- Joined
- Jan 13, 2012
- Messages
- 6,470
- Location
- Cannibal Heaven
He is my most intimate friend. He alone knows my deepest cravings. He allows me to act upon his body in the most intimate and outrageous manner, but never resists. Never complains. And would never betray my secrets to another sole. He is my partner and soulmate.
We first became acquainted when we were young teens. In the bathroom. I would gaze intently as he examined and probed and caressed his naked body. Shared his ecstasy when his long hard cock erupted, spurting huge globs of thick, creamy adolescent cum in never-ending torrents. Oh, how quaint and milquetoast his activities were in those early days. In time, we discovered other exciting things about ourselves and acted them out. What ingenious imaginations we had! What outlandish games we played! But always careful that family members not intrude.
In the big city, I met other young men who shared my interests and partook in more bizarre activities. As my interests became more extreme, the number of available partners naturally decreased, but there was always someone who was willing to travel down the dark roads I chose. They weren’t all as attractive as I might hope and some, well, I wasn’t sure I could trust them. Yes, they gave me what I liked, what I craved, what I came to need. But deep down, I feared some of them.
So, I returned to my faithful friend, the Man in the Mirror. He is trustworthy. He will go as far as I choose and stop when I want to stop. And he is so beautiful to look at, his smooth, muscular body arousing my lust as I abuse his beauty in so many ways. His veins consume our drugs. He welcomes needles and sharp objects, savors the riding crop, sheds blood, arrogantly displays welts and bruises, slithers in sewage. There are many mirrors now, arranged so he can proudly flaunt his beauty, his pain, his degradation from several angles at once. Pulleys and ropes, too. He arouses me in ways that I cannot easily find in the Outer World. He knows my needs and satisfies my cravings. He submits quietly (I’m not verbal) and willingly, but as he suffers, I can see in his eyes nothing but euphoria. When I leave him and crawl gingerly into bed, bloodied skin sticking to sheets, my dreams are only of him and my yearning to return. To feel his unique love. To worship. To kneel before him. My Master. The Man in the Mirror.
We first became acquainted when we were young teens. In the bathroom. I would gaze intently as he examined and probed and caressed his naked body. Shared his ecstasy when his long hard cock erupted, spurting huge globs of thick, creamy adolescent cum in never-ending torrents. Oh, how quaint and milquetoast his activities were in those early days. In time, we discovered other exciting things about ourselves and acted them out. What ingenious imaginations we had! What outlandish games we played! But always careful that family members not intrude.
In the big city, I met other young men who shared my interests and partook in more bizarre activities. As my interests became more extreme, the number of available partners naturally decreased, but there was always someone who was willing to travel down the dark roads I chose. They weren’t all as attractive as I might hope and some, well, I wasn’t sure I could trust them. Yes, they gave me what I liked, what I craved, what I came to need. But deep down, I feared some of them.
So, I returned to my faithful friend, the Man in the Mirror. He is trustworthy. He will go as far as I choose and stop when I want to stop. And he is so beautiful to look at, his smooth, muscular body arousing my lust as I abuse his beauty in so many ways. His veins consume our drugs. He welcomes needles and sharp objects, savors the riding crop, sheds blood, arrogantly displays welts and bruises, slithers in sewage. There are many mirrors now, arranged so he can proudly flaunt his beauty, his pain, his degradation from several angles at once. Pulleys and ropes, too. He arouses me in ways that I cannot easily find in the Outer World. He knows my needs and satisfies my cravings. He submits quietly (I’m not verbal) and willingly, but as he suffers, I can see in his eyes nothing but euphoria. When I leave him and crawl gingerly into bed, bloodied skin sticking to sheets, my dreams are only of him and my yearning to return. To feel his unique love. To worship. To kneel before him. My Master. The Man in the Mirror.
