The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies Read Online Free

jeans, a promising bulge, a baggy-sleeved
white shirt, gold hoop earrings, locks halfway down his back
and a headscarf.
    I want him.
    'That one's mine,' I warn off Maggie, the friend I came in
with. She nods and shrugs. I know he isn't her bag. She's into
the sophisticated male, but is happy to indulge me. Following
her own agenda, she heads off in the direction of half a dozen
business executives who are slumming it.
    I feast my eyes on my boy. It doesn't matter that I'm twice
his age. I have always gone for men who are my juniors. Don't
find those of my own years in the least attractive. They don't
rouse my lust, stir my blood, or fill me with the desire to stroke
their curls or unzip their pants. I lean on the bar, eyeing him
boldly, never mind that he may think I'm his mother. So what?
Isn't there such a thing as an Oedipus complex? I'd spoil him,
indulge him, buy him whatever he wanted. I'm not proud.
    I've kept my looks, worked on my figure, dress trendy, not
frumpy.
    'Come to me, baby,' I croon inwardly. 'Let me hire a room,
take you upstairs and give you the benefit of my considerable
experience and the best blow job of your entire life.'
    He drops his money and bends to retrieve it. So do I. Our
fingers meet. I don't draw back and neither does he. He grins
and there's that flash of chemistry between us without which
sex rarely, if ever, happens. I'm creaming my panties for him.
I smile across at Maggie. She shrugs and takes herself off in
pursuit of her own ovarian stimulation, knowing what I'm like
and leaving me to it. She's on the hunt, following a quest of
her own.
    'Can I buy you a drink?' is my opening gambit.
    'Sure,' he says, glancing at the mates who are with him,
some dressed as pirates, too. They give him the thumbs up.
    I don't intend to get him plastered – just enough alcohol to
make him unaware of the age gap. This doesn't seem to be
bothering him, however, and we sit together on a bench. We
don't talk much, maybe remark on the historic building, and
he tells me he's in a band (what else?), plays guitar and they
are going on tour soon. I could be talking to my youngest son.
    I don't care about this. All I want is to be alone with him. I
lean closer, my thigh pressed to his, feeling his heat through
my thin skirt. Thrills run up and down my spine and my cunt
spasms. It has been some time since I've had one who so closely
fulfils my ideal. He's lovely, and I shall be sorry to see him
leave.
    'Shall we go outside?' he murmurs, his stubbly jaw brushing
my cheek. He even smells nice, of joss sticks and patchouli oil
and the faint whi- of cannabis.
    'Better than that,' I promise, and leave him for a moment to
visit the reception desk. It's all so easy if you have money.
    We go along the main corridor and mount the curving oak
staircase. I have the key for Room 14, the gateway to paradise.
    It is everything I had requested of the receptionist, darkly
panelled and with a log fire burning in the stone grate. (Mock
electric but no matter.) There are velvet drapes at the windows
and the pièce de résistance is the massive four-poster bed.
    'Cool,' remarks my pick-up, Luke.
    'Come on, then, pirate! Show me how you rape and pillage!'
I urge, already sprawling over the duvet.
    It amuses me to see that he is rather shy, but this is endearing.
Does his mummy know he's out? I spend a second speculating
on his background. Is he really a drop-out or is this simply a
pose? Maybe a student? Does it matter? No. He joins me on
the bed, carrying the bottle of wine and two glasses. We drink.
Then I've had enough of fucking about and want to get down
to business. I take off his bandanna and his long black hair
comes snaking down, making him even more irresistible. God,
but he's a handsome beast!
    He's swarthy, with dark eyes, sort of Italian looking. I push
open his shirt and his skin is tanned. His chest carries a sprinkling
of hair that thins out, like an arrow pointing past his navel
to be swallowed up in the inky thatch