In My Fantasy
In my fantasy I'm watching them undress each other, I don't know which hits me deeper, how he squeezes her breast and tastes her skin without hesitation, or how she stands with arms at her sides, shoulders back and nipples presented like supplication to a king.
The depth of her surrender equals the depth of my humiliation.
My humiliation is need, like a friend inside me, like a movie I'm watching of a boy who seeks to be accepted by a woman who won't show him how.
In my fantasy she is pressing her breasts into his chest. Their tops are off and I know she is thinking about his cock. The ballet they perform fills my cage. They are exquisite, dancing the dance called 'Kneel to the Wonder of the Beautiful Cock'. She turns her eyes to me and I see from her look that my role is to reassure. My eyes encourage her to reach for the moon. She turns back to him.
And I watch him take her there.
I cum, the sperm falling helplessly on my belly.
I used to fantasize a cruel and vindictive stranger or wife or sister or girlfriend or mother whose anger attacked my self-esteem and kept me in a groveling excitement. An excitement born of polarity, of confusion, fruitlessly seeking solution.
I recently revisited old videos I'd downloaded. I found myself in a place of dark cruelty that no longer holds attraction. Contraction actually. It was as if the video was saying It's OK to be this angry. I wasn't anymore.
I haven't let go of the cruelty, just the destructive part. Today in my fantasy the cruelty of my wife sister girlfriend mother glistens and teases and beckons me back to the place of most fun. Where the violence has been unmasked as nothing more than a cry for love. And the thrill of cruelty is so much hotter when it has broken the shackles of revenge. The cruelty of the cat playing its game with the mouse.
The alternative to living with hate is to live with love, and love feels better. Personally, call me a nut but I think love is better for ya.