I'm married and we're monogamous and, unfortunately, I'm the kinky one in the relationship. My husband will indulge some of my fantasies, but we don't do it very often, usually on special occasions. I'm not saying I mind. I wouldn't want kinky sex all the time, just once or twice a month, something to fantasise about later. This is rather common for me, fantasising about the things I've done already. We've gone so far as to do light bondage, a little bit of spanking, a little bit of name-calling. I don't know that I've ever told him that my fantasies run deeper than that, but I've always assumed he knows that they are more intense. It's an unspoken rule that he acknowledges my kinks and will occasionally indulge me, but isn't interested himself, other than for my own pleasure. We've discussed BDSM issues, and I've explained concepts to him before. We've discussed, in a broad sense, restraints, gags, safe words, nipple clamps, and many other things that we haven't done. I'd like very much to act on these fantasies, but realise I'll probably get the same reaction: 'Well, maybe for your birthday', or 'I don't want to do that, so how about I just tie you up?' That's why I don't discuss them in detail, because of the rejection I might face. It's not as if my sex life is otherwise unfulfilling, I'd just like to have a little more kink.
In my favourite fantasy there's a man at my house, and he's angry. I've done something rather distasteful, the details of what aren't important, and he wants to punish me. He will, however, reserve the bulk of his cruelty for when we are both naked. If we were clothed, my feminist sensibilities wouldn't put up with his bullshit. When I'm naked, though, his anger is arousing.
He asks me to undress, though he, of course, stays clothed. He leers at my naked body, eyeing me like a piece of meat. I'm supposed to bend over his lap, which I do, and he gives my ass many hard swats. It stings and, each time he slaps, I hear a hard treble 'clap'. He waits just long enough for the sting to subside a little, then swats my ass just a little harder. He's spanking me and, while he does it, reminds me how badly I've misbehaved, and reminds me of what a slut I am. No fantasy would be complete without the demeaning names: bitch, slut, whore.
He makes me crawl around on my hands and knees while he makes quick work of shedding his clothes. I crawl in front of him; he grabs me by the back of the head and fucks my throat. In fantasyland, my deep throat is impeccable. Next he ties me up and fucks me. Sometimes he's tied my hands, fucking me doggy while slapping my ass. Sometimes he gags me, blindfolds me and fucks me missionary, whispering terrible things in my ear. Sometimes he 'makes' me get on top, orders me not to make a noise, and frequently tells me to hop off and suck his cock.
Eventually he'll come on my face, reminding me that sluts don't get to come (man, that really gets me off), then makes me lick up any last drops of come off the floor. Get the floor really clean, he reminds me, his huge hand resting on my neck.
If I haven't come yet by this point in the fantasy, he might make me go out without wiping the come off my face, or he might tie me up and cause me a little pain. He might get so hot by looking at my face glazed with come that he gets hard again, fucks my face (reminding me, again, that sluts don't get to come) and comes directly in my throat.
Amy, age 26
Bisexual
Single, very sexually active
A levels
Student
Yorkshire, UK
I imagine being young, fourteen or fifteen, and being a true Lolita-type girl. I imagine seducing countless men and allowing them to abuse, humiliate and rape me. Submission to a man turns me on, being controlled, abused, humiliated, hurt . . . but then being treated respectfully and with tenderness afterwards! Personal fantasies are a huge turn-on. I've begun to know myself more and more in the past year. Until that point, I was frustrated and bored with sex – it seemed to promise much, but deliver very little. Average sex is not for me – I know that. I have also discovered that there's no shame in succumbing to your most secret desires; repression is something the English are too good at, and it's bad for the soul and the development, I believe. I held myself back and caused damage to myself because culture and society were at work on my brain, telling me that I was a deviant and a freak! – when all along I was just a bit . . . alternative and experimental! To be honest, the most rewarding and fulfilling sexual experiences, for me, have not involved out-and-out sex. They have been more exercises in control and manipulation.
Living out my fantasy would interfere with my daily life!
My ultimate fantasy is to be a slave to a Master in a full-time power-exchange relationship . . . but I also want/need to study, write, think, read, be, etc.! This is a piece I wrote, then showed to my boyfriend. We then acted it out for real. That was pretty good and we stuck accurately to the fantasy. What a treat!
You are driving and I am sitting beside you. According to your specification, I have worn fishnet tights, a tiny black dress and make-up. It is night and it's raining. There is very little visible outside bar smudges of fluorescent light, bleary-eyed headlamps and water. We have the distinct impression it has always been raining and night. I am warm, and enjoying you sitting next to me. You make a wonderful driver, and I feel privileged to be in a position to appreciate you drive. Perhaps this sounds ridiculous, but it's true. You are a calm driver, knowing where everything is about you; you are in full control of your every movement and action. You are considered, and I love to consider your manners and ways. You are on display, showing off to me, and yet you don't fully realise the e-ect you are having. The sight of your hands on the steering wheel makes me hot. Your movements, the outline of your fingers, your carefully cut cuticles, your tense grip followed by a fluid gear change makes me even hotter. Every time you breathe you turn me on, the sight of your lips alone makes me wet between the legs. I have brought scissors, tape, rope, a hairbrush, a collar and a lead.
I cannot help staring at your hands: their size, weight and texture fascinate me. Never before have I truly considered a man to be beautiful, but you are. Never before have I unquestioningly believed every word that one person uttered so unconditionally. Your legs are beautifully long, and black trousers accentuate your powerful aura. You were made to wear smart suits and jackets and well-cut trousers. Your torso is awesome, long and awesome, your powerful neck, your jaw line, your stubble . . . the sight of your body makes me hot and wet all over. Fluid seeps out into the crotch of my fishnets and makes them sticky and damp against my legs and cunt. I cannot take my eyes off your hands; I dream about taking them inside me, and having them prod, probe, finger, screw, smear, jab, slap, punch, poke, twist, grab and fuck around with my body. I want your fingers to know my body from every possible angle, avenue and orifice; to push and pull it around, abuse, ravage, wreck, disfigure, distort and mangle it. I want you to wreak havoc on my body, use it as you want: to play with, dismantle, poke into and pull apart. I want you inside me in every possible way, and then I want you to break out and leave me somewhere, or nowhere, to start from again.
The rain continues pelting the windscreen at the same pace. We come to a standstill and the fluorescent lights stop moving; they are static blobs, like fucked-up versions of paintings by Pollock, or Miró, who I had always assumed was a woman. I long to touch your cock. I want to stroke your trousers, place my hand on your hardness, feel the strength of your desire to hurt me and fuck me. I want to make it harder. I stare straight ahead and focus on the night before us; this is my first opportunity to please you fully and give you the true level of submission that you deserve.
Eventually we join a ring road and drive into the city centre. It is strangely quiet, but then pockets of life emerge at intervals and we pass by them with a sense of estrangement. You drive directly to the hotel, and we pull up in the underground car park. Your hands are placed flat on your thighs, and I have absolutely no idea what you are thinking, except a vague notion that your thoughts will involve fairly intense levels of violation and transgression. The knowledge of this makes me instantly wet and we leave the car, collecting our bags from the boot.<
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The foyer is ultra modern and full of curves – curved booths and sofas, marble pillars, and nondescript sculptures on curved plinths. Cameras follow each person who walks through the revolving doors, and a few businessmen lurk on the curved sofas, trying to exude danger and money. The reception is decked out in swathes of plush material, and ambient lighting is the order of the day. Irrelevant and insipid Muzak plays everywhere, being transmitted through a myriad of hidden speakers. A rather incongruous rock pool is stage left of the reception desk, replete with ferns, waterfalls and lizards on the rocks.
A bellboy sidles up to us and collects our bags as we check in. We follow him up to our room in one of those extremely modern lifts that makes no sound whatsoever.
'If you require or desire anything, absolutely anything, I am at your service,' says the bellboy.
He shows us to our room: 419.
The youth leaves and we dump down our bags.
'Stay there,' you say, and then you walk over to the blood-red curtains and look out of the window. The city stands below.
'Are you ready, cunt?'
'Yes, Master.'
'Are you ready to demonstrate your submission to me? To obey me without question or hesitation? To comply as readily as you can, and truly succumb to my will, to make my will your own will, and to experience my desire as your own desire?'
'I am ready, Master.'
You go to the bag in the corner of the room and take out a thick leather collar with rings around it. You walk towards me, holding the collar flat on your open palms.
'Lift up your hair, whore.'
You bring the collar up to my neck and wrap it around me, moving behind me as you do so. The feel of the heavy leather pressing against my skin and then being fitted tightly around my neck makes my cunt throb. My cunt feels like an entity outside of myself. You fasten the collar and place your hands on my shoulders. Your presence behind me is thrilling; your cock is inches away from my ass. You remove your hands and then go once more to the bag. This time you take out a leather lead, and again walk towards me, holding it over your outspread palms. Your hands turn me on unbelievably.
'Kiss your lead, cunt.'
I kiss my lead, and you attach it to one of the rings on the collar. You step back and look pleased. I smile at you, and you smile back, holding the end of the lead.
'On your hands and knees, pig.'
I get down on hands and knees, my dress moving up my body and showing off my ass. You pull on the lead and walk towards the bathroom. I follow, dutifully, on my hands and knees, my cunt pulsing for you with your every step. I can see your calves through your trousers, and delight in their movement beneath the material. Your body fascinates me. Your bones, your skin, your manners and movements hold an endless pull. You have drawn me like a map, or a constellation. I am a new land which pleases you and exists to serve you.
You take me into the bathroom. It is stark and bright and tiled. A night on the tiles appeals to me. You lift up the toilet lid.
'Lick the rim, cunt.'
I lean over the bowl and begin rapidly licking the circumference of the bowl's rim. It is not shit or piss that makes me retch but cleaning products. Shit or piss would be preferable. I gag on the taste and smell of the chemicals but continue licking around the rim. You watch me gag and it pleases you.
'Keep licking, cunt.'
I carry on, filled with satisfaction that you are enjoying yourself. I lick around either side of the rim and nearly puke, retching into the toilet bowl. You slip the lead's loop around your wrist, unzip your trousers and take out your cock. You grab a fistful of hair and pull on it, tightening your grip on it. You yank my head back and then pull it over the toilet bowl, flipping me over onto my back. You arch my back over the side of the bowl and then hold your cock over my face and piss all over my hair and face, then shoot it right into my mouth. I swallow every drop gladly, watching your face as you empty yourself into me. You let go of my hair and move your fingers around my neck and squeeze. Your hand almost completely encircles my neck and it makes me hot and wet across my body. You shake me with your hand and throttle me as the last shakes of your piss slide down my tightened throat. Your grip is fierce and the tighter you hold me the wetter I get. My cunt is aching for you. Again, you flip me over so that my face is inside the toilet bowl. You shove my head down into the bottom of the bowl.
'Lap up that toilet water, you fucking bitch.'
I drink up the water and you flush the toilet and hold down my head, gripping onto the sides of my neck with your fingers, pinching into me so that I gag all over again. The water bubbles up, completely swamping my face. I am immersed in the water and about to puke. The bubbling subsides and you lift up my head and look at my face, delighting in the streams of mascara and splotches of smudged lipstick across my cheeks. Your satisfaction fills me with desire. Again you push my face into the water and flush the toilet. The bubbles billow up inside my mouth and I can barely breathe. The water floods into my throat and down into my body. As the flushing subsides I retch and puke into the bowl. You hold my hair back and shake my head as the vomit falls out of my body.
When you have shaken the vomit from my body, you lift me up and I sit up straight on my knees.
'Now, bitch, lick up the piss from the floor.'
I bend down and lap up the spilled piss from the tiles. You push onto the back of my head with your foot, shoving my face against the floor and I lap harder at the pools of liquid, drinking up your piss till the floor is completely clean.
'Now what do you say, cunt?'
'Thank you, Master.'
'Good. On your hands and knees.'
I resume my position on the floor, my hair dripping with piss and dregs of puke. You lead me back into the bedroom.
'Sit cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed.'
I do as I am told and sit like a good girl with my hands on my lap. You walk over to the phone on the table by the side of the bed and order a bottle of champagne from room service. I feel filthy and adore the feeling. I want you to make me feel filthy, make me do disgusting things. I want to do disgusting things: you allow me to do them. You are my Master, in charge of my own descent into filth, choosing the disgusting acts I must perform. I will always perform them to the best of my ability. I want you to show me how disgusting I can be, push me into the rectum of filth, dream up sick and nasty tasks for me, give me dreams of filth and service; I will do it all, you will drive and direct me. I want to know my own pleasure and yours and construct them in parallel, assemble them together.
You stand in front of me.
'Pick up your lead and give it to me, pig.'
I hand you the end of the lead and look up at you.
'Up onto your knees, cunt, and hands behind your head.'
I do it and you slap me around the face five times, quickly and hard.
'Lift up your dress.'
I do as I am told and you punch me in the stomach twice. The combination of surprise and pain makes me even hotter.
'Are you wet?' you ask.
'Incredibly,' I reply.
A knock comes at the door, which prompts you to remove my lead and collar.
'Stand up and hands by your side.'
I comply. You take the hairbrush out of the bag and comb through my hair, pushing it back out of my face. You lick your thumb and wipe away the smears of make-up and then stand back.
'Now you're going to prove what a slut you really are.'
The knock comes again.
'You're going to let this bellboy fuck you, cunt, and I'm going to watch from behind the bathroom door. Don't let him see me, pig.'
You walk into the bathroom and pull the door closed, leaving enough of a gap so that I can see you and you can see the bed. I walk towards the sound of the knocking, open the door and smile sweetly.
'Hello, come in.'
Samantha, age 36
Bisexual
Live-in relationship/marriage and steady relationships,
not live-in
Education and occupation unknown
London, UK
Anyone who treated me badly or told me what to do turned me on. Someone once held a knife to my throat in bed and, although he wasn't playing at all (he'd heard a rumour about me and wanted to know if it was true), it was possibly the most exciting experience I'd ever had at the time. I must have been fourteen or fifteen at the most (I'm afraid I started pretty early!). I'm still turned on by anyone who can dominate me or who seems like they might be able to (Vic Mackey from The Shield, for example . . . oooh, yes please! Not exactly gorgeous but sooo masterful!). As for things, it's all the same theme really. Any kind of control equipment, restraints, cu-s, collars (especially collars), even just a length of rope and anything that'll probably hurt some while I'm restrained – floggers, paddles, clamps, even a humble clothes peg. When it comes to particular experiences, I'm mad for having my hair pulled or my face slapped or just being forced to do something, anything really. I always say that it would turn me on to paint the bathroom ceiling on one leg if someone told me to do it in the right tone of voice, although I've never actually put this theory to the test! It's the words that really do it for me; I love the talking, I get much more turned on by someone telling me what they're going to do to me than if they just got on and did it! I sometimes think it would be easier if I was turned on by romance and a massage but I'm not so there's no point wishing, is there? I just have to accept that I am what I am and make the best of it. But it can make life difficult sometimes.
My fantasies involve the themes of domination, submission (mine), pain, control, and lately water sports too, but tied in with the BDSM theme. There's usually lots of, 'No, no, please, Master, don't make me do it, please no, no!' Doesn't matter what it's about, just the begging will get me going.
The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies Page 22
