The Super-Perverted Superhero

Hi! I'm a pervert with a mind dirtier than your papi's panties.

As a little boy, my great-grandpa once said to me: "The powers of perversion are extra strong in you, young one. When you grow up, you will change this sex-hating world in myriad ways."

When I fondled a delectable duo of tofu tits (those were massive, milky mammaries, mind you) for the first time in my teens, my mundane life changed forever. In an instant, the perverted genes inherited from countless generations of my amorous ancestors finally awoke in me.

From a naive boy, I metamorphosed into much more than a man; I became a sex-crazed superhero, known as Pervertomaniac, whose sole purpose has been to bring the pleasures and joy of fucking to all the prudish and puritanical inhabitants of this sterile, sex-averse world.

On a daily basis, I wage a brutally endless war against those who would deny us our prurient passions and reject our instincts for intimacy. I fight these vile villains on sexual battlefields both physical and digital, with deadly weapons forged not of steel but of flesh and fluid, felling them with my rock-hard phallic erection and slaying them with rapid volleys of abundant cumshots.

My ejaculatory ammunition is god-like and worthy of repeated refrain. While the average man cums between 1.25~5ml, I fire liberal loads of 10~15ml each time, drowning my relentless foes in ample amounts of goopy goo. Men and women alike fall into a senseless stupor when they become awestruck by my potent powers.

Sensory enhancements inserted into my head by my headphones augment and amplify the salacious sounds of carnal copulation and filthy fornication that proliferate profusely in my delightfully depraved presence as I preach and spread the smutty gospels of vulgar vice and opulent obscenity to the oblivious and ignorant masses.

Upon visual and tactile contact with the sensual curves of full-figured nubile babes and vivaciously voluptuous vixens, I undergo a libidinous change that imbues my sexual appetite with an insatiable craving, while invoking my ancestors and beseeching them to empower it with an even greater capacity and capability for perversion than usual.

Soon, my mighty muscles start to flex and bulge, beefy biceps and titanic triceps shredding whatever arrogant sleeves dare to get in the way of their rapid expansion. My hardening pecs begin to dance in tandem upon my lofty chest, ripping my shirt apart. My ginormous glutes clench tighter than a cocotte's cervix, ready to put on a cheeky show. My quaking quads pulverize my too-tight pants!

Finally, my tantalizing transformation is complete. I am stark naked, muscles straining and popping into form, bubble-butt twitching, sweat glistening on flushed skin, thick veins snaking across hard flesh, and with my masculine physique contorted into a pornographic pose. My loyal comrade down below stands at full attention, eagerly awaiting assault orders from above.

That is the reflexive response of my perverted hormones to the sight, sound, smell, taste and feel of succulent strumpet flesh. It can happen anytime and anywhere -- in public and in private, in the company of friends or in the presence of family.

Most often, it spontaneously occurs in the midst of stunned strangers, who can't help but stare and gesture wildly at my monumentally indecent form. Envious, sulking males and embarrassed, blushing females both whip out their cameras to take quick snaps, turning me into the next viral social media sensation.

What kind of female flesh has such an immense effect on me, you might ask. That which is soft, smooth, supple and jiggly, of course. It is scrumptious female flesh that can be slapped and kneaded, squeezed and fondled, and which fills the nerve endings with joy, inevitably bringing about the excitation of a macho man's manhood meats.

By traversing the many varied realms of human and inhuman sexuality, and engaging in all sorts of immoral sexual experimentation, I have acquired enviable troves of knowledge about all aspects of fetish and kink.

Potent penis in one hand and bulging ball-sack in the other, I wield this sexual experience like great-sword and tower-shield, overpowering my enemies with overwhelming vulgarity and obscenity.

Puckering pussies are pounded with my perseverant penis like pestle against mortar, while fertile wombs are pumped to overflowing with ripe reproductive seed. Hungry, gaping mouths are stuffed to gagging with cock and tummies are filled with creamy cargo.

Over the eventful years, I have left in my wake a lengthy trail of vast battlefields strewn with the bodies both of defeated champions of sexual conservatism and those of fawning femmes, all conquered by the virile voraciousness of my ravishing cock and the fulsome force of my copious cum.

How wantonly licentious, you might presume of me.

On innumerable occasions, I have been accosted by the self-appointed morality police while selflessly fighting for the erotic expression and fornicative freedom of the world's sexually repressed people.

Each time, my debauched demeanor has so stupefied these weekend warriors that I find myself effortlessly overpowering their laughable attempts to ensnare me in their tyrannical chokeholds.

But that's all in a day's work for super-perverted superheroes like me, who have no shame in turning shy schoolgirls into sizzling sluts and sissyboys into sensual seductresses in the pursuit of perversion's devilish delights.

Among my rabid fans, my loyal penis and I go by many nicknames. From The Womb Wounder and Pussypounder, to The Semen Serpent and Fearsome Fucker, the list stretches on far longer than even the most authoritative of biblical scriptures.

When flaccid, some sceptics may view my unimpressive unerect cock with derision.

"It's so tiny! That's no bigger than the tip of my thumb!" my critics and haters often exclaim in yet another assiduous attempt to bring me low.

True, when unstimulated, my proud penis cannot possibly be worthy of such a noble title as Cockanathan -- the legendary lord of the cocks.

However, mock me not with your juvenile jokes, oh jesting jackanapes, for when this same cock becomes aroused and fully erect in the potent presence of female pheromones, it grows to Herculean proportions.

One such particular time is the monthly estral period when packs of deliciously derriered doxies and mama-wannabe minxes gather to perform their most sacred mating dance -- that which is so world-renowned as the "twerk".

It is during this time when cock-craving chicas both nude and in various states of undress come together to wiggle and waggle their protrusive posteriors in order to attract the attentions and affections of men.

This is when Cockanathan emerges in his most supreme form and partakes in fornicative festivities worthy only of the title. Intoxicated by pheromones wafting from the pouring pussies of winsome wenches, he throbs as he lengthens and expands, his hideous head rearing proudly as he readies himself for coitus before an array of sopping cunts rendered ravenous by his magnificence.

"Oh, please sex this semen-sucking slut up, you superbly sexy sir!" comes the plea from partially parted lips belonging to both googly eyed girls and worshipping women alike as they beg to be bred by Cockanathan and me.

Tongues hanging out like the most debased bitches in heat, with their eyes crossed and rolled up in humiliating expressions of orgasmic yearning, these shameful ahegao-faced sluts pant and purr with longing.

Cockanathan and I never like to disappoint. One at a time, I hold each hussy's head in my hefty hands as I assist my fierce fuck-bro in his daredevil descent down the tunnel of her throat, raiding its cavernous chamber for treasures hidden in its dark depths.

Claustrophobia is, unfortunately, one of Cockanathan's weaknesses. When the cavern gets too tight, Cockanathan tends to piss his pants in terror, both figuratively and literally speaking. Out comes a torrid torrent of first cum and then pee, drowning the poor girl and forcing Cockanathan to make a hasty retreat.

Still, the harlots arrive in droves, all eager to witness in person the awe-inspiring fluid of life that Cockanathan offers to the thirsty trollops on their knees. So they make daily pilgrimages, culminating in their monthly estrus festival, when Cockanathan produces his most potent loads.

But enough of talk about Cockanathan, and let's talk about me instead. I swear, sometimes my fuck-bro gets way more attention than I do. And that makes me so incredibly jealous that, occasionally, I deprive him of release so that he knows who's the real boss in our symbiotic relationship.

I love great tits (no, not the damned bird, silly!) and I'm always looking for new ways to better appreciate and enjoy them. Show me your bosomy babies and I might even offer them a free trip in orbit around the axis of my amorato down below.

Despite decadent decades of incessant indulgences in the plump pleasures of heaving honkers and humongous hooters, the colossal chest-cushions of such shapely sluts do definitely still continue to amply arouse my amorous appetite.

Recently, however, a newfound adoration for the curvaceous contours of callipygian coquettes has overly occupied my attention.

The stupendously roly-poly rumps of such bootiful babes have allowed me the opportunity to discover and hone my latent talent for music-making, and I realize now that I have never felt more in tune with my artistic alter-ego than when I am slapping and smacking the wobbling whoppers of women in rhythm to create incredible music.

Orgasmic moans combined with the audible rippling and reverberating of spanked flesh meld seamlessly to produce a cosmic cacophony of sexual sounds that deserve to be heard in the grandest of concert halls.

If you thought that saving dainty damsels-in-distress offered an enviable reward in exchange for putting my own butt-hole at risk from lecherous, leering lads who don't discriminate between a man's and a woman's ass, you'd be sorely wrong.

Sometimes, getting head from a grateful girl can hurt my own pride more than getting ass-raped by a sleazy old man too horny to care about whose ass he's fucking. It's never a pleasant experience, I'll tell you, especially when he stirs my jar of dark chocolate and enjoys it too much.

"Why do you cum so damned much?!" often comes the exasperated rhetorical question from the hankering hussy I just risked my puckering poop-hole to save. Cum-covered face terrifyingly twisted into mixed expressions of disgust, irritation and anger, she'd try to curse me with a mouth filled to the brim with lush loads of my fresh jizz.

Can't a hardworking hunk (though still a horndog, nonetheless) get a proper "thank you" anymore these days?! Don't blame me, then, if I search for greater gratitude from thirty-dollar trollops and E-cup E-thots who'll eagerly squeeze their tits and spread their thighs without complaint.

In my fanatical frenzy to impregnate as many babelicious beauties as possible and spawn an army of pervy offspring to assist in my battles against the enemies of perversion, I have often pondered the quizzical question of how much fucking is truly too much. After all, even the sturdiest sword needs to be tempered from time to time.

"You can never have enough sex!" is the thunderous reply that always resounds from the darkest depths of my sinful soul as my annoyed ancestors resolutely reprimand me for even daring to conjure up such a blasphemous thought. "You carry within your gushing gonads the accumulated lusts and ample amor of a thousand generations; dare you fail to uphold your sacred duty?!"

But even as a wee warrior continues to wage perpetual war against the infinite legions of sex-shaming losers -- and all manner of ill-intentioned ilk associated with them -- he can still take some precious time off from his sworn duties to enjoy other more personal passions.

When I'm not busy beating the drums of war with the bounteous butt-cheeks of big-bosomed bimbos, fapping frenetically to the plentiful pin-ups of luscious lasses in my favorite men's magazines, or slurping sleazily from the creaming cunts of horny harlots in heat, I often find myself tenderly tending to my hobby for preparing and cooking tofu -- though perhaps not as manly as baby-breeding with bodacious bitches or manhandling the mountainous mammaries of H-cup hucows to extract valuable milk for sale (surely you didn't think all superheroes get paid by the government, did you?).

Why might such a macho man as I choose to cook tofu, you must wonder.

"Ain't that a wench's work?" I can already see you sneering snidely in conspicuous contempt, a scornful smile clearly contorting your frowning face. A seemingly profound question coming from a relatively simple person such as yourself, no doubt.

Mock me however you like, but not just anyone can comprehend the complexities and intricacies of tofu indulgence; it takes years of wild experiences and unimaginable encounters to acquire such sagely knowledge.

To appreciate the gastronomical wonders of tofu, one needs to understand exactly what makes tofu so delightful. Tofu comes in many shapes, sizes and forms, but tofu connoisseurs know that high-quality tofu is not only pleasing to the eyes, but also delicate to the touch and brings joy to the tongue.

Getting the most enjoyment out of tofu can be challenging, but don't be disheartened!

First, procure fresh tofu of superb grade.

It should be recently made so that it is as soft and jiggly as it can possibly be. A milky-white color is a good indicator of freshness. Consistency is crucial -- always ensure that it is firm yet supple at the same time. Its surface should be even and smooth with gentle contours.

Next, you should never ignore the importance of garnishing and decorating your tofu.

Its dressing should not only be light, but also cling well to the tofu's form, so that it becomes molded to the shape of the tofu and helps accentuate its tender curves. Too much garnishing can conceal the tofu and detract from its natural goodness, so keep it to a minimum -- just barely enough to decorate it and highlight its most pleasant parts.

Finally, it's time to savor your tofu.

Do not ever rush during this sacred time of culinary enjoyment. Your tofu is going nowhere and neither are you! Find a comfortable place, prepare your utensils and get down to finally relishing that tofu you've worked so hard to prepare for this gourmet meal.

Be slow, be passionate. Feast on its exquisite sight with your eyes, let your tongue gently trace its titillating surface, and give your eager body what it has been starving for all this time. Allow the tofu's mellow flavor to fill you from head to toe.

There you have it! Now you know how to indulge in one of nature's greatest delights.

If, mayhap, you decide that tofuliciously thicc thighs or milky mama-mounds are not to your liking, or perhaps too mind-numbingly generic for your deviant tastes, you might be interested to know that I do sometimes put on the cutesy clothes I plunder from the wardrobes of giggling girls I manage to bed.

It is a time when I can put aside the demands of being overtly masculine and pay heed to the feminine impulses that even the manliest of manly men have. Yes, my dear non-believer, that is the only time my bountiful boyish booty is open for partying.

What?! Is that laughter I hear from you? Or is that a hideous hee-haw coming from someone who hasn't yet experienced the joys of cross-dressing? Regardless, it isn't something I readily admit to strangers, and I consider it a secret to be shared on a need-to-know basis only!

Well, what do you know, we've come to the very end of my monologue.

Now, you might either be thinking: "This guy is nuts!" or "This guy is my role model from now on!" but, whichever one it is, I hope you've wasted more minutes of your life reading this than I spent writing it.

Goodbye, and remember, if we ever meet in real life, I'm always happy to sign my autograph on your boobs (or butt) with Cockanathan's world-famous ink, but only if they're big enough!