Susie & Her Bad Fantasy Man

Because Susie has been reading too many studies in human sexuality.

Okay?

So guys, sometimes when I'm daydreaming about getting fucked, when the need comes on me; the aching for your cock, your spunk, your undissuadable instinct filling my womb, I daydream that I'm working outside with my best friend's brother.

We're clearing brush by the river. It's muggy out. We're sweating. Seeds are sticking to our skin, burs are sticking to our clothes and our clothes are sticking to us. My tanktop is clinging to my nipples and you can see their swollen and distended thickness darkly stretching the fabric.

That monthly need for --raw-- cock has come over me.

I've read surveys about how when we're ovulating we prefer guys with really masculine features--the heavy jaw line, the big hands that can firmly hold our hips from behind, the ripped abdomen, the yen for longer and thicker cocks. The other thing I've read is that we send you guys signals. Our hips get all swingy and our voices higher--as if my voice weren't already high enough. If you show men videos of women walking, they're amazingly good--like 90 percent good-- at knowing which women are ovulating.

But it could be worse. We could be baboons. Our asses could turn red.

Anyway, my best friend's brother gets it. He sees my nipples. He smells my sweat and probably my pussy too. He sees the way I arch my back when I wipe my brow. He sees nipples poking my tank top--thick enough to be sucked. It's the woman's body signaling her readiness to be mounted. I don't even know I'm doing it. He has a hard on. I pretend not to see it--I pretend not to notice his hips, his abdomen, how his hands and legs are wonderfully stronger than my own--so masculine.

I turn my back to him.

I turn my back, let's admit it, so he can freely gaze at my ass as I pull up Japanese knotweed. And next he's standing behind, his cock pressed against my ass. My mind and body are at war. I don't say anything. He doesn't say anything. I feel his breath on my neck. He's slowly lifting up my tank top until the hem is over my nipples. When I go to pull it back down he twists one arm behind my back and holds the other at my hip. He moves my feet apart with his own foot. My mind is saying: You don't know him. You're not on birth control. Your uterus is defenseless if his cock penetrates your cunt (cue impreg fetish). 36 million years of female evolution and my curling spine are telling me to lift my pussy for the cock behind me. I'm ready for that fantasy baby to be pumped into me.

But how do I know he's the one?

So, in a consensually non-consensual way, I fight him. I tell him: 'No! I'm not just here to carry your spunk." (Like I'd really say that, right?) "No! I'm more than my pussy!" "No! I have a Masters Degree!" No! "I'm a brilliant and accomplished woman!" "No! Just because I have a cunt doesn't mean it's meant for cock!" Etc. Totally believable dialog, right? Don't judge me.

I slip out of BFF brother's grip because I'm all sweaty and slippery.

But he's not messing around. He's in tight jeans, emphasis on tight, and no top. I'm going with the hayseed vibe. He's rocking that young superman look: black curly hair, three day shadow, just the right amount of chest hair, abs for throwing hay bales on trucks and women on their backs, and that god-like golden glow of hay seed floating in the air behind him. It makes no sense but just work with me. He unzips, unbuttons his top button, and frees his balls and the hook of his cock. Button fly? Maybe they should be button fly jeans. But that pang of fear and excitement is like a hummingbird spiraling from my nipples, to my womb, to my pussy. I almost squeeze my legs together.

Anyway, in my high squeaky voice, I inform him that I'm more than my cunt.

That's when things get consensually non-consensual. We're sort of on an embankment and I try to climb out of it, but every time I get half way up he pulls me back down by the ankles. He turns me on my back. I'm kicking and trying to push him off. He holds my wrists above me and my nipple in his mouth, sucked hard into his mouth. I'm kicking and squirming. You would swear I was turned on by the way I'm squirming. I slip out of his grip, but he's sporting a really infuriating and totally hot grin. He just knows he's stronger and that he's making want to lick his fucking abs, his thighs, his biceps, everything about his maleness. I'm fucking wet, and it's because he's overpowering me. It's like just having seen his cock is triggering my legs to open. Next he's laughing at me and easily turning me over onto my stomach, into the grass and dirt, infuriating me. He's lifting me onto my knees. When I try to scramble away he grabs my hair and spanks my ass. Every time I try to escape he spanks my ass harder. After each spank my pussy arches higher until I finally hold still, knees wide, my pussy offered.

It's like he's proven himself.

He's strong. He's decisive. He's the boss. He's the man. And so I give it to him. I show him my pussy. I'm ready for him. I'm his and he's the one I want. He can put his genetic material inside me. I permit it. I'm ready to let him mix his genes with mine. He's the bad man to be with at the right time.

When his cock parts the lips of my pussy, he's still holding my hair in his fist, my head drawn back. I'm his prize. By the time his cock has filled my abdomen, I'm panting. The hook of his cock has hooked my uterus. It's over. My spine curves to the curve of his cock. Yes, says my flat abdomen, I'm ready to carry you. Oh, and then he's fucking me with those thrusts that keep saying, 'I'm a man and you're a woman'. They hit me in places that make me all submissive, make me cry out and grunt, and make me spread my knees even wider.

And then, out of nowhere, other people show up across the river.

It's like a nudist colony/farm and they're carrying hay to haycarts, and seeing me fucked is just what happens to women here. My nipples swing under me, tickled by the blades of grass. He just has to knock me up and then we'll get back to work--me with his ball of cum inside me. I arch. My orgasm obediently drinks all that pulsing warmth flowing into me from behind.

Phew!

Okay, I don't know about the nudist colony. Things just--appear--in fantasies.

My cat is in my lap now. Why do I do this to myself? A week from now I'll be back with my main fantasy squeeze. He's independent. He's positive. He's a great communicator. He's smart and passionate. He's ambitious, charming and has a great sense of humor. He's romantic, attractive and he would do anything for me. He keeps my car tires inflated to 34 psi front and 33 psi rear. He tops off the oil and gets my hand unstuck from kitchen sinks. Don't hate because none of our fantasy children are his. I don't know how to tell him.

They all have their fantasy father's curly black hair.

Don't judge me.