There are things I want to do that are against the law.
Today I am visiting a strip club. I have received permission from my wife, though I would go even if I hadn’t. I find it immeasurably better that my wife has told me to go. There is a kind of relief there. Whatever ambivalence I feel about watching women remove their clothes and dance before me for money and for my arousal and entertainment, I feel less of the uneasiness and more of the thrill due to receiving my wife’s permission. For better or for worse.
What I want to do is pay an extremely attractive woman of legal age – twenty to twenty-seven, let’s say – to kneel in front of me and slide my erect penis between her lips and through her mouth and into her throat. I want her lips pressed against my lower torso and I do not mind if she gags or struggles as long as she keeps me deep down into her throat. I want to have an orgasm there, and be able to feel that exquisite bliss of release without the slightest sliver of a doubt that she will back away or pull me out of her before I am ready. I want to be able to hold her down as forcefully as I like, despite being fully convinced that she would not want to pull away. I want her to be willing. I want her to want to do it. I want the monetary exchange to be fair and appropriate and for both me and her to be thankful for the experience and happy we followed through.
There are parts of me (and therefore I imagine there are parts of many people) who want some things I know are wrong. I enjoy the fantasy of having a slave. I would not enjoy the reality of having a slave, of having to care for them and ensure their health and survival. When I hear the true horror stories of men or women kept against their will, used repeatedly, exchanged among a shady underworld of buyers and sellers, I am disturbed to the edge of breakdown. But I suspect that part of what contributes to my especially vivid and exaggerated sensation of terror and revulsion is my own hidden desire, fleeting though it may be, to exercise absolute control over another person for no reason other than erotic satisfaction.
As a mid-teenager with a budding sexuality, one of the first stories I wrote was of a man who had expanded his unfinished basement, adopted an undocumented child of dubious origin and promising looks, and kept her locked for years in that basement. I masturbated repeatedly to this story over the days I wrote it. This fictional man of my creation (clearly a stand-in for some depraved portion of my own psyche), conditioned the girl through her pubescence and early adulthood. I remember a scene in which the girl is thirsty and the man explains that, as on any other day, her sustenance must come first from his own body before she even begins to earn her daily food or drink. I believe in the scene he was holding a biscuit which she eyed as she obediently fellated him. In this story, which I deleted probably within a week of finishing, I believe the girl came to love and appreciate the man, seeing him as the source of all her survival needs. Without pleasing him, she believed, she would not receive food or water or sunlight or anything else. Serving him to the absolute fullest extent of her capability was not just prudent to her mind, it was moral. It was good.
I do not want that in reality, of course, but there is a difference between reality and fantasy. Unlike when I was a teenager, I have no sexual desire for minors, but occasionally a thought slips into my mind that sparks a fascination for overwhelming domination. I imagine contraptions that hold a skull so firmly in place that pulling away is impossible. I imagine pushing the fair-skinned, glossy-haired head of a beautiful woman into the crook of a corner and tying her hands behind her back and playing the game where I try to keep her choked with my cock long enough to cause unconsciousness while she does everything in her limited abilities to resist. It would be nice, is all, to be able to exercise the severest extent of any brutality that my erotic imagination may suggest might be pleasurable. To me. For me.
I want a room of nuanced girls, all legal, bound on their knees in a line. Twelve or fifteen should suffice. (I don’t need the world.) And I want their mouths open, and to be able to thrust into them one at a time, moving casually and comfortably down the line, plunging the depths of them, admiring the subtle variations in tightness and resistance and moisture and the peripheral scuff of their teeth. I want to look down affectionately into their deeply affectionate eyes and bond with no false profundity with each of them, momentarily, fleetingly, honestly. I want to be able to slap them or bring them any other strong sensation of pain (or anything else) at will, and I want them to want it all, I want them to want more deliberately than any other want in their lives for everything that happens to adhere as purely as possible to my desire. Lest you think I want nothing more than to be a kind of harem king, I guess I should say I want a public acknowledgment. It’s true that I don’t need the world, but it’s also true that it could use improving. How would the world not be better if consenting adults could transact in some marketplace or public thoroughfare? I want to be able to offer my services in exchange for others, so long as those services do not cause unwanted harm. I want to be able to offer to cause a person pain if they want pain, in exchange for swallowing my member into their throat. I want to be able to accept money from a woman who desires to please me in some way, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to by law. And, of course, I want to be able to offer monetary reward for my own personal pleasure.
Today I am visiting a strip club. Brothels, and even prostitution in general, are illegal in my area. The closest I can come to what I want is to travel to a designated facility, pay a fee upon entrance, sit civilly with money on my person, and distribute stipend after earned stipend to erotic performers as they make their living. I will do so, and I will sit there casually with a Coke on ice and watch these girls (some of whom are little more than 18 years old) move seductively on a stage lit with colored lights. As I watch they will peel their skin-tight outfits down or up or off, or else they will pull away their flowing fabrics and drop them daintily or toss them athletically. I will watch and imagine the things I could do to them. And then their music will end and they will come to me where I hold my slips of paper money and they will perform their false but still somewhat endearing flirtation, and I will tuck my dollar bills between their squeezed and offered tits or in the waistband of their thongs. These nameless beautiful girls will ask me, pleasantly, entreatingly, if they could please place their slender bodies on my lap and writhe delightfully against me. And yes, of course, I will say yes. You may. And she will writhe just so and raise her sculpted chest before my face and do, to an extent (and it is precisely this idea of an extent that I wish I could sidestep), what she genuinely thinks I will enjoy enough to tip her more. And she undoubtedly will turn around and bend at the waist and cradle my erection against her ass and pulse backwards toward me in an excess of friendliness.
I will certainly tip, and I will tip well. This thing she does is a far cry from the dark fantasies I have hiding somewhere in my mind, but it is also the closest I can get to realizing them. As she is working on me, I will be working on her in my imagination. I will allow myself to picture these acts in some other context where she is doing what she is doing not for the extra money but to convince me I should keep her or that she should remain alive. I don’t believe this is a breach of trust. I imagine this hypothesized stripper knows and accepts that her patrons may be thinking of other things, may well be desiring other things of her, while their transaction commences. I do not feel obligated to share with her whatever more comprehensive gratification I feel from imagining that our acts together might be something other than what they are. I will just think the way I think for my enjoyment, and allow her not to know those thoughts. As she allows me to think whatever it is I want without remark.
These girls, these performers, these splendid attractive female bodies who are nonetheless as much a legitimate subjective entity as me or anyone else (despite my transactional and petty and fleeting objectification of them), will dance their strip shows and lap dances and take my tips and my long glances, and then, even then, they will ask me for more. How do you feel about a private dance? Think you want to go in back for a private dance? Up for a private dance yet? I will deny them, but not for long. I will take my fill of leisurely admiring their curves and clefts and their athleticism and flexibility. I will tap that primordial well at the center of my brain that values hips and succulence and plump lips and palm-fit breasts and able jaws and ease of movement and pristine bodily capability, and I will let them take over as full a portion of my sense of carnal sexuality as they are able. Only then, after admiring as many of them as there are, will I say yes to the most successful.
She, whatever graceful being that is, will necessarily want me to be pleased. I’ll say yes to her offer of a private dance, and then I will follow her across the room, watching every movement of her walk with simple unfettered attraction. My desire will not be manic but will be pure and calm and confident in the reassurance my patience has made. I will pay a third party who knows the service about to be performed and he or she will picture it almost unconsciously but say nothing. And then again I will follow the girl across the room and down a hallway and through a curtain and there I will recline in a plush chair and she will face me and show herself to me in the quiet light. She will be as nude as all our ancestors have ever been and she will grind against me I will pull her into me and feel her body with the same wanting that is the oldest wanting and she will grind against me harder and gasp into my ear and move until I stop my thinking and gasp myself. She will release from me all this lust-drunk thinking in a way as close to good as good acts can be. She will give to me in her paid performance an experience as blissfully divine and ecstatic as one person can give another, and the both of us will be thankful for it.
She will quality-check for my enjoyment and I will tell her she has done a good job. Then she will stand and grab her clothing and I will pull from my pocket yet more money to give her and I will likely give her all that remains of what I have budgeted for this affair. She will thank me again and the appreciation in her thanks will be more honest and expressive than it usually is for her. Then she will recognize me as a considerate consumer of the product with which she trades and in so doing she will come closer to accepting the notion of the world I sometimes dream.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/3elfp5/mf_thoughts_upon_planning_to_visit_a_strip_club
Prose: purple.