It’s true what they say about good girls being the worst.
If you met me at a party, you’d forget me within moments. I don’t know why but somehow I’m one of life’s invisible people. I don’t feel confident chatting to strangers, never have. Which probably explains why I’ve been single for the last two years. Ever since I split up with my childhood sweetheart, Oliver, I’ve had to make do with my vibrator and a somewhat expensive battery habit.
But even though you might not notice me at a party, I can guarantee that I’d notice you. You see, I ‘collect’ people for my masturbatory fantasies: not just the obviously attractive ones either. A glint in someone’s eye, soft swell of feminine calf or glimpse of hair bursting out the top of a man’s T-shirt can all fuel my fire. I’ve got a vivid enough imagination that I can build my fantasy characters piecemeal, taking the best attributes of everyone at a party and using them for my own devices. Which is why I face my fear of crowds, and get out as often as I possibly can. After all, a girl always needs fresh inspiration. Tonight, this bar, is fertile ground.
Take the guy in the corner, for example. You might not think much of him at first glance, but when his friend accidentally knocked his elbow, spilling a few drops of his pint, his eyes flashed and I saw his inner Dom. Back home, he’ll have me bound tightly to a St Andrews Cross, whipping me cruelly, his cock stiffening with every pained twitch of my body. The woman in the overly-short skirt, who’s looking up at him in such a simpering way, will be on her knees in front of me, licking my pussy as he delivers each blow. Obviously, I won’t be allowed to come. He’ll only be doing it because he knows that he can make her do anything that he wants, and he likes the idea of humiliating her by forcing her to eat another woman’s pussy.
Or how about that rather stocky gentleman in the smart suit? Sure, he’s full of bluster but just look at his hands: huge, manly palms and thick fingers. I won’t need him for anything too elaborate: just plunging his digits into me until I writhe in pleasure, taking a break to feed my own wetness to me, then strumming at my G-spot until I can’t help but squirt all over his palm.
Then there’s the guy with the shaved head and mod suit in the corner. Surely you must have noticed the way that it hangs? That man is packing serious heft. I miss the feeling of a thick cock inside me. He’ll have me on my knees in front of him, worshipping his cock with long licks, delicate suction and rapid strokes of my wet hand. Then, once he’s seconds away from coming, I’ll pull away and ask him to fuck me. I’ll be wet already: cock-sucking always turns me on. He’ll put his hands on either side of my hips and slide into me in a long, slow thrust before banging away at me hard from behind, not coming until I’ve spasmed again and again around his cock.
The woman in the purple dress is clearly self-conscious about her size. She keeps tugging at the hemline, trying not to flash her thighs. But it keeps riding up regardless. In my dreams, it’s because her subconscious is taking over. She wants to flash herself, have people fighting over who gets to fuck and finger her. Obviously, I’ll get to go first, plunging my face into her warm, full thighs, teasing and nibbling them until I can smell her juices flowing, then burying myself in her wetness and savouring her taste. My hands will move up to those magnificent breasts, stroking and pinching her nipples until she comes in great warm waves down my throat.
And then there’s the barman. He is conventionally attractive: all buff body and twinkling smile. Yet something tells me that by the time he’s made his way into my fantasies, he’ll be the one begging me to pleasure him. The cockiness hides his shy interior, and he’ll want me to take the lead, straddling him and grinding myself up and down on his cock, using it for my own pleasure. After I’ve fucked him, he’ll want me to sit on his face so that he can taste my climax as well as feel it. Once he gets his confidence, he’ll take me by surprise though, flipping me onto my back to pound into me hard, lifting my ankles onto his shoulders, his well-muscled arms bulging as he supports my weight. His cock will rub against my clit with every thrust, and he’ll grow harder inside me as he feels my muscles clamping around him. He’ll turn out to be quite a tease, I’m sure, taking me to the edge of orgasm then pulling back to rub just the tip of his cock against my clit, too lightly for me to come but hard enough to make me wetter, once, twice, three times until he finally lets me come in breathy, gasping spasms, almost passing out from the sheer pleasure of it. Then he’ll take me in his arms, stroke my hair away from my face and kiss me lightly in the middle of the forehead, telling me how beautiful, how sexy, how wonderful I am.
But even he pales into insignificance next to the prize catch. There’s one person here who will be filling my filthiest daydreams as so much more than a bit character. I won’t need any of the others when my mind gets into gear about this particular target. You see, right now, I’m looking at you…
