Your Fantasies (vol. 2)

It’s almost three months to the day since I published the first volume of fantasies sent to me by readers in response to this prompt – this feels like an excellent time to share the second batch of nine. Covering everything from sexual identity to gang bangs, sensory deprivation to impact play, corporate offices to warehouse floors, they’re another lovely reminder of the diversity of human sexual expression – and as a group, they’re fucking hot. Which in my book is a pretty awesome result.

Once again, if you have a fantasy of your own that you want to write up, or if you’d like me to pass on any comments to the authors below, please do get in touch – I’d love to hear from you.

Enjoy!

~

#1 (@19syllables)

I’ve always read other people’s fantasies with a dark obsession, I pored over Nancy Friday’s ‘My Secret Garden’ when I was young for a glimpse into other people’s minds, heart in my mouth at my reaction to some of the violence, and at the same time soothed and comforted by a sense of recognition. Always in blogs I’m searching for a kernel of what people think, disclosures of those tipping-point, game-changer things which make them weak at the knees, and that they file away for delicious private recall. I scroll past lines of lines of what people actually did looking for it.

I have a handful of go-to fantasies but I’m reluctant to share them. I fear that writing them down will reduce them to a list of actions, a stream of “he did this, she did that, I did this”, and that they will be lose their power in the way relating a dream can make a whole vivid memory garbled and meaningless, slipping away from me, always beyond reach as I grasp for it. And I don’t want that to happen, I really like those thoughts, I want to keep them about me.

But I will tell you this, the one common denominator in all my fantasies. It’s not a thing that will titillate you but a sort of confession, perhaps a weakness.

In my fantasies I am magnificent. Still me, but taller and stronger, smoother and fitter, with luscious hair and a sexual presence real me can only dream of.  I’d like to describe fantasy me as younger, but youth never loaned me the qualities fictional me enjoys.  I am glossy and confident, shining with a sexual energy that makes others weak with lust. It is a common thread in every scene, whether I am omnipotently powerful or meekly submissive, I am desirable beyond measure.

In my fantasies I’m fucking resplendent.

~

#2 (Cara, 32)

It’s always the same.

Face buried on the pillow, the scent of the hair product I use filling my nose, and muffling my groans. Back bowed with each thrust, the power of it making me ache all over. The rapid ingress, both unwanted and desperately needed as this nameless man takes what he believes rightfully belongs to him.

My body, pressed and used harder than it’s ever been used before. And the unmistakeable presence of his hand around my neck, reminding me of my precarious position even as pleasure burns like fire through my body.

“You want it so fucking bad, don’t you?”

He grunts the words in my ear as he uses me. I do, I do, I want it.

I want to feel every hard inch. Each stroke rougher than the one before. I want to feel him bottom out, making me squeal each time. I want him to ignore my cries, squeezing at my neck enough to remind me of my place. I want bruises on my hip from his grip and aches all over my body from the use.

I want to cum from the brunt of his aggression and cum again because he’s not done with me yet.

~

#3 (S, 39)

My fantasy is to go about my regular life for one day with you by my side making things sexier.

~

#4 (M, 32)

I want him to notice me. Sometimes I think he does but the look in my direction is so fleeting that I think he probably hasn’t. He’s big and strong and all man. My god is he all man. He’s one of our warehouse boys and I’m an office girl. I see him every day when I have to leave the confines of the office to check stock and orders and tons more boring stuff in the warehouse. I watch him. I watch him lifting with his big strong arms, you can see the ropey veins in his forearms. I want those arms around me. It’s after work hours, I’m doing over time. I head into the warehouse to get some paperwork. He’s there. We’re alone.

I head about my business gathering the paperwork together that’s been left on top of a pile of pallets. He comes up behind me, I can feel him. I know he’s so close behind me, closer than ever before. He whispers in my ear “I know you’ve been watching me, I know what you want.” He roughly grabs me and spins me around slamming me back against the hard wood. He kisses me, it’s so much better than I ever thought it would be. He lifts my skirt tearing at my tights, shoving my underwear down my thighs. He gets down on his knees and puts his gorgeous fucking mouth on my cunt. I’m delirious, it’s so good. When he can see I’m on the edge, I’m turned back around and his big hard cock is inside me. He fucks me so hard with his big hands gripping my hips and slamming me against him over and over. It’s rough, it’s dirty. It’s fucking perfect.

~

#5 (R, 35)

Late night meetings. Bad takeaway food. Poring over the minutiae of drafting until the small hours. The life of a corporate lawyer has none of the intrigue or entertainment of a TV drama. But there are tight skirt suits, heels, black leather chairs, large meeting rooms with soft carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows… and routinely at least 5 or 6 men to every woman. Welcome to the City.

I know that the odd gaze runs over my body as I lean forward to read a document and my shirt stretches across my breasts, that eyes follow my legs as I stride out of the room to pick up the latest draft from the printer. Hour after hour passes and the work is tedious. An idle but horny mind will wander. I imagine gazes becoming hands. A powerful client’s hand running up my arse, pulling my skirt up to my waist, ripping my tucked-in shirt away, pushing me up onto the boardroom table and exposing me to the assembled suits. The other men are staring, unbelieving, but clearly all hard and they want their share of this unexpected distraction. He pulls my underwear from me, unzips and fucks me hard right there in the middle of the meeting.

I gradually realise all of them have unzipped and there are cocks in hands everywhere around the room. The client hasn’t yet finished with me, but steps aside to let a young banker in. I’m pushed to the floor and his cock is rammed down my throat, and suddenly there are hands all over me pawing, squeezing, pinching. Fingers are pushed into my cunt and arse, my entire field of vision is filled with cocks trying to get inside me. I’m pushed and pulled from man to man, bent over a chair, pushed up against the window, laid out on the table, on my hands and knees… I’m fucked every which way and then some.

~

#6 (H, 24)

I have no idea who is where, what is where, or where they will be next. The material over my eyes makes it impossible to see, but heightens all other sensations. I can feel something in my cunt, and in my ass. That is a cock…right? Or is the other one a cock? Is he wearing my strap on? I would ask, except the ball in my mouth makes it hard for anything other than an indistinguishable moan to escape. I would try and feel for a thigh, hand, anything, but my wrists are tied to my ankles.

There were two, but I am sure there are now three. I notice slight pauses to change, move, to allow another cock to fill me. I am nothing more than a set of holes. I think I can sense someone standing by my head. My suspicions are proved correct, as the ball is removed and before I can gasp for air is replaced with a cock. That one has been inside me, I can taste myself all over it. He’s pushing it further into my mouth and and I hear the first words since I was blindfolded.

“Take it all, slut.”

I’m eager to please, almost as if I have a choice. Again, and again, until I gag. I can feel my spit drag from my mouth with the cock.

Silence.

I could hear nothing, sense nothing except my thoughts.
Are they still here? I wonder how many people are watching? Where are….

The first spank destroyed the silence.

~

#7 (C, 41)

Sometimes I fantasise about you as I wank. I think about another man coming over my face as you fuck me. I like that one. But I prefer the one where you’re sucking another man’s cock as I watch. That man never has a face, but he does always have your body. There’s something so beautiful about your body I want to see it mirrored.

I fantasise when you’re on your way to me. I think about dropping to my knees as you arrive, not letting you further than my hallway before your cock is in my mouth. I think about tying you up, blindfolding you so I can surprise you. Will I take your cock in my mouth or my cunt? Will I kiss your lips or will I bite them with just enough force to please me without annoying you with the pain?  I fantasise about being bolder than I am ever likely to be.

I fantasise when we’re fucking. Although is it really fantasising or me willing you to read my mind? I want you to tie me up, blindfold me, surprise me, test me. I want you to tug my hair, grip my wrists and look at me like you don’t like me, then kiss me because I know you do. I want you to tell me what to do to you. I crave instruction.

You rarely invade my thoughts when I am with someone else. But tonight you did. He shows me a photo of a man he’s hot for but I can’t tell you what that man looks like because an image of him sucking your cock consumed me. Later I gasp and wriggle and involuntarily giggle as I come around four fingers in my cunt and two in my arse. I look up and his smiling face is replaced by the more serious expression you wear when you fuck and I imagine my arse clenching round your fingers instead. He flips me over and memories of six hours past blur with the moment. I no longer know whether I am feeling his cock or yours.

He leaves. I see your call for fantasies. I smile. I reach for a clean glass from the cupboard but instead turn and pick up a red wine stained glass from by the sink. I slip into the chair that’s still pushed back from my dining room table. I bring the glass to my lips. I think about your mouth on the glass, my mouth on your cock, my mouth on his cock.

I open my computer.

250 words was a fantasy too. 250 words was never going to be enough…

~

#8 (Cloe)

‘As first dates go it was one of the best I’d had, and as we walked home side-by-side a rush of excitement ran through me as our hands brushed together. Distracted completely by him I didn’t see the branch in my path…’

I trip and he catches me, laughing he spins me around into his arms, and with no thought or hesitation my lips meet his.

Held together for just a moment, his lips push between mine. My whole body feels instantly alive, feeling him push me back, I instinctively move with him, following his lead until I feel the hard bark against my back. His kiss deepens and I become overwhelmed with want and lust – this is so unlike me.

His hand runs up my thigh. His kisses move under my chin, down to my neck, collarbone, the mound of my cleavage, where I feel his teeth graze.

I can’t resist him. My hands find his belt, pulling it open as his hand travels higher and he can feel my want. His mouth finds my nipple, hard through the lace of my bra, the feeling of the scratching lace, his warm mouth as the cool air runs over me. My hands find him, hard. Teasing as I release him.

He pushes closer, his mouth on mine again, meeting my lips with a deep kiss as I feel his hardness against me.

He yanks aside my underwear, and with one long hard thrust he’s inside me. Growling into his kiss, he holds just for a moment before thrusting hard into me, pushing himself deeper.

My arms grip tighter around him, as he takes me. Bare, hard, deep. Body tense, I bite into his skin, muffling my cries.

An orgasm rips through me – his urgency increases as his fucks become more intense, my body pulsing as I feel him twitch inside my cunt, thrusting hard as I feel him shoot deep inside me.

He drops my legs, staying inside as he moves my head to kiss me. As our lips push gently together I feel him slowly move away; his fingers run through our juices as he adjusts my underwear. Letting me taste it, he tucks himself back into his jeans.

Smiling as my eyes meet his, he takes my hand and pulls me back to the path. Laughing, talking about everything but what just happened as he walks me home.

~

#9 (R, 35)

It’s the little details…

It’s the flush of my cheeks and my racing heartbeat, his stern hands adjusting the position of my thighs and roughly pulling my hip up in the air, levering my body and exposing my arse, his arm reaching up to my neck, forcing my head down.

It’s the way he barks at me to “hold fucking still”, the liquid silver snake of precum that hangs from the tip of his cock, the disheveled hair that hangs in my eyes obscuring my view of him.

It’s the crackle of anticipation, the muscular swing of his belt, the booming snap of leather on skin and the sweet warm glow that spreads through me, the feeling of my cunt getting wetter and wetter.

It’s knowing that I’m a good girl, that every stroke brings me closer to him taking me, and that every stinging mark is a sign of just how much he wants me.