The Transcendent Cunting Of Kamal!
The following post is part of a thread following Kamal, a faggot who has a desire to serve his Alpha professor uncle Farid. CLICK HERE to read all of these posts in chronological order!
The most difficult help requests I receive from fags involve submitting to family members. Every time I’m asked for help with these, I’m filled with dread. I don’t want to give advice that leads a fag to be ostracized from a family home or into the hands of abusers.
It was even scarier when Kamal approached me about helping him submit to his straight Alpha uncle, because Kamal is Arabic and that comes with extra baggage. However, I agreed to try and help because Kamal was so honest, open-hearted, and thoughtful. I felt he would have the best chance for success.
And sure enough, it was a success! As I reported last time, Kamal’s uncle, Master Farid, gladly accepted Kamal as his faggot!
I’ve been waiting on pins and needles ever since for the follow-up to this story (and frankly, so have my readers), but Kamal had some trouble getting it together to send … until now.
Just read his magnificent account, which blew away all of my expectations!
I am writing to you from a place I did not know existed until two days ago. I have tried to find other words to describe what has happened, but only yours suffice. The way your website describes certain things are just how i experinced them and there is an honesty in your writing, the refusal to hide the fact that there is much to lose, maybe a lot of pain along the way, but much to gain and to be oneself honestly for the first time is truly an experience without compare. I thank you for your cautious optimism and honesty.
The morning after Farid spoke the words that would restructure everything, I woke up and made my way down to breakfast in a daze. My aunt was there, speaking to him about some wedding in her family—her sister’s daughter, I think, or perhaps her cousin; the details dissolved in the heat of seeing Farid sitting there in a threadbare vest. She was asking him to attend the wedding and he was explaining, with that patient academic tone he uses, that his commitments at the university made it impossible. He offered instead to drive her to her sister’s place, which is a few hours away, and to spend a day or two there with her, which would allow him to explain his inability to attend the actual event to her family in person, and to give her more time with them so she could help with the preparations. As he told her this, he glanced at me quickly, and when I sat at the table he looked me in the eye without stopping his conversation with his wife, but I understood immediately from his gaze that he was lying. He had no academic obligations. The obligation that made his attendance impossible was me. He was buying us a fortnight alone together.
It was decided he and his wife would leave in a day or two, and I would not see him until he returned. The knowledge sat in my stomach like a stone, tense and heavy and radiant.
For the next few days, this tension shifted into something physical. Whenever we were alone and he involved himself with me—his hands on my skin, his mouth taking mine in the quiet hours when the house slept—he was overpowering and reticent simultaneously. Whenever I reached for more, he deftly side-stepped the request. When I asked to be fucked, he would simply touch me elsewhere or pull away with a calm smile that contained no refusal, only delay. He told me we must wait until his return. He spoke of the first time he would penetrate me as if it were something sacred, something he wanted us to be fully present for, without other cares. He said our first time would be something pivotal. “A fulcrum fuck?” I joked and he laughed, genuinely amused. I think that explains why I can’t remember the rest of that conversation. I tend to get lost in a euphoric haze when he’s happy with me.
Two days later, they left. The house emptied of everything but possibility, and I used that emptiness to prepare.
I had a professional full body wax so that I would be smooth for him, because I know he likes that. I also made sure I did some of the chores my aunt had been planning to do for him but had not been able to complete. I did his laundry and ironing perfectly, polished all his shoes that needed polishing, mended a few items of clothing that had lost a button or needed some trivial repair. My aunt and uncle had taken her car so that she would have it with her; my uncle was taking the train home. So I washed and detailed his car as best I could, working my hands into the leather until it gleamed with the same attention I wanted to give to him. Basically, I made sure that anything that had to do with him was perfect.
When my uncle returned, I was in class, so I could not welcome him home. But I made sure to cook his favorite meal for him, the one my aunt makes when she wants to thank him for something. When I returned to the house, he was waiting for me on the terrace. He embraced me warmly and kissed me. It was electric. It felt different than the kisses from when my aunt was there. This was deeper, more overwhelming, like he was not only there with me in the kiss but directing it, supporting it with his hands on my back, guiding my mouth open with a pressure he had not used on me before.
The air was warm and the jasmine smelled as it only can on the last night before it begins to wither—that particular intensity of something at the height of its bloom, aware of its own ending. A languid breeze paid its last respects and moved as if tethered to us, waiting for something to begin. He looked at me for a long time without speaking. His eyes moved over my face with a scrutiny that felt like reading.
Then he said: “I am going to fuck you now, Kamal. It will hurt, maybe even terribly. But I need you to feel the pain. I need it to destroy everything that’s only yours in you, the parts of you that can live without being mine. Or, I can stop and we can both walk away as we are.” I must have looked visibly distressed because he laughed and said, “But don’t worry, I won’t.”
His hands came up to hold my face and he kissed me again. It was a dominating, possessive kiss. When it ended he moved just an inch away and told me to leave him, to prepare and be ready when he called me.
During the hours between his words and the event, I prepared and whilst waiting in my room I read your text, Being Cunted. I marked the pages where you spoke of the proper mental state required for this transformation. For the first time, I understood from the inside what it meant to be prepared. I spent that afternoon in a state of profound stillness, accepting that whatever I believed myself to be until that moment was merely a placeholder for the truth you described. I sat in my room with the book open on my lap and felt my own consciousness thinning, becoming permeable, ready to be rewritten.
When the time came, he led me into his bedroom. Farid did not touch me at first. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. This lasted for what felt like ages, though it may have been only minutes—time had already begun to behave differently, stretching and contracting according to his attention. He stripped me slowly, his eyes moving over my body with clinical ownership, cataloging every inch he was about to claim. I stood before him naked and trembling, feeling every inch of my skin exposed to his judgment, my hands hanging useless at my sides because I understood that I was no longer permitted to cover myself.
“You are so beautiful.” he said. Then he came for me.
He arranged me on the bed, pushing me down onto my stomach without a word. He used his hand to open me, unravelling me with an aggressive patience that left no room for hesitation. His fingers worked with a deliberation that felt like surgery, like he was clearing a path through me. I felt the weight of him pressing me into the bed, the heat of his clothed body against my bare back. Then he took me.
“If it hurts, feel it.”
He fucked me with a controlled violence that I had never imagined possible. It was not chaotic; it was precise and overwhelming, each thrust delivered with a certainty that suggested he had always known exactly where I ended and he began. He used my body as if it were a tool designed specifically for his pleasure, driving himself deep into me again and again with a rhythm that felt inevitable. I felt my breath leave me, my lungs seizing as he found the depth he was searching for.
I felt something inside me let go. Not break—release. He fucked me past the point where I could track time or distance. I began to weep, and shake, my body convulsing with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beneath my ribs. I was aware of being gone from myself, floating somewhere above the bed while my body remained pinned beneath him, still receiving, still being used. The room blurred into shadow and light. In that state of near-unconsciousness, using your word, I understood that I was being cunted. The knowledge arrived not as thought, but as sensation, a cellular recognition of what was being carved into me.
He finished inside me. He did not pull away immediately; he held me down with his full weight until I stopped gasping, shivering, trembling. But I continued crying. And he seemed okay with that.
He whispered quietly in my ear, telling me how proud he was of me, how I had proved him right to want me, how strong I was for never having asked him to stop, even when he hoped I would. He kissed me and I remember nothing more.
When I woke the next morning, I discovered The Void.
It is not a metaphor. It is a literal, physical location in my body—a singular point of ache situated low in my belly, just behind the pubic bone. It felt as if a piece of me had been scooped out and replaced with an ongoing hunger that could only be satisfied by him. This Void did not vanish when he left the room or when I returned to my normal life.
Days later, it is still there. I feel it while I am sitting in lectures at college, listening to professors speak about literature and history, my pen moving across the page while my body orients itself toward his absence. I feel it during meals with my friends, as I smile and talk about mundane things, the conversation flowing around me while I remain anchored to this ache. It is an ongoing bodily reminder of the only man who can make me feel whole, the only one who has ever owned me.
My outward life has become a performance. I speak to friends, submit my work to smiling professors, I attend dinners, I laugh at jokes that float aimlessly through the air, but it is all an act, a performance by someone who no longer exists. The Kamal they think they know is gone; he was happily and willingly remade in the shape of Farid’s desire.
I want to say to you also that I could not have understood what was happening to me without your writing. Your words provided the only interpretive frame that made my mental state possible. Without them, I might have tried to categorize this event through the lens of romance or simple lust, and it would have remained elusive and its moment unknown. You gave me the vocabulary to accept the transformation as a revelation of what always was, waiting beneath the surface of who I pretended to be.
Now, when the ache becomes unbearable during the day, I return mentally to a specific sensory anchor: the smell of jasmine in furious bloom upon a warm beating breeze just before he spoke to me. That is where the shift began. That is where I left myself behind.
It is impossible for me to ever tell my family what has happened or who I have become. They see a dutiful son and student; they do not see the faggot who carries Farid’s seed inside him as a permanent mark of ownership. They do not see The Void. They do not see me.
But you do. And because of you, Farid does.
Thank you.
Kamal.
I almost had tears in my eyes reading this account the first time. The events described are so glorious, and Kamal’s expressive depictions of both the physical and emotional elements of his cunting (as well as The Void) are spectacular. I’m practically speechless.
What Master Farid did to Kamal is not easy, especially upon deflowering, but Master Farid did manage to cunt Kamal on the first fuck. It makes me wonder if Master Farid has owned/used fags in the past. If he hasn’t, then Master Farid has an innate understanding of how a faggot is to be used and claimed! As I’ve said before, Alphas have these instincts … but they don’t always act on them.
I chuckled when Kamal described The Void perfectly. I wasn’t expecting that additional perspective, but Kamal’s entire journey into true faghood through cunting and voiding is one of the most complete documents I’ve ever read. It’s a masterpiece!
Fags, read it again and again. This can be the result if you act in honesty, faith, and courage! Straight Alphas are out there willing to own you and give you experiences like this. You’ll never know the satisfying completion of purpose that Kamal feels now unless you try!
To my dear Kamal, thank you for sharing this with me and for trusting me! I think you’re beautiful inside and out, and I can’t wait to hear more of your discoveries as your Master Farid trains you and takes you deeper into your submission!
I love you, Kamal!
Always,
sam the faggot
