Five Minute Fantasies 3 Read online

  My thoughts scatter and spin.

  Oh, God, this can’t be true. I can’t really be doing this. I’ve often thought about it, wondering what it would be like, but it’s not the kind of thing that a decent, Christian woman dwells upon.

  I think I’m going to die. Now I’m nothing but sensation. I turn my face to the side and look out through the front window to see John bending over some flowers, sniffing them lovingly. He loves those flowers, I’m convinced, even more than he loves me. He loves me in his own way, but doesn’t know how to please me, because he wouldn’t want to believe what it is that I truly need. He’s a Christian, a puritan, and that makes him strictly limited. I’m deprived because he thinks it would be depraved to do what I dream about.

  God, he’s just turned to look back at the front door. He can’t come in now!

  Yet the fear of that thought only makes me more excited so I clutch the sides of the table even tighter, groaning with delight.

  ‘Don’t stop now!’ I cry out.

  Thank God, he doesn’t stop. He just moves ever faster, thrusting ever more violently, breathing harshly and grunting like an ape having a romp in the jungle. I’m feeling really horny now. Like an animal in heat. I couldn’t stop him now if I tried, but I’ve no intention of trying.

  He’s standing right behind me, thrusting in and out, a stallion. Leaning forward, he runs his fingers through my hair, then slips his thumb between my lips and starts moving it in and out, just like his cock in my cunt, making me feel that I’m sucking on a second cock.

  Instantly, I have visions of two men at me at the same time, one behind me, the other in front, and as his thumb moves in and out, as I hungrily lick and suck, imagining the thumb to be bigger and harder than it actually is, he continues to attack my rear passage with the real thing. He’s reducing me to a pulp, protoplasm, pure sensation, turning me into an animal that knows nothing but physical need, wanting only to satisfy its base instincts, wallowing in the mud.

  ‘Yes!’ I beg. ‘Yes!’

  Then I see John again. He’s wiping dirt from his hands as he glances at the house. That means he’s about to come back in and tell me it’s time for us to leave. The very thought of it fills me with panic and the panic excites me more.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ I cry out in desperation. ‘Oh, God, don’t stop now!’

  He doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls out of my rear passage and flips me onto my back, preparing to slip into me that way. But he doesn’t get the chance. I’m now awash in my own juices. When I see him standing there, his huge cock thrusting arrogantly out of his unzipped jeans, I simply have to taste it again. So I slide off the table and fall onto my knees to slip my lips over his rigid tool and start gobbling frantically.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ he says, ‘that’s your husband out there. And I think he’s about to come back in. Christ, I’ve got to get out of here!’

  ‘Not yet!’ I cry, releasing his cock from my mouth, then I stand up and fall back onto the table, spreading my legs.

  ‘Oh, please God, just finish it!’

  As I frantically reach up to pull him down upon me, the fear of being caught by my husband lances through me, making it all the more exciting. Young Marlon falls upon me, all muscle and bone. He’s biting my neck and his tongue is in my mouth and then I’m licking his ears, nose and throat as my legs lock around his rocking hips and my feet drum frantically on his buttocks. His belly smacks on my belly, his cock fills me up again. We move together, one on top of the other, my groin rising to meet his groin as he presses down upon me and pushes brutally into me.

  I’m sobbing and groaning, whispering, ‘Fuck me! Don’t stop!’ as my husband, that dear man, that innocent buffoon, commences the short walk to the front door, about to enter the house.

  ‘Now!’ I shriek. ‘Come now!’

  Marlon comes like Niagara Falls, like a dam breaking loose, and I come at the same time, spasm piling on spasm, everything pouring out as it’s never done before, satisfying me for the first time in my life. A sexual Nirvana, heaven-sent, a dream come true. And we both shudder convulsively and collapse into each other. And I’m just returning to earth, getting my senses back, when I hear the front door opening and realise that John, my dear husband, is entering the house.

  Luckily, he’s entering through the front door, two rooms away from here.

  Marlon pulls out on the instant, tucks his wilting cock back in, whispers, ‘You’re terrific,’ zips himself up as he hurries to the back door. I roll off the table, sexually satisfied, feeling terrific, depraved on account of being deprived throughout the long years of marriage. Marlon leaves by the back door. I adjust my rumpled clothing. I quickly comb my hair and touch up my lipstick (always modestly, respectably, applied), then rearrange the crockery on the table, until everything looks normal again.

  Which, of course, it is.

  Because none of that happened.

  It’s only what I wanted to happen. What I often desperately wish and dream might happen.

  I’m looking through the back window and can see that young man out there, a vision of pure masculinity in his T-shirt and blue jeans. He’s certainly not Marlon Brando. In fact, he looks quite ordinary as he lazily lays the bricks of that new house. He looks common, a bit of rough trade, but that’s what makes him sexy.

  John has just made his way from the living room, through the dining room, and is now standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling lovingly at me. He has a kind face, but he’s prematurely bald, has a burgeoning pot belly, and wears a black suit and clerical collar. He’s the one who’ll be giving the sermon and it’s rarely exciting.

  ‘Time for church, dear,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll just fix my hair and put on my hat,’ I reply. ‘I’ll meet you outside, darling.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he says.

  When he leaves the kitchen, I look through the back window and see young Marlon Brando out there, laying brick upon brick in the rising heat. He knows I’m watching him. He sometimes smiles in my direction. Some day, if I get up the nerve, I just might invite him in for a drink – a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea, maybe something stronger. And if I ever get up the nerve to do that, who knows what might happen?

  But right now, alas, I have to pin up my hair, cover it with my broad, respectable hat, then put my arm through the arm of my dear husband, so loving, so boring, and let him walk me to church, this sunny Sunday morning.

  I’m a decent, Christian woman, after all, and we’re the kind who have to keep up appearances.

  All the rest is a daydream.

  Upside Down With A Tub Of Yoghurt

  by Sally Quilford

  Oddly enough, defrocking a priest never really appealed to me. I always imagined them as anally retentive, grey old men, terrified of the opposite sex, so hiding behind celibacy. Or gay and hiding behind celibacy. Or just hiding behind celibacy because they hadn’t had any decent offers. Not even Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds tempted me. Scrub that. Especially not Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds tempted me. I must admit to quite liking the younger Gene Hackman as the tortured ex-priest in The Poseidon Adventure. Now me, him, upside down in a ship, with only a tub of Muller Fruit Corner to keep us occupied I could imagine.

  Anyway, I digress. Not too much as it turns out. It all began with Ben. Gorgeous, virile, can go at it all night, Ben Brannigan. Or rather he would go at it all night when we finally got the chance. His family were religious, you see, and he believed in saving himself for marriage. Trouble is, he somehow got the impression that I was too. No, I didn’t lie. Not really. I just mumbled something when he asked if I was still a virgin and he took it for demure embarrassment.

  I got my chance to try his wares when his family invited us for the weekend. We were to go to his uncle’s house in the country.

  ‘What does your uncle do?’ I asked Ben, as we drove to Oxfordshire. ‘He’s in the Church.’

  My heart sank. No way would we be allowed to share a bedroom in a priest’
s house. ‘I hope we get a chance to be alone, darling,’ I said, stroking Ben’s thigh. He nearly crashed when I squeezed his crotch.

  ‘Charity! Stop that. Do you want us both to go to hell?’

  ‘No, but a nice little hotel in Woodstock would be lovely.’

  ‘I see what you’re doing. You’re testing me to see if I can keep my hands off you. Stop it, you little minx.’

  God, I wanted him there and then, but something about his expression told me that he wasn’t very pleased with me. I sulked for the rest of the journey.

  We arrived just before dinner. The house was wonderful. The sort of Georgian pile I’d always dreamed of living in.

  ‘Charity, this is my mother, my father, and this is my uncle Jack. Everyone, this is Charity.’ I could tell from his mother’s shocked glance at me in my short skirt that things were not going to go according to plan.

  Uncle Jack, who stood in front of the mantelpiece of his magnificent drawing room, wasn’t what I was expecting. For a start he was dressed in black chinos and a black turtle-neck sweater. He was also quite young. Not our age (Ben and I were both twenty-eight) but not much older than forty. He also eyed my mini-skirt but I couldn’t work out what he was thinking. He had one of those inscrutable faces. The type men have when they’re hanging from a big tap thingy in an upturned ship, willing to sacrifice themselves so that c-list actors can go on to star in soap operas. For some reason my panties felt a bit moist.

  Ben’s friend, Vince, arrived just before dinner. They’d been at university together. He was a beautiful young man and I would have introduced him to one of my friends had he not been so moody. He didn’t seem to like me at all, only giving me a cursory nod.

  Dinner was excruciating and I didn’t help. I blurted out ‘So, Uncle Jack, do you think Jesus and Mary Magdalene really got it on?’ He smiled and I almost melted. Ben glared at me and his mother looked like she was going to faint. His dad merely squeezed my knee under the table. Or he might have been trying to pat the dog. He was so drunk on Uncle Jack’s vintage wine, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  ‘So you’ve read The Da Vinci Code, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack. His expression suggested he knew I only ever read Heat magazine.

  ‘Er…no, but everyone knows what it’s about. It’s like one of those cultural thingies…icons…that transcends boundaries. Like everyone knows that The Poseidon Adventure is about an upside down ship.’ I don’t know why I kept coming back to that!

  ‘Is it really, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack.

  ‘Yes. For goodness’ sake, don’t you know? Gene Hackman…the tortured priest…that girl from Dynasty who fancied him…the one before Emma Samms…not that Emma Samms fancied Hackman…well she might have. I don’t really know her. I mean the one who played Fallon before Emma…’ My voice faded to nothing when I realised he was taking the piss and also changing the subject.

  ‘Oh I did like Dynasty,’ Mrs Brannigan said. ‘All those shoulder pads.’

  ‘Yes, me too, well the re-runs on digital telly,’ I nodded eagerly. Our eyes met and we smiled. For the rest of dinner, Ben’s mother and I chatted about our favourite Alexis Colby schemes. By dessert we were the best of friends.

  ‘I need to speak to you about something, Ben,’ said Vince. They went to the library. Uncle Jack and Mr Brannigan disappeared, and Mrs Brannigan went to powder her nose. I was left alone, the pleasure of chatting to Mrs Brannigan fading as I realised I’d been abandoned.

  I wandered around the drawing room, imagining myself as some Jane Austen heroine, ‘taking a turn’. When that got boring, I slipped out into the hallway and went in search of the library, sure that Ben and Vince would be finished. As I grew nearer I could hear raised voices. One raised voice actually. Uncle Jack’s.

  ‘You can’t possibly marry that girl, Ben! It’s time to face up to facts. She won’t make you happy.’

  Feeling like I’d been slapped, I ran out into the garden. How dare he decide what was best for Ben? The sanctimonious git! I sat outside for half an hour, not wanting to return to the house.

  ‘Charity?’ It was Mrs Brannigan. She found me sitting in an arbour at the bottom of the garden, looking back up towards the house. It really was beautiful. ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I think I’d like to go to bed now if that’s okay with you. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll show you to your room.’ She took my arm, seeming to realise I was upset. ‘I’m sorry we all left you to your own devices. Ben and his uncle had things to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said tightly.

  ‘You were a bit of a surprise to us, actually.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘But you’re a nice girl, I can tell.’ I didn’t know about that, but didn’t want to disillusion her. We carried on into the house and up the stairs.

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ And she was. So much so that I felt like crying. ‘Erm, Mrs Brannigan. Which is Ben’s bedroom? Just out of interest.’

  She pointed to the door next to mine, smiling, but quite sadly.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything,’ I said. ‘I respect your house rules.’

  ‘Actually, Charity, it was Ben’s idea for you to have separate rooms. We’re not that stuffy, honestly.’

  She left me at my door and went off to find her husband, whom we could hear singing sea shanties in the kitchen. I liked them. And what she’d said was true. They weren’t nearly as stuffy as I thought when I first arrived. But Uncle Jack. He was another matter.

  Drastic action was called for. I had to convince Ben that he and I were meant for each other, but to be honest, as I took the pair of fluffy handcuffs out of my suitcase, I was beginning to wonder. He’d practically ignored me all night, huddled away with Vince. His uncle had swayed him far too easily for my liking. I decided I’d just show him what he’d be missing, then dump him.

  I waited till I heard everyone come to bed, then I went downstairs to the kitchen and found a Muller Fruit Corner in the fridge. Cherry. My favourite. I crept back upstairs – yoghurt and handcuffs all ready – and went into Ben’s room.

  He was lying with his back to the door, but he’d kicked off his blankets, wearing just a pair of boxers. The body I’d been longing to see and touch was mine for the taking. I slipped out of my clothes and tiptoed to the bed. Taking one of his hands, I clipped a handcuff around his wrist. He didn’t even wake up, so I rolled him gently onto his back and, throwing the yoghurt onto the bedside table, set about attaching the other cuff to the bedpost. My bare breast brushed his mouth as I stretched over him, sending a spasm of pleasure through my body. I heard him mumble ‘Oh, dear God.’

  I closed my eyes, then found his mouth, thrusting my tongue between his lips. He kissed me back, bringing his own tongue up to meet mine. I trailed kisses down his chest, gently biting into one of his nipples, then downwards, to where his erection burst out of his boxers. I slid them down and took him in my mouth, completely forgetting I’d brought the yoghurt. I preferred natural, lapping up the salt taste. He groaned again, pushing my head against his cock with his free hand. My own centre throbbed and it was all I could do not to thrust straight down onto him. I wanted him – and me – to savour the moment.

  I stopped and whispered, ‘You’re in my power. You have to do whatever I say.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice husky. ‘Yes. Whatever you say.’

  Moving back up the bed, I sat with my knees either side of his face, the bristles on his cheek tingling my inner thigh.

  ‘Lick me.’ His tongue darted upwards, finding my clit, swirling, probing. His hand, straining from the handcuff grasped my breast, pinching my nipples between his fingers, while his tongue drove me to madness. It was all I could do not to scream out as my groin pulsated to an early orgasm. He lapped that up hungrily, his tongue pressing against my throbbing clit, prolonging the pleasure beyond all reasonable bounds.

  I needed to kiss him, to
taste myself on his mouth. ‘Tell me you want me,’ I demanded, my lips pressed against his.

  ‘I want you.’

  I slid my body down his torso, leaving a damp trail on his chest and belly, and eased myself down onto his prick. We rocked together, slowly at first, building the intensity until our bodies crashed together. I cried out as he filled me to completion, bucking against his thrusting hips. I came again, but he didn’t.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Give it to me.’ He was holding back, I could tell. I fucked him harder, forcing him to submission, finally feeling him explode into me.

  That was when I opened my eyes, because I wanted to see the pleasure on his face. He was barely visible by the light from the moon, shining through the window, but it most certainly wasn’t Ben.

  ‘Jack!’ I jumped off him as though I’d been stung. He groaned, more in pain than ecstasy, clearly not expecting sudden movement. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Uncle Jack. Not then. ‘Oh my God! Why didn’t you say anything? You…you rapist!’

  ‘Excuse me, Charity, but you’re the one who came into my bedroom and handcuffed me to the bed, then gave me a blow job. At least that’s how the police would see it.’ There was amusement in his voice, alongside the happy exhaustion of his orgasm.

  ‘You can’t go the police. Oh God, I’m in such trouble.’ I threw on my nightie. ‘But you’re not Ben and you let me think you were.’ I remembered my earlier anger. ‘Oh I get it. I’m all right for a quick shag for you, to ease your celibacy for a while, but not good enough for your nephew. The Pope will probably send a hit squad to kill me for defrocking one of their priests. I’d better go quickly. Tonight.’

  ‘Do you think you could undo the handcuffs first?’

  I blushed. I was also off my guard, because I didn’t see what was coming next. As soon as I’d detached the cuffs from the bedpost he snatched the key from my hand and clipped one cuff around my wrist, leaving us bound together.

  ‘What are you doing? Let me go or I’ll scream.’ It was an empty threat. I’d have been too embarrassed for anyone to find us.