It started after my son filled my squirting dildo full of hot sauce. …

It’s actually quite difficult for me to write all this, to re-live through what I have suffered. And by publicizing all this for the world to see I’m shamelessly admitting that I actually enjoyed what happened to me. Until just now I have tried to steer clear of even thinking about it. I’m still very ashamed of myself … maybe it helps writing them down, and even if not … at the very least … men will be turned on by what I write, and I love the idea of exposing myself for being the depraved Asian slut that I’ve been my entire life.

Ever since my husband and I divorced, I’ve been very sexually frustrated. My Asian pussy ached for penetration and abuse from big white cocks and so once again I started meeting men for sex. And even when I was not meeting them for sex, I put on masturbation shows online for men on webcam to show them how horny and slutty I was.

On several occasions my son—who was now 19 years old, currently attending college—walked in on me as I was fucking myself with my squirting dildo. Unlike traditional Asian mothers, I was very sex-positive and did not mind my son watching me masturbate. So, I let him watch. I also walked around the house naked to show him what a real Asian woman looked like. But I did tell him to stop barging in like that. I told him, if you want to see mommy masturbate for all the white men, you need to let me know before hand. And he was free to masturbate himself as he watched me. But he was not allowed to touch me.

Sometimes I feel sad for my son, because, despite of being only half Asian, he inherited that half of the Asian genes down below. His penis is only three inches when fully erect and his testicles are very small and as a consequence, when he cums, he only dribbles. All the white men I’ve been with are way bigger and cum in far more copious amount.

But what I didn’t expect was, while he had inherited the physical characteristics of an Asian penis, he is also without the honest and radiant personality of a happy white man and his mind is deviant like an oriental.

One night I was fucking myself with my dildo for several men who paid to watch me online, and I was near climax and I squeezed on the little bulb attached to the dildo to simulate a cock cumming inside me. I noticed something was wrong because I felt a stinging sensation, and slowly, the sensation morphed into scalding pain deep inside my vagina and it was radiating outward wherever the liquid touched. I pulled the dildo out and saw blood-colored goo on its tip. My mind was in a daze with shock and horror. A moment later, I heard a familiar voice: “How’s that hot sauce in your Asian pussy, you filthy whore! This is to teach you a lesson for being a slut, mom!”

The horror of all that was happening overwhelmed me. I was screaming and shaking. I fell off my chair and rubbed my vagina to squeeze the burning liquid out. I crawled to the bathroom and stuck the shower handle directly into my pussy. I was not just crying. I was wailing. I couldn’t believe my son could do such a thing to me, despite of all the love I showered him. I started cursing—I rarely cursed—and I shouted. I was furious, and also scared.

My son had barged into into the bathroom I was cowering in and I screamed for him to go away. My son screamed back, “I’m trying to help you mom!” He pulled my legs up by my ankles and shoved a few ice cubes into my pussy and then massaged my vagina. Then tapped it. Then spanked it. The ice was stinging me from inside my vagina like wasp stings. “Does that feel better now, mother?” I almost fainted from the pain. Then he connected a rubber hose to the faucet, stuck one end into my pussy and filled it with water. There was water everywhere. Hot sauce, ice cubes, and now ice cold water. I couldn’t believe that my very own son, my flesh and blood, was torturing my pussy like a sadist, and I orgasmed as I screamed, “Please stop!”

“Do you regret being a slut now, mom?” My son slapped my face as he said it. I was a blubbering mess and I nodded, fearful of what my son might do next. “My dad is no longer in the house, and I’m the man, and that means you listen to me. From now on, you are my slut, and you are only allowed to fuck yourself when I tell you. I’m going to let you fuck other men. My dad and I both know you are a g**k slut for white cocks, but only with my permission. You will fuck and suck whomever I tell you to fuck and when I tell you to fuck them. Or else I’m going to find more ways to punish you.”

I couldn’t believe my son was now taking charge of my sexuality and even though I knew what he was doing was wrong—so terribly wrong, I also believed what he was doing was good for me, in a twisted way. I need a man’s protection—a white man’s protection, and my son—being half Asian and half white—was just the man who can protect me and keep me safe. Culturally, he is sensitive to my needs as an Asian woman, and physically, he is powerful and strong like a white man. I obeyed him instinctively.

The beginning of my ordeal … my wanton enjoyment of being a shameless Asian slut with the permission from my son.

For an entire month, my son gave me what he called the “Asian whore challenge”. He said this was the kind of things “they” gave to Asian prostitutes to break their will and how “they” turned those women into sex slaves. I wondered who he meant by “they” and then I shuddered. He meant “Asian men”, the very kind of men that for all my life I’ve been trying to run away from, and now one of them was standing before me, and there was no way for me to escape from him. He is connected to me biologically, spiritually, and genetically. My whole body shook uncontrollably at the realization.

During the challenge, everyday, my son dictated, I need to fuck at least one more person than the previous day. On day 1 of the game, I fuck one person. On day 2, I fuck two persons. On day 3 I fuck three persons and so on and so forth. By the end of first week, on Sunday, I fuck at least 7 persons. In total I fuck at least 32 people in one week. On the last day of the month, I fuck at least 30 persons, withing 24 hours. For the entire month of the challenge, I fucked a total of 465 people. And that was just the number of different people who fucked me, not the number of times I was fucked. I think I was fucked more than a thousand times at least. One guy, for instance, fucked me 12 times in the span of 24 hours.

Initially, I was shocked. I said I couldn’t possibly be able to do this. I begged my son to stop, and I said that he was going to make mommy into a prostitute. And yet he said, that was exactly what he was planning on doing to me all along.

He even threatened that, “if you fail the challenge, I’ll pierce holes in your pussy lips and fix rings and locks over them so you will never be able to fuck again.”

And I had to have sex with all those men while my son watched. And when he was not able to watch in person, say, I was taken on a trip abroad by the wealthy men who brought me to their homes in Norway, I must call him on his phone, facetime him, so he could see me getting fucked. And if I were not able to facetime him, after I was done, I must confess to him how I was fucked, describe to him in detail, and answer any question he might have. Did the guys use condoms? How big were their cocks? Did I cum? Did they fuck you anally? Did they cum in your mouth? My son had also tried to force me to write down in detail every sex session I had. While the sequence of men increased arithmetically, the toll on my body and amount of sex increased geometrically. I simply didn’t have the time to write down everything, and I was extremely exhausted. Sometimes I fell asleep even in the middle of sex sessions. And it was difficult for me to recollect all those events in detail because, very soon, everything became a blur.

And another thing I discovered very soon was trying to think about all that has happened to me started to feel like the recollection of a dream, and none of what I wrote down made sense even to myself. Perhaps this is all a dream, a nightmare fused with my own wet dream, and when I fall asleep, I might be awakened from this strange, erotic nightmare. So the plan to create a play-by-play diary of all my sexual escapade was abandoned, because all my recollections were fragmentary. Sometimes, even what I recollect of the same event on two different days differed wildly from each other, and from this experience I think I finally started to appreciate how all the gospels in the Bible had different versions of the same event. And whenever my stories didn’t match up, my son hit me, yelling at me, telling me to stop lying, I try my best to recollect all my sexual escapades to avoid the beatings …