Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (13 page)

Heather

Heather is a twenty-six-year-old white mother of three girls, ages three, four, and six. She was married to her first husband, an abusive alcoholic, for five years and has been married for three years to a loving second husband. Raised by conserva- tive grandparents, with a reticent attitude toward sex, she lost her virginity at the age of thirteen to a boy she was dating. She didn’t use protection, the pill, until she was fourteen, miscarried at seventeen, and, similar to Susannah, became pregnant and married at nineteen.

I was a big dater and very active after I was raped at age fifteen. I figured I was never going to fall in love and no one was going to love me because of the rape. So, I began to date just about anyone who asked, and if sex was mentioned, it usually was done. I also dated mostly guys who were a few years older. My first husband was ten years older, and sex was great till the bottle took over. After that, it was like being raped all over again. I began masturbating then, which is when my fantasies began.

I met my current and hopefully last husband (four years older) while I was going through my divorce. After our first date, we wanted to make love and after two weeks couldn’t keep our hands off each other. So, my girls and I moved in with him. He travels at least once a year, and during those times, I masturbate fantasizing about him being with me. My most recent fantasy has to do with where he is right now: I’m dressed in a harem costume complete with crotchless panties, and I’m in

his dorm. He thinks I’m at home in the States. He comes back to find me waiting for him. I have drawn him a warm bath and have massage oil waiting for him. He is in a state of shock but allows me to undress him even though he has a million questions. I kiss his body as I undress him, and since we have been apart for so long, his penis rises to attention quickly. I tell him to get in the bath, and he does. I wash him, stopping to give his male member extra attention. After his bath, I dry him off, again kissing his whole body as I do so. I tell him to lie on his belly and give him a massage, then make him roll over onto his back. I massage his chest and legs, avoiding his penis, which really makes him crazy. I then begin to massage his penis with my mouth and tongue, first slowly, and then lick his balls in between. Then, I spring back to his penis, first slow and then with a quickening pace. Before he can cum, he has to please me, too, so he proceeds to lick my clit and finger-fuck my pussy. He alternates fingers with his tongue till I have orgasms a number of times. Then, when I can’t take any more, I make him enter me with my legs over his shoulders. While he is pumping in and out, he sucks on my breasts (which still have breast milk). We finally cum together, and, boy, are there fireworks! Afterward, we bathe each other and just lay together wrapped in a huge towel.

T h a N k s F o r T h e m e m o r i e s

In spite of our total dependence on our caretakers, we defy them to follow eros, the good feeling. And we keep defying them. But here’s the real glory. We don’t just pursue eros; we take the anti- sex warnings from the nursery and turn them around, spin them into gold—as in a fairy tale.

arthur

arthur is a thirty-nine-year-old man, raised in England, First Class Honors degree and law degree, now living in america.

At sixteen, my mother examined my underpants one fine summer’s day for the presence of semen. She suspects I’ve been masturbating. (I have, for years. But this time, I fool her—no semen on the pants. She draws a blank.) Some months later, though, she barges into my bedroom and catches me at it. Big Scene. Fireworks. Me reduced to a quivering puddle of guilt. She tells me I’m a “filthy little bastard” and threatens to kick me out of the house.

Ever since I’ve started masturbating, around age ten or eleven, I’ve done so lying on my stomach. (Look, ma, no hands.) Now that I’m single again, I do so at least once a day, sometimes twice. Occasionally, I get off online—especially with an imaginative, sensitive,
intelligent
woman on the other end—in which case, I take off
everything
. Like some women, who even take off their earrings and wristwatches before masturbating or making love, there’s a delicious feeling of total
abandon
, which comes from being absolutely naked. Sometimes, at work, I jerk off—discreetly— face down on the couch, hiding my naked buns under a blanket in case of any unexpected interruptions.

In one of my fantasies, I imagine myself as a biology teacher in an all- girls boarding school in France. Sitting in the front row is a beautiful dark-eyed girl. She’s Lolita—the classic Nabokovian “nymphet”—an arresting combination of guile and innocence. Suddenly, she gets up and leaves the classroom without a word. I wait. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes elapse, but she doesn’t come back. Concerned, I decide to investigate. The door is ajar. I peer round, and—sure enough—there she is, lying flat on her back, her head propped up by a pillow.

Somehow she’s gotten hold of a stethoscope. It’s the old-fashioned kind, the kind that makes you shiver, with the metal bulb, which feels cold on your skin. Very slowly she unbuttons her top, button by button, and draws the material aside. Her tummy is as smooth and brown as her arms, her navel flawless, concave, and—somehow— endearingly innocent.

At this point, she realizes that someone’s watching. Instead of trying to cover up, she puts down the stethoscope, reaches over to the drawer of her night stand, and takes out a bottle of baby oil. One drop at a time, she fills her navel until it overflows and trickles down her sides and onto the sheets. Then, she starts to rub the oil in. One hand moves to her swollen nipples, while the other starts to work furiously at her tight little clit. “Close the door, monsieur,” she whimpers. “I want you to make me cum.”

I undress and tell her to put her hands behind her head. I start to lick her nipples and nibble them gently between my teeth. Then, I work my way down her stomach, toward her navel, which she thrusts up to meet the tip of my tongue. At last, I start on her clit.

By this time, she’s writhing and groaning, begging me to fuck her. I stop and tell her to lie completely still. She whimpers, a combination of defiance and frustration. I fetch a lamp and shine it directly onto her tummy so that I can see the web of silvery hairs and the delicious contours of her abdominal muscles beneath. And then I’m inside her. Her pussy is so tight that it takes all the strength of will I can muster not to cum on the spot. As she moves closer to climax, her body buckles, and her stomach muscles quiver and harden. I lick her ear and tell her that I want her to watch. She glues her eyes to the tip of my cock, wet with precum and inches from orgasm, waiting for it to shoot out its liquid fire all over her belly. As I cum, she arches her back and lets out an unearthly scream as her own climax erupts deep

inside her and rubs the stuff round and round, coating her belly and inner thighs. The contrast—my white seed on her brown skin—is too startling to put into words.

“ m a r r i a g e i s l i k e T h e m i d d l e e a s T — T h e r e ’ s N o s o l u T i o N ”

Or Is There?

Married sex often becomes a disappointment…unless we ac- company it with fantasy.

manny

I was infatuated with my wife. I loved the way her body felt and the softness of her breasts and nipples. We enjoyed sexual intercourse very much. Now that we’re older, our sexual activity has dropped off. I’ve resumed masturbating to satisfy my male urge.

It seems I get my fantasies from where I least expect them. I never looked forward to going to the dentist, but last week, Ihadmyteethcleaned, andthe dental hygienist was a cute young woman dressed in a soft pullover sweater and white slacks. She laid me back in the chair until I was horizontal, and she took a chair at my shoulder. She rested her arm on my chest, and at times, I could feel her breast pushed against my head. Sometimes, when I opened my eyes, her boob was just a couple of inches away from me.

I started thinking it would be nice if I could take my hand and put it on her back or how it would feel if she didn’t have a bra on. I thought about running my hand under her sweater and moving up to her bra and unfastening it. Then, I would run my hand over her tit and feel her nipple. I could tell she was beginning to become aroused, and she moved so I could play with her other tit.

She would stop her cleaning for a few moments to rest, and she would smile and move her hand down to my semi-hard cock and gently rub it. Then, she’d say, “I’ll be finished with your teeth in a few minutes, and we’ll move on to other things.” As she rests again, she unzips my trousers and reaches in to find my cock and gives it a few strokes.

She moves back just a little and takes off her sweater, and her loose bra falls off her breasts. She tells me I can suck them, and she moves close so I can suck each of them. She then says, “That’s enough, let me finish.” My hands fondle her breasts as she finishes up.

The door is already closed because this is a special dentist office catering to men and offering some “extras” along with the dentistry (lighter dental work). Sometimes, the hygienist is topless as she begins her work. She now unfastens my pants and pulls them down, along with my shorts. She moves right in and begins to suck my cock as she gently fondles my balls. I move my hand to her cunt (she’s already taken off her clothes), and I start to rub her clit.

Her mouth is moving up and down my cock as I get harder, and I start to feel myself nearing orgasm. I have two fingers in her cunt and am rubbing her clit. I can tell she is getting close to orgasm, too.

I can no longer hold back, and I shoot a big load in her mouth, and my fingers bring her to a climax, too. She smiles at me and moves to kiss me on the lips and lets some of my cum into my mouth. I like the taste.

She tells me it’s time for her next patient, and she’ll look forward to my next cleaning.

Back in reality, I now look forward to mine.

Why p a y Whe N y ou c a N sT eal?

I once thought if I, Nancy, was rhapsodic over masturbation one more time in my writing, my mother would disown me. Actu- ally, she and I went through our rapprochement when I wrote
My Mother, My Self
, the book that immediately followed
My Secret Garden
. I’ve always found it fascinating, and absolutely right, that the thought occurred to me to write about mothers and daughters as I was writing the last page of
My Secret Gar- den
. “Why are women so cut off from their sexual selves? Who would want the world to believe that women don’t have sexual fantasies?” I asked. And answered: “Mother.”

I still feel a certain frisson when I write the word
masturba- tion
, almost as if I were breaking the law. That is how I felt the first time I touched myself and felt the mix of Heaven and Hell. I assume, even hope, that I will never outgrow the excitement of stolen sex, on which I was raised.

We masturbate in spite of Mother, God, and Country. A de- fining, if not defiant, act. It is rare when we find anyone who, unsolicited, approves, says it’s OK.

We have no idea that this surreptitious hold on the forbidden place between our legs tells us how we will feel about our bodies for the rest of our lives. Stolen sex will always be the sweetest fruit on the tree.

Tony

Tony is a thirty-seven-year-old african american head teacher in a primary school and was raised in a conservative family where both parents were reticent to talk about sex.

My earliest sexual experience was at age four or five when I found myself under a large packing crate with an older boy of about seven or eight. He was skinning back his foreskin while I and a boy my age watched him. I can still recall the odor and how wicked and exciting it all seemed. I remember shortly after this wanting to pee
outside
the house, and this had some vague connection for me with the sexual activity under the box, but I wasn’t able to work it out. My mother found me peeing outside and was pretty horrified.

The next specifically sexual activity took place when I was about nine or ten. A friend who was about a year older than me was given a soft porn magazine by his father while I was standing in their kitchen. The mother was also there, and she just smiled as he opened the pages, and we both saw a topless woman standing in front of a haystack. The sight of her naked breasts (probably the first I had seen) and the fact that both parents
approved
was to become a powerful image for me. It was astonishing. I idealized this family, and have constructed a number of fantasies around them.