I hit play and watched myself in the recording. But what I saw isn’t what I remembered.
Realizing that you’re the starlet of someone’s wet dreams is always a pleasant, yet somewhat bothersome discovery. You are the subject of one’s desire, manifested in the motion pictures which project from their subconscious in the cinema of their mind.
Yet with great fame comes great stress. It is because of your celebrity status that you must work harder to uphold the reputation you have built within five minutes of strolling across the aisles with your big hips…before the train crashes.
So embedded into one’s memory, they don’t even realize their mind is possessed.
I am always astounded by my versatility. In one intense character study drama…I am beneath his hands in submission, writhing and begging for him to keep his weight on me, and never stop loving me as each thrust leaves battle scars on my thighs. In the next fetish flick, I am squeezing his testicles with my sharp, red talons, as I spit on his face and laugh at his pathetic cries for mercy.
In yet another scandalous love story, I am screaming another man’s name in the peak of orgasm – because who doesn’t like a good cuckold every now and again…
Sometimes, I am the other woman. The Taboo. The guilty pleasure.
Each film, regardless of the perils a journey may bring, has a happy ending.
Chapter One – What dreams may come
“Who is your muse?”
The therapist asks, as she scribbles penises of all shapes and sizes onto the lines of her notebook, each one perfectly symmetrical and fitting neatly between the lines.
He answers, “The starlet of my wet dreams.”
In his mind, she will win the award for best actress – the trophy of his heart. In the after party to celebrate her victory, she will also be treated to custom champagne, infused with his blood.
“Her gentle petitions for my undivided attention light a fire in my loins, I can scarcely remember to breathe as the blood courses violently through my veins,” he continues. This time, with his elbows pressed against his widespread knees, as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the bulging veins in his tanned forearms.
“I want nothing more than her lips around my cock. I want to smell the perfume of her luscious mane, as her curls spread and tumble over my stomach like branches of ivy. I want to see her dewy brown eyes gazing up into mine, like the earth gazes up at the sky after it has unleashed a downpour of rain in April.”
The therapist looks up from her notepad, her knickers suddenly feel very warm and sticky between her thighs. She begins to wonder what his tongue would feel like, buried in the folds of her rose petals.
“I want her to take me in every way her body can accept visitors – the front door, the back, and all the windows in between. I promise I will be gentle though, because she is my most favorite starlet in the firmament.”
The therapist interjects, “No.”
She commands him with her stilettoes, gliding up from groin, to navel, to nose. She tears each button out of place as she encounters them. She unties her unruly locks, as they tumble and dance around her heaving bosom.
“It seems like you need to relinquish some control.”
“I am going to sit on your face, and you are going to breathe in every bit of my essence until you can breathe no more. For I own the very breath that fills your lungs.”
Next thing he knows, she’s got his wrists tied above his head. His nipples are bruised with clamps each time he so much as utters a single question to his mistress. His buttocks and thighs sting with lashes of whips and paddles, and his arse hole is raw and quivering with the aftershock of the electric drill which has just penetrated him.
And yet, his erection still stands – bare and stained with the residue of his last premature ejaculation, for which he is now atoning by way of submission to an array of creative and torturous punishments.
“You have been a very dirty boy.”
Chapter two – That’s not me
He continues watching the recording.
“The star of the show looks a lot like me, but he is not me.”
This is what the man thinks, upon watching a self-discovery video documenting the progress of his treatment, shown to him during his 13th session of therapy.
In the video, he is being aggressively pegged by his Mistress. He is coming, ocean loads spraying everywhere as he begs her to continue violating him.
“Make a slut out of me, starlet of my wet dreams.”
“You are doing so well,” the therapist croons, her red nails dancing on the back of his neck, making each little hair stand at attention. She encircles his throat, piercing the flesh…
He knows he shouldn’t grovel for the abuse which both emasculates and reduces him to nothing more than a doormat, and yet he cannot help but escape to the dirty secrets that so excite and inflame him.
“That’s not me. But what’s the harm in coming over a fantasy?”
Chapter three – Heaven is no place for us
“I wonder what death feels like?”
He thinks out loud, his head on his therapist’s lap. She is stroking his hair with her talons; he begins to suck his thumb.
“Various schools of thought accept the theory that the human orgasm is a psychological holiday from the conscious mind. Perhaps the departure of one’s soul to the abyss of death could be experienced as a holiday from the age, weariness, and confines of the human body.”
He smiles at the thought, “Oh my Goddess Supreme. May I continue to worship you in heaven when I die. I don’t ever want to leave you.”
She laughs, and pinches his nipple, twisting the flesh with her fingernails…
“Heaven is no place for us.”
Whimsical Wordsmith 