Category: my diary

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.

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 term “fetish” to describe this immense sexual attraction is as accurate as the weather forecast. For a white man, if “Asian fetish” is appealing to you, though irresistible, you still have the choice to turn it off, or ignore it, by moving away from the computer and going about your day.

But, for us Asian Women, who live in the United States and who have been conditioned from a young age to lust after White Men, we simply don’t get to do that.

Our lust for White Men is constantly being provoked, impossible to avoid, because White Men dominate our lives. White Men are our bosses, our supervisors, our colleagues, our professors, our teachers, our classmates, our superintendents, our neighbors. White Men are everywhere.

We can’t walk down the street without constantly feeling little pangs of arousal at the sight of white men.

Imagine, as a man, if the one thing that turns you on more than anything else in the world is around you constantly. This one fetish that worms into your brain and makes it impossible for you to concentrate on anything else is a person you have to deal with and interact with everyday. That’s the state of Asian women in America. We are in a sea of White Cocks and there’s nothing we want to do more than to just submerge ourselves in it. We are in a constant battle against the urge to drop everything and retool our lives around our love for White Cocks.

I long for nothing more than to behold the stormy sea, less as a mighty spectacle than as a momentary revelation of the true nature of Superior White Man.

An Asian whore like me should be forced to push half-white babies out of my well fucked and abused cunt every nine months, he told me, as I listened to his words with a palpitating heart. The pronunciation of each syllable was sufficient to provoke in me a complete change in key of my sensibility, a modulation of my bodily clime without the external seasonal change. I felt cold at one instance, then hot at another, then warm, then tepid, then freezing, then scorched almost to the point of heat-exhaustion.

You should never be without a big round swollen belly, with big heavy tits filled with milk, big swollen nipples leaking milk onto the floor, he told me. The images associated with his words, cartoonish, Faulkner-like, appear with their associated syllables, lingered in my head,drawn-out, drooled and slurred, gradually merged with an inspired longing, a yen, a pine for fantasy.

Not only would I be bred, but I would be bred by at least six different white men simultaneously at a time, so that I would never be able to know who the father is, as befitting an Asian whore, according to him.

“You’ll probably be the kind of whore that will squirt and cum all over yourself in front of the doctors when giving child birth pushing our bastard out of your cunt. His head pushing against your cunt walls and clit, stretching your hole wider and wider will make you orgasm for sure. He’ll enter the world with your cum all over him. His mother is a breeding whore, and I hope he leaves your pussy all swollen and sore after he enters the world,” he continued.

Those words present to me a little picture of things, bright, familiar, eerie, strange, creepy, and grotesque, like the pictures hang on the walls of a school’s classroom, like the posters of horror movies plastered in subway stations, like the obscene advertisements of pornography. It robs me of my humanity, my womanhood, my dignity, my most cherished aspect of life as a female.

“That’s how it should feel all the time. It should hurt when you walk from being used and abused. Hurry up and push this bastard out of your hole just so we can put another one inside of you again. You should be bred until you are completely barren inside. After that, you should spend the rest of your days caged, collared and leashed, both holes plugged up at all times in chastity belt, waiting to be fucked and used as the fuck toy you were born to be. Hand spank your pussy and clit for me until you squirt tonight, dreaming of my superior half-white baby kicking inside your womb. Breed every nine months slave.”

Instinctively I felt my hand reaching for the forbidden fruit, my face blushing, my heart at my throat, a ghost dancing up and down inside me, clapping its hands and kicking its legs.

Those words magnetized my secret yearnings, waves of forbidden desires surging around me—those words to me were not merely an inaccessible ideal, but an imaginary, enveloping oasis into which I plunged to dream of a life not lived, to escape the anvil of a harsher reality of boredom, death, and loneliness.

For several nights I was unable to sleep, haunted, harrowed, insulted by those words. And the associated images of those words, unreal, fixed, always alike, filled my nights and days, touching my sexual organs as elaborated by the spell of my dreams and not perceived by my other senses at all.

And whenever I woke up in the morning, I felt shameful, guilty, and remorseful, troubled by the reality of those visions that most inflamed my lustful desires, humiliated that those words raised me to a midnight ecstasy, as an imagined reality, more painful than reality—something that I had until then deemed impossible—penetrated deep within my soul, held, restrained, and immobilized me between rocks of amethyst, like a reef in the Indian Ocean, by a supreme muscular effort, in an supreme excess of my strength, diverting me, as if a man sucking the clam-meat out of my clam-shell, leaving me with no purpose, lost in the indescribable and peculiar realm of dreams.

I listened but did not respond. I wished he would have spoken more. But I have never heard him speaking ever again. A few weeks afterward, I remembered those words again, and that night, I dreamed, that the white man who spoke those words put his words into action, came to my house, kidnapped me, and enslaved me, kept me in the condition as he had described. In that dream, I felt myself undergoing a dis-incarnation to a previous life. It was accompanied by a strange and vague desire to vomit, as one feels when one has developed a sore throat, and a persistent fever that had to keep me in bed.

Ever since, I masturbate to those words every night before bed, lusting for his power, his strength, his courage, his madness, his zeal, his tenacity, his superiority.

Love is a disease.

I fully embrace my inferior asian status to the superior White Male. The countless facets of White Male superiority are far beyond the limited constraints of my comprehension. Yet the certainty and vast magnitude of White Male superiority are beyond question.

I want to completely surrender to the leadership of White Men. Obedience and service to my superiors is not a gift that i give to Them. It is a privilege that They afford to me. To sacrifice my comfort for Theirs is inconsequential recompense for the gracious benefit of White leadership.

As a servant to the superior White Men i aspire to be obedient, attentive, efficient, and unobtrusive. My service must be a net benefit to the White Men that i serve. This means that i will comply with Their orders and rules without resistance or hesitation. i will be alert for opportunities to be of service. The work that i perform in Their service will be done with the utmost effort and highest quality that i am capable of delivering. My service will be rendered in a manner that will maximize Their convenience and minimize unnecessary distractions.

As a servant i aspire to avoid punishment. This is not for my benefit but rather for the benefit of my White Male superiors. Their time is of the utmost value. Should i require discipline then i am wasting Their time and i am able to devote less time to Their service. While i am completely subject to the punishment of my White Male superiors and am grateful for Their discipline and guidance, my goal is to offer obedient, attentive, efficient, and unobtrusive service.

As an asian female my words and actions will always be respectful and courteous, making evident my recognition of White Male superiority.

I was a 19 year old 5’1 Asian girl and was at a college party with my bf at the time (also small and Asian). I entertained myself at the start of the party by losing my bf and coyishly flirting with a white frat guy. We were alone in a random bedroom and I got to play dumb when he made a move on me. This was the type of thing I loved doing at parties. I’d get drunk, start to get horny, and grab the muscular arms of taller guys while giggling at their dumb jokes. Then, when they’d make a move, I’d act offended and tell them “I have a bf” etc.

Well… this guy didn’t respond like the others. Instead of walking away dejected like most guys, he cupped me by my pussy underneath my dress and with one arm lifted me up against the wall. OH. MY. GOD. I wasn’t wearing any underwear so his large fingers were right against my pussy. I was so shocked I couldn’t say anything—I just looked up at him and stared. He looked amused as he eyed down my body. Even though my feet were off the ground I was still well below eye level. He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry baby, we’re going to find out how coy you really are. If you’re a good girl and your pussy stays dry while I hold you, then in one minute I’ll let you go. But if you’re the dirty little slut I think you are, and you start to drip over my fingers … well … either way you get what you want.”

Now in my defense, I wasn’t used to such a big height and strength difference with guys. It was overwhelming, scary, and very very hot. Secondly, I was drunk and already borderline “ready to go” from flirting. Finally, I never had seen a guy so confident he was going to get me wet. He just held me there with a smirk on his face like it was the easiest thing in the world. I felt myself gush all over his fingers almost immediately.

He laughed out loud. “That was quick. I guess that’s why you were so quick to ditch your bf and flirt with me. That’s ok baby, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll even let you call me daddy while we do it. That’s what you sluts like, right?”

I was extremely embarrassed and needed him to know I didn’t want it. “If you fuck me I’ll call the cops!!!” I said it loud but knew no one else could hear over the party music.

“In that case baby” He said with a smirk, “Let’s make sure they have video evidence.” He grabbed my phone out of my pocket and held it up to my face to unlock it. He then set it on the nightstand facing us and pressed record.

At this point I was scared but very wet. He was slowly moving his hand rhythmically around my pussy and I had to fight the urge not to gyrate with him.

With his other hand he undid his pants and pulled out his cock. It was the biggest I had ever seen and the shock was all over my face. “Don’t worry baby.” He said taking a glance at the camera. “I’ll be gentle.”

He put both his hands on my hips underneath my dress and placed me right onto his cock. With how wet I was it slipped right in. I immediately let out a loud, humiliating moan. I couldn’t believe myself since I was normally pretty quiet during sex. “Good girl—nice and loud for the camera.”

It was then I realized why he was so comfortable filming me. He knew I was going to look like I was enjoying it. He knew I was going to moan for him just like he knew I would get wet for him.

He started slow like he said he would. I moaned with every thrust. He had pulled his hands away from me so I wrapped my arms around him to keep my back from scraping against the wall. It didn’t hurt like I thought it might. In fact, it felt amazing. I had never felt a dick hitting the back of my pussy before. It had been maybe two minutes since he entered me and I already felt my orgasm starting to build. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, something that only happens to me when I think of this experience.

Out of nowhere he stops thrusting and holds me still on his cock. I had NEVER felt that good before and couldn’t help myself from moving my hips back and forth. He laughed at me again. “If you want to come you’re going to have to beg.” At this point my rational brain was completely gone. I never thought I would beg to come on any cock other than my small Asian bf’s. But here we were.

“Please” I muttered.

“Please what?”

“Please daddy let me cum on your cock UGH”

Just the words leaving my mouth brought me right to the edge.

“Louder for the camera,” he said sternly as he started bouncing me on his cock again. He held his hand over my mouth for 30 seconds as he brought me closer. He then moved his hand and told me to beg one more time like I meant it.

“PLEASE DADDY LET ME CUM”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I orgasmed harder than I had in my entire life. I squeezed him tight as my legs shook uncontrollably and my pussy came all over his white cock.

I held onto him exhausted as he finished recording on my phone. “Saved for whatever you might need the footage for in the future.” He said with a smirk. I collapsed onto the floor and my phone began to ring. It was my boyfriend. “You better get that.” He said, as he zipped up his pants and left.

I’ve watched the video many times since then and it never fails to get me off. I guess I am the Asian slut he knew I was.

It felt weird, stressful, and anxious, to know that I am going to become old, knowing that I have never had children and that I was not going to be getting married anytime soon. I used to not think about sex at all, but for some strange reason, ever since I hit the age of 30, I have been thinking about sex non stop. I ached for the feeling of a cock inside me, punishing me, hurting me …

I need a cock inside me almost everyday. The various men I have been seeing are not always available. They have their lives, their jobs, and sometimes their wives and families, so I had to remain in contact with over dozens of different men. I tell my parents that I have to work overtime when in fact I went to the various different men’s apartments to suck their cocks.

My mind is a mess right now. I can’t even think straight as I type those words. Even though I work in a bank and I make 100k a year, I still live with my parents. I have never had a boyfriend. But I am not a virgin. This is the sad reality of being an asian girl.

I have had sex with only white men, to make no mistake about it. Some of them are wealthy bankers, some are professors, and some are doctors and engineers. I choose my partner very carefully, but none has been able to connect with me romantically.

I hate my life so much. I don’t know how long I can keep it this way. I want to cry but my eyes are dry. Sometimes I feel I might go crazy.

I hate my dad so much. He is a typical asian man, patriarchal, effeminate, and just plain stupid. Everyday he plays with his phone and watches Asian movies and listen to Asian music. I hate him so much. He ruined my life.

I need a white man to save me. I need a white man to destroy me. I need a white man to put this little chink whore in her place. My life can’t go on like this.

Since day one of my sexual activity, as a dedicated Asian slut who has only dated white men, I’ve dutifully swallowed all the cum that’s been deposited in my mouth, and licked up and swallowed all the cum that was smeared somewhere else on my body.

This all started, perhaps, because it’s the way I was “taught” to have sex—when I gave my first blowjob, the white guy, who was a farm boy from the mid-west, said something along the line of “Oh yeah baby. Swallow my cum,” when he was about to orgasm. And so I did. I felt impolite to do otherwise. I did the exact same thing the next several times when we got together. And then we started having sex, and whenever he was about to cum, he would, more often than not, pull out, pull off the condom he was wearing, straddle over my face and jack off into my mouth. Sometimes, when some of it dribbled out to the side of my mouth, he would wipe it to my lips and made me swallow that too.

It just seemed like a natural way to clean up.

And so this practice continued over the course of the new few boyfriends I had. At one point in my life I was with a guy (who was half Italian and half-Irish and worked in New York) who especially liked to cum on my face, my tits and so on, and which made it a little more of a process. One night as I was doing cleanup, he told me how much he loved the way I swallowed all his cum, because all his previous Asian girlfriends had wiped it off with a towel or some facial tissue.

He said he was so turned on every time he had sex with me because he knew when it was over I would swallow all his cum.

I guess I didn’t fully realize until then how much of a turn-on this was for guys, so I leaned into it more, and whenever we were making plans to get together I would say stuff like “I really need your cum tonight, can you come over?” or something to that effect, and he loved it.

And I would beg for his cum while he was fucking me and I would say “Thank you!” after I was done swallowing. It became a real turn on for me as well, so I have pretty much kept on with all that for every white guy I’ve been with since.

Now I’m in my early 30s and sometimes when I masturbate, I visualize all the cum I’ve ever swallowed, collected from all the white guys who’ve fucked me, and their cum are in like a big jug sloshing around, and I feel like a completely worthless yellow cum dump because I’m getting off not on images of white guys or their white cocks or being fucked but just of this big pool of semen from all those white guys.

It makes me orgasm really hard.

Would you like to tie me up and use my tight Asian pussy to satisfy your thick white cock, sir? I know it’s too big and I know it’s gonna hurt but it’s okay.

You know that I’ve been craving your big white cock for a long time. I think about it whenever I close my eyes. I want to feel your big white cock stretching my tiny Asian pussy until I break, until I can’t take it anymore, until I’m crying from both ends.

You know there is nothing that makes an Asian whore like me wetter than thinking about how you will put my legs over your arms and fuck me against the wall. I go crazy just thinking about it.

I get so horny knowing I’m just another cheap Asian whore being put in her place, on her knees, collared and leashed and pumped full of my white master’s cum.

Do you want to beg and plea for it, white master?

I bet you’ve fucked enough Asian girls to know, that I can’t help myself. The second a white man approaches me, the image of his big white cock enters my mind and I start to get wet. My brain goes blank and all I can think about is his cock inside me. Thrusting deep in my tight little Asian cunt.

I cried like a little virgin the first time I got split open by a real man’s cock (that is, not a tiny Asian dick) and came over and over. Now, I can never go back.

It’s only natural. Asians were born to be slaves for white cocks.

It’s only natural. Asian cunts crave the attention of white men.

It’s only natural, as you pin me down and drill my wet asian pussy until I’m a screaming mess, impaled on your big white cock as I beg for more, slapped, beaten, degraded, humiliated, my asian hole burning with lust and shame, as you ram your cock back inside me; until you have forced more orgasm out of me than I had previously thought possible; until I’m completely vanquished and conquered, laying prostrate, at your mercy, turned into your obedient asian slave.