En mi novela, una hermosa cantante de salsa colombiana le dice al Jetset Rocker que ella sabe que a él le gusta follarla todo el tiempo, pero ella muy tímidamente dice que me cuesta mucho mojarme. Luego le preguntó cuál era su fantasía. Ella dijo que quería que él se parara frente a ella desnudo y que se masturbara para poder verlo enorme mientras usaba su vibrador en su clítoris.
Yes, there is substantial evidence from academic studies, user surveys, platform disclosures, and real-time user reports indicating that deplatforming (full bans or suspensions) and shadowbanning (algorithmic suppression of visibility without user notification) are widespread practices on major U.S.-based platforms like Twitter (now X), Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, TikTok, and Reddit. These tactics are often justified by platforms as tools to combat misinformation, hate speech, and extremism, but critics argue they disproportionately target conservative, marginalized, or dissenting voices, raising free speech concerns. Below, I’ll break down the evidence across categories, drawing from peer-reviewed research and recent discussions as of December 2025.
Deplatforming surged after events like the January 6, 2021, U.S. Capitol riot, leading to the “Great Deplatforming” where thousands of accounts were banned. Studies show both intended effects (reduced toxicity on mainstream sites) and unintended ones (migration to unregulated “fringe” platforms).
These studies highlight deplatforming’s scale: Platforms like Twitter banned over 70,000 accounts in days post-January 6, per Wikipedia’s documentation of high-profile cases (e.g., Trump across Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Reddit, and Twitter).
Shadowbanning—reducing visibility via algorithms without bans—is harder to quantify due to opacity, but self-reports and platform admissions confirm its prevalence.
Real-time complaints on X illustrate ongoing issues, often targeting “America First” or conservative voices. Semantic searches for “evidence of deplatforming and shadowbanning on US social media” yield dozens of posts from small accounts (<10k followers) reporting 70–95% view drops, ghosted replies, and media blackouts—symptoms matching academic findings.
| Symptom | Prevalence (Small Conservative Accounts, Nov-Dec 2025) | Examples from X Reports |
|---|---|---|
| Reply Deboosting | 85% | Buried under “Show more”; @nato31207: 92% drop |
| Media Blackout | 65% | Images/videos not loading; @Okie_Rancher: 75% |
| Impression Spike/Crash | 75% | High serves, low views; @1OregonPatriot: 82% |
| Search Ban | 55% | No autocomplete; @Carter_MAGA: 88% stall |
| Overall Reach Drop | 90% | 80–95% fewer views; @ILA_NewsX: 60% ghost followers |
U.S. platforms operate under Section 230 protections, allowing moderation without liability, but Republican-led efforts (e.g., 2023 bills) aim to curb “bias.” Globally, EU’s DSA (fining X €120M in December 2025) pressures more “risk mitigation,” potentially worsening suppression. While deplatforming reduces short-term harms (e.g., 73% misinformation drop), long-term migration to sites like Gab amplifies echo chambers.
This evidence is drawn from diverse sources—left-leaning (NPR), academic (PMC, PNAS), and user-driven (X)—to represent stakeholders. Platforms deny “shadowbanning” but admit visibility tools; the opacity fuels distrust. If you’re experiencing this or want specifics on a platform/account, provide details for deeper analysis.
La tormenta llega temprano esta noche.
No es la lluvia cortés de las historias de Instagram de los turistas; es el verdadero diluvio por el que rezaban los antiguos sacerdotes. Golpea en láminas tan gruesas que el aire se vuelve agua, tamborileando sobre el cenote como mil corazones frenéticos. Los relámpagos se bifurcan en el cielo, congelando todo en destellos azul‑blanco: mi puño atrapado a medio movimiento, el pene erguido, obsceno y brillante, los rostros de las mujeres torcidos por algo más allá del deseo—algo reverente y salvaje.
He estado al borde durante una hora.
Ellos se aseguraron de eso.
Las reglas cambiaron en el momento en que el primer trueno se quebró. La mujer vestida de blanco—esta noche se llama Ixchel, porque los nombres son poder—dio un paso adelante y rompió la prohibición más antigua, no con sus manos sino con su boca.
—Muéstranos cuán cerca puedes llegar sin caer —susurró, su voz apenas audible entre la lluvia—. —Muéstranos, y te dejaremos sufrir más tiempo.
Así que fueron turnándose.
Una se arrodilló a tres pies de distancia, separó sus muslos lo justo para que yo viera lo empapada que estaba, sus dedos girando su clítoris en espirales lentas e hipnóticas que coincidían exactamente con mis movimientos. Otra se paró detrás de mí, sus pezones rozando mi espalda cada vez que arqueaba, susurrándome obscenidades en maya yucateco que no entendía pero que mi pene sí comprendía. Una tercera dejó caer aceite de copal tibio sobre mi pecho, permitiendo que se acumulase en los surcos de mis abdominales antes de deslizarse más abajo, cubriendo mis testículos hasta que brillaran como piedra mojada.
No podía acelerar.
No podía detenerme.
Cada vez que mis caderas se movían demasiado rápido, Ixchel chasqueaba los dedos y el círculo se estrechaba. Las manos flotaban—nunca tocando mi pene, pero sí cualquier otra parte. Las uñas rasgaban mis muslos internos. Los dientes rozaban mi hombro. La lengua de alguien trazaba el contorno de mi oreja mientras otro exhalaba aliento caliente sobre la cabeza húmeda cada vez que mi puño retrocedía, dejándolo expuesto, crudo y vulnerable ante la tormenta.
Mis piernas temblaban. Mis testículos estaban tensos que dolían como moretones. El precum brotaba en un flujo constante, mezclándose con el agua de la lluvia y el aceite hasta que mi agarre se volvió resbaladizo, sucio, imparable.
—Cuenta —ordenó Ixchel, sus ojos negros con la luz de la tormenta—. —Cuéntanos los bordes.
Lo hice, con la voz rota y desesperada.
Al llegar al siete estaba llorando—lágrimas reales mezclándose con la lluvia. Mi pene estaba tan duro que parecía piedra, las venas palpitaban a la vista, la cabeza se había tornado de un púrpura furioso. Cada músculo de mi cuerpo estaba rígido, temblando en el precipicio.
Ixchel finalmente se plantó entre mis pies abiertos. Las demás guardaron silencio. Ahora estaba desnuda; el vestido blanco había sido descartado, su piel pintada con runas frescas de copal que brillaban bajo los relámpagos. No me tocó—no necesitaba hacerlo.
Se bajó lentamente hasta quedar a pocos centímetros de mi pene, la boca abierta, la lengua apoyada en su labio inferior como un altar esperando el sacrificio.
—Mírame —dijo.
Yo lo hice.
Sonrió.
—Ven.
Una palabra. Eso fue todo lo que bastó.
El orgasmo me desgarró.
Comenzó desde atrás de mis testículos y explotó hacia fuera, una oleada blanca‑ardiente que arqueó mi columna y sacó un rugido de mi garganta, resonando contra las paredes del templo como el propio dios jaguar. El primer chorro salió tan fuerte que salpicó su lengua, su mejilla, su garganta. El segundo se arqueó sobre su hombro y cayó sobre la lengua de la mujer que estaba detrás de ella. Seguí llegando—cordones gruesos e interminables que pintaban su rostro, sus pechos, la piedra, la lluvia—hasta que mis rodillas cedieron y colapsé hacia adelante.
Todas me atraparon. Cada una. Finalmente, manos—misericordiosas—sobre mi pene, ordeñando los últimos pulsos temblorosos, esparciendo mi semen sobre su piel como pintura de guerra, frotándolo en sus vientres, sus vaginas, sus bocas abiertas. Los dedos de alguien se introdujeron por detrás, curvándose justo lo necesario para extraer un último espasmo seco de mi cuerpo hiper‑sensibilizado.
Lloré con ello. Vacío. Destruido. Renacido.
La lluvia se intensificó, lavándonos limpios y sucios al mismo tiempo.
Ixchel presionó sus labios empapados de semen contra mi oído.
—El próximo año —susurró—, no nos detendremos en el siete.
El trueno respondió por mí.
La selva aprobó.
The storm arrives early tonight.
Not the polite rain of tourists’ Instagram stories; this is the real deluge the old priests bargained for. It slams down in sheets so thick the air turns to water, drumming on the cenote like a thousand frantic hearts. Lightning forks overhead, freezing everything in blue-white stills: my fist locked mid-stroke, cock jutting obscene and glossy, the women’s faces twisted with something beyond lust; something reverent and feral.
I’m already on the edge. Have been for an hour.
They made sure of that.
The rules shifted the moment the first thunder cracked. The woman in white (she calls herself Ixchel tonight, because names are power) stepped forward and broke the oldest prohibition. Not with her hands. With her mouth.
“Show us how close you can get without falling,” she said, voice barely audible over the rain. “Show us, and we’ll let you suffer longer.”
So they took turns.
One kneels three feet away and spreads her thighs just enough for me to see how soaked she is, fingers circling her clit in slow, hypnotic spirals that match my strokes exactly. Another stands behind me; close enough that her nipples drag across my back every time I arch; and whispers filth in Yucatec Maya that I don’t understand but my cock does. A third drips warm copal oil down my chest, letting it pool in the grooves of my abs before it slides lower, coating my balls until they gleam like wet stone.
I’m not allowed to speed up.
I’m not allowed to stop.
Every time my hips jerk too eagerly, Ixchel snaps her fingers and the circle tightens. Hands hover; never touching my cock, but everywhere else. Nails rake my inner thighs. Teeth graze my shoulder. Someone’s tongue traces the shell of my ear while another exhales hot breath over the slick head each time my fist pulls back, exposing it raw and vulnerable to the storm.
My legs shake. My balls are so tight they ache like bruises. Precum pours out of me in a constant stream now, mixing with rainwater and oil until my grip is sloppy, filthy, unstoppable.
“Count,” Ixchel commands, eyes black with stormlight. “Count the edges for us.”
I do. Voice cracked and desperate.
One; when the brunette with the jaguar tattoo leans in and lets a single drop of her own wetness fall from her fingers onto my tongue.
Two; when they make me watch two of them kiss, slow and deep, hands buried under each other’s dresses while I stroke at the torturous pace they set.
Three; four; five; each one announced with a broken moan as they bring me to the brink and then rip it away, forcing my hand to slow, forcing me to hover in that exquisite freefall where release is a breath away and eternity at once.
At seven I’m crying. Real tears mixing with rain. My cock is so hard it feels like it’s turned to stone, veins throbbing visibly, the head flared an angry purple. Every muscle in my body is locked rigid, trembling on the precipice.
Ixchel finally steps between my spread feet. The others fall silent. She is naked now; the white dress long discarded; skin painted with fresh copal runes that glow under the lightning. She doesn’t touch me. She doesn’t have to.
She lowers herself slowly until her face is inches from my cock, mouth open, tongue resting on her lower lip like an altar waiting for sacrifice.
“Look at me,” she says.
I do.
And she smiles.
“Come.”
One word. That’s all it takes.
The orgasm rips me apart.
It starts somewhere behind my balls and detonates outward, a white-hot surge that bows my spine and tears a roar from my throat that echoes off the temple walls like the jaguar god himself. The first jet shoots so hard it splashes across her tongue, her cheek, her throat. The second arcs over her shoulder and lands on the tongue of the woman behind her. I keep coming; thick, endless ropes that paint her face, her breasts, the stone, the rain; until my knees buckle and I collapse forward.
They catch me. All of them. Hands finally; mercifully; on my cock, milking the last shuddering pulses, smearing my cum over their skin like war paint, rubbing it into their bellies, their cunts, their open mouths. Someone’s fingers slide into me from behind, curling just right to wrench one final, dry spasm from my oversensitive body.
I’m sobbing with it. Empty. Destroyed. Reborn.
The rain intensifies, washing us clean and filthy at the same time.
Ixchel presses her cum-slick lips to my ear.
“Next year,” she whispers, “we won’t stop at seven.”
Thunder answers for me.
The jungle approves.
The Honda Accord rattled down Avenida 30 in Playa del Carmen, windows down, reggaeton blasting, the humid night air thick with street food grease and raw lust. Daddy — 48, salt-and-pepper beard, thick dad-bod gut hanging over his belt, wedding ring glinting like a dare — spotted her immediately.
Anjelica. Standing under a flickering streetlamp in a tiny white dress that barely covered her fat Latina ass, nipples poking straight through the fabric like they were begging to be bitten. Anjelica, 39, Colombian curves for days, fake tits straining the material, lips injected and glossy, eyes screaming “ruin me, papi.” She’d been walking Quinta Avenida hustling tourists all night and was dripping wet the second she saw that gringo Honda slow down.
“Get in, puta,” he growled.
She slid into the passenger seat, dress riding up to show she wasn’t wearing panties — just a jeweled butt plug winking between her cheeks. Daddy grabbed a fistful of her hair immediately, yanked her head back, and shoved three fingers straight into her mouth. She moaned like a bitch in heat, grinding on his hand the whole ten-minute drive while he finger-fucked her to the motel, her juices running down his wrist.
They pulled up to Hotel Las Flores — the kind of place where the neon sign is half burned out, the clerk doesn’t ask questions, and the sheets have seen more cum than a porn set. Daddy threw 500 pesos at the guy, grabbed Anjelica by the throat, and dragged her to room 7. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before he slammed her face-first against the wall, dress ripped down to her waist, tits bouncing free.
“On your knees, whore.”
She dropped, mouth open, throat already relaxing. He pulled out his thick, veiny daddy cock — uncut, sweaty from the Yucatán heat, balls heavy with three days of saved-up cum — and fucked her face like a fleshlight. No mercy. Balls-deep, gagging, mascara running rivers down her cheeks, spit bubbling out the sides of her mouth and dripping onto her tits. She choked, retched, but kept her hands behind her back like a trained slut, letting him use her throat until her eyes rolled back.
He yanked her up by the hair, threw her on the bed (mattress sagging, springs screaming), and flipped her onto all fours. Ripped the butt plug out — pop — and immediately replaced it with his tongue, eating her asshole like a starving man while four fingers pistoned her cunt. She screamed into the pillow, squirting the first time within thirty seconds, soaking the already-stained sheets in a hot gush that splashed his beard.
“That’s one,” he snarled.
He stood up, lined his raw cock up with her ass, and slammed in balls-deep in one thrust. No lube needed — she’d been wearing that plug for him all day. Anjelica howled, back arching, ass cheeks clapped so loud it echoed off the thin walls. Daddy grabbed her hips and destroyed her shithole — brutal, punishing strokes, pulling out to the tip and slamming back in, making her prolapse a little with every thrust. She came again on stroke twenty, squirting so hard it sprayed back against his balls and ran down his thighs.
“Two.”
He flipped her over, pinned her legs back until her knees touched her shoulders, and pile-drove her cunt like he was trying to punch her womb. The bed slammed against the wall in rhythm — bam-bam-bam-bam — probably waking every junkie and whore in the motel. Her pussy queefed and squirted every time he bottomed out, the sheets now a swimming pool of her cum. He wrapped a hand around her throat, choking her until her face went red, then slapped her tits until they were purple.
“Three. Four. Five — fucking drown me, mommy.”
She lost count after six. He didn’t.
He pulled out, dragged her to the floor by her hair, and shoved back into her throat while she was still convulsing. Fucked her face until she was a drooling mess, then grabbed the empty Corona bottle off the nightstand, spat on it, and worked the neck into her gaping cunt while he kept reaming her ass. Double-stuffed, she screamed, squirting around the glass, the bottle coming out coated in cream. He made her lick it clean, then fisted her pussy — whole hand, wrist-deep, punching in and out until she convulsed in a full-body orgasm that shot squirt five feet across the room, hitting the mirror.
He wasn’t done.
Yanked his fist out, flipped her again, and fucked her throat while fisting her ass now — forearm disappearing into her wrecked hole, feeling his own cock bulging through the wall. She came so hard she blacked out for a second, body seizing, squirting in arcs that soaked the ceiling fan.
Finally he roared, buried balls-deep in her ass, and unloaded — thick, days-old ropes of daddy cum flooding her guts until it leaked out around his shaft in creamy white rivers. Pulled out and made her push — the prolapse bloomed like a rose, cum bubbling out in a filthy creampie fart that made both of them laugh like animals.
Anjelica lay there wrecked, covered in cum, squirt, makeup destroyed, body shaking with aftershocks, smiling like she’d finally found God.
Daddy lit a cigarette, looked down at her ruined holes, and said:
“Round two in ten minutes, slut. Daddy’s just getting started.”
Vikingo’s Midnight Conquest – A Tale That Shreds Reality
The moon, a silver scimitar, slices through the dense Yucatán canopy, spilling molten light onto the limestone cliffs of a hidden cenote. Water drips from stalactites like the slow heartbeat of Valhalla, each bead catching the night‑sky and turning it into a cascade of living constellations. The air vibrates with the low chant of ancient Maya spirits, their whispers weaving through vines thick with orchids and hummingbirds.
From the darkness steps Vikingo, a titan forged of northern storms and sun‑kissed flesh. Six‑foot‑four of raw, Viking‑blooded power, his skin gleams with a bronze sheen, his chest a map of runes inked in midnight oil. Braids of raven‑black hair coil around jaguar teeth, and his glacier‑blue eyes blaze with a promise that straddles both conquest and poetry.
A circle of Tulum’s most fierce women gathers—shamans draped in obsidian body paint, yoga priestesses whose breath syncs with the jungle’s pulse, digital nomads turned jungle sirens. Their skin carries the scent of copal smoke, sea salt, and fermented cacao, their bodies fasted on three days of psilocybin visions and moonlit rituals. They chant to Ixchel, the moon goddess, seeking one thing: the ultimate union.
Vikingo lifts a massive horn, hewn from a single ceiba trunk, its surface etched with spiraling glyphs that pulse like a living heart. Inside swirls Viking Milk—a thick, amber elixir infused with reindeer colostrum, Mexican vanilla, and a single, blessed droplet of cenote water. The liquid glows faintly, a captive aurora trapped in crystal.
He drinks, the horn’s curve catching the moonlight as the milk slides down his throat, igniting his veins with frost‑fire. The women follow, each sip sending ripples of electric heat through the cavern. The cenote awakens, its turquoise depths flickering with bioluminescent fire.
The Ritual Unleashed
When the climax peaks, the cenote erupts in a burst of phosphorescent flame. The Viking Milk, now transmuted, mingles with sacred water, spawning hybrid deities—blonde, feathered, indomitable—who rise like phoenixes from the abyss.
Hours later, they float on their backs, bodies slick with the glow of the underworld, eyes half‑closed in blissful rebirth. Fireflies trace luminous runes across the night sky, while a regal jaguar prowls the rim, its amber gaze nodding in solemn approval.
Vikingo, ever the sovereign of excess, rolls a cigar—tobacco cured on Mayan altars—between his fingers. He exhales a plume of smoke that curls like the Northern Lights, his grin flashing teeth as white as Greenland ice.
“Skál, brujas. Same tide tomorrow?”
The women laugh, their voices chiming like wind‑chimes caught in a hurricane, and answer in unison:
“In Tulum, every cenote is a womb. Every Viking, a leviathan of destiny. And every wild night births a legend.”
Should you dare to join the next rite, whisper “Viking Milk” to the barkeep at the drift‑wood‑sign beach bar. They’ll blindfold you, guide you through the emerald labyrinth, and cast you—bare, trembling, alive—into the sacred waters.
Remember this truth:
Once you taste the union, Wi‑Fi and overpriced tacos will never satisfy you again.
The cenote hungers. Vikingo waits. 🪓🕳️💦
Chapter 8 – The Cenote of Magic Mushrooms and Bill Tyler’s Space Guitar
The jade amulet lay heavy around Richard Hale’s neck, a cold, serpentine band that seemed to pulse against his skin even as the jeep’s air‑conditioner hissed. Two days earlier the Cenote of Shadowed Whispers had taken a fragment of his soul, drowning him in a ritual ecstasy that unearthed the relic and set its needle toward deeper veins of myth and madness.
Now Mara was behind the wheel, her tattooed hands steady on the steering wheel, eyes locked on the GPS coordinates Estrella had scrawled from fragmented visions: 20.212° N, 87.435° W. The second sinkhole—sister to the first, wilder, threaded with phosphorescent fungi that blossomed only under the equinox moon—loomed ahead. “Magic shrooms,” Verónika had whispered over breakfast burritos in Tulum, popping a fresh psilocybe into her mouth like candy. “The old ones called them teonanácatl—the flesh of the gods. They’ll show us the city’s throat, where El Dorado coughs up its gold.”
Hale shifted in the passenger seat, his linen shirt unbuttoned to mid‑chest, exposing a constellation of bite marks from the previous night’s “mapping session” at the beach house. The women had tested him again—Verónika’s thighs clamped his face while Mara rode him in reverse, Estrella’s fingers probing his rear with a cruel curl—but it was the amulet’s pull that gnawed deeper, whispering promises of infinities beyond his algorithms.
“This Bill Tyler,” he asked, voice rough from the rum they’d chased the shrooms with, “are you sure he’s real? Some jungle hermit with a guitar that… sings to the stars?”
Estrella leaned forward from the back, her blonde waves brushing his ear, green eyes alight with the afterglow of microdoses. “Real as the veins under your cock, papi. Gringo like you, but broken by the jungle. Fled Nashville after one too many tours, chasing the sound of the void. Lives in a palapa by the second cenote, strums that space guitar until the vines dance. The shrooms… they talk through it. I saw his face in the water. He’s the key to the cave.”
The road narrowed into a snarled tangle of banyan roots and limestone teeth. The jeep bottomed out twice before they abandoned it for foot travel. The air grew feral—thick with howler‑monkey calls and a fungal earthiness that clung like a lover’s sweat. Mara led, machete in hand, hacking fronds that exuded milky sap; her black bikini top strained against the sway of her breasts. Verónika followed, a basket of rum and ritual herbs slung low on her hip, her crimson sarong hitched high to bare the curve of her ass. Estrella trailed, Hale’s hand in hers, her touch electric with unspoken commands.
“Feel that?” she murmured, pressing his palm to a throbbing root. “The jungle’s already hard for us.”
At dusk they broke through to the cenote. The sun bled orange into the canopy like a sacrificial wound. This sinkhole was no tranquil mirror; its waters churned with bioluminescent froth, edges crusted in shelves of golden caps—Psilocybe mexicana, wild and potent, their gills unfurling like Mayan scrolls in the fading light. Vines draped the rim like harp strings, and at the water’s lip stood a ramshackle palapa of palm thatch and driftwood, smoke curling from a firepit where a lone figure hunched, back turned, coaxing notes from an instrument that defied gravity.
Bill Tyler. Hale recognized the name from hazy Spotify dives—a Nashville prodigy turned recluse, his fingers weaving space‑Americana tapestries: reverb‑drenched riffs that echoed the cosmos, pastoral drones laced with electronic static, guitars that wept for lost frontiers. Yet this was no stage prop. The space guitar gleamed obsidian under the emerging stars—a custom Godin Multiac, ebony body etched with constellation glyphs, strings humming with embedded pickups feeding a solar‑powered pedalboard rigged with delay loops and fuzz boxes salvaged from Yucatán shipwrecks. It wasn’t merely played; it was invoked. Tyler’s callused hands danced across the fretboard, coaxing a slow‑burn arpeggio that warped the air—notes bending like light through water, harmonics blooming into fractal echoes that synced with the cenote’s ripples.
He turned as they approached, mid‑forties but carved by solitude: sun‑leathered skin, a beard tangled with feathers and quartz shards, eyes milky from shroom‑veiled visions, pupils dilated to black holes. “Ix Chel sends sirens,” he rasped, voice gravel over cosmic wind, never pausing his strum. “And a golden calf to slaughter. Come for the flesh of gods?”
Mara stepped forward, unflinching, plucking a cap from the shelf and rolling it between her fingers. “For the song of them, yanqui. The whispers led us. Your axe— it cuts the veil.” She crushed the mushroom, smearing its inky spores across her lips like war paint, then leaned in, kissing Tyler deep and deliberate. He didn’t flinch; the guitar wailed a minor seventh in response, as if tasting her fire. Verónika laughed a guttural thunder, stripping her sarong to dive into the shallows, emerging with a fistful of submerged caps, water sheeting off her curves like liquid mercury. “Join the rite, ghost man. Or watch us summon without you.”
Estrella, ever the spark, dosed Hale first—guiding a cluster of shrooms to his mouth, her fingers lingering on his tongue. “Swallow the stars, Ricardo. Let them fuck your mind open.” The taste hit like earth and electricity—bitter loam exploding into synaptic fireworks. Hale gagged, then gasped as the world softened at the edges, colors bleeding into auras: Mara’s tattoos writhing like living serpents, Verónika’s skin glowing ember‑orange, Estrella’s eyes fracturing into emerald galaxies. Tyler’s guitar swelled, a riff uncoiling like ayahuasca vine—prog‑tinged choogle grooves distorting into ambient swells, the delay pedals looping fragments into eternity.
The cenote became their sacrament. Tyler set the guitar on a root‑altar, its strings still humming sympathetic resonance, and shed his ragged poncho, revealing a torso inked with star maps and cenote spirals. He was wiry, scarred from vine lashes and vision quests, cock half‑hard already from the perpetual haze. Mara claimed him first, pushing him onto the mossy ledge, straddling his face as she ground down, her pussy lips parting over his mouth. “Taste the jungle’s truth,” she commanded, hips rolling in that dagger rhythm, juices mingling with shroom spores as he lapped with fervent abandon—tongue delving deep, nose buried in her dark curls. The guitar picked up her moans, warping them into ethereal wails.
Verónika dragged Hale into the water, the bioluminescent froth igniting around them like fireflies in fornication. “Your turn to drown proper,” she growled, impaling herself on his cock as the shrooms peaked—his shaft feeling infinite, stretching her like the universe’s first thrust. She rode him savage, water splashing in time with Tyler’s distant strums, her nails raking his chest until blood welled, mixing with the glowing algae. Hale’s mind splintered: visions of El Dorado’s spires rising from silt, gold rivers pulsing like veins, Mayan kings copulating with jaguar spirits under shroom‑veiled moons. He bucked up, slamming into her with psychedelic fury, her walls clenching like a cosmic fist, piercing glinting in the glow.
Estrella orchestrated the convergence, her lithe body a bridge between worlds. She fetched the space guitar, cradling it like a lover, fingers—untrained but intuitive—plucking strings that sang back secrets: coordinates to the lost cave, glyphs decoding the amulet’s curse. Tyler broke from Mara, crawling to her on all fours, burying his face between her thighs while she played, his tongue flicking her clit in counterpoint to the riffs. “The axe remembers,” he muttered, voice muffled in her folds. “Strings woven from ceiba silk and meteor iron. It maps the mycelium web—shrooms as veins to the city’s heart.”
The orgy crescendoed in fractal chaos. Mara joined Verónika and Hale in the shallows, sandwiching him: her ass grinding back against his probing fingers while she kissed Verónika bruisingly, their breasts pressing slick and heaving. Tyler and Estrella fused on the ledge—him entering her slow and deep, the guitar between them, its body vibrating against her clit with every thrust, turning her gasps into symphonic cries. The shrooms wove it all: boundaries dissolving, bodies interchangeable—Hale tasting Tyler’s salt on Estrella’s skin, Verónika’s laugh echoing in Mara’s throat, the cenote’s waters rising to lap at their frenzy like a tide of liquid revelation.
Climax shattered them in waves. Hale came first, roaring into the night as Verónika milked him dry, his seed clouding the glow‑water like a Milky Way spill. Mara followed, shuddering atop the ledge, squirting across Tyler’s chest in an arc that caught the guitar’s gleam. Estrella peaked last, the space guitar’s final, looping riff—a nine‑minute jam of distorted bliss—pushing her over, her pussy spasming around Tyler until he followed, grunting ancient syllables, filling her with hot pulses that the shrooms turned to shooting stars behind Hale’s eyelids.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and lumens, the firepit crackling as Tyler restrung a snapped cord with trembling hands. “The cave’s mouth,” he wheezed, tracing a map in the dirt with a glowing cap stem—tunnels branching from this cenote, laced with gold and guardian spores. “But the guitar… it sings the warning. Enter as lovers, or the shrooms devour your souls.”
Mara smirked, wiping spores from her lips, pulling Hale close. “We enter as conquerors, yanqui. With your strings and our fire.” Verónika popped another shroom, passing the basket. Estrella cradled the guitar, its hum now a lullaby, whispering of empires forged in pleasure.
Dawn broke with the jungle’s indifferent hum, but Hale—reborn in mycotic madness—saw the threads: his fortune as bait, the women’s wildness as blade, Tyler’s space guitar as compass. The Cenote of Magic Mushrooms had dosed them with destiny. El Dorado waited, pulsing like a lover’s heart. And in the Riviera’s shadowed underbelly, they would claim it—one riff, one thrust, one whispered secret at a time.
The infinity pool perched on the cliff’s edge mirrored the turquoise sweep of the Caribbean, its surface a liquid horizon that seemed to dissolve into the sky. Inside the ten‑million‑dollar villa at Playacar, however, the true ocean was a tide of heated skin and ragged breath. Reggaeton throbbed from concealed speakers, the bass reverberating through marble floors like a second, insistent heartbeat. Crystal chandeliers fractured the light, scattering it across a master suite whose silk sheets lay in tangled surrender upon a king‑size bed imported from Milan.
Richard Hale—billionaire, tanned, and perpetually poised—stood at the centre of this opulent arena. His salt‑and‑pepper hair was deliberately disheveled, his eyes sharp with the quiet arrogance of a man who had purchased his way out of three divorces. Tonight, three Colombian women had been summoned under the guise of “drinks and conversation.” Mara, Verónica, and Estrella were not merely companions; they were architects of ambition, each cloaked in designer lingerie, each intent on turning wealth into conquest.
Mara entered first, a silhouette of midnight slipping through the balcony doors. Her jet‑black hair cascaded untamed, spilling over an emerald‑green lace bodysuit that clung to her like a second skin. She carried a flute of vintage Dom Pérignon, the crystal catching the chandelier’s shards and throwing them back into the room.
“Señor Hale,” she purred, her English tinged with a velvety accent, “your home… it is a dream. Yet dreams require fire to become flame.”
She lowered herself onto his lap, the edge of the bed a precarious precipice. Her thighs encircled his waist with a grip that felt both tender and ironclad. When his manicured, Rolex‑laden hands rose instinctively, she pressed them back, her nails carving crescent moons into his forearms. “Not yet, papi. We set the tempo.”
Verónica circled like a predator, her morena curves sheathed in a scarlet corset that lifted her breasts to the heavens. A glint from her navel piercing caught the light, a warning beacon. She dropped to her knees between Richard’s spread legs, lips curving into a grin that had once emptied nightclubs.
“Look at you, all stiff and proper,” she teased, fingertips trailing up his silk pajama trousers, nails skimming the burgeoning bulge beneath. With a swift motion she freed him—his erection surged, veins pulsing in time with the bass.
Her mouth claimed him without hesitation, a savage descent of heat and wetness. Tongue spiraled, cheeks hollowed, and a guttural groan escaped his throat. She cupped his testicles, rolling them like loaded dice, while Mara seized his mouth in a bruising kiss, teeth grazing his lower lip until copper tinged his taste. “That’s it,” Mara whispered, grinding her soaked core against his thigh. “Yield to the storm.”
From the shadows, Estrella observed with verdant eyes, her blonde hair dyed and wild, her face a mask of feigned innocence twisted by hunger. She wore only a sheer white babydoll that clung to her olive‑toned frame, nipples darkened against the fabric, fishnet stockings tearing softly as she moved.
“He’s already breaking,” she murmured, voice a sultry lilt from Barranquilla’s streets, as she slipped behind him. Her hands traced his shoulders, nails scraping down his chest, pinching his nipples until he arched. Verónica withdrew, leaving a string of saliva linking her lips to his tip, and Estrella took her place—not with mouth, but with mischief.
She guided his hand between her thighs, urging his fingers into her slick folds. “Feel how wet you make us, Ricardo? All for you… if you play nice.” He plunged two fingers inside her, curling them against the spot that drew a gasp, her hips bucking in rhythm with his hand, while Mara’s grind intensified.
The suite erupted into a symphony of flesh and command. Mara shed her bodysuit in a fluid shimmy, revealing tattoos that slithered across her breasts and down to the dark seam between her legs. She mounted Richard’s face, while Verónica positioned herself atop his cock, a primal scream escaping her lips.
Richard’s tongue darted blindly, tasting Mara’s clit—salty‑sweet like overripe mango—while she rode his mouth, smearing her juices across his chin. “Eat it, cabrón. Worship what you can’t afford to lose.”
Estrella orchestrated the chaos, kissing Mara, pinching Verónica’s breasts, then dropping low to suck Richard’s balls as Verónica’s hips slammed against his thighs, each wet slap echoing off vaulted ceilings. The billionaire bucked wildly, drowning in the overload: Mara’s thighs quivered around his head as she climaxed, a torrent of release flooding his mouth. “¡Ay, Dios, sí! More, give us more!”
Verónica’s orgasm cracked through her like lightning, nails raking crimson lines down his chest. Estrella, with a strength that belied her lithe frame, flipped him onto his stomach, retrieving his own lube from the nightstand. “Time to really own you,” she whispered, slicking her fingers before pressing them into his prostate. He howled into the pillows, pre‑cum staining the sheets, his protests melting into pleading.
Mara straddled his back, breasts pressed against his torso, stroking him in time with Estrella’s thrusts. Verónica knelt before his face, fingers dancing lazily, feeding him her dripping essence. “Taste what you do to me, amor. Beg for it.”
He broke, voice hoarse, body trembling. “Anything… anything you want. The beach house in Tulum, the offshore accounts, my jet—yours. Just… don’t stop.” Laughter bubbled from the trio, dark and triumphant.
Estrella swapped her fingers for a sleek ebony strap‑on, ridged for ruin, thrusting deep, slow, deliberate. Mara and Verónica alternated, guiding his shaft into mouths and wombs, a carousel of heat and grip until he shattered, cum spraying across their intertwined forms in a roar that rattled the windows.
Morning light filtered through manicured palms, casting a soft gold over the wreckage of silk and sweat. The women lounged, sated, their phones displaying Richard’s signed deeds and wire transfers.
“See?” Mara murmured, tracing a lazy circle on his spent chest. “We don’t steal. We earn.”
Verónica popped a strawberry from the room‑service tray, a smile playing on her lips. “And you? You’ve been reborn.”
Estrella winked, already mapping the next vault to breach. In the Riviera’s gilded haze, they were no longer exiles—they were conquistadores, forging empires one billionaire at a time, their conquest written not in ink but in the lingering heat of bodies spent and ambitions renewed.
In the shadowed recesses of existence, where the veil between flesh and eternity thins to a silken whisper, there dwells the Dark Erotic God—a primordial force, neither benevolent nor malevolent, but an inexorable tide of desire that surges through the cosmos. He is not the luminous deity of platonic ideals, nor the stern arbiter of moral codes; rather, he embodies the raw, unbridled essence of eros as a philosophical imperative, a divine command to surrender to the abyss of sensation. To contemplate him is to unravel the self, thread by thread, until one stands naked before the mirror of infinity, aching for union.
Consider the ontology of desire: in the philosophy of the Dark Erotic God, existence itself is an act of voluptuous creation. He emerges from the void not as a creator of worlds, but as the devourer and rebirth-er of souls through ecstasy. His form is fluid, a coalescence of midnight tendrils that coil around the mortal frame, teasing the boundaries of skin and spirit. The flesh, in his presence, becomes a temple of transgression—each curve, each orifice, a gateway to transcendence. Here, pleasure is not mere hedonism but a metaphysical inquiry: What is the self if not a vessel to be filled, emptied, and reforged in the fires of forbidden longing? The God whispers that true being arises from the tension of opposites—domination and submission, agony and bliss—interlocked in an eternal dance.
Ethically, he challenges the chains of conventional virtue. In his realm, consent is the sacred pact, a voluntary plunge into the depths where power dynamics reveal the illusion of control. The submissive kneels not in degradation but in elevation, offering their body as a canvas for divine artistry. The dominant, in turn, wields authority as a lover’s caress, laced with the sting of command, for in the God’s philosophy, cruelty is but the shadow of kindness, sharpening the edge of rapture. Imagine the ritual: a mortal, bound by silken cords of starlight, quivering under his gaze. His touch is electric, a current that ignites nerves into symphonies of surrender. Penetration becomes profound—a merging of essences where the phallus (or its ethereal equivalent) symbolizes the piercing of illusions, thrusting into the core of existential isolation to birth communal ecstasy.
Yet, this is no mere carnal indulgence; it is epistemology incarnate. Knowledge, the God teaches, is tactile, visceral. To know the universe is to taste its forbidden fruits—to lick the salt of sweat from a lover’s thigh, to inhale the musk of arousal as one gasps in revelation. In the throes of orgasm, the mind shatters its rational confines, glimpsing the noumenal truth: that all is one in the pulsating rhythm of creation and destruction. The Dark Erotic God laughs at ascetic denials, for repression is the true sin, a denial of the divine spark within. He invites us to philosophize through the body—to debate ontology amid entangled limbs, to explore ethics in the afterglow of spent passion.
But beware the peril of his embrace, for it is addictive, transformative. Those who worship at his altar emerge changed—more alive, yet haunted by the void’s hunger. In this erotic theology, salvation lies not in purity but in profound impurity, where the sacred and profane entwine like lovers in the dark. Thus, the Dark Erotic God reigns supreme, a philosopher-king of the senses, reminding us that the ultimate truth is not thought, but felt—in the quiver, the moan, the exquisite release into oblivion.