Do you ever look at someone who think could be an interesting lover and realise that the level of darkness, or perhaps kink, in your soul is probably so far beyond theirs? That no matter how attracted to them you might be, you will always need something more?
I recently met someone in the real, vanilla world who has a certain something, but I have a deep suspicion that he is strictly a meat and potatoes sort of fellow. It’s a hard place to be. How does one broach…oh…so many of the subject that I cover in this blog? My daddy issues. My interest in erotic lactation. My insatiability. My fascination with rough sex? That I like to be tied up and used? That I want my boundaries pushed and explored by someone?
To be fair, he isn’t a babe in the woods and I would strongly suspect that due to his dominant, old fashioned, man’s man sort of persona that he isn’t secretly subby. In fact, I would be downright shocked. Those sort of men don’t make me tingle, and I have a pretty strong sub radar. But then there comes the rest. That might just shock him a tad. I could tell by his reaction to my intensity. And I wasn’t even being intense.
How do I say it? I alluded to having a few kinks when we were having drinks the other night, and he cocked up a brow and said…”Oh?”. But in our post ’50 shades’ world, a few kinks could be anything from excitement over a spanking or wanting to dress up in a cheap faux corset and prancing around the bedroom with a riding crop and some fuzzy love cuffs. Soccer moms are discovering their kinks. They almost fall under the heading of quaint bedroom games.
What I talk about aren’t kinks. The older I get, they are necessities. Something I need to breathe. I don’t know if I could go back to a simply vanilla relationship now. I need more than that. I need to be held down by the throat and fucked until I scream. I need a man to squeeze my breasts between his fingers and tell me how he will feed from my body and change me until I please him. I need to be his sex toy. I need to be his doll.
But how do you go there? How do you broach it with the vanilla? And the older vanilla at that? I know that older men like to hunt their prey, and perhaps I am overly eager in my thrill at being caught. I have to be careful for my innate need is, while not to pursue, but to surround. Maybe it is that I have wanted this, so desperately and for so long, that I have lost the ability to be prey. Perhaps I am a predator in submissive boots. I will hunt you until you agree to take me. Oh dear… topping from the bottom. But then I don’t top. At least not anymore.
The older I get, the darker my fantasies become. More extreme. In the middle of the night, (or about 11 am this am, as the case may be) I find myself turned on by acts which repulsed me five years ago. The longer I am denied, the more I want to be forced into greater acts of degradation. I want the fantastical him to want it, and get off on it. I want him to want me to do it, to be it.
Even the porn I like (and I do so love porn) is getting darker. I always used to skip over the oral, because- while I do it- going down on men doesn’t turn me on. But I was watching a piece of BDSM porn, where the girl was hooked to a fucking machine, tied down, helpless, and then the man came and literally skull fucked her. She couldn’t get away… she was tied down and he just used her mouth like a pussy. She was struggling, crying, her mascara running down her face… and I came on my hand so hard. I don’t know what it was. Even in retrospect, I don’t know why. But I wanted it and I could feel it in my own throat. That hot, hard cock in my mouth… pushing my tongue down, periodically blocking off my air while my pussy was abused with mechanical certainty by a machine. I came so hard, just at the thought.
Sometimes I fantasize about being tied down and used in the dark by faceless man after faceless man. Having nothing to say about it. No will. No say. Just weight on top of me and ever more thrusting cocks in my body. They cum inside me. I am filled and filled, over and over again until it simply pours out of me and my ass is swimming in a pool of their seed.
As a modern woman, I abhor the very concept of human trafficking, and yet in my darkness, sometimes I fantasize about it. Being forced. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is this strong desire to be reduced to a desperate, sexual being. Begging for yet another orgasm. Begging to be used. Begging for hands on my body. Begging to be forced to take it over and over until I pass out from it.
The other night, when I was out for drinks and met this fellow, I stopped just short of saying ‘Come to my place and use my body. Tie me to the bed and live out your every fantasy. The darkest things in the recesses of your mind! Spank me! Fuck me! Fist me! Explore me! Make me into your doll!’ If he knew what was in my head, he would probably run screaming.
At some point, I ate the apple that the snake offered me. At some point, I became a slave to this darkness. The snake is wrapped around me, squeezing out my sanity as his forked tongue wrecks havoc on my tender nether parts. It’s like I have seen too much, fantasized too much, done too much… to ever be vanilla again.
So now what?
A brilliant piece by a modern artist. Used with permission. See more here!