Terrifying Transition

Terrifying Transition

Recently I dreamed a scene so vivid, so clear and real, that I’ve thought about it every day since. I’ve been moved to write about it here, not necessarily to share it with anyone but to put the sensations and whirling visuals into the reassuring familiarity of words. It’s not a fantasy exactly, because I know I would hate everything about what I’m about to share with you except the final few lines. The dream seems to examine my understanding of the word terrifying, and there’s a transition – but for whom?

What follows breaks all the rules. If you live a moral and decent life, it will most likely repulse you. You have been warned.

And remember… it’s all just a dream.

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I’m naked. I’m scared. I’ve been kept prisoner and mistreated for such a long time. I don’t know how much more I can take. The place I’m in is dark, yet once a day when he visits my area of confinement he seems to somehow have enough light for him to inspect every part of me, and to force me to look into his terrifying, menacing eyes. Those eyes which glow with the thrill at my gradual but complete breaking, the daily humiliation of external and internal inspections, and the savage beatings and fuckings which come afterwards. All this before leaves me again with just a meagre amount of food, some water, and darkness for the night on the cold floor.

He’s been only ‘He’ or ‘Him’ to me from the start. There’s never been much conversation. Just a word or two barked at me from the room’s entrance, telling me what position to take, or growled at me in my ear. Not sensual; terrifying. That’s the word which chants a mantra in my head and seems to sum him up perfectly. Completely terrifying. I used to be in control of myself and my life, but now I’ve been captured and must endure daily physical and sexual torture. No; not endure. I must be broken by it. That’s what he wants. I know this is true not just because of the gleaming thrill in those terrible dark eyes, but because of the Joker grin which spreads over his face in those moments I’m at my weakest.

So many times I’ve been crying, bleeding… a broken mess on the floor in front of him. And I glance up and he’s looking down, smiling that terrifying smile and frightening me further with those equally terrifying eyes.

His cock is a terrifying weapon. It keeps me afraid when it’s anticipated and in pain from soon after he arrives. Driving his terrifying cock down my throat as he grips the back of my neck with one hand, using the other to bang my face on and off his cock once it’s in position, filling my mouth to beyond my tonsils. The heat and the sweat and the pulsating feel of it literally inside my head and filling me with him and what he wants. Whatever he wants he gets -and he gets it now.

After fucking my face with his terrifying cock he turns my naked body about, pushes me down to all fours without any pretence of kindness or sensuality, and spreads my cheeks. His cock is lubed from my frothed saliva combined with whatever of his first spunk I failed to take and keep down my throat. My punishment for this failure is him spitting on my now well-versed knot, pushing that slick cock tip hard at my hole and forcing it inside brutally.

All the while I can smell the familiar mixture of my fear and his excitement. It’s the terrifying symphony he orchestrates daily. The soundtrack is the choked sobs from my raspy, ripped throat and his guttural wrenches of breaths as he pounds his fuck meat on the cold floor.

He doesn’t ever stop me crying. He doesn’t ever punish me for however loudly or desperately I cry. He glories in my every display of fear and pain and hurt and humiliation. He goads me to wail louder with a more forceful thrust of his cock in whichever hole he wants. He mocks my failure to cry louder despite my desperation and shame, with a final slap to my face and the echoes of his victorious laughter ringing in my ears as I slip into exhaustion on the floor.

But now, I don’t know how much more of this terror I can take. How much longer he will continue. It doesn’t feel like training, there is nothing else that can be achieved. This state of tortured limbo, this never-ending agony… this is what he wants. This is his victory, to keep me in this hell where nothing in certain except for a similar or worse flavour of hell the next day. Or later the same day. I don’t know any more. Time doesn’t exist; all that exists are the times when he is there and the times when he is not.

He’s here again. There’s light and darkness all at once. He fills the entry-way and I can feel that the thrill of his past torture, my current broken, desperate state and the anticipation of what he will yet do to me radiating from him.

The usual inspection first: his hands drag my weak body up by my hair and fling me backwards. He pins me to the wall with ease, with one hand around my neck while his other hand mauls my naked, filthy body. There’s masses of dried cum on the insides of my thighs from his last glory-fuck session. He brushes away the filth and feels for the entrance to my often-used cunt. My body traitorously responds with a pool of liquid for his fingers to find and then taste while his eyes turn their taunting, mocking eyes to my shamed ones. He’s trained my body well. I hate my body. I hate him. He gives a low laugh at my struggle to summon enough energy to feel hate, as he then turns to fingering my arse, using my traitor cunt-juice as lube. His hand moves up to grab my breasts, first one then the other, and he finishes each breast-mauling with a brutal pinch and twist of the nipple.

He must be satisfied with the inspection today as he angles my head to the side slightly, his other hand still gripping me vice-like round the neck, then leans in to give me a rough kiss. His tongue penetrates my mouth – which is more used to cock than anything else by now – and he finishes this swift act of unusual affection with a vicious bite to my bottom lip. I taste blood. My head tries to jolt back from the pain but fails, as he’s still holding me tight by the neck. He laughs – louder this time.

There is no surprise to me in all this. It’s what I have come to expect. Next, he puts me to my knees with a hard shove downwards on both my shoulders, and by the time I’m there his cock is already at my lips. His salty tang, that mixture of masculine heat and pre-cum, stings the fresh bite on my lip. Excited by having given me this additional pain today, he pushes inside my mouth impatiently and thrusts into and beyond the back of my throat. The brutality of it does cause me to wince and attempt to gasp. Then time fades out completely – so does light, darkness, reality, air – and there is nothing but the constant throat fucking, the hazy vision through choked tears and the too infrequently gasped breaths which soon mean I’m in serious danger of passing out before he’s done.

He must sense I’m about to lose that final, tenuous grasp of reality because I’m jolted out of my predicament with a harsh face-slap. He’s pulled out of my worn-out mouth and the air is reviving reality for me. This in turn is leading to the terrifying realisation that I’ve disappointed him. I genuinely cannot imagine what the punishment will be. What he could do which is even worse than the daily cruelty and sexual torture.

It’s then that it happens.  I’m on my back, and he’s lifting my knees up. He’s between them and he’s glaring down at me with a confusing combination of anger, desire, pleasure and violent intent.  It’s then… I know I’m finally completely broken.

“No, please… Daddy?”

…and he stops. He changes. No longer terrifying, he has somehow morphed into a gentler bastard, a caring villain. The anger is replaced with absolute and pure desire, and he is the one at my mercy as he looks down with undisguised lust at his naked, broken, abused fuck doll.

“Oh, Cara… what are you doing to me?”