Real Life (or) Just Fantasy

Margaret Kinshern was enjoying her fantasy. What woman doesn't enjoy a fantasy every once in a while? Especially a woman with nothing to do and all day to do it. The fantasy she was enjoying at the moment was similar in its basic theme to many of the dreams she had been having lately, not real life, just fantasy. Her dreams, fantasies, concerned degraded, sexually out-of-control woman. Margaret was a bit worried about her fantasy. It concerned itself with a woman who had put herself at the mercy of a man, but at least the woman in her present fantasy was not Margaret herself. She might have had a problem with that, there were a few of Margaret's intimates who did have a problem with her relationships. Fortunately, her ongoing fantasy was about someone else, a 28-year-old, pretty, recently married college instructor, not Margaret, not Margaret.:

*

She was walking out of the mall. The man was walking into the mall

Maybe it was unintentional on her part, she couldn't say for sure, but they made eye contact, Perhaps it was in response to the eye contact, maybe not, but as soon as they made eye contact, he took three long strides, reached where she was and stood right in front of her. This was all happening in broad daylight. There were plenty of people around. She didn't have to respond to him. She could have ignored him, just walked away. But she didn't. She didn't know why. Up to that moment, there was nothing overtly offensive in his behavior. Again, their eyes met. He moved a step closer, so that she could not ignore the fact that he was invading her space. Less than a foot of space separated them.

"Where you goin?" he demanded. Didn't ask, demanded.

She just looked at him. It wasn't that she was shocked. It was because she did not know what to say that she didn't answer. He was big. He looked to be strong. She was frightened, not because of him, but because she didn't know why she couldn't say anything or do anything.

"Didn't you hear what I asked you?" he said. He was staring at her. His lips were formed into a sneer.

Who was this man? She didn't know him. To her best knowledge, she had never seen him before, but, when the man told her to follow him, she did. She walked behind him deep into the crowded mall parking lot. They were separated for a moment when he crossed a car pathway and she had to wait for a short group of cars and vans passing between them. When the cars passed, she crossed the street, moving as quickly as possible on her high heels and caught up to him just as he stopped next to his car.

She stood there, breathing hard from the exertion she had expended to keep up with him.

"Get in the car," he said. He indicated she move to the passenger side and open the door by herself. "I wants to ask you something."

His language demonstrated a lack of education, his clothing nondescript and personal hygiene slovenly. She stood where she had been standing, close to the rear bumper of the driver's side. Why was she standing there? She should just walk away. His car was like him, not impressive at all. It was a sedan. Rust showed in places as did scratches along its paint. The car had not been washed in a long while. She should just walk away. But she didn't. She just stood there.

"Didn't I tell you to get in?" he said.

She moved quickly to open the car's passenger side door and got in.

He entered the car on the driver's side.

She suddenly began to cry. She didn't know why.

"Stop that crying," he commanded.

She was unable to stop sobbing, this woman in Margaret's fantasy.

"I told you to quit that."

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice pleaded for his sympathy. They were the first words she had spoken to him.

He looked at her. His look was contemptuous. His lips were curled into a sneer. He leaned over and put his lips hard against hers and began to kiss her. He forced his tongue into her mouth. She felt his tongue moving against her tongue. She tried to resist, but instead found herself responding, swirling her tongue against his, desperate to taste the tobacco flavor of his invading wetness. They remained like that, kissing, until, it seemed like minutes later, he stopped it. He lit a cigarette.

He started the engine. "We're going to my place," he told her.

"Please," she said. She didn't know what she meant by the word, please, no, or please, yes. She knew only that she was unable to resist him. She didn't know why. The car had not yet begun to move although its motor continued to run. He put his hand on her knee, the knee furthest from him, and pushed, separating her legs. She felt a new coolness invade between her legs. His hand moved up her thigh from her knee slowly, caressing her smooth skin, stopping only when his hand reached the joining of her leg with her torso. His hand did not move to touch her mound, but she felt it brush against her panties push at the puff of pussy hair there.

"Please," she whispered. She didn't know what she meant by the word she had whispered, please stop or please go on.

"Shut up," he replied. He extended one finger past the elastic edging the gusset of her panty and stroked her labia. "Shut up. Just shut up and be quiet," he said. I am going to take you to my place and I am going to fuck you silly. So, shut up."

He began to drive.

She remained sobbing, though she still had not said a word other than the word please.

The car left the mall's parking lot and entered the flow of traffic, heading South on the crowded street.

Cara Orbison (that is the name of the woman in Margaret's fantasy) felt now something that both frightened and excited her, she felt a heavy wetness begin to flow deep within her cunt. She could not stop the flow just as she could not stop her sobbing.

"You know how to suck cock?" the driver asked. He made a right turn. They were in a residential neighborhood. The houses here seemed neat single family dwellings, crowded close to each other. "I asked you something." His voice was angry.

"I...I..." was all she was able to say. She had forgotten the question to which she was supposed to respond.

"You suck cock," he repeated.

She nodded her head yes and continued to sob. She had been married six years and had sucked her husband, Joseph's, cock eleven times in those six years.

"You fucking sick, you know, coming here with me."

She looked straight ahead and nodded her head, the nod indicating that maybe she was agreeing with his statement. Certainly, she could think of no rational reason for being in his car.

"Ya know, what you are doin' is nuts."

She once again nodded her head. This time the nod left no room for disagreement. Her sobbing had stopped. Her head remained down as she glanced over at the driver.

"You so hard up for a good fuck that you would take a chance like this? With a guy like me? You really need to be fucked so bad?"

Cara leaned towards the driver, grabbed his thigh with her hand and pushed him against his window. She had no answer to his question, but she mumbled, "I need something. I don't even know why I need it. I don't even know what I need. But I know that it will come from you." He took her hand from his thigh and pushed it against his cock.

She felt his tumescent instrument. It was large and firm. "What are you going to do to me?" she asked, her voice low.

"Girl, I am going to see that you are fucked good"

She swallowed. All this while, she had been unable to stop crying. She could not stop her tears from running down from her eyes and ruining her carefully applied make up. "I, I don't know what I want. I don't know that I want that, what you just said. Maybe you should take me back to the mall."

"You think so," he said. "After you got me so hard and came all the way here with me. You want to go back? It ain't gonna happen." He unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car. He stood next to his door, but didn't say anything or gesture even to indicate to her what she ought to do. After a moment or two, she unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car. She stood in one place until he walked over to her and took her hand in his. She had not quit crying. "I live on the second floor," he said.

She walked with him to the door of the building. "Are there going to be any other of your friends there?" she whispered. He could barely hear what she had whispered. She had barely heard it. She wet her lips with her tongue.

"Whoooeee," he said, "You are a lot weirder than I thought." He looked at her as they stood at the bottom of the stairwell which led to his second floor apartment. "You wondering if I am gonna have friends up stairs? You is even a bigger slut than I thought."

She said nothing, just looked down at her feet. She imagined the room upstairs, she in it surrounded by his friends, some naked, some with only their pants off, their shirts still on, a few with the cocks hanging out past their unzipped flies. Cocks. She saw herself surrounded by those big, fat, heavy, full of cum cocks. A lot of cocks.

He led her to the stairs. One of his hands snaked up under her skirt, pushing the skirt all the way up so that the top of her thighs were now uncovered, exposed to his view and to his touch. A finger sneaked its way into her wet cunt. "Yeah," he said, "You want, I'll have some friends over." He cupped her ass cheeks with his hands and squeezed. "You been ass fucked?"

She hardly heard his question, she was breathing so loudly. Her mouth was open, her chest was heaving as they entered the door to his apartment.

She did not even have an opportunity to see what the apartment looked like, just smell the strong odor of tobacco that filled the room before he trapped her against the door. He pushed his body against hers. He began to undress her. He was methodical, unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her brassier, loosening her skirt belt. He pulled the skirt down until his fingers engaged her panties and then pulled both her skirt and panties down, one atop the other, at the same time, letting them pool, spread open on the floor around her ankles. She could smell the musk from her panties even as she stood up. Her bra hung from her shoulder, her blouse from the same shoulder, one breast uncovered, the other breast half covered. His hands were touching her all over. Her nipples were taut. The palm of his hand pressed hard against the hairy bush of her cunt.

"No," she breathed.

No, what?"

"No, I've never had a cock in my ass," Cara Orbison said.

*

Margaret Kimshaw saw the details of her fantasy scene vividly, clearly, in color. Every sound, every breath, every groan was loud enough to ring in her ear as if she was hearing it in stereo in a movie theatre. But then her phone rang. It was her summons.

It was time to go.

No more fantasy for Margaret Kimshaw.

She was leaving her home. She was going out into the real world. The fantasy had helped her to get her juices flowing. She didn't bother to speculate anymore, though, about whatever would happen to poor, so sad, unhappy little Cara Orbison She knew that she, Margaret Kimshaw, she wouldn't sob, wouldn't cry. Not her. She went to her door to leave, to answer the summons the phone had messaged. The call had been from Anthony. It wouldn't be wise for her to be late.