WARNING: Triggers abound and inappropriate for children or sensitive people. Graphic depictions of sexual abuse, gore, sadism, and implications of cannibalism. Stop reading now if you are under the age of 18 or have difficulty with this kind of content. Be safe and kind to yourself.
Been some time since I had such a clear and “odd” dream involving abuse, so figured I would get it out there and try to wittle out the meaning or connections to reality.
I was a teenager again in dream, maybe 15 or 16, and in this reality I was still sleeping on the couch in my sister’s house as I was at that time in actual history. Difference being, a foreign man, I believe he was Russian, had control over the house. It was understood in dream that he didn’t really belong there, he had forcibly taken the house by violence and I was not sure where the other occupants of the house were (my sister, her partner, the pets). I knew they should have been there, but they weren’t. I believed he had hurt them somehow, was keeping them somewhere else, or had killed them.
Minding my own business with a book or TV or some such, this man steps into the room. He says, “Hello beautiful boy,” and becomes very touchy feely. While he was tender, it had a patronizing lack of stability to it, as though if I made the wrong move or resisted or rejected in any way, I would be hurt or killed. The only reason I was alive was because this man had decided he was in-love with me, but he did not approve of anything which didn’t follow his “script” of how he wanted things. I was his “Good, beautiful boy” and so long as I didn’t let on that I found him repulsive and terrifying, he would treat me tenderly, like a prized possession. So long as I acted as though I enjoyed his attentions, I was “safe”.
He took off my clothes slowly, and kissed me sloppily, greedily, and wetly. I resisted the urge to wipe my mouth off afterward. It felt like his saliva was infecting me. It seemed to burn my skin I hated it so much, but I waited for opportunity to wipe it off where it would not see. The ceremonial removal of clothes continued slowly just as he always did it, and his fingers and hands felt like the blade of a knife, ever threatening to penetrate. His breath smelled of fish, alcohol, and cigarettes. It made me want to vomit, but I resisted the urge, pushed it down. His eyes felt like black holes, threatening to suck my entire body into them if given the opportunity, predatory, and half mad. His face was handsome and his smile was charming. His voice was soft and dripping with affectionate condescension, like he was speaking to a lesser thing he liked to have around.
After building up the anticipation enough, he flipped me over suddenly and roughly. He never gave a hint of when he would start, so I never could preempt this step in his game to avoid the surprise by turning over myself. He had to be the one to flip me over. He had to be the one to reveal his prize, his hole. In a way though, I was always glad when this step came, because it gave me a respite from having to look at him and pretend I was enjoying myself. I could phase out, dissociate into the darkness of the couch and the smell of old leather. An indefinite amount of time would pass, I never knew when the next step would come either.
He quietly removed any of his clothes and watched me for awhile in silence, prepping himself I assume. Then the feel of wetness dripping as he drooled on my hole periodically. I would wait for the inevitable, trying to brace myself but it always was shock when it finally happened somehow. But the abrupt thrust into me soon came along with the all-too-frequent pain. He was always abrupt, because if he went slowly in this step, he would cause no pain. As soon as my gaze was no longer on him, his tenderness went away and he enjoyed causing me pain. I was not allowed to protest, but if I didn’t whimper in some distress, he would be harsher by spanking me as hard as he could, vacating and thrusting back in harshly again, or take my testicles and pull until I screamed. It was in my interest to feign pain if somehow he failed to inflict it.
During this rape, he would spontaneously cue back and forth between tenderness, kisses, and words of affection “Oh my beautiful, sweet little muffin” to outright malice, biting, scratching, and demeaning statements, during dream, he went off on a monologue as he climaxed, “You fucking whore, you know this is the best thing you’ll ever get, the best you’ll ever feel, having me inside you. You better fucking appreciate this, because all you’re good for is providing a hot place for a cock. If you ever let anyone else inside you, I’ll take that heat away and you’ll be worthless and limp. You remember that. This is the best you’ll ever get.”
Once he was done, he would survey any of the damage done, run his cold, hard fingers along any scratches, welts, or bitemarks. He loved when there was blood, because he would lean in and lick it off of me, as he did here off my upper back. “You are delicious and juicy, like a strawberry in a wasteland of dates”. He fancied himself a poet at times. It was disgusting the things he came up with. I was just a ripe thing he could pluck whenever he chose, just something to consume, a prized and rare indulgence, that was usually the theme.
He got off of me and stood up in front of the couch and loomed there, which meant more was coming this time. At this time in the game, he could start getting dressed, cover the damage he made with a blanket, and order me to sleep and rest for next time like a good little boy, as he had things to do. Sometimes he did. This was better. But this time, the full service was in order. “Time to feed my baby,” he said.
I had learned at this point, after much trial and error, that were I to too eagerly turn over and go to his cock as he was suggesting, he would push me down and make me fight to get to it, choking and punching me into submission until I begged to have it in my mouth. So I stayed where I was and acted as was expected of me. “Thank you, and I love you so much, but it is too good for me, sir, I deserve nothing more, I would rather starve to death than take anymore from you,” I said. I kind of winged this part, if I said the same thing every time, he would call me an idiot and continue to his other method of punching, choking, and then rape my throat. The important thing was to act grateful, express my love, and somehow indicate how unworthy and pious I am to his “majesty”.
I hated him with a passion ever burning and yearning. Given the opportunity, I would have stabbed his crazy majesty in the eye with a sharpened pencil and stomped his “glorious” cock and balls until they were nothing but blood and sinew. I would shove a knive down his throat, and make sure he knew what a worthless piece of trash he was while I watched the light in his remaining eye blink out. This had happened so many times, I had spent a great deal of time fantasizing how I would kill him someday. Nonetheless, I had learned not to struggle, and in the strangest way, all at once, I almost felt a kind of legitimate affection for him at times, in the tenderness, which made me hate myself. This almost made me feel like I did deserve to be mistreated. My head was messed up. How long had this been happening? I didn’t remember anymore.
“Oh my poor little boy, you have been very behaved, and I would never let you starve. Do not say such things, your death would stab me in the heart. And you have to eat to stay alive, so come, eat my baby,” he said this time. Much the same kind of bullshit he always said. But it was my cue to sit up, and I did and glanced over the mess I would have in my mouth. He didn’t give notice, so invariably, he was covered in my feces, not to mention blood much of the time. He sometimes would wipe as much off my rear beforehand as he could to ensure I was “getting enough calories”. Sick fuck. As usual, of course, it was dirty. I had no choice. It was either this or be beaten and choked into unconsciousness and then throat raped while I was passed out. Better if I had the stick, as it were.
Once my “plate was clean”, “waste not”, after much prompting of ensuring I get it all cleaned off (there were consequences too if his underwear were sullied by my negligence), and resisting the urge to vomit (which also came with its own unpleasant consequences), he would coo at me and ask, “Did you enjoy your meal, my dear?” I nodded emphatically. Sometimes saying too much here resulted in consequences. Always consequences, at every turn, another rule. They still popped up even after all these times. How many times had it been now? I didn’t remember. “Would you like dessert?” I really, really didn’t, but I nodded emphatically, “Yes, please sir, very much.” He then put his cock down my throat tenderly, and told me to start swallowing. I did as I was told and started rhythmically swallowing to pleasure him and milk him. At this point, my gag reflex almost didn’t exist anymore thankfully. He had beaten it out of me by now. Also I had become more efficient at making him ejaculate, so before too long, he had released down my stomach with a moan and pull of my head into his pubic mound until I was nearly desperate for breath.
Pulling away finally, he ordered me to stay (like a dog), got dressed again. He then gave me a single Andy’s mint from a nearby jar, kissed me on the forehead, and told me “good boy, very good boy”. This final step only came if I followed all of the random rules well enough. He fed it to me directly on my tongue, which he’d also trained me into preparing for. Sadly, the mint was a relief to the other tastes bubbling in my mouth and from any belches that came to me. I tried really hard to get that mint. I disgusted myself.
“Since you are such a good boy, I have an errand I am trusting you with. There was some trash to dispose of and we might as well make some money from it. It is in the kitchen. Cut it up, fry it into pastry balls with potato, and leave it in the fridge in one of the pink boxes in the cupboard by 6AM tomorrow morning,” he instructed. It was already 10PM so I guess I was going to be up late, but that was the least of my worries. What was this new game?
“Yes, sir, if it pleases you,” I responded.
“You always please me in the end. Until next time my zychik.” And with that he left. After collecting myself, cleaning off as best I could, getting water, and grooming my wounds (thankfully, he did keep the house stocked with these supplies and expected I would attend to myself in this way), I went to explore this strange request. What I found was a huge sack of potatoes (yay, I could scavenge some real food for awhile), various other supplies, oils, and cooking supplies, and the dead body of a man I think I had known once. Was this one of my sister’s friends? Yes, they must have come investigating around the house and were causing trouble for my nameless captor. I think I cared about them once, but that life was so far away I had difficulty remembering. I felt sick. But I had no choice, I went to work.
Next thing I remember is methodically dropping pieces of flesh into a boiling pot, doing my best to forget the grueling steps that came before, and wrapping them into a ground potato mix, then frying the lot and loading the box. The parts that could not be used were put in a bag marked “Trash” which had a low resolution printout of my face on it. He thought he was funny, I’m sure. Another reminder of my place even when he wasn’t there. I realized I was covering up a murder, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t get out of the house, and if I didn’t do this, there is no telling what he would do. This was a new game after all, I had to do the best job I could and hope I got the rules right. By 4AM, I went to bed, to the couch, the only place I could sleep as the rest of the house was usually barred from me by various locks and chains he had setup around the house. I had made myself some meatless potato balls in my efforts, so at least I had eaten something better than bodily secretions, mints, and the odd snack bag of chips or leftovers he left lying around for me. I was tired and sore. I slept.
Then I woke up, in reality, dream over. And had to write this down, because it was all so vivid and intense and brutal, I have no idea where it came from. I woke up still feeling trapped to this man, expecting abuse and reprimand for not doing my assignment properly, but my pets greeted me in my apartment and adult life instead. And now I’m left wondering, what the heck was that dream trying to say?
In fairness, I have been considering narcissists (NPD), antisocials (APD), and codependency recently and the feelings of being a hostage to my ex-husband. Granted, that was emotional and verbal abuse, nothing close to this level of intensity. But, I suppose it is an extreme exaggeration, the furthest extreme, of my concerns for myself, what I fear becoming: trapped to an abuser, seemingly powerless to escape, and becoming a willing participant in their misdeeds to others, covering up their atrocities, in order to avoid further pain and hopefully get thrown some scraps of pleasure for my efforts. Despite realities being quite different, in a metaphorical sense (as dreams tend to work), all the feelings I had in the dream and the unpleasant things I was put through can be lined up almost exactly with feelings about my ex-husband. To think that I was so highly traumatized by him, by emotional abuse alone, as to be comparable to the horrors experienced in that dream, is disturbing and confusing. I think the message my subconscious is trying to answer a question I’ve had on my mind:
Was I manipulated and abused into the situation with my ex, or did I somehow enable him into escalation, essentially training him into a monster?
The answer the dream gives is… I was the one being trained to be a monster, he manipulated and used every kind of mental mind trick to confuse me into obedience. A part of me knew what he was doing, and despised him for it, wanted him gone, but the present part played the role expected out of fear of the punishments that invariably came when one of the random and ever-growing list of rules was broken. He did do that to me inside, and he did rope me into cleaning up his messes and made me an accessory to his “crimes” against everyone around us by chasing away my friends and family, and of course leading me into trying to inflict pain on my sister, and my friends on select occasions. Occasions that made me feel sick (as after the cooking of the extended family friend I once knew, but no longer seemed to remember) because I knew it was wrong, but he had seeded so many doubts I had forgotten what was ever good about the relationship. And the whole way thru, I swallowed his shit (like in dream), his opinions and preferences were shoved down my throat and then I was given a little praise (a mint or tenderness in dream) if I managed to mention something clever enough about the topic to amuse him while still asserting his superiority, but severely punished if obstinate, desperate to please, or otherwise not following his game.
It would be nice if my subconscious was less brutal in it’s messaging, but point received. My ex was a total jerk, a destructive sadist, and I should be glad to be rid of him and living free of his influences and abuse. My place in following his demands to assist in general evil are something to regret and feel guilty and sad over, but ultimately, HE killed the relationship (in dream, the friend was already dead by his hand), but he tried to make me feel responsible for it by making me clean up the mess. Accurate. Brutal and accurate.
I’m just going to go try to stop doubting my own self-worth and level of responsibility now. I was under a state of duress. I don’t even deserve half of the responsibility as I have kept saying. He came in, duped me with promises and sweets, abused me on a whim, confused me with gaslighting, trained me with classical conditioning and punishments, and caused damage to everyone around him whenever their presence or behavior didn’t suit him. I am not responsible for his being a narcissist and likely antisocial jerk. That’s on him as a grown man who is aware of his own patterns of behavior. And I did make sure he “died” eventually, IE: he moved out and has been out of my life completely now since January, and physically for over a year. I don’t have to be afraid anymore, and punishing myself for what he caused isn’t fair, nor would it be fair of anyone else to blame me.
I feel better now.