Rape Fantasies
We were sitting in the kitchen, watching live-action tentacle rape videos on the laptop, and discussing the flaws in production.
“The whole point of tentacle rape,” I kept insisting, ” is multiple penetration.”
I was feeling both extraordinarily horny and extremely frustrated, because the videos kept not being exactly what I’d want. A tentacle would tease the captive girl’s mouth, but not go in. One would fuck her cunt while another waved near her ass, but it was always just a tease.
The worst was the video that was advertised as tentacle rape, but just had puppet tentacles being used for bondage while human men “raped” the actresses pretending to be school girls. The latex molding on the tentacles was absolutely gorgeous, but instead of using them to brutally fuck the women they simply used them as props.
It was a terrible disappointment.
Oh, realistically speaking, I know it made sense. The problem with live-action tentacle rape, as opposed to the text-based stories I prefer, is that there are actual people involved having their actual bodies fucked. That means you have to restrict yourself to what they want, and what most people want is rarely as violent, painful, and degrading as the things that I fantasize about. The tentacle porn was hot enough to make me extremely horny but not quite what I needed it to be for me to find it satisfying. It made me think I was generally better off restricting myself to written erotica… well, written erotica and real life.
My partner in porn-appreciation didn’t argue with my critiques of the genre. He just kept pulling up more videos and ignoring my increasingly less subtle hints that we should stop watching porn and go have some violent sex of our own. One of his ,,endearing,, qualities is the way he likes to get me worked up and watch me squirm until I lose all dignity and start begging him for sex.
I finally gave up and asked him what he thought about consensual non-consent, because what I really wanted right then was not so much to go back to the bedroom and have hot, kinky sex but to be manhandled down the hall and viciously “raped.”
Margaret Atwood wrote a brilliant essay about rape fantasies in which she describes all the ways in which women’s rape fantasies have nothing to do with actual rape - and the truth in that is unarguable. I didn’t actually want to be raped. I wanted to be violated, hurt, degraded, and viciously used by someone who I trusted and adored while I screamed and cried and begged him to stop… but didn’t truly want him to.
This led to a discussion of the myriad problems involved in the two of us negotiating a “rape scene,” ranging from the highly emotionally charged issues of it not being hot without consent - and how do you maintain both the feeling of the scene and the comfort that there is consent? - to the practical problem where the only time I don’t want to have sex with him when he wants me is when I am physically ill.
Then we dropped the conversation, went and had earth-shatteringly-hot, violent, brutal sex where I came repeatedly from the combination of pleasure and pain, and while I was lying next to him feeling blissful, wrecked, and exhausted, I had a belated moment of revelation.
Most of what I dream about in my rape fantasies, I already get as an amazing component of my submission to him. Pain, degradation, humiliation, sex that is focused on his desires instead of mine, the only thing that’s missing is the one thing we both feel slightly creeped out by - and that I, honestly, don’t need - the falsehood and misdirection designed to imply that I don’t want to be exactly where I am, when I really, really do. The only thing I can’t do is try to save face by pretending that the pain and humiliation aren’t the very things that get me off.
And, in its own way, it’s insanely hot to own how much I like it when he calls me his whore, when he fucks me until my insides are raw and swollen and then keeps going so that every thrust is an inescapable mixture of pleasure and pain, when he makes me cry in pain and humiliation and then uses my misery to make me come. It’s wonderful for me to be able to get off on the fact that he gets off on hurting me, and for him to know how very much I like it.
I guess the truth is that when your relationship is structured around how much you want to give your partner everything, even when you don’t like it, rape scenes are a little redundant. Particularly when one of the hottest things about the pain and the violence is the fact that you are constantly choosing to give him consent. A “rape” scene might be a fun and exciting fantasy to play out, but I can’t imagine it being as overwhelmingly satisfying as actively embracing the choice to be someone’s toy.
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Mind you, if I could figure out a way to do it in a way that _I_ would consider to be safe, I would love to bottom to a take down, gang-rape scene where I’d fight until exhaustion as a group of (wo)men held me down and repeatedly used me however they wanted to until they were done with me and I was nothing but a quivering mass of pain, tears, and humiliation, but realistically speaking that’s never going to happen. I might be able to negotiate a sexual torture/humiliation/pseudo-rape scene involving more than one top that would come close, but the extent of safe-sex negotiations and precautions I require makes the fantasy scene I recently saw someone else live out impossible - at least for me. It was incredibly hot, and I was envious that the bottom was willing to take the risks she did to live out something I’d dreamed of, but the trade off is not my cup of tea. Fortunately, I get enough mind-blowing kinky sex from my solitary partner that I can’t really bring myself to be disappointed. If I want to get fantasy-gang-raped, I can always do it in my blog. Not only is text sex safe sex, when I write it I always get exactly what I want. Tentacle rape without multiple penetration? Don’t be ridiculous.

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