There are lots of dream men. Right!
Wrong!
I spend most of my time as a psychologist or pyschoanalyst to be precise. I get to hear a lot of different views about men, few of them good, but that may be down to the nature of who I listen to, and their over-arching experience of men in general.
I specialise in analysing women, especially their sexual problems. My clients have a lot of issues with men. Either they don’t treat them right, or their men don’t understand them. I sometimes ask myself, where have I heard that before? Oh! Yes, often by the men cheating on their wives and loved ones and who are only out for a quick fuck. I’ve come across them in my travels too; some are so sweet, but others know they are bad apples that have fallen a very long way from Eve’s tree.
There are so many different kinds of dream men, according to my clients.
One day, Jennifer, reclined on my sofa and proceeded to tell me about her dream man, about how she wanted a man to treat her with respect, love her and comfort her, play with her and fuck her. At one point, I thought she was reciting her marriage vows, but she was being serious. Her husband of twenty years, apparently, sits with her watching the TV; yet he rarely kisses her, or touches her, or frolicks with her on the sofa. He is nice, but not sexually nice. They go to bed and they sleep on the edges of the bed; separated by an invisible barrier of sameness. In the morning they wake and go their separate ways to work. It’s not her ideal marriage anymore and he is no longer her dream man. She misses the cuddles, the playfulness and the sex. Oh! Yes, she misses the sex. Which is why she is sitting with me trying to understand what has gone wrong? When it went wrong? And what she can do to put it right.
I would like to tell her that her husband is an arsehole and he doesn’t love her or care for her anymore, but that would be unprofessional conduct. Only she can come to that conclusion, but she wants to put it right. Bless her.
Then there was Melanie, a very bright, young girl. She was ever so attractive, she always told me that her husband loved her dearly. That was until I saw the bruises around her neck and shoulders and I questioned her about it. She started to cry and eventually blurted out the whole story of how he loved to strangle her while they had sex, and how he loved to plunge his cock into her from behind while pulling her forcefully towards him until he satisfied himself. She told me how she was always left on the bed, unsatisfied, while he pranced off for a shower; not a thought for her or how she felt. But, she added, he really loves me and I love him.
I understand the type of sex that she related to me, I have even caught myself wanting to try it myself, yet there should be some give and take. We are only on our second session together and I so want to tell her what I think of her dream man.
The most unique was Helena. She always insisted that she had her dream man and only came to see me because her sex life was getting out of control. She was desperate to reduce it rather than spice it up. I think she only came to see whether the world approved of her antics; and I was the world. Perhaps she wanted to see if she could shock someone with her stories; there was no fucking chance of that happening, not with me.
Helena was funny, she used to tell me stories of how she became a bi-sexual, loving the taste of women and loving the way her female partners treated her. I often thought that her tales were directed at me, some sort of conversion process in the making. I just used to sit and listen to her. I hope I never gave away my feelings with the wry smile that was so often on my face, or the wet patch that so eagerly tried to escape my panties.
Every time I met Helena, her stories became more and more adventurous. First she described the threesomes, mostly with other women but sometimes with men. Then came the foursomes and moresomes. I would call them orgies but she was more tactful than I could ever be.
It wasn’t until she confided in me that she was following her husband’s requests all along, that I became concerned. She told me that it was all his doing, his organising, and how she had to follow along behind him like a dog on a lead. She didn’t know it, but Helena was a trained submissive. I know what they are like, I’ve come across a few just like her. She believes that if she doesn’t play along, he will leave her for some other woman.
She’s probably right too. I have to admit, I was secretly envious of Helena and her activities up to the point when she told me about her husband’s controlling nature. Then I felt sorry for her. It’s not my place to feel sorry, but I did.
One lady I will never forget is Melissa. Melissa was an exhibitionist, a voyeur, a sexual predator and a very naughty girl indeed. She told me stories of her ideal man, of how he would parade her naked in front of other people and allow them to touch her; often in a dog collar and lead. He would allow them to fuck her and pleasure her but only after he gave her a good caning or spanking first. She would do all sorts of dirty things to please him. She relished being bound in ropes or chains, waiting for him to take his pleasure on her. Apparently, she loved the tension, the edginess and unsurity of the situation. She described to me how it thrilled her to her very core.
The way Melissa described these depraved sexual liaisons intrigued me. I was won over by her enthusiasm for it all. I even started to look up BDSM and fetish sites on the internet. I read as much as I could on the subject so that I could better understand our conversations and her needs.
I have to admit to being slightly unprofessional with Melissa. I put the seed in her head that she could turn the tables on her dream man and dominate him instead. Do unto others as they do unto you, kind of thing. Her ears pricked up at the suggestion and well that’s all history now. I know that they are no longer together yet I’m so happy for her.
I have to try and make my clients understand what it is they are dealing with. Sometimes, it’s hard when they are so wrapped up in what they believe is the truth. They all have one thing in common though. They are all looking for or believe they have found their dream man. I mean, from what I have heard, from their stories, dream men just don’t exist. Not for my clients anyway.
I generally listen to about four to seven variations on one form of sexual exploitation or another, every day. That’s a lot to take in, it’s a lot to digest and it’s a lot to try and forget as well; which is why I have to seriously unwind at the end of a busy day.
But I do have my dream man. Sort of. My dream man waits at home while I work, cooks the dinner when I get home, pours me a drink, and lavishes me with kisses. That’s what almost makes me puke, but after all of that, my dream man does what I need them to do.
It’s not what you think. It’s far more than that.
I often disappear to the bedroom early in the evening, right after we have eaten and downed a couple of glasses of wine. I dress up in some sexy underwear or chemise or sometimes just plain white cotton knickers and silky top. I choose whatever garment I am in the mood for; generally dictated by the mood of the day. I get the toys out ready and place them at the foot of the bed. Then I return to my dream man.
If I’m lucky, my dream man is already doing the dishes, in which case I either sneak up behind them and playfully grapple with them, or kiss and caress them, or I may just rest against the kitchen divide and wait until they notice me.
The latter usually brings a wry smile to my dream man’s face, especially when I am dressed to kill, in stockings and suspenders. My dream man loves me to dress for them.
By the time we have stoked each other’s sexual energy, most of the thoughts and traumas of the day have disappeared. I only have thoughts of what my dream man is going to do to me.
It usually starts the same way, mostly anyway. My dream man pulls me close to them, caresses my bum while looking me in the eye.
“Tell me how naughty you have been today?” This is usually said while gently gipping my nipple between their forefinger and thumb. The reply always produces the effect I crave.
“Very,” I reply, as I gasp out load; my nipple squeezed hard and with that menacing look on my dream man’s face.
“What did your clients tell you today?” Another question posed as they caress my bum with their other hand.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” I reply. My dream man knows I cannot tell tales from work, but they ask anyway. I feel a small smack on my bottom but it’s not because I have been dismissive. It’s our little game.
“Do you love me?” An easy question to answer.
“Yes.” This time I am rewarded with a delicate, lingering kiss on the lips.
“Do you trust me?” I smirk at my dream man and I feel my lips start to quiver. A heat builds up inside me and I feel my juices leak from my pussy.
“Yes.”
“Come.”
I am led away, pulled by their hand wrapped around my wrist. My breath starts to become more noticeable and I find my eyes closing as we walk through to the bedroom. When we get through the door, my dream man stops short of the bed. They place their hand on my bottom and push me forward; tapping my bottom with their hand with every step I make.
I climb onto the bed and kneel on the soft sheets. I stare at the wall straight ahead of me and I wait.
“Give it to me.”
I reach down and pick up the cane that is lying on the bed in front of me. I slowly twist my body and turn to my dream man, offering the cane to them. I smile as they take the cane from me and I return to my position; facing and staring at the wall in front of me.
I feel a slight tap of the cane on my bottom and I know it is the sign for me to bend over. I let my body fall forward and push my bum back towards the edge of the bed. I let out a long low sigh from the back of my throat.
I close my eyes in anticipation and I can sense my dream man taking aim with the cane. I can feel it move backwards and I know I will feel the love that I will be struck with. I hear the swish of the cane and I tense slightly. I know I shouldn’t do that but it’s a subconscious reaction. The cane lands on my bottom in a very gentle tickle.
My dream man has fooled me this time. I feel the cane slap against me a few more times; playfully preparing my bottom.
Without warning, the cane is removed and it strikes me hard. I let out an instantaneous scream, more from the shock than the pain; being unprepared for a strike, while being caned, is part of our game. I find it far more erotic and exciting if I cannot tell when my dream man will strike me.
My dream man knows me all too well, and I always find myself being unprepared.
I feel the swell of my buttocks as it moulds to the impression of the cane; as it strikes me. I slowly feel the heat of the cane spread across my bottom slightly before my body moves forward a few inches. Again my subconscious is fighting me. It wants me to avoid being struck because it knows I will be. My conscious mind wants exactly the opposite.
My dream man once made a video of me being caned and I was so enthralled at how my buttocks shook and vibrated with every strike. So much so, that one morning I sat up in bed and fingered myself to a wonderful orgasm just by watching the video. I was weeping with pleasure towards the end of it. Lucky for me I wasn’t caught out.
I start to remember a woman from today’s session, the one that liked being spanked by her dream man before his thick cock was pushed up inside her swollen bottom. I wanted to tell her to purchase a cane and let him use that, but I dare not, all I could ask her was whether he used any other implements rather than his hand. She replied in the negative, but I hoped that I had put the seed of insight in her mind.
I was rudely pulled back to reality as my dream man’s cane snapped against my skin for a second time. I cried out again, and again when it struck for the third time.
The long swipes and whoosh of the cane had now stopped. My dream man started to administer short sharp cracks of the cane against my swelling bottom. The heat started to spread through my bottom onto the small of my back and around and onto my clitoris. I felt my pussy start to pulse with every clench of my buttocks; brought about by every strike of the cane.
It felt so fucking wonderful.
Every short, sharp strike, fuelled my fantasies and heightened my orgasm. I started to slip on the bed and I had to rest my chest on the covers to stop me from moving too far forward. I knew exactly how I looked to my dream man. My slim body arched onto the bed, my outstretched arms pushing me backwards, while my pert bottom was stuck up in the air. The heat spreading across my bottom would be in stark contrast to my otherwise pale skin.
I don’t know what it is, but I fucking love being caned. I could never explain it to anyone else, I just love it.
A few more strikes of the cane and I could feel myself come.
I start to pant into the bedclothes at first, before raising my head and crying out into the room to let my dream man know how I feel. As my orgasm builds, I also start to cry. It’s not from the pain or punishment, it’s from the love that each strike brings. I feel the blissfulness surge through me when I clench my clitoris every time that I clench my bottom.
I start to feel more and more pain as the heat throbs and my bottom becomes sore. I concentrate hard. I want to cum so badly. One more strike. Then another, and another.
I let out a guttural moan and let my body fall forward onto the bed. I feel my fluids leak all over the bedclothes; completely wetting the area of the bed beneath me. Similar fluids of joy wet the bedclothes around my eyes.
Then I feel colder but softer skin slide over my hot and enraged bottom. My dream man’s naked body slides over me and comes to rest at my side. My dream man waits for a moment or two in order for me to gain my composure, then they lift my head towards them and kiss me passionately and lovingly. I respond with such enthusiasm for the love that they give me that I cannot fail to get immediately aroused.
I paw at their face with my hands, clamping it in place as I force kisses upon them. I push them on their back and kiss my way down their body, but I am stopped in my tracks and forced to lie on the bed once more.
The night never ends with just a caning. I also get to feel my dream man’s tongue in my pussy and over my clitoris. I am really fortunate that I get to be pleasured by one of the best lickers I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.
After moving position, I feel their tongue on my lips and I feel it slide inside me. Effortlessly, their mouth clamps onto my clitoris and I feel them suck it. I nearly come again when their cold hands slide under my bottom and hold my bum in the air.
My hot arse is on fire, my cunt is on fire, and my dream man is bringing me to another Earth shattering orgasm. I clamp my hands on my dream man’s head and pull them into me as I groan out loud one more time.
The fucking will come soon enough, I know that, and my dream man knows it too, but first we lie together in post-orgasmic bliss. Well, I do anyway.
By the time I am spanked, licked and so wonderfully pleasured, I forget the trials and tribulations of the day. I would say that I need a good spanking in order to forget the troubles that other people experience. Many would say that what I need, is not what they would ever want from their dream man. But it’s exactly what I need from mine.
Did I say dream man…sorry I left out the ‘wo’ at the front. Trust me, a dream man just doesn’t exist. Melissa, however, does exist and I love her to bits and I am so glad she converted me with her raunchy stories and I converted her.
I am one hell of a lucky bitch!
