Sunday, November 29, 2009

Condomized by #85 !!!

Chad OchoCinco (high up on Nicole's and my FuckList) is cumming out with own condom line according to Twitter, the font of all truth.

Chad's Tweet

I know only 1 or 2 of my blog readers will be able to wear these with pride, the rest of you will be forced to try them on to humiliate yourself for having such small whiteboi peens!

Do GAYPHONESEX for me!!!

Do GAYPHONESEX for me! Here is a reap-ort from one of my GAYPHONESEX puppets:

I had my NF line up for You last night Empress. I received two calls and managed to keep both on the phone for over five minutes so I was happy about that.

The first guy wanted me to describe myself as a giant as I walked through a city nearly stepping on him. I toppled buildings and smashed cars beneath me. He lasted six minutes before blowing his load.

The second guy was a top and wanted to humiliate me. He made me go to the freezer and get ice cubes before laying on the floor. He told me to fuck the floor as I forced three cubes in my ass. He laughed as he heard me doing it and told me to beg to kiss his feet in thanks. I begged. He laughed more. He then started calling me a stupid fag and cocksucker. He told me to add more cubes and beg to be allowed to suck his cock. I inserted more and begged the best I could. He laughed and called me more names before making me describe how I would suck him off. After I spent several minutes talking about his dick and my mouth he finally came and sent me back to the ground to lick his feet again in thanks. I kept him on the phone almost 10 minutes and I have sent Your account all the money I made from both calls. I also added a little extra as a thank You for training me to be a useful little phone slut for You.

I'm planning to do a PTV with complete instructions on how to do GAYPHONESEX for me, where I reap all the reward$!

Sunday, November 22, 2009


Someday I hope to have a blog or site where I could feature more literate erotic stories, rather than the forced cocksuckery....

Threatening rain persuades him into a cafe. He asks for green tea. The waitress introduces herself, Luisella. Not old, not young, long chestnut hair...occhi belli? (pretty eyes?) He would practice even more Italian and tell her she has pretty eyes, but feels momentarily too shy. The tea is too hot to drink. He sits, waits.

Waiting is not a good thing. In such a suspended interval, he feels compulsed. He does not know who to confess this to, a stranger? This pretty waitress without any other customers on a slow afternoon? She lights a cigarette. He sees she wears no rings. She tells him he can smoke if he wishes, but he says he does not smoke. She asks if he is on vacation. He tells her two weeks. Not many tourists, not like before, she sighs, seems sad. Usually he hates smoke, but the smoke is not tobacco smoke. It is sweet, aromatic, spicy. He looks at her, tilts his head. Oh, my cigarette. I'm not sure how to say it in English? Clovers. Cloves, he corrects her. Cloves. Not so bad for your health. She raises a small Espresso cup and toasts him, to our health!

He so badly wants to tell her about his dream, but they continue to make small talk. The weather. The best restaurants in town. Where is he staying. Where is he from? She has never heard of it. She only knows New York, California, Florida. He asks about a pharmacy, he needs something to help him sleep. The time change, he lies. She refills his cup with more green tea.

It isn't the time change, but the dream, the same dream, like the same song playing in his mind, his only dream. He forgot how the dream even started. He stares into the verdant tea in the ivory cup to concentrate....and lets the dream overcome his wakefulness. Long palm fronds are stirred by a sea breeze, a rustle in the palmetto beach grass. Burgeoning lushness. Sitting, with his back to him and motionless, a tall young woman in an ivory kimono-like robe. Long black hair, lustrous despite the sun which does not penetrate the low, dark clouds. Clearly her dunes and beach, here in the dreamer's mind...and he's confused since he finds himself at least a dozen paces behind her, somehow naked and hunched and embracing his own arms for warmth. Chilled from the sudden rising wind. Body bent, he sees his manhood, limp, lifeless, contracted. The wind barely covers his awkward silence. She laughs a familiar, fluid laugh, but does not turn.

Luisella speaks surprisingly good English, and is getting more flirtatious with him, but he informs her he has a girlfriend, as a shield, so she will not think his friendliness is anything more than a simple exchange between customer and server. “Well, I hope she is a good cook, at least. Capellini and marinara...or pesto, lovely green color, pesto, hmm? Why don't you just say 'angel hair' like all Americans? It makes you sound smarter, I suppose and less...'unmanly' than saying 'I love angel hair pasta.' The pesto is the best in this region. It's in the soil, you cannot fight it. Does she know all the things you like?" Then he begins to daydream, like... besides jazz, old Madonna songs with pulsing beats, colors like plum and turquoise, having long talks about small things, the smell of saddle soap or the thrilling prospect of an athletic male in restraints at the mercy of a determined woman?

Back crouched on the beach, he sensed a long dark eyebrow lift with the question, but without seeing it. He concentrated to swallow. “Wasn't it a bit rude to never explain your dropping our chats you enjoyed so much?” His busy brain suddenly matched the sultry voice to the letter 'S'. “You think you've buried your old passions and life, but you're mistaken. While you babble your excuses to me, I want to look squarely into my...”

His knee bangs the table enough to rattle the cup noisily as some tea spilled onto the ivory saucer. He feels his face flush, reaches into his pocket, produces some coins, and quickly bidding farewell to Luisella, he gets out into the open air. Finds himself gasping for breath.

He walks several miles thinking about definitive things to “clear his mind”. He drums up old movies, the tenets of Buddhism, a favorite running coach's training advice and of course his feelings for his present girlfriend. Suddenly feels exhausted. His sleep has been poor, he keeps waking up from this same dream. But to finish up the day he is compelled to visit the local museum as planned, and maybe sketch something.

He was always weak at drawing, but the “new man” he is these past months likes to keep busy. Soon, his heels are echoing on the marble of a museum gallery and then another. Rather at random, he sits on a bench in front of a few breath-taking Renaissance oil paintings. Out comes art pad and pencil. Eyebrows, has always liked long brows and finishes them energetically. The eyes, he thinks, are an unusual blue like the calm Mediterranean. Leave the eyes for later. The nose is not Greek, but has the nice, natural flair of most girls. He is drawn to the chin. His tiredness makes him vulnerable to the soft girlishness of this “mento bello”. He fixates on it and surrenders to conjecturing about it and the girl's sweetness. He glances back up at the eyes. “Blue eyes?” He rubs a bleary eye of his own. As clouds move outside and light swarms through windows, he sees the eyes are green, bottle-green maybe.

He goes back to his drawing, and he thinks of this Italian girl at a train station, even though she is not from the time of trains. He sees the dark hair framed by a billow of steam on the platform. Her chin quivers as the good-bye approaches. The male facing her, a young soldier going off for a year of duty. “You'll write me?” she asks as the eyes fix on him. “Every week” he says without thinking “ least”. The soft chin quivers a bit..."yes?" He hopes for a tear or two to roll downward to show her grief at parting, but tears don't come. Why not? Any softness in the eyes, he hopes? The bottle-greenness brings on an image of a bottle on the sea. He knows painfully well that inside the bottle is the penned confession of his love for this exquisite girl. The bottle bobs and hopes...inside it is a message that she may never get or may never read. The light changes and the eyes are the emerald eyes of a Persian princess and then they are the haughty green of a regal cat of the Pharaohs. And he sees finally the perfect and unforgiving curvature of the chin, that of a statue of stone or alabaster. He stops, his eyes travel downward toward her clavicle and its dimple, because he is afraid he'll become frozen and helpless at the sight, as if he were trapped in a classic myth, or like some ancient sailor who comes across the fatal song of the Sirens. Going back to the eyes, he finds no precise name for the color, as these eyes are of an intrinsic beauty and have no need to be copied or be like anything else.

The eyes belong to the distinct voice he knows so well, the familiar soft laugh. “So, how is that going for you now, burying your memories?” And he notices now a slight smile to the lips of the girl. “In any case, whatever you decide to do, I wish you well.” The sunlight fades from the gallery as quickly as it came, and he puts away pad and pencil.

As he walks outside he feels pretty good for the day he's had so far. Busy-ness buries dreams, memories of dreams. Now to think about where to go for dinner, considers Luisella's suggestions. There is a soft rain falling, but it doesn't bother him that he doesn't have an umbrella. He shields his sketch pad under his shirt, so as not to dampen his drawings. “She's absolutely right that pesto sauce is the best in this region”, he mutters as he walks over the worn brick sidewalk and sings a bit of an old Madonna song, a message from a message in a dream he cannot fight. "If I'm smart then I'll run away, but I'm not so I guess I'll stay, take my chance on a beautiful stranger. I looked into your eyes, and my world came tumbling down, you're the devil in disguise, that's why I'm singing this song."

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Size Queen Fergie!!

Sorry peewee, in this case, I'm not referring to the former Duchess of York....

From an interview in The Advocate:

Fergie said, "I’ve been very honest with (my husband Josh Duhamel) from the get-go. I think women are beautiful, I’ve had a lot of fun with women, and I’m not ashamed of it. The problem is that I also love a well-endowed man. But just because I enjoy women doesn’t mean I’m allowed to have affairs in my relationship. I learned through talking with my therapist that it is still cheating even if it’s with girls, so there is a rule there."

Screw the rule! And screw the therapist, well not literally, unless she's hot. Being with girls is NOT cheating! But at least this means Josh is packing major heat.

Size Queens on the Rise!

from peewee, intrepid UK blog reporter!

I found an internet post that showcases another hot outspoken US Size Queen! It's strange, I always thought that in America, attitudes were more reserved than in the UK, where freedom of speech is absolute [ish!]. So it's refreshing to see that a very pretty brunette, Olivia Munn, can be relaxed enough to tell it like it is on US tv!


He Thought a STRIPPER Could Turn Him un-GAY!!!

Partly to satisfy my curiosity - and partly to see if I could finally silence that small voice in my head telling me I'm still a real man and that real men get turned on by pussy, not cock - I went to a strip club a few weeks ago to see if I could get aroused by a sexy naked woman.

I had not been to this club in years, so none of the dancers knew me. As soon as I walked in one of the dancers got all over me - she watched me enter the club and winked and stared at me from the small cage stage next to the bar. She started to talk to me - then came and sat next to me after her set. We sat and talked at the bar for a good while. She danced a few sets but always came right back to me. She got really pissy every time another girl would come near - funny cause I was not really tipping or buying her drinks - she was sponging them off one of her regulars sitting on the other side of her who she pretty much ignored otherwise. (She was really pretty too - she was in several ads in the local Strip Club magazine.)

Eventually I got drunk enough to ask her back to a private room - where, to leave out the unimportant details and cut to the chase, she eventually backed her ass into my face, trying to get me to smell her lil pussy - but I could not resist her starfish, I grabbed her hips and went to town eating out her sweet butthole ... mmm, luv'd munching on that. She did not resist at all. However I was not aroused at all when she pretty much forced her pussy into my face. I ate her - but clinically - and never got hard all night.

She got off at least once and even kissed me, not just a quickie kiss, but like this raunchy French kiss which I thought, other than she was trying to work a fat tip out of me, was hot. Then because she had been drinking the champagne (extremely overpriced champagne you buy to get to the private room), she got a little confessional and told me that she had never gone as far as this before at the club. I'm thinking, yeah this is a good line, she probably works this on all the guys. Then she went on and told me (she crossed her heart that it was the god's honest truth) that her boyfriend had taken her virginity a few years ago - his was the only cock she had ever let in her pussy despite everyone thinking her occupation means she's fucked a million guys - and that I was the first one to really physically turn her on besides him. She gave me her number, actually she punched it into my cell phone then practically got on her knees and begged me to call her after she got off work. I know she actually liked me and was not faking it - I didn't tip her much at all, actually I tipped pretty badly - that was the give-away. So did I take her out after the club closed - take her to a motel and become the second man to fuck that tight hot stripper's pussy?

Hell No.

After leaving I went home that night and fucked myself with a nice big rubber dicktoy while watching gay porn movies on the net. I sat there edging and rubbing my pre-cum all over my lips and sucking it off my fingers - and I literally exploded when I came and gobbled my own cum after rubbing it all over my face. It was one of the most intense orgasm I've given myself yet.

And oh yeah, I deleted her number from my phone.

Dating and having real sex with a hot female dancer was actually my number one fantasy up until you changed me into a faggy little cockslut, Sara - and I still can't believe I had the reality in my hands and let it simply slip away without any regrets. It is so perversely humiliating to know I turned down a hot stripper who any real man would have given his left nut to fuck down cold; and instead had a mind-blowing orgasm using a dildo while watching two hung studs do a hot 69 on my PC.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Windows 7 is Calling all Cucks!

from peewee, intrepid UK blog reporter....

Have you and your loyal army of bloggies seen the new Windows 7 advert? A lot rests on the success of this advert, as Windows 7 is Microsoft's new big thing. The advert features a happy American household talking about the new updated version of the software, and it's GREAT to see that Bill Gates' advertising gurus have wisely opted to depict an interracial cuckold family!! ;-)


The hot wife, and her understanding mum, seem to relish presenting this international showcase for how happy a little white cuck can be, even if he is relegated to watching his beautiful wife cozy up with a huge black stud! This worldwide commercial will sell Windows 7, but let's hope it also leads to a massive increase in interracial cuckold households all over our planet!!

It's the weekend and that means the moron

must write to itself!!!! yes I force the moron to leave a fat tribute and write a debasing, degrading, humiliating message to itself, because I don't even have the time, and if I did, my time would be worth even more than the moron's tribute!!! and the moron knows I text my bff's after I post another self-flagellation blog so they can laugh over how weak and pathetic the moron is!

Many people go through life with a vague, gnawing sense that they are suppressing something vital and deep within themselves as they attempt to manage the many requirements and obligations of their lives and seek sexual release when that is possible. They sense there is something they should be experiencing, feeling, exploring, but never quite get around to allowing that part of themselves to find its voice and open to what is calling. I was such a person until I met Sara. I was all wrapped up in all of the things I just had to do to cope with the various aspects of my life and never allowed myself to feel more deeply and act on that call from within. Sara sensed this immediately, knew that with her guidance and instruction I was ripe to take the next steps toward what was calling out to me, the steps toward renouncing any sense of myself I had held and replacing it with Sara's desire to force me to become something else, her slave.

Sara recognized that beneath all of the things I did in the rest of my life, I was ripe to become utterly enslaved by her and in particular to be reduced to her mindless moron who would know only to accept and and be grateful for all of the mocking and stinging abuse that Sara would enjoy inflicting.

I want everyone to know, and Sara wants me to tell everyone, how grateful I am to Sara for taking me under wing and turning me into a pathetic moron whose mind has been turned to mush and who knows only to do as I’m told by Sara, including welcoming the laughter at my plight that rings in my hears from Sara and her friends.

You will have some idea of the depth of my enslavement when you consider what Sara has already told you on these moron blogs on which I humiliate myself by writing abusive message in words I imagine coming from Sara: that it is not enough for me to write such mortifying messages for everyone to read, but that I’ve become so dependent on Sara, so desperate to please her and find some basis on which to feel even slightly close to her, that Sara taunts and teases me, telling me she won’t post a blog I have ready unless I find new and more vile ways to humiliate and degrade myself and beg her desperately to post the message, and that I must also beg her to allow me to pay her a substantial tribute as well for her to agree to post my self-debasing messages.

Sara has helped me lose and find myself, and while to some it may sound disgraceful and a waste of a human life, I have never felt so strongly that I finally am the person (or non person) I should be and that I’m with the person who deeply understands all of this and will continue to teach me all I should know. And of course with Sara’s brilliance, creativity, and beauty, the thrill I experience daily as I feel her power over me, is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. Truly, I belong to Sara, am her property, am owned by her if she will allow me that divine designation.