Only dreaming

This is one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever written. Even more so, for the degree of cunt-bubbling, mouth-watering excitement it produced in me while I was writing it. It comes with a BIG RED CONTENT WARNING for:

• non-consensual sex
• abduction/coercion
• torture and violence
• fucked-upness

-so please don’t read any further if this is content which may distress you. (Maybe check out my tits instead – they’re much more comfortable than my dark, twisted imagination).

I’m dreaming, I tell myself. Asleep and conjuring this scene from my fucked-up, deviant subconscious, that’s the explanation I use as a comfort blanket, wrapping it carefully around the heat of shame and excitement.

It’s all in my head. That explains then, how this shadowy cast of characters – the men who took me from the darkened alley, the visitors to my prison – seem to know my darkest, most perverted fantasies better than I do myself, despite the hundreds of guilt-soaked, frenzied hours I’ve spent constructing them. Pain and fear, degradation and cruelty; everything they’ve done to me so far, I’ve taken it and never let on that every slap trails exhilaration in the wake of its sting, that all of their growled threats, dire promises only make me clench and ache and yearn even harder. That they think they’re using me for their pleasure, when in fact it’s the other way round.

It must be a dream, because if it’s not a dream then it’s a horror. Given the choice, I prefer my interpretation: it’s not real so it doesn’t matter. Dreams don’t count.

Reality is bleak and charmless, anyway. I’m always glad to escape its banal drudgery. This will do fine for me, this dream. I’m in no hurry to awaken.

I’ve imagined it all many times, just like this. A heavy body bears down on mine. Cold steel of cuffs at my wrists and ankles, securing me spread-eagled to the bedposts, bites harder into my flesh with every spiteful thrust of his hips. Held down and hurting, fucked hard with deliberate, relentless, punishing strokes. Just how I like it.

Tied, clamped, swinging helplessly between them as they plunder my bruised, tender cunt and drooling forced-open mouth. Lips sore and jaw aching from the ring gag, I moan with satisfaction; they think they hear protest and pull at my hair, slap my face. It makes me melt. I’m all hot wet cunt and snarling abdication, the burden of agency wrested from me in exchange for the fulfilment of need.

I know these scenes intimately; they’ve all paraded through my mind when I‘m alone, teetering at the point of climax with one hand buried deep in my cunt and the other locked around my throat, spitting venomous triumph at this slut we’re here to fuck with. These are those encounters, played out in solid, brutal flesh. There I am in the middle, the focus of everyone’s attention but without the weight of their concern. Mindless fuckpuppet. Greedy, cum-soaked whore. Getting off on my own depravity.

It’s a dream, so I can be anyone I want to be. I can be the tall one with the ponytail whose belt leaves florid graffiti on my skin; someone was here. Any one of the shaven-headed trio of cocky youths competing to demonstrate their prowess; who can make me squeal the loudest? Who can make me choke hardest on their thick cocks, who can claim me, make me want it more? I dream the answer; me. Only me.

I could be the mild-looking middle-aged man, the quiet one who put the noose around my neck and told me to stay still and silent if I wanted to live.

In a dream, it’s okay to have a moment of reckless nihilism, isn’t it? I almost dare him to take me down. Want so badly to fight and lose, it takes me by surprise. I choose to lie still instead, play dead while he strokes my body with the adoring touch of the heartbroken lover. Feigning absence focuses my attention inwards, on the sly sensuality of his touch. He does it slowly, with reverence; pressing, then pushing his cock past the tight whorl of my anal muscles and deep inside me, lowering himself onto me until his teeth sink into my shoulder. I lie limp, let him have me, betray nothing, feel everything. He hugs me close when he ejaculates, crushing my unresponsive body and shuddering in satisfaction at the silence and lax surrender with which I rebuff his affections.

Regret drips between us as he unclasps me, pulls away. I rouse briefly from my fugue state to wonder about him, remember that it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to be him. He’s not real. It’s all in my head. None of us are real.

It’s only a dream.