The Girl Behind the Fantasy

By Mary Anne Mohanraj
Feb 28, 2019 · 1,606 words · 6 minutes


From the author: 'I am a fantasy, and I can be whatever your heart desires ...'


Hey, boy. You listening? ’cause I have a story for you, oh yes I
do. It’s the story you’ve always dreamed of — it’s your story; it’s
every story. It’s your favorite fantasy — ’cause that’s what I am, a
fantasy, and I can be whatever your heart desires.

I was a nurse once, remember? In a short, crisply starched white
dress, and I said, “Good morning, sir,” and asked you to please undress.
And I slipped out the door and when you were down to your undershorts I
came back in. Instead of apologizing, I stood there by the door, watching
you finish, pulling down those shorts to reveal your hard cock. And I
said, “That looks like it needs some medical attention,” and I walked up,
slowly and deliberately, and sank to my knees in front of you, and tilted
my head with its little nurses’ cap, and licked my lips before licking
your cock, up and down, caressing its length, and you knew that you were
one of a hundred of men who passed through the doctor’s offices, and I was
down on my knees for every one and that turned you on, oh yes…

…or maybe you’d rather remember a rather different type of
doctor. When I was seven and you were eight, and we were playing hide and
seek and wandered far away from the other kids. We ended up beneath a
willow tree, and you asked me if I wanted to play doctor and I said,
“okay!” So you said you needed to examine me, so I pulled up the skirt on
my pink polka-dotted dress, and pulled down my panties and you looked very
carefully to make sure that I wasn’t sick. And then I was the doctor and
you pulled down your shorts and underwear and I stared, amazed to see how
different you were…

…or perhaps you preferred a more knowledgable sort. You were
seventeen and I was the professor’s wife — a little bored and a lot
tempted. When you came over for special tutoring on Saturday afternoons
(you were such a bright young boy), I’d keep you after your lesson for tea
and sympathy. My sedate skirts would somehow slide up my thigh and you
could only imagine what lay beneath them, and we would talk of adult
things, and I would enjoy being a little shocking, and you would try very
hard to be grown-up until the day when your sweet young body would be
really too much to expect a rather deprived woman to resist. I would take
your head in my hands and draw it down to my breast and slide your hand
under my skirt and between my legs…

…and do you remember your hand between my legs when I was your
childhood sweetheart and we were necking in the back of a ’57 Chevy? I
was a good Catholic girl, so we never had intercourse, but after a lot of
petting and promises, you could pretty much touch me wherever you wanted,
though I never took my clothes off. Your hands would slip beneath my
white blouse and push my bra off my firm young breasts and sometimes I’d
let you unbutton the blouse so that you could suck on the dark pink
nipples while your fingers slid beneath white cotton panties to the thick
swatch of blond hair and then up and inside me, and we were trying so hard
to be quiet even though we were up at Lookout Point and the only people
around were other couples in other cars doing exactly what we were
doing…

Or maybe you like more people around? I was the town librarian,
with granny glasses and my hair pulled back tight in a bun. You cornered
me in the stacks one day and threatened, laughing, to steal a book unless
I gave you a kiss. I resisted at first, but then gave in, tentatively
kissing you between Shakespeare and Chaucer, and the children’s room is
right below us, and if the kids look up, they’ll see right through the
grated walkway and see the librarian kissing this handsome stranger, who
slips his hands up behind her neck and pulls out the pins holding her hair
so it tumbles down, a heavy blond mass down her back…

…or maybe you don’t like me as a blonde. Maybe you prefer me as
your wife, with sweet brown curls and a surprisingly wicked streak. You
like me whispering suggestions in your ear, “Let me touch you, let me suck
you, let me lick your cock, your balls, your asshole…call me your little
girl and I’ll call you daddy…call me your slut, your whore, whatever you
like but please fuck me now — I’ll beg you if you want, oh yes…”

Would you prefer to beg? Me with flowing auburn hair down to my
butt and green eyes and all in black. A black leather bodice laced tight
so my breasts overflowed at the top, and black leather pants with the
crotch cut out and black boots with five-inch spike heels and a
nine-tailed cat in my hands, its soft leather aching for your back. I’d
have you on your knees beneath me, begging for a chance to please your
mistress, and I’d slap your face saying, “Who gave you permission to
speak, little boy?! You only open your mouth when I say you do,
understand? And now I want you to use it, crawl over here and lick me
like you mean it.” And when you do, I will get angry, and say you aren’t
doing a good job, and the cat will rain blows on your naked back and you
will kneel there, silently begging with your eyes and trying not to
scream…

…or is the screaming the shriek of the speakers at the
neighborhood club? I’m a stranger in a tight black dress and copper
curls, blue eyes laughing at you across the room. You make your way
through the heaving mass of bodies on the dance floor to pour a
drink between my lips and pull me close, our bodies sliding then
slamming together as the dance swirls around us. A muscled man stumbles
into us, and his eyes slide up and down my body, appreciatively. “Nice
tits,” he says to you as the tide of the dance carries him away, and you
grin smugly, pressing those tits into your chest, pushing me up against a
speaker, your cock a hard lump in your jeans pressed against my hips, and
your hands everywhere on my sweating body, sliding up the dress with your
thigh while the speakers shriek in our ears…

…or maybe you just want me screaming beneath you, the office
slut who’s desperate for a fuck and takes you into the file room and locks
the door. Me with too much makeup and too short a red skirt, stripping
quickly for you and you don’t even bother to take off your clothes. You
just unzip and push down your pants and shorts and pick me up and push me
up against a wall. And the boss is outside so we’re silent and I’m biting
your shoulder as you shove your cock into me, over and over, harder and
harder, and when you come you shove so hard that my shoulder knocks into a
shelf and papers tumble to the floor. You pull out and leave me dripping
there. You zip up and say, “Clean that up” as you open the door and walk
out.

…perhaps you’re more discreet. Perhaps you have to be. You’re
having an affair with the boss’s wife, and it’s so satisfying to be
screwing her when he’s been screwing you for so many years, but you
wouldn’t want your wife to find out. So we meet at sleazy motels, and I
have curves to die for, not like your skinny little stick of a wife, and
you bury your head between my breasts or thighs and I love your body, the
long length of it and I spend hours kissing it, tasting it, sucking your
cock and nibbling your balls and doing whatever you desire and afterwards
asking you to run away with me and you shrug and say, “Sorry, babe.”

Maybe that’s not the type of woman you want? Maybe you prefer a
little East Asian girl, less than a hundred pounds and five feet tall,
with porcelain skin and straight black hair. Almond-shaped eyes staring
up at you as I lay naked beneath you, my tiny body smelling faintly of
jasmine and musk. Your broad hands enveloping my small breasts, squeezing
them hard, and I shiver, holding almost motionless except for a thin
shaking sheen of sweat. I’m completely shaven, hairless like a small
girl, and when you slide into my cunt it’s so small, so tight, that it’s
like a Western woman’s ass and you think you must be hurting me, but I
don’t care, I’m arching beneath you, begging you for more more more…

I could be one of a harem of such girls, remember, all of us
waiting for your command….or a harem of women from all over the world,
collected for your pleasure, trembling with love for you and each one of
us hoping that she’ll be the one chosen tonight to share your bed, to
spend the night devoting every second to pleasing you, taking your cock in
cunt and ass and mouth, sliding it between her breasts, so that when you
spurt your jism spreads across her neck and face until you call one of
the other girls in to lick it off…

…or isn’t one at a time enough? Take three or four of us, all
of us crawling over your, sliding against you, our bodies slick with
exotic oils, a blonde, brunette and redhead — slim, medium and extra
curvy…I can be all of them at once, begging and screaming for you as you
fuck us, your proud cock slamming into us over and over as long as you
want, as long as you can keep paying for it…

I can be everything your heart desires — everything your groin
demands. And all I ask is that you never ask me if I like my job.

*****


M.A. Mohanraj
December 14, 1996

This story originally appeared in Hot off the Net.