The funny thing is I've had this fantasy even before it become overtly erotic.
It used to help me fall asleep at night when I was little.
Sometimes it would be me and my stuffed animals, renegade strays roaming the back allies at night. We'd need to stick together so the mean, evil humans roaming the streets wouldn't catch us. They would eventually, stuffing me into some horrible bag the be dragged off somewhere. And I'd wrap myself in my sheets and pretend to struggle, half suffocating, as I wound myself so tight in them; relishing in the sensation of the cold sheets biting into my skin.
Sometimes, I'd be me, just a girl, maybe a transient, also roaming the back allies at some godless hour of the night, getting stalked by some shadowy figure. I'd try to escape by hiding in a dead end alleyway underneath pilled up rubbish, that made up my pillows and comforter. But he'd eventually find me, manhandle me, and overpower me.
That is about the time the fantasy evolved into something blatantly sexual.
The mystery stalker would capture me, and this time I'd pass out, and find myself somewhere new. Somewhere dingy like a warehouse with impossible bright lights shining in my face. But I'd still be able to see all of them -- surrounding me. Countless numbers of silhouetted figures all looking at Me. And where was I? Either on the cold concrete floor or sprawled on some sort of table, always naked, always stretched out, or incredibly bound. I'm always childlike, always underdeveloped.
The fantasy would go into flashes. Sometimes it would evolve into something of a gang rape but not anywhere near as brutal. Usually not many would come into my spotlight. But those that did would manhandle me, in a comforting, thrilling sort of way. A sensual mixture of firm gripping hands and the rough graze of fingertips. Nothing more than that. Just the undeniably arousing sensation of strangers hands violating my body, a previously untouched, unspoiled childish form; as I struggled with no intention of escape.
As I got older the fantasy evolved. I'd find myself bound and kneeling on dusty concrete sucking the member of a faceless yet masculine figure. The blinding overhead lights blotting out any details from the neck up. It would always be a strange culmination of softness and brutality. As if the figure didn't want to hurt me, a young child, but wanted to milk the pleasure from me with a reassuring firmness and the idea of defiance erased from my thoughts. The act would be loving, a sort of worship and adoration.
Sometimes, the silhouettes would join in the circle of light. With little me, bound, lifted, and spread out, so my skin is taunt against my ribs and the light is shining brightly down on me amidst the darkness. The blacked out figures would be holding me down, their arousal, seemingly emanating from them, pumping itself into me through their groping hands, just like the ones who get to fuck me.
Strangely enough I never cum in these fantasies. I'm close yes, painfully close in my fantasies, but I don't want it to end. I always want to leave it unfinished. And yet, I almost always fall asleep with a dreamy smile on my face and an intense feeling of satisfaction and content.
