From: xxxxxxxxxx@hotmail.com   
      
   To Heaven and Back - One Pervert's True Story   
   by Anonymous (firstandonlypost2k4@yahoo.com)   
      
   ***   
      
   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. (M/g+, extreme-   
   ped, inc, nc, 1st, oral, mast)   
      
   ***   
      
   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 whorehouse 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).   
      
      
   CHAPTER 2   
      
   My best friend Jose had a modern house with a large   
   swimming pool. More importantly, he had a cute little   
   sister (Maria) 6 years younger than I, and an even   
   cuter cousin (Alex) was 5 years younger than I. Growing   
   up, I would often feed my frustrations playing with   
   them in the pool, holding them by their crotches as I   
   tossed them up in the air.   
      
   Eventually, I started slipping my hand under their   
   swimsuits, completely nonchalantly, and rubbing their   
   pussies a little. I never said anything, and neither   
   did they. I would hold them in my arms, slip my hand   
   under their swimsuits, rub their clits for a few   
   seconds, then toss them up and out of the water before   
   any of the grownups thought something odd was up.   
   Again, nothing was ever said, but the girls kept coming   
   back for more.   
      
   Over time, I realized Maria had a crush on me, while I   
   had developed a crush on Alex. In my father's time, it   
   had not been unusual for men to pick girls from a very   
   young age and "raise them" to be their wives (Elvis   
   moved Priscilla and his family into his home years   
   before they married and consummated their   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)