The slim brunette smiles down at her sandy-haired lover. “It turns you on, doesn’t it?” she
says, feeling his erection pulsing against her as she leans down to kiss him.
Eric fights back a smile. “Don't be ridiculous,” he says. “My curiosity is strictly
professional. In case you haven’t noticed, the sign on my office door does say ‘Professor of
Psychology.’ Fantasies, especially sexual fantasies, reveal a great deal about a person.
And I want to know everything there is to know about you.”
Elizabeth playfully bites his lip. “Bull. It turns you on.”
He grins, cupping her breasts, slowly teasing his thumbs over her dark and swollen
nipples. “Okay,” he says, “let’s pretend that it does turn me on. Not that it really does, mind
you, but let’s pretend, just for the hell of it. Now will you tell me more?”
She plays coy, pulling back from him, crossing her arms over her nudity. “I shouldn’t. I’ve
told you far too much already. I’ve never breathed a word of this to anyone else, you know. Not a word.”
He smiles. “I can see why.”
He does not elaborate, nor does she ask him to. She senses his thoughts mirroring her own. Their
lives are centered in the politically correct world of academia. The campus of the small liberal arts college
where they teach is fervently patrolled by a small but zealous cadre of self-appointed Thought Police. Some
of the more radical female faculty members have even gone so far as to publicly equate consensual marital
lovemaking with legalized rape. In such an environment, Elizabeth knows only too well that it would be career
and social suicide to ever allow word to spread through the rumor-hungry campus grapevine that she not only
entertains, but (even worse) enjoys erotic fantasies in which she acquiesces to the sexual desires of nameless,
faceless and potentially dangerous men.
“I’m waiting,” Eric urges, sliding his hands down over her naked bottom. “Is your
fantasy always the same? About a burglar breaking into the house late at night, sneaking upstairs
and finding you lying here in bed, all naked and vulnerable, and suddenly deciding that he would
much rather take you than your jewelry?”
Elizabeth shudders as his fingers disappear into the deep warm valley between the cheeks of
her ass. “Not always,” she says. “But it is always a variation on the same theme. Sometimes I
fantasize that I’m lying on the couch in the evening, reading Anaïs Nin and getting a little turned
on, just like I always do when I read her. I drift off to sleep with my robe open, touching myself.
“When I wake up, there’s a man, a stranger, standing over me. I start to scream, but he puts his
hand over my mouth. Then his other hand is on my breasts and my stomach, and between my legs, and he
feels how hard my nipples are and how wet I am. You can probably guess the rest.”
“Yes, I think I can,” Eric says, teasing the tip of his finger over her puckered anus.
She gasps softly. “Lately,” she says, her breath quickening as she rocks back and forth
above him, rubbing her damp and swollen vaginal lips over his rigid organ, “I’ve been fantasizing about
being on campus late at night. I’ve just finished my evening American Lit lecture and I’m walking to my car.
It’s the last one left in the lot—as it usually really is—and when I get to it, I come upon a man trying
to steal it. But when he sees me, he—”
“Let me guess,” Eric interrupts, pulling her close and rolling atop her, teasing his
cockhead over her wet slit for an agonizingly long moment before plunging to his root in her. “Once this
would-be car thief sees you, his thoughts take a turn from Grand Theft Auto to, shall we say, crimes of passion?”
Elizabeth nods, squeezing her legs around him and arching her pelvis upward to meet his strokes.
“What does this fantasy car thief do to you?”
“He does this,” she says. “He makes love to— He fucks me. Just like you’re doing, only harder
and rougher and right there in the parking lot where anyone could drive in and see the whole
thing.” Her voice fades. She pauses for a moment before adding, in a bare whisper, “And he makes
me do other things, too.”
“What other things?” Eric says. Lifting himself up onto his knees, he pulls out of
her, dragging his hard, slippery organ up over her belly and between her breasts until its spongy tip
touches her lips. “This?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, touching the tip of her tongue to him, tasting her own salty-sweet juices. “He
always wants me to do that—to suck his cock. He insists.”
“Do you do it?”
She does not answer him. Her hands are on his ass. Her fingertips dig deep into his muscled flesh.
She pushes her lips over him, kissing and licking and sucking, sliding slowly upward, higher and higher,
until at last his sweaty pubic curls tickle the tip of her nose and she feels his mushroom-shaped
head squeezing past her tonsils.
“You’re the expert on this sort of thing,” Elizabeth says softly. “Why do I have these strange
fantasies?” They lie side by side on the antique brass bed, their fingertips lightly intertwined.
A gentle wash of moonlight spills over them through a second-story window of the off-campus frame
home she has lovingly and painstakingly restored to its original turn-of-the-century splendor. “And
why, when I know they should absolutely terrify me, even repulse me, do they excite me so?”
“We all have unconventional sexual thoughts from time to time,” Eric assures her, leaning
up on one elbow. “They intrigue us for that very reason—because they are unconventional. They
break taboos. And the little bit of nonconformist lurking inside all of us—the part of me, for
instance, that insists on driving a Corvette instead of the stereotypical professorial Volvo,
and the part of you that gets a secret kick out of wearing sexy little thongs and lace-top
thigh-highs under your prim and proper classroom skirts—just loves the idea of breaking taboos.
It sets us, at least in our own minds, apart from the crowd.
“And since in our little corner of society it’s almost as forbidden for a self-respecting
woman to even fantasize about being forcefully taken by a man as it is for a man to actually
commit the act, your secret taboo-breaking side finds the notion of playing the helpless
submissive appealing. You’re turned on not only by the danger, but by the political
incorrectness of the idea. And what’s wrong with that? What fun would fantasies be if
they were always safe and sane and politically correct?”
He leans over her, tracing warm wet kisses down over her breasts and belly and into
the dark curls beneath her navel. Just as his lips touch her hot wet center, she tangles
her fingers in his hair and whispers, “What about you, Doctor Know-it-all? Do you
have any politically incorrect sexual fantasies?”
