Welcome to my new short story series, Ella’s Fantasy Friday!
I took a stroll through my catalogue of erotica recently, and do you know what I discovered? Out of the hundred plus stories I’ve penned in the past two and a half years, only a handful touch on my personal fantasies and kinks.
That got me thinking about the stuff I have locked away in my head that turns me on. About the places my mind goes during masturbation and, sometimes, during sex. I soon realised that many of my turn-ons would probably be considered controversial. Unfeminist. Damaging. And I also noticed how each of the fantasies in my head tint the colour of my fiction, the impact they have on character dialogue and dynamics.
In a bid to offer you, my lovely readers, an insight into what goes on my head (should you want it) I’ve decided to write about my sexual fantasies. I’m not gonna analyse them here for two reasons:
- I’ve already done that in my head and I understand the emotions, issues, and desires that drive them
- I want to share what makes me tick, not the psychology behind it
So, my longest standing fantasy is the one I call ‘The Pole’. I kinda slipped a sweetened version of this into one of my Halloween Town Tales a couple of years back, in a roundabout way. It’s a fantasy that’s been with me since just before my mid-teens and it goes something like this:
(CW: abduction and non-consent)
It’s so dark here. I’m naked, cold, and wet. Rain has turned the ground to mush, and it oozes between my toes and sucks at my soles whenever I move. I don’t know whose garden this is. I don’t recognise the house. All I know is that the bushes behind the bus stop I was waiting at rustled, something soft pressed into my face, and then I was here.
Here, with cheap silver handcuffs cutting into my wrists and a two-foot-long chain securing me to this metal pole. When I shake it to test its strength something plastic rattles above me. Pegs. I’m chained to the pole of someone’s washing line.
How long have I been here? I have no idea. Long enough for the unrelenting rain to have turned my skin a strange shade of blue. Long enough for the mud to wrinkle the skin on my toes.
What will happen to me? How long will I have to wait to find out?
The sound of rusty hinges being forced to move tells me that I won’t have to wait long at all.
Someone is coming.
A man peels away from the shadows beneath a narrow archway. Tall, broad shouldered, his overalls smeared with grease and oil. I make a small sound, a quiet plea, but he doesn’t speak to me. He just leans against the wall and watches. And watches, and watches, still and silent, looking me up and down, letting his gaze linger on my feet for a few beats, then the thatch of dark hair between my thighs, then my tits. He doesn’t let his gaze wander any higher, and as I brazenly stare at him, trying to commit his face to memory, it fades. He becomes featureless, blank, nondescript.
In the uncompanionable silence that stretches on and on, something happens in my belly. Or rather, just below it. At first, I think it’s unease. The sensation feels like a newly emerged butterfly is testing its wings somewhere inside of me. As the minutes tick by that butterfly becomes more spirited. It gets wilder, churning inside of me as if searching desperately for a way out.
I breathe a little harder, switch my weight from foot to foot a little more often, feel my eyelids try to close every time my thighs shush together. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears I only just register a sound in the garden. It’s the lowering of a zip and it’s coming from his direction.
I have to strain to see anything more than a man-shaped shadow in the darkness. After almost two minutes of squinting I finally see. A thousand more butterflies take flight in my belly when I see what he’s doing. I feel them under my ribs, behind my breastbone, in my throat. My body throbs with the beat of their wings and the cold wetness that slicks my thighs is suddenly warmer.
Did that soft sound come from me? It must have, it was too feminine to have come from the hulking, big-dicked shadow.
He pushes away from the wall and approaches me. I can hardly breathe, my heartrate redoubles, beating so fast I wonder if I might faint. Will he speak to me? Will he offer me even one word?
No. No, he won’t.
His calloused hand is rough on my ankle. My shinbone is hard against my breast. I press my face into my leg, holding the pole for balance, and whimper when that fat cock he’d been pumping with his hand forces its way inside of me.
Oh God, who is he? Why is he doing this to me? Why don’t I want him to stop?
He stinks of engine oil and petrol. The grease from his overalls rubs off on my skin, mud trickles down my leg into my face. I feel myself getting hotter and wetter, the butterflies in my gut are getting more and more panicked. Every time he grinds his groin into mine his rough pubic hair chafes my skin, but my clit relishes the contact.
Grunting quietly, he pulls out and hot jets splash my thigh, and then he’s gone, vanishing through a second gate at the bottom of the garden. I’m left alone with a ball of tension anchoring me to the spot. I feel leaden, irritable. And then, suddenly, excitable.
The rusty hinged gate is creaking again.
A different man, shorter this time, walks into the garden. He doesn’t stop at the wall like the other one did. He approaches quickly, puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me to my knees. I look up at him as he unbuttons his jeans but all I see is a featureless face. Then I see a cock, moving toward my mouth, stroking over my lips, thudding against my jaw, forcing its way between my teeth.
The taste makes me moan. Salty with sweat. Soapy, with a chemical tang that tastes oddly natural. Saliva streams down my neck. My jaw aches. Pubic hair tickles my nose, fingertips dig into my scalp, balls slap off my chin. When he comes, he does it on my cheek. He rubs it in with the tip of his dick, pats me on the head then leaves me.
Before the gate behind me even closes I hear the one up ahead creak. Someone walks forward quickly. There’s something long and bushy dangling from his gloved hand. I stand quickly, half terrified of his intensity, half eager for it to be unleashed on me.
The bundle he’s carrying swishes through the air and whips across my abdomen. It almost tickles. But after a few seconds the tickle changes to an itch. The man swings his arm again and the bush lashes me in the same place. Then again, and again. The itch turns into a sting.
Another lash, then another. The sting turns to a burn. I can see my skin in the light of the moon. What was pale and bluish is now angry red and covered in welts. He lashes me with his bunch of nettles again. Instead of my stomach, he hits my tits. My nipples tingle and my cunt spasms.
What kind of man does this to someone? What kind of girl likes it?
I lose my balance when he spins me to face away from him. The pole is slippery beneath my palms, but I fight to get a grip then hold on for dear life. God, his cock feels so good. It strokes against my vulva, tickles my pulsing clit, pushes into me in one determined thrust. My cunt closes around him, clings to him, draws him in. I dash my tears away and swallow my sobs when he cups my tits with the nettles still in his hands.
This one comes on my arse. He wipes it off with the nettles then drops them on the floor, yanking at me until I’m standing on them. It feels like standing on hot pins, but I don’t move. My body is burning, my cunt is aching, the gate is opening.
I look up and see a line of men filing through the arch. Five…six…eleven…fifteen men, all of them holding their hard cocks in their hands and facing me with featureless faces. When the first one breaks off and moves toward me I smother a smile. Something tells me that it wouldn’t do to let them know I’m enjoying myself.
So, there you have it. One of my own personal fantasies laid bare. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I do. If you didn’t, well…I might capture your imagination next time.