Like I told you before, dudes, I moved into a small apartment about six
months after my wife and I separated. We are going to couples' counseling
now and I see my two kids most weekends. I have tried to get back into my
wife's panties a few times since we split, but she will have none of it.
The goddamn marriage counselor has been feeding her some fuckin' bullshit
about how my constant sexual demands in the marriage are 'an indicator of
an unhealthy sexual compulsion' and that we should abstain totally from
'sexual relations' while we live apart. Stupid fuckin' bitch!
Now that I think about, I'm guessing that frigid bitch of a counselor is
probably herself a closet lesbian who secretly wants to get into my wife's
panties herself. On what do I base this speculation? Dudes, the prim,
bespectacled bitch sometimes can't seem to keep her eyes off my wife, who,
trust me, even after pumping out my two kids is still a stunner with a
shapely body and big, beautiful tits. Fuck, dudes, I'm rockhard right now
just thinking about getting my mouth back onto my wife's beautiful tits and
burying my tongue inside her juicy pussy.
Shit, the truth is real pussy is the best pussy. Faggots, however, can be
the next best thing -- at least once they have been properly trained. Good
faggots understand that Real Men always ultimately prefer pussy. That's
what gives faggots the necessary psychological and emotional motivation to
be trained and to submit to your demands, even if you need to get a little
rough with them sometimes 'for their own good.' NEVER waste your time on a
faggot who thinks you owe her something. NEVER waste your time on a faggot
who seems to need you to tell her you love her. That's the wrong road to
go down, dudes. If a faggot wants to try to fall in love, she needs to
find herself a fellow faggot, albeit one that pretends be a man and who
will stroke her soft body with his strong hands and eat out her twat before
climbing on top of her and pounding her to sweet heaven.
But you know what, dudes? Two fags will NEVER find true happiness. All
girls -- and, like I said before, fags are just another species of girl --
NEED to be handled by Real Men and, eventually, penetrated by the dicks of
Real Man. Yeah, asshole, I know it's politically incorrect to say it. But
that don't make it untrue, dudes. Hard dick of Real Men is what rules the
world. All the rest is total bullshit. Scratch beneath any surface in
society -- any striving -- any material or professional or social pursuit
-- and what will be revealed is the raw need to dominate or be dominated.
The Men are on top, dudes, and the bitches -- of the faggot variety and the
other -- are underneath the Men, hungry and craving to be touched,
controlled and used. That's the FACTS, gentlemen. If you don't like it,
write your fuckin' 'congressperson.'
So, I'm guessing I can probably kill two birds with one stone in my
counseling situation: If I can manage to fed my dick into that frigid bitch
of a counselor, I can get her back batting for the right team again. Then,
it will just be a matter of manipulating her into dispensing a bit of
counseling 'wisdom' to my wife. Maybe on thoughtful reflection the
counselor will conclude that abstention from sex during our separation is
the EXACT OPPOSITE of the appropriate therapeutic approach. Instead,
maximum indulgence should be tried. I will even feed the counselor bitch
some made-up jargon for it. How about, 'compulsion satiation' -- you know,
dudes, we need to feed the addiction without limitation of any kind to see
if the craving can be extinguished through thorough satisfaction? Yeah,
and clinically we need to give this new approach PLENTY of time -- how
about, say, at least six months? Oh, yeah, nice, dudes! I'm gonna get
that lesbian bitch to TELL my wife that she needs to submit to my EVERY
sexual advance -- whenever, however, whatever the fuck I want. SWEET,
DUDES. After six months of this bullshit, maybe the counselor will finally
need to inform my wife that, well, the new approach didn't work, but it was
worth a try. In the meantime, I will be getting as much pussy as I want.
Maybe by then my wife will have gotten into such a routine of putting out
to me whenever and however I want, it will just become fuckin' second
nature to her.
OK, boys, I will report back to you on that plan. Right now, I want get
back to telling you what happened with that young, submissive Portland
faggot, Jase. I definitely enjoyed training and then tapping that tight,
faux pussy. Yeah, dudes, submissive fag is a nice quality in the world --
break it, shape it, mold it, remake it exactly how you want. That's the
beauty of the sick faggot shit: girls in the shape of guys; submissive
male-females just needing to be cracked open, shaped and used. Like bitin'
into a ripe but firm delicious-tasting PEACH, dudes. Or in the case of
young, submissive Jase, like beatin' a fuckin' piece of faggot shit and
then taking her sweet, oh-so-tight CHERRY.
Like I told you originally, I don't usually go in for young, inexperienced
faggot shit like Jason. The learning curve in training tender young meat
like her is just too steep. When I was younger, I kinda liked the
challenge of breakin' in young 'straight' pussy boys. Part of it, I guess,
was that I was angrier in those days and kinda liked gettin' physical with
those girls -- you know, mixing it up a little with them to teach them who
was on Top and in charge. I'm not proud of what I did to some of those
girls, but I usually got the job done without doing much permanent damage.
Anyway, I guess I've matured a bit. I'm now willing to pick my 'fruit'
very carefully and then exercise patience in letting it ripen exactly how
and when I want it to.
Such was the case with Jase. I carefully hand-selected that
straight-looking fruit and he ripened nicely under my firm hand and strict
guidance. I knew he was an admired and handsome young man is his own world
-- the kind of cocky teenage athlete whose quick smile and easy charm
allowed his constantly hard boner to stretch much more than its fair share
of sweet, young pussy. Ironically, though, it was the very fact that this
seemingly totally straight kid was constantly tapping new twat that
provided a key clue to understanding him. Like the saying goes, dudes, YOU
CAN NEVER GET ENOUGH OF WHAT YOU DO NOT TRULY WANT. Such was the case with
Jase -- the more pussy the boy tapped, the more frustrated he became. He
would get drunk and repeat the cycle over and over again. He couldn't
understand why regularly satisfying his hard dick's demands -- whether with
his spit-moistened fist or by inserting the stiff pole into some teenage
girl's inexperienced mouth or tight, juicy twat -- never provided him with
the psychological or emotional relief he seemed to need. Even his crazy,
pussyhound athlete buddies always seemed to end up making some kind of
emotional connection with some of the girls they fucked. Why couldn't he?
Eventually, I would make Jase tell me in serious detail about all of the
experiences that lead 'him' down the path to finally kneeling at my
apartment doorstep on that long weekend when we first met in person.
Dudes, these queers always have had experiences that lead them to you. It
is not unusual, though, for them not to themselves understand what these
experiences mean. But like I say, queers always have had formative
experiences on the road to you. To fully train a queer, you need to elicit
these experiences and put them into emotional context. Otherwise, the
queer cannot become fully oriented to what she was destined to be. Once
she understands that everything that has happened to her has lead her down
the path to her true destiny, she will become more settled and accepting of
her purpose in life. For sure, reliving these experiences can be painful
for her, but it is a necessary step in rearranging her mental and emotional
landscape. As she breaks open emotionally, you are handed the raw material
with which you can reshape her thinking, emotions and behavior to suit your
demands and whims. Your twisted desires then become inextricably
intertwined with her own sense of identity and purpose. If she ever sought
to stop pleasing you, it would be like she herself ceased to exist. Are
you following me here, dudes?
When submissive Jase fucked teenage twat he always liked to be on top of
the girl (or taking her pussy from behind). He liked to see the expression
on these girls' faces when, after eating out their pussies, he began
pushing his young, rigid tool inside them. There was something about the
strange mixture of pleasure and pain on their contorted faces that made him
extremely horny. He would fuck them hard, involuntarily pushing tears of
pain and joy from their eyes. Jase didn't understand what it was about
penetrating these girls and fucking them roughly and fully that made him so
crazy with frenzied need. What was it in the back of his mind that could
never seem to get release, even as his rigid dick pulsed deeply and
urgently inside these girls, filling the tightly stretched latex with his
load of warm cum. What was he feeling as he roughly fucked these girls?
Envy, dudes. Envy.
It's always fun to try to trace a faggot's tendencies back to her earliest
experiences. The further back you can go, the surer your grip will be on
her psyche. Don't worry, though, dudes. You don't need to get back to the
faggot's infancy, though her tendencies were surely present even then, in
inchoate form. Usually mining one or two good experiences from the queer's
adolescence will yield sufficient psychological and emotional material for
you to work with.
A key experience for submissive Jase occurred when he was 14 years old. A
very handsome and outwardly confident boy, he was a skilled baseball player
in school and a patrol leader in his scout troop. That summer, Jase's
troop was on a camping trip and he was sharing a tent with his best bud,
Mike. He and Mike had been friends since elementary school. Mike was
always playing pranks on Jason. The pranks were occasionally mean-spirited
or humiliating for Jason, but mostly they were just the usual kind of
bullshit teenage boys pull. Jason never retaliated. While both guys were
handsome and athletic and equally popular with the girls even then, Jason
had always been a superior student and athlete. Jason felt this made up
for any difference in how cruel Mike could occasionally be to him. He
figured Mike was just a little jealous of his superior academic and
Inspired by a camp rope-tying class, Mike got Jim, an older camper buddy of
his, to agree to play a practical joke on Jason early the next morning.
Summer camp was very hot during the day and only got down to the 70s at
night. The boys had gone on a grueling 10-mile hike and when they hit
their sleeping bags that night, they were totally exhausted. While some of
the boys took a shower before going to bed, Jason was too tired and decided
to shower first thing in the morning. Because of the heat, it was common
for the boys to sleep in minimal clothing and with their sleeping bags
zipped fully open. As usual, that night Jason had gone to sleep wearing
only his white boxers in his open mummy sleeping bag.
As the sun slowly started to come up the next morning, Jim quietly entered
Jason and Mike's tent holding three cut pieces of rope from their class the
day before. Mike smiled silently at Jim as he took two of the rope lengths
from Jim's hand. Over the next several minutes, the two boys very
carefully and quietly tied up the deeply sleeping young Jason. Mike tied
Jason's wrists together behind his back while Jim did the same to his
Jason began to awake groggily just as Mike finished using the third length
of rope to connect Jason's tied wrists together with his tied ankles,
effectively hog-tying the boy. Mike and Jim stood silently beside Jason's
open sleeping bag as the teenage boy struggled to pull himself into
consciousness following the prior-day's exhausting hike. Half-awake, he
tried to gain control of his limps, but found he could not move them at
all. In his mental haze, he thought that he was somehow paralyzed. Then,
he realized could feel his arms and legs, but just couldn't move them. As
his leanly muscular body struggled in his open sleeping bag, he was
startled by the sudden sound of laughter behind him in the tent. He tied
to roll over onto his back to see what the fuck was going on, but initially
couldn't manage it. After a few attempts, though, he was successful in
painfully rolling over onto his tied arms.
As he looked up in the early morning light of the tent he saw Mike and Jim
standing over him, laughing their fucking teenaged heads off at his
predicament. A moment later, though, both boys stopped laughing suddenly
when their gaze traveled to Jason's crotch. Jason lifted his head
painfully to look down at his crotch. There he saw his teenage dick
eagerly poking through the opening in his white boxers, throbbing and
pointing toward the ceiling of the tent. Shit, he often woke up with a
piss-hardon. Sometimes he even needed to beat out a quick load in his
bathroom before the fucking thing would be willing to go down enough for
him to empty his bladder. This, though, was fucking humiliating. He
struggled desperately to free his hands from behind his back so he could
cover up his rigid pole. Mike and Jim learned their knot-tying well the
day before, however, and Jason could not get his hands free. Finally, in
desperation, he rocked himself painfully onto his side, turned away from
the two staring boys.
'Oh, shit, man. Did you see that?' Jason could hear Jim's voice behind
him, but could not see him. Jim's voice had a tone of disgust and it
seemed to reverberate off the walls of the tent before penetrating Jason's
brain like a dagger. 'The freak got hard from being tied up. That's
fuckin' twisted, dude. I'm outta here. I'll see you at breakfast. You
should find yourself a tent-mate who isn't such a twisted freak, man.'
Jason heard walking headed to the front of the tent and then heard the
flaps of the tent open and close. The inside of the tent was now totally
silent, except for the frightened pounding of Jason's heart in his ears.
Like prey being eyed by a predator, Jason could sense Mike's gaze on his
bound body. Jason remained perfectly still, secretly hoping that somehow
his humiliation would be lifted. He knew he could not free himself. Maybe
Mike would simply untie him and two of them would just laugh it all off as
another one of Mike's cruel pranks. Was that possible?
After a minute that seemed to last a lifetime, Jason heard Mike kneel down
beside his sleeping bag. He quickly heard the zipper on the mummy bag
being pulled. As the sound reached his head, a hand roughly shoved his
head down onto the bottom of the bag. The zipper continued its journey
over his head and, a moment later, the sound suddenly stopped. Again there
was complete silence in the tent except for the panicked beating of Jason's
heart in his own ears. The bag had been completely sealed with Jason's
bound body trapped inside.
Jason heard Mike walking to the front of the tent and then he was gone.
Now Jason was totally alone, bound and imprisoned inside his own sleeping
bag. A down mummy bag can be zipped completely closed to help retain a
camper's body heat in very cold weather. It includes a two-sided zipper,
so that it can be opened from the inside or outside. If his hands had been
free, Jason could simply have unzipped the mummy bag from the inside. He
struggled a bit, but realized it was impossible for him to free himself.
The bag quickly became hot and Jason felt sweat begin to break out on his
forehead. His forehead and armpits began to sweat. Jason was soon
overwhelmed by the terrible stench of his own stale sweat from the long,
dirty hike the day before. He felt suffocated in the hot, tight bag.
Jason found himself praying that Mike would come back in and release him.
A renewed feeling of desperation entered him as he heard the excited voices
of scouts pass his tent on their way to the camp's dining area. Jason
began again to struggle at the ropes that bound him. He finally stopped
struggling once and for all, and lay perfectly still in his nylon and down
prison. Sweat pouring from his forehead and armpits, his panic and
desperation were now replaced by crying. He began weeping openly into his
sealed-shut sleeping bag, helplessly whimpering like an injured animal.
'Jason?' The bound 14-year-old heard a voice immediately outside his tent.
'Jason, are you in there? Mike said you needed my help with something.'
Fuck, it was Billy, an 11-year-old scout who was a member of the troop
patrol that Jason led. Although he did not think it possible, a wave of
even deeper humiliation burned through Jason's mind like electric current.
Again feeling panicked and desperate, his face wet with sweat and tears,
Jason remained completely still and quiet, even as the flaps of the tent
opened and he heard steps cautiously approaching his bound, sweaty body.
To Be Continued. . .