“You never find yourself until you face the truth”

What is your nastiest closed eyes midnight fantasy that you go to when the vibe is just perfection and i want details.

I have been avoiding this question for weeks. It’s not as easy as you think. (Because I let nothing be easy, you understand. Ms. Difficult, that’s me. In fact, last night Master elected not to hogtie and face fuck me because I made it too difficult. ~le sigh~ Some days it simply does not pay to get out of bed. )

/self-pity

Okay. Fantasy.

I have one fantasy that I almost always end up in “when the vibe is just perfection”. No matter what simpler fantasy I may have started out with, or what bit of porn I may have been watching, when the going gets good I generally let my mind dip into the same end of the perverted pool.

It is me, naked and dirty, chained by a welded shut chain looped around my neck, to a corner of a kitchen in a run down hovel of a house. When I let things get really detailed, the chain that secures me to that corner is just long enough to reach the parts of the house that are necessary for me to be of any use to my captor. But I rarely worry myself over those non-painful, non-sexual details, except in a very abstract manner.

There is a man. Older, out of shape, unshaven.. and dirty. Smelly, unkempt. There has to be some element of repulsion and disgust. The acts that I must perform cannot be erotic or enticing. It has to be something that, in real life, I would absolutely not want to do, but in the fantasy it is a do-or-die scenario. This man likes, needs, to know that I am disgusted, but that also I do what I’m told without a moments hesitation. Or else.

The fantasy always begins the same way. I’m in the corner, on display. ’On display’ varies according to my mood, I guess. Sometimes I’m standing, hands on my head. Sometimes I’m simply kneeling. Sometimes- most times- I’m kneeling with my head on the floor, hands reached behind me to spread myself skin-tearing wide (Insert various horrific punishments for being caught not ’on display’). The man enters, grimy, sweaty, and sits at the table to the meal that I’ve prepared for him. A meal that I, of course, am not allowed to eat. Once he is sitting he grunts for me (in the fantasy my ’name’ is bitch. It used to be cunt, but more on that in a bit), I crawl from my corner to under the table where I’m set to work cleaning his filthy feet, dirt and all, with my tongue while he eats.

From the kitchen he drags me to the living room by my hair, where he reclines in a chair to watch tv and my tongue bath moves from his feet to his crotch. With copious amounts of derogatory name calling, smacks and slaps to my head and face, hair pulling of the sort that rips out chunks of hair, and rough face fucking, I thoroughly clean his stinky cock and balls. Once cleaned and aroused, one of two things happens.

The “nicer” one: I’m flipped around and ass fucked. Quick, no lube, harsh. Nothing more involved than if my ass were his hand, wrapping around his dick to masturbate, I’m used and discarded, sent back to the corner to await another time of use.

The other, and favorite, one: I’m secured to the floor in front of him, by rope or chain, on display in much the same manner as described above. On my knees, face pressed to the floor, hands secured to my ankles. My ass and cunt is fully exposed and open to be kicked, slapped, scraped with his filthy toenails. Poked, prodded, hurt. The “abuse” ramps up and up the longer I fantasize, until my unprotected cunt is being whipped and beaten to a darkly bruised mass of flesh. I imagine his laughter as I scream and beg, the mocking of my suffering as he works to hurt me, causing me extreme pain that he finds nothing more than humorous.

And of course there will be, at some point near the end, more plundering of the damaged asshole and bleeding cunt, more laughing as I cry.. until, finally, the fantasy drives me into a shuddering orgasm and I tuck it away until the next time.

Now, why did I find this so difficult to write? Well, I’ll tell ya!

The man is a faceless, nameless wretch of a human. At one time, it used to be Master’s face and Master’s name as I worked myself through that fantasy. It’s not anymore. In fact, trying to interject Master into the fantasy in some capacity ruins the fantasy for me.

I struggled with that for a long time. Did it mean that I didn’t love him as I used to? Did it mean I was subconsciously wishing for someone else, a different dom or sadist? Had I lost respect or was it some other equally dooming prophecy? The guilt I felt over not fantasizing about my own Master was intense. I was ashamed, embarrassed, worried. I asked myself how I would feel to know Master was fantasizing about another woman, a different slave. Someone else for him to hurt and torture. How devastated would I be to know that I wasn’t “good enough” to fulfill his fantasies?

It was a bad time, bad thoughts. You know me; always borrowing trouble and making things worse than they really are.

But here’s what I’ve come up with. Master no longer fits the bill of that faceless man because he is not repulsive to me. He does not disgust me, he’s not stinky or filthy. And, he cares about me. About my health, my safety. As much as he may hurt me, it’s never, ever on a permanent or damaging level, because it is not do-or-die, and he fully intends to keep me around long enough to earn my keep. But more importantly, he loves me. And I love him.

All of those things, the love and affection and tenderness that we share, makes that fantasy impossible to have with him in it. There is no tenderness or caring in that fantasy. That “man” has to see me as a totally worthless object, there cannot be any regard for my feelings or safety or future. Once that comes into play, it’s ruined. And that’s why, while Master was that man once, he’s not anymore. And cannot be.

That’s also why the name in the fantasy switched from cunt to bitch. Cunt is Master’s name for me. It no longer signifies anything objectifying or demeaning. Cunt is as normal to me as Tess is.

Also, I’ve found out that Master does have fantasies about other women. Women that he does not care for, women that are objects to him, that he can hurt beyond repair and it matters not to him because he’s not invested in their future or happiness. Women that, he says, he could cut loose on and completely fuck up.

I’m okay with that. Sort of.

Love is a tricky addition to a bdsm relationship, in ways you’d never see coming.