Marking the Milestone

[al****]

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.

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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****]

The moment I began to spill ink for this book, direction was nothing but a vague concept, almost a nuisance. Yet, as I peel 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****]