Fantasies: His and Hers

An Experiment With Fantasies Before Bedtime

(Warning: explicit sex)

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Fantasies are fun. They are usually private fun, except for the people who write the Penthouse letters. But, one evening, after a glass of wine (or two) my partner and I decided to write out a fantasy and then read it aloud to each other. When we were finally able to read through without giggling or doubling over in laughter, we knew one thing for sure -- laughter is romance inducing. Following was our little performance:

HER FANTASY

As I often do, I am working alone in my den office late at night. Dressed in my red silk bathrobe, I sit on my backless chair, typing away on the keyboard, pausing occasionally for thought. I hear my lover enter the den, as he often does, and he peers over my shoulder at my work. Sometimes he makes suggestions or points out mistakes, other times he kisses me on the back of the neck and leaves just as quietly as he entered.

Tonight, he slides onto the chair and I scrunch forward so he can fit behind me. He slides his arm around me. He parts the front of my robe, and his hand glides slowly over my tummy down to my cunt, fingers finding my clit. Naturally, feeling his hand quickly massage me to a state of readiness, I stop typing.

"Keep working," he whispers in my ear, and his hand begins a slow, gentle stroke followed by rhythmic circles around my cunt lips, labia, and slowly, teasingly, slips a finger inside my wetness. I swallow hard and continue my typing. His hand continues its ministrations, never fast, never hard, just a loose up and down, in and out motion. Usually using only this type of stroke would take half an hour to bring me to a climax, but the suddenness of it has wrought a special magic, and already, I feel small muscles inside beginning to tentatively contract.

With his free hand, he pulls off his own robe, and pulls my robe down to my waist, then turns me around to press my naked breasts against his chest.

Now he is whispering in my ear. He tells me a fantasy of his, the images graphic and powerful, his need for me filling every sentence.

The connection between my brain and my fingers disappears. My normally fluid typing is jagged. Typos start appearing. Sentences run on and become nonsensical. And always behind it all, become more and more central with each movement, is his insistent stroking.

My breathing deepens. Against my will, my eyes close. I force them open and type another few words. His hand moves up and down, never varying in speed or pressure. My eyes close again. Heat wells up inside me and my fingers lock on the keyboard in an ecstatic spasm. I climax with a loud groan, and his hand still moves with the same speed, moving me through multiple climaxes until I am completely drained.

As I slump against the keyboard, he kisses my sweaty back, and slips out just as quietly as he came in.

I sit, feeling my breathing return to its normal rhythm and I take a moment to calm myself with two deep, refreshing yoga breaths.

HIS: THE NEXT AFTERNOON

I come downtown for lunch hour, so to speak, and we now have less than an hour together. We quickly find ourselves in your car in the middle of the afternoon in the corner of a quiet parking lot. Occasionally people come and go, never very near, but not all that far away either.

One thing leads to another, and you end up with your feet up on the dashboard, your panties discarded. I kneel between your legs and the wonderful aroma of warm wet pussy surrounds me. I duck under your skirt, and carefully taste you, not raspberry nor strawberry nor even mango, just the musk, the natural, wonderful musk.

My tongue is gently sliding between your pussy's lips. You were wearing your thigh-hi black fishnets with the black lacy garters. You try to watch for people coming too near, but your attention wanders as you feel my tongue moving around. I love the taste, and as your lips spread apart under my probing and dancing, my tongue settles on your most sensitive spot.

A man on the far side of the lot starts walking this way, but you are beyond caring. Although your skirt started off covering my head, by now it has slid down your thighs, and our activities are perfectly visible to anyone walking by the car. I slowly slide one, then two fingers into you. The man is halfway across the lot. I feel you starting to contract rhythmically. The man is still walking this way.

He has seen you sitting in the car; he has seen your stocking-clad toes peeking above the edge of the dashboard. And now he sees your eyes close, your teeth clench, your face turn red. You grab my head and grind me against you as the force of your climax shudders through you.

Through half-shut eyes, you watch the man climb into a car 20 feet away and drive off quickly, as if to let us know he is no peeping tom.

More about fantasies to come...