When I was last saying goodbye to Country Hottie he mentioned that a dom/sub scenario might be fun next time. I let the thought simmer and sent some textual hints of leather, bindings, lengths of chain, a blindfold and an excitable woman of great desire but variable discipline who wants to please him very much.

He went a giant leap further and asked if I was interested in a mock rape scenario.

I said yes without stopping to think what I was potentially signing up for.

He then asked if I was up to it.

Doubting me is the quickest way to make me want something. I said I hoped I was and promised to e-mail him some ideas.

Usually at the drop of a hat I can imagine dozens of fantasies involving forced sex.  Now that a real opportunity has arisen my mind is porridge with possibility overload. All I know is that I’m bursting to see him transform from a sexually generous and gregarious dirty talker move past the d/s realm into a harsh and potentially cruel captor. The prospect of him turning the tables from trust to fear in the hero/villain archetype excites the living bejesus out of me.

Perhaps I check into a motel because I’m town for a conference. The physical setup is the motor inn kind with rooms accessible from a central car park. He is watching me from his car, noting that I have left the door ajar to collect armloads of bags and equipment and forgotten to secure the door when I’m finished because I’ve taken a phone call.

I settle in and take a shower.

Is he already in the room waiting for me when I step out? Or perhaps he is in tradesman’s garb and knocks on the door for access to fix something? Do I want the accelerated path to fear or a more circuitous and complex route? He would be good at inspiring trust through friendliness; perhaps the latter will suit both of us.

We chat while he fixes the television wiring and I set up my laptop computer on the dining table to run through a presentation for the conference. After a few minutes of polite banter I almost forget he’s in the room as I concentrate on my task (in real life my heart will be thumping through my chest with the waiting and anticipation of when he’ll make his move).

I don’t hear the click of the door locking.

Hands grip my wrists in a blindingly quick swoop and sharp teeth clamp the back of my neck. I barely have time to yelp when he locks my arms behind my back and renders me immobile. The beginnings of a shout form in my lungs and the grip of his hand squeezes the breath out in a sharp whine. He makes a threat I feel compelled to obey.

Game on. I want him to surprise me for the next hours.

Panic turns to slumped acceptance. I do his bidding fearfully and shamefully, grow in confidence when I think I’ll get out in one piece but am broken again after I attempt escape. I am shifted and bent into innumerable positions as the receptacle of his sins. He sees me respond occasionally with small moans of arousal and corrects me harshly, reminding me of my imprisonment. I wear the colours on my skin of his relentless aggression and disrespect. He depletes me, leaves me alone in the darkened room until I think I am safe and re-starts the treatment with a renewed ferocity.

Is an anal ‘rape’ too stereotypical a finale?

I’ve e-mailed the scenario to him but, of course, he hasn’t yet replied.

Other ideas?