… dream frag of a woman I know — a woman I find quite attractive — going down a water-surfaced slope of some sort of summer play land in a rubber raft, her breasts, which are in fact, to me anyway, of an attractive size and well-proportioned, larger than I remember them to be but just as well-proportioned as in real life and therefore, in the bikini she’s wearing in the dream, even more attractive as, her raft encountering over random bumps as she proceeds down the course, they bounce with a pleasant pendulousness …
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Woke from sleep with a code red urge to jack; no worries as I keep the calendula oil close at hand and proceeded to jack forthwith to the usual fantasies – the Bitch Dom easily seducing me with her perfect body, perfect allure; the Bitch Dom applying the calendula to my nipples, breasts, cock in copious dollops; the Bitch Dom licking, stroking my nipples, cock to max-hardness; the Bitch Dom, in a state of lactation, breast-feeding me until my thirst for her milk is completely satisfied … and with, as has been happening more frequently lately, the Ice-Bitch-Melts variant of the Bitch Dom herself losing control as we fuck, the two of us coming together …
The resonance, as usual, with what I strongly suspect may have been the situation from my earliest infancy, into and through my toddler-hood: my father sexually abusing me in the various ways I remember him doing from the earliest remembered incident when I was three or four; my mother beautiful, attractive to me, but unaware her husband, my father, was abusing me, or, at least, suppressing her awareness, minimizing it to something close to zero; my mother, according to one of her letters from about ten or fifteen years ago, having breast-fed me for only two weeks and then stopping because she didn’t have enough milk (which I suspect was due to her having, a la mode for the 1950s, fed me on a strict time schedule, which according to Internet research, as such strict scheduling contravenes natural cycles of milk production and consumption between mother and child, can easily render a mother’s milk supplies inadequate); my experience with, perception of my mother having, on some levels, been sexualized – more than an infant, toddler’s experience of their mother would normally be – by my father’s sexual abuse; and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah …
And the usual questions:
– Do the Bitch Dom fantasies, in some way, form some sort of protective barrier, or, at least, moderating buffer, between my present consciousness and any suppressed or compartmentalized (or however you want to term it) memories that may be lurking in my subconscious of the complete hell of what the actual situation must have been like if my above-noted suspicions regarding my infant- and toddler-hood home environment – with respect to the effect of my father’s sexual abuse, my mother’s inability to respond effectively to such abuse, etc. – are correct?
– Can these fantasies as well as my indulging them (to the extent that I intentionally indulge them – so strong is their allure, when jacking, that I often feel little or no control over having them) and my otherwise focusing on them in these postings and otherwise in my thoughts help provide a path in my life to greater freedom, or do these fantasies simply help to keep me stuck with baggage it might be better, in one sense or another, to let go of?
– And so on …
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First night back in Japan and jacked to a variety pack assortment of the usual fantasies — the Bitch Dom (my Bitch Dom) as, per the usual, a young woman of exceeding beauty and seductiveness, fondling my nipples through my shirt as we stand in the night air outside the door of her condominium, my nipples growing so very, very hard; slipping her hands under my shirt for more nipple stroking, my nipples growing even harder and she’s in some so so very cut-off jeans (or short shorts — the fantasy nictitating, flipping back and forth) that expose the lower halves (or thirds anyway) of her globular buttocks as she does this and “Do you want to be my slave,” she says so softly, cooing-ly, and “Yes I want to be your slave, I immediately reply, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah and then we’re in her place and she’s jacking me with the aid of the calendula oil which provides a Pavlovian kick — the smell of it — to the turn on, and then she straddles me on the simple, armless chair she’s instructed me to sit in in her living room; straddles me and takes me in and then she’s breastfeeding me and as I write this I’m feeling again, as always, how these fantasies are so so very mommy- (with the breastfeeding and more) and daddy-powered (with the nipple fondling and more) from my infant- and toddler-hood — some sort of an echoing but preferable alternative to the full reality of how things actually were — actually were, what with, in actuality, my having been a completely helpless infant, toddler, completely unable to choose or escape my circumstances (instead of, in the fantasy, an adult who, in a way an infant, toddler never could, allows myself, chooses to be Bitch Domned, BD-enslaved); with my father having fondled my nipples, as a part of his sexual abuse, instead of the so so very beautiful (as I’m certain my mother was to me when I was an infant, toddler) Bitch Dom doing this; with my mother having been blind to my father’s abuse (having, perhaps, as the expression goes, turned a blind eye to it) and, therefore, to its connection to whatever outward signs of its negative effects I was manifesting, instead of, as in the fantasy, being completely in control of everything that’s being done to me sexually, being the person — via the guise of, behind the veil of, or, at least, feeding into the persona of, the Bitch Dom — who does it, administers it — all the sexual stuff — herself and with my father nowhere to be seen … and so forth and so on, my point being that these Bitch Dom fantasies are, I suspect, an alternative to, sublimation of the actual, hellishly wretched reality of my circumstances as an infant, toddler in respect of whatever sexual abuse my father was inflicting upon me at the time — far, far, in various respects, preferable to, more palatable than that actual reality — a reality involving an utterly helpless child (myself), an abusive father, and a mother blind to the abuse.
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… nipples … N I P P L E S ! ! ! … that was the theme of last night’s jack, or rather, jacking self-foreplay, nipple prelims if you will; my nipples so big and hard, springy, as, lying in bed, I fondled them before sleep, imagining, as I did so, my lips around larger, female nipples of larger breasts, first one, then the other — the woman’s breasts lactating just for me — a veritable breast-feeding bonanza … which turned out to be sufficient for my pre-sleep needs so that I forwent actual jack time, went on to sleep.
But awake and thinking about it later, in the middle of the night: yes, of course, as I’ve thought before — yes, yes, of course, with my father sexually abusing me when I was just an infant — something I think he may very well have done, given that my memories of his sexual abuse go as far back as to when I was three or four years old — and, as a part of that abuse, fondling my nipples (something I remember him doing when abusing me when I was nine); and with my mother breast-feeding me during the first two weeks or so after I was born before she then (as she confirmed to me in correspondence we exchanged when I was in my 30s or 40s) switched me one hundred percent to the bottle, it makes perfect sense that I would, in my sexual fantasies, be into not only nipples — my own and women’s — but lactating nipples, which I can easily imagine I sorely missed after experiencing their sweet ecstasy for such a fleeting period, big-time. No shame necessary at all.
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Mem Frag (While Looking At a Painting Depicting (Among Other Subjects) Bare-Breasted Women):
Of waking in the middle of the night at age five and going to the entrance of my parent’s bedroom to see my mother breast-feeding my baby sister … of being impressed, awed even, by the size – and beauty – of my mother’s lactating breasts … of my baby sister taking my mother’s nipple into her mouth … of my father being awake also, talking to my mother – my father, who would one day, I strongly suspect, sexually abuse my sister as he (had already by that time) sexually abused me (and would continue to do so until I was nine) …