Jessica C. is 40 years old. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband and two sons. She works full-time as a mom and part-time as a reference librarian.
I come from a fairly conservative Catholic background. My parents didn’t say a word about sex to me, except when my mother gave me a scientific facts-of-life talk when I was nine. I didn’t really discover sexuality--what a marvelous thing it could be--until I met my very open-minded and very loving husband. We’ve been married for eighteen years and have two beautiful children.
My husband used to travel a lot for his business, and a few years ago I read that most pay-per-view movies rented in hotels were porn and the average length of play was thirteen minutes. I told my husband and he laughed and said, “That sounds about right.” But for me it’s very different. I wonder if it’s a gender thing or if I’m unusual, but I love to lose myself in long, elaborate fantasies, keeping my body just aroused enough so that it feels like I’m floating above the bed with images and words swirling around me like caresses. When I have a morning to myself, I can spend hours this way before I finally let myself climax.
My fantasies tend toward exhibitionism, although in real life I am very modest and proper and never wear anything you’d call revealing. I think people would be shocked to know what goes on in my head! Here are two of my recent favorites.
In my first fantasy, I’ve volunteered to be interviewed for a new study on female sexuality. The interview takes place at the office of a researcher at the local university and it’s funded by a prestigious organization—in fact I learn of it from the ladies I work with at the library, who assure me it feels good to do something for the advancement of science. At the researcher’s office, everything is very proper and professional at first. The female assistant gives me consent forms to sign and promises my identity will be protected. Then the doctor comes in for the interview. He is older, mid-fifties, and very sure of himself, the type of man who looks down his nose at ordinary folk without an M.D. and at least two Ph.D.s to their names. But, as is proper protocol with a subject, he is very cordial and smooth as he asks me questions about my sexual history, how old I was when I started masturbating, how I lost my virginity, how often I climax with my husband. At first I’m shy, but as I warm up, I begin to tell him things I’ve never told anyone before. Sometimes, when I have a few hours free for this fantasy, I focus on all the details of the question-and-answer period, the way the doctor’s eyes begin to glow in spite of his serious expression, the way he shifts in his chair as if he might be arranging something in his pants. Other times I move quickly to the special section of the interview. After I’ve answered all the questions, the doctor tells me I’ve been so cooperative, he’d like to invite me to participate in an extra “laboratory” phase of the study.
He leads me into a dimly lit room. In the center of the room is a comfortable reclining lounge chair upholstered in a feminine, floral print. The doctor tells me to lie down and relax. He then disappears into the shadowy corner of the room. He snaps on a warm, golden light that illuminates only my body on the chair. Then he explains in measured tones that I will be providing very valuable data for his study if I agreed to allow him to film me masturbating.
I blush bright red and am about to jump up and stalk out, but his voice stops me, like a huge, warm hand pressing me back down in the chair.
He explains that I can take this at my own pace and end the session any time I begin to feel uncomfortable. “You’re in charge, Mrs. C,” he says. “Just imagine you are in your own home with some private time and you’ve decided to pleasure yourself. We will make it impossible to identify your face on the video. This is all for a good cause and will promote a greater scientific understanding of female sexuality.”
Finally I consent, but for a while, I lie very still in the chair trying to psyche myself up to do this for a good cause, just as my colleagues at the library must have done before me. At last my fingers creep up to unbutton my blouse.
“Wow, look what she’s doing!”
I squint into the shadows and see that there are actually three figures over in the corner: One crouching behind the video camera that’s set up on a tripod, the doctor with his clipboard and another taller young man in jeans. The last one is the source of this enthusiastic exclamation.
I realize the doctor lied to me. This is a show, not science. But the truth is this is my fantasy, to be watched while I’m masturbating, not only for the advancement of science but for the personal education of three curious men.
I pull my blouse over my shoulders. My bra opens from the front (as if I’d known this would be convenient when I dressed for the interview) and when I unfasten it, I hear another sigh from the darkness. My breasts fall free into the cool air.
Then comes a harsh whisper, “Jeremy, Jr., I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room if you can’t restrain yourself from making unprofessional comments.”
I begin to tease my breasts. My nipples are highly sensitive—my husband calls them my “on buttons.”
“Look at the expression on her face,” the excited voice declares, heedless of the scolding. “She’s turned on already.”
He’s right. My mouth has already fallen open in that “oh” of arousal and my chest is all flushed with a pink rash. I pinch my nipples and roll them between my fingers. My pussy is swelling and throbbing with tiny electric shocks of pleasure. I arch up in the chair. I want those men—young and old--to see it.
From the corner I hear heavy breathing, footsteps pacing, another deep voice making rhythmic grunts of frustrated desire.
I pull my skirt up to my waist and work my pantyhose down around my knees, my thoroughly wet panties nested inside. I put a finger to my clit. I spit on my other palm and start rubbing it all over my chest.
A low moan comes from the corner. “Dad, she’d touching herself down there.”
The father shushes his son and clears his throat. “Ah, yes, Mrs. C. Now is the time for the first question on our survey. Are you having any particular thoughts or fantasies at this moment?”
“I’m thinking about rubbing hot spunk all over myself,” I gasp. “I love it when a man comes on my breasts. But my husband doesn’t do it often. He likes to come inside me.” My finger is flying over my swollen clit now and I’m whimpering with need. “I’m wishing a horny guy has just shot his load all over me….”
With a cry, a handsome young fellow in his early twenties leaps out from the shadows. He definitely resembles the doctor, but the long wavy hair and earring give him a sweeter look. In an instant he’s standing over me, jeans at his knees, swollen dick in hand.
“I’ll help you, Mrs. C,” he says. Such a Boy Scout. He stands by the chair, aiming his tool at my chest. With the other hand he reaches toward me.
“Don’t touch her,” the doctor yells. “That’s against medical ethics.” But there’s a hint of jealousy, too, because I’m smiling at the young man and praising his hard, beautiful cock and telling him I can’t wait for him to spray all over me.
I think it’s going to happen soon by the look of him.
“I’m gonna come,” he pants. “Open your mouth, Mrs. C. See how much you can catch on your tongue.”
Junior’s dirty game appeals to me, and I’m strumming myself furiously as his semen arcs over me. One shot hits the target, another my cheek, the rest dribbles onto my chest. I spread the slick, soapy mess over my breasts, moaning with delight.
“More,” I whisper. I could come but I don’t want to. I want to float forever in this marvelous world above the clouds.
“Hey, Mike, she says she wants more. Do you want to try? I’ll man the camera for you. This lady’s super hot.”
A husky affirmative comes from behind the camera and another young man steps out, pulling a thick cylinder of meat from his pants.
This time I can’t help myself. I lean up and take that swollen, red knob in my mouth and start sucking it. Mike lets out a groan of appreciation.
“You can’t do that,” the doctor fusses. “This is a study of female masturbation, not a porno film.”
I have both of my hands clamped on Mike’s muscular ass and he’s all the way down my throat. I know he’s going to shoot his load soon, he’s getting so hard in my mouth. It’s as if he’s pumping his excitement into me and even though I’m not playing with myself at that moment, my pussy juice is gushing onto the chair.
With a shudder, and a series of rapid thrusts, Mike ejaculates in my mouth. I hold it there and swirl it around with my tongue before I swallow it down. I’m so turned on, it tastes nasty and sweet all at the same time.
Mike zips himself up, embarrassed now, and quickly retreats to the corner.
I still hear one man’s labored breathing coming from the shadows.
“Doctor,” I call, “I believe it’s your turn. I still need a little help to get me over the top.”
He lets out a long sigh. It’s those last shreds of cool professionalism evaporating into the steamy air. Reluctantly he walks over, pausing every few steps, like he’s being drawn to me, a fish on a line. He stops at the bottom of the chair. I can see his huge erection through his pants and a little stain of wetness at the outline of the tip. He tosses his clipboard on the floor and fumbles with the chair. The footrest snaps down, and he yanks off my pantyhose and kneels between my legs, cock poised to enter me. Clearly he expects I’ll have intercourse with him. After all he’s the doctor, the real man, the grand prize.
I smile. “Oh, no, Doctor, I have different plans for you. I want you to eat my pussy while you pull on your peter like the naughty boy you are. Isn’t that right, Doctor? All this talk of scientific research when really you just want to see ladies play with themselves so that you can watch the video later in your office and get off. The truth is, Doctor, you are nothing more than a dirty little masturbator.”
He can’t really answer because he’s already buried his face in my muff, his nose poking out over my fur. He is doing a good job, though, very professional. His tongue makes little figure eights on my clit, so that I’m squirming and squealing like some kind of crazed animal. And of course his hand is down between his legs jerking off his own tool, and that’s when I come, thinking about him on his knees doing exactly as I’ve commanded. Or sometimes I wait a little for my satisfaction, until after he’s come. I like to watch him wiping himself with his handkerchief and mopping the puddle of his own spunk from the floor.
My second fantasy is a little different, though I can spin this one out for hours, too. In this one, I’ve just been hired by a very prestigious company far away from my home and my fiancé. However, the job has great benefits and bright prospects for my career and I can’t turn it down. Because rent in the city is prohibitive, new employees are allowed to stay in furnished company apartments. I’m in a spacious one-bedroom place with a huge, soft bed and mirrors all around.
One day, late in the afternoon, I am called into the president’s office for a private meeting. I’m nervous thinking I must have done something wrong or my probation period isn’t going well, but he’s very cordial and offers me a sherry and asks with apparent concern if I’m enjoying my work at his company.
Then he says there’s something important he wants to ask me, but first he’d like me to watch a few video clips. A rather blurry image comes on the TV he’s set up by his desk. At first I can only make out a flesh-colored form moving sinuously across the screen, but then it hits me what I’m watching. A movie of myself, naked. There must be some kind of video camera hidden behind the large mirror at the bottom of my bed. I’ve hardly gotten over the shock of seeing myself stripped and exposed, when I have to watch myself do worse. The me in the video starts squeezing my breasts and pouting at the mirror in my best porno queen imitation. Which is exactly what I was doing the night before because I was missing my boyfriend so much and pretending I was dancing for him, the way he likes me to.
Now I have to watch again as I slowly sink down and spread my legs and frig myself to a frenzy. A quick cut to a night the week before: me straddling the edge of the bed and staining it with my pussy juice as I thrust and grind my ass into the mattress. This time the camera picks up my loud moans as I come. And then another night, the naughtiest of all, when I was so horny for my boyfriend’s cock, I used a hairbrush to get myself off. At first I slide the handle in and out gently, but by the time I near climax, I’m jabbing myself with it and sobbing with delight. It’s all on video, even me licking my own juices from the handle when I’m done.
I’m blushing fifty shades of scarlet and practically melting into the leather sofa with shame, but the boss puts his hand on my arm and says soothingly, “I didn’t show this to embarrass you, Jessica. I think it’s wonderful that you are a very sexual woman who knows her own body and how to pleasure it.” He tells me he has a proposal for me. An important part of his business strategy for his clients, especially international clients, involves a special team of attractive employees, mostly female, but there are a few males to allow for a variety of tastes. He would like me to join this team. It involves special training, but also very special bonuses.
I’m not sure if I’m being blackmailed, but I’m also curious and I agree. He tells me the first training session will be the next afternoon in his office. I should have workout clothes and anything I’ll need to take a shower afterward.
I show up the next day with my gym bag and am met by the president and a handsome young woman in skin-tight exercise clothes. Her short black hair stands up in spikes and her body is lean and beautifully sculpted. I can tell she’s used to being in charge. Even the president seems a little afraid of her.
“Jessica, this is your teacher, Mira,” he says (sometimes I change the name, but usually it’s Mira). “She is going to train you in the Technique.”
Grasping my hand firmly, Mira leads me into a room that adjoins the president’s office. It’s like a dance studio with a mirror along one wall, some ballet bars and exercise mats and a strange apparatus that looks like a barrel that has been cut in half. A set of handlebars is attached to one end and the rounded top is fixed with something resembling a saddle. In the center of the saddle is a leather clip. I’m eyeing this weird object, trying to figure out what it is, while Mira is busy laying out some other devices, a set of small bubblegum pink barbells. The smallest is the size of a pinkie finger, the largest a plump bratwurst. She explains that the company Technique is actually a form of strengthening “your most secret feminine muscles.” Her dark eyes twinkle.
Before we start, however, she has to evaluate me. She tells me to lie back on the mat and pull down my pants and underwear. She puts some kind of lubricant on her finger and slides it into my vagina. “Squeeze me as hard as you can,” she commands.
I notice the president is standing in the doorway watching. I squeeze.
“Can you do it any harder?” Mira asks.
I try, but I can tell from her frown she is disappointed in me.
“Well, it’s a start.” She looks over at the president. “She’ll need a lot of work.”
“I know Jessica has what it takes.”
Mira then goes on to explain that the Technique involves using the vaginal muscles to milk a man’s penis to orgasm in such a way that he doesn’t have to move at all, just lie there and have the woman do it all. My muscles have to be stronger and I have to learn several other tricks first, but if the president is right about me, I’ll make the grade eventually. The first exercise is to practice squeezing my muscles down there every day, with and without the barbells. Mira shimmies out of her pants and invites me to put my fingers inside her, to get an idea of what I’m working for. “No lubricant necessary,” she winks. Trembling with embarrassment and excitement, I slide two fingers into her pussy. The sensations are amazing. Her hot, satiny walls close in around me and begin to undulate, rippling and kneading with perfectly controlled timing until my finger is tingling and my shirt is damp with sweat.
Mira smiles and eases my fingers from her body. Then she informs me that the second exercise requires that I come into the studio after work. She glances up at the president.
“Do you have a friend for Jessica?”
“Oh, yes,” he says apologetically. Mira obviously calls the shots in this relationship. He leaves the room and comes back with a box. Mira opens it. It’s a very realistic dildo, the kind with veins and rubber testicles dangling down. She grins at me. “It’s company policy to give these guys a name. What shall we call yours?”
I’m at a loss for words and blushing furiously. “Henry,” I murmur. It’s my boyfriend’s name.
“Okay, Henry,” she says cheerily to the obscene rubber tool. “Wanna go for a ride with your pal Jessica?”
I almost have to laugh. Mira is strapping “Henry” onto the barrel. Just then I remember where I’ve seen these things before. Long ago in my older sister’s women’s erotica magazine there was an ad for something like this, except in the picture there was a naked woman straddling the barrel, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The ad said you could buy your own device or get an instructional video. I always thought I’d like to try one or at least see that video, but of course I didn’t have the nerve to order such a thing in the mail with my mom asking questions.
“We call this our ‘horsie,’” Mira says with a wicked smile. “It’s a crucial part of mastering the Technique, which, of course works best when the female is superior.” The president clears his throat nervously.
Mira helps me onto the “horsie.” I’m already quite wet and slide right down onto the saddle. “Henry” is just the right size for me, very close to my boyfriend who is about six inches. I realize that the front area, around my clit, has a patch of furry material, like a man’s pubic hair. In spite of myself I start grinding against it.
“Good, good,” says Mira. “It looks like our Jessica has had a little riding practice before.”
Bashfully, I murmur a yes.
She reaches under the horsie and flips a switch. A small screen at the center of the handlebars lights up. “This gives you your pressure reading. Squeeze those pussy muscles as hard as you can.”
Again I try my best. A feeble “two point one” appears on the screen.
“For the Technique, you need at least a ten,” Mira says and pats my naked buttocks, her hand lingering there a bit too long. “But you’ll make it, my girl. Here’s what we do. Every time I clap my hands, you squeeze. At the same time you ride up and down, very slowly.”
She claps her hands and I squeeze. This time the reading’s a little higher. She claps again and keeps clapping at a steady rhythm, although sometimes it’s faster and sometimes slow and lazy. Before long I’m getting into it, and I imagine each clap is her hand coming down on my ass like a crop, urging me on.
“Concentrate, Jessica. Make those numbers go higher.”
I try, but it’s difficult and suddenly I’m coming and rocking on the horsie as I watch the meter numbers flutter with my contractions. The most I get is a lousy three point two.
But as the president predicted, I am a dedicated student. I come to the studio every evening and even on weekends to practice on the horsie for hours. Within a few months I’m quite the accomplished equestrian and doing tens on a regular basis. After I carry off the Technique quite successfully on the president himself, Mira says I’m ready to go out on the job.
Actually the first part of the assignment is more of the same—practicing on the horsie with Henry attached--but this time, there’s a client in the office outside. I’m told to leave the door open and make sure I have myself a very good time, which I do. Then, when a special signal light goes on, I get up, dress in a skimpy skirt and midriff top—no underwear--and walk through the office.
That’s when the president invites me along to dinner. He always takes clients to dinner when they’re in the middle of important financial negotiations. I look over at the client and smile happily as I accept the invitation. The poor guy is red in the face and has a huge boner, because of course, he’s been watching and listening to my workout in the next room instead of paying attention to the numbers. After dinner we all go back to the office to continue negotiations, but this time I sit on the edge of the president’s desk, with my legs open just enough the fill the room with my natural perfume and give the client a view of my completely shaved twat. By now the guy’s sweating and trembling and he’ll sign anything to get me back to his hotel. Both the president and I have indicated I’m up for a very personal celebration when the deal is done. Sometimes in my fantasy I take the client back to the hotel and ride him until he’s a boneless blob of Jell-O on that bed, babbling about how I’m the most amazing fuck of his life. But usually I end up coming just as the guy takes the pen to sign, and he’s gulping and his eyes are darting over at my bald pussy practically hanging out of my skirt and I can tell he wants me more than anything, even all the money in the world.
I think it’s interesting that my fantasies start out with me being all shy and repressed, but as I get turned on, I take control and get the better of snooty guys in white coats and business suits. It’s a form of pussy power, I suppose. I’d say in spite of the shame my parents made me feel about my sexuality, it’s become a very positive force in my marriage. My husband and I have a great relationship, and we treat each other as equals. It’s different out in the real world, though. I don’t think women have an equal share of power in public life yet, but that’s a nice fantasy to have, too.
Visit the online home of the sinfully talented Donna George Storey for more hot writing and to learn more about her latest novel, “Amorous Woman”. Or watch the “Amorous Woman” trailer here. Actually, just go and buy “Amorous Woman” now!