The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies (28 page)

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.

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.