The Path to Nowhere

Updated: Sep 3



There they were, six women sprawled out across the floor. A private audience of a mere two dozen men and women circled around them, all seated in meditative postures.


My teacher was up front, conducting this circus. As he always does, he managed to coax a gentleman from the front row to come up and demonstrate how to fuck these six women, sprawled out in the center of the room, without touching a single one.


Needless to say, this poor fuck was dumbfounded. I can’t blame him. Not many men are trained to do such a thing.

Against all odds, the guy gave it a go. He looked at the women nervously, like a child stumbling upon a crime scene. After a few creepy stalker-like attempts, my teacher called it quits for him, and asked the poor bastard to sit back down.


“#!%@?*!” He barked out my name.


I was seated in the far back corner of the room, spine straight as a goddamn arrow, in a trancelike state from just “holding space” for this shit show because that is what I was trained to do.


I was also trained to not think. This may sound like insanity to those who pride themselves on thinking their way through life. But to me, it didn’t fucking matter either way.


So I popped up like a foot soldier and stormed to the front of the room.


I have no idea what my teacher said. Again, my mind was blank. But it was clear that he wanted me to fuck all six of these women sprawled out on the floor in front of all these people, and without touching a single one of them.


Without any training at all, one might actually try to think about what they were about to do—approach it like a Rubik's Cube or a math problem to be solved. Fools. Thinking won’t get you nowhere.


On some form of autopilot, my body takes a breath and my attention lasers in, yet sprawls out, like a prison-yard spotlight across the sea of feminine chaos.


I intentionally blur my vision so I can see all of their bodies moving at once, as if it weren’t six women, but one. Their shape, distinctive, evocative, and erotically intoxicating in its myriad forms.

I can feel my body take a breath so deep, it’s as if the bottom of my lungs are in my toes. My breath gets heavy, deep and wide. You can feel the walls bow and the ceiling lift each time I inhale. My presence becomes the size of the room.

Like a hunter stalking its prey, my eyes lock from one set of eyes to the next, to the next, to the next. Never keeping eye contact too long with any one woman. You never want to make any one woman feel left out in such a moment. It is surely a fatal mistake that would have the entire thing fall apart. My attention is laser, yet all encompassing. My presence like a lead blanket, pinning them down, loving them into ecstatic submission.

Their bodies writhe. Moans sound from one women to the next. As if the six women were one organism, you could see the current of pleasure traveling from one body to the next, but only if you knew what you were looking for.


Their desire for more overcame them. They wanted me in. They couldn’t stop their hands from caressing one another, desperately grasping at tits and asses, entangled like a pit of snakes tussling for top position. Their moans were ecstatic. Like an orchestra of banshees in an orgy.


I prowled around them. Step by step—teasing them, taunting them, playfully frightening them. Everyone there could feel the vibrations coming up through the floorboards with every stomp I took. Genitals were humming. And most certainly hard and wet all around.

“Stop!” My teacher yelled.


My job was done. The crowd looked on with awe. No one had seen a man fuck six women into a collective orgasm without touching a single one before.


I calmly returned to my seat like a soldier dismissed by his General. Resuming my position and just holding space, with a spine as straight as a goddamn arrow.


My body was buzzing. My heart was pounding. But I was utterly still. After all, this is what I was trained to do.

To be continued...

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