Ravaging Fantasy

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How does one overcome a preoccupation with a fantasy?
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amyyum
amyyum
1,764 Followers

Hi, Amy here. The following is either virtually entirely fiction, or 75% true. I'll let you decide. I am vain enough to describe myself in the first paragraph in what I consider to be an accurate manner; I hope that I'm not delusional.

***********

I'm a mid-40s white female, 126 pounds virtually every morning when I step on the bathroom scale naked after my shower, with an oversized ass, and snug pussy, both of which I'm really proud of, one solely nature's doing, the other the result of daily Kegel exercises. All the details of my life and appearance are unimportant; suffice it to say that I had fairly average experiences in my youth and in school, have a fairly prestigious job, have been married over twenty years to Jim, a really great and sexy guy, and have two children.

There was one "feature," for lack of a better word, of my late teenage years (until I was getting sex from Jim on a regular basis) that I never revealed to anyone. I had what I called a persistent "rape fantasy." I called it that even before I knew that was something that apparently was a known term when I came across it in a psychology textbook my freshman year in college. The term was used without explanation just twice in the entire 600+ page textbook, leading me to believe – which I always had since it first popped into my brain shortly after my eighteenth birthday – that it was a disorder.

The fantasy was not like a real rape – which is a violent act, not an act of sexual lust – but a "sanitized" version. In my fantasy I was never harmed, and never got an STD. The majority of times it was pleasurable while I experienced it, but sometimes disturbing while experiencing it. It was always disturbing when I snapped out of the fantasy.

The fantasy rarely appeared after I met Jim, and certainly no more than a handful of times during my married life. I don't know why that is – maybe I was fulfilled and had no need for it, maybe it was being too busy with a husband, kids, and a challenging job; who knows? It starkly returned on Thursday, January 15, 2015. How do I remember that date? It could be because it was the last day for filing estimated tax for 2014, or because I had a doctor's appointment with a new physician; but it wasn't. It was because while waiting for my appointment I picked up the November, 2014 issue of Psychology Today that was in the doctor's waiting room.

I had a fairly long wait for the doctor, so I actually read a couple of articles. I was starting to get bored and look at my watch when I turned the page to an article entitled "Don't Call Them Rape Fantasies" by Leon Seltzer, PhD

The article was the first text I had seen on the subject – I never went looking for it before since I didn't want to find out how much of a pervert I was. However, now having it thrown in my face I couldn't possibly ignore it; I had to read it.

I only got through the first half of the article before I was called to see the doctor. Looking around the busy waiting room I didn't want to take the chance that someone else would be reading the magazine when my appointment was over, so I took it with me. Fortunately I have a big purse so it wasn't easily visible. The doctor came into the room almost immediately after I sat down so I didn't have a further chance to read it in the examination room.

When I was done with my appointment I thought it would be silly to sit in the waiting room and read the rest of the article – plus I really wanted to look it over carefully, and I had a meeting in a half an hour; so I did something that I had never done before in my adult life. I stole it. I guess I could have found it on line, but I didn't want to take the chance that I wouldn't be able to. My conscious bothered me a little bit, but considering what happened to me in the next few months I considered that sufficient punishment and stopped feeling guilty.

*************

Over the next few days I read the article four times. It made me feel better in some ways because I found out that having my rape fantasies in the past was not as unusual or freakish as I had believed as a late teens-early twenties woman. However, it started to have a significant adverse impact on my life when the fantasies started re-occurring, this time much more vividly and with significantly greater regularity than before.

When in March, 2015, I was so pre-occupied with a fantasy in a meeting that someone had to nudge me to awaken me from my stupor to answer a question that only I was knowledgeable about, and I had to endure the embarrassment of asking the question to be repeated, I decided that I needed professional help. I had never been to a psychologist or psychiatrist before so I didn't know how to go about it.

Without boring you with the details, many of the possible professionals were out because they were too close geographically or socially; the first two that I actually went to were duds. The third time was the charm when I ended up with PhD Psychologist Mary Ross in a city sixty miles from my home, and seventy five miles from my office.

When I showed up bright and early on a Monday morning in March I remember Mary's receptionist telling me that her methods were unusual and that I had to carefully read the engagement contract I was given, and needed to initial at three places and sign and date at the bottom. I started reading, but it was mostly what I considered legal mumbo-jumbo, and I was distracted by the décor in her office. I had never seen anything like it.

Only one wall was fairly normal – a large fish tank.

The other three walls could best be described as weird modern art, images of comic book and TV character versions of Wonder Woman (the 2017 movie had obviously not come out yet), and adhesively secured nuts, bolts, tools, and car parts.

The furniture was just as weird, and the waiting room was packed with it. The furniture included: a chair with simulated wings as armrests, another chair shaped like a King Cobra, a two-person couch with ballerina print fabric and ballerina shaped arms, a wobble stool, a saddle stool, and a coffee table comprising a naked woman in doggy position.

I was so distracted by the decorating scheme and what it could possibly mean about Mary Ross that I didn't do as told – I did not read the engagement contract carefully, but just flashed through it – especially the "Privacy Notice" portion – and just initialed at the "Treatment Options," "Privacy Notice," and "Video and Audio Recording" sections, and signed and dated at the bottom.

I had in my mind that someone with the totally ordinary and conventional name of Mary Ross would herself be ordinary and conventional. I was disabused of that notion as soon as I walked into her office. While her office was as calm as the reception room was hectic, she was anything but ordinary and conventional. She had to be at least six feet tall (even without her obvious 4 inch heels on) and although ultra feminine had the handshake of a male weightlifter, large tits that were barely restrained by her halter top, and helter-skelter obviously dyed red hair. I was a little unsettled by her appearance, but once she started talking I could tell that she was highly intelligent (also attested to by her various degrees from Yale, Stanford, and Northwestern that were displayed on the wall behind her).

Our first half hour was spent just getting to know each other. She reiterated what her receptionist had said about her methods being unconventional, and she even chuckled "I trust that you read the engagement contract carefully," which I nodded assent to even though I hadn't. Looking back on it, her questioning was very skillful. She ended up knowing where I lived, about my summer cabin at a nearby lake, everything about my job and family, and my relationships with my parents, siblings, and kids, in a half hour without breaking a sweat or letting on how much information she was getting.

The last fifteen minutes of the 45 minute initial consultation I told her about my "issue," its history, and its present revival and control of my life. While I had had a very hard time even broaching the subject – let alone effusively spilling the beans about it – with the first two psychologists that I consulted, it was no problem at all talking with Mary about it.

When forty five minutes was up – denoted by a chime – she said "I'll be happy to take your case."

I didn't even know that it was a possibility that she would decline – I guess that was also in the sparsely reviewed contract.

"Make an appointment with my assistant Michelle for two or three days from now. Don't try and address the problem in the meantime. Don't think of it as controlling your life as much as enriching it until we meet again."

Strange advice, but I took it to the extent that I could, although careful to make the second appointment on Wednesday, just two days after the first one.

*************

Mary didn't waste any time at the start of the second, hour long, appointment.

"I want to first tell you that a 'rape fantasy' as you call it, although I prefer the term of 'ravaged fantasy,' which is similar to the term Seltzer coined in his Psychology Today article, is not unusual. The 18th and 19th century elegant and intelligent French woman of letters Madame de Staël, probably the first person to at least tangentially address the subject, had prescient words that I regard as seminal. 'The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.' Putting it in the terms of a contemporary UNLV professor, 'being desired is the orgasm.'"

She paused and I thought about what she said. It obviously had many meanings, but it was clear that in the context of my ravaged fantasy that it meant that women want to be desired more than they actually want a man. I nodded, she continued.

"So tell me, how often do you have ravaged fantasies?"

"Since our last meeting, just two days ago, I had six full blown drawn out fantasies, and dozens of passing thoughts, too numerous to count."

"Were all of your fantasies since January 15 this year pleasurable?"

I was impressed that she remembered the date that I read Seltzer's article. "All except for one were – in none was I hurt in any way, physically or psychologically, and contracted no disease," I responded, "not like a real rape would be – I like your term 'ravaged fantasy.'"

"Did you consent in any of them?"

"No, I fought in each, but ultimately succumbed without getting hurt."

"How many attackers were there?"

"In about half, one, the other half two; only one had multiple attackers, and that's the one that I did not find pleasurable when I snapped out of it."

"Were the attackers strangers or people that you knew?"

"Most of the time they were strangers, or I couldn't see their faces to positively identify them," I replied. Then I paused and thought hard – Mary patiently waited realizing that I was not finished with my response. "Actually, now that I think about it, probably a quarter of the time they were men that I knew."

"Who were they?" Mary asked, leaning toward me in her chair. She could tell that I was hesitant, so she said, "Stand up and pace back and forth; that will not only help you remember, but it will lessen your anxiety about telling me."

I had never heard of that technique before, but tried it. It really seemed to work as I started spouting off names, and relationships, as soon as they came to me.

"One of my husband's single co-workers Blake Pearson...my best friend's husband, Peter Boggle...a trainer – a real player – at the Planet Fitness facility I work out at named Austen; I don't know his last name...one of my married co-workers Jonathan Allen...the manager of the Whole Foods that I go to, Thomas Simpson...;" at that point I thought that I had said enough names, so I started to sit down.

"That's not all of them, is it?" Mary snapped more than asked.

"No...I thought that would be enough," I stammered.

"I need all that you can remember – keep pacing," she sneered, folding her arms over her chest – hard to do considering the size of her knockers.

"OK..." I hesitantly replied as I started pacing again. "Clayton Thorne, a single neighbor about four houses down who is a professional hockey player...Tim, a college kid who is mature for his age and works part time at lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Pot Belly Deli that I frequent on those days..." I'm sure that this last statement caused me to blush. I hadn't previously consciously realized that I only went to the deli on days that he worked there. I sighed and continued: "Chance Adams, the bartender in the lounge of the Fairview Country Club where I'm a member...Bill Champion, the golf pro there..." I really wanted to stop there; there was one more name, but I didn't want to give it. I guess that I could never work as a CIA agent, because when I turned toward Mary I'm sure that I gave it away.

"No...there's one more; I can tell," Mary snipped.

"Do you have to know?" I moaned.

"Look, just like anything else, in counselling you get as much out of it as you put into it. If you don't want a whole solution, then give me only partial information; if you want a complete and all-encompassing resolution, honestly give me everything I ask for. I'll wait sixty seconds and then assume that you don't want an all-encompassing solution," she said, this time not sternly, but again folding her arms over her prodigious bonkers.

After making eye contact with Mary for about thirty seconds I blurted out, sure that I was crimson red, "Brent Lebel, my daughter's nineteen year old ex-boyfriend."

"How long has he been her ex?"

"About...three...months," I stuttered.

"Why did they break up?"

"I don't know for sure...my daughter Sybil said that he liked older women more than he liked her and she got sick of it...but of course I have no way of knowing if that's true, or even if she was the one who broke it off, not him." Probably one of the most embarrassing revelations of my life, on a day I seemed to be making oodles of them.

"How does the two attacker scenario go," Mary asked immediately after I got done with my last answer.

"It varies widely. The most common elements are that I'm in my house, either naked or scantily dressed – I hear a sound and walk toward it. The next thing I know someone from behind me or on the side of me grabs me and slaps a piece of duct tape over my mouth. Then as I struggle I see two guys – often they have hoods, sometimes they're complete strangers, other times guys I know who for some reason don't hide their faces. They rip off any vestiges of clothing that I have on, carry me to and then tie me spread eagle on my bed, the guestroom bed, or the bed in the lake house. Then they slowly disrobe and stick their rock hard dicks in my face. Usually the only words they say are 'I've wanted to fuck you for years,' and then they get to it."

I paused, exhausted, almost like I was having a full blown drawn out ravaging fantasy right then. I took a couple of deep breaths and continued while Mary silently and patiently waited.

"If they have hoods or masks on they blindfold me, I assume so that they can remove their face coverings. When I'm blindfolded sometimes they tongue my pussy. Regardless, most of the time they take me one at a time, although one is usually stimulating my nipples or clit while the other one is fucking me. Other times they dp me. It usually ends with me having a final orgasm so debilitating that I pass out. When I wake up they're gone. Cum is leaking onto my thighs and I'm exhausted, but I'm not hurt in any way, but sometimes my pussy is sore – maybe because I'm masturbating during the fantasy."

Now I really was played-out, but Mary was undeterred.

"Do you feel guilt afterward?"

"No...I had no control over it, so I have no guilt."

"Does your fantasy ever end by you telling your husband, or reporting it to the police?"

I thought for a second – something I hadn't ever considered before. After searching my mind thoroughly I replied "No; I never tell anyone."

"Do you long for it to be repeated?"

"No...while I'm not psychologically scarred, that once it enough. I never have a fantasy where it is a continuation of, or a sequel to, a first fantasy. Each one is a first time and independent of the others."

After a pause where Mary first stared at me, then seemed to be counting ceiling tiles while leaning back in her desk chair, and then returned her gaze she said, "That's enough information for now. I have enough to work with. When you next come in – make it a week – I'll have some approaches that you can try to prevent the ravaging fantasies from consuming you even if you can't get them to stop completely. Just like last time try to think of your fantasies as enriching experiences rather than debilitating ones until we meet again."

Just then her chime pealed. Although it had been an hour in some ways it felt like ten minutes; however given how emotionally drained I was it also seemed like a full day. I had to sit in my car with my eyes closed for ten minutes before I had the energy to drive home.

***************

Over the next several months I met with Mary for an hour about every ten days One of the odd things she asked for was for me to get an STD test (which of course came back negative since I have never cheated on Jim and I know for sure that he doesn't play around.) Some of the many techniques she tried – including hypnosis (which was one of the few that was a complete bust) – worked OK. None of them individually, or in combination, was completely successful, and I had a bad flare-up for two days where I was so preoccupied with my ravaging fantasies that I was ineffective at work and distracted enough at home that my husband and son (my daughter was away at college) both asked me if something was wrong. Only an extreme session with Mary and a day at the spa got me back to a tolerable level.

Once I was back at a tolerable level, but still unhappy with the situation and losing hope, in a Thursday session with Mary during July, 2015, she said "I'm going to be gone for the next two weeks on vacation. Where will you be and do I need to leave you with my emergency only cell phone number?"

"Well the weekend after this coming one my hubby Jim will be at a golf tournament and my son and daughter are both going to the beach, so I've decided to go to the lake house on Friday morning and stay until Sunday night."

"As I recall it's about a sixty to ninety minute drive from your house on Route 10, and then county road 621, isn't it?" she strangely said/asked.

"Yes, that's right."

"It's secluded enough so that you'll have a relaxing time, right?"

"Yes. I have some work to bring with me, but it's easier to do there than at home or the office – no interruptions and pleasant scenery."

"I have a suggestion – allow yourself to have a full blown fantasy Friday night, complete with masturbation, even a dildo or vibrator if you have one; then if one ever occurs on Saturday and all the way through Saturday night laugh it off as best you can, and play the short video that I'm going to send to your smartphone now," she cackled.

"OK," I gulped.

We both got out our smartphones. She sent me a 90 second long video of a clown with a fake three feet long dick tripping over it and falling face first into a grossly obese woman's crotch, among other slapstick antics. "This is what I want you to play on Saturday next at the lake house if you start to be overcome with a ravaging fantasy," she chuckled.

"You're sick," I laughed.

For the first time she gave me a big hug. "I have a feeling that you'll be fine once you and I get back from our vacations," she smiled.

"What was that about?" I chortled to myself as I walked out to my car.

amyyum
amyyum
1,764 Followers