Kimi had always had a being-fucked-by-more-than-one-guy fantasy. She’d told me that right up front when we met. And we often used talk of her desire while in the bedroom to make good fucking even better. I’d whisper dirty things in my girlfriend’s ear as she rode me and at that crucial moment, when I felt her tight cunt grow even tighter, I’d smack her ass until it was rosy and my hand was warm.
She’d come with her fingers clutching my chest and her long hair brushing my face as she wiggled on top of me to milk out every last bit of pleasure.
A gathering of old college friends seemed the perfect chance to give her what she needed. I chose wisely, only going for the men who would be discreet and make her feel special while this whole fantasy came true. There were only two rules, and I was firm on them. They could all fuck her, but no one other than me could lay palm on that perfect ass. No one could spank her but me. And no one could come in her. They could take their turn and move to the side. Jacking off was perfectly permissible, but no one came inside my girl.
I was only joking when I whacked him with it. Right after Richard said, “What is that?” I’d pulled the small paddleball from the goodie bag my friend Melissa had given me on our way out the door.
“An extra goodie bag from the party. For the kid who didn’t show up.” Then I whacked him with the paddle. “Don’t know why she gave it to me, but I’m not complaining.”
“Let me see.” He held out his big hand and all the hair rose up on my neck. Thinking about putting that paddle in his hand felt important—and exciting.
“Why?” I put it behind my back, leaning in so we were face-to-face. I was so close that I could see the stubble poking through his skin and the full lushness of his mouth.
“Because I said so” was the answer. Another oddity. He wasn’t usually clipped and brisk with me. But it made my body come alive and my brain snap to attention. My pussy grew wet, and a steady thump pulsed between my legs.
“Please?” I teased. But then I held my breath.
Mark knew I had a fantasy of having sex outside. Right in the open where we could be seen. Where the possibility that we’d be seen was very, very real. I had no idea that was what he had in mind when he took me out in our big backyard one night.
The sun had gone down, and the sky was turning a dark navy blue that seemed darker than usual in the summer. He pulled me under our huge oak tree and kissed me.
“What’s all this?” I was confused but pleasantly aroused. The night was warm, the stars were out, and our brand-new neighborhood—we’d just moved in—was quiet, as if we were the only people awake. It was still early, so clearly that wasn’t true, but it felt that way, which was the point.
“I thought I’d show you the new floodlight I put up,” he said.
“Raccoons?” I asked him. It was his obsession, stopping the masked bandits who got into our trash and raided our meager garden. “Raccoons, intruders, whatever. Just something interesting.” He leaned in, and I smiled, then something soft brushed my wrist and he chuckled. “What’s this?”
“This is me tying you to a big oak tree, with one of your scarves.”
“I thought I was going to see lights,” I said.
“Oh, you will,” Mark answered playfully. “Maybe stars, too.” Then he disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he whispered, “Activated.”
When my girlfriend Alicia called to ask if she could crash at my apartment for a few days, I immediately said yes. She and her boyfriend had recently broken up, and she still wasn’t used to the empty house. I was looking forward to spending some time with her and getting to know her better—and seeing what would happen when we were alone.
Unlike most of my girlfriends, Alicia is pretty reserved. She’s usually quiet and serious. I’ve noticed, though, that she always flirts with me when we’re out with friends. It’s not always overt, and it’s not like she’s ever put the moves on me, but she definitely treats me differently than she does the other girls we hang out with. We’d only been friends for about six months, though, and we’d never hung out on our own, so I was curious to see what would happen when it was just the two of us.
She came over late the first day, and after dinner and a movie, we were both exhausted, so we went to bed—separately. After getting a good night’s sleep, however, Alicia was full of energy. During the day, we went to the beach and hung out on the boardwalk, and that night we ordered Italian takeout and opened a bottle of wine.
Nate sported a thick nine-inch erection and not much else when he answered the door. When he’d said he had an urgent need to come, I hadn’t realized how serious he was, but his welcome definitely clued me in to the true degree of his horniness. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Nate never jokes when it comes to getting laid.
Whenever one of us has an itch that needs scratching, Nate and I call each other. Usually he’s the one calling me, but I’m as much of a sex fiend as he is. I just don’t reach for my phone as quickly as he does.
Most of the time we get together and do whatever feels right, but now and then we go into it with a more detailed plan. Sometimes I crave anal sex or some light bondage, or Nate wants to have sex in the shower or out on his balcony. Last week, for example, he’d called saying the only thing he wanted was a really good blowjob. I don’t know what sparked his sudden desire for head, but it wasn’t important. The only thing I was concerned with was delivering exactly what he wanted.
I was on my way to his place within minutes of receiving his call, and when he answered the door completely naked, I knew I was in for an exciting night. As soon as the door closed behind me, I was on my knees and ready to service him. I didn’t hesitate before taking him in my mouth, eager to swallow his shaft.
There’s a lot of talking and joking about who “wears the pants” in a relationship, especially among groups of men holding drinks. In those sorts of conversations, a guy who doesn’t have some semblance of authority over his wife is not usually treated very kindly, which is why when Sean and I are out as a couple, I’m fine letting our friends think he’s the one in control. However, when we’re at home, it’s a completely different story. Not only do I wear the pants, but I’ve also been known to don a strap-on while my husband is dressed in nothing but ropes or a spreader bar.
When we engage in bondage play, there’s no question of who is going to be in charge; his natural inclination is to be a bottom, and my preference is to be on top. It’s one of the reasons we get on—and off—so well together. We’ve tried switching roles, but it just feels forced and uncomfortable, and the only time Sean likes feeling forced to do something is when I’m tethering him and he pretends to protest or if I command him to open his mouth so I can slip in a ball gag.
Speaking of that gag, we made good use of it the other night. Though I hadn’t intended on muzzling him, he wouldn’t stop moaning and whimpering as I pulled his hands high above his head, and then bound them to the top posts of our big four-post bed. However, I’m getting ahead of myself. First, after telling him to get undressed, I let him squirm for a while as I considered the best way to bind him. My initial instinct was toward ropes, and I could imagine the feel of the corded hemp between my fingers as I pulled the knots tighter and tighter, until I was certain that they wouldn’t give. My pussy grew damp as I opened our toy drawer, and I was about to grab the skein when I remembered the package that had arrived in the mail a few days earlier.
I know most people have leather and latex fetishes, but neither fabric has ever done it for me. What really turns me on is denim. I love a woman in a pair of tight jeans or a nice denim skirt. Even a jacket will work, as long as it fits the girl and hugs her curves. I wear jeans a lot myself, but it’s not nearly as arousing when I’m the one wearing denim. Half the appeal is seeing the way the fabric stretches around a woman’s round ass, firm breasts or toned thighs.
When I met Janet, I really lucked out. She not only shares my love of denim, she wears it all the time. Unless she’s required to dress up, she wears jeans every day, with the occasional denim skirt thrown in when it’s too hot for pants. Her favorite jeans—and mine—were a pair of nicely fitted ripped pants with holes in the knees and wildly frayed hems. They had a missing back pocket and the seams were dotted with small holes from constant wear.
We’d been dating for a few weeks when Janet’s jeans finally fell apart. I was at her apartment, helping her put together new bookshelves, and when she bent over to grab a hammer, the seam along her right inner thigh gave out. I heard the loud rip as the denim tore apart, finally succumbing to the pressure of near-daily wear. Janet looked horrified when she realized what had happened, but I had very different feelings about her denim disaster.
The first time Garrett shaved my legs, I thought he was only being cute. He’d come over unannounced after being out of town for a week, and since I was alone, I hadn’t bothered shaving in a few days. It was winter, so I’d been wearing pants every day anyway. But when Garrett stopped by, of course my pants came off, and he came face to face with my stubble-covered legs. He wasn’t going to be deterred, though, and he swept me into the shower where he quickly rid me of the prickly problem before taking me to bed and ravishing me.
I thought it was a one-time thing, but the next time he came over, he asked if he could do it again. Since then, it’s become a regular part of our foreplay.
Once a month, Garrett and I plan a special date and agree not to see each other for several days beforehand. While we’re apart, I make sure not to shave my legs, and after three days the hair has grown in long enough to be really noticeable. That’s when we have our date.
I’ve always had a hard-on for pretty feet. I don’t know exactly when I started checking out a girl from toe to head rather than head to toe. But if a girl has attractive tootsies, I’ll consider her a perfect ten. Luckily for me, I live in a city where the preferred shoe styles are flip-flops and sandals. Even luckier for me, I work in a store that sells women’s shoes. I spend hours each day helping women choose the shoes of their dreams. What most don’t realize is as they search for their perfect pair they’re making my fantasies come true.
This week, I was able to help a customer who fit my desires to a T-strap. She was a knockout. Anyone would have noticed her. Even if she had on clogs or boots or snowshoes, I would have recognized that she was attractive with her waves of copper hair and her sun-kissed skin. But she had on a wispy pair of gladiator sandals that wrapped around her exquisite calves and revealed her feet to sublime perfection. I almost was too tongue-tied to help her.
I had such a crush on Tommy. We made eyes at each other in the office, and I always blushed when he would query me about my weekend plans, or where I liked to shop, or what I took in my coffee. Not because the conversation was risqué—at least, not any more than “Cream? Sugar?” But the way he spoke the words always sounded dirty. I didn’t know exactly what made him seem different from the other boys I went out with, but there was some succulent pull that drew my eyes to him all day long. While the other girls in my office looked forward to Friday evening, I always craved Mondays and Tommy.
Why didn’t we go out?
I would have been bold and made the first move, but I kept myself in check because of our office’s strict policy against coworkers dating. Then one Monday, my crush wasn’t there. At first, I thought he must be on vacation, but a fellow coworker told me that Tommy had gotten a new job, and I felt my heart sink. What would I do now to disrupt the Monday doldrums? Why hadn’t I ever told him that I was interested in being more than chatty coworkers?
Luckily, my phone rang early that morning. Even luckier, it was Tommy.
We engaged in small talk at first, discussing his new position, talking about the commute. But then Tommy said, “You know, now that we’re not coworkers, we can go out, sugar.” He hesitated before adding, “That is, if you want to.”
I wanted to.