True tales

[al****]

The following is an exerpt from a book I am writing about my life and the journey to better understand myself, what makes me tick, and current struggles in a world of vanilla.


In the sterilized, cookie-cutter world of suburbia, my four-bedroom fortress stood as a testament to the deviant art. Twenty-two men, split into two tribes by red and green wristbands, clustered in my living room. The greens, they were the pristine, the selected, clutching their health clearances like golden tickets to our night of excess. The reds, mere onlookers, relegated to the sidelines by their own oversights, marked by the mandatory condom rule and barred from certain pleasures.

There, like some surreal still life, was my fluffer, curves sculpted as if by divine hedonism, her breasts a study in perfection. She was the appetizer, on her knees, a goddess of indulgence in the corner.
Center stage, on a bed that knew more secrets than a confessional, sprawled our main event – a 23-year-old siren, every pore of her being screaming for fulfillment. Cameras rolling, capturing every raw, unfiltered moment.

Beside me, my personal forbidden fruit, a 19-year-old blonde, my submissive. Off-limits, her presence was a constant tease, a reminder of power dynamics.

Back then, I would have spun you a yarn about business, about the necessity of paying bills through the lens of a camera. But hindsight, that trickster, ***ts a different picture. It wasn’t just about the ***, it was about control, about watching these self-assured men turn to statues, their confidence eroding under the gaze of the camera.

One of them, voice shaky, sought a private moment to muster his courage. “Can I have 10 minutes alone to get started?”
“That’s what the fluffer is for,” I declared, observing one timid participant offering himself to her as if she were a delicate, breakable thing.

“Mind if I step in?” I asked another, a man in his late thirties, as I stepped in to assert my authority.
AleXxX Wild – that's me, the director, producer, the orchestrator of this debauched spectacle. I approached, watching as he withdrew without resistance.

With my left hand, I grasped my fluffer's hair, a silent exchange of power. “Open your mouth,” I instructed. She obeyed without hesitation. I felt my body respond, the thrill of dominance coursing through me. My right hand guided myself to her mouth, the illusion of depth achieved effortlessly. Her gag reflex kicked in, eyes watering, a primal dance of survival and submission. I held her there, a lesson in breathing through constraint.

Spotting an eager participant, I directed the show. “You, bed. Her mouth. Me, behind her.” I released my hold on the fluffer, pushing her back to her original task. “Someone else better be ready soon!”

The room was a mix of shock and fascination as I demonstrated my control, using her for my pleasure, and then, as a tool to inspire the others. "Green bands, have your way with her. Reds, either get hard or get out."

The heat was oppressive, not just from the bodies but from the blinding professional lights. This wasn’t just another day at work; this was a revelation, a deeper understanding of my desires. Among the twenty-one others, it was clear – I was the alpha, the one they aspired to emulate.

In the world of porn, where fantasy and reality blur, where pizza breaks are as common as reshoots, this was my truth. When the cameras died, and the lights dimmed, that's when the real performance began. Reality, whatever that was, began to dissolve into the shadows of the night.

[al****]

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 13: The Alpha’s Influence

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In the sterilized monotony of suburbia, a four-bedroom house stood as the unlikely stage for deviant art. Inside, twenty-two men gathered in clusters, their wrists marked by red and green bands, splitting them into two tribes. The greens were the chosen ones, their health clearances held like golden tickets, granting them access to a night of unrestrained excess. They were the ones who could go bare, their paperwork proving their status, their ability to dive into the raw experience without a barrier.

The reds, however, were marked by oversight, relegated to the sidelines of the night’s pleasures. Condoms were their mandate, their wristbands serving as reminders of restrictions, a divide that barred them from certain indulgences. They stood in contrast to the greens, watching, waiting, but always one step removed from the full experience.

There, like some surreal still life, was my fluffer, kneeling beside the leather couch like a forgotten doll. Her limbs hung loose, fishnet-wrapped legs spread lazily, a cigarette dangling between her fingers as if it were her lifeline. The smoke curled upward, spiraling through the air like a snake, mirroring the languid arch of her body. The fishnet clung to her skin, a tight second layer, emphasizing the sharp angles of her frame, vulnerability wrapped in black webbing.

Her skin had the pallor of someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in days, the stark whiteness standing out against the dark netting that pressed into her flesh. The belt, thick and red with heavy silver buckles, cinched around her waist like a corset, pulling her into a shape that felt more mannequin than human, molded into submission. She was the appetizer, a goddess of indulgence on her knees, ready to be consumed.

Center stage, on a bed that had witnessed more confessions than a priest, lay our main event: a 23-year-old siren, perfectly posed like a statue on display. Her body was art, but her eyes told a different story, vacant, as if she’d been lingering there for something that might never come. The dim light gave her pale skin an almost translucent glow, ethereal in a way that didn’t belong in the chaos around her.

Her lips were pressed into a tight line, not a frown, not a smile, more of an unspoken statement. Every part of her seemed to be begging for fulfillment, an unquenchable thirst lingering beneath the surface. The cameras were rolling, capturing every raw, unfiltered moment, documenting the silence in her expression. She leaned back, her fingers splayed across the bed, as if she needed to hold onto something solid, something real, in the midst of all this unreality.

Beside me stood a 19-year-old with the kind of smile that hints at knowing things you never will. Her blonde hair, messy yet deliberate, falls around her shoulders like she just rolled out of bed, but every strand is intentional. Her eyes, icy and sharp, scan the room, daring anyone to stare longer than they should. She’s dressed in something that clings to her body, loose enough to suggest comfort but tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. Her fingers, nails ***ted with casual neglect, hold onto secrets. The curve of her expression says she’s already figured out your weakness. She was my personal forbidden fruit, submissive, but off-limits to everyone else. Her presence was a constant tease, a reminder of who held the real influence in the room.

One of the green-banded men, voice shaky, approached. He glanced toward the starlet on the bed, his nerves obvious as he spoke. “Can I have 10 minutes alone to get started?”

"That’s what the fluffer is for," I declared, pointing to the couch where one timid participant was offering himself to her like she was made of glass, fragile and untouchable.

I felt a pull, an urge to correct the situation, to show him exactly what she was there for. "Mind if I step in?" I asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He nodded, too quickly, his approval meaningless, just a formality.

With my left hand, I grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back so I could see her eyes. There was nothing soft in the exchange. It was power, clear and direct. “Open your mouth,” I said. She obeyed instantly, her lips parting wide, eager. The thrill of it hit me, the dominance, the control, the way the room shifted. Eyes were on me now, nervous, unsure of what would happen next.

I wasn’t hard when I walked over, but gripping her hair, seeing her submission, I was halfway there. It was enough. My right hand guided my cock to her eager face, the illusion of depth easy as she enveloped me. The sight of her, obedient and ***, completed the transformation. I felt myself stiffen fully, her gag reflex kicking in as I pushed deeper. Still gripping her hair, I yanked her head back and then rammed it forward again, harder this time. Her eyes watered, tears spilling down her cheeks as I pulled her back, just enough for her to gasp for air.

Again. Forward. Back. This time, her eyes were streaming, her breath catching, and I pulled her head back just enough for her to suck in a desperate breath. That’s when I spit, sudden and deliberate. She wasn’t ready for it, tried to ***, but I shoved myself back down her throat before she had the chance. Over the top? Absolutely. But this wasn’t just for her. It wasn’t just because she liked it rough, though she did. It was about them, about showing these guys what they could do, how far they could go. They needed to understand she wasn’t some delicate thing. She was here for this, built for this. They could do whatever the fuck they wanted to her, and she’d take it. That’s what she was here for.

I spot a guy in the lineup, leaning against the wall, sporting an erection just from watching me treat her like the slut she craves to be. I shift back to directing, pointing straight at him. “You, get on the bed and shove that in her mouth while I take her from behind.”

I release my hold on the fluffer, shoving her head back into the crotch of the guy who had been waiting, his late-thirties nerves barely holding it together. “Someone else better be ready soon!” I bark to the room, my voice cutting through the thick air.

As I stride toward the bed, my thick nine-inch cock swinging with every step, the energy in the room shifted, charged with a sense of anticipation. Whispers of excitement seemed to ripple through the crowd, each person having just witnessed the unfolding scene. A familiar smirk crept onto my face as I took in the moment. "Green bands, have your way with her. Reds, either get hard or get out."

I position myself behind the star, her perfect ass in front of me, every inch of her primed for what’s coming. I slide into her, and after all the times we’ve done this, it’s almost routine. Almost. With twenty other men queued for their turn, this isn’t about stamina. It’s not a marathon, and it’s not even about pleasure, although that comes as a byproduct. It’s about volume. She’s here to take as much as we can give her, and I’m responsible for creating the energy that drives the room.

She’s already got him between her lips, and as my hips swing with powerful, deliberate strokes behind her, each thrust drives her head forward, pushing her deeper onto him, like a hammer striking a nail. Her hands claw at his ass, trying to slow the inevitable momentum, but it’s pointless. I’m in the zone, itching to fuck harder. And him? He’s lost, head thrown back, eyes closed, his hands resting on his head like he’s somewhere else, somewhere far from the heat and all the eyes watching him. It’s not just the heat from the bodies pressing down on us, but from the blinding lights, illuminating every bead of sweat, every second of this performance.

Those lights aren’t just there for show. They’re part of the scene, collaborating with the cameraman, working together to immortalize every drop, every thrust, every subtle movement. The lens is locked on us, tracking every second, anticipating the moment that’s about to hit. The cameraman knows what’s coming. I know what’s coming. I grip her hips tighter, lift my right leg onto the bed to give me more leverage, more depth inside her. In my head, I count down. Three thrusts, two, one. Each push drives her forward, deeper onto him until her nose is buried in his crotch, his entire length swallowed by her throat. I time it perfectly. His body locks up, he moans, and then it happens. Cum spills from her mouth, coating his cock, maybe even shooting from her nose. A seismic release, the kind that will ruin every future orgasm for him. The lens keeps rolling, catching everything. She licks it up without hesitation, never missing a beat, while his body twitches, *** in the aftermath. For him, this moment will be etched in his mind.

For me? Just another day at work.

I pull out, watching her with cum dripping from her eye, her mouth still wide open, ready for more. She’s not done yet. I step forward, gripping my cock, still wet with her juices, and with one smooth stroke, I unload on her face, covering the mess he left with a thicker coat. This isn’t just a release; it’s territorial. A statement. I look at the other men in the room. Their self-assured confidence is starting to crumble, turning to stone under the weight of the camera’s gaze. They’re realizing what’s expected of them, and it’s shaking them to the core.

As I finish the first scene, I command my personal property, my private blonde, to rush to my side and clean me of the starlet’s juices. She moves quickly, without hesitation, dropping to her knees like it’s the only place she belongs. Her lips touches my still-rigid shaft, soft but sure. Her tongue works its way over every inch of me, tasting what’s left of the starlet, her eyes never once leaving mine, and in that moment, a revelation strikes. It’s like watching all the puzzle pieces in this room fall into place, each one revealing the dynamic that fuels me. My fluffer, my gift to the crowd. My submissive, my plaything, a tease to remind them, "You can’t have everything I own." And the starlet, the challenge, the open invitation that screams, "Who can fuck her the best?"

Among the twenty-one others, the answer is obvious. I am the alpha, the one they all observe, the one they aspire to be. Every gaze is fixed on me, feeding off my dominance and anticipating my next move.  That energy fuels me. It wakes me up in the morning, makes me hungry for the next challenger, the next fool who thinks he can dethrone me. This is when I am my purest self. When I own the room, when every man here knows his place beneath me, when they’re all waiting for what I’ll do next. This is when I’m alive.

In the world of porn, where the lines between fantasy and reality blur, where pizza breaks are just as common as reshoots, this is my truth. When the cameras stop, when the lights dim, that’s when the real acting begins. Reality, whatever that is, fades into the shadows, and the performance of normalcy takes over. But here? Here, in this space, this is where I live. This is where I thrive.