When I was 23 years old, I had a girlfriend, Anita, who liked to "share" fantasies as a kind of foreplay. In actuality she like to listen to my fantasies. She encouraged -- make that 'demanded' -- that I share my fantasies with her. She said, there was no implied promise she would actually do any of these things, but she got very turned on by the naughty talk. In fact, they made her insane with lust for me. She said, no taboo was off limits and she promised to share the same.
As it turned out, she very rarely shared her own fantasies and when she did, they were so tame as to not really qualify as fantasies. She was not being deceptive, she was truly excited by my wild fantasies, likely because she just had imagined so few of her own. She was happily vanilla, but liked my inspirations.
When she shared, she typically just recounted things we did all the time, listing the positions or places she enjoyed. It was kind of boring. Because, they weren't fantasies, just memories. But, she got crazy wet hearing mine, and this always led to mind-blowing sex afterwards with an enthusiastic lover. So, I was happy to recite fantasies without reciprocation. It encouraged me to make them up.
I would typically pour a couple glasses of wine, then we would cuddle up on the sofa and I would describe a fantasy. As I told her the story she would reward me by slowly disrobing, one piece of clothing at a time as the story progressed and she got more aroused. When she got down to panties only, I would rub her inner thighs and check my playground for readiness. She had often soaked through her panties and sometimes even make a visible wet spot on the sofa.
My favorite themes (not surprisingly for a male) were about threesomes with different women we knew, or ones I imagined us meeting by chance in odd locations. Anita liked these stories but admitted that she would NEVER have sex with another woman. Yet she encouraged me to tell her progressively wilder versions nonetheless. My fantasies got more elaborate and far more taboo. She never said "ewww" and she always listened intently, sometimes asking questions or probing for details. The more wild the story the wetter she got. Sometimes she would squirm and thrust her hips unconsciously as if she was on fire for real stimulation, but she never touched herself while I was telling a story.
I frequently asked her to touch herself while I told her my fantasies. That in turn became a fantasy. I wanted to watch her masturbate. In fact, I begged her to. She always refused. I argued, "Since the fantasies are mine, please get yourself off while I'm telling them." She shook her head "no." I asked her repeatedly to touch herself. She always said, "maybe" or "someday" but she never did. That ultimately turned into part of the fantasies I would tell her. Because I wanted it. That didn't matter to her.
I would tell some exotic fantasy of us having sex (often with another woman involved somehow) and would include her masturbating as part of this story. That story device evolved into the conclusion of EVERY fantasy -- from threesome, to bondage, to forced sex, to public sex, to some serious taboo things I won't name. Once I included the reference to her masturbating in a story she was so aroused she was sitting on a puddle and squirming uncontrollably. She would then often pull off her panties and fuck me right where we sat, or she would drag me by the hand to our bedroom. She clearly was aroused by the thought of exhibitionist masturbation, but would not do it.
I became obsessed with getting her to masturbate while I watched. I begged her. No. I threatened to stop telling the stories. No. Who was I kidding, she knew I would go back to stories as it always ended with very enthusiastic sex. Stopping the stories would just be hurting myself. I resigned myself to the conclusion that I was never going to get my wish fulfilled, but I kept asking for it anyway. I wouldn't give up!
And then something unusual happened. On my birthday, Anita informed me that one of her friends, Carrie, was dropping by to pick up something and after she left we would go out to dinner for my birthday as we had planned.
When Carrie arrived, Anita said, "aren't you going to offer our guest some wine." That was not an unusual request, so I opened a bottle and poured three glasses. Anita and I sat on the sofa with Carrie seated in a club chair across from us. Cheers!
Then Anita said, "I've told Carrie about your ability as a storyteller, so why don't you tell us a story..." I knew what this meant and frankly I was now too scared to speak. After seemingly hundreds of fantasies told, I was at a loss to think of one that seemed "appropriate" in this setting. I mean how bold could it be? Was this some kind of trap? Could I go too far? Could I get myself into trouble with what I said? Clearly they were both expecting a sexual fantasy.
I decided to keep it tame and focus on Anita. Real but safe. I told a story of meeting a gorgeous woman named "Mona" on a tropical beach, who looked exactly like Carrie when I described her. That was as risky as I wanted to be. As soon as I began talking both women took a sip of wine, unbuttoned their blouses one button (coincidence?) uncrossed their legs and leaned back relaxing, as if ready to be entertained -- or otherwise stimulated.
