This story is quite brutal – it’s about a BDSM fantasy/dream thing in which I want him to beat me as hard as possible. It’s entirely consensual, because it all happens inside my head. But if consensual non-consent isn’t your thing, or if you are in any way confused by the fact that fantasy doesn’t indicate what someone wants in reality, please don’t read it.
He uses gaffer tape to shut my mouth, and pinches me until my tears start to flow. And I remember, as I’m dreaming this, that my fantasies get darker in moments of stress. As if the release of physical pain will cure the mental anguish inside my head. It won’t, but it’s a nice distraction.
He gaffer tapes my mouth, and then he hurts me.
When my mouth is taped up I can’t cry out when it hurts, but that’s good because I don’t want the kiss of pain to be tempered by his worry that it will leave a mark. I want to be lashed with thin, rattan canes. Want to bend over and touch my toes and hear the crack as he whips red stripes into my flesh.
I don’t know exactly what I have done wrong, but I know I am greedy for punishment.
I need to feel the thwack of leather on taut skin. Hear his voice berating me for something – anything. So I mumble-weep-cry against the gaffer tape gag, and click my fingers twice to indicate ‘more.’
More. Harder. Beat me harder.
I don’t know why, but the more stressed I am the darker my fantasies are. Out with the ball-gags and straps and eager grunting: in with gaffer tape and tears and dry anal fucking and the word ‘bitch.’
Pain is like a comfort blanket. When I am picturing myself in pain, I can’t picture myself doing anything else. The gag, the bondage, the obedience: they all allow me to hide away. I am not an active participant. Not doing: done to. And so nothing is my fault.
I moan again against the tape, and he grips my wrists and drags me to the floor. Pushing my face against the carpet with one firm hand, and using the other to lash indiscriminately with a whip at my exposed flesh. When I am there I wriggle, because wriggling brings more lashes and more pain.
I look up at him with wet eyes and moan louder – aching for him to do things I haven’t yet imagined. More painful things. Things I would never think to choose.
When I fantasise like this, I know it isn’t real. I know that I would never want to be this hurt – this bruised, broken, red-welted weeping shell. If this were happening anywhere but inside my head, I would stop it with a word or a stern look or a muffled giggle. And we would stop, and laugh at ourselves, and fuck with pleasure as well as pain.
But in my head, right now, it is all pain. All of it. Before the tape is on my face he makes me kneel, head resting against the plaster wall, and he fucks my face until my skull rattles, then spits on me for being so eager-to-please. When the tape is on he beats me over and over and over and over until every line and mark on my flesh is singing with fire. Until I weep so much I think I might drown in it.
When he fucks me, it is cold and hard and dry and agony. And I embrace it like I never would if it were real. Because in my head I want things to be different: I want to know what it is like to lose control. I want to feel pain that’s worse than he’d ever dish out, humiliation that’s beyond what I would ever truly submit to. I want everything more and harder and better and more brutal than I’ve ever had before.
I want this more when life is hard, and I can’t quite work out why. Perhaps because when life is hard he looks at me with eyes full of kindness. He touches me softly. Tucks me in to bed with a kiss on the forehead and warm, gentle hands. He cares for me like I’m fragile and precious, and I submit to it with weary, childlike relief. I feel guilty for giving in to this care – this kindness.
So I dream of being whipped, and I wallow in fantasies that are the opposite of what he’s doing right now. And I revel in them like I revel in the first droplets of rain that fall when I refuse a lift to the station, or the burst of self pity when I realise I’m overdrawn two days after turning down his offer to lend me cash. The way I greedily suck up the burns on my fingers if I refuse his help cooking dinner. I wallow in the idea of pain because it makes me feel like I am trying – I am working hard and putting effort in. I am frightened of a life in which I never ever suffer.
When life is hard he cares for me and I – ever ungrateful, ever confused, ever chasing the next sordid wank story – paint a picture of him that could never ever be: devoid of kindness and compassion, chasing only things which cause me pain.
He would never do this, and I would never want him to.
But when I’m down, I dream of him like this.
And when I dream like this, I come.
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