I had this dream. It was about a friend of mine and she was tied up with very wet hair. She looked sad, but she also looked like she was too aroused to stop what was making her sad. I felt bad for her and at the same time I didn’t want her to be rescued.
I knew I had to take pictures of that.
So on Saturday night me and the friend I dreamed about, Beth, went to work. She brought the rope and I set up the bathtub. In the days since the initial dream, my creativity filled in the blanks that dreams always leave out. I knew I wanted her soaking wet and unhappy in the bathtub. I knew she had to be drenched and bound. I knew she had to be miserable and very horny.
I explained all this to her and she understood my goal. She tied herself up and then we drenched her in hot shower water. With her help, I bound her to the shower bar. She took a moment to imagine the feelings I wanted and then she gave me the perfect little sad and horny face.
I took the picture and said, “Beautiful.”
Her face lit up. The sadness was gone and replaced with a shy pride. The beautiful sadness was gone.
“Get back into character,” I said. She nodded, took a moment, and then she was poor little wet slut again.
“Perfect,” I purred, and then it was gone. An encouraging compliment had wiped the pitiful set of her eyes.
“Back into character,” I said.
Beth was not amused. “I was, but you keep breaking my mood.”
I frowned at her. Really I was frowning at myself because I realized she was right. You would think I would know something about setting a mood and yet I was the one breaking her character. My frown must have been scary because Beth’s face reverted back to sad and scared.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you, I wasn’t being disrespectful or anything.”
What I wanted to do was comfort her and explain that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her apology was so sincere, I felt like dirt that she had taken any blame when it was I who was screwing everything up. I wanted to explain that, but the writer in me knew what I had to do.
I stepped forward and grabbed her by her throat. I pulled her head to me and looked her in the eye. I didn’t speak. I let my fingers tighten a little and she groaned happily despite the fear in her eyes. There she was again. She was right where I needed her and this time, I was going to keep her there.
The pictures came easily. I didn’t say another word. When she started to slip out of character, a tug on her hair, a squeeze of her throat or a pinch of a nipple put her right back into place. The tension was as strong as any d/s scene I had ever done. The euphoria of creativity was there as she endured every position I wanted her in. She stayed in character, falling deeper and deeper the more ruthless I treated her. I felt like I was writing with my camera.
Afterwards, I was in severe domspace. I was so giddy. I was so sated. There had been no sex but I felt like I had the biggest mental orgasm. I had a gig worth of pictures and the sense of accomplishment that can only come from when I finish something like BDSM Beach.
I don’t remember the images in my dream anymore. They’ve been overwritten by the reality. From dreams, to discussion, to reality to countless moments of sad lust locked forever in jpeg; I can’t shake the feeling that anything is possible now.