Final Fantasy?
“Would you like to spice things up a little?”

She trailed a scarlet red nail down my chest and expanded my brain and my cock in ways that only young women from the Home Counties can. I
gently sucked at her hardening pink nipple and she told me of her plans for a new art project.

I was Jarvis Cocker and she wanted to sleep with common people, people like me. I suggested we make it in a supermarket but she refused – only home-knitted, organically hand-reared MSG for her.

“I want you to make my fantasy come true” she said as she slid her slender leg over my body.

As she knelt astride me she went on, “Guess the film.”

She arched her back and her wet supporting actress devoured my throbbing hot leading man.

”Even Cowgirls Get the Blues?”

She shook her head as she bucked and reared against me, “Guess again”

My mind began to race with fantasies, of all the best films ever – my head was full of Channel 4’s ‘100 Best Films of All Time’ and as each z-list pundit appeared so my own Oscar seemed to be losing the plot.


“Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal. We can carry on later. Some other time. It happens to all men at some time you know. It’s okay. We can just cuddle.”

It had become a brief encounter.

She stood in front of the rear window the fading light fell across her naked form and I wondered if this was to be the last mimsy I would ever see.

“Don’t look now, but I think the police are turning up next door.”

“Is that it?” I demanded, “An Officer and a Gentleman?

Do you want me to wear a uniform, march into your office, sweep you off your feet and take you out to the toilets where I’ll sit you on the edge of the sinks, slide your skirt over your thighs, roughly push your lacy panties aside-“


“No. Not that one.”


“Does it involve other people?”

In my mind I saw her dressed in a long gown, her black hair held back by a single hairband, her red lips parted slightly and her pale skin luminous in moonlight as distant singing came through the forest where she stood. And then a group of men would appear, workmen, hard and sweaty from the day’s toils. Seven of them, each taking their turn to hammer into her as she writhes in ecstasy beneath and all the while another man, a taller man stands in the shadows with his horse – each engorged with their desire for the mewing nymph.


“No. Just one man actually.”


“Is it something more…depraved? Blue Velvet maybe? I’ve a friend who works in a hospital – I can borrow an oxygen mask, and maybe he’d hide in the wardrobe for us.”


“No. Doesn’t do anything for me.”


“Okay, something more traditional. What about Spartacus? Or Gladiator? I could wear a pair of leather thong sandals, hold a sword and you could tie me up with leather thongs and whip me with leather thongs until I beg to remain your slave.”


“No. I prefer something more…..modern.”


She began to get dressed. Silk was her favourite fabric and the wash of it against my skin always gave me wood…. silk wood, always the best type.


“One of my favourites is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That scene where Katherine Ross has to undress while Robert Redford points a gun at her. The room is half-lit and he sits in a rocking chair. She wears a chemise like your wearing now, the ribbons are slowly untied and her milky breasts are revealed. She strips to her stockings, lays back on the bed and slips her fingers into her mouth then her dripping pussy while he is fully dressed. Then he unzips-“


“No he doesn’t. You’ve imagined that last part. And that’s not the film.”


She’s nearly fully dressed by now and I’m sporting a stunt man who needs to plunge into something dark, wet and hot.


“One last guess and then I’m telling you which one.”


My brain goes into overdrive. I have a vision of her as a singing nun being fucked on a hillside while I’m dressed as a Nazi, playing the banjo and taking her up the wrong ‘un, using religious dildos and throwing pea soup around the room, or maybe being more romantic and telling her I don’t give a damn while I fart under the curtains, rosebuds flit through my mind, mashed potato mountains, and even petals.

She can see I’ve given up – all that concerns me now is whether she’ll eat my hot dog before the main feature.

“The film is The Music Box. Ring me when you think you’re up to it.”


And with that she swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her. I had no idea what she was talking about but thoughts of Camberwick Green and Mrs Honeyman crossed my cerebral stage.


Then I realised what it was she wanted of me.

I had expected debauchery and perversion the like of which neither Meg Ryan nor Marlon Brando had ever seen but what did she want?



She wanted me to move her fucking piano.
(Stiff Richard, Fri 18 Jul 2008, 12:26, 1 reply)

This
is good. Much better than the one about the holiday rep.
(Bazongaloid, Fri 18 Jul 2008, 12:35, closed)