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.