The following post is part of a column written by a 40-something experienced faggot who calls himself “Mr. Fag”. CLICK HERE to read all of these posts in chronological order!
I spent a semester abroad in Italy the summer I finally understood what I was.
I was twenty-something, soft, eager, and quietly starving for something I didn’t have a name for yet. Near the end of term a very handsome 41-year-old man—recently divorced, taking a month in a little villa in the countryside—invited me to stay with him for a week. I said yes without hesitation.
When I stepped off the train and saw him waiting, the first thought that hit me was how beautiful he looked in the late-afternoon light. Handsome as the sun. I wasn’t scared. I was excited.
The second we were alone in the car he told me to get on my knees. He needed to cum. I did it right there, like a good fag, and swallowed every drop. That was only the appetizer.
After dinner and a shower the real week began. Every time his cock got hard—which was often—he used me. He’d be watching television and I’d lean over, get him hard with my mouth, then climb into his lap so he could push inside me. He decided early on that all of his cum belonged in my ass. No waste. No exceptions. By the end of each day I was carrying at least five of his loads inside me, sometimes more. Thick, heavy, leaking out of me whenever I stood or sat.
He was powerful—not cruel, not mean, just overflowing with power. He knew exactly what he wanted and he took it. Spit ran down my chin while I sucked him. Cum filled my hole until it was overflowing. Once a day he would stand over me in the bathroom or the garden and piss on me, warm and deliberate, marking me. I trusted him completely. I never flinched. I opened my mouth when he told me to, tilted my head back, and let it run down my chest and stomach. Spit, piss, and cum—every single day. And I enjoyed every single moment of it.
A couple of days in, something shifted. He had me on my back on the couch, legs folded open, driving into me with slow, heavy thrusts while the television murmured in the background. My little soft dick was bouncing uselessly against my stomach. Then the pressure inside me built past the point I could control. My whole body started shaking. My hole clenched hard around him. And without a single touch to my cock I began to cum—clear, helpless spurts pulsing out of my limp dick while he kept fucking me through it.
I looked up at him, dazed, still shaking. He looked down at me and something changed in his eyes.
It wasn’t just arousal. It was recognition. Pure, sudden alpha epiphany. He saw my body betraying itself for him—saw that his cock alone was enough to make a fag cum without permission—and the knowledge hit him like a drug. His thrusts got deeper, more possessive. He growled under his breath, almost laughing, and kept pounding me while I twitched and leaked, completely undone. From that moment on he knew exactly what he was. He started calling himself my alpha out loud, and I felt how true it was.
The rest of the week was the same pattern: his cock in my hole whenever he wanted it, load after load left inside me, the daily shower of his piss, the constant taste of his spit and cum. Every night after he’d finished he’d hold me, stroke my hair, tell me I’d done well. He was sweet about it. He took care of me because he knew I had given myself completely to his power.
Sunday came and I had to leave. He said a friend would drive me to the station. On the way the friend asked if I’d had a good time. I said yes, then admitted I was uncomfortable sitting.
“How so?”
I told him the truth about the week—the five loads a day, the piss, the way my hole stayed open and full, the way I came hands-free just from being used. He laughed, soft and knowing, and said, “Ti ha rotto il culo.” (“He broke your ass.”) Then he pulled over, parked on the side of the road, and told me to lean over. “That’s your job,” he said. I knew he was right. I opened my mouth and did it.
After he finished he didn’t let me sit back up right away. He kept one hand on the back of my neck, looking down at me while I wiped my mouth.
“You’re really a faggot,” he said, almost gently. “Look at you. With that culo rotto you’ll never go back. You’re a fag for the rest of your life now. You better get used to serving real men like us.”
He said it again when he started the engine, quieter this time, like he was simply confirming something obvious. And once more when he dropped me at the station, leaning out the window:
“Remember what I told you. You’re done pretending. Serve real men.”
I didn’t argue. I just nodded, still tasting him, still leaking the week’s worth of cum, and felt how true every word was.
When the summer ended and I was back home I understood something permanent: how right it felt to be a fag, and how much certain men enjoy the power of using one. That week in the Italian countryside became my private reference point. The secret I carry. And whenever I meet a man who recognizes what I am, it still works the same way.
I was cunted that summer. There was spit and piss and cum, and I loved every second of it. And it was fantastic.
Yours, Mr. Fag
One of my proudest achievements with this site has been the description, naming, and categorization of CUNTING. When it happened to me the first time, I didn’t have any resources to fall back on to help me understand it. Once I finally did on this site, I was deluged by faggots asking me questions and sharing their experiences with it. Today, there simply is no other resource online that contains the wealth of information and real-life experiences than this site.
Mr. Fag’s experience shows just how powerful that experience can be! This was essentially his revelation, the moment he left whatever his life was before and embraced a new truth. It’s beautifully-written, but more importantly, it’s honest. I want all faggots to experience this transformation for themselves!
I also want Alphas to appreciate the power they have to enact this life-changing transformation in faggots. Armed with their Alpha cocks and their Alpha dominance, they are able to pound a new reality into a faggot and force a most dramatic transformation. It’s beautiful in many ways, most of all the fact that cunting cements real ownership for the life of the faggot.
There simply is nothing more powerful than the cunting of a faggot by an Alpha in all of hierarchy. It practically defines hierarchy. I hope every Alpha and every faggot can experience it for themselves!
