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A Peek Into the Twisted Mind of a Fetishist – A Personal Story (Part 5)

Part 5 – Roll ‘em!

So, let’s get into the mechanics of this depraved obsession of mine by way of taking an even closer look at some of the masturbatory movie fantasies I had devised for myself; shall we? Somebody’s got to tell you about it, so it might just as well be me.

I hope you won’t mind if I break a cardinal rule of erotic story writing, and occasionally give you a “blow-by-blow” account of some of the sex acts themselves? Perhaps through a descriptively-graphic, expletive-filled narrative, one which holds back none of the gritty, smutty details, you may get a better sense of just how lascivious my mind had become.

At this point, I should warn you—especially the female readers in my audience—that all of the screenplays I conjured up read like so many of those cheap vintage, pornographic pulp fiction books which were largely marketed to men back in their day. These books were “triple X” porn readers, their covers usually emblazoned with hot, graphic illustrations, and their pages filled with insensitively-phrased, male-centric sex scenarios.

You know the type I’m talking about, right? That kind of dirty-word-filled, trash-smut literature, tattered copies of which you might accidentally find hidden at the very bottom of one of your daddy’s dresser drawers?

God knows, I had read plenty of them! Many a Saturday afternoon was spent prostrate on my bed, thumbing through their course pulp pages. With one sweaty hand grasping the book as the other firmly rubbed the prominent bulge in my denims, I’d slowly bring myself to the boiling point. And I wouldn’t stop there! I’d do it right up to the end; actively working toward “blowing one” inside my pants without any consideration of my mother, and what she might think on laundry day.

No…I would resign myself to the inexorable fate, and deal with the mess later.

During those breathless moments, logic or guilt had no meaning. Self pleasure took precedence. With my grasping hand continuing to jerk and wrench at the nagging stiffness distending my trousers, I’d tease myself toward the inevitable climax, fully encouraging a sticky “accident.” Nothing short of a bomb exploding right in the middle of my room could tear my attention away from the dogeared pages in which I was so absorbed. My narrowing eyes scanned through those lurid paragraphs taking in every adjective, every verb, every dirty phrase, feverishly anxious to arrive at that one key-worded “orgasm trigger” so often found at the conclusion of each sex act.

Admittedly, the books were somewhat predictable. However, there was an applied psychology as to why they were so effectively fucking hot to young men like me. It had to do with the repeated themes of unrestrained lewdness. It was all about the authors’ choice of words when describing the sex acts themselves. And all that fucking cum! Jesus! Both males and females always seemed capable of squirting gallons of the stuff; drinking it in, covering each other in it, almost drowning one another!

Oh, the character’s names would change, and perhaps some of the words. But the rabid, horny thrust of the phrasing contained within each description generally remained the same…

“…Bernice continued to moan uncontrollably even after Harry had pulled his seething cock out from between the tight seal of her lips. Reaching the end of his endurance, he began tugging fanatically on his painfully stiff boner mere inches from her face, desperate to coax spurt after spurt of his lust to splash all over her bruised, cock-fucked lips and reddened cheeks…”

…The sheer dirtiness of such phrasing, as well as the intent, stuck with me. I couldn’t help feeling the influence. It was the unsuppressed wanton sexual appetite communicated through the vulgarity of words and phrases like these which found its way into my dirty little screenplays. The result spurred big box office orgasms for me.

During those breathless moments, logic or guilt had no meaning. Self pleasure took precedence. With my grasping hand continuing to jerk and wrench at the nagging stiffness distending my trousers, I’d tease myself toward the inevitable climax, fully encouraging a sticky “accident.” Nothing short of a bomb exploding right in the middle of my room could tear my attention away from the dogeared pages in which I was so absorbed. My narrowing eyes scanned through those lurid paragraphs taking in every adjective, every verb, every dirty phrase, feverishly anxious to arrive at that one key-worded “orgasm trigger” so often found at the conclusion of each sex act.

Because of this factor, I am acutely aware that a good portion of the graphic language and situations to which you are about to be subjected—narrative that will include all those well known, possibly overused, keyword “orgasm triggers”—might appeal more to some of the men than it will to most of the women in my audience. For this I offer the most sincere, humblest apologies to my dear female readers. I admit that at the very core of these sweat-drenched fantasies there exists an underlying theme of male sexual dominance. And also, I’m painfully (embarrassingly) aware that, at times, the nature of the following descriptive text smacks of abuse. However, there’s no getting around the language and depiction of these lust-driven, sometimes brooding teen musings.

I do have a sense of decorum, though. I had it back then, as well. These dirty late teen thoughts of mine had their place. That place was the family bathroom; the space where my early sexual frustrations and unreasonable urges were thoroughly “worked out.” But none of their content ever passed beyond those four walls. Nor did I ever have any inkling to act upon them in real life. That was simply unthinkable! It just was not part of my make-up.

So, I ask you to look upon all of this through a “Thurber-esque” lens. Yes; think of “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Only, picture Walter as Alexander from “Portnoy’s Complaint,” with a dripping hard-on in his hand!

(Hmm…I don’t know… Was that last bit going a little too far? I’ll let you the reader be the ultimate judge and sort that one out while I make my apologies to Thurber and Roth.)

At any rate; once again I must assure you that within this chest, both then and now, beats a heart of pure love; and not only a heart which holds a great deal of respect for women, but one which has the capacity and inclination toward the “gentle touch” and shared partnership within a relationship. So again; at the risk of sounding over-conciliatory, I apologize.

With all of that said and hopefully understood; onward we go, into the darker side of my nature…


With my teen penis now doing most of the thinking for me, scripts for these “mind-fuck” movies of mine became progressively more elaborate and infinitely more down-right dirty.

Ideas were coming fast and furious for plot lines, and with every new idea, the level of licentiousness increased. Varying darker scenarios started to conjure in my febrile thoughts. I began to construct little themed plays to enhance my hand jobs. These were short but steamy performances I had worked up during the more frequent trips to the bathroom. They were constructed using different story lines within which little snatches of fictitious life-moments where played out.

These story lines were fluid, not static. They changed and developed over a series of hand jobs. Which elements I’d use would wholly depend upon how I felt at a given moment during the act of masturbation. I’d keep the on-the-fly, accidental elements which worked to produce more heart-pounding breathlessness, more throb and more shattering hard cumshots. Others I’d discard or file for possible future rewrites.

I had many different movies, and there could be any one of my favorite obsession characters starring in the main parts. Movies involving this aunt, that cousin, or some other unsuspecting smoking female family member, would be threaded on the projector and shown to suit whatever masturbatory whim.

One play was used repeatedly as a classic. I’d call it up at different times. I found it quite effective because the signature elements always made me cum hard. It became a smut-glutted standard!

While involving interchangeable main characters, the thrust remained true because the idea was based on a general concept. Its overarching plot point was built upon a very stimulating consideration I had running through my mind at that time; one which pondered a question concerning possible character motivation. What if these sexy women where ignorant of the effect their smoking was having upon the men around them, especially young men like me?

Of course, this concept was by no means a stroke of genius. In spite of the fact that somewhere within the psychology, among the many factors which motivates one to begin smoking in the first place—e.g. peer pressure, rebelliousness, appearance of independence, rite of passage into adulthood, etc—there exists a need to project a seductive image of sexual sophistication and prowess (thanks to media), in large part, the concept of ignorance is true. Most women, in fact, are unaware. But, the very idea that these desirable smoking women of my youth could be completely oblivious to the oral sexual implications being communicated to men through their smoking became a hot point for me.

In my heated thoughts, different men—totally aroused and teased males desperately wanting release—would be popping titanium-hard boners inside their trousers. Imagining their stiff dicks pushing out the fabric at the crotch of their loosely-fitting pants into obscene-looking tents while they stood there watching the women of my dreams innocently dragging on their cigarettes and exhaling smoke through their provocatively pursed lips, was an incredibly intense picture to me!

Yep…The motivation was simple, direct and arousing. The women were chaste, smoking innocently, behaving normally and completely unaware. The men? Well, burning, impure, unadulterated, inconsiderate, reptilian-brained savage lust was at the heart of their motive. They looked on with bad intent, just hungering for the opportunity to thrust their hardened cocks into every orifice of these women, but especially to pierce their painted, smoke-blowing lips.

Sometimes the male actors would be nondescript; just random sexually-aroused bystanders on the verge of shooting off into their own pants, who, while breathing in the exhaled smoke from these hot women, seemed helplessly caught in this web of unintentionally seductive behavior.

Sometimes the stiff-pricked fellows would be their boyfriends or husbands. And then, there were those other times when I would step onto the sound stage taking the role of the totally frustrated, effectively-teased, overly-heated male.

In other constructs of this masturbatory play, my aunts and cousins weren’t acting so innocently. This scenario was of particular significance to me. I would imagine them acting in a lascivious manner, naughtily teasing the male subjects with their smoking, and otherwise behaving like “bad girls.” They would be doing this while pretending to act innocent. But, their intent was clear; to entice, and yes, to actually incite a passionate, perhaps even an aggressive or impetuous reaction from the men nearby.

However, during these sick little trashy scenarios, the teasing women at the center of my masturbation fantasy would end up getting something for which they hadn’t really bargained. I’d imagine them miscalculating the intensity of their target male’s reaction. Therefore, a passionate, somewhat violent and animalistic element of force would be introduced as theme in these particular fevered renditions.

Something close to the sexually-tense atmosphere depicted in the film “Fountainhead” would develop; however, without the politically-twisted Libertarian worldview memes and that “objectivism” philosophical crap threading through the theme of the play, as preached by its author Ayn Rand.

No. The resemblance to which I allude is only mentioned in reference to the sexual interplay depicted between the Roark and Francon characters of Rand’s narrative. Because, quite abruptly, the women would have an “out-of-control,” sexually-charged, aggressively-dominant male to deal with, as well as having to cope with a situation beyond anything they could have imagined.

You see, it didn’t really matter which concept I used. In conjuring the final act, the outcome in these little fist-fuck vignettes always played out basically in the same manner. Much to the ladies’ chagrin, cum would have to be ejaculated, and ejaculated hard. Exactly where that spent semen would end up depended on the situation.

If my male subject found himself compelled to yank his cock out in an abrupt manner and beat off in front of the hapless, smoking female; then warm, sticky sperm would be launched to splatter forcefully all over her surprised, distraught face (“surprised and distraught” being key expressions of emotion in my mind’s eye). This “action sequence” would be replete with copious spurts of semen shooting across her painted lips as she casually blew smoke.

Had I imagined one of my aunts or cousins being taken abruptly; this once-in-control-smoking-woman, as a result of her incessant teasing, would suddenly find herself being forced to jack off the nondescript actor’s hard dick (or my own). Sometimes she would be pushed roughly to her knees while being forced to continue the hand job. Hot sperm would then either end up flying against her lips—again, lips poised in a relaxed purse, and in the middle of ‘naturally’ exhaling her teasing smoke—or all over her jacking fist, and all over the cigarette, which in my mind would be clutched between the fingers of her cock-grasping hand.

That last bit was another “hot point” for me!

The though of these captivating, sexy and distraught women holding their cigarettes between the fingers of the very same delicate hand being used to pump off hard, exploding dicks, always produced the effect I so relished!

When conjuring a scene, at times I’d find it excruciatingly hot to imagined my actors standing face-to-face during all of this naughtiness. I don’t know why, but there’s something about the idea of impetuous, passionate sexual activity playing out while in a standing position that inflames my libido. Another turn-on for me is clothed sex. Again; the implication of impetuousness and urgency in such a situation seems to excite me immensely.

All of these tried-and-true elements worked their way into my plays. So, I’d see them standing there, both fully clothed, only with my male character’s pants zipper hastily pulled down; his stiff dick exposed and curving upward at an obscene angle as it sticks straight out through the opening of the trousers. My desirable smoking heroine would be standing very close to him, an apprehensive excitement radiating from her widened eyes and her distress deepening due to the fact that she is being forced to “service” his erection.

“At least let me finish my cigarette,” my sexy femme fatale would mutter with breathless annoyance, momentarily relinquishing her grasp on his cock to bring the cigarette she’s been holding during the hand job up between their close-set faces for another drag.

In real time, my own hardened cock would be squirting early ejaculatory fluid into my pumping fist. The intensity of my masturbation reaches a fevered pitch as I’d imagine his teased erection prematurely beginning to explode while he’s watching her take a drag. In a spasmodic reflex, suddenly, the climaxing male grabs her wrist, pulling her hand back down to his hard-on.

Surprised, she gasp-inhales the smoke deep into her lungs. With her hand now forced back onto his flailing cock, she wrangles it, wrapping her free fingers around the stiffened length She does this while cautiously extends the two fingers holding the cigarette out and away. Still grasping her arm tightly, he’s pumping her wrist, desperately forcing her hand to jerk as she begins to blow smoke into his sweat-drenched face. But, the applied force really isn’t necessary. She moving on her own.

White ribbons of sperm are flying out in all directions during this sexually-charged struggle, most shooting against her skirt; printing wet question mark and exclamation point patterns on the fabric while glistening tendril-like rivulets drip down within the shadowed pleats.

Well, that would be it for me! The image of this lovely woman urgently frigging off his erupting cock while she is blowing a forced stream of smoke straight into his face would have me breathlessly ejaculating right along with the male star, almost feeling and smelling the warm smoke being blown into my own face.

I know, I know!…Details! Too many details; right? What’s with all the vulgar blow-by-blow accounting?

Well, as I mentioned earlier, my scripts read like nasty, vintage pulp porn stories. And besides thinking this style of erotic writing would better serve in bringing to bear the level of depravity my mind had reached, I’m hopeful it might also serve to arouse some of my readers. If only but a few of you are being inspired to touch yourselves due to the detailed, gory salaciousness in my choice of narrative, then I would chalk that up as a small accomplishment!

Respectfully, with that in mind, I ask my audience for their continued indulgence while I dive deeper into this wordy hole. Humor me a bit longer, won’t you? If you’ve come this far, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t see it to the end?


So, this “forced-and-sudden-impetuous jack-off” scenario had some variations. I’d have it develop while both subjects were in an ordinary social setting.

Sometimes I’d see them at a crowded party, but off together in some other part of the house; a secluded room, away from the chattering group. Standing close in a dimly lit room and facing one another, I’d imagine a conversation taking place between the two; a conversation within which the woman of my dreams talks innocently about this-and-that.

She’s smoking, of course.

The male lead, already fallen under the influence of her sexual aura, is “primed,” as it were. He stands there listening to her, but only hears half of what is being said. With his mind clouded and his senses already in overload, he breaths in her essence. The scent of sandalwood perfume mixing with the aroma of the exhaled smoke, the look of her lush lips as they grip the filter of the cigarette during drags, her perfectly-applied make-up, her earrings and jewelry, the sweep of her hair; all of these trappings are slowly eroding his restraint.

As mentioned, an important plot point is that he is already, and has always been, infatuated. There exists a history between them, one of conditioned response; a history of anxious clumsiness on his part, and of playful teasing on hers. His mind is always lost in that thick cloud of love whenever they’re together, only he’s oblivious to her knowledge of this fact.

Aggressive lust permeates the cloud, as well. Thoughts of impassioned fucking forever mix with his constant internal dialogue; a conversation fraught with fear of rejection, of second guessing and critiquing his every word and action. In short, he’s a man…constantly confused and insecure…constantly horny! That is why only every other word she’s uttering is penetrating the quickly-building fog of his arousal.

She’s saying nothing of any consequence, really. It is mostly party prattle peppered with chaste references and licit family gossip. But let’s not forget; she is by no means an innocent figure in this play. Again, unbeknownst to our male lead, she is well aware of his infatuation. Her intent is to tease; to elicit a sexual response.

So then, the innocent content within her part of the conversation starts to change. By her encouragement, the tone and subject matter become progressively more provocative, more seductive and teasing. She steps closer to her male target, and with slight smiles playing across her pursed lips, she’s now occasionally blowing smoke in the male subject’s face.

Go figure, he is getting more and more sexually aroused, and much more agitated.

However, the feeling of arousal is not exclusive. The psychology employed within her subtle advances begins to work in reverse. If the truth be known, her own brazen behavior and sexual forwardness is getting the best of her, as well. Her breath quickens as she closes even more of the distance between their bodies. As a result, the aroused tips of her breasts are rising up and thrusting forward; all but touching his broad chest during intakes of air.

Soon, her speech begins to falter. Words normally strung together in seamless succession become orphans, accentuated with brief pauses. Within those pauses, the sounds of distant party clatter begin to filter. The din of overlapping voices, laughter and clinking glasses fill the wordless spaces in their secluded room as they stare into each other’s eyes.

Our male character suddenly feels the back of her hand accidentally brush against the swollen tip of his concealed, protruding cock. This happened when she had dropped her hand down after taking a drag from her cigarette. The effect from the sudden contact is discernible for both of our players; acting like an electrostatic discharge. Both gasp in excitement. With a look of foreboding washing over her pretty visage, the ball of smoke from that last puff is pulled down into her lungs during her gasp.

She glances down, sensing the sexual tension spiking to higher levels. Through a column of smoke rising from the cigarette clutched between her fingers, she observes his condition. Not only is it obvious that his dick is fully engorged and rather large—his loose, pleated dress pants obscenely distended forward under the strain—but the fabric across the tip is already wet. Due to the accidental encounter, a thin glistening thread of seminal fluid stretches like a fragile canyon rope bridge, drooping across the distance between the back of her hand and the bloated head of his cock, connecting the two. The sight sends an erotic shiver racing through her body. Shock laced with excitement is evident in her expression, as she raises her head and makes eye contact once again.

Have I gone too far? My female lead questions internally.

Of course, as you may have already guessed; in my directorial view, her fearful assessment seems pointless at this juncture. Considering the already heightened level of excitement between the two, this moment of speculative caution comes a little too late to be of any use.

Now, the proverbial table is turning. He’s not the only one confused. With her thoughts in conflict, my lovely protagonist considers bringing this situation of her own doing to a screeching halt. But, where her mind is saying one thing, her titillated body is attempting to force her in an entirely different direction. She is just as caught up in the eroticism of the moment as is he. Putting a stop to this speeding train would prove to be a daunting task.

During this confused state, mindlessly, she begins blowing the smoke from her last drag in a tight stream, straight into his excited face…




Parts thus far –

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5



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