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Truth Cries from the Semen, a Metaphysical Journey
Author’s notes. Almost a narrative, the story recounts in first person a melancholic intellectual young woman’s self-discovery journey from naïve “real world” pornography exposure to her ominous choice to throw herself, all at once, into an entire night of visceral fetishistic group sex.
Beware, dear reader! What awaits you is so much more than a gonzo sperma story! It’s intensely psychological and philosophical in one moment and then hyper-graphic the next. I am merciless, but never cruel, to the mind and body of the main character, Veronica. Yet it serves a purpose: only through the simultaneity of being psychically abstractly deep and physicalistically shockingly vivid can the narrative ever pretend to justify itself in reaching the liberations and true-heart contentments to which it ultimately proclaims.
Acting on the temptation to jump ahead to the wank material will, I believe, only be to your loss. Why has Veronica gone down the fateful path? How did she do it? What did she think? How did she feel? I do aim for certain aspects of verisimilitude (reality-likeness); but like in any art, I must arrange and exaggerate certain qualities along the way while suppressing others in order to achieve dramatic effect.
All that I can recommend is that you, to any extent possible, clear your mind of preconceived notions, and enter.
It’s been three days since I returned from my group-sex initiation into the club. Three days of new sights, new smells, new sounds: a new world. These three nights I have barely slept; my body enchantedly aches as my mind races through the lurid scenes over and over again of what I did, of the atrocious bliss that swept me away, of my unmitigated depravity.
I feel something has changed in me so utterly deeply, I am only beginning to comprehend it at the margins; it’s as if some great truths are just at my grasp. The smallest things set my mind into sweet despair- a newspaper rustling down an alley; a beautiful stranger hailing a cab; a siren’s wail fading into the distance. Sometimes I am so overcome with emotion I just stop in the middle of the sidewalk and close my eyes and let the Sun warm my face: I can feel the Earth turn. How can it be that I am alive? I am just a human, a woman. My mind’s eye moves out, above the clouds, into the coldness of space and reflects back at the sublime horror of the truth: here I stand on this spinning, hurtling hard rock, in endless space and in infinite time, one of innumerable creatures, grinded out of the endlessly recombined universal cosmos of Forever, who has come into being and will some day pass away. Nature itself, rising, surpassing, indeed bludgeoning through me, through my body, in all its violent depredations, does not grieve for what it wills, what it eternally decrees. I am joyfully, yet woefully, condemned into this flesh, this human-ness, this all-devouring lust. Only human. The veneer is peeling away: I am this beautiful obscenity called Nature, in all its majestic soiled smuttiness, in all its perverted noble grandeur. I embrace it all, for it is I. I feel absolutely no shame for what I did at the club. I am truly free and truly responsible. There can be no alternative.
It’s been three days. All I can do with these scribbling and scratch words is start at beginning and go the end, leaving nothing of importance out, no matter how small the detail, no matter how long it takes. I feel a keen desire to understand the course of events that have lead me to this self-discovery of my perviness; to understand (or try to) who I am, who I always was, who I always will be. If someone else is reading this other than myself it must be by mistake; I write only for myself, for answers- answers for myself.
My name is Veronica. I am almost 24 years old. I am not a pretty girl, perhaps not even average. I stand just over 5’7″ and skinny, even boney; my hair is jet black and straight, almost shoulder length, my eyes are ocean blue. My breast are small but firm, at 32B. My bones are too big for my body; try as I might, I tend to lurch a bit as I walk; similarly, my mouth, nose and eyes are all just a little too big for my face. My cheekbones are too high. While I am feminine in manner, my graces have sometimes made me feel confused, even ashamed, by touches of androgyny, of maleness, at the edges.
I live in the central United States and work as a financial analyst for a major corporation. I graduated from a prestigious liberal arts college with a degree in mathematics and philosophy just over a year ago. In college, my sexual experiences were probably typical for a girl. I had a couple boyfriends over the years, but they never lasted. I also had two female lovers; I’ve always found the female body alluring. I am bisexual. Sex for me was a horny release, it didn’t consume me. I’d bahis firmaları masturbate a couple times a week to some hot guy or gal from one of my classes when I wasn’t in a relationship. Not one to initiate things, shyness, even painfully awkwardness, has made me often feel sad and isolated from the rest of humanity. I’ve always had a hard time meeting people- my schoolmates and now my co-workers have been my social circle, my “friends”, but really acquaintances. Many people reject me or are intimidating by me because I come across as so cold and logical and unfeeling. I know am too self-absorbed in my mind- to the point that it sometimes drives me to despair. The truth is, I feel the world intensely, but my thoughts are so private, so abstract, they are difficult to communicate to any other soul. My books and my computers have been my only true compatriots in life.
Until three days ago.
After graduating from college and before starting work I had a lot of free time. One day, I don’t even remember how, I stumbled onto a XXX site on the Internet. It was the first time I’d ever seen porn. I don’t think it was even that special, just some boy-girl, girl-girl couplings. What entranced me was the way they fucked. Wow! It was just so raw, not like the soft namby-pamby experiences I’d had- asking about my “feelings” and if this-or- that was “okay.” Just stick-it-in raw. I masturbated like crazy! I eagerly sought more videos and pictures over several weeks.
My new hobby grew into quite an enterprise. Some days I couldn’t wait to get home from work to see if a DVD had arrived or a movie had finished downloading on my computer. I acquired a large set of dildos, vibrators and various creams that I’d use to heighten my sessions. I started lurking on porn forums where other people shared my interests, seeking hints and reviews that matched my tastes. My language had already changed so that I could write in the gritty, raw language that captured the experience of porn. I hadn’t engaged in real sex in a long time and didn’t seem to be missing it. Early on I liked “big dick” videos and “lesbian pretty-girl” videos (but which were designed for a male audience!).
My interests in porn gradually became more refined, and more extreme. My tastes unconsciously transformed themselves and followed whatever excited me the most, whatever got me off the hardest. One day, I randomly downloaded a movie where two girls were fucked by thirty men and had semen ejaculated all over them. This film transfixed me in a way that was utterly beyond my comprehension and it resulted, instantly, in several mind-blowing orgasms. I literally fell out of my chair in a quivering and gushing wetness upon seeing this type of video for the first time. Something in me just “clicked” and I wanted more, unbelievably more! I came to love gang bangs: seeing a huge group of men fuck a horny girl in every opening and then spray semen, over and over again, all over her willing face and mouth.
American videos in time came to no longer satisfy me; my collection grew to include European and Japanese semen fetish videos, mostly downloaded over the Internet. I found the foreign videos, and the actresses in them, far more extreme and authentic than those made domestically. The more the girls loved it and the more semen there was, the more I was turned on! While many videos sucked or were just plain sad (because the girl hated it), my quest to find the girl(s) who most loved being the group’s sex toy became unquenchable. I began to fantasize intensely and vividly that I was the girl in the video clip; that I was being fucked and then covered in semen. I’d often play videos at slow speed during the height the “cum storm” just to heighten the effect and increase my orgasm intensity. I’d start begging for cum and spread my pussy juices on my face (it was the only sex juices I had!) while getting off.
In time, however, I started to feel frustration. I had seen so many videos and had heightened my masturbation experiences to a level that there was nothing more to be done to make it better, to make it more real. I so truly yearned to be one of the girls in the video. I became unhappy- nay, depressed. I hadn’t analyzed what I was doing all this time, but I came to realize that I’d become a real pervert- and a degenerate masturbator! Just what was it about cum that charmed me? Just who were these girls that loved to be merciless fucked and then to begged to be sprayed down until they nearly drown in semen? What was it that they knew that I didn’t?
I started to watch the videos even more intently- instead of concentrating on the cocks and the flying sperm- my curiosity about the girls themselves became pointed and perceptive. The way their eyes and mouths moved; the way their arms flailed and hands grasped; what they said- not what the director told them to say or do, but what the meta-porn said: what the body of the real, living, kaçak iddaa breathing actress herself communicated to me.
I found three “types” of girls I liked the most in the videos I watched. None were purely of one type, but their fetish, their love of semen, and of being the center of attention of the group, expressed itself in predominantly one of these three ways. Some of them were like pigs- they just wanted to be “made messy.” Others were having fun- they laughed and giggled innocently- the whole experience was horny and amusing. Yet others were intently, seriously submissive; even desperately so.
I knew I was of this last type.
Something deep-seated in me connected with the submissives in the videos- not their “character”- but instead the real “actress”: the feeling of helplessness, the loss of control, the surrender of dignity and individuality to the group, the overwhelming sense of doom of being “degraded and used” – of wanting this to happen to them. I didn’t understand all of this at the time, but I do now. It was just the screaming ecstasy in their eyes and on their faces; the licking of the jizz off their lips; the begging, the nymphomaniacal pleading for more cum. This sex gave them some thing and I wanted to know what that was, because I knew I direly needed it too. The more vividly I imagined being her, the harder I came, the more deep and explosive my masturbated orgasms thundered through me. I knew I needed to stop with the videos and with all this fakeness and make something happen in real life.
My frustration grew into despair. I so yearned to be “the girl in the video!” Yet I had many doubts- would it be safe? What about diseases? I felt disgusted with myself at times that I had become so charmed by this “degrading” porn and by these perverted thoughts.
Did I have a choice? I tried to stop fantasizing and convince myself by intellect alone, through a kind of rational analysis, that my obsession was unjustifiable. Just when I thought my mind had made a breakthrough and resolved the matter by rigorous thinking once-and-for-all, I’d in matter of hours or days return to friggering myself off, hornier than ever, vividly imagining myself doing very unsafe things with groups of anonymous men at local dive bars or in porn theaters.
I could either live with this private frustration, and in denial, for the rest of my life, or I could do something. I burned with desire, yet, simultaneously, doubts intruded all the time- doubts about myself. For what was I searching? Why did I feel repulsion when I tried to be “analytical and objective” about my desires- yet, simultaneously, phenomenonally bodily stimulated with the most craven yearnings imaginable? I’d excelled at reading and writing about literature, philosophy, and math for years yet all this mental acuity left me blank- an enigma to myself. Again, I truly despaired with unparalleled anguish.
I resolved: I’d find a way, somehow, to make my dream real or to get real answers to end them. I found only one local swingers club in my town, but it just seemed creepy, just from the website. It was not long after, quite by accident, I found a series of posts by a “woman” on a sex forum I’d lurked in for a long time. Her posts were warm and informative. She apparently was the leader, a mistress, of some kind of “sex club” on the West Coast. She described all kinds group sex activities in her club, going back many years. Whenever someone asked about joining, always single men, she apologized and said that it was “invite only” and that she was only there to talk about the “lifestyle.”
I knew I needed to take a risk. I made a plan.
The next time I saw “her” online I made her latest post very large on the computer screen. I then stood next to it, fully clothed, and held my hand down at 45 degree angle. My camera took a ten-second delay picture. I quickly copied it into my computer and loaded Photoshop. I blurred my face and then uploaded it to a random picture website. I opened a private message dialogue and typed in “Hello.. I am 23/f and need to talk with you about group sex at your club. Here is a picture I just took of myself. Look at the computer screen. I am real.” I read my entry repeatedly and paused. What am I doing, I thought to myself. For a long time fingers of my right hand gyrated over the ENTER key as I ruminated in doubt. I felt some fingers press down and a key clicked. This is silly, I thought, it’s certainly some guy just amusing himself! At least someone would cum on me tonight, virtually, I giggled at myself. I waited, stewing in a sense of my own foolishness.
About five minutes later a response appeared. “Pleased to meet you. http:// … ” I quickly copied the address and pasted it into a new window. Up popped a picture of her.. yes, her.
A woman in her 40s. She was beautiful, about 5’2″ with long natural red hair with large breasts; dressed in a tight T-shirt kaçak bahis and jeans, her athletic figure showed through as she stood next to the monitor which showed the picture I just sent her! Another message followed: “Let’s take this to encrypted chat. IM me at …”
I still have the chat.
I am Victoria, what’s your name?
Tell me the kinkiest thing on your mind, Veronica. Don’t think. Type!
I’m sorry, I am still stunned that you’re… you.
Cocks exploding, jizz on my face, me begging for more.
Wunderbar! So sexy!
You’re so beautiful, inside and out. I’ve read every post you’ve written.
You’re so kind.
I am so frustrated; in despair, really.
I want to experience what I wrote above but have no way to realize it.
Sometimes things are best left as fantasy. Until you’re ready. You are so young.
I am ready.
How do you know? Tell me.
A passion burns in me 24/7 to be ravished by a huge group of men.. to be crushed in a bacchanalistic cataclysm of cock and semen. I cannot stand fantasizing anymore; something deep in my soul demands I experience my heart’s desire.
You’re thinking 🙂
That’s very powerful, Veronica. Is your boyfriend a part of this?
I haven’t had a boyfriend for a couple of years; I just masturbate to group sex/semen videos all the time and dream and dream. The thought of regular sex seems boring, frankly.
I try to analyze myself, why I have these sick and voracious desires, but all that follows is frustration and depression.
I know I am a freak, a pervert, a weirdo… it’s just…
Those are misunderstood terms the world places on us.
They do not know us. They do not know what it’s like. How it really feels.
You are not alone.
I don’t know if I can help you, but let’s talk on the phone. Is that okay?
Call me in 30 minutes at …
I will. I promise!
As I pushed myself back into the chair, my eyes fixated on “You are not alone.” My palms were so sweaty and my so hands jittery during the chat with Victoria, I could barely type. The doubts again flooded in, stronger than ever. Why did I come across so confident to Victoria? Group sex is dangerous, with all the diseases, right? Who is this “Victoria” woman anyway? I agonized with doubt and a sense of self-loathing for the whole 30 minutes. I thought about forgetting the whole thing and purging Victoria’s picture and the chat record. As the thirty minute mark arrived all I could do was look down at the monitor: “You are not alone.”
As I picked up the phone receiver, I could feel sweat drip from my armpits and from the navel of my breasts. My fingers, nervy, almost missed two digits as I punched in Victoria’s phone number. In one ring, I heard a pickup. There was no greeting.
“Tell me what you’re feeling, Veronica” a soft feminine voice questioned.
Suddenly, tears welt up in my eyes and my breath choked up. I tried to speak but only mousy gasps came out. “It’s okay, Veronica. Let yourself feel. Accept this moment fully, completely. It’s the first step,” Victoria consoled.
“Anxiety. Excitement. Fear. Confusion.” I whimpered into the phone.
“Good. If you didn’t feel this way, I would know you aren’t ready,” Victoria continued, “You are a very intelligent and intense girl, Veronica. I can already tell you try so hard to intellectualize everything but it only alienates you from your true, innermost self.”
“But I need to understand. Why am I so confused, Victoria?” I queried, my eyes filled with sorrow again.
“First you must feel and live to the utmost, then comes the understanding,” Victoria continued, “Listen to the little voice inside, your muse. Reason must be a guide, not your slavetasker.”
What Victoria said I always, deep down, knew to be true; but for someone, a beautiful stranger, to confirm this, stunned me. I felt a true kinship with this woman. Tears welt up in my eyes again: “Will you help me?”
Victoria replied: “I cannot make any promises, but come to the club during off-hours for an interview, and we’ll see. I’ll email the details.”
“You are so kind. Thank you for your compassion, for your tenderness.” I replied, still on the verge of tears.
I dropped the phone receiver into position and collapsed into the chair. The past hour had consumed so much energy it felt as if an entire day had passed. Feel, I told myself.
My interview at the club came a week later. An easier week it had been: I was doing something. I took the day off work; the flight to the West Coast was three hours and I spent the day there and then flew back in the evening.
As I arrived at the club by taxi, I could clearly see this was an upscale area. I approached the simple two-story building; ivy covered much of the façade. The entrance door spelt out “P R I V A T E”. I stood at the door for a minute as the doubts returned, but I shooed them away. I pressed the buzzer and waited.
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