Flirting with fantasies

Daddy... my fantasies scare me.
The way they are more extreme than my tolerance.

Everyone's fantasies exceed reality.

The sadist's words reassure me. Arousal and anticipation gnaw at my pussy, while my mind spins wild and evil scenarios of rape and beatings and hordes of cocks forcing their way into every approximation of an orifice... my buttocks glow pink, turning a burning red the monogram scar his green-handled knife carved into my skin...

I'm afraid of what it will do to me.
I can't really handle all that pain.
And my psyche is horribly fragile...

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that such a brutal experience would send me into the place where I'm dark and lost, and that I would sink so far down that nothing I could want or that he could do would bring me back.

But now his words reassure me.
They remind me.
Even he has his limits.
He alludes to the evil things he has done.
He lets slip his scariest fantasies...
the one with the knife...
his green-handled knife
and my pale, vulnerable belly.
A fantasy so seductive that even I can feel its attraction.

And then every so often he reminds me. He lives on the edge, it is true, but he doesn't throw himself over. His appetites are huge, and his dark side is very dark. But he's not a fool. We are both safe from the knife. As he says, he doesn't go in for blood. It's too messy. And he values me too much to send me so far down into that dark place that a verbal slap on the face can't haul me back out.

So yes.
We all have our fantasies.
We may even get to drink deeply.
But most of us stop before draining the bottom of the cask.
For in the dregs lies the poison.
Even the sadist knows that.
He will keep me safe.