Chapter 5
My Wicked Wicked Fantasies

“ I’ve been puttin’ out the fire with gasoline.” — David Bowie

I can’t be the only person that noticed in the sixties everybody was getting tied up all the time. Or at the very least, on the TV shows I was watching. Someone was always getting tied up in every other Batman episode, on Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, and The Avengers. Oh my Goddess, there was so much fetish fodder in late sixties television, I wouldn’t know where to begin. Let’s talk Julie Newmar in that sparkly cat suit, all six feet of her in those fabulous go-go boots and little mask. The wicked kinky things Endora did to Derwood were simply devilish. Agnes Moorehead was always dressed and made-up like an aging drag queen on her way to Pride Fest, painted eyebrow raised and ready to make her favorite mortal prey suffer the torments of the damned. Lest we forget, Jeannie’s evil sister shrinking Major Nelson and tying him to a rotisserie and cooking him in his own oven, or keeping him as a pet in a bird cage in her harem.

Then, of course, we come to that ultimate karate kicking, gun toting, cat-suit sporting, fashion maven, femme fatale, Emma Peel. The quintessential archetypical template for the Dominatrix. She had it all going on: aristocratic airs, regal looks, wry wit, and willingness to kill and then quip over the corpse. That show was jam-packed with kink. From Steed’s obvious submissive relationship with Mrs. Peel, bondage fetish, surreal stories, and even one episode where Steed pulls her in a carriage as her pony boy. If you didn’t know one thing about S/M or D/S relationships, the Avengers was there to instruct you step by step, as well as kick some serious ass, in a dry British upper crust way. I learned so much from that show when my first little sex fantasies were beginning to form.

When I think back on it now, there was no way I could have grown up any other way. I was fated to a life of kink. It surrounded me on all fronts. Shame too was in equal part, all around me. I never voiced my fetishes, and my newfound desires, and wants. My mother had made it quite clear that was not acceptable at all. As for my father, he knew the score, he had been around. He knew that this shit existed, but I’m sure if he knew I might be on my way to growing up a perv, he would have had something to say about it. He was not above using a belt quite liberally in our upbringing, which I’m sure opened up another avenue in my kinkiness to the city of pain, but more about that later. So I kept quiet, and took my fantasies to my room, to run rampant on the upper berth of my bunk bed. Lacking any way to express twisted dreams, I went to sleep, taking my deviant devices with me into the mindscape.

The defining thing that makes a pervert interesting is their fantasies. Very few actually trot their sordid fascinations out into the real world to play. Most stick to singular masturbatory scenarios and internet keyboard encounters. I would estimate, not having any hard figures, that maybe ten percent of all fetishists ever practice, outside of spanking the monkey. Good, bad or indifferent, that is just the way it is. Not in my case of course, I kinda exploded all over the map, and it would take a major cleanup crew weeks to get all the mess I made back in the closet. It was too damn late for that. Still, 80 percent of my time is spent obsessing and not actually doing.

The reasons are many. Possibly the fetish is just too shithouse rat crazy to repeat in public, even to a jaded Mistress with a lifetime of experience under her heel. Or perhaps the fantasy is impossible to pull off without major production values and a cast of hundreds. Sometimes the fantasy might be too dangerous, if not down right fatal. Other times, It’s just snobbery on my part that forbids me from indulging in a twisted scenario. I would hate to be lumped in with some of the more sordid brands of fetishists; even in S/M certain broad stereotypes are applied. For instance, a certain type of submissive might be into something I too would be interested in exploring, but, because I know some Dommes either look down on, or downright won’t do certain things, I would never ask. Does that make me a hypocrite? Yes, it does. Will I ever get over my hypocrisy and simply wallow completely in my corruption? Goddess, I hope so. Leaving one kinky stone unviolated really goes against my craven glutinous nature for experience. However, if I can’t find a Mistress who likes that sort of thing, then forget it, I am all about pleasing the Mistress. If she is happy, then I’m happy, and we usually have alot of fun.

Some fetishists have very specific scenarios and they want to stick to the letter. Some even create elaborate scripts, complete characters, plot, and dialogue. I think the enforced restriction of this kind of scenario is an attempt on the fetishist’s part to help them feel more secure or safe in an otherwise scary situation. To me, this isn’t really a session so much as workshopping a new play. Part of the fun is the fear. The anticipation of the unknown. The surprises a creative Mistress may have up her opera-gloved sleeve. A scripted kink scenester doesn’t trust the Mistress to understand his or her fantasy and play along. They are very passive aggressively trying to control a situation they should not be trying to control. This is called “topping from the bottom” in S/M parlance. And it is definitely a no-no. The Mistress is in charge, and it’s the Mistress’s pleasure first. The gift is her attention, anything beyond that is pure happenstance. Or generosity on the Mistress’s part.

I love exploring the fetish world in all its aspects. I have found so many over the years that I think are so wonderfully outrageous, they must be shared. Keep in mind, if the fetish exists, chances are there is not just one person out there masturbating in the dark to it. There are hundreds, sometimes thousands. The most insidious thing about this is, the more you learn, the more infected you become. I catch other people’s fetishes like some people catch colds. I seriously believe if I had unlimited funds and time I could play for the rest of my unnatural life and never repeat the same fetish twice. Not that I would want to. The essence of fetish is obsession, and obsession is best served over and over again, ‘til the demon is sated or dead. But it is never satisfied and the game goes on.

The best place I’ve found to search for wilder and weirder kinksters is Yahoo groups on the internet. Yahoo groups are free clubs anybody can create and join, providing you have an account with them. I don’t know how many fetish groups are on Yahoo. But it must be in the millions. Of course there are the basic groups, dealing with basic fetishes. Bondage, torture, submission, Female Domination, etc., etc. If one has a mind to, and is willing to go into these groups and explore their link sections, whole galaxies of microcosms are revealed. There are fetishes for every occasion and quirk of the human experience. What I discovered, after some time of exploration, is the entire world and every tiny thing in it is somebody’s fetish.

There are fetish freaks out there who are obsessed with stuffed toys. These fun folks are Plushies. And then there are the Furries. People who dress up as furry forest creatures. Then there are the Voriphiles, people hooked on the idea of being swallowed whole. What goes down is the realm of the unbirthing chaps, people who want to crawl back in the womb. Or there are the objectifiers and objected, people who want to become a variety of inanimate objects and shirk off this complicated existence, and instead serve an owner with a single utilitarian or aesthetic purpose. They want to become mannequins, dolls, statues, appliances, ladies apparel, lipstick, shoes, the list goes on and on and on.

Being a practicing fetishist and not just a masturbatory one, I have thought long and hard how to live these improbable fantasies in real life. There are groups of living mannequins and dolls that do this professionally as art concepts and department store promotions. Some of them are truly amazing.

As far as becoming a lady’s personal item, up until last year I would have said that this was impossible, but since then I have discovered that where there is a will there is a way. Unfortunately there is no way presented that I can find where this can be done for any length of time, without the unfortunate prerequisite of dying that is required. However, once deceased, the possibilities open up. There is a company that will take a loved one’s cremated remains and place them in a diamond press, and turn the subject into a tiny precious stone. Then the loved one can be mounted in a variety of settings and worn. I plan on becoming one of these gems. I want to be mounted in a specialized piercing worn by a Mistress in a very intimate place, such as the nipple, or the vagina. What a great place to spend eternity. Hopefully, I would become a kinky heirloom. Wouldn’t that be cool.

One Mistress with a large stable of slaves in L.A. demands that all her long-term slaves sign a contract willing their mortal remains to her, so that she can wear her slaves on her fingers and toes. I’m proud to say I gave her the idea. I have heard that certain countries have businesses that will take any pelt and make custom tailored unique leather wear from it. I wonder how many slaves are still around hanging in closets or racks at second hand clothing stores, Last year’s fashion fling forgotten.

There are people hung up on tight spaces, such as crawling into dryers at laundromats, or fitting in suitcases. There are extremes in bondage along these lines, such as people who completely encase themselves in plaster, clay, plastic or rubber. One such extreme I’ve seen pictured was a girl completely mummified in thick industrial shrink wrap, and then submerged into a mud bog head first, with no oxygen assist. That is extreme. The girl was fine by the way. It wasn’t a snuff film, but snuff has its fans too. Though I’m pretty convinced that only on extremely rare occasions has snuff ever been produced. And when it has been produced, the films have been seized and the killers prosecuted. Snuff isn’t a kink, it’s a sickness. The same goes for any possible scene involving critters or kids. Folks who stroll this path are walking it with the likes of Jeffery Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy, and that path not even the perverted care to traverse.

Imaginary death is a big theme in S/M, however. I love the female executioner, killer wives, girlfriends, and so on. These fetishists fantasize about how homicidal significant others, or perhaps indifferent thrill killers, might end their existence in every way imaginable, including guns, knives guillotines, karate, and my fave, slow suffocation. This is called asphyxia. Not to be confused with Gaspers, who seek the rush of orgasm during oxygen deprivation. This is far too dangerous to even contemplate trying alone. It’s ended messily far too many times. Sometimes to quite famous people, though discreet authorities hush it up. A sitter suffocates her victim with her ass firmly planted on the eager face. Be it clothed in an air-proof vinyl skirt, or in a tub of water, when I die I want to go out this way. Under some beautiful girl’s ass. It’s far more erotic than one would expect. Or perhaps it is obvious how erotic it is.

Still, it’s a toss up which way I want to end my mutated existence. My other fantasy way to go would be as the main course in a female cannibal feast. Hunted, captured, prepared alive, cooked, and served to a banquet attended by hungry women. An unlikely occurrence for many reasons. But hey, it’s one of my fantasies, and I like getting crazy with my fetishes. And I’m not the only one. There are dozens of Yahoo groups dedicated to this fantasy, and more than a few pay websites. The most famous of these sites is the Amazing Mukis kitchen. It’s all just fantasy and harmless fantasy at that. Unless, of course, one can find a human-sized oven in one’s suburban kitchen, or a turning spit, or a giant wok, or a witches cauldron. I think the population is safe from kink-crazed perverts cooking each other up in great numbers. (It’s those damn zombies that worry me.)

Not that real cannibalism hasn’t happened. It has. But I don’t believe cannibal websites and groups cause this kind of extreme behavior. Sick fucks will do sick things, despite all best efforts to control them. And censorship of this kind of exposure is like Bowie would say, “Puttin’ out the fire with gasoline.” The harder it is to feed the beast, the more obsessed we become. Censor the expression and then you got a fucking explosion of truly demented repressed monsters running amok. Take a look at the number of Republican politicians convicted of sex crimes in the last few years and you will see what I mean. Eventually they go boom!

There are fantasies for every part of the human anatomy. Feet, legs, asses, breasts, throats, ears, toes, lips, and yes, even uvulas. If it’s part of the body, folks are tripping on it. If it’s worn on the body, people are tripping even harder. Shoes, garters, stockings, girdles, bras, satin, lace, latex, leather, and even canvas. That last one blew my mind. Try as I might, I can find nothing sensual about canvas. Maybe it’s the singular unattractiveness of it that makes it fetish worthy. Beats me.

Uniforms are big: Nazis, nuns, maids, serving wenches of all types. And then it gets narrower than that. I have seen Yahoo groups dedicated to aprons. The Germans are really big on aprons. Eh, it’s a cultural thing. I’ve noticed that some fetishes are very regional and fall along nationality and cultural lines. For instance, the South of the Border crowd seem to really have a thing for transsexuals, while the English are way gone on infantilism. The Italians seem to dig the horror related fetishes. And the Germans, well the Germans are on their own wavelength altogether. Everything they seem to do in kink is very serious and sometimes very weird. Not that weird is bad in kink, weird is the spice on the tasty seared flesh. Hmm. That was a very German fetishist thing to say. Cool.

In the Yahoo groups, it gets unimaginably strange. There’s a woman who runs a group dedicated to swallowing action figures. Or how ‘bout the group that worships an eight legged spider Goddess. Or one dedicated to girls frozen in ice. One group of slaves that Mistresses truly adore are what is known as money slaves, or human ATM’s. These slaves love giving money to beautiful women and some of these guys never meet the benefactor of their generosity. The most severe money slave is the blackmail slave, who imparts every tiny bit of his personal information to a faceless Mistress, who then forces them into a compromising position. Like, say, lewd photographs. The slave gets off on being extorted by fear of exposure. These slaves can be rendered destitute and they love it.

There is a secret little website I know of called Nightmare Street that offers a unique service. For a price, These ladies will actually kidnap you. Tie, gag, and render you entirely helpless. Then for the next 24 to 48 hours, These ladies torture, humiliate and degrade the prisoner until such time as the agreed upon ransom is met. These ladies are completely anonymous: They are never seen by the captive and the captive never learns where he is being held. The things done to the slave are intense and varied, and the ladies take turns keeping the slave entertained almost constantly. It’s brutal, sadistic and terrifying. It’s also completely real. At the end of the session the slave is packed away in a van and dropped off naked in an empty parking lot somewhere with their belongings heaped beside them. The thing the slave is getting off on is of course the play, but beyond that the fear is the real flavor. I witnessed one of these kidnap scenarios and it was truly intense. Even with my rooted fetish desires I don’t know if I could handle it. My hat’s off to the brave motherfuckers that can. One chappy who went through the experience wrote a review saying it was the best thing to ever happen in his life. It took a week to recover from his ordeal but the memories last a lifetime.

With an imagination like mine, coupled with a kink drive from hell, needless to say reality often disappoints. Say for instance it’s a classic forced cross-dressing scenario, where the Mistress has helped me dress and then tied me up to taunt and tease mercilessly. This is all fabulous of course, and I’m very grateful for the attention and the indulgence of the Mistress, but in my heart and soul I want it to go that extra step farther. Something like where the Mistress tells me that from now on I will always be in bondage and dressed as a female. There is no escape. My choices have been taken away. And the Mistress is willing to go to whatever lengths it takes to transform me from a stupid ignorant male monkey into a beautiful submissive lesbian slave for her enjoyment and her craven lesbian friends. I imagine it getting even wilder, where it appears that money, equipment, and resources are endless and anything is possible. There are clothes for every twisted scenario, uniforms, dresses, corsets, hats, shoes, and all manner of kinky apparel to play out any sick idea the Mistress has in mind.

Likewise locations are equally extravagant, from villas in Spain, to dark foreboding castles on the Moors of Scotland. Oh my, and the devices used to restrain, train, and torture me almost defy the natural laws of physics – cruel chastity devices, Iron Maidens, racks, stalks, twisters, benders, and huggers. Oh my. I see scenarios where I serve as a ladies’ maid or a concubine in the Mistress’s boudoir. I see other situations where I am harnessed and put in a bit in cruel hooved boots to pull the Mistress’s carriage. I dream of long cruel nights of bondage tied to devices designed to kill, like the crazy whacked-out devices used in Batman episodes. I see simple spreader bars, ball gags, and ropes.

I desire my identity to be destroyed and then remade in the Mistress’s image. The fear of watching my body change under the cruel embrace of an ever tightening corset. My arches shortening in heartless ballet boots. My breasts growing with the massive doses of female hormones I’ve been fed, and my penis shrinking. I want to be branded and tattooed with marks defining me as the Mistress’s property. Imagine being kidnapped, made to disappear completely, never to be seen in the male form again. Only to emerge into the light once again a different person and a different gender.

Imagine having all responsibility of freedom taken away, and every moment of your life planned and designed by a beautiful dominant woman. Her wants are your wants. I become simply an extension of her will. Her most cherished possession, a thing of beauty and art. The Mistress’s play toy, and vent for her frustrations. Her jester and her clown, and sometimes if I am lucky, her lover. Or perhaps her friends’ lover, or perhaps simply their amusement. Now that is my idea of heaven. Nirvana, Xanadu, and The Elysian fields all rolled into one. And that is only one fantasy.

Now don’t think for one little minute that all of these fantasies, including mine, don’t occur. Maybe not exactly and maybe not to the wild contours of imagination, but they do come damn close. I’ve met slaves living the lifestyle and completely enslaved; and I’ve met Mistresses who are willing and able to take it to its ultimate extreme. Hopefully not death or insanity, but walking right up the door at the edge and knocking loudly enough that it echoes in the abyss beyond.

I met one slave who had a bimbo fantasy, a male desiring to be made into a simple stupid little airheaded big boobed loose pussy slut. Well, a Mistress got a hold of this poor shmuck and did just that to him. She enslaved him, held him captive, she dosed him up on female hormones, and brainwashed him in the grand tradition of the Manchurian candidate. She got him approved for Sex reassignment surgery. Had his face radically redesigned, with big dumb brown eyes, tattooed makeup, giant carp-like pouty lips, and tiny little nose better suited to Shirley Temple’s face than a full grown adult. He was corsetted down to a 23-inch waist. Permanently. She had cheek implants and butt implants done and alotta other stuff that must have hurt like a motherfucker. However it was the titties that blew the mind. To call these monstrosities mere titties is a gross understatement. These were jugs. Gazungas. Bodacious tatas. In 3D and swollen beyond all understanding. It took not just one but several operations in Mexico to get the skin stretched to the size desired by the Mistress. Goddess knows how big they actually are. But all I can say is DAMN! They were big.

Now picture all these modifications done on the frame of a man built like The Rock and we are talking one spectacular unique creature. Yes, it is true that the Mistress’s final product stood out in a crowd a wee bit. What a unique creature to set loose on an unsuspecting planet. Some would call what this Mistress did to this slave sadistic, and possibly mutilation. But I would like to remind them that this was agreed upon by the slave. This is what he wanted. I don’t call poor Bambi a freak, I call her a work of art. And I don’t really feel sorry for her either. Truthfully I kinda envy her. Bambi in another life was a construction worker. But Mistress found her a new job. Bambi is a star attraction on Hollywood Blvd. In a famous strip club. Not to mention her porn career. Bambi supports her Mistress and they are a very happy couple. They are married and Mistress always refers to her little bimbo as the wife.

Fetishes take people on strange adventures. They have the power to transform, destroy, enhance, elevate, empower, or cripple. And even kill. That can’t be said for much of anything else we do in life. I mean it’s the nature of things that we are born dying. Why not go for it. It all winds up in the same place anyway. Anything beyond is just an awkward explanation to your creator on the other side. As my friend the late great Johnny Graves the 3rd would say, “If it aint scary, it aint worth doing.”

– to be continued –