MFM: The Student. The Teacher.

Ang, the Sweltering Celt has asked that this week’s fantasy involve her as part of a contest to honor the anniversary of her blog site. I am more than happy to oblige…

I was doing my best to deliver a captivating lesson to my overcrowded lecture hall. While I flipped through slides and attempted to navigate my cursory notes, my gaze kept slipping to the woman sitting in the far left side of the first row. I glanced surreptitiously at the class roster. Ang. Over the last several weeks she had moved from the back of the hall slowly down through the rows until, today, she watched me intently. Her big, beautiful eyes peering at me over a pair of wire rim glasses. While I might have been more distracted by the ample cleavage revealed by her low-cut tee, or by the hint of creamy thighs when she crossed and recrossed her legs, it was the rope that was throwing off my game.

The rope. Instead of taking copious notes as I fumbled through what should have been a thoroughly practiced presentation, she was toying with a piece of black silken cord, about 16″ in length or so. It wove in and out of her hands. She pulled it taught and then let it go slack. I cleared my throat a few times and tried to concentrate. I could hear murmers in the classroom and knew I was losing my audience even as I became the audience to this highly charged bit of play in the corner. I had to assume it was intentional. It looked intentional. I shook it off and clicked on the next slide.

My eyes drew back to her just before the bell rang. The rope had disappeared, her head was bent over her notebook. I breathed. I finished my lecture. I thanked my students and turned to gather my belongings. I had just put my laptop in my bag and turned around to leave, bumping smack into her. She had been standing silently behind me. I muttered my apologies and she gave me the most mischievous grin I have ever seen. Reaching around me, she dropped a folded piece of paper and the black silk cord onto the desk and walked away without ever saying a word. I picked up the note. “You seem a little tongue-tied. Want to try the real thing? Tonight. 9:30.” and an address one town over.

Oh, I did. I definitely did. After showering, dressing, stopping to masturbate twice with the tantalizing thoughts of what may lie ahead, I got in the car and drove to the address given. My knock on the door was answered by a truly handsome man, which threw me for a curve. He just smiled and said, “I believe Ang is expecting you.” He gestured toward the living room, alight with candles. She sat on a comfortable sofa, surrounded by many feet of that same black silken cord, along with all manner of floggers, paddles, clamps, and other accoutrements that promised a long night of amazing wonders. She looked up at me and smiled. I swallowed as she hooked her finger toward me and patted her lap, reaching for a black leather flogger as I moved closer.

And so the teacher becomes the student. The student, the teacher.



MFM: Fear

With Halloween lurking just around the corner, our dear Sweltering Celt, has assigned us this week’s theme of Fear. I must admit that the word brought forth an immediate and visceral response from me. I think writing this took all of 20 minutes.


I can feel the pressure of her knee, heavy, in the small of my back. I can smell the rancid odor of tequila emanating from her mouth as she slurs filthy, angry words into my right ear. I can see the detritus of her power trip lying about the room. Every possible object that could penetrate, tried and cast aside. I can hear her cruel laughter as I struggle to breathe when she puts her sweaty hand around my throat again, pulling my head back toward her. I can sense the rivulet of blood making its way from between my thighs to pool underneath me, a permanent stain on the mattress to remind me of my poor choice of partners.

I hear the glass shatter. I smell the bitter Merlot within. I see, with utter terror, the jagged edges of the bottle as she waves it in front of my face. I sense her movement, her shift in weight, pushing me harder into the bed. I feel the cold of the bottle pressed against my inner leg just before

I wake up. My clothes are drenched. My sheets tangled. I am disoriented. I need to get my bearings. And realize that I am alone. This is not the same apartment. This is not the same bed. This is not the same me. My breathing becomes less labored. My heart begins to slow its racing beat. It won’t happen…again.

I have nothing left to fear.


MFM: Contest

Well, it seems there is no end to the number of bloggers’ anniversaries these days. In honor of her own, our dear Sweltering Celt has assigned us this week’s theme of Contest.

I am tormented. He insists on bringing me to the absolute brink and then pulling me back from the abyss of ecstasy. Oh, the sweet frustration as he buries his face in my cunt. Hungry. Greedy. Expertly covering every possible inch of my bare pussy with his tongue until I am left utterly wanting of release.

Finally, gratefully, he reaches inside me with two, three fingers. Curling them upward, he knows exactly where that spot is that immediately brings forth a stream of unbearable satisfaction. The mattress, the floor, his arm up to the elbow, are soaked and dripping. He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. This orgasm never lasts just seconds—it seems to stretch for an eternity as he pushes me over and over again until I, bucking and arching, writhing and dizzy from breathlessness, beg him to stop. I am soon laughing with something close to hysteria. My entire body trembling beyond my control.

He smiles and stands up. I cannot move. Immobile. Entirely spent. Just stick a fork in me, I’m done. He looks down on me with a sly grin on his handsome face. “Huh,” he says, “just wait until she gets back. You are going to be having the best sex of your life as we try to outdo each other.” Just wait, I think, just wait.


MFM: Photos

Ang, our Sweltering Celt has given us a theme of Photos this week. Although micro…this is no fantasy. Forgive me for wandering aimlessly among the detritus of my life.

The Before: A girlchild. Innocent. Wide open world filled with wonder. 14 years old. Unkempt hair, big glasses, a mouthful of braces. She’s had her first kiss. Her 13th birthday party. The boy had been eating M&Ms and when his tongue pushed into her mouth she pulled away with particles of candy coated shell and the taste of chocolate lingered rather unpleasantly. In the pictures she is smiling, still so young, untouched, happy and unaware.

The After: Three shots in quick succession. She is 15. Slim hips tucked into boys Levis. A red and white baseball tee. Her hair is blow-dried and feathered. She plays with the camera. She is cocky. In one shot her back is to the camera and she looks over her shoulder with a look befitting a much older woman. She already knows the power her body wields. She is cynical, hard. The wall she has built is almost palpable. In one short year she has become something other.

The Now: Digital shots of full breasts, sleek thighs, costumes and wigs and expensive lingerie. Provocative, evocative, erotic. She is older now than her mother was when the After photos were taken. She has lived a life in the aftermath. She has used her body over and over again to get attention. She knows now that she exudes sex but not because of this body. This body has borne a child, grown heavy, become tired. Her nearly suffocating sexuality comes with the wisdom of the ages. The blissful unawareness of the before and the nightmarish hell of the after.

These are my snapshots. This is my life.


MFM: Breasts

Thanks to Ang, our Sweltering Celt, for our MicroFantasy Monday assignment this week to commemorate Breast Cancer Awareness month.

HNTWK1One fingertip traces a curved path from the nape of the neck down to the hollow between the collar bones. This fingertip is followed by soft lips and playful tongue, raising goosebumps and eliciting a delicious shiver of anticipation.

The first button slips through its tight hole. Deft fingers move painfully slowly to the second button and the third and fourth. Deep cleavage appears as silky fabric is laid aside with each release. Satin and lace covers the firm, rounded flesh within.

One hand slides down the spine, pausing to unhook the clasps that bind. Two hands now push both sleeves and straps down impatient arms exposing bare skin that disappears into a pair of low-slung jeans.

Greedy eyes flash as hands now grasp the breasts unleashed and the back arches as fingers pinch.

I throw my head back involuntarily and a groan of pure pleasure rises from my throat as her teeth close down upon my nipple.

MFM: Frustration

Thanks to Ang, our Sweltering Celt, for another fabulous MicroFantasy Monday assignment: Frustration

Mid-afternoon and my cunt is throbbing from lack of attention. It is wanting. Needing. Release. I drop my work and then my jeans and wander off to my bedroom, stopping only to grab my favorite vibrator out of the basket under my night table. I settle into my usual position on my back, legs spread wide, vibrator on low at first but quickly turned to high as I realize the batteries are running out of juice. Irksome. I shake off my irritation and the brief thought that I ought to replace them. I start to hone in on a tried-and-true fantasy or image that will get me there.

Sitting behind him, having asked him to jack off for me for the very first time. Watching his hand tentatively stroke the long black silicone shaft, gliding up and…did I pay the electric bill? When is that due anyway? Am I on a payment plan with them? I should do that, I should

Argh. Okay…um…I’m lying on my stomach, half asleep. I feel the weight of someone kneeling between my legs. Taking their thumbs (faster now, firmer now, I reach down and feel how wet I have become) and spreading my labia, examining me and…damn it! I forgot to go to the grocery store. Now what the hell are we going to have for dinner?

Shit!!! Alright, alright. Something else. Anything else. Tits. Nipples. Hands there. Mouth there. Cunt. Closeup. Fingers. Tongue. Yeah, but what is the tongue doing? Who does it belong to? Did I take the clothes out of the dryer?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I give up. Turn off the vibrator. Yank my panties back up, roll over, and take a nap.

MFM: Breathing

Kudos to Ang, the Sweltering Celt, for her website’s new home, and for giving us this week’s MFM theme: Breathing.

This was a control issue.

I wanted to pull out all of my usual maneuvers. She wasn’t having any of it. After months of talking every day across the thousands of miles that separate us and more than a week of being in each other’s presence during her month in the States, I was now straddling her lap, my cleavage at eye level. She knows me too well for having known me such a short time. She anticipates my moves and shakes me off. Her eyes gleam, half-lidded from the bottle of wine we’ve shared, a smile plays at her lips. Those lips. I want them on mine. Now.

I always get what I want when I want it. I’m like Veruca Salt that way (not the band, the other one). But she isn’t giving in and I’m frustrated. She knows it and says it. “This frustrates you doesn’t it? You hate it when you aren’t the one in control. When you aren’t getting your way.” I pout and flash my eyes. It’s not working. I refuse to move. I want what I want and I want it now. I think I see her giving in. Leaning up toward my mouth, hers slightly open. I lean down, my lips parted. She pulls away, laughing softly. I should be aggravated but I am intensely intrigued. Does she know how much this game is getting to me? Does she feel my heart race? Is my lust for her that palpable? She knows. I’m sure she knows.

An eternity passes before she gives up the prize. Our lips playing upon each other, my sigh into her open mouth, the talking, the teasing, and then…that one sweet moment when the kiss becomes a tangible thing. An event. A happening. When the chemistry takes over and you become insatiably hungry for one another and no one else will do. I fall into her deep, soft, long, lingering, passionate kisses.

And she takes my breath away.