Free The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies by Sonia Florens

me. They were the same things that my female friends
recommended: fingers, vibrators, and oral sex. This last was the hands-down favourite of all of my friends. “If he were doing it right,” they told me, “you would come.” But
watching his head disappear down into the nether regions of my body did not interest me in the least. I imagined that anybody might be down there – perhaps a useful possibility for women who
were bored with their partners, but I wanted to see mine. I had never believed in penis envy until I realized how much I would prefer a blow job. That seemed like the hottest imaginable experience,
to watch as my enormous, engorged genitals slid completely inside my lover’s mouth. I could watch his face as he concentrated on my pleasure, see my cock disappearing between his rosy, parted
lips. One day during foreplay, as he lay on top of me kissing my lips and stroking my pussy, I suddenly realized what would be the next best thing – maybe even a better thing. With one hand,
I pulled my shirt up over my breasts. Grabbing the back of his head, I pushed it toward my nipple. “Suck my tits,” I told him urgently. Surprised but compliant, he began to move his
lips to my breast. His hand moved from my pussy as he focused attention on my chest. But I pushed it back, sliding it up under my skirt. “No, don’t stop,” I told him. Watching his
mouth filled with my breast, the pink nipple matching the pink lips, my clitoris come to life as it never had under his touch before, I came in minutes.
    At first my boyfriend enjoyed this new discovery, that I could come as long as he sucked my tits. Soon, however, he seemed to realize that he was, in fact, giving me a blow job. Sucking my tits
suddenly ceased to be his self-indulgent fetish; now he could seldom maintain interest for the several minutes it took to bring me to orgasm. Soon we stopped having sex altogether. One evening as I
napped on his bed, I awoke to find him sucking on my exposed breast. I watched for a moment in disbelief – for weeks I had been longing to see his face at my breast.
    Excited, I ran my fingers lightly through his hair. But when he realized that I was awake, he froze. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. “That was nice.”
    Instead he sat up on the bed, turning his back to me. “No, I don’t want to any more,” he said brusquely. He emphasized the final word hostilely – evidently I had ruined
his fun by waking up. Over the next few days, I pondered this episode, growing increasingly angry that he would desire me only when I was unable to enjoy it.
    Once I broke up with him, my breast fetish grew more intense. Often, as I undressed in front of my mirror, I noticed how good my tits looked. Many of my more flat-chested friends had admired my
picturesque curviness in underwear or bathing suits, and I often thought of their compliments as I viewed myself. The sight of my tits filling up the cups of my bra was in itself enough to make me
want to come. They had a nice fullness and plumpness and curved seductively where they met to form my cleavage. Looking in the mirror, I would arrange my clothes like the women in men’s
magazines. One of my favourite pictures in my old boyfriend’s porn collection was of a giant-breasted woman wearing a T-shirt that extended only as far down as her armpits. Her huge
creamy-coloured tits stuck out provocatively from under the half-shirt, almost as though she were unable to find a shirt large enough to fit. Thinking of her, I would roll my own T-shirt up over my
breasts, leaning forward so I spilled gently out of my exposed bra. When the round weight of my tits had fallen nearly all the way out, I would reach around to slowly unhook my bra, causing my
chest to jut outward as my arms stretched back. I wouldn’t take the bra off right away; instead, I would slide each strap off and, with one hand, hold the now functionless article of clothing
against my breasts, just covering my