I had a pretty hot, if surreal dream last night. I was a dancing girl, a slave belonging to a chief of a warrior tribe. Part of my act was to perform with a fellow slave, a young man strong enough to pick me up and whirl me about. It was all very physical and lovely.
Over the course of the dream the chief, our master, got angry with both of us for something, but there was some spurious reason because of which male slaves couldn’t be whipped. However, my dancing partner deserved punishment as much as I did. To make him fully comprehend the extent of our master’s displeasure, he would be forced to hold me on his back as I was whipped, feeling me writhe under the lash.
I must admit, I was aware enough that it was a dream, that the prospect of being held on a muscular young man’s back and grinding against him as I was being whipped wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
Gorgeous fantasy. So much better than my anxiety dreams last night!
Dare I admit that the master was a spitting image of Jason Momoa as Khal Drogo?
That’s a very hot scene. I once played out a similar scene at a playparty, and it was unbelievably hot (despite the awkwardness of the position–the way I was held was a strong invitation for the top to hit the upper curve of my bottom and lower back. Unless the holder leaned right over, which was a lot of back strain for even a very strong man.)
The two tops started out with me bent over the arm of a sofa, one holding my arms, the other strapping me and complaining that I was kicking too much. “Oh, I know a good way to stop her from kicking.” And he picked me up bodily to ride piggyback, and I had to hold on if I didn’t want to get dropped, and the other guy held my legs tight around his waist, up out of the way of the strap. Then they changed places to hold me that helpless for the bath brush.