Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Dear Sir,

Last night I sat down to watch “A Private Punishment,” (which I very much enjoyed but if you would like more of my thoughts on it I will be happy to write them in another letter, as this one is going to get pretty lengthy even without my many thoughts and emotions on the video.)  When Angela got the cane for him, I reached for the one on the bed.  I clutched it to me for the rest of the video, watching the cane whistling down on her ass, and then watching the pain course through her.

I was in quite a state when I got into bed at the end of the video.  I put the cane down the length of my body, running between my legs off-center down in the crease between my left thigh and left outer labia. I put the vibrator on my clitoris and immediately started crying again.  My head was filled with rushing thoughts and emotions, and it all just poured through me, I couldn’t focus on any one before it flicked away and another presented itself to my consciousness. 

The tears died away for a bit, but after a while the mad rush was getting to be too much and I longed for release.  I moved the cane down a bit and pressed it harder to me so the very top hurt my breast a little.  I turned up the vibrator.  At that, I started crying in earnest, and you would not have been able to tell which cries were those of orgasm and which were of … I don’t know what to call it.

After, there was a respite for a bit, but then I remembered how, when I first started reading BDSM books (Exit to Eden being the book that I remember as the “first”) I decided that I didn’t want to get into it, because I just “knew” I would end up liking pain more than pleasure.  I realized that, in a way, that 15 year old self was right, but she didn’t understand enough not to be scared.  I still love pleasure, but right now, pain is more important.  Pleasure doesn’t teach me anything.  It doesn’t satisfy – it just leaves me wanting more.  Pain makes me learn and grow.  It fills up the cracks in me.

I realized I have a lot of cracks in me.  Little ones, because I can get by day by day and people don’t go, “Oh, she’s so damaged,” but they are there and they hurt in this awful little way, and pleasure makes me forget about it for those moments of orgasm, and then I can ignore them a while in the “afterglow,” but they are still there, throbbing with emptiness.  I have gotten so used to the constant ache of them that I had not realized the extent of the damage.  On the phone with you last night I started to, and it fully hit me after the masturbation.   It makes me want to get on my knees and beg you to help me – even though you have already said you would like to, it makes me want to beg more, because I didn’t know exactly what I was begging you for before and now I do.

I don’t know where all the cracks come from.  Some I was born with, I think. My very first fantasies were of big hands (the “spanking monsters” hands) holding me and doing things to me, with me completely at their mercy.  That need was there since I was about age five.  Maybe they weren’t cracks in me back then, or maybe they still are not, but there are cracks from getting tastes of fulfillment over the years and having them all end in worse than disappointment.

But the other cracks.  I know it is a horrible vogue these days to “blame the parents,” but one might be heard to mutter, “but you haven’t met her mother.”  I will not go off here on a rant about her, but the fact is that I got simply no discipline growing up.  I was a good girl because I think it is perhaps my basic temperament, but also because it got me what I wanted, so I used my good girl status to manipulate my parents.  I got away with so much.  In my teens, I told my mother to “fuck off,” but got out of any punishment.  I had long shouting fights with my father and while he said cruel things that hurt during them, there was no punishment at all.  There was nothing to teach me where my place was, or to show me how to control myself.

As I was reading “The Female Disciplinary Manual,” I was really attracted to the parts talking about the benefits of discipline.  And they were dead-on about what happens with a lack of it – the rest of the book may be archaic with talk of punishment being “restricting the use of the gramophone,” but the discussion of how an undisciplined education led to “a sloppy casual creature, which, for all its bellicose ‘assertiveness’ is incapable of winning respect from anyone, itself included,” well … that’s describes sadly a large number of people I have met!

And …. it does describe me, in some ways.  I’d like to think I am not quite that terrible, but I am sloppy with work, housework, and in proper social interaction, and while I have won some measure of respect from the “sloppy casual creatures” out here, I don’t think it would stand up to “real” people’s inspection.  And … it doesn’t stand up to mine.  I am often disappointed in myself, but I get caught up in unhealthy perfectionism and yet at the same time laziness, so the things that really need to be worked on don’t get the right things to fix them….

With this, with us –  I didn’t know what I was getting in to, I didn’t understand what could happen.  It was pure instinct to ask to call you, “Sir.”  I didn’t know what it meant, really.  But now I am starting to understand it, and it makes me want it even more.  I thought I was just asking for sex games, but this other vista you open to me is far more tantalizing, even as it scares the hell out of me.

I cannot remember my dreams now, after focusing on writing all of this, but you were in them.  Sir -  right now I wake up and find I’m living in a dream.

I could go on for many more pages, but I do not wish to impose upon your time and I hope I have not already done so too intolerably.  There is for me always in internal fight as to whether to pour my molten thoughts on to the page as they first rush through my brain (the Keats and co. method, although obviously this is not a poem) or to give them reflection and write something more considered (the Wordsworth approach.)  The benefits of the latter method are obvious, but I fear to loose the naked honesty of the former by “thinking too much.”

Thank you very much for taking the time to read this, Sir.

Yours,
A very contemplative girl

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