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.

 

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