forces
himself on me, his mouth all over my face and his hands gripping my tits. He unzips his cock and makes me touch it, then pulls up my skirt and twists my panties aside and before I know what’s
happening he starts to fuck me.
It’s a good enough fantasy, but in the end it leaves me kind of cold. I feel that it’s Brian’s relentless niceness which forces me to fantasize the way I do: I like to dream
about roughness as an antidote to his gentle approach. But those Dave fantasies go to the other extreme – they simply replace gentleness with force, and there’s no scope for sharing the
moment. That’s what I crave – a fantasy in which nasty things happen, but where everyone enjoys it.
So my fantasies turned to Brian dressing me up as a schoolgirl and spanking me, or chaining me to the bed – games where I was a willing participant – but they didn’t work
either: I still couldn’t imagine Brian doing it. The very fact that in reality I would never dare broach such a subject with him rather proved my point. And that’s how my favourite
fantasy came about.
If he wouldn’t do it to me, I’d do it to him.
Once the idea of dominating Brian took hold it swept all other fantasies away. I loved the idea, the notion that I could bully and cajole him into doing things he would never choose to do in
real life. But always, in my fantasies, it was important that however much he protested, he really did enjoy what was happening. As I said, I do love him.
They start out gently enough, these fantasies. I imagine a situation where he has annoyed me for some reason – sprayed all over the bathroom, for example (which is something he never does,
he always sits down to pee). In the fantasy I scold him terribly and he apologises, but I refuse to accept it because I am so angry. “Stand in the corner,” I tell him, more in
exasperation than with any genuine intent, but to my amazement he obeys. I leave him to see what he does next, but fifteen minutes later he is still there, facing the wall. I’m astonished,
but slightly intrigued. If he will do that, what else will he do?
At first none of my demands are sexual – they are purely to test his obedience – but he complies with everything I ask. I tell him to scrub the kitchen floor and he does it. I tell
him to wear my pink (well, peach – it’s the nearest I have to pink) apron and he does. I tell him to eat his tea outside, in the rain, and he trots into the garden with his plate.
Whatever I ask, he always obeys. So far this is probably completely true to life: if I was to ask Brian those things I’m sure he would look quizzical and a bit hurt, but would do them
nonetheless.
But now my fantasies begin to adopt sexual overtones. Seeing him scamper after my every command makes me horny and I get the sudden urge to use him. “Brian,” I yell, “come
here.” I’m lying on our bed, naked, and he blanches as he enters and sees me. “Lick me,” I tell him. He tries to say something but I tell him to shut up and get on with it.
The tartness of my reply shocks him and he immediately folds himself between my legs and sets his tongue to work. He isn’t very good. In reality, he has only done this to me three times, and
I haven’t had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong, but in my fantasy I have no such compunction. I make him concentrate on my clitoris and explain how he should roll his tongue round
and round its hood, sucking gently and occasionally drawing his tongue directly over the clitoris itself, slowly and softly. As I approach a climax I order him to speed up and to suck harder.
“Harder, harder,” I instruct him, gripping him between my thighs and pressing his head into me.
My fantasy climax is usually accompanied by one in real life, this thought alone enough to bring me off. But then Brian would come home from work, Mr Nice Guy again, and my frustrations with him
would grew ever stronger. Those frustrations have been
himself on me, his mouth all over my face and his hands gripping my tits. He unzips his cock and makes me touch it, then pulls up my skirt and twists my panties aside and before I know what’s
happening he starts to fuck me.
It’s a good enough fantasy, but in the end it leaves me kind of cold. I feel that it’s Brian’s relentless niceness which forces me to fantasize the way I do: I like to dream
about roughness as an antidote to his gentle approach. But those Dave fantasies go to the other extreme – they simply replace gentleness with force, and there’s no scope for sharing the
moment. That’s what I crave – a fantasy in which nasty things happen, but where everyone enjoys it.
So my fantasies turned to Brian dressing me up as a schoolgirl and spanking me, or chaining me to the bed – games where I was a willing participant – but they didn’t work
either: I still couldn’t imagine Brian doing it. The very fact that in reality I would never dare broach such a subject with him rather proved my point. And that’s how my favourite
fantasy came about.
If he wouldn’t do it to me, I’d do it to him.
Once the idea of dominating Brian took hold it swept all other fantasies away. I loved the idea, the notion that I could bully and cajole him into doing things he would never choose to do in
real life. But always, in my fantasies, it was important that however much he protested, he really did enjoy what was happening. As I said, I do love him.
They start out gently enough, these fantasies. I imagine a situation where he has annoyed me for some reason – sprayed all over the bathroom, for example (which is something he never does,
he always sits down to pee). In the fantasy I scold him terribly and he apologises, but I refuse to accept it because I am so angry. “Stand in the corner,” I tell him, more in
exasperation than with any genuine intent, but to my amazement he obeys. I leave him to see what he does next, but fifteen minutes later he is still there, facing the wall. I’m astonished,
but slightly intrigued. If he will do that, what else will he do?
At first none of my demands are sexual – they are purely to test his obedience – but he complies with everything I ask. I tell him to scrub the kitchen floor and he does it. I tell
him to wear my pink (well, peach – it’s the nearest I have to pink) apron and he does. I tell him to eat his tea outside, in the rain, and he trots into the garden with his plate.
Whatever I ask, he always obeys. So far this is probably completely true to life: if I was to ask Brian those things I’m sure he would look quizzical and a bit hurt, but would do them
nonetheless.
But now my fantasies begin to adopt sexual overtones. Seeing him scamper after my every command makes me horny and I get the sudden urge to use him. “Brian,” I yell, “come
here.” I’m lying on our bed, naked, and he blanches as he enters and sees me. “Lick me,” I tell him. He tries to say something but I tell him to shut up and get on with it.
The tartness of my reply shocks him and he immediately folds himself between my legs and sets his tongue to work. He isn’t very good. In reality, he has only done this to me three times, and
I haven’t had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong, but in my fantasy I have no such compunction. I make him concentrate on my clitoris and explain how he should roll his tongue round
and round its hood, sucking gently and occasionally drawing his tongue directly over the clitoris itself, slowly and softly. As I approach a climax I order him to speed up and to suck harder.
“Harder, harder,” I instruct him, gripping him between my thighs and pressing his head into me.
My fantasy climax is usually accompanied by one in real life, this thought alone enough to bring me off. But then Brian would come home from work, Mr Nice Guy again, and my frustrations with him
would grew ever stronger. Those frustrations have been
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