A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

Posts tagged “fantasy

18. Lapdancing


untitle [#180] (2004) by Hellen van Meene

The things that swirl around in my head – lap-dancing, today – I wouldn’t be your ordinary erotic dancer, four-inch heels would have me gasping for air in the stratosphere, and you’d be staring at my kneecaps as I strutted around you in your chair, a standard desk chair, it swivels like my hips, and has no arms – they’d get in the way – so as I strut, I trace my fingertips along your shoulder-blades, maybe they are a little cold today, like the weather, and my nails don’t dig because I keep them short, but I’ve painted them glittery burgundy in your honor, along with my toenails – yes, I’m barefoot – I’m told I’m good with them, maybe you’ll find out someday, but not today, as I pass around behind you; my fingers, they’ve found your top button and I couldn’t resist, two, three, and my hand is down your shirt – it’s getting warmer now – like my breasts that dangle tantalizingly close to the back of your head, brushing against your hair – do you feel me, I certainly feel you and give your chest a playful squeeze – alright, both hands, and now you can definitely feel my two pillows caressing your neck

what am I wearing you ask, not much, but as I said, I’m not your ordinary lap dancer, and my bra selection is limited mostly to running wear, since I spend so much time pounding the pavement, but a sports bra makes me nice and firm, nothing to bounce around, and bikini briefs – no thongs in my wardrobe – and have you noticed that I almost always wear dark colors underneath, burgundy today to match my nails and my hair, which I had done this morning – I’d indulge you with it, but it’s too short for anything particularly sensual now – oops – I’ve accidentally untucked your shirt, and unbuttoned it – sometimes I’m just on autopilot – I strut around in front of you; do you like my nice firm tummy, it pulses for your delectation, but maybe you don’t notice, since you are nuzzling between my breasts,

take a nice sniff, no artificial scents on me, I’m allergic to them, just normal body smells, sweat, pheromones, yes, I’m hot with them today – I thought about doing a striptease for you, but there is no teasing here, I’m serious, pulsing with the music – OK, maybe the bra can come off, I find them too confining, so off it goes and around your head – there, we bounce a little, just for you – and what do lap-dancers do – yes, I’m so there pulsing up against you, with you between my legs – I lower myself onto you – I need this as much as you do – there is so little fabric between us, and I can feel you pulsing with me as the music speeds up – have you ever had a belly-dancer on your lap – every muscle finely controlled for your visual enjoyment, but how about up against you for your tactile pleasure, jiggling my pillows in your face as my firm lithe body throbs around you ever quicker, firm – yes, we both are (snickers) – and I course my fingers through your hair because I’m getting carried away, I have a runner’s endurance and could go all night if you wanted me to, but maybe now’s the time for you to stick your tenner in my – well, the bra is gone, so I guess it will have to go in my panties, right there in front – go for it – I don’t mind it getting a little damp, not if it is earned through my pleasure and perhaps yours – put it in nice and deep, so it won’t fall out – yes, right there – no I won’t stop, not till I’m damn well ready, and I won’t mind if you put your arms around me, just don’t get any ideas – this is a business transaction – another tenner? – fifty and it’s a deal, go ahead, slip it in, nice and, ahhhhh, deep

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10. In come


closeup in the water

Whoa … sorry … still out … of breath …. (gulp) …. just got off the treadmill … there, that’s … whoa … a little dizzy …. there, I’m OK now.  I hate running on the treadmill, but it was cold and rainy out, and too much flooding around … wouldn’t want to swim home.  I’m sure you saw the title of this one and thought I was going to talk about earning a living.  I may eventually, but the title has a different significance, which will become apparent shortly.

I took a run to give the boys time to fill the jacuzzi.  I’ve decided to indulge myself today; this is all about me and my pleasure.  You may watch if you wish, but I’m sure there are several of you that will decide I’ve gone too far this time, so I won’t be offended if you give this a miss.

I normally prefer to shower after I run, but today I’m going to take a bath, a special bath that my boys – acolytes, chosen not for their musculature (except for Seth, a nice lusty farmhand), but rather for their staying power, and believe me, they are going to need it today.  The girls are back there ready to lend them a hand if any of them falter in their task.  No, they aren’t going to pleasure me today, not directly at least, but I will enjoy the fruits of their labours, their labours for me their goddess.  I think they won’t be pleasuring anybody for some considerable time.

As I said, today is about my pleasure.  I’m sure you all have a kinky fantasy that you’ve dreamt of, but never had the guts to try or even tell someone about.  Today, you get mine.  I’m going out of my comfort zone this time, and I’m going to break a few of my taboos – as you see, I’m already using periods, because I want to relax and savour this.

As some of you know, I’m into all things wet and slippery – in fact, I’ve been sitting in a pool of my own damp, anticipating this all day.  I was starting to worry that I’d start getting a case of panty rash.  Two hours of running means that I’m literally raining sweat. (The girls in the back are giggling at me, but I love it!)  One of the advantages of indoor running is that I can wear whatever I wish, so just my white running bra, which is now more or less transparent.  You can even see my pink nipples through it.  Don’t worry, I’ll have to take it off soon, then you’ll get a better view.  I’ve also worn my skimpiest running pants – they’re light blue, a miscalculation when I bought them.  If I’m running in public, I need to wear something under them, or I give a free show to all and sundry when they get damp with sweat like they are now.  As you will see if you look carefully (yes, do take a closer look), you can see my bush.  (Oops, there goes another taboo!)  Here, why don’t I just slip them off (my shoes came off as soon as I was off the treadmill).  There, I’m all rosy red from my exertion.  Be careful as I slip my bra off, or you’ll get showered with my sweat.  Perhaps you’d like that, come a little closer then.  I really am dripping, as I rub my chest – ah, don’t touch!  This is my fantasy, not yours.

Let’s just go in and see if the jacuzzi is ready.  Mmmm, don’t you just love it?  The smell of sex, or more specifically, cum.  (Oh no, another taboo gone!)  Gee, the boys look all worn out.  Girls, do take care of them.  They won’t be needed the rest of the day.

Isn’t that a beautiful sight?  A jacuzzi full of pearly white semen.  Yes, a very special bath coming for me.  (Don’t you just love the double entendre?)  Haven’t you just dreamt of swimming in fresh cum?

I breathe deeply and step to the edge – ah, the aroma!  I step down onto the ledge.  Ooh, how warm it is.  I have to be careful not to slip.  I’ll sit on the edge first.  Ah, warm on my calves.  I splash – well, if you can call it that – some on my thighs.  It’s so slick, like glycerin.  I step into the centre, up to my waist.  It feels so heavenly, not quite like jello, more like warm double thick cream.  I think about all those little spermies, blindly swimming around trying to find the appropriate orifice.  Some will find it, but I’m afraid they will be disappointed if they make it all the way in.  Maybe I’ll give them a little help.  First, I’ll lower myself in right up to my chin.  It’s getting in my hair, but that’s OK.  It’s like being in back in my mother’s womb.  (Going all the way back to conception!)

Time to give them a little help.  Ah … ohhhhhh … yes.  It’s a pity I’m too tired to do anything more.  I’m just going to relax for a few minutes …

… Mmm … this is nice, you should try it.  Not now!  You find your own jacuzzi!  This is my time; it’s “me” time.  There is one thing I haven’t done yet.  Full immersion.  Yes, I’m going to do it.  I’ve gotten this far.  Here I go …

Pfpfpfpfffffft!  Oooh, that feels weird.  I got some in my ears.  I think I’m going to smell like cum for weeks, but that’s OK.  It’s worth it.  It doesn’t quite drip off like water – that’s not unexpected, but it feels … ooh.  It’s still nice and warm.  Hmm … tastes like, um, oysters, salty … maybe I’ll take a little on my tongue … yes, oysters … swallow them whole, right?  Mmm.  I love oysters.

Hey, I’ve got an idea.  Turn the jets on.  The switch is just behind you.  Weeeeeee!  That’ll confuse the buggers, not to mention what it’ll do to the pumps.  Well, it’s due for a maintenance tomorrow.  Look at it foam up!  Fantastic.

I stand up and it dribbles off me like honey, it feels amazing as I rub my breasts.  Have I told you I like it when you watch me?  A massage sounds fantastic right now.  Too bad I sent the staff home.  Oh.  You will?  Well, OK, but don’t get any ideas, and you can’t get in with me.  This is my bath.

Hey, that’s not my back!  OK, it feels nice.  Don’t they just fit perfectly into your hand.  Careful, no pinching; I’m not into pain.  Mmmm.  You know, if you don’t mind getting it all up your arm, there is something else you can do for me.  Yes, you guessed.  Cumming in cum.  What a novelty.  OK, be gentle now.  I’m very fragile after a run and it’s going to take a long time, I wouldn’t want to go numb, and I want you to milk me for all it’s worth.  So roll up your sleeve and reach down.  I know you can’t see anything.  Feel free to rest your head on my shoulder.  Oooh, there, that’s the spot … gentle, even more gentle, two fingers are enough for now, slowly.  I’m afraid you won’t get the …. ooooh …. satisfaction of me screaming with delight.  I’m quiet when I have sex, until I climax, and I’m told that’s a sound that can’t be described.

If you are careful … mmm … you may hear it se … ssss …. several …. t-t-t-t times.  Sorry …. can’t t-t-t-t-t-talk anymore.


8. Dreams and Aspirations


Carolyn by simpsonyiu

I’ve been rabid the last couple of days, obsessed with sex even more than usual, sex in dreams, wet dreams, I dream a lot, even when I’m awake, just sitting here working, now writing, tap, tap, tap, on my keyboard, doing one thing while thinking about the other,

today it’s dreams, dreams and aspirations, but mostly dreams, I’ve been thinking about publishing, that’s an aspiration obviously, and although I’m an editor, I don’t really have the right connections in publishing, and I don’t have anything substantial to submit, a nice long serious short story or novel, Hahn has stalled, while I re-consider where it is going, I’ve got a general plan, but I started the next chapter and it just felt so stale, what to do with Alleyn’s cousin, and Hahn’s three other consorts, bringing them in, but I feel like Liz needs to get back to the real world, to get her back in touch with her real feelings, to become mortal again – I know how it is going to happen, but it seems so far away in the story, so much to write between now and then, and what I’ve written doesn’t connect with my dreams, the topic of this rant, and I feel that my best writing comes when it exists in my dreams (waking or sleeping) first, before I try to commit it to paper (or hard disk),

now that was a Freudian slip (that I’ve fixed), a hard dick, see, I’m still thinking of sex way too much, too much for my own sanity, and of him, always of him, I blame him, too, and myself for letting it happen this way, of course, I still love him, and without him I’d be writing nothing at all, not about Alleyn, not about Hora, not fantasy, not my fantasies, nothing, so I guess I have him to thank as well as blame – you may blame him for what I inflict on you, for what you dream, because that’s what I do to you, help you (make you?) dream, to help you fly, to let go of the ground to fly into that land of dreams where we become immortal

powerful, and every story has a happy ending, if we want it to, do you want a happy ending or an ending at all, just the promise of a future, like sex, not a one-nighter, the kind that you know you will have again with your lover, who is always the best, the best for you, that gives you the most complete satisfaction, who completes you, not incomplete like me, except that I need you, my reader, to give me the semblance of completion, that’s the next best thing, dear reader, love me, love my work, and we’ll get along just fine (doesn’t this sound so depressing and shallow?), but we keep going, keep dreaming – do you want to know what I’m dreaming now, he’s at my door, waiting for me to finish this, stepping behind me, hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck, he knows what I want and how to give it to me, kisses the top of my head … excuse me, but my muse wants to inspire me now, so I’ll just slip into something more comfortable, or maybe nothing at all, my rentboy is here, yes, my muse is a … okay, I’ve got to stop writing now, he’s (stop that!) … I’ve got to go …


7. The Wettest of Dreams


skiinsession

YOU dreamt of me last night.  I can tell.  I can smell the sex on you.  It never quite goes away in the shower.  Don’t be embarrassed.  I dreamt of you, too.  I like that kind of dreams.

Did you get up and change your pants?  Or did you sleep in your own mess?  I kept mine on, but of course I wouldn’t make as much of a mess as you.  I love that smell.  I love love love that smell.  I like my smell, too, but it’s not as prolific as yours, all over you, the sheets, the image of me that you dreamt about. Mmmmm.

Oh, you DREAMt of me last night.  Was I role playing or fancy dress?  Maid, nurse, dominatrix, I can do them all in dreams.  I can even do men (if that is what you prefer) – that’s the power of dreams.  They can do anything.  You can’t control them.  I can.  Your dreams, that is.

You dreamt OF ME last night.  Imagine the real thing.  It’s even better.  Do you dream in color?  I do.  Last night’s was red.  Do you hear?  Do you feel?  Do you touch?  I do.  Especially in that kind of dream.  Do you taste?  Taste is my favorite sense; it’s related to smell.  You can tell a lot about a person by how they smell, but taste does it for me.  What did I taste like last night?  Remember?  I do.  The bottom of your feet.  Did you like that?  Loved it.  Remember?  Well, pay better attention, because …

You WILL dream of me TONIGHT.  I hope your partner doesn’t mind.


2. Online


Eirica Johnstone:
Dear Mr Stewart,
I've had a look at your website. I love your music. 
Please do send me your piano pieces and I will perform 
them on my recital in January. I look forward to hearing 
from you. Do write.
Yours,
Eirica

Was that too forward? “Yours” was an Americanism. How would he take that? I meant it. Damn, that was too keen. He’d receive my message the moment he walked in the door.

I must have jumped every time an email came in for the next 24 hours, then 36. Finally, on Monday afternoon came his reply.

Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica, Delighted you are interested. 
Have posted out the score. Let me know what you think.
Arlen

I had to reply right away.

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, I can't wait. Looking forward 
to trying it out. It was lovely meeting you.

The score arrived on Wednesday.

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, It's here and I've already 
tried it out. I'm definitely putting it on my programme 
in January. May I come see you about it? Eirica

Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica, Seeing you might be a little 
awkward. Maybe at the university? Arlen

Eirica Johnstone: At the university is fine with me. 
Love, Eirica

Was that too forward? On second thought, I wanted more privacy.

Eirica Johnstone: Actually, is there somewhere in York 
we can meet? Trains to York go through Dunrig, but Leeds 
trains don't. I have to go through Glasgow, and that adds 
an hour to my journey each way. Can we do it soon, like 
the last Saturday in November? That's half term here. Eirica

Arlen Stewart: Eirica, I'm surprised you will be ready 
to see me so soon, but York will be on half term, too, 
so I can probably secure a space there to meet. I assume 
we will need a piano. Just hop on a No. 4 bus and get 
off on the first campus stop. Arlen

I had hoped that he would pick me up by car, but at least he agreed to meet with me. I was concerned about the brevity of his messages. Was he not interested in me? Perhaps there was someone else. Sinead?

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, I'll arrive at York around noon 
and will take the first bus to campus. I don't know how 
long that takes. On another matter, may I ask you a 
personal question? What did you think of Sinead? I noticed 
you with her quite a lot. Eirica

Arlen Stewart: Eirica, I'm not certain who you mean. A


Eirica Johnstone: She was the pretty Irish harpist at 
the conference. E

Arlen Stewart: I'm not sure I met her, actually. Why do 
you ask? A

Eirica Johnstone: She was often sitting near you in the 
back row. I thought, well, maybe you knew her. E

Arlen Stewart: Oh, her! She reminded my of someone, that's 
all. I hardly said a word to her. Why do you ask? A

Eirica Johnstone: I thought maybe she was your type. E

Arlen Stewart: My type? I'm not sure what my type really 
is. She looked a little like a girlfriend I had at university. 
That's all. Nothing more than that. Did she ask about me 
or something? A

Eirica Johnstone: No, it was just my observation. I hope 
you don't think I'm being too forward by asking what you 
think of me. Objectively speaking, you know. I'm not trying 
to tear you away from your wife or anything. E

His reply took a couple of days to reach me.

Arlen Stewart: I'm not sure I should answer that. You're a 
nice girl. Pretty. Perhaps more my type than your friend 
Sinead. You seem very honest and open. I like that. A

Eirica Johnstone: Dear Arlen, Thanks for your kind and 
candid reply. I confess, I've always had a thing about 
about composers. I'm looking forward to seeing you on 
Saturday. 
Love, Eirica

Now that was too much, and another few days passed before his reply. Meanwhile, I practised his pieces with a religious zeal, desiring so deeply to impress him when I played for him. His music touched the core of my being, and I emerged at the end of my long hours of practice with an almost sexual high.

Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica, I'm not sure what you mean 
about a “thing” about composers. Should I be worried?
Arlen

Yes, I had definitely gone too far. In an attempt to open him up, I had obliquely confessed my like for him. Saying that, he still replied to my message, and more importantly hadn’t cancelled our meeting tomorrow. Having openly documented my feelings about him in almost hourly tweets over the past two weeks, I asked my followers what to do. A large number of them advocated coming clean with my feelings. Arlen had applauded my honesty. Others told me to back out. He was married, it would only end with someone being hurt, probably me.

I wanted him for his sperm, not his love.

Did I really tweet that? Of course, I wanted his love, but I wanted to make babies with him even more. He solved all my problems: my desire of older men, the need to procreate, and the urge to retain my freedom. I would absolve him from all responsibility to my children.

I wanted more than one from him. That was a revelation that I had only just come to terms with, but how would I achieve that without his knowledge? While choosing the date for my recital, I had been careful to calculate the likelihood of being fertile while he was here. I would get pregnant and disappear for a year, meanwhile planting a seed for our next rendezvous. I would ask him to write a new piece for me. He composed slowly, so a year or more without seeing him seemed likely.

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, by a “thing,” I meant that 
I've always felt closer to composers than other people. 
Unlike you, I can only recreate your masterpiece, but 
you fashion it yourself from your own being. To me, 
composers are the next step up on the evolutionary 
ladder: creators and great thinkers. I wish I could 
be like you. Eirica.

That successfully met my followers half-way. Without telling him that I adored him in particular, I revealed my innermost thoughts on his type. I didn’t expect a reply before I set off on my journey, but my iPhone signalled a new message.

Arlen Stewart: Eirica, without your gifts, a composer 
is nothing. Thinking can only be realized though action. 
I'll meet you at the concert hall around 1pm. See you then. 
Arlen

Action. That was what he wanted, so I resolved to give it to him.

My fans twittered in unison. Be careful! Not too soon. But it wasn’t too soon. The time was now. Over recent weeks my following had ballooned from 1000 to 30,000, all latching on to my every tweet.

@ClanGoddess87: I'm pulling into the station now. Will be 
with him in an hour.

@ClanGoddess87: Just pulled up to the bus stop. He's 
standing at the hall waiting for me. I know he's up for it.

Stepping off the bus, I panicked. Had I over-dressed? Under-dressed? Would he even notice? When would I make my move? Conservatively, I had chosen the same purple blouse as I had worn when he first met me. One of my Facebook friends had told me I looked sexy in it, following that with another proposal of marriage. He was too young for me. I had always thought it de-emphasized my bosom while bloating my hips. Maybe that was what Arlen liked.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, shaking his hand.

“You’re early, actually. I just met with a couple of students and came outside to wait for you in case you couldn’t find the place. You wouldn’t be the first person to get lost on this campus.”

For two hours we sat in one of the classrooms working through his piece. I didn’t play my best as he hovered over my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his breath as he pointed to passages that he wanted me to play differently. He smelled clean, as though he had just taken a shower. No cologne, just the clean smell of masculinity … of semen. Maybe I imagined the latter, but there was something sexual about his odour.

“I was wondering,” he asked as we packed up at the end of the session, “would you be interested in playing my piano concerto if I can arrange a performance?”

That was almost too much for my tender heart to handle. “Yes!” I gulped, too loudly, as if I had just climaxed. Truly, I was on the verge of it. A light brush on my thighs would have sent me into ecstasy. I wanted him. I needed him. “As long as I can fit it into my schedule,” I added, trying not to sound over-eager. I anticipated a pregnancy to plan around.

“I have a few conductors interested,” he replied, “but it always takes some convincing, and programming such a big piece with an unknown soloist is risky.”

“Are you sure you want me?” I asked. “You haven’t exactly heard me at my best.”

“I want you. I’ve listened to the clips on your website.”

He’d thought about me more than I’d guessed. I hadn’t even given him the URL. “Well, I’d really like to play it. I love what I’ve heard of your music.”

Time for my gambit. “Is there any chance you could give me a lift back to the station. I hadn’t thought of bringing an umbrella.” It had started raining while we had our session.

He thought for a moment. “I guess so.”

Halfway to the station he broke our awkward silence. “What’s it like living in a castle?”

How did he know? My website, of course. “It’s quiet at night after the staff leaves for the day in season. That’s why I usually live on campus.”

“You have a staff?” He sounded surprised.

“Only for the visitor centre. They hardly come into the residence at all out of season. I’m all alone there.”

“You allow visitors?”

“About a third of the castle is an ancient ruin, surrounded by 100 acres of pasture and woodland. The estate also owns the freehold to the village and a couple surrounding farms. There are a couple well-preserved bedrooms there for the old Laird, and a room reserved for the king, although no furniture survives. The residence is a nineteenth-century renovation, with modern conveniences added by my mother while I was a child.”

“You must get lonely kicking about on your own.”

“I’ve got the ghosts to keep me company.” Too many to count.

“Ghosts?”

“Every 900-year-old castle has ghosts.”

“So are you the Laird?” he asked.

“If I bear a son, he will be. I’m just the Lady.”

“Lady Eirica? Should I bow before you?”

“Nobody does. It’s just an inherited title with no seat in the Lords or anything. I just have the obligation to bear an heir at some point. How do you know so much about me?”

“Your website. You should probably have one for the visitor centre, though.”

“There is one, but it isn’t kept up well. I don’t have any control over it.”

“Did you set up your own site? It’s very slick.”

“Well, I don’t have much to do other than practise, write my dissertation and proliferate my web presence.”

“So you’re on Facebook and all that?”

“It keeps me sane. I don’t have much other contact outside of Uni.”

“Well, here we are,” he announced as we pulled into the station.

“Thanks for the lift,” I replied as he stopped the car. “I really enjoyed finally getting to know you a little.”

I reached over to give him a kiss on the cheek as close to his lips as possible, lingering as long as I dared. I revelled in the warmth of his cleanly-shaven cheek. Did he notice that I steadied myself, putting my hand on his thigh. How long did it last? One, two, three seconds? An eternity?

Certainly not long enough. Did he hear me sigh? Did he close his eyes?

“You should come visit the castle,” I whispered. Did I really? Then louder, “It’s a wonderful place. You should bring your wife. There are plenty of things to see and do. I’ve got a number of spare rooms. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“I’ll think about it.”

That was too forward, but did I really invite his wife? I wanted him and only him for a weekend or a week of lovemaking. “The offer is always open. If you want, you can stay there when you come up to the concert. I’m sure Hamish will want you to give a seminar on the Friday before my recital. I’ll talk to him about it.”

I cringed waiting for his response. “I’ll see what my schedule is like.” No commitment.

Talk dirty to me! Wow, did I just think that? I wanted him to tear my clothes off, not caring that we were in the middle of a busy drop-off lane. Reluctantly, I picked up my rucksack and stepped out of the car. “See you soon!” I waved.

Did he notice that I had brought an overnight bag with a change of clothes? Did he notice the burgundy pair of silk knickers that had wrapped itself around the score of his piece? He couldn’t know where I intended to stay the night. Maybe he thought York wasn’t my only destination.

Could you hear me sigh?