only a fantasy

It's just a fantasy, but sometimes she thinks about it with such clarity that her body is sure it is happening. She can lie there, perfectly still, just breathing against the blankets, her thoughts becoming a movie-scape, then a near reality, and the pulse in her body ripples deeply into her cunt. After a long stretch of this experience, her hands finally find their way to that space between her legs and she climaxes, hard and breathless, in only a few seconds.

The plank of wood is circular, large, and can spin in a horizontal fashion, around and around slowly. There are several with her, wanting this same thing, this abandon and surrender and hours of lust. They are each wrapped in several cuts of fabric, the pieces overlapping in strategic places to allow easy parting and access. Eyes are covered with cloth too. They lie on their backs, far enough away from each other that they don't touch, but close enough to hear breaths when they get heavy. Their legs are bent at the knee with the feet tied three feet a part at the edge of the wheel, bottoms scooted to the edge as well. Available and soon exposed. They are mystery, blindness, presents.

After they are in place, the others come in, and stand around the wheel. The game works like this: The wheel is spun around. When it stops, the person standing has free reign with the person lying in front of them for 10 minutes until it is spun again. The first hour, feet, legs, thighs, warmth and hardness are revealed beyond the layers of fabric. The second, bellies, chests, nipples, hands, arms, neck. The third, mouths. Anything can be used: dildo, vibrator, food, hands, mouth, cock, fingernails, flowers, switches, breath, pleasure or torment. Male and females are mixed. It's chance and thrill.

And so it is this that she imagines, those that are light and exquisite and make her skin feel like silken tingles, those that are rough like a humping animal, those that want to see how much her cunt will stretch open for them as they place an object in and then another until the gasp in her throat almost chokes her, those that leave marks that whisper of rose petals but feel like stings, those that rub their cunts against her toes, those that press and rub against her side and breasts, and those that eventually filll her mouth with their length or wet flesh.

They are focused on what gives them pleasure, but she receives endless - because their pleasure depends upon them rubbing, feeling, plunging, teasing, fucking. She imagines orgasming countless times, thinks she can't handle another, and yet it comes too because she is in no position to move away, or protest, or stop it.

When she - the girl lying in the dim bedroom - does finally allow herself release, it feels like the dozenth or twentieth and she is like a rag, a clump of shed heat. It is then, on this day, that he walks in. She has to laugh, eyes dancing a little sheepishly. She asks him if he wants to know what she was thinking about. He lies near her, breathing in her skin, as she teases with illusive details and then specific moments. It makes her body tingle, and she feels his hardness press to her thigh.

She tells him with a grin that she's too tired, but he can have her breasts. And so, he undresses and straddles her, rubbing his cock against breasts and nipples, making the sensations in her own body build for another round. She remembers reading women complaining about this. She's different - it completely does her in, with her breasts like open exposed nerve endings being plunged into, a delightful fuck massage. When he comes, the warmth splatters against her neck and down her collar bone, and she wants someone or something back inside of her.

The fantasy satisfies them both.