Airtight Alibi

“Write about sexual fantasies,” she said.

I said, “I already did. There are two books; the third will be out soon.”

And she said, “No, I mean write about sexual fantasies in no more than fifteen-hundred words. By Thursday.”

Which means I can only write about one fantasy, if I’m going to do it justice. But I have so many; how am I supposed to pick only one? She’s put me in an impossible position, like when my alpha reader — who I love with all my heart and most of my ample body — reads a first draft and says, “So did you write these scenes from memory or imagination?”

And my honest answer is, “A bit of both.” I had a life before him, and he’s heard some of the highlights of it, but he doesn’t have all the details. Hell, even I don’t have all the details any more. For some stories the details are cloudy. I used to spend a lot of time in the clouds, back in the day, but that sort of thing makes more experiences than memories.

He flicks through the manuscript. That’s not the action I want from the hand of a horny reader, but he’s dispassionate about my writing, which is why he reads everything first. I need honesty from him. He looks up to ask, “Which is which, then?”

I haven’t even been drinking tonight, so I don’t know what prompts me to say, “Choose one, and I’ll tell you.” Maybe he’ll brush it off as a joke.

He doesn’t. He picks a page at random, chuckles at what he sees, and nods to himself. “Oh yeah. This one. Chapter nine.”

Fuck. He would pick that one. “Ayr-tight? It could be either. I’m not telling you.”

He knows I holidayed in Ayr more than once in my wild youth. He must have suspicions. But he just shrugs. “That’s a shame. Because if it wasn’t real, if this was an unfulfilled fantasy of yours, I’ve got a couple of mates who’d be happy to help out.”

He’ll never know whether my story is reality, but I know he’s living in a fantasy world. I’m certain he doesn’t have friends who want to fuck me. Not because they wouldn’t be his friends if they did — we’ve been monogamous since we married, but he’s not possessive; things could change if we wanted them to — but I know because I’ve met all his friends, and none of them are blind.

I call his bluff. “Do they have big dicks, though? Because in my story the guys are hung. Are your friends hung?”

“Most of them should be, but the cops will never take them alive.”

“Stop it!” I slap his leg, in the half-hearted hope he’ll haul me over his lap and retaliate on my arse. It would change the subject, at least. After a second, in which I’m not on his lap so I’m still on the hook, I can see I’ll have to keep this game going. “Seriously, do your two mates have big dicks?”

He does his best mock-offended face, all wide-eyed and open mouthed. “I do not make a habit of looking at my friends’ bulges! Why would you imagine I’d know how big they are?”

“If you can fantasise two men who want me, I can fantasise you checking them out beforehand. So in my head you’ve already given them head. Did you choke on dick?”

A half-smile creeps onto his lips, and his eyes move up and to the right. That’s memory, isn’t it? Or is that the direction for imagination?

His eyes come back to mine, a steady stare without even a hint of evasion when he says, “I did choke on Richard, yeah, but Nellie’s so girthy I couldn’t even stretch my lips around him.”

He’s a terrible liar. He can’t even invent good names for his imaginary friends. “Nellie? Ha! What kind of man is called Nellie?”

Now his gaze shifts, down to his own crotch. The half-smile slips away, to be replaced by a rueful grin. “A man with an elephant dick. He’s really packing, his trunk’s about twenty inches around.”

“No it isn’t, and I wouldn’t let it near me if it was. That’s the size of your calf, for fuck’s sake.”

He looks at his leg. “I’m no good at estimating sizes. Half a calf, maybe?”

Ten inches is possible. Staggeringly unlikely, but still possible. Now I’m trying to picture it. High school maths tells me a circumference of ten is a diameter of… three inches, give or take. Mostly take, from my point of view. So that’s four fingers. And not bunched-up fingers either; a flat hand. The whole width of my palm, pushing and spreading and stretching me in all directions at once. Fisted by a cock. “Mm-hm. Ten. Yes. I could manage ten, I reckon, if he took it slow. Very slow.”

I’m lying to myself, but it’s an interesting lie. I might have to think about it, in depth, one day soon.

He picks up his phone and threatens, “I’ll give the boys a call then, will I?”

He is bluffing. He must be. Those men, — I refuse to call anyone with a three-inch thick cock a boy — they don’t exist.

But what if he isn’t bluffing? What if Nellie’s actually out there, thinking about me, fantasising about me, waiting for a call from him? I’m beginning to picture a reality very different to the scene I wrote. “Hold on! What happened to slow? We haven’t even decided who’ll go where.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Do you think there’s more than one place you could comfortably fit Nellie?”

I don’t think there’s anywhere I could comfortably fit Nellie, but he has a fair point. “Okay, he gets my cunt, but you and Dick will have to toss a coin to choose ends. Unless you have a preference?”

“I want your arse.”

I should have guessed. He usually wants my arse. “So you’d like to see me choke on Dick?”

“You know how much I enjoy that.”

“It wouldn’t be yours this time. Anyway, you’re out of luck. Where you’ll be, you’d only get to hear me gag. And your entirely average — ahem, your magnificently average cock would be very close to Nellie’s monster. Pretty much rubbing up against it, in fact. Or half of it, at least. If you don’t shrivel up in shame, you’re going to get crowded out. I might not even notice your cock, not with a fucking arm inside me. And I never want to not notice your cock.”

That earns me a ‘good girl’ smile. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I won’t call the guys after all.”

“It’s probably for the best, love. Nice cup of tea?”

“Please.”

As I walk through to the kitchen, he shouts after me. “You know, we could still explore that fantasy. I could be all three guys, one at a time.”

My arse is far enough from his hand that I’ll risk popping my head around the door with a cheeky grin. “You couldn’t be Nellie.”

“Oh come on! You wouldn’t want me to be.”

He’s right. Who’d want a ten inch girth, really? That’s ridiculous. I mean, I’ve got a lot of toys, and I’m always browsing for more, but I haven’t even looked at anything that size.

Yet.

Linked to Wicked Wednesday