Thank god I don't know better

Someone commented yesterday that they appreciated me 'letting them in.' I can't tell you how much that comment meant to me. I don't know why, but somehow I felt like my own fantasies wouldn't be as interesting as writing out the fantasies of others. That's why I often go dormant when there are no requests.

Today, someone very important and wonderful asked me to tell her about my abduction fantasy. I shouldn't have done it. But isn't that the point?

Thank god I don't know better

"Tell me about your abduction fantasies."

            I probably shouldn’t have answered her. If I knew what was good for me, I never would have told her. I wouldn’t have mentioned the idea of being tazered and pushed into a trunk, of coming to with my hands mummified in duct tape behind my back. If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have described how I wanted to feel that brief moment of panic as I realized my mouth was taped over, or that there was a strip of duct tape over my eyes. I wouldn’t have told her that I wanted to worry about how fast she might rip the tape off, and if I’d have eyebrows when she was done.

            I shouldn’t have described the fantasy so clearly. I shouldn’t have told her about the gentle bumping of the car as I slowly realized that I was in a trunk, or about the feel of the rough carpet against my face. I shouldn’t have told her how hot it would be to know that I was bundled in the trunk along with a bunch of other things, among the normal detritus of a well used car trunk. I shouldn’t have gone on and on about the way it would make me feel like just a bit more junk, a bit more trash, tossed aside as if I didn’t really matter.

            And I definitely should not have told her how much that turned me on.

            If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have told her any of it. At the very least, I would have stopped there. Maybe told her I wanted to be taken to a spa, or given a massage, or something like that.

            If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have used words like harness, or chains, or suspension. I wouldn’t have talked about cold hard concrete, and I wouldn’t have mentioned that hooks under my shoulders would support my weight. I wouldn’t have told her about being kept in the dark, about the excitement of only knowing what little I could hear, what I could smell, and what I could feel. I wouldn’t have said anything about wanting to feel the warm breeze that would tell me that we were exposed, at least a little, to the elements. I wouldn’t have told her how much it would turn me on to be hanging there and feel her take off my pants.

            At the very least, I should have told her that I wanted her to take my pants off. I never would have used words like ‘cut’ or ‘rip.’ I wouldn’t have mentioned the desire to feel so completely helpless, my skin bare to the world, hanging there with absolutely no idea where we were or what else was around us.

            I shouldn’t have mentioned that the possibility of having an audience turned me on. I should have just kept with my original stance, that I wanted everything to be private. That I didn’t want to involve anyone else, that I had no desire to be an exhibitionist. I shouldn’t have mentioned that there was something about the possibility of being exposed to a crowd that was hotter than knowing for certain. That wondering if that sound I was hearing was just my imagination, or if there really was someone shifting in his seat, if there really was someone trying to stifle a giggle as I hung there, bare assed and completely helpless.

            I shouldn’t have told her about the ritualistic way I imagined the ankle cuffs being strapped on, or about the spreader bar hooked between them, spreading my legs apart and making me that much more exposed.

            So many things I should have left out. So many details I should have just kept to myself.

            If I’d known what was good for me, I wouldn’t have mentioned the tingle that would slide down my spine like a gentle tongue, pooling the sensation at my lower back, just off to the right. I wouldn’t have told her about the exquisite agony of having her touch my erection without letting me cum, of her rolling a condom on me, a cheap condom that had neither spermicide nor lubricant. I wouldn’t have told her that I wanted to be reminded of that fact, that I wanted her to let me think what it meant that she had put a condom on me, one that would catch everything.

            I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have told her about the echo I imagine from the clicking of her heels, an echo that would tell me we were definitely outside. I shouldn’t have mentioned the desire for a long stretch of time where I had to just listen to her walk around, where I would wonder if she was greeting her guests. Or taking pictures. Or putting up a sign inviting passersby to join in the fun. I shouldn’t have told her that I wanted her to just wait, to watch me and to let me think about what might be happening, to let me wonder just how long it had been since she had said anything. To make me wonder if maybe she’d just left me there, completely helpless and utterly exposed.

            If I’d known what was good for me, I wouldn’t have told her that once I started actually struggling, I wanted her to come back and give me a good hard slap across the face, one that would send me reeling and literally spinning from the chain I dangled from. How the pain itself wasn’t what excited me, but rather the reminder that I was just hanging there, completely and utterly at her mercy. I wouldn’t have told her how hot it was to think that she could leave me swinging, or that she could jerk me to a stop, demonstrating her complete and utter power over me. Reminding me that I had no control, that she had me right where she wanted me.

            I shouldn’t have told her how much that turned me on.

            I shouldn’t have gone into detail about the lubricant, about the dab on my ass, on my virgin hole that she would pound into. I shouldn’t have asked her to put far, far too little on my actual ass, but rather to lube up the strap on. I shouldn’t have told her about the excited fear of wondering if there would be enough, about the need to worry when she finally pressed the head of her rubber cock against my hole. I shouldn’t have said a word about the way I imagined it would feel, that slow slide inside me.

            I shouldn’t have mentioned the way I wanted her to pull my head back as she fucked me, spearing me back on her cock, reminding me that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to stop her even if I wanted to. I shouldn’t have mentioned that it would be sexy for her to not only point that out, but to also point out that I didn’t want her to stop. That I was loving every second of it. That I was her little slut, and that I liked it. That I wanted to be there, right there in that position.

            If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have talked about the gentle press of her cock or about the rough thrusts, about the moaning into the tape still covering my mouth. I wouldn’t have said a word about her fucking me, pounding against my prostate, until I came, or about how I imagined I would cum harder and longer than I ever had before. I wouldn’t have mentioned the way I imagined her still fucking me as I orgasm, about the way I would desperately want her to stop, about the pleasure becoming too intense to handle, and about how I still wanted her, even as I whimpered into my gag, to just keep going. To use me for her own pleasure, to fuck me until she was done, not caring that I had already cum, or if I would cum again, or anything like that. Not giving a second thought to my own desires, just using me as her slut, fucking me hard and putting me away wet.

            I shouldn’t have said anything about the last part. About the feel of her gently pinching off the condom, about her pulling it off me, filled with my cum. I shouldn’t have mentioned her letting me down, letting me kneel on the concrete, my ankles still spread, my hands still lashed together behind me. I shouldn’t have said anything about her bending me backward, or about the little tear in the tape over my mouth. I shouldn’t have said anything about her upending the condom, about her squeezing it into the hole. I shouldn’t have mentioned her squirting my own cum into my mouth, or about how much I wanted her to remind me that I loved it. I shouldn’t have told her that I wanted her to remind me that I had literally asked for this, that I had outlined every step of the fantasy, that I had given her free reign to do exactly that.

            If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have told her that I wanted her to laugh at my disgust. That it didn’t matter if I wanted to eat my own cum, that it was about the power she had over me. I wouldn’t have said that I wanted her to laugh, to tell me that I was drinking the cum not because I wanted to, but because she wanted me to. That I was doing it to serve her. To please her.

            I wouldn’t have told her that she could order me not to swallow. That she could make me hold it in my mouth as she undid the spreader bar and helped me to my feet. That she could make me get back into the trunk with a mouth full of my own cum. That she could threaten all sorts of things should I be dumb enough to swallow. I wouldn’t have told her that I wanted her to remind me that it was my own cum, that I was holding a mouthful of cum because that’s what she wanted.

            If I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have told her any of this.

            But if I hadn’t told her, how would she have known?