I can’t get enough of being filled and stretched by white cocks

My appetite for sex with white men is insatiable. Ever since I lost my virginity to the first white guy, I’ve been obsessed. Whenever I see a white man, be it at social gatherings, at work, in school, or at family reunions, I simply cannot stop thinking about being fucked by them. Even when I’ve literally just been pumped full of cum by a white man, I’m already anticipating the next white man who will be putting his cock inside me again.

Don’t cry for my lost innocence. I am much happier being a slut.

There are two sides of me, the side that I show to the polite society in that great masquerade dance in which I appear demure, graceful, and chaste, and then there is this side of me.

Lying in bed, I fantasize about all the white men I’ve met in life who’ve seen only the one side of me–the coworkers, the classmates, the plumbers and the delivery men, the truck drivers, the professors, the guys who flirted with me in shopping malls, bartenders who smiled at me, strangers on the street who stared at me and tried to small-talk me into giving them my number, and thousands more—all of them queuing up one after another, with their pants around their ankles, their erect cocks proudly displaying before me, ready to dump their load in one of my holes, leaving me a cum filled and cum covered Asian slut.

Exploring my sexuality with white men is such a delicious feeling.

I wish I could put into words properly, exactly, and precisely, how wet, how aroused, and how slutty I feel thinking about the thousands of white men who see me daily, knowing that they probably stroke their cocks and drain their balls over the image of me in their imagination, and not having a clue that at night, I prowl the street like a cheap Asian whore. It makes me feel happy just thinking about it.

I’m especially horny when I’m ovulating. That’s when my sex drive will shoot through the roof. At that time of the month, I would literally ask the first white guy who say “Hi” to me on Tinder to come to my apartment and fuck me. And, if I feel especially risque, I will put on my skimpiest outfit, without wearing bras or panties, stand outside a strip club, and whichever white guy comes to hit on me first will get to breed me for the night. And it’s such a turn on for me that, on numerous occasions, I was mistaken for a prostitute.

Sometimes I would literally grab a random white man off the street and beg him to have my cunt filled with his superior white cum, cream pie upon cream pie, flooding cervix and drowning my uterus.

Onetime a guy led me into the men’s room to fuck me and all the other men mistook me for a stripper. Inside the restroom stall with the door closed, I lifted up my skirt to reveal my bald pussy, and he said, “Are you a whore? Do you have any disease?” I told him: “I’m clean and I work in finance. I can show you my ID if you wish.” A few other guys outside banged on the door and whistled amid peals of laughter as he fucked me over the toilet and came inside me.

The next morning, my pussy was so sore from being fucked and filled, I could literally feel my cunt throbbing and pulsing between my legs. And when I walked, the feeling of cum oozing out into my panties overjoyed me with glee and satisfaction.

The Smell of White Men, from an Asian woman’s perspective.

White men, particularly for Asian women, carry a distinct smell. Though unique to each individual white man, it is as varied as the multifaceted aspects of wissenschaft. So then, how do I categorize this enormous field to which I would have to devote my entire life and the next to its study? How could I describe the immanence of this distinct smell, that is emitted from the most supreme men on earth, and yet each white man is so illogically unique; how could I account those immense infinities of differences and yet at the same time the unities of their sameness; how do I measure the un-measurable? How do I describe the ineffable? How do I explain the nature of being in which being relates to beings that need not be itself? How do I … Queasiness emanates from my being–my classical sensibility flinched–as I ponder and pine, as my recollection of their smell conjure to sessions of sweet and silent thought, and summon up remembrance of things past …

As I was warmly embraced in the arm of the twentieth white man that I’ve been sleeping with in the last year, his big, fat, arm wrapped around me and my nose crushed into his armpit and I almost suffocated, I dreamed of him again. I dreamed of him coming to look for me. I dreamed of him grabbing me by the arm and calling out my name, and my heart was rend in half as tears, fruitful rivers of the eye, flowed across my face. …

I have always been incredibly turned on by the smell of white men. After a white man pumped his penis mercilessly inside my vagina, invariably he would pull out, stick it in my face just so its fleshy head would be inside my mouth, and as my lips puckered to meet its kiss, he would jerk his sweet cum into my mouth with his hand. The taste had a morose, flogging insistence to it, and came in deepening shades of saltiness. Swallowing a white man’s cum was the least I did. For every white man that I’ve been with, I also licked his balls, his armpits, his ass crack, and the crevice in between his toes. I licked every part of a white man’s body so much so that his entire flesh could become sodden with my saliva. Sometimes their ball sacks smelled of drenched leather, sometimes of hung game. Some other times, it smelled of tubers steaming under drowned mud. The most disgusting smell I tasted was when I licked their armpits. My whole world was made of boiled cabbage.

But it is all worth it to show my deepest devotion to the superior white race.

The smell of a white man can be ominous, magical, condemned, and full of hatred and lust. The last white man I dated before the current one always had a catastrophic mien about him: solemn, angry, mean-spirited, resentful, and repugnant. When I talked to him, he stood so close to me that I could feel his hot breathe on my face, and I could try to achieve an effect of normalcy as my inner self cowered in fear and annoyance. His impatience and my demands always chilled the conversation and turned the relationship pestilential. “The coffee smells so good, do you mind I have some?” “I need to piss. Can I use your bathroom?” “Take it easy, bitch!” “I will slap the shit out of you, you yellow cunt.” As he stood so close to me his spit was sputtering in my face. In addition to the combination of deodorant, shampoo, laundry detergent, and some smell of natural freshness that seemed to seep from his pores, I also smelled power.

Like some predatory animals that are able to smell fear, so it is with most Asian women that they can smell the power emanating from a man, especially from a white man.

As our lips touched he tore my clothes off like a beast of prey and bent me over and pumped his magma into my vagina without a condom, its content searing through my innocent orifice like lava. I had previously always worried that when I went outside, people could smell of sex from me. I was always told by white men who flirted with me that they can “sense” sex from me. I always wondered what they meant, until I started to discover the different smells of white men.

As I lay dying on the floor, he stood over me and said: “I will now mark you as my property.” I observed his semi-flaccid penis, the shibboleth of his power and dominance, with long transparent steam of white gluey substance dangling on its tip, and then, a stream of golden liquid sprouted out of the pee-hole. It spouted just a little at the beginning, and then like fountain a stream shot out of it. It reminded me of the statue of a Cupid as he stood over the water fountain. And then the smell rushed over my senses and I smelled the smell of a urinal, and the image of myself serving as a yellow urinal to a superior white man rushed over me and another orgasm convulsed through my entire body as I wreathed in pain and pleasure, sodden with degradation and defeat.

It strikes me as almost scandalously rare that no one seems to discuss in regard to this phenomenon of so manifest and universal a reality as the smell of a white man and his complete dominance over Asian women; to a phenomenon without the which, for me at least, this plagued earth and our transit on it would probably be unbearable. For the smell of white man lies in his power. It is in this struggle for power that I submit to him. Men struggle for power via violence, war, and killing, but women struggle for power via sex, and in this supremacy of power, in this struggle for world-dominance, I achieve my most intense orgasms from being penetrated by a big, fat white cock.

The most humiliating thing I ever did for white men is when I have to beg them to hit me, slap me, and choke me. I want to feel a white man’s power, perforated through his whole being, throng and hum around me, and I, and a thousand other different Asian women, flock to our death like midges around the light bulb; and I would consider each slap to my face, each twisting of my nipples, and each belt to my ass the fathomless depth of differentiation, of non-identity, always incipient on the eventuality of complete and utter chaos. The most cruel white man belted me on the clit and made me orgasm as he belted me, as my brain lost its imposed order and coherence on the kaleidoscope, on the perpetuum mobile of swarming existence, as I chanted, sotto voce, over and over to my self, again, and again, I’m a slave to white men. I’m a slave to white men. I’m a slave to white men.

The fragrance of my perfume was mixed with the smell of a white man’s piss, and I burrowed my face into the floor and sobbed, and yet my fingers found their ways to my pussy which was once again on fire.

In my imbroglio of enchantment, terror, and sexual ecstasy, I remembered the numerous Asian boys who had a crush on me when I was in high school. In my mind eye their images—short, hideous, skinny and inferior—arrested my spirit for a split second, an abdication from the manifold and self-contrariety of the physical world. And then it was forgotten. It is too easy for a woman to smell weakness from a man, and all too often, those weak, inferior Asian men radiate the smell of weakness, which, for any decent looking woman, produces nothing but contempt and disgust. Through my tears of joy I smiled with sorrow, for love’s long-canceled woes and I moaned the enterprises of many a vanished sight; and I whispered, I belong to white men now, the most superior race of men on earth.

the neuropyschology of asian sluts

It is a universally observed phenomenon, known to and attested by all percipient observers, that Asian sluts tend to drool, swoon, and fall heads over heels in love, at the sight of white men, who are invariably described by those Asian sluts as “tall, handsome, dominant,” (even when those white men are just average or even below average) and, when confronted, rationalize, confabulate, repress or outright deny their lust in terms of “escaping my oppressive Asian culture”, “I’m not dating Asian guys because they look like my brothers”, “I can only cum when I’m being fucked by white guys, I dunno why”, “I don’t have a preference. I just happen to only date white guys,” etc., etc.

Yet few, if any, has ever devoted serious and (dare I say, scientific) studies into such subject matters, due to its unsaid and often unspeakable controversy; in its place, accumulation of often turgid and puerile rhetoric heaped over lacuna of the unknown.

Save for the often risible and “soft” departments in East Asian studies, sociology, and gender studies. Not that anyone should or could take those pseudo-intellectuals seriously.

In the end, as Freud himself proclaimed: that the future of psychology would lie in the realm of neuropsychology, or neuroscience, in which field psychological problems are solved via direct mappings to regions of the brain, and on the knife-edge of whose frontier even such philosophical questions as “What is free free?”, and “What is consciousness?” are being re-examined and partially answered; so I have decided to dab and simper into the unknown science, self-consciously, embarrassingly, amateurishly, embracing a brave future of new field in the hope that someday, someone with more zeal, more will-power, and more tenacity will tackle the untakeable, impregnate the unimpregnable, and distend his prodding Will into the forbidden mysteries of Asian sluts.

So according to leading neuroscientist V. S. Ramachandran, director of the Center for Brain and Cognition at U.C. San Diego, that there is a region in the brain called anterior cingulate that “lights up in many, too many brain image studies”. Most amazingly, it is intimately related to free will. For instance, a patient who suffered partial legions to anterior cingulate loses the desire to interact with the doctor, even though he is fully aware of what the doctor is asking him to do.

He stares blankly at the doctor, comatose. The doctor asks him to raise his hand. He neither replies nor moves. After months of recuperation, the doctor re-examines him and the patients tells the doctor that he had previously lost all desire to move or interact, despite of being fully aware of every thing that was going on.

Another patient, who suffered some other sorts of legion to anterior cingulate, is incapable of controlling herself to do what she is not supposed to do.

She is not able to control her left hand from touching the doctor, despite of her knowing full well that it is inappropriate. Extremely devastated and embarrassed, she uses her other hand to grab hold of her left hand to stop it from moving. Her left hand will also grasp objects without her intention to do so and not let go of it and in those circumstances she uses her right hand to pry open each one of her fingers on the left hand so as to drop the object. It’s as if her hand had a mind of its own.

But that’s not all, experimental studies on rhesus monkeys concludes that mirror neurons in the inferior parietal lobule of the brain fire not only when the monkeys perform certain actions, but even when they merely observe other monkeys’ performing the same action. The implication of this experiment, applied to humans, could explain everything from empathy, the development of culture, the development of language, tool use, and just about everything that makes humans unique. And this is not only applicable to humans, as Ramachandra explains that it is, but also the inferior parietal lobule in humans are actually even larger, and much more developed than any other kind of animals on earth.

And the science behind the firing of mirror neurons is even more fascinating. Hand signals and eye signals all interact with mirror neurons and when they follow different pathways to this particular brain region they either activate or inhibit the firing of mirror neurons. The interaction is far more complex than what I’m describing here.

The mapping of the entire brain is still an on-going project and the U.S. is investing billions of dollars into it.

It is not inconceivable that all Asian sluts, when watching other Asian sluts worshipping and submitting themselves to white cocks, have mirror neurons inside their brains firing rapidly as if they themselves were performing the act. And whatever inhibitions there were in the anterior cingulate of their brains shut down and they are not able to control themselves as they dress smartly and sexily to go out to clubs and bars and getting hit on by big, hung white jocks.

The mad scientists of the future (perhaps a group of smart, strong, and powerful white men with full blown cases of yellow fever) will be able to figure out methods, (perhaps drugs that contain certain chemicals or steroids, or perhaps certain injections or perhaps even certain psychological training, as suggested by Ramachandran) to manually activate the the firing of mirror neurons in the brains of Asian sluts while simultaneously inhibit their free will in the anterior cingulate. Asian sluts like me will be completely mind controlled and turned into obedient automatons by those evil geniuses, complying to their every sick and deviant wish without recourse to our free will.

Another thing that I would like to add is that there are certain regions of the brain that even controls pain, and there are actually ways to minimize the feeling of pain mentally by merely doing certain psychological training. Ramachandran actually says in the book that he has conducted experiments in which test subjects were able control the feeling of pain in their own bodies. Perhaps, no! Most definitely, the CIA is paying this guy to train their spies to endure torture and interrogation. But perhaps they are also secretly training Asian sluts to become masochists for the sick pleasure of white men.

Are you imagining the future as I am, my reader? Imagine the future where you can turn Asian sluts into your obedient slaves with the power of neuroscience!


The Tell-Tale Brain: A Neuroscientist’s Quest for What Makes Us Human by V. S. Ramachandran