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Old 04-20-2017, 4:44 PM
tonydee tonydee is offline
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Join Date: Feb 2010
Posts: 42
Think I'm done with this lifestyle. :( (or.. how I got smothered by a TV - true story

All of my adult life has been spent trying to get RL encounters with dominant women. The long periods inbetween successes in this endeavour have been spent wanking to femdom porn or fantasising about dominant females.

I'm not sure what I want to achieve with this post but at any rate.....
.....I think I'm done with the pursuit. At least for the foreseeable future.
This femdom stuff is getting in the way of RL successes and accomplishments. It's not serving me at the moment.

The story that follows is what I really went through last Saturday morning. I'm astounded I stooped this low. Has anybody else reached a point where they think 'this sh!t is getting too weird and outlandish'?

Smothered by a TV.

I was trapped under an old-fashioned 24inch screen, CRT television. I was laying on my back, on the floor, naked except for the sock that I had put my penis in, about four minutes before.

I had just ejeculated. I slowly let the TV roll off the pillow that was covering my upturned face, let it roll onto my chest. I shrugged my head slightly and let the pillow fall behind me. I lay on the floor panting slightly, praying I didn’t suddenly suffer a terminal heart attack or stroke while in this unusual scenario. My family and friends didn’t need the sort of shame and ridicule that would follow the discovery of a middle aged man, dead in his flat, trapped under a TV, naked save for a sock encasing his unremarkable member. I imagined the thorough disappointment the tabloid journalists would have when they discovered that I wasn’t a politician, a celebrity or even a successful captain of industry. I imagined they’d console themselves that the story would still fill up a few column inches on page five of their respective publications.

It was Saturday morning. I didn’t have to be anywhere. The world outside my suburban dwelling seemed unusually quiet, like time had stood still. It was only the mild itchiness of the worn out carpet, a decade beyond it’s prime, that made me think of my next action. I hadn’t really thought this scenario through before embarking on it. In my frenzy of not wanting to lose ‘the moment’, I simply set my masterbation session where the old TV was stored. That being the narrow hallway outside my bedroom.

I remembered with memories that didn’t seem like my own, stumbling out of my bedroom, pulling the sock over my hard penis as much as possible to try and make sure the sock wouldn’t fall off at an important time. Of laying down next to the TV that hadn’t moved in months. I remember placing the pillow over my head, squashing it onto my face with both hands to simulate the weight of a dominant woman casually sitting on my face, wondering for a split second whether this simulation without the TV would be enough to take me over the edge to climax-land. Realising that no, I would of course need one of my hands on my sock-encased penis, making the simulated weight half and not realistically heavy enough.

I balanced the pillow on my face. It was encased in a navy blue pillow case that luckily, was near enough in colour to the blue denim jeans worn by the idealised, perfect woman in my head. She was the main character in this morning’s porn-loop that was playing in my mind every couple of seconds.

When I was satisfied with the pillow placement, I masterbated for a couple of strokes to make sure my penis didn’t grow bored of this elaborate scenario and abandon me while I dealt with the logistics of getting a heavy TV on my face. When I was satisfied my penis was hard enough to be abandoned for a few seconds, I blindly felt around to the right side of my head where my TV was. If it had human style conscious, it would surely be wrinkling it’s nose up in disgust and muttering ‘no, no, noooo!’.

I wrestled and levered the TV into a position that meant I could lower the left hand side of the TV while lifting up the right hand side. The screen side (the heaviest part of a cathode ray tube TV) would settle on top of the pillow on my face. I slowly placed the TV on the pillow, on my face.

I hit ‘play’ on the porn loop in my head with much more authority and reverence than the previous loops. It was like all the previous takes were rehearsals for the live recording. The Director in my head barked at the rest of my brain for ‘quiet on set!’ The Director was noiselessly making an ‘ACTION!’ hand signal to the rest of the hushed crew arranged around the ‘set’.

In my imagination, a statuesque woman of around 5’10” (an important two inches taller than me) slowly wandered into the set. She wasn’t slim or fat but curvy and powerful looking. Long shapely legs met together in a rump that was large by society’s standards but not flabby. She was dressed in the aforementioned denim jeans. They fit her snugly but loose enough to enable her to squat down [as the script would call for]. She had a trashy novel in her hand. The action in this scene was simple, a dominant woman had wandered into this room and was looking for a place to sit down and read her trashy novel. The only place in the room she would find to park her derriere would be my eager face.

Nobody involved in this grand piece of ‘cinema’ would be concerned with the giant plot holes. Why would this woman be unconcerned about sitting on some creep’s face? Why has she wandered into a room with no furniture anyway? Wouldn’t a normal reaction be to go to another room and look for a better reading environment?

The Director in my head shot the script doctor in my head a furiously hot, withering look. Accuracy and realism were not needed at all right now. They would just get in the way.

As the heavy screen of the TV settled onto the top side of the pillow, I silently murmured my well rehearsed dialogue “no, what are you doing? I don’t want you to sit, with all your weight, on my defenseless face. Please no, no..n.. [heavily muffled complaints ensue until they give way to surrendered silence]”.

The sensation was a paradox. It was both uncomfortable (bordering on painful) and arousing. It was arousing because it triggered with bright brilliance, the memories of the few times I had experienced these types of scenarios in real life. It was a feedback loop. The necessity of having to calm my breathing right down and concentrate on sucking air in from the left and right corners of my mouth, let my lungs do their oxygen/carbon dioxide transfer thing and then carefully expel the spent air without letting the shape of my mouth collapse under the weight above, reminded me of the necessity, in real life of having to calm my breathing right down and concentrate…..etc.

I balanced the TV with one hand while my other hand brought my penis back to full hardness. Every time I had the thought ‘this is just like the time ‘X’ was sat on my face ‘Y’ years ago” I marched a few more steps closer to climax-land. My mind played the loop again. I would have the same thought but maybe about a different woman, maybe not. And maybe a different time or maybe not. It was no matter, the loop would replay with slight variations every few strokes but the underlying theme was, my face was being used as a seat cushion by a woman giving zero fucks about my comfort and the accompanying powerplay and sensations were driving me wild.
I reached the familiar point of no return. The point where if a genie appeared next to the nearly climaxing person and offered a million dollars simply not climax, that the person would still have an empty bank account moments later. I started muttering, audibly this time,

“Oh [name redacted]”

The name I muttered/moaned was the woman in real life who had indulged my fetish a few more times than the others, and who for those seconds before and during climax, I would have paid a million dollars to be with again.

“Oh [name redacted]”

“Oh [name redacted]”

“Oh! nnnnnggggghhhhhh!!”

(a few panting breaths later)

“......oh”

The film crew in my head had wrapped up and I found myself with an old TV set on my upper chest. The account department in my head was busy ripping up the imaginary cheque for the imaginary million dollars. It’s chief finance officer admonished me “Are you crazy??! The sex was amazing on the whole but what about all the other parts of being with her that weren’t amazing?!”.

I was trapped under an old-fashioned 24inch screen, CRT television. I was laying on my back, on the floor, naked except for the sock that I had put my penis in, about four minutes before.

I finished my horrific thought about being found dead in my flat, in this predicament, and focused on practical matters. I say I was trapped under the TV but in reality I could have easily thrown the TV off me. The problem was that doing so would make the TV hit the wall and scratch up the wallpaper that my landlord was understandably keen to keep in decent (i.e. rent-able) condition. I ended up shuffling an inch to my left while carefully shifting the TV an inch to the right and repeating this move about ten times. It was a stop-frame animation version of the maneuver you have to do when you enter a doorway at the same time as someone else. You face each other and synchronously rotate until you can both back into the room you wanted to enter.

When I was satisfied the TV wouldn’t lurch into the wall when I let go of it (who could blame it if it launched it’s sharp plastic corners at the vulnerable wallpaper after what I had just made it be part of?), I carefully got up and placed the TV on the gritty carpet (screen down so it couldn’t look at me). As I stood up my condom-sock dropped off my shrivelled penis. I don’t think I could have asked for a better metaphor. Every participant in my carefully constructed scenario had abandoned me. My sock had left me, my penis had retreated from service, the TV was now just a broken TV and not a talisman representing an amazonian specimen of femininity and even my sense of respect had left me.

With a crushing sense of realisation, I recognised I had a broken sexuality. And it was broken in a isolating way. I couldn’t go down the pub and banter with my mates about my useless fetish. I couldn’t find a life partner that was into what I was into. I was a million universes away from a variation of this universe where my attractive life partner walks out of the bathroom, sees the sock and TV on the floor, sees me naked and playfully laughs at me

“Oh you silly man. If you had just waited until I had finished brushing my teeth I would have happily sat on your face or used your face as a foot stool or walked on you like you were a carpet. Any of those things you like I would have been more than happy to do because I love doing them to you.”

This masturbation session involved the most elaborate use of a non sexual object I had ever entertained. A close second might have been when I balanced a 48 pack of toilet rolls on my face (for the same sort of scenario) but I was sat on the edge of the bath for that session, with no sock on penis, so sudden death by heart attack or stroke would have elicited less questions.

I felt shame but in the background, I knew with certainty that I would masturbate again with this sort of fantasy playing in my head. The film crew in my mind would no doubt reassemble but most likely the porn-loop would be enhanced with digital aids (online pornography) rather than practical effects (TV’s, multipacks of toilet paper or the shoes of a girlfriend I would briefly manage to maintain a relationship with.).

I was trapped, living with a useless fetish. I was standing in my hallway, naked, the sock that I had inserted my penis in about eight minutes before, was soggy and crumpled on the floor.

I picked the sock up, threw it in the laundry hamper and went on with my lazy Saturday (again). The sense of frustration and isolation, slowly dwindling until I reset them to full strength by masturbating again later that day
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