one of the tables. People are applauding, yelling,
and cussing, and the music gets louder and louder. It feels so
good – it just never ends.
Fantasy 11: I love to pose for porno pictures in real life …
not professionally – just for my lovers. God, that's exciting. I'll
pose in ANY way regardless. You name it – I'll do it. I love to
later look at the pictures and get excited all over again. Once, a
guy and myself took a picture in a mirror of me sucking his
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cock – to look at that later was absolutely fascinating and
thrilling.
I walk around most of the time in a horny condition. Sometimes
I can't even concentrate, and that's bad because I'm a
college-educated professional person…. I won't say what profession,
because I can't risk identification in any way.
Well, there are more, but I must stop now as my husband is
coming home. He's great but rather traditional, so I don't want
him to see all this.
I'm anxious to read your second book – hope you can use
some of this in it.
 A few years ago, I used to write frequently for Cosmopolitan
magazine. I remember talking one day to Helen Gurley
Brown. She was thinking of doing something very daring: she
wanted to run a nude male centerfold. She wanted my help in
finding the right man. I happily fell to thinking of who this Mr.
Right could be, summoning up at least a dozen from my own
fantasies. Helen was very anxious about the project: she was
worried that it might turn off many women unless it was done
in good taste. She had cause for her concern: it had never been
done before in any woman's magazine published in America.
What Helen didn't realize was that the women in her audience
were more than ready for her experiment.
I had earlier discovered in my own research for My Secret
Garden that the best way to relax women's anxiety about talking
honestly about their erotic ideas was to tell them about my
own behavior first. This gave them a role-model, someone they
could identify with, and the feeling they were not alone in discussing
any sexual area. Therefore, in the hundreds of questionnaires
I circulated for Garden, I described myself as an
“avid crotch-watcher,” and asked if the reader was one too.
That question never failed to get a response. Most women
wrote that they were crotch-watchers too, others said they loved
seeing “men's bottoms,” “examining their pants to see which
leg it hung down in,” or just plain “looking.” Sharon says, “I
find myself many times looking at the crotches of men's pants,
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just as I sometimes find men gazing at my breasts!” “I've always
been an inveterate crotch-watcher,” Molly writes. “I love
it when I see some guy with a partial erection. I am delighted
to find I'm not alone.”
The response I was getting (in a small way) to my questionnaire
was multiplied a thousand times by the reaction to that
first photo of the naked Burt Reynolds in Cosmo. If, for her
own reasons, Helen Brown decided not to continue nude male
photos as a regular feature, she nevertheless did found an entire
industry. There are now several women's magazines that feature
pages of naked men with ever-increasing variety and size
of genitalia for the leisurely inspection of the women of America
– many of whom had never before seen these mysterious
parts of male anatomy up close and in living color.
If much of this photographic effort is still in bad taste – or
more to the point, not to your taste – here are several reasons to
explain it. One is that I don't think that these new magazines
have figured out how to photograph the naked male in the way
women would like to see a man. Perhaps the big clue to this is
that the magazines in question are owned and published by
men, or have male art directors. Therefore, the naked men are
depicted in the way these men feel women would respond: the
naked football player, hairy actor, or model is shown in all his
muscular beauty alongside a stallion with flaring nostrils and a
sexual organ rivaled only by the size of the model's … or else
there is the inevitable Maserati or Ferrari vroom-vrooming
alongside. The art director could not believe those poor women
out there would “get it” unless the photo were power-packed
with male phallic symbols. The man alone wasn't enough …
these other men thought.
These new magazines have been grinding out male pinups
now for a couple of years. Because I am all in favor of it, and
only regret that they don't do it better, I am pleased to see that
they are learning to drop the horses, cars, and other barbedwire
masculinity props. They must have begun to listen to the
women “out there” instead of to the anxious noises in their
own heads: a woman does not need any symbols to help her
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recognize that the naked penis she is looking at belongs to a
man.
Another and still on-going misconception about what
women enjoy in looking at naked men is the belief that if the
penis isn't a foot long, no woman could be bothered. Once
again, the question must be asked: Are the men who hold these
fixed ideas getting them from their audience, or is it a response
to their own, inner anxiety?
The idea that size is everything is the very turning point in
the new Mel Brooks film, The Young Frankenstein. In this
movie, the frigid, manipulative young woman has no qualms
about brushing off her curly-haired lover, but is brought to
orgasm and “womanhood” by the immensity of the monster's
monstrous cock. At the point in the film where her eyes rivet
on the gigantic tool approaching her maidenhead, her face registers
fear and horror, but in the ensuing moment of penetration
her voice reaches a relieved, resounding high C of song and
exuberance. The audience breaks up with laughter; everybody
gets the joke. But it's no joke in real life.
One of men's greatest sexual hang-ups concerns the size of
their cock. They really believe that size is everything; psychiatrists
do a lot of business treating patients with terrible complexes
about the sexual inadequacy of their penis size. (“It's
only seven inches, Doctor.”) What hasn't come across to the
people who create these films and centerfolds is that while
women in this book, or in jokes among themselves, may go on
about this or that “huge,” “gigantic,” or “monster” cock, the
entire idea must be taken as a metaphor for the pleasure they
desire … size is the purely symbolic measure of their exuberant
approach to the joys of sex. What woman wants to be ripped
open in real life by an enormous penis, jammed and made sore
by some tremendous cock?
Women's insistence on size in their conversation or fantasies
is merely the “handle” on which to hang their dreams. It is
their cry for more sexual pleasure, for a larger, more intense
experience not a larger tool. I have heard very few women deplore
the small size of their lover. As any doctor or experienced
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woman can tell you, it's not the quantity but the quality of the
cock, the expertise of the lover.
This male preoccupation with, and fear about, his own inadequacy
has so far bred (for me) a disappointing overindulgence
in centerfold photos of men with penises so big and
swollen there is no room for imagination. While Jackie writes
that she is turned on by the intensely masochistic, but very
well-written novel, The Story of O, and by other things she
reads and sees, she finds no stimulation in “dirty movies,”
because they are “unimaginative and tasteless.” To any man
who says, “But what woman wants to see a limp cock?” I can
only answer – “Who better than a woman knows what can be
made of a limp cock?”
Give us something real to work with. I am all for photos of
naked men being made available to us in women's magazines.
I wish I'd had them when I was growing up. Why should men's
genitalia be a mystery? But these magazines' success in the
long run, is going to depend upon the development of an audience
of women who have learned how to respond to the sight
of naked men in films, photos, and all media. When women
relax enough, and allow their own genuine emotions and reactions
to enter their consciousness … when they feel free
enough to play with the emotions aroused within themselves at
the sight of these beautiful naked men … when they have
learned “to look” and be honestly receptive … the message
will get back to the industry, and the industry will learn sophistication
from its audience: women enjoying looking; this
is what they like to look at.
Any new industry takes time for supply and demand to get
together, especially in an area so sensitive and taboo as women
unashamedly looking and enjoying the sight of naked men. I
hope we get enough time, that the art of photographing male
nudes progresses so that it can command a genuine mass audience,
month after month, year after year. I hope the opportunity
for women to see and enjoy the male nude is not just a passing
fad. It answers a very real sexual need among women … and
anything that does can only reflect beneficially on men.
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I believe it will happen. If nothing else, we are a tyrannically
commercial country. Industry has long known it could use
feminine sex appeal to sell men anything from convertibles to
mutual funds. Once it becomes clear that male sex appeal can
work the same salesmanship wonders with women, the state of
the art will move ahead with the speed of a cash register ringing
up a dollar sign. I am not applauding mindless materialism.
I am merely saying that one of the serendipitous byproducts
of the inevitable growth in the use of male sex appeal
by the advertising industry is that it will at last give women
social sanction to enjoy being the looker – at last – and not
always and only the looked-at. 
Sharon
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden. I
would like to say thanks for writing such a book. I felt I should
write and tell you my fantasies (sexual). But first, I think it is
necessary for you to know a little about me. I am a single, nineteen-
year-old sophomore in college. I attend a small junior
college here in my hometown. Because the town is so small,
everybody, especially the young people, know practically everyone
else. My parents are pretty uptight about sex. My mother
only told me the basics about menstruation and all that, which
I already knew when she finally told me. My father never told
me anything! I have two b*****rs whom I have helped bathe,
and I used to baby-sit for four boys a lot, so I've known for a
long time what a penis looked like. The penis has always intrigued
me, so when I became able to read such advanced material,
I did just that. Reading books and magazines is the way
I've learned about sex and the male and female bodies. I masturbate
occasionally, when I have the privacy, but I've never
been able to have an orgasm. I have had intercourse with only
two guys. One is my b*****r who is s*******n years old. The
other is a friend of my b*****r's who is eighteen years old. But
I've never been able to have an orgasm with either of them.
There is a guy that I date sometimes whom I feel I could have
an orgasm with if I could get him to go all the way with me! I
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come very close to having an orgasm when I fantasize about
him. I'll call him D. In my fantasies, D. and I start out doing
stuff like eating at a nice restaurant or something. Then we go
to one of our houses and start drinking. We usually drink rum
and coke. After about the third drink, D. starts kissing me and
playing with my breasts and stuff like that. This is where the
fantasy begins, because in reality, that's where we leave off.
We're lying on the sofa, and I become very horny and so does
he. We undress and go into a bedroom where we make love,
usually with at least the bedside lamp on. I dream that I have at
least three orgasms and that we make love again the next
morning.
Then I have a fantasy in which a total stranger comes to my
door and I seduce him. Although I have adequate breasts
(36C), in my fantasies I usually have very large, round breasts.
My hair is usually very long and has lots of body.
I have one fantasy in which I am a stripteaser in a burlesque
show. In my fantasy, I come out on the stage in a long red lowcut
dress with a slit up the side to the base of my hip. My hair
is jet black and nearly to my hips. I start doing a very seductive
dance, all the men begin to whistle and applaud, and there are
a few in the front row that have erections! I begin by taking off
my long red gloves, next I take off my large loop earrings.
Then I take off my shoes. I then open the slit to reveal the end
of a garter and the top of my hose. (The garter belt is red also.)
I open the slit just wide enough for the men to see that I have
on NO panties. Then I close the slit, do a few more seductive
moves; then I undo one strap, which really gets the men going.
I undo the other strap, and then I begin to unzip the dress (it
zips on the side of the slit). I very slowly unzip it. But even
then I'm not nude. I have on the garter, stockings, and red strapless
bra! I slowly continue to undress, teasing the men a lot!
Finally, when I am nude, a man from the audience (front row)
can no longer control himself. He runs up and throws me down
on the stage and begins fucking me! All the other men in the
audience masturbate themselves or each other. There are variations
to this and all my other fantasies.
Another one that I have is one in which I'm ****d! I've never
fantasized about strangers or dogs though. Most of the time,
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the men in my fantasies are men I happen to be attracted to at
that time! I find myself many times looking at the crotches of
men's pants, just as I find men gazing at my breasts!
I feel that I have certain lesbian tendencies, because my first
fantasies were of other girls, and sometimes I'll still have a
fantasy of a girl or woman. I also find that I get excited when I
see pictures of nude women! If I ever had the opportunity for a
lesbian experience, I doubt that I would pass it up. But I could
never be totally lesbian.
Right now, I'm looking for a nice, somewhat older man who
will teach me all I need to know about sex, for I am very inexperienced
and dumb. If you know anyone like this, send him
my way!
I've always had sexual fantasies, and for a long time, I
thought they were abnormal and weird, and I tried to suppress
them. But I don't anymore.
I hope I have helped your research just a little bit. I am looking
forward to your next book. Thanks again for My Secret
Garden.
Molly
I love you! Having just read My Secret Garden, I feel compelled
to write to you.
I just this moment finished the book, and I have so many
jumbled thoughts that I'll try to relate my feelings to you in
some orderly fashion.
First, I'm still turned on. Your book had an enormous erotic
effect on me. Need I say that I had to stop numerous times to
masturbate? But, oddly enough, my OWN erotic fantasies are
still much more exciting to me than simply reading others.
I have never felt guilty about fantasizing during masturbation
– I always considered that quite natural and have been
doing so ever since I started masturbating regularly at age five.
But I got the greatest relief in reading that other women regularly
fantasize while fucking. I always felt terribly guilty about
fucking one man and thinking about another. Now I realize it's
not abnormal or unfair or a put-down of the guy I'm with – it
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just makes everything more enjoyable. What a great discovery
and a great release. Thank you!
The other delightful result is that I feel closer to other
women. Wouldn't it be great if we could all discuss these
things with each other, rather than reading it in a book? Maybe
now I will. It really allows me to feel more open to other
women.
Two other minor points. I've always been an inveterate
crotch-watcher, and I love it when I see some guy with a partial
erection. I am delighted to find that I'm not alone. Also,
sometimes I fantasize fondling and sucking another woman's
breasts, and I always look at breasts. I'm glad this is also
common, as I always feared I was harboring some deeply hidden
lesbian tendencies. Now I know this isn't so and that my
fantasy is quite common and natural.
I have only one objection. On the back of the paperback edition
there is a quote from Dr. Leonard Cammer saying that
fantasy “allows a needed escape from unfulfilled reality.” Bullshit!
He completely missed the whole point of your book – it
ENHANCES reality and is NOT an escape. Typical sexist
comment from a male who really does not understand women.
Thank you, Nancy, for allowing me to feel better about myself.
Everyone should read your book.
P.S. I am college-educated, thirty, single.
Jackie
I've just finished My Secret Garden. Thank you very much
for collecting these fantasies. Reading the book has made me
feel much more at ease about the normalcy of my own fantasies.
(Incidentally, I am twenty-six years old, white, middle-class
background, with three and a half years of college, and in training
as a medical assistant at the moment.)
Although I am an imaginative person, I often take my fantasies
whole from other sources, such as movies (not dirty movies,
curiously enough, because I find them unimaginative and
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tasteless), novels (The Story of O, etc.), and other popular media.
But much more commonly, I make them up from experiences
that I have had, embellished and elaborated to fantasy
proportions. One of my favorites, incidentally, is about prostitution,
an empty room in My Secret Garden.
Some years ago, I met a man who, I discovered shortly, was
a bounding cad, but he was so egotistical, with very little reason
for being so, incidentally, that I was fascinated by his conceit
and was intimate with him for some months before my
fascination turned to boredom at his boorish predictability, and
I subsequently dropped him.
My prostitution fantasy about this man, whom I'll call
Roger, goes more or less like this: I'm in the city on some important
errand when I see Roger and, worse, he sees me. From
his smile as he approaches, I know he means no good. Rather
then create a scene, I allow him to take me into a sleazylooking
cafe. There he tells me he has discovered some awful
thing about me, something that could ruin my personal and
professional life, as well as those of my f****y. I think, in my
fantasy, that he wants to blackmail me for money, but discover
instead he intends to prostitute me for his own profit. I am
helpless and must obey.
He has apparently had all this planned out, because when I
follow him to his apartment, he gives me a see-through blouse,
micro-miniskirt, black net stockings, and a black garter belt to
exchange for my street clothes. But before I do this, he makes
me shave my entire body, including pubic hair.
When I'm ready and dressed, we walk through downtown
on our way to a party, where he has sold my services. We stop
before a store with a facade that reads Novelties, but I can see
by the equipment in the window that it's really a sex shop, one
that sells pornographic books, and has the trappings of fetishoriented
sex. We go inside. Behind the counter is a handsome
young Oriental (in real life several of my lovers have been Orientals,
and I admit a preference for them over Caucasian men).
He smiles at us and can tell at once by my costume and
makeup what I am.
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Roger ignores me and begins talking to the storekeeper
about various of his goods, while I wander about and look at
all the stuff hanging on the walls, such as leather harnesses,
dildos, chains, whips, vibrators, etc., which makes me very hot
and excited, as well as a big selection of dirty books. (This
excitement, incidentally, is very odd, because I've tried some of
the equipment mentioned above and was totally turned off by
it, but in my fantasy, I'm so excited I bite my lips to keep from
caressing myself while both men watch me.) Roger sees this
and calls me over. There's a bunch of equipment on the counter
that Roger wants to buy, but he doesn't have enough money.
He suggests to the storekeeper that he can use me as he likes in
exchange for the equipment. The storekeeper smiles again and
pulls the shades to the store windows.
Roger lifts my skirt and opens my blouse, playing with me
and showing me off to the storekeeper, who suggests we go
upstairs. In a room upstairs, we find an enormous Newfoundland
dog, and both men lay me back on the table and let the
dog lick my naked mound, burrowing his big nose in as deep
as he can. While the dog is doing this, Roger begins to dildo
me anally. The mixture of pleasure and pain is so great I cry
out noisily, which excites Roger even more and makes him go
at it even more fiercely.
Quite suddenly, the Oriental pushes both the dog and Roger
away from me and, taking his clothes off quickly, begins to
make love to me. Roger becomes very angry and would interfere,
but the storekeeper speaks in Chinese to the dog, who
turns to Roger and keeps him at bay. Roger becomes furious as
he helplessly watches me responding to the shopkeeper with
my whole being, and not grudgingly as I did to him. I take
great joy in fellating this gentle man and let him have anal
intercourse, which in this case doesn't hurt as it usually does. I
am aching with desire by the time he switches to plain, straight
intercourse. During all this, my lover turns to Roger and says
that if he (Roger) bothers or threatens me anymore, he'll suffer
for it. Roger, coward that he is, believes it and slinks from the
room with the growling dog at his heels. And it is this man's
lovemaking and not Roger's cold-hearted fucking that swiftly
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brings me to one intolerably delicious orgasm on the heels of
another.
And there's the basic form of one of my favorite fantasies,
with true lust triumphant and the villain foiled again.
Again, with gratitude and wishes of success.
 I believe sex is all pervasive in the human mind and body.
While we are buying groceries, we notice how handsome the
clerk in the supermarket may be; women write to me of sexual
fantasies they have had about their dentist while he was drilling
their teeth. But we need a focus, a concrete symbol, picture,
or book to make us aware and comfortable about our freeflowing
sexuality. “Since I read your book, and also while
reading it,” writes Sally, “I began to think about my own fantasies.
I always had these thoughts, since I was around twelve,
but never told anyone…. “
Marylou tells us that she herself denied ever having sexual
fantasies until she read Garden. “No,” she told her friends
when the subject came up; she never had fantasies. “I just
think about my lover.” But little flashbacks were registering in
her head, she says, even while she denied that erotic images
danced in her imagination. “When I read [My Secret Garden],
it dawned on me just like it did on Paula in the book – oh, `a
fantasy is something that makes you feel good.' In fact, most
every scene in the book has run through my fantasies but with
a different script.”
Marylou is an illustration of the fact that we all know more
than we consciously want to know. A great deal of sexual imagery,
daydreaming, reveries, and fantasy are suspended
somewhere in the back of our mind. It is all like some data
bank, where specific bits of information can be quickly brought
forward into consciousness when the right lever is pushed, and
then so quickly wheeled back after use that it is difficult to
remember the thought was ever there to begin with. In this
way, we live with our mental fires banked, our sexuality turned
down low. Perhaps this is necessary to get through the ordinary
business of the ordinary day, a necessary sacrifice of our erotic
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selves on the altar of an industrial society. Still – aren't these
days half-unlived? I believe any stimulation is a positive good;
anything that makes us feel more alive is an absolute benefit. If
an occasional glance at a photo in a magazine, an image on the
television screen or a page in a book makes us feel more intensely,
isn't that life itself? 
Sally
At a suggestion from my s****r, I have just finished reading
your book. I truly thought it was fantastic. I just couldn't put it
down.
First, let me tell you about myself. I am nineteen, just married
last December, and I love sex. My husband is twenty-four
and very healthy.
Since I read your book, and also while I was reading it, I
began to think about my own fantasies. I always had these
thoughts, since I was around twelve, but never told anyone or
acted them out. I guess I never really thought about them until
I read that other women had the same sort of thoughts.
My husband says the kind of sex we have now is fine for
him, and he won't discuss his fantasies. I would like to discuss
mine and several of the others I read about in your book – just
talk about them, that's all – but he doesn't seem to get into it.
I don't masturbate, but often think about it. Perhaps if I read
a really good book on masturbation, or someone discussed it
openly with me, I would try it. When I think of another woman
fingering me and eating me, it excites me intensely. It has
never happened, but it sure sounds good. I also think about big
masculine men, like the kind you see in Playgirl and Viva; I
like to think of them stepping right out of the pages, f***efully
tearing my clothes off and tying me, spread-eagle, arms apart,
to the bedposts. As I look at those photos, I imagine him teasing
me, fingering me to get me going, and then teasing me
with just the head of his cock. I don't know where I get these
ideas, as these are not things my husband does to me – I mean,
teasing me with his cock. I am sure I have read about it somewhere.
In my fantasy, this man from the pages of Playgirl then
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licks my tits and belly button until I plead with him to fuck me,
and at last he does. I don't think of these things when my husband
and I are making love, or doing sixty-nine, but when I am
alone reading porno books. Then it really turns me on. I can
really throw myself into the pages of a good book. It sets my
imagination going and allows me to imagine myself involved
in a sexual world I am sure I will never know. All the men and
women in my fantasies are faceless. They are always strangers.
And even I am not recognizable; the things I allow myself to
do are so unlike me. But how I would love to enjoy the thrills
of the things I have read and seen on the printed page!
It's great to read how other women think, and it's stupid of
me to think we aren't entitled to all the sexual excitement we
can feel in our imaginations.' The men that think we aren't capable
of this kind of excitement must know some pretty dumb
chicks.
Thanks so much.
Marylou
I just finished your book, and I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed
it, and it helped me out.
My girl friend brought the book to me at a picnic. The
women who were there – average mid-twenties, early thirties,
public schoolteachers like myself – denied having fantasies. I
denied it too – “No, I just think about my lover – I've never had
fantasies,” but little flashbacks were registering in my head
that I just couldn't put my finger on. When I read My Secret
Garden, it dawned on me just like it did on Paula in the book –
oh, “a fantasy is something that makes you feel good.” In fact,
most every scene in the book has run through my fantasies but
with a different script. It amused me to even read in the
Quickie section that two different women get their kicks from
Tarzan. He was my earliest fantasy man. Every time I read
Tarzan comics, I'd get a tingle; then I'd make up my own stories
before I fell asl**p at night. I guess I was about twelve. I
later changed to some fantasy boys – Spin and Marty. I suppose
because I could then be included in the story. I day114
dreamed a lot at school too, but I can't remember if they were
sexual types of things. I would imagine, because this pattern
continued – nighttime stories and daydreaming – until I got
married. I remember riding the bus to work, in my early twenties,
fantasizing. My scripts were not very spicy, I don't believe.
They were repressed, and I was sexually frustrated. I had engaged
in every form of foreplay with boyfriends since I was
fifteen, but didn't actually have intercourse till I was twentythree.
It all made me feel guilty, but the fantasies didn't.
I thought my fantasies stopped when I got married seven
years ago, until I read your book. But I have them more than
ever. For almost three years, I've had a real lover, and he is my
fantasy husband. When I go to parties at his house, I always
feel and act as the hostess. And when I go home with my real
husband, I go to bed with my fantasy husband. When he
dances with his wife at these parties, we look at each other in
the mirror over the bar, and we are really in each other's arms.
He is a great fantasizer himself. On our once-a-week sessions
in bed together, my lover and I sometimes fantasize together.
Sometimes our motel room has two double beds in it, and we
talk about the other couple making love in the other bed. Sometimes
we pretend we're making a porno film. I really don't
know why I said I don't have sexual fantasies.
When I masturbate, I sometimes dress in sexy clothes and
watch myself in the mirror. Sometimes I use different garden
vegetables. I go outside and pick a nicely proportioned zucchini
squash.
I'm going to make more use of my fantasies now, instead of
repressing them. It seems to me that without fantasies sex is
mechanical and less fun. My husband and I rarely make love
since I've started my affair. I don't want to leave him. We have
a lot in common, but we can't talk like my lover and I do. I
think it's unrealistic to expect one man to be Mr. Right. It takes
many people to fulfill one person's needs. That sounds so exploitive.
I like to think of myself as fulfilling my own needs,
but I need love, someone to understand, and I need money so I
can have my beautiful house in the country and my stable of
horses. I'd have to live in an apartment on my teaching salary.
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Best wishes on writing your new book. I'm sorry I couldn't
write specific details of fantasies. They are too repressed at this
point, and besides I am an artist. Words have never been my
thing.
My lover should be calling soon. We have a great adventure
ahead with my new viewpoint on fantasies.
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CHAPTER FOUR
FRUSTRATION
 When I began writing My Secret Garden, I said, “Let's
get frustration out of the way first.” It is one of the great misconceptions
many people have that sexual fantasies are the
lonely dreamings of withered-prune old maids. This is just not
true.
While the women in this section are here because in one
form or another they all feel frustration in their lives, only
Laura can be called a virgin – but from her description of her
activities, it is clear that she remains one only technically, only
by centimeters. Biba too comes close to the conventional idea
of frustration. She is very close to term in her third pregnancy
and writes that when fucking becomes uncomfortable, she uses
masturbation and fantasy to take its place.
More often, however, it is my feeling that it is not so much
the lack of sex that leads to the frustration of the women who
write me as it is that the quality of their sexual experience is
not all it might be. Until recently, this unhappiness was unspoken.
In our culture, it was silently agreed that any woman
lucky enough to have a man had no right to complain.
Contrary to popular belief, I think that as women gain more
sexual freedom, we will find greater sexual frustration. Until
recently, young women were so preoccupied with hanging onto
their virginity that their consequent frustration was practically
a badge of virtue. If you turned and tossed in your little single
bed at night, at least you had the dream of keeping that symbolic
rosebud that mother assured you would make you all the
more cherished “when the right man comes along.”
Frustration was something a “good girl” suffered silently
with a Doris Day smile. Nice women just didn't talk about or,
until recently, didn't even admit to themselves the genuine
emotional loneliness and physical pain that can be felt by a
woman who is ready and eager for sex, but is deprived of it.
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(Even before she has had it, she already knows she misses it.
Her fantasies have told her so.)
The pill hasn't changed “everything.” Throughout this book,
you will find letters from women in their twenties who tell me
they are still virgins. So were their mothers. But what is different
today is that an enormous amount of information on the
pleasures of sex is not only available to women but is practically
inescapable: films and television do not let us forget that
others are in sexual ecstasy.
Another little-discussed aspect of liberation that leads to the
sexual frustration of many young women is, ironically enough,
our greater freedom of selection. The most enterprising of the
new generation of women no longer feel pushed or rushed into
marriage. Perhaps they want a career; perhaps they simply
don't want to settle for the first man who comes along. Women
value themselves more, and as we do so, we are becoming
more selective about men. A job you like, work you find satisfying
– something to do that you feel is important – is, I believe,
essential to a good life. Not only is it fulfilling in its own
right but it also helps you resist the demands of our culture to
marry just because you're approaching twenty-five or thirty.
But becoming your own woman, becoming highly educated
and choosy in your sexual tastes, leaves you vulnerable to loneliness.
You can be a virgin and be sexually frustrated. But
every experienced woman knows that to have had sex, good
sex, and then to have to do without it, leaves even more room
for real pain.
In our culture, the pain a woman suffers from sexual deprivation
isn't considered seriously. Not so with men.
The myth says, “Men are different.” Men must have sex. His
wife is frigid, or away in the country – almost any excuse suffices
to “drive” a man to this or that sexual peccadillo. Society
condones a frustrated man getting sex any way he can. Prostitution
was created for him.
But a woman? The idea of a woman being driven to adultery,
homosexuality, male prostitution (if she can find it) –
these notions make us shudder. It is thought demeaning of a
woman to express such strong sexual desires. “She needs it
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bad” is not a sexual compliment; it is a put-down. And yet why
should it be thought that women suffer any less than men from
going without sex? We may not wake up in the morning with
an erection or out of a wet dream, but we dream, and we fantasize
out of lack of sex. We suffer as much from it as any man.
As for married women and sexual frustration, I think we are
just beginning to comprehend the toll that sexless, or sexually
unimaginative, marriages have taken on women. Women like
Lyle are just beginning to cry out against the unfairness or sexual
immaturity of a husband who prefers masturbation to her.
She is contemporary enough to say she doesn't have anything
against him jerking off, except in the way that it cheats her. But
her acceptance of her husband's habits does her no good. She is
left with very imaginative, but lonely, fantasies. 
Laura
First I ought to explain that I'm a s*******n-year-old virgin.
I masturbate almost every day, frequently go out petting with
guys, and love to suck guys off.
Some of my sexual fantasies are of specific things that lave
happened. I lay there and try to recreate in my imagination
some of the sensations I have felt. I love to think of slipping my
hand down a guy's unzipped pants and feeling his hair, reaching
the obstacle of the top of his cock, and feeling his cock
grow. I remember the feeling of his skin sliding as I move my
hand up and down. I like the familiar feeling of a guy rolling
over on top of me (both of us nude), his erect cock pressed
against my stomach – it's probably the temptation (so near, yet
so far) that makes it so exciting. I remember individual gestures,
bedroom jokes, and the smells I enjoyed – wine or pot on
his breath, slight sweatiness, and aftershaves. Each of these
thoughts is a small glimpse rather than a total experience.
My masturbatory fantasies are pieced together out of these
thoughts, and assigned to some particular person. One of my
fantasies is of sucking off Bjorn Borg, the Swedish tennis
player. I think of the slippery rubberiness of his cock, the soft
wetness of the tip, the feel of the pulsations at the base of his
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cock as he comes, and the taste of semen. After I developed
this fantasy, I read in Playgirl that most Scandinavians are
uncircumcised. That made the fantasy even more exciting.
It excites me to see a guy get a hard-on in public. I start fantasizing
about sex with him, even if I would never previously
have considered it.
Two guys once wanted to have sex with me. I turned them
down, and took them one at a time. Now I think about group
sex, but I wouldn't consider it if another girl was there.
I have a fetish about guys who have weird hair. Kinky,
wavy, or curly hair is a big turn-on.
I also fantasize about screwing, with details being guessed –
I just assume that most of the feelings are nearly identical to
those of being petted, except the penis is larger and harder to
control (putting pressure in certain areas, the degree of pressure,
speed, etc.).
I keep fantasizing, but since most of my sex is with guys
that I don't know well (I like them, but I don't want their k**s
or their v.d.), I'm not ready yet to take responsibility for screwing.
I'm looking for a guy who enjoys pleasing me as much as I
enjoy pleasing him (and if Bjorn wants my address…).
Thanks for letting me express myself. I didn't think I was
abnormal for having fantasies, only that I was abnormal for
admitting it.
P.S. If there's nothing far out about my fantasies, maybe I
represent the young and inexperienced
Biba
You have no mention of pregnant women in your book of
fantasies.
My third baby is due in two weeks. I am masturbating and
fantasizing a lot. It started in the fourth month. I think it is
because actual fucking is uncomfortable about then and became
more so as I progressed.
During my first and second pregnancy my masturbating and
fantasizing increased too. I was married to someone else then.
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He was big and hurt me. I gave up normal sex willingly in the
last six weeks. I would jerk him off though. I liked his bigness
when I wasn't pregnant. He couldn't satisfy me emotionally
though.
My husband now I love dearly. He is not so big and more
flexible, so I am still willing to have sex, even now. He holds
off as long as he can, because the baby does react violently.
Also, because of the positions we have to take. He enters from
behind, or I will throw one leg over his hips while he is on his
side; I on my back. This does not allow much penetration, so
he has to be really horny to climax. I can't climax no matter
how horny he makes me feel or how much I wish I could. So I
will tell how I get relieved. I am always alone and my c***dren
asl**p.
I start out playing with my nipples, in front of the mirror.
My hands become some girl's hand, pinching, tweaking,
kneading, cupping. Soon it is two girls, one for each breast. My
breasts are really big now, so I can actually get a nipple in my
mouth and suck, imagining the girls are the ones sucking me.
A third girl comes in from behind, she grabs my ass, massaging
around and around. She kisses my butt and puts her tongue
to my anus, slurping. A fourth girl kneels down in front of me
and starts kissing the inside of my legs, up, up, coming ever
closer to my vagina. I spread my legs even further apart for her.
She slowly sucks my cunt, moving just right on my lips, my
clitoris. A fifth girl appears sitting on the vanity. Her legs
spread apart. I move to suck her tits. The girl between my legs
is sucking oh so good. I go down on the girl sitting in front of
me, sucking her cunt. The girls sucking my tits reach their
hands to caress the tits of the girl I'm sucking, also to the tits of
the girl at my ass. I reach out my arms and finger their pussies.
The girl between my legs is about to make me climax. I then
move to the bed, put a pillow between my legs, and masturbate
to a climax within seconds, still imagining I have a girl between
my legs, at my ass, sucking my tits, around my fingers,
and in my mouth.
Sometimes I look at pictures of nude girls to start this fantasy,
and look at her when I get to masturbating.
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I have never had a girl eat me out nor have I eaten someone.
This type of fantasy entered my mind during my first pregnancy.
Men have eaten me out; some were really good.
I would like to be able to have normal sex real bad. I can
hardly wait until the time I can climax right along with my
husband.
Lyle
Nancy Friday, you are some kind of genius! Thank you for
putting together such an inspirational, interesting book.
I am twenty-five, of Scandinavian and American-Indian
stock, and have a large frame but not fat. I was married three
years ago, and am considering not staying married to him for a
number of reasons, the LEAST of which is this – he is a lousy
lay. He is thirty-two.
On the surface, I think he is a nice man, but to live with him
is very frustrating and seems an eighty-twenty balance instead
of fifty-fifty – or at least a bearable sixty-forty. What I mean is
I do too much of the giving, and no matter how I try to get him
to “give” in this relationship, he just won't put up with the realities
of loving, sharing, talking, making plans, and all the
other things two married people are SUPPOSED to share as a
couple.
My man was introduced to sex in a whorehouse in Nevada,
and from now until then, he has had quite a few women and
hasn't learned a darned thing. Before we were married, he used
to tell me how horny he was. What a laugh. He might feel
horny, but he's horny for his own hand. I guess no woman's
pussy has ever been able to take the place of his own technique.
The first time I discovered he was masturbating on a more
or less regular basis was the first year we were married. His
aroused moments waned, and I just chalked it up to studying
too hard … it never entered (and still doesn't) my mind that
there was anything wrong with me. I keep myself clean and
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fresh, attractive in a wholesome way, and have never turned
him away when he wanted me. Anyway, I was sorting laundry
and noticed some funny-looking hankies of his. The ironed
creases were still in them, but they were stuck together in the
middle. He had come into them. I was so shocked and hurt; it
was like a slap in the face, like saying I wasn't good enough to
make love to, but I was sure good enough to clean up after
him! Had he been in our place when I found those, I would
have crammed them (still makes me mad) down his throat. In
further inspection of the laundry, I found two undershirts and
some more hankies which pretty well explained his lack of
desire for me – the fool had worn himself out. I could have
thrown up. He was a student at this time. I work, he worked
part-time.
I confronted him with this little passion of his and told him
how hurt I was. He said he wouldn't do it anymore, but that
was a lie – evidence to the contrary shows he is still a careless
man only in love with his hand.
His lovemaking with me is stilted, inhibited, and very boring.
He never wants to try a different position, and I practically
have to beg him to let me go down on him. I have never f***ed
him to do anything, but have made some suggestions, all of
them met with no enthusiasm whatsoever. He has never
touched my vagina more than two minutes and doesn't bother
to search and caress my clitoris. By the way, when he does let
me fellate him, he won't come until he pushes me away, throws
me down, and then gets on top of me. Jesus, I'm dying for
some variation!
I have tried to deal with this patiently, never begged him to
do kinky things, and never f***ed myself on him. He is really
repulsed by women's advances. Older women who are making
tries at flirting with younger men really turn him off. Instead of
taking it as a compliment and giving the ladies a wink (that's
all I'd ever approve of!) he just gets hostile.
With this short summary of how I feel about him, I think
you will see that I have reasons a-plenty for my fantasies.
After reading your first book about these fantasies, I
searched my mind for when I first awakened to that wondrous
warm feeling in my pelvis, and I think it happened when I was
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playing doctor and nurse with my b*****r and one of his
friends. I was totally fascinated with the wrinkled scrotum that
held their testicles. I still love to gently caress that precious
place with my tongue.
A few of my girlhood friends and I just loved to tell each
other what excited us and sometimes touch each other “where
it felt good.” We could really think up some whoppers of fantasies,
but we had never seen ANYTHING in our fantasies such
as the large penises which so frequently dominated the stories.
We passed right on into dating without any qualms about our
little experiences. I guess we just figured it was “practice” for
the real thing. I never even thought about it in a lesbian connotation
after I found out what lesbians were.
Since I still find my husband's careless “reminders” that
Portnoy, masturbator champion of the world, lives here, I have
really let the fantasies help me out when he does (rare occasions)
want me.
A few years ago (before marriage), I had an affair with a
man who worked in my building. He was fantastic in bed. I
just wished we had been able to let ourselves get into a better
relationship, such as married! Anyway, this dark-haired man
would excite me into dynamite climaxes. I didn't know the
human body could stand such pleasure. I swear, the first time
he ate me I thought I had died and gone to heaven! I long for
someone to do it again, so I imagine when my husband is puffing
away that actually I am not suffocating under his lunging;
instead, a large-framed man with full lips and big black eyes
like my former lover is caressing my thighs and telling me how
much he loves my pale, creamy skin (which I work hard at in
reality to keep that way). He caresses closer to my pussy, gives
me a loving, tender, but devilish gaze, and with a rich mellow
laugh of glee proceeds tenderly to bring me to the heavenly
feeling of pure climax. I just love putting this down on paper.
As he goes on, I have a couple of wonderful orgasms; he
turns me around and straddles my face, so we can be sixty-nine
together, and I can bring him joy also. That fantasy is about the
greatest one for me, but sometimes I vary and use these.
I am caressing myself alone one evening as the sun sets. A
girl friend of mine is due, and when she arrives, I let her in,
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and she sees I am naked. Immediately, she knows what I want,
and she says she wants me too, so we proceed to my large (fantasy)
canopy bed and slip: between silk sheets edged with
yards and yards of ruffles. We cover every inch of each other's
bodies with kisses and do cunnilingus on each other, arriving
at marvelous orgasms together.
I imagine I am alone in the high mountain cottage of the
Alps, or someplace where the air is perfectly pure, standing on
my balcony in a dress of white. My breasts are exposed, and
the crisp air makes my nipples stand out hard and makes me
feel alive to breathe it in so deeply.
A very handsome, healthy man walks by and sees me on my
balcony. He says he is overwhelmed by the look of me, and
asks without embarrassment if he may come up to my room
and admire me closer. I gaze down on him, see the bulge growing
in his pants, and with a toss of my thick head of hair say,
“Of course, I'll make us some tea,” and give him the warmest
smile I can manage. He enters my room, which is mirrored on
one wall and papered in purple and blue Jacobean floral design
on the others. Many pillows are used in the room, and purple,
blue, pink, and red are the dominant colors. He opens my white
dress to my navel and admires my lovely skin and healthy
body. Then he can stand it no longer, so he picks me up and
carries me to the bed, and we make love in many different positions,
all possible because he has a beautiful long penis that is
surrounded by a mass of black hair, and that penis just won't
give up until we are both laughing and practically hysterical
with happiness and climaxes.
I don't want you to think I have anything against masturbation,
like I said about my husband earlier. I think it is great, but
not when it deprives someone else (like your mate) of the passion
and lovemaking they need.
Thanks for letting me write this down. Hope it helps some in
your next edition.
P.S. Sorry for all the typos, but I'm a writer, and I knew I
would redo too much to keep the freshness of my thoughts. So
here it is … in the rough.
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 If you think the kind of marital despair that Lyle suffers is
rare, speak to any experienced marriage counselor. In our culture,
a woman is supposed to be complete when she has a husband,
a nice house, k**s, station wagon, and so forth. How dare
she cry for more? If her husband is working himself to death
(his own, but also the death of sex between them) – it only
shows what a good husband and father he is. The fact that she
may have unappeased sexual desires of her own – and her a
mother! – is unacceptable.
“A lot of men are coming in completely bewildered by all
the new demands being made on them,” says Dr. Salvatore
Ambrosino, director of the f****y Service Association serving
Nassau County, a plush suburb outside New York City.
“Women are getting a whole new picture of themselves,” he
said. “Through feminism and maybe even consciousnessraising
sessions, they are getting the idea that they are allowing
themselves to be willing victims, and they are protesting.”
Dr. Ambrosino continues: “Women used to put up with a lot
as long as the man was a good provider, but no more. This
applies even to working-class women. We rarely used to hear
complaints about women not being sexually satisfied … now
we do.” (New York Times, October 16, 1974.)
The final, tough fact we must face is that even with the sexiest
lover or husband in the world, a woman may still find herself
frustrated. Dot tells us that she has had a very active and
satisfying sex life for ten years with a wide variety of lovers,
but her fantasies are all about sex with another woman. To
some degree, most of us, women and men, suffer some sense of
frustration. Buried deep, or not-so-deep, within us all, there are
tastes, desires, strange longings, and erotic images left over
from the polymorphous perverse period of infancy and c***dhood;
these constantly seek and find expression in various
kinds of rich and varied foreplay, or in fantasies like Dot's.
In our adult years, frustration comes in many forms. We
may choose to let certain sexual opportunities pass, because we
essentially believe in monogamy … because the proposition
was made in an unappealing manner or in terms we found
emotionally sterile … maybe simply because we did not have
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the time. But each opportunity is registered in your brain and
u*********s somewhere. Very often, we find fantasies are born
out of the very experiences we found the most degrading or
repellent in our everyday lives.
Even if you quit your job, obtained a divorce, had a million
dollars in the bank, and devoted the rest of your life to erotic
pursuits (a common fantasy), it would still be impossible for
anyone to handle all the sexual stimuli that surround us every
day. Who could make love to every attractive man she meets?
When you choose one, you are letting all the rest go by. Even if
you tried, there is still the persistent knowledge that while you
may be systematically trying out the best lovers for fifty miles
around, there are still handsome, beautiful men walking the
streets of London, Paris, Rome – marvelous men, astonishing
lovers who you will never meet, never know. Desire is long;
life is short. We live with a residue of unspent desire – “something
gone, something missed, a door closed forever.”
It is not the mere quantity of sex that can still the ache in our
heart. We long for a quality of sex we have never known, will
never know in this life. In a world that has lost religion, orgasm
is perhaps the last mystic experience we can believe in.
We look to it for a kind of transcendence we no longer can find
in church on Sunday. It is too heavy a load of expectation for
even sex to bear.
Frustration is the result. Many of our fantasies are the result
of using our imagination to make up for experiences we may
never have. Rather than saying that these fantasies grow out of
sexual impoverishment, I would say they express a desire for
greater sexual richness, and are themselves a form of erotic
munificence. They do not express the lack of sex, but are sex in
themselves.
Gloria writes that “my new lover is my sexual ideal, shows
me positions I've never heard of. Nor is he inhibited about talking
during or after sex, and asks me about what turns me on, or
how something feels.” He is so secure in his masculinity, she
says, that “Maybe one day I'll tell him about my fantasies….
He feels no need to prove anything to anyone, which is one of
the reasons I love him more than anyone.”
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I submit the proposition that Gloria is far from a conventionally
frustrated woman; but even in the midst of this sexual
paradise in which she lives, she still wants something more.
Although she is in love with this “ideal” man, she can imagine
somebody else: a younger man. What I find particularly interesting
in Gloria's letter is that it shows she would also enjoy a
switch in roles. Her sexually knowing lover is always teaching
her new positions and ideas – which she loves; with her s*******n-
year-old virgin fantasy lover, she is the one who is the
initiator, the skilled, expert partner who introduces the boy into
pleasures he never had before. 
Dot
I just finished reading My Secret Garden. I think it is one of
the best books on this topic. It is written very plain and simple,
without a lot of confusion.
I fantasize twenty-four hours a day (awake and sl**ping),
and have since I was twelve years old (I am now twenty-eight).
I was starting to think I was abnormal until I read your book. I
am single and have had a very active sex life for about the last
ten years with various lovers, all married. The only thing I
think about when I am making love is how wonderful it feels;
there is nothing that can compare to it. I do masturbate almost
every day, sometimes a couple of times a day. I love to do this
when reading a sexy book or looking at pictures of naked,
women. So I guess most of my fantasies are lesbian, although I
have never had an affair with another woman. I like to lay in
bed at night and think what it would be like to have a woman
make love to me. I love to feel my nipples get hard and think
about how it would feel to have a woman suck on them. I play
with myself until I reach a orgasm, and at the same time imagine
someone is eating me. I also like to think about doing the
same things to someone else. As much as I love doing this and
thinking about it and maybe someday having an affair with a
woman, I never would want to replace a man. That is the best
fucking there is. I also think about what it would be like to
have both a man and a woman making love to me at the same
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time. I have never told anyone about my fantasies before, and I
feel relieved that I can write it to someone (also very horny
right now).
Thank you again for a great book.
Gloria
I feel as if I can address you by your first name, since you
shared with me and your other readers such an intimate part of
yourself. Right now I am lying on a bed, with your book in
front of me. For some reason, none of my fantasies, except for
one shortly alluded to, is in your book.
I am one of those people who do not fantasize while making
love; I more or less lose consciousness instead, being aware
only of physical sensations. I do fantasize when I am bored, or
horny and alone. Although I consider myself very sophisticated
sexually (nothing ever surprised me), I'm just finding out some
new things now. My new lover is my sexual ideal, shows me
positions I've never heard of. Nor is he inhibited about talking
during or after sex, and asks me about what turns me on, or
how something feels. Maybe one day I'll tell him about my
fantasies, since he's one of the few men who are really secure
about their masculinity. He feels no need to prove anything to
anyone, which is one of the reasons I love him more than anyone.
But about my fantasies themselves. My favorite one is also
the longest and most detailed.
I imagine myself driving a convertible sports car. (Speed is a
sexual turn-on, something racing drivers don't admit to as a
reason for liking fast driving.) Anyway, I am going about
ninety miles an hour down a freeway, and I pull up beside another
sports car with its top down, as mine is. Driving the car
is an attractive boy of about s*******n. He looks over at me,
grins, and speeds up his car, so that he is going as fast as I am.
This willingness to play along with me and his appearance turn
me on. (It only takes five minutes to arouse me to orgasm.) He
turns off the same exit I do, so I begin to follow him. He is very
aware of me and drives to a secluded area and pulls over to the
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side of the road. I pull up behind him and get out of the car
immediately. I am wearing hot pants and a halter top (great
legs and shoulders). I decide to handle the situation as directly
as possible. When I reach his car window, I bend down close
to him and say, “Driving like that is really a turn-on.” He
smiles at me rather shyly and agrees. Before long, we are discussing
cars enthusiastically, and one topic leads to another.
Soon I am sitting in his car with him, and we move closer and
closer together, until we are embracing and kissing instead of
talking. We become aroused quickly, and he tells me, reluctantly,
that he is a virgin. I tell him that we all have to start
somewhere, then invite him to come home with me; he agrees
eagerly.
The next two hours are so unique to me, for I have never
made love to a virgin before. I enjoy the look on his face as he
enters me for the first time, and thrill to the sound of his moan
and gasp when he comes. Altogether, we make love three
times, and I come at least eight times. Finally, he says he must
go home. He writes down my phone number before he leaves,
and I know I will hear from him again.
I once came close to acting out this fantasy. I met the man
the way I met the boy in my fantasy, but he was by no means a
virgin, but a rather lazy, selfish lover.
I have another fantasy involving a pool under a gentle waterfall,
and one in which I make love with another woman. It
would not be traumatic for me to enact my fantasies in real life,
as I do not fantasize about **** or sadism or anything that I
wouldn't like to try sometime. I guess I don't feel even subconsciously
guilty or hostile, at least not where my sexuality is
concerned. I do sometimes fantasize clobbering somebody over
the head with a baseball bat, but only when I'm mad at them.
I am going to read your book again, and I am looking forward
to reading your second one. It would be interesting to see
my fantasy printed in a book like yours, as I encourage people
to become more open about this aspect of their sexuality. Perhaps,
when, or if, men are able to accept this aspect of women,
we will be able to better understand each other on all levels.
I was impressed by your openness and philosophy of liking
yourself. I believe self-acceptance is one of the true keys to
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happiness with one's life, which is why I am not ashamed to
give my real name. Thanks and best wishes for success with
your next book.
Please excuse the odd handwriting, but I am stoned, which
allowed me to be honest.
 One of the great needs that sexual fantasy fulfills for a
woman is that of foreplay. Fantasy helps us reach that level of
arousal he is at already … or he wouldn't have invited us into
the bedroom to begin with. In a more egalitarian society, it will
not matter if the man or the woman is the sexual initiator; if
one is in the mood and the other is not, there will be no great
feeling of rejection, because the roles can as easily be switched
next time.
Right now, however, given the male-oriented rules under
which we live, it is usually the man who gets the action going
when he's ready. Almost conspiratorially, women go along
with this idea, perpetuating the myth of man as the lusty b**st
who must half-coax, half-wrestle his powerless, shy maiden
into bed. In her heart, every woman knows how incomplete
this picture is.
It doesn't take into account the times when she's lusty as
hell, and he's a hundred miles away, or times when he's panting
like a bull, and she has a roast in the oven, the c***dren to
pick up in an hour, or simply her mind on other things. But the
cold hand that grips the heart of America when we see a wife
in some television drama unwittingly reject a sexually aroused
husband grips our own hearts when our husband/lover reaches
for us and we start to push him away. “You just don't do that to
a man!” is the sampler mother silently stitched in our brains.
The “correct” thing is to let the roast burn, your own work go
undone, and, yes, fake pleasure and orgasm if you don't feel
like it. Satisfy his lust if you love him, because there is something
mysteriously unexplained about what will happen to the
male ego if he is sexually rejected. It's not just that he'll get
warts on his scrotum, turn to some other (probably socially
diseased) woman for an outlet; what is equally awful is that we
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ourselves will feel less of a woman for having rejected him.
Our womanliness rests on his desiring us. Our “selfishness”
(as we have been trained to call it) may risk our entire future
sexual happiness together. He may not try the next time; he
may lose interest; something terrible and bad may happen not
just to his cock as well as temporarily to his male ego but perhaps
permanently to our shaky status as “real women”
To be fair, it is a lovely feeling to be surprised in the middle
of a household chore, or while at the typewriter, to find that
your lover has this giant erection and is dying for you. He's
frantically working that damn jammed zipper, leading you
toward the bedroom while covering you with kisses and fondling
your breasts … you are pleased, laughing with pleasure
and amusement and need no great urging at all. You're both
enjoying his spontaneous moment together, but you are running
on different timetables. Specifically, he's already had (or
is having) his fantasy of fucking you, and is fully aroused. You
are miles behind, because somewhere at the back of your mind,
you're still in the middle of that complicated recipe you were
following in the kitchen or unraveling that snarled paragraph in
the typewriter.
The problem is further complicated by the medically documented
fact that physiologically men usually reach climax
sooner than women. So not only is he mentally ready for sex
long before he's made you aware of his intentions but his
glands and nerve endings are physically geared to race ahead
of yours too. The result is that many of the most loving women
often finish their sexual experiences feeling a little rushed, unsatisfied,
even left out. Callie is lucky enough to have a husband
who is aware of these problems. He uses sexual fantasies
as a form of foreplay to ensure that his wife always reaches
orgasm. In fact, he is the one who tells them to her. “The only
problem,” she writes about his practice of using sexual fantasies
as a form of foreplay, “is that usually your mind is racing
ahead of the logical progression of the story … many times, my
husband or I are unable to reach the `good part’ … because the
anticipation of what's to come is all that is required” … to
reach orgasm:
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Unfortunately, not many women have husbands who are
prepared to go to these lengths to stimulate their wives before
penetration. Arlene writes unhappily that her husband “doesn't
believe in any type of foreplay at all… Sex lasts a total of three
minutes if we are lucky.”
The thing to remember is that you have a form of foreplay
available to you at a moment's notice. You carry it in your
mind. Try to remember one of your favorite sexual fantasies –
one that you may have read in this book, or a new one you may
have invented yourself. It is a marvelous way to quickly rev
yourself up to his level of excitement … to join or even beat
him in the headlong rush to climax.
One of the ironies of fantasy is that the hero of our erotic
reveries is rarely the man we love. Perhaps it is the very fulfillment
and satisfaction we get from him that leaves nothing to
the imagination, and so we need these strangers in the night to
people our imaginary sexual worlds. They bring us the excitement
of the unknown.
Arlene is one of the rare exceptions to the rule. Perhaps it is
because her husband does leave her so unsatisfied that she says
it is he who is making love to her when she masturbates. “I
imagine us both climaxing together, and I almost go out of my
mind with pleasure.”
Her fantasies show us that Arlene is hardly a sexually insatiable
or strange woman. All she is asking for is something any
woman is entitled to; in one of the fantasies she has sent in,
perhaps she herself has found a way to get what she wants in
reality. When she masturbates, Arlene writes that she uses her
hairbrush, sausages, a cucumber … “I think I would die if he
caught me, but I sometimes imagine him walking in, and it
excites me even more.”
Perhaps she might be very happily surprised if she let him
do just that? 
Callie
Thank you so much for My Secret Garden. I haven't thought
that I was weird, but I have wondered if other women fantasize
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as much as I do. I am just forty years old and have been married
for twenty-two years. Since I didn't have any relations
prior to marriage and haven't had any with anyone except my
husband, I have fantasized as to what it would be like.
During foreplay, my husband always masturbates me to a
climax. I usually climax very easily, but at times need mental
help – that's where the fantasies come in. My husband and I
share them – in fact, he usually relates them to me. We have
two favorites that we use at this time in our foreplay.
Fantasy 1: The brush salesman arrives. He has so many
items to show, I tell him to spread them on the floor in front of
the couch. I excuse myself for a moment, go to the bedroom,
and remove my panties. I am wearing a miniskirt, so as I sit on
the edge of the couch to better see his display, I am quite exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor. As he shows me his items, I
show him mine. Whenever I reach down to pick up a brush, I
carelessly open my thighs. I watch his eyes out of the corner of
mine, and he is practically staring at my exposed cunt. I increase
the exposure. He finally takes a chance and mentions
something appropriate. I act semi-shocked. He says he will be
gentle and logically adds that I must want him to otherwise I
would have been more careful. I weaken and finally give in,
but I tell him that he cannot fuck me – only my husband can do
that. The best I can offer is to let him play with my cunt and
suck it. He eagerly accepts. I lay back, pull my skirt all the way
up, spread my legs, and he starts to move toward me. I reach
down and open the lips and I usually come now, if not before.
Fantasy 2: A variation of the first. I promise a sales appointment
to a salesperson at one of those lingerie parties, in
return for a hostess gift for my friend. The salesperson arrives
at my house, and he is a very good-looking man. I act flustered,
and he assures me that he helps women try on bras and undergarments
all of the time and thinks nothing of it. I go in the
bedroom and put on my robe over panties and bra. He gives me
a bra to try on. I slip my robe to my waist, turn my back, and
try to change bras. My robe is too hard to try to hold, and with
his reassurances, I figure what the heck and let it drop. I complain
of the fit – rubs and pulls in the front. He says that I
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probably did not lay my breasts in the cups properly. He has
me lean over after he has undone the bra. He reaches under and
cups my breasts while explaining how it should go and feel.
While cupping my tits, he has very gently rubbed the nipples,
and they are erecting. The bra fits, and I decide to take it, but
after removing the demonstrator, I don't put my other one back
on. I am thrilled to stand there with my lovely tits completely
bare, the nipples now erected like pencil erasers, and see him
looking at them. He gets out the panty hose, and I try on a pair.
I again complain of the fit. He says my panties are wrinkling
up under the panty hose and suggests that, for the purpose of
fitting them, I should remove my panties. By now I quickly
agree. After putting the panty hose back on, I look in the fulllength
mirror. The hose is so sheer that nothing is left to the
imagination. My cunt is really quite hairy and extends up toward
my belly quite a ways. I see him looking at it in the mirror
over my shoulder. By now, both in and out of the fantasy, I
am very hot. I tell him that it is pulling in the crotch – knowing
full well what he will do. He slips his hand down the front,
over my bush, and places his fingers on the lips. He moves
them about and asks if that feels better. I say somewhat, but it
still isn't right. He sits in a chair nearby and asks me to come
over, so he can see what the problem is. As I stand inches from
him, he rolls the panty hose down over my hips and on down
off of one leg. He asks me to put one foot on the arm of his
chair, and he will see what was bothering me. As I do this, he
leans forward into my spread legs, using his fingers to open the
lips, and very gently lays his tongue between them – and I
come, both in the fantasy and for real.
The only problem with these fantasies is that usually your
mind is racing ahead of the logical progression of the story. In
that event, many times, my husband or I are unable to reach the
“good part” of the story, because the anticipation of what's to
come is all that is required to accomplish the purpose.
One more favorite that I usually use when I masturbate. My
husband is a pilot. Of course, many layovers occur with various
stewardesses. Contrary to public opinion, there doesn't
seem to be much hanky-panky on these layovers. We have a
good sex life, so I am sure he is not fooling around with these
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girls; however, I do fantasize about it while masturbating. It is
very sexy to imagine him doing this. (I don't tell him this, of
course.)
Fantasy 3: I get on a plane and follow him to his layover
point. He has been in the hotel for a couple of hours. I get a key
from the room clerk and go upstairs. I know what I will find. I
open the door. He is naked and sitting in a chair, with an enormous
hard-on. In front of him, standing with her hips thrust
forward and one foot on the arm of the chair, is a gorgeous
stewardess whom I know. She is nude. She is a big girl – but
not fat. She has a beautiful body. Lovely, huge, but wellformed,
tits. She is very blonde except for her cunt, which is
very bushy with black hair. My husband is licking her cunt as
she looks at me and smiles and invites me in. On the bed is an
equally stunning brunette, also nude. She invites me to remove
my clothes and tells me that, “He will be ready in a few minutes.”
I sit in a chair. By now, they have moved to the bed. The
blonde is sucking my husband's cock. She is being sucked by
the brunette, and, of course, my husband is eating the brunette's
cunt. I am so hot watching them that I am now playing
with my cunt and rubbing my nipples until I climax. The girls
also climax, but my husband does not. The blonde finally turns
to me and says, “He's ready now.” I go over to the bed and
slowly let myself down on that wonderful prick. The girls are
beside us, going down on each other. As I watch them and ride
that cock I climax.
I have rambled on far too much I fear, but as some, of your
other contributors have said, it's good to be able to tell someone.
Detailed fantasies are still somewhat out of place at the
coffee klatch.
I believe in your sincerity, but feel more comfortable signing
only my first name.
Arlene
My Secret Garden was a great book. I bought it by accident,
and it turned out to be the best accident I ever had.
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I am married one and a half years, and I am happy now that
I read My Secret Garden. See, my husband has an unusual
problem that's driving me insane. He doesn't believe in any
type of foreplay at all, except for himself. I have to do everything
to him, but he won't excite me in any way. He just
mounts me and slides in and out maybe four times, and he
pulls out and comes. Sex lasts a total of three minutes if we are
lucky. I asked numbers of times why he won't come inside of
me, but never get any answer. I am told to lay still on the bed,
and when I try to move along with him, he seems to have the
idea only men are supposed to enjoy sex. I put up with this
every day. When he goes to work I am so overjoyed. I found
myself one day lying on the bathroom floor with my hairbrush,
just thinking how it would be making love to my husband. It is
so beautiful I have to do it almost every day now. I imagine us
both climaxing together, and I almost go out of my mind with
pleasure. Then I go to the store and look for other goodies to
replace my hairbrush. So far I've had a hot dog, knockwurst,
sausage, cucumber. I think I would die if he caught me, but I
sometimes imagine him walking in, and it excites me even
more.
 Bunny writes that her lovemaking with her husband is
“always exciting and complete….” Although he is crippled and
unable to walk, they have a son, and, “baby,” she proudly declares
of her husband, “he has more energy than a young man
when it comes down to fucking. We have a lot of fire and believe
me, we burn it all up. The days of Zip Zam Thank You
Ma'am are all over with.” Bunny's husband is as avid and experimental
about sex as is Bunny herself, and yet in the very
heart of Bunny's full erotic life, she names a frustration: she
has always had a fantasy of making love to a woman. This is
an important theme that runs through letter after letter in this
book, from women in every sexual walk of life.
“Who knows better than a woman how to satisfy another
woman?” I think that sentence haunts the bedroom of every
woman who knows the fireworks oral sex can hold for her, but
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whose lover is inexperienced, unskilled, or just downright reluctant
about it. Even Bunny, who never implies any lack of
ardor or skill to her husband in any sexual area, found it a
thrilling experience. Describing what happened when, with her
husband's willing consent and participation, she put her fantasy
into practice, Bunny describes the feeling of having another
woman go down on her: “She had a tongue that knew
every spot there is to know on a woman.”
Because Bunny does not call herself a lesbian, I do not consider
her one. (The fact that she is married is not, of course,
evidence either way.) Some lesbians are proud of the name.
Other women describe homosexual fantasies to me, but add the
proviso that while they enjoy thinking about it, they nevertheless
consider themselves heterosexuals. Bunny herself, in her
enthusiasm and gusto for sex in all its forms, never seems to
give the matter any thought at all – and I think she is probably
the wisest of all. 
Bunny
I have had fantasies for years, but never gave them a second
thought until my husband and I began sharing them. Now fantasies
are a part of our everyday life. It all began when my husband,
I, and my son took a trip to Houston, Texas, in 1972,
with two other couples. When we woke up the next morning,
the women decided to go shopping. We walked for about six
blocks, when a peep-show store caught my eyes. I always
wanted to go into one of those shops, and being away from
home, I felt more at ease walking into the place. So I asked the
women would they go with me? One said okay, but the other
one grabbed my little boy, who was two years old, and said no,
I'm not going into that place (the poor woman should have
gone; she might have learned something). I was really amazed
at the books, dildos of all sizes, vibrators, and French ticklers
that they had on display. I went around the store trying to pick
out the best books, but naturally I only could look at the cover
and use my own judgment, for the books were covered in
transparent wrapping. So I picked out three books that I
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thought would be enjoyable. I could not wait to get back to the
room to open them. When I did, I could not believe my eyes.
Honey, those books had Me and my husband wondering what
in the world had we been missing. My husband and I would
look at them every chance we had. I really enjoyed the lesbian
shows. When we make love, I tell my husband my fantasy
about making love to a woman. Our lovemaking was always
exciting and complete, and the thought of me eating a woman
really aroused us more. So we made plans to get someone, to
see how enjoyable it would really be. One night, a friend of
ours came down. She is always talking about sex. I asked her if
she ever had a woman eat her; she said no, but was indeed very
curious about it. I told her about the plans me and my husband
had made, and to my surprise, she was very willing. She undressed
faster than we did. I had been curious for months about
eating a woman, so here we were, all three of us lying there
naked, and I wondering would I do a good job on her. I always
knew I did a hell of a blow job on my husband, but, damn,
eating a woman, shit what a difference, so I got to it. First I
fondled with her breast, then slowly worked my way down
with my tongue to her cunt. I opened it with a gentle touch, the
way my husband opens me, ease in my hot tongue, and
watched her face expression change to: Goddamn it's about
time you got there! I ate her till my husband could take no
more, and he began eating me. After we brought herd home,
we got back in bed and started where we left off. Here I had
eaten this chick and I enjoyed it, but there was a problem: I
wanted a woman to eat me. We have this other friend who is
just eighteen, but knows a lot about sex. She came down one
night. My husband had company, so she came to the bedroom.
I was lying there with just my robe on watching the “Untouchables”
when I felt her hand going under my robe. She is the
type of person who says if you want something go after it, so I
gathered she wanted my pussy, and baby she was welcome to
it. She had experience. I could tell by the way her hands moved
to my cunt, and she parted my lips so gently. She came closer
to reach my neck and kiss it softly; then she slowly lowered her
head to my pearl. Goddamn that bitch knew just what she was
doing. And I enjoyed every minute or it. Then my husband
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joined us. It was another threesome, but this time, the woman
was eating me. She had a tongue that knew every spot there is
to know on a woman.
I never believed that a woman could make me feel the excitement
that I felt that very minute. My husband made love to
me while she blew him. Then I made love to her, while my
husband fucked me from behind; then he made love to her
while I blew him; then we both made love to him, she blew
him while I sucked his chest. Then he fucked both of us.
Now this fantasy that I love having is about my husband's
old girl friend. From the minute I met her, I always liked her.
After three years of knowing her, I just found out from my husband
that they were lovers before he met me. It has been a year
since we saw her. She is in Europe now with her husband.
Ever since I had my husband tell me how he used to make love
to her, I fantasize that she comes over, and we are drinking
Vodka like we used to do. I ask her if she would like my husband
to eat her, and how willing she is, so we all undress. My
husband is always teasing people, so he begins making love to
me first, knowing how excited she would get, blowing in my
ears, biting my neck, licking all over my body, then slowly
parting my lips and licking my cunt, then going to my pearl.
But never entering into my cunt. But then I feel a tongue entering
inside of me, a long hot tongue licking every corner, catching
every drop of juice that's dripping down. That chick really
has her shit together, a tongue still on my pearl and a hot
tongue slowly taking its time going around and around into my
cunt. She and my husband give me a hell of a working over
until I can't take anymore, now I need a fucking, so my husband
gives her the dildo to put on. She is now working with it
just at the tip of my cunt, every now and then she stabs me
with it. My husband is sucking my breast and playing with my
pearl. Now we begin to get more excited. She begins penetrating
inside of me with the dildo. I begin shouting I'm coming
bitch, just keep on working inside of me. Then my husband
starts making love to her. She begins kissing me and I her.
While my husband is eating her, she gets between my legs and
slowly starts eating my cunt, and I start sucking my husband's
prick, and we all come to climax together.
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Sometime me and my husband fantasize about four men
holding us up and taking us into a shed, where they fuck me
while my husband is tied up and can do nothing but watch.
One guy is eating me while the other one shoves his big black
prick into my mouth. The other two lick all over my body. After
they all eat me and I suck their pricks, a woman is brought
in, and she begins to eat me, then I eat her. She is then brought
over to my husband. He is untied and he begins to eat her. Now
a German shepherd is brought in and he begins to lick my cunt
and asshole. When his red penis begins to show, they insert it
into me, and we begin fucking. Now my husband and that
woman are doing sixty-nine. We all have reached our climax
now, and everyone is beat as hell.
My husband and I have been married for three years.
I am twenty-five, and he is forty-eight. He is in a wheelchair,
has been in one since 1949, and baby he has more energy than
a young man when it comes down to fucking. We have a lot of
fire, and believe me, we burn it all up. The days of Zip Zam
Thank You Ma'am are all over with.
I really enjoyed your book.
 One of Sherri's great frustrations is that she cannot share
her fantasies with her husband: “… even after ten years of marriage,
he still does not fully love me or trust me.” So she is
silent about the waking dreams that might fill their bedroom
hours with life.
Sherri's letter strikes a sympathetic chord in me; she makes
me sigh at the barriers within us all. They cause so much
wasted happiness, so much time lost. I do not see her husband
as a cold-hearted villain as much as just one more person who
feels he cannot trust what he does not know. The irony is that
Sherri is ready – eager – to let him know her deepest thoughts;
she wishes to display herself to him in all her nakedness. It is
heartbreaking to realize that his distrust will make it highly
unlikely for him ever to find out what her sexual fantasies are,
and to enjoy them with her.
Ginger sounds more fortunate. She reports that she is learning
to use her sexual fantasies to excite her husband. She se141
lected two of the fantasies from My Secret Garden and read
them to him, “casually.” The result delighted her – “he got a
hard-on.” Perhaps encouraged by this, Ginger's husband himself
has begun making up fantasies. “Once,” she says happily,
“my husband made-up a good airport fantasy.” Her underlined
words are all the evidence we need to tell us the great pleasure
she felt in sharing one of his inventions.
Ricky married the only man she had ever had intercourse
with, but while her husband brought home quite “a few tricks”
from his time with the Navy in the South Pacific and the Orient,
she finds “After a while, even the most bizarre positions
become boring.” Having known only one man in her life, she
says she finds that “his feel, his mannerisms, are too familiar….
I am terribly curious if there is a noticeable difference
between men…. I want to know so very much and plan to
know no matter if I am married or not.” Apparently, she has
not yet found out; in the meantime, she satisfies her desire for
variety in fantasies instead.
Early marriages are often disastrous; the truth is not that
many people cannot lead rich lives having known only one
other person sexually. The truth is that too many people do not
know themselves before they marry. A woman who marries the
first man she ever goes to bed with is often plagued by lifelong
curiosities like Ricky's. Her letter ends on a wistful note: “I
guess some people would say I was a sexually frustrated person.
I love sex and touching. I feel I need sex and affection to
remain emotionally and mentally healthy….”
Like the remaining women in this chapter, Ricky tells us the
fantasies she uses to explore as yet untasted sexual pleasures at
the feast of life. 
Sherri
Thank you for My Secret Garden. I only wish I could speak
my mind, and I wish I could share my fantasies with my husband
– but even after ten years of marriage, he still does not
fully love me or trust me. I enclose three of my favorite fantasies
for your new book. I hope it will help other women to bet142
ter understand themselves as My Secret Garden has helped
me. My very best wishes for you and your future books.
My fantasies right now deal mainly with a couple with
whom my husband and I spend a great deal of time. We are all
in our early thirties, white, middle class, college educated.
My girl friend's husband is always k**ding me about running
off somewhere with him, or telling my husband that I'm
the “prettiest girl in town” and that any man around would
want to lay me if they had the chance. My husband thinks this
is all a big joke, and though I've never encouraged this fellow
in any way, I'm sure he'd screw me at the first opportunity if I
gave him the okay. He's usually running his wife down in front
of other people anyway, so she thinks that his comments to me
are just another way of giving her a hard time.
On to the fantasy part:
Fantasy 1: When I masturbate (daily at least!), I sometimes
imagine that my girl friend is away on business, and I've
agreed to take care of her k**s for her. While the k**s are at
school, her husband comes home. We go through the usual
jokes and propositions, but this time, I know he's going to go
through with it if I want him to. He pulls me close to him and
starts kissing my face and throat; then as I can feel his cock
come erect against my belly, he f***es his tongue into my
mouth. We go into the bedroom, and he takes my clothes off
very slowly. He lays me over the side of the bed with my knees
over the edge and starts to lick and kiss my cunt. In between
licks, he's telling me how beautiful I am, that my breasts are so
much larger than his wife's and that my figure is so much
softer and more curved than hers. After he's licked and sucked
me to the point where I'm almost exhausted, he slides me up
farther on the bed and slowly puts his cock in my cunt. I imagine
it to be very long and hot. He keeps sliding it in and out
without putting any weight on my body, so all I feel is this long
hot cock slipping up and down in my cunt. Because I've gotten
so wet with my own juice, it takes little effort for his cock to
slide easily around in me. Finally, he jams it in so hard that I
think I'm being ripped apart, and BAMMM!!! we both finish at
the same time!
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Fantasy 2: I imagine that my girl friend and I are alone in
either her house or mine, and we know that no one will be
coming home for a long time. She asks me to help her shave
the sides of her pussy so that the hair won't show outside of her
bathing suit. I agree to help her, so we go into the bedroom,
and while she lays on the bed with her legs apart, I start to
shave her. By the time I've finished, we're both very excited
over me touching her crotch. We both realize that we want to
make love to one another. Then we take our clothes off and
begin to kiss one another while lying very close together, face
to face. I move down and start kissing and sucking on her
breasts, then move lower and get between her legs. Her cunt is
already starting to get wet when I push my tongue up in her.
For a long time, I lick her from her anus up to her clit, then
run my tongue around her clit and kiss it or suck on it very
softly. Then I start pressing harder with my tongue on her clit
and stick my tongue up her cunt as far as I can. I keep this up
until she comes. Then I let her rest just a moment before I lick
her clit and vulva clean of her juice. After a short rest, then she
goes down on me. First, she plays with my breasts, but what
she really wants to do (what I want her to do!!!) is to get to my
crotch. She does the same things to me that I've done to her,
but she has a longer tongue than I have, so she can reach farther
up into me than I did with her. She finally finishes me off
by putting her top lip over my clit and her tongue up my cunt. I
can feel the softness of the inside of her lip and the hardness of
her teeth against my clit. After I come, she licks all my juice off
of me.
Fantasy 3: (This fantasy has nothing to do with this couple.)
I've traveled back in time to Imperial Japan (about An 1500),
and I'm being given to the emperor as a gift. (I don't know
who's giving me away or why.) I know that the emperor has
never had a white woman before, and he, is very excited about
me. I'm bathed, perfumed, and dressed in a beautiful kimono.
Even though the kimono is heavy and completely concealing,
I'm very aware that I have nothing on underneath it. When I'm
brought before the emperor, everyone in the court stops talking
and turns toward me. He has me stand next to him and opens
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my kimono so that everyone can see how beautiful my body is.
He touches my hair (on my head) and then touches and strokes
my pussy, because he's so taken by the sight and feel of soft
blonde hair. He has attendants take me to his bedroom to await
him. They remove my kimono and lay me on the bed (on the
floor – Japanese style). When the emperor comes in, he sits in
a low chair by my side and motions a huge, handsome guard to
get me ready for him. The guard kneels between my legs and
starts to lick my vulva and clit. He keeps on licking in long hot
strokes and running his tongue (a very long one) up my cunt
faster and faster. Now the emperor has opened his kimono, and
I see that he has a huge cock that is hard and stiff as a piece of
wood, and it has this beautiful soft, brown tip. Even though the
guard is driving me wild with his tongue up my cunt, I move
over to the emperor and start to suck his cock. He doesn't try to
shove it deeper into my throat, he just leans back in his chair
and enjoys what I'm doing to him while he runs his hands
through my long blonde hair. By now the guard is under me
with his tongue up my cunt as far as he can. Just as the emperor
comes and his juice shoots into my mouth, I climax from
what the guard is doing to me, and push as hard as I can
against his face with my crotch.
Ginger
I love your book. What a TURN-ON! I wish I could have
contributed to it, but I want to tell you about myself. I married
a man fifteen years my senior. For the most part, he's a codger
and leaves me unsatisfied. I don't know How to have an orgasm.
We only have sex once a week or less. He's thirty-eight;
I'm twenty-three. We've been married four years. I've yearned
to have affairs, but I'm not beautiful and never have found anyone
who would lay me. I never asked men to, but hinted
around and tried to lead them on. (It never worked.) I used to
fantasize about famous men: Dick Martin, Tom Snyder. The
past week, I've fantasized about the clerk in the bookstore
where I bought your book. I had two encounters with him, but I
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don't remember him, although he said we went to the same
high school. He's engaged and I want to lay him before he gets
married. I feel very bad about “Nobody wants me sexually.”
It's such a downer with my husband's apparent lack of desire. I
feel suicidal about it sometimes. Nancy, I'd screw ANYBODY!!!
(or anything!)
Jim, the man I loved deeply, never asked me out when I was
single (I don't like to remember that I asked him out, and he
flat-out, rather tactlessly refused to go out with me). Jim is
married now, and I don't think he knows how much I still love
him. I've had a lot of fantasies about trying to trap Jim into
fucking … or even just touching me. I fantasize that the next
time he comes over alone I fake that I've just been assaulted in
my apartment when he finds me. I'd lay there “pretending” to
be “out.” I'd be wearing torn-off clothing, with my legs wide
open and my bare pussy peeking out. I'd be positioned with my
head against something hard, with some bl**d on my scalp.
He'd have to pick me up off the floor and carry me to the couch
or my bed. He'd pay attention to me. Who knows, he might
even fuck me! I'd “come to” after a reasonable length of time.
I'd make him promise not to call the police. I'd tell him it was
i****t … like my husband's b*****r was the one who'd ****d
me. The major difference between this fantasy and the ones in
your book is that I don't feel guilty about it. I'm manipulating
him to the point where he can take advantage of me or not. His
choice. At any rate, he'd have to touch me. That would be
enough. But I'm not tied up or being f***ed into it. I'd do it,
willingly, gladly, and guiltlessly – damn it, if anyone would
only do it with me!
The other women fantasies and the dog fantasies turn me on.
Once my husband made up a good airport fantasy: we're total
strangers in the airport terminal. I'm walking along, and he's
walking in back of me. I've no panties on and a short skirt, and
I'm struggling with several pieces of luggage, my handbag, and
sunglasses. I drop my sunglasses. He is unzipped, with his
throbbing cock sticking out of his pants. I bend over from the
waist to pick up what I've dropped, and he “bumps” into me.
We both struggle with our luggage and fall facedown on the
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floor. We both screw slowly and gradually other people casually
come along and join in. We rearrange ourselves face up,
and we all roll around and suck and fuck each other.
In reality, I want my husband to suck and kiss and lick my
cunt. He won't, willingly, only when I really pressure and nag
him to do it to me. Last night, I got a hunch and acted on it. I
carefully selected two of the fantasies from your book and read
them to him, casually. They were “Jo” and “Wanda” (The
Zoo). He got a hard-on. I want a big dog. I've fucked with a
dog when I was a teenager and liked it. I think my husband
would be quite stimulated ,to see the dog fucking me, and he'd
probably mount the dog all at the same time. We live in an
apartment where dogs aren't permitted, so it will be at least two
years before I can get one, unless I can “borrow” one somewhere.
I much thank you for caring enough to ask us for our
fantasies.
How in the world are you going to top Secret Garden? I've
been in a constant state of “moistness” since yesterday morning,
when I started reading it!
Ricky
I want to write you because I enjoyed My Secret Garden so
very much. I found it informative, interesting, entertaining,
funny, shocking, and even a bit stimulating (sexually).
I fantasize. I've tried to imagine my husband as another
man, but have failed. He is the only man I have ever had intercourse
with, and after three years of simply one man, I have
found that his feel, his mannerisms, are too familiar to get into
my head that he is another man.
I do daydream about sex. I am terribly curious if there is a
noticeable difference between men. Can you tell the difference
in their size just from the feel of their organ deep (or not so
deep) inside that warm, soft spot? Are their “styles” noticeably
different? I want to know so very much and plan to know no
matter if I am married or not.
My husband was in the Navy when we met and started to
sl**p together. (There was no “sl**ping” until we were married
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though.) He brought home from the South Pacific and the Orient
a few tricks. He showed me so many positions that I can't
number them nor do I care to. After a while, even the most
bizarre positions become boring. The day we were married, he
lost a great deal of interest in sex. He says that there was a
great deal of “challenge” before we were married. Now it is
here anytime he wants it. He turns to me when he feels the
urge, not the deep beauty of it, but the natural call of his sexual
drive. About eight to f******n days apart and never more than
once a night. He is always ready for me to give him head
though. Not to have sex or eat me when I feel like it.
My daydreams are of men I have met. I imagine we’re
alone, and he tenderly, slowly makes love to me. No, I make
love to him right back. He shows that he really enjoys what I
do to and with him. He moves about, he makes low, sexy
noises, he holds me tighter. (My husband is a quiet man, never
makes a sound. He claims to have only one “hot spot” – his
dick.) We give and take from each other in the most beautiful
act in creation. So far I have not been able to set an end to this
fantasy. I sometimes have a climax during it, but that isn't all
too important to me. (I always enjoy foreplay the most.)
Sometimes the man is famous. My idol is Joe Namath.
Sometimes he is a man I have met casually; sometimes he is a
friend of my husband's. My husband knows that I have a sexual
attraction to this one friend of his. It came out in a “What
if” conversation. He knows and I believe myself when I say I
doubt if I could carry through with an affair. It would take an
advance from the man. A subtle one, a tender one.
I feel I wouldn't be honest if I didn't tell you that I do have
this “daydream” about my half-b*****r. We have the same
father. Both our mothers were divorced from our father, and we
seldom saw each other in sixteen years. He finally became
closer and closer to our father. (I always was, though not sexually
attracted to our father.) We began seeing each other and
writing. Since we did not have a chance to develop a b*****rs****r
relationship, I do not feel that way toward him. I feel at
times that he does not regard me as a “s****r.” He is a tender
person, and I sometimes feel he would like to ball me as I
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would him. The fact that we have the same father seems to stop
us both. I know if he would let me know or make a move, I
would jump. I am not afraid to be the instigator in sex. I just
need to know the man I'm interested in is interested in me. He
comes on (my b*****r) as a very sensual person. He belongs to
a nudist camp in the hills. He is also a very sensual photographer.
Soft, moody, beautiful works. (Our father is a photographer;
he is a part-time pro.)
I guess some people would say I was a sexually frustrated
person. I have been told I am asexual person. I love sex and
touching. I feel I need sex and affection to remain emotionally
and mentally healthy. I hope you can use this. Please let me
know what you think.
Stella
I just finished reading your book and found it very exciting,
to say the least. I told a couple of my friends about it, and am
sorry to say that they aren't open-minded enough to read it too.
My sex life started at the age of twenty-one at my own request.
I used to very often sl**p with this one guy with the
usual foreplay, but when it got to “the limit,” nothing more.
Being a romantic-type person, I asked him one night to make
love to me. The conclusion, unfortunately, was the question to
myself: Is that all there is?
Since then, there have been a few more men, but all I seem
to be doing is running into the same kind of people. They satisfy
themselves and leave me very frustrated and still waiting
for something to happen.
I love sex, to say the least, and never have regretted having
given up my womanly treasure, so to speak. I am now twentyfive
and have lived with a guy three years. Our sex life is very
dull, maybe because I just don't try. But he just doesn't do anything
for me sexually.
Why I stay is another story in itself. I have had other flings
since this guy I live with, but never seem to find satisfaction.
I'm trying to find out what a climax is all about!
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Thinking back over your book, I found myself in there a
number of times. If I were to tell you my fantasies, they would
be much like many other women's. What I find sex is all about
is people together, sharing, feeling, caring. I often wonder what
a certain person would be like. I see a man at the office or at a
party, and I try to imagine what it would be like to make love
to him. But I'm always afraid my dreams will end up like my
reality – better in the imagination than in the performance. So
many men think that just because they've reached a climax, the
woman must have been satisfied too. I suppose I will keep
looking for a man who does not believe this, who understands
women better. But in the meantime, I suppose I must just stick
to my dreams.
Jill
A friend of mine recently recommended your book to me, so
I bought a copy. I have just finished reading it. I saw on a back
page a request for suggestions, comments, and further fantasies,
and that is why I am writing to you. I think your book is
great. Until now, I have always thought that my fantasies were
something bad that I should keep hidden. I was afraid that
there was something wrong with me, because I often had these
“bad” sexual fantasies, and because I enjoyed them. It relieves
some of my fears to know that other women have sexual fantasies
just as I do.
I would like to share some of my fantasies with you, and
maybe they will help you in preparing your second book. Let
me tell you something about myself first. I used to work as a
secretary, but now I am just a housewife. I spend most of my
time at home and since I have no c***dren, I get very bored and
lonely. My husband has the kind of job in which he has no set
work hours. He often comes home very late, and then he brings
work home with him. He often has to work on weekends too. I
really think that we were together more before we were married.
Even when I go to bed at night, he is usually still up doing
some work he brought home. He never seems to have time
for me anymore. He seldom has time for sex either. Even when
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I come right out and ask him to make love to me, he usually
says that he is too busy or that he does not have any time to
waste. When he does make love to me, he acts like it is some
kind of routine thing, like brushing his teeth or shaving. He
acts like he is in a hurry to get it done. Lately, he has been telling
me that he does not have time to make love to me, but that
he will masturbate me for a little while if I want him to. He
often tells me that I should learn to control my sexual feelings
and that there are more important things in life than sex. Because
my real sexual life is not what I want it to be, I have had
to fantasize a good sexual life for myself. I spend much of the
time that I am home alone fantasizing and masturbating. I have
developed a whole collection of fantasies, and I would like to
share some of them with you.
In my favorite fantasy, I see myself as a Near Eastern ruler
like those long ago. I live in a “pleasure palace” with a whole
“harem” of men. They are always available to satisfy whatever
sexual desires I have. In my mind, I have them categorized in a
kind of filing system. Each man is categorized according to his
age, his looks and physical build, his sexual skills (that is, the
sexual skills I imagine he has), and his general personality.
Most of the men in my harem are men I know or have known,
but some are imaginary men, or men I know about but do not
really know personally. In the sexual skills category, I classify
each man according to his general skill at lovemaking, his
powers of endurance during lovemaking, his skill at oral lovemaking,
and any other sexual skills he has. I also rate each
man in my harem according to the size of his penis, his ability
to use it, and whether or not it is circumcised. I like variety, so
these men are all different from each other. I can select one
according to what I am looking for at the time.
In a typical fantasy of this kind, I am in a large, opulent bedroom
in my “pleasure palace.” I am usually dressed in a sensual,
silky nightgown. In the bedroom, there is a huge canopy
bed upon which I am lying. As I try to decide which man (or
men) I want, I lie there masturbating, both in my fantasy and in
reality. When I select the man I want, he is brought to my bedroom.
As I watch, he is taken to an adjoining bathroom where
my servants (all female) undress him and bathe him. When
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they have dried him and put cologne on him, my servants bring
him to my bed, and then they leave the room. The man I have
selected wants very much to make love to me, but I make him
stand at the side of my bed and wait until I am ready. Often at
this point, I get out of bed and undress while he watches. He
must stand at attention and not move while I entice him. When
I am nude, I come over to him and caress him and rub my body
against him, but he must remain at attention. When I have
teased him enough, I lie down on the bed and allow him to lie
down with me and make love to me. If I desire oral lovemaking,
I lie with my legs over the side of the bed, and he kneels
beside the bed and makes love to me orally. Other times, I sit
on the edge of the bed or kneel and make him stand right in
front of me. Then I make love to him orally. In fantasies in
which I make love to him orally, I usually imagine that his
penis is still soft and that it swells and becomes erect in my
mouth. As I said, the men are different, so the kind of lovemaking
that I have with each one is different. All of them are very
passionate though. Usually, I make love for a long time with
the man I select. He is able to delay his orgasm until the end,
or he is able to have more than one orgasm. All of the men in
my fantasies are able to do one of these two things. That may
be because my husband can do neither one of them, and I wish
he could. In my fantasies, the men I choose and I make love in
many different positions. That, too, is different from making
love with my husband, because he always insists on using the
same position, the standard one with him on top.
This kind of fantasy lets me imagine an unlimited number of
variations of it. One of my favorite variations of it is one in
which my husband is humiliated and made to suffer. In this
fantasy, my husband is the man who is brought to my bedroom.
When my servants undress him and bathe him, they
make fun of him and laugh at him. Most of all, they tease him
about the small size of his penis. They tell him his penis looks
like a little boy's. In reality, it does look more like a boy's than
a man's. He is very self-conscious about the small size of his
penis, and he often asks me if it bothers me that his penis is so
small. I always tell him that it does not bother me, but sometimes
I would like to tell him what I really think. In this fan152
tasy, my servants tease him by telling him some of the things
about his small penis that I would often like to tell him. When
my servants bring him to my bed, they stay and watch instead
of leaving. He pleads for me to undress and make love with
him, but I refuse. Still dressed in my gown, I stand close to him
and whisper in his ear about all the pleasures he would feel if
he made love with me. He gets very excited and gets an erection,
and he cannot wait any longer. He takes hold of his penis
to masturbate himself, but the moment touches it, he ejaculates.
My servants, who are watching, laugh at him and tease
him. They call him “the fastest gun of all.” He is very ashamed
and embarrassed, and he pleads with me to give him another
chance. I refuse, and I tell him that he will see how a real man
makes love with a woman. Then I order my servants to tie him
to a pillar so that he is facing my bed.
With my husband there watching, I have one of my write
men brought to my bedroom. He is always someone whom my
husband knows. Often he is a former boyfriend of mine with
whom I had intercourse for the A time in my life. My husband
is facing so that he can see my servants undress and bathe this
man, and my husband sees that the man I have selected has a
much larger penis than he does. This man's penis is as much
larger than normal as my husband's is smaller than normal,
and this was true about my former boyfriend whom I have just
mentioned. While my husband watches, the man is brought
over to my bed. I undress quickly, and kneel beside the bed so
that he is right in front of me. Then I bend forward and kiss the
tip of his penis. It is still soft, and I take a hold of it with my
fingertips. It feels heavy. I pull back the foreskin of his penis
and lick its soft, pink glans. Out of the corner of my eye, I can
see my husband watching me. This man's penis is so large that
I cannot get very much of it into my mouth, but I take as much
of it into my mouth as I can. During the time that I have been
sucking on it and licking it, it has become erect. After a few
minutes of this, I stop and get back on the bed, and I invite this
man to lie down with me. We slowly begin to make love. He is
a very skilled lover, and he does everything that pleases me.
Although he is passionate and very excited, he is not in a hurry.
When I am ready, I have him lie on his back, and I get on top
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of him. I guide his penis into me, and it fills me completely.
We go slowly at first, and we move in a way that causes his
penis to make long, slow strokes in and out of me. I have several
orgasms, and he is able to delay his orgasm as long as I
want him to. Finally, I am ready to finish, and we go wild.
Together we reach r a tremendous orgasm. We lie together
quietly for a few minutes, and then we are ready to start again.
He still has an erection. This time, I get on my hands and
knees, and he kneels in back of me and enters me from behind.
Again we start slowly, and he reaches around me and caresses
me with his fingers. In a while, we lose control of ourselves,
and he is moving like a wild stallion. Together we reach another
tremendous orgasm. Sometimes we go on and make love
some more in other positions, but often it stops here. My lover
and I bathe together while my husband watches. Then he
dresses and returns to the harem, and my husband is left tied to
the pillar. I go back to bed and lie down, and my servants tease
my husband about what a poor lover he is compared to the man
he has just seen. Then my husband is returned to the harem,
where the other men tease him too.
I have another version of this fantasy in which a young boy
is brought to my bedroom after my husband's failure. The boy
has never made love to a woman before, and I teach him the
right way to make love. What makes it better is that this young
boy has a penis that is larger, than my husband's. That really
humiliates my husband. This boy learns quickly and becomes a
much better lover than my husband.
I have other fantasies too. I love to fantasize about couples I
know. I enjoy trying to imagine them making love. Now that
several magazines for women are publishing photographs of
nude men, I have found that I can become very aroused by
looking at such photographs. I often look at these photographs
while I am masturbating, and I fantasize about the men in
them. I imagine them making love with me. I do not have fantasies
in which I take part in lesbian lovemaking, but I do have
fantasies in which I secretly see two other women making love.
I especially enjoy fantasies in which I secretly see other people
making love with each other.
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I definitely do enjoy my fantasy sexual life more than my
real sexual life. I think that that is the main reason why I have
felt that my sexual fantasies are bad. I also have felt bad about
the amount of time that I have spent fantasizing. I often spend
hours at a time fantasizing and masturbating. It is the way in
which I fill much of the time in which I have little else to do.
Most of my fantasies are those based upon the format of my
having a harem of men. I can have any man I want, and I can
do whatever I want with them. I have not made any of my fantasies
a reality, but, as time goes by, I feel more and more like
doing so. One of these days, if the right situation arises, I may
not resist the temptation to really live one of my fantasies. With
the way that my husband has treated me and is treating me in
regard to sex, I almost feel that I have the right to obtain sexual
satisfaction where I can. I find myself looking for the right
situation in which I can safely have an affair with another man.
It may not be long before I find the situation that I am looking
for, and then I may make some of my fantasies realities. I
sometimes wonder if my husband would even care if I was
having an affair with another man as long as it did not cause
him any trouble. He might even like it if I would stop bothering
him about sex. After all of this, though, I have to say that most
of all I would prefer that my husband become a better and more
satisfying lover so that all of these other things would be unnecessary.
I guess that that is my biggest fantasy.
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PART TWO
THE USES
OF
SEXUAL FANTASY
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CHAPTER FIVE
DAYDREAMING
 Life can be seen as an effort toward equilibrium. If we are
hungry, we eat. Tired? We rest. If we've been using our minds
too strenuously, we long for physical exercise or a walk in the
woods. This is also true of our inner selves … although many
of our mental efforts at maintaining equilibrium hover on the
border of u*********sness. Daydreaming while going about
the ordinary chores of the day is one of these activities.
Usually, our daydreams pass out of our mind without leaving
a trace behind. A chance question from a neighbor, the
ringing of a telephone – and suddenly we are focused on the
here and now, the large part of our idle reveries forgotten.
Unlike u*********s fantasies, however, it is usually not too
difficult to re-summon and examine our daydreams. If we do,
they can tell us a lot about who we are and what is missing
from our lives. This is most obviously truce in the Walter Mitty
kind of daydream indulged in by the average-man-lost-in-thecrowd.
In his reveries, the most overblown ambitions come
true. The unusual thing about sexual daydreaming is that the
daydreams do not often come to women who have no sex at all.
When repression is that total, sexual daydreaming is pushed
underground too. Much more often, I find that women's erotic
daydreams are not so much about sex itself but are about a
kind of sex they have not had, or will not allow themselves. It
is the effort of their imagination to supply something that is
missing from their real lives.
I bridle when people try to dismiss daydreams as unimportant
because they are “unreal.” They are just as real as the experience
of reading a novel, listening to music, or looking at
paintings. They are all efforts of the mind to present us with a
more satisfying order of reality, a beauty we might otherwise
never have known. Jane Eyre never existed in the real world,
but I am the richer for Charlotte Brontë's story about her. (After
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all, couldn't a novel itself be described as a disciplined daydream?)
Ordinarily, our daydreams of happiness are abruptly followed
by feelings of disappointment and/or guilt. The pendulum
is swinging back toward equilibrium, but goes right
through the median point of stasis. We overreact; it is as if we
cannot find a balance again until we have paid with mental rue
and regret for the fantasized pleasures we have just pictured for
ourselves. Talking about the anxieties aroused in us by our
imagined actions or delights, Dr. Erik Erikson (c***dhood and
Society) says, “… our irrational worry … our fear of having
aroused actually quite disinterested, and antagonized quite
well-meaning people, our fantasized atonements and c***dish
repetitions, may well surprise us.”
The barriers to our happiness, the limits we allow ourselves,
are more often within ourselves than outside. For fear that the
man we love may think badly of us, we hesitate to ask him for
simple sexual pleasures we have every right to. In our own
minds, we change him from a lover to a critic … even worse,
we make him a critic so harsh that we know in advance he will
disapprove. Therefore, we avoid the test of reality and never
ask him, never give him a chance to show us how much he
himself might welcome our requests for as yet untasted pleasures.
It is our own unnecessarily strict, even sadistic, consciences
that keep us from sexual pleasure we have every right
to enjoy.
In her very romantic letter, Lulu describes an event that she
could not allow herself to have, even though the time, the
place, and even the man were “right.” She entitles her fantasy,
“An Ideal Sexual Encounter.” But at the peak of the event in
real life, “my automatic `No, thank you' intruded …. Were I to
have enough courage, I would have whispered a simple `Yes, I
want to.' “
Lulu's letter then goes on to describe a simple daydream of
happiness. While she may regret that she denied herself the
fulfillment of this experience for the rest of her life, in her daydream
it is hers after all. An effort of the imagination has repaired
the torn fabric of the past. 
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Lulu
I enjoyed your book and found the honest exposure of sexual
impulse very freeing and enlightening myself.
As you can see, I was quite reserved and conflicted prior to
becoming married, but the impulse and fantasies were very
much alive.
P.S. I am thirty-two, married for the second time, and very
happy. I have a master's degree and am employed full time in
my profession. No c***dren are planned in our future.
An Ideal Sexual Encounter
In truth, my ideal encounter is the cherished memory of my
second date with my husband. We met at church, purely by
accident, and I was immediately repelled by his frankly sexual
look at me – in church, no less. Our first date was a disaster.
He invited me to go sailing. I refused unless other persons were
to be present for fear of being “trapped'.” alone with this hairychested
male. My preoccupation was clear. A slight innuendo
at sexual encounter casually made, and again I was thoroughly
upset… I realize now I was reacting too intensely for it to be
genuine protest.
My fascination with him grew,' as I saw him now and, then
around church and again at a party at which he was thoroughly
charming, funny, and very interesting. His casual arm around
my waist and a whispered, “Stay here with me,” sent me scurrying
into a kitchen full of gossiping women.
After agonizing months of watching him at church, I f***ed
myself to speak to him first (a brave step forward for me), and
he asked if I'd like to go for a hike to a wooded area soon to be
destroyed by installation of a highway. Terrified, and delighted,
I agreed. We had a pleasant walk through the woods to a waterfall,
he handling my anxiety by easily chatting about his
many varied and amusing experiences on his world travels. I
was uneasy about even holding his hand over rough terrain.
159
Needless to say, I was struggling with my own sexual attraction
to him which I couldn't control.
Bravely, I ventured forth that I'd like to see his pictures
sometime, to which he suggested that same evening would be
fine. We arrived at his neat, comfortable, masculine duplex in a
quiet, wooded area overlooking the lake. I was immediately
impressed with his tasteful accommodations, but also with the
fascinating portrait of a beautiful woman on the living-room
wall – her hair loose, eyes shut, and head thrown back in an
ecstasy of pleasure – clearly at the peak of orgasm. I felt helpless
– caught alone with this male in a web I had woven for
myself. I wanted to go home. The other side of me decided
within minutes after arrival that I wanted to live here forever
with this man whom I really didn't even know.
Tony flicked on the radio to a quiet station and in the darkening
evening built an intimate fire for two. The enormous
sofa, spread with a soft alpaca coverlet (picked up on a recent
trip to Peru), was pushed close to the raised hearth on which he
spread cheeses, crackers, marinated mushrooms, and two
glasses of scotch. The wooden bases were intricately carved
mahogany which he had created himself. Then he returned to a
bright kitchen to prepare dinner. I stared into the fire trying to
recover my composure. The portrait of the woman seemed to be
mocking me … .
Shortly thereafter, Tony settled on the sofa, cheerfully announcing
dinner would be ready in about two hours. His special
spaghetti sauce requires that long to sunnier. Inwardly
gasping at such a long period of unstructured time, I asked if
he were going to show me his pictures.
He did. The pictures were vivid and intriguing scenes of the
ancient Incan ruins of Machu Picchu, Peru. In contrast to this
presentation, he showed fantastic pictures of Antarctica: icebergs,
roaring seas, glorious sunsets, and his work and colleagues'
on board ship. I was enchanted with this all-male domain
in an environment I saw was as rugged and as naturally
beautiful as the men themselves.
Dinner was served at the hearth: spaghetti, salad, red wine,
and I was getting tipsy. Afterward, he snuggled close, and we
kissed. I loved it. Tony is a superb kisser, passionate and yet
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tender. Rubbing over my body with his hands, he talked of
how much he enjoyed sex, enjoyed active women, and liked to
kiss their genitals. He mentioned his previous wife did not like
her clitoris touched. I clinically offered she had c***dhood prohibitions
against masturbation. He visibly brightened and happily
remarked he was so glad that I “did it.” I vanished behind
my professional mask and told hum I was discussing her, not
me! Tony looked puzzled and said he was discussing me.
We kissed often and longer that evening, me getting extremely
slippery and hotter and hotter. Tony's erect thrusting
penis felt so good against my pubic area – it had been so long
since I'd been with a man!! I was as famished for sex as for the
meal he served.
Tony's body was becoming hot also, and he began to sweat
and took off his shirt. I lightly caressed and rubbed his back
and, out of irresistible curiosity, softly reached around to touch
the mass of delicious hair on his chest, exploring until I accidentally
(?) touched his erect nipple. He whispered, “You can
stay here all night if you want to.”
[My encounter is true to this point. My automatic “No,
thank you” intruded here, even though he later showed me his
bedroom, complete with huge waterbed, fluffy down-filled
comforter (from long unheated winter nights in Europe), heat
lamps over the bed for comfort, and another “delight” I later
learned to enjoy was a vibrator. I did want to stay!]
Were I to have enough courage, I would have whispered `a
simple “Yes, I want to.” I would have undressed him, pulling
off his belt, spanking his buttocks playfully and briefly with it,
untying his shoes, slipping off his socks, very slowly unzippering
and dropping his trousers, letting them tickle his inner
thighs as they went down. Then I would remove my top, shoes,
and slacks to black lace bra and black lace bikini panties. In
the firelight, with him standing, I would slowly pull off his
underwear, letting the elastic tickle his stomach; and when his
enormous, engorged, erect penis burst forth, I would kiss it
gently and tenderly up and down the shaft, cradling his balls,
gently pulling on both occasionally. Then I would lick the ticklish
spot underneath, around the tip, caressing the “eye” with
161
my tongue. He begins pushing toward me, and I allow it in my
mouth, sucking and swallowing as much as possible. Tony
moves to and fro in spasms of pleasure ….
Tony lets down my long hair and buries his face in it, kissing
my neck. He quickly pulls off my panties, undoes my bra,
admiring my figure in the firelight, running his hands lightly
across breasts, stopping to pull and knead them, then quickly
on to belly and teasingly up the vaginal crack, allowing his
finger to slightly touch and tease the vagina and deliciously
tickling my clitoris in passing. An intimate tongue in the vagina
and more delicious tickling the clitoris with his tongue,
and he picks me up, carrying me to his bed, which is already
warm from the heat lamps.
Intercourse begins. I am frantic for the weight of him,
for the determined shove of his member into my, warm waiting
body, pouring forth water as the falls we had seen that afternoon.
With groans of pleasure, he begins thrusting deep,
pressing the cervix, each of us releasing pent-up emotion that
only the single (or I) can accumulate. I, sweating and crying,
respond to his passion with clutching hands, heaving hips,
back arched in anticipation, and burning pleasure in my cunt.
My mind runs over and over the thought, “Fuck me, Tony, fuck
me.” And then it goes blank ….
I am torn between the fear of the a****l passions released
and desperate desire for the raging fire spreading over me. I
have no choice now. Tony's urgent thrusts are my own, and
together we are both driven madly toward the final shattering
moments when we surrender to our lust. Gasping, arching, I
am consumed in Tony's manliness and exist alone no more. I
have no words to express my feelings at our union, only cries
from my shattered soul.
Sobbing into Tony's neck and shoulder, I regain consciousness.
He holds me tenderly, kissing my neck, rocking me
slightly. I feel tremendous relief and gratitude toward him. I
am floating with joy. He is mine, and I am his. A tiny fire
burns within me still which he caresses with his fingers to full
flame. I have a series of minor orgasms, only reflections of our
first passion. Grateful and exhausted, I fall asl**p in his encircling
arms…
162
 We are all used to seeing magazine advertisements or
television commercials of a woman daydreaming at the window
or while looking into a fireplace. If a man lost in an idle
reverie of pipe smoke were asked what dreams he sees suspended
before his eyes, he might well laugh and say, “Sophia
Loren, who wants to seduce me.” But a woman is taught, by
these exercises of salesmanship, that her correct answer is that
she is dreaming of a whiter laundry than her neighbors, or finding
a baby food that will make her c***d grow six feet tall. We
are not allowed the uses of erotic reverie that reinf***e us in our
own minds as sexual beings. No wonder so many women who
can think of themselves only in the role of Mrs. Superconsumer,
resist seeing themselves in any image that smacks of
eroticism.
Fernando Sanchez is the designer of some of the most feminine,
beautiful lingerie in America today. They are truly the
stuff of which a woman's most sensuous dreams can be made
… lovingly cut peignoirs with panels of lace … negligees that
entrance the beholder with the grace and erotic promise of the
female body. And yet Mr. Sanchez recently told me, “Our big
problem is to educate women to seeing themselves in seductive
clothes like these. They may stop and admire a tempting nightgown
on a model in a store, or in a fashion magazine, but even
in these liberated times, the woman will usually just sigh and
say, `That's not me,' and head for the drip dry counter.” But if
she's not an erotic woman, who is she?
One letter from a woman named Cheryl is an example of
how women are conditioned to fight their own sexuality. She
was so inhibited in her own mind that she never once climaxed
during the three years she lived on and off with a man to whom
she was engaged. “Before him,” she says, “I was a virgin and
tried masturbation.” But even that did not work for her. Defeated,
she writes forlornly, “I gave up trying.”
It was only recently, at the age of twenty-four, that she met a
new young man and “could finally relax completely, enjoying
my new freedom, and I `came' for the first time ever.” As if to
further underline the distance she had been taught to keep be163
tween herself and her own sexuality, she says she wasn't even
certain she had experienced orgasm with this new man – or at
least, didn't “realize it fully until a short time ago.”
One of the healthiest aspects of human nature is that it does
fight for equilibrium; once repression has been lifted, it can
work with the speed of a coiled spring to right the balance.
Now that Cheryl accepts her sexual self, her old bugaboos
seem to be vanishing. I find her closing very moving: her new
sexual self-confidence, she says, has made her “very proud of
myself … .” She feels she is a woman at last.
In her letter, Jackie also writes that facing her own sexuality
frankly has been an important step forward in life. She writes
that she and her older b*****r used to play sexual games as
c***dren. This is hardly unusual for young siblings; nevertheless,
she found these activities so disturbing that “I used to
hide my head under the pillow to make the reality of the responsibility
go away.”
If Jackie disavowed her sexual experience by hiding her
head under the pillow, another form of denial is to have sexual
events take place as if you yourself were just a spectator. It's
not happening to you, but to somebody else. In Samantha's
poetic fantasy, which she calls “The Blue Star,” this is exactly
what happens. The entire fantasy is told third person, as if it
had no relation to Samantha at all.
It is easy to see that this method of sexual fantasy is a strategy
for avoiding guilt; it is a daydream about having the most
marvelous sexual experience – but experiencing, the whole
thing vicariously in the third person.
In Connie's fantasy too, the same emotions seem to be the
basis for the sexual scenario she invents. “Faceless, hooded,
sexless people are tightening straps to my wrists and ankles,”
she writes, describing the circumstances of her favorite fantasy,
in which she enjoys sex without responsibility, without choice.
These sexual fantasies, which seek to combine the maximum
of erotic arousal and satisfaction with the minimum of
guilt, reach their logical conclusion in fantasies in which the
woman is given absolutely no choice in the matter at all …
fantasies of f***e or ****. “The doorbell rings,” Elaine writes of
one such fantasy. “A good-looking young man pushes his way
164
in, grabs me … .” The sexual act takes place, but it is not the
woman's fault: She “did not ask for it.”
What we must remember is that for most women, who have
never experienced ****, the word just represents an abstract
idea; combining **** with sex in their fantasies is just using
****, almost as a theatrical convention – it is a means toward
an end. When understood this way, **** becomes code language
for, “It wasn't my fault,” or just as simply, “He wanted
me so much, he overpowered me. You can't blame me if I am
such an overwhelmingly sexually attractive creature that I
drove him mad with lust despite all I could do to fight him
off!”
If the women who fantasize about **** were really turned on
by the ugliness and brutality of it, in their imagined scenarios
they would describe the feelings of disgust, shame, and degradation
ensuing from this physiological and psychological assault.
But on the contrary! When you read these **** fantasies,
which, after all, have been entirely created by the women concerned
for their own pleasure, the elements of f***e and brutality
are seen to be not important at all. What happens instead is
that the f***e and ardor of their r****t-lover allows them to
release all their own pent-up sexual f***e, power. Every thrust
of his powerful hand, forcing them down, is returned by a
thrust of their own – which can be read as protest, but which is
clearly a sexual release on the woman's part, as guiltless as it is
powerful. The man's demands on her body are the demands of
a lust she has always been too inhibited to respond to with all
the sexual f***e and vibrancy of her own body; fantasy allows
her to respond at last like some kind of sexual a****l to his
a****l treatment – a most unladylike way to behave, even unwomanly,
unless you can mask your “aggressive” actions as
protest.
If the women in these **** fantasies were concerned with
the pain of ****, if they even elaborated on the pain involved,
the fantasies could be called masochistic. But these aren't fantasies
about the pleasure of pain. They are imaginary scenarios
speaking of a romantic desire for unromantic sex: these women
don't want love (at least this one time) in a bower of flowers in
165
a tender lover's arms. They want sweat, roll-around, knockabout
thrust-and-counterthrust, with no holds barred. They
want sex that transcends any limits they have ever known with
a man who won't take less than a woman is capable of giving.
And most women are capable of giving a hell of a lot more
sexual thrust and emotion than they think most men want, or
that they themselves are capable of (being “nice” women). The
fantasy of **** solves all these problems, provides all this
pleasure. ****? These women don't want ****. They want release.
But before we leave this subject, let me add one very strong
proviso: we must be clear that enjoying an emotion in fantasy
does not necessarily mean you want to live it out in reality. If
you become angry, for instance, you might say to someone, “If
you do that again, I'll kill you!” The words may even be accompanied
by a very satisfying quick image of the offender
lying dead at your feet. But no one – least of all you – really
believes that these fantasies of v******e are ideas that you have
any intention of carrying out. You just wanted the momentary
release of expressing strong emotion, but only in words, merely
as an idea. Fantasies from women like Jackie, Samantha, Connie,
Elaine … fantasies of being sexually f***ed or ****d … are
in the same category: they may be satisfying to think about,
they give the woman license; at least in her imagination, to
enjoy herself sexually, and they remove her from any feeling of
guilt, because she never had any choice in the matter – but
there isn't a woman I know who wouldn't ran a mile if she
thought there was the slightest chance it would happen in real
life.
There is a safety in fantasy. In our minds, we can test certain
situations to see how they might feel; we always know that no
matter how sordid the emotions we are dealing with, no matter
how angry, gigantic, or demanding the characters, they are all
puppets of our own invention. If any of these ideas ever become
too frightening, we can turn them off like turning the
pages of a book. This, I believe, is the final ingredient in the
glamour that **** holds in some fantasies. In the safe playground
of our minds, we can toy with the male's most danger166
ous, most aroused emotions – and use them for just the whim
and fancy of our idle moment. He may be raging, threatening,
or even hurting us in the fantasy, but in reality we control him!

Jackie
Throughout the reading of your Secret Garden, I was wavering
between hope and fear that at the end you would (not)
request more fantasies. Reading of other women, I found myself
wishing you had a group going where I could tell everyone
mine.
I am twenty-nine, never married, highly intelligent (150 IQ)
well educated, and overwhelmingly fat and frustrated. I did not
discover myself, as some of your contributors state, but at the
age of five my b*****r discovered me. We were hiding in a
clothes closet, and he pulled down my panties and explored me
with a flashlight – giggling excitedly and urging me to be
quiet. I was afraid of my b*****r even then, and was – although
I did not understand it – horribly humiliated. After that, I became
curious about myself and would masturbate. My mother
effectively made me feel guilty about this: each morning, she
would smell my hands and say, “Your hands smell like they've
been in the wrong place.” She couldn't, however, stop me – or
my b*****r.
One of my earliest fantasies occurred when I was four years
old and would sl**p on my parents' bed until their bedtime. I
would dream that a doctor came in to give me an injection. I
remember screaming in my fantasy for my mother, but she
would not save me. It was a terribly exciting idea, this fearsome
happening. Perhaps this sexual preoccupation stems from
my b*****r or from the fact that I slept in my parents' bedroom
until I was five.
My b*****r and I played many sexual games – doctor and
actress, doctor and patient, husband and wife, and we had ample
opportunity, since both my parents worked. When they
were around, we would fight and hate each other. One disturbing
aspect (to me it still is) is that we never kissed or spoke to
167
each other. I used to hide my head under the pillow to make the
reality of the responsibility “go away.” My b*****r is four years
older than I and was always stronger. When we fought, he hurt
me (am I rationalizing?). I mentally refused to accept any responsibility
for our acts. We continued until I was eighteen,
and he got married. I was very upset and depressed about his
marriage – but couldn't fathom why. In fact, I never understood
this whole thing until I went into analysis.
Since he married, I had other men, but never have an orgasm
(we never had one when we were k**s either). Each case
is similar: I always feel horribly humiliated and hate myself
afterward. I have never really been in love. I can't achieve orgasm
even when I masturbate.
My fantasies as a c***d were usually about doctors telling
me what a brave little girl I am while they “examined” me
sexually. Usually in groups of three or four I have once or twice
“caught” myself having a lesbian, fantasy, but stopped because
I was afraid it would make me a lesbian. I say “was” because
since I've read your book, I can see that it is not freakish, and I
feel more free. I can't thank you enough for publishing your
book.
As I grew older, my fantasies about doctors ceased, and I
remember really getting turned on at college lectures by just
imagining myself screwing with the professor. Later, I had
fantasies about my analyst, though not really sexual. Mostly, I
wanted to be a little bird that could nest in the hair in his armpits.
I used to despise women, but that is changing now. I find
I have more respect for other women … but only if they are
intelligent. I'm still seeking a meaningful relationship with a
man, and I'm not afraid anymore. In truth, I think I was afraid
that both men and women only wanted to use me, hurt me, and
degrade me. Knowing my sexual fantasies has helped me to
reach my new self-acceptance. Your book has made me feel so
much better about myself. Thank you.
168
Ethel
I too thought I was crazy, because I had these fantasies, but
now I know it is normal, because I read your book. I am no
lesbian, but I have thought a number of times about this particular
fantasy. I would daydream that a man with a knife
would knock on my door, and when I opened it, push me in
and then tell his two women to come in. He would tie me up,
and then the two women would undress me. One is black, and
one is white. The black woman has a whip and is naked with
only black boots on. She would tie me to the bed, and then the
white one would spread my legs, and the black one would get
on me and start eating me out. When finished, the black one
would get off and sit on my face so I could eat her, while the
white one inserted a vibrator into my cunt. After a while, she
takes it out and tongue fucks me and after a while would place
her finger in my juicy wet cunt up and down till I had an orgasm.
The man would be masturbating while watching. After
this, they would all tie my legs up strongly, and the white girl
would open my mouth while the man let me blow him and the
black chick is fingering me. Wow, I'm horny now. I have more
to tell, but it would take a book. Thanks for letting me talk.
P.S. Believe me this is no joke. I am only eighteen with one
boy aged two, and a husband aged thirty-two.
Samantha
The Blue Star
The room was guarded by statues of marble, shadowy figures
in the outer halls. The silence was penetrated slightly by
eerie music, unearthly in form.
Inside the huge doors, carved by a sculptor's patient hand
seemingly, lay a magnificent room. It had a cathedral quality –
high vaulted ceiling, ornate gilded walls, immaculate stone
floor. And at the very peak of the room the ceiling's center,
there was a glorious, thick, glass Star of David. The sapphire
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blue was almost smoky, but light, played through in drifting
waves.
The girl lay underneath on a long, ceremonial table, tied
hand, foot to the four corners of the rather wide rectangle. She
was naked save for a wooden crucifix around her neck. She lay
meditatively intent upon the pulsating star in the center of her
vision. At times, she almost luxuriously strained her limbs
against the coils of rope on her wrists and ankles. But her gaze
never changed. Nor her expression. She lay hypnotized by the
glazed star; it burned her eyes and heart.
Silently, four rows of men took their places around the table.
She felt their presence intimately like a stabbing wound. They
were dressed in simple garb, a long robe of sackcloth knotted
with a length of rope. They began a chant, low and soft and
pure, that made her feel strong, almost pure, highly exalted.
The light was dimmer now. She flicked her tongue over her
lips, feeling warm moisture fill the cleft between her legs. Her
nipples began to harden, and as though this were a new experience,
she began to softly groan, her eyes still fixed on the blue
star above her head. The chant grew louder.
One of the monks took his place at the table's end. He
touched the soft white feet delicately, then climbed on her full
length. He kissed the small red mouth and lay still. The harsh
sackcloth rubbed against her, stinging the fair skin, but as his
erection grew, she lost herself to the feel of his hard manhood
against her stomach. He rolled aside suddenly and removed the
garment. She tamed her head slowly and saw him, a tall and
strong David, white and ruddy. He had dark, curly hair that
curled around his erect penis as well. He looked at her kindly
as he sensed her amazement at its size. She began to feel longdenied
urges penetrate her to the core, strange and drifting
blue.
The man climbed on her again, kissing her from her feet to
her willing hungry mouth. The men began their low chant
again. As they did, he inserted his penis into her. It reminded
her vaguely of a knife being put into its sheath.
After a long, sweet love, they all took their turns caressing
her from head to foot, moaning and chanting and filling her
with their love.
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And as she drifted off, weary and complete, the face of the
first David filled her mind. The star filled her eyes, and a
drowsy lassitude, her body. She fell asl**p.
Debbie
I am s*******n and have been screwing for over two years.
My lovers have ranged from nineteen to thirty-four, although I
prefer the older men. I am very experienced and very good –
and I know it. I have had many affairs with married men and
have loved every minute.
I had had fantasies ever since I was in the fifth grade. The
fantasies I had up till the eighth grade involved my male teachers.
My freshman year, I began screwing around. It was extremely
painful the first couple of times, and I never was satisfied,
but I knew there had to be something terrific about sex, so
I kept at it until I was one of the hottest numbers around.
My fantasies lately have involved me driving in a mountainous
area. My car goes into a sk** and I crash. A gorgeous man
finds me. He feels instant compassion for me. I'm in a strange
town, so the man decides to look out for me. The climax of the
story comes on a dark stormy night. I am living in his house. It
is thundering very loudly, and I am frightened. There is a
knock at my bedroom door. I clutch my flimsy nightgown to
me. He walks in and looks. at me and tries to act cool. He has
come to find out if I'm all right. I sit on the bed with my legs
tucked under me. I reach for something, and my legs spread
apart. (I have no underwear on, of course.) His eyes never leave
me. Our eyes meet for a long look. I call his name, and he sits
on the bed beside me. He kisses me, his tongue going deeply,
and he fondles my tits. He parts my nightgown and his tongue
caresses me everywhere until finally he comes to my clitoris on
which he concentrates all his efforts. All the while, he finger
fucks me in my vagina and anus (which I love) until I climax.
After this, I take out his cock and lick and suck his cock and
balls.
One other fantasy I have is being ****d by six or more men.
One frenching me, one on each tit, caressing and licking it, one
171
fucking me with a huge cock while another licks my clit and
another fucks me with his finger – a big finger – in my butt.
I hope I have been of some help to you. I could write lots
more, but I am superhorny and would like to go masturbate.
Connie
My husband and I have just finished reading My Secret
Garden (he did most of his reading in the bathroom; I read it
usually lying on the couch). I felt I'd like to share some of my
fantasies with you. But first let me tell you a little bit about
myself.
I am twenty-six, have been married for nearly seven years
(not always so happily, but still married). We have a four-yearold
son. I work in a radio station, without pay. I have some
college. I also do some writing (fiction, poetry, the like). My
home life is exceedingly dull, and were it not for my fantasies,
I would soon find I could do without the usual sex altogether.
(Without fantasies, I find it all quite boring, sorry to say.) I'm
not excessively attractive, being somewhat overweight.
Now, let me get to my fantasies. I have several, so I will try
to remember all or most of them.
I think my favorite and most successful fantasy is a bondage-
**** type thing. This always starts as my Husband manually
stimulates my clitoris, and as the excitement builds, I
transport myself out of our bedroom and into a large, dimly lit
chamber. Faceless, hooded, sexless people are tightening straps
to my wrists and ankles. They then gag me, and I hear a door
slowly creak open. I try to stretch my taut body that I might see
who has entered, but I never can see the person. (I never know
if it's male or female, so I'll call it “it.”) But it's dressed in long,
dark, flowing robes, and it approaches me slowly as it pulls a
feather from a pocket in its sleeve.
This person checks the straps and gag to make certain everything
is in place, then slowly proceeds to run the feather across
my breasts and down my stomach to my cunt. It starts tickling
me there, laughing a deep, throaty laugh all the while. The
more I struggle to free myself (oh, the pleasure), the stronger it
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laughs. It continues this until I am all wet and creamy and
quite ready to come. Then it suddenly stops, bends down, and
touches the lips gently and carefully, as though it were examining
me. Then it starts a soft, gentle blowing. I am still on the
threshold of orgasm, but I feel a bit more relaxed, despite the
wonderful agony. (Secretly, I just love the thought of being tied
up and “tortured” by a feather and a mouth and a tongue.)
Suddenly, I feel teeth biting me, fingers pulling at me,
tongues (more than one, it seems) licking and eating me up.
This drives me to a frenzy that is unimaginable. (Actually, it
obviously isn't, is it?) While in reality I am really quite free to
move, while my husband is going down on me, I thrash and
flail as would a person who is tied down and being driven beyond
what the senses can bear. I love it! This is truly my favorite.
I know I'd like to be fucked or eaten while tied down, although
I can assure you I don't wish it to happen the way it
does in my fantasy. Just very sexy.
I very frequently have fantasies of women making love to
women, of men making love to men. I love to watch them in
my mind. These really turn me on. But none of these does quite
as well as those of me and another woman. I have real lesbian
tendencies, but, as yet, have only fulfilled them in my fantasies.
Someday, maybe ….
My second favorite, though most common and enduring,
fantasy involves a semi-popular singer/composer/ novelist/poet
whom I've never met, but who has the reputation of being mad,
crazy, lusty, kinky, and nearly insatiable. I fantasize about him
with other women, with men, with a****ls, with himself, with
me. With the others, he is hard, demanding, awesome, almost
brutal. But with me, he is all but brutal. He is, however, still
awesome. We have oral sex, anal sex, coital sex, group sex,
freaky sex, kinky sex, at great heights of passion and lust. I
couldn't get by a day without him. I'll put on his records and
slip into a never-never land. If I'm at work or someplace and
can't get hold of myself without creating a scene, I'll almost
always be able to stimulate myself mentally to near orgasm just
by listening to this man's music and letting him enter me in my
mind, without my ever having to outwardly appear to be doing
anything except my job. It's better than a coffee break.
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I hope you've enjoyed reading these as much as I've enjoyed
writing them down. I never discuss these with my husband,
since he finds women's fantasies a threat to his virility. By the
way, I never fantasize about him.
While I was reading the book, by the by, I discovered it was
absolutely marvelous getting off on other women's fantasies,
things my own mind had absolutely never dreamed of. Thank
you so very much.
Now, back to my music and my never-never lover.
Excuse me while I COME.
P.S. My husband says he never has fantasies. How does he
do it?
Elaine
I have just finished reading your book – My Secret Garden.
It was marvelous and like nothing I have ever read before!
Thanks to your book, I now realize that I am among a good
majority! I no longer feel ashamed or guilty!
I have a fantasy that brings me to an explosive and overpowering
orgasm each and every time I have it.
The doorbell rings, and I answer it; as I open the door, a
good-looking young man pushes his way in, grabs me, and
tells me to keep quiet and cooperate. I am shocked and speechless.
He smiles and pushes me down on the couch, and his
body is immediately on mine – he fumbles at my clothes, and I
start to struggle with him, pleading, no please, no no! He starts
panting and tells me not to waste my energy because he is going
to fuck me whether I like it or not. While we are struggling,
he manages to get my vital parts exposed and starts sucking
my breasts and rubbing his cock against me. He gets my legs
open, and I feel him slip into me with one long powerful thrust!
I gasp, and so does he, and as he moves in and out of me, he
starts pleading with me to answer him with my movements.
“Answer me, baby, please answer me,” he keeps repeating –
and I do! His pleading and groaning turn me on, and I start
fucking with all my might, moaning – “Yes, my God, yes!!!”
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It's at this time that I have a beautiful and truly explosive orgasm
that I feel from head to toe! With this fantasy, I never
even have to touch myself – because it's as if it were really
happening!
 It makes me sad when I see old, old movies on television
late at night and realize that for all intents and purposes, the
pill and liberation seem to have killed off romance. Films today
no longer present the lovers with insurmountable obstacles that
keep them apart, giving us scene after scene filled with the
bitter-sweetness of life that brings lovers together, but separates
them again after only a quick, stolen kiss. Today, James
Bond has barely had a gun battle with the beautiful blonde spy
than they are in bed together. If sexual freedom has been an
important gain for us, it must be admitted that there has also
been a loss: too easy sex, sex without emotion, the very hallmark
of our time, may be sex without guilt. But it is sex without
romance too.
Some women try to supply from within the romance they no
longer get from the films they see, the songs they sing, the
books they read. Sophie writes that her fantasies are “romantic
daydreams – similar to a 1940 movie.” During intercourse, she
does not so much try to enhance the erotic intensity of the moment
as to make the time more beautiful by daydreaming of “a
kaleidoscope of colors” or floating in a still stream. Killie daydreams
of an “Earth Man” lover, Libby's fantasies are about
“the old white-knight-take-me-away-from-this-all syndrome”
… Phyllis writes a letter she will nearer send. Each woman in
this chapter, in her own way, is trying to supply something she
is not getting from life – or may not even really want if she did
get it. Whether these daydreams are about other women, enema
experiences, or even sex with c***dren, they are truly harmless
excursions of the imagination. 
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Sophie
I recently finished reading My Secret Garden and believe
that for many women who have been thinking there was something
wrong with them because of the thoughts in their heads,
that your book will provide a great service.
I, personally, however, was a little put off by the undertone
of apology throughout the book – an air of justification for
something that should not need to be justified, approved of,
apologized for, etc.
Women have been apologizing since Eve ate the apple for
the actions of their bodies and the thoughts in their heads. I
would just like to see a simple statement of “this is where
women are – take it or leave it” without constant reaffirmation
that “it's okay to think these thoughts.”
As for myself, my fantasies are sexual, involving men other
than my husband, usually men I have just met and am attracted
to, or to some of my husband's very good-looking friends. But
for the most part, my fantasies are simply romantic daydreams
– similar to a 1940 movie – the meeting or encounter, our eyes
meeting, a warm embrace, and then the fade out. Also, during
intercourse, I often see a kaleidoscope of colors usually within
the same spectrum, such as shades of reds or shades of yellows,
and sometimes I feel as though I were floating in a still
stream, then into rapidly moving water, and then over a waterfall
(this one is in all different shades of blue). These are more
of sexual imagery, rather than fantasy; and occur during intercourse,
unlike the romantic daydreams which occur at will
when I'm alone, or bored. They do not excite me sexually, but
they are a delightful way to pass the time.
I am thirty-one years old, married almost ten years. We have
two c***dren. I am a teacher and part-time graduate student. I
would describe my relationship with my husband as fulfilling,
sexually and otherwise. I have never had sex with anyone but
my husband, nor do I intend to, but after reading your book,
I've become very curious as to what it would be like to have
sex with someone else (ergo, the sexual fantasies about other
men mentioned earlier). This curiosity, however, is just that –
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wondering what it would be like, rather than active sexual desire.
Good luck with your next book.
Killie
I just bought a copy of your book, My Secret Garden, and I
can't tell you how thankful I am that you wrote it. Although I
always thought masturbatory fantasy was okay, I have often
thought myself downright deranged because of my “daydream”
type fantasy.
I am almost twenty-four years old, a college graduate, and
unmarried, though still with the same lover I have had for
about three and a half years. I was always a very imaginative
c***d, and even though I was brought up in an extremely repressive
environment, my fantasy life flourished. The first fantasy
I can remember is imagining myself married to the star of
a certain television Western, at age six or seven. I didn't know
what married people actually “did,” but the unknown was always
there in my fantasies.
Until a year ago or so, I thought only schizophrenics had a
“fantasy life”; what I now know were fantasies, I called just
“thoughts.” Consequently, I never thought of myself as a very
sexually oriented person, although it was just about all I have
thought of most of my life.
I am indeed a “watcher” – a watcher of crotches, asses,
hands, beards, and hair. I try to imagine what attractive men
would be like in bed, and usually comment mentally on the
ones I don't fancy, even if only about how “blah” they would
be. I find erotic literature very exciting. Some favorites are
Lady Chatterley's Lover, My Secret Life, some of Walt Whitman's
poetry, D. H. Lawrence's story “Love Among the Haystacks,”
and H. E. Bates's “The Little Farm.” (!) This brings
me to my fantasies of the “Earth Man.” I guess the best way to
describe him is a hippie Oliver Mellors (gamekeeper in Lady
Chatterley). He is strong, but not overly muscular; simple, yet
not crude or ignorant. He is of rather large build and has dark
hair and a thick beard. When he holds me, I feel completely
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enveloped (unlike my own real lover, who's about my own
size). We make love in meadows of flowers and thick, lush
pine woods on a forest floor of ferns I can almost smell the
damp greenness and feel the velvet moss and crunchy leaves
beneath us. Sometimes I imagine we are fucking in the rain. I
really like that. (Since my three psychedelic experiences-two
LSD, one mescaline-these types of details have been very important
in my sensual life.) My “Earth Man” lover is not dirtdirty,
but he is unwashed. The smell of unwashed armpits and
especially unwashed balls and ass turns me on very much. I am
not a distinct personality in these fantasies – not any sort of
“Earth Mother” – but just myself. He has a full, sensuous
mouth, and kissing him slowly is delicious. His hands are
strong, but shapely, and I can see them caressing me. (I do like
to see myself as Renoiresque, although that's not too popular
these days.) We fuck with him on top, or side by side, but a
great deal of the fantasy is devoted to caressing and cuddling.
Your chapter about acting out one's fantasies was interesting,
as about a year ago I met my perfect “Earth Man.” I
walked into a college class on the first day, and there he was. I
already had a vague idea of my fantasy man, but after seeing
Stan, the fantasy really took hold. I was only in the class a bit
over two months, but it was agony. To “act out” or not to “act
out”?! I made several small gestures of interest, and thought I
saw some positive response in him, but I hadn't the nerve to do
anything really bold, and the class was over, and I moved away
all too soon. Alas – but maybe it's better this way. I still have
my dreams, which are probably better than the real person,
especially when it would mean going out behind my current
boyfriend's back. Still, I get a thrill when I see a guy who looks
like my “Earth Man.” Until reading your book, I thought this
was somehow immature or faithless to my boyfriend, but I feel
much better about it now.
I have a second type of fantasy, which has come into the
limelight quite recently, and which I rarely use for masturbation:
usually only daydreams. This is my seduction of a young
boy. (That I was an only c***d – no b*****rs – may mean something
here.) The boy is between f******n and sixteen, and he is
soft and lithe, yet not puny, with long flowing, wavy blond
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hair. He has very little body hair, and only the faint beginnings
of a moustache. He is a virgin, and I have to teach him everything,
even how to kiss. His lack of experience makes him shy
but he is almost mad with horniness, and I bring him off with
my hand first, after much foreplay. He can't get enough, and
neither can I. I teach him different positions – a good one to
start with is him on a chair, and me sitting astride him. I am in
complete control and show him all the ways of pleasure I
know; his erection keeps coming back again and again. Finally,
after a wild night of insatiability, we fall asl**p – he
looks like a young angel, lying exhausted and sweating beside
me, with his mane of fair hair in tangles and his young cock
wet and limp. I feel rather old and wise (and very satisfied!).
I found myself beginning to act this one out too, when I recently
was working with sixth-grade c***dren. That's a bit
young for my taste, but a few of the boys were mature enough
to show a little bulge in their pants. One in particular struck
my fancy, and I began to ask him to come to the classroom
alone during free periods to help me with art projects. He wasn't
much like my favorite fantasy-boy, but he was tempting just
the same, and I really had to restrain myself. I guess women
over eighteen could get sued for that kind of thing. Maybe in a
more humanistic environment than the public schools, I'll get
to try this one out someday. I see it somehow as an act of benevolence
to give a boy a good, healthy, and loving introduction
to sex. First fucks are usually pretty shitty. Besides, it
turns me on.
I was surprised at your comment that few women have fantasies
of seducing young boys. I thought it was rather more
common. I guess one likes to think of herself as being in the
mainstream.
I hope I haven't ruined these fantasies for myself by revealing
them to you. I guess it's too late to worry about that now; if
I have, I'm sure I'll come up with new ones.
Unless I'm really repressing them, I haven't had masochistic,
lesbian, or zoophilia fantasies. There have been a couple of
women I loved to look at, because they were soft and round
(again, my “Renoir-obsession”) and just comfortable (like
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smelling cinnamon rolls baking). But I have no desire for any
genital sex with a woman. My lover, however, is bisexual.
Again, my thanks for your book, your continuing research,
and the opportunity to “sound-off”!!
Libby
I'm writing after reading your book, My Secret Garden. I'm
twenty years old, white, middle class, and semi-crazy, in a
good way, I think. Anyway, I am living with a man I've known
almost a year now. He's a good lover, the best I've ever had,
and I'm satisfied and contented in his arms. I don't fantasize
when I masturbate or when I fuck. I fantasize when my man is
around the house but we're still apart.
I can get all my work and “creative outlets” out of the way
during the day, so I'm ready for talk, love, etc. My loved one
works hard at a white-collar job all day, and when he comes
home, he's ready to read the text for the class he's taking,
and/or working in the shop downstairs. He never excludes me
from his activities; in fact, he encourages my interest, but some
days, I just really feel like making love. Sometimes we'll play
seduction games, but usually I just read and fantasize that he
rips the book from my hand and carries my body to the bedroom,
that he takes off my clothes and fucks me on the kitchen
floor, or that he unplugs the sewing machine and attacks my
little body. What makes this one fantasy so nice is that it may
happen, more than one would expect. I've been made love to in
almost every room in the house (I recommend the bathroom),
and when it happened, I was hoping it would. I think this is the
most basic and common fantasy – the old white-knight-takeme-
away-from-all-this syndrome but I thought I'd write it
down and send it along. Good luck.
Phyllis
Dearest Jennie: Even after more than a day, I'm still so
thrilled by our shared experience that I just have to tell you so.
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Even though we were two women, still it was a sweet and
wonderful love we had for that brief hour.
You are absolutely delicious, my darling, with that satin-soft
glowing. skin and marvelous figure. I loved smelling and tasting
you all over your body, and my delight in this became almost
frantic as we grew more intimate. How your tight throbbing
nipples swelled as I kissed them! Never shall I forget their
slightly rough texture as I nibbled at them in turn. And then
when you murmured for me to slide my fingers down the cleft
of your bottom. Sweet, your little hole there is so soft yet tight,
so moist and musky. And it really excited you, didn't it, when I
worked my fingertip up inside it? My finger felt good too, being
in you there.
But of course it was your hot sweet cunt itself that drove me
wild. You don't mind my calling it your cunt, do you? Although
I guess some women feel that's a vulgar word, I don't
think anything about you could be vulgar, and I like to think of
your big hole as your cunt. And, oh, honey, how its inner flesh
opened out as my fingers traced your slit. It quivered and grew
very wet and hot. You did love having me caress you like that,
didn't you? Of course you did, I knew by the way you wriggled
and gasped.
And then when my mouth went right down on you. All that
hair and soft flesh. The glorious smell of you, and the exciting
taste of the moisture that seeped into any mouth. And – I suppose
this is awful of me, but I couldn't help it – I loved having
my nose crushed against your little bathroom place in your
bottom and smelling the rich flavor of it. I wanted to just eat
you up all over, gulp down all the liquid and substance of your
body. I love all of you!
It's perfectly all right, dear, that you didn't do as much for
me in return. I realized that you were too excited, and that it
was all happening too quickly. Just your hands on me were
enough, the touch of your fingers so soft and warm and loving.
And you did go in my hole a little, and tickle the very top of my
cunt where it feels so good. I had a wonderful come, when you
did. As I felt you straining and heard your choked moans,
when you hunched and ground your cunt and ass on my mouth,
I knew you were climaxing hard, and my own cunt just flamed
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into ecstasy. Oh, sweetheart, it was all absolutely wonderful,
and I'll never, never forget it.
Oh, Jennie, let me suck your cute little cunt again, and soon.
Will you, dear? Please?
 The writer of the above letter finishes with a P.S. addressed
to me:
“Dear Nancy Friday,” she writes, “I never sent the enclosed
letter, because the events it describes never happened, and
Jennie would be horrified to learn my feelings about her. It's a
fantasy letter about a fantasy experience. But I found that writing
it this way made it all seen more real to me.” 
Marilyn
I'm just about finished reading your book, My Secret Garden,
which I find very good and honest. I'm eighteen and have
an average sex life, but I can do without it for some while.
I picked up your book at an airport recently, after a visit to
my s****r (she's thirty-three), during which she told me that she
had become a hooker. I was shocked, because I have always
loved her and looked up to her. Due to the difference in our
ages, she has always been practically a second mother to me.
My boyfriend, Howie, recently discovered I was reading
your book, and after skimming through it, asked to borrow it.
A few nights later when he came to my house, he had a friend
with him who was named Dave. A girl friend of mine was
there too. Howie asked Dave to read some fantasies out loud. I
was awfully embarrassed, but that went away after a while.
Maybe that gave me the courage to send you this fantasy,
which I would like you to publish in your next book.
I have a one-and-a-half-year-old niece who I love very
dearly. I sometimes sit with her when her mother is busy. I
love her so much that I often think I would love to perform
cunnilingus on her. She just lies there, gurgling and chuckling
very happily. She loves me to touch her and play with her.
What I like to imagine is the little smile of happiness she
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would show if I just put my face between her little legs and
licked her. She is too young to think it would be anything different
than just playing with her fingers and toes, and I would
love to feel I was making her happy this way.
My favorite other fantasy is about a former fiancé. We
balled several times, and that was the best time I ever enjoyed.
Maybe it was because I felt safe. We knew each other a long
time, and we were in love. Anyway, after we broke up (I still
love him), I had sex with other guys, but I always imagine that
the guy I'm in bed with is my ex-fiancé. Even if I'm not really
in the mood for sex to begin with, just by bringing the face of
my ex-fiancé to mind, imagining that he is the one who is kissing
me, brings me to orgasm. Keep up the good work.
Moreen
First, may I say that your book, My Secret Garden, was
great reading; it's about time someone published women's sexual
fantasies.
My own particular fantasy started several years ago while I
was hospitalized in the hospital in which I worked as a registered
nurse. There were two doctors who came by on a daily
basis to examine me. They were both quite arrogant and domineering
in their mannerisms. As they examined me, they would
have me remove my gown and have a great time poking about
the most intimate parts of my body.
After they left the room, I fantasized that they were the patients,
and I was the nurse in charge of them. My first order
was to have them remove their clothing and put on one of those
backless hospital gowns while I watched their every move.
Next, I positioned them on an examination table and strapped
their feet into the table's metal stirrups. In this position, I have
a perfect view of their rears and penises. Since I'm wearing a
short skirt with no underwear, I constantly bend over in order
to expose myself to them, causing huge erections. After inserting
a well-lubricated gloved index finger in their rears, I masturbate
each of them until they ejaculate. By this time, they are
begging me to continue; since my prime objective is to embar183
rass them, I decide to give each of them a good soap suds enema
at the same time. After locating the longest, largest rectal
tubes I could find, I slowly insert it until they again obtain an
erection. As the warm soapy water is filling their rears, I masturbate
each of them to the point of ejaculation. Just before they
come, I quickly remove the rectal tube and release them to expel
the enema. I laugh as both of them run to the bathroom,
spurting semen as they go.
I should mention that part of my fantasy came true recently
when I had to give our house doctor several cleansing enemas.
He was the domineering type who had little or no respect for
nurses. Believe me, he got the enema of his life; it's known to
nurses as the HHH enema – high, hot, and a hell of a lot.
Wishing you the best of luck in your new book.
Janet
Your Secret Garden book is just great. My husband is a librarian
and brought it home for me to read. I could hardly put
it down once I started reading.
I fantasize constantly to various degrees. Every time I see a
picture of Terry Thomas, or any man with a gap between his
front teeth, I wonder what it would feel like to have, my nipple
stuck between those front teeth in loveplay.
Other than that one particular fantasy, you covered my sexual
daydreams pretty well in your Garden book. I have never
talked about my fantasies with other women, but I always just
assumed that “everyone did it.”
I am thirty, work as a secretary, and live separate from my
husband, who is raising our two-year-old son. We have sexual
relations with other people, but I have never enjoyed anyone
other than my husband. However, in my fantasies, I am either
watching two strangers making love, or my husband making
love to some other woman.
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Lucia
I read your first book and thought it was excellent. It said
that you were preparing another book, so I decided to write
about my fantasy.
I have fantasies about men and women, but mostly about
women. I don't know why, but for some reason, the thought of
being with another women turns me on. I am not a lesbian, as
a matter of fact, I've been going with someone whom I love for
a number of years. I've never told anyone about these fantasies.
You are the first person.
My favorite one is about an Avon lady. I live in an apartment,
and one day an Avon lady comes to the door. She has
very big tits, with a slim body. We sit down and talk for a
while about cosmetics. Then she starts to rub body lotions on
my leg. Her hand moves up slowly until she reaches my cunt. I
get her message and start to play with her tits. We take each
other's clothes off, and she starts to eat me out. This part excites
me the most, and the rest of my fantasy just consists of
her eating me out until I have an orgasm.
I know I would never really do this, but if that's what turns
me on, why not think about it? Your first book made me realize
there was nothing to be ashamed of, and now I don't feel guilt
afterward.
Thank you for listening and for understanding. I hope you
can use this in your second book. I am looking forward to reading
it.
Lilly
My daydreams are always the same, but each time the sexual
parts get wilder. I dream I am always making it with my
boyfriend's best friend. Whenever I see him, ripe dreams are
really good, but when alone, they still satisfy me.
I dream that whenever the three of us go out anywhere, that I
sit next to him. I fondle him whenever my boyfriend's not looking.
Slowly I undress this guy in my mind and stare at his
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balls. After a while, the guy realizes that I am staring at him,
and he knows what I want. Somehow we manage to get away
from my boyfriend, and no matter where we are, me and this
guy find a little attic. We do all kinds of neat things to each
other, but there is absolutely no conversation at all, just acid
music playing slowly. Once we start to really get going, I never
see his face again, just big shoulders and cute belly. We satisfy
each other like no other lover has ever done before, and when
it's over, we get dressed, turn the music up, s and just talk, like
we are mere friends (even though we're not).
(End of dream.)
I dream this all the time, about the same guy, but I don't ever
get upset about not being able to have him. in real life. I am
afraid that he won't satisfy me that much, and then my dream
would be wrecked. Although sometimes I do crave his body,
and I get upset.
Wilma Joan
Thank you for a terrific book. I just finished reading My Secret
Garden. It turned me on, but I also laughed and cried. So
sad that so many of us feel compelled to hide or apologize for
our thoughts and sexuality.
I'm twenty-five and a mother of two. I fit into quite a few of
your categories of various kinds of fantasy. I fantasize almost
constantly, I've masturbated since I was twelve and really became
interested in sex from about age nine. My parents never
told me anything about sex and were very cool to each other.
That added to my curiosity.
My husband and I really dig oral sex. I'm so surprised that
many chicks I know don't like it. I daydream about performing
cunnilingus on girls. The opportunity has never arisen, but I
think I could dig it.
I would definitely love to make it with other guys. So many
guys I see turn me on. I think about sex a lot in the daytime.
Actually, I love all the aspects of sex that are pleasurable. I'll
never know why people must judge each other. If they're not
hurting me, I say – let them enjoy themselves!
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I'm looking forward to your next book. Good luck. Thank
you again.
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CHAPTER SIX
MASTURBATION
 One of the delights in working on this book is to find evidence
of the great change that has come over women in the few
years since I completed research for My Secret Garden. Most
letters I get nowadays show an absence of guilt, a sheer exuberance
in sex as one of the joys of life to which every woman
is entitled. It has been suggested to me that the big difference
between the women in this book and the ones in My Secret
Garden is that my most recent correspondents all read the first
book. “When they saw that sexual fantasies were not just some
freak idea of their own,” a psychiatrist friend said to me recently,
“but were in fact very widespread, and of sufficient
importance to merit publication in a hardcover book – that
gave women the big okay to send you their wildest ones.”
I think this may be partially true, but I think the women's
movement is a much more important factor in introducing a
new feeling of freedom into our lives. Many women have written
me that they began sharing their fantasies with their husbands
long before they read Garden. Almost invariably, they
add that they cannot see why men are put off by my work, because
their husbands have always found their fantasies the
hottest turn-on. If so many women and men were into sexual
fantasies before Garden was published, it is not mere modesty
that makes me disclaim the credit my psychiatrist friend
wanted to give me. We are living in a new age.
It is no accident that one of the saddest letters I received is
from a woman of another, older, generation than the majority
of my contributors. Emma is forty-five and her letter reminds
us that women have only recently begun to emerge from the
centuries-old load of guilt and repression that society has laid
on evil Eve and her descendants. For some women, liberation
comes too late.
Emma's letter shows a combination of hope and defeat that
touches my heart. It speaks of frustration and despair, of a life
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largely wasted for no reason except that Emma herself feels
religion and society will it so. “Please do not identify where I
am from,” she begins her letter, fear and anxiety coming forward
with her very first words. “My psychiatrist recommended
your book, My Secret Garden, for me to read. I read it slowly
to learn from it. I wish I were like the women you wrote about.
I wish for better sex. I try. I am frigid, I guess … .”
Later in her letter, Emma goes on to give us a clue as to who
might be the really frigid one in her f****y: “My husband and
I,” she writes, “have no communication. He is the boss, and to
him, women are dumb and inferior to men.”
I have received many letters from women telling me that,
like Emma, Garden was recommended to them by their psychiatrists
with the hope' that reading it might encourage masturbation.
This was suggested not only for the excitement and
release of masturbation (which, along with most psychiatrists,
I believe is an absolute sexual value and experience in itself)
but also as a first step toward, and rehearsal for, orgasm.
While Emma may feel thwarted in her sex life because so
little sexual stimulation is offered her, it is ironically true that
many women today are becoming equally frustrated, because,
while sex seems to be all around them, it is not the kind they
will accept. Now that we are getting the idea that we women
exist and can exercise judgment for ourselves, we are becoming
more choosy about whom we go to bed with. The days of
feeling that we have to give ourselves to anyone who asks are
over. Being special, however, has its price. Special women
want special men. There aren't many of them. Frustration is the
result, and masturbation is most often the answer. Spending
the evening at home and masturbating if the desire strikes may
be a lonely form of sex, but it beats going out with any old man
just because he's a man. And it certainly beats fucking him just
because he's bought you dinner.
Many women have written that when they have grown bored
or tired of their own sexual fantasies, they open Garden to find
stimulation in the erotic reveries of other women. Some say
that Garden is “nothing but a jerk-off book.” I do not find this
description offensive. While I hope the book is more valuable
189
than this put-down phrase tries to make it, I am, on the other
hand, pleased that it can provide such a human and necessary
service. Even though Venice tells us that she was “liberally”
brought up in sexual matters, she did not feel free enough to
masturbate manually, even when the mood was upon her. She
says it was “ a mechanical thing” for her, merely letting the
bathtub tap water stream onto her clitoris “sufficiently long
(one-half to one hour) for release … .” It was only when she
read My Secret Garden that she realized that what had been
missing all along to make masturbation come alive for her “is
fantasy! … Nothing beats imagination,” her letter says. “… I
have at last recognized the tip of the iceberg of my own fantasies.”
What better way to learn about our own sexual responses
than by experimenting with our desires and wishes when alone
with our bodies? Many women have written me that they are
unable to fantasize; it is my belief that these are exactly the
people who need the most help in learning to masturbate successfully.
Masturbation without fantasy is too lonely.
Little wonder so many women found Garden helpful. Out of
our private encounters with ourselves, we learn the selfconfidence
necessary for the best kind of sex with someone
else. “Masturbating is good fox you,” writes Dorothy with
more native sophistication than her language shows, “… because
if a person can make herself or himself feel that way,
think how much better it will feel when another person is doing
it to you.”
Liberated Lady writes that she had a c***d and had been
married for over two years, but never had a climax. While she
had always enjoyed sex, she says, it was only when she decided
that “it was high time I educated myself as far as what
[orgasmic] response really is” that she began to understand
herself sexually.
If the study of human history is all too often a record of
crimes, folly, and disaster, the near universal prejudice against
masturbation stands out as perhaps the one greatest producer of
unnecessary suffering, anguish, and guilt. It has been proven
again and again both medically and scientifically that mastur190
bation has absolutely no harmful effects on the mind or body –
unless you call feeling alive and stimulated “harmful.” On the
other hand, Kinsey found in his monumental researches that
people who began to masturbate at an earlier age than others
led more vigorous sex lives thereafter and continued their sexual
activities long past the time when the average person had
long since stopped having any sex at all. The evidence is clear:
far from being harmful, there is a positive correlation between
masturbation and sexual vitality.
One might think that given the great Female Imperative that
we must remain virgin until we marry, society might have allowed
women masturbation as a form of private, harmless release
with absolutely no risk of unwanted pregnancy at all.
Needless to say, just the opposite is true. Young girls are continually
given lectures against premarital sex, but masturbation
isn't even mentioned – it is a subject that is so taboo for women
that mother can't even voice her prohibition.
I regret to say that we women don't help each other about
this even when we are grown. I have had women friends willingly
confess to me the most extraordinary sexual peccadilloes
– affairs and escapades that would have landed them in the
newspapers, if not the morgue, if they were discovered. They
have told me these stories with a quiet smile of pride, with an
air of confidence that expected admiration. But only the most
sexually outspoken of all my women friends have ever mentioned
masturbation, and that was when I brought up the subject
myself. It still remains the greatest taboo of all.
Because sexual fantasies derive much of their hidden sweetness
from breaking taboos, I am not surprised by Noranna's
letter about the pleasures of masturbating with a friend watching
– I am more surprised that I did not receive more fantasies
like hers. While she conceived of the idea and brought it to life
in reality, she likes to remember it in fantasy. 
Emma
Please do not identify where I am from. My psychiatrist recommended
your book, My Secret Garden, for me to read. I
191
read it slowly to learn from it. I wish I were like the women
you wrote about. I wish for better sex. I try. I am frigid, I guess,
but desire good sex. I would welcome any of the fantasies I
read about to come true in my real life (except for the whips
and painful ones).
My following facts are true. I am forty-five years old (husband
is too), and we have been married twenty-eight years.
(Married too young because I was pregnant with his baby.)
Since then we have both finished college (him years ahead of
me) and have two c***dren who have finished college and are
away from home, with one still here. The only thing my husband
and I have accomplished together is these three fine c***dren.
My dad is living, and I do not hate him. If something was
in my c***dhood to make me frigid, I do not remember it. I
have never reached an orgasm with a man, or by masturbating.
I have considered the Masters-Johnson Clinic in St. Louis.
My husband and I have no communication. He is the boss,
and to him, women are dumb and inferior to men.
I have considered divorce, but our religion does not approve…
I have read The Happy Hooker, The Story of O, etc. They
are very interesting, but I do not get excited enough to reach
orgasm. My husband has about given up that I ever will and is
very passive (probably feels rejected, t as I do, too). There is a
French saying you have probably heard that goes, “There is no
frigid women, only poor lovers.” I would like a lover, a dog, or
another woman, but where does a woman who never goes
anywhere but to church, PTA, and the grocery store, etc., find
this? I know of no houses with male prostitutes, and my husband
would actually kill a man (and probably me) if he would
learn I had been with one. So the only way would be for the
man to not know my name. (We are actually prominent, successful
people in this seventy thousand population town. If we
moved around and didn't have such roots, I might have an opportunity.)
Both my husband and I are the same size and weight as
when we married, and I feel we look a few years younger than
we are. I am on birth control pills, so have no fear of an un192
wanted pregnancy. (But if I did have one sexual activity with a
man outside of marriage, it would be sure with my luck, I
would get v.d.) I am sad my sex life is not better.
As you can see, I have not excluded the idea of sex from my
life even if my life is barren of sexual pleasure… I tell myself I
am incapable of sexual fantasy, but even the fact that I have
outlined above to you various ideas of sex with other people …
I suppose this does mean I too have my fantasies. They are
simply to feel that exquisite pleasure that must be orgasm, to
feel aroused by someone or something … a pleasure that must
be everyone's due. At this point, I would indeed gladly pay for
a man's pleasure, and only wish there was such tithing as male
prostitution in our culture. I am sure that once in the hands of
an experienced lover I could feel: all the things I have dreamed
of one day knowing.
Venice
Thank you, thank you for writing My Secret Garden. l saw
you on a television show, but when I went to buy your book, I
couldn't afford the hardback price. What a mistake! Anyway,
yesterday I saw it in paperback and started reading it this
morning. Now it's three in the afternoon, and I had to stop
reading. So far I have masturbated manually for the first time
using just my finger (being twenty-two and brought-up liberally,
I thought something was wrong because I couldn't),
called My husband home for lunch for a fine “regular” orgasm,
masturbated manually in the tub, and finished with two more
orgasms in my usual stream-of-water way. I had been using
this for years, but it was a mechanical thing – waiting sufficiently
long (one-half to one hour) for release, and what I have
been missing is fantasy! I have been turned on by porn and
smokers my husband brought home for us, but nothing beats
imagination. I admit today I “helped” by reading your book,
but/ I have at last recognized the tip of the iceberg of my own
fantasies. Just for the record, I get off on a****ls and big black
:hen (I'm white and once had a black lover). Who knows, I
may find more tomorrow when I read the second half! Dr. van
193
den Haag says on the cover that your book is of “considerable
scientific interest.” BULLSHIT! Science be damned! I'm interested
in sex! If my cunt wasn't sore, I'd still be at it. Instead,
I'm going to call my girl friend and make sure she buys a copy
today, at any price. If praise is the word for effort, please accept
mine, and yes, my love.
P.S. If this disorganized letter seems a little shaky, it's because
I still am.
Libby
Today I bought a copy of My Secret Garden, and I've read
about half of the book. I think it is fantastic – a book every
woman should read!
I see myself in parts, particularly the running faucet in the
tub! That is how I masturbate too, and while reading the book I
became so aroused that I just stopped and went into the tub for
some sexual release! My fantasy was that my half-b*****r had
just come into the bathroom while I was in the tub. He was
talking over his shoulder to his wife as he came in so he did
not see me in there. He has already unzippered his fly and has
his penis out, ready to pee. He closes the door behind him and
turns around to do his business. Instead, he sees me, naked in
the bathtub! I am holding my fingers to my lips, to shush him,
and he quickly gets the idea. I swivel around in the tub, so that
my legs are open, not to the water flowing out of the faucet, but
to the stream of pee that arcs out of his cock and hits me right
in the clit. (Incidentally, I have been to bed with him several
times, and he's definitely good! )
This may not be much of a fantasy, but since no one was
around, and I wanted to be balled, it really got the job done!
Thank you for making it possible to write this.
Dorothy
Hi. I'm eighteen years old and really oversexed, but it's a lot
of fun. I don't remember hardly any times I've fantasized while
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I was fucking, but I do when I masturbate. When fucking, I
just get into the guy and how it feels and the sounds; it's really
nice.
I think I was three or four when I started masturbating
(maybe younger), but the first time I really got off was the day
I'd been to the doctor and saw a baby getting a shot, and I went
home and masturbated and thought of what his little butt
looked like.
Masturbating is good for you really (although some people
don't agree), because if a person can make herself or himself
feel that way, think how much better it will feel when another
person is doing it to you.
When I masturbate, my fantasies are being fucked by (the
father of my baby) this guy I really love, or this guy I went out
with a couple of years ago who was really good-looking and 6'
4”, and in the fantasy, he has a really gigantic prick, the biggest
I've had. (I wish I'd had a chance to really find out.) .
And sometimes I fantasize that I'm a virgin (I don't think I
ever was), and some guy with a really big cock deflowers me,
and it hurts like hell, but I love it. The scene takes place very
often in some uncomfortable place that's very small … like
those old movies you see on television, where the bride and
groom get on a train to go on their honeymoon. I imagine I just
married this guy with an enormous cock, and we're in a tiny
little lower berth on our wedding night. I can see that enormous
powerful bulge in his pants as I begin to get undressed in
there, and it frightens me. But the space is so small, how can I
get away from him? By the time I'm undressed, he's taken off
his pants too. I think to myself that at least I'll have a little
more time, he still has his shirt on. But suddenly his cock gets
even bigger, it pokes out from beneath his shirt, like a tentpole.
He won't wait, and I push myself back into a corner to get
away from it. But the corner just props me up all the better for
him. I'm sort of sitting there, my shoulders up against the wall,
my legs spread wide open in the tiny bed, and he throws himself
on me. I scream as he comes at me – it's grown so big now
that it looks purple and angry. In my mind, I like to make him
come a little even before he's in me … I can “see” the little
195
white beads of “come” spurting out, as if his cock is frothing at
the mouth to get into me.
It hurts like hell. I scream, but not too loud. I don't want the
conductor to hear us. He's got one hand on my mouth now so
that I won't scream anymore, and the other hand is guiding this
enormous piece of meat into me. He's pushing and pushing. I
am afraid that my skin will tear … not only my “maidenhead”
(in this fantasy I still have it), but even the outer skin that holds
the lips together. “No, no, no,” I'm half-sobbing, but nothing
stops him. He's just smiling down into my face,; and then with
a terrific grunt, he shoves it all in, and I almost scream with the
pain. It's at this point in my, fantasies that I very often scream
too in real life, because I've come to an orgasm.
I have this thing about big cocks. Just the way they feel being
stuffed into my cunt, it really turns me on. I guess if I could
have a really gigantic one, it would'', stop those fantasies (but I
hope not).
When I was small, I masturbated with my fingers, thumb, or
just rubbed my hand down there. Now I use fingers, bottle, or
vibrator.
Thanks for letting me write you.
Liberated Lady
First, my background: Brought up by upper-middle-class
folks … never participated in “sinful” activities for fear of going
to hell (what a joke!). While in nursing school, I met a terrific
guy from lower-middle class with no hang-up as far as
participation in sex went and who had many chicks of all ages
and status. Went out exclusively together for a year and a half
without having intercourse (he only had two chicks in that
time). My first experience with intercourse was the beginning
of a new and enjoyable chapter in my life. From then on, we
screwed as often as time and circumstance would permit, on
the average of two times daily. Five months later, I became
pregnant and after an unsuccessful attempt to abort (under
doctor's care) we eloped. That was almost nine years ago. My
present age is twenty-eight and my old man is thirty-one. Let's
196
call him Z. I can truly say that I'm sexually where I'd like to be,
and can attribute most of it, if not all, to Z. No one else would
have put up with me for so long until I came around. I never
talked about what was on my mind concerning sex or my fantasies
until a year ago. Although I enjoyed sex in my own head
at the time, I never had a climax until two and a half years into
the marriage. What a drag as I look back to it now. It happened
almost by accident. After thoroughly reading Of Human Sexual
Response by Masters and Johnson, I realized it was high time I
educated myself, as far as what response really is. I followed
diagrams of the vaginal area in detail and compared them with
myself. While taking a bath one day, I let a stream of water
glide over my clitoris. It felt terrific, I couldn't understand why.
I stayed with it for a few moments, and bingo I finally understood
the damn book about climax. Shit, it blew my mind! I
guess I really came to realize what frigidity was about too. For
many reasons, not understandable to me, I remained cold with
Z as far as my climaxing went – but completely let loose in the
tub daily (and still do a lot). It only took a matter of minutes
(sometimes seconds) to get off. I still have lots of hang-ups, I
guess, and the faster I climax with fantasies, the better. I enjoyed
watching my pelvis move almost involuntarily and my
breasts and nipples get taut and pointing. I usually thought
what a gas it would be for Z to be there. He'd flip. (And did
when some years later he was present.) Also would imagine
that the water was actually Z's tongue or a friend's hands.
Then we moved to our present home, where I got to know
myself. I had everything I had once thought of as “everything”
– material stuff (out-of-sight home, driver's license, and own
car, pool, furniture, gardening equipment, clothes) as well as
two great healthy sons and one hell of a dynamite husband. But
then liberation days came around, and I too wondered what
was important and why and where I was going. We got into
smoking grass, and it helped me relax to a great degree. I'm a
very hyperactive person. I decided to get into my head, and did
with feelings and stimuli simultaneously rather than purely
response. Z has always enjoyed talking about sexually stimu197
lating things, and once I made my mind up to go with him, I
found it surprisingly easy and enjoyable.
Which brings me more or less to the present. We've taken a
few trips in the privacy of our home, which have also helped
me to understand and accept what goes on in my head.
What did I fantasize about this morning as I was entering
the climax stage? While sitting on the front porch, I had my
bathrobe fully opened with the sun beaming down on my body.
My hands felt cooling to my hot breasts, and as I touched my
quickly responding nipples, I could feel my whole body tingle.
I opened my legs wide and let the hot sun find it’s way to my
cunt (about the same time my fingers did). I gently and slowly
transferred some vaginal juices over the clitoris, which was
already fattening from sheer pleasure. I sat back a bit and just
watched the show. I thought of the time one of Z's friends and I
were in bed together. (Just for the record, Z knew we were
going to make it and encouraged it. Since then, we've had
threesomes.) He had fabulous fingers and made me flip with
pleasure. I continued as he did and ended up getting myself off
in record time. (From start to finish: four minutes.)
An hour later, after a swim in the nude, I laid in a reclining
beach chair for a smoke. The sun was still hot, and it felt great
on my cooled skin. I flashed on the night before, when Z really
got into eating pussy. His tongue encircled my clitoris heavenly
to a climax. By this time, my fingers were taking the same path
– and ended with similar results.
Then there was the time when Z and I split up for a few
days, and out of the blue, the very first night alone a friend (X)
came by and asked if I wanted to ball. I was taken aback, and
flattered silly. It did wonders to bring my ego up to par – then
some. He was eight years younger than I, and talking revealed
he only made it with one other chick (his wife, who was then
pregnant, X wasn't sure if it was his doings). He came on
strong, embracing and soul-kissing me. His hands were all
over me so quickly I couldn't keep track. It really turned me on.
I had only screwed two others, but this third. mate was different
and very stimulating. I had thought of making it with him
on a few occasions before, on a fantasy level. Because of his
age, I thought it would be me who would be the aggressor, like
198
in The Graduate scene. As it turned out, it was quite the opposite,
and it did good things to my head, not to mention other
parts of the anatomy. Every inch of me cried out for more-and
more he gave. Before long we undressed, and he kissed his
way from mouth to cunt in an unforgettable manner. Once he
reached my clitoris, I couldn't say exactly what I thought for
some time; my pelvis didn't want to stop grinding away until I
was having endless climaxes. Both of us were flipping out on
the experience (I didn't think I could be so relaxed and nothing
but sex ran through my head for a few hours). We moved our
position and proceeded to ball, which was out of sight. After a
cigarette, I went down on him. It was a novelty for him that he
readily got into. I found myself digging, tickling, and titillating
his sensitive cock. He completely freaked over it, and wanted
to stay all night. Unfortunately, we'll never make it again
'cause of circumstances as they are, but it was definitely a plus
to the way I feel about sex these days.
What are my sexual fantasies? Hard to say, since most of
them become reality. I dig making it with different guys, that's
for sure. It opens your head up, and I can enjoy myself fuller
with Z, which is where it's really at. I hold our relationship
high, and all I do more or less is to strengthen and keep that
relationship open and honest. We tell each other everything we
do and think and fantasize.
After fantasizing about this for a while it came to a reality –
I spread jelly all over my breasts and clit and let the dog lick it
off: It was different to say the least.
At times, I consider myself on the frigid side, and that burns
me up. Sometimes I just can't get it on, and after twenty minutes
of having my cunt rubbed, sucked, and tongued, I'm on
such “pins and needles” I quit the scene and go to something
else. Those times are fewer now. I can remember a few times Z
fell asl**p after he made his deposit, and while I was lying
there, his come was dribbling out of me, and it turned me on. I
took my fingers and spread it all around my “pins and needles”
clitoris. I thought how Z would love to see me playing like
that, especially when I climaxed. Still a little bashful about that
though.
199
Then there was the time last summer we got into vibrators. I
was pushing the power mower around, cutting the grass, and
thought the vibrating of the motor on the handles was perfect
for clit stimulating. It was! My slacks: absorbed just enough
vibrations, and I climaxed.
I do think of other guys I'd like to turn on, and both Z and I
have imagined ourselves with others while we are making it
together. It's fun to imagine how it would really be (with
friends, relatives, milkmen, etc.). They always seem to be people
we know, personally, rather than movie stars or such.
Maybe 'cause someday it could happen – or so I keep telling
myself – who knows!
I'll go along with the findings that the most common female
fantasy is submission and ****. Probably 'causes it's the only
way many females will experience anyone beside their “mate.”
Hell, I think everyone thinks about someone different at some
times. I think another reason may be just 'cause it's a onetime
deal. It seems that this society looks down on screwing for the
sake of screwing – and maybe they have something in that
belief. Once you make it with another, the situation can get
involved with their hang-ups that one just doesn't need or want.
Say you ball the guy next door a few times, and that's not
enough for him (or her). They make a pain in the ass of themselves
– looking for more openings. Then you get to wonder
about how his present mate will take it or if they can handle it.
Or even if he'll tell anyone else. Hell, you don't want anyone to
have any troubled thoughts over something that simply happened
out of pleasure or curiosity. Swapping could be a gas,
but then too you can get involved with the typical every Saturday
night thing, which is a drag. Of course, this is very subjective,
but that's how I feel.
I get into sex experiences of others through reading, talking,
stag films, etc. I've come to realize that my feelings and fantasies
are not as rare as I thought them to be at one time. It's
comforting to know that more and more people aren't suppressing
what they actually are feeling and thinking. I think it's
much healthier that way. I remember four years ago, when I
saw my first stag film. I was shocked! And very embarrassed,
at myself mostly. When I saw that here are females, like my200
self, who not only are freer but don't mind making movies of it,
I've felt that I'd love to be that open, but couldn't get my
thoughts into action. I don't think everyone should act in a one,
two, three manner of the “way to do things.” But, shit, that
could never happen (unless they're acting). Only if everyone
accepts the way they themselves feel are they going to make
anything out of it. Too many of us try to be someone else, and
completely lose track of where and who they really are inside.
Sure fantasies will always be there … thank goodness. As to
why they're there, and what to do with them, is individually
dealt with. Ask the psychologist how he reaches a conclusion –
it's usually through hearing the fantasies of others.
I love the idea of putting myself in another's place (maybe a
hang-up again). I keep in shape and am pleased to see myself
in a mirror, tanned skin, white breasts and bottom, and would
like others to dig me too. Sure I'd like to be in a centerfold –
but that's chauvinistically looking at it from a feminist point of
view. I would like bigger breasts, but realize that's an old middle-
class value hang-up too. It shouldn't matter.
Hey, listen, I'm probably not making the right point – I just
can't work anymore on this. My f****y needs me.
Good luck on the book – hope this gets to you before finishing
it up. I'll look for it.
Noranna
I'm twenty-seven. I'm a writer, and I'm doing this for two
reasons. (1) My hubby is asl**p, and I want to get horny
enough to masturbate before I join him. (2) I'm egotistical
enough to think my fantasies are going to be adopted by others.
Before I get into fantasies, a little background. I have masturbated
since I was sixteen, and I've been with a dozen or so
men. David (husband) is the best, but he's a bit of an MCP
sometimes, so being really frank proceeded slowly. Your book
took us a step farther, by the way. Several years ago, a friend
(female) and I admitted to each other that we indulged in masturbation,
and soon we began doing it in the same room. We
sort of fed on each other's sounds, which we controlled some201
what, but nonetheless could not suppress. Also, we dug on the
idea that we were masturbating, but weren't alone. We always
kept it darkened, but there was always enough light to allow us
to see, at least in shadows, the other one with her legs spread
wide open and a hand moving, caressing, rubbing a wet cunt.
We especially liked the sound of the “wetness” – that squishy
sound. I think women should get into this – approach the subject
k**dingly if you have to, and if lesbianism hangs you up (it
does me, a little), just keep in mind that you're not making love
with another woman. It's just a bit of voyeurism!
Last year, I did something I slightly regret. I asked a girl I
know to go to bed with me just because I wanted someone to
suck on my nipples while I masturbated. I didn't do anything
for her. I'm no lesbian, and she's quite unattractive, so I couldn't
bring myself to a reciprocate. I just HAD to have someone
suck my tits hard and watch me lay there spread open so wide,
rubbing my clitoris and stretching and impaling myself so deliciously
on a long thick candle! She was great!
As to fantasies, I imagine that five lesbians come over and
work on me. I've got one sucking and licking each tit. Two
hold my legs as wide apart as they can get while the fifth eats
me. This one produces a VERY large dildo. I protest that I
can't take one that big, then the two holding my legs open assure
me that I'll open up for it and love it that big and to relax.
Number five keeps sucking my clit and just pushes it in a little.
Soon I'm begging her to go all the way. Put it in me! Deep. I
want it deep inside me! It's great.
I also imagine I'm at the Masters and Johnson clinic with
their “fucking machine.”
Sometimes my husband and I are in a film showing deprived
women what they're missing, so they can get their lovers
on the ball!
Sometimes I just remember my friend staring at me while I
masturbated in broad daylight. It was wonderful to lay there –
cunt wide open, masturbating deliciously, nipples tight and
pointy while another woman watched sighing, “Wow, you
don't need any help. Look at those tits! That dildo is so big. I'll
bet it feels great.”
Good luck on your books.
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 Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and not
really “seen” what you look like? You've grown so used to your
features that your eyes just glide over your face without really
taking note – until another person comes along and looks at
you in the mirror too. Suddenly, it is as if you can see yourself
with the other person's eyes. You become someone new to
yourself; you examine your eyes, nose, mouth, as if seeing
them for the first time. It is a strangely stimulating experience.
Some of that feeling is the emotion behind Noranna's fantasy,
which is the last letter printed above. Having a friend
watch her while she masturbated heightened the erotic thrill of
the experience … made the event more real to her. Liz's and
Fanny's masturbatory fantasies, which follow here, also involved
observers who enhance the eroticism of what is going
on. Most “… all of my fantasies make me an exhibitionist,”
Fanny writes. “When I was younger, I used to stand in front of
my window naked and play with myself, fantasizing that there
was a man watching me move my body around.”
Many a woman's masturbatory fantasies involve a spectator,
often entire audiences of people not only watching but applauding
as she slowly and adeptly brings her to full arousal.
In our usual, obvious exhibitionism – vying for attention with a
new dress, a lower neckline, or higher hemline – the applause
women get is for something that is not us: dresses or hemlines
are contrived, bought, outside ourselves. Yes, the compliments
we get for how we look are lovely, but how much more satisfying
it would be to be complimented on our naked selves, our
real selves, the erotic selves we allow ourselves to be in our
masturbatory fantasies? Is it surprising that the erotic images
that accompany many a woman's slow, knowing manipulation
of her own body toward orgasm are those of other people viewing
her at last as admirable, not because she hides her sexuality
behind a pretty dress but because of her candor in revealing it
to them? To be seen while masturbating can be an ultimate
moment for a woman who may never have felt complete sexual
pleasure, or who feels even in the throes of orgasm that her
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pleasure would be heightened, realer to herself, if it had not
gone unseen. (Thus, the popularity of mirrors on the ceiling in
bordellos.)
Even guilt, the great deterrent in reality, becomes a woman's
sexual partner in a variation of these masturbatory fantasies:
while bringing herself toward orgasm, she fantasizes approaching
footsteps, the impending arrival of someone who will find
her, catch her, “see” her. The closer she comes to being discovered,
the greater the thrill of getting away with the forbidden
act. The crash of orgasm, in these fantasies, comes at the very
last second before the closed door is opened, the curtain pulled
away, the light flicked on … .
A woman who signs her letter “Anonymous” gives us an
unusual variation of the masturbating-while-someone-watches
fantasy … watching her lover masturbate. This is another idea
that our culture finds difficult to accept: men themselves don't
think the sight of their sexuality in all its forms is exciting for
women to look at.
I believe just the opposite is true. Women not only love to
look at men, but they also enjoy watching them masturbate. To
carry this idea to its ultimate, I also believe there are women
who would enjoy watching their lovers make love to another
man (as several letters in this book testify). I have found this
idea difficult to discuss even with ther****ts and psychiatrists,
but it stays in my mind with a certain symmetrical logic: men
have always enjoyed watching women naked, women playing
with themselves; above all, the sight of two women making
love to each other is notoriously the ultimate turn-on for most
men. Why then is it so difficult to reverse the roles and recognize
that women would find just as much arousal in seeing two
men in a circus? 
Fanny
I'm not even through reading your book on woman's sexual
fantasies, but I just had to write to you and tell you that it is
absolutely fantastic!
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I never knew that there were so many woman who had sexual
fantasies. I've always had them as far back as I can remember.
I always felt that I was weird or oversexed.
I'm sort of caught between two generations. I'm twenty-three
years old, this is my second marriage; the first time, I was sixteen
and pregnant. The second time, I was nineteen and pregnant
(the second time, I didn't know I was pregnant). As you
can see, even though I was brought up that sex was a no-no,
and you wait until you were married, I didn't. When I was f******n
years old, I was ****d. Not violently. I knew both of the
guys, and one of them I had gone out with for a month or so. I
had never let him fuck me, but he had eaten me, and I had
eaten him. (He was eighteen, by the way.) One night, I was at a
barn dance in Vermont. I guess he was really mad at me, because
he thought I had done it with someone else. So he and
his friend got me when I went outside to go to the bathroom. I
was scared at first, but he kept on saying, “wow, feel this cunt,
isn't this the best cunt you've ever felt?” This was before they
were inside of me, he was using his fingers and hand. That is
where I started getting turned on. Then when he started fucking
me, I was lost in sexual pleasure. He kept on talking all the
time, saying “wow, you have a really beautiful cunt; I want to
take my prick out of you and suck it, but I can't, it's too good.”
By this time, I was starting to scream with pleasure, and he
told his friend to keep his hands over my mouth as there were
other people all around us. When he was done, it was his
friend's turn, and believe me, he was just as good. All the time,
they were fucking me, they were talking about my tits and
cunt, which made me unafraid and enjoy it. Every day I thank
him for making my first time so wonderful. I guess that couldn't
be called a fantasy, as it actually happened, but I often think
about it, and then I masturbate. I also think that that is why
most all of my fantasies make me an exhibitionist. When I was
younger, I used to stand in front of my window naked and play
with myself, fantasizing that there was a man watching me
move my body around, play with my nipples, stick my fingers
in and out of my cunt, and whack myself off right there before
him, and after I finished, he would come into the house and
fuck me. That was when I climaxed.
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One of my fantasies now is that I'm on stage in front of a
room filled with men and only about a dozen women. I come
out and strip to the music; then I walk back 'n' forth playing
with my tits (I usually do this in front of my mirrors to get the
effect), bending over, spreading my ass apart so that they can
see my two holes. By now, the men are screaming, “Come on,
baby,” and the women are in shock. Then I bend over backward
and do the same thing, so they can get a good look at my
cunt this time. Then my hands start going all over my body as
my body moves to the music. Now I notice that some of the
men have their pricks out and taking the situation in hand and
screaming, “Come on, baby, let me see that big cunt of yours
again.” Now I lie down on two stools and start whacking my
cunt off, making sure my legs are spread wide, so they can see
my cunt jiggle, and now some of the men have dragged the
women up on stage and are fucking them while they are watching
me and seeing my cunt move, which makes them fuck the
cunt they have all the harder, until finally everyone has made it.
Another fantasy while I'm masturbating is simply that while
I'm doing it to myself my girl friend has walked in on me and
joins me; then we make love to one another. This fantasy gets
me very excited, but it will soon no longer be a fantasy, because
I really want this girl friend. She has big beautiful tits
that I would love to suck and the same with her cunt and ass.
Anyway, I'd love to have this girl, and I know that she's starting
to want me. We almost did it yesterday, but we didn't, because
we're both on the rag. I've had sexual relations with five
other women. One of them was a prostitute.
One thing I want to say before I close. My husband knows
of my fantasies and approves and gets very excited over them.
Sometimes we lay in bed, and while I play with myself and he
plays with himself, we tell each other some fantasy and come
together. He also approves of me going to bed with a broad and
sometimes watches us, and I watch him play with his big
prick, then afterward we fuck; if the girl has her boyfriend
there, they fuck too; if not, we wait till she leaves or we leave,
depending on the circumstances.
I hope that I have been helpful toward your second book.
Thank you for letting me contribute.
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Liz
For years, I was resentful that man thought he could write
about women's sex life as if what he wrote was fact. You're
right up top … for the first time, an honest woman putting the
real facts on paper. When I read your book, I said, “Now that's
the truth.” Only a woman knows the sexual fantasies of other
women.
Here's my favorite. My lovers in this fantasy are faceless,
and I have dreams where I am sitting with black mesh hose on,
the kind that have black heels. I'm on a tall chair, no bra, and I
caress my round firm breasts and pull and pinch my erect nipples.
I feel extreme pleasure in my womb to do this, and then I
spread my legs, and the slit in my stockings shows love juices
oozing out of my pussy's lips. They are large and hanging
down like a pink tongue panting to be fucked. A naked man is
there watching me play with myself, but I do not see him; he is
silently watching me until I am dying to be screwed. He gets a
fantastic erection watching me. I just want to be yanked off my
perch and screwed so hard on the floor that I'm dying with pain
and pleasure. I can feel it so clearly, his beautiful hairy mound
bumping against my love venus. He is moaning and blowing
his hot breath in my ears, and the heat is so intense when he
comes, and I feel the hot juice shoot up around my cervix. It
leaps with joy, and I come, and my womb pulls and sucks his
juices up in me like a thirsty throat on fire. I feel my cunt, and
it's running down my legs – I rub it and it's tender. I'm always
hot and masturbate often with this fantasy, even though my
husband is fantastic, with a beautiful peter.
He drew me out of my shell and nurtured my sexual freedom
– I can say I've had other men in real life, but my husband excites
me by far the most. I love him and he loves me. The fact
that he has other women runs my cunt pressure to the boiling
point, and I desire his hot big beautiful peter even more, as I
fantasize he is screwing her, and when he says, “Fuck me,
baby,” or “Suck that hard hot cock, baby,” I know he's talking
to her. But I know I'm better in bed than she is, and my excitement
transmits to him, so it's an electric charge shooting
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back and forth. It's a current that I drink – my life's bl**d. I
love all of him.
I discovered my sex drive while very young, because I lived
on a farm and watched the a****ls mate. I never desired any of
these myself, and yet the reptile played a most delightful
wicked part of my fantasies. This one takes place when I was
twelve or f******n years old. I'm lying in bed on fire with an
itch that drives me crazy. In my fantasy, I think, What can I
fuck and my parents not know, even though it is right under
their nose (my mother was a very light sl**per)? I have it – a
snake.
It slithers quietly and surely on its way. I'm lying on the bed,
naked, hot and wet, all swollen with yearning. It slides under
the door, long, big, and hard and wicked – (the devil!) – creeps
on the bed without effort and drives its ugly head right into my
throbbing hot pussy. The thrill knows no end as I masturbate
faster to keep in time with the shivering snake.
I had this fantasy for years till I got married. Then it
switched to men and real penis dreams.
P.S. These are only a few. I could go on. As some of the
other women in your book said it gives me great pleasure to
read and write some of my most secret thoughts. Your title is
most appropriate, as I used to fantasize I was floating through
a lovely flower garden while my husband screwed away. Such
a lovely flower garden.
P.P.S. As for facts, I married at s*******n. I was a virgin,
have two sons now, and am thirty-eight years old. If I had to
have a removal of my female parts, it would surely make me
die. I believe the womb plays the most important part in having
a climax. As the Greeks said, when you translate “womb,” it
means a living thing-thirst.
Anonymous
Just finished your book and couldn't resist sending you my
favorite fantasy. Although it's based on fact, I conjure it up
when I'm alone and getting it on by myself or with my friendly
little vibrator. I'm married but have had a lover for a very long
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time. I love my husband but I have this leftover sexual desire
that he – and maybe no one man – could ever satisfy. I don't
dig cheating on him, but it's better than frustration. My lover
and his wife, my husband and I, and several other people we
know all form a kind of close-knit group, and so we very often
do lots of things together. Many of us like to ski, and last year,
one of the couples in our group invited my husband and I, and
my lover and his wife, to come north for a weekend of skiing
with them.
They have a small weekend house, with a combination living
room and kitchen, one large bedroom with two double beds
side by side and two single beds. At first, I thought, Shit –
there is nowhere in this little house where my lover and I could
hope to get anything on.
We skied all day and were totally exhausted but feeling sexier
than ever. We had tried to get off on the slopes alone, but
someone was always tagging along with us. It was a great
night. A big fire in the fireplace, drinks, soft music, and me –
ready to screw anything that moved. I had almost resigned
myself to making it with my husband, which wouldn't have
done me too much good, but I was desperate. We all went to
bed. My husband took some sl**ping pills (he has insomnia).
So there I lay in one double bed and my lover fifteen inches
away in the other double bed. I was going crazy.
Could I kneel on the floor and go down on him without anybody
hearing or seeing us? No, that's out. Just then, he must
have been reading my mind. He pulled back the covers and
turned on his side, and there was the most beautiful hard-on in
the world. I was going to get down on the floor and the hell
with anyone else. He motioned for me to stay where I was and
then started to jack himself off. Right then and there I knew
what he had in mind. I turned over on my side as close to the
edge of the bed as I could. My heart and everything else was
beating like a trip hammer. I was so wet and my clit was so
hard, I thought it would burst. Then he started to come and
cupped his both hands to catch it all. He then brought his
hands up to my mouth, and I proceeded to lick them bone dry,
not wasting a single drop of that lovely stuff. Between picturing
in my mind him jacking off and that warm, slightly salty
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semen in my mouth, and of course the danger in what we were
doing, I got off twice. I drifted off to sl**p with his finger in my
mouth.
Now when I masturbate, I think of that scene and it's almost
like having him there. Given a good husband, a good lover,
and my fantasies, I'm never frustrated. I hope you can use this.
It would be an even bigger turn-on reading about it. Plus
knowing all my friends were reading it and not even knowing
it is about us. Thanks for bringing fantasy out of the closet, and
crotch-watching too.
 Have you ever listened to an older person talk about “the
good old days”? To hear them, the men were all tall, kind, and
rich, the women beautiful and generous as queens, the rain
never fell on weekends, and every night was New Year's Eve.
To say that they are telling us lies would be incorrect and narrow-
minded. What they are trying to do is recapture a feeling
they had when they were young, and which they have no more.
They are not deliberately misleading us as much as they have
embellished their own memories of a world that should lave
been. They themselves can't be sure if a certain happy event,
which they describe in such glowing detail, really happened or
not.
The next two fantasies may be based on just such memories
To be honest, it is not clear to me if Diane's or Cecelia's fantasies
are about events that really took place, or if both women
have not taken some specifics of real events and, because they
ignited such truly erotic fires in their imagination, embroidered
them into two of the most vivid masturbatory fantasies I have
ever read.
For our purposes, it does not matter, because whether or not
the events took place, both fantasies are true to :heir own inner
logic. Diane does not even present her story as if it we re a
fantasy. It is all memory, and whether it is about masturbation,
dogs, her grandfather, another woman, a casual newsboy, or a
salesman, the details all pour out, one after another, with no
hesitation, second thoughts, or guilt getting between herself
and her mounting excitement. The very act of writing the letter
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becomes part of her total masturbatory fantasy: “Our dog gets
his share, and he can lick my cunt as he is doing right now,
while I am writing.”
Cecelia's story seems to me to be a bit more complicated. I
have shown it to two psychoanalysts, both of whom share my
feelings that it is difficult to know just by reading her letter
where reality ends and fantasy begins. If the events actually
happened, it can be said that she was legally and technically
“****d,” but I believe it would be a total misunderstanding to
believe Cecelia is the exception to my statement that I never
met a woman who wanted to be ****d in reality. In her letter,
she tells us where her true excitement lies: it was “the enslavement,
the subjugation [which] I found so thrilling.” When
she wants to experience these emotions again, she does not go
out alone for a walk on a dark street – she turns to “the understanding
and indulgence of my wonderful husband” to turn her
fantasy into “a way of life,” in the safety of her own home.
What is particularly striking to me about Cecelia's letter is
that it gives us such a clear example of the healing powers of
sexual fantasy. By going over and over again “eleven hours” of
“terrifying brutality,” Cecelia gets a feeling of mastery over the
events. She can resummon those hours in her imagination now
for her own pleasure. Her erotic imagination has taken the horror
out of her experience, and transmuted it into pure sexual
gold. She says the entire experience now “thrills me to think
of.” In the safety of her fantasies, the man who a*****ed her
can no longer frighten her; they have been turned instead into
her erotic servants, Cecelia's source of “extremely satisfying
pleasures.”
Diane
Your book, Secret Garden, is very well fitted for its purpose.
My gramps and I have read and reread many parts and
many of the fantasies fit my life. Am twenty three, single, and
have had a varied sex life. My remembrance of sex-play must
be when I was about six years old. Every chance I had when
alone was to strip all my clothes off, sit with my legs up to my
211
chin, and just finger play. At the time, the words cunt, fuck,
cock, etc., were not my language, but now I know and shall use
the proper word in my letter. The sex-play I enjoyed was to use
my finger, and then I tried many items, rubber items for pets,
such as is given to dogs to chew on. Well do I remember finding
a big rubber cock in a box in the storage room. I kept it
well hid and played with it after I had gone to bed. The size
was large, but in a short period of time I had mastered getting
it way up in my cunt. The time I had it up my cunt when our
dog came into my room, jumped up on the bed, and – as your
book described – a fast lick with a doggie's tongue, and your
new experience is in for a thrill. Well, after that, whenever I
could be alone, I would let Skip lick my cunt. Could be in our
garage, basement, or in the woods, as we lived in the sticks. He
was always ready to lick my cunt. From that, I soon learned he
loved to hug my leg and work his ass. Well, I had him on his
back one day and played with his cock. No one home, so I
stripped and sat on his stomach and slid my cunt up to his cock
and let it go in. It was real warm. I worked my cunt on his
cock, and he laid still. His head was behind me, so I could hold
him and f***e his cock in. While I was only eight then, I had
seen dogs fucking, so I was anxious to see if he could fuck me.
We went for a walk back into the woods and found a spot
where we would be not so apt to be found. Now I never wore
panties, and all I had on was a dress. I took off my dress and
spread my legs apart while standing, and let Skip lick my cunt.
When he got to working his ass, I got down on my knees to get
him to fuck me. He knew what I was doing and mounted me. I
got my hand on his cock and spread my cunt open and led his
tip of his cock into my cunt. What a thrust he gave, and my
cunt was full of his cock. Every stroke he gave, his cock got
longer, and then I felt a bulge go in my cunt, and we were in
action. Sure glad no one was around to hear me talk like I did.
When he got going, I kept telling him to fuck faster, faster,
faster, and it seemed so much pleasure. Finally, he came, and
when I started to pull away, he cried; I could feel the hardness
just inside my cunt. When he pulled his cock out of me, my
cunt was on fire, and was his cock slender, but long. The huge
knot at the back end of his cock was bright red. I laid on my
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back and just let my cunt cool, as it was really hurting. He
licked my cunt, and when he found my clit, he just kept licking.
Guess my juice was coming, and he was licking it as it
came out. Well, we have had many a good fuck since, and I
found another dog to replace Skip. Well, when I was about
eleven years old, our newsboy came to our house to collect, and
everyone was gone to Seattle. He and I talked for a while – he
was sixteen then – and while he was talking, he gave me a hug
and kiss, and left. Shortly after, he returned and explained he
had to finish his collections. We were in my room playing records,
etc., and he started to fool around, and that was all I
needed to get my cunt hot. In our playing on the bed, he got his
hand on my cunt, and that was where I lost all respect. I
stripped and let him do what he wanted. My tits were small,
but he found a way to suck both. Then he had me lay crossways
on my bed, put two pillows under my ass, and had my
cunt up high. I could see my cunt lips open up when he spread
my legs. When he put his mouth to my cunt and started to suck
my clit, I grabbed his head and pulled his head up to my cunt,
and as he. sucked, I kept telling him, “Suck, suck harder.”
Finally, he came up on top of me and told me he was going to
fuck me, and he got his cock up in my cunt, and when he
started to fuck, my legs were over his shoulders, and did we
fuck. This was our start to fucking. Did he get a look of surprise
when Skip came up and licked his cock and nuts while he
and I were fucking later on. Skip, Ted, and I are now a threesome
for a long time after. When Ted was eighteen, he joined
the service and is now making a career of the Air f***e.
Well, by then, I was thirteen years old and as hot a bitch as
could be found. Ted told me to be careful who I fucked, as I
could get a disease. When Ted left for training, I was without a
fucking partner. One day, I had fantasies about my grandpa
and that he fucked me. He lives about ten miles from our
house, but visits us often, so I decided to ask Gramps about
coming to his house for a day. That worked out, same day I left
my panties off after I got to his house (he lives alone), and he
soon found out, because I made it a point to let him get a look
at my cunt. That afternoon, he told me he was going to give me
a bath, as I was needing one. He did, and our sex life began.
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He sure enjoyed my body, and my tits were becoming big.
Well, now it has been ten years, and Gramps and I still have
our sex. He taught me cleanliness, hygiene, and care of my
period, keeps my cunt shaved, and loves to fuck. He and I go
down on each other; he taught me to suck cock. And when he
gets a notion he gets a new sex toy, dildo, vibrators, doubleend
cocks, so my girl friend and I can stick it into our cunts
and play around. Gramps found her when he was at dinner,
and she loves to stay as a lesbian. When Gramps comes to our
house (Sue and I live together), we sure give him pleasure. He
fucks one of us and sucks the other cunt. He has always given
both of us the best in fucking, sucking, finger-fucking, vibrator,
or, may we say, just a lot of sex fun.
Forgot to mention I am a dress designer and do a great deal
in designing exotic gowns. Some I design are about as bold as
can be to expose titties, ass, and some are designed to expose
the cunt. When I do fitting, I have the lady stripped, so I can
hold the breasts for measurements or to fit around cunt. Several
times I have excited them to a point where they want me to
play with the tits and cunt. A few have asked me to strip, and
they have gone down on my cunt. Guess my shaved cunt must
excite them. Yes, I have sucked a few cunts and tits. Gramps
and I are enjoying our sex life. He did not have to ask me to
suck his cock, while showering together, I just could not resist
taking his cock and sucking it. He invited both of us to go to
see Deep Throat, and after we got home, we bet Gramps one of
us would be able to take every inch of his huge cock and swallow
the head. Well, we surprised him by being able to do just
that. Fantasy has never entered my mind. I suppose you could
say I live my fantasies as they come into my head.
Gramps has fucked us both in the asshole. My roommate
had a cousin visit us from San Diego, and what a wild fifteenyear-
old she was. She had a cunt on her one-hundred-eightpound
body that we shaved and gave her a suck off, and she
responded by doing our cunts the same. So, Nancy, guess in
my sixteen years, I have had as much of a variety of sex, never
wear panties, and love to spread my legs so the guys can get
the bulge of a hard cock and then leave.
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Now use my letter or throw it out, but I know now that
women are not only willing to tell their story about the sex they
enjoy, but love to read of other cunt action.
When Gramps and both of us are in bed we never feel a bit
bashful to suck a cunt while being watched.
Our dog gets his share and he can lick my cunt as he is doing
right now while I am writing. After I get fucked, I love to
spread my legs in the shower. I piss a stream anywhere it goes.
Gramps sits down in front of me when I piss standing and I
piss all over him, and he sucks me dry.
Enough said.
Cecilia
I can't tell you just how comforting and reassuring it was for
me to read your book. I had for the past three years harbored a
secret guilt, because I found so much pleasure in reliving in my
fantasies the extremely satisfying pleasure I experienced when
I was a*****ed in a shopping center parking lot by three men,
taken to an extremely secluded house in the suburbs, and
****d. It was more than just ****, really. It was sexual enslavement
for about eleven hours, and it is that – the enslavement,
the subjugation – I found so thrilling then and which I
not only fantasize now but, thanks to the understanding and
indulgence of my wonderful husband, have turned into a way
of life. Perhaps you can understand the sense of guilt I have
been suppressing – until I read My Secret Garden – because I
enjoy his domination over me and my regard for him as “my
lord and master.” (My girl friends, most of them more into
women's liberation than I ever could be, laugh when I use that
phrase and feel I'm making a little joke when I use it, but I'm
much more sincere about it than they could ever realize.)
First of all, let me say that I had been rather inhibited in my
sex life prior to that night I was a*****ed, but I wasn't a virgin.
My fantasies, even then, centered around the slave-girl theme. I
have always read novels and seen movies in which the beautiful
heroine is bought at a slave auction by the handsome Roman
commander or the ancient Egyptian prince or something
215
like that, but always kept them more or less in check when I
fantasized myself in the situation (although I did use them
when I masturbated). But that night opened a whole new world
for me sexually, and eliminated virtually every inhibition you
can dream of.
Parts of that night still remain a blur to me. I was so frightened
for a large part of it, especially the early part when I didn't
know exactly what was happening and was beaten – though
not too hard – until I agreed to submit and be obedient – and
toward the end, when I wasn't certain that they would ever let
me go. But in between, I slipped into my fantasy and actually
became that slave girl I had fantasized about. I lived the role. It
was as though I had been transported back across the ages to
ancient Rome or from reality into a novel or movie.
It is this that I recall vividly now in incredible detail, four or
five of the things that happened to me especially which thrill
me just to think of them now and which I fantasize about constantly
and which my husband duplicates as well as possible,
but without the terrifying brutality of that night.
I was twenty-three and single. I had my own apartment and
was working as a receptionist in a law office and was doing
some fashion modeling part time in the evenings when I could.
They took me as I was getting back into my car after buying
groceries at a supermarket. They just shoved me into my ,car
onto the floor in the rear and drove off with me. There were
three of them. One was about twenty-five or twenty-six, and
was the leader or, at least, the one who told the other two what
to do and who gave most of the orders to me. He was very softspoken
and suave, but extremely firm and commanding. The
other two were still in their teens, I suppose. One was a huge
guy, dark and hairy and very strong. The other was very goodlooking,
blond, and had very smooth skin.
They drove into a garage and pulled me from the car into the
house. I don't remember too much of what happened – I was
just so terrified, but they stopped hitting me, and I agreed to do
whatever they wanted and had slipped into my slave-girl fantasy
role, these are things I remember with incredible detail
and which I fantasize about still.
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1: I was still fully clothed, and I was made to stand in front
of the two younger ones as the older one walked about me,
touching my hair lightly, my face, my breasts, my throat. He
kept talking, telling me how pretty I was and how much he
was going to enjoy fucking me. He began unbuttoning my
blouse and finally slipped it over my shoulders, commenting on
how beautiful my skin was and how nice my tits were. He ran
his finger lightly over my shoulders and circled my breasts and
finally touched the tip of my nipples. He brushed them with the
knuckles of his hand and took them between his finger and
thumb and rolled them very gently, embarrassing me by telling
the other two that my nipples were becoming erect. It was such
a pleasant sensation I couldn't avoid squirming, and he commanded
me to be still. I began crying quietly. I remember distinctly
when he put his hand under my skirt and began stroking
the insides of my thighs. His voice sounded so dirty when he
told the other two that I was “creaming through my panties.”
But, oddly, I loved the sense of humiliation. He finally made
me take off my skirt and my panties “very slowly, so we can
watch your tits as you bend over.” Then I had to stand naked in
front of them and turn slowly, so they could look at me. And I
knew exactly how that heroine slave girl in my fantasies felt as
she was being auctioned.
2: I was lying on the floor and the big one was lying across
me, perpendicular to my body. He was toying with one nipple
with his hand and licking the other. The older one told the
young blond one to lick my cunt. The older one lay down next
to me and began kissing my face and stroking my hair. All the
sensations were driving me out of my mind. I have never before
– or since – had so many fantastic things happening to my
body at one time. I couldn't concentrate on one. I tried to ignore
them, but I couldn't. I'd try to think of something else – how
much I hated these men – but then the blond one would suck
on my clit and flick it with the tip of his tongue, and I would
just feel him and what he was doing, and then the big one
would circle my nipple with his tongue, and then the blond one
would move his tongue very rapidly back and forth across my
clit. They kept saying things like, “You like to have your clit
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sucked, don't you?” and “You like having your tits and your
cunt licked at the same time, don't you?” I'd try to ignore them,
but there was no way in the world you can ignore the moist
warmth of a soft mouth gently, persistently exciting your clitoris.
I tried desperately to suppress having an orgasm, but the
older one kept encouraging me. “Go ahead, baby, come, baby,
come. You love it.” And I came. It was so deep and intense. ; It
was fantastic. (I get hot just thinking about it and writing this
letter. I'm wearing ben-wa balls – those gold little Japanese
balls you put inside your cunt and which vibrate when they
click together and I've been unable to keep my hips still while
I'm typing this and have had an orgasm while I'm typing. It's
great.)
3: They took turns fucking me after that. I was still exhausted
from being licked into having an orgasm and was in
almost a dream, but I remember so many of the sensations.
Each one of them was different and felt differently inside of me
and on top of me and fucked differently. I know I came again
several times. I can't remember how many times each of them
fucked me or with which ones I had orgasms. The older one
fucked me first, I remember. He put his prick deep into my
cunt so that he was pressing very hard against my clit. He
barely moved. I remember pressing my cheek against his
shoulder and feeling the hardness of his prick inside me, filling
me. When I moved my hips, he commanded, me to “just lie
still. Just lie there and feel my prick in your cunt. Just lie there
and get fucked.” I remember feeling an orgasm welling up
inside me in spite of everything I did. I actually wound up asking
him to please, please, fuck me, please let me come. I know
that eventually I was thrusting as hard against him, trying to
fuck him, as he was me. I actually was fucking the man who
was r****g me and enjoying it tremendously. The young one
fucked me very rapidly, I remember, and I remember putting
my legs around him, he was so slender. The big one fucked me
more than once, I know: I just remember staring into his chest.
It was a curiosity to me, then, just how differently each one felt
and how, each moved. That, in itself, I find exciting. (I had
slept with only two other men before that. I was a virgin until
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my junior year in college, when I was twenty. I didn't like or
dislike that experience. I was too curious then, I suppose. I
slept with one other man three times after that. I had hoped that
we would be married, but we broke up. I had dated the man I
later married twice before being a*****ed, but we had never
gone to bed together.)
4: We all rested for a while, and then the older one said he
wanted to watch me sucking the blond one's prick. I had never
sucked off a man before and was frightened. He threatened to
cut off my tits and flashed a knife, and I finally agreed. But the
blond boy either was reluctant or was pretending to be. The
older one put the tip of the knife at my throat and said he
would give me fifteen minutes “to have that k** come in my
mouth.” The boy was sitting on a sofa, and I went to him thoroughly
terrified. I got on my knees, but he pushed me away.
The older one said, “Coax him. Make him want it.” And I
found myself sitting next to him, playing with his cock, and
kissing him, trying to brush my nipples against his lips to
make him hot and whispering into his ear and begging him to
let me please suck his prick. I was encouraging him to put his
hand between my legs and was spreading my legs to make it
convenient for him and telling him how wonderful I would
make it feel if he would let me suck his prick. In the background,
the older one kept saying, “Ten minutes left…” Finally,
the boy consented, and I got on my knees between his
legs. I remember how hard and firm his prick was and how the
smooth skin seemed to slide over the hardness of his shaft.
When the older one said, “Five minutes, baby,” I was sucking
and licking desperately, frantically. One of them – I don't know
which one – pulled my hair away from my face so that the
older one could watch “his prick going in and out of my mouth
better.” I had never – sucked a man before, but the thing I remember
most about my feelings at that particular moment was
that I couldn't remember ever feeling as female as then. I was
thoroughly aware of the ultimate symbol of masculinity directly
in front of my face, in my mouth. I was aware of the power and
strength of these men over me. It wasn't just my femininity I
was aware of, it was my femaleness – if that can be clear. I
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enjoyed sucking his prick immensely, and I enjoy being made
to suck my husband's. When the boy came, I felt a sense of
mastery in being a woman. I felt complete. I enjoyed it so
much.
They kept me for several hours after all this. I had to wait on
them, serving them pizza – they actually sent out for one, and
one of them held me in a basement f****y room when the delivery
boy arrived, with a knife at my throat (they suggested
giving me to the delivery boy as a tip) – and I had to kneel after
serving them wine while one of them poured wine into my
mouth. I was ordered to fuck them as they lay on their backs. I
don't think I came again, I was exhausted, I guess. And I became
frightened as time passed, and there was no move to let
me go. Finally, they allowed me to dress, and they drove me to
about a block from my apartment and let me out. They parked
my car back in the supermarket parking lot, and I got it the
next day. I went home and bathed and slept straight through for
eighteen hours after I got home. I never called the police about
it.
I stayed home for three days after that and masturbated
when I recalled my favorite parts of the incident, reliving them.
I had a date with Larry the Saturday night after that. We were
supposed to go to dinner and to the theater, but when he arrived,
I told him that I wanted to stay there, and I wanted him
to make me fuck him. I told him the whole story of the a*****ion,
about how I enjoyed it. He sat in a chair and told me to
stand in front of him. Then he told me to take my dress off.
And that began our relationship, really. We were married a
year later. When we are alone, we still play out the masterslave
relationship. He'll call me from the office before he comes
home and order me to undress and wait to be fucked. It is extremely
pleasurable to greet my husband at the door when I'm
either naked or wearing a sheer chiton and wait upon him and
do loving things to him. And for him. He has a friend who
stays with us over weekends several times a year while in town
on business trips, and Larry always has me wear a rather seductive,
low-cut cocktail dress when Frank visits. He has me
light Frank's cigarettes, and I enjoy watching Frank's face as he
looks down the front of my dress (Larry has forbidden me to
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wear bras). It turns me on also when Larry tells Frank how
great I am in bed or how well I suck his prick. It embarrasses
me, but it is fun. Larry also has threatened to order me to sl**p
with Frank during one of his visits, but so far, he has not. I will
if he tells me to.
I know this may sound as though I'm pretty kinky. But for
the first time in my life, I'm feeling free sexually and thoroughly
satisfied. I don't have many of the hang-ups my girl
friends seem to have. I'm involved in the Junior Women's Club
and work as a volunteer once a week at the c***dren's ward of
the local hospital. I do all the things my girl friends do. So, can
it be all so bad to find so much pleasure sexually in the way
that my husband and I find satisfying? Certainly, your book
would indicate that other women would love to live out their
fantasies the way I do mine. They should. It feels so good. Can
it honestly be so wrong? I don't think so.
Love and sincere thanks again.
Carole
I've just finished reading My Secret Garden and was thoroughly
fascinated. I consider it the best turn-on of my vast collection
of literature.
Just to acquaint you with myself, I am a single, twentythree-
year-old stewardess. And layovers are a great time for
masturbating and fantasizing or fucking if you're lucky enough
to know a man in that town.
I consider myself completely uninhibited and like my men
that way. I sew, crochet, cook, write poetry, and read a lot. Of
course, all this is between flying and fucking. One of my favorite
things to do is to get a group of people talking about sex –
you find out so much about them, without their knowing it.
There were a lot of women in your first book who had some
of my qualities in sex (crotch-watching, good music, voyeurism,
male nudes, etc.), but I didn't really find any fantasies like
mine.
I don't know if it's unique or not, but all my fantasies are
done in twelves. They are never involved with faceless lovers;
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instead, they are always past or present lovers. The twelves are
sometimes mirrors in a fun house, scenes in other countries, or
twelve positions. One time, it was my four best lovers in my
favorite of their positions as stick people, cartoon characters,
and then real-life figures (three times four is twelve).
My favorite fantasy of all has to do with the twelve signs of
the zodiac. I usually have this fantasy after I've been smoking
grass and during oral, manual, or vibrator sex. I always like to
hear Barry White's albums in the background – I can have an
orgasm just from his voice, without ever being touched.
Anyway, the fantasy starts out in Aquarius. My cunt is on
fire, and the water-bearer puts it out by sticking his hose into
me. As Pisces, I'm the Star-Kist tuna mermaid, and my lover is
a scuba diver. Being that a mermaid has no pussy, I eagerly go
down on him. As Aries, my man is a Los Angeles Ram, and
I'm the head cheerleader (as what Dr. Chartham calls a practitioner
of erelalia [noisy lovemaking] the part fits me). And we
never fail to score a touchdown. Taurus brings us to Spain,
where the toreador kills the bull and fucks me with its horn. In
Gemini (my sign), I am being fucked by one twin while I devour
the other twin with my mouth. Cancer takes us to the circus
freak show, where my lover has six arms and thirty fingers.
He literally pinches me to an outstanding climax. Leo, the lion,
sits on his throne, and, lifting all my petticoats, I sit down on
his prick. As I laugh at the jester, my vagina laughs too, and
the king gets a royal orgasm. Virgo's scene is in Egypt, where I
am the virgin bride in the sultan's harem. I belly dance for him,
feed him g****s, fan him, and then he gently deflowers me.
Libra is the scales, and two people fucking on one are never
going to get the correct weight. Scorpio can be very sadistic.
So, here my lover ties me to the bed, whips me, and has me
gang-banged by his motorcycle club. Sagittarius, the archer, is
an Indian chief who fucks me with his arrow as we ride double
on his palamino. Capricorn is a shepherd in his pasture, and I
become the black sheep he fucks anally.
That seems like it's long, but it takes longer to read than to
think.
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Well, off to Detroit and my super Gemini lover. Mmmmm…
. Love and piece.
Gabbie
I just finished your book, My Secret Garden. Really fantastic.
I thought it might be exciting to put my fantasy down on
paper. Maybe you won't use it, but I'll do it anyway. By the
way, I have had only one lover and have been going with him
for four years. I am eighteen years old.
Well, I wake up in this large rather dimly lit room, and there
is incense burning somewhere off. I'm sitting on some sort of
apparatus attached to the walls, with my arms and legs suspended.
I'm wearing a kind of harem outfit, except the bra is
nothing but thin chains holding up my breasts (36C). The
pants are very thin filmy material (see-through), but my bush is
covered by thick bands of lace that go around the crotch.
A door opens, and this very handsome dark-haired boy
comes into the room, wearing only some sort of decorative gold
shield over his genitals suspended by gold chains. I ask him
what I'm doing here, and he replies that his father k**napped
me so that his only son could have an American wife and c***d.
I was married to him earlier while hypnotized, he tells me,
and had been given a d**g that would make me conceive the
first time the marriage was consummated. He also told me that
I couldn't resist, because the incense had an aphrodisiac d**g
in it.
He comes toward me, and I find that I can't resist this sexily
bodied man of about twenty. He kisses me on the neck and
moves his hands down my body so softly. He kisses me down
to my breasts and parts the chains to get at my nipples.
Sometimes I come at this point while masturbating, but if
not, I continue on this line.
I am getting wet, and he pulls away from me and pushes a
button on a hand unit, and my legs systematically part. He
moves back to me and unhooks the shield on his sexual organ.
It is beautiful and not too large. He starts to enter me without
removing my pants; then I realize they are crotchless.
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I always come by then.
THE MAN is always fantastically built and hung like my
lover, who is about seven and a half inches when hard.
Thank you so much, Nancy, for what you are bringing out
about our gentler sex. I always thought there was something
wrong with me for having these thoughts and masturbating.
Love ya and keep up the good work.
Isolde
First off, let me say I have read My Secret Garden, and I
found it extremely stimulating and full of what the world needs
more of – letting men know that we women are really very
erotic critters. I've known since I was ten when my fantasy life
began – wake up, world!
Before I get into my fantasy life, let me outline my personal
reality. I'm twenty-one years old, married, pregnant, a high
school graduate, middle class, and, if it's important, white. My
husband is twenty-five, one year of college, white, and sexy as
hell.
I have been a topless dancer since I was s*******n, and I
can't remember a time when I wasn't bisexual curiously
enough, only in reality, never in fantasy. Only sometimes I'll
see a sexy girl in Penthouse or Playboy, and wonder what
she'd be like in bed.
I engaged in sexual intercourse for the first time at thirteen,
and have always “played” with myself. I first remember getting
caught at five, being told, “Tch, tch, nasty!” I first achieved
orgasm at ten. I never came with intercourse until I was fifteen,
when a twenty-one-year-old lover taught me the “joy” (God
bless him) of oral foreplay.
I have fucked, one way or another, over a hundred men and
about thirty women, the first being my cousin, when we were
eleven. I guess since I thoroughly enjoy being a topless dancer,
you could call me an exhibitionist. And my husband loves to
watch me dance. I met him when I was eighteen, and there has
never been any hassle about my dancing. He realizes I'm very
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professional about it, and your typical barroom Joe doesn't turn
me on. (We have only been married for eight months.)
My husband has been to bed with over two hundred women,
and only one man, a gay mutual friend. Even then, it was at my
insistence. Our sexuality, and belief that marriage and personal
freedom go hand-in-hand have made us perfect for each other.
When we have intercourse, I always come. If I can't make it
during intercourse, which I do ninety percent of the time, we
masturbate me after. Sometimes I fuck him in a way he comes
quickly, when I know he's horny, and then lay back and enjoy,
enjoy!!
Since he's hung pretty heavy, almost nine inches when erect,
painful intercourse has always been a problem, and now it's
terrible. Being pregnant has made my poor vagina shorter, so
careful is the key word. And it's turned me off somewhat.
I have tried to suck him off to make up for my lack of interest.
I only succeed in making myself sick. I can't understand it,
either, 'cause I love doing it.
There have only been two bad experiences in my sexual life.
One was being ****d at knife point by a black guy, and being
****d anally by a fiancé. I took both in stride, and said fuck it!
It doesn't bother me now, except when my husband wants to
try anal intercourse. The remembered pain makes me tighten
up, and it's impossible.
Our marriage is very open. I have had sexual intercourse, an
affair, with one man since becoming pregnant. I guess I was
trying to show myself I was still desirable.
We had two threesomes, one where I got all the attention
from hubby and hetero friend. In the other, he got the attention
from me and a gay friend. I loved it!
I have an active fantasy life. I used to fantasize about r****g
a guy, sadistically. When we were reading My Secret Garden,
I asked him about his fantasies. Well, it seems he dug black
garter belts and stockings. And being dominated. We went out
and bought the necessary articles, and then I dominate him to
our hearts' content. I even made him put on the black panties I
had on, and then I teased him. I got rough, and made him beg.
We loved it! Then I made him eat me, all the time being physi225
cally and verbally abusive. The orgasm, when we finally got
around to intercourse, was superb.
One of my favorite fantasies is my husband sucking cock.
He looked really far out when he had one in his mouth. Sometimes.
when I masturbate, I picture him making it with a guy,
and I come in no time flat!
I also fantasize about being tied spread-eagle on the bed,
and my husband playing the domination role to the hilt. I picture
him with a huge hard-on, fucking me, and then forcing me
to lick him clean of my juices. Then he takes his cock in his
hand and slowly starts jacking off, inches from my eyes, telling
me what a cunt I am. I try to shut my eyes, but he slaps me and
pulls my hair forcing my head back and my mouth open. Suddenly,
he stops and tells me he's going to fuck my tits. He
pushes my tits together, sucking and biting them. His cock is
huge now, and he pushes it up and down, hitting my neck with
its head at every thrust. Suddenly, he's sitting with his ass on
my tits, and he's jerking his come all over my face, in my eyes,
ears, everywhere. I strain to get his cock in my mouth, but he
just laughs, keeping it slightly out of reach. (Wow, you don't
know what it's doing to me to write this down!)
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CHAPTER SEVEN
DURING SEX
 Perhaps one sentence I hear more than any other when I
am introduced as the author of the book on women's sexual
fantasies is, “Oh, I never need fantasies during sex with my
husband [lover]. He's all I need. I just think about him, how he
feels, etc., etc.” I get this response even from women who have
read My Secret Garden and who must, therefore, know that for
every single fantasy sent in by a woman who says she fantasizes
during sex, at least two or three were published from
women who imagined erotic scenes while walking down the
street, masturbating, watching television, and so forth. If I am
bored with the stereotyped response that can only see a fantasy
taking place during sex, I am nevertheless curious as to why so
many women choose to sidestep the question of sexual fantasies
by saying their sex is so great they don't “need” them. (Let
me hasten to add here that this determination to limit all fantasy
as occurring only during sex is very frequent among men
too.)
The explanation, I believe, is that none of us want to appear
lacking or inadequate in the one area where none of us has
absolute, rocklike confidence: our sexuality. We know so little
about ourselves that we rush to the defense before anyone has
raised a questioning brow. We protest too much; we are afraid
to admit we do not have fantasies, because that bight be admitting
being left out of something. We boast instead that our sex
is “great” without it. The entire matter of sexual fantasy is
dismissed as being too trivial to discuss. This almost compulsive
denial that they “need” fantasy during sex serves two protective
functions. First, it denies that you are not woman
enough “to do it naturally” (whatever that is). Second, it is a
defense against any possible implication that your
lover/husband is not enough man.
Most women can only admit to sexual fantasy if it is placed
in a lighthearted, non-threatening context. Show someone an
advertisement for a movie with Paul Newman in bed with
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Ann-Margret. Then suggest to her that a fantasy is merely a
little balloon over her head, a little picture of herself taking
Ann-Margret's place, if only for an instant. Ah, yes – she will
smile – we all get these funny ideas occasionally, don't we?
But ask if she might entertain a fantasy of being in bed with
her husband's best friend while he, her husband, is actually
fucking her – and all the defenses of heaven and hell break
loose. I am impugning both her and her husband's sexuality!
The thought is so frightening, the consequent angry defense is
so overwhelming that how can she admit she has sexual fantasies
to me – much less to herself? “When I'm with my husband,
we turn each other .on so much we don't need sexual
fantasies, thank you!”
The whole effort is very understandable, and all too human.
In the end, I believe the entire confusion grows out of misunderstanding
one word: need.
What is all this talk of “needing” a fantasy? Do you “need”
a martini in those romantic prefucking hours … do you “need”
that terrific background music … do you merely “need” him to
put it in and pump away? In all these matters, it's not a question
of needing. We try to make an art of lovemaking; a drink,
a bit of music are ingredients of the art – and for many people,
so is a sexual fantasy!
If a sexual fantasy helps turn us on to a higher erotic pitch
than we ordinarily reach, it does not mean we are deficient
lovers. What it means is that you can't bring up a young
woman to say no, no, for the first twenty years of her life and
then expect her to be able to loosen the grip of habit and repression
overnight just because a marriage ceremony has been
performed; the sexual brakes are built too deeply into our very
nerves, muscles, and bl**d cells.
In his recent study, The Female Orgasm, Dr. Seymour
Fisher pinpoints the single greatest reason why so many
women are unable to reach orgasm: they are unable “to let go.”
We have been trained to distrust sexual excitement when we
feel it beginning to build up within ourselves; there have been
too many warnings about “going too far,” and “letting things
get out. of hand.” If something happens, it is the woman's fault
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– that's the accepted folk wisdom our mothers tried to install in
us. We are thus given the responsibility for putting the dampers
not only on our own sexuality, but on the man's as well. Is
it any surprise that many a woman remains overcontrolled in
bed, even when she is there by her own choice, with a man she
loves?
Women without number must have discovered on their own,
as I – did, that sexual fantasies are an almost never fail method
of releasing yourself from a puritanic bondage. You may have
intellectually discarded the old sexual rules and inhibitions
long ago, but they still grip you emotionally, crippling your
sexual response. This may be true no matter how ardent or
skilled your lover may be! “I have a variety of fantasies which
dance through my head on those' occasions when I can't seem
to get into the sexual act with my lover,” writes Lynn. “It has
nothing to do with what a great fuck he is, because he is that:
fantastic! But sometimes my head just won't turn off everything
that's been going on all day. I can't relax, and so I just switch
on one of [my fantasies].”
Until the publication of My Secret Garden, there had never
been any public acknowledgment of the undoubted fact that
sexual fantasy was a great ,aid to female eroticism. It is as if
society did not want to grant women so much sexual power, so
much erotic self-stimulation. Like so many billions of docile
radio or television sets, we were supposed to wait until we had
been “turned on” by men.
Unfortunately, women themselves did not help each other
break out of this conspiracy of silence; it left us passive victims
of the male mystique of what sex was. We did not feel free
enough to discuss our sexual fantasies and ideas even with our
best friends (until only the most recent years).
Thus, each woman was left feeling isolated, guilty, and
alone with her sexual fantasies … convinced she was some
kind of freak or pervert if she entertained or enjoyed these
ideas. Her husband or lover had never mentioned having any
sexual fantasies himself; nor in his idle talk about the women
he knew before her (to which she listened more carefully than
he knew) did she ever pick up the slightest clue that other
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women had sexual fantasies like hers. “… I am writing this
almost stealthily,” says Jan, after an unflinching catalog of
some of the most erotic fantasies in this book, “as I would be
embarrassed at being discovered …. I was never able to be
very open about sex, because my husband … is the romantic
sort, and believes very much in the sanctity of marriage.”
While she feels stimulated by X-rated films, she can't go to
them, because her husband doesn't approve. “Some of my fantasies
are very similar to those of the other women that you
published,” she finishes her letter. “I guess we are not alone no
matter how bizarre we think our own are.”
“Your book was excellent,” writes Kate. “I thought my fantasies
were abnormal, and I felt very guilty about them. Now I
realize almost everyone has them.”
It is time for this kind of unnecessary guilt to stop, for
women to realize that no matter how extraordinary the sexual
events they like to imagine that increase their passion while in
bed with their lovers, they are not alone. 
Lynn
I have a variety of fantasies which dance through my head
on those occasions when I can't seem to get into the sexual act
with my lover. It has nothing to do with what a great fuck he
is, because he is that: fantastic! But sometimes my head just
won't turn off everything that's been going on all day, I can't
relax, and so I just switch on one of the following:
Fantasy 1: I am having sex with two guys, neither of whom
is my lover. They are both going down on me simultaneously.
This may sound impossible, but the one kind of acts like relief
man for the other, so that the rhythm never stops, and they are
both insatiable. I should add that I take a long time to come, so
having two men relieves me of worrying about one of them
getting tired.
Fantasy 2: Sometimes when my lover is in the mood and
I'm kind of distracted, we leave the television on with the
sound turned off. I make sure there's a channel turned on with
at least one terrific-looking man, and then while we're making
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love, I like to think that he and everyone else on the show are
watching our act and loving it.
Fantasy 3: I will close my eyes and imagine a crowd, maybe
on the street, in a store, even a crowd at a party. The whole
group is fascinated watching me masturbate, watching the
beautiful expressions on my face. Eventually, they all begin to
masturbate too.
Fantasy 4: I often fantasize this on my way to work as well
as during sex: that I am on a crowded bus, and, without anyone
minding or exclaiming, I just reach down inside this goodlooking
guy's trousers and masturbate him. All the while, he's
standing there, holding on to the strap and going weak in the
knees as I bring him closer and closer to climax. He never
looks at me, but I know he is just praying I won't stop. If I am
sitting in front of him in my fantasy, I will often lean forward
and put his prick in my mouth just before he comes.
Fantasy 5: Very often the men in my fantasies are strangers.
More often than not. I find it terribly exciting if, while they are
fucking me, they also use the most profane language imaginable.
I don't really like men to whisper words in my ear while
we're really fucking; somehow it seems so fake. But the strangers
in my fantasies know just how to use these words, and not
only is there no embarrassment, but it is madly exciting. For
instance, they say things like. “My cock is in your cunt, and it's
on fire … .” “I want to come all over you, in your ears, in your
ass, etc.”
I don't always use these fantasies, but they sure help me forget
about the problems of the day when I want to pay all my
attention to sex and just relax and get into it.
Good luck and please understand that I really do love my
man …. It's just that the fantasies help me love him more.
Jan
Happily married for many years to a lusty man, and having
borne several c***dren, nevertheless, I had not experimented
with any kinky sex, mainly because of my husband's innocence
of such things. An early fantasy I would employ during sex to
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further stimulate myself would be that I was an innocent young
girl propositioned by a sensuous older man. I would be kept by
him in great luxury (this was during a time in real life when we
were quite desperately poor) in return for a surrender of my
virginity and the willingness to submit to his every whim. I
agree, and he deflowers me on an obstetrical table, with my
feet in stirrups.
After the initial loss of my cherry, he proceeds to teach me
exactly what to do, and arouses me with aphrodisiacs, so that I
am dripping and begging for him to fuck me. He has me walk
on all fours and beg like a dog for it. He sadistically makes me
wait and suffer mightily until he satisfies my lust.
After several months, he is satisfied that I am properly
trained, and he take me to a secret place – a huge manor house
somewhere (afterward, when I read the Story of O … it
sounded so similar) when I am told that I will be on exhibition
for members of his club, a club devoted to eroticism and sensuality.
Other girls and I are kept naked and chained in cages part of
the day, while the club members examine us like a****ls in a
zoo. At mealtime, we are the waitresses, and submit to being
fondled and roughly inspected internally as well as externally.
We are told to bend over to pick up a purposely dropped spoon,
and fingers are then inserted into our cunts.
Breasts are weighed and measured, rulers inserted into
cunts, and sizes recorded. We find out why that evening.
There is a special show, an exhibition of the specialties of
the various girls and their “benefactors.” The men sit in a circle
around a stage, and the show begins. A tiny girl no bigger than
a c***d is led in, followed by a huge black man. His penis is
enormous. It turns out that she has systematically been enlarged
by the insertion of bigger and bigger dildos, and now
they are putting her to the test. But no, it is still too big, and
she writhes in pain. Finally, he succeeds, and with her legs
around his waist, he manipulates her against him.
The next act is a huge cow of a woman, with udder-like
breasts and a huge bouncy ass. She does a dance for her audience,
and everything shakes like jelly. Her cunt is enormous,
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and, therefore, two little men, dwarfs almost, come in and both
penetrate her at the same time. Every expression on her face is
mirrored in the eyes of the watching men. When she comes,
she bellows like a cow.
By this time, having fantasized all this, I am usually really
aroused, and often didn't finish the fantasy. I never get the
chance to perform with my specialty.
Now, years later, having started to educate myself with the
Sensuous Woman, followed by some of the more readily available
erotic classics, my fantasies have changed somewhat.
Now I employ group scenes, myself and another woman, and
other kinky combinations. Recently, we (my husband and I)
went to see the Devil and Miss Jones, and I was partially repelled
by seeing everything I'd read about in privacy in giant
living color, but at the same time, I was fascinated, and the
impressions' stayed with me for weeks afterward.
Actually, I am writing this almost stealthily, as I would be
embarrassed at being discovered, therefore, all the typing errors.
I was never able to be very open about sex, because: my
husband, although having a large carnal appetite, is the romantic
sort and believes very much in the sanctity of marriage, and
doesn't care for the X-rated films. He says he won't go again. It
did stimulate me very much, and I would love to go again,
provided it was a well-made film.
One of my present fantasies is ticked off when I see a local
girl at the supermarket. She isn't beautiful, but somehow I am
aroused by her. I imagine her naked, and I am caressing her. (I
do this while caressing myself.) She never wears a bra, and I
always notice dark nipples. under her clothing. This titillates
me. Her breasts are large, and I love to play with them in my
fantasy. I don'ts like to go down on her, but I do finger her cunt
and fuck her with a large dildo. I sometimes drive her wild
with a vibrator. I get a double dildo and slide it into both openings.
She moans with delight and throws her body.; around and
trembles uncontrollably. At this point in my, imaginings, I
come.
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A fantasy I employ when my husband and I are making it is
that we are the center of attention at a large orgy in a sultan's
opulent palace. The sultan is watching to make sure that his
women are working properly. I must lift my ass high off the
bed, or I will be punished. The punishment is being fucked in
the ass by a large dog. At this point, I usually come.
Some of my fantasies are very similar to those of the other
women that you published. I guess we are not alone no matter
how bizarre we think our own are. Thank you for a needed
research. I hope that I may have been of some help.
lsabel
I purchased My Secret Garden yesterday, and have completed
reading it already. Needless to say, I found it fascinating
and very enlightening.
I'm a twenty-four-year-old married woman. My husband is
also twenty-four, and we have no c***dren. We have a fairly
good sex life. (We have been married three years.) I'm not what
you'd call pretty. I'm average-looking and slightly overweight
(fifteen pounds). My husband is fairly good-looking and about
ten pounds overweight.
Last year, during our lovemaking, I just stopped reaching
climax, although I'd had no trouble before then. My doctor can
find no physical reason for this. Now, the only way I can
achieve orgasm is to fantasize during our lovemaking.
I know my husband sometimes fantasizes about other
women, because he's told me he has. Part of the problem may
be because he is fairly quiet during lovemaking, while I'm
pretty noisy – moans, etc. I perform fellatio on him, and sometimes
he performs oral sex on me, but not as often or as long as
I'd like him to. I've told him this, but he ignores it. I really enjoy
doing oral sex on him.
Well, this fantasy I have is about ice hockey players. We
live in a city with a professional team, and I've always liked the
sport since I was a teenager. My husband doesn't care for any
other sport except hockey. I've talked to some of the players.
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What I fantasize about during our lovemaking is about these
players, and the uglier-looking they are, the better I like them.
My fantasy begins with me in the locker room. Of course,
I'm all dressed up in an attractive pant-suit, makeup, and my
hair has just been done. There's a table there, sort of like the
kind doctors use to examine people. Maybe it's the one players
use when they get a rubdown. The players come in and ask me
what I'm doing there. I make up a story, saying I'm writing a
story on them for the newspaper.
They start taking off their equipment and skates, acting like
I'm just another one of the guys. Then my very favorite player,
still in his uniform, comes over to me and gives me the “once
over” look. He asks me to go out with him after his shower and
change. I confess to him that I've always wanted to have sex
with him. He seems pleased, since he's a single, swinging-type.
He walks me over to the table and says, “How about now?” I
protest because there are the other players around. In fact, they
are watching and listening while pretending not to, and now
my favorite player tells them what I just said. They laugh and
make comments, but really, I know they envy him.
As long as I've gone this far, I go ahead and tell them that
some of them are men I would like to have sex with too. Not
all of them, but only certain ones and in a certain order. My
favorite is the biggest man on the team, very masculine and
ugly, with hockey scars on his cheek. I place the others in a
descending order of size and this certain kind of mean look.
Some of the players on my list are married, but they are very
hot for me and never dream of saying no to being on my list.
(Naturally, in a fantasy, no one can refuse me.)
The rest of the players go ahead with whatever they were doing.
The ones I chose stand by the table, waiting their turn, and
telling each other how lucky they are to have sex with a beautiful
woman like me. Sometimes they say that my few extra
pounds are exactly what they like, that it makes me more of a
woman. Other times, I imagine myself to be more slender than
I really am, with a body that drives these men wild.
My favorite, first choice then approaches me, and slowly
strips me under the overhead light that hangs over the rubbingdown
table. He's kissing me all over and telling me how much
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he likes my large breasts. (My husband is a breast freak – the
larger the better.) By this time, I'm feeling all those hungry
eyes that I did not choose watching me enviously from the
darkness as they slowly go on changing their clothes, but I'm
also getting turned on by the feel of my favorite, who has been
slowly taking off his uniform all the while. He is on top of me,
caressing and kissing me all over, especially my breasts –
which turns me on in reality just as it does in fantasy. Then,
while the waiting players are all watching, and I can see them
growing erect themselves as they wait their turn, my favorite
slowly goes down on me, eating me until I'm writhing with
pleasure. The next man in line can't wait, and while the first
player has his face buried between my legs, the second man is
licking my nipples. The two feelings at once, a tongue between
my legs and another licking and sucking my nipples has me in
such a frenzy that I come – without knowing which man has
made it happen. But I can't even think about that because almost
with a shock of happy surprise, before I am even out of
orgasm, I realize that the first man has moved his body up
higher, and he is fucking me. I feel his hard-on pumping up
inside me like some kind of great, powerful machine, his balls
banging up against the backs of my thighs and asshole as he
lunges deeper and deeper into me. I tell him how big he is and
how good all that bigness feels inside me and for him not to
stop. I like the way he laughs a little right here in my fantasy
and says for me not to worry, he won't stop until he's done –
which takes a long time.
(My husband doesn't take a very long time to reach orgasm,
which often leaves me feeling unsatisfied.)
The player then tells me how much he enjoyed eating me
and how much it turned him on. Now it is the turn of the other
players, starting with the man who was licking my nipples. He
has an erection that is so big and painful, he has to hold it in
his hands; rubbing it to soothe the ache. When I open my legs
for him, he rams it in so fast and hard he almost pushes me off
the table. Starting with him, each man doesn't take very long to
come. They are barely inside me when with a wriggle of my
hips, and a squeeze of my inside muscles, I milk them, and
they come in a big explosion. I don't care because I want them
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to come quickly, I want to feel how fast I can make a man
come and besides, as soon as one man is finished, there is another
one on line to step forward and begin to fuck me as if the
last man had not yet stopped.
I tell them all how good each one is, and they tell me how
good I am. Also, while they fuck me, they're noisy about it. I
love to hear their groans, shouts of impatience, and, above all,
their obscenities like, “I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you,” etc.
Of course, I have to really imagine each one nude and what
they'd look like, but I have practice in this, because I like to
imagine them naked while they are skating and playing their
hockey game, so by the time they enter into this fantasy, I have
already thought up how they look, and I am almost “at home”
with their nakedness.
After they have all had a turn – they have only fucked me,
only the first player, my favorite, went down on me – I turn
back to him, my first choice. I tell him he's so good that I am
dying for another fuck. He's very pleased because he's so good
at it. He moves me forward to the edge of the table, so that my
hips are almost off the edge. In this way, he can fuck me standing
up. I wrap my legs around his hips to hold him close to me,
and he slowly puts his arms up over his head, like a prizefighter
who has just won the fight all the while continuing to
pump away inside me. “Go to it!” “That's it – fuck her good!”
all the other players are cheering him on, but he and I know
without saying it that he wouldn't be this good – certainly not
this second time in such a short space of time – with any other
woman but me. This time, he comes while I watch him. He just
groans as if his last breath is escaping him, and he slumps
down and falls across my stomach. He's out, and all the players
are crowding around me, kissing me, telling me how great I
am, what a woman I am, etc.
I also use this fantasy when I masturbate, since I can change
the players and make them do anything to me I want. (Except I
don't fantasize anal penetration, because I don't think I'd care
for it.) I really get turned on thinking about having sex with
these guys who are so big. The only time I masturbate is after
I'm left frustrated when my husband doesn't give me an orgasm.
I've got pictures of some of the players, including my
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favorite, and I look at them and close my eyes while I masturbate
with the smooth, rounded handle of a hairbrush. I can
always give myself an orgasm.
My husband doesn't know I masturbate, but I think maybe
he might get turned on if he ever did watch me. Once, he made
me rub my own breasts while he watched and got turned on.
He was fingering me at the time. I didn't like doing it myself.
I'd rather have him rub me.
That's my fantasy. I can't help but have it flash through my
mind at least briefly whenever we go to a hockey game. My
husband knows I like some of the players, and he sort of goes
along with it sometimes. Like a couple of times, when we were
making love, he'd say, “I'm(player's name), and I want to fuck
you, baby.” He does this because part of him knows this turns
me an, and he enjoys my excitement, but part of him doesn't
really like it, that it is the idea of the other man that is getting
me so excited – even though my husband himself is the one
who brings the other man to my mind.
Thank you for reading this letter. I hope it didn't sound too
weird! It's similar to some of the ones I read in your book, except
my fantasy isn't a gang-**** fantasy. It's one guy at a time,
and they aren't forcing me to do anything. In fact, I have chosen
them and make each one wait his turn till I'm ready for him.
Maybe if you write another book, you could use this fantasy.
I'd be thrilled to see it in print, being read by millions (maybe)
of people, who wouldn't know it was me. (Please don't use my
real name.)
P.S. If my fantasy ever does happen in reality, It'd be interesting
to see a player going down on me since all my favorite
players have rather large noses.
Kate
Your book was excellent. I thought my fantasies were abnormal,
and I felt very guilty about them. Now I realize almost
everyone has them.
I am twenty, well educated, and well traveled. I have been
married less than two months. My husband and I both used to
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use d**gs heavily, but now we only smoke pot once in a while.
I tell you this because I think that d**gs and smoking help a
great deal to heighten awareness of your fantasies.
One night recently, I seemed to be taking too long to come,
so I started fantasizing. (This is the first time I remember doing
it during sex.) It had a remarkable effect on arousing me. I
fantasized that I was a prostitute – well, not exactly a prostitute,
but a woman with nothing to lose by fucking every man
she wanted – and I was out to fuck every man in town. As I
fantasized, my whole body began to feel like it was being
fucked by every man imaginable; there wasn't a shred of me
that wasn't being aroused by some man. I got off better than I
ever had before with my husband or the five other lovers I have
had.
Another fantasy I have is that my ex-lovers are all doing me
at once, each doing the thing he did best. However, my favorite
fantasy, the one I use mostly now (and find the most erotic), is
that I am tied up, and a gang of r****ts are making me fuck a
dog. They are all watching me and all getting hard-ons and
waiting to fuck me themselves once I come with the dog. The
dog is licking my clitoris, and I am made to perform fellatio on
the dog. Soon the dog and I are both getting out of control as
we both want more and more. We both come at the same time.
Then the dog fucks me. All of my moaning has made the men
even more aroused. Then they each take turns, doing what the
dog did. Each one is hornier than the next, and each one is a
better fuck. I come with all of them. I think that seeing me fuck
that dog aroused those men more than any sight imaginable.
I should mention that I was once ****d. So that the idea of
this last fantasy really happening disgusts me. Actually, after I
was ****d, I was violently ill; it happened in an alley, and I
remember vomiting after they left me. I never hitchhike anymore
or even walk at night without my husband, unless it's
down a well-lit street. My favorite pastimes used to be walking
in the country, the mountains, or the woods, just getting off by
myself, but now I wouldn't dare. If I must walk alone, I carry
something that could be used as a weapon. I always thought I'd
never be able to kill a person, but if an attacker should ever
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approach me again, I wouldn't hesitate to maim or kill him.
When you are 4' 11” and 86 pounds you need protection.
I suppose you wonder how I could be so aroused by this last
fantasy, given what has happened to me. It makes me wonder
too. The best idea I can come up with is that the dog is the best
fucker in the group … no man can top him. I'm not really angry
at men, certainly not my husband, but I guess there's some
anger left over somewhere. Anyway, the fantasy does the trick
for me, and that's all that matters.
 In Kate's fantasy, which appears immediately Move, I am
very impressed by the self-analysis that she gives us at the end
of her note. As we have seen in many other women's letters, the
seeds of the fantasy that she seems to tell with the most relish
and erotic excitement were sown in an actual, horrible event.
She was ****d. “I always thought I'd never be able to kill a
person,” she writes, “but if an attacker should ever approach
me again, I wouldn't hesitate to maim or kill him.” Her murderous
feelings are still unappeased in real life, but by an
imaginative use of fantasy, she has found some place to put
this anger so that it does not come between her and her husband.
Her fantasy turns the tables on the men who ****d and
humiliated her, and expresses a kind of exquisite sexual revenge:
she would rather fuck a dog than any of them. “I'm not
really angry at men,” she writes, “certainly not my husband,
but I guess [the **** left] some anger left over somewhere.”
This anger is expressed and used up in fantasy, even while
having sex with her husband. Whether he knows or not, he is
as much the gainer as she is. “The fantasy does the trick for
me,” she happily concludes, “and that's all that matters.”
Neither Helen nor Riva have to keep their sexual fantasies
hidden from their husbands. Helen's fantasy, in fact, was originally
invented by her husband for the two of them to share.
While it is all about him assisting while she is fucked by another
man, Helen credits the excitement this idea brings to their
bedroom as one of the prime ingredients of a “wonderfully
happy and successful marriage” of many years. Her husband,
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Helen says, “is the most wonderful, kind, thoughtful, considerate
and lusty man any woman could ever hope to have for her
own.”
Riva also finds that talking about her fantasies during sex
adds to the spice and erotic satisfactions of her eight-year-old
marriage. But while Helen and her husband say they would
now like to find a man to act out their fantasy with them, Riva
has no such idea. “I have never done any of these things,” she
writes, “and have really no desire to even see them happen in
real life … too scared, I guess … but they make great conversation
in bed and make me wild with my husband, usually
bringing him to come at the climax of the fantasy.”
How wise both husbands sound to me. They do not see the
imaginary lovers who heat their wives' sexual imagination as
impossible rivals, but as sexual assistants instead, who help
each man bring his wife to the kind of excitement that makes
marriage alive and tingling.
While Beth too shares her fantasies aloud with her husband,
there is a variation. The fantasy he likes to hear most is about
his wife making love to another woman. “Paul likes me to talk
about this during sex,” Beth writes, “but not any other time.”
But since Beth writes that she is the mother of two c***dren,
“married and very happy and contented,” isn't that their business?
Fantasies work for some people in one way; they work
for others in a different one. If yours works for you, isn't that all
that really matters?
Helen
My husband and I have just finished reading My Secret
Garden, and we both enjoyed it so much that I feel it is only
fair that I write to tell you about our favorite fantasy.
I say “our” because this was originally my husband's fantasy.
But he has told it to me so many times, and he is so excited
by the idea (and has made me so excited by it), that it has
become my favorite fantasy as well.
If you are interested in background; my husband is a virile,
horny fifty-six years of age. He is a college graduate with a
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post-graduate degree in business administration. I am an eager
and receptive forty-eight, and a graduate of commercial college.
We have had a wonderfully happy and successful marriage
for twenty-five years. We have two fine sons, one of
whom is in his first year of post-graduate work, and the other
in his third year of undergraduate study. My husband has said
many times that I am as close as God ever came to making a
perfect woman, and as gorgeous a piece of ass as he's ever
seen. And I think he is the most wonderful, kind, thoughtful,
considerate, and lusty man any woman could ever hope to have
for her own. We both agree that our delightfully happy sex life
is a grime ingredient of our wonderfully successful marriage.
My husband's (and mine) most exciting fantasy is to have
another man join us in our sexual recreation. Every time we see
an attractive, virile-looking man, we speculate as to whether he
might be the one we are searching for.
In our fantasy, my imaginary lover lies on his back (we are
all three naked, of course) while I kneel astride his head so he
can eat my pussy to get it ready for his cock. Meanwhile, my
husband lies between my lover's legs and sucks his cock to get
it ready for my pussy.
When I am warm and wet and my lover is hot and hard, I
move down and kneel astride his hips. With one hand, my husband
opens my pussy lips and with the other, he guides my
lover's cock into me. Then he lays between my lover's legs and
watches as I slide my streaming pussy up and down the full
length of that hard throbbing shaft.
Slowly and teasingly, I raise up until my husband can see
my lover's strained, purplish cockhead nestled between the
soft, wet lips of my pussy. Then I slowly sink down and take
the full length of that hard, hot shaft into me right up to the
balls.
After every ten or twelve strokes, I lift completely off my
lover's prick so my husband can take it in his mouth. He says
the idea of tasting my pussy juice on another man's cock just
drives him wild.
We keep up this slow, teasing stroking of his straining shaft
by my pussy, alternating with sucking by my husband, until
my poor imaginary lover can stand it no longer. Lying between
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his legs, my husband holds my lover's balls while he explodes
and his bursting cock squirts a torrent of thick, rich, hot cream
into the depths of my hungry cunt. I continue to stroke his cock
with my pussy until I have sucked him dry of the last drops of
his cream, and his cock shrivels and drops out of me. Immediately,
I roll over on my back beside him and spread my legs
wide to receive my ravenous husband. In one bound, he is between
my eager thighs, and one thrust buries his lovely, hard
cock in me right up to the balls.
He is excited beyond description to feel how slick and slippery
I am from the tremendous load of sperm that another
man's cock has just pumped into my cunt. He says nothing is
as exciting as to be able to feel another man's cream in my cunt
while he fucks me.
He is too excited to last very long while we act out this fantasy,
and it is never more than a minute or two before I feel his
beloved cock jumping and jerking in my cunt as his hot sperm
gushes into my belly in a flood of molten fire. In my own fantasy,
I feel my husband's sperm mixing inside me with my
lover's sperm until my cunt overflows, and I feel their mingled
cream running down the crack of my ass to puddle warmly and
soothingly beneath me. At that point, I join my husband in a
gut-twisting orgasm that leaves us both too exhausted to move.
Until ten or fifteen minutes, that is. Then we're ready for No. 2.
Someday we hope to find a real life lover who will be interested
in joining us, so that we can act out in actuality our favorite
fantasy of having another man put his cock in me and cream
my cunt before my husband fucks me.
P.S. I knew my husband would enjoy reading this (I had
told him I intended to write you), so after I had finished typing
it, I went up to the bedroom, took off my bra and panties, and
came down to the living room dressed in just a skirt and
blouse.
As he read, I saw that delightful bulge beginning to rise in
his pants. I hurried to kneel between his legs, pulled down his
zipper, took out his beautiful cock, and lovingly sucked it up to
its full, seven-and-one-half-inch towering height of stiff male
meat. I was careful not to bring him off in my mouth, because I
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wanted to share with him the delight of once again acting out
our favorite fantasy.
When he had finished reading my letter, I looked up at him
and asked in my most pleading, little-girl voice, “Can we pretend
my fantasy lover has just skewered me on his prick and
emptied his balls into my belly, and my cunt is dripping wet
with his hot, slippery sperm? I want to get fucked.”
And I did, most satisfactorily. With his hands trembling in
his excitement and eagerness, my husband stripped off my
blouse and skirt, laid me down on the floor, dropped his pants,
and fell to his knees between my wide spread thighs. I took his
magnificent stiff, throbbing cock in my hand, guided it lovingly
into my ravenous cunt, and moaned in ecstasy as he buried it in
me up to the balls, and frantically fucked me into a glorious
orgasm. Right in the middle of the living-room floor.
If every married couple found in their sexual relations the
joy and delight that my husband and I have shared for twentyfive
years, divorce would be as dead as the dinosaurs. In opening
the door to a frank discussion of the subject of sexual fantasies,
which add so much spice to the sexual-act itself, you
have contributed immeasurably toward that end, and we think
you have richly earned the appreciation and congratulations of
everybody who has the intelligence to read your book and the
courage to act out and enjoy her own fantasies.
Riva
Just finished reading My Secret Garden … fascinating! Of
course, when I saw your address, I just couldn't resist writing. I
am twenty-six and have been married for eight years. My husband
is from India. I first started fantasizing at his request,
after we were married about five years. It really livened things
up. He enjoys it a great deal when I swear during the sex act –
I don't normally at other times. Using very filthy language, I
describe various situations he would probably enjoy seeing me
in.
One is that I am a prostitute, and I am working for him. He
is able to see all my actions from behind a two-way mirror. I
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proceed to suck a customer and kiss his balls, and it all really
drives him crazy. Then he fucks me, or if I am sucking him, he
squirts his semen all over my face.
Another is that I am being fucked by two guys while my
husband is watching. One is shoving his cock down my throat,
and the other is sucking my cunt. My breasts are also being
massaged. I can't move because of the size of the cock going
down my throat. The two guys agree to come at the same time,
so simultaneously, one goes off in my cunt, and the other in my
mouth, which I proceed to suck and swallow in great gulps.
Another fantasy is that of being gang ****d by a motorcycle
gang or of being initiated into the gang. When I am initiated,
one guy must screw me, and I must go down on each one of
them. Also the girls must go down on me until I come with
each one. In the **** scene, I am tied down to the bed and cannot
move. One guy f***es his cock in my mouth, another one
performs cunnilingus on me, and he sucks my tits. At the same
time, another bastard sticks a dildo or vibrator up my asshole.
Again I cannot scream or fight. Gradually, I become ecstatic,
and the guy doing the lick job puts his cock in me and blows
off. This is repeated with members of the gang, and of course, I
am so hot I am going crazy.
Another fantasy is one of fucking with a friend or a guy at
work. My husband wants to hear all the details of every situation.
Another is one of me and another girl pleasing my husband,
and also him pleasing me. I think of him licking me out
while he fucks her and vice versa.
I could go on and on, as I am always making up new and
varied situations (especially after getting new ideas from your
book). I have never done any of these things and have really no
desire to even see them happen in real life … too scared, I
guess … but they make great conversation in bed and make me
wild with my husband, usually bringing him to come at the
climax of the fantasy.
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Beth
I have just this minute finished reading My Secret Garden,
and am I glad I read it! Now I know that I'm not the only one
who makes up stories. I'm writing this to tell you some of my
own fantasies.
I'm nineteen, with two c***dren, married, and very happy
and contented. My husband is twenty-four, and we are middleto
upper-middle-class whites. My oldest c***d is a boy, the
other a girl.
One fantasy I've just recently realized is about my husband's
car. I knew there had to be a reason why liked to drive it so
much. It's a '67 Camaro, very fast and sexy. It's a manual
transmission, which is the object of my fantasy. The gearshift
is between the bucket seats on the console and has a big
smooth knob which I love to caress as I'm driving. The motions
necessary to shift gears plus the speed is fantastic. I'm ready for
sex in no time.
Another one is from an actual incident. My husband took
me to a party at a friend's mobile home. This was a year before
we married and a month after we met. Besides him, I only
knew Dave, his best friend, and Celeste, his s****r. Dave and
Celeste have slept together on occasion. My husband got involved
in a game of Euchre and the three of us were left to talk.
I drank quite a bit of beer, and after a while, Dave took us in
the bedroom, where the coats were, to show us a chain he had
made from beer pop-top rings. I noticed some paperbacks
(pornography) on the dresser and opened one at random and
began to read aloud. We sat on the bed, and when I came to a
part that said, “and she kissed his ear following with her
tongue and warm, moist breath,” I leaned over to Dave and did
what I just read. So did Celeste on his other ear. He alternated
kissing us both, and that is where it ended, as we were interrupted
with some fat jerk yelling, “Hey, they're having an orgy
in here!” I like to fantasize what might have happened if we
hadn't been interrupted … Dave making slow, exciting love to
both of us. Me and Celeste getting it on. We both are large
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busted and have long dark hair and wear glasses with similar
shaped frames. Practically twins …
One fantasy I have quite often is about myself, my husband,
and another girl. He would bring her home one night, and I'd
be there in a flowing gown. I'd kiss and embrace them both,
and we'd head right for the bedroom. After much kissing, exploring,
and foreplay, Paul would make love to her, after which
I'd go down on her to lick up both of their juices and make her
come a second time. Paul would be kissing and fondling both
of our breasts. Then he would make love to me, after which
she'd go down on me, and we would just make love until
dawn, take a shower together and sl**p all day exhausted. I
usually come during the part where I go down on her.
I feel I should tell you that my only experiences have been
with men. I never thought of another girl until my husband
brought it up during sex one time after we were married. Now I
realize that girls do turn me on, and I'd like to be able to have
the last fantasy acted out. I guess I'm what they call a bisexual.
Paul likes me to talk about this during sex, but not any other
time. I also love to have these fantasies during sex. However,
he gives me strange looks when I comment on a girl's body and
then start giving out horny signals when we're out somewhere.
Oh, well, he'll get used to it. Girl's bodies turn him on, too.
Well, thanks so much for doing this. I can't tell anyone else,
not even Paul, except the last one. But only during sex.
“Shoulders”
I guess when you say “anonymity guaranteed,” you anticipate
your letters will come with names on them, but I honestly
would not be able to write you if I had to sign this. I hope that
doesn't make my “material” less useful.
I have had other, rather mundane fantasies, but through the
years (I am twenty-three), they have fallen by the wayside because
of the dominance of the one I will describe in this letter.
One of the odd things (or is it?) about my fantasy is that it is
interchangeable among males, that is the identity of the particular
man who plays the leading role in it at any given time is
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not important. (I am sure you know what “important” means in
a fantasy!) Of course, I vary the men to avoid monotony.
The key to the beginning of the fantasy is when the man (or
boy!) put his hands on my shoulders. There is usually a buildup
to this situation of varying length, but the point when the
fantasy takes on seductive and exciting overtones is when I feel
his hands on my shoulders. All that really happens is that he
f***es me to kneel by putting pressure on my shoulders, and
then I kiss and suck him down there. He doesn't have to tell me
what to do, or even push my head; all communication of what
he wants is through that pressure on my shoulders. At the moment
of climax for me, the pressure becomes very intense and
objectively painful, although not discomforting. I guess since I
control my fantasy, I increase the pressure, keeping it in synchronization
with my body's excitement. In reality, I have even
taken to sort of hunching my shoulders at climax. Luckily, this
doesn't seem to bother my partner during intercourse.
I don't know what you can make of this, but I do hope it is
useful to you.
 Many of the women in this book have talked about fantasy
during oral sex. Monica writes that she and her fiancé
have sex “quite often seven or eight times a night.” But while
she describes him as sexually large and powerful, the way he
“always brings me to a glorious climax,” she writes, is “usually
through cunnilingus.”
I think this is one of the more obvious times for fantasy to
fill the minds of women like Monica, because in a sense you
are passive, the recipient, being done to. Your body is not being
covered by and entwined with another body … your eyes
are not looking into a beloved face but into space. For many
women, fantasy fills in what might otherwise be a kind of loneliness
during oral sex.
This kind of lovemaking often comes as a later, liberated
step for many women. They have resisted oral sex earlier in
their sexual lives, before they grew confident enough to become
experimental. Perhaps they felt that it was “wrong,” or that
there is something malodorous or unattractive about them248
selves “down there.” What a sexual fantasy can do for women
with these negative ideas is drive them out, replacing them
with erotic emotions that enable women to enjoy themselves to
the full.
Other women have come to oral sex from the opposite extreme
– they enjoy it so much that they never want it to end,
and through certain sexual fantasies, they have found they can
prolong their period of foreplay excitement before reaching
climax. This enhancement role of fantasy, either during oral
sex or intercourse itself, is a valuable idea for those women
who experience no trouble in reaching or enjoying their orgasm;
knowing they will arrive in due time, they like to imagine
a mental scenario that helps them enjoy the trip even more.
They pace their excitement in their minds, letting their motor
slowly build up speed until it gloriously runs away with them
toward an ever more heightened orgasm. Needless to say, these
are the women who have long got past the idea that thinking of
a man different from the one in their arms smacks of mental
adultery or betrayal; they have recognized that their own excitement,
no matter how it is achieved, is one of the greatest
sexual gifts they can bring a man.
I have always maintained that women are experts at fantasy.
It is a natural gift that most of us have denied ourselves simply
because, in a man's world, it was “known” that men … and
therefore everybody … did not fantasize during sex. Today, we
hear more and more reports of the growing rate of impotency
among men. If women can in time learn to accept their gift for
fantasy, can we not also teach this form of erotic excitement to
our men – probably now at the very time when they need it
most? If it works for us, why shouldn't it work for them?
Sexual fantasy during sex is not merely a matter of need. It
is a matter of more complete sex. Would you consider a part of
your body untouchable during sex? Why then rule out your
mind – which is what got you into bed with that specific other
person in the first place? A man will not propose sex to a
woman unless he is already aroused; it is his fantasy of being
in bed with her that has brought him to the point of beginning
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the seduction. Having been brought to sex by his fantasy, why
leave out your own? 
Monica
I've just finished My Secret Garden, and all I can say is
“what a trip.” I just couldn't put it down; it had me creaming
from cover to cover.
I don't think I ever realized just how big a part of my sex life
fantasy actually was. I have had a fairly active sex life since the
time I was sixteen. I am twenty now and about to be married.
My first sexual experience was with my future husband in the
back seat of a '62 Chevy. Needless to say, it wasn't the fireworks
I expected. But it has been getting better all the time.
My fiancé is hung quite well, as his full erection measures a
good – and I mean good – eight inches. We have sex quite
often when we are together very often seven or eight times a
night. His imagination is limitless, and he always brings me to
a glorious climax, usually through cunnilingus. Although I
have been dating him for five years, my sex life has been punctuated
with a few, very interesting affairs. It is these affairs that
I find myself fantasizing about most – and always during intercourse
with my fiancé.
The most remarkable lover in my life came along when I
was s*******n years old. He was a phys. ed. teacher, and we
worked together during the summer. I just came every time I
thought of his godlike black body. Just looking at him made
me wet and achy for his cock. I had never experienced such a
feeling before, and I was completely overwhelmed. When the
occasion finally came when we could be alone, I was so shaky
my knees gave out. He was so gentle and satisfying with his
foreplay, I reached several climaxes while he manipulated my
clitoris. And when he entered me from the rear – I just saw
stars. He filled me up so much I thought I would burst from
sheer ecstasy. As we weren't using any birth-control, he withdrew,
and I sucked him off. When we reached our final climax,
he came with such a groan, heightened my pleasure immensely.
I got such a mouthful of his wonderful come that I
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felt it was Christmas. This was the only time we ever fucked,
and I feel it's better that way.
I think of this glorious black man often when I am going
down on my fiancé’s beautiful rod, as it heightens the pleasure
I am able to give him. I merely think of that black cock filling
my mouth, and we come off in great fervor.
Please excuse the sloppiness of this letter, as I am masturbating
and cannot take the time to recopy it as I fear exposure.
Thanks for the wonderful book.
Delia
I would like to compliment you on your book entitled My
Secret Garden. It is about time that men are no longer protected!
Women think about sex also!
I was pleased to realize that women had fantasies such as
mine. I never thought myself to be strange, but I wondered
what other women thought about. I found it very interesting
and sometimes exciting. I have two fantasies that I would like
to share with you. I hope that after reading them you will enjoy
them as much as I do.
I imagine that I am in jail, and I am put in a cell of lesbians.
The “queen” lesbian decides I need training in female love, so
she takes me on as her private student. This all takes place in
her cell, with the other women watching. She tells me to undress,
and she admires my body. She tells me how beautiful it
is, and what she is going to do to me. She then undresses herself
and tells me to suck her tits. I am apprehensive at first, but
I catch on quickly. After I suck her tits, I work my way down
to her cunt. The fantasy is so strong, that I can even smell her
odor. I suck her clit and finger her ass, and she explodes in my
mouth. Then it is my turn. She works on my clit, and as I am
about to come, I beg to get fucked. At the right moment, she
shoves this dildo in my cunt, at which point I actually do come.
I change the fantasy around, but this is the basic plot.
I have had quite a few lovers in my life, but two stand out.
Robert and Henry. They were built like brick shit houses, and
they play a large part in my fantasies. My current lover is a
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novice, so he has a long way to come. (No pun intended.) I
can't wait for the day when I tell him about my fantasies. I'm
dying to tell him now, but he couldn't accept it. While I am
making love to him, if I am on top, I have the following fantasy.
I imagine that I am impaled on Henry's cock, and Robert is
easing his cock in my asshole. When I am completely filled in
and starting to move, a faceless woman walks in. She fondles
my tits and rubs my clitty. At this point, I am jumping around,
almost going out of my head. I just concentrate on what they
are doing to me, and I have one of my strongest orgasms. Then,
of course, I come back into reality, and it's funny. My real lover
thinks that he sent me into outer space, while I know for fact, it
was my imaginary three. Oh, well.
Thank you for letting me express myself.
Daisy
I'm sending you two of my many sexual fantasies. I am
twenty-one and am black. I went to various religious schools
and am a college graduate. I moved to California in 1972, and
now live there with my fiancé, a gorgeous blond with green
eyes and a fantastic body. I was prompted to send you my fantasies
after reading your book. Here goes.
Fantasy 1: I fantasize that this really great-looking guy (he's
white) k**naps two high school girls. One is black, and one is
white. The black girl is very pretty. She has small breasts and a
neat slim figure. She's rather innocent and a virgin. The white
girl is a pretty blonde with big breasts and an overall voluptuous
figure. The man tells them that he wants to make love to
the pretty black girl and that if she doesn't consent he'll have
her friend subjected to a very brutal sexual routine. The girl
refuses. He calls in five men and have them strip the white girl.
He turns to the black girl and tells her that he's going to let the
men have her to do with as they please if she doesn't consent.
The white girl tells her friend never to consent. The man nods
his head and the men begin. They put her on the floor and
spread her legs wide, and a man holds each leg apart. Her
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hands are tied to posts in the floor. A man touches her cunt and
starts to play with it. Another sucks her nipples. They start to
finger her then one after the other, they fuck her. After the last
one gets off her, the man who had k**napped her snaps his
fingers and in comes a huge black man. He comes to her and
puts a pillow under her ass and looks at her, laughing. His
cock is huge – at least nine inches, and he tells her he's going
to fuck her until she sees stars. She starts to breathe heavy, and
he kisses her mouth and then her breasts. He sucks her nipples
and rubs them with his fingers. He pinches them until she
starts to moan. He puts two fingers in her cunt, and the girl
starts trying to fuck his fingers. He puts his mouth to her open
pussy lips and kisses the lips. He sucks them and her clit. Then
he thrusts his tongue in her wet pussy. She's wild with passion.
Then he moves between her legs and guides his erect and
throbbing cock into her hot and wet cunt. She's so wet, he almost
slips out. He thrusts a couple of times, and she comes
one, two, three times. He hasn't come, but he takes his wet
penis out of her hungry pussy, and she starts crying for him to
fuck her more. He laughs, and the men move to her and wash
her out and give her a douche. The black man tells them to
untie her. They comply, and she rises to embrace him, but the
men put her on her stomach and spread her legs wide apart.
The black man starts to finger her pussy, and she starts moaning
and getting wet. The black man fucks her pussy, and she
cries out. He spanks her ass and spreads her ass and starts fingering
her asshole. She begs him to fuck her in the ass, and he
laughs. He moves down and starts licking and sucking her wet
snatch. She has another big orgasm. The man who k**napped
the two girls now tells the blonde she belongs to the black
man. She kisses his feet in gratitude. The k**napper now looks
at the pretty black girl and asks her if she will forgive him, that
he loves her and would be forever grateful if she would stay
with him. She agrees. The End.
The next fantasy I was too embarrassed to tell my fiancé. He
knows I like gay guys, but he doesn't know that they are to me
the focal point of the majority of my sexual fantasies. Sometimes
when we're making love, I think it would be great if he
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would have a scene with another great-looking guy, and I
could watch and touch them.
Fantasy 2: This fantastic-looking k**, about s*******n, is
walking on the beach looking for a spot to sunbathe in the
nude. He's wearing a short kimono and comes to a stretch of
beach where he spreads his towel down and removes his kimono
and, lying down, falls off in a light sl**p. Two guys are
coming down the beach and spot him. The k** doesn't hear
them coming, but feeling their presence, he opens his eyes, and
they're standing over him running their eyes up and down his
body. He's quite embarrassed, but the guys put him at ease and
introduce themselves. They ask him if he'd like them to put
suntan oil on his body. He says okay. They take some oil and,
rubbing it into their hands, tell him he's got a great body. They
start, slowly and sensually, and when they reach his stomach,
he becomes erect. They very gently move him on his side. One
of the guys moves to his erect cock and takes it in his mouth.
The other first puts his finger in his ass, and the boy starts to
writhe. He puts oil on his cock and enters him. The boy starts
to protest that he's hurting him, but the man enters him slowly
and starts to fuck him, pumping hard and fast. The boy meets
his thrusts and comes in the other guy's mouth as the guy in
back shoots his hot juice in his tight asshole.
Vi
My most delicious fantasy is centered around a motorcycle
ride. I have come to an old boyfriend's house for a rare long
weekend together – since we now live so far apart. Although
he doesn't own his own motorcycle, he has borrowed one from
a friend for us to take on a romantic cheese-and-wine picnic.
We rise early Sunday morning to avoid any traffic, and the fall
air is crisp and clear as we roar away, the wind blowing my
hair onto my neck. I have driven the bike briefly the day before,
and when we reach the lush countryside, I yell over the roar
that I want to take the controls. Because the cycle is not his and
is such a powerful machine, I really have to coax him (as only I
know how!) until he finally relents.
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When we switch positions, we both decide to remove our
denim jackets. I feel the smooth rush of power available to me
whenever I ask for it, and as we reach the crest of a short hill, I
accelerate just enough to raise both of us slightly from the seat.
As my tight pants stretch across my crotch, I become aware of
the engine's throbbing heat against it, as if I were riding a huge
flying cock.
Quickly, my neck flushes, and I realize how my nipples are
erect and aching. The pulsating warmth has crept over me until
it is released in a sweltering burst.
Slowing slightly, I deftly reach back my hand and guide his
to cup my breast. Quickly, his free hand undoes my bra, and
his warm palms caress me. As I bend back to hear what he
says, he tongues my ear so that I swerve the bike slightly. Then
he takes the controls and drives the machine through a small
culvert and into a secluded pine forest where the sun. sifts
through the swaying branches.
Before he can get to me, I undo his pants and kiss his ferocious
cock on all sides, on top, before sucking it into my
mouth. He falls back onto the pine needles with a groan as I
slip his warm meat into my mouth and then completely encircle
it with my tongue, which I love to do. We undress one another
completely as my mouth continues to play with his dick.
Tenderly, he pushes me onto my back as he goes down on
my cunt hairs, already wet. I stare up passion d***k at the treetopped
sky until our frenzy f***es me to shut my eyes. He
tongue-teases me all over my body until our mouths meet, and
then slowly, ever so slowly, he puts his fire up my cunt. It
seems to continue going in forever deeper, deeper. I move side
to side as he thrusts away, matching his rhythm. Suddenly, his
juices go straight in me, just as I am washed away in my ocean
of orgasm. At this point, my real orgasm with my real lover
coincides with my fantasy orgasm!
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CHAPTER EIGHT
DREAMS COME TRUE
 One of the great misconceptions about sexual fantasy is
that they are suppressed wishes. The first shock is to accept the
fact that not only do women have feelings of lust, too, but that
they like to use their imagination to heighten these erotic desires.
But once past the notion that all women are “ladies” –
meaning sexless – there is a great, fuzzy-minded leap forward:
if women enjoy thinking about these bizarre sexual events, it
must mean that they really want to do them!
The notion that a woman may be thinking these highly
charged thoughts puts many a man off. Anxious ideas of competition
are aroused; how can he match the prodigious feats of
the athletic Adonis in her mind? It is much easier for him to
feel she doesn't merely get a kick out of thinking about these
things. He decides she really wants to do them, probably has
done them in the past with other men. In this way, she has
been safely put into the category of “freaky,” “strange,” and
“different.” There's nothing wrong with his sexuality; she's the
crazy one.
“What does your husband think about your wanting to be
fucked by two strange guys at a football game?” men leer at
me, having read the opening pages of My Secret Garden, in
which I talk about one of my former favorite fantasies – which
took place in a football stadium. Another guy nudges me:
“Hey, I have two tickets for the Baltimore Colts' game. How
about it?”
When you put your name to a book of sexual fantasies, you
automatically come to be thought of as a woman who wants to
act them all out. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I have
no more real desire to be fucked at a Baltimore Colt-Minnesota
Viking football game by two unknown men, than I do to be
fucked by anyone, anywhere, than in the usual place(s) my
husband and I do it. If my fantasies sound outrageous to many
people, it is probably because of the conventional manner in
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which I was brought up. Had I been raised in a whorehouse,
perhaps the images that would arouse me to tremendous passion
would be scenes of a handsome knight in white armor –
looking a bit like Robert Redford – who would make love to
me in a house designed by Bride magazine, while an organ
played “Oh, Promise Me.”
My c***dhood and adolescence were studded thick and fast
with sexual rules very much like yours. It left me with an
imagination that gets off on the wildest, most forbidden sexual
imagery – all of which has little to do with how I live in the
real world. I relish the totally unacceptable in my fantasies. I
love my life the way it is. If I try to understand without judging
the extraordinary diversity of sexual experience available to us,
it does not necessarily mean I contain within myself all the
points of view put forward by the several hundred women
whose fantasies I published. And yet I have appeared on various
radio and television talk shows where the hosts and other
guests have actually become angry when I wouldn't bend the
entire meaning of my understanding of sexual fantasy to conform
with their ideas: namely, that sexual freedom, greater
sexual pleasure, must mean having all our sexual dreams come
true. “What, you only think these ideas and don't act them out?
Isn't that hypocritical, copping out?”
My answer is, No. As you will see from this chapter, there
are many people who have found sheer bliss in joining with
their partners in acting out their sexual fantasies as if they were
dramatic scripts for two (or more) players. That's terrific, for
them. But most of the women who have written me are far
from wanting to put their fantasies into fact. They go out of
their way to say it to me in so many words: “I love to imagine
these things but I have no desire to really do them.” If that is
where they draw the line, they have every right to. They are no
less “daring” or adventurous than the people who act out their
fantasies. Just different.
Probably the greatest sexual and social gain we could reach
will be when we become liberated enough to allow each one
his or her own sexual inclination. We are still so insecure in
our own sexual tastes and identities that people with other
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ideas make us anxious. We hold to whatever norm has been
okayed in the latest book and is most widely held to be right by
our neighbors. Anyone who dares to operate an inch outside of
this accepted area is ostracized as odd, perverted.
The people in this chapter fall outside neat categories. Not
only do they have sexual desires that other people never talk
about, but they have mentioned them to their lovers and/or
husbands. They've even gone wilder than that: they've proceeded
to act out what was on their minds. Whether or not they
found pleasure in following their erotic scenarios is their business;
what is more important to our discussion is understanding
that they felt free enough, accepting enough with each
other, to acknowledge that's where their desires lay, and to act
upon them.
I think that for every person who has written to me about the
joys of performing their sexual dreams in reality, there have
been three or four who knew in advance that it wouldn't work,
or who tried it and were disappointed. Whether or not you decide
to try yours out in reality is up to you, but I would argue to
the death with anyone who says that unless you do you are only
going halfway. What turns them on is their business; what
turns you on is yours. The U.S. Commission's Report on Obscenity
and Pornography showed that both men and women
responded with far more excitement when they were asked to
imagine something erotic than when they actually saw it.
But if the majority of people I have heard from say it is more
exciting (or less threatening) to keep their sexual fantasies only
in the mind, it is still not the whole sexual truth: to be honest
about sex, you can't merely count heads and pronounce judgment
democratically. Individual differences must be considered
and accepted to be as valid as the tastes of the majority. The
people who have put their erotic fantasies into practice are neither
braver than you or I nor more or less daring or selfdestructive.
They have simply found that a whole new dimension
is added to their lives when they act out their fantasies.
They have found their own path to a more vivid life. Who's
against that?
If you are truly liberated, you must be able to accept that
someone who does or thinks something abhorrent to you is not
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a sexual threat. You have to get over thinking that just because
someone else does something that you must do it too (this u*********s
feeling that someone else's action is a dare to us to
do it, drives us to put up a wall of dislike and disgust between
them and us). Next, accept the reality that there are sexual
events going on, fantasies being acted out, that you would
never imagine. Some of the nicest people you know may be
doing the most extraordinary things behind their closed doors.
“It may be just because two people get off on the most outrageous,
antisocial conduct when they are alone together in their
bedroom,” a psychiatrist friend said to me recently, “that they
very often can be the nicest, easiest, and most socially delightful
people to be around at other times. They have expressed all
their negative drives with each other, and so are ready to turn
their nicest face forward when they meet you.” This is no more
dishonest than to say you're not hungry after you've eaten.
In psychoanalytic parlance, there is a technical phrase
called, “acting out,” and while I have used this phrase myself
often enough in this chapter, I wish to be clear that I am using
it in the common, everyday sense, and not technically, as the
doctors do. To them, acting out means that a person performs
certain actions, usually self-destructive or self-defeating, for
reasons she does not understand. Because the basic motivation
is repressed to a level below consciousness, the actress is not
aware that her behavior is an expression of an u*********s
fantasy, nor does she have a significant area of choice in the
matter: her neurosis compels her through a hidden logic of its
own, to find only married, unavailable men attractive, or to
behave in such a manner that she is always the victim, getting
fired, being taken advantage of, etc., etc.
The women in this chapter, on the contrary, are very much
aware of their fantasies: the choice of bringing them into reality
or not is entirely their own. Therefore, even though we may call
these actions acting out, it should be remembered that the way
I intend to use the phrase entails very conscious decision.
Above all, while the fantasies they decide to live out may at
times entail a degree of psychic or physical pain, that is not
what they are all about. These women are not about self-defeat
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and martyrdom – their true goal in acting out their fantasies is
the greatest possible pleasure. Carolyn writes that acting out
her fantasies brought her so much fulfillment, she has introduced
them to her new lover. “He loves it!” she writes ecstatically.
“It's a totally new space for him to be in … . I don't think
I've been in a constant state of turn-on like this, ever. Can't
wait until he gets back to act out some more of this lovely state
of being.”
“… this lovely state of being.” I like Carolyn's phrase.
Finding our way to it is the essence of life, but there are no
guaranteed roadmaps. It is a place of the spirit, of course, but
lovers have always known that it can be reached by physical,
sexual means. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,”
said William Blake.
Carolyn has found her way; other women in this section
have found theirs. 
Carolyn
Okay. Just finished your book and wished with all my being
that I didn't have to wait two weeks to share the incredible
turn-on I feel from reading it. Masturbation at this level is a
“reliever” of sorts, but just doesn't work totally.
Seems to me that what prevents most people from copping
to their fantasies to the other person is your basic all-American
fear of taking a risk. We're all scared of being thought of as
crazies, perverts, or whatever.
I remember the first man who tuned into my fantasies before
I even knew I had them. We were both extremely stoned and
making foreplay. Suddenly, he stopped doing what he was
doing and took a little velvet rope out of his pocket. Without a
word, he began to tie my wrists to the bedposts. I could feel
that within the little red velvet rope there was a thin, steel
chain, so that while the red velvet protected my skin, inside the
velvet rope there was this hard, cruel chain that I could never
break. I have never been so turned on so fast in all my life. At
first, I was afraid that he wasn't going to do what I thought
(wanted) he was going to do. Then I was afraid he wouldn't
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complete the whole act to my satisfaction. But he did – taking
more velvet chains from a hard-leather executive-type briefcase
that he always carried with him, but I had never seen him open
before. He slowly tied me in a spread-eagle fashion to the four
bedposts, with my arms pulled up and back of my head, my
legs spread wide apart and held that way by the chains. He
never spoke to me while he did this. He moved like someone in
one of my dreams, knowing instinctively what I seemed to
want, but never asking me if he was right or wrong about how
much I wanted it. He knew, and just proceeded with it, crooning
to himself all the while, never saying a word, just this intent,
bemused, almost gurgling kind of half-humming, halfchuckling.
At the end, I could not move a muscle. I was totally
in his hands, totally open to whatever he wanted to do to me. I
can never remember feeling so incredibly tingly in my whole
life. He didn't even have to come near me to get me aroused.
All the while I was lying there, I could see that he was looking
at me. Really looking. He kept putting his head between my
legs, examining the lips of my cunt, taking the flesh delicately
in his fingers to hold them open so that he could look in more
deeply. But he never went further. As a matter of fact, just
leaving me tied up there and leaving the room as if nothing
unusual was happening at all was an even greater turn-on. The
one feeling I can recall at that moment was one of enormous
relief. All these fantasies I could never cop to having were actually
being realized by me, and by someone who had the incredible
sensitivity to know what I wanted. In this case, he was
the one who had taken the risk, and for that, I'll forever love
him, even though the affair is gone.
My fantasies range along the general line of tie-me-downspreadeagled-
and-do-what-you-or-your-friends-will-with-me
(as long as it doesn't hurt). I adore being victimized in a nonthreatening
way. Even though, so much of this kind of fantasy
does depend on trust of the other person. Trust that he won't
slit you from your guggle to your zatch while you're lying there
stark naked on the bed, unable to move. The possibility of this
happening (remote, one hopes) makes it even more exciting
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I am currently dating a man, much older than I, who's a super-
lover. But “straight.” So, for the first time in my life, I took
the risk and turned him on to what turned me on. He loves it!
It's a totally new space for him to be in, and it's k**-in-thecandy-
store time for him (and God knows, for me). I get long
letters from him communicating how excited he is with his
new state of being. Hear, hear!
Thank you a lot. I don't think I've been in a constant state of
turn-on like this ever. Can't wait until he gets back to act out
some more of this lovely state of being. If you ever write Volume
II, I probably won't be able to get off my bed for the next
year!
P.S. I am single and twenty-eight years old.
May
I read your book, and just couldn't resist a chance to tell
someone. I'm s*******n, and eight months pregnant and single.
I am a very liberated person, sexually and likewise. Sometimes
I wonder if I'm perverted or not; I guess I just love sex and
always have. I've been having sex (intercourse) for two years
now, and have really been the route. I mean I truly feel quite
experienced for my age. My first time in bed was with a fortytwo-
year-old man, or should I say, my girl friend's father.
Maybe it sounds pretty lewd, but to this day just the excitement
of thinking about anyone finding out about us has an unbelievable
effect. We had intercourse several times. One exceptional
time was when I stayed at their house for a small slumber
party, and when he thought everyone was asl**p, he came and
got me, and we fucked away in a reclining chair in the living
room; well, to add to this, his daughter walked through, but to
this day I still wonder how much she really saw. Isn't that a
thrill?
I also have this fantasy about large penises. I've always enjoyed
very large, filling penises; they seem to excite me the
most. I've had the fantasy about being laid by a horse many
times, since they are so large, but I don't think it would be pos262
sible to live out, but if I had a chance, believe me, I'd jump for
it. The most filling fuck ever.
When I was younger, it was my dog that excited me. This
was when I was a virgin. I have fucked my dog (German shepherd)
many times though. I always wanted a man's penis but
was chicken, so I laid the dog. I would lay him on his back on
the floor and push the sheath of his penis all the way down, so
his penis was just loose, and he would suddenly become so
hard and growing, that the skin couldn't move back up. He
would even start into motion before I was on him. I would
squat over him holding that delicious penis straight up, and
then I'd come down on him, and, man, that dog could go like
hell, sometimes as long as a half an hour, which is long for a
dog. He could come and come … so would I, ummmm…. This
I haven't done since I've had intercourse with men, but just
thinking about it now makes me wish the dog was around, but
someone stole him. I even thought of giving him fellatio, but
couldn't.
I have a friend who I am spiritually very close to. I had had
fantasies of making deep love to her. One night, she wanted me
to meet her lover. She also told me how large he was, which
just heightened my curiosity, but I had no intentions of going to
bed with him, for I would have felt too guilty. We arrived at his
apartment, where there were a few people already there. It was
just a social thing at first, sitting around talking and getting
high. Well, the conversation somehow came to massages, and I
mentioned that I was good at back massages and jointcracking.
This guy said he was too and offered to give me a
back massage. I said sure, 'cause I love them. This went on for
a while, with me lying facedown on the floor with him sitting
on my rear. Next thing I knew, everyone else was too, but they
were all in their underwear; then my clothes were being removed,
and I just let it happen. By this time, I was getting excited
almost to the point of climax, for this guy was sitting on
me in his underwear, and I could feel that bulge growing larger
and ever warmer and harder. He then tells me to turn over, and
he'd give me a front massage, and I thought okay, buddy, I'll
play your game and beat you at it too. As my clothes had been
removed, I was lying breasts up, looking him right in the face
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while he sat on my pubic area. He's massaging my stomach
and breasts and sending tingles all through my body as I can
now see the enormous bulge in his shorts. I am then led into
the bedroom and gently laid on the bed while he goes down
between my thighs headfirst to further stimulate me with that
probing tongue going ever deeper. (My girl friend is sitting
beside the bed with that Mother Earth smile, telling me she
was just sharing with me what she had found so fulfilling). I
was on fire wanting him to enter me, but he teased, further
drinking me till I thought I was dry. When he did enter me, I
was so alive and eager just begging for more that I came time
and time again, while he remarked how good I was in bed, and
then it was all over, and we left. This was the most exciting
time I ever had, not just because he was so big and good, but
the thought of this girl actually sharing this with me. I fantasize
about it often now. I loved it. Well, that's enough, my
hand's tired, and this is getting a bit long.
Chessie
My fiancé and I both read My Secret Garden. We. enjoyed
it immensely. I'd like to give you some background before I tell
my fantasies. I'm nineteen and engaged to be married later this
month. I lost my virginity, at f******n, but never masturbated
or had many fantasies until I met Lewis. He and I share our
fantasies, and there are several that we have acted out or want
to act out.
My most frequent (and Lewis' favorite) is that I am at our
new home, and a girl that I work with comes over. She is very
thin but nicely proportioned. We talk and eventually the conversation
comes to sex (which she and I often talk about in
reality). We end up sitting there masturbating, which leads into
touching each other. We go to the bedroom and touch and kiss.
I imagine that she licks and nibbles my breasts (which are
large) and eats me. Then I eat her and lick her everywhere.
While we are still engrossed, with my mouth against her cunt,
Lewis walks in, sheds his clothing, and joins us until we are all
exhausted.
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There are some variations: other girls that we know; same
girl, but her husband walks in too, and there is a quartet, etc.
Lewis and I would really above all like to get into a threesome.
Another fantasy goes something like this: I am at a party
with Lewis. As we are sitting there, I tell him that I forgot to
put on my panties. I am wearing a short dress, but it is not
quite short enough to allow him to see anything. All through
the party, he is going mad by knowing how I look under that
dress. When we get home, I sit down and begin masturbating
in front of him. I lift my skirt periodically so that he can see me
fondling my cunt and flicking my clit. But when he wants to
touch me, I refuse. I do a striptease, again without letting him
touch me. Finally, he becomes so hard and so turned on that he
tears off my clothes and tries to grab me by the cunt. But I
dodge him and make him watch me. I let him lick my fingers;
they are running with my juices, but he is not allowed to touch
me. He goes mad and tells me that if I don't let him touch me I
will be put over his knee. But I still don't give in. He finally
catches me and spanks me. Then he bites my breasts (lightly –
I'm not hard-core S&M), and puts his cock against my lips. For
a moment, I struggle (playfully), and then take his Gorgeous
cock into my mouth as though it would save my life. Then he
goes down on me and eats me until am in sheer ecstasy. Then
he makes me beg for his cock. He teases and tempts me – turning
the tables on me – until I am almost crying for him. Then
he puts his cock against my cunt and ever so slowly goes
deeper. Then he pulls almost all the way out, but just when I
think he's going away entirely, he suddenly thrusts deep into
me, and we fuck and fuck and fuck, and it is glorious!!!!
We often (in reality) bond one another. The free one teases
the bonded one, then touches and kisses and caresses till we
are both frantic with longing. Then the free one unties the other
and we fuck away. My favorite thing to do when Lewis is tied
is to squat above his mouth, then raise again, just before he has
time to lick me. Then, after I masturbate a little, very close to
his face, I come down on his mouth. We are very, very happy
in our sexual life, and we very much enjoy our fantasies.
Thank you for listening.
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P.S. Although I am not interested in making it with an a****l
I thought you might be interested in knowing that reading
your chapter called “The Zoo” did turn me on!
 While the women whose fantasies appeared immediately
above found that acting out their sexual fantasies were unalloyed
bliss, this is not always the case. In translating images
from our mind into actual practice, a kind of one-way street
opens before us. If something we imagine turns out to distress
us, we can always shrug it off. “Oh, well – it was only a passing
thought.” But once you have put something into action, you
can no longer dismiss the reality of it, nor forget the memory if
the experience turned out to be unpleasant after all.
The first rule I would suggest if you want to act out one of
your fantasies is to be sure you know your lover well and that
there is a strong bond of affection between you. Above all, it is
important that you have some intuitive feeling that he is doing
it just for the kick of it – as you are – and not to express some
deeper layer of sexual distortion or rage within himself. If there
is a kind of disgust or anger mingled with his excitement – or
if he can only go through with the idea of acting out a fantasy
when high or d***k – look out. There may well be a post-coital
period on his part, not only of sadness, desperation, and regret
but also of real fury. His motives for acting out were ambivalent,
and not totally about fun. He will try to displace some of
his self-contempt upon you.
Rose Ann tells us that she once fell in love “with a rather
sadistic woman-hater.” While he was excited by acting out
spanking fantasies with her, “the more we got into this, the
more I loved him … and the more he lost respect for me.” Fortunately,
as we see in her letter, this did not end in crippling
her self-esteem. Her basic health and self-acceptance seem to
have won out in the end.
What I find interesting about Nessie's approach to acting out
her fantasies of “deference and obedience,” is that while it
turned out that both she and her husband had secretly harbored
these desires, they had never mentioned them to each other –
266
each partner in the marriage thought only she/he liked these
things. Another example of the deadly silence that rules most
bedrooms, killing our desires by suffocating our favorite
dreams.
It was only after she had read My Secret Garden and had
encouraged her husband to read it, that Nessie decided that
since other women liked these pleasures, too, she must not be
unique. She found “the nerve to tell him [her husband] about
my special fantasy and asked him to act it out.”
He agreed, and they began by taking one tentative step. He
slapped her. Then they had another talk, in which each one told
the other how they felt about , it. They both liked it, and Nessie
suggested going the next step.
I heartily endorse this experimental, step-by-step approach,
especially the effort to try to talk it all through in advance, so
that neither one develops new or frightening ideas that the
other is not ready for. Once you're into these scenes, the emotions
aroused can go right to the head more fiercely than a rush
of amyl nitrate – limits must be set up front, especially if you're
flirting with the emotions entailed in S&M scenes. What must
be agreed in advance is that either partner has the right to say
stop at any point, and no reason has to be given except that the
pain of the experience has begun to outweigh the pleasure. If
this is understood in advance, the other partner is not so likely
to get her/his feelings hurt, or feel rejected.
“At first,” Nessie writes, after they had agreed to go to the
next step, “I was nervous that the whole thing was going to be
a disappointment, but after he hit me just once, I knew there
was no danger of that. It was fantastic.”
One woman's pain is another woman's heaven.
Lizzy's letter may not strike you at first as a fantasy at all –
until you remember that the entire idea that Lizzy engage in
“lesbian sex” with Ethel was the erotic fancy of Lizzy's husband.
Before her first date with Ethel, he eagerly entered into a
little foreplay with his wife “until I began to lubricate. Then he
said, `Now you're Ethel's,' kissed me and left.” In the end,
Bill's fantasy has been much more completely acted out than
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perhaps even he dreamed; it has become what sounds like an
extraordinarily open and joyous way of life for all three people.
An interesting, if minor, note to Lizzy's letter is that while
she tells us how ecstatically happy she is when in bed with
either one of her two beloved partners (and I for one find her
very convincing), she nevertheless remains true to the basic
theme of fantasy: when she is in the arms of one lover, she
closes her eyes and fantasizes that she is with the other. 
Rose Ann
Thank you for your book. How needed it was. I'm glad to
have the opportunity to give you some of my experiences. I
hope they're interesting.
I'm twenty-three, single, college grad, working as a secretary,
gong to grad school for psych in the fall. I've had at least
twenty-five sexual relationships with men, half that number
with women. I really like both, although it is easier to be passive
with men, and as you will see from my fantasies, this is
pretty much where it's at for me.
At age four, my six-year-old girl friend and I would play
“Witchdoctor.” This consisted, from what I recall, of her bending
me over a box in my mother's closet, pulling down my
pants, and inserting her finger into my ass. I really used to get
off on this (age four?), and the Witchdoctor theme has persisted
until now (with hundreds of variations, of course), until
now it is almost impossible for me to climax without a form of
this fantasy. Since reading your book, I have discovered that it
works to think of the simple act of fucking, or of a woman (in
whom I may be interested at the moment) eating me. I never
thought these kinds of simple thoughts could turn me on
enough (too normal) to help me come. But thanks to you, my
“fantasy bank” has suddenly doubled in value.
About me: I masturbate all the time. Most every day
(whether I'm having a relationship or not). Lot of times, if I
stay home from work one day or on a Saturday when I don't
feel like going out, I can lie in bed all day and come again and
again and feel like I haven't wasted my day at all. Last night, I
268
came nine times before going to sl**p. Anyway … let's get into
my fantasy.
The main elements are my passivity at the hands of this doctor
or whoever (it's never a r****t). (Once after going through
customs on the way back from Mexico, and being told by the
customs guy that “We can strip you, you know, if we think
you've got dope on you,” I did a whole new fantasy on being
examined and searched by these sex-hungry customs men and
women. They're never rough, always very calm and methodical,
even when they're making me suck them off.)
In the main fantasy that I've had since c***dhood, a mad
doctor has somehow a*****ed me. I am in his laboratory (he is
in a white lab coat – faceless, of course). He has me strapped
down to an unusual examining table. Sometimes the table
branches out into a “v” at the bottom, so my legs can be securely
strapped wide open to each arm of the “v,” and the doctor
has easy access to my genitals. There are little metal caps
which are placed over my nipples. Wide metal circular bands
which fit around my breasts, which hold them up straight into
the air. Sometimes hot needles are inserted into my nipples (I
have done this myself sometimes and have been very stimulated
if I don't hurt myself too much). I am usually blindfolded
and gagged, or my mouth is propped open. The main apparatus
has, as its base, a huge black ceiling-height metal thing (like
the X-ray business in a dentist's office) …. From this, on the
end of a spring kind of thing, comes the actual device that will
penetrate my genital/anal areas. This latter, when inside me,
will buzz, vibrate, be electrically shocking in some way. The
device for my lower regions is three-pronged. From the center
of it protrudes a phallic thing, shiny metal, smooth, and huge.
This is inserted into my vagina. (By the way, the “doctor” always
uses words that are very clinical: “vagina,” “anus,” etc.,
never “cunt” or “ass.” Sometimes there is an assistant there
whom the doctor, orders about, “Insert the anal device,” “Hold
her down,” “Strap her arms securely,” “Spread her wider,” etc.
Hearing these words is very important. I say nothing, except an
occasional, “Oh, no, please don't.” But the doctor is constantly
talking, if not to his assistant, then to me: “Just relax,” “Hold
still,” “That's good,” “Don't move,” “Just lie still,” etc. He is
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always extremely calm and self-possessed, never becoming
excited or anything.) The second “arm” of the device is a
smaller version of the vaginal device, it is for my anus. The
third section looks like a miniature floor waxer. It is a little
round rubber thing (something like a washer for a faucet)
which is on the end of a short metal rod. This is positioned on
my clitoris. It will, when activated, spin 'round and 'round like
a floor waxer, “waxing” my clit to climax.
Although certain things vary, this is basically the one fantasy
to which I've climaxed for like eight years. I also get off on
thinking of being gently, but forcibly bent over a table or something
and being penetrated by a finger or a cock or a vibrator in
my ass. Actually, having hemorrhoids, I can't do anything like
this, unfortunately.
I have had the good fortune to have almost acted out my
doctor fantasy. This doctor is not your typical professional, as
you will see. Coming back from Florida one summer with a
bad case of scabies, I went to this guy on the recommendation
of a friend. Going late in the afternoon (after work), his office
was empty except for me and his nurse, and she was off someplace
far from the examining room. Instead of giving me a
gown or something or calling in the nurse (as I believe doctors
are required to do by law), he just told me to “take down my
pants and bend over the table” (the scabies were on my ass).
Needless to say, I immediately became so aroused I thought I
was going to faint. But all he did was poke around at the scabies
and give me a prescription and a date for a second exam.
Well, by the time the day for the second exam came around, I
was determined (encouraged by his unorthodox methods) to
have something happen. Just what that would be, I wasn't sure,
but I was determined. So, after a repeat of the first performance,
I began my spiel. “Dr. So-and-so, I don't really know
who else to tell this to, or where to turn for help. I'm twentytwo
years old and have never had an orgasm. I don't even know
what it feels like. What should I do?” I went on and on and on
with this oh-so-sincere look and tone of voice. He began his
answer by telling me what to tell my boyfriend to do. I countered
by saying that I had told my boyfriend things, and that
nothing worked. I wouldn't even know what an orgasm was if I
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fell over one, etc. etc. That's when he told his nurse to go home
(it was about 6 P.M.), and I knew I had it in the bag. His next
line almost made me laugh out loud with elation. He said,
“Have I given you a pelvic? Maybe there is something wrong
with you physically. Take off your clothes, and get up on the
table.” No gown, nothing. Just me COMPLETELY NUDE
climbing up on the table. I was so excited I didn't know if I
could keep from passing out. Well, the good doctor, surgical
glove well lubricated with surgical goo, went straight, and I
mean straight, for my clit. His “How does that feel? Tell me.
Tell me” bullshit was ruining it, though, and I had to tell him
to shut up. Anyway, I came, but was surprised to find that I
still had to fantasize that I was bound and tied up before I
could make it. Afterward, he wanted to fuck me, but he was
actually an ugly little man, and I very hastily thanked him and
split. Frankly, it was pretty dreamlike. I couldn't believe I had
had the nerve to do it, or that this fantasy had actually come
true. But, also frankly, the fantasy is much more satisfying and
exciting than that experience was.
Another “fantasy-come-true” happened with a rather sadistic
woman-hater that I was falling madly in love with. He got
off first on spanking me. Gradually, we progressed to his tying
me down to the bed and whipping the shit out of me with his
belt till my breasts, thighs, and ass were bruised for days. I
didn't get off on the pain per se, but on the psych of the thing,
especially when he would kiss and caress and pity the wounds
he had just inflicted. The whippings themselves didn't make
me come. I would usually have to masturbate while he was
whipping and fucking me (from behind), but if I did concentrate
on what was actually going on, it helped to get me off.
The mercy trip was the crucial thing here, I think. His loving
those parts of my body that he'd just finished wounding. (Story
of O?) Anyway, the more we got into this, the more I loved
him and felt possessed and owned by him, and the more he lost
respect for me, and there went that relationship. He wound up
calling me a sicky, and telling me how bad I was for him and
all. For a while, this made me feel really sick and perverted,
but I now realize, at least, that it takes two to make a sick rela271
tionship, and besides, what the fuck? How can you say something
that is “you” is sick or normal? If it makes up what is in
totality “you,” it is as unique and unlabelable as is each person
walking around this earth. So, that guy's hang-ups, as far as
I'm concerned, are his own.
When the .movie The Devils came out, a whole new fantasy
world opened to me. I don't know if you're familiar with it. The
“nun-possessed-by-sexual-demons-that-must-be-exorcisedthrough-
sexual-means” type of thing. Vanessa Redgrave, the
nun in question, had to go through the most delicious f***ed
tortures (having her breasts bound with barbed wire, etc.) It
turned me on so I had to leave in the middle to go home and
masturbate. The **** scene from Rosemary's Baby did the
same. At age seven or eight I saw a television flick about these
Martians that landed and were taking over earth by nabbing
the town's most prominent folks and drilling these little computerized
control devices in to the backs of their necks. Watching
that movie, I can remember feeling my cunt throbbing like
the dickens for the first time. Watching this beautiful, utterly
passive woman, her neck bent forward, and this drill beginning
to enter her neck … wow. I remember my mother came in and
wanted to tell me something just as this was happening, and I
threw something at her. I was so wrapped up and throbbing
and angry that she'd disturbed me. Of course, she thought I
was just into the flick. She didn't know why, I'm sure, but she
didn't talk to me for days 'cause of my throwing something at
her.
I usually don't fantasize about women while I'm masturbating
or fucking, except rarely, when I've met a woman I'd really
like to sl**p with and don't know if she's up for it or not. Since
reading your book, however, I've found that I can fantasize
about a (prospective) female lover eating my cunt deliciously.
I'll wind up calling her name and coming like a bitch.
Anyway, best of luck. What you're doing is really dynamite.
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Nessie
I have just finished reading My Secret Garden, and I
thought I would write this as a kind of “thank you.”
I bought your book for myself, and that's why I was quite
surprised when my husband – who never reads anything –
seemed interested in it. It was that that finally gave me the
nerve to tell him about my special fantasy and ask him to act it
out.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have been turned on by the
idea of getting spanked. My parents never did so I don't know
how it happened to appeal to me – but it did. As I got older and
knew more about sex, my horizons broadened a bit, and I enjoyed
the thought of being beaten with a belt.
My whole personality is geared toward male domination – I
hate guys who let women walk all over them. Taking this into
consideration, my husband is the perfect partner for me, the
kind who treats a girl fantastic in return for a little deference
and obedience:
But to get back to the subject, sometimes when we were
fucking, I'd ask him to slap me, and he always would, although
he seemed a little resistant.
The night after we had been reading your book, I got him
started slapping me while he fucked me, and after it was over, I
thought “what the hell,” he knows that other women like weird
things, so I'll ask him. I said, “Do you like hitting me?” and he
said, “Yes.” I asked him if he'd ever thought of trying it with
something else. “Like what?” he asked me, and I said, “Like a
belt.”
He seemed to like the idea, but we were both a little unsure
how to get started. I suggested we start with a spanking to sort
of warm up. He took me across his knee and slapped my buttocks
about ten times; then we got into a foreplay thing, with
him kissing me very deeply and fingering my cunt.
I had smoked a joint before all this and that, plus the anticipation
of what was going to happen, had me more turned on
than I can ever remember being. He asked me if I was ready,
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and when I said I was (was I ever!) he undressed me and told
me to turn over on my stomach.
At first I was nervous that the whole thing would be a disappointment,
but after he hit me just once, I knew there was no
danger of that. It was fantastic! It hurt (although not terribly),
but I wanted it to go on forever: I can't really describe the feeling,
except that I loved feeling helpless, and that he was so
much stronger, more dominant than I was.
We talked about it afterward, and it turned out that he'd always
dug that type of thing too, but was afraid to broach the
subject to me. Thank goodness your book gave me the nerve to
bring it up, or I might never have known.
So I guess that while some fantasies aren't ideal when
turned into reality, this one sure was. And it's all because of
you, really, so thanks a lot.
Kellie
I have just finished reading My Secret Garden, and found it
to be one of the most interesting books I've read in ages. I
thought I might enjoy sharing my thoughts with you.
I am twenty-three years old, and my husband is twenty-six.
We have been married for six years and have two c***dren.
I was surprised that most of the men you talked with were
so closed-minded about the existence of women's sexual fantasies.
My husband not only admits that they exist but gets very
turned on when I share my fantasies with him. Our sexual relationship
has always been good, but it gets more exciting all the
time, due to our fantasy-sharing.
I suppose my fantasies are typical. My favorite being that I
am seduced by an attractive man; sometimes he is someone we
know; more often, he is a stranger. I later tell my husband all
the details, relating it exactly, word for word, action by action.
Telling my husband what has happened to me is probably the
most exciting part of the fantasy. My husband insists that he
actually wants me to act out this fantasy. He wants to perform
cunnilingus on me (which has always been included in our
lovemaking) while I tell him what went on with this fantasy
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man. He wants to hear everything the man does to me, just as I
tell him about it in my fantasy. He says just thinking about it
makes him climax. I admit that I am seriously considering
doing it, but I'm afraid of jeopardizing our relationship. My
husband and I are very close to each other, and this is important
to me. The interesting thing is that my husband is very
jealous and possessive of me, and I'm afraid that if I really did
act out this fantasy, that it might not have the desired effect.
However, he insists that it would not hurt our relationship, but
would add to it, as long as I am completely honest with him.
Another fantasy of ours is making it with a black man.
Yes, my husband would actually like to “go down” on a
black cock with me watching all the action. Even though most
men would not admit to being turned on by another man's
cock, my husband does and is. He actually had an experience
with a black man when he was in the service, and had been
drinking quite a bit. He told me everything that happened, and
it did not repulse me in any way. In fact, it had quite the opposite
effect. It does not make him less of a man in my eyes I
know he is not a true homosexual, as he has proven that
through our relationship. But the thought that he enjoys sex so
much, that he thinks of pleasing men too, makes his sexuality
all the stronger to me. Know what I mean? I really dig his honesty.
Well, I guess I've gone on long enough. I hope that I've been
able to add something useful to your studies.
P.S. My husband has read this letter and has approved my
sending it to you.
Lizzy
I've just finished a wonderful experience – reading Secret
Garden – and am taking advantage of your request to send on
further experiences.
It was great to know that I'm not alone in fantasizing, or in
actually using four-letter words, which I now love. In your
sequel, I hope you will pay more sympathetic attention to lesbian
relationships, which changed my own life.
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For background – I am thirty-eight years of age, married fifteen
years to a wonderful man whom I love dearly, and we
have three lovely c***dren. My dear husband paid every possible
attention to me during our marriage, and made every effort
to give me sexual satisfaction. Over the years, he fucked me
constantly, entered me from the rear, went down on me, gave
me hours of foreplay, all to no avail. No matter what he did, I
simply couldn't come. Incidentally, I was a virgin when we
married. He tried being gentle, rough, ****d me in the middle
of the night, and nothing helped. I enjoyed being close to him,
and during any sex, I'd start to lubricate, get soaked, and then
I'd dry up. By the time he'd come in my cunt, I was just waiting
for him to finish.
My husband was frantic to make me come, the darling, but
of course he was enjoying me less and less, as he felt very selfish
coming when I didn't. Then he brought some magazine
featuring male nudes in an effort to arouse me, but they did
nothing for me. When those failed, he brought home some
girlie magazines, the porno types, featuring lesbian sex acts. I
found those exciting, and told him so, so he had me read them,
and then he'd go down on me, or fuck me, and while it was
more exciting, I still couldn't come.
After some weeks of this, my husband told me that his opinion
was that our problem was that what I subconsciously
wanted was sex with a woman, and, as he put it, this might
open the dam. When I objected, he reminded me that our own
sex acts were getting more and more infrequent, and he admitted
to me this was because he preferred to masturbate rather
than subject me to the torture of being aroused and then frustrated.
So I asked where one would find a woman, and he
laughed and said that if I opened my eyes a bit, I'd see that a
certain very dear friend of mine was more than casually interested
in me.
Well, for several weeks after that, I watched her very carefully
each time we had coffee together, or went shopping, etc.,
and little by little, I became convinced that my husband might
just be right. My girl friend, who was also married and several
years younger than I was, certainly displayed more interest
than I had noticed. I noticed, for one thing, that each time we
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met, her eyes went over my figure from top to bottom, with
special emphasis in the area of my tits, which are a firm 37.
Now that I'd been alerted, I noticed also that as we'd have coffee
or lunch, her eyes were much more on my chest than on my
face, and I concluded that my husband had read the signs correctly.
Also, I began to look her over, and found her very sexylooking.
I began to fantasize what it would be like to really
make love to her. I practiced, in my mind, and really enjoyed it.
Then, little by little, she introduced the subject of sex, and after
a while lesbian sex, which she said she practiced and loved.
When I asked if this didn't lessen her pleasure with her husband,
she said that, quite to the contrary, it added to her marital
relations. She (let me call her Ethel) told me her husband knew
and fully approved, and had in fact joined her and her girl
friend at times, and that these experiences stimulated both of
them to better and wilder sex. At one point, she told me outright
she was propositioning me, that I was the sexiest-looking
female she'd ever seen, and had always wanted to go to bed
with me. Incidentally, she was a believer in earthy language,
and what she actually said was that she wanted to suck my tits,
go down on me. My husband had never used such language
with me, but I found myself quite excited when she talked
about “fucking, sucking,” etc., and I also enjoyed her references
to tits, cunts, cocks, pricks, asses, etc.
Briefly, my husband continued to encourage me to try sex
with Ethel, with whom I finally made a date to, visit at her
home one morning when her husband would be at work. My
husband, whom I'll call Bill, was delighted for me. In fact,
before he left for work that morning, he subjected me to some
foreplay, ended by going down on me only until I began to
lubricate. Then he said, “Now you're Ethel's,” kissed me and
left.
I showered, dressed, and drove to Ethel's. When I arrived,
she was wearing just a sheer negligee, through which I could
quite plainly see her tits, and the vague outline of her cunt.
When she saw my reaction, she smiled, kissed me on the lips,
her tongue parted my lips and entered my mouth, and she had
my juices flowing again. From here on begins the fantasy
which I indulge in now whenever my husband goes down on
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me, fucks me, front or rear, and we have a sixty-nine. When I
am particularly desirous of a long fantasy, Bill will go down on
me for an hour or more so that I can relive my experiences with
Ethel. All these experiences, in the rest of this letter, when we
lived together in fantasy, have really made my real sex life
beautiful.
After a bit, she led me to the bedroom, where she first removed
her negligee. Her naked body did excite me – her tits
were smaller than mine, but beautifully shaped, with sexy nipples
which were erect. Her body was lovely, and what stimulated
me greatly was that her cunt was clean shaven. She was a
beautiful sight, and looking at her, realized how right my husband
had been – I found her extremely desirable.
She came to me, kissed me again, placed my hand can her
tit, which I must admit felt terrific. I never expected a woman
could feel so exciting, which I suppose sounds very naive.
Then she began to undress me, while I continued to fondle her
tits, to my own surprise. When nay bra came off, she exclaimed
over my beautiful tits, caressed them, rubbed the nipples, and
sucked them till they came erect. Last off were my panties,
whereupon she knelt and kissed my cunt. Then she told me
how beautiful I was, that I had the most desirable body in the
world, that she wanted me desperately, etc. Between her talking
and playing with me, she had me going very nicely, you
can be sure. It also served to make me forget that she was female,
and she became just someone else who desired me passionately.
She then laid me down on the bed, laid down beside me,
and subjected me to a very long period of foreplay. She kissed
me from head to toe, turned me over, and did the same to my
backside, turned me back, kissed me with her tongue in my
mouth for a long period, sucked my nipples, lingered at my
thighs, kept telling me how much she wanted me for what
seemed like hours, with me getting more and more aroused by
the second.
Finally, when I felt that any more would be unbearable, I
begged her to get on with whatever she had in mind. With that,
she smiled, turned me to lie across their large bed, my hips at
the edge. Then she placed two pillows under my head, explain278
ing that half the thrill of getting sucked off was to be able to
watch it as well. She then knelt before me, spread my legs,
lifted them until my knees were at my chest, and began the
most incredible experience of my life. Her tongue ranged my
thighs, came up to my cunt, roamed the outer lips, came down
and through my inner cunt, circled the clitoris, came down
again and circled the inner lips, the inner wall, repeated this
innumerable times, came slowly up after I don't know how
long, circled the clitoris, flicked across it, sideways, then up
and down, then sucked it in between her lips, licked it rapidly
now, circled it more rapidly, began to lick me faster and more
demandingly, brought me up several times more, till I thought
I'd go mad. Finally, she decided to make me come, and now
she concentrated on my clitoris, licking it up and down faster
and faster. And then it happened! I had expected that I'd soon
begin to dry up as usual, but seeing Ethel's loving head between
my legs, feeling her magnificent tongue in me, I found
my juices flowing more and more; then suddenly, I felt my
stomach muscles begin to contract violently. Every feeling was
centered in my cunt, my legs went down and closed around
Ethel's head, and as she continued to lick me, I felt as if I were
exploding, and I began to come. My body convulsed, my hips
came up off the bed, and Ethel had all she could do to stay with
me. With my first orgasm, my darling Ethel just sucked in on
my clitoris; in between, she licked it rapidly, and with each
succeeding orgasm she sucked me in, then licked me again,
etc. You must understand that each orgasm was a real convulsion,
each one f***ed a shriek from me, as this was the culmination
of so many years of frustrated sex. According to Ethel, I
had somewhere around twenty orgasms that first time, and I for
one can believe it. After my last orgasm, Ethel kept her tongue
in my cunt, no movement, just holding it comfortingly against
the upper wall and clitoris, ready if any further orgasms occurred.
After some five minutes or so, I did have one of those
delayed spasms, so she merely licked the clitoris very gently till
it was over.
Nancy, she was real good, but so is Bill, and the difference
was in having a woman go down on you, seeing a female head
between your legs. How right Bill and Ethel both were! As
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long as I live I will never forget that first climax, and will always
be grateful to Ethel.
After I had rested awhile, lying in Ethel's arms, full of gratitude,
I put my hand to her tit, which again felt wonderful,
kissed her, feeling that I owed her quite a bit, then ran my hand
down to her clean cunt, which fascinated me. I had never even
thought about going down on a woman, had often thought that
the odor or taste must be unpleasant, but with Ethel, it was
different, as I didn't give these things a thought. I was so grateful
I'd have done anything for her. As I proceeded with foreplay,
Ethel said it wasn't necessary for me to reciprocate, that it
would be enough for her to masturbate, and her husband would
give her anything she required. I'm glad to say I was woman
enough to insist, and I followed the type of foreplay she had
used on me, although not so long. When I put a finger in her
cunt, I found her very wet, which excited me to think I could do
this to her. When I got around to using my tongue on her body,
I loved sucking her nipples, her thighs, and, rather to my surprise,
I found that her cunt not only smelled great but tasted
wonderful. It was at that moment that I understood why Bill so
enjoyed going down on me.
As an aside, if my typing is a bit erratic, Nancy, I've been
masturbating through much of it, because the memory is so
intensely exciting that my juices flow like mad when I think
about it, let alone write about it. I've come twice so far, once
with a finger and once with a dildo, so I can now continue.
Well, I ended that first time by sucking her off in her favorite
position – I lay flat on my back, she straddled my head,
lowered herself till I could reach her cunt and clitoris easily,
and she kept her upper lips spread to give me full access. Also,
in this position, she had me feel her tits throughout, rubbing
her nipples, fondling her, etc., and right before she was ready
to come, she had me put one arm around her, and insert a finger
in her ass. She explained that the combination of my finger
with the strain of straddling me, made for a more intense climax,
and judging from the results, she was right. I just loved
sucking her off, and licking her stiff clitoris was out of sight.
When I came before, I was somewhat embarrassed that I had
shrieked with each spasm, and when Ethel came very violently,
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I was delighted that she also tended to scream while coming.
When I was through with her, I felt like a million, because my
first time out, I had enjoyed the greatest of all thrills – making
somebody come intensely, most especially a woman, as making
a man come is automatic.
Before we finished that first day, Ethel introduced me to a
female sixty-nine, which I also loved, and we fucked each
other, at the same time; as strange as that may sound. Ethel
had what she called a double dildo, eighteen inches long, with
an imitation head and balls on each end. Before our first sixtynine,
she and I had mutual foreplay for some time. Then when
we were both flowing greatly, she opened a drawer and took
out this giant dildo and explained its use to me, asking if I felt
like trying it. By then I was ready for anything, so I said fine.
So she lay me on my back, inserted about five or six inches in
my cunt, had me turn on my side with one leg raised. Then she
lay opposite me, put her legs between mine and slowly worked
her way into her end of the dildo. With that, she began to
pump, told me to do likewise, and we developed a nice rhythm
as I do when fucking Bill. It was marvelous! The rubber dildo
felt like a man's cock, you could control how much you
wanted, and I could watch Ethel fucking away just as I was. I'd
never thought such a thing possible, but you live and learn.
Anyhow, we spent six or seven hours together that day, and
Ethel made me come I don't know how many times. Before I
left her that day, she'd made a woman out of me, that's for sure.
When I got home that day, I was all female. I should mention
that, before I left Ethel that day, she was very concerned
about my relations with Bill. After she and I had had a great
deal of sex, about an hour before we were due to part, she said
I must be prepared for Bill. So she gave me about an hour of
preliminaries, got me lubricating thoroughly, and then sent me
home!
Well, I told Bill all about it that evening, of course, and excited
him no end. He was delirious at the thought that I had
actually come, and couldn't wait to get to me. While we were at
dinner, he kissed me, felt my tits, put his hand under my dress,
tongued me, and in spite of all the times I had come with Ethel,
he had me flowing again. When I felt his cock, it was hard as
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could be, and when he fucked me well before dinner was done,
for the first time in our married life, I came! Then he went
down on me, and I came again. Finally I went down on him,
and believe it or not, while I was sucking his cock, I myself
came once more! All this I owed to Ethel!
Bill insisted that I continue to see Ethel, which I, of course,
was most happy to do, and I've continued to have sex with her
since. I keep Bill fully advised of what goes on between Ethel
and me, which stimulates him no end. When I came home after
my first experience with Ethel, Bill and I had a whole night of
sex – he fucked me, went down on me, we had a sixty-nine. I
must admit that, after Ethel, Bill looked better to me than ever
before, and more important, the first time Bill sucked my cunt,
I came beautifully, and even more significant, when he fucked
.me, I came for him, and this was the greatest gift he could
have received!
Since then, Bill has expanded his thinking on sex. With his
urging, I still see Ethel several times a week, and I religiously
tell Bill everything that goes on between Ethel and me. After
each time I have sex with Ethel, sex with Bill is much more
exciting and satisfying.
Additionally, Bill has now brought me some new appliances,
as I've also learned to masturbate satisfactorily. He
brought me, for instance, a very sophisticated dildo with a rubber
bulb, which one fills with warm soapy liquid. When I jerk
off with it, which is frequent because Bill travels quite a lot, I
use it to fuck myself (it's nine inches long, like Bill), but when
I'm ready to come, I just squeeze the bulb, and the warm soapy
liquid just like Bill's semen squirts into my cunt, so it's pretty
much like having Bill there. More often, though, Ethel is with
me and fucks me with the dildo, or sometimes Bill himself
does it for me. The point is, Nancy, that either Ethel or Bill can
make me come today easily. Bill travels quite a bit, and when
Ethel is not available, he telephones me at night and directs me
in the use of this great dildo.
Ethel made it possible for Bill to make me come almost at
will. Today, he can fuck me and make me come, go down on
me, screw me in the ass, and, very strangely, even when I go
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down on him, I can also come. All of this because I'm thinking
of Ethel at all times.,
I must mention that Ethel also introduced me to another
marvelous act. At one point, she inserts a dildo deep in me, had
me across the bed; then she sits beside me, spreads my cunt's
lips, and licks my clitoris while she fucks me with the dildo.
Bill does this also, now – very effective!
While I was with Ethel, she suggested to me that my cunt
would be much more attractive if I would shave it clean. She
said she'd be glad to do the job for me, or Bill could. When I
suggested this to Bill, he was thrilled, and that very same
night, he stripped me, undressed himself, first used a scissors,
then a woman's electric razor, and shaved me clean. When he
saw my naked cunt, he went down on me at once, and my cunt
had the same effect on Ethel. Both said it was the most beautiful
cunt ever, and since then, Bill and Ethel have taken turns
shaving me. After each time, I get sucked off, which is great.
Now, Nancy, I come regularly, with almost anything that's
done to me. Bill fucks me, and I come; he goes down on me,
and I come; he fucks me in the ass, and I come; he puts a dildo
in my cunt and sucks my clitoris, and I come; Ethel goes down
on me, and I come; she fucks me with a dildo, and I come;
with her or Bill I have a sixty-nine and I come; when I masturbate
with a finger or a dildo, I come. (Time out right now for
coming with a dildo in my cunt.)
Whether you use any part of this letter or not, Nancy, it's
been a great pleasure to write it. More than anything, it's great
to be able to use basic language, as men do. Since my experience,
with Ethel, my husband uses appropriate four-letter
words, which thrill me. Where before he used to say, “let's
have intercourse,” he now says, and I answer in kind, “Let's
fuck, dear, or I want to suck your cunt or fuck you with a
dildo.” In reply I tell him, “Fuck me, Bill, screw me in the ass,
suck my cunt, or I want to suck your cock.” Ethel uses the
same type of language, as I do with her, and she'll phone me,
for instance, and say, “ Lizzy, darling, let's get together today
so I can suck you off, fuck you with a dildo, or let's have a fuck
with a double dildo.”
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Also since Ethel, I've masturbated almost daily, as I find I'm
much more sexual than I had thought. When I'm in real need,
I'll phone Bill at his office, and he'll instruct me how to masturbate
over the phone. If he's alone, he'll also jerk off while
we're talking. He'll tell me to arouse myself by feeling my tits
and nipples, jerk myself off with a finger, then just how to insert
the dildo, fucking me by phone and always making me
come.
This is the point of it all, Nancy, which is that for some
women such as me what it takes is another woman. For this
reason, I urge that, if you are publishing a sequel, a bit more
attention be paid to lesbian sex, which has saved me from a life
of frustration, and also figures to do the same for many other
women. After every session I have with Ethel, Bill is sexier
than ever. After a day spent with her, Bill spends most of the
night fucking me, going down on me, having sixty-nines, etc.
All through sex with him and Ethel, I just keep coming like
crazy, and if you ask me who's more effective, I couldn't really
say. Now that my curt is clean-shaven, Bill fucks me and goes
down on me more than ever, and he insists that I have sex with
Ethel at least a few times a week. As Bill predicted, the dam is
broken, and I come almost at will. Also, I don't have to tell you
that to be aroused, I don't need the actual experience, just the
fantasy of it will do the trick.
So, Nancy, if you do publish a sequel, please stress lesbian
sex much more, as there must be thousands of women who are
in the position I was. Bill and I were never happier, never had
more sex, and I enjoy both of them completely. Bill fucks and
sucks me off on the average of ten or twelve times per week,
plus at least two days with Ethel. In addition, I masturbate four
or five times per week when Bill is home, twice that when he's
away.
As a postscript, Ethel is now after me to join her and her
husband in a threesome, but I've suggested that she join Bill
and me instead. In a foursome, I suppose it would be expected
that the two men have sex as well, and this is not for Bill, although
Ethel has hinted that her husband might not be averse.
We shall see! I'll keep you advised.
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Again, Nancy, it's been a great pleasure to be able to write
frankly. Sex with women and men is wonderful, and I would
like to think that I have helped many other women .make up
their minds.
P.S. I've masturbated three times during this letter, so
whether you use it or not, I've benefited by three great climaxes.
Like I said, just thinking or writing about my past experiences,
my fantasies, turns me on.
 I have chosen the letter that follows to be the last in this
book, because it sums up for me all that is best about women's
sexuality. Joni acts out her own fantasies, and those of her
lover too; she even made a living “for three months” out of one
of them. Her fantasies are as varied and unexpected as some of
the best kinds of sex itself – cheerful, self-accepting, and even
humorous, but filled with women's unending desire to see sex
as a vehicle for a more abundant life. Joni is serious in her
writing, but never heavy, imaginative to the point of approaching
science fiction, but so filled with the erotic juices of life
that her futuristic machines are never more important than her
lusty women and men.
Joni tells me that her letter contains her “own very genuine
fantasy.” The fact that she has put it into skillful story form
does not mean that the emotions are not as real as those in any
other woman's fantasy. All fantasies are “made up.” Joni's are
made up by a writer. That's all. 
Joni
Since c***dhood, I've wanted to be a dancer – with a streak
of exhibitionistic sexuality involved. There is something sexually
seductive about performing dances. In earliest puberty (or
before – I can't remember exactly) I daydreamed such oldfashioned
things as being a maiden captured and f***ed to
dance naked for the enjoyment of a sultan or Arabian prince
(who no doubt fell in love with me and married me to make the
fantasy proper and respectable). In adolescence, I admitted to a
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secret desire to be a stripper. But to my inhibited and puritanically
raised mind, such an ambition could never be realized,
and so I used to dream of being a movie star who played the
role of a stripper in a film. Talk about inhibitions! This desire
of mine was certainly never mentioned, let alone fulfilled, after
I married a very puritanical husband (he was a lousy lover, and
we were never good friends, either), but, luckily, I met a man
who uninhibited me (we've been living together for almost
seven years now). His own fantasies centered around the element
of the brazen femme fatale – strippers, women who pose
in provocative stages of dress and undress in men's magazines
– so in his presence, hurray! I can live my fantasies and please
both of us! When I told him of my secret desire to be an honest-
to-God stripper he encouraged me.
I put together an “act.” And I performed it to an audience in
a topless bar for over three months. The audiences were impressed
– they grew larger every week. I was as sexy and seductive
as I could possibly be – putting on an act, that is.
Something about patterning it, performing over and over,
makes it grow stale – a job to be done. It was really marvelous
fun, at first, but to keep on creating new acts and dances and
props was distracting to my number one Art, that of writing.
And the old got boring, and not particularly sexy after a while.
I was an actress, performer, creative artist, more than a woman
involved in sexual pleasures. I gave it up, but not before I'd
enjoyed the sensation of inspiring desire in many men, and
pretty well fulfilling – as best as reality can – my secret ambition.
I still love to dance seductively. And I've added a dimension
to sexual fantasies (my own) I never had before.
In my fantasies now, it is the future, and I have transcended
time. Sexual mores have changed. I am a professional exhibitionist-
seductress-prostitute. Every night, I do my job, perform
my art, and fulfill my sexual needs – all at the same time. In an
amphitheater, a large Sex Machine (miracle of science) has
been installed. An audience of more than a hundred men pay a
big admission price to participate. I am the star. I wear gorgeous
clothes – the slinkiest dresses, furs, gloves … the most
delicate, sexiest underwear. I wear something different every
night. I enter the center stage – a sort of glass domed affair
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with soft spotlights. The men can watch me from little cubicles
– one for each man, so he can't be distracted by the others.
Electronic waves produce sensations and effects for each man
inside his individual room. The glass wall between us is supposed
to be one-way, so that they can see me but I don't see
them (some are still shy, self-conscious despite the new morality),
but actually, I wear contact lenses that enable me to see
them all very clearly.
Inside the stage, I begin to seduce them. I slink and recline;
dance a little, slowly remove my garments, one by one. I wear
a see-through bra and panties, sit on a low couch, one leg
drawn up. I roll over, move about. I take off the panties and
bra. I dance and move as if I were making love. All the while, I
can see each man in his condition of stimulation. A whole sea
of erected penises (aroused by my actions) encircle me. I can
watch while some of them go into the spasms of orgasm,
ejaculating fountains of semen, while they enjoy the exact sensations
of having entered my body as I move, as I do … and
look so desirable. Of course, the Sex Machine works for me,
too. Unknown to the men, I can choose any one of them I want,
and recreate his exact actions and form in my own body; or I
can push any number of buttons (they are hidden under the
cushion of the couch) and, in effect, be copulating with ten of
them at a time. The sight of me in the midst of orgasm and
multi-orgasm makes all those who haven't yet climaxed, come,
and those who already did, do it again. It's a gigantic orgiastic
vision all around me, while I copulate with over a hundred
men.
The future holds a promise of much sexual fun for me. Perhaps
I am one of the few science-fiction-sexual-fantasists
around. Perhaps it's a good way to escape the mundane and the
residue of Puritanism. The future … or life on another planet.
What if there were a planet where sexuality had NEVER had
an element of forbidden evil? What would it be like? I like to
imagine … . On this planet (Earth), all pleasures but one are
enjoyed without secrecy. We like to eat, and we go to dinner
parties and gourmet restaurants. We dance and sing at social
functions. We perform and watch the arts. Some of us become
gourmets and connoisseurs of various pleasures and arts. What
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if we could treat sexual pleasure the same way? No, neither
brothels nor modern swinger's clubs work the way I have in
mind. They lack something – erotic finesse, style… Maybe
what I'm thinking of is impossible, because the best sexual
designs work between two people who are in tune to each
other. It's pretty hard to share and incorporate such personal
intimate needs with those very different from yourself. Or is
that a false concept created out of my time and place? So far it
has been true, but for me in fantasy, one can be a time and
space traveler as well as a designer of everything to suit oneself.
I travel, to a very far distant time. Life-styles have changed
enormously. Sexual needs can be fulfilled in different ways.
One can stay home with a lover … or go out to charming
places. Pleasure Places. A little like a combination of a fine
hotel, nightclub. Lovers can go together, for that matter, to
enjoy the entertainment and stimulants. Or, lacking a lover,
one goes alone. There are many choices – things to suit different
tastes. The decor is always charming, and conducive to
pleasure. There are foyers and hallways that are museums of
beautiful erotic art. Statues, paintings, I have my favorites –
Hercules pleasuring Aphrodite, done in enormous white marble,
every detail marvelously executed and visible. I like the
warm-water, perfumed baths with their fountains and waterfalls
and underwater lights. Of course, whenever there are
dancing girls, I'm one of them (often the star). I can do everything
from a Moulin Rouge can-can to a harem girl's gyrating
belly dance, not to mention a tableau of naked statues come to
life – Venus and Apollo; a nymph and a faun, consummating
their desires in a ballroom that recreates a misty green forest.
Couples can dance, in many ways … costumed; naked; in dim
light making love as they move to waltzes, tangos. There are
rooms where a handsome, naked masseur pleasures me with
massage … his skill matched by his enjoyment of his job.
There is a large room where men and women walk about, exposing
their bodies while they sip champagne. They fondle and
examine each other in the manner of enjoying tasty canapés
before a banquet. This is entertaining to me, because most of
the men have erections – a room filled with erected penises is a
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dream room come to life. What fun to see so many shapes and
sizes – to give one a little tweak, another a nice rub … . A certain
type pleases me most. We all have our preferences. Occasionally,
a man will slip one to me … right inside. Then I can
tweak or rub him with other than my hand. We are a parade of
beautiful bodies, engaged in little dancing and fondling movements.
No ugliness here. No pot bellies, pendulous breasts, no
wrinkled skin (cosmetic surgery corrects all those things by
now; I think it was Marlene Dietrich who said, nudity is easy
for the beautiful; difficult for the ugly). If one wants to grab a
quick orgasm, one can, but there's more to come. Sometimes
you just can't help getting carried away. Fulfillment is a delight
at any given moment, titillating those who are not directly involved.
I couldn't help myself for a moment there; he just
popped it in while we were dancing, and we spilled champagne
over my breasts (we got rather active and excited), so I
think I'll go bathing … . The pool is languidly warm; I swim
like a fish after playing in the cooling fountain. Beautiful men
swim by me with erections like fish nosing into the crevices of
my body. One pokes gently at my backside while another
teases my pubes. The silhouettes of our bodies look graceful
with the underwater lights shining. The lights turn rose, then
blue, then green, then gold … then rose again. I spread my legs
for the pleasant sensation of catching fish … my breasts are
being stroked by wet slippery hands. Erections swim at me
from every direction … I think I've caught a good one. He is
strong enough to hold me above water while I squeeze his penis
up inside me. The water froths and bubbles. The water has
a delicious Jacuzzi movement – waves pulsing and lapping,
inside and out. I'm a bit of a glutton, but this is one gluttony
that never makes you fat … Again … just hold it there another
moment. I can hear applause. They applaud me, and I applaud
myself. It's clever to be such a glutton … I could do it again
and again … but then I'm not trying out for the Olympics or
anything. Big deal. I'm just here to enjoy myself.
The invitation comes from a most interesting man – the impresario
of my favorite Pleasure Place. He has a lot of style and
is rather jaded. They say he has a special, room where the most
extraordinary things take place. Rumors are that he's so used to
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all this, it takes something quite beyond the ordinary to please
him. He's a bit of a voyeur of course (but that's fun and allowed
…)
Looks a little bit like Humphrey Bogart … George Raft …
Rudolph Valentino … and maybe Alonzo Cludish (he was
twenty-first century, so anyone reading this, twentieth century,
wouldn't know whom I was talking about), Marcello Mastroianni
– of course, Marcello in 8½ would do quite well … .
The impresario this particular fellow … all jaded and Don
Juanish, it is said, has a room where women come, and go out
of their minds with desire. He has a machine, they say, where
twenty-four-hour-orgasms are produced and used to write the
most crashing symphonic music (his son, a composerconductor
of great genius takes credit)… That is, you see, if he
can drive a woman crazy enough in this room of his, the electronic
impulses of her agony-ecstasy are reproduced in musical
form. It's just a rumor, what he can do … but of course it's
scientifically possible.
His invitation has nothing to do with music. It seems, on the
surface, to be purely part of his own lucrative business. (He is
the businessman, his son the genius. Sort of a Godfather thing
… .) What he wants, he says, is that I become a giantess for a
week or two. He can extend the cellular structure of my being
(sexual and otherwise) to as great a degree as he wishes by the
use of a new machine he has purchased. I can be enormous;
mountains for breasts … a vagina like Carlsbad Caverns … .
I don't get it …. What's the point?
Men have never fulfilled their real sexual desires, he explains.
They dream of crawling about like hungry worm-babies
in mountainous, squishy breasts … and then they would like to
go further … be sucked into the soft, deep caverns of the
womb. God knows, it was the best heaven they ever knew … .
We've never been able to give anyone this opportunity before.
The machine I bought for you cost me a billion.
Why me?
I've been watching you … when you come here to enjoy
yourself.
290
He watches me with admiring, appreciative eyes. There is
something fascinating about the dark wisdom of jaded, knowing
eyes. I like them better than questioning, worried ones.
Watching me? (Little old me … .)
Yes, and I'm sure you'd really enjoy this, and I would enjoy
your enjoying, and so could hundreds of others. Picture yourself
… an enormous giantess. Your body a universe. Each man
a phallic symbol. You are the sea, and they can swim in you.
You are the moon rising above them. Your tremendous orgasms
shake the earth. People would like to see that … feel the
tremors. Can you imagine?
Something is missing, I say. Who could satisfy me now? A
penis the size of the tip of a used toothpick? And can you picture
how ugly my skin would be? Pores that would look gutted
by the acne of meteorites. You ever see pores under a magnifying
glass? I don't want to be a monster.
That would be a simple thing to correct with the machine.
We can program it to make your skin as smooth as you wish.
You will be entered by a team of scuba divers. Their equipment
is not the clumsy old-fashioned kind that would be irritating
and in the way. Think of it … penis-sized men struggling up
into your depths – as many as would please you. You would be
the first woman in history to experience orgasms by the entry of
the entire body, and being, of a man into your tunnel of love.
You can return to normal size anytime you wish.
Listen, I say, the contractions inside my vagina during orgasm
might squeeze a poor little man to death….
No, that's not possible. They would enjoy the sensation of
your orgasm over their entire bodies – it would be a sexual
rebirth.
First of all, on this night when I'm to become a giantess –
the greatest sex goddess of all time – I get to pick the vaginalastronauts
of my choice. All fine specimens, muscular, stronglooking,
possessing my favorite type of cocks. I choose more
than I figure I'll need, just for the fun of choosing. Then, because
there is no inside building large enough to contain a giantess,
we go outside into a very lovely, starlit, moonlit night.
We won't need any spotlights, I say. The moonlight is just perfect
(I'm still a little worried about how my skin will look). I
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step inside the designated few acres of space and walk to the
center. I'm wearing a lacy, push-up bra and little panties. Because
on my body they are as much a part of my cellular structure
as are my fingernails and hair, they will enlarge with me.
The machine is beamed on me; its rays feel rather like a warm
breeze. I can smell the faint odor of ozone produced by the
tremendous rush of energy. I begin to grow, quite painlessly –
a pulsing sensation. I am rising up toward the starry sky. It
seems. as close as a ceiling. The moon is a glowing light bulb.
I can see for miles, lights and buildings, roads and mountains,
rivers and seas. Down below me, hundreds of miniature people
stare upward in wonder and awe. A big safety net is being
quickly constructed on my acre of space (which seems only a
few feet to me now). My squadron of deep-sea divers stand
ready and waiting at its edge. They are naked except for suitably
shaped helmets on their heads (like the reddish tips of penises
– outsized to them, but now quite suitable to me – a sixor
seven-foot man, the equivalent of a six- or seven-inch cock
…). Dance music has been turned on over loudspeakers, but it
is faint and far away to me. “Turn up the music, please,” I say,
and my voice, louder than any loudspeaker, reverberates over
the landscape. The Lilliputians below clasp their hands over
their ears. The music is turned up, and I can hear the drumbeat.
I sway to the rhythm. I am a beautiful giantess-sex-goddess.
No one has ever seen anything like me before. I pull down one
side of my bra, exposing a soft white mountain of a breast. I
draw down the other side, and two heavy, mountain-breasts
swing over the crowd, joggling as I dance. Some of the little
men (overcome with the sight, it would seem) faint or collapse.
I feel very heavy, but it is a pleasant, slow heaviness like slowmotion
films. I have a beautiful, monstrous, symmetrical body.
I put my fingers on the top of my panties and begin to push
them down. I push them down to my thighs, exposing a naked,
slowly gyrating pelvis of unbelievable size. Little heads crane
upward. I can see their wide open eyes and mouths. I have to
be careful when I draw up one leg (I'd hate to lose my balance
and step on anybody). I pull my panties off, one leg and then
the other, stand with my legs spread apart. “So, Little People
… “ I whisper very softly, although my voice still echoes from
292
mountaintop to shining sea. “You've never seen anything like
this before?” I rock my pelvis and spread my legs wider apart
as I bend my knees. For a moment, my bed-sized clitoris is
exposed above them. They jump up and down with excitement.
“Let's see it again . . again . “ I can hear them crying in little
voices like mewing kittens. “Please, Great Sex Goddess …
show us again!” I fingertip my labia apart for a few seconds,
smiling down on them. The moisture of my excitement creates
drops of falling rain. Giant Goddesses do everything on a grand
scale.
“Well, my cocky astronauts …” I whisper to my crew. “Are
you ready for your journey?”
This starts a flurry among them. They scurry about under the
safety net, carrying metal parts. In a minute, they've fashioned
a towering (to them – only loin-high to me) erector-set stepladder
between my legs; I watch them clamber up. The first and
fastest cock-man reaches the top, and I pick him up and press
his naked little body against one of my great breasts. He
squirms and rubs himself into the flesh appreciatively. When I
take him away from my breast, I see that his adorable toothpick-
tip-sized prick is sticking straight up. “You darling little
things you … “ I whisper (loud as a foghorn) and ever so gently,
hold him up to my mouth, licking him all over. His legs
spread and kick delightedly in the air while my big wet tongue
licks his loins and bottom. I fit his tiny cock like a pencil tip
between my lips. He hangs on to my loose-hanging, twentyfoot-
long hair, and I can hear little groans and moans coming
from under his helmet while I suck as if his cock were a small
straw, wriggling my tongue against it. In a few seconds, he
collapses limply in my hand, and I can taste a few miniature
drops of semen on my tongue. My other cock-men have
reached the top of the ladder by now and are probing and examining
my giant clitoris. It tickles quite pleasantly. I spread
my legs to make the most of it. “Ummm …” I murmur echoingly.
They certainly know their business. Some of them may
have been special masseurs before this adventure. “Well … “ I
whisper to the limp one in my hand. “Do you want to go on
with the others, or do you need a breather?” There are noises
293
from under his helmet I can't quite hear. I put the phallic tip
into my ear. “What did you say?”
“I said I want to go on. rd like to be the first one in if I may.
A big step for mankind, and myself as well!”
I repeat these brave words in a whisper for the crowd's benefit.
They applaud – an oddly squeaky little sound. I put the
cock-man back on the ladder top with the others. “He's first,
remember. After all he got to the top of the ladder first.”
His phallic-tip helmet enters my cavern smoothly. Then he
seems to get a bit stuck, pushing hard with his feet against the
ladder. He is a bit broad in the shoulders for a cock. I have to
help a little – turning him this way and that until his shoulders
work through. I can feel the pressure inside me of his squirming
and pushing upward.
It is quite an extraordinary sensation. “Wow … “ I say, forgetting
the Lilliputians' delicate eardrums, but most of them are
too wonderstruck and excited to bother covering their ears.
They've all undressed by now and are empathetically imitating
myself and the cock-men. The women with wide-spread legs
and rocking hips; the men shuddering and wriggling as if trying
to squirm into my body. My number one cock-man has
disappeared, but I can feel him working inside me like crazy.
By God, I can tell you, a broad-shouldered cock with arms and
legs is something else!
The next one needs some assistance, too. I'm getting so
steamy and ready, I shove him rather violently into me when he
gets stuck. The two of them fill me up. If they keep wriggling
like that, I'm going to come any minute. My torso is shaking all
over the place. I jerk my hips, and my feet jump a little, shaking
the ground. But now the second one has disappeared after a
moment of legs sticking out and kicking. I do like to have
something stretching apart the opening, rubbing my clitoris. I
assist a third, as far as he'll go, which is just about right. Penishead
inside and broad shoulders where I need him outside.
With the three of them overflowing my insides and moving like
snakes or fish, I'm almost out of my mind …. It's going to be
an orgasm to shake the earth; I hope I don't hurt anything … or
anyone… . But I've gone this far, and it's going to have to come
… . “Look out!” I say, like a crash of thunder. I dance wildly,
294
and the world shudders and shakes. The moon-bulb in the sky
jiggles, and the stars whirl around. It's coming, and it's going
to be big; oh, so sweet and big!
The first orgasm expels a cock-man like a ping-pong ball
into the net. I don't stop, but just keep working at it, and the
second jolt sends the second man whirling out like a t****ze
artist. I've got one good one left … I can feel him moving from
the depths of my insides like a hearty eel. I can't help screaming
with the pleasure of this last one – shudders in my whole
body that make trees sway and rocks come rolling down mountains.
As I complete my giant orgasm, number one cock-man
shoots forth from my inside Pleasure Place; his darling little
prick is ejaculating a tiny fountain of semen into the air.
I sit down in my small space, a little out of breath, being
careful not to disturb anything or squash anyone. The earth is
still shaking. I see that my Lilliputians are having the orgy of
their lives, and a few thousand orgasms – even in miniature –
can create quite an earthquake.
The next night, I request that I be given a longer, larger area,
because I think it would be great fun to have more cock-men,
some of them rolling about and squirming and climbing over
the soft flesh of my gigantic breasts, belly … while others take
turns climbing up my great loin-crevice to dip themselves in
and out of my soft red bathtub clitoris. This would have to be
done while I'm lying down, stretched out to my full seventyfive
or eighty feet. Then I can just lie there and feel them pushing
themselves up into my cavern until the sensation drives me
out of my mind ….
During the week that I was a Giant Sex Goddess, the impresario’s
son wrote some of the greatest symphonies of his career.
As late as the twenty-third century, people were still going
into orgasmic spasms just listening to them …. Then everybody
got too jaded for that. Some rather extraordinary genital
evolutionary changes had occurred … but then, that's another
fantasy.
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AFTERWORD
 I have been able to print only a fraction of the letters I
have received since publication of My Secret Garden. As I
stated in the opening chapter, the overwhelming note of selfacceptance
in these letters, the low level of guilt about sex,
places this collection of material a generation ahead of those
women who contributed to Garden.
In a sense, it took more courage for the women who appeared
in my first book to talk about their fantasies. That was
still a time when it was widely thought, even by ther****ts, that
only “troubled” women had fantasies. The subject had not yet
been given mass media okay, it had not been widely discussed
on television, in newspapers and magazines.
The women who appear in these pages, above all, had the
comfort of having read My Secret Garden before they wrote
me. It helped them to look at themselves and their sexuality in
a new light; it gave them information on the most intimate
ideas and experiences of other women with which to compare
themselves: As you have noticed, almost every letter contains
the phrase, “Thank God, I'm not the only one.”
But women's sexuality is only half the picture. If we believe
in liberation, we must accept the logic that women cannot be
free if our men are still chained to old, outworn, macho notions.
If women are experts at sexual fantasy (as I believe we
are), perhaps our outspokenness about it, our honesty about
what we really think and feel will encourage men to reassess
their sexual lives too.
Half the mail I have received since Garden has been from
men. Most of them have been fascinated to find there was an
aspect of female sexuality that up to now had been hidden or
closed to them. I originally wanted to include these letters from
men at the back of this volume. I thought it would be informative
and exciting for women, but I thought men too would receive
reinf***ement, finding broader dimensions to their own
296
sexuality. It was this latter idea – plus lack of space – that
made me change my mind and go along with the suggestion so
many men made in their letters: why not give male sexuality
the space it deserved, and do a totally separate book on men's
sexual fantasies?
If Garden had freed women to roam in wider sexual latitudes
than they had believed possible or were capable of, it had
also suggested to men that they too might be erotically more
imaginative than their own literature and culture had so far
depicted them. Any person reading Garden, or this book, can
feel how liberating it is for a woman to know that even her
most bizarre tastes and ideas are shared by other women. It is
the compelling emotion of both books: “Thank God, I am not
alone.” I used to think men shared some mystic mass camaraderie,
that simply being a man meant you belonged to “The
Club.” I have come to believe that many men, in their sexuality
at least, are as hidden and lonely as we women have been.
The fact is, I don't know anything about men's sexual fantasies
… except for the glimpse I've been given in the mail to
date. The main thing it has taught me is that I have been wrong
to assume that male eroticism was the simple stuff on which
we were all raised: the films, magazines, advertisements, and
so on, that depict men in our culture as compulsive consumers
of the Penthouse Bunny, the man who can't get enough tits and
ass, who dreams of devouring women like peanuts, and who
doesn't feel sexual unless he's aggressive.
At the close of this book, there is an address where men can
write me. I hope they will be as frank as the women whose
letters we have just read, and will send in their fantasies – during
sex, masturbation, and those that pop into the mind at all
other times, too – for a forthcoming book. Please use the language
which is natural to you, and include as much autobiographical
detail as possible. What makes a fantasy most interesting
and valuable to a researcher is an understanding of the
life out of which it grows.
I expect to be surprised by what I receive. It is time that men
too were released from the normative bludgeoning of the media
that equates cowboys in cigarette ads with masculinity, and acold heart with virility. If we have been surprised by the variety
and extent of women's sexual imagination as seen through their
fantasies, why should we not expect to find a new dimension in
men's sexuality as well?
And if we do, won't both sexes be all the better for it. 
A LAST-MINUTE WORD FROM
NANCY FRIDAY
In my continuing work on women's sexuality, I would be
grateful for readers' help. I would like to hear your sexual
fantasy. Please be as detailed as possible about what happens
in the fantasy; include as much of your own autobiographical
history as you can: age, sex, marital status, f****y
upbringing, sexual preference. As always, I guarantee
your anonymity. Please write to me: c/o P.O. Box 634,
Key West, FL 33040
NANCY FRIDAY
July, 1982
297... Continue»
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The Fxxxxy Affair

Peter was in the seventh grade and he was a slim cute looking boy
with blue eyes and shoulder length blonde hair. In a few months Peter would
officially become a teenager and he looked forward to that day when he
would finally be a teenager and not a p*****n. Peter was like most boys his
age, horny nearly all the time. It didn't help that his older s****r Sandy
was a gorgeous f******n old girl with 33B titties on a sweet body with long
strawberry blonde hair that framed her freckled face. Her eyes were an
alluring green shade and her lips were soft and pouty. One of her nicest
features was her tight and very round bubble butt. Not only was she
beautiful, but in the past six months she went from dressing as a demure
girl in age appropriate clothing to dressing more like a slut in short
skirts and nylons and even heels. It was an unexpected transformation given
how conservative the f****y was.
Sandy looked very much like a smaller and much younger version of
her forty year old mother. Betty still had faint freckles and the same eyes
as her daughter, but her strawberry blonde hair was cut short. Betty also
had 36D breasts and a larger, but equally proportioned bubble butt like her
daughter. She too began to dress provocatively in skirts, and nylons and
heels. This seemed very strange for his formerly very straight mother.
Peter was unaware that it was Sandy who encouraged her mother to
dress as she did. As a result they had spent a small fortune on lingerie
for each other in the past six months. Lately they regularly bough
themselves several new lingerie sets on an almost weekly basis. Now, when
he saw his beautiful mother wearing sexy clothing it made life even more
difficult for Peter. Because of all the new underwear in the house there
were always multiple pieces of sexy lingerie in the bathroom hamper on a
daily basis. Something in the house had changed. His mother and s****r
dressed and acted almost the direct opposite from only six months
earlier. While Peter couldn't quite understand why or fully grasp what he
was seeing, he consciously loved the transformation as most any horny boy
his age.
Just as it was difficult for Peter, it was growing equally
difficult for his father Frank. At 45 he was still handsome in a sort of,
well, feminine way. Ever since he met Betty after he dropped out of
college, Frank had lived a very straight life with Betty, who was not very
sexual, which is what attracted him to her at that time in his life. From
the beginning of their relationship Betty insisted on abstinence and their
dates were rather old fashion. Frank liked her reserved nature and that she
was so innocent when it came to sex. She was just what he needed at that
moment. In fact, he could probably count the number of times on both hands
he and Betty had sex that ended up with intercourse. Two of those times
resulted in Sandy and Peter.
It's not that she did nothing for Frank sexually, though he had
demanded almost nothing, which suited Betty's sexual personality. Sometimes
at night, Betty in her conservative long nightgown would feel Frank's hard
cock touch her. On rare occasions she would reach under the covers and into
his pajamas and grasp his throbbing cock, then silently she would rapidly
stroke it until Frank squirmed and twitched followed by a gush of hot cum
in her hand. It never took long because he no longer masturbated, so his
only relief was from Betty's occasional stroke off.
On the surface Frank liked his sexual relationship with his
wife. She was safe. He was safe. She made sure that nothing ever got out of
hand. Since they met he lived a nearly celibate life. It was the life he
f***ed himself to adopt—and with the help of Betty—he managed it for
25 years. But something in him, deep down and suppressed would creep into
his dreams. It was a rare dream for many years, but in the past few years
he would have an erotic dream of some vague feeling about once a
month. There were even a few times he woke up from what had to be a wet
dream because his crotch was soaked in dry cum. The increased frequency
disturbed the sexual world that Frank had so carefully constructed for his
own good. But when he too began to notice the change in wardrobe and
attitude of his wife and daughter he grew uncomfortable. His feelings when
he saw his wife bend over in a short skirt and reveal thigh highs hooked to
garter straps made him nervous. The dreams increased in frequency, but the
only thing he could ever remember when he would wake with a raging hardon
was something to do with sexy lingerie. All the lingerie in the house was
starting to drive poor Frank crazy too as he struggled to repress the
feelings that were creeping back into his life. He desperately tried to
ignore all the sexy undergarments around the house because he swore off
wearing women's things just before he met Betty.
Frank grew up with two older s****rs and for many years snuck into
his s****rs' room to fondle their sexy things and eventually try them on
when he was 13. But early in his freshman year at college he got caught
wearing panties by the other guys in his dorm. His reward was that they
made him dress in his sluttiest lingerie and become the dorm slut. Frank
was regularly gang fucked in his sissy ass and mouth for the rest of the
year before he left school. He'd been in terrible conflict. He loved
wearing lingerie and he loved sucking cock and being fucked, but the
constant fucking and abuse he took only served to make him more of a
slut. He got to the point where he would go to each dorm room wearing his
corset, nylons, and heels begging the guys to let him suck off their
cocks. He was caught in the culmination of sissy madness that had him ach
desperately for cock. He slid deeper and deeper into perversion and when
school was over he was so frightened of what he'd become that he shut down
sexually.
Then he met Betty, so sweet and innocent. So cute and wholesome he
fell madly in love with her, and never told Betty anything about his dark
perverted sexual past. He worked hard to hide it and purge his mind of the
perverted sissy sex he'd experienced for nearly seven years. Their
relationship worked for many years and he felt safe with his sexuality as
he knew it would never get out of control as long as he was with
Betty. However, all his careful constructs began to unravel and kinky
sexual thoughts slowly crept into his mind the more he saw his transformed
wife and daughter. But something was still not quite right, because despite
Betty's new look and apparent attitude, she did even less with him
sexually.
Then about a week ago, Betty uncharacteristically broke out a
bottle of Jack Daniels and the two of them began to drink and talk. Frank's
nervousness caused him to slug down several shots in a row and after many
years of little or no alcohol, he found himself quite loaded and slurring
his speech. As he grew more d***k, he let his eyes take in his beautiful
and sexy wife. She sat there across from him in a short pink skirt and
white blouse, somewhat transparent so that he could see a pink bra faintly
underneath. She sat there crossing and uncrossing her nyloned legs and
would periodically flash her shiny pink panties, much to Frank's
dismay. Betty took this opportunity to ask him about his sexual past;
something she'd never asked before. Frank was reluctant at first, but Betty
and more Jack coaxed a shocking revelation from Frank. Shortly before Frank
passed out on the couch he told his wife how he used to love wearing his
older s****rs' lingerie. That was as far as Frank got in his confession,
and he was so far gone he had no memory of what he told Betty.

Peter must have been doomed to succumb to sissy lust because of
genetics. He'd already been sneaking into his s****r's underwear drawer and
eventually tried on some of her cotton panties and bras. To his pleasant
surprise he found wearing panties made his cock incredibly hard. This was
before Sandy's wardrobe began to change. He practically trembled when he
felt his s****r's little cotton panties and would sniff the crotch. He
shuddered as he learned to hook her plain white cotton bras on his hairless
chest. There had been nothing sexier in the house for him to find, but what
he did find made him incredibly horny and made him feel very naughty.
Just before Sandy began to change her wardrobe, Peter was at a
friend's house hanging out in his bedroom when the discussion turned to
sex. His friend Jack wanted to show him something he found on the web after
he discovered sexual chat rooms. "You've gotta see this Peter," Jack said
excitedly as he typed in the URL: www.imagefap.com. Peter sat next to Jack
as the home page loaded when he was suddenly presented with sexual
pictures. "Someone gave me this link and there's tons of hot pictures
here."
Peter watched as Jack navigated the site filled with amateur
content of all sorts. The little thumbnails of naked people made him
curious and his cock twitch. Jack reached a gallery and selected a
thumbnail and a moment later the screen was filled with two average looking
women wearing garter belts and corsets, nylons and heels, panties and nylon
covered tits. They had their arms wrapped around each other and their lips
practically touched and between them he saw two tongues entwined,
glistening in mid kiss. His cock pulsed. He licked his lips and stared, not
wanting to remove his eyes from the two luscious women who looked to be his
mother's age; but neither as pretty. However, seeing them in highly sexual
lingerie made them look irresistible. That kiss had his cock drooling.
"I like to jack off looking at this picture," said Jack rubbing the
outside of his swollen jeans as his eyes studied the familiar image of two
mature women in lingerie, kissing and cupping each other's pantied
pussy. "What do you think Peter?"
Peter struggled to put into words what his mind and body felt. As
they came close to his lips, Peter thought it might not be such a good idea
to tell his best friend what he really thought; how he imagined it was his
mother. "My boner's really hard," was all he could manage, but it was the
right thing to say.
"Yeah," said Jack opening his jeans and taking out his hairless
twelve year old cock in his hand. "Come on Peter, take yours out and let's
jack off and look at pictures!"
Peter shifted his eyes from the lingeried lesbian women and looked
at Jack's right hand slowly sliding up and down his now very hard four inch
cocklet. Without thinking, Peter pulled out his own now hard, five inch
veined hairless boy cock. His own left hand took its familiar grip and he
began to stroke in exact rhythm with Jack. Both of them stared at each
other, stroking their raging hard boy boners. Neither had ever seen another
hard cock in person, and Peter had never even seen a picture of one. They
grew very quiet and watched each other demonstrate their personal milking
style.
"Oh fuck!" Jack breathed heavily as he jerked his now glistening
cock. "I'm so fuckin' horny watching you jerk off with me!"
All Peter could manage was to hiss, "Yesss!" His mind began to race
with sexual thoughts he'd never mentally articulated. His cock felt
wonderful in his hand and his hand felt wonderful on his cock. "Oh Jack
this is so fuckin' good!" With that Peter began to furiously pump his now
purple cock, knowing he was getting so very close to squirting a hot load
of boy cum. He was so turned on he decided he would suggest that they both
stroke each other. He hesitated wondering if Jack would think him gay for
suggesting, but looking at Jack's throbbing boner glistening in his
pistoning fist allowed him to overcome his fears. He opened his mouth to
suggest jacking each other when suddenly there was a loud pounding on the
bedroom door.
"What are you two boys doing in there Jack?" His mother's shrill
voice penetrated the closed door as if she were standing over them.
"Talking about a school project mom!" Jack called back as they both
desperately raced to put their now shrinking, but still horny cocks into
their pants and display a Google search window on the computer.
"Open up the door young man!"
Jack stood up and quickly opened the door. His mother peered into
the room and Peter smiled back at her.
"You boys better be staying out of trouble," she said as she turned
from the room, satisfied there was no trouble to break up.
"Wow, that was close," Peter said, still shaking from being so
rudely interrupted from the horniest moment in his nearly thirteen year
life. He was also disappointed that he lost his chance to see if Jack would
have agreed to some mutual masturbation.
"She's such a fuckin' pain in the ass," Jack complained, but added
much to Peter's surprise, "If only I could get mom to jerk me off." He
chuckled to himself. Peter tried to imagine watching Jack's mother lying
him down on the bed, wearing her underwear, and she would jerk off her
horny squirming boy. It made the already frustrated Peter even more horny
to squirt with someone.

That night Peter was in his room and knew he'd be undisturbed until
morning. He sat down at his computer and tried to remember the URL Jack
typed in to show that incredibly horny picture. It took just two tries and
he was rewarded with the same home page. Only this time he could study it
in detail. What he saw was a screen full of site members with a thumbnail
and a little blurb. He saw that a number were listed as crossdressers. He
paused to think about that as he noticed a list of galleries on the
left. Peter decided to scroll down the list and see what was there. He
stopped when he saw a Crossdressing category. He stopped, and then clicked
his mouse on the link. A moment later the main window was filled with
several rows of four thumbnails each. It didn't register right away what he
was looking at until he selected a picture of a young woman in a garter
belt and bra set. When the full image came up Peter was stunned. He has
expected to see a young girl and her pussy, but instead he found himself
looking at a young guy in sexy lingerie with a hard cock bulging the black
panties. He suddenly realized this entire gallery was of guys in
lingerie. Guys with big cocks, little cocks, young cocks, and old cocks. He
sat there for nearly an hour going through gallery after gallery rubbing
his ever growing bulging pants. His own cock, throbbing and drooling in his
pants, had produced a wet spot on his jeans. At that moment he suddenly and
quite sadly found his s****r's cotton underwear very boring. Now that he'd
seen lots of guys wearing all sorts of incredibly sexy lingerie, he knew
somehow he had to find some and try it on; but he didn't have a clue where
he could find such sexy things.
For nearly a month he wore a pair of his s****r's pink cotton
panties and a matching bra when he stared at the thousands of pictures on
the website. Every night he would squirt a hot boy load and every time the
urge to stroke or even suck one of those hard cocks grew stronger. Then he
found a gallery of nearly a hundred pictures of the same guy who looked
like he could be Peter's father. It was obviously not Frank, but in the
middle of a seriously horny and kinky masturbatory haze he could look at
the guy and imagine it was his father wearing the sexy corsets and bras and
garter belts. When there was a close-up a very hard cock poking from a pair
of silky pink panties, he began to imagine it was his father's cock and
soon he was obsessing on how his father's cock must look when hard and even
better in panties.

Peter's new revelations and focused interest was taking root just
before the change crept into the house. When it did, he sort of suspected
something was going on because his regular snooping began to pay off. Peter
decided it would be fun to look at his s****r's internet history to see if
she wasn't smart enough to remove it. Sure enough one Sunday afternoon when
she was gone, Peter found the previous night's history as Sandy had left
the browser open all night.
Peter selected a link at random and was suddenly taken to a site
with called Older and Younger Lesbians. His jaw dropped and his cock
instantly hardened in his pants when he saw not only pictures, but the
video links to streaming porn. Videos of older women, usually in lingerie,
seducing or being seduced by young girls. He couldn't help himself and took
out his cock and began to milk his raging boy boner. It didn't take long
for him to squirt hard thinking that his older s****r was into
lesbians. Older ones too, and Peter wondered if Sandy had similar fantasies
about mommy as he did about daddy.
Then soon after the sexy underwear began to appear in the laundry
hamper. Suddenly Sandy's cotton panties started to disappear and be
replaced with all sorts of colorful nylon panties. Before long new bras
appeared and then much to his amazement, garter belts and nylons and
teddies would show up in the laundry hamper.
One afternoon all alone in the house, Peter checked out his
s****r's underwear drawer knowing there would be new stuff to see. He was
right. Where once there was only cotton there was now colorful nylon
lingerie that made his heart and cock throb just looking at it. Finally one
of his wishes had come true. He had finally found the kind of sexy lingerie
the crossdressers wore in their photos. He was in heaven and at every
opportunity he tried to figure a way to try on his s****r's lingerie.
One day when Peter was all dressed up in Sandy's purple bustier
with matching panties, nylons, and heels, he decided to see if some of what
he found in the hamper belonged to his mother. Peter went into his mother's
room and bent over her bureau. The garterstraps pulling taught on his
pantied ass, while the panties clung to his little round bubble butt; he
looked in his mother's drawers and saw she too had all sorts of new and
sexy lingerie. He did his very best to hide his activities, but try as he
could, just two days before Frank told Betty his secret fetish, his s****r
discovered her b*****r's secret when she came home early and spied him
wearing her lingerie lying on his bed and jerking off. She never let him
know she saw him, but she told her mother.


Peter didn't just get the horny genes from his father. He got a
healthy dose from his mother, as did his s****r. It had been nearly six
months since Sandy first came onto her mother. That fateful day came when
her father and b*****r were away camping. Sandy had been getting hornier as
every day passed. She consumed lesbian porn from the web and her horniest
times were with videos of a daughter seducing her mother. For a few weeks,
Sandy had been looking more closely at her mother. She saw how much they
looked alike, but Betty was a more womanly version. She began to obsess
about her straight and prim mother, until finally she resolved to do
something about it.
Sandy has already acquired her first really sexy lingerie, so she
picked out her sexiest purple bustier with garter straps, matching panties,
nylons, and her four inch heels. She dressed carefully, putting on makeup
with lipstick and her favorite blue eye shadow. She knew her mother would
soon come in and wake her up to go to soccer practice. So Sandy decided
she'd wait in bed in her lingerie and rub her nylon covered pussy until her
mother came into the room.
Finally, the door opened and Betty entered the room. She saw Sandy
splayed out on the bed furiously rubbing her panties and twisting a nylon
covered nipple. Betty froze in the doorway. Her eyes were fixed on her
daughter writhing on the bed, moaning and squealing. She knew her mother
was there but didn't care. She was going through with her plan and make
herself cum while her mother stood there watching. Suddenly Sandy opened
her eyes wide and stared hotly at her mother's beautiful face. It was like
a mirror and both of them immediately picked up on that.
"OH MOMMY!" Sandy wailed as her hips bucked wildly against her
rubbing fingers as she had a violent orgasm while she never broke contact
with her mother's eyes. As Sandy recovered from her most intense orgasm,
her mother didn't move a muscle. Sandy was encouraged and said, "Mommy,
you're so beautiful and sexy! I can't stop thinking about how beautiful you
are!" Sandy spoke impassionedly while she kept rubbing her now wet panties
as she lifted her ass from the bed. Oh mommy! Please won't you help me?"
Sandy pleaded with her mother, her smoldering eyes burning into Betty, who
by now had flushed a deep shade of red. "Touch me mommy!" Sandy
begged. "Please help me cum for you!" Wracked by another orgasm, Sandy
moaned out loud, "I want you to make me cum mommy! Please!"
Betty was lost before she entered the room. When it came to sex she
was very naïve and even as a c***d she had rarely touched herself or
thought about sex. But when she did; when she allowed herself a very rare
pleasure she would think of her teacher at school as she rubbed her
pussy. But when her mother caught her just playing with her pussy—unlike
the erotic display Sandy was pitting on—she scolded her daughter and
impressed upon her that nice girls never touched themselves there other
than to go to the bathroom. Now here she was, roles reversed, confronted
by her formerly demure daughter, who had been replaced by a writhing sex
maniac begging to have sex with her mother. Her brain was in overload. The
programming from her mother was very strong. But compared to the seething
passion Sandy was pouring out, Betty's sexuality suddenly was becoming
enflamed and she feared would soon be out of control.
Betty kept staring at Sandy's busy fingers and her knees grew
weak. Then ever so slowly Betty found herself sitting on the bed next to
her daughter. She reached her hand out and gently felt Sandy's cheek. Sandy
grabbed her mother's hand and roughly placed it on her wet panties. "Not my
face mommy!" Sandy demanded. "Here on my panties! Rub me and make me cum
mommy!"
As soon as Betty's fingers touched her daughter's wet nylon
panties, felt the heat from the seething pussy beneath the material, she
moaned and fell onto her daughter. Her hand now did exactly what her
daughter demanded. Sandy was now in the dominant role and demanded her
mother make her cum. "Make me cum mommy! Make me cum!" Betty found herself
willingly obeying and proceeded to rub Sandy's panties and proceeded to
make her cum at least four times. With each orgasm Betty grew more inflamed
and put more lustful energy into her work.
"Is this what my baby needs?" Betty would ask Sandy as she slipped
a finger inside her panties.
"Oh yesss, mommy!" Sandy whined, "finger my cunt mommy!" Her hips
bucking hard against her mother's loving fingers.
The two of them spent the weekend making wild love. When they
weren't fucking and sucking, Sandy ordered her mother to take them shopping
to get some new sexy lingerie for her mother and some more for
herself. That began Betty's plunge into the world of awakened
sexuality. She had decades of withheld horniness, and she was thrilled to
be living out her c***dhood fantasy with her own daughter. It made her feel
wicked, it made her feel perverted; but it made her feel so horny she'd do
anything her sex starved daughter commanded.
Sandy enjoyed running the show and Betty enjoyed being told what to
do. Betty also discovered she had a serious fetish for tight silky
lingerie. No more boring cotton panties. Now it was time to go for the
cheap whore look to please her voracious daughter. From that moment on
whenever the two of them could get alone they would have sex, but they
increasingly found it annoying to have to work around when the boys were
not around.
Things changed when Sandy told her mother what she saw when she
spied on Peter wearing her lingerie and stroking himself. Sandy told Betty
what she saw when she had her mother on the bed in her black corset and
nylons, happily dildo fucking her mother's wet pussy with their new double
dildo. Sandy was also wearing a corset, but it was pink with matching
nylons and panties. She was snuggled close to her horny mother, humping her
mother's nyloned thigh with her slick wet pink panties. As she fucked her
mother's wet pantied pussy with the slick dildo, she twister Betty's
nyloned nipples making her moan and squirm. When she knew Betty was close
to cumming, Sandy began to tell her mother how she caught Peter dressed in
sexy lingerie, milking his hard cock to a hot squirt. Hearing Sandy
describe the erotic and kinky vision caused Betty to moan and buck her
horny hips against the dildo in her daughter's little hand. Sandy happily
realized that her mother was turned on by the idea of Peter wearing
lingerie.
Then a few days later, when Frank confessed his teenage
crossdressing activities to Betty, she wasted no time telling Sandy. The
next time they were making love and Betty was in the same position as Sandy
was previously; Betty got Sandy on the edge of cumming and then told her
that her father used to wear his s****rs' lingerie and get off. Well,
hearing that plunged Sandy into a violent orgasm as she visualized her
father dressed up as a nylon slut, while her mother vigorously pumped her
daughter's wet pussy with the dildo.
That afternoon Sandy decided they would see if they could
precipitate something erotic and kinky with Frank and Peter. The next
Saturday morning Betty and Sandy would go shopping and leave the boys home
to put away the laundry. They had planned carefully and washed two loads of
their combined lingerie and dumped it into laundry baskets and a third load
in the dryer. As Betty and Sandy prepared to leave the house—dressed in
some very revealing clothing—Betty instructed Frank and Peter to put
away all the clean laundry. They were told that her things were mixed in
with Sandy's stuff and that they should separate the laundry and match up
the various sets of clothing. They didn't tell them it was all lingerie.
Peter was feeling particularly horny that day and was annoyed that
his mother gave him a chore with his father. All he wanted to do was go to
his room, shut the door, look at the crossdressing pictures, and put on the
bra and panties he had stashed away in his room. Then Peter would stroke is
hard cock until he finally let himself cum. So when his father said they
should get the laundry out of the way Peter grew sulky because of how horny
he was, but resolved to wait.
"Daddy," he whined. "Why do we have to put away their laundry?"
"Because your mother told us to do it." Frank said. "You know we
can't argue with her. So, let's go get the laundry and bring it upstairs to
our room and sort it out on our bed."
The two of them went down to the laundry room and turned on the
lights. Both of them stopped in their tracks as they beheld the piles of
sexy lingerie. Suddenly Peter's mood picked up and he eagerly opened up the
dryer and began pulling out yet another large hamper of mixed lingerie. As
he handled each garment he found his cock growing in his underpants.
Frank stared at all the lingerie. His recently sexually conflicted
mind made him look at the delicate undergarments and stockings more like he
used to when he was a teen. This was dangerous. He found himself growing
aroused and didn't want his son to notice. He wanted to get this job over
and done with as quickly as possible. "Let's hurry up and go sort this mess
out," Frank said carrying two of the hampers upstairs to his room. Peter
followed behind with the third hamper brimming with bras and panties right
in front of his face.
"Remember what your mother said we have to do," Frank said as he
quickly dumped the massive mountain of sexy underwear on the king-size
bed." Nervously he began the difficult task of sorting Betty's underwear
from Sandy's. It was difficult because Sandy didn't wear obviously teen
girl stuff, but the same sexy things Betty wore. The only difference was
the sizes, which were similar, as many of the matching sets were for both
of them. This required the two of them to handle each piece and examine the
label or hold up the item for sizing.
Frank struggled to contain himself. He tried to think about work or
anything else to try and make his cock behave. Peter, on the other hand,
allowed himself to get more and more turned on. He took his time examining
each piece. His fingers lingered and caressed the silky nylon and lace in
all different colors. He was the proverbial k** in the candy shop. As he
did so he periodically glanced over to his father. At first he didn't
notice Frank's difficulty, but when he saw his father taking longer than
necessary to determine the owner of a pink nylon bustier with garter
straps; and he saw that there was a noticeable bulge in his father's
shorts; his brain—and his cock—suddenly began to run wild.
Peter kept sorting the lingerie, but now he was excited knowing it
made his father horny too. His brain was filled with the images of the CD
that looked like his father and he found himself aching to see his daddy
wear some of the lingerie. His lust was enflamed by the naughty and
perverted idea. He just wasn't sure how his daddy would take a sexual,
i****tuous, gay come on. But Peter was sure his father was getting turned
on, so he decided to test the waters. He picked up a purple nylon corset
with six garter straps dangling from it and saw that it belonged to
Sandy. He held it up to his chest and said, "Hey Daddy. Look how pretty
this one is!"
Frank had been lost in a pair of size five pale blue panties that
obviously belonged to Sandy. He was imagining what they must look like on
his daughter. He was getting really hard and found himself rubbing against
the corner of the bed. When Peter spoke about the corset Frank looked over
and swallowed hard when he saw his son holding the corset around his
chest. His eyes stared like smoldering embers.
"Gee daddy." Peter giggled, "Sandy sure has some very sexy things
doesn't she? What's this thing called daddy?"
Frank just stared and said nothing, Sandy's panties still in his
hands, his fingers mindlessly rubbing the slick nylon.
Peter could see he was making an impression on his father so he
picked up the matching purple panties and rubbed his cheek with them and
said, "These are sure soft daddy. Much nicer than my boy underwear."
Frank was losing it. Memories flooded back into his brain of how he
used to go nuts when he wore his s****rs' panty girdles and nylons. His
breathing grew heavy as his cheeks noticeably flushed. Still he remained
silent, afraid what he might say to Peter. Desperately he tried in vain to
contain his growing horniness.
His son pressed on, drew close enough to Frank that he rubbed the
corset against his father's hand and said, "Maybe I could try this on
daddy." Peter smiled at his obviously nervous father. Peter believed he'd
cracked some sort of outer shell, because his father was decidedly excited
by all the lingerie.
As in a daze, Frank stared hotly at the garment and heard himself
saying against his will, "Okay Peter...try them on and let's see how you
look." He couldn't believe he just told his son to put on his daughter's
sexy corset. His cock reacted by throbbing hard in his pants.
At the same time, Peter couldn't believe his father actually
agreed. He said, "Okay daddy, I'll go in the closet and try it on." With
that Peter pranced from the room into the large walk-in closet holding his
s****r's lingerie in hand. Frank stood nervously, still fondling the
panties u*********sly as he contemplated what he just told Peter to do. The
familiar heat in his crotch and dryness of his mouth was beginning to take
hold.
Meanwhile, Peter quickly stripped naked and began to put on the
corset, panties, and nylons. It didn't take long because he was well
practiced putting on that particular piece. A few minutes later Peter
swished back in the room wearing the matching purple lingerie. "Oh daddy!"
he gushed, "This feels incredible!" Peter danced around his father
caressing the lingerie that covered his lithe young p*****n body. "What do
you think daddy?"
Frank was growing woozy under the intense sexual bombardment of his
son clad in purple nylon, obviously totally turned on by what he was doing
and how it was affecting his daddy. As Peter drew close to his father,
Frank reached his hand out to feel the purple nylon panties stretched
taught over his boy's little bubble butt, "I think you look...very horny!"
Frank hissed, surprising himself with his words; but they were true.
Peter looked incredibly horny prancing around in the purple corset
set; his own fingers feeling his nylons and then his growing little boy
boner in the panties. Peter had fallen into the pit of his new found sissy
lust and there was no stopping him now. He knew he had to squirt badly and
he knew he wanted his father to help him.
"Daddy," Peter said with mock shyness, as he picked up a pink
corset that was his mother's. "Do you want to try this one on and see how
nice it feels? They won't be home for a while so we can try things on
before they get back."
Frank looked at the beautiful pink shiny corset with garter straps
and bra cups. Then he slowly looked at his son and saw the boy's purple
panties tented out. Frank involuntarily licked his lips and said nervously,
"Do you think I should?"
"Sure daddy!" Peter bubbled with overt sexuality. "Can I help you
put it on? It may be tricky for you to handle."
As if in the middle of some teenage wet dream, Frank found himself
telling Peter to help him with his mother's corset as he stripped off his
clothes. When he was naked his six inch cut cock stood out rock hard,
purple and throbbing, with a little drop of clear precum slowly drooling
from the tip of his rigid cock to the floor. Peter watched the clear drop
drip to the floor and giggled.
Immediately Peter wrapped the corset around his father's hairless
chest and felt him tremble as the cool nylon encased his body. Peter
quickly hooked and laced the pink corset then got the matching pink
nylons. "Here daddy, step into these."
Frank let Peter roll the wonderful silky nylons up his quivering
thighs. He hooked the tight garters so the nylons tugged at the
straps. Peter could see his father's hard cock leaking profusely as he
tugged the tight pink panties up his nylon covered thighs. He finally and
reluctantly pulled them up and over his father's raging hardon and then
stood up next to him.
They stood before the mirror and gawked at how incredibly horny
they both looked wearing corsets, nylons, and panties. Their eyes were wide
with lust as they stared. Then slowly they turned toward each other and
Peter looked up at his father and parted his lips. Frank looked down at the
beautiful horny boy. Slowly he lowered his head until his tongue touched
his son's burning lips. It was like an electric spark was set off between
them. The next moment Frank mashed his mouth against his little boy's pouty
lips and moaned. Then suddenly it was Peter who slipped his tongue into his
father's hot mouth. When Frank felt his son's tongue invade his mouth he
shivered and moaned. The two of them melted into each other, their hands
entwined their lingeried bodies. Their fingers greedily caressed the silky
nylon that encased the two—now desperately horny males—wearing slutty
lingerie as they kissed hot and passionately. The two of them groped and
kissed with searing passion. As their pantied cocks ground in tight women's
underwear, it fueled their all-consuming lingerie sissy lust. They had
become lost to their passions and began to whimper and moan as their wet
tongues probed each other's hot mouth.
Peter thrilled at finally kissing another person. Even hotter was
the fact he was kissing his father who wore hot lingerie with to him. Held
in his sissy father's arms, Peter madly fucked his tongue in and out of his
father's lips. He could feel the effect it had on his daddy. The rapid
tongue fucking made his daddy groan and suck harder on his sissy boi's wet
tongue. Peter finally felt like those guys in the pictures wearing lingerie
and sucking and fucking each other with sissy abandon. Peter was ecstatic
that his father so willingly accepted kinky i****tuous sissy sex with his
twelve year old sissy boi.
If Peter thought daddy was getting into their crossdressing sex so
quickly, Frank felt as if it was all he could do to hold back. The weeks
leading up to this moment had opened the Pandora's Box of sissy sex and
rekindled his long dormant, but not forgotten kinky tendencies, especially
wearing lingerie. Now as he stood there wearing his wife's shiny tight pink
corset, nylons encasing his legs, and his panties strained against his
raging hardon; Frank was faced with an overwhelming wave of long suppressed
sexual energy. Memories suddenly floodedhis mind and body.
He looked in the mirror as they kissed. It was erotic beyond
belief. His flaming hot little faggot sissy son tongue fucked his daddy's
wet lips, which caused Frank to work his lips like the sphincter at the
other end, which also ached to be played with. Peter slowed down his tongue
fucking to a long slow, wet slithering in and out of his father's tight
lips. As the wet tongue fucked Frank's mouth, he sucked on it like he'd
sucked on so many cocks before. Now he swirled his own tongue around his
son's invading hot tongue. Frank sucked on the probing tongue, desperately
wishing he could coax a hot sissy cum from Peter's wet hard tongue. Frank
began to whimper uncontrollably as he worked his son's tongue as he
anticipated he would shortly be able to do on his son's hard pantied cock.
All the intense horny oral activity broke the dam of repressed
sexual memories and suddenly Frank's carefully constructed air of sexual
restraint shattered. Frank knew full well he was right back there as the
dorm slut. All he could think about at that moment was the feeling of
lingerie on his body and getting his son's cock in his mouth and work it
like he was working his tongue. It was an excellent substitute until Frank
could wrap his lips around Peter's swollen cockhead, and it reminded him of
what a total sissy cock whore he was deep down inside himself, even all
these years later. Now, suddenly he was back in the incredibly kinky
circumstances of wearing his wife's lingerie while he passionately kissed
his son who wore his s****r's lingerie. i****t! Gay sissy i****t! Frank was
totally lost as he cock sucked his son's fucking tongue. Frank knew there
was almost nothing he wouldn't do to suck cock at that moment—especially
hot sissy boi cock.
There was no turning back now for either of them. They were two
sissies in heat. Two sissies that knew they had to keep kissing and
groping. Knew they would both squirt hard and would both open their mouth's
to swallow each other's nylon covered cock and suck it dry. But for the
moment, all that mattered was the dueling tongue fucking the two horny,
pathetic little sissy faggots were giving each other. That was their
isolated universe at the moment, oblivious to all but white hot sex with
each other.
The two sissies were taken totally by surprise when suddenly Frank
felt Sandy's hand on the back of his head, gently pressing him forward into
Peter's lips, while Peter felt his mother's hand gently pushing the back of
his head onto his father's mouth.
Seeing as Betty and Sandy were far from upset by the display of two
perverted sissy faggots—father and son in heat—there was but a brief
hesitation after they felt the female hands encouraging their torrid
kissing session. Father and son complied with mother and daughter's desires
and continued kissing with total abandon.
"Oh daddy!" Sandy cooed into her father's ear. "You look so fucking
horny wearing mommy's lingerie and kissing my little b*****r." With that,
her other hand reached down and began to roam over her father's nylon clad
body. He trembled under his daughter's touch and her words were like ice on
his back. He nearly came when she said, "I love having a pathetic sissy
faggot for a daddy! All I want to do is watch you and Peter make each other
horny and cum when I say you can!"
Seeing the effect Sandy had on her father, Betty whispered in
Peter's ear, "Oh my little boy is such a hot little sissy faggot!" Betty
cupped his pantied bubble butt, kneaded the silky material, enflaming her
own lingerie fetish. "Does my little sissy boi want to please his horny
mommy? Hmmmm?"
Peter writhed at these words as his mommy's fingers worked over his
pantied ass. He and his father just kept kissing and kissing as the females
held their heads together until they tired of watching them perform. They
found it so erotic watching the nylon covered father and son, husband and
b*****r; whimper and moan as they kissed passionately, further enflamed by
sexy encouragement from the girls.
Sandy looked at her mother enjoying her sissy son, then she leaned
forward and they too began to kiss. They moaned as they kissed and began
the same tongue fucking Frank and Peter had been doing when they came into
the room. The four of them stood there kissing, daddy and son in an
i****tuous erotic embrace, while mommy and daughter did likewise. But all
four bodies maintained nyloned contact as they squirmed and whimpered in
perverted sexual delight.
Betty and Sandy kissed with just as much intensity as the
sissies. They whimpered and moaned while their nylon covered bodied
squirmed together. Sandy opened her eyes to look in the mirror. She flushed
red when she saw the four of them kissing like whores. She stared at her
father and b*****r making out and realized how horny they were. It excited
her terribly. She found herself thinking that if seeing them kiss made her
this hot, how horny she would get if she told them to do other
things. Sandy broke the deep kissing with her mother and looked at the
sissies still lost in their hot tongue play.
"Mommy," Sandy gushed. "Let's make our pretty sissies do even
more."
Betty looked at her husband and son lip locked. She held her breath
as she dared to imagine what she wanted to see next. The kinky sex play was
new to Betty, but she was a very quick study who wanted very much to please
her sexy daughter.
Sandy grabbed her mother's hand and dragged her onto the large king
bed where they leaned against the pillows. "Mommy, daddy and Peter look
lovely in all that sexy nylon."
"Yes baby, they're very hot and I'm so turned on seeing them in our
underwear."
"Say mommy," Sandy said, "let's have them model our lingerie."
"Oh what a delicious idea Sandy!"

Sandy broke from her mother's embrace and put her hands in between
father and son. She felt the silky lingerie as she pushed them apart. As
they separated, their lips were the last to disconnect. Their tongues
pulled apart and they both whined with disappointment. "Look at these two,
mommy!" Sandy stood between them, her hands roaming over their squirming
bodies. "
"Look how it upsets them you broke their kiss," Betty said climbing
onto the bed to get comfortable.
Sandy playfully spanked the two sissies' pantied ass, "Get over to
the lingerie and pick something out you will dress the other in."
Frank and Peter obeyed quickly, enjoying being told what to do by
the teen girl. The each rummaged through the pile and selected another
outfit.
"Go on," commanded Sandy. "Go on and dress each other while mommy
and I watch.
With that, the two sissies look at each other; both quiver at the
thought of modeling for mommy and s****r. Aggressively, Frank started
stripping off Pater's purple lingerie set. When his boy boner was fully
visible, the females gasped at how hard and wet it was. Frank quickly
dressed Peter in another bra and panty set in pale blue. This was followed
by the matching garter belt Frank wrapped around his son's small waist. He
hooked the nylons and stuffed a pair if shiny panties in each bra cup,
which gave his boy a nice pair of pert titties. Frank stood back and looked
at his hot sissy boy and licked his lips.
Quickly Peter removed his father's pink lingerie and replaced it
with a filmy white baby doll nighty and matching little panties, but the
horny boy added a white garter belt—a wide nylon one—around Frank's
slim waist, followed by some white silky nylons.
Sandy began making cat calls, while her mother stared hotly at the
sight of her husband and son modeling the pretty underwear. Betty couldn't
take her eyes off the two sissies as they minced and pranced around the
bedroom showing off the sexy nylon that covered their horny bodies. Sandy
moved her fingers over her mother's own lingerie clad body and found a
stiff nipple poking through a nylon bra cup. Betty moaned at the gentle
twisting that Sandy applied to her mother's sensitive nipple.
"I can see that mommy likes seeing her two boys showing off and
modeling women's lingerie," Sandy smiled wickedly as she spoke to her horny
mother and moved her hand down to Betty's moist nylon panties. "Yes, I can
see that my mommy is a very naughty little slut because how wet those
sissies make her pussy." Betty wriggled her pantied ass under Sandy's
exploring fingers. "Is mommy a dirty old slut?"
"Oh yes I am baby," Betty moaned.
"I think you should show them how horny your faggot whores are
making you," Sandy said handing her mother a nice fat 16 inch double
dildo. "Here mommy. Suck on this dildo and make it wet."
Betty was so turned on watching the show before her that she
eagerly grabbed the dildo and swallowed the rubber cock head.
"Oh what a good whore my mommy is," said Sandy as she slowly
started to fuck her mother's mouth. She then looked at the two male sluts
who had stopped modeling and stared, slack jawed at the sight of this hot
looking f******n year old dildo fucking her mother. She glared at the
sissies and said, "I didn't tell you to faggots to stop modeling!"
The two of them instantly obeyed and continued mincing around the
bedroom. Their panties strained mightily against the raging hard cocks that
father and son had developed.
"Is there anything mommy wants to see them do?" Sandy asked slyly.
"Oh yesss baby," Betty replied with difficulty as Sandy fucked her
wet pussy.
"Tell me mommy," Sandy teased. "Go on mommy; tell your daughter
what you want to see."
"I want to see them suck each other's cock!" Betty moaned as she
vocalized such a nasty thought that several months before would never have
crossed her mind. But following several months of Sandy introducing her
mother to lesbian love, lingerie, pornography, and toys; Betty had become a
raging perverted sex maniac.
Sandy giggled as she saw how hot her mother's vocalization of her
kinky perversion made her cunt grip on the dildo that Sandy fucked her
with. She then looked at the two sissy sluts standing there gaping as they
watched Sandy expertly masturbate her mother. "Well?" Sandy asked the
gurls. Frank stood unmoving, but Peter knew what was expected, so he
dropped to his knees in front of his daddy's rock hard cock covered by the
filmy white panties of the baby doll nighty. He desperately wanted to
please his s****r.
"That's my sissy little b*****r; I want to see you suck on daddy's
very hard cock in mommy's panties!" He couldn't believe that she was
actually telling him to suck his father's hard cock. He couldn't believe it
because that's exactly what Peter wanted to do more than anything else.
Peter looked at his mother and s****r, who waited impatiently to
witness for the first time in real life, male oral sex. Peter sensed their
excitement and decided to enhance the experience by drawing out the
moment. "Does my older s****r want to see me suck off daddy's hard cock?"
Peter gently pulled aside the panties and pulled out his father's raging
erection. The head was glistening with precum and Peter took his index
finger and swirled the slick clear sex fluid all over Frank's purple
mushroom headed cock. This made his daddy groan and go weak in the knees as
the girls gasped. Despite Sandy's bravado as the dominant one, she was
reacting deeply to Peter's control of the exhibition.
"Mommy, look at what your son is doing to his daddy!" Sandy said
into her mother's ear.
"But he's not sucking any cock yet!" Betty complained.
Peter continued to tease his daddy's cock and Betty's eyes, all the
while teasing his mother with his words. "I didn't know my mommy was a
perverted lesbian whore. You are a whore aren't you?" All the while daddy
groaned as Peter expertly stroked the drooling cock.
Peter's horny mother squirmed on the bed, her hips bucking against
Sandy's pumping dildo, "Yes baby, I'm a horny lesbian whore! But Peter
dear, you and your father are a pair of pathetic sissy faggots. Now show
mommy what a great cock sucker you must be."
"Oh mommy!" Peter said as he squeezed the base of his father's hard
cock, which made the head swell, and with the other hand he swirled more
precum. Though this time he lifted his finger to his pouty mouth and slid
his pointed tongue out and touched the big clear droplet. A long clear
string connected Peter's tongue to his daddy's achingly horny cock. Peter
broke the clear strand and sensuously licked his lips, which smeared the
glistening precum all over his lips. "Mommy...I think it's so hot my mother
is an i****tuous lesbian with my s****r." Betty moaned at Peter's
compliment. "Is this what you want to see?"
With that Peter opened his lips and for the very first time, the
budding sissy took a hard cock into his wet mouth. Frank threw back his
head and whimpered. Peter moaned as he felt burning hot cock flesh in his
mouth. At that moment he knew he was born to suck cock, especially sissy
cock, as his fingers felt his daddy's pantied ass. His mother groaned as
she had her first orgasm as she watched her little perverted twelve year
old boy so eagerly suck his father's rigid sissy cock. Peter's tongue
rolled around the hot pulsing head that filled his mouth. He could feel the
shape of the head as his wet tongue traced the shape. Frank moaned and
started fucking his little boy's eager mouth.
"That's it you cock sucking sissy faggot!" Sandy panted as she
maneuvered herself so she could climb onto the other end of the dildo that
hung from her mother's dripping pussy. As she sunk onto the double cock she
moaned and stared at her b*****r and smiled, "Suck daddy's cock you sissy
cock sucker! I want to see you make him squirt all over your face!"
With encouragement like that, plus watching his mother and s****r
sharing a double dildo, Peter eagerly bobbed his head up and down the hard
cock in his mouth. He was in sissy heaven. Dressed like a slut, sucking
another sissy cock in lingerie, while his mother and s****r watched as they
shared a double dildo. He could feel his own cock drooled more precum and
the wet spot in his panties grew.
b*****r and s****r stared into each other's eyes. Both of them
horny beyond belief, as each of them worked their parent to building
climaxes. Their horny gazes remained fixed as Betty violently came from her
daughter's dildo fucking and Frank's tormented cock suddenly exploded a
gush of hot sissy cream into Peter's sucking mouth. He began to furiously
stroke his daddy's spraying cock as he pulled it out of his mouth so he
could make it squirt all over his face. The room was filled with the sound
of the two perverted parents as they came from the intense sexual
ministrations applied by the two young c***dren. Then a moment later the
room grew quiet as the two older sluts were drained from their intense
orgasms. Despite the hard cum their parents exhibited, the two perverted
c***dren had not yet cum. After seeing what they did to their parents, who
now lay in exhausted heaps, they were still incredibly horny to cum.
Sandy climbed off her mother's now relaxed body with the dildo
still imbedded in her tight wet teen pussy. She lay down next to her
panting mother and spread her legs for Peter. "Does my baby b*****r want to
see his horny s****r cum on this dildo?" she asked breathlessly as she
pumped her pussy with long fast strokes.
"Oh yes Sandy!" Peter moaned as he saw his s****r fuck herself. He
stood up next to the bed with his delicate fingers wrapped around his
throbbing sissy cock. He walked to the edge of the bed and looked directly
into Sandy's spread thighs and watched the dildo sink home and pull out
only to sink home again.
"Cum for me Peter!" Sandy demanded.
Peter was only too happy to oblige is s****r's orders. He stood
there in his lingerie and began to pump his rigid sissy cock. He moaned and
his knees swayed, but he never took his eyes from his perverted s****r
plunging the double dildo in and out of her wet cunt. A torrent of filthy
and sexual words flowed from her mouth. "Oh yes you fuckin' cock suckin'
little sissy faggot." Each phrase was as if an additional booster rocked
had been added to Peter's overall horniness. What Sandy discovered to her
immense pleasure that she like her mother were totally turned on by
sissy-to-sissy sex and that there was going to be much more lingerie in the
house.
The two c***dren were working themselves into powerful climaxes as
the pleasured their own horny bodies. With their eyes fixed on each other
the both cried out loud and their bodies shuddered. Despite the post climax
stupor that lay on their parents, they found themselves staring at the wild
sex show performed by their young c***dren. Frank's cock grew rigid as he
watched Peter spurt small white ropes of sissy boi cum all over Sandy's
nylon covered thigh when she shrieked and shuddered from the furious
self-imposed dildo fucking. Then it was over.
The f****y had plunged themselves into a depraved and perverted
sexual taboo of i****t; but not just i****t, but kinky gay and lesbian sex
between son and father and daughter and mother. A new perverted world had
suddenly dawned after six months of working toward this point without them
all knowing it. If there were any vestiges of social morality and
boundaries, none of them cared. Neither parent felt a twinge of guilt
because they had been overwhelmed by uncontrollable lust. Each of them
privately knew this first time would be just that; the first of many torrid
sexual sessions.
... Continue»
Posted by BeeJay69 1 year ago  |  Categories: Fetish, Masturbation, Taboo  |  Views: 9204  |  
94%
  |  5

Play date memories..

My memories

It's been a few weeks since I've been with her..

I think of last few times we had been together as the delicious details are still fresh in my mind..my mind combines the days into one day of total relaxation and sexual frenzy.

As I write, recounting those wonderfully sexy days spent, I feel myself swell, my pants restraining my growth, the familiar tingling inside my body..I write this throughout 2 days, adding little parts and edits, whenever and wherever idle circumstance allows...

The extended writing time is mentally stimulating, as my mind is captive to my memories as I try to arrange the feelings, sights, and emotions of those days in a coherent order..as I try to express how I felt during those times with her..

I left for work as any ordinary day, but that day she was awake and kissed me goodby at the door..

I know she doesn't have anything she can't reschedule for her day,

Most of her days are filled with household responsibilities, doctor appointments, and scheduled play dates for our c***d and her friends.

I ask her, can WE have a play date today?

With her expected hesitation I can still see a twinkle of naughty ness in her eye..

But you have work today babe..

I'll go for a little while to make it look good, then tell them I don't feel well and come home by 10:00am..that will give you enough time to get our daughter on her school bus and for you to shower...

She agrees...my pulse quickens at her approval..

What do you want me to wear for you? My cock twitches by the flood of possibilities racing through my mind like a river breaking it's banks..

She is offering her sexual submission to me.. I must tell her what to wear..

I know she will shave herself of every hair for me, so there will be no restrictions of my touch or sight of her.

I want her nude right now, in the worst way..but I have to wait..I'll scare her off..she is is still timid..she is not ready yet..

whatever she wears, I want her to be easily exposed.. I want to make her feel exposed in my presence...but slowly, by seducing her over time...I don't want her to wear anything that covers her bottom half..

Wear one of my dress shirts sweetie..

And what else?

Nothing but my dress shirt..and have some drinks made for us..

I hug and kiss her while gently pushing my groin to her body, so she can feel my intentions for her..and I whisper in her ear, all I want baby, is your orgasms...

It's only 5:30am..I drive to work imagining what the day holds for us.. I can't help but let my hand rest upon my crotch as I drive ...hoping to gain some relief, but the pressure continues to build within me..

I arrive at work at 6:00am, and try to adjust the swelling in my pants so I can face the world without everyone knowing what I'm up to..in this re adjustment I can feel my own dampness in my shorts, and this only excites me further...

I sit at my workbench counting the minutes...time moves ever so slowly.
I rest my head down into my folded arms and close my eyes, so I appear to not feel well..but with my eyes closed, I only am lost in the lustful thoughts of her..I can't get the image of her swollen for me off my mind..

It's finally 9:30am and time to spring my plan into action. I squirm in my seat and try to inconspicuously adjust myself so my swollen cock is not obvious when I get up..

Gota go home boss, I'm not feeling "right" today..let's make some sick time for today..

I immediately shove a hand into my front pocket to try to disguise my bulge and walk out of the shop to my truck..

As I walk I'm groping myself.. I'm stiff as a board..it's uncomfortable getting into my truck.. All I really want to do is take my pants off for the ride home, able to grow unrestricted and to feel the cool breeze on myself, but I'm wearing jeans and boots, way to difficult of a task to get back on in an emergency..I wish I was wearing a pair of loose fitting sweat shorts..

I pull into the driveway and approach the front door, where she lies just beyond...

I enter our home and there she is , exactly as requested, wearing only my dress shirt..drink on the counter..her nerves busy herself by doing the dishes..

I first take the initiative to set the mood by closing the d****ries of the living room, I know she is watching me.. I find a quilt and begin covering the glass of the front door, and set some candles out on the table... I want to set aside a private portion of our home so we can completely relax and indulge in our uninhibited pleasures.

I come upon her from behind and gently grasp each of her breasts in my hands, and gently kiss the very bottom of her earlobe, I know that's her start button.

Pulling gently backward on her breasts and straightening her back. I press my waist to her ass letting her feel how swollen I am, my hands and waist firmly holding her in position.

Her nipples are already swollen.. Each of her breasts fit perfectly in the palm of my hands, such that my thumb and forefinger can softly have each breasts stiffened nipple between ...

I'm going to take a quick shower and I'll be right out my love.. You know what I want don't you?

She looks to her side and back up at me, yet avoiding my eyes.

You want my orgasms...

And what else do I want?

Slightly embarrassed, she replies,
You want my cum...

That's right my love..

Your such a perfect wife to me.

.I want as many and as much as you can give me..

But one thing, will you wait and hold out untill I tell you to start? I want to just relax, let go, and see just how swollen we can become for one another..to slowly build our orgasms..can you do that with me?

Again, confident but still somewhat self conscious, yes, I will do that with you..I'll do anything you want me to..

I want you to allow me to help you experience as much pleasure as possible, to pleasure each and every of your senses..

I release my grasp of her and strip all of my clothes in front of her in the kitchen so she can see me and hopefully relax her inhibitions in being half nude in front of me...and I go to the shower..

Have another drink while I'm gone ..

I'm in the shower before the water warms, feverishly washing myself as quickly as possible, only slowing down slightly when I shave my privates and ass..

I'm actually out of the shower before the water warms, put my Perfume on, and grab one towel to cover my bottom portion...

I'm in the kitchen again, still wet, making more drinks for us, I move two dining room chairs to the sliding doors in our kitchen that lead to our deck, this time opening its door and curtains..

I know she wants to feel the sun on her nude body..as I do..but today I'm going slow with her.. I'm going to slowly help her gain the confidence she needs to allow herself this pleasure..

The back of her chair faces the door, but the chair is also slightly angled so that the side of her body is exposed..my chair faces her and the outside, but just to the side of the door..

We both have a few vodka drinks in us, and the pace of our drinking is quickening..

I casually let my towel fall off my legs so that I am exposed to her..but she is still shy ..

Look at me...see how excited you make me??

She hesitates, her eyes slowly drop to look, but quickly looks away..

No my love..keep looking at me..I slowly rub myself to make my cock stand on its own so she can see..

I watch her eyes drop again, and I focus on their movement..don't look away..

Once her eyes are fixed on me I grasp her hand and replace my hand with hers..rub me baby..my hand is over hers, guiding her movements..now keep watching sexy...

I take my free hand and open her closed knees, as wide as her legs allow...move forward sexy.. I want to touch you..

She complains that she feels rude, her knees resist, but this time with both of my hands I pull her chair closer to me, open each knee, and then pin them open with my opposing knees inside hers..and then I prop her shirt tails up away from her sex ..

she now sits on the edge of the chair with her shaven sex completely exposed to me

Don't stop looking baby..as I extend one hand to her, using only my fingertips, stroking her labia and opening her so that her swollen clit is exposed..

I tell her how beautiful she is..how erotically sexy she looks.. How much I like to watch her become swollen for me..I want to look at all of her..

I release her knees and sit her back into her chair, open a few buttons on her shirt to allow her breasts out, and tell her to pick her feet up and set her heels onto her chair cushion, and hold her knees open again..as I push my chair back so I can get a full veiw of her ..

We both sit to each other, slowly touching ourselves while watching each other.. The mood is intense.. She notices that I have begun to drip ..
Your dripping,

Yea, don't you see how much you excite me...I'm dripping for you my love..

She says she feels like she shouldn't , that she had been raised to not behave like this..

But I know it excites her..just as me .. I encourage her by telling her to enjoy what feels good and is exciting. To not resist the temptation. But to embrace it .. That I get a rush by being bad ..especially with her..

Our interlude is disrupted From the yard below the deck. Our neighbor is working in his yard ..she likes to watch men work..

I urge her to go out onto the deck, but she insists on putting on a short silk robe.. I'm first, going outside with just a towel around my waist..

We acknowledge the neighbor, and he comes into our yard to have some neighborly chit chat..I know she is excited to be in front of him dressed as she is, and I feed on her excitement. We are both full of vodka and feeling loose..

The chit chat goes on , and I continue to supply her with a flow of alchohol..it's now noon, and we only have to 2:30, when she plans to pick up our c***d from school early ..

I do my best to intercede the neighbors chit chat and efficiently but politely guide our chit chat to an end..

I think to myself, it's time to stop fucking around and get down to the business at hand..

Our neighbor returns to his yard, and I embrace her before she has a chance to get back inside..

She responds by plunging her tong into my waiting mouth..

I break from her and pull her to me to lay down on the deck with me..

let's enjoy the sun sexy..

She resists, Saying the neighbor can see .

I reassure her that he can not as I open her robe and unbutton her shirt, letting both fall to her sides and exposing her body to the heat of the midday sun..

Close your eyes sexy..

I move her hand to my stiff cock again, play with me baby...

She gently grips me and begins to stroke me, pausing to massage my balls on every other stroke..the heat of the sun and her warm hand excites me further...I struggle to hold back my orgasm..

I softly caress her whole body..up and down from her legs to her neck..goosebumps grow upon her skin despite the hot sun..her nipples redden and grow stiffer and longer than I have ever seen before..

I place my hand between her closed legs, and again, pulling her legs up, bending them at her knees, clasping her feet, opening her legs so she feels the hot suns rays upon her most sensitive parts.. She moans in approval..

I continue to stroke her entire body, but now including her inner thighs, ass cheeks, and areas that surround her anus and labia.. I'm carefully only allow my hand to ever so gently graze her now large and swollen clit as I move my hands on her.. slowly and as gently as I can, I pause at her opening and enter her just beyond the walls of her, slowly but firmly making small circles, gently moving side to side, up and down, encouraging her body to open itself to me...her breathing becomes panting..our tongs are intertwined and massaging eachothers..

I move to help her up and into our home..my towel and her robe drops to the floor as we step inside.. I close the curtains behind us. Leaving the door open.. And stop her at the kitchen counter..turning her so she can rest her hands on the counter as I bend her over by pushing on her back ..I nudge her legs open with my knee. She rises onto her toes and pushes her ass up to me..my swollen cock enters her soaked and swollen pussy for the first time that day..

we both moan in Pleasure together. I use all restraighnt to enter her as slowly as possible, as little as possible, before pulling out, massaging her clit and labia with my soaked cock, and then back into her, but each time, slightly almost I in-perceivably deeper with each cycle, until my entire length his inside her, stretching her open, wider and wider...

My pace quickens, thrusting as deep into her warm body as my length allows. My orgasm is close..I'm Dripping inside her, I'm pulsing and throbbing in excitement..she is as wet as she ever has been..I know she would cum if I reached around and rubbed her swollen clit..

Not yet... I don't want it to be over so soon...I slow down my pace and pull out of her, feeling her labia caressing my entire cock..

I lead her to our couch and sit her down. She instinctively opens her legs to me and begins to play with her pussy, her fingers showing me the expertise that I can only hope to achive...I love

Don't cum baby..keep playing but control your orgasm...

I turn on our tv, tuning it to her favorite porn site.. Watch them my love.. I want you to watch the men make her cum with me..I want you to imagine you are the woman..and I am the men..

I choose a movie just for her, several men having one woman at once always makes her cum so easily..

She continues to play as her eyes transfix on what the men are doing to the woman..

And I sit below her on the floor, between her legs, trying to alternate my tong, my fingers and hers on her pussy..my other hand is pleasuring my pulsating cock as my pre-cum drips uncontrollably from me..

She tells me "I'm going to cum". I immediately stop touching her, watching her pussy spasm in pleasure, and watching her struggling to hold back her orgasm as I stroke myself below her and she continues to watch the total perversion on our tv with me..

After a few minutes, I again put my mouth on her, lovingly taking her swollen and engorged clit into my warm mouth, stretching and holding her pussy open with as many fingers that fit, edging her closer and closer to orgasm again..

I'm going to cum if you don't stop..the intensity in her voice makes me want to cum..but I resist with her and pull myself away from both of us, we watch our muscles pulsate themselves and drip of pre-cum from pure arousal..

A few minutes later I begin again, but this time entering her with a large very lifelike dildo, and handing her her favorite massager..

I slowly stroke her pussy with this cock, stretching her open each time.. She lowers the massager to her engorged clit.. Within seconds she tells me again, I'm going to cum, her voice now shaking in excitement..... And this time I tell her to cum with me..

Cum baby, cum with me..focus on my eyes baby.. Look at nothing but the depths of my eyes..I want to see your soul orgasm...

Her entire body stiffens as she struggles to not break our eyes connection..the emotional connection between us becomes intense...she is squinting, just barely able to keep her eyes open, but she does not break eye contact..

Stare into my eyes while you cum bsby..

These are my memories, a taste of what I think about throughout my days..the memories I hope to have to my last day..

Memories of lovingly giving eachother the gift of pure love, of primal pleasure..

And so I ask again,

When can we have another play date... Continue»
Posted by oursex186 2 months ago  |  Categories: Hardcore, Masturbation  |  Views: 1257  |  
100%

FIRST SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS


Do remember your 'first time'?

The first time that someone paid sexual attention to you. The first time
that someone looked at you with a look in his eyes that thrilled and
terrified you at the same time. The first time that someone else's look
made your penis harden and lengthen. The first time that you knew someone
wanted to touch you... down there.

Of course you do.

Go back to that person, that place, that moment. Your cock is stiffening
already.

I admit I've always been fascinated by first time encounters. At least
since the unshaven man with the smell of rum on his breath found me playing
on the beach when I was six years old. Was that where it all began? Or was
my destiny already in my genes.

But this is not my story...

I put out a general inquiry across the Net, and was staggered by the number
of responses I got. Some of the accounts were obviously fabricated, some so
pornographic and violent I dismissed them; some were sick fantasies, but
some had that ring of authenticity, clearly from the heart rather merely
from the genitals.

I have selected a number of these. I have changed all the names, people and
places, though I imagine my contributors had already done that. I also
tidied up some of the writing, but never to the extent (I hope) of altering
the mood, intentions or emotional hinterland of the contributor.

I offer no comments of my own. I am neither advocating nor condemning; I
leave that to others. I will, however, note Nancy Friday's comments since
her attitude seems as honest and humane as any others I've encountered.

"Parents worry about masturbation, but anxiety about homosexuality is so
great that it isn't even mentioned, lest the injunction itself 'give the
boy ideas.' k**s who learn to masturbate on their own are thrilled and
relieved to find the whole baseball team has been engaged in circle jerks
for months. Goosing each other in the shower, mutual masturbation in the
movies, reading dirty books and magazines together when there are no adults
around - it's all just horsing around, breaking the rules - that's how boys
are. Contrary to popular superstition, such early homoerotic play can
strongly confirm gender identity. 'All the guys do it.'"

And Shere Hite reported:

"What is startling is the increase in the number of boys who, as teenagers
and older c***dren, are having sexual experiences with other boys. Equally
intriguing is the kind of sex boys are now having together. In the 1970's,
the contact was mostly mutual masturbation, often without touching each
other. Now, it seems much more common for boys to touch each other,
masturbate the other boy, while 36 per cent of boys also perform fellatio
together. Around 20 per cent have experienced anal penetration."

Nancy Friday continues: "This is not to say that these men feel no guilt or
anxiety today about their homosexual memories or fantasies; after all,
they're now grown-up. and know what society thinks of such ideas. ... Some
men spend their lives 'forgetting' early physical contact with their own
sex. (Some men, of course, never had it.) The men (reporting to Friday) not
only remember, but like to play around with fantasies (and memories) that
release those boyhood energies again. ... They have the courage to face the
dark mysteries and alternatives Eros offers us all. Why should our response
be a kind of flight from freedom, an automatic labeling that slams the door
on further thought."

We can all agree with Nancy Friday's conclusions: "Life is all about
choices."


Date: 25-08-98 (16:41) Number: 007 To: Apollo Refer#: 938 From: Nicholas T.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

It was the summer of 1983. I was at a language school in Eastbourne. I was
twelve years old. I'm half Lebanese, half Italian. My father wanted me to
improve my English. It was a residential summer school. There were
students from all over the world, but especially from Spain and
Italy. Everything was first class.

My English was good. I got into the top class with about 15 other 12 and 13
year old boys and girls. The guy who taught the class was great. A super
teacher and really funny. It was obvious he liked me from the start. When
we were getting chosen for the classes, I caught his eye in the dining
room. We gave each other a big smile, and that was that.

My teacher was also a brilliant tennis player. He gave tennis lessons some
afternoons. I always signed up for the tennis lessons because I really
wanted to improve my tennis. It was a great bonus to find my English
teacher was also my tennis teacher.

The summer of 1983 was one of the hottest summers England ever had. After
the first week, everybody used to disappear into Eastbourne in the
afternoon, then do sports in the evening when it was cooler. Only a couple
of us stayed behind for tennis because the official lessons were changed to
the afternoon because of the heat. In the end, only my teacher and I were
left on the tennis courts. The whole school was pretty much deserted in the
afternoons.

One afternoon, about 2.00, we were in my teacher's room. Every teacher had
his or her own bedroom. They were mixed up with the students' rooms so the
teachers could supervise us. Usually you never saw them around their rooms
at all except late at night when they staggered up the stairs to bed.

We were in my teacher's room while he was getting his tennis gear ready. I
was in a tennis shirt, white shorts, white socks and trainers. It really
was hot. The breeze was blowing the curtains through the open windows. I
dived on the bed and lay back. Everything had become so friendly and
informal. I put my arms under my head and chatted away while sir got
ready. I told him I probably wouldn't play well because I'd cramp in my
legs. I really did: they were aching because I'd been doing so much sport.

Sir sat down at the edge of the bed and started massaging my legs,
squeezing and kneading the knotted muscles, especially behind my calves. It
felt really wonderful. We didn't say much. We just looked at each
other. Then he asked me if I ached anywhere else. I said my shoulders were
aching, too.

"Take off your shirt." He leaned over me and massaged my shoulders, his
hands slipping down over my chest. His fingers and thumbs lingered over my
nipples.

This was the first time anybody had touched me sexually. I wasn't a
c***d. I'd learned how to masturbate earlier that year, experimenting in
the bath, and I knew some men liked boys, all Arab boys learn that from an
early age. My penis got really hard. My teacher's fingers brushed my
stomach and then slipped slightly lower. Suddenly he stood up and walked to
the window. He stood there, looking out over the school grounds.

I slipped open the top of my shorts. When he turned round, he looked at
me. Then his eyes ran the length of my body. He sat down and undid my
tennis shorts, stroking the inside of my thighs but not touching my
prick. I could feel it bulging the silk underwear I had on. I raised my
bottom from the bed and he worked my shorts and my underpants down to my
ankles. I kicked off my trainers and he slid my things off completely.

My teacher began to make love to my body, still not touching my prick was
hard and throbbing. I was 12, nearly 13, but I'd a good-sized prick, about
4 inches long and an inch in thickness. Of course, as a good Moslem boy I
was circumcised, and it had been done really neatly. I have light brown
skin (my mother is Italian) but my dick is noticeably darker in colour. At
that time, my pubic hair was just coming in; I was a little worried in case
my teacher thought I was a baby.

He went on making love to my body, running his lips over my chest, stomach,
and then up and down my legs and thighs. It was wonderful, but I couldn't
wait for him to get to my 'zob', that's what Arab boys call their pricks.
At last I felt his fingers curl around my erection. He jerked me gently for
a few moments, then I felt his hot, wet mouth swallow me to the base and
begin sucking. His head rose and fell on my prick as he sucked me with
different pressures. I can't describe the pleasure it gave me!

After a few minutes, I could feel the pressure building in my balls, and my
prick seemed to swell even more. Just when I thought I was going to cum,
teacher took his mouth away, put his hands on my hips and urged me over
onto my front. I panicked a little because I thought he was going to try
and fuck me. That wouldn't be right. Sucking cock is okay, but fucking is
going too far for an Arab boy. Still, I was half Italian, so I turned over.

He began to kissing between my shoulder blades while his hands squeezed and
kneaded the cheeks of my bum. I was amazed how good it felt. I wanted to
lie there all afternoon while he manipulated my flesh. Then I felt his
kisses going lower and lower. With his hands he parted my bum cheeks. I
couldn't believe it - he was licking inside my crack! Then the tip of
tongue touched my shit hole, then he was kissing it, I mean really kissing
it, big wet sloppy kisses. For a moment I was disgusted, then I realised
how good it felt. I let out a big sigh and gave myself up to the pleasure
of it all. I might have drifted off to sl**p!

Sir pulled at my shoulders. I turned round and sat up, a bit bleary-eyed.
He urged me off the bed. He stripped off his tennis shirt. He had caught a
lot of sun and looked tanned and bronzed. He lay down on the bed, head on
the pillow, and without words instructed me to straddle his chest, my knees
either side of him. My stiff prick was pointing right at his mouth. I
didn't need any more instructions. I leaned forward, my hands on the wall
behind the bed, and shoved my prick into sir's open mouth. Then I began to
shove myself in and out his mouth. When I was in his mouth, he'd hold me
there for a few seconds and suck hard, then release me. His hands were
behind me, gripping and squeezing my buttocks. I went faster and deeper and
rougher.

I couldn't keep it up for long. I was desperate to cum. I thought teacher
would push me away when I started to cum, but he held my buttocks and
pushed me in right to the base of my prick. It started jumping around in
his mouth as I spurted into him. Four, five, maybe six big spurts. I hadn't
masturbated since I'd arrived in England, so I was full of juice.

When I was drained, sir let me rest there for a couple of minutes. Then he
slapped my bottom and said, "Come on, Nicki, we've got a match to play."
We got off the bed, got dressed and walked across the playing fields to the
tennis courts. I was laughing and joking all the way. After a couple of
minutes, teacher began to laugh and joke and be his normal self. I was glad
about this. I didn't feel guilty or ashamed about what had happened.

That evening, there was a disco. Everybody was pairing off. After the last
dance, I took an Italian girl to my room. I got inside her clothes, and she
took my prick out and started to play with it. It was great! The door
opened and my teacher stepped into the room. He didn't look shocked. He
didn't even look very surprised. He said, "Remember it's lights out at
midnight, you two." Then he left and closed the door behind him. He said it
with a smile.

The next two weeks were great. My teacher and I didn't have sex again, but
that didn't spoil our relationship. In fact, it was better even though I
had my Italian girlfriend for the two weeks. Teacher still taught super
lessons, we still played tennis, and sometimes we'd go for a meal in
Eastbourne together.

On the day I left, my teacher took me aside and told me he loved me. I
don't know if that's true, but I'm glad he said it. I sent him some
photographs from home. We kept in touch for a couple of years. I'm nearly
30 now. I've got a wife and two boys. I've never been sexually involved
with another man, or with a boy. I don't resent what happened in
Eastbourne. These things happen. I wish my teacher well.


Date: 25-08-98 (17:01) Number: 009 To: Apollo Refer#: 942 From: David M.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

I was twelve, going on thirteen. I'd just started at a Scottish boys'
grammar school, which indicates how long ago this happened. I hadn't
thought much about sex in junior school. I'm not sure anybody did in those
days.

It was mid-September. You often have an Indian summer in Scotland in
September and October. It was warm, balmy and sunny. At lunchtimes, a lot
of boys used to go down onto the lower playing fields for a game of
football. I must have been a bit weird even then because I actually wanted
to play in goal - no self-respecting Scottish schoolboy ever does! The
lower playing fields were at the bottom of this huge crater in the ground
which had been grassed over by the years.

That day was really warm. Everyone had his blazer and tie off (strictly
forbidden, but few masters came near the 'crater'). We had a really good
game. Everyone was hot and sticky. The first bell went and most people
grabbed their stuff and headed up the hill. A few of us die-hards went on
playing. Then the second bell went. Seconds later, there was only Eric and
myself left, with Eric taking a few last pot shots at me in goal.

I didn't know Eric well. We hadn't been at the same junior school. He'd
been to a school in the West End of the city while I came from 'the wrong
side of the tracks'. Eric had money. I had brains. But Eric was fun, and I
appreciated how much he had befriended this 'fish out of water'. Even
though we'd been at the school for less than a month, Eric was a popular
boy. Not bright but generous. Not intelligent but witty. Athletic. And
extremely good-looking. Being good-looking is important in all boys'
schools, probably even more so than girls' schools since prestige and
status are all-important amongst boys.

Good-looking then. Well-built, regular features, open face, freckles,
well-cared for teeth. And a big prick. A very big prick. An outstandingly
big prick. This was a grammar school, so, after games, we'd all pile into
the communal showers. It came as a bit of a shock to me, but after a couple
of sessions, I didn't give a toss, so to speak. Of course, we all sneakily
checked each other out in the showers: that's what pubescent/adolescent
boys do. Some boys got erections and were ribbed unmercifully, but all of
it was done in good humour. I don't think at that time, at least in
Scotland, sex for teenagers had been invented.

Ten inches. That's what they said Eric had - ten inches. I remember it as
being long and thick, but it wasn't ten inches. It was just under eight. I
know, I measured it. Eric would stand there starkers, towelling himself
down, with his hose pipe bouncing between his legs, with half the room
taking sneaky peeks while the other half called out ribald comments. Eric
ignored the lot of them.

The only boy amongst First Year who could rival Eric was - me. Don't get me
wrong. I'm not boasting. I didn't have ten or even eight inches, but I did
have six inches. Somebody asked me how I managed to get such a big dick. I
told them the truth: I hadn't the faintest idea. But I had something else
many of the other boys didn't have: pubic hair, lots of it, thick, curly,
dark brown pubic hair. Eric was much fairer, so what he had didn't show up
so much. It felt good to be one up on him, at least in one area.

Back to that September day. We grabbed our blazers, ties and shirts (yes,
Eric and I'd gone that far in breaking the rules) and started to scramble
up the grassy hill. Eric was behind me. He slipped (he said), grabbed for
something, got me, and together we tumbled back down in the hill. We ended
up in a heap of arms, legs and clothing. Then it happened.

Eric shifted till he was sitting astride me. He put his knees on my arm
muscles, such as they were, pinning me to the grass. He was looking down
into my face. He reached behind him and stroked my genitals! I was
stunned. My face, already red from our exertions, burst into flames. I
tried to heave him away, but he bore down on me, not enough to hurt, just
enough to pin me there and kept stroking me, his fingers fumbling till they
found me cock.

I'm not sure what I would have done if Eric hadn't kept looking straight
into my eyes. His hair flopped over his face. He was sweating. He pushed
the hair out of his eyes and kept looking at me. I turned my head way,
turned it back, closed my eyes, open them.

Horror of horrors. I was getting an erection. I had an erection. I was
stiff and hard under his touch. His fingers and thumb closed round my stiff
penis and began working the skin along the shift. At last he spoke. "Do I
have to hold you down?" he asked. I lay there for a minute. I shook my head
from side to side. Eric slid from my body and we lay side to side. He was
still manipulating me. "We can't stay here," he said. "I know," I
said. "The sheds," he said. I nodded.

We scrambled up, grabbed our clothes and headed across the fields, away
from the school.

The 'sheds' was the polite name for the boys' latrines on the far side of
the playing fields. Smoking went on there. Everybody knew that. So did sex,
but we were too new to know that.

We got to the sheds and slipped inside. I was trembling, so, I realised was
Eric. He took our blazers and ties and hung them on a hook on the back of
the shed door. "I'll go first," he said. I nodded, not sure what he
intended.

Eric sat down on one of the toilets and pulled me towards him. He opened my
belt, unbuttoned my flies, then dragged down my flannels and Y-fronts to my
ankles. I was exquisitely embarrassed. My cock was still hard and already
slick with pre-cum. Eric fondled me for a bit, then without a by-your-leave
opened his mouth and sucked me in as far as my prick would go. I almost
fainted! The idea of sucking someone's prick had never crossed my mind even
in some of my wilder masturbatory fantasies.

I stood there and watched my penis slide in and out of Eric's mouth,
fascinated by the way it bulged his cheeks, and amazed he could get so much
of me inside him. Where was it all going - down his throat? I put my hands
on his head and instinctively, I suppose, began pushing and pulling to find
the rhythms I liked best. One of Eric's hands worked the base of my cock
while the other played with my balls. Wonderful! But when his lower hand
slipped into my crack and headed for my bumhole, that was too much! I
clenched my hole and clasped my legs together. Eric didn't persist. I wish
he had.

Eric brought me to the brink of orgasm at least five times. My prick was
going frantic, my heart was racing. Then when I thought I couldn't stand
any more, he let me come - and he let me come in his mouth! I couldn't
believe it. We'd done a bit of biology in junior school, so I knew what
semen was (and I'd done my own 'research' in the school library), but for
someone to actually swallow it! Eric's gulps filled a stinking shed that
seemed at that moment to be the most romantic place on the planet. He
waited until I'd relaxed completely in his mouth, slipped me out, took a
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cock and his lips. Sheer class!

It was my turn, and to be honest I panicked a bit. "You don't have to use
your mouth if you don't want to," said Eric reassuringly. "Your hand will
do fine." I took this as a personal challenge and swallowed every drop he
shot down the back of my throat.

Ten inches? No. But it was challenge enough to get even four inches of
Eric's cock into my mouth.

"What do we do now?" I squeaked as we did up our buttons, pulled on
blazers, knotted each other's ties, and considered our strategy for the
test of the afternoon.

"We can't get back into school," said Eric. "They'll have done the register
by now. Let's think. Yes, you got too much sun at lunchtime. You threw
up. I was worried, so I took you home. I live in Stirling Road. We'll go
there. Look sick. I can talk my mother into anything. We'll get a note from
her. Then we'll come back to school; that'll look good. No. On second
thoughts, we won't come back to school this afternoon. My mother will tell
you - us - to stay at home at rest for the afternoon. Then at half three
we'll go swimming. How does that sound?

"Brilliant," I said.

"Let's go," he said.

Eric and I had sex together for the next two years. It was all wonderfully
uncomplicated. As far as I know, we were faithful to each other. We were in
the same cricket, football and tennis teams, Eric always a general, myself
always a foot soldier. I was in every top academic set, Eric in every
bottom set (but this was a grammar school).

We both discovered girls in our Third Year. One evening, in Stirling Park,
we sat and discussed our futures. We did that now and again. We decided
we'd grown out of 'k**dies' stuff'. For the first and last time, we snogged
each other. Then we went and played snooker. We never had sex with each
other again.

Eric still in the same city. He's a successful lawyer, married with three
c***dren.

I've been married twice, divorced twice, two c***dren.

I've loved three people romantically in my life.

Eric was the first.



Date: 25-08-98 (18:23) Number: 016 To: Apollo Refer#: 947 From: Luigi P.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

I am interested by the story Nicholas, the Lebanese-Italian boy, sent
you. I am Italian also, and I was seduced in England in the summer of 1983,
also in a summer school. I was only 9. But it did not happen in Eastbourne,
it happened in another town on the south coast.

We were a group from Italy, about 20 Italian boys and girls. The oldest was
14, the youngest was 9. That was me.

I was a little crazy in those days, and everybody spoiled me. I had long
blond hair, and my jeans were always too big for me. They were always
sliding down the back showing my bottom. I hated underpants and I refused
to wear them.

We were staying in a big country house. We had English lessons in the
morning and games and trips in the afternoon.

The owners of the house had a son and daughter. Chris was 14 and Emily was
10. I played a lot of the time with Emily.

One afternoon everybody went on a shopping trip to the town. I didn't go
because I didn't have any money. Only Chris and me stayed in the
house. Chris was 'baby-sitting' me.

We played badminton in the garden. Then we went upstairs to Chris's
bedroom. I think he was looking for something, but I can't remember what it
was.

There were some comics on his bed. I jumped on the bed and lay there
reading a comic. I think it was 'The Beano'. I could not read the English
but I could understand the pictures. I lay on the bed, sideways, my legs on
the floor, laughing and giggling at the pictures.

"What are you laughing at?" Chris asked me. "I'll give you something to
laugh at." He started tickling my stomach. As usual, my jeans were so loose
they were halfway down my hips. As Chris tickled me, they worked their way
lower and lower.

Things went very quiet. I could hear the birds outside. I felt Chris's
fingers brush my cock. It had got hard and sprung up. Italian boys don't
bother too much about that. It's a fact of Nature. In fact, they say
Italian men are so happy because their mothers suck their cocks when they
are infants. I don't know if that's true or not. I've never asked my
mother.

I felt Chris's fingers brush over my hard little penis again and again. It
felt good. I reached out for my 'Beano' and started looking at the pictures
again. I said "Divertimento," to Chris but I'm not sure he understood what
I meant. His fingers and thumb wrapped round my penis and he started
jerking me gently. I wasn't sure why he was doing that, but it felt so good
I didn't want him to stop. His other hand was playing with my testicles,
that was a good feeling, too.

Then I felt something warm and wet across the head of my cock (Chris had
pulled my foreskin back). It was his tongue. That felt even better. Then he
sucked my erection right into his mouth. Wonderful! Chris leaned over me,
sucking my penis while one hand played with my testicles and the other made
little patterns around my stomach. I don't know how long this went on. In
time, my knees began to jerk and my stomach to flutter. I felt strange
sensations in my genitals, and my bum began to bump up and down on the
bed. It was like a train rushing towards me inside my head. Or water piling
up behind a dam. Something broke, and I was trembling and shaking all over.

Chris took his mouth away. He stroked my hair. He lay down beside me and
explained what was happening in the pictures in the comic. After a while,
we got up, went downstairs, had a cold drink, and went to the outdoor
swimming pool. We jumped in naked and played around till we heard the bus
coming back. Then we got out and dressed and ran to meet the bus. I didn't
tell anybody what had happened. It didn't seem to be anybody else's
business.

That night something funny really happened.

All the Italian boys were in the same dormitory. After lights out, we
started playing around as usual. We knew the supervisor would come and tell
us to go to sl**p. I was out of bed when we heard him coming along the
corridor. I jumped into Matteo's bed and hid under the duvet. Matteo was
f******n years old. He was wearing only a tiny pair of underpants.

The supervisor stood at the door explaining we had to go to sl**p. We were
going to London the next day. We would be making an early start, so
everyone had to get a good night's sl**p. Then someone asked what we were
going to do in London, and the teacher started describing how we would
spend the day.

I was under Matteo's duvet. All we had on were our underpants. I was lying
along his body, facing his feet. I felt something growing under my
elbow. It got hot and hard. I knew it was his penis. I guessed it would be
quite big because I'd seen Chris's in the pool. Did Matteo have hair there,
too? As a sort of game, I squeezed the Italian boy's cock with my
fingers. He squirmed but he couldn't say anything because the supervisor
was still in the room. The lights were out. I slid my hand into Matteo's
underpants and wrapped it round his cock. It was a big one! Bigger than
Chris - but then he was Italian. I remembered what Chris had dome to me,
and I started working Matteo's foreskin up and down the shaft. Then I tried
a little lick of the head - but I didn't like it! Too salty. It nearly made
me sneeze. Matteo lay there, squirming around for about five minutes, then
he reached down, grabbed me and pulled me up the bed. He put his finger on
my lips and said something very rude in Italian.

When the supervisor went away, Matteo got up and pulled me out of
bed. Everybody was laughing. They didn't know what I'd been doing, but they
knew I'd upset Matteo. He took me outside the room to the nearest
toilet. We went in. He closed and locked the door. Then he sat down on the
toilet and stood me in front of him.

Matteo said what I'd done, or tried to do, had been very naughty. I mustn't
touch anybody like that without asking first. And I was too young, far too
young. to touch anybody like that. He made me promise not to do it again. I
made the promise. It didn't seem so significant to me, so making the
promise was easy. I was a little worried in case Chris wanted to do
something again, but I'd given my word and I would have to stick to it.

Chris never tried to do anything again, and the rest of the holiday passed
as happily as before.



Date: 25-08-98 (18:42) Number: 019 To: Apollo Refer#: 956 From: Karim &
Stefan M. Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

I think my b*****r Stefan and I probably set a world record: we were both
seduced by the same guy, on the same day, in the same building - though not
together.

We're Egyptian citizens, but we've lived in Saudi all our lives. My father
owns a construction company here. He's Egyptian, my mother's from Austria
(it's a long story). I look like my dad, which is basically Arab in
appearance, Stefan looks like mum, basically European, pale skin, curly
hair, but we've both got my father's dark brown eyes.

There was lots of money in the Middle East in those days, so Stefan and I
got packed off to an international school in Switzerland. I won't say which
one because they're all pretty much the same. I was 14 at the time, Stefan
was 12.

We liked it. The atmosphere was relaxed, the lessons not too demanding,
lots of sports, including compulsory skiing weekends in Montana-Crans, and
similar places. There were about 30 nationalities in the boarding houses,
and it was hardly ever dull. Most of the guys who looked after the boys'
boarding house were young and out for a good time. You can imagine with
boys, aged 10 to 19, flying in from all over the Middle East there was
plenty of caviar and cannabis for the asking. There was one group of boys,
all from the same country, which I'm not going to libel, who spent more
time in each other's beds than their own! All in all, the atmosphere was
liberal, then some.

The guys who ran the boarding houses were called 'les surveillants', and
one of them 'took an interest' in Stefan and me right from the start. By
that I only mean he was friendly towards us, chatted to us a lot, was
interested in the Middle East, and helped us settle in. Coming from Saudi,
we were a good deal less sophisticated than the boys and girls around
us. This guy was called Jack D., but everyone, even the director of the
college called him JD. He'd been there a year and was doing a second year
before returning to California. JD always said he was there for the skiing.

Skiing! I'd never seen real snow in my life till I got to Switzerland. I
took to skiing like a Turk to his goat and, when November arrived, spent
every weekend I could out on skiing trips. On my fourth trip -
disaster. I'd borrowed a pair of skiis with faulty bindings - and a tree
got me! Broken leg, not too bad, but a few weeks in bed, a few on crutches,
and then back on the slopes. That was the plan. It worked, too, but first
there was the boredom of bed.

They settled me into the House clinic, two rooms, one with a bed, the other
with bathing facilities, and left me to my own resources. Not quite
fair. JD volunteered to look after me, which was generous of him because
some aspects of the bed-bound are not too thrilling.

JD spent a lot of time with me, chatting, playing backgammon, cards,
reading, and generally just being there. Day after day in bed can get
anyone down, so I appreciated what he did for me, especially when it came
to stuff like lifting me onto my bedpan, disposing of the waste, and giving
me body washes.

Body washes I looked forward to, after I got over my initial
embarrassment. JD would strip off my pyjamas, top and bottoms, and cover me
with a single sheet. Then with a cloth and warm soapy water, he'd wash me
all over. Of course, I got erections. I was f******n! But JD ignored them
and after a while so did I. I usually read a book. I was still to
embarrassed to watch his hand as it circled over my neck, my shoulders, my
chest, my stomach, my legs, my knees, my feet. Then he'd wash my pubic
hair. I had/have very thick brown pubic hair. If I'd been able to keep my
cock down before he did my pubes, I certainly couldn't when he reached them
with his wet, warm cloth and hand. Up would spring my fourth inches of dark
meat, and I'd bury my nose deeper in my book.

Blame it on 'The Exorcist'. I was reading the book while JD was washing
me. I'd reached the part where the young girl starts masturbating with a
crucifix. I'm not a Christian, but that really turned me on. My prick was
as stiff as a poker. I felt warm fingers close around my prick. For a
moment I thought JD was only going to wash it. Then I felt his hand gently
jerking the shaft. A moment of guilt, but only a moment. I lay back to
enjoy a good read and opened my legs in what I hoped was an obvious
invitation.

JD got the message.

He nursed, caressed and stroked my erection with one hand while the other
fondled my balls. Bliss! I wondered if he's masturbate me to orgasm, and if
he did, what would he do with my cum. He had plenty of soapy water and a
hand towel, so that didn't worry me much. What I liked was the care and
attention he gave my prick. I'd started masturbating when I was twelve, but
the whole routine had got pretty boring. A quick jerk off didn't really
satisfy anymore. Now, here was a good-looking guy who was taking a loving
interest in my prick. It felt like I was having a minute doctor's
examination of my male organ of reproduction. No vein was left untraced, no
hair unbrushed.

I jumped, as much as a cripple can jump, when his mouth closed over me. JD
meant more than quick toss. This was serious business. In my mind I began
to do things to the Linda Blair character in the novel that made Satan look
like a beginner! JD was bobbing up and down on my cock, his mouth like a
wet furnace, his sucking like one of the octopuses we regularly catch in
the waters round Saudi. He was squeezing my balls, gently but to great
effect. I knew it would be long before my head was spinning through 360
degrees!

Did he want me to cum in his mouth? He gave no signal, so I whispered, "It
cums, JD. It cums." (JD taught me later to say 'I'm cuming', which shows
you can learn from every experience is you're willing). I streamed into his
mouth in jets of semen. I hadn't tossed myself off since the accident, and
my body was making up for it now. My hips bounced on the bed. I'd have
happily accepted another broken leg at that moment. I emptied myself into
JD's mouth and lay there hiding behind my book, panting.

The door burst open!

It was fucking Stefan!

I don't know if my prick was out of JD's mouth when my little cunt of a
b*****r burst in, but I know his head was still hovering over my crotch.

I gave Stefan a burst of obscenities in Arabic, and he scampered way -
laughing! The little fucker was laughing.

I hid behind my book again. Then JD pulled the book down onto the bed and
looked at me. I looked at him. "Karim, I won't do that again if you don't
want me to."

"I want it."

++++++++++++

I saw them all right, and I was jealous. Just because Karim's two years
older than me, he's always been regarded as the 'first', after my father,
in the f****y. Frankly, I think he's a dumb shit, but everybody's b*****r
is a dumb shit, so that doesn't mean much.

I'm not sure if I actually saw Karim's prick in the guy's mouth, but I knew
he wasn't down there looking for crabs! I brooded in my room after school,
then went to see JD. He was meant to be taking an interest in me as well as
my b*****r, so let him.

A few days earlier I'd sprained my wrist, no, not doing that. I'd just
started masturbating (a couple of Swedes in our dorm had taught everyone)
but as yet nothing tangible except for that No. 1 thrill had come of it. I
just knew Karim would be squirting all over the place - show off!

There was a lot sex in the air. The previous night I'd been passing through
the Seniors' corridor, not the safest of places for a junior at any time I
was to learn. A bunch of Greeks had an Iranian k**, about 15, on the carpet
in the corridor. They had his boxers off and were taking turns to toss him
off! The Iranian was putting up a fight, but not much of one. I stopped to
have a look. Shit, he had a big cock. Each guy took a turn at it, and the
way the k**'s eyes were rolling, he was going to be shooting his load very
soon. I wanted to stay and watch but when I felt a hand sliding down the
back of my pyjama bottoms to squeeze my ass, I high-tailed it out of
there. "Come back when you're older," someone shouted after me. "No, just
come back when you're bigger," shouted a second voice. Fucking Greeks, no
respect for anything or anyone when it comes to a piece of ass.

Anyway, I found JD and asked him if he could help me take a bath. I
explained my wrist and waved it pathetically in front of him. "Sure thing,
Stefan," he said, "Go get your stuff and meet me in the bathrooms."

"Do you mind... can we use the clinic bathroom?" I asked, putting my shyest
look. "I don't want everybody to..." I didn't have to finish the
sentence. JD ran his fingers though my hair, thick, glossy, curly hair, as
loved by my mother, and said, "See you there in five. Don't disturb,
Karim. He's sl**ping." ("Bet he is," I thought.)

By the time JD got to the clinic bathroom, I was running the bath, and
standing there stripped naked. I reckoned it would be difficult for him to
ask me to put my clothes back on. We chatted about nothing until the bath
was filled, then he told me to step in and sit down. Sheer luxury! Sitting
there in that hot, steamy bath with JD's soapy hands running over my
body. I was a good-looking k**, a really good-looking k**, because of the
mixture I'd inherited from mom and dad. Maybe my body was a bit slight, but
I wasn't skinny, and I had the kind of cheeky features you see on the back
of a cereal packet.

"Stand up and I'll wash off the soap."

I stood up. My dick was sticking straight out at ninety degrees from my
body. Okay, it was only a couple of inches, but you could hardly miss
it. Funny that. When I got older, my erection would always be vertical,
pointing straight up my body, but at that age, my erections stuck straight
out from my body. Like a little hooded cobra. A cobra without the hood, of
course, since I was a good Muslim boy - well, I was a Muslim boy. The soapy
water streamed from my body.

JD sat on the edge of the bath. He took towelfuls of warm water and
squeezed them down my body making the soap run off. He'd ignored my stiff
dick, but he'd have to do something when he got down there.

"Turn round. Bend over. Hold onto the bath."

Wow!

I did as instructed and felt the warm wet cloth stroking my lower back and
bottom. Then no cloth, just JD's warm fingers. Then the cheeks of my
buttocks being pulled apart and his warm fingers sliding in. For a few
moments, I felt his fingers trace the circle of my ring. Then his lips were
on my hole, my ring, my anus. It should have been disgusting. It
wasn't. "Do it. Do it. Whatever it is, do it."

"Turn round."

I stood up and turned round. My dick was aching, my balls were aching. (Can
your balls ache before you can physically cum? Mine did.)

"Let's get you really clean."

His arms slipped round my waist. He pulled me towards him. And my dick slid
into his open mouth. He gently rocked me back and forwards while he sucked
on my soapy penis. This guy really knew how to get a k** clean! It seemed
to take ages, but the longer it took, the better it felt. My legs shook, my
knees shuddered, I trembled all over. I pushed him away. I was that
sensitive.

I stepped out of the bath and JD towelled me down, gently, roughly,
tenderly, vigorously. Then he towelled my head. Then he had me climb up on
the padded table and he gave me a massage all over. There was nothing
overtly sexual about it though my dick got hard again.

When we'd finished, I dressed, said thank you, and went up to my room. I
lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and fell sound asl**p. I was that
relaxed. Next day I asked JD for another bath. He smiled wryly, told me not
to be so cheeky and kicked my ass down the corridor. I scampered off to
find me a Swede. I know he and Karim were close for the rest of the year,
but it didn't seem to be any of my business any more.


++++++++++++

JD and I were close for the rest of that year. He sucked me off three or
four times a week. He never asked me to do anything to him. When I got off
my crutches, he worked really hard to help me build up my leg muscles
again, and I was able to go skiing before the end of the season.

I won't tell you everything that happened because you only want to know
about 'first time'. But I remember one night in June, JD let me come up to
his room after midnight to watch the Marx b*****rs in 'Duck Soup'. We
smoked a couple of joints. After the movie, he let me butt-fuck him and
sl**p with him that night. In the morning I crept downstairs at six
o'clock, carrying my pyjamas.

JD was that kind of guy, and I really missed him the following September
when we all returned to college and he wasn't there. He was somewhere in
California.

I learned a few months ago that JD was killed. He was piloting a light
aircraft when it crashed. JD was that kind of guy. He took risks and
accepted the consequences.



Date: 25-08-98 (19:38) Number: 022 To: Apollo Refer#: 964 From: Dean W.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE


There seem to have been a great number of same-sex encounters in
international schools in those heady days when oil and OPEC was king, and
I'd like to add my story.

I was 14, going on 15, in a small international school near Cambridge,
England, now closed. I wasn't an oil nomad. I was a gas nomad since my
father was employed as a consultant engineer by a Turkish-American gas
company. Our f****y was based in Istanbul but we boys were educated in
Europe. This was my third school in four years.

The junior boys, 10 to 15, were housed in converted stables. The senior
boys, above 10th grade, were in the old manor house. We had dorms that held
about eight k**s, they had two-man rooms, except for the Head Boy who had
his own room in the manor.

The Head Boy and I, a scumbag junior, had only two things in common -
soccer and David Bowie. Maybe a bit more. We were both dirty blond,
athletic and sex-hungry. HB was called Brian Wermeier, probably still is, I
was called Dean Wilson, still am.

Wermeier, let's call him Brian, captained and soccer team. I was the goal
keeper. I suppose by British standards we were crap. We played local pub
teams, which sort of evened things out. They were fat and skilled; we were
fit and unskilled.

Brian took things seriously. Training after school three times a week. He
and I got into the habit of staying on for an extra twenty minutes after
everyone had gone while he took shots at me in goal. Brian was our leading,
only goal scorer, so he had a double interest in extra practice. A triple
as it turned out.

There was one problem. By the time extra practice was over, I was sweaty
and muddy (this was England in the Fall), and by the time I reached the
junior block the showers were cold. "No problem," said Brian, "use the
showers in the Manor. They're always hot." Nobody question this. Rules and
regulations were relaxed. Brian was HB, and, besides, his girlfriend
Stephanie was the best-looking chick in the school. Their devotion to each
other was well known. Nobody could imagine me as competition, least of all
me.

I got into the habit of staying on in the manor, in Brian's room, listening
to Bowie, rapping about life, the universe and everything, and sharing a
joint with the HB. Your correspondent Karim was right: there was plenty of
dope around in those days, and nobody took it too seriously. I really
enjoyed Brian's company. The talk was a lot more interesting and
intelligent than the juvenile stuff in junior dorm. It was good to get a
break from that.

Brian had a fitted shower room adjacent to his room; privileges of
rank. He'd have a shower while I was having mine. We got into the habit of
drying off in his room while we listened to music. It wasn't organised, it
just happened. People were pretty relaxed about bodies. In the presence of
Brian, I was glad I'd a good body, and a fully-developed cock for a fifteen
year old. About six inches and thick. I know it was fully-developed,
nearly, since I've added only an other inch since those days. Brian already
had seven inches. I suppose it was the heat of the shower that made our
dicks hang loose and free, and maybe the heat in the room. When the
central-heating came on in late October (this was England), the Manor could
have done second service as a sauna house. You could actually hear the
boiler system clanging and banging into action for half an hour as the
temperature rose to something like Istanbul on a summer's day.

We'd wrap our towels around us, I'd sit on the bed, Brian on a chair near
the stereo changing records, pass the joint and get high on Ziggy Stardust.

I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said Brian's looks, body, and
personality didn't get to me. They did, every time, but so what? Every boy
in the junior block was horny, apart from the Born Again Christians and
those guys who'd taken up with some of the junior schools, not a single one
of whom was known to put out or even give a grope worth the name. The
sounds of boys sneakily jacking off in my dorm got so outrageous we all
talked about it one day and agreed we wouldn't bother trying to hide it
anymore. That night the sounds of half a dozen boys jerking off
simultaneously was one of my most erotic memories of my two years in that
school. I say half a dozen and not the full complement of eight boys
because a couple of them resisted temptation. The truth came out later that
they were being sucked off regularly by the master-in-charge of JB (junior
block) but that's another story, and who knows if it was their first time.

How the conversation got onto sex, I don't know. It wasn't something Brian
and I'd talked about before. There was a Bowie LP on the turntable. He was
sitting next to me on the bed. I could feel the heat from his damp skin. My
cock was thick, semi-tumescent, under my damp towel. Brian held the joint
to my lips with one hand while the fingers of the other ran back and
forward across my thigh. I drew deeply and held the smoke in my
lungs. Brian drew deeply and put the joint aside. His fingers traced
patterns across the damp towel. "Go on," I said, rising as he tugged my
towel away.

Brian dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me. He grasped my prick
which went from semi to full tumescence in seconds. He appeared to study
it, then pulled the foreskin back from the head of my cock which was
already embarrassingly swollen and purple. I have a very loose
foreskin. The shaft of my cock has a definite curve to the left, and there
are a couple of blue veins that run from the base to the tip of my
foreskin. I've got big balls, and even then I'd lots of dirty blond pubic
hair. Brian wedged my legs wider open, then sank his mouth straight onto my
cock. It was the first time anyone other than myself and my mom had touched
my cock, and I almost blew it then and there. I might as well tell the
truth: I did blow it then and there. Within seconds I was spurting into the
Head Boy's mouth - "he was giving me head on the unmade bed" - so hard I
heard him choke. I couldn't stop cuming. I sat there watching Brian's dirty
blond hair (long), his powerful shoulders (freckled), and his spine
(curving into his towelled ass) while my thighs trembled, my balls rocketed
into my groin, and my cock spat hot cum into his mouth.

Brain raised his head and looked into my eyes. I blushed. "Sorry," I
mumbled. He got up from the floor. I was encouraged to see he had a huge
hard-on under his towel. He sat on the bed next to me and again held the
joint to my lips. My cock was hanging between my legs, twitching,
dripping. I inhaled so deeply I thought the smoke would come out of my
asshole, which felt so loose I thought I might shit then and there.

"Guilt trip?" asked Brian, chewing and swallowing the roach.

"Naw, don't think I'll bother," I shrugged.

"Me neither," said Brian.

We sat there for a few minutes talking about Saturday's soccer
match. Amazing to think back on it. I was sitting in the nude, cock
dripping; Brian sat in his towel, huge hard-on; the smell of dope filled
the room; 'Diamond Dogs' was playing. If anybody had walked in, we'd have
had a lot of explaining to do. The door wasn't locked. Brian never locked
it. And, as I was to discover, nobody ever walked in. Privileges of rank, I
suppose.

I felt a little guilty. Brian still had a huge erection, and I wasn't doing
anything about it. I'd never touched anyone else's cock before, so the idea
of sucking Brian off was a tad scary, but what the hell. I reached out and
wrapped my hand round him. God, he was big. Not that much longer than me,
but thicker, definitely thicker. Big nipples, too. I always remember
Brian's nipples. I sat there squeezing him, plucking up courage. "I'll do
you if you want," I whispered. Brian grinned. "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm
saving that for Stephanie. She loves the taste, too." I gulped and
nodded. "What about you?" he asked.

I looked down. My cock was hard again, standing straight up so that the tip
hit my belly button. "Shit. Sorry," I murmured. Brian grinned again. Then
he stood up, undid his towel and dropped it. I gulped again. This wasn't a
boy, this was a man. His chest was hairless but his abdomen covered with
light blond hair, his legs were covered with the same hair that darkened as
it disappeared into the V of his legs. His cock looked huge, his balls even
'huger', to coin a word. I'm glad I wasn't taking that in the mouth, but I
panicked a little as Brian pushed me backwards onto the bed. In the ass?!
"Shhh, baby" he whispered, it's not what you think.

I lay across the bed sideways, my shoulders against a wall, my feet on the
floor. Brian heaved a big cushion behind my shoulders, which made it a lot
more comfortable. I closed my eyes, hoping for the best, expecting the
worst. A fresh, clean, slightly perfumed smell cut through the dope
smells. I recognised it. It was Nivea Cream. The smell of Nivea still turns
me on like nothing else on the planet.

Brian's hand was round my cock. He smeared Nivea its full length. It feel
cool against my burning skin. "A hand job," I thought and relaxed. Then I
felt Brian clambering onto the bed. I mentally revised the
possibilities. What...? I blinked open my eyes. He was straddling my groin,
a knee on either side. I felt him take my cock and guide it into my crack
until the tip touch his asshole. I don't know who was burning more: Brian
or me. He lowered himself onto me, and I felt my cockhead slip through his
ring, his sphincter and into his anus. It was like an elastic band round my
cock. The band slipped lower and lower until my cock was buried into the
hilt, my hair brushed the cheeks of his ass. Brian began to raise and lower
himself on my cock. I was fucking the Head Boy! Or was he fucking me? Same
difference.

Embarrassed at first, I soon got into the swings of things (the dope
helped) and began to bounce my hips up in reaction to Brian lowering
himself onto me. It got easier and easier. Soon he was sliding up and down
my greasy pole, the friction was wonderful. I wondered if fucking a cunt
was as good as this. Brian's cock was like a projectile aimed at my face. I
leaned forward and grasped it with the thumb and fingers of my right hand;
they met, but only just. I jerked Brian off in time to our body rhythm. His
head and body were thrown back. His eyes closed. His blond hair bouncing
around his shoulders. The air was full of the sounds of Bowie and the
smells of sex, sweat, dope and Nivea Cream.

Brain came first. Jets of semen exploded from the tip of his cock, the
first two or three hitting me smack in the face, the next two landing on my
chest and belly. I was able to go on longer. For another ten minutes Brian
rode me. Then I hissed, "Wermeier, Wermeier, I'm cuming." His eyes
opened. He grinned. "Well, fucking come then, don't just talk about it." I
spurted up into his ass, as hard as before but with not quite so much
semen. My cock felt so swollen, I wondered if I'd get it out in time for
dinner.

"Shit, man, you telling me you haven't done that before?" whispered Brian
as we lay side by side exhausted on the bed.

"Nope, first time," I whispered.

"I ain't a fag," whispered Brian. "I just love sex."

"Me, too," I whispered.

"We'd better take another shower," he whispered.

"We'd better," I whispered.

We showered together, crammed into the tiny cubicle in Brian's room,
signing along with the man. We must have been heard through the entire
block, but when I came out of the room, a couple of the seniors just
nodded. One of them said, "You two need singing lessons." The other said,
"Maybe if you got better dope it would help." They were both grinning. Like
Brian, they were Yanks. The rumour had gone round I was supplying HB with
dope (I did live in Turkey) and that made whatever went on in Brian's room
legitimate though, like I said, nobody seemed to imagine it might be sex.

We had sex about once a week for the rest of the school year. I was always
passive, Brian always active. That suited both of us. I'd wander round,
usually on a Saturday evening, after weekend shopping, and Brian would suck
me off or let me fuck him. Then we'd go off to the Saturday night school
disco, Brian with Stephanie, and me with a bunch of juniors to find as much
booze and dope as we could get away with.

The last time I saw Brian was in a park in Cambridge, England, on a warm
July afternoon. A bunch of us junior guys were lying on the grass in a
discreet corner of the park trading joints and bullshit. Brian came
strolling through the park with Stephanie on his arm. He let her go for a
moment and walked up to us.

Looking right at me, he said, "I'm going to miss you, man." My heart
thumped, my pulse raced, I'd never been so proud. I looked up into Brian's
eyes. "I'm going to miss you, too."

Brian turned and went back to his woman. He left school that evening, not
waiting for Sunday and the last day of school. I never saw or heard from
him again.

Every few years, I look at his photograph in the Year Book. Then I look at
mine, under which he wrote: "The end of the year is at hand and I suppose
'All things must pass', but I'm hoping our paths will cross sometime in the
future because it's been great knowing you and sharing times with
you. Brian - in the year of the diamond dogs."

Our paths haven't crossed again yet - but I go on hoping they will.



Date: 25-08-98 (20:02) Number: 026 To: Apollo Refer#: 973 From: Stephen D.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

I was seduced on the night of my 18th birthday. I was a young 18 year old
though at the time I imagined I was very sophisticated. I'd come up from
England to Edinburgh University and was bowled over the whole scene. I just
loved being a student in that cosmopolitan capital where it seemed
everything was possible and most things permissible.

I'd led what you'd call a sheltered life. I went to an all boys' school in
Hertfordshire and my contact with girls had been minimal. My contact with
boys, sexual contact, was non-existent. The closest I'd got to sex was a
scary experience.

One night, when I was fifteen, I was thumbing a lift home in the rain. A
car stopped and gratefully I got in. As we drove along, the man,
well-dressed, in his early-thirties, asked me about school, studies,
sports, all the usual stuff. I was grateful for the lift so I made
conversation as best I could.

About half a mile from my home, he stopped the car. It was raining. You
could hardly see through the windscreen. The man dropped his hand on my
knee, then started to stroke the inside of my thigh. "You don't have to
home right away," he said. "You're a good-looking boy. We can sit here for
a bit." I was paralysed. The hand kept stroking, fingers getting closer to
my lap with each brush. And I was getting an erection!

The second he touched my penis, the spell broke. I wrenched open the door,
slid out of the car, and started running up the road. I turned off at the
first avenue and ran up a garden path, making out this was my house. I
needn't have bothered; the car didn't follow me.

When I got him, I was soaked to the skin. Immediately I had a hot bath and
lay in it eyes closed, imagining all the things that could have happened to
me. Problem was, my imaginings kept turning erotic, and I couldn't lose my
erection, though I'd only a vague idea what the man would have done to
me. In the end, I sighed and gave in to temptation, jerking off into a face
cloth which I washed out later.

In bed, I lay wondering if the guy had meant it: was I a good-looking boy?
I'd never thought of myself in those terms. I was slim but well built, I
had thick dark brown hair that hung shaggily to to my collar, strong
eyebrows, strong eyelashes, regular features, long legs and big feet. I
also wore glasses; I was short-sighted, and I suppose I believed the
dictum: girls don't make passes at boys who wear glasses. Maybe girls
didn't, but some men did.

University was wonderful. I'd always absorbed information like a sponge,
so, apart from attending lectures and seminars, I'd lots of spare time for
a hectic social life that quickly developed. And it developed so quickly
because Thorsten Bozek 'adopted' me. 'Thorsten Bozek' isn't his real name,
but I've chosen that one because it's almost as exotic as my senior man's.

In those days, and I've no reason to believe anything's changed, senior
students 'adopted' first year students and 'mentored' them for a year.

'Mentoring' could be as dull or as exciting an affair as the senior man
dictated. My mentoring was never dull. Thorsten was something of a legend
at university: directing plays, running the literary club, heavily into
far-left politics, showing imported movies for profit, and raising pots and
pots of money for charity. He was academically brilliant, and I never
understood how he managed it; at least I attended lectures and seminars. I
once asked Thorsten how he managed it: "Easy," he said, "I only opt for
subjects I already know inside out." I think Thorsten opted for me.

To be fair, I hung around Thorsten more than he hung around me: I was the
bee to the exotic bloom. It wasn't difficult because we were both in the
same halls of residence. Thorsten told me he didn't move out because he at
least knew he had a bed whatever happened to him.

I was fascinated, hypnotised by Thorsten Bozek. He let me come on a roller
coaster ride that left me breathless but begging for more. And as the weeks
wore on, I began to realise what that more might include. Thorsten and I
grew more and more intimate. At parties we'd end up sitting on the floor
side by side, drinking, smoking dope, talking. We'd rush out together and
catch a midnight movie. At poetry evenings we'd sit on the carpet, our
reverential hush as we listened to each other's poetry, creating an
ambience that drew everybody in (I wrote garbage; Thorsten wrote
gibberish.) He gave me the part of 'Boy' in his production of 'Waiting for
Godot'; I was more wooden than the tree; Thorsten said I was 'original'. We
were often pissed together or stoned together, so much so we slept in my
room on the ground floor because Thorsten couldn't make it to his eerie on
the fifth. It was all big time fun.

I realised Thorsten wanted me physically. I don't know how I knew, but I
knew. I couldn't make up my mind what I wanted. One day the idea disgusted
me; the next day it was overwhelmingly excited. I remember one day we were
doing a 'photo shoot' for the charities' magazine; Thorsten wanted me as
Superboy. This meant being naked, apart from underpants and the Superman
Logo painted on my chest. The logo was easy. However, I had on the wrong
kind of underpants - Y-fronts! (I also wore a string vest in those days.)
We decided to swap. Thorsten got his off quickly. I dillied and I dallied,
dallied and I dillied, 'accidentally' showing off my genitals to Thorsten
until, exasperated, he pulled his cotton slip over my arse, saying: "Let's
get on with it, Stephen. We'll save the strip-tease for later."
Unfortunately, he forgot about the 'later'.

On another occasion, Thorsten came to find me. I was in the shower. He
stood outside the shower door speaking to me. "Catch you later," he
said. "Don't go," I called. "I need to speak to you." I'd been busy pulling
on my dick until it was semi-hard and swinging suggestively in front of
me. Then I opened the shower door and towelled myself while inventing a
totally meaningless conversation. I dried my hair vigorously and could feel
my cock bouncing against my thighs. I was temptation made flesh, if that's
the kind of flesh you fancy. By the time I'd finished drying my hair,
Thorsten was gone! I couldn't blame him; even I didn't know what I was
talking about.

October 31st: my eighteenth birthday. Part of the celebrations included
drinking half a pint in every public house in Hope Street. I don't know if
anyone's ever achieved this, and I don't suppose we even got halfway
through the pubs. I can't remember any of that all. I do remember it was a
viciously windy, rainy, cold, dreich, miserable Edinburgh night - but
Thorsten and I didn't give a fuck. We were 'fou and unco' happy'; I was
blind d***k; he was reduced to a single eye. That was enough.

A taxi must have taken us home. We couldn't have walked it. I don't
remember how we got up to Thorsten's room. There was a bed and a mattress
the floor. There was an angle-poise lamp. I was lying on the
mattress. Thorsten was helping me off with my wet things. I was
singing. Someone shouted along the corridor: "Shut up, you English
bastard!" I remembered I was in Scotland and I shut up.

Thorsten was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He was stroking my cheek
tenderly. Pity, probably. Here was I, an 18-year-old fresh-minted English
d***k lying on his mattress singing drivel about Ilkley Moor. My scarf and
rainjacket were gone. My boots and were gone. My wet shirt was gone. I felt
his fingers trace a path along my string vest, and I said the immortal
words: "If you try to seduce me, I won't stop you." Now, that may not be
the clearest invitation in the world but thinking about it I don't see it
can be construed as anything else: "Try to seduce me and I won't stop you."

I felt my string vest being tugged out of my jeans. Then I felt warm, wet
lips on my stomach - Thorsten's, I presumed. That's all he did at
first. Warm, wet kisses that traced patterns across my stomach, sometimes
playing in my belly button, sometimes edging down to the dark brown
tendrils of pubic hair that peeked above my Y-fronts. His patience gave me
an erection that throbbed, pulsated and ached. He tugged my string-vest up
my body, over my shoulders and over my head. It snagged in my glasses which
he gently took from my face and placed somewhere safe. I was now blind as a
bat but made up for it by the sensation of touch.

Thorsten kissed me. Not just a simple peck, but mouth on mouth, that had me
open and gasping for breath. Then his tongue was inside my mouth, probing,
seeking, moiling (a favourite word I'll look up later). This worried
me. The only one who ever kissed me was my mother, and on reaching the age
of maturity (11), I'd firmly put a stop to that. Sex with Thorsten, even
though he was a 21-year-old male seemed fairly natural and
inevitable. Kissing was something else.

His mouth left my lips and worked their way down my body. His hands were at
my belt - it was now or never, stay in the car and see what happens, or
jump out and run like hell. I stayed in the car. I raised my bottom from
the mattress and let Thorsten work my jeans and underpants down to my
ankles and off. I felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable and erotic. My prick
was so hard it felt like fleshy steel when Thorsten gripped it between his
fingers and thumb. I didn't have much time to think; he pulled the foreskin
back; I was already wet and slippery; and he suck me deeply into his mouth
and throat. "That's it," I thought. "I'm a fag now. Best lie back and enjoy
it." Actually I can't remember what, if anything, I thought. It was nothing
but sensation, only feeling, no guilt, no shame, just an intense desire to
cum, but not to cum until the Millennium. If this could only go on forever,
I'd be the happiest birthday boy in the land.

I'm no cocksucker myself but I do admire skills other people have. Thorsten
suck up and down on my shaft, at the same time jerking the base and
twisting it to create different pressures, frictions and suctions inside
his mouth. He'd let me almost slip out, then probe my cockslit with his
tongue, then slide all the way down my shaft until I felt his lips brush my
pubic hair. His other hand gently eased my legs apart. He played with my
balls and ran a finger along my perineum, a little further each time until
he naturally slipped all the way into my crack and along my anal ring. Part
of the excitement was the fear of what he was going to do, what he
wanted. Was he going to penetrate my hole with his finger? Would it hurt?
Would I like it? Did I want it? Would he try more than one finger? What if
he tried to turn me over? Would I let him? Did he want to fuck me? Did I
want him to fuck me? Would I let him?

Maybe the most exciting thing about first time sex is the breaking of
taboos. The hand on a bare breast. The finger up a vagina. A strange hand
around your cock. Kissing cock. Kissing cunt. Sucking cock. Sucking
cunt. Swallowing semen.

I didn't have to warm Thorsten when I was cuming. My body told me. Of their
own volition, my hips reared up from the mattress driving my cock all the
way into his mouth while my hand pressed his head down onto me. My own head
rolled from side to side as I fought the urge to squeal from the intense
pleasure of it all. I couldn't risk anyone shouting down the corridor:
"Shut up, you English bastard!" when I might not be able to control
myself. My body was out of control as my bottom juddered against the
mattress and I spurted half a dozen jets of cum into Thorsten's mouth. I
felt his finger break the seal of my asshole but that only added to the
ecstasy of it all. It's a strange feeling being out of control; for those
fleeting moments you actually think you're going to die. As they passed, I
felt a small wave of shame pass up my body, but then there was Thorsten
holding me, hugging me, cuddling me to him, and the shame was replaced by a
sort of tender gratitude. He stroked my hair and whispered, "Happy
birthday, sweet eighteen."

I've no idea how long we lay there. "Do you want to go downstairs?" he
asked me. "No, I want to stay here," I said. "Where's here?" he asked. "In
bed, with you," I said. After such an intense experience it seemed all
wrong to spend the rest of the night alone; and, it was a long way
downstairs.

Thorsten helped me up. I fell into bed. Then I felt him slide in alongside
me. He was naked, too. That felt right. We wrapped our arms round each
other and rubbed noses like d***ken Eskimos. We giggled. "Do you want to
sl**p?" he asked me. "Not sure," I said. My prick was hard again. I don't
think it had softened. "What would you like to do?" he asked. "Don't know
yet. I'll think of something." I giggled again. (We'd seen '2001: A Space
Odyssey' the night before; I'd think of something.)

We lay there pressed together. I felt Thorsten's hot hard-on against my
own. I let my fingers slide down his back and over the curve of his
buttocks. He turned and faced the other way. I snuggled into him, feeling
the curve of his back against my chest, my balls in the crack of his
arse. I wriggled a bit lower in the bed, not sure what I had in mind. My
arms were round Thorsten's chest and waist; I could feel his hair against
my wrist. He reached round behind him and pulled his buttocks apart. I slid
my cock in till the head was wedged in deep, the tip touching the heat of
his ring.

"Just push," he whispered. I pushed hard. I felt Thorsten grasp my cock and
guide it to his hole. I wasn't sure I wanted to go this far, and I wasn't
sure where I wanted to stop. I gave another push. Something gave and the
head of my cock was inside him. I realised how slippery it was down there
and explored with my fingers. There was a mess of cream in his crack, all
the way to his asshole. The head of my cock was inside him and the heat was
exhilarating. Steadily I pressed my groin into his buttocks, and my cock
slid in about three inches. Thorsten pulled his left leg up into a kneeling
position, and my cock slid in another inch. Because of the way we were
lying, that's as far in as I could get. That was enough. I began to rock my
hips back and forward, pushing myself in and out of his hole. His asshole
was hot, very hot, and gripped me tightly as I entered and withdrew again
and again.

I was so relaxed and comfortable I felt selfish. I slid my hand down
Thorsten's front, brushed his hand away, and gripped his cock. He was hard
and thick, not much different in size from me, but the feel of another
boy's cock was entirely different. I jerked him in time with my strokes in
and out of his hole. I wanted, if possible, for us to cum at the same
time. We were able to lie there for a long time, but gradually I felt his
cock swell beneath my fingers and taken on a new hardness. I speeded up my
strokes, both kinds, and as I felt my body take over for itself, I
hand-jobbed Thorsten ruthlessly. The room was filled with little grunts and
squeaks and moans that would have sounded silly in any other circumstances;
then, they just added to the intensity of the experience. I felt myself
cuming as my hips and groin began to buck and I stroked Thorsten hard and
fast. If we didn't spurt simultaneously, there could only have been seconds
difference, for we lay there shaking, juddering, trembling, shuddering as
our orgasms took over. I felt his hot seed pump along his shaft as my own
pumped into his rectum. His chest rubbed against my back and there little
popping sounds of bursting sweat bubbles as our bodies shook
uncontrollably. Then it died away, and I lay there listening to our
breathless panting.

Thorsten tried to roll over but I gripped him tightly and whispered, "Let
me stay in you." He pushed his bottom into my groin, and we fell asl**p
that way, cradled together like twins in the womb.

In the morning when I awoke Thorsten was gone. I got up, wrapped his
dressing gown round me, grabbed my clothes and slipped downstairs to my own
room. It was 8.30. I'd slept soundly. I showered, dried, dressed and headed
for the refectory. Thorsten was there, sitting with a group of mutual
friends having breakfast. Someone made room for me, and I slipped in
opposite Thorsten. I was ravenous.

"Good morning," Thorsten said. "sl**p well?"

"Like the dead, man," I yawned. "Like the fucking dead."

"How does it feel to be 18, to be a man?" someone said.

"Great, man," I said. "Just fucking great."

What's always puzzled me is why we did it. Within two weeks I'd found
Maggie, the love of my life, or at least the love of my university
career. Thorsten was with Cordelia, an exquisitely beautiful Arts
post-graduate. As a foursome, we laughed our way through the rest of that
year.

I was never gay. Thorsten might have been bisexual, I'm not sure, I never
asked him. And I never asked who seduced whom.



Date: 25-08-98 (21:02) Number: 034 To: Apollo Refer#: 986 From: Jonathan D.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

"They ****d Ross last night."

"They didn't."

"They bl**dy well did."

"When?"

"During Prep. In the Sixth Form Block. It was an ambush.
They sent a note for him, and he went over to the Block."

"bl**dy fool."

"True."

"He didn't have to go. Fagging's not allowed in this school,
so he didn't have to turn up."

"True."

"bl**dy good-looking though."

"Too much like a girl. Those eyes. Looks like
a bushbaby. That hair. Those lips."

"Wouldn't mind them round my cock."

"Dirty b**st."

"Dirty b**st yourself."

"Homo!"

"Homo yourself!"

"Come here and I'll show you who's a homo."

Laughter.

It was time to make my presence known. After all, I'd no right to be
there. I coughed and dropped my shoes on the floor, one after the other, as
loudly as I could.

There was a scuffling, then Paul stuck his head round the shower
curtain. His head disappeared.

"It's okay. It's only Dowson."

His head reappeared.

"What do you want, Dowson? This isn't your annexe. These aren't your
showers. Bugger off."

"Ours are burst, Paul," I explained. "The others have gone over to Main
House. I slipped in here. I didn't think there'd be anybody around. Do you
mind...?"

His head disappeared. Then reappeared.

"I suppose not. There's only Len and I here. Got permission from
Mr. C. Hurry up and get in here before I turn the water on. The hot only
lasts twenty minutes and we want to make the most of it."

I stripped as quickly as I could, hanging each item on a peg. As I did, I
looked around. This was an eight-boy annexe, attached to one of the new
houses built for the bachelor masters. Lucky blighters. Our annexe housed
twenty-four boys, so it was endless warfare, largely ignored by our Dorm
Master and his wife, who had enough on their hands with four k**s of their
own to be much concerned with what we got up to. I'd only arrived in
September, a new boy, new to the public school system. Though this was a
very minor public school, it had many of the same traditions, including
boys addressing each other by surname, and sarcasm all round. I suppose I
was pretty shy in those days. I liked the place. I appreciated the
investment my parents were making. But settling in wasn't easy.

I was in the same year as Paul and Len, Third Form, but we
didn't live in the same annexe and they didn't have much need to
communicate with a squirt like me.

"Hurry up, Dowson. We're freezing our balls off in here!"

I stepped into the shower room. Paul and Len were standing under the
middle shower, naked, shivering, though it was far from cold. I moved
towards them a little surprised we were only using one shower. Paul reached
for a knob (shower) and turned it on. A cascade of cold, cool, lukewarm,
warm, fairly hot water hit us.

"Get in here, Dowson," said Meaby wrapping an arm round my waist and
pulling into the intimate circle. "One showers lasts twenty mins., two
showers ten mins., three showers... work it out for yourself. I'm
dyslexic."

"I'm dysgraphic," I confessed.

"And I'm bl**dy dyspraxic," laughed Paul, pretending to fall over and
grabbing onto both of us.

I should explain our school was for very bright boys with some sort of
dysfunction. So everyone had a 'dys...' of some sort labelled to them. So
everyone was equal.

"What were we talking about? Remind me," said Paul.

"****," said Meaby, passing a bar of Wright's Coal Tar to Paul. "Here, soap
my back. Ross got ****d by the Sixth Form last night. You said he was
asking for it."

"Well, he was," said Paul. "Here, Dowson, do my back. Meaby'll do yours."
he passed me a bar of soap. I dropped it.

"Careful how you bend over," laughed Meaby.

I picked up the soap. Meaby started to soap my back. I blushed so hard I
could feel the bl**d in my prick. I felt Len's warm soapy fingers
on my back. I took a deep breath and started to soap his. There was
something elemental, primitive, satisfying about what we were doing.

"You'd better be careful, too, Paul," said Meaby, surprising me by the use
of a Christian name. "Half the Sixth Form are in love with you, the other
half just want to... you know."

"**** me? Well, if you've got it, flaunt it, babe," laughed Paul, "but they
won't catch me in the Sixth Form Block after dark. Anyway, everyone knows
Mr. C. has got the hots for me, and nobody's going to risk offending him."
(Mr. C. was the master-in-charge of their annexe. Lucky blighters.) "Lower,
please, Dowson, lower. Don't be shy. We're all Third Formers here."

Meaby's fingers brushed my buttocks, then started soaping. I let my fingers
drift down to Paul's bum. It was true; he was the best-looking boy in the
school. There was nothing girlish about Paul, but his golden hair,
symmetrical features, high cheekbones, big hazel eyes, and ready smile
turned heads all around the school, including those of half a dozen
masters. Yet there seemed nothing boastful or arrogant about Paul; he
simply laughed and got on with life. Now here I was, washing his bum,
terrified I'd get a full erection.

It was terrifying but liberating. An only c***d, my parents were quite
elderly, and though there was love, there was a distinct lack of open
affection. My mother, if she kissed me at all, gave me a peck on the
forehead. I do not remember my father ever kissing me. Now here was real,
warm, living flesh under my touch.

Paul turned and half-faced me. "Frontsies now," he smiled. I looked
down. He had a hard-on. A column of pinkish brown flesh jutted out from his
body, his erection hot and hard, with the head of his cock a purplish
brown. Like me, and Len, there was a covering of pubic hair, mine dark,
Paul's golden brown, Meaby's glossy black, but none of us had enough to
intimidate the others. Our cocks were almost virginal, innocent, naive in
appearance. I stood there transfixed, my bar of soap circling the hollow in
Paul's right thigh.

"Come on, chaps, we can't waste the water." That was Meaby who dropped to
his knees in front of Paul. He started soaping the boy's genitals, then I
gasped as he let the soap fall, grasped Paul's erection between fingers and
thumb and started masturbating him. I knew about masturbation. It was
impossible not to know about it in a boys' school. Sometimes at night or in
the loos, I'd gripped my own erection and started drawing the foreskin up
and down the length of my hard penis. Exhilarating but far too scary, I'd
always abandoned the process when I felt an indescribably explosive feeling
build up in my groin and balls, a diffuse feeling that spread throughout my
body as I lay there in the dark listening to the night sounds of the
sl**ping boys around me.

"You can leave if you want to." That was Paul. I didn't want to
leave. I dropped to my knees, my face level with his crotch. "Squeeze his
balls, he likes that." I laid my soap aside and felt Paul's balls. Squashy,
soft and vulnerable, they moved around in his hairless scrotum. "Mmmmm, you
have a nice touch." We knelt, heads close together, working on the boy's
cock and balls which seemed to swell and harden under our fingers. Meaby
slipped his hand away from Paul's cock, my fingers slid round to take his
place. I jerked him gently, the heat and hardness beneath my fingers
communicating themselves to my own cock which now stuck out fiercely
between my legs.

Meaby's mouth closed over the top inch of Paul's prick, his lips coming
into contact with my hand. As he slid up and down the shaft, my hand slid
lower until I was gripping the base. My eyes were inches from Paul's prick
and Len's lips. I could see his cheeks bulge as the cock slid in. I
could hear the sucking sounds even above the noise of the shower cascading
around us. My cock ached so hard it hurt.

Paul's arms reached down and, slipping his hands under my armpits, he
pulled me to my feet. Before I could protest, Len's lips were around my
erection; he was sucking, sucking hard. I looked down and saw his dark head
bobbing over my hard cock; I turned and looked straight into Paul's
eyes. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips. My face burned as
hotly as my stiff penis. Then he was sliding down my body to share me with
Len. At first I knew which mouth was round my cock, which fingers were
round my balls. But I lost track of who was doing what. I stood and stared
at the far wall, enthralled by the sensations running through my body,
exhilarated by the shame and guilt of it all. The best-looking, the most
popular boy in the school was on his knees before me, sucking my prick.

My legs shuddered, and before I quite knew what was happening, my hips were
jerking and I was shooting my sperm, my semen, my boy juices into someone's
mouth. I didn't see. My eyes were closed, my head thrown back. My whole
body shook, I thought I was going to faint.

Paul and Len were on either side of me. They were grinning. Huge,
friendly smiles. Water plastered their hair to their skulls, hung from
their eyelashes, earlobes, chins, ran down their chests, groins and legs.

"Do we call you Jon or Jonathan?" asked Paul.

"Jon, please," I mumbled.

"Come on then. Let's get out of here. The water's turning cold."

We stepped into the changing area. I started to dry off. Len put his
hand on my arm. "Not here. In the annexe. It's much warmer. And, besides,
we've still got half an hour."

We went to the annexe, and I learned to have fun with my body, and to share
the fun with Paul and Len without too much guilt. The following week I
transferred to their annexe. Mr. C. really did have the hots for Paul. As
far as I know, they never did anything together, and it turned into a warm,
loving relationship we all benefited from.

Paul used to read a bit from the Bible every night. He'd get on his knees
by his bunk and read a few verses out loud. Then he'd say his prayers. I
had the bunk above him. I don't know if it had any effect on me.

None of us ever tried anal sex.

None of us ever got ****d.

I've put my story in the form of... a story. I'm no writer, but I wanted to
try and give you some of the emotions and feelings behind what happened. It
was fairly common place throughout the school. I think the Headmaster and
the masters turned a blind eye to sex amongst the boys as long as things
didn't get out of hand. Coop up a couple of hundred pubescent and
adolescent boys, and what do you expect - choir practice?

I never met any boy at the school who considered himself gay. In later
years I never met any boy from the school who was openly gay.

Ross is happily (as far as I know) married with five k**s - all
boys!

Len is something in the city. Paul is a leading figure in an
international charity organisation.



Date: 25-08-98 (22:15) Number: 044 To: Apollo Refer#: 993 From: Michael S.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

I'm not sure my story qualifies for the heading 'First Time' because it
took place over a number of weeks, but I'm going to tell it anyway.

When I was thirteen, I was seduced by my football manager. I'd started
secondary school in September. I was never much good at lessons but I was
brilliant at most sports. Although I was small and slight for my age, I had
terrific reflexes and reactions. I scored most of my goals inside the
penalty area by getting to the ball faster than anybody else. I was also a
silent c***d (a) because I was shy (b) because everyone else seemed so much
brighter than me (c) because I've always preferred listening to
speaking. Even when I'm happy, people keep on telling me to cheer up. But
I'd my own circle of friends and I had my football.

At the local team trials I did well, but I was amazed as everyone else when
the manager, let's call him Coach, said at the end of the session: "Right
then, first match Saturday. Be here at 9.30 for a 10 o'clock kick
off. Michael, you're captain." He turned and walked off. I just stood there
blushing. Nobody'd ever asked me to captain anything in my life. My mates,
from my school, came rushing round clapping me on the back. It was all
pretty embarrassing, but as usual I said nothing.

The season got underway. Our team did well. No, we did brilliantly, winning
every game, most by a margin of goals. Coach treated me like everyone
else. Life was very good.

There was one problem. I couldn't attend Thursday evening training, the
most important session. That really pissed me off though, as usual, I
didn't complain. On Thursday evenings I went for my reading/spelling
lessons. I'm dyslexic. Maybe not dyslexic, but I'd never learned to read
and never learned to spell. Something to do with my phonics. After a couple
of weeks, my mother explained that Thursday evenings was the only time my
private tutor, a retired teacher, could take me.

"Okay, I'll teach him," sighed Coach. "Wednesdays after school, 4 till half
past five. Your place or mine?" Coach was not only a football manager, but
he was training at college to be a teacher, and he was specialising in the
teaching of reading! I jumped at the chance. We agreed on his house because
it was much closer to my school than ours. Best of all, Coach agreed not to
tell any of the other lads I was having 'private lessons'. They would have
taken the mick out of me something rotten.

Coach was a brilliant football manager. He was even better at teaching
reading and spelling, which takes some doing with some who hated both. he
turned everything into games, competitions and quizzes, and most of the
time you learned without realising you were being taught. We measured my
progress every week and I was making amazing progress.

It started about the fourth lesson. We were sitting close together on a
couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was reading out
loud. I always forgot the full stop and read on into the next sentence. It
didn't matter how often Coach told me, two minutes later I'd forgotten.

"This'll help," he said. He put his hand just below the bottom of the
book. His hand was resting at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I came
towards the end of the sentence, he pressed my stomach a little. It worked!
I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about fifteen
minutes. I read and Coach applied gentle pressure to the bottom of my
stomach. No big deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I sat
there utterly expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Coach pressed a
couple of inches away from my erection. It was embarrassing at first, but
Coach didn't seem to notice anything, so I assumed it was an accident and
went on reading. It was embarrassing but also very pleasant. I hadn't the
faintest interest in sex. Of course I'd heard the obligatory filth in
school and in the football changing rooms, but it seemed to have nothing to
with me. I was small, slight, blond, green-eyed, tight-lipped, and
practically not there, except when doing sports. Why would anyone be
interested in me?

Next week the same thing happened. This time there was a variation that
showed what was happening was no accident. Despite the pressure on my
stomach, despite my hard-on, I still forgot to stop at the end of some of
the sentence. "We have to get the all right," laughed Coach. He slid his
hand under my school jumper, then under my school shirt, just above the
waist band of my trousers. Every time we reached the end of a sentence,
he's pressed his cool hand into my warm stomach, and I'd pause, then read
on. Could he still be unaware of my reaction? Could it still be an
accident? As he pressed, he ran his little finger along my skin just where
it emerged from my trouser waist. My little cock was throbbing.

I suppose I shouldn't have gone back the following week. I could have found
an excuse. I spent most of the week thinking them up. But when Wednesday
rolled round, I found myself looking forward to the lessons. You have to
remember the lessons really were brilliant. I knew I was making progress,
and I wanted to make more. Okay, my Coach liked fingering by bare skin. So
what? He was hardly your typical 'dirty old man'. I don't think he was 21,
and he was good-looking. He might have played professional football if he
hadn't done his knee in. And he liked me and he wanted me. As far as I
knew, nobody had ever 'wanted' me before. And he was good fun.

Halfway through the lesson he told me to lie on the carpet and read to
him. Lying flat out would help with my breathing, he said. It was so
comfortable lying there, one hand holding the book, the other pillowing my
head. I wasn't surprised when he lay down, full length, alongside me. Lying
flat out that way meant I was totally exposed. He began the familiar
pressure and stroking on my bare stomach. My prick hardened. There was no
way I could hide it. He stroked lower and lower until his thumb brushed my
erection below the thin grey flannel of my school trousers. I think if I'd
protested in any way, even drawing up legs, he would have stopped, and that
would have been that. I didn't. I was curious and aroused.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. This was
further than I'd expected him to go. He edged aside the flaps of my flies,
exposing my white underpants. His fingers stroked the bare skin above the
elastic, then slipped underneath. He held my stiff penis between his thumb
and forefinger squeezing gently as I read on, missing more full stops than
I managed. This only lasted a couple of minutes. Then he closed me up,
zipped me up, closed my clip, and tucked my shirt in.

The lesson went on as if nothing had happened. It was insane to lie there
on the carpet in the living room and do what he did. The living room had a
huge window. Anyone visiting or passing by couldn't have missed us. A
little blond boy lying on a carpet reading beside a man with his hand in
the boy's open trousers. It was insane. The lesson ended and, as usual,
Coach walked me home because he had tea every Wednesday with friends who
lived near us. As we walked we chatted about the coming Saturday
match. Coach did most of the talking; as usual, I listened. I loved to
listen, especially to someone who was really enthusiastic about something I
loved. We never mentioned the sex; neither then, nor in what followed
afterwards did we once mention the sex. Perhaps that's what made it
possible.

Next week's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my
spelling. Then Coach said, "It's time we used the computer." I followed him
into a small bedroom. It was clean and tidy with a pleasant smell in the
air. On a desk beneath the window stood a computer. There were two chairs
in front of the desk. There was a single bed. We did a quiz on the
computer, all about football, it must have taken ages to prepare. It was
great fun.

Coach indicated the bed. "Get on and read this." I lay down on the bed,
face up, reading some pages he had prepared. They told a very funny story
about some of my friends and me. There was some light sex in the story. It
made me smile and want to read on. I had to fill in the blanks. Coach sat
down on the edge of the bed. "Read it to yourself first, and then out
loud."

I felt him push up my jumper and my shirt. I wasn't surprised. He undid the
clip of my trousers and unzipped me. "Lift," he said. Still reading, I
raised my bottom and let him slide my trousers and my underpants down to my
ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach, my pubic area, (I had half a dozen
wisps of blond hair), then take my cock between his fingers. I already had
an erection. I vaguely wondered if he was disappointed. I had a small cock,
then. About two inches and quite slim. My balls were hairless, like those
of a little boy. Physically, that's what I still was - a little boy. He
played around, stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand tracing
patterns over my stomach, my chest and my nipples.

"Should I read out loud now?" I asked.

"Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt his mouth suck in my cock. His
mouth was hot and wet. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, his
head bobbed up and down on my cock. It was weird. When I really got stuck
over a word, he'd raise his head, pronounce the word, and then go back down
on me. Once I stopped and asked him what a word meant: the word was
'erect'. Coach raised his head. "It means sticking up or standing
up. That's where the word 'erection' comes from." I hadn't understood the
word 'erection' before then.

"Should I read it again?" I asked. He obviously wasn't finished.

"Yes, please, Mike. No mistakes this time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips. "Over."

I turned over so that I was lying face down. His fingers ran over my
buttocks. Then his lips. He pried the cheeks of my bottom open. I felt his
tongue run along the inside of my cheeks several times, then the hot tip
touched my hole. I was nearly sick with excitement. This was the dirtiest
thing I could think of anyone doing, yet it was the most exciting. I felt
the hot tip of his tongue run up and down the little serrated edge. He gave
a push and the tip slipped in. I lay there, willing my ring to pen so that
he could more of his tongue inside me, but it was far too small. I wasn't
worried he'd try to fuck me. I'd just say no. And I was so small built that
he'd have real trouble getting a finger in my hole, never mind his
prick. In any event, he didn't try.

"Over," he said.

I rolled over and went on reading. "Lift." I raised my bottom. He pulled up
my trousers and underpants, then did up my clothes as if I was three years
old. When I finished reading, I rolled off the bed and stood in front of
him while he tucked me in and tidied me up.

We went into the living room, finished the lesson, and had tea and
sandwiches. Then he walked me home.

This happened during each lesson for the next few weeks. Though he sucked
me for ten minutes at a time, I never came. He didn't seem to mind. He
never suggested I should do anything to him. Maybe he sensed I would have
refused. Maybe he just wanted to touch me. Maybe he'd got in deeper than
he'd intended and didn't know how to stop.

At half term I went on a f****y holiday to Florida. I came back tanned and
smelling of sun, sea and sand. When we finished the lesson on the computer,
Coach instructed me to lie on the bed and read to him. I lay face down. He
said, "Over." I said, "I don't want to." He said, "Okay, then start
reading, and don't forget your full stops."

We went on with our lessons for the next four months. He never touched me
again. That was the only difference. Everything was just as much fun. We
all played our hearts out for him on the football field, and he taught me
to read and spell.

Coach stayed with us for another two years. Then he went back to a younger
year group. As far as I know, he never 'abused' another boy.

That was five years ago.

A few weeks ago, my team staggered into a local pub. We were all quite
d***k.

I walked right into Coach.

"Hi, Rob, heard you boys won. Brilliant."

He was with his girlfriend of five years standing; I was with mine - she
was the only thing keeping me standing.

Coach and I gave each other big smiles. We chatted about nothing for a
couple of minutes, then I staggered off with my girlfriend and my mates to
the room on the other side of the bar. We'd booked it for celebrations. We
had something to celebrate.



Date: 25-08-98 (22:23) Number: 053 To: Apollo Refer#: 996 From: Will Read:
YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE


My name's William, but everybody calls me Will. I was seduced when I was
twelve. But was I seduced only because I wanted to be seduced?

Parents can be amazingly naive. Mine used to let our junior school teacher
babysit me and my younger b*****rs, Jamie, 10, and Gary, 8. Our teacher was
called Andrew X., but when we stayed over at his house, he let us call him
Andy. I suppose part of the attraction at staying over at Andy's was the
amount of freedom he gave us.

In those days, not so long ago, I was tall for my age, and I had, they
said, choirboy, angelic good looks, though there was nothing else about the
angel in me. To tell the truth, I was so energetic I was a bit of a pain in
the ass, but Andy seemed to enjoy my high spirits, and I appreciated it.

We became regulars at Andy's place, about once a month, and we got into
certain routines, like wrestling on the carpet, the three of us against
Andy. That night, the night it really started, we got Andy onto the floor,
and managed to haul his sweatpants down. He wasn't wearing any underpants,
and he was completely exposed to our fascinated gaze. Well, my gaze was
fascinated; my b*****rs probably thought it was just another bit of fun.

Andy let me get a real eyeful, then wrestled the three of us under him. He
was tickling us, and we were laughing uncontrollably. Looking back, I
realise how often Andy touched us all over, non-sexually. I suppose he was
softening us for what might happen one day.

A little later I pushed Andy a bit further, just to see what his reaction
would be. I went into the bathroom, then waddled out with my pants around
my ankles, my T-shirt pulled down over my crotch. The others were sitting
on the couch, getting ready for the movie. I guess they thought I'd my
boxers on. I didn't. I jerked up my T-shirt in front of them to reveal I
had a full-blown hard-on. (In those days, I knew all the words, though I
hadn't done anything yet. I hadn't even jerked off, though I'd heard lots
about it in school.)

My b*****rs fell about laughing, but Andy just sat there in silence. He
looked at my face, then lowered his gaze to my naughty bits, then back to
my face. "Are you going to watch the movie like that?" he asked, which made
all of us fall about laughing. My face went red. I rushed back into the
bathroom and pulled up my pants, but I didn't put my boxers back on.

"Can I lie on the couch?" I asked. There were murmurs of protest from Jamie
and Gary. Usually we boys bundled up together on the carpet; it was a real
privilege to be on the couch next to Andy. The protests didn't last long;
my b*****rs were keen to get the movie started: Terminator II. Another
great thing about Andy was letting us watching adult-rated movies. We were
sworn to secrecy, without anyone saying anything overtly, and since all of
these movies contained v******e rather than sex, none of us was embarrassed
about it.

Andy shrugged his shoulders. I scrambled onto the couch, and stretched
myself full length, leaving just enough room for Andy to sit in the space
at the bottom of my feet.

The light went down. Jamie hit the VCR, and we were underway.

Two hours of big Arnie blasting everything human that moved: Fucking Great!

After about ten minutes, I wriggled along the couch a bit, so that my feet
and legs were d****d over Andy's knees. "Just getting comfortable," I
muttered. I felt Andy's hand drop onto my calves; he gave them a squeeze to
put my at my ease. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but I have to
admit I hoped something would. I knew Andy liked me; I could see it in his
eyes; and I knew if from the little extra favours he did me now and
again. Nothing you could really put your finger on it, but it was there: I
was Andy's favourite boy.

Andy kept on squeezing my calf muscle. My cock began to stiffen a little. I
raised my right leg in the air to adjust my position, and felt Andy's hand
slide up between my legs till he reached the bottom of my butt. I said
nothing, but I eased my legs apart a little more, not quite sure why, but
knowing instinctively this would appeal to my teacher. A few moments later,
the squeezing began again, but this time the lower part of my buttocks got
the treatment. My cock gave little jumps and stiffened to its full
length. Maybe I was only twelve, but I knew what was happening: SEX!

The hand stroked my buttocks, then slid higher under my T-shirt. The
feeling of Andy's cool fingers on my naked flesh made my gulp. Then the
fingers sneaked their way under the elastic of my sweat pants until the
hand was flat against my naked buttocks. It was now or never. I could make
a vague muffled protest and the hand would slide away. Or I could do
nothing, and let what happened happen. I did nothing.

The fingers slid into my crack. My face was glowing with embarrassment, but
no one could see it in the half light of the darkened room. My b*****rs
were sprawled on the carpet facing away from us. I felt Andy's fingers
exploring my crack, though he steered clear of my bum hole. His finger tips
stroked the bottom of my scrotum, and I hunched up a little to give him
easier access. He gently manipulated my balls, then his fingers managed to
reach the base of my shaft. My hard cock pointed straight up to my belly,
and Andy couldn't get much further because of my position. But there was no
hiding the naked truth: I had a hard-on.

"It's getting cold in here." That was me. "Jamie, get me a duvet."

"Get your own duvet."

"You can have my crisps at half-time."

"One duvet coming up."

Andy's hand was withdrawn from my crack. He hit the pause button on the
remote. Jamie jumped up, nipped into our bedroom, and returned with a duvet
which he threw unceremoniously across me. I twisted so I was lying more on
my side, my body open to the TV screen, and to Andy's fingers if they
returned. I didn't have long to wait.

I suppose Andy took my stillness for the acquiesence it was. His fingers
slipped under the elastic of my sweatpants again, but this time they slid
down my front and wrapped around my erection. He carressed my cock and
balls, his fingers edged my foreskin back, and he began working the skin up
and down my shaft. The intense feelings of pleasure he created ran through
my hard-on, the balls tightened in their sac, and I imagined I could feel
my heartbeat in my asshole, which, I guess, is impossible. For the time I
was being masturbated, and it wasn't by my own hand.

Under the duvet, Andy worked my sweatpants down to my knees. It was amazing
to feel his hand and fingers work over my crotch, my genitals, and the
flesh between my thighs. I lay there watching Edward Furlong on the back of
Arnie's motorcycle, half-imagining it was Andy and I going on that
delirious adventure. We were on one of our own.

I felt Andy shift his position. His fingers raised the duvet, and I
suddenly felt his hot breath on my stomach. I panicked. I reached down and
gripped his hair, holding his head away from me. I wasn't scared at the
prospect of his mouth around my cock; that seemed a natural progression. I
was scared Jamie might turn around and see our junior school teacher
sucking me off! Generally, we b*****rs kept each other's secrets, but that
would have been stretching loyalty a bit far.

Andy returned to stroking my cock. The waves of pleasure built to an
intensity that couldn't last. I held back the whimpers and moans in my
throat. I began to shove hard against Andy's fingers and hand; in fact, I
was fucking his hand, then my hips crotch, thighs and hips bucked, and
little jets of hot liquid spurted from my cock. I was naive, but I wasn't
an idiot: I was cumming! For the first time in my life I was cumming,
shooting my load, having an orgasm. I'd had a few wet dreams in my time,
but they didn't count. This was the real thing, and it was unbelievably
exquisite.

Where my cum was going, I didn't give a fuck. That was Andy's job. He'd
caysed it to happen; he'd clean up the mess. I was glad to be under one
Andy's duvets and not in my own sl**ping back. Selfish, or what?

For the next hour I concentrated on the movie, though my cock never got
really soft. At the end of the film, I asked Andy if I could sl**p on the
couch. More protests from Jamie and Gary. But I said Andy's cat had been
sl**ping in the spare bedroom, and that was rotten on my asthma. I needed
the couch if I was to get a good night's sl**p. My b*****rs huffed and
puffed, but they were too satisfied with the movie, and too tired to
protest for long. I got my way.

Andy let me take a quick shower to remove any lingering cat hairs, and I
returned to the lounge wrapped only in a huge fresh bath towel. I scrambled
under the duvet, and waited for Andy to wish me good night. Lying there in
the darkness, I felt my cock stiffen again. I was embarrassed, and turned
on my stomach. After a couple of minutes, I heard Andy come in and kneel by
the side of the couch. He half-tried to turn me over, but I resisted. My
cock, though hard, was still sensitive, and I wasn't sure how I'd react to
a blow-job. (See how well I knew all the right words!)

Andy edged down the bath towel until it was bunched at my ankles. My bare
ass presented itself to him, and I was glad I'd given myself a good scrub
in the shower. He began to rub and stroke my bottom. It felt neat. Then I
felt him part the crack in my buttocks, and I before I could figure out
"what next", I felt his tongue slide up the inside of my thighs. The tip
poked at my bum hole. I couldn't believe it. Here was our much-respected
teacher licking my asshole. Thank God, I'd washed myself thoroughly. And he
was doing more than licking it: he stuck the tip of his tongue right inside
me. It wasn't comfortable, but it did't hurt, and as I got used to it, it
felt kinda good. It gave the well-known insult "kiss my ass" a whole new
meaning.

I didn't make any sound, apart from little grunts, and Andy was probably
unsure of himself, because he suddenly spoke.

"Look, Will," he said, "I'm not sure if you want be to be doing this, so
I'm going to my room. Come if you want. I want you to, but it's up to you."
I sensed him rise and walk away.

I lay there for a few moments trying to figure out what it was I wanted. I
liked Andy, and I liked what he was doing to me. I wanted to have that
feeling again. But did that make me a fag, a homo? I didn't know. And I
didn't much care. The moment was all that mattered.

I got up, pulled the towel around me, and padded to Andy's bedroom. The
door was ajar.

"Andy," I whispered.

"Yes, Will?"

"I can't get to sl**p. Can I stay with you for a bit?"

"Yes, Will."

I padded into the room. Only a bed lamp was on. I dropped the towel and
scrambled quickly under Andy's duvet. I put my arms on the pillow, and my
head on my arms. I closed my eyes.

Andy started kissing me. Light little kisses, nothing serious. First my
forehead, then myt cheeks, then my lips, just brushing them. Then my chest,
my nipples, my tummy button. I was a little embarrassed when his lips
pulled at the little pubic hair I had, but even that was exciting. Then his
lips brushed the bottom of my shaft, so that it leaned against his cheek. A
finger insinuated itself between my legs, found my crack, and stroked the
lips of my ring. Every now and then, Andy would whisper nice things, sweet
things, things that reassured me.

I knew he was going to go further, so I relaxed and let his finger slip
inside me. His mouth, hot and wet, took in my penis and began to slide up
and down my erection. I reached out with my hand and discovered Andy was
naked! I was scared at first, but I couldn't resist the urge to explore.

His cock was big, very big, but maybe that was only in comparison to what I
knew - boys' cocks. And he was hairy, very hairy. "Aw fuck it," I thought
to myself, and stretched my fingers around his hard-on. I could feel it
throbbing as if it had a beating heart of its own. Tentatively, I began to
work the skin up and down the shaft, hoping I was doing it right. It was
hard to concentrate, because Andy was sucking my cock hard, while his
finger did things inside of me I can't even begin to describe.

At one point, he left my cock and raised my legs onto his shoulders. I knew
he was examining my asshole. I'd done myself a couple of times; lying on my
head, pitching my legs over my shoulders and having a look at the little
puckered brown hole with its darker-skinned ring. For the life of me, I
couldn't see anything sexy about it. Andy obviously could; he kissed it and
sucked it till I thought he would turn it inside out. Finally, he
remembered what I needed and got back to my cock, sucking me faster and
faster till I exploded for a second time that night.

I slept in Andy's arms that night. I watched him jack himself off three or
four times. To be honest, I did it for him the fourth time. I couldn't
bring myself to suck him off, though he pressed the back of my head
hopefully now and again. A few weeks later I did it for him; it turned out
to be no big deal, though I always preferred to be done to rather than to
do myself, if you follow me.

Andy and I had sex for about three months. Then it all ended when Andy got
caught. He got caught having sex with Gary, my eight year old b*****r! I
could've told him Gary was a heck of a blabbermouth. Anyway, they hushed it
all up, and Andy left our school, and, as far as I know, he left our town
and teaching all together.

I felt guilty for a bit. Then I got on with my life. That's what you do
when you're twelve years old.



Date: 25-08-98 (22:38) Number: 057 To: Apollo Refer#: 999 From: Tim F.
Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

July 18th 1996, a warm, sunny afternoon in a cathedral city in the south
east of England. I was doing freelance work (graphic design) for a couple
of months, staying a hotel, and feeling pleasantly bored.

About four in the afternoon, out window-shopping, I answered a call of
nature and headed for the toilets near the city centre. Going in, I glanced
at a young boy, about 12 or 13, sitting on the entrance step. He was in
school uniform. I thought he might be waiting for a friend or even for his
father - though it was a pretty insalubrious place to be sitting.

I entered the toilets, found a urinal and pulled my dick out. I'd hardly
started to piss when I noticed someone take the next urinal. A bit odd
since none of the other urinals was in use. Tradition dictates you don't
stand beside another guy if there are spaces elsewhere. It was the boy.

A little embarrassed, I listened to myself splashing into the bowl. No
similar sounds from the next bowl. I didn't look. He was a boy, I was man,
you don't look. I shook myself and washed my hands. I glanced back. The boy
was still standing at the urinal, apparently taking a leak, but he was
looking over his shoulder - at me! I hurried out of the toilets and headed
back the few yards to the city centre. I sat down on one of the benches.

Curiosity got the better of me. Surely the boy wasn't... I had to take a
look. Sure enough, he was sitting there on the step, eyeing every man who
entered the toilet. Drawn as if by a magnet, I strolled casually over and
looked down at the boy. He looked up at me and held my look.

God, he was an angel!

Streaked blond hair with a darker underlay. The face of a choir boy. Clear,
freckled skin. Strong dark eyebrows. Eyelashes that brushed the skin below
his eyes. Large hazel eyes. A small, straight nose, slightly curved,
slightly upturned. Fullish lips and perfect teeth. I didn't see all that in
a single glance. I saw it a few minutes later as we sat together on a bench
in the city centre. I'd nodded to him and walked away. He got up and
followed me. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I remember thinking how
crazy this was; not only me walking off with a boy who'd been soliciting
males in front of a public toilet, but the boy himself taking such insane
risks.

His name was Tony M. He was thirteen. He went to the local comprehensive
Catholic school. He was funny, articulate, self-possessed, and in no way
naive. He only had half an hour. His little s****r was in McDonalds for a
birthday party with her friends. He had to collect her at 5 and see her
home. He wasn't quite 13; he'd be 13 on August 18, in exactly one
month. Tony steered the conversation round to sex, and more precisely to
dicks, pricks, cocks.

Had I seen a big one? What did I consider a big one? Did I know any boys
with big ones? Did I know any boys his age with big ones? Did I have a big
one?

Put like that it is crude. But that's not the way Tony did it. He had a
real enthusiasm for big cocks. His skin glowed and his eyes shone as we
discussed cocks in general and big cocks in particular.

"Well, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a big one?" At last he blushed.

"Depends what you call big," I fenced, blushing.

"Can I see it?"

I'd never had sex with a man or boy in my life. What made him think...?

"Okay. But where?"

"McDonalds."

"No, we can't. Remember my s****r. The toilets. Come on." Tony practically
jogged to the toilets with me in tow.

The toilets were just closing.

He looked at me frantically.

"The bus station toilets. Come on!"

This time we did jog. I was 21, no problem.

As we reached the station toilets, we slowed down to a reasonably dignified
scamper.

The toilets were empty. There were two cubicles. Neither door had a
lock. Tony pulled me inside one. The place reeked of urine. He backed me
towards the toilet seat.

"Sit down. I'll do you first."

Semi-dazed, I sank back onto the toilet seat. Tony dropped to his knees and
scrabbled with the opening of my trousers. "Fuck it." He pulled the belt
open, unzipped me, hauled down my underpants.

My cock sprang up, so hard it actually ached.

The boy knelt over me, his fascinated gaze on my prick, as he jerked me
hard and fast, his lips brushing the head every now and then. I was too
excited to feel that much. It was a tiny cubicle with another next
door. There was no lock on the door. It was a very busy toilet. A
twelve-year-old schoolboy was kneeling between my legs, enthusiastically
tossing me off. Insane!

After five minutes, Tony gave me an exasperated look. "Hurry up," he
whispered.

"Stand up," I whispered.

The boy stood up and started to undo his trousers. Then he took his hands
away and looked down at me. He didn't have to say anything. I reached out,
unclasped his school flannels, unzipped him and pushed his trousers and
white underpants to his knees. Tony pushed his jacket open and pulled up
his shirt and sweater until they were around his neck.

His body was as beautiful as his face. Clean, creamy skin. A strong chest,
washboard stomach with little belly button (an inner). A patch of dark hair
at the base of his stomach. His erection, around four inches, pointing
straight up to his chin. His prick as thick as my thumb. I edged back the
foreskin and ran my fingers tenderly over his prick and balls. Tony pushed
at my head. I sank down and took his prick in my mouth. I sucked him the
way I thought it should be done, varying the pressure, depth and speed,
while one hand worked on his ballsac and the other stroked his chest and
nipples. I could hear the boy sighing audibly above me.

Tony came in a couple of minutes, hips and knees jerking as he shot his
surprisingly thick, hot load into my mouth and throat. I gulped him
down. He pushed my face away, his cock was that sensitive. I thought the
encounter was coming to an end. Not quite.

The boy grinned at me, then turned, leant against the door and flicked his
shirt tail up to show me his ass. I couldn't believe he was expecting me to
fuck him there and then. I grasped my cock, still so hard it hurt, up and
down his crack before burrowing it between his cheeks. I shot my load!
Cumming took my completely by surprise. A stream of warm jism shot deep
into the boy's crack. Tony's reaction - he wiggled his bum!

We pulled ourselves together and did up our clothes. Tony smiled all the
time. If I hadn't chatted to him earlier, I would have suspected he was
half-witted. He was anything but that. I wanted to whisper, "You go first,"
but he flung the door open, turned to me, and shook my hand. "Thank you
very much," he said. "I'm late for my s****r." And he sprinted off across
the station in the direction of McDonalds, his school tie flapping behind
him.

I never saw Tony again.

I haunted the toilets for the next two weeks. I didn't want sex again with
him. I wanted to sit him down and giving him a good telling-off. I wanted
to talk about the risks he was taking: ****, murder, AIDS.

Tony needs help. Every boy who is driven to haunting the streets and
toilets looking for casual sex needs help. I probably need help, too, but
that's help of a different kind.

Tony's needs come first.

If you find him/them - the Lost Boys - don't use them, help them.

LOG OFF

... Continue»
Posted by iamyourforever 3 years ago  |  Categories: Gay Male, Masturbation, Mature  |  Views: 5853  |  
95%
  |  3

A Widower's Two Daughters

After my wife died, I had trouble sl**ping in our bed. We had too many pleasant, and I admit, sexual memories under those sheet. I tried replacing the sheets and mattress, but that did not work. I spent too many nights crying myself to sl**p from loneliness

I was now the widowed father of two teen-aged daughters. One was nineteen, the other eighteen. They each had their own rooms. I’m sure there were nights I kept them awake with my sobbing.

I went to the oldest, Colleen, with a request.

“Honey, I was wondering if you would like to have my room?

“Why, dad?”

“I can’t sl**p in there. I’m losing my concentration at work because I’m tired all the time.”

“Is that from lack of sl**p or lack of sex, Dad?”

“Colleen!”

“Dad, I know you and Mom had sex at least three times a week. It’s been eleven months since mom died and you haven’t even dated. You’re too young to give up on life and its pleasures.”

My daughter was so right it hurt. But, I did not want to go out on the dating scene just yet.

“Dear, we’re switching rooms tonight. We’ll start moving clothes when I get home from work.

That night, Colleen and I made the switch. The smaller bed did not seem as empty as the king sized one that was my marriage bed. With a few problems, I had the best nights sl**p since Wendy, my wife of twenty-two years, died.

The biggest adjustment was that the bathroom was shared with my youngest, Nancy. I was not used to locking the doors because the master bedroom had its own bathroom.

I was getting out of the shower when Nancy walked through her door. She was ready to take her shower. I was nude and wet. She was nude and dry.

We looked at each other. There were no screams, like I would have expected. There was no embarrassment.

“Dad,” said Nancy, “please, remember to lock the door.”

Nancy stepped into the shower. I dried off and left the bathroom. I was combing my hair when I realized how much Nancy looked like her mother when we first met. She was the spitting image of Wendy when we made love the first time. That was when I got an erection. It was the first one since Wendy’s death.

I was standing in my eldest daughter’s former room with a hard-on. I closed my eyes; my hand went to my cock.

“Oh God, Wendy I miss you so.”

I was stroking away like mad. Just as I came, I heard the sound of a woman cumming. I turned to see that I had left the bathroom door open. Nancy was watching me and masturbating too. In my sexual frenzy I thought it was my late wife or her ghost.

I turned to her. My hand motions increased their speed. The apparition watched as my jism finally shot out of my cock. She closed the door.

“Wendy, don’t leave me.”

I fell on the bed crying.

I finally made it to the dinning room for breakfast. I knew by then that it was not Wendy watching but Nancy. I was ashamed to face my daughters. I knew that Nancy would tell Colleen what happened.

It was a good thing that it was a Saturday. No one had work or school that day. My state was such that I would have screwed up my job.

While Nancy had her mother’s looks, Colleen had her personality. Wendy and Colleen often clashed with the f***e of two mountain goats in rut.

“Dad”, said Colleen, “ are you sure you want to stay in my room? Nancy told me you didn’t lock the door to her room and she walked in on you. Then you didn’t shut the door to your room and she saw you dressing.”

I looked at Nancy. I saw she did not tell her s****r about watching me jack off. Or Colleen had the decency not to mention it.

“I’m sorry, Nancy. I can’t sl**p in the room I shared with your mother.”

“Dad, I know this will take a bit of adjustment. Let’s just put this morning behind us,” said Nancy.

The girls went their ways and I stayed home to read. I did not read. I dug up the old photo albums. I looked through the pictures that were all I had left of Wendy. The pictures were of our dates and marriage before the girls arrived.

They also were of our first heartache. There were two of Wendy holding the son we had. Jeremy lived only one day. We never told Colleen that she was not our first-born. The loss of Jeremy was too hard for Wendy and me to talk about. The last words Wendy said to me was that she was finally getting to be Jeremy’s mother.

It was this memory that made me let go of Wendy. She was with one of our c***dren. I was with the other two. It was time to live. It would hurt, but I was determined to live.

That night in Colleen’s former room, I closed my eyes and let my senses go. My old room was full of death. This room was life. I could smell the subtle scents of my daughter. I realized what was happening to me in my old bedroom. There were too many memories of Wendy. Too many little scents that I could not smell but were there anyway.

It was not fare to take Colleen from HER room and put her in mine. She spent her whole life here. She was part of the room and the room was part of her. I would move back to my old bedroom and remodel. It was time to retake my life.

I put on my robe and went to my old room. I wanted to talk to Colleen about trading back. I knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s dad.”

“Count to five and come in.”

Colleen still remembered the old routine. It was how we made sure she was decent to see me. Or hide what she did not want me to see.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

Colleen was sitting up in the bed when I entered. She had the quilt pulled up to her chin.

“What do you want, dad?”

“That’s your room, Colleen. We should trade back. I’m sure you and Nancy have worked everything out to your satisfaction. I’m just disrupting the f****y.”

“I thought that this room had too many memories for you, Dad?”

“I can change the room and keep the memories.”

“Oh, so that when you start bringing home your dates, they won’t be in mom’s bed? So you don’t feel like you’re cheating on her?”

Colleen was grinning from ear to ear. She had her mother’s smile. The room, the bed, the smile, I leaned over and kissed my daughter. I broke the kiss when my hand was just inches away from her breast.

“Can I have the bed, Dad?”

“Why?”

She looked down, smiled, and then looked into my eyes.

“I have a few good memories in this bed too, Daddy.”

“We knew, baby. Your mother always knew when the sheets were not the ones we used.”

We shared a laugh. It was the first laugh I had about Wendy’s memory.

“Okay, Colleen. You can have this bed.”

“Thanks, daddy.”

I had my hand on the door when Colleen asked the Big Question.

“How often do you masturbate thinking about Mom?”

“Just once.”

“Today? After seeing Nancy?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

I heard footsteps. A hand touched my shoulder. It made me turn. My oldest daughter was standing before me, nude. Was she offering herself to me?

“Nancy told me about seeing you jack off. We know she looks like mom did at that age. Nancy said that she hoped you would take her.”

“What?”

“We talked it over today. We decided that we would be here to help you any way you need it. Even if you wanted to take us to bed. I was hoping that when you came to me tonight that you would take me. That is why I had you count to five. I wanted to undress.”

“You mean that you and your s****r were willing to sl**p with me tonight?”

“Not just tonight, but any night you wanted one of us.”

“You’re serious?”

Colleen answered by pulling my face to hers. Our lips met as she grasped my cock. She pulled off my robe. I stood there in my boxer shorts with my dick out through the fly. Colleen pulled down my shorts. I stepped out of them. Father and daughter stood lip to lip. She had her hand on my manhood. I had my hand on her breast.

“Do you want me or Nancy first?”

“What?”

“I think you should have Nancy first. It wasn’t fare the way you teased her today.”

Colleen opened the door and called her s****r.

“Yah?” asked Nancy.

“I’ll concede first honors to you.”

Colleen left the room. Nancy entered and undressed. This time the hand on my cock was not mine. She knelt before me, taking my cock into her mouth. She stopped just before I blasted her mouth.

Nancy took my hand, leading me to the bed. She lay on her back, her knees parted, her cunt pointed at me.

She reached out to me. “Come to me. Take me, Daddy.”

I stood there, looking at the desire in her face.

“Please, Daddy, I want you in me.”

I took my place next to her. I took her breast into my mouth. It was like I was ravaging her mother.

I dropped my body on top of hers. I lifted her ass, putting her legs over my shoulders. I could drive deeper into Wendy this way. I figured if it was good enough for mother; it was good enough for daughter.

I had my cockhead at the entrance to Nancy’s sex hole. I looked into my daughter’s face.

“Yes?” I asked her.

She nodded yes.

I did what I did to her mother. I fell into her with one sudden push. There was one big difference. Her mother was not a virgin when we met.

Nancy cried out in pain. I felt the tearing of her hymen. One part of me wanted to stop. The rest of me said it did not matter now. I went with the majority.

Though I masturbated this morning, I still had more than a year to make up for lack of sex. Wendy once told me to find a hooker when she was diagnosed with the uterine cancer. It was too far along when found to stop. It had spread. The sick irony. The source of our greatest pleasure and c***dren was what killed her.

I was without control. I was pounding my cock into my youngest daughter. I destroyed her virginity. It was the most important thing in my life at this time.

It did not take long to fill my girl with my cum. I hate to say this but I didn’t even know when it happened. I remember pumping into Nancy’s cunt. I remember her crying in a mixture of pain and joy. Then I remember waking with both daughters naked, one on each side.

Nancy rolled my face to her.

“Since you just made love to mom, when are you going to fuck me?”

“You had your turn, Nancy. Now it’s mine,” said Colleen.

They argued over me for a few minutes. I finally got enough strength to talk.”

“Nancy’s right. It was your mother that time. Though your mother lost her cherry by the time I took her.

“But Colleen is the oldest. By rights, she should be the first.”

“What about me, Daddy?” pouted Nancy.

“Your mother kept some toys in the bottom of the dresser.”

I felt Nancy get off the bed as I maneuvered Colleen’s pussy to my mouth. I took her clit into my mouth as she took my cock into hers.

She was wet before I started. I about drowned with her cum juice. Though, I just came into her s****r, Colleen had me up and pumping my cum into her throat.

The way she licked my dick, I knew that she had plenty of experience. I wished that I could thank each guy that let her practice her skills. It was like she was training all her life to suck off her old man.

I heard the buzzing of a vibrator. I could tell by the tone it was Wendy’s favorite. As my tongue explored my baby’s clit and cunt, my other baby was doing some exploring of her own. I heard the sweet sounds of two young women approaching nirvana. I was not far from there myself.

It is hard enough to get two people to have simultaneous orgasms. But here, in this one bed, a father and his two teen daughters reached a three way simultaneous orgasm.

We slept the rest of that night together. The next day, Colleen got the toy and Nancy got the tongue.

As I lay there, I could not help but compare my two daughters’ pussies. They say all pussies are the same. Well, they are not. Wendy’s, Colleen’s and Nancy’s were the same but each was different. I found I was wishing I could do a blindfold test. I wished it could be a three-way taste test. But I would never again be able to tongue my Wendy. Though She was gone from my life, she left me two very eager, willing and talented replacements.... Continue»
Posted by Acebottom 4 years ago  |  Categories: First Time, Masturbation, Taboo  |  Views: 7758  |  
90%
  |  14

A Female Sexual Story You Must Read

The title does not allow you the pleasure to describe the loss of your virginity, nor does age allow you the scope or breadth of descriptive prose to fully say what it is like to feel a man's cock enter you, the parting of that thin line that forms your girlish pussy, from which you pee, as you squat to do so.
When that thin line parts it displays another set of pinkish sensitivity, a small clitoris that makes you touch yourself discretely, or the more dangerous opening, the one that requires the same clitoris to propel you onto a cock to fuck, yes, no matter how beautiful you are, or how sophisticated or refined, a fuck is a fuck, everything else is just a support system, you use to lure men inside you, it's like a cock, a man just supports it, he allows himself to get hard, because a girl like me send him signals of my willingness to fuck, so a fuck is just a man's cock chatting to a girl's cunt, as she surrounds him with her moist body and squeezes him, what the rest of the bodies do is their concern, as a cock and cunt, well we love what it we do.

So, my male readers, I am as you know a woman, and I want to talk about me cunt to you, she is my best friend and she pleases all the men I go with, and here, I want to tell you how she met her first cock and how she felt having it go inside her, like every other girl, who has a story about her cunt's dirty little secrets, yes from an early age in life, our cunt's crave cock, to cover and squeeze, caress and kiss, oil and slide over, yes you men might give us lollipops and pat us on our bodily heads, but we think about your cocks, just watch us like that lollipop you gave us, does the reflective message we are sending you make want to put your cock in our mouths, don't worry and don't feel ashamed, watch us suck it, and see out tongues as we imagine the lollipop is your big, fat cock.

Losing my Virginity to an experienced man

Yes he did it, yes I can remember it, the feeling, the warmth and the mess. I said nothing to anyone, just went to the toilet and took my panties off and hid them, I knew one word from me and all hell would have broke out.

Now the memory, like all bed memories, either fade, or become rose tinted, but as I lay here remembering the abuse, I suddenly marvel at his audacity, and I look down the length of my nude body, and realize he had me, all of this that I survey, as desirable as I portray, this man had his penis inside me seven years back, and not a murmur from me, I let him steal my precious virginity and cum, one small tug on my slender girlish hips, and he broke though and slipped inside deep, and a flood of warmth, as he hugged me closely, his hot boozy breath gasping into my neck and making my nostrils flare, his words a stinging rebuke, 'You naughty girl, look what you made me do'.

We sat stock still, I not daring to move, subconsciously feeling his penis subside inside me, his warm semen, acting like a lubricant, aided its departure, and the memories of a ship sliding down its slipway and into the waters below, played heavily in my mind, his penis slipping from my fleshiness, the wetness dragged through the leg of my panties elastic, his semen seemingly oozing into the now soaked crotch of my cotton panties.

That was it, it had happened, I had been penetrated on a day that had started out full of excitement.
We had been guests to the launching of a ship, and I had returned home from boarding school, just for the occasion. It had started with my friends expressing their jealousy, so it made me feel important, especially with the new clothes and more so, as the day wore on, the admiring glances from the men.
Everywhere I looked, men were smiling and nodding their approval, and I knew precisely why they were, every girl knows why, and I would be lying if I said my panties were not wet, it is a natural response, an exciting thing to feel desired, even though its purely sexual, as girls at my age, their desirous thoughts for what we have, makes that very thing respond, as if it had a life of its own, and it prepares itself, like mine did, he was right when he blamed me, it was too easy for him to go inside.

I was the centre of my own little universe that day, moving around the tables and being hugged and kissed as girls do when men have a little too much to drink.
Sometimes I would sit and watch those around me, and see just how oblivious everyone was to everyone else around them, so many false greetings, hugging and kissing, loud voices and some inappropriate touching of the women there, the ones showing too much, but then again, that was why they dressed like that.

It was a big party, which promised to go on into the night, and people were settled in for a night of drinking, partying, food and sex, yes sex, I knew about that, and I wanted to see it, I was curious, and I knew it was going to happen, it was just to keep my eyes open and watch.

I was focussed on a girl who had drank too much champagne, she was surrounded by a pack of younger men, and I could see she was wearing black panties, her legs were open and the men were moving in on her, their banter and their looking at each other spoke volumes for their intentions, they were forming a pecking order, and would ultimately take their turn with her, as she was too smashed to say no, or understand what was going to happen.

I had positioned myself discretely away from the main throng of tables, the sound was a cacophony of noise, voices and music, the bushes around me absorbing most as it filtered through, the leaves shielding me as I watched the men toy with the blond girl, my mind was focused on sex, and that's how he found me, sitting secluded, 'Can I join you', he sat down as he asked, right beside me, I immediately saw he had an erection,
I smiled meekly and nodded, I think he saw I was looking at what his pants were straining to hide.

He was drinking hard liqueur, 'Do you think she is in trouble', he asked me?

I swallowed hard and felt a flush rush to my head, as if he knew I was spying on them, I shrugged my shoulders, 'Maybe', I replied.

'You would be right then', he replied, then he leant into me and whispered into my ear, his warm breath making my nipples harden, my ears were extremely sensitive, 'I think they will all fuck her', then he put his hand on my shoulder and moved even closer to my ear, 'Do you think she can handle four horny hard cocks'?

I almost wet my panties, his choice of words were exciting me, they were being delivered directly into my ear, which in itself was like penetrative sex, had he put his tongue in, I am sure I would have had an orgasm.

But he sat upright, his words hung in my ears, 'Fuck, Cock', not to mention the perceived imagery of four men on one woman, the very thing had crossed my mind before he had arrived.

There was a loud female laugh and both of us looked in the direction, one of the men was kissing her, and another was stroking her inner thigh, working his way onto her crotch, I knew her black panties were as wet as my own were, I stared, and he saw I was a voyeur, 'You like to watch', I looked at him, and felt myself flush again, I was confused, I struggled to answer, had I said anything it would be an admittance to my kink, 'It's her problem, not mine', I said.

He smiled warmly, 'You're right', he replied, 'the minute his hand was on her inner thigh, the die was cast'.

I looked at him, 'What do you mean, the die was cast', I never heard that expression before?

'He looked at my legs and my eyes followed his gaze, and to my shock I had not realized his were touching mine.
His hand dropped to my knee and he touched it, it was like an electrical shock, shooting straight to my clitoris, I felt the jolt and the immediate wantonness of pleasure being touched.

My reaction was felt by him, but my lack of pulling away or objection only spurned him on.

'See how that felt', again I had no words, so his finger traced a short line to my thigh, now perceivably shaking, my thighs were tightly closed, but as his finger moved slowly upwards, they relaxed.

'A woman cant say no once a man touches her inner thigh'.

He was right, well in my case, he certainly was, and the woman opposite us, being groped silly, obviously was, but there was a flash of defiance in me, no girl wants to be that easy, but it was a case case of trying to defend the indefensible, after all his hand was still on my thigh, and I was wetting myself, prying for him to go higher and touch it.

'Bullshit'!

A very adult swear word for a girl to say to an adult.

'Close your eyes and keep them closed'. This is it, flashed through my mind, and as I closed them, wrinkling up my face in a show of grim determination, perhaps over emphasizing my determination to obey and follow whatever he was going to do, so when I said I disagreed with his theory, I at least could prove it by doing exactly what he was going to do.

'Ok, good', he said softly, and I felt him part my thighs, which surprisingly opened to easily, wider than the girl opposite, it was what he wanted, it really was what I wanted, I was convinced there was a puddle of wetness in which I sat, but I did not care, I was horny as fuck, and as I was just about to cover his hand and pull him onto my cunt, he started to move in that hallowed direction.

I swallowed hard, I ached, my mouth was dry and my pink tongue flashed across my parched mouth, as I wetted my lips, 'Feels good, does it not', again I swallowed hard, he was inches from my cunt, I was about to be touched, and I fidgeted, I was pushing my bum to his hand, the hem of my short skirt was high, my crotch open and exposed to his line of sight, he could see my panties and how they disappeared within my curvature, my tiny cunt line so clearly defined through the wetness of my panties, a fledgling, 'Camel Toe', as yet untouched, but tantalisingly close, my thighs were wide as I pulled them open in my surrender, my breathing laboured, my lips dry and constantly wetted with my spit, but still he teased, and my mind screamed, 'Fuck me'.

His caressing of the soft inner thigh flesh, just below the elastic of my wet panties, was driving me crazy, these were feelings of desire I was experiencing for the first time, yes I had experience of masturbation and orgasms, but this was unimaginable for me just moments ago, I was moving my bum in circles, trying to bring his hand to touch me, but he was moving with me, so in a sexual agony, I covered his hand with mine and pulled him onto my cunt,pressing his hand with all my strength, but he wriggled free, 'No', then a firmer, 'No', I stopped moving, 'I will touch your cunt when I am ready', I was breathing heavily, gasping, and I turned my face to his ear, 'I want to cum', and I kissed his ear, 'Please', I pleaded, and I licked his lobe, 'Fuck me', and as I spoke I started to climb onto his lap in search of his manhood.

He reached out and took my weak hand, everything about me was limpish, I had no energy, I was putty in his hands, whereas he was iron, and my fingers wrapped around his cock, now freed from the constraints of his pants, I moaned loudly as I tugged on it, my head nestled into his neck, where I kissed and licked, I could feel myself mount onto him, as I pulled his cock to my cunt.

To someone looking in on us they would have been amazed to see a young girl grasping a huge erection and pulling herself onto it, while the man sat drinking, it was me who pulled my panties aside and guided him inside, well the head of his cock was for certain, as he held my hips, as the bucked and jumped on that swollen bulbous head, like a ball and socket joint, then he gasped, as if something was changing, his grip on my slender and narrow hips tightened, and he pulled me down firmly, and I gasped as my whole body seemed to open wide.

It was a sharp pleasurable dull feeling, I could hear the exhalation of my own breath, his deep groan, my inner feminine lining parting for the first time as his cock battered its way deep inside my inner femininity, bluntly hitting my cervix, and flooding me with semen.
He held me in a vice like lock, I could neither move up or down as my own bodily needs cried for, or even gyrate onto his pubis, I was close to my own release, instead left to feel the flooding warmth of his semen ejaculated inside me, his throbbing cock my only consolation, as he sat subsiding inside me, 'I want to cum', I pitifully begged, as his flaccid cock slipped from my vaginal grasp.

I stood up on legs shaking from the exertion, I felt, well fucked, I suppose, but unsatisfied. He pointed to the group opposite, 'She has had two of them, now she is fucked, and two have nothing', I looked across, he was right, two guys looked pissed off, he looked at me, 'Go get one, or both', he said, as I looked and a surge of sexual energy ran through me, my mind trying to figure out how to intercept one.

I turned to ask him, but he was gone, only his semen running down my leg to prove he had existed, 'It was that easy', I thought, and I hated my body for its perceived weakness, and it has taken me all these years to put the right words to my loss of my virginity, that afternoon, and my question to you, my readers, did I fuck him, or he fuck me, lusting or ****, as for me just now, I need to masturbate, I mean I am lying here naked in my room and the door not locked, the halls are filled with young men, on our final year of graduation, and ten years of sexual activity since that day, does affect a girl and her pussies desire for cock.

... Continue»
Posted by MarieL 5 months ago  |  Categories: Mature, Taboo, Voyeur  |  Views: 6606  |  
100%
  |  6

My memories

After several vacations in Florida with my f****y, we decided that we would enjoy buying a home and there year round..

My task was simple. I was to drive to Florida by myself, and dedicate three solid weeks in the scouting of employment, rental property investment, and a home in a exceptionally rated school district.

On my scheduled day to begin my trip, I found it difficult to leave my home. I had become very accustomed to almost daily, day long, alcohol fueled sexual relations with my wife..

We had finally truly connected. We spent our time together experimenting with sexy clothing, sex toys, bondage, submission, dominance, voyerism, exhibitionism, orgasm control, female ejaculation, multiple orgasms, and indulging in pornography together as a couple.

Our time spent together was as emotionally charged as physical. We truly connected on both planes. We both had discover pleasures that were previously unknown to either of us..

I finally began my trip several days late. I spent those prior days tying to pack my wife's sex along with my clothing and trip supplies but to no avail, I began my trip aroused from my woes goodby kiss.

My plan was to split the drive into two days, staying at an hotel that first night..

I would drive for an hour or so before entering the interstate, and decided to stop at a pharmacy to pick up last minute items such as emergency medical supplies, should I get into an accident on the way..

I spotted a pharmacy just before entering the interstate, parked, and entered the store, following the isle signs. I found and the basics and gathered gauze, peroxide, and medical tape.

I carried the items, making my way to the front of the store where the registers were located, and came across an area displaying personal massagers and lubricants. The products captured my attention, an I stopped to look at them..

As I stood in the isle my thoughts drifted off to my recent experiences with my wife.. I wondered which lubricants she might like, she preferred the type that were known as arousal type which were designed to enhance the sensitivity of ones private parts..thoughts of her swollen and wet pussy flooded my minds eye..

Next were the personal massagers which she adored, but already owned similar variations of.

I thought us using them, both enjoying watching porn together, and especially while used the massagers on herself. My cock grew to life, creating a noticeable bulge in my jeans. My thoughts were soon consumed by the memories of how mind-blowingly erotic it was to touch myself to her, while she shamelessly brought herself to multiple orgasms while watching me.

.I found myself standing in the isle, staring off into space, listening to her heavy breath, her moans, her squeals of absolute delight...I wanted to pleasure myself to my memories of her..but couldn't..

My mind raced as to when and where I might satisfy myself, and soon recalled that I would be stating at a hotel that night. Alone. I so much wanted her to be with me..nonetheless, it was a rare opportunity to give myself the relief and pleasure I desired ..my cock twitched in anticipation..

I quickly grabbed two additional items, new razor blades and a bottle of baby oil..

Walking to the register, my bulge was noticeable, but my memories of her prevailed.. I was so turned on I didn't care who saw..

The middle aged female register attendant coyly looked me up and down as I approached. I acted as if I didn't notice, paid for my items and returned to my truck to continue my road trip..

My mind wouldn't give my cock a break..I drove a few hours, with my balls tingling, cock enjoying the pressure created by my tight jeans..I casually rubbed my self through my clothing while I drove. Erotic images taunted me..

Not having her with me, I tuned on my smartphone and keyed up some porn..I couldn't watch, but I could browse, select, and then listen to the characters guttural sounds as they fucked each other.

..I e-mailed my wife any movie that reminded me of us, or what I wanted to do with her, hoping that she would pleasure herself while watching my selections.. I knew she wouldn't, but still the thought of me sending her stuff for her to get herself off maintained a sliver of an erotic connection to her..in my mind, if she watched and played like me, we were doing it together, and I was not alone..

I spent the balance of that days driving, listening and teasing through my clothing, imagining her doing the same thing.

Hornier than ever, Starving, Mentally and physically exhausted, I reached the town that I would break for the night.

First priority was to rent a room with 2 beds. One for my long awaited antics to mess up without concern, the other to actually sl**p. I found a hotel, registered, and took my belongings to my room. The room was clean, sheets crisp, and pillows fluffy. Wi fi was available for my notebook computer..Perfect.

My hunger winning over my arousal, I hurriedly went out to buy a few bacon egg and cheese sandwiches, coffee, and returned to my hotel room.

As soon as the door closed behind me I dropped my bags of food on the bed. I immediately got my razor and new blades, striped all my clothes, and took a well needed shower. I carefully shaved my privates as best as I could reach, saving my pleasure until after I ate..

I exited the bathroom half dry..not wet per say, but damp..The room was warm, so I decided that I would watch a little tv and eat in the nude on the bed..small droplets of water tauntingly ran down my body..

I half laid down, and tried to relax while I ate.. My pulse quickened as I couldn't deney the pleasure that awaited...my cock was so swollen that it almost pulsed with my heartbeat..the moisture between my legs felt cooling..

I quickly finished eating, got up, and propped I all but one pillow in the room at the head of the bed to cradle my upper body..and placed the last pillow where I expected my ass to be. This would ensure I was as comfortable as possible, and give my hands the most reach to myself..

Setting my notebook up along my side, I selected a compilation of several hundred women, each a minute or so, which exhibited only their moments of their masturbatory orgasms...

I began ...one after another..listening to their quickening breath, their wetness...their cum cries..watching their toes curl, bodies tense, legs widen, pussies swell and contract, squirting and creaming themselves with only their personal expertise could provide...

Bringing the oil to the bed, I slowly but generously poured it upon my body, enjoying the scent and how it mixed with the moisture remaining from the shower.

I use the razor again, making sure my entire crotch and ass is completely hairless and smooth...just like I do to my wife..

Opening my legs, I caressed the inner portions as I played with my nipples.. I tried to touch my body as I touched my wife's. I avoided touching my sex as I knew I would orgasm quickly.. I wanted to enjoy for a while first..

I wished I had stollen a pair of my wife's worn panties before I left home. I longed to smell and taste her.. I wanted to rub her panties all over my body. I wanted to hold them to my face so that her pussy was the only thing I could smell.

All I want is for her to sit on my chest facing my face, rubbing her self of on my lips and tong..her pushing her pussy hole onto my tong..allowing me to lick her cream out, stroking the inner walls of her with my tong..

I imagined a portion of the sheets to be her panties. I held them to my face, imagining her,...

I watched as long as I could, teasing my precum from my body, enjoying to every end, the scent and lubrication of only my own body could provide...imagining it was my wife's cream and squirt lubricating me..

Several times I had to look away and pull my hands from myself, squeezing my legs together for a moment to regain my composure...

My cock pulsating, my nuts aching as if were clamped, my own breath and sounds mixing with the ladies...

Slowing my strokes, so slow that I'm barely moving..using all my strength to not cum...

My begging cock dripping in pre-cum, swollen larger than ever, to a stiffness that is solid like...

My hips begin to rise up, in a desperate attempt to fuck my hand..humping like a dog in heat...

I could not hold on any longer...shooting my cum further away than I could recall in my last few years.. I came explosively, and all over myself and the bed...

I continued to rub until I was deflated, enjoying g every last orgasmic pulse...massaging my own cum into my skin...

Totally relaxed, I dragged myself to the other bed, and quickly fell asl**p for the night.

The next morning when I woke, I did the exact same thing again..

Thank you for the memories my love... Continue»
Posted by oursex186 2 months ago  |  Categories: Masturbation  |  Views: 1265  |  
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Nancy Friday My Secret Garden Women’s Sexual

My Secret
Garden
Women’s Sexual Fantasies
FOR BILLY
who believed in this book
when it was just fantasy
N.F.
i
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD by "J," ......................................................... 1
CHAPTER ONE
“TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE
THINKING ABOUT,” HE SAID.............................................5
CHAPTER TWO
"WHY FANTASIZE WHEN YOU HAVE ME?"
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,
Viola
MASTURBATION................................................................ 74
Patsy, Norma, Adair, Mary Beth, Elizabeth, Mary Jane,
Amelia, Alix
ii
THE LESBIANS.................................................................... 86
Marion, Jeanne, Lisa, Zizi, Kate
CHAPTER THREE
THE HOUSE OF FANTASY
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
ROOM NUMBER FOUR: PAIN AND MASOCHISM........ 123
Barbara, Edith, Rose Ann, Amanda
ROOM NUMBER FIVE: DOMINATION............................ 133
Nathalie, Poppy, Heather, Ingrid
ROOM NUMBER SIX: THE SEXUALITY OF TERROR.... 146
Johanna, Anna
ROOM NUMBER SEVEN: THRILL OF THE FORBIDDEN151
Emma, Donna
ROOM NUMBER EIGHT: TRANSFORMATION ROOM... 155
Monica, Betty, Phyllis
ROOM NUMBER NINE: THE EARTH MOTHER ROOM.. 165
Vivian, Marina
ROOM NUMBER TEN: i****t........................................ 168
Bella, Dominique, Lola
ROOM NUMBER ELEVEN: THE ZOO.............................. 175
Jo, Rosie, Dawn, Wanda
ROOM NUMBER TWELVE: BIG BLACK MEN................ 181
Margie, Raquel, Lydia
ROOM NUMBER THIRTEEN: YOUNG BOYS.................. 185
Evelyn, Victoria
ROOM NUMBER f******n: THE FETISHISTS ........... 188
Faith
ROOM NUMBER FIFTEEN: OTHER WOMEN ................ 190
Christine, Dolly, Bee, Venice, Lilly, Rita, Mary Beth,
iii
Viv, Lee, Willa, Dana, Cara, Celia, Theresa, Tania,
Michelle, Sandra, Patty
ROOM NUMBER SIXTEEN: PROSTITUTION ................. 207
CHAPTER FOUR
"WHERE DID A NICE GIRL LIKE YOU GET AN IDEA
LIKE THAT?"
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
CHAPTER FIVE
GUILT AND FANTASY, OR, WHY THE FIG LEAF?
WOMEN’S GUILT.............................................................. 257
Christiana, Hope, Lil, Alison, Clare, Penelope ................. 267
MEN’S ANXIETY .............................................................. 268
Tina’s husband ................................................................ 269
CHAPTER SIX
FANTASY ACCEPTED........................................................271
iv
"OF COURSE I FANTASIZE, DOESN’T EVERYONE?". 272
Gloria, Hannah, Sophie, Bobbie, Paula
FANTASIES THAT SHOULD BE REALITY ....................298
Martha
ACTING OUT FANTASIES, PROS AND CONS................ 300
Sylvia, Babs, Elizabeth, Winnie, Loretta, Sheila,
Claudine, Jocelyn
SHARING FANTASIES ...................................................... 311
Lynn, Jacqueline, Doris, Bonnie, Jessie, Esther, Posie,
Marx, Joan, Adele’s husband
CHAPTER SEVEN
Quickies .................................................................................327
AFTERWORD
“IN DEFENSE OF NANCY FRIDAY"
by Martin Shepard, M.D., psychiatrist, ................................ 340
1
FOREWORD by "J,"
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
issue.
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
fantasies?
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,
2
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
3
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.)
4
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
5
CHAPTER ONE
“TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE
THINKING ABOUT,” HE SAID.
 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
6
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.
7
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
8
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
9
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
10
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
fantasy.
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
another.
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
11
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
12
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."
13
“Who needs fantasies? What’s the matter with good oldfashioned
sex?”
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
14
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:
15
FEMALE SEXUAL FANTASIES
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
read.
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.
16
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. 
17
CHAPTER TWO
"WHY FANTASIZE WHEN
YOU HAVE ME?"
FRUSTRATION
 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.
Madge
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
18
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
19
even know the right questions. The inadequacy of her final
paragraph, wondering about the meaning of her fantasy, is almost
heartbreaking. 
Dot
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
20
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.
21
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.
[Letter]
INSUFFICIENCY
 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." 
22
Louella
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]
23
Irene
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
24
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]
Annette
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
similar.
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
25
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
26
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]
Maria
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
27
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]
SEX ENHANCEMENT
 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
28
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
 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 –
29
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
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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
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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. 
Suzanne
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