How I was wrong : Cuckolding, or a story about sigmas

Ever since penning Please take your pills. two-three weeks ago, a point has been bothering me. I said there :

So now consider the case of women and men. If there exists a man type called GD, who is the favourite long term mate for women, why would there exist a different type GG, what would we mean by this type being “better” when it’s not the long term favourite and how would it maintain itself ? Think about it, you’re predicating poor fit, and at the same time proposing this leads to genetic selectivity! Why the fuck do you imagine it works that way ?

Because you would like for it to work that way, isn’t it. It would be fucking great if “risk taking”, whatever the hell you imagine that means were teh bestest BFF 4evar of the Great Cosmic Universe, and Mr. Director of All Things put it in the General Script that women must propagate it above all else. Basically, you’ve watched so much bad Hollywood entertainment you can’t even think outside of lame Deux Ex Machina tropes. This, incidentally, would be why anyone with an actual education despises you as laughable manchildren. This would be it. You act like you’re fucking 12, and if the red car is really cool then the red car must really win the race. No matter that it’s a Trabant, IT’S RED!

In actual reality, what makes a good parent is exactly what makes a good lay. Goodness is one and the same, there’s not two of them. The reason women don’t end up settling down with the Good Genes guys that’d also make Great Parents are exactly the same reasons you end up settling down to the Honda Civic. It ain’t a Ferrari, is it ? So why did you buy it then ? Sure, if a friend has a Ferrari you’d beg to drive it once in a while, and maybe he’ll let you. But otherwise, inasmuch as you need a car to move around, the Honda’s going to be it. You don’t make a better driver than the guy with the Ferrari. The Honda doesn’t make a better car. You both suck, in your own ways, which is why you each get the other.

I understand now that I was wrong. This will be a lengthy discussion, there's a lot of ground to cover and so, settle yourselves down comfortably and let's not waste any more time.

I. What exactly does it mean to be a "good dad" ?

Let's answer that by translating an excellent article published this Spring by one of the... I dunno, two ? three ? actually good Romanian bloggers. Here goes :

I'm starting to love my parents.

As far as I can recall, I didn't give much of a shit about my parents.

I had a happy childhood. After I left home, they let me be and do whatever I wanted, that whatever made possible strictly by all their efforts of emotional and financial support, of which I couldn't have possibly cared less. I wasn't considering it my due. I simply never considered the matter one way or the other. Not at all.

They contented themselves with the stupid reward of being able to call me worried every day, on the phone that they had bought me and paid the subscription, to see if I had warmed up the soup cooked overnight, so it'd be ready in the morning and with which they had ran acrosss town to send to me before going in for work, so it's here by the time I wake up late ; and to pray that I condescend to go pick it up. If they called a few more times a day, they pissed me off. Especially in the morning. The soup went to waste in the fridge most times because... I didn't like it. On rare occasions some hungover friend ate it, because it was absolutely extraordinarily great. It was made by my father, as no one else makes it. Not "another dad". Not "their dad". Not their mom for that matter. No one! My father cooks better than anyone.ⁱ

My mother always accepted and always encouraged whatever I may have chosen for myself, and sweet talked my dad, who thought - and for very good reasons - that every new adventure of mine could kill me, knowing heⁱⁱ can't stop me, trying thus crazedly, powerlessly to at least help me bring it to some close. Because if he helped, because if I succeeded - his ward - it meant he wouldn't lose me.

I ended up a very smart, and able adult.ⁱⁱⁱ During my recent independent life, I fulfilled all MY dreams, getting for myself more than the majority of children born in my year to parents in Zalau^iv, where my father is proud of myself and is envied. In fact, not quite envied. The community of parents in Zalau is too small and too happy : they admire him. His son is a small celebrity, with many spectaculous accomplishments to his name, outside of the standard "first home"^v or "grandkids" or working for a large company^vi, satisfactory but mass market accomplishments that sons and daughters must gather "so all is well".^vii When they stopped paying for my bills, my parents^viii didn't want anything back, although they are still paying the collected debt. That I did what I cared for was enough for them. My parents want of me that I do what I want to do.

Dad has a 8 GB USB stick, on which he has a Word file, named SARMALE.doc. In it there are written, one on a row, with a one row space between them, some dozens of different names of sarmale.^ix With impatience on my part and difficulty past his age's ability to learn, he has learned to transcribe them from his notebooks he had. He still has a few thousand pages to go. He studies old Romanian and Roman gastronomical culture, trying to reinsert it in current interest. Maybe-maybe he gets lucky and what he loves of his county will get kissed by some fad of the hipsters.^x Sometime he hopes to open a restaurant by his own heart, a dream which I had never considered even in the vaguest terms to in any way help or support. I had never stopped to ask myself whether I could do, whether I should do something for this man.

Yesterday I was in Zalau so he again sorts out some shit for me. And after he did the devil quarts^xi and sorted it out, my father asked me to help him with something.

"I have here a recipe [an url]. I got it from my Internet [Facebook newsfeed]. Where could I put it somewhere [save it] ? Because I keep receiving recipes [ie, finds links spidering around on the web, he's never looked exactly at how he navigates, he just ends up somewhere vaguely interesting somehow]."

I popped up Chrome^xii and showed him the bookmark star. Because I knew he will fill up the bookmark bar with hundreds of links, I made a folder, "Recipes". And then showed him how in that very folder, he can make a folder. Sauces. Next I had him make one. He made Soups. I showed him that if he finds another link, he can press the star, pick a folder and save ; or else make a new folder.

Yesterday I solved for my father a problem that had been besetting him for years.^xiii Through a ridiculously banal Chrome function, which I had no patience to explain the first time he asked, which was I think back in college, I fixed for him something like he had fixed for me without murmur, from one day to the next, paperwork, rents, excursions, life.

Today he went with me to the Zalau exit, towards Cluj.^xiv He had prepared some soup and some other things for me to take along, but he forgot the bag at home. He was very upset and couldn't believe that he had forgotten it and I won't have soup and whatever trims, in Cluj. He didn't know how to make me merely wait, so he can go across town back home, pick up the soup and bring it, just as long as I didn't go away. And I was in a hurry. I got to Cluj^xv and my mother called me four times to ask if I made it.

Daddy, I'm sorry I didn't eat the soup. And mommy, I'm sorry I didn't re-install your Power Point.

That'd be it, there you have it. And now...

II. What exactly does it mean to be a "cuckold" ?

Let's answer that by republishing a story. Here goes :

If you'd asked me if I would want to watch my girlfriend fuck another man in front of me a year ago, I'd have promptly punched you in the jaw. The idea would have disgusted me, as I'd heard of cuckolds and thought that they had to all be subs, and maybe even closeted homosexuals.

That was until one evening, when my girlfriend turned to me and planted the seed in my brain while we were talking casually on my sofa: a simple sentence that would slowly grow to something more. "How would you feel if I got hit on on Saturday?"

"Well I wouldn't blame them," I replied, laughing.

"Hmm, okay," she responded, slowly stirring a mug of cocoa with a spoon between her fingertips.

I watched her for a moment, trying to decipher her expression. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," she replied, "I've just never gone out on my own since we got together... I didn't really know how you'd want me to react."

"Well ignoring them would be a good idea," I splurted out.

"Yeah I guess you're right," she said, and I thought that would be the last of it. But as I went to sleep that night, the reality of her, out on the town in a hot little dress without me began to seep down lower into my subconscious. I began to feel a possessive urge rise up within me. I stifled it and pulled her closer to me, falling asleep with my face buried in blonde curls.

The next day, while fucking her tight adolescent pussy like most days I noticed a strange new glint in her eye. Leaning over her with all my weight, I pressed my hand hard against the mattress as I thrust into her. "What's that look about?" I asked her.

"Oh, nothing," she said coyly.

I moved my other hand from her hip and firmly placed my fingers around her throat. "Spit it out."

"Okay, okay," she gasped slightly, "I just was thinking about how you got all aggressive last night when I mentioned me, you know, getting attention."

It took me a moment to pick up on what she was referring to. "Yeah, well, of course. What, do you want me to like you getting hit on?"

"No, no, I just love how angry you got thinking about it," she said, looking into my eyes as though she were searching for something behind them. She took her hand and ran it up my thigh and gripped my hip tightly, manoeuvring it so I thrust deeper into her. "It makes me wonder how you'd react if a guy tried to kiss me at the club,"

"Kill him."

"- and I kissed him back."

I rammed into her so hard... I want quicker, each thrust eliciting short, sharp breaths and moans from her. Her eyes sparkled in pleasure, her lips puckered in "Ooh"s. I angled my cock so it would hit her G-spot just right and she built to an orgasm. I felt her tight, wet pussy clench around my cock as she came.

"Why on earth would you want," I said between the hungered presses of her mouth against mine, "to kiss anyone else." I shuffled and pushed deeper inside her while I wrapped a hand around her throat. She whimpered in pleasure as she came again. I loved the feeling of her laboured breath slipping between my lips as she kissed me, her moans escaping inside my mouth.

"You're damn right," she said in the afterglow of her orgasm, her body relaxed.

After I finished, she gave me a hint of a cheeky smile. She almost glowed in the dim room. "What?" I asked her as I gathered my towel before heading to the shower.

"Just confirmed some suspicions," she mumbled coyly.

"Huh?"

She turned to me, her expression calm but with a slight undercurrent of excitement. "You fuck me harder when you're jealous," she smiled at me.^xvi

I ran my hand through my hair, disconcerted. "It's to teach you that you aren't missing out on anything."

She walked up to me, a confident bounce in her stride. "You'll have to remind me more often," she said, before planting a quick kiss on my lips.

Over the next few times I saw her, whenever we fucked, she would bring up Saturday night, her girls' night out. "Should I wear that dress with the cut-outs, or the blue one with the cleavage?" she asked. She laughed at what must have been an expression of shock on my face.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"Why this sudden desire to be a tart?"

"Why do you want me so much more when I am a tart?"

I'd been asking myself the same question for the past while. Every time she hinted about getting danced with, or otherwise getting a guy's attention on the weekend, I just wanted to mark her as my own. The best way to do this obviously was just to fuck her to the point where she was too sore and spent to even think about fucking anyone else. Not that she would fuck anyone else.^xvii

After she left my place on Friday night, I hit up Google. "Why does thinking about my girlfriend fucking other men make me so hot for her?" All the results were talking about cuckolding. I felt my stomach drop. All I'd ever seen of cuckolds on image board websites and assorted shocksites was pathetic. Guys who knew they were so unsatisfying to their girlfriends or wives that they just let her get with other men. They liked being humiliated about how their cocks weren't good enough for her, and they even sometimes ate the other man's cum. I definitely didn't want any of that.

Surely I'm not a cuckold, I thought. But I was curious now. Over the coming days I engaged in a very strange game with myself. It was as if I were made of two parts : one part kept telling me that there's nothing to see here, and that I'm not even attracted by *that*. Oh my god look at that one! Look what he's doing. OMFG really, they moved him in the closet ? He has to wash the other guy's laundry ? By hand ?! Jesus they make him smell their socks after running ?

I kept promising myself I won't look at the things. After all, they didn't interest me in the slightest. I definitely wasn't being turned on about any of it. The erections I got were because the chick was really hot in that one. Because she had red hair. Because she moaned just so. It had nothing to do with the fetish, it was incidental, really.

I kept promising and I kept breaking the promises and then I kept promising to stop breaking the promises and in the end I read hundreds of threads and stories and soon enough I was going through whole websites. My porn stash doubled in size, and I discovered I was deleting only the old stuff. Eventually I found out about a select group of people who were like me. Exactly like me. They were so turned on by their girlfriend being sexy and sexually liberated that they themselves got possessive of her, and having another guy interested in (or even fucking) their girl made them not only jealous, but physically competitive.

Reading further, I learned that it also made them fuck harder, it made them feel as though they were Superman, brimming with supernatural amounts of testosterone so they could out-compete any other guy in the arena. That was definitely how it made me feel when my girlfriend taunted me about other guys wanting to fuck her.

It was so fantastical an idea that she could enjoy another guy after me. I fucked my girl senseless; I knew I completely satisfied her. I knew I was attractive, and I was proud of my sexual history and conquests. So the idea of her fucking another guy, and really wanting to?

I had to admit, it was hot. It would be like watching my girl, the hottest girl I'd ever seen, in a porn film but right before my eyes. The only way I'd be able to enjoy it though, was if I were restrained. Otherwise I'd just knock him out and fuck the shit out of her til she cried and begged for my forgiveness.

I realised then and there that I wouldn't find it hot unless I had no choice. It had to be her choice, it had to be her call all the way, and she had to force it on me. Being cuckolded would be in direct contrast to my usual role as the dominant in our relationship. The idea of being submissive to her was exotic. As much as I hated to acknowledge it, I grew secretly interested in her fucking someone else.

Though I'd been jealous knowing that other guys would be gawking at my girlfriend in her tight dress, nothing happened on that Saturday evening when she went out with her girlfriends. Regardless, I found myself getting off over a cuckolding erotic story while she was out, covering the desk with nine strands of painful, exhilirating cum. Two touched the wall, a meter away. I cleaned up embarrassedly and within five minutes I was back to reading - I never masturbated as much as that one night in my entire life, nor had I ever spunked like that before. By morning I was entirely exhausted and the towel soaked through, it stood up like sheet metal.

One afternoon a couple of weeks later she was using my computer to do something or the other. She lost a page, went into the browser history to retrieve it and bam! my exploration into cuckolding was revealed. Links to porn videos with variations of 'cuckold' in the title, as well as erotic stories and even gear dotted the page. The little counter said some had been accessed over a hundred times, which is probably an understatement - I honestly had been doing nothing but reading, watching and jacking off. I had called in sick three times because I simply could not get out of bed in the morning I was so exhausted. But after making the call, within five minutes I was naked and going through my sites, hand on the by now rubbery cock. It didn't even get all that hard anymore from all the abuse, nor did it properly stop cumming, it just sort-of pulsated and oozed. And the gear...

My heart jumped up into my throat. She turned and looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "What's this?" She pointed to the screen.

"You know what it is, porn." I smiled sheepishly, but my eyes fell to her feet.

"What's a cuckold?" She genuinely sounded curious. I took a deep breath.

"You know how it turns me on so much when you talk about dressing sexy and going out with your friends? And how my jealousy makes me fuck you harder?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's like, a thing. A common thing. And it's a fetish."

"A fetish? What like those guys into leather or something?"

"Sort of. Something extra, that you can add to, as they say, 'spice things up' in the bedroom."

"Like when middle aged people get bored of normal sex and start peeing on each other?" We both laughed.

"Yeah, that's one fetish." Sometimes I forgot that she was not even old enough to buy herself a drink, and really not all that sexually experienced. She fucked like a pocket rocket, but she was a virgin when I met her - I had scooped her right at that first exploratory phase where HS cuties go for older guys and never let go of her since. She only knew what I'd taught her.

Her head cocked to the side and she screwed up her nose, more in consideration than aversion. "So how do they even make porn of guys getting jealous? Like ok, when other guys want me, you want me more. But isn't that more of like, an emotional thing? Like you say it's as a kick in the guts and a desire to fuck me at the same time, right? So what, they kick the guy in the guts ? I don't get how you can make that into a video."

I swallowed. "It can get a lot more hardcore than the girl just going out looking sexy, then coming home and getting taught who's boss."

"How so?"

I showed her a couple of the tamer videos, of a girlfriend having sex with another man in front of her partner. She read a story about first-time cuckolding. I was nervous, wondering how she'd take all this new, much more hardcore information. I hoped she'd accept that I was into it.

"Can I say something maybe a bit too honest?" She said as she finished the final page of the story.

"Anything. Honesty is the best policy."

She twirled her hair in fingers. "This is actually really fucking hot."

I felt a flood of glowing relief flow from my toes up to the top of my skull. "You really think?"

"Hell yes! Oh my god. If I'd have known you were into this stuff... wow, we could have had way more fun these past few months."

My heart raced with excitement. Then I was scared shitless. "How do you mean?"

"Well, um, I didn't want to say anything before... I dunno, I guess I just didn't want to freak you out. But one of my biggest fantasies is to have a one-night stand. And since we got together, and I'm committed to you, and I don't wanna lose you, like ever... I kind of thought I'd never be able to do that. But..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes sparkling with the prospect.

She looked up at me with an expression that meant business. "You know, we don't have to do anything, if you don't want to. I'm not going to cheat on you just because you like the idea of me fucking other guys."

"I would hope you wouldn't, I get how it might seem like I do, but it's just a fantasy." I paused. Seemed like an eternity but it really couldn't have been all that long, she was looking straight at me the whole time, straight into my eyes "And I want to be involved in it." Oh my god. "If anything ever does happen, that is." I stuttered.

"I get that." She reached for my hand. Her eyes, oh her sweet innocent beautiful eyes were looking straight at me. We talked for a while longer about the logistics of her fantasies, and mine. As the conversation dwindled off and we went back to other things, I was anxious about this new freedom and power I was giving her to play with. But... was I really the one giving it ? Was there anything I could do, really ?

In any case, it didn't take all that long for my cute little baby to go from a fairly innocent and submissive girl to an aggressive and demanding domme. Not that long at all, it was like that talk had pulled all her clothes off and now there she was, as she really had been all along.

I was shocked at how well she picked up using my cuckolding fetish to her advantage. It enhanced the fetish strongly that she genuinely used it as an excuse to tease me, with no ulterior motive than her personal enjoyment at watching me squirm, helpless in her hands. It enhanced the fetish much, much more however that she used it to make me share in her own desires, or simply get me to do things. Small things, usually, but nevertheless she went from being totally dependent on me sexually, to independent and exploiting me for her own pleasure, in the space of about three weeks. That was the last time I decided which channel we're on, or even seriously held the remote for any purpose other than to hand it to her. She teased me just for fun, and she exploited me for anything she wanted or felt like getting. I loved every moment of it, each, both, everything. It's almost as if that same conversation had also pulled all my clothes off, and there I was, trying desperately to hide my erection from a laughing crowd.

Once she learned that I actually did like her dominating me, and I wasn't just screwing around with this fetish, she fell right into it like it was her natural element. She copied my methods of tying her up and using her for my pleasure, which we had done ocasionally in the past, and reversed the roles with shocking, delightful ease. She learned to tie me to my bed more securely than I ever tied her. She did her own research and even, completely of her own accord, learned how to ruin my orgasms. The first time she did it, I was so stunned that I felt the mental equivalent of being winded.

"What the hell was that?" I said, as I recovered from the strange, dissonant sight of having watched myself spurt a load of cum without feeling any corresponding pleasure.

She just smirked at me.

"Seriously did you not notice that I just came and... just... felt nothing?"

She smirked even harder. "That's the whole point."

I looked at her incredulously. "You did that on purpose? How? Why?"

"Because when you're my sub, you need to know just how much power I have over you. You need to have something to be threatened with when you disobey me." She ran her hands over the cum that had landed in a puddle on my stomach. She lifted a small amount and brought it toward my mouth.

"Nope. No way."

"Eat it."

"You are completely deluded if you think for one second that I'm gonna eat my own stuff."

"Look at yourself," she said, gesturing from my tied up feet to my wrists. "You're hardly in a position to refuse."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I couldn't believe her eyes. I had created a monster. But the worst part was, I knew no matter how I might have tried to manipulate her, she wouldn't budge. She was dead-set in domme mode, and I was nothing but her fun little toy to humiliate and exploit. I clamped my mouth shut.

"If you don't eat it, like eager little slut that you are, I'm just gonna rub it all over your mouth. And I'll ruin your next orgasm as punishment."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, but I would. And you know I can now, too."

The sexy little brat. I opened my mouth, slack, fully intending to spit it out when she wasn't looking.

She laid a thick, white glob on my lip. "Suck it in."

I rolled my eyes.

"Suck it, or I swear to God I'll leave you here for a couple of hours so you can squirt again, and then I'll build you and edge you for a couple of hours more, and then I'll make you eat me out and I'll let you think I'm gonna let you cum, and then I will ruin it and you will feel," she paused dramatically, "absolutely nothing."

She stared me down. I sucked it in.

"And then, she continued, I'm going to collect it all in a condom, and force it into your ass with my finger. Then I'll turn it inside out while it's inside you, so your asshole is full of cum, so you've eaten it anyway. And then," she continued staring me down, "and then I'll use the condom on my finger to get it back out, bit by bit, and make you eat it all then."

"Oh my god! I swallowed it! I did!"

"Beg for more like the good little slut you are."

"P.... please" I stammered, "Please more"

"Not like that! Say "Please mistress, I would like to suck down more of that delicious cum."

"Please mistress, I would like to suck down more of that delicious cum." I droned.

She slapped me. Just like that, crack, straight on the face. It stung. I could feel my cheek going red. We had never used violence before, I had never hit her, even playfully. But for some reason, my cock was twinging and trying to get hard again.

"Please mistress, I would like to suck down more of that delicious cum." I begged. She fed me another glob, then stopped.

"Please, more!" I was getting well into it by now.

She crooked her eyebrow.

"Mistress! Please mistress! Please feed me more of that delicious cum. Please!" I screamed. She fed me a little more.

"Now pretend it's not your cum you're eating." she said, calmly.

"Uh ? How ?"

"Just think in your head you're eating another guy's cum" she said, massaging my cock very lightly and slowly.

"Oh yes, please mistress, can I have more of that delicious cum you brought me!" I yelped. She scooped some up, and as she put it in my mouth my cock twitched ready to splurt again. She took her hand off immediately as she felt it, and I splurged another one in a long string of ruined orgasms since then.

"You're a bitch."

"You love it." She collected the new production and spread it all over my face. "Now let it dry there, and then remind me to take your picture later. You'll have a nice memory of today that way."

"Are you going to untie me ?"

"Maybe. Let me think about that a little."

And so I begged and begged and promissed and I don't even remember what else.

Over a period of another few weeks, she grew very comfortable with making me beg her, and making me promise all sorts of things, and making me eat my own cum while pretending it's someone else's. Her preferred technique was making me eat my creampies out of her. Soon enough I knew for a fact that as soon as I'm done cumming I will be eating it out of her. She loved sitting on my face when I was tied up and couldn't refuse her, not that I ever would pass up a chance to lick her delicious, smooth little pussy. She loved it even more that I was eating my cum right out of her, something I had a huge aversion to and wouldn't ever even think of doing when she weren't forcing me into such a submissive headspace.

She soon noticed that I produced more cum when she brought up my cuckolding fantasies, and talked to me about them when I was eating my cum out of her. It amazed me how well she could manipulate me into desiring to have my cuckolding fantasies become real. She would fuck me and edge me, and then jump off my cock and refuse to get back on until I begged her to fuck someone else on the weekend.

"Do you want me to find a guy to fuck on Saturday night?"

"No."

"You know the rules. No more pleasure until you say...?"

"Yes, yes, fuck." She'd ride me some more, her tight teen cunt caressing my swollen cock and building me to delirium. And then she'd remove herself from my cock again, leaving me desperate.

"I deserve another cock, don't I baby? Isn't it selfish to keep this amazing pussy all to yourself?"

"Yes," I said, needing her back on my cock more desperately with each passing millisecond.

"And will you eat his cum out of me when I get home like a good cuckold?"

"Yes."

"Good," she purred, lowering her tight pussy down, enveloping my cock and fucking it until I blew a thick, creamy load and coated her walls. The flavour of her juices combined with mine was downright addictive, and by then I was so used with the routine I didn't even think anything of her playing it up as another guy's cum.

A few more months passed, and brought me to the point where I was fully willing for her to do anything and fuck anyone she wanted. All that indulging her new cuckolding and old one-night-stand fantasies inevitably led to her desiring to push the boundaries further.

"Come out with me on Saturday," she said casually one afternoon.

"I thought that was a girls' night?" I replied, curious. On her occasional nights out with her girlfriends, she'd tease me when she got home with stories about all the guys who approached her, and how she teased them. She'd never asked me to come out on one of these nights before.

"It is..." Her large, blue eyes glanced away. "I'd like you to come anyway. I have an idea."

"What's your idea?"

"Um, you could shadow me. Go to the same places I go, watch me. I'll still dress up sexy. And you can see in person what I get up to. Who knows...? I might feel like doing naughty things knowing you're somewhere in the crowd."

I gulped. I felt a rush of excitement run through my chest, imagining my teen girlfriend, the closeted nympho, showing off for me. For me ?

"Like what, exactly?"

"Well, you'll see, won't you?" She turned to me with this sexy, teasing look in her eyes. "What do you say?"

"Count me in. But make it worth my time."

"Oh, it's a date, loverboy."

Saturday came around, and as we got ready to go out, my girlfriend sipped on a glass of cheap wine. I couldn't help but drop my jaw as I stepped into the living room and laid my eyes on her hungrily. She was wearing thin, dark pink stilettos and some black material that can best be described as an overambitious t-shirt. The "dress" clung to each curve and nook of her body; her perky breasts and ass, and her toned, thin legs and stomach highlighted to perfection. Her usually curly, sandy blonde hair was done up like in a glamour magazine, her big blue eyes made even larger by the thin black eyeliner. Her lips were the kind of pink that made you crave seeing them wrapped around your cock. Matched the shoes.

"Well someone certainly isn't messing around," I said with a laugh as my eyes lingered on her cleavage.

"You know I don't bluff," she replied coyly, placing her glass on the table and sashaying over to me. She leaned in and gave me a long, lingering kiss. As she pulled away she said, "I'm not wearing any panties."

I bit my lip and grabbed the car keys. "Come on, you're gonna be late."

It didn't take long for me to wish I'd never agreed to her game. I dropped her off outside the first club of the night and watched her tight ass in her black dress as she walked toward the doors. The two bonehead bouncers' eyes were wide as they traced her figure. Her legs looked long and graceful in the stilettos. I ached to throw those legs over my shoulders. I wondered how on earth I'd last the whole night. I parked my car, had my wrist stamped by the bouncers, and walked through the doors five minutes after her.

The club was fairly small and intimate; the colourful lights dim as they rotated around the dance floor. The bar was illuminated, so it didn't take me long to spot my girlfriend. She leaned against the bar, her breasts barely contained by the thin, slick material of her dress. She was laughing with some of her girlfriends. I went to the opposite side of the bar, grabbed a beer, and watched her like a hawk. I scanned the room and noticed I wasn't the only guy with eyes for her. I counted ten guys who checked her out within the next few minutes. I felt a rush of adrenaline and gripped my glass as I saw one guy stride over to her. I felt the strongest urge to beat him to her, and call the game off with my girlfriend and drag her home by her hair. Curiosity helped to restrain me, and besides... I enjoyed seeing how she reacted to the attention. It was a strange feeling, watching her flirt so confidently with another guy. It was like seeing her in a new light. I wanted to catch her as though I'd just seen her for the first time again.

This same scenario repeated itself for about an hour. Someone would come over and try their chances, buy her a drink, she'd flirt with them for a while, and after she brushed them off they left. I was probably looking like some weird lonely guy in the corner of the bar, but I didn't care. I had a different agenda than anyone else out tonight. I wasn't looking to gain a girlfriend as much as lose one, so to speak. This was going to be, although I didn't realise it at the time, our last night out together as a couple - even if we really were a couple in that sense in my head only by then. It's funny how you realise right in the moment just how important the moment is, but only later - sometimes much later - realise why exactly. This was our last night out as a vanilla couple.

I saw my girl pull her phone out of her bra, and begin texting. My phone beeped: "moving to vice now follow in 10". Why bother with punctuation or anything, right ? It's just her subbie she's texting to, not like she has to impress or anything. I watched as she and her five friends went out of the club. She stood out walking amongst their slutty outfits, none of them had actually gone as far as all that. She had to catch her breast and put it back inside the handkerchief at least a couple of times. A dozen men stared as she left, their eyes following her ass like magnets. I sculled the remainder of my drink, and stood up to leave.

That small, first club was just a warm-up. Vice was one of those huge industrial warehouse-turned-clubs. It was around midnight, and the dance floor was a sea of sweaty bodies. It was dark and muggy inside, and clubbers were bumping and grinding all around me as I stepped past the entry section. There was an upper floor with two different bars, several scattered lounges and private rooms. The music was so bassy and loud that it felt as though my ears were submerged in it. The flashing and pulsing coloured lights added to the surreal feeling. It took me a few minutes of disoriented walking through the crowd to spot my girlfriend. She was dancing with her friends, and they were dancing with a group of guys.

The first thing I noticed about the men was that they were barely men. They looked like they were in their early twenties, charitably, and though they were sharply dressed they had a very unconvincing air of cockiness about them. I was pretty confident that had I run into the group alone on the street I could have beaten them all into a pulp, one after the other, each one too petrified not to try and help their friend receiving a beatdown but even to run away. I'd have left behind a pile of bloodied shirts and pissed pants within less than an hour and with no bruise outside of my fists to show for it.

When I saw how closely one particular boy was dancing next to my girl, I felt my hand clench. I was sorely tempted to forget for just one minute that this wasn't really a street, and we're not really alone. I watched her and felt my temperature rising with anger as he moved his hand and pressed it against her hip, then slithered behind all the way to the asscrack, squeezing her delicious butt like he god damned owned the place. He didn't own the place! I... I had. His hand moved up to her waist, under her arm and finally, her breast. He obviously was pinching her nipples under her dress, and she obviously just fucking loved it.

She leaned back into him as they moved to the music. I tried half-heartedly to dance so I wouldn't look strange standing there with a huge tent on, but I couldn't stop looking at my girlfriend and how she was staring into this young prick's face. I ripped my head away and walked toward the upper floor, determined to get another drink in me and slow my heart rate down a couple of notches. Like nine or so.

I'd barely gotten my drink when my phone beeped in my pocket. "Isn't this kid cute? Should I go home with him?"

What do you say to something like that ? You tell her to get fucked, right ? And if you're man enough you mean it and stick to it afterwards. But what if you love her ? What if you love what she's doing to you, not necessarily for what it is but for it being her doing ? Maybe you even hate it for what it is, on some level, but because she's doing it you love it anyway. Years later I read in a learned article that that's exactly how women love, not for the thing but for its meaning, and I was enlightened. That's what they mean by the meaning of things, do they ? Well shit.

"He looks like he's barely hit puberty. No. Come home with me. Right now. That dress needs to come off." is what I actually said. I still have that SMS, and for that matter the phone, even though you can't use it to make calls anymore. It still works enough to read your messages though.

Beep. "I'm drunk my judgment is impaired I think he might soon take care of the dress altogether. He's doing a great job feeling under it anyway"

"Where are you?"

"Heading back to dfloor. U?"

"Watching."

"Good. Then watch this."

I looked down from the upper level, drink in hand, and locked my eyes onto her through the crowd. It wasn't hard to spot her; she was by far the most attractive thing in this whole club, not to mention that all her bare skin shone in the dark lights that ran across the floor. She walked back up to the boy she was dancing with before. He eyed her hungrily, an obnoxious, cocky look on his face. She looked him up and down, sussing him out playfully. He said something flirtatious to her, she pulled back and laughed.

Then, in a flash, his arms were suddenly out, his hands grabbing at her and pulling her hot little body against his. Their lips melded. I felt a sudden, intense shock of jealousy in my chest. I nearly dropped my glass just from the strength of the emotion. At the same time, as I watched their mouths move together, his hands roaming freely and grabbing her ass, my cock started to grow hard again. Not like a normal, everyday hardon. This was imperative, catastrophic, like an ultimatum backed by surplus nuclear weapons. I needed to fuck her. I felt an urgent desire to go down and grab her, throw her over my shoulder, carry her outside and fuck her in an alley.

I finished my drink in a hurry and walked as calmly as I could manage down to the dance floor. My heart was racing, I had to grab her and take her home immediately. This punk didn't deserve to lay a finger on her, let alone touch her and kiss her like that. I searched through the crowd for them; I looked for her sandy blonde hair and those pink shoes. I couldn't see her anywhere.

She was gone.

"Where are you?" I texted her. No answer.

I hung around for a few more minutes, in case she'd come back. Maybe she went to the toilet or something. I wanted her to say she was pleased by how much she'd teased me tonight, and that she wanted to take advantage of my jealousy and my hunger for her. I wanted her to talk about me, about me, about ME! It didn't happen. I rushed to the toilets, there was an endless line there, she couldn't have made it in. I stuck around for a moment anyway, in the hopeless hope I may hear her voice, or her laughter.

I flew out of the club and found my car. I sat in it and found myself staring at my phone. What do you do in a case like that ?

"I'm going home. Goodnight," I texted her. No response. I waited for it. Half hour later, exactly half hour later, like it had been a minute and then three and then two more and then two more and another five and another ten and so on, I peeled off, eyes still glued to the phone screen. That night I barely slept as I waited for a response from her. At 4:43AM, my phone beeped. It probably took me half a second to pick it up. It was a message from her. Finally.

It beeped again. She'd sent an audio file. The message simply said, "I'm home now had fun. listen"

Dazed from my horrible night's sleep, I fumbled around on the touch screen until I tapped the audio file. It began to play, and I closed my eyes, trying to focus all my energy on listening. For about thirty seconds, all I could hear was rustling. I figured her phone must have been in the small bag she'd worn out. I heard a few mumbles, and what sounded like a laugh. This was followed by more rustling, and then a thud. I made out a shuffling noise, and a zipper being undone. From then on, the audio was much clearer to me. I heard the noise of mouths moving together, and a thud. They'd moved to a bed, or a sofa. Then, I heard the sound of clothes being removed and falling to the floor in a heap, zipper ends hitting some uncarpeted surface.

I heard her whimper softly. My heart immediately dropped to my stomach. I felt something similar to being winded, a kick in my chest. My heartbeat picked up and I opened my eyes hesitantly, as even though I knew it was just an audio file, I half-expected to see images accompanying the sound. She probably knew I'd have that reaction, her choice to send me audio just another way of teasing me, knowing that I'd visualise the scene.

With each high gasp or low, deep moan that escaped her lips I longed to see what he was doing to her. Minutes passed and I was growing rock hard, aching to have her here, to be the one to make her whimper helplessly like that. I wanted to stroke it but then I didn't. It just didn't feel right, letting myself off. It almost felt like I owed it to her, that she can tease me more, better if I don't get any release. I wanted her to be able to tease me as much as she wanted. My balls were swollen, heavy, bluish. I heard a faint noise of a zip being undone, and pants being pulled down. "The bed?" My girlfriend said, and I heard her feet step closer to where her phone was recording. Her new guy followed her.

"You want me to?" she said coyly, a smile in her voice.

"Fuck yes I do. Suck it... bitch." The bitch at the end was barely audible, his voice croaked. This jerkoff!

The next thing I heard was the unmistakable noise of a tight, wet mouth being drawn around a hard cock and then removed.

"Yeah, like that?" She said cheekily, a low, husky tone to her voice. She was extremely horny; I could hear it in each tiny fragment of that question.

"Get it back in there," he replied, and then there was a low hum of pleasure. I heard the wetness of her mouth as it slid up and down the shaft of his cock. I heard her begin to moan with his cock in her mouth.

"Can't help but touch yourself, huh?" he said jovially. "Want it in you?"

"Mm-hmm!" She moaned in response. I heard footsteps away and then she asked "Where are you goin ?"

"Well to uhm... uhhh." he stumbled.

"No need, do me raw baby."

"What ?! Really ?"

"Yeah. It'll be okay." she probably turned around and bent over because, "Come here and stick it deep into me. Fill me up baby". Jerkoff lurched and for the next six minutes and thirty eight seconds he rammed her like an animal, to the accompaniament of the sound of his cock thrusting in and out of my girlfriend's tight, wet, young, shaved pussy.

My hand was wrapped around my cock, I found myself absentmindedly tugging and playing with myself. Each stroke of pleasure contrasted with the sickening jealousy that spread through me. The envy and rage I felt only made me hornier. The reality that this wasn't just porn, but it was actually my girl fucking someone she'd just met tonight, stabbed me like a knife. But my cock just ached, my balls churned with the flood of more cum. Even as I knew I won't do anything but edge, I felt myself desiring the taste of cum in my mouth. Her mind tricks and training were to blame.

The worst part of listening to the recording was that it proved to me just how far I had submitted to her. I had the choice to stop listening at any time. I had the choice to call my girlfriend and abuse the hell out of her. Make her my ex-girlfriend instead of my mistress. My Mistress. Break up with her, and ruin her life if I wanted to. I could have.

Hell, I even had the choice to rub one off, rather than just lie there in bed for hours, carefully tugging at my cock. Careful so as not to let it go off. The point was, I didn't want to. I didn't want to do any of those things. I didn't want to turn the sound off, I listened to it again and again and again. And again andagain againagainagainagain. I didn't want to abuse her, I didn't even want to cum on my own. I loved her, I loved everything she did to me, even the things I hated. Especially the things I hated. I loved her more for everything she did to me. As I listened to this new guy fucking her, I only wanted to be there and watch his huge cock entering her, then sliding out of her as her tight pussy lips gripped his shaft. Maybe she could turn to me and smile. Maybe she could say "see how well he's fucking me, baby ?" "See how deep he goes ?" "He doesn't know I'm not on the pill, but you do, don't you ?" Maybe she could make me kiss her feet while the other guy rammed his huge cock in and out of her tight little hole, filling her up with his own cum, making her his own bitch. His slut, my Mistress sucking him eagerly.

Hearing her moans and drunken dirty talk with him wasn't enough; I needed her to ride my face afterward. I needed to be made to scoop out the fresh load of cum out of her fucked-raw cunt with my tongue. Each humiliating stroke edged me closer to orgasm as I thought of her being fucked by this other guy. I loved it. I needed more. I craved more.

I listened as she begged him to fuck her harder. "Your cock, oh my god, more, more, more," she said in ever-quickening breaths. I heard her moans become higher-pitched and more frequent until she orgasmed from his cock. The sound of the bed creaked slowly, and then stopped for a moment. They kissed some more, long, lingering kisses. His next words sounded as though he were speaking from her neck.

"Did you just cum from your g-spot?" He asked, shocked but amused.

"Yeah, what, are you not used to that?"

"Yeah, like I know it can happen, but not really..."

"Do you wanna be used to it?"

And then the thrusting began again. I felt as though I were on a rollercoaster, each part of this recording turned me on more, and made me want her more, but made me hurt more at the same time. I couldn't stop listening. The thrusting continued. Her breaths eventually started to hasten again, her moans building to a peak. She came again, and I heard him groan, his thrusts slowing.

After they got up from the bed, all I heard was the sound of clothes being collected from their pile on the floor near the phone, and then silence.

I stared at the luminescent screen before my eyes. I read her message again. "Had fun." I rolled my eyes just out of sheer disbelief at how my girlfriend, so young and innocent a mere few months ago, was now able to get me this wrapped around her finger, cuckold me this hard, make me desire her so much and want to destroy her so badly at the same time. I furiously edged twice more, and couldn't help but moan from the desperation building inside my purple-blue ballsack.

I jumped at sudden realisation. I sent her a flurry of text messages, I have them all saved.

"Honey, I know you did him bareback, please let me come suck his cum out of you."

"Mistress, please."

"Mistress please let me come over, please!"

"Please, it may not be too late, maybe I can suck it out of you. Please Mistress! Let me try!"

Finally, the screen lit up of its own accord.

"okay. if you fail itll be your fault." she said. Thanks god for that!

I ran off to my car as I was, barefoot, in shorts and a sleeping tshirt. On the road over to her place it occured to me it'd be a much better presentation if I just came up to her door completely naked and humble, like a real cuckolded sub. In a flash my tshirt was out the window, then I stood up and rolled my shorts to the floor and just left them there. It was 6:12 AM and a minute later I was ringing her doorbell, completely nude, barefoot, with my nipples so hard from the sudden exposure and emotional turmoil they hurt on their own.

"What happened to you ?!" she asked sleepily, opening the door and her eyes widely.

"I..." I felt winded. "I thought it'd be better like this."

"Nice blue hue there, love. Did you jack off ?"

"Nno... uh... I... "

"You figured it'd be better if I'm the only one that can release your splooge ?"

"Yes!" I looked straight at her.

"Even if I won't let you do it all that often, and I'll ruin most of them anyway ?"

"Especially so!" I said, and she smiled at me.

"I'd let you in, but there's something you have to do then."

"What ? Anything, anything!"

"You'll have to wear this", she said, dangling a contorted shiny bit.

"What is it ?" Oh my god, I knew what it was. It was a cage. A cock cage, a little thing made to keep your cock safe from erections. It had a lock and everything.

"Uhhh"

"Come here" she said, and I stepped in. With light, soothing touch she fastened the thing around my aching manhood, or what was left of it anyway. "There you go baby, all packaged up." she went over and reclined on the sofa. "Okay, time to get to work. Suck it out of me, baby."

I leaped out there in an instant, buried my face into her all the way. Strangely... there didn't seem to be anything there. I lapped her out enthusiastically, but really, couldn't find any cum whatsoever. She tasted slightly like rubber. All the while she moaned, bulding up her orgasm, "Suck his sperm out of me like a good slut husband" she said, and a lot more like that. Eventually she came, and I looked at her puzzled.

"You know there wasn't anything there." I said hesitantly.

"How would you like to cum, baby ? I don't mean half way, I mean a good, long, slow handjob ? Make you cum so hard you can feel the suction in your spine ?"

"O yes Mistress" I yelped.

"So here's the deal : I'll tell you the truth, and you'll accept it as is, no questions. And you can have your release."

"Yes! Please!"

"You understand that now that you're locked in, this may be the very last time you ejaculate normally for as long as you live, don't you ?"

"Uh... yes"

"You won't do anything stupid to ruin your experience, will you ?"

"No Mistress!"

"Can I trust you with that ?"

"Oh yes Mistress!" I said, totally in the space. "For sure, yes!"

She took my little cage off, and as she gently stroked my cock she told me that she hadn't barebacked the guy, but just pretended for my benefit. That she knew that as much as I enjoyed the thought of her having a good flirt with another man, I enjoyed her actually fucking another man even more, and listening in even more than that. But her being knocked up by someone else, that was the peak of it all, wasn't it ?" I yelped. Yes, actually. Yes it was.

"So..." she continued, the way she sees it, I had promised to suck his sperm out of her, to stop her from being pregnant. But I didn't. I had failed in my task, I didn't suck as much as a single drop out of her. Notwithstanding that she had the presence of mind to save us this time, the fact remains that as far as I'm concerned, she might as well be pregnant right now. Maybe all his cum soaked up inside her womb, because it was so good and delicious and it made her feel so fulfilled and happy. She loved all that cum inside of her, she said.

But since she was already pregnant as far as I was concerned, she said, it's no longer up to me. She is going to get bred anyway, and I am going to be there for her and support her as she carries another man's child, and then be a great dad for it like she knows I can be. I'm just the right kind of guy, she said, and as she said that I exploded. Tons and tons of cum came flying out of me, it just kept going and going and going.

As my orgasm subsided and my cock shriveled she dragged me to the bathroom, washed it and locked it back into the cage.

"The same guy ?" I asked.

"Who, that schmucky kid ? No way!" she replied. I felt a wave of relief. "Someone cool, someone successful. But it may be very hard to find anyone", she said as she looked at me. "I want someone that will make it clear to everyone it's not your child. I want a black guy."

I think I must have passed out. I felt thoroughly humiliated. My girlfriend could very likely have had that douchebag's cum in her that night, she could have been sleeping with his cum soaking up in her pussy, and there I was, the guy she should have come home with - my cum completely wasted and wiped up with a towel.

After that night, cuckolding certainly solidified its place in our relationship. I battled with feelings of hurt afterward for a day or so, wondering if we'd taken it too far. She never let me go there for very long, and while cuddling after I had eaten her out a few days later she explained it's normal for little boys that have just lost their delusions of manhood to feel a little insecure about the world and themselves. It's all natural, and normal, nothing to be worried about, she said. And she knew what the cure for it is, too.

That night she fucked me in the ass.

She had bought a rather thin, rubbery thing that ended up with a large ball. That ball fit in her vagina, she could grip it well, and it had ridges on it where her clit was, allowing her to grind into it, plus a little vibrating engine there. She never took my cock out of its cage, she just talked sweetly to me, and gave me an enema, then lubed me up and slid her new penis slowly inside. As I was being penetrated I felt everything I thought I knew about the world change slightly. It felt so great. It felt, in a sense, as if she was taking us home, both of us. I was so thankful to her for being this strong and able and wise. I was incredibly grateful for having such a great, powerful, wonderful woman teaching me who I really was and what my place in the world was.

Her rubber cock inside my ass felt so incredibly good as it squirmed around it made me cum. It happened just as she was whispering in my ear about how she knows I'll make the best girlfriend she could ever have. I didn't really cum in the usual sense, my cock wasn't even erect inside its cage, but nevertheless I exploded with an orgasm coursing each and every nerve in my body from the tip of my tongue to the tips of my toes the likes of which I had never imagined. It was just great.

As we both lay there in the afterglow of a fabulous fuck, I wondered aloud if I'm gay now. "No dear," she answered knowingly. "You're just a cuckold. You love me so much that it brings out the woman in you. Women can love deeper than men can, you know ?"

"I guess so."

"Well so there you go, you love me so much you just want to take me inside and pleasure me."

"That's true..." I said. It was.

"Ah, I'm so happy." she said.

We've been happily married ever since. Alysha, her daughter by her first bull, is the youngest associate at the law firm she works for to have ever been made a full partner. In a hundred sixty three years of continous existence, the youngest. Darrel made a million bucks playing basketball. Mistress picked the first bull for smarts and the second for physical prowess. And James... well, let's just say James she finally had with me. I thought it was a bad idea, and I still do, but she insisted and so we did. He hangs around the house, we go to the game together, stuff like that. I think this Autumn he's maybe headed back for college, they accepted him for some program, maybe.

When I look back over my life, and over our life together, I feel a glow of contentment washing over me. So does she, and once recently when our eyes locked and I knew she had guessed what I was thinking I told her that I'm thankful to the Heavens that I had the incredible good fortune to meet her, a girl smart enough to figure out the right path and strong enough to keep me on it, in spite of my hesitant, loud and obnoxious self. And she said that well, she's proud of herself, but she's also proud of me, for not having broken up.

I guess that's also something. There's a power to do things, and then there's a power to withstand things, like this blog I read explained somewhere. You probably won't understand it, it's written in Romanian, and the guy knows a lot and is often difficult to follow, especially if you're not within the 1% of the 1%. Especially if you hadn't the good fortune of being the son of a wise enough mother to have selected a good father to have you with and another good father to raise you with. But anyway : there's a womanly and there's a manly way, they're both needed, and you won't really know which kind you really are. Perhaps you'll never know. Or maybe you'll get lucky like I did and find out.

May all your journeys be worthwhile, regardless of how strange and difficult they may appear!

So now that we're in a position to understand what we're talking about, let me tell you about my father. I never cared for the schmuck, not that I can remember at any rate. We parted, ten, twenty years ago on the terms of me inviting him to go towards his mother's cunt^xviii, and ritously^xix stating for his benefit that if he ever wanders before my eyes again I'll kill him.

This wasn't an idle threat, the sort angry people make. At the time I had the means and the power to do so, and it was generally speaking my business to okay any killings taking place in a relatively large geographic area. This was not a secret, not to anyone wise at any rate, so much so that he called my mother to try and find out whether she thinks I mean it and should he ask his company for a guard or what should he do now ?^xx

I couldn't care less, as it happened. As his luck went I was in the process of abandoning ship back then and I couldn't summon the interest. I knew it was as good as dead anyway, the whole shebang. Even if it wasn't sinking yet. They didn't.

All my friends, a whole system, a whole decade. Dead. People who'd have killed for me without asking a second question, the majority of people that'd have died for me who didn't end up actually dying for me, the people I loved and the things I loved and everything that made sense and allowed the world be meaningful : all, rotten, dead if not yet knowing it, to be left behind. Walking still but dead already.

And so I left it behind. The ones that didn't die since then are in prison, and the ones that got out or never went in don't really wish to talk about it. Why would they ? And what's to say anyway ? Yes, I was right, but no, they weren't wrong : just because I can fly doesn't mean they can fly too just for the love of me, or for fellowship. Just because I can turn and twist the strands of future time, just because I can see events of interest that will be as if they had been already, and just because I can see what people think as if they mumbled audibly every thought and just because I am allowed to pick and choose which way to go three or four times before enthalpy takes hold and makes anything irreversible for me doth not help them. It always helps me, and for this reason it usually helps my slaves, but not always, and it degrades from there. So no, they didn't have a choice. I did.

But we digress. I never had any substantial disagreement with my father that I can recall. He more or less did what any father does, except for one thing, one major, most important thing. A thing all parents must do, and he never did himself : he failed to submit. He refused to become my father, an entity existing for nothing else than me, he refused to renounce his own life as his own thing, as an independent something outside of me. And this, my dear friends, is unforgiveable. It is the absolute, unavoidable job and duty of the parent to become that wasp out of whose dead body its larvae eat. And the wasp must be dead, make no mistake about it, the parent must give away his life, all of it. Not most of it, not a great portion of it, not "as much as necessary". Everything. Every last bit and strand of it, altogether, completely. For no return and with no consideration, humbly and unapologetically, it's what he's for. Exactly like any thing - which is what parents are, things, ex-human beings that meanwhile succumbed to their own biology just like any other corpse - exists for its function, just like the mug holds coffee and the paper towel soaks it up should it spill. It's what it is.

Make no mistake, the issue here is not that the average, everyday kid will have any trouble accepting failure on the part of their parents being parents, exactly like they accept anything and everything coming their way, every glob of shit, every official lie, every passed promotion and review period and whatnot. The problem is that the truly exceptional children, the once in a century children, those kids many sigmas away from the average never will, nor ever should. This isn't a problem that can be denied by example, "there's not been a flood yesterday nor the day before nor last week and so the bridge will hold just fine", "I know X different children an' they never said anything remotely like this". This isn't about the horde, this is about the exception, and in that we find the mistake I made with the earlier statement.

You see, the original author had not said, because to him the implication is so strong that therefore it must be obvious, that he didn't simply mean just any kids, as a random glob of indiscernible, interchangeable offspring. He meant strictly and quite specifically exceptional kids, the sort that lead the multitude whether the multitude "wants" to or not, elects them or not, knows about it or not. And yes it's true that the "good dads" and the "mothers" are sufficient, after a fashion, but this does not mean that the "good genes" will be at any time extinct : the groups where women have children with the lords that then the peons raise will overall, as a group, be fitter than the groups where women have children with the peons that then the peons raise. And so the former will overrun the latter whenever they meet, and in the festival of rape subsequent^xxi it won't be the genes of the lords that pass to the freshly enslaved female population, but the genes of the superior peons. Superior peons for no reason other than that they understand and accept that it's not their place to conceive any more than it's the lord's place to parent. And then these women, with their womb so blessed, with their bloodline so improved in turn will pass this on to their children, who can then become more like good dads than their shitty grandfathers were. Not the exceptional grandfathers, but the bulk of them, the lot who never were good men in the first place.

The point is not that the "good genes" can't make good dads : of course they do. They can make good anything they want, that's what it means to be them, they're the jolly joker of the world. The point however is that you have no reason to expect they will. Maybe they have better things to do with their time. Maybe they're more interested in I dunno, astronomy, or writing articles about fucking, than dealing with some kid, whoever's. Moreover, even should they for some reason buy into the entire stupidity that they should try, for no apparent reason and against their better judgement : there's so few of them. Their offspring meeting their own ability is such a crapshot. If you limit them to a woman each you might as well forget about your "civilisation", it's just failed the test of time - the really smart people will live somewhere else.

It should perhaps be said that this retraction does little for the original point of the original author. One doth not become what one is not merely for wanting it, and no matter what amount of expert incantation will ever change this. Meanwhile pretending to be what one is not, and what's worse convincing others that one is what one is not carries all the promises of disaster and unhappiness that fraud usually does. Plus, of course, the vanishing but present possibility that a woman somewhere will see right through all your pretense and put you straight in your proper place in the world.

So it goes. Try and have fun with it, because in no case will the sky paint itself a different color to try and better suit you. You're here to feed the grass, not the other way around.

1. There's some substance to this, the guy - the author's father - regularly participates and I think must at some point have won some trophies at those cooking/barbecuing contests supermarkets organise in rural Kansas (which is what Romania is, all through). [↩]
2. This "he" was a bitch. I think I've found the only spot in praxis where Romanian doesn't insist it needs a pronoun but English absolutely must have it.

   It's also an error in the original, the correct play of antecedents would have required it be "she". Just... the pen carries on paper, the writer and the story and everything with it. [↩]

3. This is also true, as a neutral statement of fact, insofar as you're not very demanding. Guy's no miracle worker, not about to bring about world peace or the collapse of an entire financial system cum way of life. But we're not talking eighteen sigmas here, we're talking one. Maybe two. One and a half. [↩]
4. Tiny mining colony town in northern Transylvania. They make excellent moonshine there, the stuff in the US Marine at Customs story originated in Zalau before meeting the inside of a Sprite bottle and flying across the ocean. They also get a lot of heavy metal poisoning there, and yeah it's a shithole. [↩]
5. Some shaky Romanian government programme to help new families get a home. [↩]
6. This, you have to understand, is an accomplishment for the average Romanian : working for a large company. It's not getting a large paycheck, that's implicit in that the company is large and preferably foreign. Because Romania in and of itself is a shithole, populated by crabby shitheads. So, why can't some places have an entrepreneurial atmosphere ? How about "because some places already use the notion of a start-up for another purpose : slave labour". You know, where the valley is headed, so that in twenty years you may wonder why doesn't the US have an entrepreneurial atmosphere any more than Romania.

   What makes old countries and the old world suck isn't anything intrinsic about them : it's that people shit, and the shit accumulates, and after fifty or so generations they've managed to add a little shit in, over or under anything. Anything whatsoever. What's worse, as times change and what used to be unimportant becomes quite fucking central... well... you know that if it ever was known but unimportant it also was a fucking toilet. Or a cemetery. Or some other dejection field. Because space is limited, people aren't, and all the filth they make must go somewhere. And no, mere concepts, utter abstractions aren't immune to this process : people shit with their head, too, a matter amply discussed over at GPG contracts. [↩]

7. He's not even kidding, Romanian [extended] families do keep such checklist for the offspring. You must do this this and this. Have you done this yet ? That's the conversation. That's all the conversation. What else is there to talk about ? [↩]
8. Point of flavour : in Romanian, the cannonical way to refer to one's parents (or more rarely and going out of fashion - as a man to his wife and children), is "mine". Just that, ai mei, Ist singular possesive with a plural masculine demonstrative article. It's just how you say it.

   And no, it doesn't connote ownership from the speaker to the group, even if it denotes that. It connotes ownership the other way. [↩]

9. Considered a traditional Romanian dish by Romanians and eaten like the yankee pork and beans (also, incidentally, a traditional Romanian dish) a couple hundred years ago, it's a Turkish food consisting roughly of meatloaf batter wrapped in cabbage leaf and boiled. [↩]
10. The Romanian term does not denote what you'd expect, but moreover, 2nd generation urban kids with a "good" job (in Romania a job doing ~200 a week qualifies) that are looking to explore their environment at all. AT ALL. To me, while there, as much as owning or operating a bike qualifies one for hipsterism.

    I know it sounds insane, but it's not : you think it's everyday normal urbanity. Not for them : they just recently got to town. They all learned how to town in the same place and they're all towning the same way, and so they're fucking hipsters and let me be! [↩]

11. Well, it's an idiomatic expression, and a good one. Literally, "he did the devil in four [parts]", ie, sliced the fiend up, what. [↩]
12. Fucking hipsters. [↩]
13. And it wasn't even expensive, or hard to do! Costs one all of nothing at all to show some ignorant lout some little twinkle of the field of his mastery. People like doing it so much they do it for free, which explains how US universities manage to charge hundreds of thousands to teach people intricacies for which the only utility is an academic career, for which academic career the same universities won't and don't pay as much as they charged in the first place.

    What if it were something with a major cost ? What if it went the other way ? Like, instead of spending five minutes on something that yields you a 10% bonus to self-actualisation or whatever the fuck you're going after, you spend those five minutes changing diapers, a low status, low pay job, for some shithead that does nothing but scream ? You know, like dads are supposed to do. Not give away something that costs you nothing, in exchange for immense benefit, like a soldier giving away a stick of gum to some random local girl and getting more emotional payola out of it than for any wining-and-dining experience in his entire history back home. No, instead, how about you give your left kidney so some idiot can watch more TV.

    Not quite the same ring to it, huh. [↩]

14. I was born there, you know ? [↩]
15. It's a hundred miles if that. [↩]
16. To put the point bluntly : no jealous man is anything but a cuckold, whether yet still closeted or no longer closeted and henceforth free.

    It's what it is. [↩]

17. Not that a woman can so be spent.

    It's an interesting phenomenon of the human brain that overcompensation masquerades so convincingly for effectual activity. A man can be spent by a deliberate woman, and as already discussed it's a perfectly valid and reasonably common avenue to an arrangement of female domination backed by male subservience. The other way around tho... heh. Never. A well trained woman can take hundreds of youze.

    And yet you think she goes for the other guy because of his "bigger cock", because somehow his better tool makes it easier for him to attain the unattainable with less exertion. He's like a basketball player, right ? There's a substantial, objective thing to attain, and the only difference between you and him is that he's taller, and so he can do better than you, within a human lifetime. Obviously if your five foot tall self trained 24 hours a day you'd have the same performance as his six foot tall self training only 20 hours a day, because 5 x 24 = 6 x 20. The only real difference is that he can do this, because it leaves him some time to sleep, whereas you can't, and so he wins. Right ?

    Of course, if that's what you want to think that's what women inclined to pander will pander to, and that's what "the media", always inclined to pander, will pander to, and so everywhere you turn this is the mechanics discussed and soon enough you forget there's alternative explanations. Whether you credit or don't credit the mechanism presented is immaterial, the media pressure isn't there to convince you one way or another. The media pressure is there to blind you, to make you forget the possible alternatives. For as long as you think in "cock matters or doesn't matter" terms it doesn't matter which side of the question you - convincedly - fall on. (Or in Democrat vs Republican terms, for that matter. You get the idea.)

    In reality, there's nothing objective about it. Female submission, like male submission, is not a thing of techne, it's not something to "work" towards. These belong to ontology, they're fundamentals. If you're dominant all you have to do is ask, she'll come, on her knees. Yes, just like that, because it's what you are and what she is. And if you aren't... you can read everything you want about how to "present yourself". You are what you are, reading is there to help you find out what that is and how to fully do it, not to "help" you pick some retarded idea of what you think is "best" and then "present yourself" as that. This, first of all, isn't helping. Even if it may appear to "work". Especially if it appears to work. [↩]

18. It's a Romanian thing. [↩]
19. Yes, it's an English word, get better dictionaries. It comes from Greek, it means "plainly and firmly, without any possibility of reinterpretation or ulterior meaning". [↩]
20. He was at the time managing some local factory in some shithole somewhere in the Romanian implementation of the flyover country. [↩]
21. Don't imagine rape doesn't happen just because it doesn't wear the label or come to report to you for counting. Rape is the fundamental mode of human evolution whether you think this is the case or not, and whether you think this should be the case or not.

    We're talking of "rape", of course, as you define it. [↩]