Fantasy Actress Roleplays

[Krishan202]

My first lover was a servant. I was just past 19 at the time. I was still a virgin.




Mum had had an horrific accident six years earlier that left her pretty much in a vegetative state. Dad seemed devoted to her and to us -- I mean he was always there for her, attended to her every need but I suspected he had his affairs. I didn't resent him for that.

But it was a quiet and gentle life on the whole. We lived in a quiet neighbourhood in those days, me and my parents and younger brother. Home was a nice large ground floor flat with every convenience and gadget, separate bedrooms for my brother and me, and a lovely little garden that was my joy and passion.  I had put in a little rockery and garden lights hidden in the flower borders and lighting the big fragrant jasmine and frangipani trees, a little garden swing. Most days we'd bring Mum out in her wheelchair, too, and converse normally with her. That's what the doctors had advised, so we followed that, trying to include her in our daily lives.



We had a part-time gardener who came in to do the heavy and tedious work -- laying out brick or stone-work, weeding, putting in the flower beds and so on. Raju was lean, tall and dark and had those intense good looks ,sharp features, dark eyes and hair, a square, strong jaw. Plus, he wasn't skinny; he actually had a well-developed physique, broad across the shoulders, a wide, deep chest, muscular arms and thick forearms and the most amazing abs.

I knew because he went through this little ritual before he went to work. Our garden was like an inverted L, with a broad front area before the porch and long narrow stretch that ran along the side of the house all the way to the back where there was a little toolshed. Raju would come in through the wicket gate, latch it behind him, greet polite  with just a little duck of his head and a quick flip of both hands to his chest. He'd ask after Mum. Every single time. Then he'd kick off his battered yet sturdy open-toe sandals and put them neatly together by the steps leading up to the stoop and go around the corner of the house. I knew there was a small wooden strip with clothes pegs on it there -- - I usually kept a smock or overalls for when I had to handle paints -- - and a while later he'd return with his baggy trousers rolled up to his knees, his shirt off and wearing just a tight sleeveless vest or, sometimes, not even that.

All right, let me be completely honest. He excited me. He really did. I loved his body, smooth and strong and dark, the torso so sexily muscled and quite hairless, and I loved him for his gentleness with my flowers and buds and shrubs and herbs and garden, for his obvious distress when a sapling or cutting did poorly. The garden was as much his pride and joy as it was mine.



Whether it was the nature of his work, or the serenity of our home, or me or just his character I don't know, but he was a truly gentle, kind and decent soul. I never once heard him raise his voice in anger. He was genuinely sorrowed when someone so much as plucked a flower. "It's not right," he'd mutter, shaking his head. "It is just not right."

How could I not be drawn to him? At times like this, I felt my heart go out to him, for I shared his pain. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to rest my hand on his arm or my head on his chest, just be him and me and our little flowering world. I thought I loved him.

But there was something else too. One look from him and I just felt different, as if some searing heat had pierced me through. My pulse would quicken, there was a rush of blood to my head and, yes, to other parts as well. I suppose I was relatively innocent in those days and didn't quite know what to make of this sensation. It felt good, yes, but it somehow also just felt right.



I wasn't totally unaware of what sex involved.
Three  years earlier , I stumbled on Dad's cache of illicitly obtained pornographic magazines. After the first few minutes of shock, I was hooked. I loved the explicit language and I loved the glorious, detailed, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination photographs. I was awed by what I saw -- all that cock-sucking and cunt-licking, group sex, those wildly sexy costumes in black leather, the elaborate French kissing, anal sex, the masturbation with dildos and vibrators. I devoured it all, even the ads for live sex shows in places I'd only dreamed of seeing, like Amsterdam, which I'd till then only associated with windmills and tulips. Suddenly there was this whole new world, sleazy and sweaty and inexplicably exciting, totally irresistible.



But I did more than ogle. I studied the stuff. So I couldn't have a man. But I could at least dream of one. I read letters and advice columns and paid particular attention to those about how to please men. I read about masturbation and sex toys. Of course I'd masturbated before like the other girls in my class, but it was more exploratory and instinctive, just doing what seemed to feel good coupled with a huge sense of guilt. Now I read about how good it was, and how advisable and how it should be done and I plunged into it with a fervour that bordered on obsession. I had my own bedroom and nobody minded when I aped the positions I'd seen in the magazines (occasionally I stole one and masturbated reading it). I'd be on all fours pretending I was being fucked from behind. I practiced riding a cock. I lay on my back and pictured a lover thrusting into me. Of course I didn't have any sex toys, so I made do with whatever I could get -- and there's a surprising range of alternatives if you put your mind to it. Which I did, with a great deal of devotion: hairbrush handles, a badminton racquet handle, cucumbers, hard bananas, carrots, peeled bitter gourds.

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Things got better. I rummaged deeper into Dad's closet -- he'd forgotten, I think, that there was a complete duplicate set he'd had made for Mum before her illness, and never taken them back or changed the locks. Sure enough, I unearthed a real trove. It turned out that he had a pretty decent collection of sex toys for women. These must have dated back to before Mum's tumour or perhaps he used them with his girlfriends. Either way, I didn't care. I was totally on fire as I looked down at the collection in the drawer, each toy neatly set in its own place in a specially made dark velvet jewel-box lining. There were dildos of various shapes and sizes, including several that looked like real cocks. There were vibrators, metal and hard plastic and silicone. There were Ben-Wa balls. There was even a missile-sized ejaculator.

I was ecstatic.

One by one, I tried them all. The vibrators were incredibly and I could barely stop my screams as I came violently again and again, the thing humming and buzzing in my cunt. And ejaculator -- it was terrifying in its thickness and length, but I used it anyway, filling it with warm water, then pushing it into my cunt, jerking it feverishly back and forth, running through its multiple speeds and finally hitting the ejaculator button, chewing on a wadded handkerchief to keep my sounds down.



And that wasn't all. What I found there was a cornucopia of lust. Now movies. My joy was, I thought, complete. I'd strip naked, arouse myself with a magazine, start masturbating with a dildo or a vibrator, turn on a movie and slip into one wild erotic fantasy after the other. I was that girl being fucked mercilessly by a man, heaving and moaning and sweating, writhing frantically under him. I was there in the orgies, and I was there when three men fucked me together in cunt, mouth and ass simultaneously.

Two things returned with increasing frequency and clarity. The first was that I found myself intensely attracted to dark and black men. I loved their bodies and was awed to a frenzy of lust by the sight of their big cocks.



And Raju entered my most vivid and intense fantasies. He was that man, fucking me demonically from behind. Tossing me on his lap. Making me suck his cock. Cumming in my face.