Fur Fetish Fantasy

Marian K. is a 26-year-old, 5’5”; woman in good health. She has long, red hair wound tightly on top of her head, brown eyes, and a full but sulky mouth that is turned down at the corners. She is divorced, has one child, and supports herself as a pianist in cocktail bars.

This is her fantasy:

When I was young I had a lot of romantic fantasies and not many sexual ones. Now that I’m a bitter old lady of twenty-six with one baby and no husband, I think most of the romance has been driven out of me—at least as far as men are concerned. I can still feel romantic about my music—even playing in bars—but not about men. I guess men might be able to give me some physical pleasures, but God knows they’ve never given me anything else. And so my dreams—fantasies—are pretty much taken up with the physical, something I wouldn’t have thought possible ten years ago when the world was big and beautiful and full of the music of love.

I guess that’s not completely accurate. The men in my dreams are still something like the man I married… big, handsome dreamers full of sweet talk. But before the fantasy gets very far along I’m not really interested in anything but their sexual performance and what they can do for me. And that’s another thing. I used to really worry about pleasing a man sexually, and making sure he had complete orgasms. Well, that’s changed, too. In my dreams, I take care of number one.

My dream lover is somebody I meet in a very rich setting. On a yacht, for example. I think about meeting this man who has a bigger yacht than Onassis and all the money that goes with it. He invites me on a cruise to Acapulco. There are many other people on the ship but he only has eyes for me. Before he ever touches me he showers me with gifts. A diamond bracelet, earrings, furs… beautiful, beautiful furs. Chinchillas, sables, minks. I love furs. I love them not just for their beauty and for what they’re worth, but because of their warmth. When I was young, living in a cold northern climate, I hated the winters. I hated the cold and I still do. That’s why I can never get enough of wrapping myself in fur. And it’s sexy, too, I think. It’s so delicious to feel it against your skin. I’ve always wanted to make love on a great fur rug.

So anyway, my lover gives me all these magnificent gifts and furs and then he shows me to my private cabin. It’s done completely in chinchilla. Floor and walls. The ceiling is covered with smoked mirrors. He kisses my hand, right below that gorgeous bracelet, and he tells me how he has dreamed and waited for this moment. Then he kisses my lips and bit by bit, our clothes fall away. He is very strong and tender as he picks me up and puts me on the bed. I writhe against the fur and nuzzle my face into it as he makes love to me. Lips, throat, breasts, navel, vagina… his mouth goes everywhere. I feel my insides shudder and chills run all over my body as he parts my legs and pushes a fur pillow under my bottom. I raise my hips to meet him as he thrusts into me, and as I look up at the mirrored ceiling I can see his buttocks rising and falling. I curl my legs over his back and then, as I feel an orgasm coming, I amuse myself by beating my heels on his buttocks, which makes him come, too.

We rest and he lights my cigarette, and I smoke while he gently strokes my body. Then I turn tigress. I make him turn on his back and I get on top of him. His penis is hard and long and I take charge of it, guiding it into me. I take it all in with one big shove. Then I start bouncing on him and grinding, because that makes me come faster than anything. While I’m doing this I’m digging my fingers into the hair on his chest. It’s just like riding a horse. When he tells me it hurts his groin I take a circle of mink with a hole in the center and fit it down over his penis. It forms a cushion so that when I come down on him the shock is absorbed. That part is absolutely delicious. I’m taking him deep inside and on every stroke I feel this lovely tickle as I hit the fur and bounce off. It’s wonderful.

We rest after that, and the steward brings us champagne. Sipping it makes me think of something else, and we easily slide into position, each of us kissing the other’s genitals. We lie on our sides so that we can both look up and see it in the mirrors. I hold his penis with both hands and then make it disappear with one bob of my head, while he pushes his face deep into me, his tongue lapping and probing. I can see the dark curls of his hair pasted on his forehead, which is wet with sweat. I bobble his balls in my hand and he pushes his fingers inside me, thrusting them in very deep while his tongue licks my clitoris. And all the while we’re rolling on this soft, beautiful fur, which is getting sticky from our juices… and oh, it’s so good, so good!

Dr. Chartham comments:

Clearly Marian K. has had a very unhappy sexual experience, one that has made her “a bitter old lady of twenty-six with one baby and no husband,” and one that has reduced her to looking upon all men as sex-objects rather than love-objects. It is more than likely that she has largely contributed to her own unhappiness by her admitted romanticism. She probably read a large number of romantic novels from which she got entirely unrealistic ideas of what the human relationship—including the sexual relationship—actually is. Following her romantic ideas, she married “a big handsome dreamer full of sweet talk.” Before long, and too late, she discovered that most of the facts of life are hard and cold. One has to eat and provide a roof over one’s head, and this takes money, which, in turn, means work and unromantic household chores. “Dreamers full of sweet talk” are not practical people as a rule. Romantic they may be, but they are as unrealistic as is romance itself.

In addition to giving her an attraction for “handsome dreamers,” her romantic ideas have also given her a penchant for opulence and sybaritic comfort that the cold realities of life have denied her. Because she has been denied them, she naturally tries to ease her longings by her fantasies. Though her experience of love and life has made her bitter and coldly physical in her attitudes towards men, she nevertheless has guilt feelings about her real-life attitudes and tries to rid herself of these in her fantasies.

So, in a classic opulent setting, she meets a handsome lover who has riches galore. He gives her costly presents before he ever touches her, which underlines how romantic he is and reveals that he really appreciates her. Besides fulfilling his romantic role, he also provides her with the love and attention she wants so much in real life. “There are many other people on the ship but he only has eyes for me.” Sexually, too, he is superb, and makes love to her in the romantic way she believes love should be made. Even so, she cannot keep her resentment of men out of her fantasy. She “turns tigress.” She dominates him physically (riding him) and sexually—“I take charge of his penis”; and she makes love to him until it hurts. Eventually, though it does not disappear entirely, the resentment eases a little. The romantic longings are too strong.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Marian’s fantasy is that it reveals her as a fur-fetishist, one who is sexually aroused by contact with fur. Although it is widely held that fetishism is exclusive to men, I have never believed this. It is certain that some women have, for example, a “physical defect fetish,” i.e., they are sexually aroused by a physical deformity like a hunched back or an amputated leg. Such women are so attracted to the deformity that they willingly accept, and even seek, marriage with such a partner.

On the other hand, it is true that very, very few women are rubber-fetishists, shoe-fetishists, foot-fetishists, pubic-hair-fetishists, and so on. But sexual arousal by the texture of materials such as silks, satins, velvets, and furs is not such a blatantly fetishistic expression, and I have always contended that because of their feminine sensitivity women are more likely to be turned on by the feel of materials than men are. I have to admit, though, that in forty years of counseling, I have never encountered a woman fetishist, though I am consulted by at least a dozen male fetishists every year. That makes Marian K. fairly unique. But I suspect that her strong response to fur is not so much based on a physical reaction to the feel of it, but on a psychological reaction to what it represents—the romantic love she is secretly still so enamored with.