What happens when women are finally given permission to speak their desires—without fear, without judgment, and without names? In a world that often demands we be everything to everyone—our inner erotic lives remain one of the last untamed territories. Want, the anthology curated by Gillian Anderson, invites us to step inside that wild space. 

By Polina Kirichuk

What do you want when no one is watching?
What do you want when the lights are off?
What do you want, when you are anonymous?

In Want, Gillian Anderson cracks open the intimate world of female desire by asking these questions—not to provoke, but to liberate. The book collects anonymous sexual fantasies submitted by women across the globe, offering us a raw, kaleidoscopic glimpse into the parts of ourselves we’re often told to hide.

It’s not just a book—it’s a mirror. One that doesn’t flatter or shame, but simply reflects: this is what women want when they feel safe enough to tell the truth. Each fantasy reveals a private world, full of emotional charge and psychic meaning. This article explores why we fantasize, how those fantasies serve us, and what they might be trying to tell us—through the lenses of emotional language, escapism, and erotic intelligence—and features my favorite fantasies from the book.

Sexual fantasies are often misunderstood. They’re seen as secret scripts for what we “really” want in bed—or worse, as evidence that something is wrong with us. But the truth is far more interesting: fantasies are less about sex, and more about meaning.

At their core, sexual fantasies are emotional experiences dressed up in erotic clothing. They allow us to safely explore power, vulnerability, taboo, and freedom—often through scenarios we would never want in real life. 

Fantasy as Emotional Language

Sexual fantasies are not always literal. More often, they’re metaphors in motion—stories our bodies tell to express emotions we may not have words for. A fantasy about being dominated might reflect a craving for surrender, not violence. Fantasizing about being watched might speak to a deeper desire to be truly seen.

These mental scripts are often built from childhood impressions, early experiences of shame or arousal, or the emotional roles we play in everyday life. A caretaker might fantasize about being “used” precisely because they’re always the giver. A high achiever might crave being “punished” because it offers a break from constant perfection.

Fantasies bypass logic. They get to the root of a feeling quickly, sensually, and without apology. In this way, they are our emotional language—fluent, raw, and honest.

I picture myself in a luxurious hotel bedroom with the ocean outside; I can hear waves crashing on the shore. I’m completely naked, lying on a large bed, a warm breeze drifting through the windows. Several extremely attractive men, all naked and really well hung, surround me on the bed, rubbing a beautifully scented oil onto my stomach and legs and feet, my back and thighs and buttocks. All over. Two of them slowly massage the oil into my breasts and stroke my nipples until they are hard. Another massages my hips; his hands slowly move inwards towards my vagina and a long finger slides between my now very wet folds: it strokes my labia and circles my clitoris really, really slowly. Then other men spread my legs very wide so I’m completely exposed and my arms are loosely tied above my head. More fingers start stroking me between my legs and more oil is rubbed along my inner thighs and some against my anus. Now slightly cold fingers slowly circle my clitoris and occasionally stroke it. As soon as I start to feel an orgasm building, the stroking fingers stop. As my body calms, they start circling and stroking again. This cycle keeps repeating. More oiled fingers circle my vagina and clitoris and then slowly penetrate me. First one finger, then two, then three. They move in and out slowly and curve round to stroke me inside as they move. They rub against my G-spot very slightly, just enough to tease me but no more. One man licks my breasts and sucks on my nipples, the pressure slowly building. A tongue licks my clitoris and then a mouth closes over and slowly sucks on it, then the tongue pushes into me hard. It moves in and out of me faster and faster. I can feel an orgasm building. But just as I’m getting close… again, everything stops. The men turn me onto my stomach so I’m kneeling with my legs spread very wide, buttocks raised. They’ve put a raised padded seat of some kind underneath me. It has a large gap in the middle so when I lie face down on it, the area between my legs is fully accessible from beneath. Two of the men are underneath me sucking on my breasts, but this time they have small ice cubes in their mouths and occasionally slide them against my nipples. One massages more oil against my anus and very slowly introduces small anal beads. He pushes one in and then pulls it out really slowly. Then, with agonising slowness, two beads, then three… until he’s pushing the beads into me all the way and pulling them out, occasionally fast, mostly slow. Between my legs, someone puts two or three ice cubes into his mouth and pushes them into my vagina, one at a time, and then continues to push his tongue into me. The same man strokes and rubs my clitoris, using more and more pressure. Again, I’m being brought close to climax but he stops just as I’m getting really near. Then I feel something long and hard being pushed into my vagina – one of those vibrating rabbit toys. It’s slowly pulled out and pushed in again. Again, and again and again, the vibrations excite my clitoris. The anal beads are driven into me as the vibrating toy is pulled out. More fingers massage oil between my legs and then they stop; the anal beads are pushed in and left inside me. The occasional finger strokes my clitoris but apart from that, no one touches me between my legs. I feel cool, thick silk drifting across my hot skin, over my feet, my buttocks, my back, my nipples. After a couple of minutes, one of the men slides underneath me and strokes my folds with his fully erect, very large penis. He’s rubbed a cooling lubricant all over his hard cock and it tingles when he strokes me with it. The silk stops gliding over my body and the anal beads start moving in and out of me again, very slowly. I feel the man underneath push his penis slowly but firmly all the way into me. He’s wide and long and I’m being stretched so completely. He pulls back the hood of my clitoris so it’s fully exposed, and his pubic hair strokes against it with feather-light touches as his cock pumps into me again and again. My nipples are being sucked hard and the man behind me slaps my buttocks as he moves the anal beads in and out, faster and faster. I feel my orgasm start to build and my labia are spread wide open to expose as much of me to the air as possible. The man underneath me pounds into me harder and harder and circles his hips slightly so he’s hitting my G-spot. The climax keeps building and building, and then my whole body is blazing with my orgasm. I keep coming and coming until I think I’m going to faint. Then I collapse in a heap, fully sated. I feel warm damp towels wiping me clean and I drift off to sleep.

 

Asian British • Agnostic • More than £100,000 • Heterosexual • Married/in a civil partnership

Fantasy as an Opportunity to Escape

Fantasies also create psychological space. In a world that demands control, care, and constant performance, they let us drop the mask. You don’t need to be a “good girl” or a “strong man” in your fantasies. You don’t need to be polite. You can be taken, worshipped, ruined, adored.

My whole body, all of me—I want to hand it over and let it be completely possessed by someone.

This escape isn’t about fleeing reality—it’s about temporarily releasing the roles we’re stuck in. For many, fantasy offers relief from pressure: no responsibilities, no consequences, just the freedom to feel. And often, what feels arousing is not the act itself but the relief embedded in it.

For the woman who carries a household, a calendar, a relationship, a job, a child’s schedule, a partner’s needs—this is not fantasy as kink. It is fantasy as freedom. To let go of decisions. Of speech. Of the mental load. To give in to instinct. To surrender the self that is always holding everything together.

When we fantasize, we step outside of linear time and moral judgment. We enter a realm where shame is alchemized into pleasure and control transforms into surrender. It’s an imaginative rebellion against the constraints of everyday life.

My fantasy is that I’m a lowly deckhand on a pirate ship with an all-female crew. I am straight. They are fierce women; feisty, sexy, lustful. You don’t argue with them, otherwise you are stripped naked and whipped. They are all lesbians. When the ship is docked they drink rum and visit brothels. They wear loosely laced-up blouses and tight red bodices so you can see the curve of their breasts and slim trousers with brown boots. One night, I am summoned to the captain’s private quarters. It is dark, lighted by flickering candles, and I can see shapes moving rhythmically. I step inside: there are pairs of women naked, sucking and rubbing each other, groaning in ecstasy. I have butterflies in my stomach and it starts to dawn on me why I am here. I have heard whispers of these gatherings and secretly longed for and craved the feel of a soft tongue on my clit, in me, and to suck the nipples of another woman. My clit is starting to throb. There is a group of women lying in a circle like a clock. They are flat on their backs masturbating while watching a couple fuck in the middle, like they are wrestling. Some are moaning, others are wanking furiously. The captain is sitting on a table with her legs spread wide. She is naked below her waist; she is wearing her captain’s hat, her blouse and corset, but the blouse is unlaced and her full breasts are hanging out – I want to suck her nipples. She is masturbating while watching the group of women. She orders one of the other pirates to strip me naked, and then commands me to lie down in the middle of the circle. I can feel that my cheeks are flushed, and I am getting wet between my legs. The captain studies my naked body and tells the pirate what to do to me. The pirate runs her fingers lightly up and down my skin; up between my breasts, onto my neck. She holds my face and kisses me hard with her tongue in my mouth, then runs her fingers down over each nipple, down my tummy and rubs between my legs. She sucks my nipples hard. I want her so badly. Everyone around me is fucking each other. The captain orders the pirate to straddle my mouth, so she climbs over me and starts to rub her pussy on my tongue. I want to make her come. I push my tongue flat against her clit, and poke it into her. I am so wet I feel like I need something between my legs and inside me. I want the captain to rub her pussy on me and I just want her to fuck me in any way she can; she looks so sexy sitting there, rubbing her nipples and her vagina. I don’t care if she licks or sucks or grinds or fucks me with something – a candle, a bottle, anything. The captain calls me a dirty little slut, tells me that I’m enjoying it, and pulls the pirate off me. Then she tells me she has been watching me and has been wanting to fuck me. She licks my nipples and rubs her own nipples against mine. She kisses me, holding the back of my head so I am pushed against her mouth. She lowers her head around my clit and licks and sucks, poking her tongue into me. It’s ecstasy; I am groaning with pleasure, moving my hips rhythmically. But I am trying to hold off of coming, because I want to feel her clit against mine. She gets off to tease me and straddles the neck of another deckhand like me, pulls back her hair and starts rubbing her clit hard up and down her neck to get herself off. She is gasping loudly and swearing. She is looking deep into my eyes and promises me that she is going to fuck me hard next. She shudders and squirts onto the deckhand’s neck. She then pushes her aside, and climbs onto me. Her clit is wet and it slides over mine. I am throbbing. I grab her and roughly pull her close, my mouth on hers. I run my hands all over her breasts, I squeeze and tug and suck her nipples sharply. I come, hard, screaming in ecstasy.

 

English • Pagan • Bisexual/pansexual 

Fantasy as a Path to Erotic Intelligence

At nympho life, we celebrate erotic intelligence, which is the ability to understand your desires—not just act on them, but interpret them. Fantasies offer a direct path to this understanding. They are inner mythologies, and when we pay attention to them, they show us what we’re aching for.

Rather than asking, “What’s wrong with me?” we can ask, “What is this fantasy trying to resolve?” Is it about power, safety, recognition, transgression, or intimacy? The more curious we become, the more self-aware we grow.

Fantasies don’t always need to be acted on. Their power lies in what they illuminate. When we honor them—not with shame or blind indulgence, but with curiosity—we move closer to the erotic truth of who we are.

I’m in a room without any windows. On the floor, there is a burgundy velvet carpet (I don’t care who cleans it afterwards, it’s my fantasy). There are Victorian chairs in every corner and a dark wooden table in the middle. It is surrounded by metal frames, big enough for a person to stand under. The party starts when the single door opens and two women enter, wearing blue-and-black brocade corsets. One might describe their profession as dominatrix, but today we shall call them ‘chaperones’. They are followed by eleven women whose Venetian masks obscure their eyes but can’t hide their excited smiles. Since this fantasy occurs frequently, I like to change my role in this scenario. Today I’m one of those masked ladies. Some of us have been here more often than others but we all love to come back. We are all dressed in different costumes: corsets, dresses, a leather suit; one of us is wearing only a belt around her naked hips. All our outfits, bar one, have this in common: our breasts and pubic area are fully exposed. The chaperones strap ten of us into the metal frames, our arms above our heads, our legs spread wide. My skin starts to tingle, my body feels as if there is a fire burning inside. The eleventh woman has to wait. She is in the long Victorian dress, the one whose delicate parts are covered. It’s her first time at the party. This night is going to be her initiation rite to join our little society and she will give something as a gift. When the chaperones finish strapping us others up, they turn towards her. They lay her down at the table in the middle and fasten her arms down beside her body. She closes her eyes and smiles. I imagine she is as aroused as I am. I definitely was when I was lying there at my initiation. But I’m glad I can watch her. (As someone who loves both men and women, it’s very arousing for me to just imagine seeing other women naked and vulnerable.) The door opens for the last time that night. In comes a group of men wearing brocade vests and dark coats, their faces also covered with Venetian masks, and they are rocking white stockings and buckle shoes: Victorian vampires. And suddenly, vampires are the sexiest creatures I can imagine. Of course, they aren’t real ones, they don’t have any fangs and they survive sunlight, but they are men pretending to be vampires. Now the rite begins. The vampire leader steps forward holding a goblet filled with red wine. While he murmurs a prayer chant in an unknown language, the chaperones open the lacing at the front of the initiate’s dress and pull it apart. As her soft breasts appear, I see the men’s trousers stretching around their hips. The young woman looks nervous as the chaperones pull her skirt up to her stomach to reveal her already soaking-wet vulva. Each places a hand under one of her thighs, lifts it up and they push her knees towards her chest, spreading her vulva wide open. The head vampire stops his prayer and places himself in front of the woman’s spread genitals. He sets his goblet aside on the table, then, without a warning, he pushes his thumb and index finger into her vagina and feels around. She starts to moan in pleasure. It takes him a while until he pulls out a piece of golden metal, formed like a small cup. It holds all her menstrual blood. He raises it a moment, then he pours the viscous liquid into the goblet. His fingers are sticky and red. Now blood starts to drip out of her vagina onto the table. The head vampire raises the goblet into the air and the others start to cheer as he takes a sip. He passes the goblet on to the next man. In turn, each of them drinks from the goblet. Now, the rite is over and the party starts. While the men watch, the chaperones walk through the room and proceed with us like the vampire did with the woman in the middle. They push their fingers into us, grab the small cup and pull it out, slowly of course, we don’t want to miss any pleasure. Finally, when it’s my turn, the chaperone woman smiles at me. She knows me, I’ve been here a few times, so she isn’t so gentle any more. She just sticks her fingers in; my vagina stretches and then I sense that warm, sticky liquid oozing out of me, running down my thighs and dripping onto the carpet. Now all the men are walking around the room, every one of them picking a woman. One of them comes up to me, looks at me smiling and then kneels down. He grabs my legs and sticks his tongue into me. I feel how he laps my blood, how he licks every drop of it from my thighs and my labia. Just a moment later, the room is filled with moans, from me, from the other women and the new girl in the middle.

 

White Austrian • Raised Catholic but not religious • Between £29,000 and £49,000 • Bisexual/pansexual • Cohabiting 

Fantasy in the Context of Real Life

As much as fantasies live in the realm of the imagined, they are shaped by the real conditions of our lives—what we’re missing, what we’re afraid to say, what we’re tired of pretending not to feel. The fantasies collected in Want don’t float above reality; they brush up against it. They emerge from people navigating the weight of caregiving, the boredom of monogamy, the invisibility of aging, the pressure to be desirable in a specific way.

This matters. Because when we understand fantasy as something informed by our lived experience, it stops being a source of guilt or confusion. Instead, it becomes a kind of feedback—a signal that points to emotional needs, creative tension, or desires we haven’t yet found a place for in our waking life.

This doesn’t mean that every fantasy needs to be acted on or explained. But recognizing the relationship between our inner worlds and our outer circumstances can deepen our understanding of both. What do I crave that I can’t ask for? What feels too complicated to want in the light of day?

Fantasy can be fun, strange, unsettling, erotic—but it can also be honest. Not in the sense of being literal, but in the sense of being emotionally true. In that way, fantasy isn’t an escape from the real—it’s a bridge back to it.

By Polina Kirichuk

Based in Prague, Czech Republic, Polina Kirichuk is the founder of nympho life. She is on a mission to inspire conversations around sexuality and intimacy, celebrate erotic arts, and support creators and businesses in the sexual wellness and SexTech space. Follow Polina on Instagram. 

All images are the works by an incredibly talented @relmartist.