A few fantasies I'd be interested in acting out (or any similar fantasies -- and if you'd like to see what I look like, just ask for access to my private photos):
-- You make me work out in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs...while you periodically glance up and order me to switch to heavier weights, or traipse over and squeeze my biceps or smack my thighs...or you just decide that I've turned in such a lackluster performance that it's time to end the workout early, and you push me down to the floor, on my back, straddling me, and slide your hands around my sweaty neck...
-- You matter-of-factly explain that since I agreed to meet you in person, you now have the right to use my body in any way you see fit. That I let you buy me like a cheap cut of meat at a grocery store. After you make me strip, maybe you even order me up onto your kitchen counter, grabbing handfuls of my flesh and feeling it for firmness, thwacking my thighs with a meat tenderizer, as if I really am nothing but a piece of meat, before you hop on top of me, or tug me down to the floor, to ride me as you wrap your hands around my throat...
-- A lot of my fantasies tend to involve ch0king. I've done it to women before, but I've never been ch0ked myself. Never even been dominated. Always dated submissive women who wanted me to be dominant in the bedroom. So I'm craving a woman who'll say, maybe mid-conversation, that it's time for me to shut up. Then you order me to lift up my chin, and you curl your hands around my neck, your thumbs pressing down on my throat, as I sputter and ch0ke under you, and you ride me like a horse.
-- Maybe one of us bathes the other. But I'm not sure whether it'd be more appropriate for me to bathe you worshipfully by candlelight, massaging soap into your skin and shampoo into your scalp, gently and soothingly...or for you to scrub me clean, as roughly as you can, just scour my body with a brillo pad as if I'm a filthy pet or piece of livestock. Either way, I think the bath needs to end with you mounting and riding me...maybe even holding my head underwater and snickering at the way I sputter and splash around beneath you, as if I'm just a funny bathtime sex toy.
-- We meet, go out once or twice, and I try to impress you by bragging about my cooking. So you invite me to your place one evening to make you dinner. We start cooking together, but it doesn't take long before the power dynamic shifts wildly in your favor: you spill your drink on my shirt, seemingly accidentally, so I have to pull it off -- my undershirt, too -- and you look at my chest coldly, impersonally, reach out and poke my pecs...slap my abs, watch my flesh jiggle...offer unsolicited advice about what muscles I need to work on, while I just awkwardly nod, hope you'll let me get back to cooking...and when I do, you watch me intently for a minute, then order me to strip completely naked so you can get a look at the rest of my body.
I demur, tell you we should wait until after dinner to, uh, take our clothes off. "You're the only one taking your clothes off," you tell me, and calmly walk over and pour the rest of your drink onto my pants. I sputter some protest while looking down in shock, start to unzip my jeans, but you grab my chin and jerk it up, lock eyes with me, instructing me to stay still for a minute -- "I'm gonna punish you now. You want to get ch0ked or held underwater? Ten seconds, either way." So I choose to get ch0ked, it seems easier -- and when you release my neck, you tell me I'm allowed to strip out of my jeans now. My underwear, too. You have a pair of underpants for me to wear. And you make me strip naked in the kitchen, commenting on my anatomy as if you're critiquing a drawing or statue or doll, and I hand you my pants and boxers, then hop up on the cold kitchen counter and wait for you to find a suitable pair of underwear in your own closet.
By the time dinner is ready, you've informed me that your chairs and table -- all your furniture -- are for people wearing clothing, not for naked or underwear-clad bodies...but that once your dinner's on the table, you'd be happy to dump some food -- maybe crackers, or leftovers in your refrigerator -- onto a paper towel on the floor for me to eat. I groan, but I don't bother complaining any longer...and while I try to make conversation with you, crouching down on the floor to scarf down some barely edible food while you devour whatever meal I've cooked for you, you just ignore me while you read or watch or scroll through something on your phone.
After you finish eating, you look at me -- I'm still trying to chew a few last bites of my own awful meal -- and you say, sounding disgusted, "Dude, I don't think this is gonna work out...you're just not my type." You get up, you grab me by the hair or arm, pull me up, retrieve my clothes from wherever you left them, take a few plastic bags, and lead me outside -- I'm feebly struggling, begging you to let me put my clothes back on before we go outside where people can see us -- but you just march me over to your building's trash room, or garbage can in your backyard. You toss my clothes in a bin, order me to get in too -- and I just give in, hoping the night will just end already, climb into the garbage. You finally offer me some praise, pat me on the head, so when you tell me to lift up my head, I happily comply, letting you zip tie a plastic bag around my neck before you lower the dumpster lid, dust off your hands, and walk away.
Or -- even darker ending -- when you finish eating dinner, and I offer to help you put the leftovers in your refrigerator, you wait before answering -- slowly look over my whole body, pause, think for a minute, and finally reply: "No. I wanna save space in the freezer to hold you."
