Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (3 page)

The seeds of our domination fantasies go back to the time when we were helpless, trapped, waiting, longing for a loving

guardian. The seeds grow, blossom in whatever direction the earth and nutrients allow. The high school bully forcing us to kiss the ground, the older brother or sister twisting our arms behind our backs, the good-hearted loving father becoming the “hungry monster” to our gleeful screams. Sometimes, we defy those oppressive years to now dominate, to be the all-powerful mother; other times, we long to go back into mother’s arms, constrained, gazed at, taken care of.

Not long ago, domination/submission was defined by gender. A fallacy of a male-dominated world. Our biological makeup and countless experiences, nature and nurture, mold us into some degree of both. Why are so many of us inclined to fantasies of domination and submission? Often, the horrific experience of rape is followed by rape fantasies, but why are so many of the fantasies submissive, only now in control, choosing the assailant and circumstances, and others aggressive, now raping the assail- ant? To both questions, the answer is still unknown.

We don’t like to think that small children have sexual feelings. It would require more thought, a deeper involvement in our chil- dren’s lives—as the bedrock of sexuality is being laid—when we are already overwhelmed by the duties of society and childcare.

Wafting down from orgasm and full of gratitude, I once whis- pered to my lover, “How did you do that?” He replied, not un- kindly, “Nancy, it’s all in your head.” Thus began my awareness of my own fantasies, such as the dark stranger gazing at me, tak- ing me against my will, forcing me into ecstasy.

I handed over to each man full credit for my rapture. Today, I am still besotted by a man who brings me to orgasmic highs, even though I know it is I who lets him in the gate and leads him up the garden path.

In the fantasies and stories of the brave men and women in this book is a message of how very early sexual feelings—and the theme of erotic reveries—begin. Wheels inside our heads now carry us out of our tight skin, to hold us momentarily in suspense until all the doors open one by one, allowing us to let go.

Karla

Karla is a sixteen-year-old virgin from a liberal family. Her father is a commercial artist and her mother a head librarian. She shares with many of us the fantasy of being taken, of being irresistible.

I am kidnapped by Justin Timberlake, who is a little obsessed with me. Justin takes me to his secluded home in Los Angeles and ties me up in the bathroom and leaves me there while he goes downstairs to record some music. When he returns, he lets me loose on the condition that I don’t try to escape or hurt him. I agree. I see that the bed is his destination. It is a huge four-poster with dark blue drapes. I cry out as he ties me to the bed, spread-eagle. He pushes a dildo up my cunt and then leaves. I squirm so that the dildo starts to move inside me. Just as I am about to cum, Justin comes back into the room and takes the dildo out. I start to cry I am so frustrated. He smiles and leans down to kiss me. Then, he starts to lick my pussy, carefully circling my clit and then plunging his tongue deep inside me until I cum, screaming in ecstasy.

I have a few variations on this. One is where my parents insist I get a tutor for history. They choose a stern, forty-something male teacher who happens to look like Viggo Mortensen. Since he’s so much older, they feel there’s no need for them to stay at home when he is tutoring me. Since I’m already quite good at history to the extent that the tutoring is unnecessary (this actually happened in real life due to parental pressure

to excel in school), my tutor decides to teach me about sex instead. I am afraid of him but also curious. He makes me sit on a chair and takes off my top and panties. Then, he ties me to the bed spread-eagle and starts reading from a book about Hitler as a man. As he reads, he puts two of his fingers up my cunt and starts to finger-fuck me.

We hear a woman say in her fantasy: “That big, bad man
forced me
to orgasm. He made me do it.” But even in her imagination, she doesn’t own up to the depth of her sexual appetite, doesn’t

want the responsibility. Even in fantasy, she strains against the sexual attention she craves by at first trying to stop the man and then placing the entire burden of being “fucked” on him.

Falling back on the fantasy of being dominated is a desire to take “the control away from me, one way or another.” The woman with a crippling fear of rejection often has the fantasy of someone seducing/overwhelming her. In reality, she may be a totally controlling person: “By making him lose control (have an orgasm) even if I don’t have an orgasm,
I’m in control
.” In the end, she gets him coming and going (all puns intended).

Scott

Scott, a single white man in his forties, comes from the heartland and says his parents were “from the old school.” Sex was never mentioned in his home. He was never hit or sexually abused. His parents kissed, said that they loved each other, but there was an absence of any sign of lovemaking. Do his fantasies of bondage begin in the crib, the memory of longing, waiting? is the secret exhibitionist in all of us from a time when we were gazed down upon by a stream of adoring large eyes?

I was a typical farm boy growing up. When I was twelve years old, my mother took me to the library and checked out some sex books for me. It was my only education in sex! I played with girls on the street. There were three girls I played a couple of games with on a regular basis. The first game was when the girls would let me cover their mouths with one of my hands and hold their arms behind their backs.

But one night, my parents were gone, and my friends and I were home alone. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I stood up and pulled off my T-shirt. They started getting excited. Then, I pulled down my jeans and underwear. They just stared at my penis. I waddled over to the couch and stood there, so each girl could get a good look. They asked me to turn around and show them my butt.

I was married for a while, and my ex-wife was OK in the bedroom but didn’t want to add any spice to our sex life until I talked her into tying me up and gagging me. She ordered me to strip completely naked, then ordered me to sit on the chair. She tied each of my ankles to the front legs and tied my wrists with a couple of skinny leather belts. She rolled up a large red bandana and placed it in my mouth and tied it tightly behind my head. Then, she proceeded to get dressed and leave the house. She was going out with a few of her girlfriends. I was bound and gagged to that chair for six hours.

I have many fantasies, but the one that I want to fulfill is to be dominated by a female. I want her to have control of me. I want her to tie me up, gag me, spank me, place clothespins on my nipples, make me worship the ground she walks on.

Why do so many of us, especially men, deny the profound influence of she who carried us inside her body for nine months,

only to then care for us until we were able to care for ourselves? We are formed in her emotional image, at least with regard to our ability to love our body, ourselves, and another person.

Why are women so reluctant to own up to their power and influence? Even under patriarchy, men were totally ruled by women growing up, followed by the awesome power of the sex- ual beauty of the young girls of adolescence. By the time a boy is a young man, he’s realized without consciously deciding it that it may be better to marry a quiet girl, pretty, yes, but not a sexually adventurous one who would possibly put him in the role of the betrayed husband.

There are, of course, those men who need to dominate, to feel the reins of power in order to reach orgasm. Stripped of their sexual dominance, in the shadow of the giantess women—who, in some men’s eyes, seem to run the world today—these men find orgasm imagining themselves so powerful as to put the woman in her place, where she belongs, beneath him.

ian

ian, a middle-aged man from australia, describes this typical man-on-top domina- tion fantasy, the kind we’re used to.

My fantasy comes into play whenever a snarling feminist berates men. In it, I belong to a secret society that kidnaps women and takes them to a specially built prison high in the mountains. The women are trained to become feminine again and enjoy sex with men. They are kept naked at all times. Their training begins by being tied with their arms above their heads while their bodies are slowly massaged with baby oil by the men. We are well aware that pleasure is the best

way to condition and so we ensure that all inmates orgasm at each encounter with each one of us.

Demi

in the fantasies of eighteen-year-old Demi, domination by a man empowers her to dominate at the end. Still in school in the (conservative) South, she’d like this fantasy of being asked to the penthouse apartment of her dream lover to actually come true.

I’m pretty vivid in how I see him. He has incredible light brown eyes with the passion of a wildfire, hands of a lumberjack, and an apartment to die for, super modern, like he owns the world. I get there and follow the instructions in an envelope with my name on it. After showering, fixing my hair and makeup, and wearing only high heels, I follow a petal- strewn path to a beautifully set table. He appears wearing a tux. After a candlelit dinner, he takes me into the bedroom. He walks over to the night stand and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “These are for you,” he says. As he handcuffs me to the bedposts, I smile with great anticipation. The sex is so intense, our bodies sound like someone getting whipped. The bed is shaking, and the wealthy neighbors below are complaining, but we don’t care. He lifts my legs over my head and goes in deeper, hitting my g-spot. We cum as one. After a few minutes, he unhandcuffs me, and I quickly grab the handcuffs from him and cuff him to the bed. The look of surprise as I take control is all over his face.

When I think of the gulf between boring sex and the kind of wildness we can allow ourselves, it is baffling why so many of us spend so many years living with the former. Do we, like Cara, a beautiful, twenty-six-year-old Latin American woman, put up with the dull sex because it is in keeping with the “good man/ good woman” we are most of the time? Great, orgasmic sex is mind-blowing, out-of-control. For a few moments, we are not ourselves. Floating back down to Earth, post-orgasm, we won- der why we sometimes reserve this extraordinary experience for a near stranger, someone met at a party?