al**** Posted March 7 Posted March 7 As I enter the third arc of my novella chronicling the true stories of my life I don't have a chapter number for this story yet but it takes place after Broken Rules, Kept Promises. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My memory's about as reliable as a paper condom; if I weren't right there watching these tales unfold before my eyes, I'd call bullshit on the whole thing. Here's me, a porn star with the stamina to fuck all day, a veritable magnet for women with a thirst that only I can quench, and an unceasing deluge of pleasure where everyone's a winner. And just when you think this narrative couldn't get any more surreal, my inbox dings with something that ratchets it up another notch: "Dear AleXxX Wild," it begins. A fan, barely legal from Chicago, shoots her shot with a bold birthday request to star in a video with me the moment she's of age. Her message comes with a selfie, her hand next to her face, "For AleXxX" scrawled on it, a concept so daring it demands several reads to fully grasp, each one sending my pulse into overdrive and my mind into a tailspin, all the while dealing with a relentless erection that refuses to be ignored. This scenario, you'd swear it's straight out of the fantasy playbook of the adult entertainment world I inhabit; a world where authenticity is often the first casualty, and yet, here we are, fiction bleeding into my reality. Picture this: me a twenty-eight-year-old guy, stark naked before the glow of my computer, wrestling with an arousal so palpable it's practically another character in the room, as I ***stakingly draft my response. I dot every 'i', cross every 't', detailing the when, where, and how, down to the necessity of two forms of ID and a clean bill of health. And then, with a resolve that sends a shiver through my hand, I slam down on the send button. As my email zips through the digital ether, I'm pacing through my place, each step weighted with a kind of desire that's gnawing at me, impossible to ignore. I pause by an empty room, set up for someone who might stay, live even, yet it's been untouched for months. I drift into my sanctuary of sorts, surrounded by tools and toys meant for the kind of play to channel this mounting tension through. Yet, the trust required to share this space is a currency I find myself short of. But there's a workaround, isn't there? My phone, a lifeline to a roster of women whose professional content I craft, women who, by contract, become more than clients; they become partners in scenes dictated by my discretion, twice a month, at least. My fingers find the first number, and the call connects, a woman's voice answering. "I'm in the mood to film," I hear myself say, my mouth watering with anticipation. "Meet me at the studio in an hour," I command. "Sure thing," she responds, ready to dive into the creative process. In the twisted weave of need and fulfillment, if a submissive isn't at my beck and call, ready to dive into the depths of my desires, there's always a model. A model itching to make the most of what I offer, ending in that explosive release, jolting me back to reality. It's this loop that spares me from the idea of self- gratification, a concept as foreign to me as abstinence in a brothel. The stretch before Sunday's shoot tightens around me, every day a grueling wait, like counting down to Christmas; except the outcome known, yet the suspense, excruciating. My phone becomes a beacon of obligation, ushering in a parade of numbers that mark the fulfillment of contractual agreements. The women by my side, they're nothing but understudies, placeholders in a grand rehearsal of my mind's meticulous script, as I plot out each movement, each breath, with my soon-to-be-legal scene partner. Then comes the moment of truth, Sunday at 11 AM sharp. My team and I are milling about outside the hotel, the air crackling with tension. That's when she appears, a burst of energy, throwing her arms around me in a greeting that bridges any distance between us. "Hey, AleXxX," she beams, a familiarity in her voice as if we're long-lost friends reuniting after years apart. No time is lost as the just-turned-eigh***-year-old finds herself perched on the hotel couch, a mere quarter-hour after our introduction. She shakes her head, a broad smile spreading across her face, signaling she's anything but nervous at my question. And with that, she descends to her knees, eager to please with her mouth. It's as if she's tuned into my desires; her touch is sparing, her hair swept aside to ensure unbroken eye contact with me. Observing her, as she works diligently, yet with an innocence betrayed by her imperfect technique, I'm reminded of the rawness of youth, struck by the authenticity of the moment. The thought crosses my mind to introduce her to a more structured environment, a space where guidance could refine her enthusiasm. “But today isn't for teaching; it's for honoring a birthday wish," I remind myself. And so, I gently lift her head, guiding her back onto the adjacent coffee table. My cock, too impatient and voracious, opts against seeking a softer venue. The table's height, unexpectedly ideal, allows for a seamless transition as I strip away her underwear, revealing her readiness. As I enter, her moan of delight saturates the room. She reaches out to me, breathless, "AleXxX, it's so much better than I ever imagined." In this moment, we're stripped down to nothing but raw emotion and primal need; my hands, firm on her thighs, spread her wide; an invitation to an unspoken pact between voyeur and exhibitionist. The cameraman, a silent witness to our unchoreographed dance, circles with predatory precision. From over my shoulder to the vulnerability of a close-up, his lens captures everything: the deliberate, deep thrusts; the slight shimmer of sweat on skin; when her lips part to demand more, "Harder," she breathes out, her voice a mix of command and seduction. That single word is like fuel, shooting adrenaline straight through my veins, expanding my girth, my presence, by a quarter. We're in perfect sync, the cameraman and I, two halves of the same mind, his retreat timed perfectly with the escalation of my movements. Her thighs under my hands are not just flesh; they are the levers by which I navigate this space, this moment. A mere nine-inch chasm separates us before the next thrust eradicates the distance; a cycle of thrust and retreat that binds us tighter into the fabric of shared ecstasy. There, laid out, she's the epitome of pleasure, her back against the table, laughter and moans mixing, small tremors of delight cascading through her. But then, the edge is reached; my ***, my size, it's overwhelming. Her hand climbs, seeking leverage, seeking a modicum of control over the depth, the intensity. Yet, I'm consumed, driven by a singular need to merge our climaxes, to ride this wave together. Her attempt to temper the depth, it's brushed aside, a mere distraction from the pursuit of heightened pleasure. Clothing, once a shield, now gives way to the immediacy of discovery. The zipper relents, fabric falls aside, and my fingers graze her nipple, teasing, coaxing, striving to heighten the wave we're cresting to its zenith. Her body responds with a shiver of release, her hand instinctively ventures downward, seeking self-guided exploration as a measure of control within the tide engulfing her senses. Then, the unexpected; a cry not of ecstasy but of discomfort slices through the haze of passion. A glance reveals the unforeseen, those faint red lines, a stark reminder of our humanity, of limits reached too soon. Faced with this crossroads, my own desire still clamoring for satisfaction, I choose empathy over completion. Lowering myself, I replace urgency with tenderness, offering kisses as silent affirmations of my support. My tongue weaves a careful path across her, focusing on her, transforming a moment of discomfort into one of care. Each gentle caress with my tongue against her, a delicate balance of pleasure-seeking and reassurance. Her flavor, unique and intoxicating, embodies the innocence and purity of her youth; a sweetness that, if captured, would rightfully be named “Heavenly Honey.” A nectar so divine, so uniquely hers, it transcends the initial unease, reaffirming the intricate dynamics of dominance and submission, of surrender and acceptance. The insistent buzz of a cell phone cleaves through our crafted reality, an unwelcome visitor from the outside world. "It's my mom," she explains, a note of urgency in her voice. "I need to take this." Nestled in the intimate divide of her thighs, I offer a muffled, yet nonchalant affirmation, "Go ahead, but I'm staying right here," signaling a reluctance to sever the connection we've built. As she navigates the conversation, a bizarre pleasure takes hold in continuing our escapade, a thrill in the challenge of maintaining silence. Yet, the unexpected pivot in her tone, a sharp, "You can't do that," signals a shift. Despite efforts to preserve our rhythm, her distress is unmistakable as she ends the call and drops the revelation like a bomb: "My mom's read my emails; she knows where I am and she's coming. She'll be here in an hour." I'm adaptable, built for the unpredictable, but this curveball leaves me spiraling in the wrong direction. As she outlines our ticking clock, my mind races through a catalog of unexplored desires and places I want to cum, now benched. But her next words snap me back, a lifeline thrown in the chaos. "Should I suck you off before my mom arrives?" she queries, pragmatic in the face of our collapsing timetable. "Get those candles burning," I command the crew, not ready to retreat. "No," I decide, a flicker of resolve igniting within. "We're seeing this through to the end," I assert. My arousal, undeniable, meets her with precision, her responses a mix of pleasure and compliance. Every move, every touch is magnified, every inch of me pulsating with a renewed purpose. "How does it feel?" I check in, mindful of her comfort. Her affirmation, "Really good," is all the encouragement I need. "I'm close," I declare, sweeping her from the table in a continuous motion that doesn't falter, even as I ferry her towards the countertop where her birthday cake waits, candles flickering, marking her just-reached milestone. No second takes, no room for error; precision is key. I withdraw from her at the climactic juncture, the grand finale unfolding with almost surgical precision, a thick ribbon arcs over leg, anointing her cake in a raw, unfiltered celebration of adulthood. Observing her, this fresh adult with her broad, innocent grin, indulging in a bite of her cake now flavored with my mark, I'm caught in the whirlwind of how surreal this narrative has become. Then, like a punch to the gut, clarity: In an age where romance is commodified, where affection is swiped left or right, I had, with laughable ease, spun my own web, my own ecosystem. A mere few taps and clicks summoned eager, consenting women to my door, a stark contrast in this new mundane world where digital flirtations rarely translated to the visceral, tangible surrender I craved. The indicators had always been there, glaringly obvious, yet I had been willfully blind, lost in my own constructed reality.
al**** Posted March 8 Author Posted March 8 The moment I began to spill ink for this book, direction was nothing but a vague concept, almost a nuisance. Yet, as I ***l back the layers and scrub each true story down to its bones, illumination strikes; not just light, but a blinding, revelatory glare. Chapter one, it all kicked off with me casting that first video into the void like a flare, hunting for souls mirroring my own desires. And here we are, circling back to where it all began, a cruel joke that unveils the perfection in my original scheme I wasn't even aware I had concocted. I hope you enjoy this chapter and as soon as this chapter gets a number I will add the video that inspired it to my Fet profile.
al**** Posted October 13 Author Posted October 13 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 15: Marking the Milestone ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My memory's about as reliable as a paper condom; if I weren't right there watching these tales unfold before my eyes, I'd call bullshit on the whole thing. Here's me, a porn star with the stamina to fuck all day, a veritable magnet for women with a thirst that only I can quench, and an unceasing deluge of pleasure where everyone's a winner. And just when you think this narrative couldn't get any more unbelievable, my inbox dings with something that ratchets it up another notch. "Dear AleXxX," it starts. A fan, barely legal from Chicago, shoots her shot, asking me for one thing: to star in a video with her the moment she turns eigh***. Bold request. But that's not the kicker. Her message comes with a selfie. Her eyes, wide and dark, like they're drinking you in, swallowing you whole. Her lips, tight like they're keeping something dangerous trapped inside, something barely held in check. Straight, flat hair d***s over her shoulders, calculated and deliberate, like she knows how to bait a hook. There's a stillness about her, the kind that clings to the air before a storm, her skin pale against the dark backdrop, her intent as sharp as a blade. But it's her hand that hits me hardest. Across her skin, like it's etched into her flesh, the words "For AleXxX." Scrawled like a confession, like an invitation, like an offering. The concept is so brazen it demands several reads, each one quickening my pulse, spinning my mind into disarray. And all the while, there's this insistent, throbbing erection I can't ignore. This whole moment feels ripped straight from the adult world I live in, where reality is warped and authenticity dies the minute the cameras roll. Yet here I am, living it for real. Twenty-eight, naked, lit by the soft blue glow of my computer screen, the heat of arousal thick in the air like a third presence in the room. It feels like it's breathing down my neck, shadowing every word I type. I focus on the screen, fingers moving with surgical precision. Every detail has to be perfect. Every line written with care. Two forms of ID. Proof she's clean. The date, the place. Nothing left to chance. I check it over, again and again, making sure each letter is exactly where it should be. Finally, I press send, holding the mouse just a moment too long, like I'm pulling the trigger on something I've already committed to. The email is gone, rocketing through cyberspace, but the need is still here, clawing at me. It follows as I pace through the house, each step landing heavy with this gnawing ache that digs deeper with every second. I stop in front of the room. A room that's ready, that's been ready, but remains untouched. The bed perfectly made, pillows arranged just so, everything waiting for the one person who's not here. It's been months. I don't know why, but I step toward my sanctuary, the space where control is absolute. Where surrender is demanded and given. The bed, the ropes, all in place, waiting for the moment I can use them. This room was built for release, built for the kind of play that channels the tension coursing through my body right now. I stand there, surrounded by everything I need to make this pressure disappear, but it feels impossible. Impossible because to bring someone into this space, into my home, requires trust. Trust is the currency. And right now, I'm broke. But there's always a workaround, isn't there? My phone, buzzing with potential, connects me to a list of women whose professional content I create, women bound by contracts to show up, ready and willing, when I say the word. Twice a month, they become more than clients. They become vessels for my needs, stepping into scenes I script down to the smallest detail. My fingers glide over the screen, choosing the first number. The call connects, her voice on the other end. "I'm in the mood to film," I say, the words slipping out with a desire I don't bother to mask. My mouth waters, anticipation already building. "Meet me at the studio in an hour," I command. "Sure thing," she replies, her voice sharp, eager, already stepping into the role I need her to play. In this tightly wound world of need and fulfillment, if a submissive isn't at my feet, ready to plunge into my cravings, there's always a model waiting in the wings. She'll bend, she'll stretch, she'll mold herself into the shape I require, until it all explodes in that familiar release that slams me back into reality. It's this cycle that keeps my hand from wandering, keeps me from settling for the cheap thrill of self-gratification, which to me is as foreign as abstinence in a brothel. The stretch of days before Sunday's shoot is unbearable, the buildup tightening like a noose around my patience. My phone becomes a ritualistic tool, an instrument of duty as it brings in the next name, the next contract fulfillment. Each woman I summon is nothing but a placeholder, an understudy, a practice for the real show, as I mentally choreograph every touch, every gasp, every movement I'll soon share with the one who truly matters, my soon-to-be legal partner. Sunday. Eleven on the dot. My team hovers near the hotel entrance, tension thick in the air. We don't speak, just wait. Then she appears, all energy and light, like the moment itself had been waiting for her. She throws her arms around me, and just like that, any distance between us evaporates. "Hey, AleXxX," she says, her voice warm, like we've known each other forever, like this was meant to happen. Not even fif*** minutes later, she's already sprawled out on the couch, legs bent just enough to make it look casual. She's not casual though. She's waiting. Eigh*** for barely a heartbeat and already she knows how to move like this, how to hold my gaze without saying a word. Her hair spills down the cushions, a cascade of dark that invites attention. She twists it absentmindedly, like it's part of the act, like she knows it'll pull me in. Her lips part, slick and glistening, and though nothing comes out, I can feel the words between us, hanging in the air. She's speaking, in a language made of silence, a language I understand. She smiles, wide and confident, not a hint of nerves anywhere. Those eyes though, they're doing all the real work. Hungry, curious, daring me to take that next step. So I do. I step toward her, and in an instant, she's on her knees, eager, mouth open, ready to devour. She knows what I want. Her touch is light, deliberate. She pulls her hair aside so I can see everything, the unbroken connection between her eyes and mine. She doesn't need to say anything; her body speaks for her, each curve, each shift telling me what I need to hear. There's a rawness in the way she works, her movements lacking the finesse of experience, a certain clumsiness that betrays her youth. For a moment, I think about teaching her, guiding her, refining that wild enthusiasm into something more controlled. But today isn't about that. Today is about her. About the wish she whispered for her birthday. I grip her hair, gently lift her head, and push her back onto the coffee table. My shaft, thick and impatient, pulses, aching for her. The table wasn't chosen by chance. The bed would have been soft, ordinary, the place everyone goes to have sex. I wanted this moment to stand out, to be etched into her mind, something she would never forget. I tear her underwear off, her body already wet, already waiting. I enter her hard, the room filled with the sound of her gasp, a moan so pure it strikes deep. She clutches at me, breath ragged, "AleXxX, it's so much better than I ever imagined." In this moment, we're reduced to something base, stripped of everything but unrestrained need and hunger. My hands grip her thighs, fingers pressing into her skin as I spread her wide. It's an invitation, an unspoken agreement between the one who watches and the one who performs. The cameraman is a ghost, circling with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience, his lens an all-seeing eye. Over my shoulder, then closer, catching the sweat beading on her skin, the way her lips part just enough to whisper what she needs, "Harder." The word hits me like a drug, straight to the ***stream, making everything sharper, harder, my cock swelling with the promise of more. We're locked in, the cameraman and I, two pieces of a machine, each movement in sync. His steps mirror mine, pulling back just as I drive forward, pushing closer as I retreat. Her thighs aren't just flesh in my hands; they're the gears by which I control this moment, turning and pushing with each stroke. A mere nine-inch chasm separates us before the next push closes the distance, the rhythm binding us deeper into the shared release. Every motion carries weight, every withdrawal leaves a void that only I can fill. This is the moment. This is everything. The shirt clings to her, the last barrier between us. My fingers find the zipper, pulling it down, and the fabric slides off her arms, forgotten on the floor. Warm, flushed skin is exposed, nipples hardening under my touch. I trace over each breast, teasing, playing, and the body beneath me responds instantly with a sigh. Shudders ripple through her as waves of sensation build with every caress, every thrust. Laid out before me, her back pressed against the table, she's caught between laughter and moans, pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Tremors race along her skin, but then the limit is reached. My size, my ***, it's overwhelming. A hand presses against my chest, seeking control of the depth, the rhythm. But I'm too lost in it, consumed by the need to pull us both over the edge together. Overwhelmed, drowning in sensation, each shudder and pulse leaves her trembling. A hand slides between her legs, fingers searching for control, something solid as the tide pulls her under. It's the last grasp at control, an attempt to break the spell as I push her toward that final, unbearable edge. But with each pulse, with every inch inside her, that grip slips further away. Then, the unexpected happens. Her cry slices through the thick haze, but it's not ecstasy. It's discomfort, sharp and clear, pulling me out of the moment. I look down and see it, faint red lines, streaks of *** cutting through the passion, a brutal reminder of our limits. Her body, still trembling from the intensity, is now recoiling from the strain. I'm so close, my own need still throbbing, insistent, but in this moment, I make a choice. Not for completion, but for her. I lower myself, moving with intention, replacing *** with tenderness. My lips find her skin, pressing gentle kisses into the warmth of her thighs, each one a silent apology, a promise that I see her, that I care. My tongue follows, tracing careful lines across her, offering comfort where there had been ***, turning it into something softer, something almost healing. Her taste fills my mouth, sweet and pure, like nothing I've ever had before. It's a flavor that would be called "Heavenly Honey" if it could be named, something that captures the innocence of her youth, the purity of her inexperience, and wraps it all into this divine nectar. Her body softens beneath me, the tension melting away as I give her all of me, making this moment about her, about us, about the shift from dominance to care, from control to surrender. The insistent buzz of a cell phone cleaves through our crafted reality, an unwelcome visitor from the outside world. "It's my mom," she explains, a note of urgency in her voice. "I need to take this." Nestled in the intimate divide of her thighs, I offer a muffled, yet nonchalant affirmation, "Go ahead, but I'm staying right here," signaling a reluctance to sever the connection we've built. As she navigates the conversation, a bizarre pleasure takes hold in continuing our escapade, a thrill in the challenge of maintaining silence. Yet, the unexpected pivot in her tone, a sharp, "You can't do that," signals a shift. Despite efforts to preserve our rhythm, her distress is unmistakable as she ends the call and drops the revelation like a bomb: "My mom's read my emails; she knows where I am and she's coming. She'll be here in an hour." I'm adaptable, built for the unpredictable, but this curveball leaves me spiraling in the wrong direction. As she outlines our ticking clock, my mind races through a catalog of unexplored desires and places I want to explore, now benched. But her next words snap me back, a lifeline thrown in the chaos. "Should I blow you off before my mom arrives?" she queries, pragmatic in the face of our collapsing timetable. "Get those candles burning," I tell the crew, the command cutting through the thick air. I'm not done. I feel the flicker of resolve deep inside me. "No, we're seeing this through to the end," I declare. My arousal, intense and undeniable, finds its way back inside her, her body responding with a mix of pleasure and quiet compliance. Every thrust feels amplified, every inch of me alive with purpose. "How does it feel?" I ask, this time with genuine concern, wanting to ensure she's back on the path of enjoyment. Her soft response, "Really good," is all I need. "I'm close," I announce, lifting her from the table, my hands firm on her body, keeping the rhythm unbroken as I carry her across the room. She's still wrapped around me, my cock still deep inside her as I move, walking her toward the countertop where her birthday cake waits, candles flickering, marking her just-reached milestone. No second takes, no room for error; precision is key. I withdraw from her at the climactic juncture, the grand finale unfolding with almost surgical precision, a thick ribbon arcs over leg, anointing her cake in a raw, unfiltered celebration of adulthood. It's messy, primal, exactly what this moment demands. I watch her, this fresh adult with her wide, innocent grin, reaching for a bite of her cake now marked by me. She takes it without a second thought, indulging in the surrealness of the moment. And then it hits me, hard and fast, like a punch straight to my gut. In an age where romance is commodified, where affection is swiped left or right, I had, with laughable ease, spun my own web, my own ecosystem. A mere few taps and clicks summoned eager, consenting women to my door, a stark contrast in this new mundane world where digital flirtations rarely translated to the visceral, tangible surrender I craved. The indicators had always been there, glaringly obvious, yet I had been willfully blind, lost in my own constructed reality.
Recommended Posts