Two Days of Fantasy
by Jennifer Harrison
Author's note: It’s a cold winter’s night in England. The kids are asleep, my husband is snoring quietly beside me, but I can’t sleep. It’s nearly midnight. I love my husband, but I am about to betray him. Again.
I slip quietly out of bed, tiptoe downstairs, and go into the dining room. The straight-backed chair is cold and hard, but I flick up my nightie so that I can feel the cool wood against my buttocks and thighs. I start up my laptop, and as I wait for it to boot, in the soft glow of the screen, I see the goosebumps on my arms, the shadow of my nipples as they press against the thin, silky material of my nightdress. It is cold, but I don’t want to put a heater on, it is as if I am punishing myself with the cold. A shiver runs through me, but I know it’s not just because of the icy feel to the room.
I navigate to an obscure directory, click on a file with an unremarkable name, and enter my password. The presentation opens with a photograph along a deserted beach, the impossibly white sand bleached by the strong sunlight. I click the mouse, and the picture changes to one across and down the beach, looking out at the blue sea and white breakers. In the middle distance stands a post buried in the beach, the remnant of some ancient jetty, the wood smoothed by the action of the sea, and turned silver by the salt. On either side of the stake can be seen small protrusions which, on closer inspection, turn out to be parts of a body seen from behind. A female body. My body.
I think back to how I came to be on that beach. It had started innocently enough – he had posted photos on Deviant Art, not ‘dirty’ pictures, but landscapes, cityscapes, all kinds of things. I had commented that I liked his style, an email conversation started, all very innocent. But he had checked out my stories on the site, seen that I was into bondage in a big way, and had emailed me a proposition: ‘I would like to offer my services as a photographer for any BDSM fantasies you might like to enjoy…’
Of course, I laughed it off – I’m happily married with two kids, I wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly do that! The conversation went on, the subject was dropped.
If only he’d said ‘I’d like to photograph you naked, tied up’, I would have just dismissed it as the usual – some ‘pervert’ trying it on. But he professed no interest in bondage... and I believed him. He had no nude pictures on the site, not even any clothed portraits. But what really wormed its way into my consciousness was that phrase, ‘any BDSM fantasies you might like to enjoy…’ I had spent years translating the images in my head into stories I could read, somehow making them more real. Posting them for others seemed to legitimise them further. But to act out those fantasies and have a permanent record of it… the thought ate away at my soul for months, and I knew, somehow, I had to make it happen. I click the mouse.
The picture is of me, kneeling on the sand, arms above my head. I am wearing a bikini bottom and a T-shirt which don’t meet, exposing my midriff. My legs are slightly open, so that my feet are on either side of the post. My arms are held above my head by the rope around my wrists, tied higher up the post. I remember the feel of that rope, coarse enough to catch my skin, rubbing it until slight burns can be seen. I have already tugged on that rope as hard as I can, wanting to convince myself it is secure, unbreakable. At last.
But my attention soon switches to my mouth, my lips stretched tight around the bright red ballgag filling it. I can still feel the smoothness of its surface as I explore it with the tip of my tongue, swirling in the small lake of saliva built up in my mouth behind the silicone dam.
The photograph captures perfectly the tensions in my body. The tightness of the hamstrings in my thighs, lightly dusted with grains of sand. The twist of my trunk as I writhe against the wood. The flush on my cheeks, as my hair blows gently across my face in the sea breeze. But, most of all, the look in my eyes – some fear, plenty of excitement, but mainly raw, wanton lust. All those years of longing, finally being satisfied. As I click the mouse again, my other hand slides down between my thighs…
This one is very similar, except that the T-shirt has been ripped open, exposing one of my breasts. Everything that was to happen that day had been agreed beforehand, and would follow the path I had laid out to him. Thoughts of betrayal, of being abused while tied up, wild ideas of being sold into slavery, swam in my fevered brain, struggling and finally drowning in a sea of adrenalin and arousal.
There was to be a safe signal, in case I felt nervous or uncomfortable, and wanted to stop – both hands spread out wide, fingers pointing to the cloudless sky. I had told him I might be screaming, begging him to let me go, but unless my hands were open, I wanted him to carry on. He looked doubtful, nervous, but he agreed. I smile slightly as I look at my clenched fists in the photo. The scream I was emitting at the moment the shutter fired had forced some of the saliva past the ball, and there it is on my bottom lip, running down to my chin.
The next slide is one of my favourites. The T-shirt has gone completely now, replaced by ropes around my body which frame and crush my large breasts. I hate looking at my breasts – after childbirth and breast-feeding, they are too big and too saggy to be seen naked and unsupported. But here, with the rope criss-crossing them, they seem to be no longer objects of repulsion and ridicule, but emblems of my helplessness and submission to the ropes. They look… beautiful.
I hurry on. Now, the bikini bottom has been cut away, and a rope has been tied around my waist and between my legs, the classic crotch rope. It helps define my soft waist, the still slightly flabby belly held in by the tight band, cutting into my sides. The rope, descending vertically, disappears into the depths of the forest of pubic hair, with another seeming to ascend alongside it, on the return journey, to a knot tied near my belly button. I remember urging him to pull it ‘tighter! tighter!’, the words garbled by the gag, the spume bubbling on my lips. The feel of the rough cord digging into me between my plump lips, crushing my aching clitoris, is etched on my memory. My finger follows the trail of that rope, and emerges wet.
The next slide shows the first waves lapping at my knees, taking me back to that long, agonising wait for the tide to bring the sea back to me. A close-up on my face, damp with sweat, plastering my hair to my forehead and holding a few grains of sand blown on the breeze, shows what appears to be a look of fear in my eyes, but I know why it was there – I had been fantasising about how I came to be in this seemingly perilous position. In my imagination, my husband had fallen in with the mob, now they had abducted me and left me here to die, unless he could pay the extortion money in time. Yes, it was unoriginal and faintly ludicrous, but to my lust-crazed mind, it was sufficient justification for the scenario I had requested.
I click again, and now the waves are breaking over my thighs. I was deep in the fantasy by then, eyes closed, not seeing the camera or the photographer, it was just me in the bubble of fantasy, about to drown in the cold sea, tied to that post. There is a photograph of the waves breaking against my stomach, the spray falling across my bound breasts, but then he couldn’t take any more, he had cut me down and dragged me out of the surf and up the beach, where I fell onto the hot dry sand. My hands were still clenched into tight fists…
There is one more picture in the set. The ropes have gone, the gag removed. I am lying on the hot sand, on my back, legs apart, fingers desperately working. My face is twisted in a rictus of lust, as I bring myself to the climax I so desperately needed, my mind full of the sounds and sensations I had experienced only minutes before. My hand is shaking as I close the presentation. With barely a pause, I open the second file.
After the beach session, I had got cleaned up, got dressed, and we’d had lunch. There wasn’t much chat, it was like we were there solely for the photoshoot, and we sat in embarrassed silence, eating our burgers. We’d then moved on to our next location, one I’d seen in his earlier photos, one in which I had immediately imagined myself placed. That first establishing shot captured it perfectly – an old, ramshackle set of farm buildings, tin roofs and broken windows, long abandoned, slowly rotting. ‘Crap Shack’, he had called it, and the name was entirely appropriate.
There are no preliminaries in this photo set, just straight into the action. In that first picture I am naked, tied against a rough wooden fence, my back bent slightly as my wrists are tied to one of the lower rails, arms stretched out on either side of me. My face is partly hidden by the thick leather straps of a head harness, forcing me to squint past them at the camera. It holds a ring gag securely in my wide-open mouth, and a string of drool can be seen hanging down from the point of my chin. The drool is about to drop onto my breasts, my bulging, tightly bound breasts, discolouring in the afternoon sun, flushed with trapped blood, due to the way the ropes had been wrapped around their base and pulled tight. I had been nervous about the nipple clamps – I’d never really suffered much pain, and wasn’t looking forward to it then, but I was determined to experience everything I had fantasised about for so long. As I think back on that horrible moment when the clamps squeezed down on my tender flesh, my fingers slip inside my pussy – no, not so prissy, it’s my cunt, my hot, wet cunt – already dripping with pent-up arousal.
My legs are spread wide, held in place by the ropes on my ankles tied to the lower rail, my toes pointed and the muscles of my calves bulging. I know I had not had to cajole him into making my bondage so extreme this time, the morning session clearly having reassured him that I would appreciate the tightness of the ropes, regardless of how much I might moan and cry out while he secured me as strictly as he could.
There is also a clear artistic input to the position and manner of my bondage as well. The arch of my back stretches my belly, masking the ravages of time and childbirth, and it is clear that I am having to make a real effort to lift my head to look at the camera. My cunt, as hot and wet then as it is now, is the centre of attention, thrust out towards the viewer – or should it be voyeur? – the warm afternoon sun glinting off the damp hair. How long had he kept me there, just to get that shot? I don’t know, and I didn’t care then, I was just revelling in my utter helplessness. I click the mouse, reluctant to leave this image, but equally eager to move on to the later ones.
The scene has changed, we are now inside the old barn. The shot is very atmospheric, taken directly towards the open doors into the bright sunlight, rendering everything inside in silhouette. The subject is, of course, me. The details are hidden, all that can be seen is the triangle of my spread legs, the distended shape of my bound breasts hanging below my body, bent double, and the line of my arms, bound together behind me, pointing up into the blackness. The arms are not quite together – I’m definitely not flexible enough to get my elbows to touch without dislocating my shoulders – but I still remember the pain, and the tingling sensation in my forearms and hands.
A close-up of the upper half of my body, taken in side view, reveals more details of my bondage. My body is horizontal, my arms at slightly better than 45 degrees to the vertical, my breasts even more engorged as they hang below me. The nipple clamps swing free, their ache given fresh impetus by this new position. I am staring directly ahead, my head snapped back by the rope tied to the D ring in the top of the head harness. The strand of saliva now hangs down from my bottom lip, extending towards the dusty floor below me.
My fingers begin to move inside me a little more urgently, as I stare at my tortured face in the photograph. Covered in sweat – it was like an oven in that tin box – the leather straps seem to be cutting into my red and slightly bloated cheeks. I recall the dryness in my throat as all the saliva in my mouth had run out through the ring gag, the tickle of mucus dribbling out of my nose onto my top lip, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and the difficulty of breathing with my throat in such an unnatural position. It is not a pretty sight, but one I still find undeniably erotic.
Again, I feel driven to proceed, because I know the next picture shows me from the back. This could be anyone, it’s just a pair of buttocks. The picture has been framed skilfully, and the light strikes the bare flesh just right, but I can’t help but concentrate on the details – the end of the butt plug just visible between those cheeks, the lips of my cunt spread around the exposed end of the vibrator, and the faint lines left by the cane.
It had taken all my powers of persuasion to get him to agree to cane me. He had looked horrified when I brought out the instrument, saying he couldn’t possibly hit me with it, it wasn’t right. I had pleaded with him that this was my only chance to ever experience such things, and I wanted to do it all. Eventually, he had understood my desperation, and agreed.
I can’t lie, it wasn’t fun. I screamed on each stroke, and he begged me to let him stop, but I had told him that I wanted him to continue until there were several stripes which would show up on the camera. We still had the safe signal in place, and I know he was staring at my hands as he struck each blow, but they remained tightly balled into fists.
I count the stripes, maybe half a dozen, plus the extra swings which had not left sufficient impression. He had probably struck me ten or a dozen times, no more, but it was enough. An extreme close-up of my face shows the tears, and the look of pain in my eyes. It’s not something I would want to repeat, ever. But, as I think back to those feelings, the sting of the blows and, eventually, the glow from behind me, I bring myself to a frantic climax, stifling my cries for fear of waking someone.
I close the presentation. I look at the clock, it’s 12.30. Still early… I rub my arms to warm them a little and, with a shaking hand, open the third and final file.
The first slide, a picture of that anonymous red-brick building in the suburbs, brings the events of that second morning rushing back to me. He had picked me up at the motel, and was meant to be taking me to the location for the morning, a secluded wooded area, where I could play at being a slave, held captive in the forest by some deranged psychopath. Plenty of scope for outdoor nudity and bondage against trees and suchlike, I thought.
I had hardly slept the previous night – excited memories of the day’s activities, fevered anticipation of the day to come, frequent bouts of masturbation, had seen to that. So I was dozing in the car, thinking about how I wanted him to tie me, how he might shoot the pictures, and not paying much attention.
When we pulled up outside the club, all my wild fears of abduction and abuse came flooding back, but this time with the distinct possibility that they might be well-founded. He turned to me and explained this was the club he’d mentioned to me, the BDSM club owned by his friend. After the previous day, and me saying how I wanted to experience it all, he thought I might like to have a look for myself. No pressure, I could just watch the show, if I wanted to join in, that was up to me.
I have never been so nervous in my life. The second picture in the set is of Dave, the owner, standing behind the bar, big grin on his face. He’d said he was happy for me to take a table and stay as long as I liked, his customers weren’t used to seeing a pretty woman in the audience, but they’d cope. If I wanted to be ‘part of the act’, as he put it, all I had to do was tip him the wink and he’d organise it.
I don’t know what a BDSM club looks like, but that wasn’t what I’d imagined. I’d been to Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, and this wasn’t that different – long bar, a lot of tables on the floor and booths by the walls, and a small stage. There were no big wooden frames, chain or whips around, just a couple of poles on the stage. There were less than a dozen customers as I sat down with my mineral water, but then it was only 10.30 in the morning.
There’s a shot of me, watching the stage, looking nervous. Then one of the girls, the first act on stage. Two young women, somewhere between 18 and 25, dancing around on the stage, wrapping themselves around the poles. The only concession to BDSM seems to be the leather and rubber costumes they are wearing. I wonder if they only do the serious stuff later, when more customers are in.
The girls on stage are kissing in the next picture. I remember looking around, feeling lost, wondering what I was doing here, among all these seedy men, with nothing better to do on a weekday morning but ogle a couple of girls pretending to get heavy. I saw the manager looking at me, the smile still on his face, his eyebrows up in a questioning gesture. In response, I waggled my head from side to side, in the international sign for indecision. But who was I fooling? I hadn’t come all this way to cop out and run away. I inclined my head slightly, and I saw his smile widen.
The next slide shows the two scantily clad girls leading me up onto the stage. I had been taken by surprise, expecting some backstage briefing, rather than to be gently pulled from my chair and taken up. They had turned me to face the sparse audience, who looked interested in this new development, while they unbuttoned my blouse, easing it off my unresisting shoulders. I click the mouse to see a picture of me standing in the middle of the stage, the girls flanking me on either side, one holding up my blouse, the other my skirt and bra. I am covering my breasts with my arm, but in the next picture, my arms are high and wide, held there by straps on the poles I hadn’t noticed before. The crowd had given a generous round of applause as my breasts were uncovered, their first ‘topless’ action of the day.
In the subsequent slides, my ankles are also strapped to the posts, forcing me into a spread-eagle; one of the girls straps a ballgag into my mouth; ropes appear around my breasts in a harness, constraining and to some extent, supporting them.
Through all of this activity, I was in a daze, barely able to take in what was happening to me. I could feel the women running their hands over my body, pulling my panties up between my buttocks, exposing my cheeks, massaging my breasts, running over my back and stomach. I was struggling to come to terms with the feelings this was engendering in me, feelings of lust and arousal. The next slide shows the back of one of the girls, Charlotte as I found out later, on her knees in front of me. At that moment, her tongue was pressing firmly against the front of my panties, which were rapidly becoming damp from inside and out. The look on my face, staring down at the girl, is one of surprise, mixed with desire. I had never considered myself to have even the slightest lesbian tendency, but this experience has made me think again.
The next picture shows the other girl, Anna, draping a multi-fronded flogger over my shoulder. Now, I look genuinely frightened at the prospect of being whipped in front of a distinctly enthusiastic audience. In the most dramatic picture of the set, Anna and Charlotte are standing on either side of me, one with her flogger held high, the other in the act of bringing hers down across my breasts, the fronds a blur as they lash my body. My face is screwed up in anticipation of the searing pain about to course through my body.
I smile at the memory. I was genuinely scared at that point, convinced I had been duped into taking part in a violent S&M scene, with me as the victim. As I discovered moments after that photo was taken, the ‘leather’ floggers were actually made of some very soft material, and it was actually about as painful as being whipped by strands of cooked linguini. Suddenly, the thrashing I had been dreading had turned into a rather sensuous stroking of my naked body, continuing what the girls had started earlier. But, in the pictures, it looks genuine, and it must have looked like an authentic beating to the audience as well, as they hooted and clapped in appreciation. They must have thought I was a complete pain slut, as I am clearly enjoying myself in the pictures. The memory of that time is now making me aroused again, and my fingers are back at work.
The stimulation is taken up another level in the next photographs. Anna has donned a strap-on dildo, and Charlotte is wielding a wand-style vibrator. I did feel a little apprehension at that point, but it was overwhelmed by my urgent need for sexual satisfaction.
Anna stands behind me, the strap-on poking between my legs, rubbing against the soaking material of my panties. Her hands are around me, squeezing and massaging my bound breasts. He must have got on the stage at some point, as the extreme close-ups of my face, my nipples, and my groin attest. My journey from arousal to climax was given a kick-start as Charlotte moved in and jammed the vibrator against my panties, directly over my eager little bud.
As the sequence of pictures show the flush of orgasmic ecstasy suffusing my face, I cum again in the here and now, playing the video of that moment in my head like a corny porn film – me crying out in desperate, glorious release, the audience baying, the incessant machine-gun fire of the shutter, the lightning strike of the flash exploding over and over…
My shoulders slump as the energy of my arousal washes away, leaving only an emptiness. Wearily, I close the computer, creep upstairs, and slide into bed. Feeling the usual post-orgasmic let-down, I reach out and put my arm around my sleeping partner. With a snuffling yawn, he turns and, moments later, we are spooning, and I smile to myself, safe in his embrace.
For now, I have satisfied my base urge. I wonder how long I can suppress it this time? Months? Weeks? Tomorrow? It will be back. It is part of me. Maybe I can share it with my loved one. Maybe. Maybe next time…
Copyright© 2013 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.