Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Posts Tagged ‘consensual non-consent’

The very nice Bondage Blog just linked to my 1970′s Spanking Party post. So I wandered over to the site to look ’round, and immediately found an anime pic which totally does it for me:

What I like in the above image:

• The knickers roughly shoved aside for penetration. Sex is better NOT naked!
• The anime jizz. I’ve been totally corrupted by a combination of Victorian and anime porn (who knew those had anything in common?!), and so my fantasies have copious ejaculate flying everywhere.
• The fact that time was taken to draw the guy as out of shape. I love the “humiliation” factor there — hot young girl being used by older guy. I’d actually much rather see that than a hot porn stud any day of the week. It’s just more where I’m at.
• The position, too. She is so helpless on his lap like that. It makes her look really small, and him really in control.

Kink.com, despite their usual focus on nudity (yawn), do have a very good shot of this fetish:

(Also, can I just say I love the use of chiaroscuro in this image. It actually adds to how hot it is for me!)

I did not have the panties-pushed-aside fetish until I got together with Mr Defeu. But combining his fetishes for schoolgirl uniforms with authentic knickers and his spandex catsuit fetish with my endless desire for penetration (heehee, puts new meaning to: “You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!” “No, you got your peanut butter in my chocolate!”) soon lead to us both realizing that we’d much rather have sex where he was either pushing my regulation knickers to the side (or unzipping my catsuit crotch-zipper just enough) for roughly “taking” me.

Hmm, that last sentence calls for more thought on the matter. The fact is that I really would prefer to be playing at “consensual non-consent” (the “safe” and more comfortable term for “rape play”) than happily boinking away. There is time in my world for some consensual sex, but if I was to get a “bumper sticker” tattoo in the area over my ass, it would read, “I’d rather be pretending I don’t want to!” (“My other car is being raped” doesn’t have quite the right ring to it! Anyone have any other bumper sticker ideas?)

And here is where I think the Victorian and anime porn influences really do intersect and make me the girl I am today. Both the Victorians and the Japanese are a culture where “Good girls don’t,” and where it’s all about male desire, and women submitting. Whether it’s a lord of the manor with an unwilling maid-servant, or a tentacle-monster with a uniformed-schoolgirl, chances are great she’ll be moaning, “No, no, please don’t put it in there!”

And, given my druthers, I’ll be in a Victorian period gown (with corset and other period unmentionables, thank you!) or schoolgirl uniform, moaning just the very same thing, as my clothing is shoved roughly out of the way, so proper phallic item can be pushed even more roughly inside me.

Yes, now that is what I like!

It seems that not only are my fellow bloggers inspiring me to think/write about this topic, but I’m passing those thoughts along…!

My friend Polly Perverse had this to say on the matter:

Zille has been exploring the connection between desire, violence, and sex through various writers. It is something I have given much thought to. Particularly because in the field of psychology, the ability or even need to fantasize about sexual violence is connected with experiencing sexual violence. And as a result, the intrusion or development of violent sexual fantasies are construed as something to be cured.

There are very few if any books that explore this subject. In my view, the addition of violent and (subjectively) repulsive matter to sexual masturbatory fantasies is a way for many individuals to process the horror that humans can inflict on other humans.

Sometimes this is an experience that one has gone through directly and eroticised. Other times it is something one has heard about occurring to another and is trying to process. It bears a striking resemblance to post-traumatic play in that one can repeat the same scenario over and over again as if it were a memorized ritual handed down through generation

Little kids when faced with a horror reenact the same horror, with their own unique play acted flourishes, over and over and over again. Almost as if compelled by trance.

Sexual play is similar but not the same. It is similar because of the repetitive quality. It is differing in that there is no joy in post traumatic play. There is no insight and no resolution. In contrast, there is certainly joy in the way an adult can reproduce and re-experience ( in a controlled environment) an horrific past event in current sexual play and attempt to make sense of it.

For example, it is not uncommon for a strongly Jewish identified individual to want to engage in Nazi inspired role play. One can claim it, and by claiming it – change it. By changing it, take away the threat and the charge it carries psychically.

Humans often process horror by sexualizing it. It is not decadent. It is not trite. It is, in fact, adaptive. It is part of the human process of healing.

Thank you, Polly! That’s another thing I need to keep in mind, when I start to shy away from my own desires. People tend to use two things to deal with pain/fear/etc. The most common is making jokes about it (“laugh to keep from crying”) but the other, and not inferior, way is to sexualize it, make it your own.

While I was angsting for five days over the writing of my last post, Kami Robertson quietly posted this little number, which at least compliments mine, but I personally think it simply leaves mine in the dust….

As I said earlier there are different names for our ‘game’.

There is a sexual abuse which happens in prison and other reformatory establishments where a guard abuses his power. It’s much more of a coercion really, because the girls knows she needs to comply if she want to avoid other, unpleasant and painful punishment.

There is the punishment fucking which seems for some weird reason to be extremely powerful for me. It hurts but there is no unnecessary violence, and the girl often cries. I don’t really know the reason for tears either. It might have something to do with humiliation or just a sign of resignation. I’m not sure yet.

And there is a proper rape scene, which in my opinion happens only when the girl has been kidnapped or attacked. It’s violent, brutal and hurt. Never had a pleasure to try that. Still on my list, along with a long scene full of misery, fear and abuse.

I admire Kami so much that she writes these things with such equinamity. The line, “And there is a proper rape scene,” just delights me with the ease with which it’s said, how it flows. I would stumble over it, thinking, “Do I dare use the word, “rape,” here, can I use it in conjunction with “violent, brutal, attacked” or would that be too offensive for people? This is my own journal, but on this topic I find myself self-censoring, making things sound more p.c. or at least (what I assume is) slightly more palatable by people who don’t have fantasies like mine.

Anyway, my own cowardice makes me really appreciate Kami, even more than I would from just finding a girl who’s sexuality overlaps my own so much.

In my case, I am lucky enough to be able to come from conventional sex. But, maybe “lucky” is the wrong word, because it let me get distracted by normal vanilla sex for years, and deny my desires for spanking and worse. I thought I was just sexually voracious (and was not displeased by that!) but the fact was that I couldn’t “get enough” because I wasn’t being fully satisfied — I had itches which were not getting scratched, and as much as I tried to ignore the itch, it just never went away. (And there we go: kink as stubborn rash. What sexy metaphors I’m going in for today!)

Anyway, despite being able to orgasm conventionally, it doesn’t really matter because when I play fantasies on the movie projector in my head, they are things that I’d wince and feel deeply uncomfortable trying to watch on TV or the big screen. As I’ve said before, I’m really mean to myself in my fantasies. A recent one was being beaten to the point of passing out (something which I have a certain fascination with, due to Victorian erotica) and then my unconscious body being used — and not in a sweet, romantic love-making kind of way! (The wry thought that this fantasy really is only of any use in my head does occur to me in the background of all this, that if I did this in real life, I’d be passed out and not able to properly appreciate being used and abused!)

Ah well — the main point of this post is to introduce you to Kami, if you’re not already reading her, and to thank her for her openness and sharing of difficult truths. I think even more than me, she deserves the wonderful compliment Mo gave me on my last post: “I offer you a fierce cry of solidarity for your making yourself so flagrantly effulgently vulnerable in your strength and your utter soulnakedness.”

Just a couple days ago I linked to a post by Haron of The Spanking Writers which discussed the painful truth that: “without taking on and processing different kinds of violence visited by one human being on another throughout history, we would be bereft of any settings for role-play.”

Well, Pandora also had thoughts on the matter, and it inspired her to write this amazing one, in which she points out:

Reading this material is uncomfortable in several different ways. The first and obvious is basic human compassion and empathy: we are horrified to hear of suffering, particularly prolonged cruelty visited on the most vulnerable. At the most basic level, it’s painful to imagine torture because the idea of experiencing it ourselves is horrible.

As a pervert, it’s uncomfortable because of the superficial resemblance between the horrific reality and the sex games we enjoy. Never mind the consent boundary, the crucial factors of choice and agency; the difference between an experience that one chooses and can stop at any point; that is short-lived; that one shares with loved ones – and an experience that one does not choose, that is inflicted by people you hate, that is ongoing. The idea that we enjoy something which looks like something real and tragic and horrible makes us feel doubtful and guilty. The idea that we might be selfishly exploiting the suffering of others adds to that guilt.

Both Haron’s post and now Pandora’s have got me thinking, and I actually have a moment to write it down!

I have a lot of fantasies or general interests I probably ought to feel guilty about — and sometimes do, although less and less as the years go by….

When I was but a wee little girl, I knew I was into spanking, and I knew it was something to hide. And other ideas got my little mind all hot and bothered: the sight of a girl in a guillotine (I like to think it was about the bondage aspect of it, not the decapitation, but I was a sick lil’ thing, so who knows…), or the violence of the afternoon cartoon line-up when I was a kid — particularly Tom and Jerry, although they were all quite violent, come to remember it! I was fascinated by violence and couldn’t take my eyes of the screen, or close the pages of the book — well, unless some adult came by, in which case I’d very studiously be interested in something else, or flip to another page in the book. Me, fascinated by this stuff? Never!

When I was 12 I renounced all my kinky fantasies, and decided I would only allow myself a straight, vanilla sexuality. I didn’t have those words for it, obviously, but basically I looked around, found women’s romance novels, decided that was the paradigm of what I should be “into,” and banished all my kinky, bisexual notions from my head. (What I didn’t realize at the time was that romance novels are kinky in their own way, being generally either pre-feminist or so post-feminist as to have forgotten feminism ever existed, and having the fetish of “Big Strong Men With Shiny Muscles.” And there was usually a sexy bad guy who looses out in the story, but to whom my heart — and, errr, my loins — were always much more sympathetic.)

I thought I was well on track, despite the fact that first adult male I had a true sexual crush upon was David Bowie as Jareth in Labyrinth. I was obviously in a deep and sincere state of denial that it didn’t occur to me that this was kinky; that such lines as, “Just fear me, worship me, and I will be your slave,” might not be what is normally said in vanilla relationships. And the fact that I hated Sarah for not taking Jareth up on the above offer, but spurned his obviously superior affections … well, all I can say is that I obviously never had a good idea of what “normal” was in the first place, so it’s no wonder I should fail so utterly at trying to live up to such unknown and illogical standards!

Getting back to serious matters, though, I didn’t really understand the guilt of liking things other people “knew” were wrong until well after I accepted my kinkiness at age 17. It was my boyfriend Iago who got me into role-playing, and so even while I was a schoolgirl, I was playing “schoolgirl visits her Uncle Iago’s house and gets taken advantage of,” as well as my first explorations in bondage and rough sex. (He also gets the credit of talking me into shaving my pussy for the first time, and as I have done so ever since, I do owe him a thank you for that, even though he dumped me at my prom — leaving me to find my own way home, I’d add — which does temper my gratitude, rather!)

It was some years after that in which the big moment of disgust at myself for my twisted desires occurred. I’d done a fair bit of “rape play” (or, to use a far more comfortable and p.c. term, “consensual non-consent”) by this time, and I’d always been entirely sanguine about it.

And then one of my little sister’s best friends got raped. Really horribly raped.

I knew the girl and liked her a great deal. And she so didn’t deserve it — not that anyone ever does, but this girl had had a hard enough life without adding that much more trauma and pain and years of self-doubt and god knows what it did to her ability to have a normal sexuality, whatever “normal” was for her.

Suddenly, I hated myself. How could I — how dare I? — get turned on by playing with the idea of something so terrible, so destructive, so wrong! And my sister insisted on telling me details — I knew I really oughtn’t hear them, but I did need to provide support to my sister if she needed to talk about the situation — and to make things all the worse, the details sounded like something that, if I was doing them in a role-play setting, would have turned me on no end. Even just hearing about them caused physical, sexual reactions in my body, even as my mind was horrified at the details — and all the more horrified by my response.

It took years to get me back to that innocent appreciation of rape-play. That sentence may sound funny to some, but the fact is that if women were safe to play with such concepts, and never fear actually suffering them in real life, it would be a much better world! Now, with Mr. Defeu, I can explore my darkest fantasies, because I trust him so utterly. This is something I deeply appreciate.

But I still have a reaction when I see a brutal beating in a film, or a rape scene. One part of me despises it — wants to cover her eyes so I don’t see the violence. The other part of me can’t shut her eyes because it’s too erotically hypnotic. I can wince in total empathy … and yet get wet at the same time. And both are unconscious reactions!

For example, Mr. Defeu and I have been watching Heat of the Sun and one episode starts with a Boer man beating a worker (to death, it turns out later) and then walking back to his house, where his daughter has been watching the whole time. “Daddy,” she says, lust oozing from her voice. (Actually, what she says is “Daddeh” — sounds much sexier!) And her father reaches out, smears her lipstick with his finger across her cheek in this movement of pure promised sexual violence, and then grabs her and kisses her.

Well, I nearly fell off the sofa. I’m not made hot by the actual fact that things like this really happened in East Africa in the ’30s, but all the ingredients for a hot role-play (by my standards!) were there! Move the beating from some poor worker to me, and suddenly we have a winner: Daddeh and I (Motheh is out of the picture — it’s just me and Daddeh on the farm in the middle of nowhere) go out to a party, and I have a bit too much of the bubbly and flirt with a boy. Maybe even a native boy! [gasp shock] Well, Daddeh drags me home, where I am suitably unapologetic enough to warrant myself a serious beating — possibly with Daddeh’s belt, as it may be the first thing to hand! Then, because I’m like that, Daddeh takes me roughly (probably in the ass, which is what normally happens in my fantasies) to prove that I belong to him. What really gets me off in this fantasy is that it is entirely true for my character: as an unmarried young lady, I’d be the charge of my father, and he’d be within his rights to beat me. And, in that time and place, no one would pry into Daddeh’s business (he’s rich, a “gentleman,” you see) so he could really do whatever he wanted with me — use me as vilely as he liked, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it. That’s the really hot part for me.

Of course, for me to get aroused while watching the scene in the show, I had to seriously overlook the poor guy who gets beaten to death. I have to seriously overlook how terrible the scene I just wrote above would be in reality.

Mr. Defeu, noticing my humping his leg during the scene in the show, and perhaps noticing that I wouldn’t stop talking about it, the next day showed me a scene from made-for-TV movie, “The Happy Valley”

Again, overlooking certain truths means that I can find that extraordinarily arousing. I’m bugging Mr. Defeu all the time now, “You can’t show me that and not do a role-play of that with me, Sir!” and [tugging on sleeve] “When are we gonna play Happy Valley, huh huh?!”

This post has taken me five days to write, not just because I’m rather busy caring for Mr. Defeu post-his accident, but because I’ve had to think through this stuff a lot. (And, in the case of The Happy Valley, think about it with Mr. Buzzy held between my legs.) Just last night, with strange correspondence, we watched a show with Trevor Eve from Heat of the Sun, and a grown-up Holly Aird from The Happy Valley. It was Waking The Dead Season Four’s “The Hardest Word”

(Spoiler warning — don’t continue unless you want to know the plot of the episode Read the rest of this entry »