"To sleep, perchance to dream..."
There is a fringe group within my local BDSM club scene known colloquially as 'The Roundabout Gang'. This group of twenty or so men and women, besides being members of the BDSM club I belong to, are also members of a swinger's club in town. When they attend functions at the BDSM club they will arrive en masse later in the night and don't usually mingle much with other members. Ever since it was first pointed out to me who this group was, I got the feeling of a very strong 'Us and Them' attitude prevalent. The view of those in the 'Us' group seemed to be that 'Them' (The Roundabout Gang) didn't play by any of the unwritten but inherently established 'rules' of BDSM engagement - the whole 'Safe, Sane and Consensual' credo often being cited.
While I used to sit and silently listen to discussions like this, I did get the distinct impression many in the 'Them' group looked at 'Us' as being so orthodox in our views as to be almost as bad, if not worse than anybody in the Vanilla world - a world generally agreed by both 'Us' and 'Them' as a place from which we all wanted to escape. I enjoyed playing the BDSM games of the 'Us' group and felt comforted to be accepted as a part of that scene and its small rebellion from the Vanilla world I had long felt trapped in. However, as much as I felt comforted by the acceptance of my friends in the 'Us' group, I also felt rejected in equal amounts by 'Them'.
It's difficult to put into words how this made me feel. I supposed the simplest explanation is I am a person who has always felt insecure unless I had the acceptance of everybody. I have an innate desire to make everybody happy and most of all, the people who probably care for me least. In short, I felt myself slipping deeper and deeper into a dark and lonely crevice between the two groups, much like the divide I by now felt separating me from the Vanilla world I'd once known. More than this, the 'invisibility' that used to stalk me and withhold the acceptance I craved in the Vanilla world had followed me into my BDSM world and it felt like nobody noticed or cared that I was falling from view.
Themes of abandonment are strong in my darkest fantasies. In this particular fantasy, as I look up the ragged walls of the emotional ravine I've slipped into, I see my husband and our kinkster friends above. They stand on the edge of the precipice with their backs to me. I can at times hear them chatting and laughing; at other times, speaking ponderously about the nature of dominance and submission or making inane judgment calls on things that might define people into their neat, tidy compartments.
At the top on the other side of this imagined abyss stand many men and women from The Roundabout Gang. None of their faces are really clear except for those of Julienne and her husband, Mike. In the past, whenever I saw them at the club, they always seemed to studiously avoid me as if my connection with the BDSM club and my friends in it branded me a pariah to 'Them'. Now, as I struggle before them so clearly in need of some kind of lifeline, their faces beam with wicked delight.
A rope ladder is thrown down to me. I see it right beside me within easy reach. All I have to do is grab hold of it and climb out of the darkness -- to be rescued. It's a choice I have to make and one that frightens me. Below me, if I don't accept the escape offered, is the certainty of plummeting into the blackness of oblivion. Above me, the hands I see all calling me to grab hold of the ladder are the hands of strangers who I am sure would rather rape me than rescue me. But it's still my choice and mine alone to make. I look one last time toward the other side of the emptiness for any signs of a third choice, but there is none. The edge on which my husband and friends once stood has receded from sight; the sounds of their voices now nothing more than distant echoes.
This might be all a dream except for the fact I fear any awakening before it's complete will leave me lost in the limbo it has conjured. I grab hold of the ladder and slowly begin my ascent. Or is it a descent? I'm climbing but at the same time there is a sensation of falling still deeper. My mind is reeling just as Alice's had when she fell into the rabbit hole portal to Wonderland. Things that were up are now down; big becomes small and the trivial, profound. My clothes fall away from me as I struggle in the direction of The Roundabout Gang. I can sense the energy of the conversations they're having. They're animated and filled with the sound of excitement, but nothing is clear to me and all I can hear is babble.
As I near the top of the ladder, the hands that clawed the air reaching for me now have hold around my wrists. They are the large hands of strong men and I feel myself being lifted from the beyond. Or maybe they're the hands of women? My eyes are fully open but I can't see anything clearly. I'm completely naked by the time I'm lifted clear of the abyss. More hands grab hold of me. The only faces I can clearly identify are those of Julienne and Mike. She is saying something; I can't make out the words. I look at Mike's face and try to fathom what is being said. His mouth is moving too, but I can't hear anything. There's just the sound of my own pulse pounding rapidly and loudly in my ears. It's as if my head has been trapped inside an invisible cocoon. A blindfold is slipped over my head and I am plunged into total darkness - a frightening darkness.
The last thing I can remember seeing is a glimpse of the inside of a large room. It's a room I've been in once before. A few years ago, when The Roundabout Gang had a BDSM night at their club and a few of 'Us' went along, just out of curiosity. Nothing happened there that wouldn't have happened at any of our regular club nights, but I spent the entire evening wondering 'what if?' Back then, I had felt free to dream my dark dreams because I was safely surrounded by my familiar kinkster friends. Now, as yet more hands of unfamiliar strangers grab hold of my ankles to carry me somewhere, I feel no such envelope of safety.
I struggle and cry out, but no sounds penetrate the invisible bubble surrounding my head. Outside that bubble is the sound of a crowd of people. I can scarcely hear what they're saying above the din of the loud, pulsating music that fills their club, but I'm convinced it is talk of the perverse things they intend doing to me. I can feel fingers penetrating my vagina and then laughter. I'm suddenly acutely aware of my own wetness and the aroma of my arousal. The embarrassing assault on my senses causes my face and ears to burn.
The hands on my wrists and ankles hold me spread and vulnerable as I'm carried through their club. I am totally disorientated in the darkness of my blindfold, but instincts tell me I'm being taken to one of the private rooms at the back of building. They're rooms I remember overhearing somebody talk about that one night earlier when my kinkster friends and I had visited their club. I never got the chance to actually see inside any of them, but heard enough to know it was where The Roundabout Gang 'initiated' all the new swingers.
The very word itself - initiate - sent a chill down my spine. There was no doubt in my mind what was meant by it. I would be taken into one of those back rooms and gangbanged, probably restrained as well so I couldn't escape until everybody who wanted to use me had done so. And so begins my darkest fantasy...
Dark Fantasy: Manifestation Of A Dream
"Henceforward I am ever ruled by you." -- Juliet (Shakespeare)
You want to know what turned me on most about revealing my darkest fantasy? It was that moment when I first heard you ask whether I'd tell you a secret. Right then and there, in an infinitesimal moment, it was as if you'd already glimpsed all my deepest, darkest fantasies bottled up within me. After that, all that remained for me to do was loosen the cork so the dark genie of truth within my soul could escape.
From that day on, I lived with an ever-increasing paradoxical sense of both release and tension. The dark fantasies that lurked in my heart were finally being drawn out and this gave me a sense of relief after such a long time of struggling to keep them contained. But at the same time was the tension and anxiety of the date you'd set. I had marked it discreetly on my kitchen calendar with a simple and almost imperceptible black dot on a Friday - the same Friday that was notable for being the beginning of a weekend that husband and family would all be away leaving me alone to act out the fantasy I revealed to you.
There was many times leading up to that Friday when I felt compelled to tell somebody else besides you about what was planned. It was a desperate need and yet, every time I came close to confessing I felt the invisible hand of my fantasy genie pull me back. Outwardly, I must have looked as normal as ever and never once displayed any signs of the inner turmoil that gripped me. On the morning of that fateful Friday, I even laughed uneasily when the usual jokes were made about it being a thirteenth - lucky for some, unlucky for others.
I sat in my car for a long while before summoning that final amount of courage to make my way up the stairs to The Roundabout Club. Julienne and her husband Mike didn't seem surprised to see me but they remained slightly indifferent until I explained I was alone and wanting to join their club. My hands trembled as I wrote my details onto a membership form. I can't even begin to describe how I felt when I finally had to complete my application by paying to proceed. The realization that it wasn't enough for me to simply be there willing to surrender myself to any pervert who might want to use me for their sexual pleasure. I had to pay for it with my own hard-earned cash, as if it was a bizarre kind of prostitution in reverse.
Other club members had drifted in with a few stopping to ogle me. I vaguely recognized a few people, but most were strangers. Mike had one of them strip me right there in the foyer of the club, blindfold me, and then collar me so I could be led on a leash into the main area of the club.
I was led to a booth within the club and locked inside, alone. A voice from outside told me to remove the blindfold, which I did, and I was confronted by a number of disembodied, half erect men's cocks dangling in through holes cut in the walls of the booth. It would be my 'function as the club's newest service slave', I was told, to suck and pleasure them all and not to allow any of them to ejaculate on the floor. I glanced around expecting to see a towel or something, but the small cubicle was empty except for me. The size of the confined space was such I was able to bend over and take one cock in my mouth while another penetrated me from behind. My hands held and gently massaged cocks that presented through holes in the walls either side of me. And this is how I spent the rest of the night. I swallowed lots and lots of filthy, anonymous jism that night but even so, my misjudged timing of when some would cum meant many ejaculated into my pussy (which then leaked it messily onto the floor) or spurted in from the sides into my hands and over my body. All-in-all, it was the most perverse and degrading thing I could possibly imagine happening and I'm still left with a lingering guilt over the dark secret pleasure I felt while doing it.
Dark Fantasy: Voyage To Elsewhere And Beyond
"You remember that place between sleep and awake, where you can still remember dreaming? That's where you'll find me..."
I love that quote. It's paraphrased from something Tinkerbell said in the movie 'Hook' and it resonates deeply in me. Daydreams are like that magical place, and I daydream constantly. So, when you asked whether I had to search deeply to find my darkest fantasy story, the answer is a resounding no. You asked whether it's the only fantasy I have, and the answer to that is also no, although I admit it's one that does frequently get looped in my mind's eye. However, it's one thing to have these fantasies swirling around in the erotic whirl of my daydreams but quite another to commit them to paper.
I'm not a big reader of 'pop psychology' books that claim to offer the means to achieve everything from growing rich to understanding the cosmic beyond, but I do give some credence to the idea that the first step to making any dream come true is to write it down. That said, you first asked me to share a dark, secret fantasy with you, and the idea of this tantalized me. The delight wasn't simply in the fact I might share something so intimate and personal as an embarrassing secret fantasy, although this was a factor. A large part of the pleasure for me was in knowing by writing it down I was in fact taking the first step toward making my dark secret fantasy a reality, whether I wanted it to become real or not.
Why would I want to do that? Could it really be true I actually want this fantasy to become real - to be stripped completely and forced into a situation where I might be humiliated in such a perverted and disgusting way? Obviously, the thought has been in my mind for a long time, otherwise the fantasy wouldn't exist to begin with. The mere fact that it does exist at all is enough evidence for even the most amateur of observers to think it's true and my defense of it, by guarding it as a secret, confirms the truth beyond doubt.
As I sit here contemplating all this, I am aroused by the thought that confessing this secret to you requires me to trust you'll guard my secret as closely as I have guarded it. But what reason could I have to trust you at all? I mean, you're a total stranger and yet I am trusting with a small piece of information about me that nobody else on Earth knows. Perhaps I can rationalize it by pretending you don't really exist at all, except in the ether of the Internet, just as my fantasy now exists there. This delusion might hold true for a while, but deep down, just as I know my secret desire to be real, so too are you.
In a sense I feel my fantasy has not simply been released like the genie from the lamp, but that it has been projected onto you. When it had been bottled up inside me, I still had some control over it but now? Now, my fantasy and by extension, my reality is in your hands and outside my control.
Control is a word I hear a lot whenever anybody talks about dominance and submission. Many scene people will also talk about submission as being some kind of 'gift' that the submissive offers and that the dominant treasures. Perhaps I'm blithely revealing yet another dark secret of mine but for me, I am most aroused when I think of my control not simply being offered to somebody else as a gift, but to surrender it as one might do to a conquering victor. To throw myself completely at the mercy of them and abandon all hope, just as in the warning Dante had seen before entering the first Circle of Hell.
Of course, all that really exists right now is the truth of my darkest fantasy and the trust I have you'll guard my secret. Neither is really significant on its own and unless a third element is added, the two might just as well not exist at all. To reveal the third element is to come full circle again and expose yet more truth about my darkest fantasy. That third element is 'betrayal' that could manifest in something tangible, such as your using your position of trust to blackmail me, or something more intangible such as fate or, to coin a favorite word of mine, 'serendipity'.
By definition, serendipity is 'the act of making fortunate discoveries by accident'. Your discovery of my darkest desires could be said to be serendipitous, but that still isn't enough to explain how you came to make that discovery in the first place. It could never have been made unless I took the first step to lead you to that discovery. A longer, more poetic definition can be drawn from this quote, taken from John Barth's book 'The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor (The Sinbad Adventure)':
"You don't reach Serendip by plotting a course for it. You have to set out in good faith for elsewhere and lose your bearings serendipitously."
The notion of a life led without direction but full of serendipitous surprises is one that appeals to me deeply. Then again, maybe all this is now falling back into the realms of daydreams and the romantic notion that you will guard the secret I have shared with you. To do this overlooks the fact of what you asked me to do with my fantasy story, after I had written it down.
You said I should print it out on a single sheet of paper, fold that paper to a small size, and then bury it somewhere. More than this, I had to bury it in a place where I might walk past it every day - a symbolic reminder of the dark, unfathomable desires that occur in my dreams. If this wasn't enough to send shivers of tingly delight through every nerve ending in my body, you concluded by asking how I felt about knowing it is there, in your words, "like a part of you waiting to be found?"
Well, I not only buried my story as instructed, but I enclosed it in an airtight small plastic capsule. Thus buried (in a pot plant at a coffee shop I frequently visit at lunch times) it lies preserved like a time capsule and will remain in a pristine condition awaiting that moment of serendipity when somebody else, on their own personal voyage to elsewhere, might find it.
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