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Wheldrake -> RE: Ok, my turn to troll (3/23/2008 12:44:18 PM)
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quote:
ORIGINAL: AAkasha
"Hi submissives. I have a fantasy and I think I am the only person to ever have this fantasy! I love seeing a man overpowered by chloroform, especially if it's another man doing it to him and I am just watching the action. Have any submissives ever participated in this roleplay fantasy? How did you enact it and make it believable? How did you behave? What did it look like? What did you do? Make sure you tell me all the details and remember, it's another man doing it to you!"
Akasha
I can’t say I’ve ever acted out a chloroform scenario, nor really fantasised about it in the past. But now that you mention it, the idea does sound pretty hot. Here’s how I could imagine it working – if that’s an acceptable substitute for speaking from experience.
So… there are a couple of rules in place, to provide as much authenticity as possible. Somewhere in your domain is a special green cloth, kept in a jar clearly labelled “chloroform”. I’ve been told that, when the cloth is being held over my mouth and nose, I must slowly lapse into passivity. At first, I can kick and struggle as much as I want. After I’ve taken twenty breaths (or whatever number seems realistic – I’m no anaesthesiologist!) I must allow my eyes to fall half-shut, and my struggles must weaken. After a further twenty breaths, I must close my eyes and relax completely. At that point, I remain totally passive until someone shakes me “awake”. If I manage to get the cloth away from my mouth and nose while being subdued, every breath I take without the cloth in place is subtracted from the current count. What I haven’t been told is when the cloth will be applied, or by whom.
The rules may seem unnecessarily elaborate, but they do allow for a completely unfeigned struggle to fight clear of the cloth and remain “awake”. After all, having to keep my eyes closed and my body relaxed would be scary – once in that condition, I would be completely vulnerable, and you could prepare me for all sorts of unpleasantness without my being able to resist or even see what you were doing. And having to count breaths would give me exactly the same choice I’d face if I were really being chloroformed. I could struggle a lot, and breathe hard, and fall “unconsciousness” quickly if I failed to get loose. Or I could struggle less, and breathe more slowly, but have less hope of breaking free before I finally went down.
On pure instinct, however, I'm sure I'd struggle hard when the muscular stranger grabbed me from behind. I probably wouldn’t even know he was there – he’d step out of a shadowy doorway in your domain and grab me, perhaps as you were leading me inside for what I thought would be a dull afternoon of housework, or something. I wouldn’t get a clear look at him, but I’d see the flash of the green cloth in his hand as he closed in, and I’d feel the strength in his arms when he threw them around my torso, pinning my own arms to my sides. His hand would come up, and the cloth would settle over the lower part of my face. And you’d turn around to watch, and smile.
I’d fight hard – of course I would. I’d never imagined that a male accomplice would be involved when the “chloroformed” cloth went over my face, and the thought of what you AND HE might do to me once I was “unconscious” would fill me with dread. I’d thrash around, throw my head from side to side, perhaps try to slither downwards out of his arms and away from that terrifying piece of cloth. I’d look at you with wild desperation in my eyes, as if you might help me, as if you might have mercy, as if you weren’t the one who meticulously arranged this rough encounter in the first place. Perhaps I’d manage to fight clear for just a breath or two, before your accomplice clamped the cloth in place again even more firmly than before; perhaps he would even be unable to hold me up, and would have to fall to the ground with me, pinning me under his weight almost at your feet. But in the end, I wouldn’t stand a chance. As I kicked and squirmed, as I wrestled helplessly against his superior strength, I would count my breaths. After twenty, I would accept that the game was up – I would continue to struggle weakly, with half-closed eyes, but he and I would both know that he would have no trouble holding me a little longer while I slipped into “unconsciousness”. I would look up at you as I took my 39th breath, wanting to say something, wanting to plead, but finding myself stifled by the pressure of the cloth. As my lungs filled for the 40th time, my eyes would fall completely shut, and my body would go limp.
“Is he finally under?” your voice would say, far above me.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve got him.” A deeper voice, filled with quiet satisfaction at having overpowered me.
“Good.” And then, inevitably, five words that would strike fear into my heart. “Strip him. And bring him.”
Once again, I’m sorry that this was the product of an overactive imagination, rather than a real experience. But I think it COULD work, if you were to find a suitably strong and aggressive assistant – and a suitably plucky victim.
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