The bestselling author of My Secret Garden exposes the wild and sexy fantasies that many of us have but are afraid to mtn-i.info over thirty years, Nancy Friday. Beyond my control: forbidden fantasies in an uncensored age / Nancy Friday. View the summary of this work. Bookmark: mtn-i.info Nancy Friday's Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age is a bit of a disappointment. Known for her prior compilations of (mainly female).
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Beyond My Control Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age ( ) Nancy Friday, ISBN , ISBN ,, tutorials, pdf, ebook, torrent, downloads, rapidshare, filesonic, hotfile, megaupload. 35 years later, the follow-up to the groundbreaking mega-bestseller My Secret Garden, explores the nature of our sexual fantasies., ISBN Read the PDF on your Sony Reader, Nook, Kobo, iPhone, iPod Touch, Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age shows that our Nancy Friday published her first book, “My Secret Garden,” in
Kate registered being lowered to the sand gently, his arm still holding her firmly, the other one landing by her side, supporting his weight, as he hovered above her, kissing her with full force now, nibbling on her lips, suckling on them, stroking her tongue with his own purposefully, as if he wanted to drink her up, suck her up into himself. Teasing him slightly, she caught his tongue in between her teeth and tickled its tip with her own, while spreading her palms flat up and into his short brown hair, grazing his scalp softly.
She was rewarded with a sharp sigh and his body moving closer, pressing at her side, his free hand playing beneath the hem of her top, where he had found a stripe of bare skin.
Kate released his tongue, kissing the corners of his mouth, and rubbing her cheek against his, delighted to fulfill her desire of testing the coarse texture. A shameless whimper escaped her throat when his moist lips connected with her throat where it curved into the collarbone while his hand moved up underneath the fabric to skim over the side of her breast tentatively. Kate arched her back into him for more, her brain clouded completely by his heady musky scent, by his taste on her lips, by the warm weight of his body pressing up closer and tighter against her, by the sound of his hot ragged breath blowing into her neck, by his knee parting hers now instinctively, moving to in between her legs, demanding access, which she gladly provided.
It wasn't until his hips were fully cradled in hers, not before she could feel his hardness pressing intimately into her overheated centre through their clothes, while she bucked up enthusiastically to meet him halfway, not before her hands made their way up his t-shirt to stroke the perfectly defined muscles there, that he had suddenly pulled away from another fierce kiss, to look in her eyes.
She continued rubbing the nape of his neck lightly; she had already learnt he loved it. Her heart was racing in fear that he would and she shifted underneath him, knowing it would produce a grind against his hardness and cut at his self-control. She couldn't let him stop, not now, not when he was so close, so warm, so alive, the prospect of being left cold and alone on the sand more terrifying now than anything had ever been.
He inhaled sharply and shut his eyes at her invasion, lowering his mouth back to hers, seemingly unable to resist. Jack sighed, brushing his lips against hers and shaking his head in negation. She understood what he was asking, understood that he needed to know; if she gave herself to him now, would that be for good? Did she want to be his fully, wholly, without running, without hiding, without playing around?
Was that real and was she ready? Kate made her decision long time ago, or it was made for her before she was born, but she had never dared to hope to see those questions in his eyes.
Lost for words and suddenly on the verge of tears, she blinked at him slowly and it was her turn to shake her head.
It was as if he allowed his passion to take over then, crushing her against him, taking his busy mouth to explore each patch of bare skin with complete focus on every spot, gauging her reactions, seeking for the places which made her squeeze his shoulders almost painfully, which would make her gasp his name out.
Everything he did, each touch, each electrifying kiss left her wanting more and more, never enough. She tugged on his t-shirt, now crumpled up somewhere around his shoulder blades and Jack propped himself up briefly, to take it off, making Kate shiver involuntarily both in loss of his warmth against her and at the sight of his sculpted chest. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers across the firm expenses of his sun-kissed skin, meeting the prickly hair there, moving to his bicep, to trace his mysterious tattoo and back again, to his hardened nipples.
His chest was raising and falling in quick shallow breaths, as he accepted her caresses, letting her hands travel along their discovery tracks. The way he looked at her… It made Kate's heart flutter; His eyes black with lust now, as if he longed to eat her alive, to devour her greedily, to virtually rip her clothes off and fuck her hard, burying himself as deep as ever, bruising her on the way and never caring about that, but as if he was consciously stemming himself.
It made her want him more yet; the frail promise of his strong body to overpower her, to force the sweet surrender out of her, it would drain all resistance away, should there had ever been any. But at the same time, there was endless tenderness in his eyes, the care, the affection, the respect, the need to protect her.
It did, however, manifest much alike: as if he wanted to melt her into himself. Kate wondered what he could read in her own eyes. And he must have read it right, because the next thing she felt were his lips on her own again, in a kiss so passionate, so devoted, so truthful, that Kate felt the aching for him inside her double, triple, multiply by each dart of his talented hot tongue against hers. Breathing into his mouth, she grabbed his hand that was playing languidly across her stomach and shoved it up onto her tingling breast, with a simultaneous buck of her groin against the irresistible temptation of his hard length strained beneath the heavy denim, eliciting a low, almost animalistic grunt from the back of his throat.
And his long fingers were moving over her waiting breast; she pressed up against his palm, unable to stop herself, wanting more, always more. He drew circles with his thumb around her taut nipple through the fabric, teasingly, but then cupped her breast firmly, pushing it up slightly, and her breath got caught down her throat from the infinite pleasure.
Kate moved her hands down his strong back, to grasp his firm buttocks and urge him closer, tighter, rubbing against him now, in the long-restrained need. She was glad to see, he wasn't planning on holding to his persistent control, that his impatience matched hers, that he pulled her top roughly over her head and struggled now with the clasp of her bra, but not succeeding, so he just pushed the garment up and out of the way, stopping momentarily, drawn to the sight of her heaving chest in the fading daylight.
His movements slowed down upon uncovering her breasts, his hands on her yearning flesh, passionate now, earnest, focused on cherishing her. One roughened palm closed over her breast and she moaned in pleasure as its heel rubbed against the flushed nipple, and she panted, capturing his earlobe with her teeth, to yes, yes, please, not to stop, when his hot mouth joined in, his tongue lapping on the tight bud, his lips sucking gently and then stronger, making her head spin and sending the sensation straight down to her lower belly in a delicious spasm and straight into between her legs, in a pool of fervent wetness.
She couldn't stand the increasing tension, desperate for release; she was grinding up against him frantically now, her hands roaming over his sculpted body anywhere she could reach, her lips only leaving his to cover his jaw, his neck, his shoulders in rushed sloppy kisses, to taste everything about him, the salty tang of his sweat on her tongue.
She reached for the waistband of his jeans, and he didn't protest, no, he encouraged her, backing up and giving her access, mesmerized by her tiny fingers fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. She could tell he enjoyed the image; he was going to remember it. Kate wanted to implant dozens and dozens of images into his memory, she wanted them to replace his fantasies, to fuse with them, to stimulate them, so he would always come back to her when he wanted to feel like this.
Determined, she wriggled her hand past the heavy fabric, eager to touch him finally, and they both gasped when her fingers connected with the velvety skin of his hard shaft.
The look on his face was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, Kate decided, as she grasped him firmly and stroked once, twice, his features smoothing visibly as he allowed himself to fall victim to the ineffable pleasure. Fascinated, Kate leaned up to capture his parted lips with hers again, and he responded immediately, shaking the momentary inertia of pure bliss off and away, and returning her attention, freeing her from the bra successfully now and bringing his hand down, to where she needed him, cupping her through the jeans.
The arch of her back was pure instinct, as she moaned his name breathlessly, but the contact wasn't enough and he knew it. Her eyes fluttered open in disappointment when he moved up to kneel between her legs and his erection slipped out of her hand. She knew, now that she'd identified that part of him, now that she'd got to touch it, she would never be able to get enough; she would want him over and over again, under her fingers, in her mouth, inside her.
A chill ran down her spine at the notion, and her insides contracted in a fresh tide of arousal. What he does to her. She melted under his touch, her skin turning to hot liquid, her whole body evaporating, floating outside time, outside space, in the transcendence they shared; everything became absurdly insignificant now, the world imploding into the eternal call of her body to him.
She wanted him, she needed him, now, and so she told him. His pupils dilated further as he nodded slightly and let out a ragged breath; he unzipped her pants and pushed them down roughly, getting stuck on her boots for a while.
He was loosing the control battle and it only excited her more. Jack came back to her yearning lips in a trail of butterfly kisses up the curve of her calf, the smoothness of her inner thigh, the hollow of her hipbone, the swell of her breast; the dizzying tickle of his stubble following.
His mouth wanted to be gentle, but his lust didn't let it, and she felt his teeth flirting with the idea of an ample bite, grazing the crook of her neck, brushing over it. With an unsuppressed whimper, she cocked her neck, exposing herself to him, inviting him, surrendering to him.
Yes, Jack, yes. A low grunt left his throat when he suckled on the creamy softness hard, bruising it, attacking it, but she was only too willing to give in, to accept each and every assault, knowing well, that he was paying her back with his bare soul, bare heart, all of it, and that his body was designed to pleasure her, just as hers for him. Kate heard her own cry, when his skillful fingers found their way past her underwear, to slide into her folds, to rub her swollen clit lightly, to apply deliciously rhythmical pressure, to dance over her opening before slipping in and beginning to thrust now, agonizingly slowly, even though they were shaking with his stifled urge to devour her hard and fast, to quench his carnal thirst.
The thirst that threatened to leave her dried up dead if he wouldn't pour life into her body soon. Now She urged his jeans down, and he helped her, never stopping his kisses, never stopping his whispers of how beautiful she was, and how he had always belonged to her, and how he wanted to give her everything, anything. Together they managed to rid him of the offensive layers and now he was coming back to his rightful place in between her legs, and she couldn't stop marveling at how stunning he was, his body a work of art, only so much better, warm and alive.
She was clinging to him, wrapping herself around him, her craving to merge with him never satisfied, not before they'd be unified. Her hands landed on his hot shaft again, her heart pounding in anticipation — he was so hard, and so big, all for her now; just as the excessive moisture of her body was all for him.
She couldn't stop it, even if it was too much; This is real; her panties getting soaked, time and time again. For him. To take her. To make her his own. Take me -Jack -…Only you - And so he did.
Stripping her out from the flimsy panties, he repositioned himself at her burning entrance, both of them dying for the ultimate connection. Both of their mouths opened, and gasped, and moaned simultaneously, as their eyes kept searching each others' for the answer to the sudden, but perennial question: how does it feel so right?
Why does it feel so good…? What if I had never found you?
My love? My love. He pushed inside her, slowly but steadily, as she stretched for him, realizing that she had never felt anything sweeter, that her whole life had brought her to him, day after day.
That they were made for each other, fitting so perfectly, each dip in the bay of her body now finding its fulfillment, designed just to harbour each and every inch of him, each vein and every edging. This was it, the point of no return, not that she would ever want to return. He was in her, claiming his right of her, bringing the inevitable change, the change that nature had pushed them into, they both too feeble to ever fight it. And he was moving out now, but she knew it was only to come back stronger and her eyes shut eventually, giving in to the sensation of his thickness stretching her almost painfully, while her inner muscles contracted in a foretaste of her ecstasy, gripping him, pulling him deeper inside in greed.
His lips landed on hers again, in a passionate kiss, matching the infuriatingly slow pace of his thrusts, slow, but thorough, forceful, bringing his cock all the way up into her hot tunnel and twisting his tongue around hers like ivy, while her limbs twined all over him, heels digging into his buttocks, to urge him deeper yet, harder, and hands holding onto his shoulders, encircling his neck hastily, as if she wanted to absorb him whole.
She couldn't even feel the scrape of sand on her sweaty skin, but the scrape of his bristly cheek on her jaw line as he hid his face in the crook of her neck rippled through her body in jolts, meeting the waves of pure bliss that each of his pushes evoked.
It was almost completely dark now, the sun disappeared in the ocean, but she could see the inner glare in his eyes when he looked at her, so intensely, so lovingly, her heart could burst now. All her fantasies, none of her fantasies could have prepared her for how wonderful it would be. Kate smiled at him, in the immense joy of their union, and he responded with a suddenly tender kiss, with his hand closing over her breast deftly, caringly, rubbing her swollen flesh as if he knew exactly that was what she needed.
So good, so good. But it wasn't enough, still not enough, she needed more of him, all of him, she needed him to ditch the control, to pound into her with everything he had. She was now rocking against him, each stroke bringing her closer and closer to her release, at awe how little it was taking, how she was on the brink already, and determined to prolong the pleasure of having him in but at the same time unable to stop.
Her eyelids were heavy, her vision blurred by uncontrollable tears when she continued to move, watching his handsome face all the time, telling him in wordless gasps and whimpers and moans how good he felt, how he filled her up so completely, how he was filling the hole in her heart.
His eyes so dark, so warm now, reflected back at her everything she was silently telling him. Jack raised one hand up, to caress her cheek and she was taken aback again, how her whole face would fit in there, in that beautiful large palm which must have had been so smooth once, groomed to perfection, but was now calloused and scarred by the harsh reality.
That hand could bring life, she thought, her heart swelling; it had the power to give life. Never stopping her frantic movements met by his hips thrusting up, she turned her head, to plant an affectionate kiss into his palm and then captured his thumb, which was now stroking her lower lip, with her mouth, sucking on it, swirling her tongue around it, tasting the salt of his sweat.
She bit the tip lightly and then moved to his index finger, sucking harder yet, her gaze fixed firmly on his, and she felt his cock swelling even larger within her, while the grip of his other hand on her hip tightened. Freeing himself from her greedy mouth, he grabbed her hand shakily, entwining his fingers with her own and pushed them both to their joining, pressing up on her swollen clit.
And so she did, maneuvering his fingers over the most sensitive spot, to rub against where she desperately needed it, and now he was moving them in sync with their thrusts, sending jolts of ecstasy through her entire being, leading her to the cliff of her sweetest fall, which she was no longer able to back up from.
She leaned down for a kiss, but her lips could not move, immobilized by the feel of his length probing at her insides, by his fingers working her intently, by his eyes bringing the ultimate answers to the questions of existence, by his hot breath meeting hers, so she just brushed her lips against his with every thrust, every push and every pull, much like her hair dangled over his face rhythmically.
And she was coming now, in a series of powerful spasms, wishing so hard to share the experience with him, plunging her fingernails in his skin, coming in waves, in tides, falling out of her body, grasping for air as her lungs were failing her; his name stuck in her throat, in her mind, but unable to pass her open mouth, the sound she'd thought would mould into the one perfect four-letter word becoming a mindless cry, over and over again, just as he kept his fingers moving and never broke the rhythm of his thrusts when she slacked against him, and she was coming, and coming, and coming for what felt like hours, time becoming an irrelevant factor now.
Exhausted, Kate collapsed onto him, his arms holding her securely, soothing her, breaking her fall into the sweet abyss of surrender to the perennial destiny. Come with me, come along, be mine. She pressed her lips to the crook of his neck forcefully and run them up his coarse jaw line to hover over his mouth.
The look in his eyes was one of endless devotion and Kate's hand flung to cup his cheek while her hips continued their instinctive movements against him. He spun them around again, to pin her underneath his stronger form once more, and she moaned as he thrust forcefully within her, as hard as ever.
She felt his hand grabbing her buttock, lifting her, pressing her tighter to his groin, as he moved faster now, harder, ramming into the recess of her body in desperation, seeking his release, begging her in hot huffs against her neck to follow. She welcomed his weight crushing her smaller body as he collapsed on top of her and went on stroking his sweated back soothingly, running her fingers through his hair, catching her breath in time with him, neither of them able to utter a word apparently.
The night fell above and over them, in thick, humid darkness, cocooning their spent bodies, separating them from the world. She brought both hands up to cup his face. Now, Republicans and Democrats must join forces again to confront an urgent national crisis. Congress has 10 days left to pass a bill that will fund our government, protect our homeland and secure our very dangerous Southern border. Now is the time for congress to show the world that America is committed to ending illegal immigration and putting the ruthless coyotes, cartels, and human traffickers out of business.
As we speak, large organized caravans are on the march to the United States. We have just heard that Mexican cities in order to remove the illegal immigrants from their communities are getting trucks and buses to bring them up to our country in areas where there is little border protection.
I have ordered another 3, troops to our Southern border to prepare for this tremendous onslaught. This is a moral issue of the lawless state of our Southern border is a threat to the safety and security and financial well-being of all America. We have a moral duty to create an immigration system that protects the lives and jobs of our citizens. This includes our obligation to the millions of immigrants living here today who follow the rules and respected our laws.
Legal immigrants enrich our nation in countless ways. Wealthy politicians and donors push for open borders while living their lives behind walls, gates and guards. Tolerance for illegal immigration is not compassionate. It is actually very cruel. One in three women is sexually assaulted on the long journey north.
Smugglers use migrant children as pawns to exploit our laws and gain access to our country. Human traffickers and sex traffickers take advantage of the wide open areas between our ports of entry to smuggle thousands of young girls and women into the United States and to sell them into prostitution and modern-day slavery. Tens of thousands of innocent Americans are killed by lethal drugs that cross our border and flood into our cities, including meth, heroin, cocaine and fentanyl.
The savage gang, MS, now operates in at least 20 different American states and they almost all come through our Southern border. Just yesterday, an MS gang member was taken into custody for a fatal shooting on a subway platform in New York City. We are removing these gang members by the thousands. But until we secure our border, they are going to keep streaming right back in. Year after year, countless Americans are murdered by criminal illegal aliens.
I have gotten to know many wonderful angel moms, dads and families. No one should have to suffer the horrible heartache that they have had to endure. Here tonight is Debra Bissell. Just three weeks ago, her parents, Gerald and Sharon were burglarized and shot to death in their Reno, Nevada home by an illegal alien. Few can understand your pain. Thank you.
And thank you for being here. Thank you very much. I will never forget and I will fight for the memory of Gerald and Sharon that it should never happen again. Not one more American life should be lost because our nation failed to control its very dangerous border. In the last two years, our brave ICE officers made , arrests of criminal aliens, including those charged or convicted of nearly , assaults, 30, sex crimes and 4, killings or murders. At the age of eight, he told his dad he wanted to become a special agent.
Today, he leads investigations into the scores of international sex trafficking. Thanks to his work and that of his incredible colleagues, more than women and girls have been rescued from the horror of this terrible situation. And more than 1, sadistic traffickers have been put behind bars. We will always support the brave men and women of law enforcement. My administration has sent to Congress a commonsense proposal to end the crisis on the Southern border.
It includes the humanitarian assistance, more law enforcement, drug detection at our ports, closing loopholes that enable child smuggling and plans for a new physical barrier or wall to secure the vast areas between our ports of entry. In the past, most of the people in this room voted for a wall. But the patrol wall never got built. I will get it built. This is a smart, strategic, see-through steel barrier, not just a simple concrete wall.
It will be deployed in the areas identified by the border agents as having the greatest need. And these agents will tell you where walls go up, illegal crossings go way, way down. San Diego used to have the most illegal border crossings in our country. In response, a strong security wall was put in place.
This powerful barrier almost completely ended illegal crossings. Now, immediately upon its building, with a powerful barrier in place, El Paso is one of the safest cities in our country. Simply put, walls work and walls save lives. No one has benefited more from our thriving economy than women who have filled 58 percent of the newly created jobs last year. All Americans can be proud that we have more women in the work force than ever before.
And exactly one century after Congress passed the constitutional amendment giving women the right to vote, we also have more women serving in Congress than at any time before. And congratulations. As part of our commitment to improving opportunity for women everywhere, this Thursday we are launching the first ever government-wide initiative focused on economic empowerment for women in developing countries.
To build on our incredible economic success, one priority is paramount, reversing decades of calamitous trade policies, so bad. We are now making it clear to China that after years of targeting our industries and stealing our intellectual property, the theft of American jobs and wealth has come to an end. I blame our leaders and representatives for allowing this travesty to happen.
I have great respect for President Xi and we are now working on a new trade deal with China. But it must include real structural change to end unfair trade practices, reduce our chronic trade deficit, and protect American jobs. For years politicians promised them they would renegotiate for a better deal. But no one ever tried until now.
Our new U. I hope you can pass the USMCA into law so that we can bring back our manufacturing jobs in even greater numbers, expand American agriculture, protect intellectual property, and ensure that more cars are proudly stamped with our four beautiful words, made in the U. Tonight I am also asking you to pass the United States Reciprocal Trade Act so that if another country places an unfair tariff on an American product, we can charge them the exact same tariff on the exact same product that they sell to us.
I know that Congress is eager to pass an infrastructure bill. And I am eager to work with you on legislation to deliver new and important infrastructure investment, including investments in the cutting edge industries of the future. This is not an option, this is a necessity. The next major priority for me and for all of us should be to lower the cost of health care and prescription drugs and to protect patients with pre-existing conditions. But we must do more. I am asking Congress to pass legislation that finally takes on the problem of global freeloading and delivers fairness and price transparency for American patients finally.
We should also require drug companies, insurance companies and hospitals to disclose real prices to foster competition and bring costs way down. No force in history has done more to advance the human condition than American freedom. In recent years we have made remarkable progress in the fight against H. Scientific breakthroughs have brought a once distant dream within reach. My budget will ask Democrats and Republicans to make the needed commitment to eliminate the H. We have made incredible strides, incredible.
Tonight I am also asking you to join me in another fight that all Americans can get behind, the fight against childhood cancer. Joining Melania in the gallery this evening is a very brave year-old girl, Grace Eline.
She did not know that one day she might be a patient herself. Last year, Grace was diagnosed with brain cancer. Immediately she began radiation treatment. You are a great inspiration to everyone in this room. Many childhood cancers have not seen new therapies. There could be no greater contrast to the beautiful image of a mother holding her infant child than the chilling displays our nation saw in recent days.
These are living, feeling, beautiful babies, who will never share their love and dreams with the world and then we had the case of the governor of Virginia where he stated he would execute a baby after birth, to defend the dignity of every person. Let us work together to build a culture that cherishes innocent life. And let us reaffirm a fundamental truth, all children, born and unborn, are made in the holy image of God.
The final part of my agenda is to protect American security. We are also getting other nations to pay their fair share.
Then the dog is unleashed, and I am forced on my back while the dog is coaxed so that my head is by his cock and he licks my cant. I have to feel its cock and rub it gently. I am watched by the boy and the wife is naked now. I have to beg for a fucking as the man rubs his prick against my mouth until it becomes big and wet. I am made to lick it and suddenly he holds my head and forces his massive prick in my mouth and holds my nose so that I am forced to suck and swallow his come.
It seems to squirt endlessly dawn my throat. The fantasy fades and I am wet as my finger urgently strokes my cunt to orgasm. Do you suppose this is all due to lesbian tendencies and my secret desire to be watched by a young boy? The inadequacy of her final paragraph, wondering about the meaning of her fantasy, is almost heartbreaking.
Dot Although we have been sleeping together, regularly for two years, and I have had three short affairs during that time, my husband and I have been married only eight weeks. I thought I was well prepared for all the post marital disillusionments that young brides are prone to, but one took me by surprise.
Prior to our wedding, our sex life had been varied, quite spontaneous and imaginative. Although I had masturbated since puberty, it was only a year ago that I discovered my clitoris and experienced my first orgasm. Since that time, my mate had been only too anxious and willing to make use of that knowledge, and in his consideration, never failed to masturbate me to orgasm either immediately before or during intercourse. Since we have been married, however, our mutual sex life has come to a standstill in relation to the life we had beforehand.
Granted, we are now on stricter schedules and he is often too tired, but even on Sunday afternoons what used to be our spend-one-day-in-bed-fucking day the most I can expect is an uneventful nap. All this rambling has been my disorganized way of building up to the subject of fantasies.
I found that no matter how long I concentrated on achieving an orgasm, he was simply not giving me the time. Second, I discovered after trying several fantasies, that the process was much quicker and more effective if I relied on one fantasy each time.
And the more use the fantasy gets, either during intercourse or masturbation, the more vivid and realistic it becomes. This particular fantasy is brief, and I generally repeat it several times in my mind, omitting the finale until I feel the wave of my orgasm. It consists of a room of men, well-dressed, wealthy, and at least middle-aged.
One man acts as my husband or guardian — the is anonymous and I never really assigned him any specific relationship to me. He is in command of my actions and seems to be the leader of the men. I appear in this room of men dressed in a lovely summery dress, light and full-skirted. The man tells the men that I am easily embarrassed but am basically an exhibitionist. He tells me to undo the bodice of the dress, leaving my bare breasts exposed. He then has me lie face down across the coffee table with my breasts hanging freely at one end and my rear at the other.
He tells the men that I am aroused by anything icy and wet and suggests that they cup their half-full champagne glasses around my breasts. When my husband and I were having better days and nights, we often applied ice to one another.
The fantasy goes on as he slips his hand under my dress and underwear and massages my rear. He does not pay any attention at all to my clitoris or vagina, only my rear. He speaks to the other men and tells then what a marvelous white broad ass I have, and would they like to see it? He feels my rear some more and then slowly lifts my dress to expose my butt, still in panties. He rubs it some more, praises it to the men. By this point, my orgasm is beginning to build and when I am ready, I imagine him very slowly peeling my panties down my thighs.
If I have not experienced my climax by now, I either repeat the fantasy from the point of the champagne glasses, or else I add to the ending a light spanking. During the spanking, he explains to the men that he enjoys seeing my white cheeks turn pink. Now it gets used almost daily, if not in bed with my husband, in the tub with a well-aimed stream of water. The first interview below is with forty-five-year-old Louella, a totally sexually deprived woman; the second with Irene, twenty-five, who might as well be.
Next comes a letter from Anisette, who was young enough — nineteen — and frantic enough to have probably done something about her frustration by now. I think the violence and alienation of some of the themes these women explore is a measure of how much the human being will rage against sexual famine. The well-fed diner will idly choose between this dessert and that; the starving person will dream of "eating a horse. My husband is sexually impotent, but the boy is blatantly sexual.
I listen outside the bedroom door and know be is lying there playing with himself. I am about to call him again but another boy, a school friend, comes to call and I let them go off by themselves because I know what they are up to. They go into the woodshed, and after a little time I creep down and peek through the planks. They are standing facing each other, their cocks out, stroking each other. I feel so bloody cross, but yet I still feel myself getting wet. I go back to the house and shriek for him to come in.
I still feel like hitting him over the head. He comes in half ashamed and sneering; I myself sit down with my legs trembling. I stroke him, it is hot and throbbing and he comes as quick as that, covering my hand.
Later I take him to my bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed, I play with him, pulling his skin right back. I am shaking with sex, I pull my dress off and he sucks my tits, then I back up to him and guide it in, with my thighs closed.
But he comes too soon, and I send him away. I watch him go down the lane and get out my dildo, it is thicker and goes all in. I am twenty-five and my husband is one year younger. We do not have any children and I believe I would prefer not to have any. My husband talks a lot about sex, but he is not very active sexually. As you can probably guess, I am sexually unsatisfied, and have never had an orgasm. Only lately have I thought of someone other than my husband during sex. I imagine what it would be like to have sex with a man who could continue long enough for me to be satisfied.
I know several men who I think could do this. Anyway, when I do make up innocent little sexual thoughts to tell him, he just gets more excited and comes even more quickly.
If I see a man who interests me, I imagine that my large breasts are bare. Seeing them, he is unable to resist me and he takes me then and there, and finally and fully satisfies me. I even look at attractive couples, wondering whether or not the man can satisfy the woman, and what it must be like for her to have an orgasm.
That usually just leaves me feeling jealous though. I have also tried thinking of other women, not frequently but sometimes. I imagine having sex with a girl like myself. My husband will not do it to me though.
I close my eyes and imagine his head pressed against my breasts and that my fingers are his lips. Or I imagine that an entire fraternity house has kidnapped me for an orgy. I am the only girl there. I imagine them one by one taking their turn with me, in the dining room, in various beds, on the floor, everywhere and with everyone watching.
They come at me one right after the other and this way I imagine I can finally have an orgasm…but I never really do reach one. My latest and most unusual fantasy is that I am both a woman and a man and that I am having sexual relations with myself. I imagine that I am able to give myself all the sexual satisfaction I have ever desired.
It is a complicated fantasy to work out, but I think eventually it will work. I have always been ashamed of them, because I feel that other people would think them unnatural, and consider me a nymphomaniac, or something similar. I am nineteen years old, and have been married for a year now; my husband is twenty-three. We have a satisfying sex life when he is at home, and indulge in every kind of sexual activity, including long sessions of oral lovemaking.
By the end of the second week, or sometimes sooner, I am getting desperate for intercourse, and I have to resort to masturbation, as for various reasons I do not wish to get involved with other men. This was sufficient to give me a satisfying orgasm at first, but after a while I found it more difficult to reach one.
So, I started to imagine that two men were making love to me — my husband and a man I strongly fancy at the tennis club. I imagined that one was kissing my breasts and sucking my nipples while the other was loving me with his mouth between my legs.
Then, as I pushed the banana into my vagina, I imagined that the other man was fucking me while my husband put his penis in my mouth.
Now it has gone a step further, and to get my orgasm, I lie down on my back across our double bed, with my legs apart and a two-inch-thick cucumber thrust into my vagina, and close my eyes while I imagine that four men are making love to me all at once.
As I thrust the cucumber in and out with a screwing motion, I imagine that one man kneels between my legs, kissing my slit, which is hairless, by the way; another kneels beside the bed above my head kissing my mouth; and two others kneel on the bed each side of me, sitting on their heels, and leaning forward to suck my nipples, while I stretch out my hand and take hold of their penises to masturbate them. From there the fantasy progresses.
I tip my head back over the side of the bed, and the man there inserts his penis in my mouth. The man between my legs gets onto the bed and inserts his penis in my vagina, and with my mouth, my hands, and my vagina, I make all four of them come at once.
One by one, I suck them to erection, and proceed to drain them dry; swallowing each offering of semen from four men, leaving them limp and impotent for the time being , thrills me immensely, and I enjoy a whole series of wonderful orgasms in this way.
I know that if ever I had the chance to make my fantasy come true with four virile men, without the possibility of my husband getting to know about it, I would grab the chance.
I feel that once I had experienced the sensation, which I am sure would be out of this world, I would no longer be tormented with the need to fantasize about it. And if you know of four strong, sexy men who want to take part in an orgy with an attractive, passionate woman 37" 24" 37" ,send them along to me!
I think my husband would mostly react with surprise if he found out that I think about other men sometimes when we are having intercourse. I have led him to believe that I do not often think about sexual things. If anything, he might have his feelings hurt by such a revelation because he often expresses doubts about his sexual attractiveness to women. I sometimes try to imagine my husband being so sexually excited about me that he would tear my clothes off and "rape" me.
His actions when we have intercourse are so much the opposite of that, though, that it is almost impossible for me to imagine. So far, though, he has not done so. We are all prepared to think of women, any woman, as potentially frustrated simply because it is our historic sexual role.
Traditionally, we are the frustrated sexless experienced, less mobile, and less accepted sexually. We have spent less time at it, and been less informed by art, literature, and commerce to say nothing of our parents and husbands as to just what our sexual role is — except usually that of desireless virgin or prisoner. She was doped, or raped, or subjected to cruel and overwhelming domination. Ideas like these, so deeply rooted in the mind no matter what the relatively free body does, will take another generation to outgrow.
What I am saying is simple: Patricia Patricia is a tal l, blond American beauty who lives in Rome. For the past year she has been separated from her husband and living with Antonio, an Italian. Because, as Patricia says, "We really love one another. We simply want to explore now, without guilt.
I think this fantasy is my own rerun of the old Paulette Goddard story. We are all sitting around this table with its glittering crystal and silver on a very deeply hemmed, heavy linen tablecloth — the tablecloth is important because it hides the man underneath who is between my legs. I chat away amiably with the people on either side. How has this man got under the table? Interesting you should ask. Sometimes this man is black, more often he is unknown.
Perhaps he is a new face in our dull little group, a face I have responded to all evening, as I respond to his touch on my thighs.
I want him, this fantasy man, as much as I want the man who is actually between my legs. There is always the most amazing amount of detail. Or there is the intricate arranging of feet, like a ballet, under the table, with me praying that no one will bump into him with their feet! Funny thing is, all this detail makes it even more exciting. But mostly there is the fear — sweet agony — that someone may ask me to dance! I do take a long time to reach a climax…mostly because I enjoy getting there so much.
And there have been men in the past, lovers, who get impatient, who will suddenly stop before I have reached an orgasm, when I already know that I am going to…and you know what a letdown that is. All of this suspense in my fantasy, of course, heightens the real excitement, and what ultimately makes the pleasure excruciating is the thrilling fear of what in the hell I am going to do in the fantasy restaurant when the man between my legs makes me come.
What am I going to do when I come? The closer I get to actually coming, the realer the suspense in the fantasy becomes, until, thank God, there is a sudden power failure in the restaurant. Then pow! In the darkness and shouting of the fantasy restaurant, I have my very real, very loud orgasm. And as he was Italian it would be better that he never did know.
Anxiety in bed is one of the most contagious emotions going; the smart woman will know just how much her lover wants to hear. Patricia and the other women who contributed to this book are admittedly in a minority; the average woman is not consciously aware of her fantasies, and if she is, would not dream of telling anyone.
Most women never get beyond this; their fantasies are not merely unspoken but unacknowledged even to themselves, never deliberately put at the service of their sexual lives. In the end, both these women, and their men, lose what fantasy might have added. For myself, when Patricia says her fantasies make her and her lover enjoy sex more, I feel I have nothing to add. Suzanne When I was sixteen, I read a sex instruction book in which there was a case history that had a great effect on me.
This girl described how she was alone in the cloakroom at a dance, bending forward, when a man came in behind her, lifted her dress, put his penis into her obviously before the days of tights and had intercourse with her without her looking around or even knowing who the man was. This excited me. This basic fantasy went on for a long time.
I started having intercourse when I was seventeen, but I am sure you will agree that to carry through a fantasy while having intercourse it is necessary that neither partner should talk too much or the theme is lost. As this was not the way it usually went in those early days, I did not fantasize very much during intercourse, but I always did when masturbating.
I met my husband when I was nineteen and married him at twenty. I was able to tell my husband of these fantasies, and he was very understanding and encouraging. The fantasies expanded from the original, but there were always similarities. The idea of the anonymous approach from behind continues to excite me, but the fantasies took on more scope, although the man would always do whatever he wanted without any form of lead up or courting. I am rarely nude, usually wearing a dress; but never panties or tights so that I show myself very easily and am always available.
The scene is usually at least partly public, at a party, in a park, at the office so that other people see what happens. They never get in the way or object in any way. A typical example: We are at a party, all nice attractive people standing around talking. I am talking to two men. I am wearing a dress just long enough to cover my crotch, with nothing else. They each put an arm around me and play with my breasts.
One puts his hand between my legs. The other people carry on as before while I am led over to a settee where I am laid down, my dress pushed up, my legs spread and I am entered by one, then the other, and then by all the other men in the room, last of all my husband. At this point where the fantasy is returning to fact, my husband and I will work up to a wonderful climax.
I would like to say that we do not use the expression "making love" as we feel that love is the feeling we have for each other all the time, and the enjoyment of sex is something else, so that while we love each other while we are having sex, which includes me thinking of other men, of being fucked by other men, we prefer to use other words.
I feel sure you agree. I have never felt there was anything unusual in fantasies. In many cases where perhaps unobtainable people are involved, this would not be possible. In my case, whereas the people are just ordinary, the circumstances are larger than life, so it would still be very difficult to do what I fantasize, impossible really to fuck with maybe ten men in full view of passersby.
Even going around without panties can be risky, although I realize that a great many men, including my husband, are turned on by the idea of women doing this, so that when I do have intercourse with another man it is usually under fairly conventional circumstances, which I later enlarge on in fantasy. I have at times been able to have sex in some degree like my fantasies, but invariably it has been contrived to some extent, so that it is not quite the real thing. We have tried group sex for this purpose, and in this way I have had sex with up to five men in one evening.
I do not want to make too much of the panties thing, but going back to the original incident I read about, which was not only before tights but before minis too, it simply said that her dress was lifted, without any reference to whether she wore anything below, as if they were the wide-legged type that would not get in the way. But whatever, there was no obstacle, and this is very important in my fantasies. I would just repeat that I get much pleasure from my fantasies, and wish you well.
What I am trying to do is establish a more acceptable climate for fantasy, so that women who do fantasize will not feel so alone, so estranged, and will realize that there is nothing wrong with it — that in fact, for them as well as for women still unaware of their fantasies, a more conscious use of them can add an exciting new dimension to sex. But we all respond differently to different stimuli, and some people, I realize, do not fantasize, just as there may be some rare people who do not dream.
I happen to believe, however, that most do — and that while reading this book, many will, in fact, discover theirs beneath the thin skin of childhood training or prudery — call it what you will. But just as some people do and some do not fantasize, some fantasies are meant to be shared and others not.
By opening up the underground, I am not suggesting we have to tell or act out all our fantasies to be sexually happier; just accept them without anxiety for what they are.
For example, no one objects to the idea that certain props like a martini, music, low lights — elements outside the man — can get a woman "in the mood"; then why should he feel threatened by what is going on in her mind? Some people get warmed up looking at erotic pictures or reading a bit of porn; does it matter that the people in the pictures are other people or that the words that excite her were written by another man?
Then why should it matter what, or of whom a woman is thinking? Is that preferable? What matters is the quality of the real sex, and if a private screening of her own favorite erotica gets her in the mood quicker than a martini, and ultimately gives him a better fuck, then why not?
Those are the times I remember. Then when I get there he does, too. For me, my fantasies are money in the bank, if you know what I mean. Robert Chartham, psychologist and author of The Sensuous Couple. I just could not take my eyes off him, and when he was toweling down, he stared back for a lovely long moment, our eyes were really locked. By believing yourself to be, as you put it, a "sexual dud," you are making yourself one.
You have quite the wrong attitude toward lovemaking, and your husband seems no better. You have got yourself all worked up about sexual responses and the quality of them, when you ought to be fully relaxed, and letting things just happen to your body.
Try it and see what happens. Let me know. We call it fantasizing, and nearly all of us, men and women, have our sexual fantasies — at least from time to time. Best wishes, Robert Chartham Dear Dr. Chartham, Thank you so much for your letter. Of course I have thought of this and longed for it, but being able to tell some one and see the words written down was somehow extra exciting. In my thoughts I have used the word penis, but your phrase sent a sort of electric shock through me.
All that day last Friday I felt very odd, warm and sort of open and receptive. I bought a black scanty garment because I know that color turns my husband on. I must say it had a dramatic effect! He came into me right away and in a few seconds had come off.
We made love twice that night and again in the morning, and were both in a daze of wellbeing the next day. To make things even more sexual for me, there was John Harrison himself on television doing a "B is to"commercial!
I just hope I behaved naturally, as my husband was watching and it came as a bit of a shock. In this fantasy he is completely unable to control himself and is holding his penis in an effort to suppress his erection.
He fails, and comes white he is standing there, the semen spurting through his fingers onto me. I agree with you that this must be kept from my husband, as it would hurt him and might wreck future developments. I have never told anyone these things in my life before and I thank you for releasing thoughts which made me feel so guilty.
My husband says he never thinks of me as a wife but as a mistress, so I suppose that is his fantasy. Any number of people could have done this according to whatever arbitrary system of classification they might have chosen.
That I have chosen this order therefore i means to me that I am acting as advocate after all. Even harder to believe will be the statements of these women that these fantasies occurred during happy, satisfying sex with men they loved. That is why I broached the topic of fantasy during sex 3 with the easily understood idea of fantasy as sexual foreplay; I assume we are all in favor of that, of anything that leads to sex.
As the next step, I would also assume that we are all in favor of anything that gives us stronger feelings of reassurance or approval during sex. Therefore, in the fantasies you are about to read, the fact that women like Sally, Vicki, and Sondra get the desired approval from such universal judgment figures as Mother, the doctor, and even Jesus Christ, should strike a sympathetic chord.
If you can understand and accept the idea of female fantasy as a form of sexual foreplay and excitement, the idea that fantasy, by allaying anxiety, can allow the excitement to grow cannot be too strange a progression of thought. She recently finished a yearlong affair with a man twice her age, who, as a parting gesture, set her up in the boutique business.
She considers this latest affair "the greatest education of my life. She admits that he will be a hard act for any new man in her life to follow; "I really am so bored with younger men now," she says.
He brought me out in many different ways, so maybe the fantasy had been there all along, but I just never acknowledged it until him. What I have to do, of course, is control my voice, talk to her normally as if nothing unusual is going on. Also, she never really approved of me and Alan; either that or she was jealous. All I know is that there he is, cap and mask, bearing just the slightest resemblance to my real doctor.
Or is it just the cap and mask? You know the old line about doctors: And me still a virgin. I never even went through the ritual childhood games of Doctor and Nurse with the neighborhood boys. But get me in bed with a man these days and there we all are — me and the guy in bed, and me and the doctor in my head.
The more excited I get, my legs up, the doctor between them — my lover I mean…well, you know what I mean — anyway, the more intent the examination, the more intense the excitement. The closer the doctor gets to his prognosis, the closer I get to orgasm. Now that I think of it, tell it out loud, I realize I should edit what I said earlier, the part about blaming you for bringing all this up. Whatever it means, all I know is my sex life has never been better. Under her quiet but firm hand, all generations and nationalities meet and merge around the family dining table.
Her mother lives with them three months of the year. Even though Francesca was an interested volunteer, she begins by trying to tell it all in one semiabstract sentence.
Only as she reworks the almost unconscious images again and again in her mind as she tells it to me, will she remember the elaborate details. This is my favorite: I am brought at the age of thirteen or fourteen, as a pubescent girl, by my mother to be sold to an Oriental potentate. We enter the palace. And there is the potentate sitting on his throne like a great Buddha, a rajah. I have been instructed by my mother exactly what I must do; there is no hesitation on my part, I must perform well, it is the culmination of my training, or I will not be bought.
And it is a great honor to be bought. My mother begins by describing my abilities to the Rajah. In fact, she begins by demonstrating on him herself just what it is she has taught me to do. She fucks him, sitting on top of him on his throne, she goes down on him, she plays with him all the while talking to him of me. I lie there, responding just as I should as her finger or her tongue enter me, my beautiful body reacting perfectly.
It gets confused here…let me think…The Rajah himself is passive throughout all of this. Let me try to remember more. He, the Rajah, never leaves his throne. He sits up there and my mother and I perform below him on a kind of stage, a platform. We are naked at this point, but when I was brought in I was beautifully robed. This is when she performs on me.
I sit there naked on his cock on his throne and through it all he does nothing, nothing to me, nothing for me. As I sit listening to the plucking of the harpsichord, I wonder if Dali must have dreamed up this fantasy to torment me. The big black octopus, I must explain, was in a gallery off Fifth Avenue. It was a Dali vernissage and included a huge painting of Jesus preaching his Sermon on the Mount.
Well, exactly opposite this hedonism were several beautiful and erotic drawings, and the one I really fancied was this octopus having a girl. A corkscrew arrangement follows the end of the point with a kind of rubbing, twisting power and force; it makes me reel and scream with delight. One after the other, each tentacle makes me come again and again, many comings per black thing, and there is Jesus still talking to these poor infidels from his lofty place, but really He is watching me while I gaze into the eyes of my taker, this huge body — head like the end of a giant orchid penis as it fucks me and engulfs the whole of me with those spent fingers but with many more still poised, still ready to come as I come again and again…aaaahhhhhh!
The alternative is to say that because each of these women fantasizes beyond what is actually happening, it follows that the real sex is inadequate and she dissatisfied. No thank you. For many women, fantasy is a way of exploring, safely, all the ideas and actions which might frighten them in real. In fantasy they can expand their reality, play out certain sexual variables and images in much the same way that children enter into fantasy as a form of play, of trying out desires, releasing energies for which they have no outlet in reality.
Karen I have this fantasy quite often while Ben is fucking me. Yet I know if it were to really happen it would scare the hell out of him — and out of me. The three of us are in the living room, me, Ben, and my friend Helen. Our living room, here at home.
I stand at the sink, watching them behind me reflected in this huge polished window. I make little noises with the groceries to reassure them that I am busy putting things away. I run the water in the sink, giving them time to go on. Ben hesitates, letting her press his hands against her breasts.
Then she presses back against him, rubbing against his groin. I can feel the rush of excitement that charges Ben, that gets him instantly erect as I can get him, as I so often have by rubbing my bottom against him. I go back into the living room, but first I clear my throat and start talking so they will know I am coming.
I stand just outside the door and wait, watching them. Ben sits on the sofa, shy as always, and it is Helen who moves in, kneels in front of him, unzips his fly and takes his penis in her hand, puts it into her mouth. But the pleasure is too much. He reaches for her breasts again and fondles them; they seem to grow in his hands, to swell in size.
Until they are as large as mine. Her blond head moves faster and faster, up and down on his penis, pushing her lips back so that Ben can see her teeth, small and white, moving as though she is eating some delicious piece of meat. The tip of it slips farther and farther down into her throat; Ben is practically paralyzed with ecstasy. He falls back against the sofa, his hands reaching for his trouser front, unfastening it altogether so that she can really get at him.
He is no longer the Ben I know at all. Helen undoes her blouse, never letting his penis rest, sucking away on it. They have forgotten now that I am even in the house. Ben is about to come in her mouth, but he wants the milk even more and he lifts her, drags her onto the sofa, so that he can suck her breasts while his hands undress her, fondle her until she moans for him to put it into her, there on our sofa, their clothes half on, half off, in front of the huge picture window.
I shake off my clothes and naked I go over to them. I get on the sofa behind Ben. I want so badly to join them, to give Ben even more pleasure in return for all the pleasure he is giving Helen — who is really part me and part Helen — and suddenly I have this warm wet thing to put into him, a penis, my penis.
I press it into him slowly, but all the way in. Ben gasps with excitement, and I feel the same wild sensation as though it really was a port of me going into him, as if it really were my penis. Having it both ways, having everything, it is overwhelming.
It turns me on more when things are left to the imagination. You may therefore find it strange that in my latest fantasy I tell my husband that I think I would enjoy watching him having sex with another woman. Not really someone we know — preferably some strange female. Yet I keep thinking it would be fun.
I also have fantasies of me with other women. But these women have no face, I mean they are no one in particular. These occur usually during masturbation, which is maybe two, three times a month. Selfish, perhaps? My marriage is a happy one and the sexual part of our life together extremely satisfying.
I often get on top of him, squatting in a knees-up position. He strokes my buttocks and caresses my anus while he thrusts from underneath. When I feel his fingers exploring my bottom, my fantasy is that a very long but delicately thin penis is penetrating my anus.
I can feel this thin shaft penetrating me from behind and the feel of the palms of his hands pressing against my buttocks reminds me of another male attacking me from behind. As my husband and I come to our climax, I imagine that this thin shaft inside my rear is pulsating and thrusting to fill me with a double ration of semen, thus ensuring that the act of intercourse, if not successful by my husband, has been achieved by the fantasy "thing" behind me.
I have no feelings of who might be the owner of this aggressor from behind me. He or It is a nothing in my mind, but is a very real sensation of additional intrusion within my body.
Sometimes the tension in my rear is so great that I lose all control, and the moment after my husband has come, my bladder relaxes completely and I pee, flooding back to him the semen that he has just shot into me. We have only once tried to have anal intercourse, but because of the thick dimension of his mighty dwarf I just could not take him. The fact of my involuntary release of just a little urine gives my man a tremendous thrill. I have seen cows being served by a bull on a farm that belongs to some friends.
One particular bull is very broad across the back, like the flat top of a. My husband and I frequently have sex in the lounge or the kitchen after the children are in bed or away for the weekend.
Then I imagine that I am lying on the back of the bull, while the bull is mounting a cow. I experience a distinct feeling of the kitchen table or the lounge settee on which I lie heaving up and down.
My hands automatically go down on either side of the table to grasp the legs, to prevent myself from falling off the back of the frantic bull as he works away at the cow. I can feel my body thrusting up and down in time with the thrusts of the bull into the cow.
Sometimes my husband has extreme difficulty staying inside me. Invariably I experience a climax before my husband in these situations, and his continuing action to bring off his own climax results in me having a second orgasm, which I imagine in my mind to be the bull flooding the cow with his sperm.
In fact, I imagine it as thick as the bull. However, it is my desire to feel filled by an enormous penis that is really the key to the whole situation.
When my husband and I are making love, or when I masturbate, I visualize my husband screwing another woman while I am screwing another man. It excites me very much. This can be one of several couples that we know, or any new couple we meet and hit it off with. I often tell my husband of these "group sex" fantasies, that is, of imagining trading off with our friends and imagining what they look like naked, and he reciprocates.
We often talk of what it would be like to swap with Virginia and Dick or Fran and Ernie for instance, but never do so, and are quite sure we never will. We both thoroughly enjoy having this nude mutual fantasizing about our friends; we find it very stimulating and exciting, even if it will never happen…especially so, I guess. You can go so much further in fantasy than you can in reality. Society demands she have sex a marriage must be consummated to be legal , yet she is barred from initiating sex.
Men say it with such loaded admiration that every woman within hearing distance freezes in envy and anticipation of finding out, at last, what it is that the "real" woman has. Our first toy is a baby, a doll baby; our first "play" role is that of Mother, and while we dimly know this all has something to do with our sex, we are given no clues about that. Nor is there any accepted play role in which the little mothers can explore their first sexual drives, which often come so unexpectedly.
Little girls with lots of suddenly newfound energy, who want to run and holler, swing in trees and climb walls, are called tomboys. Clearly, spontaneity and action are not the quickest route to womanhood.