Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (26 page)

I sometimes wonder if the world will hold together long enough to see how this relatively new emergence of women’s sexuality pans out. An old friend just called to tell me he is working on an exhibition that will open in Russia. “It’s about women pilots in World War II,” he said and added, “Some of the women were so good that men tampered with the equip- ment on their planes, causing them to crash, killing several of the women.”

How could men’s fear of women be so profound that even during war, when it was so desperately needed, they would still resent the excellence of women’s work in a man’s job? Again, there is no answer but that the roots go back to the beginning of men’s lives when they were totally controlled by a woman, their unconscious knowledge of the power women can have.

In fantasy, young women today like to play with domination, where they get hot holding the reins tightly and making the plot gallop just where they want it to go. Sometimes with them on top, then, quick as the snap of a whip, they are enslaved.

Vanessa, a twenty-six-year-old woman, tells me of the joy at being a “late bloomer. When I finally got my looks, how I loved the power I had over men. I really held back when I was younger, but now in my fantasies and in reality, I make men give me the sex I desire. I make them strip. I make them show themselves to me. In fantasyland, they are all mine—and their submission to me is on my terms.”

Women becoming sexually secure has everything to do with being able to take care of oneself and another person too. If a woman isn’t earning money on her own, she may fear the worst; meaning, she would die if he acted on his fantasy and actually left her for his fantasy woman. But women today also know that if the worst happens, it’s possible for them to get a job, pay the rent, put food on the table. It’s the
knowing
that matters, knowl- edge our grandmothers didn’t have. There were so few women with economic independence in the past.

Can you ever totally separate money from sex? Perhaps it’s easier done than with “love.” At some level, money plays into domination/submission. It can get you laid and can emotion- ally empower you to invent the seduction. Anastasia’s fantasy of being the headmistress gives her the power to control, to be the ruler of her sexual world.

anastasia

I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin who just graduated from a California university, and this has become my favorite fantasy:

I’m a headmistress at an exclusive girls’ school. I’m both loved and feared; I maintain a friendly and close relationship with my students,

but everybody knows I won’t tolerate any infraction of the rules. I love my job because I get to look at beautiful, blossoming young women in the uniforms I have specifically selected for them: very tight sweaters emblazoned with the school crest, short plaid kilts that barely cover their crotches, knee socks, and saddle shoes.

I am especially turned on by one student named Esther (based on my real coworker), who is a voluptuous blonde with innocent brown eyes and full lips that always have a smile for me. I am bound and determined to initiate her into the joys of lesbian sex, but I don’t know how. Besides, I’m worried about my job—she is, after all, only seventeen, and I could get into a lot of trouble. So, I content myself with finger-fucking at night and dreaming about her.

Then, one day, my assistant comes rushing into my office. She is a gorgeous black woman that I fantasize about on rare occasions when I’m able to put Esther out of my mind. She tells me, in a shocked voice, that Esther has been caught masturbating in the showers. I thunder, “Bring her to me!” and she runs off to get her.

When she returns, I ask her to leave, and Esther sits down. I say in my gentlest voice, “Now, Esther, I heard you were doing impure things in the bathroom.” She is so embarrassed that she has tears in her eyes. I tell her to follow me to my bedroom so no one will ever overhear our private conversation, and she meekly follows.

I sit down on my bed and tell her to show me what she was doing. She is horrified and protests. I say, “Now, Esther, I can call your parents or we can resolve this here.” Quickly, she sits down on the floor and spreads her legs, revealing her tiny, pristine white panties. A small spot of moisture is seeping through the crotch. She pulls the panties off, and I get my first, long-awaited look at her perfect little cunt. It is so tight that I can barely even see the opening, and her clitoris is the size and color of a tiny rosebud. She begins to rub herself, tentatively at first,

blushing the entire time. Soon, she is so excited that she forgets where she is and throws her head back in abandon. Her cunt is getting wetter and wetter and finally she explodes in an incredible orgasm.

When she is finished, I say, “Esther, it’s time for your punishment. Climb over my knee.” She does, and I pull up her kilt to show her round buttocks. I begin to spank her, just hard enough to sting a little, and they get pinker and pinker. I am cumming just touching her, and as I continue, her legs are spreading and her already-wet pussy is getting wetter and opening up. Finally, she can’t stand it, and she pulls up her sweater so she can fondle her tits as I spank her. When I’m done, my knee is wet from her cum and from my own juices. I finally say to hell with it and pull her dripping snatch onto my face. She is so sweet it is like her cunt is producing honey. I widen her tight little hole with my probing tongue and then she cums, humping my face with abandon.

I stand up, wipe my mouth on my sweater sleeve, and walk over to the phone. I call my assistant, Rhonda, and ask her to bring me “the rod.” Esther is sitting on my bed with her legs splayed out, idly rubbing herself. “Are you going to spank me again?” she asks shyly.

“No, this is even better,” I say, going over to kiss her. Rhonda lets herself in, and she’s carrying a strap-on dildo that’s at least eight inches long. Esther’s eyes widen at the sight of it, and she licks her lips with nervous anticipation as Rhonda helps me strap it on.

“Esther, you better get down here and suck it, and you better get it really nice and slick because it’s going inside of you.” She falls to her knees in front of me and takes the whole cock into her mouth. I begin to think she’s not as innocent as I originally thought. She looks up at me as she sucks it, and the sight of the huge rubber cock going in and out of her pink lips is enough to make me dizzy with desire.

Finally, the dildo is slick enough, and she gets down on her hands and knees on my bed. She looks over her shoulder at me, tossing her

hair back and spreading her legs wider. “Come on, mistress. Give it to me—give it to me good!” she cries. I turn on the vibrating mechanism (which gives me a buzz, too) and jam the dildo into her cunt. She cries out and bites my pillow. I grab her hips and pump, thrusting into her, and she is calling my name, and I’m calling hers, and we cum over and over again. Meanwhile, Rhonda has started fucking herself with a candle, and that just sets me off on another wave of orgasms.

When we’re finally too exhausted to keep cumming, we collapse in a heap on my bed. I send Rhonda on her way (with a promise to let her join us next time), and Esther unstraps the dildo and gently licks away my juices, not in an attempt to further stimulate me (there’s only so much I can take!) but to clean me up. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, and the next morning, we 69 each other, take a hot bubble bath together, fuck again, and I send her off to her afternoon classes with a very special hall pass. I tell her to use the pass any time she needs to “talk.”

Between the exhibitionist and the voyeur, there is a kind of dance of domination, a power play, again, in fantasy and fact, the thrilling sensation of “holding, controlling” someone’s gaze or “capturing them in your gaze to the point where they feel help- less and caught.”

Being raised by a mother who didn’t see me ignited both my exhibitionistic and voyeuristic needs.To a large degree, I have her to thank for my life. My need to be seen has been a driving force. It encouraged me to take chances, to go out into the world, to study sexuality in a way that would not have been possible had she been a doting mother and I her obedient daughter.

By defying my mother, refusing to be like her, I was able to study, discover who she and I really were behind our façades. What I ended up finding were striking similarities that I hadn’t predicted. At a sexual level, though my efforts may have been more overt, my mother and I both needed, and equally worked, to be seen. And though I had difficulty admitting it, she and I shared a deep fondness for men, their company, their looks, and, yes, their devotion to us.

S&m

s & m

Fantasies of being forced into sex, made to spread our legs and take it—whatever “it” is that we desire—frees some women, and yes, men too, to relax their iron constraints and let go. Many of us don’t have the slightest idea just why we can’t give ourselves over to orgasm, but then, who can recall what got between us and the pleasure principle? Because Mother was the one we de- pended on for life itself and because we had to believe she loved us with all her heart, given that she was our whole world when we were most dependent, we don’t punish Mother. Instead, we punish ourselves for wanting sex. In fantasies of sadomasochism, we are “bad, bad, bad” as we soar up into orgasm.

Only in erotic images of being held down and punished can some men and women allow themselves the forbidden sex they crave. The roots are too deep, the anti-sex tyrant of the nursery too rooted to be overwhelmed by the permission-giving, societal kiss of marriage. Oh, no, the celebration of marriage is in direct opposition. We prefer our sex in the dark, our copulation dirty, the forbidden stranger, and if it helps to oil the way to orgasm, throw in some arm-twisting, the lash of the whip, and, if you must, go ahead and “tie me up, lay me down!”

To find the forbidden fruit in the marital bed, we conjure up a daring, death-defying act of stolen sex. The brute inflicts the punishment that brings on that blessed first rush of orgasm. Per- haps, though in real life brutes still tend to be the males, it is no longer in any way a prerequisite. Included in this chapter are

many submissive men, to show our changing tide, though a guy may want to be careful when invited up to the apartment of a woman after only an online chat.

m a s o c h i s T i c F a N T a s i e s o F V i o l e N T r a p e , o r ,

“ Where’s a Dark, Dangerous Alley When You Need One?”

For many women and men, the rape fantasy is the sole means that works. In the masochistically experienced sexual act behind closed eyelids, we not only permit ourselves sexual satisfaction but at the same time pay for the guilt we experience through pain. Ergo, the fantasy serves a double purpose, which is why some derive orgasmic pleasure only with fantasies where they can hear their bones cracking. Enjoying the punishment with the sex is the down payment for orgasm. What most of us would experience as intolerable suffering, the aficionado of S&M finds within the pleasure range.

To fly to the heights of orgasm, why do some of us require fan- tasies of sadism, others masochism, others a mix of both, while others, even after growing up in this violent world, derive no thrill from thoughts of inflicting or receiving pain? The answer is unknown. Neither Polly nor Fauzia, the next two testimonials, were ever hit by their parents, yet their masochistic fantasies are their most exciting, most satisfying. Even if we haven’t experi- enced parental abuse, it’s possible for our minds to fill the gaps. It wasn’t long ago that a spanking was the accepted form of discipline. Corporal punishment may be greatly reduced today, but the threat is always present. Children see their parents an- gered over something they’ve done. What absolute guarantee is

there that the rage won’t be unleashed, physically turned against the child? No matter how loving, how caring, our parents are all-powerful. If pushed too far, we know we will inevitably suffer some form of their disappointment and anger.

We used to love to roughhouse, to be thrown in the air, swung around in ecstasy. Who cared about possibly getting hurt? Th thrill was more than worth it. And at times, while roughhousing with other children, smaller and bigger, someone ended up in- jured, crying. Years later, how did those impressions affect us? When we brought a weaker opponent to tears, perhaps we felt remorse, feared getting into trouble, but at some level, we also feel the rush, the excitement, the thrill of power.