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As I promised here is another one of my fantasies about Amy and me.

After our last session Amy is even more friendly when no one else is around. I also think that she has quit wearing panties because I don’t see any panty lines any more and sometimes I even wonder if she is wearing a bra. Like today. Amy is wearing a grey woman’s suit with a blue and black stripped silk blouse the front of which seems to move around a little more than usual. Its hard to tell since the suit jacket hides her nipples which would show were she not wearing a bra. Amy is in a playful mood today. Joking with everyone. We had some time during lunch for some conversation. She usually eats lunch out but didn’t today because she had some extra work to do. Some of the remarks she made would almost make a sailor blush. At least it did for her and me.

We both end up working late again. “This is getting to be a habit,” I said. Amy just laughed and said, “We had better be careful or people will start talking.” As if they already hadn’t, at least about Amy. I am surprised when she says to me, “How about coming to my place after work for a drink?” I said, “Sure. We’ll take your car and leave mine here. That way no one will see it at your place.” So we lock up the place and head toward her apartment.

When we arrive Amy says, “Why don’t you kick your shoes off while I go get comfortable.” So I do and prop my feet up on the coffee table. She calls from the other room, “What would you like to drink?” “Got any hard stuff?” I answer. “I can mix us up something. I’ll surprise you,” was her response. Well you could have you could have knocked me over with a feather when she came back into the room with our drinks. She definitely got comfortable. Amy was wearing this almost transparent top and a pair of short shorts. There was no question of what she was wearing under the top or shorts. That was NOTHING! Her nipples were hard and strained against the fabric of the top and the crotch of her shorts dug into her cunt showing the bulge of pussy lips and crease of her cunt slit.

She hands me one of the drinks and says, “How do you like it?” I must have been starring at her breasts because I almost spilt the drink and could just stammer, “I…I…it…it’s great.” Amy laughs and says, “No, I mean the drink.” Of course I hadn’t even tasted the drink yet. We both laugh. She sits next to me and we sip the drinks and talk about work, life, etc. The drink has its desired effect. We both begin to relax, except my cock. The longer I looked at Amy’s nipples making little bumps in the front of that top and felt the heat of her body near mine, the harder and harder my tool got. And pretty damned uncomfortable. An erect 8-inch cock doesn’t fit very well in a tight pair of pants. Especially if it’s bent in the middle. I put my arm on the back of the couch and she slides close. Her breast is now pressed against my side. The drink must have had the same effect on her as it had on me. I glance toward her crotch and it looked as though a wet spot was forming where the shorts disappeared between her legs.

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After the Gulf War the Corps had no place to put me. I made the error of accepting a promotion to Major in July, I figured this war was going to happen, I might as well be in charge. I should have stayed at the comfortable rank of Captain, but I guess I wanted to be a big shot. The war was over, I was sitting around waiting for the next thing to do. Col. McBride called me in and told me that I had been RIF’d (Reduction In Force) I was out of a job. 18 1/2 years in the U.S. Marine Corps down the fucking drain.

After some soul searching I decided it was time to go back to school and work on my Doctorate. I fucking hate school, but I hate hanging around looking for something to do, even more. So, I ended up in Texas. Big fucking deal. Uncle Sam has to pay the freight so who cares. I end up living in an apartment complex full of snot-nosed mama’s boy types. I had never seen such a bunch of weird fuckers in my life. 12 weeks on the Island and I could make men out of these little homo bastards…or I’d end up killing them. After all, that’s what Marines do, they kill, and they die. It’s a great job. But this Marine is going to be smart now, he’s gonna be a P H fucking D.

I buckled down and went to work. I had a mission, I had a goal, I had no choice but to finish, and finish I will, in true Marine Corps fashion. Things got better, I was not so repulsed by the assholes who walked around wearing sweatshits that say B.U.M. Equipment and wearing their fucking hats backwards. What the fuck exactly is B.U.M. equipment? Is that some shit that the fudge-packers use? And if you can’t wear your cover squared away, get rid of the fucker, and get a fucking haircut too!

Let me tell you a little more about Major Warren Mansfield. I was born to be a Marine. I spent my lifetime getting to where I am today. I worked hard, I played every sport there was, and I fought every asshole in my school just so I could learn to live with pain. I went to college and got my degree, then off to the University of Science Music and Culture (U.S.M.C.) 12 weeks at Parris Island, the best, most memorable days of my life. I was hit, I was kicked, I was slapped, punched and pissed on. I ate constantino wire and pissed napalm. I learned to do what I was bred to do. I learned how to be a killing machine. One year later I lead my troops into a small village in Viet Nam, and I got to see first hand what a blown-up skull looks like. Sure I was a young Lieutenant, but I felt like a seasoned war dog by the time we secured that little piece of commie heaven.

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This is my first posting…I have more to share in the future if you like this, but must post anonymously, since I am a senior manager at a Fortune 100 company and knowledge about my extra-curricular activities would cause the end of my career.

It was hot and steamy as we arrived at the airport in Brisbane for the long journey home to Boston. This was the end of a month-long campervan vacation in Australia, and I, for one, was overjoyed to be heading back to some normalcy. For an entire month my wife Anne (I call her “the queen”) had avoided sex in the campervan, or anywhere else for that matter, since “the children are nearby.” — The irony of her way of thinking will be evident shortly.

Actually, she is not very interested in sex anytime, since she was taught by her mother that sex was “dirty.” The only time she ever saw her parents making love, they were fully clothed (hike up the skirt, dear – I’ll just quickly unzip.) Sometimes I wonder how we ever ended up with three children; one is grown and on her own, the two boys (Ralph, 17 and Trevor, 14) were with us on holiday. Because I travel regularly, I have opportunity for other sexual outlets during the year, but four plus weeks within close quarters with a demanding uptight woman does not give you much opportunity to develop alternatives.

I had some first class upgrade coupons, but at check-in time was told there was only one seat available. Anne immediately volunteered because of her “potential for a bad back,” and was seated in 3A. The boys and I were given 21K/L and 22L. This was aisle and window seating in the 2-5-2 configuration, and the last two rows in the second section. I took the single seat, and let Ralph and Trevor sit together for the first ten-hour segment of the flight.

An attractive woman dressed in a loose sweater and very tight blue jeans took the seat next to me. I could see that Ralph was uncomfortable and maybe even a little jealous, since he kept turning around to talk to me, but she was too old (29) to be interested in him. She introduced herself as Christine, “You can call me Chrissy.” She was about five foot eight, light brown (almost blond) long hair, a nice ass – firm and high, breasts with an impact even through her shapeless sweater, and obviously in good physical condition.

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Slowly, he began removing her clothing, his hand gently caressing her soft skin. She moaned lightly as his hands reached beneath her top and massaged her breasts. Her legs parted instinctively as he explored beneath her lacy briefs. She glanced into the mirror above them and studied the immense contrast between her petite body against his naked Adonis form.

Soon her clothing lay in a crumpled pile beside the bed. The room was hot and steamy, and their bodies glistened with moisture. He stood in front of her, held her hands above her head, and told her to kneel down. As she descended, her tongue quietly explored his muscular chest. Lower and lower she went, until her mouth engulfed the tip of his erect manhood.

He moaned with delight as he held her arms apart and shackled them to fur-laced handcuffs dangling from the ceiling. He removed himself from her, took her nylons from the floor, and gagged her. The ankle shackles on the edges of the bed quickly held her legs apart. He then lotioned her body and his with baby oil, his fingers exploring her curves and penetrating her crevices of desire. Her sounds of ecstasy were getting louder, but still muffled by her gag.

He took an artificial phallus from the hot water, and beginning at her mouth, slowly moved it downwards. It moved past her neck, down between her breasts, and past her navel. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the piercing of her womanhood. Instead, he only slightly parted her now moist lips. Slowly but firmly he inserted the warm, pulsating rod into her other orifice. Her gasp of surprise soon turned into sounds of desire as he plunged it deeper and deeper while several fingers of his other hand stimulated her tunnel of love. Her body squirmed in pleasure, but her movements were futile against the chains that bound her.

When she had been filled, he again moved in front of her and positioned himself. He entered her slowly, savoring how easy her juices have made the entry. Her breathing and gasping were getting heavier, in rhythm with his powerful thrusts. His hands roamed her body, squeezing her breasts mercilessly and pulling and twisting the phallus stuffed into her.

Her arms and legs fought a useless battle against the shackles that held her open to his pounding, now faster and deeper. She thrashed about wildly, becoming one with the chains that bind her. She exists only to please as he ravages her with ever increasing intensity. Her screams of joy crashed through the ball tied tightly between her lips.

The room was spinning as she threw her head back and looked up. In the dream-like image above she saw a slave, bound and gagged, under complete control of her master. He was rewarding her virginity with the most sinful pleasure. He too was in a spinning room, his body tight and shone with sweat. All his essence was entering and leaving her. Finally, with a yell of triumph, he shot into her deepest regions, his juice mixing with hers. She let out a last, exhausted moan, overwhelmed by the fires that pierced her.

He held her close for a moment, then withdrew from her. He took the second phallus from the hot water and with one hand rammed it completely into her while the other pushed the first all the way in. Through the gag she begged him to stop. A leather strap was tied around her waist, and a second strap looped from front to back. The rods that continued to heat and vibrate are now held in. With another series of straps her breasts were held up and tied. He then took three small chains, all connected at one end. At the ends of the chains are clamps. Two clamps grip her nipples, while the third grips her clitoris. He turns off the lights and leaves the room, to attend to his next slave.

She is now left in the darkness, still chained and gagged, with the rods moving deeper into her and the clamps tightening their grip. Her body glistened like an angel, her arms and legs held apart as if she was in flight. She writhed and moaned uselessly, feeling the build-up of the tidal wave about to wash over her. As moans of delight drifted in from outside, she closed her eyes to fantasize what must be happening in the other rooms.

–end–

anonymous author

I remember the good old days of flying, when the great 747 fleet first graced the skies. It was the peak of the jet age and the world looked on us as the elite of the elite. We set the standard by which all commercial flying was judged. I recall how honoured I was the day I received my flight attendant wings, my first flight, my promotion to purser. Ahh yes, the past was beautiful. No low budget airlines, no TWA scabs, no imminent fear of bankruptcy. We flew with pride and proved our service was the best. I worked the New York to Frankfurt run as often as I could. Of course, that one day still stands out strongly in my memory.

We were late boarding for the flight. I had gone from the plane into the passenger waiting area. There I noticed him for the first time. He was so handsome — tall, brown hair, high-cheek boned with deep blue eyes and manly tanned face. His mustache accented his perfect smile. Our eyes met. I felt like a school boy who is having the first crush on his teacher. As I walked back to the plane, I glanced back at him only to find him looking at me, grinning like someone with a secret he is aching to tell. I notice he was tall and well framed, even in his business suit.

I returned to my post in the first class cabin and waited to see if he would be seated near my position. Alas, he was not amongst the first class group. I sighed as we closed the doors. One of the stewardess in the aft of the economy cabin called me to come to the rear galley. I carefully checked each passenger as I walked down the aisle, trying to give the appearance that I was inspecting seat belts when in reality I was looking for him. I was perplexed as I failed to find him. The disappointed look disappeared from my face as I walked back towards the first class cabin. There, in seat 23A, was my handsome stranger.

“Excuse me,” he asked, “but what is the flying time to Frankfurt?” I laughed and replied with the 7 and 1/2 hour flight time along with the complete routing that flight 66 would be taking that evening. He thanked me and as I told him I hope I could be of service to him during the flight, he chuckled saying, “I’m sure you will be.”

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