My Boner Is My Master

If there is one part of my body that has given me the most happiness in life, it is my boner. When used in the way that nature intended, my obelisk of masculine power gives me pleasure, ecstasy, and purpose. Successfully pursuing its demands has showered me with satisfaction, no matter how fleeting, giving me meaning in an otherwise meaningless existence. I am who I am and where I am because I have faithfully listened to its needs and demands.

My boner knows what I like before I know. It signals to me when an attractive woman is within its view, forcing me to make contact with her. It sees the sexual value of certain women where I initially saw none, and if I fail to listen to my boner, it makes me feel guilt, shame, and regret. If I do follow its orders, I feel strong, masculine, hopeful.

My boner is ambitious. While it understands the conquest of female flesh is not instant, and that periods of time must pass between its feedings, my boner never lets me fall back into comfort or complacency. Besides instructing my testicles to produce sperm, creating weight and soreness that demands neverending release, it pushes me to find women who are more feminine and beautiful than the last. I have pierced higher quality women in the past year than ever, all from listening to my boner’s insatiable demands for beauty.

My boner is clever. It knows the difference between pleasure from my hand and pleasure from a real vagina. I have tried to deceive it many times, but it can not be tricked. Even the highest quality pornography does little to quench its demand for actual human fornication, and for that I nod my head to its supreme wisdom.

My boner is durable. There is no way to scientifically explain how my boner can sustain such prolonged friction with a vagina, even dry ones, in spite of its impossibly thin layer of outer skin. In the case of trauma from vigorous sexual activity, it self-heals within only a matter of days. Its fearless and always ready for action, like a samurai warrior.

My boner is strong. It only needs a small intermission between sex sessions. My body may fatigue, my heart my sputter, but my boner does not tire. In the face of sexual plenty, it can stay engorged with blood, its shy eye seeking a victim to impale, as if it thinks the end of times is near.

My boner does not lie. I have tried to give it sub-standard women since they are easier, but it simply does not activate, lying in a state of dormancy instead. My brain can be deceived by such women, but my devilish boner can not. For every woman I speak to, it either gives me a look of approval or one of disdain. Without his blessing, the interaction may not proceed.

My boner is my master. I am its happy slave, not wanting to be freed from its chains. I wish not to escape the flesh sacrifice it continually demands. It is my god, my muse, the heart of all which makes me a man. Without the ability to make a boner, I am weak, impotent, and harmless. I dare not ignore my boner or go against the prescription it has for me.

Only when my boner needs rest can I focus on other more worldly tasks, but as long as it is hungry, as long as it demands vaginal food, I will sacrifice everything so that it may be satisfied. As long as I live, I will serve my beloved boner.

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