My Disobedient Secret Fantasies Keep Me Guessing
Are you in control of your own erotic imagination? I’m not…
It starts with a kiss. It always does.
Perhaps there is also the lightest touch of fingers on mine, as they hang by my side. As if to hint that a kiss is not enough.
But for now, it is. Soft lips are my world. They linger for only a second before their press vanishes, and there is just warm breath to know that they wait for me.
I’m not ready to open my eyes, to know who it is. Perhaps I want the lips to tell me. But really, I have already decided; and I want to savour the anticipation of seeing her. The shock of her eyes making me falter, catch my breath, like the skip of a record.
Is it possible to imagine a moment before it is imagined?
I don’t care. I lean forward fractionally, let the brush of her nose on my cheek guide me. I am not precise but it doesn’t matter, and I pluck at the skin of her upper lip; then again, lower, feeling the breath as it escapes the thin parting of her mouth.
Something is not the same. My eyes open in my mind, and reveal that it is tricking me. It’s not her; instead I am kissing another, another whose face will not leave me. Why is it that some faces linger, while others fade? It’s not desire, not always. But this face has sustained all its exquisite fidelity for days, ever since I saw her, on the train.
She had no interest in me. Of course not. I don’t think our eyes even met for that whole journey, while I chatted with absent mind to a colleague and stole guilty glances at her. Narrow, bright blue eyes, chiselled features, blonde hair ponytailed so, so tightly.
How can I kiss her, kiss such perfection? But I must.
Only sleep would take her away, make her fade until tomorrow, replace her with confused metaphor. But sleep would be impossible now.
I glance shyly down, away from her crushing ambiguous smile (must I be awkward, even here?) She wears the same severe square-necked grey dress, twin seams running over her breasts down to her knees, low-heeled blue suede slip-ons enough to bring her height up to mine — she is taller than I had thought. Without looking I know that I am fully naked, and the juxtaposition is sweetly erotic.
So, we kiss. I feel my nipples just touch her dress as we press closer; its weave is rough, irritating them and exciting them in equal measure. The slightest sigh escapes my lips, parting them, and hers part too: I am desperate for her tongue. My hands find the swell of her hips, pull gently. There: her mouth opens, we meet in the middle, my next breath murmurs with my need of her.
Something touches my cheek, presses warmly. I am smiling with anticipation before I even look, amused at my own audacity. If there is anyone with whom a threesome fantasy might be too much, it is her.
But it’s still not her! and the new eyes that regard me through sultry lashes are hazel, not clear endless blue. She is less classically exquisite than Train: she has longer, straw blonde hair hanging loose, and a pleasingly crooked nose. But this girl has looked and smiled at me many times, melting me by degrees almost every time I shop for food. I try to catch her eye even if I cannot go to her checkout; sometimes, I succeed.
Perhaps she smiles at all her customers. But that is not here: here she grins at me with delighted anticipation.
She is just tucked behind Train’s narrow shoulder, wearing a tight crop-top and some kind of baggy gym bottoms: she is young enough to pull off the look, just. She is also taller than I remember, taller than either of us. Her eyes dwell on me, but her outside hand comes up to guide Train’s chin towards her: they kiss; Train turns, I see her upper arm dragging across Checkout’s constrained chest, and then they are breast to breast. My hand which had been on Train’s far hip now trails onto her stomach, and I wonder what to do with it while I watch the passion of their lips from inches away.
Checkout still steals glances at me, and I am sure she is leaning her face to show me the sweet caresses of their tongues. I cling to the moment: the perfection of Train falling into the sauciness of Checkout. But Checkout is having none of it. I can feel her hand trail around to my lower back, pull firmly.
I collide with Train’s arm and breast, my lips to her ear. I awkwardly kiss her cheek, and my hand cannot help but squeeze upward between their pressed breasts and hold the shape of hers. She glances at me, but her arms seem to remain loose at her sides, passive, waiting.
I am mistaken. I gasp as fingers are suddenly upon me.
The angle is strange, but their tips are seeking with unmistakable intent. And Checkout’s hand has dropped too, palm holding me firmly but tips pushing wickedly into the flesh of my bottom.
Too much, too fast. I cannot control the pace of my fantasy; I never can. Even though all these fingers are my own. And where is she? Where is she, whom I lay down to dream of?
My shoulder is pushing between them, they are kissing over it, I am craning my neck to watch. For an incredible moment all three of our mouths coincide, three sighs sound together as three tongues entwine. Train’s fingers, now straight on, are massaging over my clitoris, and I can feel slickness further back as my lips are pulled against each other.
Then I’m kissing her again, our bodies slightly offset. Out of the corner of my eye I see Checkout take a step back, her fingers trailing away. She pulls at the fabric of her top around her lower chest. In desperate excitement I open my eyes fully to watch, although Train won’t let my lips leave hers. She has her other arm around me now, around my acutely bent elbow that holds my palm onto her small, tightly constrained breast.
Checkout’s bra-less torso comes into glorious view, and she deliberately draws out the process of untangling her t-shirt from her arms above her head. Her shape is beautiful; youthful but full, almost extravagant. Muscles play over her shoulders, their movement reflected by pointed breasts deliciously delayed by their own inertia, with large, almost indistinct aureoles. Her stretched abdomen does not have enough softness to fully hide the fine structure beneath; I want to touch it, just as it is, kiss it perhaps, lose myself in its warmth.
She flicks the t-shirt away then lowers her arms to tuck her thumbs into her waistband, her back still seductively arched so her breasts yearn towards me. At the same moment Train’s finger slips between my lips, the shock of it making my throat warble and my eyes return to hers, to try and connect with the desire there. She is so grave, so pretty! I can no longer tolerate the harsh cloth between my hand and her breast, between the press of our bodies, and I lean forward with a groan.
Duly, Checkout is there, naked skin, flirtatious smile. She is tugging down the zipper at the back of Train’s dress. I back off a step as the process of being undressed distracts Train from me, her finger leaving me reluctantly, slickly; Checkout steals kisses on her shoulders as she tugs the dress straps from them.
Train wears a simple white bra, and knickers under tights. I bite my lip as I gaze at her tender, slight body; and for a moment fantasy is aligned with reality as I bring both of my own hands, one over the other, to cup my pubic mound and re-begin her work there.
Checkout is undoing her bra; my fingers press and mould, my loins are begging for a rhythm but I deny them; the next moment replays once, twice, three times: Train’s breasts coming free of their wire and fabric cocoons. They are so perfect I cannot but moan with desire: taut skin slopes arrow-straight down to small, conical nipples, with flawless hemispherical bases resting against her chest. They are widely spaced, but larger than the confines of the dress suggested; and I must have them in my palms. I must!
But Checkout is there first. Train’s head is leaning back onto her shoulder, eyes closed, as Checkout holds and massages gently, showing me.
The scene is losing its coherence as my fingers fall into their inevitable rhythm. Somehow I am lying down, somehow Train’s head is between my legs, somehow the firm pushing of my fingers is the clamp of her mouth and the press of her tongue. She is inexperienced — clumsy even — but totally in synchrony with my increasingly desperate need, and her small beautiful eyes watch me in fascination.
Checkout is leaning over me! Her breasts hang, so full, so seductive, at my shoulder; then rain down as she kisses me, quickly, teasing, her tongue lingering at my lips as she draws away again to watch my gasping, convulsing crescendo. Her hand is upon my breast, firmly kneading: I look from it to her face to Train, and back again.
There is a part of my mind which notices that breast as small, different to those I know; the body beneath as leaner and less tall than my own; that the eyes reflected in Checkout’s are blue, not brown.
Clear blue, like a far horizon dusted with cirrus.
Now I know where she is in my fantasy, and the knowledge is like wings lifting me. I am crying out, bucking. Confused images fly: Train’s face, her breasts coming free, Checkout’s curvaceous torso; the petals of her labia just showing from within the closed bud of her vulva; and these two beautiful women working at her with tongues and hands. I am watching her, and at the same moment I am her.
It is too much. I stop, hold myself with both hands. One throb after another thuds through my loins, driving ecstasy into my veins. I am soaring.
Cody writes lesbian fantasies with a twist (or two!). Visit Cody Kmochova to pick your next read
