TO HEAVEN AND BACK (One Pervert’s True Story) Chapter 1

Author Name: HitchbLitz | Source: pinoyliterotica.com

Repost in other site that being sighted by myself. Nice story by the unknown author since 2004 kaya gonna share on u

WARNING

This is a true story that contains pedophilia, incest, bestiality, forced sex, and other objectionable content. My purpose is to lay out my history, so this is not written in the overwrought-style of most erotica, but rather more matter-of-factly, as a narrative. The people, ages, and events are real, as are the settings; however, I have changed the names to protect the innocent and guilty alike, and I hope I will not give enough information to clearly identify the people involved (myself included)

.
CHAPTER 1

I have known since I was very young that I am a pervert. I remember seeing Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Hara in “Tarzan” as a young boy of 4 or 5, then dreaming about hugging Jane naked, rubbing myself on her. I knew little then, but the thought was highly satisfying

.
I started masturbating to orgasm around age 7. By this point I would dream about seeing little girls naked as I jacked off. I thought I must be completely weird because of what I did, since my friends all thought girls were icky. After every orgasm, I felt a tremendous wave of guilt. I think this may have messed me up. Psychologists say that child abuse victims become abusers, and that they seek out victims who are the same age as they themselves were when abused. I don’t know if this is valid, but in a sense I guess I was my own abuser

.
I grew up living on a large estate on the border between a good-size city and a farming community in South America, the son of a very well-to-do family. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but my teen hormones were so powerful that I occasionally turned to one or another of our large Great Danes (female, if it makes me any less twisted). On lonely nights, I would open my doors (which looked out into my own private patio), and call one or another bitch over. I had really very little preference, since they were all tall enough that I didn’t need to crouch behind them; regrettably, they were dogs after all, and when not in heat, very difficult to violate. On those (fortunately few) occasions when I was successful, the feeling was incredible, as their pussies were tight and wet, and once penetrated, they stood stock-still while I fucked them with all my might

.
Let me take just a minute to dispel a myth propagated by some clearly fictional bestiality stories. It’s true that bitches clench, but this has to work in conjunction with a dog’s “knot” to result in them being tied together. Perhaps a human with a very large cockhead and skinny shaft might, maybe, suffer this indignity, but it certainly never happened to me. My cockhead is only nominally thicker than my shaft, which, though only 7 inches long, is extremely thick, especially near the base where it is nearly 8 inches in circumference. I certainly wasn’t thinking about this at the time I was violating canines, and had I thought about it I might never have enjoyed an altogether pleasurable phase of my life

.
This phase might have continued throughout my adolescence, had my parents not moved to the United States and left me alone with an old, clueless aunt for company. I should mention that my parents lived back and forth, my dad working in the US from time to time. In fact, in my first 15 years of life, I must have lived 6 with both parents together

.
There I was, 13 years old in a lawless country, with deep pockets and nutty friends. The first night my parents were gone, we had an intoxication party that ended with my entire suite (bedroom, living room, bathroom, patio) covered in vomit. In a drunken haze I confessed my bestiality to my friends, and all five of them took turns fucking the shit out of my poor bitches.
The next day we were hung-over, covered in filth, and guilt-ridden. To recover our manliness, we arranged to meet at a whore house that evening. Everyone showed up on time, and I experienced my first “normal” sex, if you can call a 13-year-old boy with an ugly 40-year-old hooker in a smelly brothel normal

.
For me, the guilt I had and the disgust I felt at the end of each of these excursions I think may have contributed to turning me off from adult women. You could call it aversion-therapy, as each adult sexual experience was mentally associated in me with all those negative connotations. Very soon, I had to get piss-drunk to go, and the hangovers probably added to the aversion.
To make matters worse, I had several live-in maids, but the times were changing, and while my father could have had (and probably did have) sex with any of his maids or peasant girls, I didn’t find it so easy. Partly through shyness, partly through changing mores, my clumsy early teenage attempts at seducing a procession of lonely, captive girls went mostly unsatisfied

.
I say mostly because some maids would flirt with me outrageously, to the point of grabbing my crotch and pinching or cupping my ass, but always would run when I tried to reciprocate. In case you’re wondering, I was a pretty good-looking kid, and being rich never hurt anyone, especially not in a poor South American countryside.
Finally, good girls (girlfriend material) in that time and place simply didn’t “do it.” I used to say, and mostly still believe, that my country and time corresponded most closely to the 1950′s US in terms of social behavior

.
I thus built up a double frustration: the women I wanted, I couldn’t have, and the women I had, I didn’t want. I don’t mean this to whine, but rather to give a reference for what came next in my sexual evolution (or regression if you prudishly prefer).