I have been feeling profoundly dismal lately—partly because of PMS, and also because of things that are happening here. The “new things” I so delicately alluded to a couple of posts ago have, in fact, been further experiments in sex with other people. In my view, our difficulty in reaching a kind of common understanding or agreement about how to handle “the others stuff” is one of our biggest obstacles and among our largest sources of conflict. (His view, I think, is that our D/s dynamic is the “problem”, if there is one, in our sex life, and maybe between us in general.)

Whatever the reality, the last couple of weeks have been alternately wondrous and gloomy, with the gloom increasing steadily increasing, along with the amount of water I seem to be retaining. And still, last night as bedtime approached, my hormone-infused body eyed his opportunistically. Since nothing of note resulted, I am posting something I came across while cleaning out my desk–a fantasy from a few months ago that I apparently wrote down as soon as it occurred to me. (Actually, just after masturbating I wrote down my fantasies, which is why they’re not particularly coherent.)

Coincidentally (or not), persephone just posted about a real-life orgasm-predicament her owner recently placed her in. It seems to have worked on her.

* * *

I imagined, as I had the last time I’d been with Robbie, one of his fantasies just as he described it—I imagined him having me masturbate in front of a group of men. I imagined how I would feel with them staring at me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get aroused, certain I wouldn’t be able to turn myself on with a bunch of guys just sitting silently and looking at me.

But if he started talking to me, I thought, that would be a different matter. Ninety percent of the time the things that come out of his mouth inflame me. I thought of being on the long plateau where orgasm seems neither near nor far, and the thought of him turned the heat on under my imagination.

“Come on, cunt,” I imagined him saying, just the way he says it when we’re together. “Come on, come for me.” After working incredibly well for a few weeks, this actually has stopped working altogether; resisting his imagined comment, I actually shook my head, and the imaginary me did the same.

“No?” my fantasy-Robbie said. “I tell you what. You get until the count of ten to get whatever pleasure you can, because after that we’re just going to use you. You understand me?” he said, menacingly, getting up in my face, a fierce, twisted look on his. “And there will be none of this “red light”-“yellow light” crap, no ouch, no tears, or at least, it won’t matter if there are, because it just won’t make a difference.”

At this I got so excited I could feel myself start to gush. “Yeah, that’s right. You come now. And then we’re going to take turns fucking that cunt. Get it over with, get out of the way.” By this time I was plunging my hands through my folds in a way I know brings on violent orgasms, but in my mind he was the one with his fingers up inside me. “You cunt, come for me now!” I did while my mind spun out the rest of the fantasy in the endless freefall of climax: him grabbing me and flipping me over onto a horse and fucking me a bit to open me up while he hauled my head back by my hair so one of his guests could plunge himself all the way down my throat; him stepping aside to watch as the other me fucking me in turn, wherever they wanted to; and finally taking me himself, the last one, the first one, my only one, the one who owns me.

And the best, and worst part, was knowing all along that I’d have to, want to, thrill to tell him how crazily excited I got and how he is, I know he is, right when he says that given time he will get everything he wants from me.

First image by WinterWolf Studios, which I discovered thanks to Sexoteric. Second image by the tremendously imaginative Eugenio Recueno.