I was whispering in his ear, so close, touching every part of him.
The image was crystal clear in my head, I spilled it into him.
A white room, clean, featureless, stark.
He is the only thing that spoils its perfect sterility.
He is tied down in the middle over a white block. The block is also white, waist-height, sharp edges.
He is face down, his body laid out, helpless. He is in pain, sharp edges digging into him, his muscles straining. He is silent with it. His wrists almost reach the ground, his arms stretched. If he could make a sound, it would be a soft sobbing, but he doesn’t make a sound. He is silent. His body trembles slightly. He is scared.
I give a signal and a door opens. A man in white enters the room. Then another. Then the next. A line of them.
They are featureless, they are not looking at him, they are looking at me. They wait.
I describe the room, his predicament, the featureless men to him, make him stroke his cock for me, he looks up at me, his face signals distress, his cock rock hard.
“You know what’s coming don’t you?”
“Yes Ma’am.” His voice is small, he is made helpless by this.
Back in the room, I nod. My boy is there to be taken and used.
The first faceless man steps up and changes from featureless automaton into violent needy desperation. He doesn’t hesitate, his cock already hard, he grunts as he shoves himself into my boy’s arse in one violent stroke.
My boy moans.
“You’re just a pretty hole to be used. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Having them lining up to take your arse?”
He nods, his face a mask of concentration, his hand on his cock speeding up.
It hurts, this violent fucking. Hard, merciless. The faceless man doesn’t care, his only focus is on shoving himself into that arse until he comes. He grabs my boy around his neck to pull him back onto his cock with more force, the veins in my boy’s neck bulge as he gasps for air. His body is rocked against the sharpness of the block, his bound wrists pulling harder, the cock in his arse pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in relentlessly.
The man roars when he comes, his hips slamming against my boy’s arse, the impact against the sharp edges and violent thrust into his arse makes my boy open his mouth in a silent scream.
I signal the second man in line. He positions himself quickly, shoves his cock into my boy’s open mouth and down his throat with a groan. I hear the gagging choking sound my boy makes and signal the third man. He physically shoves the first out of the way, grunts loudly as he shoves his cock into my boy’s wet hole.
My lips against his ear, whispering the relentless assault, his laboured breathless moans float into the room, he whimpers.
I line up the next faceless man.
Are you sure it was me that you expressed that fantasy to? I’m sure I would have remembered you telling me that.
Or maybe it’s on the list of inconsequential things that have slipped from my memory. I mostly recall the important things… your eyes, your mouth, the sound of your voice, your naked form, my hunger…
Oh, I’m sure *smile*.
Allowing for some poetic license (and rubbish memory) with the details, the white room, you restrained in the middle, the men lining up to get at you. Yes.
And I’m completely delighted about the much more important things that you DO remember *smile*.
I love that I received this just as I was thinking I was going to die of boredom:-)
I love that too: Serendipity *smile*.
Thank you for this, and all the fantasies you share. My fantasies of literally devouring my partner or giving him to strangers to fuck or torment used to make me fear I was a horrible person who should never be allowed near a submissive. Each new scenario you share helps me feel a little more normal, a little less afraid of myself. A few days ago I described one of my more extreme fantasies to my pet for the first time – something I never could have found the nerve to do before I made reading your blog part of my internet routine.
I’m so delighted to hear that you are becoming less afraid of yourself: I know that can be really difficult to come to terms with yourself when you feel ‘wrong’. I’m even more delighted to hear that you shared one of your fantasies with your pet. That’s wonderful. I’m assuming (hoping) that it was close-making for both of you.
Thank you so much for your comment and for sharing this *smile*.
It wasn’t something planned – the fantasy popped into my head during a scene, so I started telling it while still doing what I had been doing. Afterward I asked my pet for thoughts what I had said, and apparently while it didn’t hit the same kinds of buttons that it did for me, it didn’t even occur to him that there was anything odd about the fact that I had just described eating him alive.
As a side note, I have noticed that I get a little squicked if I describe myself as “eating” my sub, but turned on if I describe myself as “devouring” him instead. I wonder why the choice of words makes such a difference?
Aethel, “eating” is a mundane, everyday task. To eat someone speaks of cold, planned and psychopathic intent.
“Devouring” is a wild, animalistic thing. It speaks of passion, aggression and insatiable hunger, along with a desire to consume them fully.
It’s no wonder the latter word speaks for your desires more aptly.
“it didn’t even occur to him that there was anything odd about the fact that I had just described eating him alive.”
*smile* Good, I’m glad to hear it.
I agree with what my First said about the language, but interesting that ‘eating’ squicks you. I have an ‘aw hell no’ reaction to unsexy words, but a ‘squick’ reaction is something a bit different.
Yeah, squick is definitely the word for it. It’s not just unsexy, it’s actively uncomfortable, especially when written. I suspect its worse in writing because then I see it every time I edit or re-read the sentence.
What First said makes a lot of sense to me. My self-image includes the idea that I am a caring, empathic person as one of the core concepts, which is part of the reason that I have struggled with my fantasies so much. The conotation of cold, psychopathic planning would be in direct conflict, then, with the person I want to be, and helps explain why my reaction to the word is so negative.
This is almost ( replace M with F ) the origin story of Freddy Krueger in an issue #1 of a Nightmare on Elm Street comic series I have.