Thursday, July 6, 2017

Not On The Wall

By Brewt.Blacklist

July 2017

THE INITIAL, almost timid suggestion was rather unexpected. Now, it certainly wasn’t that she didn’t know what it looked like; she had been subjected to more porn—relentlessly obtained and waded through, for the purposes of inspiration, obviously—in which this was, in fact, the central theme, the goal, sometimes even the only thing that even happened, and yes, she had truly had enough of that nonsense and had said so. No, this was a spark from somewhere else. Someplace hushed and darker. There was almost a mystery, there, in her bashful request.

And it was not unexpected that the first solution proposed was nixed right off the bat. Too technological, too risky, too much “just like a guy,” without there being the slightest sympathy for or comprehension of the notion that the camera was invasive, intimidating, judgmental, not to mention that whole leaving a record of sin problem. Her regrets at having mentioned her nonchalant interest skyrocketed as tripods and remote triggers and lighting rigs were being trolled for at the local pawn shop, which ended up being broached on an outing one day, with a beeline made for the old-fashioned photographic equipment counter.

“Hey. What do you think?”

“You do know that’s an outrageously expensive hobby, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t it solve our problem?”

“What problem?”

“Oh, you know.” The slight smirk and wiggling of eyebrows tipped the hand about what was being thought about. Like that was a surprise.

“Jesus Christ. Give it a rest.”

“What am I doing here? I’m trying to help. To fulfill you, darling.”

“I should have just kept my big fat mouth shut.”

“Oh, come on. We might have some fun. Look at it as art.”

“Yeah, no, not that kind of fun.”

“Spoilsport.” The word “bitch” tacitly floated around somewhere behind the squint.

“Besides, just who do you think is going to develop your, uh, art?”

“Maybe I’ll have to have a darkroom.”

“Not a chance in hell. Not no way, not no how; we don’t have room. Not in our crappy little love-shack, sweetie.”

Shoulders fell, along with senses of humor. The store was exited, and the rest of their day was gotten around to in a stilted silence. The usual day-off intimacies were put on hold until a couple midnights down the road, when the aims and ponderings toward an obscene documentation process could be ignored and maybe even forgotten about, as there was, after all, this better thing they could be doing. Until the next time that they found themselves out there on earth somewhere, and another happenstance happened, and the subject “managed” to come up again. And got put back down again.

“Look at me, and repeat after me: I am not that kind of a whore.”

There was a moment of pause.

“No. No you’re not.”

That seemed to be the end of it, and the funny looks of shot-framing and visual composition planning died down. Before long, they even started staying up late again for some more-casual less-outlandish smut before retiring for familiarities and affections, occasionally going so adventurously far as doggie-style or the butterfly position.

But it was on one of their weekend excursions—that usually involved a late breakfast, perhaps a movie, or maybe some random explorations of the city, deliberately getting themselves lost in the hunt for new and interesting romantic places to visit—that the real fulfillment of the desire presented itself. It was there against the far back wall of the local flea market, amidst all the old chipped toy tea sets, the racks of Life Magazine that had no meaning to anyone any more, the endless mountains of entrepreneurial junk from the attics and garages of would-be collectors of landfill fodder.

It was pricey, of course. Immense, ostentatiously ornate, almost overwhelming in its worn-out grandeur. But it was unique, in that it was split down the middle and opened up on side-hinges to reveal three brightly polished surfaces, just like in clothing boutiques.

“I love that.”

“It sure is old. I’m not so sure but that it isn’t real silver. The way it’s tarnishing around the edges?”

She stood there, mesmerized. “I want it.”

“Where are we going to put it?”

Her eyebrows crossed as she came out of her spell for a moment. “Someone cleverly put casters on it at some point.”

“Ruining the authenticity.”

“Who cares? We can roll it around. Room to room.” She swiveled her head with a creak, and narrowed her eyes. “To room.”

With that moment of clarity and understanding, the credit card limit was reached.

Dinner that evening was simple and quick, and the expectations of what was going to most likely happen later on ran pretty high. High enough to make the news and the sitcoms seem even dumber than usual.

“Let’s go to bed,” wafted across the cozy seating arrangements early, when she couldn’t stand the stress any more.

“I thought you’d never ask,” came the muttering snicker back.

“Shut up; don’t ruin this.” She disentangled herself from the loveseat, and stepped off toward the bathroom.

“Am I bringing the, uh—”

“—What do you think?” She ran her hand down the craftsmanship as she walked by, almost like she was petting it. The scrambling and thumps she got to listen to as she washed her face, brushed her hair and finished off the bottle of mouthwash kept her chortling until things finally quieted down out there. She flushed the toilet and opened the door, wearing just an old thin robe that barely covered anything.

There were candles flickering in the bedroom, which got the shadows of the infidelic column of skin and muscle and surging blood to dance around the walls in an ancient fertility-rite, and, in some ways, the inordinate quiet was unnerving and amiss and awry. There should have at least been drums pounding away; mercifully, there wasn’t any bad seventies jazz-funk fusion set on a too-short loop that was supposed to inspire the swaying of loins and shoulders and the lickings of lips, but usually worked out to honestly just needing a laugh track, what with all the atrocious script writing and dreadful acting and amateurish editing surrounding the only forbidden “redeeming” reason to bother with such wretched films.

Their new purchase was opened up at the foot of the bed.

“No. Wrong.”


“I got it; don’t worry.” She stepped down alongside the closet, and closed the imposing piece of furniture…backwards. The casters came in handy, and, when she had swiveled it all the way about, she opened it back up again. Facing the other way around.

“What are you doing?

“Didn’t you notice?”

The looking glass was concave on the backside, and it magnified the bed, the room, and especially, the-the…erection.

“I cannot believe you wouldn’t thank the stars about how it makes you look, hmmm, bigger.” Her smile crinkled her nose, and she dropped what little clothing she had on, crawling up on the bed with the devil in her eye.

The first attempts at positioning her were rebuffed. “Oh, no you don’t. You have to be on top: missionary tonight. So I can lie back and look over your shoulder. So I can see.”

There was no disputing that kind of proposal, although the usual nuzzling and cuddling was dispensed with, as it only cost time, and tended to obscure her lazy view. “Stop that; you’re in my way. Move.” All the pre-production visualization procedures and imaginary storyboardings paid off, and, with only minor adjustments to angles and trajectories and refractional geometries, she had a magnificent panorama of what was about to happen to her.

“Slow. Do it slow.” She gasped and held her hands up to convey and control her wishes, and there was no reason not to comply; male orgasm is inevitable. She leaned her head over to the side, stretching it as far as she could get, and beheld the sight of her very own self spread open and wide, trembling, more ready for the act of love than she had ever been in her life.

The plummeting began. At first contact, her exhale went on forever, dragging the timing of the events out even further, and at first nudge, she started quivering and moaning, her eyes anime-ed wider than was humanly possible; breathing was dispensed with by everyone on the mattress. At first breach, with just the tip of the tip, the mild swearing was initiated, along with the nodding, and her whole body shook. When the glans ultimately vanished from the scene as if by magic, her hips launched into bucking, and her hands snaked around to the lower back that was so precariously hovering over her. She barely touched the undulating spine, then flicked her fingers up and away to brush the flanks that hung in the air above her with the heels of the palms of her hands, to begin to set up the kinetics, the rhythm, the familiar motions of intimacy, of knowing, of sexual intercourse, on a miniscule scale, at her leisurely dream-ridden pace. The teasings of the impending penetration went on for what felt like an eternity; they conspired to off-handedly drive her insane.

She practically wet the bed with the unbridled dripping welcome into her body that a woman can give to a man, drenching her own winking filthy hole that she had in common “down there” with her lover. The chamber flooded with the heady feminine aromas of the happy anticipations of consummation. She submitted all the love she had to the universe in order to see the penis restraining itself with throbs and shivers from yet fully defiling her quaking and nervous vagina; it was more love than she ever thought she could love, as they moved together slower, ever slower, dear god how can it be this wonderfully slow. The slightest of dippings in—not evensofar as half way to the circumcision mark—and the soul-shattering hollowings rendered from the withdrawal of mere millimeters of that handy pound of flesh, went on and on and so maddingly on, nigh unto eons, until the very end of time itself was stumbled upon, and she cried out the words.

“P-please. T-taaake mmeeee.”

The plunge was full and long and deep and to the hilt, and she screamed. She threw her wrists and her ankles up and around the bulk and mass that was violating and occupying her, hooking and binding herself to her fate with her own limbs, drawing herself up toward the thrust, falling back down onto the bed, pulling herself back up for further conquering, for sex, for sheer lust, setting up the percussive tempo, the jarring pacing, and the most-primitive of desecrations was on in full swing.

He beast-fucked her, pouring every ounce of frustration and wrath he had ever had onto her, there, in between their legs, with howling and braying and screeches of the foulmost words for women, and she slut-fucked him back as ferociously as she could, taking in everything he hit her with like she liked it that way—rough, like a paintoy would—craning her neck around him to look, to see, to absorb the vision of the splitting and the parrying and the piercing intently, and she orgasmed before he did, and she studied the stabbing and the force and the brutal personal invasion and came again before he even got close, and then, she raptured herself once more and then yet again, staring solidly at his cock with astonishment and reverence as it buried itself alive within the abyss of her cunt, only to surface and splash about in the swamp, over and over, his balls iron-slapping against her asshole which threatened to let them in, too, before the finale, with her shrieking out how god damn fucking good this was.

After a literal detonation of mutual ecstasies inside of her, that expended all of the life forces there were in the hovel to expend within her, there were raspings and pantings and flirtations with unconsciousness as the planetary weights were levitated and bounced onto the bedsprings, and she was exposed to the atmosphere once again. She found that she could float. She gathered her senses quickly, and swam around in the oxygen to rearrange things against the pillows so she could watch herself give some grateful fellatio: what she saw when she glanced away from the headboard was true. The phallus she set out to lick and to kiss and to swallow appeared, for all practical purposes, to be forearm-huge in those nearby echoes of glint and luster, even when it was limp. Which she exerted all due diligence and effort toward to turn back around from its retreat into fatigue and uselessness, back into a rampaging hardon, into the utmost pride of a man, ready to commit war-rape on the very angels of heaven, with her going so far as to induce envy in the pornstars they sometimes scrutinized at night before turning out the lights and closing the shades and hiding under the covers with how many fathoms into her own throat she was willing to gag herself to, until the sought-after enchanting growth she was pilgrimaging for miraculized and her swain changed size and the ever-carried weapon reached up, way far up—in the likeness—farther up toward a nearby navel than had ever happened in real life, ultimately obscuring said umbilical scar, approaching a heaving ribcage.

“Jesus. That’s—oh god—that’s—fuck that’s goo—how does—”

“—It’s only a trick of the shine, my dear. Now you just lie back and relax, and allow me to perform the righteous work of sex-slaves and fucktoys, concerned as we should so very be with the bliss of our masters.”

Arguments? None.

Reverse cowgirl was on deck, and she thrashed and tossed her hair around, twisting her own nipples in ways she wouldn’t let anyone else do to her, with her mouth completely agape and drooling as she sank down on the shaft, eagerly letting it slide into her bottom, her well-moistened anus, her taboo and off-limits virginal ass, for the first time in this—or any—relationship. There was groaning and profanity unlike what either of them had ever expressed or ever even heard before, not even in all the indecent erotica they so sheepishly rented from the video emporium at nearly closing time.

She went absolutely wild; there weren’t any objections. Only awe.

Although, when glimpses were caught around her in the midst of all the ravishing, the veritable ravaging, the turnabout-is-fair-play rapine, there, beyond the end of the bed, in the reflection, it looked for all the world like the dick that she was throwing herself onto with such abandon was even larger than before. The funny part was, that, in the convenient representations of such proximate magnified sexy-as-shit doppelgängers, this time, the uncannily stout pillar she was so thoroughly exhausting herself on worming all the way on up inside her there where it could blaspheme the most, was black. Not that it mattered.

No, it didn’t matter at all that she was scrying out other former and future lovers to slampig herself with and to and for through the mirror. Not when her increasingly pale current boyfriend was getting his brains so fabulously fucked out as much as he so gloriously was.


Saturday, December 24, 2016


By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2016

THERE USED to be conversations about and yea, even during the actions taken in the basement, which never worked out the way she wanted them to—with the issuing of fierce commands replied to with humble obeisances—instead devolving into endless reiterations of “Is this alright,” or “Are you okay,” followed invariably by a breathless “Yes,” until the day came about that enough was enough and the retort was put forward along the lines of “Why don’t you get this yet, you imbecile? I’ll tell you if there’s a problem.” Which put a stalwart stop to the tireless lines of inquiry about consent, and acceptability, and gratification, and restricted the anxieties of intent and effect inward. On someone else’s time.

Which had the side effect of silencing a great deal of otherwise-expressions of speech, and questions about going out for dinner, or what interests might be had in daytrips to museums or concerts or parks or wherever, or whether or not there should be adventurous weekend plans of maybe sleeping out, or whatnot, they all fell by the wayside as well, and so the more ominous aspects of the overall quiet in the house gained a depressive foothold and loomed larger and larger and grew like a cancerous darkness, taking out the sparkles in eyes and the brightnesses of countenances with it on top of everything else phraseological. The fear of causing a problem by saying there was a problem would disturb the peace, and a riddle was stumbled upon that there turned out to be less and less opportunity to solve as time dragged on. Words became equations, carrying with them arcane architectures filled with ley lines buttressed up with vaults and choirs and baptisteries and such and are only called upon in urgent circumstances. Like whenever there is a fire, or when the phone rings, or when the inevitable “excuse me” is mouthed under their breaths in the too-small bathroom or in the too-small kitchen or in the too-small hall.

There is a war raging inside her that she has kept well-cloaked and long hidden. She has no idea what to do, and there isn’t much opportunity for advice. At least, certainly not around this dump. The internal wrestling that she keeps coming back to revolves around the auto-interrogations about what matters more: what she truly wants or what is believed about what she wants, and isn’t that what she is supposed to want? If she is going to submit, shouldn’t she just go ahead and submit? Shouldn’t she quit trying to make this about her and herself and her interests? Why does she want something awful? Why should she get it?

Any more, there seems to be much more curiosity about seeing how many replications of the tireless inducings of eternal ceaseless happy thrills that she could endure—which does have the sole benefit of its own form of rather interesting tribulations to it, once the bland compulsion of exuberance itself grows meaningless—than any of the darker things she is so very willing to let happen to her. If her rapture is what is so monotonously called for, then shouldn’t she simply go ahead and tender it?

The times that little corvée d’amour goes on long enough to change its beatitudes into hurt are few and far between, and she pines for some meager variance of difference in sensation so much that she has actually opened herself up to self-inflicting again. Which is a right and responsibility she gave up an epoch ago, to a very special person, that she could pledge some plainly deluded troth to, and now, after all this, someone here does not appear to have any interest in exercising that unconventional liberty any more.

What. A. Crime.

This is the argument she has with herself, day in, day out. She undergoes the wrong manner of trial to suit her. This isn’t what she had envisioned submitting herself up to the exaltations of another would work out to be like. She thought it would be more arduous. Maybe not so dull or futile. It is the wrong type of exhausting.

In truth, she has grown disillusioned about how the majority of things relation amoureuse have become between them, in general, and she is beginning to consider the possibilities of getting away, of giving all this nonsense up, of starting over with someone more…promising. There are infinite loops in this confounded programming, and its spaghetti code leaves her feeling lost, no matter how she tinkers with the variables.

All of which, granted, is outside the venerable librettos of the Grand Guignol theater of their exclusive netherworld. Then, at least, some vocabularies are expected. Well-regulated, true, but banked on and scheduled and steadfastly nagged over until the exact lines had been learned down pat.

It has all the more gotten to where the obligations of reaching across the bed to fulfill what was left of that little duty falls to her and her alone to initiate. There is the net gain of her being whispered about as “insatiable” along with some unaspirated slur—which turns out to be true, and it is a definition for herself that she adores—whenever she can bring herself to do that, but that insulting label alone isn’t enough to fulfill her most insidious itches and cravings, and especially not when considering how it always backfires on her and leaves herself open to be sacrificed to felicity and comfort one more annoying time.

The romantic niceties of flirting, too, have all fallen by the wayside as well, such that now, when the time is way past overdue for the more peculiar nuance of their relationship to come about and she cannot stand to wait any longer, there are no hints or winks or coy looks, no, she modestly steps up to block the view of the game or the stupid superhero movie or inane spook film or whatever, and takes off her clothes. She looks down for a moment, licks her lips, then raises her head to gaze at the wall, so she can be looked at, be seen, and demonstrate to herself once again that she is not transparent.

There still is a minor attempt at communication that comes about as to what her opinion of the events that are about to transpire should maybe be like, based on what it is she does with her garments. Not that it represents any kind of a rule, not from her; she wouldn’t mind being beset with a surprise, to leave her with even a tiny sense of wonder now and then. It’s just devolved into convention, like everything else. Whether she folds them and gently places them aside and kneels with her head bowed and her palms up on her thighs, or throws them into the corner with a sense of angry urgency—or when the mood strikes, on occasion, playfulness—or artlessly lets them drop where she stands, puddling her dress and her undergarments at her feet, not bothering to kick them away, all of these subtle variants work to convey in some small way what possible reason it is today that brings her up here, when she lets it be known that it is time once again to go about the business at hand that brought them together as a couple in the first place.

It was practically a fairy tale, when they met. She had never had so many of her fancies catered to by any of the other losers she used to date, and it was borderline magic to be cared for with that caliber of devotion. Nowadays, though, it has all gotten to be so mundane. There is no imagination. Everything happens according to sequence, to pattern, to methodology, and it is the same, same, same, same, same, same, same. The regard for her and her person and her culminations, which was so alluring at first, is now all just sickening. Revolting. Not befitting of someone like her—who needs more than anything to give her all—at all. She has longed to be called on to be braver than to be only called upon to hand out a simple observation of her contributions of the yieldings of Elysium for longer than she can remember. Submission is a repulsive and disgusting conqueror, calling for all the wrong allowances at all the wrong times. It’s such a burden.

The worst of it is that she is not allowed to worry about the triumphant attainments of anyone but herself, and it is more than she can stand. It leaves her hollow, all these forced introversions; she is so eager to get out of herself, she is befuddled as to what to try next. Her options for sanity are dwindling, and now, unfortunately, this whole nuptial thing is just about over. At least as far as she is concerned.

Maybe one more try.

Today is a puddling day, the motion of which lets it be known that she’s trying to do this not so much for herself and her own need for wretchedness that she no longer wants to even talk about as it is that she’s trying to cater to someone else’s unholy calls to dole out such endeavors that neither one of them can admit to anyone else on earth they have any interest in pursuing. It’s a form of generosity, to allow for the possibility of presenting herself to be available to take things out on over, say, mommy issues, or to relive some silly snub by a foolish vain little damsel that lived down the street back in the day who refused every proposal for coffee dates or dinings or drive-ins with a snicker and a sneer and an insincere admonition to try-try-again—moron—or any other of the myriad oppressions and rejections rendered by countless others of her gender for what she could determine to be no good reason whatsoever, and bring about some breed of better outcome, one that has more assurance of worth in it, perhaps leading to an intercourse of some variety, or something maybe-please-oh-please severe, or however that all works, or should have worked, or whatever.

The usual guilt-trip of worthiness and whether or not this path is deserved run their quick internal courses on the sofa and come up with the correct tacit feedback of “Yes, don’t be dumb, it’s what I’m here for,” now that there finally is an understanding about how at least some of that works, and can’t they please just get on with things. It’s just a pity that the interests she is so desperate to cater to end up working out to setting herself up to be taken care of, and not taken advantage of. The obvious character flaw of overwhelming boundless compassion was not discerned to be the runaway monolithic stance of the day—all day, every day—soon enough, and now their world is filled with tar and glue and has an unnatural lack of rollercoasters and cliff diving, and it’s killing her.

A sigh is rendered and the television is snapped off as the couch is gotten off of, and, after an appropriate pause, the opening monologue is recited and a declaration is made as to how hard it is going to be for her, and how her time in the dungeon isn’t going to be about awe or respect or reverence towards her courage or any of that safe, sane, or consensual baloney. The act is on and it is all she can do to keep her preliminary approvals from showing on her face which is easy to do, given the more recent history of how these once-beguiling itineraries have been now-traditionally ending up at by the end of the evening’s performances with her moaning and faking her bliss when nothing more interesting happens. But expectation springs eternal, and the reason for repetition is variation, and she does what she can to fall into it, as far as she can bring herself to stomach.

Her hand is snatched and yanked up sharply behind her back, drawing a gasp that is met with a hiss and a raspy guarantee that she surely is the disgraceful creature she believes herself to be, emphasized with all the profanity that can’t be uttered on the airwaves. She arches her dainty feet and ascends onto her toes, torqueing her back around as her vision defocusses, and she retreats inward.

Not a bad start. Could be worse.

The question is raised about what has she done this time which is the wrong script as she hadn’t folded her skirt at all, and the usual pitiful affirmation that she hasn’t done anything is advanced, only to be met with scowling disbeliefs on the topic of her chastity and sins in other indefatigable ways until she can’t help herself and she makes an off-handed intriguing—to her—suggestion for her impending inquisition and defilement to confirm her innocence, for which she is immediately rebuffed, and, after a quick space of time for an adjustment of attitudes and trajectories, she is then rebuked for having the audacity of being born a lewd woman, and she assents that that is all that is necessary to justify whatever excruciation there is to be had rain down on her like a plague, so help her god. She is asked if things aren’t nice enough around here to suit her, and before she can reply, the investigation is turned toward the problems of just what is wrong with her. The oblique desultory rambling that drones on and on does more to hush her than anything else, and the sudden kiss that is put upon her is not about giving something to her, but more along the lines of taking something from her, with noisy inhales and exhales from all the noses in the arena.

Excellent. Things are back on track.

She is bossed around and rough-housed about the too-small living room the very way she likes for a change and she’s barked at about her worth—or rather, the lack of it—and she tinkers with getting into the mood and the swing of things, working hard to suppress her usual snarky retorts to the juvenile assessments of her anatomy and her lowly position in this pigsty as being the prospective recipient of degenerate fluids shed by the other person here as human waste, in place of that which parents work so hard at teaching their children to use growing up. Promises, promises; echoes of former outlandish habits that are clearly not going to be pursued any more. Their secret society has become too polite for such debasement, no matter how welcome it would be. Still, she confirms her usefulness along at least those lines, and makes a pitch of her willingness to bestow such service now, which earns her a rapid blow to the diaphragm and a kicking out of her legs from under her, sending her crashing to the hardwood, and she is blasphemed against.

She rolls and groans with genuine anguish, and has to make a quick assessment as to whether to grovel for mercy to appeal to the possibilities of being awarded beneficence, to grant the opportunity to her partner in crime to relish the strut of a king, an emperor, and to lay the path open for requests—nay, insistences—for her to prove herself with difficult and undeniably formidable tasks and tribulations no matter how preposterous, that, honestly, haven’t worked out to being much more than her crawling around the various chambers of their pathetic hovel naked lately, only to earn an unwished-for heroine’s reward back in bed at the hand of her most benevolent regent, or to swallow her pain and straighten up, erect and subdued and serene in an effort to make it appear that she holds herself to be superior to her dominant, to convey that she considers herself more remarkable and distinguished than anybody else around here from down there, on her knees, arrogant, haughty even, in order to induce a rage that cannot be bartered with, to vent the evil humours that have been clouding up the tumbledown shanty of late, prompting an explosion of wrath, and allow for a reconnection after the madnesses have passed, and be begged in all humility for forgiveness for such bad manners and transgressions. She confides an invocation to whatever demigod will listen that her own ridiculously high limits could be breached as she chooses the latter approach in the off-confidence that something will straight-forward happen this time that might remotely have the possibility of being too much for her, and hang the consequence of the unsought aftermath and aftercare, and she wrests herself up into a kneel, and places her hands behind her head, sealing her lips.

Her daring is rewarded with a slap across her face, twisting her neck sharply toward her un-diamonded hand, and she keeps her eyes down as she absorbs the indignity of it, the pang, the shock, before steeling herself to upright herself, to offer to take another such blow as The Good Book says. After a sneer and a Pharisaic compliment that has the friendly words denoting what a virtuous lass she is but not the tonal structure of the legitimate emotions of support and acceptance, the process repeats itself, and it is all she can do to refrain from saying anything about how it should be understood that it is the other cheek that she is donating, and tries to let it go.

The possibilities of something literally interesting happening begin to rear their heads, and open their hoods, and bare their fangs, and she puts down the spectre of how she will be so exquisitely taken care of afterwards as perhaps nothing more than the price she will have to pay to get put through her paces for real. For once.

More foul language is muttered, and she is encircled and prowled around in her pseudo-supplicative pose with negative assessments hurled at her about her weight, her posture, her egocentric ambitions for—no doubt—a selfish and indulgent intimate communion, none of which she responds to, until she finds herself being jerked up from behind by her hair, which she does try to resist, and, with no other reason to interpret her encouragement toward such behavior than the word “Yes” escaping her lips in her unintended congratulations on finding a new way to wrestle authority from her, she staggers to her feet, being propelled toward the staircase.

There is no gentleness in how she is stopped, there, at the top step, on the very brink of losing her footing, and a threat is made, one that just so happens to be along the lines of one of her more obscene fantasies, of having her neurology rendered useless as the result from a fall—or a shove—so she can at last be able to stand it: the crushing pain of an unspeakable desire, there, on feast day, as the guest of honor, being cooked right on the dinette with blowtorches while still alive, unable to stop any of the proceedings or even move, constrained to witness wise friends and lowly families consume her body before her, a veritable crowd, taking their time, drawing it out as long as they can, praising her and then deriding her on how she tastes, reminding her of all her failures that she can do nothing more to rectify, giving pieces of herself to her and chuckling at her and her fate as they demand she, too, partake, until, one after another, they finally have to answer the call to the most-closeted niche in the castle where they haul her to, to make her watch as they evacuate themselves of what they had eaten of her, flushing what is left of her after it had passed through their bodies, away to be processed into fertilizer, a fitting end to her after she herself has done the same, taking what little there is of her to her grave to languish over her inability to submit properly to a true master and feel what she had been told to feel until there is no more agony to be had.

It was a ferocious flight of fantasia, one that once upon a time reliably made her breath catch as she would consider the horror of it, having to settle for merely a petite mort in her wool gathering. She made the mistake of telling this story, and it has been brought up enough to be tiresome, having lost its meaning and power through the numbness of having to suffer through the menacing yet again without any possibility of reality. As she descends the carpeted trek into their underworld with a sullen grace, she finds her mind wandering along the lines of other vagaries she might still have some interests in that she dare not speak of, lest these rare erotic dreams, too, find themselves overused and brought up without end until they are shelved up with the cannibalism nightmare along with all the other myths about herself over being naughty where or with whom she shouldn’t or being servile to immodesty or incest or whatever that she Judased to a charming parrot, who repeats these risqué revelations back to her ad infinitum in some lame attempt to play into them, to prove to himself that he, too, can be a part of them, leaving her with even less to get excited about.

Some things are better kept private, for very good reasons.

Reveries about the concept of another woman being brought in, one perhaps more beautiful than she is, one she could compete for affections with, triumphing on some days, wallowing on others, as they invade each other with the likeness of a man, or rather, the portion of a man that is used to penetrate women with, something beastly and jagged, the plan being a contest of aloofness and endurance, as to which foolish missy would break and make the first sound, the one being so brutally whipped with a chain as she drove her toy all strapped up to her own loins into the other’s various bodily orifices, simulating the act of procreation as recitative offenders do, more attuned to violence than coition, or the one receiving the thrusts that are both pleasurable and painful, due to the barbarity of the device that approximates the pride of men, only with more savagery and barbs and razor wire twisted about its infidelic girth. The winner of which would find herself being tended toward a true paradise by lips and kisses and trembling fingers of the fallen and weak other, as the one whose fortitude and gallantry failed on any given day would be obligated to perform such nicenesses and servitudes under the of burden and strain of raw electricity being wrung through so very much very personal fragile tissue. All for the entertainment of an endless stream of leering guests who drop by to see two gorgeous and docile females torture each other mercilessly, for the amusements of their owner.

Or of being sent off, away from here, to a training camp, one that would extort her to proffer herself to the most sleazy carnal acts ad nauseum, to desensitize her to the humiliation of being seen as being nothing more than an object, a toy, a doll, filming her, recording her downfall for posterity to gloat over, to get her to the point where she is willing to avail herself to all petty requests from boys and men, girls and women, dogs, pigs, it wouldn’t matter to her, it would be nothing for her to spread her legs or open her mouth under the peril of having bones broken on her at all times, to have the ends ground against each other until she complies and overcomes what tribulation is being thrown down on her as she strives to show proper enthusiasm at being debased to whoever she gets pointed at, decimating anything left in her that would resist the lowest dregs of humanity—cripples, lower caste bums, dirty worthless fogeys and old ugly hags that she would be embarrassed to even be seen near, let alone to being heralded and well-known far and wide as their filthy body slave—seeing to their perversions and whims and adducing herself to all of them, adjuring that they all bless her with whatever putridness can come out of any of their holes as a result of her tenacious efforts to prostitute herself to all abject and corrupt lusts, earning a respectful living for whoever can make her do this.

She is told to wait right there, at the bottom of the stairs—oooh, an order, she likes that, not to mention the vulgar name—and she is left a moment alone to consider another impossibility: having to prepare and furnish a beloved relative, like a daughter or a mother—neither of which she has—to strip and string up to dangle off the ground by wrists or feet or hair or breasts to serve as the punching bag to a vile sadist, knowing she is setting them up for this, betraying them, having to watch as her own flesh and blood is beaten most tyrannically, being told over and over to look there and there and there and there as yet another welt or a bruise is raised, and she is crying and begging that she be allowed to take their place before something terrible happens to her loved one, “please, please, please, I want you to do what you want to me, not her, please,” along with all the silly sentences of just how she could devote herself to the ecstasy of the villain at hand forever if she could only take on her rightful destiny as perpetual victim, carrying on about how she has nothing better to with her day than howl, how it would be her most profound privilege to do so, “oh dear god, please,” until the bid is taken up on with the oath being growled out how she will never be released from this vow of hers, and she can stand without bondage as the fists fly, a martyr à la charité while the violations intensify without end, and her masochism would at last be worth something.

She flinches as she finds her wrists being placed in the manacles, the old familiar shackles, fur-lined and padded leather cuffs that have been applied so many times that the holes in the straps for the prongs have been elongated, so much so that it’s long overdue that they be replaced and it is to the point that they are almost loose now, first one hand, then the other. She attempts to turn, to face the stairs in the usual manner, to lift her arms up so the bindings can be affixed to the well-concealed hooks in the corners of the entryway, and she is prevented from moving so.

This, too, is good. A welcome change, even if it does mean that the sturdiness and cushion of her bottom will not have its usual spree and routine mellow pleasure-whipping. This imminent thrashing will wound her more, even with their most obsolete supple thong, and the old worm turns inside her, the one that drives her into this craziness, and she observes that her pulse has increased a bit. There is the problem that her face will be seen as her self-defeat is ministered to, and she begins to screw up her stoicism so she does not betray any distress, as it would most assuredly put a stop to the proceedings and thwart the demon that calls on her to partake in this insanity and feed its ungodly hunger, and she would instead end up having her own glories tended to as though she were in bed, with her thighs opened, and a willing tongue being applied to that which so cursedly maneuvers her toward euphoria, which isn’t what she stripped off her regalia for today at all, and why that isn’t understood is beyond her.

She is scolded to spread her legs, more, more, toward the door frame, and she is astonished that two new hooks have appeared, right out of thin air, there, at the base of the portal, and that her ankles are being tied to them with a bristly and scratchy rope that she is unfamiliar with. She is curious as to when there had been time for carpentry, as the fasteners to the wall are even heavier than the ones at the top for her hands, and how long have they been there, why she has never noticed them until now.

She doesn’t say anything, of course, but she is suddenly alert and interested in what is going on.

The lights are all turned on, and there is nothing special to see except the usual junk in the unfinished cellar, until the blindfold is produced, and she breaks protocol and kicks off on her reprimands, prattling on about how she is a big girl, and she doesn’t need that, and she really isn’t interested in any silly games. She is asked if she is sure, and she sneers and tips her head.

“As you wish.”

The door is pulled shut behind her, effectively pinning her and immobilizing her, and she is baffled as to why it has taken so long for this handy discovery to be made. It prevents so much as the possibility of even a few scant inches of retreat, and taunts her with the outlook that now she will really have to commit to whatever happens to her. And she likes it. The reason for the blindfold comes into view, and she drops her jaw to say something, and is once again put into the position of having to offer her other cheek. Which she does. Much slower than she did upstairs, true, but she does. And this time, both sides of her face burn. It’s a nice change.

There hasn’t been anything to directly be afraid of in this libertine activity of theirs for quite some time, and she is thoroughly unprepared for how flabbergasted she is at the anticipation of it. She had been so drowned with heed, and caring, and consideration for so long, that she was absolutely bored and was seriously thinking of leaving some day, unannounced, letting her absence be an ambush, a too-late discovery.

And now there is all this…this…bounty.

Of course, needles had always been a hard limit, and so, once that had been so long-ago established, they had never even come up in any of the ancient speeches and rebuttals and understandings about the possibilities of what could happen in their subterranean seclusions on a day like today, when it was snowing outside, and they had nothing better to do, with her made helpless and available for whatever-whatever. The very sight of their nasty briery rigid firmnesses still sends shivers to her core.

A pause in the enterprise spins up, and it gets still, and it takes for what seems to be an eternity for her to realize that she is being looked at, with those eyes that were always filled with empathy and longing and love and all that rot, and today is no exception, and suddenly, she didn’t mind that so much and she does the only thing—submit submit submit—she can think of.

She holds her breath. Purses her lips in a couple of ways. Gets her chin to quiver. She nods her head.

The first mammoth hypodermic penetrates her surface, and it doesn’t do what she expects. It does not go deep, it does not plunge its way toward her ribcage, it does not even have anything to do with her nipple. What it does do is much worse. It slides in along over the top of her cleavage, shallow, barely under her skin, striking more nerves than she knows for a fact are in there, until it can go in no further and stops, dangling now from a dent. She shakes and she shimmies and she chirps an impromptu noise or two, and the enormous injector flops around and makes its invasion of her injure her even more. Then, the first of its three other gargantuan friends does the same thing into the top of her other breast. She chants some more of the same atonalities, and fights every instinct she has to complain or ask a question or beseech toward a venture that things could maybe go slower, to wait, please, to let her adapt, or to even go so far as to try to shake the dreadful atrocities out of her. None of which prepares her at all for the third monstrous apparatus, skimming its way into her along the bottom of her breast, cupping her with trouble, underneath her nipple, missing that clever spot of hers that she so likes to have nibbled on and played with and sucked on completely on more placid nights—and its little friend, too—when the devil isn’t afoot in the mansion, with the lance instead raking its way along where her bra always so mildly and kindly and reliably cradled her preens and feathers before men, that she would go so far out of her way to arch her back to show those miserable clods what they weren’t getting as their lecherous gazes drifted to her and she could cast a seductive glance their direction and play with them just a little out in public, posing her beautiful legs on top of her shamelessly high heels, getting away with the scandal of it all before coming home to what little awaits her here.

Little, until today.

The harsher words to control herself and muzzle herself—lest something from her pile of rags upstairs be fetched to do it for her that would perhaps taste of her coarse and ethereal arousal—find their way to her ears, having to be shouted over her own bansheeing, before the fourth serrated iron spike sets about its diabolical task to do the very thing she loved and hated most: damage her in a way she doesn’t like at the bidding and satisfaction of another, to have her cries be judged as sufficient toward abandon and fervor and to heighten a cruel libido, even though, before today, she would have never under any circumstances have put up with anything like the likes of this. But there it is, and there she is, tied up and unable to do anything about the predicament of having the worst things ever nailed into the womanly flesh that guards her heart, four of them, and she can’t help herself: she thrashes and she aches and she swears and it only makes things worse. The thorns stay in, and even puncture her harder now that she is writhing than they had going in in their dogged stubbornness towards holding onto whatever is inside of her to hold onto, with their tremendous payloads sloshing around in the tubes, churning with wicked clues of even meaner things yet to come.

And as if all this isn’t bad enough, the situation is about to get worse. For two of the offending medical instruments are grasped, with thumbs standing with a salute, and she stands palpitating, waiting for the inevitable examination of whether or not this was alright, which doesn’t come at all. When that realization finally dawns on her, something inside her sinks, and she freezes. Solid. A slight smile and a blink is there for her to see, and she is instead distracted with the one word she heard the comeback to in the back of her mind before it was even pronounced, and her sentiment and choice and conclusion was “no,” complete with exclamation point, even though she has always sworn she would never verbalize that flimsy despised syllable, not here, no matter what happens.


No heed is paid to whatever she blathers on about because her timid, shy and genteel enjoyments on this issue no longer matter, and the massive pressure ramps up, and it punishes her more than she could have possibly imagined. It would have scalded her considerably less if saline had been used, but, no, this is ice-cold distilled sterile water, and it ratchets up every nerve she has to the point that they—and she—are screaming. The fact that nothing gets slammed into her body even remotely slowly does nothing to ease the shock of what is happening to her. When half of the top syringes’ infernal cargoes have been so amicably introduced into her, it becomes the bottom-of-the-breast syringes’ turns for their horrifying glees, and they have even more of a prodigious effect.

She no longer cares about some silly little discomfort of Lilliputian pins sticking into her or flopping about, no, she has her own treasured and pretentious flesh bulging out at the injection sites, creating huge unsightly lines raised up with abominable deformities of colossal size that are induced into her magnificent bosoms without her decision or say-so or anything and she throws herself against her bonds as hard as she can. She is so busy with all of her blubbering and shaking and tossing her tresses about, that she doesn’t even perceive that the four syringes had been withdrawn, and reinserted, only this time, on the sides of her breasts. Inside and out.

The remainders of the whopping abusive mutilating injections proceed briskly, setting her cockiness and self-esteem and chest on fire.

Her mouth falls open, and her head tips up, and she can’t even catch enough breath to shout when the usual loving gentle and tender hands are placed on her blimped-up lava-brimmed breasts, and twists them hard, in opposite directions, oh, and when they go back the other way? As inhumanly far and as flagitiously hard as they can? Well. That is when she finds her voice. And she is so loud, the encumbrance of the sheer volume of her wail spears her own ears and risks shattering the drumheads inside, making her administer more of her own hardship and turmoil unto herself.

When she can again focus her eyes, pining for collapse, for unconsciousness, anything to relieve the shrieking she is still in the midst of, a shadowy figure is noted as standing in front of her, and when the intentions of what is about to happen becomes clear, she screeches out the word, the loathed and condemning word, the one she never wanted to say, such that she even offered it up, eons ago, and gave up what it meant in terms of her safety and clout in the belief that such faith would be recognized as blanket permission to take the brakes off around here and put her to the test. She explained, over and over, just how much it meant that she had this abundance of trust, and she cooed how nothing would ever happen here that she couldn’t handle, and even if that renounced line got somehow broached accidentally or if they managed to perchance find they had even gotten close, it wouldn’t matter, because she was strong, and resolute, and she could take it, no matter what.

Just not right now.

He pays no attention whatsoever to her safeword, and, not even taking the heinous metal intrusions out, He pulls His whipping arm back, and then He really lets her have it. No warmup, just a baseball bat swing unto destruction. The cane strikes her overinflated and now stupendous attractants to men with all the furies of heaven and hell, and the impact sends her off somewhere she had so often dreamt of finding her way to, and she gets viciously caned on her beautiful breasts, on and on no matter what sounds she makes, no matter how hard she throws herself into the door, spread-eagled, defenseless against the convulsions and the woe, and, in the midst of all the bedlam and this vertical lake of brimstone and scorching splintery wood and red hot metal everywhere that meant something to her and more pain being poured onto her and into her and through her than she knew what to do with—yea, her cup was full unto overflowing, take this body, broken for you, do this in remembrance of what was once me—much to her amazement, she finds that there really are angels there to catch her as she loses her footing in the present, the here, the now, and they lovingly remind her that this, this, this is what she wanted, what she really wanted most in all the world, and there is an elegant chit-chat in tongues about whether or not she is happy: “Oh, she’s getting there,” “More and more all the time,” “Just listen to her go,” “Isn’t this divine,” in the midst of all the gigglings and titterings and flutterings of wings, and the barrage goes on and on and ruthlessly on while The Lord and Satan clink their horn goblets, congratulating each other with rollicking cheers on this most splendid of outcomes, “All the planning,” “All the setup,” “All the lulling,” laughing themselves sick, roaring out their laud and acclaim and admiration until the last of her strengths expend themselves and give out to the point that she quits responding to the assault at all.

When she wakes up, she is safe in bed, alone, and there are still stars and grateful tears in her eyes, and a firestorm all over her body, even there, between her legs, and she recognizes that particular throb as being from a different form of outrageous attack, quite unlike the oh-so-numerous ones that her new best friend the fiberglass rod consecrated her with, what with it leaving so much ghastly evidence of its endearments further up, on a higher stretch of intimacy on her person, that, well, wouldn’t the boys on the street be dumbfounded at catching a glimpse of this? The additional twinge where the sun don’t shine is from where someone had apparently had their way with her, which plays hard into another notion she entertains herself with when she is alone in the dwellingplace, during the day, involving an incubus and a succubus, having their fun with her as she naps. She is dripping, too, and she confirms it with her fingers, careful not to get carried away with herself as she feels around down there where her mother used to lecture her about leaving that alone, which was a mandate she always had the worst time obeying. She takes in and releases a long slow bottomless breath, and comes across some vague memory of being raped, and not being able to do anything about it. Perhaps it came about downstairs, when she was still secured to the ingress to the grotto, where it would have been so difficult to accomplish, given differences in heights, and the inconvenience of a closed door, and her unaccommodating position, and she frets over what kinds of blackmails she may have pledged, and if—more importantly—she was found to be adequate in what else she had had ravaged from her.

She looks down on herself, keening as she lifts the sheet, and she is black and blue, with hard red stripes everywhere she can see, and her still-oversized breasts are masses of discoloration and contusion that are still too delicate to even run her fingers along.


She startles up toward the doorway. There is a pause, and her first instinct is to recoil, as she completely expects there to be queries about her well-being, about whether or not she still has any absolution left in her, or some naive volunteering about how maybe her own rhapsodies could now be catered to, and, praise god, there is none of that. It takes an even longer moment for her to understand that there would not be any of that. Not this time. And, with a little luck, maybe not next time, either.

She considers that perhaps she was a little hasty in her assessment that they might be done and needed to go their separate ways, and acknowledges that it might be about time for a conversation again. To explore some possibilities. After, of course, she grapples her hands underneath her back, pinning their objection-raising abilities into a decent uselessness, wiggling her way around on the bed so that her head can hang over the edge, from where she can open her mouth in what she hopes would be an obvious and useful offer. She prays she won’t involuntarily clamp down her teeth when her tender and—now—even more beautiful breasts get grabbed, and squeezed, and wrenched so hard that knuckles turn white, and especially, please, lord, that there won’t be any thought or concern over the lovely gagging and retching sounds she is so looking forward to making, as there appears to be the possibility of an ecstasy to tend to, stretching out, closing the too-small gap between them, coming toward her, that isn’t hers. Perhaps, too, maybe, she can then be persuasive enough to be allowed to swallow something awful, and humiliating, and, just, please, dear, try not to make a mess. Which, if she does, well, she can tend to it. The requisite good-housekeeping way. With her beatific face pushed right down in it on the floor, like the bad little doggie she is.

What. Joy.


Sunday, October 30, 2016


By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2016

ANYTHING GOOD on tonight?

No, nothing yet.

Well, god damn it, I want to see some action. Who do we have?

Hmmm; I think these guys are on a business trip for some cheap-ass company that wouldn’t even spring for separate rooms.

Let’s see. Jesus Christ, look at that.


Do you honestly believe either one of them really doesn’t sleep in the buff back at the house?

Probably not.

So, fix it.

What for?

It would be entertaining.

I don’t know that I want to.

So? How does that matter? Do it. Do it!

Ow! Fine. Whatever. Naked.

Naked. That’s better. Look at the looks on their faces. That is fucking priceless.

It is pretty amusing.

So shall we impress upon them what comes next?


You know what I mean.

Oh, do I? Am I correct in assuming that you’re really just wanting to see a couple of nice guys express their innermost feelings that they’ve had to keep hidden and suppressed their entire lives, and take a chance and end up holding each other, shedding a couple of tears as they experiment with a little naughty touching?

Not quite, no.

So, what, then? Accidental circle jerk, or something? Maybe we have a porno they could watch that they can’t see back home.

No, what I really want to see is a couple of obviously homophobic straight guys fuck each other’s brains out, who have to go home and encounter each other every day from now on, looking each other directly in the eye with all the chagrin in the world, haunted beyond the shadow of a doubt as to what happened here between them.

What makes you think they’re straight?

Wedding rings are still a reasonably good indicator, aren’t they?

I suppose. And homophobic?

The fact that they aren’t laughing at their sudden nudity; the weird mix of contempt and fascination that is catching their breaths.

Ah, you mean the way they’re trying to cover themselves back up—which, granted, is a little strange, the way they’re using just their fingers—as well as all the surreptitious glances and sneers at each other, both towards the faces and the crotches?

All the while pretending they’re not looking. You’re right; I wonder why they aren’t just crawling back under the covers. Listen, do you really care about these guys, their integrities, their holier-than-thou dignities?

I suppose not.

So let’s have some fun. Say “boners.”


Because it’ll embarrass the shit out of them. Indulge me.

It would, wouldn’t it? Boners.

There we go. Look at those blushes. No explanations: say that, too.

What, you don’t want them to talk about their special emotions?

Blech; do you want our sojourners here to prattle on all god damn night about their childhoods, or how uncomfortable they are with themselves deep down, or making up lies about how they are really thinking about fucking their wives, and never get around to doing anything good? Speak.

You’re right. No explanations.

That’s the way. And there it is. The spark of recognition. Inevitability. Look. Look! Move the hands away—yes! They are panting like racehorses.

They don’t even seem all that spooked, do they? Are we done? Shall we just let nature take its course?

I don’t think so; this is just getting interesting. Maybe they should rub their wee-wees for each other, demonstrating just how they pleasure themselves in ways that they wouldn’t dare show their better halves, blurring their little hands on their wangs, and bring them right up to the brink for some denial and edging for a while. Get their lusts built up to something monumental.

You’re really kind of evil, you know that, right?

What’s your point?

I probably don’t have one.

As many surprise lesbian shows that you’ve insisted had to happen, no, you don’t. Pronounce the words: masturbate and watch; don’t cum from it yet.

Do I have to stay for this part?

That’s the only way it works and you know it. Now say it. Say it!

Ow! Shit, what was tha—Ow! Okay, okay. Masturbate and watch. You happy? God.

Hey, aren’t we going to make them edge?

Not interested.

Spoil sport.

You know this doesn’t do that much for me.

Oh, boo hoo. You’re not secure enough in your own heterosexuality to be able to put up with a little viewing of men touching cocks? How do you think it makes me feel when you make me watch two hot babes fucking each other blind?

I sincerely didn’t think you minded that too terribly much. In fact, I sort of had the idea that you may have even gotten something ou—

—Shut up. Gawd. Tell me something.


Are you so insecure in my heterosexuality to think that I don’t just love the bejesus out of them?

Love who?

Not who. Penises. Much better than vaginas. Long hard hot erect pulsing throbbing pounding rampant and needy single-minded penises? That’s the stuff of dreams.

It is amazing just how thoroughly that statement you just made turned me completely off. Do you want to change the channel?

No. I want to see these two guys get it on with each other like they had to. Know why?

No clue.

The only thing more glorious than one sumptuous raging hardon fucking away to beat the band—for a twisted dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual cunt like myself—is two. Please? Pretty please?

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I give in. As you fucking wish. Fuck and suck each other.

Until the cock crows.

Good god, woman. Really?

Yes. Really. Now say it, you selfish inconsiderate bastard, who doesn’t want to give the woman he loves what little she wants.

Ow! Until the cock crows. Quit hitting me.

You’ll live. Fuck and suck each other until the cock crows.

Can we see what else is on? Our work here is done. They’ll be fine.

Hang on; look at that. Change of plan.

Now what?

One of them isn’t circumcised.

So? You only just now noticed that?

Holy shit, do you know what I really want to see?

Uh oh.

As in, right god damn now?

Oh, like my saying “no” to whatever insane notion you’re cooking up is going to shut you up.

Fuck off.

Wait; is that an offer?

God damn it, stop it. Let go.

No, I mean it. What do you say if we just finish up a couple chores and turn all this crap off tonight and pay some attention to each other for once? Let these poor people get some sleep?

Like that works. Especially around here.

I would like to make love to you.

Not a chance in heaven. I’m on a mission. From god.

Christ. What’s the whole point of this place if we ourselves don’t get off in the process?

You can jerk off all you want; you do anyway. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Of course I know.

You know what I mean.

That’s not going to happen; I’m still mad at you.

Oh? Do we need to talk?

Don’t you even try to cop a feel here. Je-he-sus. Get your mind out from between your own legs and put it to some fucking good use: between someone else’s. Now look. Circumcised boy is sucking non-circumcised boy like it was important.

Gad; yeah? So?

Well, I want him to cum.

Which one?

The guy getting hoovered, duh.

Oh, aren’t you the gracious one: the god damn voyeuristic orgasmic bliss fairy doling out her favors like it wasn’t inescapably destined to happen anyway. Why?

You know, you’d think boys would be inherently, innately good at sucking cock, but, apparently, this is not the case. Help me out here. Say “orgasm.”

Cool your jets. They’ll get to it in their own good time. Besides, you still haven’t told me why-for all the all-fired hurry.

Because, I want him—the circumcised dude—to have the crazy-ass idea that what he really wants in this life, is to get his cock actually worked in under the foreskin of his friend-and-now-lover, so that he is all the way inside the other guy’s dick, not to mention how much I want his lover-and-friend-to-the-end to think that is the best idea he has ever heard. And I’m pretty sure that for that to work, the dude getting so poorly blown is going to need to be limp. Which at the moment, ain’t happenin’.

Jesus, you’re sick.

No, come on. Wouldn’t that be cool? See a guy getting fucked in his cock instead of his ass? For once? Oh…ah. There we go. As you say: male orgasm is inevitable. The first batch of jizz for the night, despite obvious shortcomings in the whole cocksucking department. Splendid. Now go ahead, swallow it like the considerate fag we all know you are; attaboy. How about that? Didn’t even need your kind assistance.

He’s going to barf, you know.

I don’t care.

You will if you have to be the one that cleans their room tomorrow.

Motherfucker. Keep it down.

Might teach you a lesson.

Not if I go out of my way to make sure you’re the one who’s going to clean that room. You know I can do that, right? Feminine wiles and all?

Fuckermother. Keep it down.

Hmph; good call. That was close.

Then we would have really had to fuck up their desires and aberrations and enthusiasms. If, you know, you wanted to see them keep going.


Hey, you’re the one that started us down this vile and abominable path tonight. Just saying.

Aw, they’re cuddling. Isn’t that sweet? Let’s do it. Move them on along to the next obscene-beyond-the-telling-of-it step.

I’m not sure I’m on board with this. Might not be good for them.

Oh, get off your creepy peeping little high-horse. How many times have you insisted on ogling some good old fashioned fist fucking, or asserted that what was really important here was nothing less than a little relentless cock worshipping by veritable harems of women, or even contended for the tying of some helpless little martyr, comma, female, to the bed to have her forced to orgasm until all she could do was screech her lungs out? Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t think that’s the same.

Puh-lease. One quaint little perversion is as good as another.

Bullshit. Some of it you don’t come back from; not the same as you were when you went in. Er, came in. Got here. However that works.

What, you don’t think any of the little bitches you’ve had take on the role of rape victim here or bukakke target or fucktoy to a bunch of fat inept losers with mommy issues hasn’t needed years of therapy to get over the peculiar mushing up of her sensibilities that washed over her that one fucking night of fucking that she stumbled into this depth of hell we call home?

Yeah, well—

—So don’t you even try to tell me anything about the damage we “might” do to the delicate psyches of a couple of good ol’ boys. Pretty sure they can take whatever we can throw at them without deciding it would be better to opt out, if you know what I mean. Besides. Think about it. When they’re standing next to each other at the urinals at work, sporting fresh irrepressible hardons, they can fess up to how they’re chafing themselves raw after their beloveds go to sleep because they can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have one of them up to his balls in the other’s cock, and the unfathomable joy they experienced in having ejaculate surge out of one pisshole right down into the other. They’ll do it again, right there, at the office, over and over until they are completely addicted to it, and have to spread the cut-boy’s urethra out incurably wide with sounds and spreaders so the gentile boy can see what it’s all about, and they’ll end up doing it to each other so often that they get caught and have to try to explain to their wives or their bosses just what exactly they are doing under each other’s desks or behind the shed at a barbecue.

And that’ll all work out so well for them.

It’ll be good for society. Put them in the position to have to advocate for gay rights or some shit.

Right. So you want to see two guys fucking each other in the actual cock for the sake of social consciousness.

Made you smile.

You’re so fucking funny.

Aren’t I though? Now say it.

You aren’t going to let me—or them—out of this, are you.

Not a fucking chance. Tell you what. When we’re done here? I’ll hold your penis. In bed. Like I used to.

Promises, promises.

I mean it.

I’d rather you sucked it.

Lord; uhh…I’ll kiss it instead, then. But that’s as far as I’ll go.

That’s it? No generous offer to bang the gong slowly?

No, I’m still pissed at you. But I will kneel down before you—tonight—and let you feel like a hero with a solemn and dutiful smooch planted on the head of your precious pecker that you can improvise on about the next time you rub one out.

Would you stay for that?

Why, so you can paint your partner-in-crime white? Ugh. I don’t think so.

Had to ask.

Do we have a deal?

No scorning, or scoffing; no snarky remarks.

No, of course not.

A slow kiss.


Every night for a week.

Don’t press your luck, bucko.

Take it or leave it. I can change the channel; no skin off my nose.

Fuck. Done.

I truly don’t know why I let you talk me into some of this shit. Fuck him in the cock.

Same reason I let you do the same for me: we like to watch. Fuck him in the cock.

Holy Christ.

Will you look at that?

I’ll be go to hell. I would not have thought that was even possible.

It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it? Just look at the way their eyes are rolling around in their heads. Both of them. Who knew?

You know, I’m much more geared to be attracted to the sight of how women’s eyes roll around in their heads when they get themselves spun up into this kind of euphoria, not to mention the wonderful sounds you all make in the throes. That’s an evolutionary response, you know. Goes back to the caves.

Golly; who cares? Oh. Oh, yeah. Now we’re getting somewhere: just look at all the ecstasy.

This—this is the real reason for a bris.

What is?

So young men don’t learn to fuck by fucking each other’s ding dongs.

Yeah, yeah. So, what do you think? When uncut boy here has his next orgasm, will he be cumming with his own or his boyfriend’s sperm?

Obviously, for scientific reasons, this isn’t the only time this is going to happen, is it.

Most obviously. All night long. And every day from now on, ever after.

All night long.

Don’t you let me down.

Ow! Sheesh. And every day, happily, ever after. Might as well make sure they like it, eh?

You old softie. Happily, ever after, then.

Don’t forget: you owe me.

Uh huh, right. You’ll be lucky if I don’t slip and accidently bite it.

That makes me feel so much better; thanks.


SO WHO else do we have?

There’s a couple who staggered in from the bar across the street.

Well, we’re probably not going to have to do too much for them, are we?

Doesn’t look like it, no.

Wow. Even I’m impressed. He’s huge.

I must say, we don’t get that many real live monster cocks in here. Look at him go. Like a fucking jackrabbit.

That’s the kind of fucking that can take any girl’s breath away. What’s that in her purse?

A hard core rampaging sexual intercourse before you that puts porn stars to shame, that is risking one of our good bedframes with dire collapse, and you care about a fucking purse.

What is it?

I can’t tell.

Well, I want to know. Make him cum, so she has an excuse to go to the bathroom.

Really? Now?

Yes, really.

Alright. Like a geyser.

What, again? Is that all you ever want to see?

Absolutely. You think all this outstanding effort on his part should just be for a little spurt? Like a fucking geyser.

Makes me wonder about your stalwart heterosexuality.

Say it, or he’s going fuck her to death.

Geeze; like a fucking geyser. I swear, I do not understand your interest in seeing the little sluts getting inundated and overwhelmed by semen. It’s not that pleasant a sensation, you know. It’s revolting. Disgusting. Disgraceful.

It’s a dominance thing. Besides, she’s still trying to impress him, so, he could firehose her and it would be alright. See? Giggles. Of delight, I might add. Oh, and will you look at that? That, my dear, is a sincere attempt to demonstrate her respect for him and her concern for his rapture with some outright adoration, straight up from the very depths of her soul, imbued with all the submission and devotion she can present him with, through unadulterated reverent licking.

You’re such a pompous ass. But it is as sexy as fuck, I’ll give you that. You don’t think she looks stupid with all the drooling?

Not at all. We are beholden to pure idolatry. Pay attention: there might be a test.

Har de-fucking har har. We’re going to have to wash those sheets in extra hot water.

Bleach. Your job.

Yuck. There’s advantages to not knowing what goes on in these rooms, you know.

I think you’ll survive.

Ach, the romance I have to put up with around here; be still my beating heart. Now, quit slobbering, princess; get up. Go to the bathroom. Don’t forget your purse…that’s it. God damn it, moron, quit trying to talk to the little cocksucker. She’s already impressed. Fuck, she’s not going. Let’s push things along; give me a hand. Before he tells her some stupid joke she’ll have to laugh at.

Still impatient?

Why, yes I am. There might be some real television on tonight I’m interested in.

I don’t know, what else are you willing to offer?

Nothing. Release me, you cad.

Ow! Stop that! Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?

Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop trying to make this about you. Don’t let them get carried away into some ridiculous conversation that ends up with them caring about each other and getting married or some other genuine horror like that.

You aren’t this demanding on your birthday. Go to the bathroom, lady.

You think that’s a lady?

Be nice. God, she is a mess now, isn’t she?

Girl certainly has to freshen up after something like that little splashing, put on a good face for the next act. Now take it out, whore…ahem. Quit rolling your eyes.

Ow! What did I say about hitting me? Take it out.

I knew it. Do you fucking see that?

Mother of god, it’s bigger than he is.

Is that what you call that? “Bigger?”

Okay, yeah, more like dwarfs him down to miniscule. Wonder what she was thinking, packing that colossus along to go out to the bars with.

Jesus; she’s showing that-that thing more affection than she showed him.

It seems to mean something to her.

Seems to mean a lot to her.

What’s our little man doing?

Panting. Stretching his schlong out, trying to achieve erection again. Playing with his balls. Nothing important.

I want to see her swallow it.

Him or her toy?

Both, of course. But yeah. The artificial infidel.

Her gargantuan piece of plastic will kill her if she does that.

Sorry; that’s the last thing we need around here.

I hate to say it, but I want to see that, too.

Are we agreed?

Yes. Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Christ almighty; she’s done this before.

Holy fuck, and not just once or twice. Practice makes fucking perfect.

I would have sworn that was impossible; she’s such a cute little thing. Not even flinching. All the god damn way in.

Whoa, look at the way it bulges her throat out. Slow down, darling.

Shit-yeah, slow down; way down. Make sure you really fucking feel it.

Crimeny. She-she’s ravishing herself.

Did you make her do that?

No, I did not.

Wish I’d thought of it. I want to see her cum.

Oh, yeah. I want to see her cum now, too. Hard.

Yes. Hard. With that freakish atrocity choking her.

With that freakish atrocity choking her.

Now that is a woman in the presence of god.

Sure as fuck is. This is almost like church, isn’t it?

You could say that. Er, no, wait, not really.

So what do you think? Is she going to do up all the straps and fuck him like he fucked her? And do we get to help him accept such a splendid fate?

Nah; let’s turn it around.


Let’s have her give it to him to put on, and fuck her with it.

Isn’t that going to deflate his precious ego, what with how he simply must have so god damn much of it wrapped up into his still rather magnificent willy? That despite all the odds, he somehow isn’t enough for her?

Not if he can double fuck her.


Sure. She can—obviously—suck him back to rampaging and hard again in nothing flat, then give him the strapon to wear so he can fuck both her pussy and ass at the same time.

You are so fucking perverted.

Oh, and you’re not. It’ll do them both some good. Give them an unbelievable story to brag about, if nothing else.

I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?

Maybe not one for the grandkids.

Or, maybe, yes. Just that kind of story. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?

I thought you didn’t want to condemn her to such a wretched dreary wedded life, full of drudgery and laundry and shit.

To have a size queen like her hitched to such a nice big boy? It’ll be fine. So let it be done. Brag to the grandkids. Hell, everyone.

If you say so. So let it be done. Brag to the grandkids; everyone. Hell, show them all.

You’re kidding.

No. Say that.

I don’t think so.

Mind me! Do it!

Ow! Show them all. Gah. You fiend. Barbarian. Hitting your defenseless bride.

That’s my girl. Give these nice folks a splendid future, in, say, the pornography industry. See? We’re not completely amoral…made you smile.

Oh, Sacred Heart of Jesus. I think we have made her a happy woman. I thought she came hard before.

We’re going to need a new mattress in there.



Well, there’s a couple with their daughter in the adjoining roo—

—Oh, no you don’t.

…Oh, “no-I-don’t” what?

No sir. Not again.

What the hell are you talking about?

Are you kidding me? How can you not remember this?

Remember what?

What you did? Of all the things you’ve ever done here, that was by the far the worst. Ever.

Wait, are you saying we did something actually bad?

Not me, shitwipe. You.

No, whatever the fuck-god-hell we’re doing here constitutes a “we,” dear. It’s always a “we.” This doesn’t work if we don’t agree.

I know. But somehow, you had to have made me go along with it. I just don’t know how.

Like I have the slightest skill at making you do anything. And go along with what?

Fuck you.

Absolutely. I’m all for that. ‘Bout god damn time, if you ask me. Let’s go.

Unhand me. Why do you keep turning every-fucking-thing around here back into that?

Excuse me?


No? No what?

No. You are I are not going to go trip the light fantastic, and we are not ruining this family.

I’m really not understa—oh. Great. A fresh pout and a frump, and, I would presume, more silent treatment. Like there isn’t enough of that going on around here.

Respect my fucking wishes here, would you? For once?

What wishes? How do I not pamper your every whim?

I don’t want to play any more tonight.

I beg your pardon? And just who was it that just got done getting her jollies from seeing a couple of nice straight clean respectful husbands fuck each other senseless in a way that makes Sodom and Gomorrah into a fucking joke, with the full confidence and knowledge that they will go out of their fucking way to do it—fuck—just like that for the rest of their miserable little lives? Not to mention how delicious you thought it would be to saddle a tiny woman with a horse cock so they could impress their children’s children with tales of how much and how fucking hard they fucking fucked throughout their whole for-better-or-worse, with full video record of their exploits out there for everyone in the world to see?

This isn’t the same. And, for the record, the public scrutiny of their communions was not my idea.

Unbelievable. You know, this isn’t even the first time you have made me—me—squeamish with the depths of your abhorrent sexual deviancies.

I want to go to bed now. Don’t I owe you a nice good night kiss?

Oh, listen to this. Don’t you even want to look in on our guests? You know that bad things—really bad things—happen if we don’t…diffuse things.

I’ll take my chances.

You mean you’ll take their chances. Do you really want to have to go through having the police come by again? To once again have to clean up the kind of mess that makes headlines? We have to do this.

Leave me the fuck alone.

No. Sit down. You’ve been so…I don’t even know how to describe it. And I don’t get it. Why don’t you explain it to me? Use small words.

Fuck Jesus Christ Himself in the Ass on the Cross. Haven’t you even noticed?

Obviously, I haven’t.

You can’t be this kind of oblivious. You just can’t be.

I…I’m lost.

I do not fucking believe this. You and I haven’t been—oh, gee, what’s a good word here, intimate?—intimate since the last time we had a family get irrevocably corrupted in our hallowed halls.

Back up a second here. Are you saying you’ve been punishing me?

Oooh, ding ding ding, we have a winner, folks, give the boy a cigar. No fuckee, no suckee, no nothing. Took you long enough, shithead.

For the love of god, why?

Because what we—we—did was wrong, douchebag. It was an entire family we fucked up.

What, you’ve suddenly developed a conscience about what we do here, and now—now—you’re concerned that the people we’ve gotten to lower their ludicrous judgmental defenses against each other so they can finally fucking fuck or perform whatever-the-godsfuck-ever sin of the flesh we coaxed them into, that maybe, just maybe they had some kind of prior familial connection before they checked in and got a room? Give me a fucking break.

Oh, if it was only that. Some poor little girl getting to work out some daddy issues with her actual daddy? Who the fuck cares? If it was just a little incest, that would be awesome. Adorable.

Uh huh. But?

I have no idea how you did it without me, but you made him torture the shit out of her—literally. You want to talk about a god damn mess? Yeah; it was everywhere. And he did it in front of her mother. And then he fucked her bowlegged, front and back and no, he didn’t miss out on the opportunity to plunge her throat raw, no. And he made his fucking wife help him slide his cock into their daughter, time after time after fucking time, and when he got tired he made the woman he swore a fucking troth to help him make their little girl howl and bawl herself hoarse when he got to be limp and useless for fucking until he could be long enough and hard enough to get right back on in there. And then. Then he ordered the bride of his youth to get down on her knees and lick everything up afterwards, and spit it into their child’s mouth.

Yeah, but here was I?

I-I don’t know. I watched it all happen; I wanted to vomit. The next morning? They both used her as a toilet, and slapped her without end, calling her the most atrocious names you can think of. And on top of all that, you somehow left them with the idea that this is how they shall then live.

First of all, I have no recollection of any of whatever the hellshit you’re babbling on about here. Second, I couldn’t have made any of that happen without your help. And third, why the every-loving-fuck have you been punishing me for something I can’t remember that you would have had to agree with? Jesus!

Keep your god damn hands off me!

You haven’t exactly been a model of innocence and purity here, you know. The boys tonight? Not to mention all the endless “fucking slampigs”—your words—that you have totally gotten off on seeing getting the shit pounded out of them, let alone the shit pounded into them? How many nights have the rafters been shaken from all the blood-curdling screaming because you wanted to see some girl you said was prettier than you get anally gangbanged?

Don’t you even—

—Don’t you even “don’t-you-even” me. Fuck. God. In the god damn ass.

I hate you.

No, you don’t.

Watch me.

Alright. You don’t want anything profane to happen with this nice blameless little clan? And just you never-the-fuck-never mind about what we both know can happen if we don’t play along here and come to some kind of consensus about the endless sex-crazed-weasel-sex for our habitués? Fine. We’ll just look in on them, wish them a pleasant night’s sleep filled with wet dreams for everyone, and call it a fucking day.

Will that work?

I have no idea. Flip this channel over…there…yeah, I’m not picking up on any kind of dungeon scene happening. See? Everything is just swell. Happy?

Oh no.

“Oh no” what?

It-it’s them.

What? Who?

It’s the same family. Dearest god on high have mercy.


They-they’re back.

I have no—I don’t recognize them. Never seen them before in my life.

Liar. Jesus. It’s still happening.

What are you blathering on about?

There’s—it—the blowjob. Don’t you see?

Well, god save us all from a little fellatio. We have nothing to do with this; we only just now tuned in. A respectful spouse is giving her husband head. No big deal; happens all the time. In, you know, good marriages and shit.

Knock it off. Don’t you see the rubber?

Yeah, so?

That was the first part. After she gets him to blow a load, she’ll tie off the condom and keep it in her mouth. Then they’re going to go into the girl’s room and…oh fuck.


She’s playing with herself.

Who is?

The girl. According to plan.

That, she is. Once again, not our doing. This isn’t so bad, is it? She isn’t even as young as you made her out to be. Right pretty little thing, though, isn’t she?

Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.

What do you think you want to see happen to her, to, you know, make up for the audacity of having that little shortcoming of appearance, your majesty?

God damn you. Fix it. Change them back.

How? Change them back to what? I don’t think it works that way. Not when we don’t have anything to do with how depraved they are to start with. Our job is to take what they are, and make them even more debauched. Them’s the rules.

C’mon, girl, take your hands off yourself, stop. Stop. Stop! God damn it, this is all your fault! Tell her to stop! Please!

I can say “stop” all you want; it’s not going to make any difference. See?

I’m begging you. I…I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you every day for the rest of your god damn life!

Tempting, but there’s nothing going on that we can do anything about from here.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. I will get on my god damn knees and suck your stupid cock all fucking night! Stop them!

Now, hold your fucking horses here. Aren’t you the one who’s been complaining for weeks about how none of this maybe isn’t any of our business? And then you turn right back around to see just how far you can push people in the dead of night when the itch grabs you by the short and curlies? Know what? Screw the lovemaking. We’ll call a counselor in the morning. Work some shit out. Live with a few consequences. Let’s just turn all this shit off and retire for the evening.

Wait; she’s masturbating to a picture of her parents.

Yeah, right.

No, I mean it. Look. How many girls have you ever seen frantically tearing at their pussies on top of the covers, stark naked, with their legs spread and pointed to the door of their parent’s room, gazing lovingly at a photo of mom and dad? God damn it, I think she’s edging.

I think you’re blowing things way the hell out of proportion here. Have you been drinking again?

You have to believe me. They are going to come through that door like they do every night, and tie her up, and her own mother is going paint her lips and her nipples and her clit with her daddy’s sperm, squirting it into her nose and dabbing it into the back of her throat and on her teeth and under her tongue, putting some in her ears, on all her fingertips and toes, her eyelids, before the god damn relentless vicious caning begins, and goes on and on and fucking on no matter how hard she shrieks, and when the sadistic sonofabitch can get it up again, he’s going to slam his cock into her ass, her pussy, and her throat, cumming hard and long into her everywhere, brutalizing her and fucking her over and over until he at last cums on her face, and her mommy will lick it all up and cumswap with her, and they are going to leave her there, bound and aching and fucked…until they come back in the morning and piss on her…oh, god…and she’ll suck his cock and lick her pussy all god damn day long…murmuring how much she loves them…like a fucking slave…like a fucking masochist, wanting them to hurt her and humiliate her even more…forever…

…And you’re saying we told them to do all this. And that they’ve been doing it ever since the last time they were here, whenever that was.

I’m not doing this any more—I’m out. I’m done.

What are you say—Hey! Where are you going?

I’m leaving you!


Because, asshole. My fucking father and fucking mother used to do all that shit to me, and I will not be a part of spreading this god-forsaken disease to anyone else. Fuck off and die.


…AND WHEN the echo of the door slam stopped reverberating, the innkeeper shook his head and sat down before the monitors. The beautiful young girl on the bed raised her eyes, and looked expectantly into a wall. The “right” wall.

“She’s gone.”

The young lady exhaled, and blinked relief.

“Want to come up? Maybe we can see what we can do about getting our parents to do something…interesting.”

The naked girl lit up, and ran out of the room.



Wednesday, October 5, 2016

The Moment

By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2016

SOME DAYS, everything just works out, and the entirety of desire comes about the way it all should.

All at once.

The hysterical paroxysm he has been so ferociously driving her towards with the vibrators attacking her clit and her g-spot as hard as they can hits her like a ton of bricks whether the stupid little slut wants it to or not at the exact same second the gargantuan dildo he has had pounded into her asshole for hours by an uncompromising unstoppable fucking machine with the sole intent of breaking down and wearing out her sphincter control finally triumphs in its unsavory chore, and the dumb little bitch forcibly expels the enormous hot enema of milk, molasses and lemon juice which has been making her sweat like a pig while her insides were wrenched up into overwhelming hideous life-changing cramps at the very same time the adamant unforgiving whipping machine that has been out for her blood succeeds in its grueling tasks by effectively shredding her ass or her back or her stomach or her legs or her feet or her tits or her pussy with a carbon fiber painstick or stinging nettles or an electrified chain all god damn day—or, who knows, maybe some interesting vicious combination of any or all of the above—and it tears a shriek out of her that the naive little masochist can do absolutely nothing whatsoever any more to prevent or even make herself calm down enough to stop screeching on and on and on about once that infernal racket starts at the precise instant the ipecac syrup conquers her dignity with its unholy effect and demands that the laughable little toilet-slave vomits the veritable gallons of piss he has been pouring in through her mouth and her nose all morning right on up and out of her throat that he has been so ruthlessly slamming his cock into, balls-deep, relishing the uncanny power he has over her by yanking her head around by her hair as the foolish little cocksucker gags without struggling, retches and gasps and drools and nearly spins into unconsciousness from the lack of oxygen from all the choking, just in time for him to pull back and spray her beautiful and bruised-up face he has been slapping continuously that the ludicrous little paintoy kept turning her other cheek for like the brainless little whore is so motherfuckingly expected to, and when he drenches her with more sperm than the idiotic little fucktoy has ever had the privilege to see leave his body at once, a grateful tear rolls out of her eye to drip off her nose-hook, just as the gullible little slampig collapses from the exertion and strain he has been so mercilessly inflicting on her with endlessly inventive predicament bondage, relentlessly draining her strength until full and total muscle exhaustion sets in for real, sending the dimwitted little victim hurtling toward the ground in a Galilean race with whatever precious and heinous bodily fluids that come out of her and off her, perfectly crashing and splashing onto Mother Earth in a glorious concert of astonishing timing, leaving her in bone-shattering agony, suffering through utterly soul-crushing humiliation, screaming her lungs out, bleeding profusely, scarred for life, squirting, yielding to the most powerful fucking orgasm of her miserable worthless existence as the camera continues to flash, sending her defiled images out to be there forever on the internet outside of her consent to be leered at by sadistic perverts everywhere, who have all been waiting in breathless anticipation for the amazing things that happen to her in the privacies of their bedrooms without their pants on, their hands blurring on their erections, masturbating frantically, participating in a massive coincidental transcontinental bukakke, ruining all their screens simultaneously with their ejaculate, hoping that somehow, they themselves are more important to her than anyone else as they scramble to take everything they can from her before their windows onto her give out and go dark.

On a good day.

On a bad day, synchronicity fails and time itself interferes, causing some integral or miniscule detail of the grand convergence to fall out of place, and he ends up having to punish her rather brutally, long into the night, for ruining the moment, with the tired and forlorn assurance that they will try again tomorrow: “Won’t we, cunt?”

“Yes, sir.”

After, of course, the priceless little princess cleans all this shit up. With her tongue. All of which also happens on a good day, too, and that’s part of the point. Except, on those hallowed occasions, he tortures her until dawn with every cruel, painful, and embarrassing thing he’s ever done to her out of congratulations, in awe, as a joyous celebration of their love. It’s all the difference in the world; it’s what keeps her going, when she isn’t praying with dogged faith for another opportunity to impress him, to endear herself to him, to be of some meager use to him, so very concerned as she is with his ecstasy.


Thursday, September 8, 2016


By Brewt.Blacklist

September 2016


I am so mad at you.

Don’t give me that; you know god damn good and well why.

Oh; “innocent.” That’s a laugh.

Don’t talk to me.

What did I just say? Hmm?

Really? You want to play it that way? Fine. It was the pictures.

Yes. Jerkwad. I warned you. Did you listen to me? No.

Why is this hard? Every. Body. We. Know.

They all have them.

Didn’t you hear what I just said? “Them.” Not “one,” or “some.” “Them.” As in “all of them.”

That’s right.

Now they know. They all know what I look like under my clothes. Naked. My legs spread, my mouth laid open with that horrible gleeful slut-expression on my face.

With a fucking cock in my mouth.

With a fucking cock in my ass.

No, they can see my ugly mug in that one, too, with my eyes clenched shut and my mouth stretched open in either pain or pleasure. It’s impossible to tell the difference.


Sperm in my hair, running down my face. Here at home. Out in public.

Oh, guess. Go on, guess.

Uh huh. Yup.

And if that weren’t enough: me playing with myself.

Prancing about with-with…things sticking out of me.

I have no more secrets. They are all out there. For everyone to see, to gossip about, to twist about in their perverted dreams. Obscene pictures of me.

Fuck you.

I swear.

If it was only pictures.

Moron. What do you think?

Me standing out in the hall, taking off my clothes until I am god damn naked with the delivery guy, telling him that it’s okay to look, that it would be alright—really—that he could just go ahead and put his hands on my tits and squeeze them if he wants, sure, play with my nipples, make them stiff and hard, letting him see that he’s having have an effect on me, making my breath catch, letting him hear me moan, and then, then showing him my pussy, asking him if he liked how it felt, if I had shaved it up right, asking him if I’m wet and gee, wouldn’t he like to do something about that, and here, while we’re at it, see, this is my asshole. Kneeling down, licking my lips, opening his pants, asking him if I could please-please-please do this, opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out, licking him, kissing him, making yummy sounds as though I liked him, making him hard, taking him all the way into the back of my throat, gagging for him, sucking his cock until he can’t help himself any more, and he is overcome, and he fucking defiles me. In living color. High fucking definition video.

Don’t give me that. Pretty sure you had a hand in there somewhere.

Do you have any idea how it’s going to feel, now and forever, whenever our friends—our fucking families—look at me? All they will ever see is a slampig; all they will ever see is me sucking and fucking and offering silly words of encouragement, of love, of acceptance, suggesting filthy things. How they are going to hear, replaying in their deviant little minds, over and over, how much I wanted to be pissed on. How they are going to watch me swallow, all dreamy-eyed.

Recorded for all posterity to see. To jerk off to.

Fuck. Me.

I’m going to get to live with glancing across whatever room I am in—at a party, or at church, or at fucking work—knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that whoever is there is going to be staring at me, judging me, and the worst of it? They are all going to be wishing and hoping and convincing themselves that I should do all that shit for them, too.

The men are all going to think that they should just have the god-given right to get them some of that kind of action, let me tell you. Every last fucking one of them. And at least some of them are going to try. You know that, right?

And the women? They are going to always have it in the back of their minds that I am just a cunt, and every last god damn one of those bitches is going to be plotting on how to hurt me in ways I can’t even imagine if they ever-oh-ever even so much as think that their men has been in my mouth, my pussy, my ass, wreaking holy vengeance on me if they convince themselves that the little bastards have so much as just considered it.

I don’t know why you would do this to me: give me a cellphone that takes pictures, that takes movies. “Have fun.” Motherfucker.

Why couldn’t you see this coming?

Oh, shut up. Shut the fuck up.


There’s only one thing for it, then.

Take your belt off. Give it to me; let me see it. Just do it; geeze.

Excellent. It is soft. Here. It will stripe me the least, and prolong my agony in producing the quality of mark necessary the longest.

You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.

Oh, man up.

Everywhere. Everywhere you can lay that fucking thing down on me. Back, ass, legs, feet, tits, stomach, inner thighs, pussy. My face. The only thing I ask is that you let me see that I am being beaten.

No. There’s no way out of this. You know that.

Now listen to me: when we do this—which we are about to—we can’t fuck around here. We have to do it and we have to do it for real. None of this fake shit, none of this easy or gentle play shit. We are to where we need some real live honest and true sadomasochistic action. The time has fucking come.

Don’t be stupid. You need this as much as I do.

I’ve always known. Why else do you think I even talk to you?

You have to promise me you won’t back down here.

I need you to fucking commit. Now pull your hand back.

Pansy. Do it again.

Do I have to say “harder” here? Harder.

Come on. Get my attention.

Why am I—the god damn fucking masochist—the one who is having to take charge here? That’s your fucking job. Now fucking do it.

Aw, poor baby. Now hit me.

You call that a hit? God.

This isn’t a question of nice.

If I wanted nice, I’d go fuck someone in the choir at church. One of the shy losers at work.

Look, there’s no two ways about this. This is all well and good that you’re trying to be careful, but we have got to move beyond the pleasure stage. You must make the tears flow, and you may cease your efforts only when your clear judgment of the size and color of the welts you raise declares them to be sufficient for your sadistic pleasures today.

It’s supposed to make your cock hard. Erect. Ready and needy to fuck. If it doesn’t, I am just going to have to suck your dick enough while you strap the shit out of me that you learn that I will accept that about you, and will encourage that in you.

No, it has to do with what that old French whore said.

Because these marks make it impossible for me to cheat and immediately proclaim, from the moment they are seen, that anything goes, as far as I am concerned.

For to know this is one thing, but to see the proof of it, and to see the proof constantly renewed—which I am counting on you for—is quite another.

What the fuck makes you think this is about me?

I will grow accustomed to being whipped.

But don’t hold back; don’t let me like this. That’s no good, either.

Better. Make me docile. Make me question my choice to let you in. Get me to offer to betray the whole world to get the torture to stop so I may be happy to have gone through it, happier still if it had been especially brutal and prolonged.

You have to be strong enough to be unmoved by my pointless exaggerated sufferings and frantic writhings, giving me ample time to struggle and scream and cry, pleading for mercy that should only give you cause to redouble your cruelty.

Because that’s how this works. It is how we shall then live.

In the evidence we will send out to everyone we know today, and then tomorrow, and then again the day after that, be sure that you order me to tell you that I love you, so I may fulfill that, too, as I don’t know how else to say it, but under decree.

Let’s show them. Let them see how we are concerned with each other’s ecstasies.

When you have finished punishing me, command me to caress your insolence with my lips, so that I will finally come to understand that there resides my lord, my master whom I serve, to whom I am destined, dictating that my eyes will look there and nowhere else for all time, being available always to its whims and reliefs and rampages.

I expect you to savagely abuse me and mistreat me with enough chains and whips to teach me obedience, yielding, and submission. I am yours: no longer free—thank god!—but forever doomed to happiness.

Dominate me. You can discover the unbridled joy you can have at prostituting me; it shall be greater than you hope.