I’m in my mid-thirties and single, with a successful career in film and media. I love my job, but it demands long hours and leaves little time for serious relationships. I have had a strong sex-drive since my early teens and a very active tendency for using sexual fantasy while I masturbate. When I was twelve, I discovered my older brother’s hidden stash of porno magazines. The photos were instructive for showing me where things were “down there”, but it was the erotica and fantasy letters that really caught my imagination. Through them, I learned how to masturbate. I started off with inquisitive fingers, but eventually graduated to penetration with the handle of a hairbrush, and then – most thrilling of all – I experimented with the electric toothbrush against my clit, and have been hooked on fantasy and self-pleasure ever since. Over the years, I have grown to appreciate just how uncommon this is for a girl. Imagine my horror, having figured out how to come at the tender age of twelve, to find that a lot of women don’t orgasm regularly – and some not at all! I feel very lucky to have learned to take control over my own pleasure when I was so young.
Since my job takes up so much time, sexual fantasy has been a real sanity-saver over the years. I don’t like sleeping around, but at this critical point in my career I also don’t have much time to develop the kind of relationships with lovers that I want. I know myself more intimately than any partner could ever hope to, and can give myself stellar orgasms, either with busy fingers or by using one (or more) of the many sex toys I’ve acquired. My imagination has always been my greatest tool when getting myself off. I easily have a hundred different scenarios I use to jack off with, but the following is an old favourite of mine.
During my undergrad years in Ottawa, I had a professor I absolutely adored. He wasn’t particularly handsome or flashy; in fact, he was fairly short with a careless style of dress. But he had these amazing blue bedroom eyes, and a seductive voice that often had me secretly wet during class. I lusted after him throughout my degree, but he was married – and my instructor – and nearly twice my age . . . in other words, very taboo. But that made him all the more fun to dream about.
In my fantasy, I am going to his poetry tutorial. It is the final class of the year before exams, and I want to leave a lasting impression. Though I have never been so brave or foolish as to declare my feelings, I’d sensed a mutual attraction from the outset of my first year, and thought that, at the very least, I could look my best for him on our last day together. That morning, I wear a flattering dress – casually sexy with a full skirt and a low neckline which shows off my large breasts.
My pulse is racing by the time I reach his office at the top of the staircase. His secretary calls me over to her desk just outside his inner door.
“Oh, Rachael. . . Professor MacLeod has been called away. He left a note asking if you would lead the tutorial.”
She hands me a file of notes and, as I read over the familiar scrawl for my instructions, I can almost hear his sultry voice in my head:
Hi Rachael –
Sorry I won’t be there today, but I have some urgent business to take care of that I’ve been putting off for too long, and it simply can’t wait. I’ve cued up a tape recording of the final poetry assignment. Please play it for the class, and then lead a discussion. I’m sure it will be fine – you’re a star.
Good luck with your exams.
I walk into the tutorial room, glad I’m the first one there so I can take a moment to get over the pang of disappointment I feel at not seeing him. He has a huge old desk, with a long table pushed up flush against it creating a “T” shape. I go around and sit in his leather desk chair, catching a faint whiff of his cologne. Maybe I can pretend to need help with my final paper and book a private session, just to be alone with him . . . but would I ever have the nerve to act on my feelings? The thought makes my face flush red.
The others drift in and take their seats around the table, including my ex-boyfriend Brad who raises an eyebrow at me when he sees where I’m sitting. His disdainful reaction when I stupidly confided my secret crush on Professor MacLeod was the main reason I’d broken up with him. I couldn’t bear his teasing. Even in bed, he wouldn’t leave the subject alone. Slipping into me, he’d whisper things like, “Are you thinking about MacLeod right now? Wishing this was his cock fucking you?” The sex had been fantastic with Brad – he had a long cock and amazing stamina, but the mean-spirited way he made fun of my feelings was too much, and I’d ended it before the start of the spring term.
“Hi, guys. Professor MacLeod is away and he left a note for me to lead the class.”
No one seems surprised. I am an A student, and I had taken over once before when he was ill. Brad smirks at me and I ignore him.
I pull the chair closer to the desk so I can reach the tape recorder and feel my leg brush up against something warm. I peer underneath to see Professor MacLeod grinning up at me and I nearly jump out of my seat. His hand flies out to grab my knee, steadying me, and he winks and raises a finger to his lips to tell me not to give him away. At first, I figure it is some kind of weird last day joke, so I go along with it.
But his real motive is soon made crystal clear.
I feel his hands gliding up my legs to slowly push my dress up until it is around my waist. His fingers trace along the waistband of my panties and begin to tug at them. I don’t dare move and clear my throat.
“Let’s get started. Brad, could you get the door? We’re going to listen to Eliot’s The Four Quartets, then have a general discussion.”
I lean forward to press the play button, raising my ass off of the chair enough to allow Professor M. to pull my panties down. I lift my feet as I sit back, and he slides them completely off. He nudges my legs open.
I can feel my juices beginning to seep onto the leather chair as he starts kissing his way up between my inner thighs. I’m so excited I could explode. The kissing stops. His face is right in my crotch now. I can sense his hot breath on my damp skin, but he just hovers there – a maddening inch or two shy of my cunt. I can feel myself swelling and opening to him, juices pouring out of me in a cascade. Oh, God . . .
I look casually around the room. Everyone is listening intently to the reading and following along in their books, making notations in the margins with pencils. With one hand, I hold my paperback text up to hide the lust on my face, and sneak the other hand under the desk to grab my professor by the back of his head and press him urgently into my desperate cunt. It is all I can do not to scream as I feel that tongue start to lap up the seeming gallons of liquid running out of me. He swirls his mouth around my opening, sucking up the juice. Out of the corner of my eye I see Brad’s head turn towards me. Did he hear the slurping sound? I reach out and turn up the volume on the tape recorder. I slump back slightly lower in the chair, my legs open as far as they’ll go under the confines of the desk.
I can smell myself now, hot and musky. Can anyone else? I risk another peek at Brad. He’s looking at me with a strange expression, but drops his eyes back to his book. I don’t care any more. It feels too amazing. I want to throw my head back and scream my lover’s name – not Professor M., but his first name, John – order him to lick me. I want to pinch my nipples, grab his head with both hands and guide his wonderful mouth to my bursting clit . . . but all I can do is sit back and act calm with my dream lover lapping at my cunt in front of my oblivious classmates.
The tape is nearly over, and yet he is still just teasing me, keeping me on the edge for the entire agonizing length of the reading. He licks all around, but has not touched my clit even in passing. The bastard isn’t going to let me come before I have to lead the discussion!
The final line of the poetry dies away. There’s a moment of silence as the class absorbs the last image – and finally he begins slowly, lightly tonguing my clit. I give a stifled moan that quickly becomes a cough, and ask in a husky voice:
“Any observations?”
Luckily, the two other class keeners immediately dive into a lively banter on Eliot’s use of melopoeia. I don’t even hear what they’re saying. Professor M.’s tongue is increasing its pressure, dancing a wild rhythm on my clit. I grab the arms of the chair until my knuckles turn white. His finger is at my entrance, poised to plunge in. I tense my legs and in he thrusts. He cocks his finger around until he is hitting against my swollen inner pleasure point and begins to pound and vibrate against it with the same tempo as his darting tongue.
I feel a tingling heat begin in my clenched toes soaring up and down through my body like someone has poured a shower of hot water over me. I bite the insides of my cheeks hard enough to taste blood as the throbbing gives way to crashing spasms. My cunt clamps around his gifted finger and mouth again and again until the pulses subside. I want to weep from joy and sweet relief.
I realize I’ve closed my eyes, suddenly aware that the discussion has trailed off. I open my eyes to see that people are starting to pack away their books into knapsacks. Class is over. I recover slightly.
“Okay. Well, I hope you all found that to be as illuminating as I did. See you at the exam next week.” I can’t help but smile. “It’s been a true pleasure.”
(Usually by this point in the fantasizing, I’m coming all over the place. But sometimes I need more to get me there, or else I want to put off the big moment so that when it hits, the orgasm is truly mind-blowing. My variation on the longer version – the director’s cut, you might call it – goes like this:)
Brad hasn’t moved. He’s staring at me. I wink and pretend to take some notes as Professor M. lovingly cleans me off with his clever tongue. I can’t wait until Brad leaves so I can lock the door and thank John in kind. Finally, Brad gets up and goes to the door. But he doesn’t leave. He closes and locks it.
At the sound of the door closing, John pushes my chair back and gets up from under his desk. He straightens up and looks at Brad with mild surprise. I still can’t move. The orgasm was shattering and I’m luxuriating in the afterglow. I wait to see what will happen.
Brad looks at me like I’m a hateful stranger.
“How long has this been going on, Rachael? Is this the real reason why you broke it off with me?”
I can’t answer, but John does.
“Don’t be so jealous, Brad. You had your turn. And don’t blame Rachael. I just couldn’t bear the idea of her graduating and moving on – not without enjoying a taste of her obvious charms.”
Meantime, he’s pulling me to my feet and taking my dress off. I’m left standing in front of two fully dressed men in nothing more than a bra.
“And you, Rachael. I think you enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
I pull him in close to show him just how much, kissing all over his wet face and diving my tongue into his mouth to suck up the flavour of my own juices.
John’s hands are fumbling with the fastening on my bra. He frees my breasts and cups them in his hands, lowering his head to flick his tongue over the nipples. I press his head against me as he sucks each nipple, nibbling them into hard peaks. I sigh and glare over his shoulder at Brad. Why is he still here? I want him to go so I can finally get down to fucking this incredible man.
“You can leave any time now, Brad. Show’s over.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
My eyes widen as he starts to get undressed.
“If you make me leave now, I’ll go straight to the Dean’s office.”
Both John and I freeze and stare at him. He seems serious. He’s also as hard as I’ve ever seen him. I look at John. He shrugs and steps away from me.
Brad comes around the desk and grabs my arm. I resist, but he pulls me over to the couch along the far wall. He pushes me so that I’m bent over with my ass arched up at him. I crane my neck around to appeal to John. He’s leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, watching.
“The boy has a point, Rachael. If you don’t do as he asks, we’re both in a big mess.”
“John! You can’t mean –”
“Sssh, Rachael. I’ll be right here. Brad, do I have your word that nothing that goes on here today leaves this room?”
“Deal,” says Brad as he paws at my ass. I hear John heave a sigh.
“Then I’m afraid we have no choice but to give in. You win, Brad. Fuck her.”
Brad grabs my hips and rams his cock into me in one huge thrust that lifts my feet off the floor. I cry out and bite into my own arm to stifle my groans as he starts to pound in and out of me. His cock is long and hits just the right spot deep inside of my cunt. I hate him in this moment, but at the same time being fucked in front of John is wildly exciting. I’ve never felt so out of control. I have had no say in the matter of what would be done to my body since I entered the classroom earlier, and now I completely abandon myself to the wishes of both men. Brad is panting hard as he swirls and thrusts deeper and harder.
“God, Rachael – you’ve never been so wet.”
“No one has ever . . . oh! . . . done that to me before – not that way.” (Of course, I mean John and his licking my cunt under the desk, but I don’t know or care what Brad thinks.)
John has come over to join me. He sits on the couch, still dressed, watching me closely. He gently brushes my hair away from my face, locking his bedroom eyes with mine as I jerk with the motion of being fucked.
“You look beautiful, Rachael. You like being fucked, don’t you?”
He starts to toy with my breasts, pinching at the nipples. I moan.
“Answer me, young lady. Tell me how you feel.”
“I . . . oh! . . . love being fucked in front of you. I love that you are watching me –”
“Are you going to come soon?”
“I want to come with you inside me! Hurry up, Brad . . . I can’t hold back for much longer.”
“Oh, no! I’ll make you come, you bitch!”
Brad starts to fuck me even harder. I can’t speak now – just moan, holding back with every muscle, saving myself for John. He stands up and gets undressed. Unhurried and elegant in his movements, he goes to stand behind Brad.
“You heard the girl. Finish up now. I think you’ve made your point.”
I clamp down and milk Brad’s cock with my muscles, pushing back hard against him with every thrust. He could never resist that, and he shudders and spurts into me, gripping my hips hard enough to leave imprints of his fingers in my flesh. I feel him slide out and John gets into position in his place. He is much more sensual, stroking my back and the sides of my breasts like a virtuoso. My cunt is distended, oozing liquid, clutching at air . . . aching for his cock. I can feel the head of it straining at my entrance, slipping around in all of that hot juice.
But first, he makes me beg.
“Tell me what you want, Rachael.”
I practically scream: “For God’s sake, fuck me John! I need you to make me come!”
With a groan, he complies and eases his cock up into me inch by inch. I gasp in joy: this is what I’ve dreamed of for the past four years, and it’s really happening. He is Brad’s match in length and hardness, but has infinitely more finesse. I wriggle against him, primed and ready.
He hits the wall inside and stops, holding himself for what seems an eternity before sliding back out so that only the very tip of him is still inside, then – just a little faster and harder – he dives back in. I am moaning continuously now. Brad is panting, watching, hating us both – but he has given away any power he had over us by fucking me. John is igniting me in ways he could never hope to, and I am swooning in ecstasy.
“Ah, yesss . . . fuck me, John. Show him how to make me come.”
He murmurs and strokes me . . . my entire body is ablaze with want and the impending fulfillment of all of my forbidden dreams. I actually fight to hold back, to make it last, but now John is losing control . . . pounding away with double the power of Brad’s fucking. He is starting to gasp my name over and over and I know he is close, so I give in. I buck back against him, shouting and moaning, as the waves explode through me with incredible force. (I have rarely achieved an orgasm through intercourse in real life, but the memorable times that I did have been like that – being rammed from behind or with me riding on top, taking charge.)
My climax sets John’s off, and he squeezes me close to him as his cock gives a leap and spurts into me. I can feel every individual gush. We collapse onto the couch and curl up together in a naked, sodden heap.
I peer up through half-closed eyes to see Brad doing up his jeans. He gives me a look that is both sad and a little bit triumphant. I smile at him. Nothing has happened that I can’t live with. It felt too good. As the door quietly opens and closes, I turn to my greatest fantasy figure and lazily give into a long sweet session of melting kisses.
I have never felt such a strong desire to fuck anyone before or since my professor. Pity it couldn’t happen in real life, but even now, he is such fun to fantasize about. I haven’t seen him for over a decade, but who knows? Maybe by chance he’ll pick up this book and read over my thoughts and recognize himself in it. The idea turns me on more than I can say.
These wild dreams are harmless, sexy fun – but I have found to my dismay over the years that men seem threatened by my voracious fantasy life. Do they honestly think I would really want to be blackmailed into fucking an ex-lover while my professor eggs him on, waiting his turn? Very few men seem to understand that the edgier a fantasy is, the hotter it gets me. This one is relatively tame compared to some, and I have all but given up telling them about any of my lusty scenarios. I have made a couple of male friends online with whom I exchange fantasies via e-mail. They live in other countries, so the temptation to meet is not an issue. The distance gives us the safety to share these kinds of thoughts with each other – at times, they are my sex life when I am between lovers and, except for the lack of physical contact, they are in many ways the best lovers I’ve ever had. Both of these men are very creative and work in artistic fields where story-telling is important, and they get off on trying to outdo themselves in telling me wilder and wilder scenarios. They love it when I tell them how excited they get me, and how wonderful my orgasm is when I read their letters. Fantasy is wonderful, alone or shared – if one is lucky enough to have a partner who can handle it. There is no point in being jealous of dreams and shadows, and they can awaken a depth of passion that surprises and delights, if one gives in to their power.