So there’s this fantasy I’ve been entertaining lately. I do not know where it came from (well, my pervy little mind, obviously, but bear with me). And I don’t know if I’d ever actually have the guts to do it, but oh how it turns me on.
You don’t mind if I share, do you? 🙂
I’m with my lover. He’s managed to undress me while staying fully clothed. He’s turned me into a mass of shivering, quivering, wet flesh by teasing me unmercifully. And then he reaches over and picks up a blindfold, wrapping it securely around my head. And leaves the room.
When he returns, I hear another male voice. They’re looking at me, from the sounds of their conversation. My lover is telling the other man what a little slut I am. They’re checking out my tits, my pussy, not touching me, just talking about me and my potential for hot sweaty sex. It becomes clear, with the familiarity they show one another, that they’re friends.
Together, they use me, push and mold me into different positions, shove their cocks in every available orifice, and generally treat me like a shared plaything. And it turns me on like no tomorrow.
I know, I know. I’m an evolved (some would say feminist, but at the very least wildly independent) woman. This sort of demeaning, objectifying scene should probably horrify me. It doesn’t. In fact, it does just the opposite. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all week. I may have to write a new short story about it, just to get it off my chest.
I suppose that’s the lovely thing about fantasies. They don’t have to be politically correct. If they turn you on, it’s all good.