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I discovered a new industrial estate less than 10 minutes from home the other night. I wasn’t exactly out looking for sites but Young Tradesman got back in touch when he was passing through my area and trying to convince me to leave the house and join him. We didn’t do much that warrants recollection but nearly all of the warehouses and showrooms are new, lacking security cameras and I didn’t see any mobile security patrols during the time we were scouting around (no wonder we didn’t do much that warrants recollection as my mind was wandering to how I might utilise the site in future and if the territory was ‘his’ seeing as he found it). On the other side of the road opposite the empty buildings, perhaps five acres is levelled, cleared and pitch dark at night. I think it’ll be good for at least six months with the current economic malaise.
The next day I thought of a scenario I’d be interested in trying. I could be inspecting some of the developments as a site to start a business and something goes wrong with my car when I try to leave, or perhaps I’m waiting for an hour-afters appointment with a real estate agent who has just cancelled. A white delivery van (with a floorpan in the back long enough for people to lay down) pulls up … this is realistic and situationally safe because one of the existing businesses on the street has a fleet of white vans for food delivery and we wouldn’t stand out if discovered. The driver and possibly his co-driver (I keep thinking about two men at once at the moment) offer assistance but I say I live locally and will call a friend to wait with me until the tow truck arrives or whatever continues the scenario.
A struggle ensues and my captor/s drag me into the back of their van and they drive somewhere within the complex to have me as they wish. I think this time I would be subjugated quickly and embrace the principles of pleasure rather than an entrapment based on rough treatment.
I think The European would be perfect to make this happen but we haven’t been in contact since our roleplay. I’m not sure whether to get in touch with an outline. I could hire the transport and he said he had attractive, sane friends if ever I was interested in a multiple-partner activity. No harm in asking, I suppose. I’ll think about it.
I am craving many things at the moment.
I am craving a hotel afternoon in a spacious and luxuriously-appointed bed, with a sturdy and comfortable couch, large shower and hours with the door shut to fuck and cleanse and recover and eat and drink wine and fuck all over again.
I am craving Mr OMG’s bare chest against mine. This is not a healthy craving but I wonder if acknowledging a weakness makes it more or less weak. I keep thinking about him sitting with his legs bent and lowering myself on him and feeling glorious warm pain that I never want to end.
I think I am craving to be fisted by a woman with refined fingers and a slender wrist.
If not, I’ll crave being fisted again by a man.
I am craving lying sideways, being embraced by two naked men, feeling the erection of the one at the front grinding into my pelvis, and the hand of the one at the rear reaching around and massaging my middle places into alarming warmth and wetness. His hand will brush the other’s cock because I want them to also crave each other.
This leads to my craving for double penetration.
I am craving the man I met at a party. I don’t mix my social life with the pursuit of sexual partners, but he bowled me over with attraction and the more we talked, the more I wanted his expressive hands caressing my backside. This craving needs to subside in its own time because he was visiting from interstate and staying with a dear friend who doesn’t know of my nocturnal hobbies; the potential complications were too many. I only went that far in my thinking because he liked me, too.
I am craving someone regular. I am adapting to having casual suitors flitting around but they are still ancillary to my desire for someone who wants more than rushed basics. Pleasure Freak, Young Lion and Young Tradesman are on notice that I’m not seeing them unless it’s to indulge in my craving for a hotel afternoon.
We exchanged a few messages and I liked his frankness. I was working from home after an appointment and had the call of the wild and he was able to leave work early to submit to his. Sometime between agreeing a time and meeting we had outlined a scenario where he would follow me in a park in broad daylight, force me against a tree and have me perform oral sex on him.
I’ve never touched anyone I haven’t met or seen previously but my comfort and arousal levels were high enough to convince myself it was a good idea. I even chose the park.
I arrived early to scan a suitable site but the copse of trees I had in mind was surrounded by barriers and tradesmen. I walked to the public toilet and thought I glimpsed someone outside who matched his description, but we agreed if I saw him I’d pretend I hadn’t. I looked quickly away and knew it was him on one level but the little voice in my head said, “Well, how are you going to get out of this if it’s not him?” When I looked again he was gone and I start wondering if my sense of adventure was masking lunacy.
I left and strode with fake confidence along a gravel path; within a minute I heard footsteps crunching behind me. It took every ounce of discipline to not turn and check it was him even although rationally I knew it had to be. I had one of my seemingly regular thoughts that I loathe being so nervous but I’m equally fascinated by how things might turn out.
Too many people were walking dogs and I deviated from the path towards some isolated mature trees. I worried about people seeing I was being pursued by a male across the grass but no one appeared to notice — I’ll save that observation in self protection if I’m ever being pursued in real life. I was close to a tree to the side and started fumbling in my handbag as a ploy for him to grab me when I was vulnerable, however, a landscaping truck drove past at the wrong moment and I had to keep moving.
From behind he texted ‘toilet’ and I looped towards the starting point. He emerged from nowhere when I put my hand on the door and he pushed me inside, sweeping the air from my lungs in surprise at his stealth. I curled into a ball and pushed him back into the door to hold him there until he remembered to turn the bloody latch.
He pushed me against the painted brick wall so I couldn’t see his face and ran one hand up and down my spine as the other held me firm. His hands roamed and I formed the impression his fantasy focused more on submission than aggression — unlike the roleplay with Country Hottie — as he tongued my ear and neck. He scrunched my hair in front of my eyes and placed me on my knees on the dirty concrete floor. He lifted his shirt and I gave myself a silent high-five because his chest was firm and shaved smooth.
He murmured in a mix of English and his native tongue as he dropped his trousers and underpants and guided my head towards his groin. Again, manicured and easy to navigate with my mouth but unsettling that I had views of bodyparts but not the facial features that identify a person (and I was aroused by what I had seen and frustrated because I wanted to be more involved).
He pulled down my pants and forced me on all fours. I saw a condom wrapper fall to the floor and became fearful that he hadn’t read the message saying I had my period and penetration wasn’t on the menu. I squeaked with pain as he tried to enter my arse a few times and he stopped and patted my back gently. I whispered for him to please come in my mouth and he masturbated a few moments and finished where I asked. He turned away as he dressed and told me to stay where I was until he had gone.
When he left, I ran to lock the door and stop a few minutes to regain my composure. Oddly, he sent a message asking if I’d like to join him at a cafe to ‘meet’. I said yes and he already had a cold drink waiting for me because he imagined I would be as overheated as he. Another considerate attacker.
He was an interesting, street-smart verging on world-weary, attractive man. He didn’t tell me until later he’d driven 90 minutes to make the scenario happen as it had been on his mind a while. We talked and he gave me blunt advice on my profile and how to weed out nutters (I ignored some of his wisdom which bodes suitably for the next post) and he offered his services for a threesome or moresome if I desired in the future. We went our respective ways and I returned home a messy-haired, smiling pixie.
It was exhilarating at the time but the next day felt like old memories slipping through my fingers that were never real.
I don’t think I’ll be wearing the underwear and pantyhose any more. He played hard because I chose garments with the strongest cotton stitching and edgings — I never knew an interest in fibre crafts would help in a sexual context. I’ll type more when I am aching less. I’m not sure how I’ll explain the emerging bruises on my hands and scrapes on my wrists without concealing the massive grin on my face; at least the other welts and marks and physical memories are mine alone to observe.
I am strong. I will not yield from my game plan. I am disciplined. I will not waver when I am before him.
I am full of shit.
Country Hottie confirmed the time of our meeting with a slightly out of role text message starting, “Hey there, gorgeous thing …” and my resulting internal monologue went along the lines of Oh my god, I’m so nervous, how am I going to stay in role, oooh he might make me squirt again even though I’m not supposed to want pleasure, and I hope we do some fun stuff afterwards because I’d really like to massage him, *squeal* god he’s got a nice body and I can’t wait to get my hands all over him again, growwwwl I could easily have his cock inside me right this second, I wonder what’s in the toy bag he hasn’t let me see inside yet, and hey, you, overactive brain, focus on the dark and serious things again, please.
Hopeless.
The roleplay is scheduled for next weekend and I hadn’t anticipated how much work is involved in artificially constructing a naturally-flowing scenario.
My inner control freak is happy that acting the professional but brusque salesperson will be an extension of my real-life annoyance with Country Hottie (he took more than a week to respond to a message asking for the last piece of simple information and I was about to cancel). My personal shield of detachment is ready to deflect the easygoing charm I’m expecting when he opens the door and I think I’ll try to rush the inspection and force an early move to mess with how I think he’ll start his game. I have all the props except an expendable skirt and fishnet pantyhose (not the sexy and easy-to-remove stockings but the impossible-to-negotiate pantyhose that end somewhere near the belly button).
I need to find time for the hair removal session from hell as I’d use copious amounts of duct tape if I were him. And I’d have rough hessian rope and industrial-strength cable ties waiting under the bed but there’s little preparation that can pre-empt abrasions. This is important because I’ve decided my tactic is to fight like a wildcat and satisfy my curiosity about what will transpire when I try to escape. I’ve almost hit the limit of my patience dealing with him in real life and I’m going to make the most of these hours in case they’re the last.
Little ‘to dos’ keep popping into my head. I need to figure out how to discreetly store a set of casual clothes and toiletries because I’m not keen on leaving looking like I’ve been dragged backwards through a bush of blackberries.
Country Hottie provided some views and skews on the roleplay.
He’s moved the venue to his house, presumably to shift the balance of power even further his way. The premise is that he is putting his house on the market and I will make an appointment to appraise the property as the local real estate agent’s rep. The only other guidelines are to dress as professionally as possible in clothes that won’t be lamented if they’re destroyed. Anything that happens during my inspection remains locked firmly inside his head.
The date might be a few weeks away: I need a couple of framing questions answered so we can be in role from my first phone call and I don’t know his availability for next weekend. My period’s also due the following weekend. I know out on the streets that assault doesn’t wait for bodily cycles, but fantasies are hygienically-modified worlds of desire: we slap instead of punch, bite instead of break, ravage instead of damage, and I have no qualms about pre-editing the elements over which I have control.
I wish it was now. I’m in what seems to be a pre-depression mindset of darkness around my heart and being insulated from life but hypersensitive and prone to crying deep inside. I’d like to ask him to have the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ cover of ‘The Carnival is Over’ playing during the most harrowing of whatever happens, but I’ll be in his hands by then and will only have control of the soundtrack in my head.
I received a text message from Country Hottie in response to the scenario ideas: “Mmmm thks for e-mail so horny now lets do one line soon x.”
I think that means no at this stage to the first 95 per cent of my message, but he wants to fuck my arse as I described in one of the final lines (the sentence was more graphic and daring in the version I sent and was presumably the one that got his testosterone racing.)
I’ll see what happens — or when, more to the point because it is him, but I already have a Plan B dom/sub scenario in the back of my mind. I should be careful what I wish for because he is of larger than average length and girth and has enviable endurance. Each time with anal sex feels like the first time, which is the dangerous beauty of its dual games of trepidation and anticipation.
PS: I hope the unplanned new look is working.
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?
My birthday is approaching far more quickly than I’m prepared to acknowledge and time is the one thing my planet-sized state of denial can’t stop. I’m of the age and simple lifestyle of not needing anything or wishing for anything beyond a book shop voucher and a bottle of Lanson champagne — hi, The Drummer, if you’re reading.
Jekyll and Hyde were pencilled in for a hotel afternoon the weekend after Denial Day. I sent Hyde a message asking if he’d be interested in some double penetration for a birthday girl, and his reply was, “Lovely, sounds great!” He makes me laugh. But Jekyll is on permanent hiatus and my timing in causing a ruckus with him has fucked the whole scenario up.
I don’t have the prospects or time up my sleeve to conjure a back-up plan. I had thought about going to the local pub’s weekly over-28s grab-a-gran night and hunting down two likely sorts, but I really do want some class together with proven track records in deviancy. Perhaps next year.
