Read Online The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies by Sonia Florens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sonia Florens
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you are. Think you’re something special. Think you can turn my life upside down, and I can’t do anything. You know what I
think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think I’m not going to let you get away with it this time. Not this time.”
His leaden hands on my shoulders. Bark cutting into my back and his fingers move up to my throat and . . .
“You think that you can take everything I’ve worked for from me? Think this: I could squeeze the life from you right now and leave you here. I could do that. Say you went on a trip .
. . you were having an affair . . . went away. I could say anything at all and no one would miss you. Bury you here and you would never be found. Never.”
I whisper, “Where would that get you?”
He laughs. “Where would it get me! I’ll tell you where it would get me. It’ll get me my children, and my home, and my house and everything I’ve worked for all these
years.”
His fingers tighten the pressure. Discomfort changes to pain. Must not fight.
Frame 8: Branches gather, come together. It’s dark as black velvet. Through this night is one shaft of light. It shines on me; it’s my circle, my spotlight. My face
is red hot in the light while the rest of my body freezes; it’s getting colder and colder as the hands on my throat turn into a tourniquet.
Now the circle of light on my face gets larger and larger. Reach up behind me and find the piece of horn and grip it. Power flows into me. Release the piece of horn and take his hands in mine
and gently lift them off my throat.
Unicorn. Footman. 905 874 1414
Frame 9. “That was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?” I’m speaking to a wicked child. His eyes bulge, pupils huge. He looks about and trembles.
“I don’t know what happened,” he stutters.
I start walking up the path and mumble, “We had best be getting back. It’s getting late.”
As I walk I pick foxgloves and white bryony and black nightshade and monkshood and aconite.
“What’s the flowers for?”
“For the dinner arrangement. We have company. Remember? They smell good. Granny scattered the seeds. Wanted them to be wild as they should.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Your grandmother and her flowers. Her herbs.”
Birds sing once more and sun floods into the darkness.
This is how things should be.
‘Nice Tits”
Olivia (Ann Arbor, USA)
In my sexual fantasies, my breasts are like a cock. I don’t mean they look like a cock or that I use them to fuck people. But the images that get me really excited are
men and women admiring my breasts, which represent my sexual power. I imagine a woman’s breathless whisper as she slides her hand into my blouse: “You have the nicest tits I’ve
ever seen – would you let me touch them?” she asks shyly. Or I picture a man’s rough hand pulling my nipple up ever so slightly over the border of my bra, closing his eyes in
pleasure as he lowers his face to kiss it. I have quite an active imagination and my fantasies range from the mundane (sex with a rock star, for example) to the taboo. And yet my most treasured
imagined scenarios, those that have driven me to frivol away countless afternoons feverishly orgasming over and over, involve some good dirty talk about my tits: so big, so soft, so hot, oh turn me
on so bad, baby.
My first serious boyfriend figured out my fetish. When I first met him halfway through college, he loved to touch my breasts, to suck on them before my shirt was even off, pulling at the cloth
of my T-shirt with his teeth until he could close his lips around my hard nipple. He would reach his strong arm around my ribcage to hold my breasts protectively as he fucked me from behind. I
loved the contrast between his soft, reverent touch on my tits and the rough, desperate thrusting of his hips against my arse. If this is what sex is all about, I thought at age eighteen, I see why
people like it so much.
Now let me tell you a bit about this boyfriend. Like me, he was a big fan of
think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think I’m not going to let you get away with it this time. Not this time.”
His leaden hands on my shoulders. Bark cutting into my back and his fingers move up to my throat and . . .
“You think that you can take everything I’ve worked for from me? Think this: I could squeeze the life from you right now and leave you here. I could do that. Say you went on a trip .
. . you were having an affair . . . went away. I could say anything at all and no one would miss you. Bury you here and you would never be found. Never.”
I whisper, “Where would that get you?”
He laughs. “Where would it get me! I’ll tell you where it would get me. It’ll get me my children, and my home, and my house and everything I’ve worked for all these
years.”
His fingers tighten the pressure. Discomfort changes to pain. Must not fight.
Frame 8: Branches gather, come together. It’s dark as black velvet. Through this night is one shaft of light. It shines on me; it’s my circle, my spotlight. My face
is red hot in the light while the rest of my body freezes; it’s getting colder and colder as the hands on my throat turn into a tourniquet.
Now the circle of light on my face gets larger and larger. Reach up behind me and find the piece of horn and grip it. Power flows into me. Release the piece of horn and take his hands in mine
and gently lift them off my throat.
Unicorn. Footman. 905 874 1414
Frame 9. “That was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?” I’m speaking to a wicked child. His eyes bulge, pupils huge. He looks about and trembles.
“I don’t know what happened,” he stutters.
I start walking up the path and mumble, “We had best be getting back. It’s getting late.”
As I walk I pick foxgloves and white bryony and black nightshade and monkshood and aconite.
“What’s the flowers for?”
“For the dinner arrangement. We have company. Remember? They smell good. Granny scattered the seeds. Wanted them to be wild as they should.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Your grandmother and her flowers. Her herbs.”
Birds sing once more and sun floods into the darkness.
This is how things should be.
‘Nice Tits”
Olivia (Ann Arbor, USA)
In my sexual fantasies, my breasts are like a cock. I don’t mean they look like a cock or that I use them to fuck people. But the images that get me really excited are
men and women admiring my breasts, which represent my sexual power. I imagine a woman’s breathless whisper as she slides her hand into my blouse: “You have the nicest tits I’ve
ever seen – would you let me touch them?” she asks shyly. Or I picture a man’s rough hand pulling my nipple up ever so slightly over the border of my bra, closing his eyes in
pleasure as he lowers his face to kiss it. I have quite an active imagination and my fantasies range from the mundane (sex with a rock star, for example) to the taboo. And yet my most treasured
imagined scenarios, those that have driven me to frivol away countless afternoons feverishly orgasming over and over, involve some good dirty talk about my tits: so big, so soft, so hot, oh turn me
on so bad, baby.
My first serious boyfriend figured out my fetish. When I first met him halfway through college, he loved to touch my breasts, to suck on them before my shirt was even off, pulling at the cloth
of my T-shirt with his teeth until he could close his lips around my hard nipple. He would reach his strong arm around my ribcage to hold my breasts protectively as he fucked me from behind. I
loved the contrast between his soft, reverent touch on my tits and the rough, desperate thrusting of his hips against my arse. If this is what sex is all about, I thought at age eighteen, I see why
people like it so much.
Now let me tell you a bit about this boyfriend. Like me, he was a big fan of
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