Words of Power

[al****]

I appreciate the support so far as I continue to write about my life, each story drawn from different chapters of my life to better understand myself and what might be missing in my new world of vanilla, the writing to potentially give me a roadmap to finding the balance I seek. For those that interested in the order of events: 

Chapter 1: An Origin Story
Chapter 2: Words of Power
Chapter 3: Not a Three-Way (Coming Soon)
Chapter 4: Seven ate Nine (Coming Soon)
Chapter 5: The Gifted Brunette
Chapter 6: Graduation Day
Chapter 7: 
Chapter 8: The Nicest Sadist (Coming Soon)
Chapter 9: A Tale of Two Subs (Coming Soon)

----------------------------------------------------------------

Some folks might've jumped at the call, hearts racing, minds whirring; not me. I saw it coming, like destiny had dialed my number.

"Hey AleXxX, are you free to come by the studio?" The voice on the other end was all business, a hint of desperation creeping through.

“What’s up?” I inquired, deliberately vague about my availability.

"It's a mess here. My lead's gone soft, and the actress is on a tight schedule. Got an hour tops," he confessed, his tone a cocktail of frustration and haste.

"How much of the scene's left to shoot?" I inquired. In the past, I'd been the go-to for this kind of rescue mission; when the main guys couldn't deliver or when a close-up was needed to wrap up a scene, they'd call me in as a stunt cock. A swift $200 for a bit of camera play wasn’t bad for an eigh***-year-old.

"We’ve got nothing, man. He's been fiddling with himself for three hours," his voice laced with tension. "I need you to shoot the whole fucking thing."

The city's grueling traffic would've eaten thirty minutes of my life in a car. On my bike, I cut it down to eigh***, slicing through red lights like they were mere suggestions. Entering the studio, a scene seared into my consciousness: the lead actor, cornered and defeated, his manhood unresponsive despite the fluffer's best efforts. A scenario I prayed I'd never find myself in.

"You made it," the director's voice boomed, laced with relief, as he ushered over a brunette with a huge pair of beautiful fake tits, probably in her early thirties.

He gestured toward a couch. "That's her husband," he said. "They've got a hard stop in forty minutes for another gig. I need you to deliver at least thirty minutes of solid footage." It's a brutal truth in this business; everyone gets paid regardless; the actress, the crew, the lights guys. But without that final, pivotal scene, the studio might as well be tossing cash into a bonfire.

My audience: six crew members, a husband, the actor in his failed glory, and the fluffer. Nine pairs of eyes, all pinned on me, expecting. From what I've seen, most guys crumble in these situations, all bravado but no substance. Me? I'm cut from a different cloth.

"Rock and fucking roll," I declared, shrugging off my shirt as I stepped onto the set. My confidence, unshaken, set the stage for what was to come.

"Why don't you give me a hand with this thing," I command the brunette, more an order than a suggestion, as I hold cock with a casual yet deliberate grip. 

Without a word, she complies, her movements lacking any semblance of human warmth. She drops to her knees, embodying a machine-like obedience. Her actions are devoid of sensuality, mechanical and impersonal. It's in this moment of hollow interaction that a stark realization dawns on me. The guy, sidelined and struggling in the corner, his plight suddenly seems more understandable. This woman, her approach to the act is void of passion, absent of any finesse. 

"You know what, you've had a long day," I tell her, a half-hearted attempt at kindness. My attention shifts to the fluffer, a familiar face and, more importantly, a familiar technique. I beckon her over.

The director's impatience slices through the air. "Is there a problem, AleXxX? Tick tock." His words laden with the weight of urgency and expectation.

But the fluffer, she understands the art. She's like a desperate survivor, treating my cock as her lifeline. The contrast couldn't be starker. She's got me ready before the director even finishes his sentence.

A grateful smile and a playful tap on her face with my arousal, I signaled my readiness, silently conveying my thanks.

"I'm ready," I announce to the expectant room.

The thirty-year-old bombshell lies beneath me, her huge fake tits a testament to the industry's standard of crafted beauty. I tower over her on the mattress, the director's voice slicing through the air, "Action."

My hand glides over her leg, a gesture meant to ignite a spark, but her response is hollow. It's not just the lackluster nature of her earlier performance; it's her entire demeanor. She's present only in the most physical sense, clearly motivated by nothing more than the paycheck that this job represents. This realization shifts my focus. My primary duty isn't to stir her emotions but to deliver a compelling performance for the crew.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I firmly grasp her legs, spreading them in a deliberate gesture meant for the camera's gaze.

"I want to fuck you so bad," I growl, drawing her thighs atop mine. We're setting up for the Eagle, a visually striking position, perfect to capture the penetration.

To my left, a cameraman clicks away, capturing each explicit detail with his SLR camera. Behind me, another records the scene, his lens trained on our every move. I throw a hard spit into my hands, a crude preparation for what's to come. Stroking myself, I ensure a smooth entry, then finally slide into her.

"Fuck, that feels good," I announce to the room, my voice a mix of gratification and performance.

Her breasts are the focal point, commanding the scene. As I thrust, each of my nine inches disappearing and reappearing, her massive tits move in a hypnotic, counter-clockwise dance. They're big, they're beautiful, they're the silent stars of this show stealing the spotlight with every ripple.

"Your tits look fantastic," I declare, reaching out to grasp her right breast, feeling its firmness, the softness of her skin. "Those are so fucking nice," I add, a mix of performance and genuine appreciation escaping my lips.

But she's no great actress; she's quiet, passive, she lies there reminiscent of my naive date from junior high, far from the porn star persona she's been labeled with. I wonder, maybe it's not her, but those grand, purchased breasts that have earned her acclaim in this industry.

"My cock looks amazing in your pussy," I tell the room, a bold proclamation. Watching this unfold, I'm struck by a sudden introspection; the parallels between my love for writing and the reputation I've gained in this industry. My vocal, dominant presence on camera, describing the scene, guiding it where I want it to go, mirrors my approach to storytelling.

I shift the position, my hands sliding under her thighs, lifting her towards me as I rise to my knees. "Arch your back and lift your ass off the mattress," I instruct her. The command is firm, a directive that shapes the scene, a reflection of my controlling presence both in front of the camera and in the narratives I create.

Her body is raised, her ass twelve inches above the bed, as I exert my strength to guide her movements over me. The rhythm is intense, the sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuating the room.

"That's good," remarks the cameraman beside me, his lens journeying from over my shoulder to an undercarriage shot, capturing every explicit detail.

"AleXxX, can you try to stand up?" comes the director's request, a demand for an even more revealing angle.

With a robust grip on her thighs and the balls of my feet the only part of me still touching the mattress, I wait for the precise moment. As I thrust into her again, I use the momentum to launch myself into a squatting position. The cameraman's silent nod confirms the effectiveness of the shot.

"You like that cock?" I ask her, my voice cutting through the heavy air, a question more for effect than genuine inquiry.

Reflecting on these moments is challenging, a tangled mix of the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. I want to believe she's enthralled by me, that my presence was unparalleled, but reality intrudes in the form of her husband on the couch. His fingers flash a 'fif***-minute' warning, a stark reminder of our time constraint. The good? We look stunning on camera, a visually perfect pairing. The bad is the lack of real chemistry between us. The ugly? My own thoughts, unfiltered and raw, "I'm going to fuck this bitch so hard she won't be able to walk," as I instruct her to flip over and get on all fours.

In a private setting, doggy style might find me on my knees for comfort, or standing beside the bed for leverage. But here, on set, it's that same squatting position. It's not about comfort; it's about angles, about giving the cameraman the best view. This isn't just sex; it's a performance, a display of stamina and strength. It's a grueling workout, especially on the calves. There's no time for breaks, no pause for recuperation. The director's words echo in my mind, "Tick, Tock."

Maybe there's truth in the whispers of my sadistic tendencies. As I watch the scene unfold, my actions become more intense. Shoving her head down, gripping her hair, I twist her head so she's ***d to lock eyes with her husband while my fat cock works to destroy her pussy. The air is electric, charged with the sound of our bodies slapping together, each thrust deeper, harder. Every sound she makes, whether it's pleasure or ***, there's an undeniable thrill, spurring me to push harder, faster, seeking more.

"You're going to take that cock," I yell, my voice a commanding roar, "every fucking inch!" I assert, my authority unmistakable.

I arch my back, reducing the space between my chest and her back. The posture is commanding, almost as if I'm mounted on a horse, still gripping her hair, directing her movements to my rhythm. A sharp smack lands on her ass, and I take a moment to admire the imprint. "Look at that handprint, it looks great on your ass," I announce, a note of pride in my voice. The minutes are a blur of hair pulling, ass smacking, our bodies colliding with each ***ful thrust until a voice cuts through the intensity, "5 minutes." A smile plays on my lips as she pleads, her voice tinged with fatigue, "My pussy is getting sore, can we finish with a blowjob?"

Memories of our lackluster beginning flash through my mind. The stakes are high, the clock is ticking, and the final product looms over us. I make a swift, decisive call. "That doesn't work for me, honey. I need to get closer," I declare, and continue with renewed *** and vigor.

On camera, there's a rule about hand positioning, keeping one hand out of sight to give the cameraman the best shot. I signal to the cameraman, indicating I'm about to break that norm. "Get between my legs," I instruct him, as my hands firmly grip her hips. What follows are powerful, deep strokes; my body drives into her with muscular ***, pulling her into each thrust.

Her screams fill the room, there's a fleeting thought about her next set, imagining her pussy still swollen from my cock, a sense of pride swelling within me. I can sense her reaction to my growing intensity; she knows I'm close. No verbal cue is needed, but I announce it anyway for all to hear, "I'm close, get over here." My command is clear, directing her to position herself, ready for the final act.

"Not in the eyes," she pleads as she positions herself. But my control is unyielding. I erupt with ***, the first surge catching her unexpectedly up the nose. She recoils, my left hand anchoring her neck, denying escape. My other hand continues its work, ***tering my release across her face. It marks her lips, forehead, and breasts. "Open your mouth," I order, deriving a twisted pleasure from her compliance, watching as droplets land on her tongue, trailing down her throat.

Whenever I start to revisit a memories like this, I often criticize them as too vanilla, reduced to a brash boast about conquests. Yet, there's a deeper realization unfurling. It's not just about the raw physicality of the act, nor is it solely about the lush, intoxicating beauty of the women involved. It's the power, the control I wield over the room, the twisted enjoyment of an audience fixated on my performance. The pleasure derived from using my body as a weapon to obliterate her, to send a message that reverberated beyond the confines of the room. In these acts, I begin to unravel more of who I am, the dark corners of my psyche revealing themselves in these unfiltered moments of dominance and control.
 

[Co****]

Fantastic writing, and very self aware . I could imagine it very well x

[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 2: Words of Power

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some folks might've jumped at the call, hearts racing, minds whirring; not me. I saw it coming, like destiny had dialed my number.

"Hey AleXxX, are you free to come by the studio?" The voice on the other end was all business, a hint of desperation creeping through.

"What's up?" I inquired, deliberately vague about my availability.

"It's a mess here. My lead's gone soft, and the actress is on a tight schedule. Got an hour tops," he confessed, his tone a cocktail of frustration and haste.

"How much is left to shoot?" I inquired. In the past, I'd been the go-to for this kind of rescue mission; when the main guys couldn't deliver or when a close-up was needed to wrap up a scene, they'd call me in as a stunt cock. A swift $200 for a bit of camera play wasn't bad for an eigh***-year-old.

"We've got nothing, man. He's been fiddling with himself for three hours," his voice laced with tension. "I need you to shoot the whole fucking thing."

The city's grueling traffic would've eaten thirty minutes of my life in a car. On my bike, I cut it down to eigh***, slicing through red lights like they were mere suggestions. Entering the studio, an image seared into my consciousness: the lead actor, cornered and defeated, his manhood unresponsive despite the fluffer’s best efforts. A scenario I prayed I’d never find myself in.

"You made it," the director's voice boomed, laced with relief, as he ushered over a brunette with a huge pair of beautiful fake tits, probably in her early thirties.

He gestured toward a couch. "That's her husband," he said. "They've got a hard stop in forty minutes for another gig. I need you to deliver at least thirty minutes of solid footage." It's a brutal truth in this business; everyone gets paid regardless; the actress, the camera crew, the lighting guys. But without that final, pivotal scene, the studio might as well be tossing cash into a bonfire.

My audience: six staff members, a husband, the actor in his failed glory, and the fluffer. Nine pairs of eyes, all pinned on me, expecting. From what I've seen, most guys crumble in these situations, all bravado but no substance. Me? I'm cut from a different cloth.

"Rock and fucking roll," I declared, shrugging off my shirt as I stepped onto the set. My confidence, unshaken, set the stage for what was to come.

"Why don't you give me a hand with this thing," I command the brunette, more an order than a suggestion, as I hold my shaft with a casual yet deliberate grip.

Without a word, she complies, her movements lacking any semblance of human warmth. She drops to her knees, embodying a machine-like obedience. Her actions are devoid of sensuality, mechanical and impersonal. It's in this moment of hollow interaction that a stark realization dawns on me. The guy, sidelined and struggling in the corner, his plight suddenly seems more understandable. This woman, her approach to the act is void of passion, absent of any finesse.

"You know what, you've had a long day," I tell her, a half-hearted attempt at kindness. My attention shifts to the fluffer, a familiar face and, more importantly, a familiar technique. I beckon her over.

The director's impatience slices through the air. "Is there a problem, AleXxX? Tick tock." His words laden with the weight of urgency and expectation.

But the fluffer, she understands the art. She's like a desperate survivor, treating my ***maker as her lifeline. The contrast couldn't be starker. She's got me ready before the director even finishes his sentence.

A grateful smile and a playful tap on her face with my arousal, I signaled my readiness, silently conveying my thanks.

"I'm ready," I announce to the expectant room.

The thirty-year-old bombshell lies beneath me, her huge fake tits a testament to the industry's standard of crafted beauty. I tower over her on the mattress, the director's voice slicing through the air, "Action."

My hand glides over her leg, a gesture meant to ignite a spark, but her response is flat. It's not just the lackluster nature of her earlier performance; it's her entire demeanor. She's present only in the most physical sense, clearly motivated by nothing more than the paycheck that this job represents. This realization shifts my focus. My primary duty isn't to stir her emotions but to deliver a compelling performance for the crew.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I firmly grasp her legs, spreading them in a deliberate gesture meant for the camera's gaze.

"I want to fuck you so bad," I growl, drawing her thighs atop mine. We're setting up for the Eagle, a visually striking position, perfect to capture the penetration.

To my left, a cameraman clicks away, capturing each explicit detail with his SLR camera. Behind me, another records our every move, his lens trained on us. I throw a hard spit into my hands, a crude preparation for what's to come. Stroking myself, I ensure a smooth entry, then finally slide into her.

"Fuck, that feels good," I announce to the room, my voice a mix of gratification and performance.

Her chest is the focal point, commanding attention. As I thrust, each of my nine inches disappearing and reappearing, her massive tits move in a hypnotic, counter-clockwise dance. They're big, they're beautiful, and they're the silent stars of this performance, stealing the spotlight with every ripple.

"Your tits look fantastic," I declare, reaching out to grasp her right breast, feeling its firmness, the softness of her skin. "Those are so fucking nice," I add, a mix of performance and genuine appreciation escaping my lips.

But she's no great actress; she's quiet, passive, she lies there reminiscent of my naive date from junior high, far from the porn star persona she's been labeled with. I wonder, maybe it's not her, but those grand, purchased breasts that have earned her acclaim in this industry.

"My cock looks amazing in your pussy," I tell the room, a bold proclamation. Watching this unfold, I'm struck by a sudden introspection; the parallels between my love for writing and the reputation I've gained in this industry. Just as I wield words to shape narratives in my stories, here on set, I manipulate the physical realm with a precision that borders on artistry. My vocal, dominant presence on camera isn't just about leading the scene; it's an extension of my creative control. I'm the auteur of this moment, sculpting the action and guiding it with the same meticulous intent I bring to storytelling. This is more than performance; it's a manifestation of my belief in absolute control over the narrative, whether it's written or lived."

I shift the position, my hands sliding under her thighs, lifting her towards me as I rise to my knees. "Arch your back and lift your ass off the mattress," I instruct her. The command, precise and deliberate, reflects my dominance in shaping the scene.

Her body is raised, her ass twelve inches above the bed, as I exert my strength to guide her movements over me. The rhythm is intense, the sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuating the room.

"That's good," remarks the cameraman beside me, his lens journeying from over my shoulder to an undercarriage shot, capturing every explicit detail.

"AleXxX, can you try to stand up?" comes the director's request, hunting for an even more revealing angle.

With a robust grip on her thighs and the balls of my feet the only part of me still touching the mattress, I wait for the precise moment. As I thrust into her again, I use the momentum to launch myself into a squatting position. The cameraman's silent nod confirms the effectiveness of the shot.

"You like that cock?" I ask her, my voice cutting through the heavy air, a question more for effect than genuine inquiry.

Reflecting on these moments is challenging, a tangled mix of the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. I want to believe she's enthralled by me, that my presence was unparalleled, but reality intrudes in the form of her husband on the couch. His fingers flash a 'fif***-minute' warning, a stark reminder of our time constraint. The good? We look stunning on camera, a visually perfect pairing. The bad is the lack of real chemistry between us. The ugly? My own thoughts, unfiltered and raw, "I'm going to fuck this bitch so hard she won't be able to walk," as I instruct her to flip over and get on all fours.

In a private setting, doggy style might find me on my knees for comfort, or standing beside the bed for leverage. But here, on set, it's that same squatting position. It's not about comfort; it's about angles, about giving the cameraman the best view. This isn't just sex; it's a performance, a display of stamina and strength. It's a grueling workout, especially on the calves. There's no time for breaks, no pause for recuperation. The director's words echo in my mind, "Tick, Tock."

Maybe there's truth in the whispers of my sadistic tendencies. As I watch the scene unfold, my actions become more intense. Shoving her head down, gripping her hair, I twist her head so she's ***d to lock eyes with her husband while my fat dick works to destroy her pussy. The air is electric, charged with the sound of our bodies slapping together, each thrust deeper, harder. Every sound she makes, whether it's pleasure or ***, there's an undeniable thrill, spurring me to push harder, faster, seeking more.

"You're going to take that cock," I yell, my voice a commanding roar, "every fucking inch!" I assert, my authority unmistakable.

I arch my back, reducing the space between my chest and her back. The posture is commanding, almost as if I'm mounted on a horse, still gripping her hair, directing her movements to my rhythm. A sharp smack lands on her ass, and I take a moment to admire the imprint. "Look at that handprint, it looks great on your ass," I announce, a note of pride in my voice. The minutes are a blur of hair pulling, ass smacking, our bodies colliding with each ***ful thrust until a voice cuts through the intensity, "5 minutes." A smile plays on my lips as she pleads, her voice tinged with fatigue, "My pussy is getting sore, can we finish with a blowjob?"

Memories of our lackluster beginning flash through my mind. The stakes are high, the clock is ticking, and the final product looms over us. I make a swift, decisive call. "That doesn't work for me, honey. I need to get closer," I declare, and continue with renewed *** and vigor.

On camera, there's a rule about hand positioning, keeping one hand out of sight to give the cameraman the best shot. I signal to the cameraman, indicating I'm about to break that norm. "Get between my legs," I instruct him, as my hands firmly grip her hips. What follows are powerful, deep strokes; my body drives into her with muscular ***, pulling her into each thrust.

Her screams fill the room, there's a fleeting thought about her next set, imagining her pussy still swollen from my cock, a sense of pride swelling within me. I can sense her reaction to my growing intensity; she knows I'm close. No verbal cue is needed, but I announce it anyway for all to hear, "I'm close, get over here." My command is clear, directing her to position herself, ready for the final act.

"Not in the eyes," she pleads as she positions herself. But my control is unyielding. I erupt with ***, the first surge catching her unexpectedly up the nose. She recoils, my left hand anchoring her neck, denying escape. My other hand continues its work, ***tering my release across her face. It marks her lips, forehead, and breasts. "Open your mouth," I order, deriving a twisted pleasure from her compliance, watching as droplets land on her tongue, trailing down her throat.

Whenever I start to revisit a memories like this, I often criticize them as too vanilla, reduced to a brash boast about conquests. Yet, there's a deeper realization unfurling. It's not just about the raw physicality of the act, nor is it solely about the lush, intoxicating beauty of the women involved. It's the power, the control I wield over the room, the twisted enjoyment of an audience fixated on my performance. The pleasure derived from using my body as a weapon to obliterate her, to send a message that reverberated beyond the confines of the room. In these moments, I confront the darker sides of myself, ***ling back layers to reveal an obsession with control, a need to dominate not just the scene, but the entire perception of who I am.

Edited October 13 by alexxxwild