Rough Sex Fantasies are the ultimate taboo for the inner good person, aren’t they? The more good you are in real life, the more you want to be bad to offset it in fantasy. That’s what this is about. A story that resides solely in the mind for the purposes of erotic titillation.
The Doctor felt a sense of relief as he leaned back into the cheap leather of the airline seat. He had no luggage. All his worldly possessions remained back in Memphis. Strewn among the bloody devastation were the portraits of Clarice.
Ever since he saved her dignity by making the mad man swallow his tongue he’d been fixated on Clarice. The smell of her cheap perfume made him tingle in no way that killing and consuming ever had.
His insides alight with the promise of connection. Real human connection that came from her greyish-eyed gaze through the glass. Ah, Clarice. She had secrets too. So many secrets that time robbed them of sharing.
The soft, textured fabric of the ecru slacks he wore rubbed against his naked penis making it hard. Peering from under the brim of his dirty hat he saw a red headed woman pretending to read a book. She wanted to only look smart.
All his life he saw things others couldn’t in people. It served him well as a psychologist. True, it helped him elude capture for many years. He watched as the early flew by below him in greenish blue blurs.
The man next to him reeked of body odor. Rude. So many rude, pretentious people. His teeth twinged. He imagined the feeling of his teeth sinking into the ill-mannered cheek of the man, tasting the blood. The blood that lit him up. The blood used to be more compelling than anything in the world. And then he met Clarice.
Luckily for him, his inconspicuous dress wreaked of low income which really distrubed him greatly. A man of taste. Great wine. Expensive food. Culinary genius in tow. His only baggage on this plane were his crimes. In due time, he’d kill again. For the moment he needed to escape those awful conditions he’d lived in for the past 10 years.
The Dank Dungeon Chilton put him in. The endless tapes of hypocrites playing whenever Freddy wanted to taunt him. He’d get his comeuppance with Dr. Chilton too, in good time.
The plane shimmied and bumped a bit at landing but soon The Doctor descended the air stairs into an unknown world. He fit in perfectly with his cheap linen pants that hung too big on his waist.
Exhilaration filled him from the bottom of his feet to his head as he sauntered through the dusty marketplace. He reckoned Buenos Aires to be a great place to hide.
by hearing the sound of Clarice’s voice for just a split second. Bravery. He’d always been very bold. Making that phone call to Clarice now that she was an FBI agent was a bold move. Untraceable though. The receiver hung loosely just the way he’d abandoned it. He’d deal with his feelings for Clarice too. All in good time.
The ache in his crotch became overwhelming mixed in with sanguine aftertaste of his last kill. He needed to get off.
He rooted into the deep pockets to find the wallet he’d lifted off of Chilton back in Memphis. It was filled with over $10K in cash. He quickly found an exchange and was soon sitting in the parlor of a dancer.
He made sure that the bitch looked just like Clarice. As her lithe body twirled to the classical tune of Mozart (his choice of course) her face paled in comparison, but it would do for now. Funny how the mind of man can compartmentalize.
When the trashy whore completely disrobed though, her thacket of pubic hair the likes of which would never adorn what he imagined as Clarice’s perfect vulva angered him.
He sat in his chair with his killer cock half hard. Stroking it. Pissed that he had to compartmentalize this moment. Why is it that people are always so damn rude and pretentious.
“I’ve come half way around the world,” he said, “I’m rather tired and I need some relief.”
The Dancer held out her slender hand adorned with a cheap manicure. A chipped red nail.
He rolled his eyes.
“I’ve come half way around the world and you expect me to pay you when you present to me an unkept crotch and a chipped nail.”
Suddenly, he had her by her silky auburn hair and his cock jammed deep into her cheap whore throat. He pumped and she gagged. Her saliva burned a trail down to his balls. It felt good. Not as good as it would feel with Clarice of course, but it had been awhile. He ejaculated hard and fast then squeezing his thighs around the prostitute’s messy face he pinched off her nose.
He enjoyed feeling her body slacken in eternal sleep. His ejaculate still wet and coming from the corners of her smeared red lipstick. Foreign countries were good for killing. He’d eat on her for a few days.
He couldn’t believe that people back in America could not be more grateful. He had rid the world of so many rude people, just like this one. Consuming them to save the room in the graveyards for those with more scruples.
Her kidneys were shot, her liver ate up with drugs. He settled for a bicep. At night he burned the rest. No one would miss her. He would not kill Clarice, although his plans for her bordered on murderous he could never kill a perfectly polite, demure human being. He just needed her in his loins. With every ounce of his being.
When he laid down that night still gagging on the aftertaste of his cheap hooker he had to jack off again. He couldn’t understand why all his life he’d spent helping people. People were hooked on him. Now he was hooked on her.
And as his semen spilled out onto the cheap sheet the whore had on her bed he knew then that he’d have to suspend his plans for Chilton. Clarice. He needed her. So he set off to find her.
And this is where we begin our story–macabre dark romance. A bit of fan fiction. I can’t wait to conjure the first sex scene between these two. Keep tuned in. For me, the darker side of sex has always been compelling. Having crushes on intellectual bad boys and murderers is a particular fun obsession of mine. This fixation is forever juxtaposed against the good girl that I really am. Believe it or not, rough sex isn’t something I brag about doing in real life. It resides neatly in my head.
Much like the rough sex fantasies of my phone sex clients both regular and potential. They are my little dirty secrets. The fucking sex scenes between Starling and Lecter. The possible manipulation that Clarice pulls on Jack Crawford using her body to get license to chase Lecter on her own.
I’ve never shared this rough sex fantasies with my phone sex clientele–or really anyone for that matter. For those of you who fear your inner sexual desires, this should put you forever at ease. We all have a dark desire deep inside. After all, it feels better to be a sinner than a saint.