Rehearsal

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2018

THERE WAS nothing to it. The running sight gag that the author of this farce so carefully designed that the director bought into was sheer simplicity in itself. The dialog that contrasted it nearly wrote itself, setting up a social criticism they were sure would be meaningful to everyone after they went home. A conversation starter. The hunt for the actor that was to accomplish this artistry—not to mention the auditions for it—went on for days longer than for the lead. There were no lines; they were looking for a modesty of presence that undercut the daring necessary that so many men were so ready to flaunt, standing up on the stage, bold and daring, desperate to get the part, so they could show off their…theatrical…gifts. None of them understood.

Chester adored this play and believed in it, and he fought every instinct he had to turn and run, or even at least put his hands up to shield his shame, and that genuine inner conflict he could do nothing to hide was what fulfilled the vision and landed him the role.

“Perfect. No arrogance.”

“Agreed. That blush is priceless.”

The hard part, the directors and producers correctly discerned, was to waltz a very fine line between his willingness to appear full frontal naked before an audience at very precise comedic timings, and keeping his personal mortification and disgrace turned up on high in doing so. Rehearsals were tricky; they didn’t want him in any way to get used to prancing about in front of God and everyone, so he didn’t appear “in costume” until the second-to-last tech rehearsal when all the lights were kicked on to performance levels, and a serious unexpected setback was discovered.

“Wow, he’s white. Incandescent.”

“Agreed. I’m still seeing spots. Makeup!”

Lucy was given the task of finding the right mix of powders and oils she would have to brush all over his entire body to keep from blinding the patrons when he stepped on his mark and yet still have him appear glistening.

“Oh, and shave him, too, dear. Can’t have our gimmick looking like a gorilla.”

“Yes, of course completely. Everything below the nose.”

There were coloration and glow debates right up to his second entrance.

“Cut! What the hell, Chester?”

“Yeah, no, we can’t have that.”

Chester’s hands flew to his center juncture. His face went crimson even more spectacularly than usual—the rampant erection he was sporting was just out-and-out wrong for this kind of show. He flew off, stage left.

Lucy was there to catch him with a robe, and she assured him that he killed it, taking him back to the dressing room to re-apply the pancake that had smudged, slowly, carefully, paying extra care to make sure his penis was properly shaded. His third entrance had the same problem, and brought up the question among the directorate as to whether or not they should bring the whole cast and crew out, to try to laugh him out of his hardon. It proved necessary. By the time he got to his last moment to shine, he was so embarrassed, his guilt and humiliation took over his courage, and withered him in the green room.

“Can’t have that.” Lucy twinkled as she knelt before him—checking for stubble with her cheek, licking and tonguing and slathering the vexing excess clumps of foundation that sure seemed to be centralized, smoothing him over, getting his eyes to glaze as she cooed, encouraging him to relax—like she always did right before he went on. “Mmmm; break a leg. Listen: you go be brave and I’ll be right here to fuck you like a whore after your dramatic triumph.” Her dress fell to the floor to show him what he had to look forward to, and he took his cue.

“Cut!”

“Lucy! Get out here! No, now! Right god damn now!”

Directing is the art of compromise and problem solving toward creative eloquence, and the decision was made that Lucy was just going to have to fuck him like a whore before he went on, not after. Which worked, until an inspiration struck at the last run-through, and there was scrambling.

The production, of course, bombed. The review did comment on one small change to the script that was of note, in that the comedic nude appearances of Chester and Lucy together—hand in hand, humble, out of breath, rosy, dripping, their body-greasepaints smeared and blended—was indeed an amazing special effect, a case of fine acting, and a true conversation starter.

 

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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.”

“What?”

“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.

 

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Version

By Brewt.Blacklist

September 2016

GOD DAMN it.

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.

Jesus.

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.

Christ.

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.

 

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Trial

By Brewt.Blacklist

February 2016

THE QUESTION does not have to do with what we are unwilling to sustain but with what we are. Are we willing to have all be nice and pleasant and happy and whatnot? But of course. Are we in agreement with the idea of having our needs met and to being comfortable in the process, able to somehow rise above ourselves whilst being assured-constantly-assured that we are loved and adored and accepted as a matter of fact? Whyforever not? And as the fair and docile would deem most important, are we on board with the plan to have everyone around us, everyone we know and love and care for to live their lives in the very same bliss and joy and ease that we are predisposed to let them lavish upon us? How could we but not?

No, the dilemma comes down to what miles are we willing to go for these precious someone elses to give them the satisfactions and fulfillments that are so denied to them by mysterious others we perhaps do not know so very well, not to mention what laws and rules and proprieties are we even able to consider to violate for their sakes, and how deeply are we ready to let these very loved ones go out of their own ways to demonstrate their own hoggish values and vain desires and miserly needs to themselves upon us in ways that perhaps do not profit us ourselves.

It all is a matter of worth.

The woman at hand has found herself in a vile predicament, one in which she needs to make life and death decisions over her educations, her upbringings, her own moral codes and beliefs, and the deaths and lives that are at stake do not include her own. She grew up hearing the words of The Prophet John in regards to friends and greatnesses, and had been repeatedly assured that such a hefty price had indeed been paid for her own salvation by our Lord and Savior, and that she need not fear death, for the everlasting arms would be there for her to lean upon when her own burdens are put down in the end.

But The Prophet John had little to say about the travails of her own peculiar life, and whatever far-flung comforts he spoke of are of little use to her here, this day, before us all.

She kneels before the consortium now as she everforth shall: naked, trembling, modest and open before god and man, awaiting for the spirit to move and the call to come for her to demonstrate her love yet again, to endure the cost reckoned for without hesitation, to give all she has without the blessed generosity of sweet death to release her from her torments, her trials, her humiliations.

She has been here before, she shall be here again tomorrow and everafter, and yea, she is but here today, under the same pretexts and conditions and taunts as she always is: to have her faith laid bare.

The decision is made and the players are brought forth for her to deliver and spare from the ravages of the inquisition and the grave, so they may go on about their meager days knowing that she has sacrificed something of note for them that perhaps they themselves would not give up for their very own lives—let alone anyone else’s—and that she will pay for someone else tomorrow, and will grant a clemency for yet another the day after that, for as long as it is that she draws breath. The couple rushes to her and cries out for mercy, falling down before her to put their arms around her and ask her if she is alright, and tears are shared with rejoicings that all are still among the living, with shared affirmations that they will get out of this for sure, and that the woman will be well-taken care of and relieved of whatever prodigal burden she may have had before this reunion, for all is forgiven.

The woman thanks the couple with kisses, and, wrapping her arms around them, assures them that the mercy that is available is but hers to dispense, and that she does so willingly, without reservation, that she is filled with gladness to do what little is asked of her to release them from their bondages, their captivities, and send them forth from this place of mortification. It is her lot, her hardship, her ark to build and maintain.

She turns to the marshalls and asks what is required of her this day, to extend the lives of these poor wretches, proposing in all humility and meekness that she is but in need of commandment to bring about a happy resolution, so that all may be appeased.

A vessel is brought forth and opened, its content laid out before the petitioner. The design of the object placed in her grasp is obvious and singular in its uses, and the prisoner—with a well-practiced sigh of acknowledgement—asks how she should then be expected to use it, as there are some variations of placement and duration that she dare not hazard to guess, at risk of causing further offense.

“Thou shalt use it upon thyself, there whereupon a man is expected to know a maiden upon her wedding night, even unto thine own cries of joy and rapture.”

“Forgiveness, my lords.”

“Pray, for what, dear child?”

“For mine own confusion.”

“Surely thou knowest of what we speak.”

“Indeed, my sovereigns, I do. I am well acquainted with the actions required; I have performed them often for the amusements and follies of the courts.”

“Why dost thou then hesitate?”

“It seems so simple a task, compared to all I hath done before.”

“Foolish girl. Thou hast not asked the right question.”

The woman lifts her eyes up to the magistrates, and peers around the chambers at all in leering attendance, and does not yet comprehend. “Amnesty, dear counselors. It is not for stubbornness or delay of thy holy will, but I am but slow of heart and of mind, and am at a loss as to what to ask. It appeareth to be of import, yet I canst discern it not.”

“It is not a question of what thou shouldst ask, slave, but whom thou shouldst ask it of. Entreat thou the woman whose fate is in thy feeble hands to indoctrinate thee of the wickedness thou holdest and its hallowed magnitudes.”

She turns to the couple who are huddled, shaking, hardly able to speak.

“Dearest mother, I beg for thy absolution at the abhorrence I am about to perform with this…this obscenity, which I only do for thine own reparation and the delights of the powerful kings before you, but the authorities hint that thou holdest the key to its significance and meaning. Willst thou enlighten me?”

“D-dearest daughter, the blasphemous club in thy gentle fingers, that so approximates a man—a particular man—is mine.”

“Truly?”

“I must confess to my shame that I have used it often as thou art about to.”

“Praise be, I understand now, with thy blessings. Fear not, dearest mother, I can endure this. It would be my glory to beguile the magnates with that which hast affordeth thee thine happinesses and reliefs from sorrow.”

“Perhaps not, dearest daughter. For I have used it not only for mine own selfishnesses.”

A silence hung in the room.

“Speak boldly, dearest mother. Judgment is not upon thee in this arena, but upon me. Whatever the doom, I am inclined to accept it for thine own sakes and thy husband’s redemptions.”

“I…have also defiled thy dearest father with it. Yea, even unto the very evening before this very day, before we were brought forth. I bound him, and I ravished him with it until he wept. It gratified us both. Profoundly. It is—to our disgrace—a common occurrence.”

The woman turned to the panel.

“Wardens, I do accept thy justice with glee. I shall plunge this corrupted leviathan within me to the verymost depths it can reach to contaminate me completely with all its histories, and I swear I shall seek its profane prosperities and transgressions for as long as my vigor holds.”

The conciliator spake. “As thou reacheth the heavens, whore, clean thou thy father’s own infidel with thy lips, as well. For he hath known thy mother as he would a man, performing an abomination with her this very day behind the baptistery, believing their deeds were hidden, as they waited upon the summoning call before this humble congregation, and is as yet unwashed. And be ye prepared to also comfort thou thy mother with thy mouth where he hath been within her when the saints call upon thee in thy continued duty to behold the face of thy God.”

“I do so with honor, assessor.”

And so the woman so lowers herself, doing all she has sworn, doing all she has been beseeched while singing unfathomable psalms to The Lord, offering, too, to allow her parents to water her with their own foul waters, and to make her in all ways unclean with whatever filth they can produce, in speech and in body and in shameful forbidden acts, and yea, even more, affording the ecstasies of the entire assemblage with all the wellsprings of her body and her well-wrought skills of reverence and worship, searing the host to the very depths of their very hardened hearts until they soften, placing rods and staffs in the hands of the parish to further correct her on beyond to where she could speak but in tongues, scourging her unto bleeding and breakages so they could but pour out all their sins upon her until redress is exhausted for all the disciples in attendance, and she is carried to her cell, left with her chains, where she laments long into the night, weeping and gnashing her teeth amongst the ashes of yet another pillar of her hauteur and rank, well-shattered under her persecutions, until the angels come to wipe away her tears and comfort her with her mother’s graven image and idol of her father’s infidelic member until her strength indeed gives out, and she slumbers well at last with the peace of knowing of her parents’ release and the rhapsodic communions of the multitudes at the mere tax of her derision and discomfort and dishonor, until the morrow, when she will be taken, humming with light at the prospects of what shall be demanded of her soul on this day, the lord’s day, back into the tribunal and put to the question again.

Perhaps this is the day she shall serve to spare her brother from annihilation, no doubt at the toll of her crucifying her virtue to him and his lechery and lust. Or a crippled old man, blind from birth, who has never known the affections of a submissive woman toward his most hideous suppressed yearnings that are against all governances, of God and man, of which no one may even mutter about in the dark. Or a prostitute, long bored with both men and women, with whom she must perform sacraments with beasts therewith. Or a fisher of men, not given to the rapine of women, whom she must force, against her own convictions of consent and acquiescence. Or even Iscariot himself, whom she had true affection for—that he stole and hoarded and in fact still possesses—that villain who committed adultery against her with a silly woman who hates her, who calls on her to sell herself, for so as to donate to them all the pittances and alms she thus earns, supporting them in their greeds and sloths and gluttonies, whom she must act as bedchambermaid for, witnessing and aiding them in their efforts to no longer be two but one, time after time, nigh unto forever, that tears her asunder with envy and mourning every damnable day.

She would save them all, with the grace of God.

As The Prophet John spaketh: “Whosoever hath ears, let them hear.”

 

Posted with Blogsy

Carrot

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2016

IT IS extraordinarily dangerous to try to talk to another man’s property, but the truth is that he puts her out there for that exact reason, in the well-understood conventions that he uses her as bait to suckers like me so that she would entice them into making purchases. Exorbitant purchases of films and pictures of what he has done to her, in all kinds of pasts: recent and long-distant. She was there where I could find her for his economic reasons. And so, yes, I played along. Because I find what he does to her to be interesting.

“Interesting” probably isn’t the right word, but it serves as a rather ironic shorthand for what happens when I consider what it is he does do to her on—from what I can tell—a very regular basis. I stop dead in my tracks, I slouch, I quit breathing and my eyes dry out, and the part of my anatomy I have been taught my entire life to hide at all costs reminds me as to just why it is that I should do that.

Their recorded interactions are not gentle. Or quiet. He uses her body as a canvas, a living piece of art that would heal itself back to untarnished from whatever he did to her last time, so he could repaint her again and again, in bruises, and scars, and blood. He tortures her, and fools like me ordinarily pay him to see him do that, to see her endure that.

Except, of course, I don’t. Pay him. I have enough trouble making ends meet. I look at the temptations he has on the cover-pages of his website as enticements to do so, and I find I can resist pulling out my wallet. It’s enough for me, to see the little ads and collages that he puts up to indicate the abhorrent hints of what goes on on the inside of his private-pay-extravaganza, and I am content to let my imagination take over from there. It’s as much as I need to feed that nagging little down-deep something inside me that is dark, forbidden, and heinous that all of us fools and clods are required to disavow, and, as a rule, we generally do. At least until we are alone in our rooms at night, sitting before a flickering screen, surfing for porn with our pants off and our mouths dry and our hands busy, which we adamantly deny if anyone asks; a scenario we routinely rehearse our speeches about, with ever-more-inventive ways to make it clear—with little knowing nods that meld into shakes of our heads coinciding with accurately-timed pursings of lips and deliberate slowings of the cranial motions and disbelieving saucerings of eyes that we have to practice in front of mirrors to get just right—that we sincerely hold that the vile-most abominations that a man can do to a woman in the name of sex on the internet are nothing less than disgusting and awful, unbecoming of a gentleman, with a slight squint coming over our eyes and a brightening of our cheeks when we perceive that we have once again gotten away with our cover story, exhaling our tightly held breaths quietly through our noses, thinking instead of how soon it will be when we can witness it all again, sans trousers, and take appropriate actions against ourselves, to keep our own demons at bay.

She can’t do that—deny what happens to her—because it actually happens to her. Physically. The attacks, the out-and-out harm, the sickening degradations and humiliations all leave obscene visible evidences all over her body that continually remind her with aches and pangs of what he did to her this time, even when she is so barely recovered from last time. She also cannot refute how he then proceeds to sell her conquered and subjugated image for a fairly steep sticker-shock-inducing figure, complete with the assurances of her compliances and even zeal for that.

It’s probably as fake as the rest of the ‘net is, but there’s a video question-and-answer section on his site, where she answers the most inane inquiries on camera, kneeling, naked with her head bowed and her hands behind her head, replying with all due respect and supplication toward whatever illiterate blockheads think they need to know about her and how she feels and how she came to be the way she is that she never seems to have any good intelligible answers for: “It’s just the way I am” usually comes up, softly spoken in a low, far-away tone. She defers the irritatingly regular requests about whether or not she is available to anyone else, to do whatever idiotic thing they can come up with—after, of course, she refers to herself as “such a whore”—over to her master, who launches into his pitch to subscribe to his site to see what can really happen to her in the dead of night, when none of us are sleeping, that he punctuates with a smug wink. Whenever she gets asked as to why she would go along with any of this, her shoulders droop and her smile hints at how pretty she really is under the black eyes, the swollen cheeks, and the dank and dripping hair, and, well, her breathless answer is always the same: “Because he tells me to.” Which I have yet to understand, as to why a woman would do what a monster like him said and objectify herself into a commodity for his personal gain, never mind how she would allow him to do whatever unimaginable horror he comes up with to her today, and, on top of all that, go back for more later. And more again tomorrow. And still yet even more after that.

It’s been going on for years. In the seamy underbelly of the internet, this guy is quite famous for how he violates this woman, and gets away with it; it’s all—supposedly—quite consensual. And I guess it’s no big deal that he derides her the way he does, considering what all else he does to her, calling her a useless gash, a pain-gobbling slampig, a worthless fucking piece of fucking fuck-shit who gets exactly what she fucking deserves with him in all the eye-roll-worthy blurbs that go along with his chintzy marketing pieces, riddled with exclamation marks and an underlying sense of snicker at how stupid she is, how she is here to be taken advantage of, how this is all she is fucking good for.

I don’t know how she does it. To my knowledge, I don’t know anybody even remotely like that, not in whatever pathetic excuse I have for a real life. Despite my stalwart education on the rather precise subject of how to treat and view and think about women, which has been strong and thorough and damn-near unassailable, about how they are to be handled kindly with honor and respect and sheer deference to their fairy-tale whims and selfish silly-little-girl wishes, it’s the sort of thing that, notwithstanding my best efforts to be good, I simply cannot look away from the jaw-dropping documentation of live-action misogynistic oppression that this asshole puts out there at her most-dear expense. These depictions of sadomasochism and sexual slavery, dominance and submission, bondage, discipline, the whole kinky spiel: I can’t get enough of it. In my own quiet privacies at night. It settles something for me, something desperate, while at the same time, stirs something depraved up that will not leave me in peace until I have done something messy and sinful that I endured countless appalling lectures against growing up. I have to see it and see it through to the end—pirating the movies and graphics and such when I can—from the first presentation of the woman, unsullied and intact and yes, naked and entirely vulnerable, held in place without bondage by an unseen force that is stronger than rope, submissive, demure, quivering from what is about to happen to her, all the way through until she is authentically screaming, not acting at all, from genuine pain that cannot possibly be faked. The marks that are put down on her pristine tissues are unmistakable, starting with a clean and unblemished expanse of skin, on through the strike of whatever vicious inquisition-grade implement of merciless punishment her executioner rifles through his toybox to find today, muttering and scowling how she is really going to fucking get it this time, uprighting himself with a lecherous leer on his lust-hardened face as he approaches her trembling supplicant form and applies the savage weapon or barbarous engine of affliction du jour to her innocent person, usually across her back or butt or thighs or taut stomach or sometimes over her ample chest or even between her legs, repeating his ferocious motions long enough and hard enough to where the observable slices and stripes happen, and the welts are raised, the bruises burst forth in all their hideously colorful glory, all without camera cuts or tricks. No makeup effects. It’s the real thing.

What’s more, he doesn’t stop with one or two little light and dainty love-taps like so many faux-torture pornstars endure, pretending it was so hard to get through being so gently tied down with fragile bows and slipknots they could so easily get out of and then, oh my god, swatted with a feather or a flyswatter—or something, gosh, worse, like a drinking straw—in the after-the-scene interviews that are put up to show that it really wasn’t rape when she so obviously faked an orgasm during their well-rehearsed intercourse that didn’t even muss her perfectly quaffed hair, that it really wasn’t so bad when the anonymized boner slid some small inch or two into her mouth without even smearing her perfect lipstick, and everyone titters and insists that they all had a really good time, that it was fun, and that they can’t wait to do it again. No, not this guy. He hits her long enough and hard enough to get through to her, on in underneath her beautiful sensuality and supple musculature and superb bone structure to where civilization has no bearing, no purchase, no meaning, to her very soul, to break down her inner-most pride, her own rather formidable determination to not give in to his uncompromising demands for her dignity today, and he keeps at it until, sooner or later, she lets go of decorum and lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that he is in fact hurting her, is wounding her, and is damaging her to the point that all she can do is screech, no longer able to even recriminate or swear, desperately wheezing and choking from all the labored sobbing and wailing that she can’t take time from to so much as breathe. He goes on beyond reason, beyond eroticism, to where he is simply beating her for the sake of beating her, and then, when he stops to catch his own foul breath from his profane exertions upon her ruined elegance and well-ravished charms, the miracle happens.

She thanks him. When she can compose herself enough to again form words and cobble together sentences, she does not condemn him or vow vengeance or even clam up, silently promising to herself with the daggers in her eyes shouting out to all who can see that she will simply never allow anything even remotely like this to ever happen to her again, so help her god. No, she melts and blesses him. Instead of a happy-go-lucky gee-this-was-fun interview, she spontaneously offers to suck his cock, to drink his piss, to lick his ass, to whore for him, and she assures him that she would do absolutely totally completely any-fucking-thing he wants her to, to repay him for making her suffer so god damn wonderfully, promising him yet again that she will be his filthy pain-slave, his dirty little fucktoy forever. And to prove it, to make it clear that this is what she came here for, that he did the right thing by her, she masturbates, and pleads with him to let her orgasm. Pathetically. Crying real tears, wiping them through what little there is of her unnecessary makeup, whimpering, immune to language again, but for a different reason this time. Sometimes he consents, and sometimes he doesn’t, going back to putting her through her paces some more, until she convulses and cums anyway, without permission, from being so fuck-all tortured. Which only gets more of the same thrown down on her, with him bellowing at her what a god damn fucking trashy cunt she is, and he pisses in her mouth, which she enthusiastically slurps down like it was a mimosa: it is apparent and clear that she loves it all. And especially him. No matter what he does to her. And if they do talk about anything afterwards, she will only say how much she wants him to feel free to make it fucking worse, and no, don’t bother with any aftercare, no petting or hugging or please-just-hold-me-bullshit is necessary because she’s a big girl and she can take it, there’s no real reason to treat her lacerations or contusions because she isn’t done experiencing them, and for god’s sakes, don’t even fucking dare try to come up with any foolish sentimental assurances of true loving feelings for her, because all of this—the agonizing and the bleeding and the enduring of torments and anguishes by herself, all a-fucking-lone—is what she so very-fucking deserves. In the end, this was all about him and his needs to make a god damn woman suffer, and she invariably says, when it looks like it’s just her there, talking quietly to herself, thinking out loud, that she hopes for and longs for the strength to be stronger next time, to accept even larger doses of his furies, to be of further use to him, to build him up even more.

That is what keeps me going back to this sort of thing, over and over again. It’s not the orgasm I so frantically masturbate myself through in my reveries as I stare at the impossibilities of outlandish deviant sexualized human practices at my computer, over and over again, it is the notion of the allegiance. The reverence. The fealty that these most incredible examples of women-kind that exist serve up to their master, their possessor, that even excruciating pain and abject humiliation are laughably inadequate to get them to run, to flee, to denounce and convict their so-called former boyfriend of committing the most distinguishable of crimes against them, that there is direct physical evidence of—see?—because there is something so much more god damn important going on here, and they beg their true god-on-earth to spare them nothing, to vent whatever rages he may have about anything any cunt has ever done to embarrass him and inconvenience him and make him doubt himself in the slightest against them, to feel free to put the little bitches through whatever fucking hell he can devise against them, to fucking break them, to ravage them to fucking death, to make them fucking prove that somewhere deep in the bottom of their very slut-selves that they can dredge out of the filth of their souls something of use to give him to show that they are maybe somehow, in some way, worthy of him, and that it’s not the other way around at all. What’s more, it all works out that this isn’t any kind of once-in-a-lifetime pageant for just this one time once, no, it’s that they should have to go through all the mayhem and insanity over and over again and again. They can’t possibly do enough for him, and so he should punish them severely for being so woefully insufficient as inferior fucktoys who are in dire need of holy correction, so they can continually work and slave their way towards learning to be pleasing, valuable, and meaningful. He should take everything from them and use them up, devour them, consume them until there’s nothing left and he shits them out, so they can resurrect their insignificant and barren selves to go through the process again.

And yet, down at the root of it all, all the martyrdom and misery somehow secretly settles the ever-hungry demons of the “victims” themselves: they can’t get e-fucking-nough of it.

It is the masochists I have such a soft spot for, the ones who want to suffer, who need to feel as much as their sadists can dish out to them to make them experience the grievings of the damned. Which I have such a difficult time admitting in myself, that I would most seriously want to be involved with any of this, to perform that sort of atrocity onto a woman, the kind of delicate flower I have had drilled and pounded into me that I am supposed to honor and cherish and hold up on a pedestal, as such exquisite angels are something precious and tender, and I should be prepared to gladly take on as many jobs as is necessary to take the utmost care of their graces, spoiling them, working myself to damn death and sacrificing all I have and am for whoever would deign to allow me such a privilege, as I have been so relentlessly taught. As I understand it, that all is categorically contrary to what these wretched preys of love want, what they burn to immolate themselves for. These self-defeating women who put themselves up to be ground down into the gutters and sewers beneath the heels of masters and cads, to be shit upon and pissed upon and used to masturbate with with no regard for their own feelings or needs or fancies outside of degradation, and pain, and torture, and fucking, are the most astonishing wonders of the universe. To put a paintoy like this into the position that they have their options and comforts and prestiges ripped away from them, until all they have left is to take the course they are forced into, in which they have no choice but to endure whatever injuries their monsters so generously heap on to them, and that they repeatedly and reliably go into that haunted dungeon so willingly, to demonstrate that they are worth to be kept alive, if for no other reason than by being little more than entertaining with their shrieks and their worshipings and their offerings of their mere and meager souls and whatever their feeble and cowardly bodies can sustain for the sake of the righteous work of a woman—the achievement of the very rapture of a man—well, that all is the inexpressible uncanny stuff of dreams to some loser like me.

It is the hole that is unfilled in my life. I’m not worth that to anybody.

“Here. Take it. Take it all. Please.” A line I will not live long enough to hear anyone pronounce towards me.

Women like this don’t exist. Not in my world. Every last one of them I have ever been exposed to expect it to work the other way around.

Until I came across her, for real. At least, as real as it was, as real as it could get, given…situations. Physical distances that were daunting and challenging, to say the least, never mind issues of practicality.

I recognized her as his, his slave, his woman that he abused for his own financial gain on his website. He put her out there, into the spheres of social media that I haunt where I could find her, layered and adorned with all the trappings of his unmistakable belief that I would cave in and give him what he wanted—my hard-earned money—just to have the opportunity to talk with such a creature, to find out about her, to try to discover what I needed in her, on the preposterous off-chance that I could maybe figure out how to see it in someone else, someone local to me, so that I could maybe begin to experience some small part of what he does, to know what it is like to have just a smidgen of that kind of unfathomable power over someone. In my own sad little life.

Scoffing at how shallow his ploy was, I took a chance and began to speak with her, fully expecting him to barge in and say that I had to pony up, which wasn’t what happened at all. Wonder of wonders, she spoke back. Well, texted, and it appeared for all practical purposes to be done freely. We texted each other across the internet, through computers and phones and the like, with all the seemly little etiquettes and politenesses of “hello” and “how are you” or “I saw what he did to you today on his site,” to which she would always respond appropriately, humbly, if—yes—tersely. But still respectfully. At least at first: she always called me “Sir,” just like that. With a capital “S”. Not that I minded that at all. It was a significant difference from how I was routinely addressed in my world, in my “real” world. I did not bother to correct her. We struck up a conversation that carried on into the night, that happened and then happened again until it was happening a few times a week, then every night, and it extended into the workday, as well. We talked about everything, it seemed. Funny thing is, that after a fairly short while, she began to reveal little snippets of her own “real” life to me, in private channels. Which surprised me, to find out about her children, her situation, her real name, even her location.

These are not the sorts of privacies one finds out about a woman across the internet, not at first—if ever—and yet, here she was, telling me things most women keep exceptionally quiet about when talking to would-be stalkers and creeps and fools. With good reason: can’t have some nasty dreadful suitor they casually flirted with on social media landing on doorsteps on some late rainy night, with arms flung wide and a big shit-eating grin, shouting “I’m here, honey; take me in,” saturated with a triumphant un-earned glee. Like that could go anywhere but disastrously wrong.

It took me a bit aback as she threw one of these cautions, and then another, and then yet another one after that, to the wind.

She opened up; she was human. She had a dayjob which she just lost, and housing concerns involving rats—she apparently didn’t even live with her master, which surprised me—and she had everyday mundane problems, just like the rest of us slobs and boobs have in such replete supply that no one is interested in. She talked about getting out of the lifestyle, of maybe not really wanting to be a mere financial pawn to someone who clearly doesn’t have her best interests in mind, of just waiting for him to tire of her and throw her out into the cold with nothing, of wishing to have something to look forward to other than how hard she would have it the next time she saw her “boss,” if he ever found out we were even talking.

I kept her secrets, and did what I could through the narrow confines of our communication channels. She never asked for money or help—which I had no idea how to even begin to offer—and I just let her talk. As corny as it sounds, I tried to support her, with what she was going through, acknowledging her and how she felt, which almost seemed…alien to her. She gushed her appreciation of being allowed to babble on, which I was happy to let her do, and we became friends, of all things. It went on for weeks, and then months. And the subject of what happened with her “owner” in regards to his website was not off limits. She actually seemed to like being able to talk about that part of her situation without having to be constantly reverent and courteous and servile, not that she ever actually complained about what happened there. It was just different. Very matter-of-fact, but without…submission.

What really got my attention, was that eventually, she began sending me pictures. Pictures of her in, well, “compromising positions” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Some of them I recognized as shots of her from her master’s site, part of the ad campaign, to get me to buy into his ridiculously over-priced video club membership. Others not so much, even though they were of the same kinds of subject matters. Pictures of her being tortured, sexually, that I hadn’t seen anything quite like before.

I asked her about them, and her first response was to retreat, asking forgiveness, that she had overstepped her bounds. I said no, she hadn’t, but that I didn’t know for sure what I was seeing.

“Silly, it’s me, of course. Is this alright? Do you…do you like them?”

Of course I did. The pictures were unlike the ones at her master’s site. They were closer, granier, taken in lots of locations, especially in what I understood to be in her bedroom, and it took me a while to understand that they were not taken by someone else. She had taken them herself, on her phone. To record what had been done to her.

To record what she had done to herself. She was showing me how she self-inflicted. She was demonstrating that whatever mind-erasing excruciation her master put down on her for his photoshoots and video sessions wasn’t anywhere near sufficient to satisfy her own self-defeat.

I couldn’t help myself: “Yes. Please. Show me more.”

And she did. Handfuls to dozens to hundreds of pictures of just how she tortured herself, how she set out to deliberately hurt herself, to get herself off. She would fill in details as I would ask for them. Where she was, what exactly she did; she spilled everything about it all. She was rather tickled that no one knew she did this to herself, not even her master. Apparently, she always kept needles and safety pins with her, to drive into her nipples and her pussy and her tongue whenever she could sneak off during the day to apply them. To satisfy the cravings. She wanted to ache constantly, and she had an enormous archive of how she had achieved that, not over weeks or months, but years. There were countless pictures of burn scars, of stainless steels piercing her intimately, repeatedly, and of the middle finger on her right hand in numerous and different splints that she explained was the one she used to actually masturbate with, to “jill off with”—her words—that she couldn’t keep herself from breaking. And even though there weren’t many that showed her face, in those that did, she glowed. She was ecstatic. Relieved to be feeling whatever pain she had put herself through, to tide herself over until she could get back into her master’s arms, his chains, his whips.

I tried once—exactly once—to ask her why she did that.

“Because it loves it.”

That was the moment that she truly objectified herself to me, that she abstracted herself to me, to make it clear that she wasn’t a woman, with feelings and obligations and social standing. She never used a personal pronoun self-referentially with me after that. She wasn’t a person; she was a thing. A thing to be played with, toyed with, fucked with, broken, not cared about.

Our entire connection transformed from me being there for her, to her being there for me. The whole point of this was not that I was talking to her but that she was talking to me, showing something confidential about herself and what she did to herself to me, not for her own mysterious purposes, but for my own gratifications and satisfactions. I have no doubt that she knew and understood and even approved of what I did to myself, looking at her pictures—both the ones she sent and the ones at her master’s site—late at night after we had quit talking. I also “got it” that if I wanted to continue to treat her like a human being, that was fine, but that she wasn’t terribly interested in that any more.

What she was really interested in was in appealing to the hidden corners in me, the dark recesses that secretly wanted to see a woman undergo discomforts and inconveniences and out-and-out throes and stabs for someone—for me—and come back for more for…to me, to assure me that it was alright if she hurt for me, and it was fine if I wanted to hurt her, even from all this actual distance we had between us away from each other. She could take care of that problem for me, for us, and hurt herself.

At my command.

“When did you last…do something to yourself?”

She replied with a picture. She was naked as she always was in her personal pictures. Her legs were spread wide, and there were rubber bands around her upper thighs. Attached to them were alligator clips, vicious-looking ones, which were biting hard into her pussy lips, spreading and pulling her intimate flesh cruelly out and away from her. Her clitoris was riddled with needles.

“Last night.”

“How long was all that on?” I didn’t type how I would have stuttered if I had said it aloud.

“About an hour. While you were talking to it. It was marvelous; it had fun.”

I had no idea. “How often do you do this?”

“Every chance it gets. Almost every day.”

I had to think a moment. Get caught up. “How should I address you? Refer to you?”

“Any way you want. Sir.”

I had to decide if I was going to objectify her the way she did. My upbringing wouldn’t let me do that. “And what have you been up to today?”

“Shopping.”

“Oh? What for?”

She proceeded to send me a series of pictures, starting with a piece of lumber. A one-by-six framing slat.

“Wonder what it could use that for,” she typed. She followed with a picture of a box of nails, immediately succeeded by a picture of a pair of clamps.

Huge, round, spring-loaded hose clamps. Big enough to put your fist through. The kinds that are used to secure fuel lines at oil rigs, that the force applied by was measured in dozens if not hundreds of pounds per square inch. That kind that one needed pliers to put on…and take off.

“Dom Depot is just the best.”

After that, nothing. Despite my continued pings and attempts to re-engage her, she simply stopped responding. For about an hour, then two hours. I gave up in there somewhere, and went back to unsuccessfully watching television, reading, doing dishes, anything to keep my mind off of what she had just shown me.

Until my phone chirped that I had a new message. Just a picture. From her. My hands shook as I opened it.

It was a picture of the clamps. Wrapped all the way around her most magnificent breasts. Squeezing them, compressing them, holding her tight and hard; her breasts, her tits were a dark and angry purple.

“It hurts more when it takes this shit off, you know. It’ll feel it real good by now.”

A minute later came the next picture. Of her breasts. Without the hose clamps. Her tits were indented deep where they had been clamped, and they were now bright red.

“It nearly screamed. Not enough for one day. But there’s something else it can do, if you wish, Sir. Make up for that…paltry insufficiency.”

The moment caught up with me before I finished reading her text.

“How many nails are you going to use?” I couldn’t type fast enough, and had to go back and correct what I had bumbled through twice before I pressed “send.”

“Two or three. In its lips.”

I had to sit down. Okay, sure, yes, I was already sitting down, but I slouched harder and had to adjust myself. My penis, my cock was pulsing, from my asshole to the tip. My breath got short, and I couldn’t stop blinking. I opened my zipper and put my hand in there, and I was hot. Throbbing. I jerked as I made contact with myself. I closed my eyes for just a moment before I picked the phone back up, and tapped on it.

“Forgive the lechery, but yes. Do. I want to see.”

“It’s thinking it will try to take a video. For you, Sir.”

“Sounds good.”

I was dizzy. This woman, this person I hardly actually knew outside of what really was only a smattering of words and some pictures, this masochistic personality complex sufferer was across the country, right now, and was setting out to hurt herself for my sake, at-at my behest, because somewhere in what little we had actually talked—so much effort I wasted on fucking courtesy—she had picked up that I would like that, that I wanted her to do that, and she…and she…

She was fine with that. Eager to do it, even. She was preparing to nail herself—her sex—to a board, for me. For my sake. And I was okay with her doing…that. Great with it, truth be told.

Surely she knew what I would do over what she was up to, what I would enact upon myself. She had somehow gleaned that she had done what I secretly wanted her to do with the clamps, she had known the first thing I thought of when I saw them, and that she had already felt something arduous and was about to feel something unspeakable for someone who wasn’t even there, and that I had not even dared suggest to anyone I knew that I was even remotely interested in anything like that at all. I bounced in the chair and nearly clapped my hands.

I slid my pants off, and I waited. I waited by the phone for a note from her, saying she had done it, she had pounded and affixed her own pussy to a plank, with proof attached, living proof of the sights and sounds of a hammer falling on metal, driving the drop-forged steel slivers through her own fuckmeat, into bare and splintery wood, with all the glorious sounds and cries that a woman would make when that sort of shit happens to her, throwing her head and her hair about as she worked, determined to do what she had said she would do, what she was told, until she had triumphed, looking up, panting and out of breath when she was done, the sides of her cheeks turning up, swallowing, hoping it was satisfactory, praying that I had liked it, swearing on her children’s lives that she would do it again for me whenever I wanted, and whatever else, too, using my name as she gasped, telling me directly that she liked doing this sort of shit for me, that she loved suffering for me, obeying me, and to prove that, she would masturbate for me, here, now, demonstrating that she is indeed a painslut, that she was my little bitch now, and that she would be happy to do it all again for me, at my slightest hint of command, and that I should just let her know when I was ready to have her do it—or something worse—again, and again, and again, until we could somehow actually get together and I could make her gag on my cock after it had been in her ass, and drown her in piss, exhausting my hardon of everything it could expel so that I could set in on torturing the absolute shit out of her without the needs of my stupid dick interfering with what I had to do, to her, for real, until I could get it up again and fuck her like the god damn fucking maso-fucking-chistic slampig she really is.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

My erection rose and fell for what felt like hours until I couldn’t wait any longer, and I put my hand on my own cock, and pressed and rubbed and fantasized until I ejaculated. I came hard and strong, splashing semen all the way up onto my chest, nearly to my own face, full of the belief and faith that there was someone out there for me, willing to suffer for me, for the sake of my own macabre repulsive joy, happy to do so, doing it now, right now, right god damn now, so help me god.

I came again, and then yet again before I managed, somehow, to fall asleep, dreaming of her, here, on my side of the country, in my bed in my own room, sucking my cock until I was hard and pulsing and then soft and empty and then hard again, over and over and over, driving her tongue into my ass, murmuring incantations of devotion and adoration throughout the night. I lost track as to how many times I woke up to yet another orgasm happening, without the help of my own right hand.

The next day, I checked in with her, bedraggled, wishing her a good morning, and it took a while for her to get back to me, but she did, and she was humble and compliant and respectful, as she always was. Succinct. We shot the breeze a little about what the weather was like on each other’s side of the country, and how my work was going and how her job hunt was going, until I couldn’t stand it any more, and I asked her.

“So, uh, how did it go?”

Nothing.

“You know, last night?”

“Fine. Great, even.”

Long pause.

“Did you do it? The…nails?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you, Sir. Bless you.”

A change. A change in how she referred to herself.

“Was it what you were hoping for?” It was hard not to type the stammer.

I thought I lost her, with how long it took for her to reply.

“I loved it. It was glorious. I did five (!) of them. Ten penny nails: you saw the box. Two on each side of my wasted meaningless gash and one right down the middle, where it counts, at the very top of my greedy cunt. You know the spot. I shrieked for the whole god damn night, riding the narrow edge of the rough-hewn timber like a pony, pressing my entire fat-ass weight down on my iron-defiled cock-ditch, my tertiary fuckhole, my p-pussy, bouncing as hard as I could to make it hurt even worse. And I came like a fucking whore; I lost count.”

My hands shook. “Did you make the movie?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

“And?”

“Master says you have to pay Him to see it.”

My shoulders collapsed.

“You can see me do whatever slutty, painful, filthy, and humiliating thing to myself you want, on demand, any time, day or night.”

There was a long dark silence across the continent. I had no idea what to say.

“The subscription to my slavery is month-to-month, you know. You want the premium-plus package. Oh, and He’ll be happy to fill in to do ‘interesting’ things to your little bitch—me—for you if you decide you aren’t going to move out here to do them yourself. If you want. For a fee.”

“I—

“—Take it. Take it all. I’m begging you. Please. Own me. I need you to.” She used my name in there somewhere.

By the end of the day, he—or was it she?—had my credit card number. No matter. I was going to need a second job. To make ends meet. For all of us.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Recreational Scolding

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Exequy

By Brewt.Blacklist

April-May 2015

HE OPENED his eyes, and it made no difference. He still couldn’t see. He tried to move, and there was very limited motion available to him. He was laid out, stretched, even, but couldn’t bring his hands up without running into walls…without running into…into…god, what was underneath him?

It was difficult to breathe; the air was close and stuffy and at the moment it was hot. He coughed: the air he forced out of his lungs was forced right back onto his own face. But his feet were cold, and god damn it, why was he naked? He had never slept naked in his life, and he felt awful, and there wasn’t any room in what must have been all these confounded blankets to do anything. It was like he had been mummified, and the sky above him had solidified and had fallen.

It moved. Whatever he was laying on was warm and soft and squishy with peculiar lumpy spots and it moved underneath him. He was laying on something and he nearly jumped out of his skin, his skin that was out and exposed in this cramped expanse, and it was…it was…Christ-fuck, it was grabbing him! Something came up from whatever hell there was below him on both sides and grabbed him. It latched on and he screamed; he had never been so startled, so alarmed in all his life, and there were snakes and monsters and tentacles and all manner of grisly things in there with him in the dark and somewhere over his screeching and crying over being grabbed—no, touched, only touched, not torn apart or ripped to shreds or sliced open or bitten or even bone-crunched, only touched by something that came up from underneath him—there…there was…there was chattering. Whatever it was that was touching him was doing it over and over, holding him and releasing him, and there was an eerie squirming going on below him and fuck, those weren’t monster-sounds, it was…it was a voice.

A-a person.

There was someone in there with him; wherever the hell there or here or whatever was. He panted and heaved and cringed and the—hands?—closed around him on various places on him, on muscles and bones and ticklish spots and they were moving, they were moving up on him, reaching for what was making so god damn much noise on him, his shoulders, his neck, god-fuck, there was a hand over his mouth, fingers were patting his lips, and the chattering, the illogical oration that was coming up from underneath him that had no sense in it whatsoever, the-the voice was serene and repeating itself, and it would be only an idiot that wouldn’t know that it was telling him to calm down; it harkened back to his mother, putting her arms around him when he was young and had skinned his knee or had run into something like a wall that had appeared out of nowhere, or how he had gotten hit by a tree branch that his friend had pulled back in front of him while they were playing tag, laughing until the strike, running away scared because he had actually gotten hurt, and he was crying, he could always count on his mother’s hands to be there when he cried, petting him…and the unknown hands he had on him now were gentle and soothing and it worked just like his mother’s response did to his frightful-just-frightful fated injuries he so regularly came home with from playing so hard, so long ago. It worked then, it worked now, world without end, amen.

He stopped shouting, at least, and was down to gasping and swearing and flinching because there wasn’t any room in there, and wherever he was, there was someone in there with him, underneath him, and his own hands managed to squeeze down to his sides, tentatively reaching down beneath him, and he made contact. He touched something, some…one, and it was the shock of skin that was awaiting him, and whoever it was that was in there with him was only wearing bare flesh, too, and he couldn’t recognize a word of what they were saying.

Of what she was saying. It was a woman’s voice. He thrashed his head back and forth in the dark, to try to see what was underneath him, who was underneath him, and it was just as dark below as it was above and around, and it was like he was floating but he couldn’t move very much; the utter blackness was dizzying. His hands felt around and found soft spots and confirmed that wherever he was, in this dark cramped tight little closet, there was someone else in there with him, and it was definitely a woman. It felt nothing like a man. She felt nothing like a man.

He tried to speak; his own voice boomed out vile profanities in the deep, deep dim, and the woman, the woman under him stopped moving, stopped squirming, and then she rattled on in incomprehensible phonemes and vowels he had no chance of mimicking, interleaved with consonances that only vaguely resembled the assemblages of language that he knew, that he had grown up with, and he had no idea whatsoever as to what she was saying.

He twisted his shoulder around, digging it into whoever was underneath him, and their—her—noise escalated, and it took a couple tries before he figured it out. That he was hurting her. His reaction to turn and face whoever was speaking to him despite the perfect impenetrability of her vernacular, even in the dark, had a consequence, and that it wasn’t any good for her. It couldn’t have been any good anyway, because he was laying on her, and she had to have been sustaining his weight for however the hell long he or she or they had been in there, and where were they, and how the fuck do they get out.

Panic set in for true and he tried to push up which got the incognizable expressions coming up from below to ramp up—not to mention getting the fragile hands to give up on the almost-pleasantries of holding him and petting him and take up swatting him—which did nothing to relax him, and he had to ride this most worthless of emotions out by himself, despite obtuse company whose interests in having him hush back down became lost, apocryphal, folklore. He had bigger fish to fry: he had to get out of here. Had to. Had to go now, right god damn now. Whatever he was in was sturdy, dense, serious, and it wouldn’t budge, and he threw everything he had against it. To no avail. He couldn’t bring his knees up, to really get some decent leverage going because there just wasn’t enough room to do that, and he didn’t know what to do. He felt helpless, like an infant at birth or something. As the futilities of his situation became more and more apparent, with him tensing up every muscle he had almost to the breaking point, somewhere in there, after some appalling eternity of high-strung damnation, some insistent something finally receded and turned around inside him and got the adrenaline to ease off. Rationality was again reborn within him, calling on him to settle the fuck down, to try to think his way out of all this as it became plain as day he was not going to be able to force his way out. He hated that realization, but every effort he made re-amplified it, and he began to accept it as truth.

Truth that fucking hurt. He apologized, first to himself, then to his situation—as if that would help—and then to whoever was whimpering beneath him, and his sentiments all fell dead on the spot. Impotent, as it were. Despite how feeble and destitute he felt, he was still going to have to do something, not say something.

He had no power here; he was dead weight on top of whoever was underneath him. As it became obvious that she was strained to even breathe, some echo of humanity told him to get off her, to relieve her of the fossil-inducing pressure he just had to be bearing down on her, and their first real moment of communication after The Big Panic occurred. He leaned over, toward one side of her. There was barely enough room for one of them in there, in wherever there or here or whatever this was—let alone two—but she pulled away from him, pressing herself over to the side, the other side, the one that was away from the shoulder he was bearing down, and he didn’t exactly slide off of her, but there was an inch or two of leeway along one edge, and he pried himself down into it. He got his shoulder down onto something hard, something that wasn’t squishy, and he jerked and twitched until his weight was by and large off of her, and onto whatever flat and chilly surface was underneath her.

She gasped and panted and chattered on in her inane speakings, and as soon as he got one shoulder down, he started to spiral around and compress himself as he tried to turn himself over, pulling his elbows in, curling and coiling and attempting a horizontal pirouette in a place that had less capacity than a shoebox. She pulled back onto what seemed to be the opposite wall, and she made complaintive noises as he torqued his way around to face her. There wasn’t room for that; they couldn’t be on their sides, facing each other as their confinement was narrower than it was tall. They were pressed against each other in impossible ways—shit, that didn’t work—and they had to change everything back to the way it was, just so they could breathe, with him on top of her, only this time, he was going to be facing her, and that…that had to be better, it just had to be, please, and with grunts and groans and squeaks and squawks they got through it, they got through the Great Turning, and he put his hand over onto her and pulled on her so she could worm her way back below him so he could get his arms around her and wedge his elbows underneath her and hold at least some of his weight up off her.

She started crying—that sound he understood—but she did as he wanted and got underneath him and he pressed himself up as far as he could in their little hovel to keep as much of himself off her as he could, and it wasn’t much, but it was something, and he felt her hands come up toward the side of his face, fumbling and poking along the way until her hand was resting on his cheek, with some words that he decided had to be some kind of thanks. Thanks for getting off of her, as little as he could do that. It had to be and in fact, was better than being crushed constantly with him facing up. It didn’t even occur to either one of them to put her on top of him, and by the time it eventually did, when he finally had more time to think about things, way on down the road somewhere, it was not just too late, but double-too-late.

No matter; they could start in on their relationship now.

He tried to ask her if she knew what was going on, where they were, who she was, how can they get out of here, how did they get in here, and she understood none of it. Her responses were disjunct and wholly alien. He tried again, to the same nonsensical feedback. He swore and he shouted and she shouted back in tones that conveyed that he wasn’t the only one frustrated here—at least she was some kind of human—and he went through his interrogation again. And again, peppered with more blasphemy. And yet again after that, still getting nowhere.

As if this all wasn’t hard enough. This was worse than being alone.

He had even tried to ask her her name, simplifying his inquiries down to something everyone could figure out—even stupid people—starting at the very beginning, telling her his own, becoming louder and louder with his repetitions until he was bellowing, the sheer force of his roar pressing her down into the floor, over and over until she repeated the word of power that one gives to another, to offer to someone as the first gesture of good will, to allow them to call on one with authority and understanding, the word that would cut right through crowds into one’s very soul, with the idea that they will not abuse it under the guise of trust, that they will not weaponize one’s own name that their mother gave them. Assuming, of course, he could get it across to her, and for all the world, it seemed that he did. She said it…er, something like it. It dumbfounded him, and he stopped dead, silent, cold. Something got through. He couldn’t see her crossing her eyebrows, and she couldn’t see the relief he had on his face that he had gotten something across to her, although she could hear him breathe through his nose, and she said a word that could have passed as his name in some undiscovered country a time or two before she changed the phonetics to something he had never heard the likes of before, repeating it over and over, interjecting his name from time to time, gentle in her pronunciations, cooing almost, and she finally lunged her head up, touching his chest with it as she said his name, then somehow thrusting her chest up as far as she could toward his head with the word she had been interjecting, and he loosened up and almost fell onto her breast, yanking his head back up at the surprise of the contact with her softness, nearly knocking himself out on the ceiling, and their second piece of understanding came about, and communication was born.

Flynn.

Saliki. At least, that was a close as he could get.

Hi.

He had no idea what she said after that. It could have been sawubona, or dobry dzień, or geia sas, nyob zoo, zdravo, or even āyaubaeāvana; it wouldn’t have made a whit of difference. It all sounded the same to him: Martian.

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like they were going to be involved in any philosophical discourses or theological debates, or even find themselves at an elegant garden party on the beach at dusk, needing to call out from across the well-appointed and charmingly decorated grounds, waving at each other to get the other’s attention from the middle of endless throngs of angels, smiling and snaking their ways through the crowds with foo foo drinks in their hands, relieved to find each other at last, familiar old friends seeing each other for the first time in a long time, not since…well, you know, and by golly, were they ever bless-ed to be here. Much better circumstances. Hi, how are you, I’m fine, you, I’ve been good, thank you, give me a hug, screw that, give me a kiss. How’s the wife. How’s your husband. Kids. Business. Seen any good movies. God, it’s good to see you again; you look great. So do you. I’ve missed you, yeah, me, too. Hey listen, I gotta run, we should maybe get together again, soon, yes, excellent. I’m not kidding when I say I’ve missed you, don’t be a stranger. Call me, I would like that. Do you have my number, sure. Bye. Bye. Best to everyone.

No, none of that was happening in here. Not one of those kinds of niceties or manners or social graces had any bearing on anything in this…chamber. He ran out of things to say in a hurry to the woman he was trapped in here with, and after she prattled off in her opaque puzzling gibberish what just had to be the equivalent of her grilling him about their situation, it all came back to the same thing. They were in here together, wherever here was, with no way to communicate, pressed up against each other tighter and more intimately than any lover at least Flynn had ever been with, and they had no way out. The unconditional darkness loomed even harder with no end in sight.

They…they were…they weren’t going to get out.

They had been buried alive together, and they were going to die together, and there wasn’t going to be a reason for it that either of them could share with each other that the other would penetrate any semblance of truth about. And after the long silent night of what little future they had together made its relentless worthless point yet again—fucking persistent destiny—it was Flynn that started crying.

He shuddered and he heaved and he bore some weight down onto his doom-companion, and she patted him. Their third communiqué—the big one: The Comprehension and Acceptance—happened without any fanfare, and there was nothing either of them could do about it or even say to each other, even if they could translate each other’s silly words which didn’t matter anyway. Not toward meaning or reality or the problems at hand. Saliki joined him in his tears, and they cried each other out. Their desperations rose and dissipated, with small struggles against the sides of the ossuary sapping some more strength from both of them that they had no way to replenish.

The depression hit, and it hit hard on Flynn. All the regrets of his life played through, and he called out that he was sorry to the powers and authorities that put him here, to the ones that had warned him, over and over, that he was getting paid enough, which of course wasn’t enough, not for how he wanted things to be for the people he loved, and how he didn’t listen and how he was wrong and how he knew and understood that he took way more than he should have anyway and god, he was such an idiot, he would give it back, really, all of it, hell, more, and after he’d gotten everything out of his system, he wondered what kind of hideous sin that Saliki had been declared so incontrovertibly guilty of as to earn this kind of terrifying punishment with him.

###

IT WAS like she was from another planet. All his rantings and name callings and confessions were obviously lost on her, but something in her got that they were in this together, by hooks and crooks and detestable circumstances, and that he needed a comfort, a comfort she could provide, even in here—friends to the end, after all—and she jostled around a little.

Flynn froze solid. This, this he understood. Understanding of the Fourth Kind. Her knees had parted as little as they could, as far as they could reach inside this miniature hell, and his own hips fell down toward the bottom of the coffin—just a hair—and he…he was…he was between her legs. He felt her spine undulate beneath him, a slow waveform crawling up the middle of her body, and it spread out and bounced around inside her as she rolled her hips toward him, swiveling her asshole up toward him so she could present her…her…her p-pussy to him and her neck craned up the mere inches to him, and her impenetrable lips were up on his neck, and she was kissing him.

Saliki grew up first in the tomb and was making the best of an incredibly bad situation, suggesting a coarse and crude methodology that they could get a miniscule amount more free range in their inseparability and perhaps a way to console each other to boot. Flynn’s first reaction was that no, he couldn’t, it was too close to…to…hell, it was infidelity and he had a family to go home to. Besides, his wife wouldn’t possibly approve of him being so ungentlemanly toward another woman even if he was stuck in a sarcophagus with her, n-naked, in the dark, expecting to die anyway, and the little whore persisted.

Flynn tried to say "n-no," and she might have said something that could have passed for "yes" in some other dialect, and his resistances and head-bumping retreats did nothing to stop her from putting her hands up on his face, gentle and persistent, trying to pull him down toward her, the way things should be done on doorsteps at night at the end of a lovely evening at maybe the movies after a nice dinner and even going out for dessert later, making it clear in no uncertain terms that she wanted the kiss and that he wasn’t forcing his way onto her at all, no doubt followed by the cliché of "Would you maybe want to come in for a drink," which would lead him to have to or maybe get to wait there on the couch while she slipped into something more comfortable. He could almost feel the coy smile Saliki just had to have that would have conveyed that this sort of advance would be welcome—if he could even see it on her face, to say nothing about whether or not he was even interested in instigating this sort of…of…affair with her—and that this was not something she would have to take a shower over afterwards, to try to clear herself of the nasty feelings of being violated and taken advantage of. Not that it helped move things along for him. There were rules as to how all this should work, rules that he had followed with his wife, end to end. Rules with benefits.

And benefit he had; my god. That first kiss led to…things beyond his wildest dreams. At least, then.

Except, it wasn’t a kiss Saliki wanted, she wanted to go all the way right now and to skip that whole courtship ritual, and Flynn couldn’t quite see his way clear to doing that yet. It was too soon, way too soon. He hardly knew her.

Besides, what kind of a woman was it that—when faced with the infinite—could retreat back into something so…so base? It was the most ludicrous, ill-advised, irrelevant and futile thing he had ever considered. They had far more important things to work on.

She blathered on in what must have passed for pillow talk wherever she came from, making obscene promises he didn’t need to know the specifics of that the gists of were as clear as day, what with her cooing and all the minute motions she made around the bottom of him that only had one meaning. You, me, here, now. And he fought, he resisted, he waged war within himself on how fucking wrong it was to even consider making love to a woman at times like this, let alone a woman he had no concept of what she even looked like, that he had nothing in common with whatsoever save a rather dire circumstance, that he was nonetheless pressed hard up against, head to toe.

Especially there in the middle. They already had silently worked out how to breathe together, and as hard a Flynn’s heart was beating, Saliki’s was matching it, beat for beat, albeit for different reasons. Of that he was sure. Flynn’s eyes fluttered in the dark. Not that he could perceive a difference between having them opened and having them closed. He suffered and he languished as he tried to figure out just how he was going to be decent and respectable and…and prudent in here. Especially considering how his ability to tell her what he thought and how he felt was so damn limited.

Now, his penis didn’t care about the moral crisis he was having, it didn’t care about the crimes he had committed or his extraordinarily short future he had laid out before him, no, his cock did what cocks should do in times like these, and stretched out toward the woman, the woman who had the right opinion, as far as his cock was concerned. She writhed and got her hands somehow down in between them, and she found him. She found the part of him that commanded so much of his attention when it was his wife lying beside him on the cool clean sheets of their enormous bed at home, where the moonlight would be pouring in through the window after it was quiet because the kids had finally gone to sleep, after a long hard day at work followed by a flirt-filled evening, as his beloved made the silent calls to his body and his sex and his love with her own lithe and tempting curves, with the inviting undulations she wrought as she slept, dreaming as she so often confessed that she dreamt about, about him and her, making love, having sex, f-fucking, with her enthusiastically doing whatever it took to get his penis, his hardon, his most worthy cock inside her body wherever she could entice him into, god, she loved that, throwing her lips and her pussy and especially her ass at him, night after night, time after time, day in and day out, god, she loved him, cuddling up to him whenever they were in bed together, keeping her hand on his manhood whenever it wasn’t inside her, there inside the boxers he slept in, as it was her job and her privilege and her obligation to hold him like that whenever she would wake up from her luscious reveries and find her hand wasn’t already engaged in her duty, fondling him and caressing him into an erection, making him long and hard and needy, drawing up and inspiring desire in him as he slept until she nodded back off towards her siren-activities that he would have to wake her back up from because he himself had just awakened from thoughts and dreams that involved him and her and what they could be doing that would be much better than merely sleeping together, in bed, at night, in the dark, that she would smile for him for—"oh, god, oh, my fucking god, yes"—waking her up to do this very thing with her, what a lovely surprise, she’d been waiting for him, thinking about him, hoping beyond hope that he still wanted to do this quiet intimate thing that still brought him joy, that he still desired to have happen with her even after all these years, that he still found her attractive and indeed divine, and she would move in ways that confirmed to him that she wanted him, and his traitorous dick didn’t care that it wasn’t with the woman he had made vows to in front of their parents and all their friends, no, that wasn’t who was in this snug little container with him now, on this night of all endless pitch-black nights, that here in this micro-jail wasn’t the mother of his children he was to be faithful toward, that he had done such a good job of being a good husband for, providing for her, keeping her safe, always coming home to her to put his arms around her and kiss her and tell her that he loved her, despite all the super-obscene temptations he had thrown up against him every god damn day, no, the desires and agendas of where he changed size and shape into something useful for erotic purposes for the bride of his youth came about anyway for…for this…for this stranger, even though it was wrong.

Cocks and pussies don’t care about right and wrong, about social convention, about morality or romance or weddings or faithfulness or death do us part. They care about fucking. He had only just met Saliki, and here she was, trying to fuck him in the dark, on their first date, in a stone crate that was getting colder by the minute, and she wanted him to do it now, before it was too late.

She wanted him. Or at least her pussy wanted his cock.

Impossible.

They were going to die together, and she wanted to fuck him. She wanted to live with him, and be his woman for their last few hours on earth, here where there were only impossibilities left for both of them, and…and…his wife and his kids would never know, now would they, they would never know what had actually happened to him even though they knew what could happen—perhaps not the specifics but in general—because they knew the risks he was taking by taking the money, and they were going to have to run if it wasn’t too late for them like it was for him.

Flynn prayed. He prayed to the only god, er, goddess he believed in:

"Run, baby, run. Run hard, because they are going to look for you. Hard. Forgive me; forgive me for a fucking lot of fucking things, especially for…for…for fucking…" And he was lost.

Saliki responded with gobbledygook. And the universal motions of desire.

The fact that he wasn’t alone here, here in some grave some place that he was never going to get out of should have made him positively suicidal, but somehow, it got the god he forsook and forswore all those years ago after his mother died to stop by and say "Hi—hey, listen: Glory Be—could be worse, you know…"

It most certainly could have been.

Saliki couldn’t see the smile on his face, all she could do was perceive how his cock got a little harder when she started, and then he shrank, and she fell back down in despair onto the floor of their living, er, dying space, ready to give up all hope until his hips moved, and rolled, and he slid what he could of his cock between her legs, readjusting himself into the angles and geometries and trajectories of lovers, and her breath caught and she reached in between them, forcing her hand down there from out of nowhere, finding him and being enchanted with what she found—at least, his wife always was—and she directed his cock to where she wanted it, where she wanted it more than anything else in the world.

Aside from, of course, getting out of the god damn box. Which wasn’t going to happen. And if that was the way it was, then she was going to fuck him, and he was going to fuck her, and they were going to have to just learn to live with that. It wasn’t like they had anything else to do.

At least, that’s what Flynn convinced himself of, struggling against their compressive area and his conscience as he succeeded in doing what needed to be done. He managed to breach her; he got his cock inside this woman and it could have been any woman on earth and he would have done it, and she was hot and she was wet and she was warm and she smelled delicious and she gasped out in sounds that transcended the ridiculousnesses of linguistics on how she wanted him inside of her, and he now wanted that more than anything else in the world, too—save the impossibility of freedom—and he could call upon his faith to render up an illusion and make it that it was his wife he was screwing, and not some foreigner, and neither of them, neither his beloved nor his sudden settler mistress, who wasn’t even a local girl at all, would know any different.

He most certainly did not want his wife to actually be in here with him. He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but if he was going to have the pleasant fuckable company of someone to take with him to hell, then it might as well be someone he doesn’t know, doesn’t care for, someone he couldn’t even get to know. Of all the ways to go, this might not be so bad. There was a freedom to dying that stripped away some things that had bothered him his whole life, not unlike the discovery of the benefits of anonymity of the internet to those who would be fearful of saying what they really thought or how they really felt to people they actually knew and lived with and loved in real life, and there were flat-out some things he still had to do before he gave up the ghost.

Now he laid him down to fuck, he prayed the lord this slut to fuck, if he should die before he wake, he prayed the lord this fuck she’d take.

He groaned as he thrust, and it may have been nothing more than how they were squished up in this place, but god-fuck, she was tight, and her pussy compressed itself around him and practically pinched on his cock hard enough that she actually stretched him out as he pulled back, which did wonders for his erection, and he bulldozed his way into her again, and then again, and then yet again after that, and he discovered that he was annoyed that her fingers were still there between them, scratching on the top of his dick as he slid in and out of her the bare centimeters he could move until somewhere he remembered that women sometimes needed that, they needed to be able to play with themselves when they fucked, and he didn’t begrudge her for doing that—his wife never did it, sure, no, and so there a slight crinkle to the illusion that it was maybe the woman he loved that he was giving the business to as he progressed towards his inevitable demise in this murky catacomb and not how instead it really maybe was some other outlander bitch that he was cheating on his wife with that…that he…that he didn’t exactly need permission for any more, now, did he—and aside from a negligible pause, he didn’t let it stop him or even slow him down, because there would be no point to complain, to try to explain to the randy little slut that she wasn’t doing it right, because they didn’t have time, no, not now, now they had to fuck, they had to fuck themselves and each other to death, to god damn death, as there was a sandglass that was running out, a clock that was ticking, an expiration and use-by date that was fast and unavoidably approaching. And so he punched her cunt with his cock, getting her to sigh the breathless and seductive sigh of assent and resignation to the idea that she was getting fucked, and that it was alright, hell, everything was alright now, with him driving hard and harder and then even harder yet after that, desperate, focused, honed not right on in on the hypothesis that he wasn’t there to get out of there alive, no, don’t be childish, that’s not going to happen any more than winning the lottery or going to space or getting to fuck a-a pornstar, an other-worldly mouth-watering woman with incredible legs who works at some men’s magazine someplace who writes dirty stories on the sly about how she likes it rough and filthy and in truth has no limits as to what she would allow for and participate in for the right guy, an honest-to-god real live fucking sex slave, an absolute gutter slut who would crawl naked before him and his friends and suck cock and lick ass all the live long god damn day long not to mention how much she would completely love it if he would hit her in front of strangers and friends and family and god and everybody, letting him mark her with the signs of abuse that should land his ass in jail that she would save him from by defending those most beautiful marks on her most succulent and exquisite body as being something she asked him to do to her, and that it all works out wonderfully because she gave herself to him, body and soul, and besides, he wanted to do that sort of shit to her so it was alright because he fucking owned her, that that was what she was put on this fucking planet for, that strain and wounds and burns and agonies and the god damn fucking tortures of the damned were things she not only wanted but needed him-specifically-him to wreak onto her for her own god damn personal fucking reasons that she doesn’t want to talk about, "no, that doesn’t help, just do it, motherfucker, do unto me what I deserve" every time he would ask and she would go out of her god damn way to change the subject and beg him for every bit of injury and damage and suffering he could throw down on her, so he could make her prove herself to him, oh, how she craved that, she wanted that, she needed that, she actually lived and breathed and prayed to be able to stand back up and get back into position every fucking time he knocked her down as it was the only thing she had convinced herself she was good for, telling him when he asks if she was alright that he needs to quit fucking asking her that because she fucking likes it when it fucking hurts because she was one of them god damn masochists, a paintoy, an utterly submissive slampig, a fucktoy he could do anything to, and how it would be her deepest honor in life to be enthusiastically obedient to his slightest whims no matter how vile or filthy or perverted they were, the worse, the better, Christ-fuck, those kinds of women didn’t exist, not on earth, not really, they were a god damn myth, and besides, of all the guys in the fucking world, he was the one guy who was not the right guy, god damn it, and Flynn had to shake his head to clear his mind of that little distraction so he could get back to thinking about was how now he was there to fuck while he had the chance, and as his cock went in and then out and then back into this cunt’s cunt again, he never felt so alive before in his life, and it dawned on him that, assuming that for some abstruse unknowable reason they failed to kill each other by coitus and they somehow survived this first go-round, that this could maybe happen again, and it maybe didn’t matter if or when or how often he fucked her, and it sure as hell made no difference as to how he did it or if he even hurt her a little in the process, now did it, no, he was with her and only her in their own cozy little compartment together, and he couldn’t care less about her obscure speeches anyway if she didn’t like something or wanted something weird, and he could fuck her as much and as hard as he wanted to, because what was she going to be able to do about it anyway, and he felt empowered like he had never felt empowered before, not even at home, with the remarkable woman he had inadvertently left. Or was taken away from. Or however that worked.

Besides. Saliki wanted him to have his way with her. She didn’t need vocabulary to get that across.

What’s more, he didn’t have to cater to her or her dainty little orgasm like he did at home, no, this whore was here for him to fuck as he saw fit, as he pleased, and she could just take care of herself as she was so clearly capable of, and here, in the living marginalia of his own death, he felt all the urges he had suppressed at the behest of all the ethical and proper and virtuous women he ever knew all his life bubble up and spring forth and surprise him with just how bad he really did want to hurt the little slut, to take some of his problems out on her, and…and it…and it wouldn’t matter if he did, now would it. There was a light in his head in the dark, calm, bright, and he could imagine that Saliki was not just a woman, no, but that she was a staggeringly attractive woman, a drop fucking dead gorgeous woman, radiant, exotic, the kind of woman that other women would hate for being so god damn pure and perfect, that other men would wish it was them trapped in a box with her forever, free to fuck as they saw fit, and it only took another god-forsaken moment of hesitation to get over whatever reluctance he had left, to banish crazy-ass notions of right and wrong, and to let the possibilities of what could lay before him in his finalities in this old world to just go right on ahead and have free reign, and he excommunicated the theories of consequence he had been besieged with throughout his entire mediocre existence as he got his hand out from underneath her and onto her breast, onto her nice fat flawless tits that he could do whatever he wanted to for the rest of his life, and he wanted to feel her, to maul her, to hold her just right to get a reaction from her, something that didn’t involve eye rolls or annoyances like so many little virgin whores he had been with in years gone by had responded to his little liberties being taken at inappropriate times, hell’s bells, that wasn’t even on the table, now was it, no, not any fucking more, and Christ-shit, reluctances and privacies were not even a concern at this point, by fucking god, and now here he had the opportunity to induce much more into this little cunt than how he had to restrain himself in his obligations to bring about the sharp and focused inhales his wife would have when the charge would reliably succeed at surging from under his hand as he rolled her ever-erect round yon nipple around in his palm, barely touching her sublime and graceful breast, to fire longing and passion down between her smooth and luxurious and ever-eager-to-open legs as she would get excited in ways he would get to—er, have to—cater to, no, he ran out of reasons not to do what he wanted to do to this little slut right here, right god damn now, on the end of her finespun little nipple and oh, to pinch, to squeeze the ever loving shit out of the stretch just beneath the end of her nub, driving his fingernails in the very way his bitch-wife wouldn’t let him do because it hurt, and how she didn’t like that, and how she was here for pleasure, not pain, god, making underhanded threats and promises of what would or rather wouldn’t happen if he continued to treat her in such a shameful way, and how that he should instead be nice to her and he would end up licking her pussy tender and mild for hours on end to redeem himself from being so bad, and now, now he didn’t have to be like that any more, did he, and he wanted to do that, he wanted to do that before he died, he wanted to hurt a woman while he was fucking her, squeezing so hard his fingers had to be turning red and then white with all the pressure he bore down on her, and Saliki gasped and she keened and she vibrated and she started speaking in tongues as her whole body shook as he fucked her, as he fucked her and he hurt her, and she didn’t fight back or argue or even complain, no, she did the impossible, she went with it, she let him do what he had wanted to do his entire god damn life, and a miracle happened, right there, in the tomb, and she cried out, and he felt her clench up on his cock like she had a vise between her legs and she quivered up and down and back up again on the shaft of his raging erection as he made himself at home within her, plunging himself relentlessly in and out of her, and Flynn cried out, "holy fucking Christ, where have you been all my fucking life, bitch," and she solidified before she came and she came hard and she released and Flynn was astonished to find himself getting wet in a way he had never been wettened before and he had another secret fantasy come true in that he got a woman to squirt, he could never get his wife to do that no matter what he did to her, and…and this…and this slut did it, she just went right on ahead and fucking did it right there at their own funeral, she god damn fucking came so fucking god damn hard that she performed female ejaculation f-for him because he fucked her and he hurt her, and he wanted that again and he yanked her nipple around, the one he had such a fearsome grip on, practically tearing it the fuck off by the way he twisted one way and then the other so god damn hard, as hard as he fucking could, and she inhaled half the air they had to live on and she fucking came again immediately and she drenched him with torrents of fuck and he loved it and he jackhammered his way into her and it took seconds for him to achieve grace, too. Which made her come yet again after that.

The candles all blew out and the lights all came on in Flynn’s head, and the heavenly hosts sang hallelujah. Holy fucking night.

They used up more oxygen as they came down, and as completely under him as she was, she was all over him. Kissing him and hugging him and carrying on about how god damn good that was—that just had to be what she was saying, it just had to be. He had nothing left in him, he was empty, he had turned himself inside-out and had been reborn, and some darkness he had left over from some other life came out of left field and met up with the darkness he was in, and he fell asleep, listening to his name being incanted with some other absurd and pointless words that he had no need to know the exact meaning of, because he knew, oh fuck-Christ-right-there-in-the-virgin-yeah, he knew what mattered about them, and he was grateful to a god he hadn’t spoken to in years as he drifted off and had to smile and laugh a little about having something to bring up at Thanksgiving that he wasn’t quite sure how to explain among polite company.

###

FLYNN DREAMT. He dreamt of running in fields, of being out—naked, of course…scandalous—in the open, of flying, of swimming in vast warm and glassy-smooth oceans, all the dreams one has while sleeping confined in a full body-cast, no, in a body bag, in the lurking shadows of ruination with a resplendent woman one has just fucked the ever-loving daylights out of on the sly and gotten away with it, a dazzling woman one has just actually physically hurt and gotten away with it, a perfectly amazing woman who had her own needs fulfilled in ways one could never imagine that managed to involve the most put-down and contemptible needs one has had their entire life, ones one couldn’t even admit to their own wife that they even had, it was the dream of dreams wrapped up in dreams that one would dream of waking up from to find one’s self back in their own enormous bed on cool clean sheets there with one’s own angelic and bewitching wife who had decided that she loved her husband enough to bring in a cup of coffee to leave there on the nightstand for him to find while she crawled back under the covers to gently wake him up with a blowjob that would go on for days. Those kinds of lazy bones dreams.

From on that kind of night. The kind in which Flynn would wake up and roll over and put his arm around her, and cup his hand up onto his wife’s breast that was magnetic to glances and gazes and hands and lips and she would nestle back up against him, and hold deathly still as he ever-so-gently squeezed on her magnificent breasts, and play with her nipple the way that she so dearly loved for him to do, becoming aroused with the delicate scent a woman has when she thinks of sex and puts herself in the middle of it all, wanting it to happen and to happen to her, when she feels the need for a penis, an erection, a cock inside her vagina, her pussy, her cunt, thrusting in and out of her in the most simple straight-forward of sexual intercourses in the missionary-position, screwing, making love, fucking, fucking, "oh dear god, Flynn, please fuck me, please, please," and she would moan and warp and weave around over until she had to turn to him and barely touch him to bring him around and up and over her to nestle down in between her legs and so they could bring themselves together to be as one as some book once said was the way it should be between a man and his wife, one inside the other, never refusing each other except to pray, to pray to re-engage with each other the way men and women are supposed to engage with each other, knowing each other always, being fruitful, multiplying, one times one equals one, with his lips finding their way back down toward her fragile and hypersensitive breasts so he could draw her nipple into his mouth and get her back to arch, making her inhale a hiss as he nibbled and licked, thrusting her bosoms up to him, the very ones she so very much loved for him to see when she would take it into her head to flash him unexpectedly during the day, out in the world someplace while they were out shopping or nabbing a bite to eat, not caring if anyone else saw because the important thing was that he did, Flynn did, and he would see her smile with the devilish grin she would get just before she would expose herself to him, arcing around, bending over and laughing as she teased and propositioned and bantered with him, enticing him to chase her, squealing as he inevitably caught her before she would let him kiss her and throw her hands up above her head, out of the way, out of his way so he could get his hand back under her top, her shirt, confirming once again she wasn’t wearing a bra, and hold her there as he poured himself into her mouth, getting her to shiver with lust, to writhe and cross her legs to exert some outrageous pressure on herself until he slid his hand down, down from under her blouse, down over the top of her jeans, and her legs wouldn’t merely part a little, they would fall open wide, and she would thrust what she hid there between her legs into his hand and moan in his mouth, moan the kind of moan that said that if he wanted to take her now, here, wherever they were out in the world, she would let him do that, god yes, she would throw her clothes away and fuck him right here, right god damn now, letting whoever was looking get mortally embarrassed by the mere fact that they were seeing and knowing and invading their private moment of love that she would be deliriously happy to show the whole god damn world what it was all about, fuck them all and their little judgments about how she should love her husband, with whoever it was that was spying on them ending up walking away and blushing, praying that these two, Flynn and his ever-slutty wife, would instead have the decency to spare the public of the scandal and hurry home and close the door to their room and lock their children out before they started to make love, the kind of love that lovers languish about, over and over, ecstatic in each other’s arms, with Flynn’s cock constantly inside his wife, in her mouth, in her pussy, in her delicious and inviting ass, drawing yet one more rapturous orgasm out of one, then the other, then the first again, over and over, as it was in the beginning, as it was and ever shall be.

The kind of night that they had had after he had done what he shouldn’t have, and he had gone so far out of his way to convince her it was alright, that he had been careful, that no one would know, and it took a while but by the time dessert came around she trusted him and gave in to what he had done and she was overjoyed in a way he had never seen before. She was thrilled that they could finally do some things they had always wanted to do: travel, get some things they desperately needed, things they needed for the kids, for each other, for the house, and suddenly he could see it in her eyes. The look she had before they got married was there again and it was back, it was back in spades and he never wanted her to look at him any other way again—save the overwhelming and beatific expression she got when she came—when she would let him see her fancy and hope and wish for bright and comfortable futures, the look that said that she secretly did believe for true in a happily ever after with him, and for a while, she was a little girl, and a princess who loved her daddy, and at the same, she was his wife and his lover who was most satisfied to live out her life as his very own personal whore, loving him and desiring him and having faith in him again, and that was the night he never wanted to end.

It was that night that he was reliving there, stirring in his compact mortality there with Saliki, and he couldn’t make heads nor tails as to why it reeked so bad there, there on the beach, suddenly back there on his honeymoon again with his wife and now this other woman who was stunning and ravishing in a way his wife wasn’t, she was a different kind of delightful, ethereal, alluring, and it was alright, the two women liked each other in impossible ways, and they found each other attractive and they weren’t in competition at all, no, they both were there for him, and their exquisite submissive smiles were for him as they took each other’s dresses off and presented each other to him, angels hand in hand with foo foo drinks in their others as they crossed the sands over to him, naked, and he was going to get to have both of them, here, now, with one of them guiding his cock into the various bodily orifices of the other before they would change places, with the one’s lips and hands caressing and kissing whatever was between his legs not to mention wherever his cock went into on the other before they would switch places, back and forth, for days, no, weeks at a time, making a show for him how much they loved him by loving and sharing whatever came out of him with each other, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, giggling and promising him that they would love him forever, teaching and learning from each other how the extremes of agony and ecstasy were one and the same, and how they both could endure in utter bliss all he could do to drive them over whatever edge of anguish or languish or excruciation or overwhelming orgasmic mind-erasing heaven was on deck for today, and he shifted and wiggled a little in there, and he expected it to be clear and bright when he wrenched his eyes open and that there would be seagulls cawing in three-four time and waves crashing and a breeze, a refreshing breeze of real air coming up off the somehow-glassy-smooth ocean and there wasn’t any of that.

It was dark, still oppressively dark, and he was still there, blind as a bat, still there in the fucking nightmare to end all nightmares, god damn it, in this dank and scurrilous casket under some unhallowed ground, laying on top of this woman he hardly knew but knew biblically now, and it was hard enough to breathe before, but now, now, it stank so noxiously sour and spoiled in there that he wanted to—no, had to—throw up and so he did. It wasn’t like he could stop.

Not that it made anything any better. He brought up the last of his last meal and there was nowhere for it to go but down, onto her, onto her face—there wasn’t anywhere else—and it woke her up, it woke Saliki up and now the gloom was filled with vomit and shit and piss and him and her and why the hell couldn’t they just both go ahead and fucking die.

She started yelling at him, and he yelled back, and they both thrashed about to try to get away from the stench, from the slime, from each other, and there was nowhere to go, no way to move that didn’t keep Flynn right there on top of Saliki, with his hips and his crotch firmly planted in between her legs, pressed directly up against her vagina and the human waste that was beneath her and it was awful and disgusting and…and…he froze. He froze solid.

All except a few petrifying inches of him.

A few inches that—despite how utterly sickening it was—had decided all on their lonesome without his permission that they had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, something to do, and he couldn’t help it, this wasn’t what he wanted, not now, shit, erections and hardons are supposed to come about when it is nice, when it’s clean, when it’s clear that something pleasant was about to happen and not in the middle of excrement under trying circumstances under duress and pressure and his cock persisted in how that doesn’t make any difference at all, now does it, this has to be able to work under the worst conditions, too, now doesn’t it, fuck pleasant, fuck clean, fuck nice, and look, it’s happening, it’s happening right god damn now, see, you can fuck in shit, that is how fucking assfucking works and you god damn well know it, you’ve done it before, you’ll do it again, you shove your cock right on into where you god damn well know someone shits from and what, you just hope that they won’t get any poo on your dick, don’t be stupid, because you god damn fucking well know that you will put your cock all the way into their fucking little fuckable assholes and you don’t even need to know anything about them, man or woman, boy or girl, an ass is an ass is an ass, and you will splatter and spurt and splash and spew semen inside their fucking assholes right on up into their shit and who knows, maybe you’ll be pounding so hard and so long that you’ll force some of their shit right on back down into your urethra, and you have someone else’s shit there inside your own cock, lining it, filling it, packing it, you’ll be ravaging your-fucking-self with someone else’s shit, twisting its way into you that way, cock-in-shit, shit-in-cock, god, does it get any dirtier than that, and afterwards, no matter how revulsed you are at the idea, it won’t be long at all before you will put your hand onto your precious cock and rub on it hard and long in the hopes that it will make you feel good again even after it has been in someone else’s ass, because you’ve done it, you’ve done it before, you’ll do it again, fuck, you’re going to do it now, shitfucker, and you can fuck in pain, just you fucking wait, you will fuck no matter how much it fucking hurts, you have no idea what’s coming, asshole, you’ll see, you can fuck when everything is awful and disgusting because that’s all you have to do from now on, Flynn, is fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck your way out of here, that’ll work, fuck the little bitch, fuck her to death, fuck yourself to god damn death, fuck all the live long day, fuck-fuck-fuck, fuck you, fuck everything you ever knew, fuck everything you ever believed in, fuck, and it was like it was singing to him, Jesus god damn fucking Christ, his cock was taunting him, nagging him, singing to him, fuck her in the morning when you feel the darkness rising, fuck her in the evening ‘cause she fucked you through the day, and in the in-between times when you feel the fuck-need rising, remember that she’ll fuck you and she promises to stay, and he hated that he was getting hard, there in the mess, in all the pollution of their minimal world, of their very souls, there in the dwindling foul air supply, with a woman that was mad at him, mad at him for waking her up in such a horrendous way, mad at him for being there at all, furious with him for having the audacity to even be thinking of sex at a time like this, let alone trying to actually fucking do it, and she was screaming, and he managed to snap a hand out from under her, and he hitched it up between them, and he thrust it up and he hit her on the jaw, on the face, and it didn’t make her stop with her pande-fucking-monium for more than a second, and he didn’t care.

He had another way to attack her, and he took it. It only called for inches. Which he had at his disposal.

He just wanted her to shut up. He even growled that idea out to her, for all the good it did. He didn’t mean to barf on her, and he suspected—no, knew—that she was the one who had shit in there, in their home, in their fucking death-bed, and it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to do it or couldn’t help it or that she was even human, a-a person that was scared and unhappy and uncomfortable and miserable, at least as miserable as he was, and that none of this was her fault any more than it was his fault either, fuck-Christ-fuck-Christ-fuck-Christ-fuck, he just wanted her to quit making so god damn much fucking commotion, and he forced his way into her.

There where she had welcomed him some untold aeon ago. He fancied rolling her over, or turning her around, and taking her in other ways, other fashions, but that was simply not to be. Geometry and physics enforced a morality that he longed to be free of. He would have to settle for remembering the fairy tales of doggie-style or reverse cowgirl or even standing up with his trophy wife bent over and presenting her own ass to him, looking over her shoulder to him, full of lust, full of smoke, full of unholy heat and need, fully clothed in the alley outside in the warm seductive rain after their most fabulous dinner on the night of their good fortune, with her turned around to face the back wall of the restaurant, there by the garbage cans, hiking her scandalously short skirt up to reveal she wasn’t wearing any underwear at all, not even a thong, and she set in on for real to be begging him to take her like this, to take her now, to take her god damn fucking ass, that she wanted him to, "right here, right now, fuck me, Flynn, c’mon do it, I can’t wait any more, I need your fucking cock in my god damn fucking fuckable ass, you motherfucking bastard," which was her favorite way to say what she wanted and how she liked to start off a typical evening at home even if they weren’t out on a romantic date in which they would do this most cherished thing she wanted more than anything else in the whole wide world because it was so fucking hot, so filthy and indecent and wrong, his wife was an ass slut, an ass whore, she liked it dirty and messy, it made her happy to be penetrated where she shit and that was the only time she would let him hurt her, that was the only time he could get away with it, she would let him shove his cock into her asshole even if it hurt or maybe because it did, he didn’t know, she liked having her ass hurt from getting fucked and fucked so god damn hard that she could feel it and remember it for days afterwards, and she would resist him, she would clench up so his cock would bend over as he tried to get inside her as he would push and push hard-so-hard, "Jesus Christ you are god damn fucking tight, honey," and she would smile and wiggle over her entire body and wrap her hands back around behind her, around him and pull on him, pull on his back or his ass or wherever she could reach to direct his cock toward her, toward her ass, and she would call him a dirty buggerer and a filthy assfucker and swear at him to rile him up, to get him to throw his pants down around his ankles to let his cock all the way out of his clothes, so his erection could bob and dangle and dance out there in the rain, knowing god damn fucking well he was going to fuck her here, now, in her god damn fucking fuckable ass, shortening his breath and focusing hard on his hardon to get him to where any god damn way he could get into her was what was im-fucking-portant here, and she would taunt him and revile him about whether he was man enough to take what was his, her ass was his, his to fuck whenever he wanted, and she wanted him to engage in anal sex with her way more than he did but it was a special night and for whatever fucked up reason it made her feel special to be defiled like this, he wanted her to feel special, with her crying out and bearing down on him as he scraped his way into her tight-tight-tight asshole, pulling out and driving back, making her groan, fucking her, fucking his wife, taking her as if she were a man, sodomizing the most rapturous and innocent mother of his children out in public where they could get caught, and she would reliably come instantly like this, each and every time, and when she has had her fun a time or two he would whirl her roughly around as he was about to expend himself to have her kneel down so he could rip open the top of her dress because he wanted to see her sumptuous and superb tits as she took him into her mouth with the body-temperature water pouring down out of God’s own sky over both of them, dripping off her nose and nipples and ruining her hair, the little slut looking up at him with love and adoration and out-and-out glory, his pulsing cock long and hard and needy enough to reach into the back of her throat, getting him to lose control and grab her head over how fucking god damn fucking good that felt, my god, the power, the god damn fucking power, and he was tangling his fingers into her matted and soaked hair and holding her there so he could fuck her mouth, sliding his hardon in through her desperately sucking lips all the way in, right on up as far as he could get into her, making her breathe through his pubic hair, fucking her mouth as though it were her pussy or better yet her ass, getting her to gag and choke and make noises that were mixed in the desperation she had for what he was about to do with the discomfort over yet another obscene intrusion she was going through that she was so perfectly willing to go through in her ever-faithful loyalty to his cock and how she would still stay there, right there, worshiping him and devoting herself to him and his bless-ed erection, concerned with his ecstasy as a woman should god damn well be, eagerly keeping the very head of his cock buried in her throat so she could deliberately involuntarily contract and release and con-fucking-vulse around him in ways she couldn’t help or control in her own bid for survival and giving until he lost his own composure and control and mastery of the situation and shot his wad, blew his load, he came in her fucking fuckable face, with her being anxious for him to bawl out his feelings of just how fucking good this was, so he could feel her mouth and lips and whole face grin hard around him and absorb him and all that he was right on down inside her, sucking his fucking cock harder than was humanly possible, with him staying there and spurting and splashing and splattering inside her lips despite his desire to pull out and paint his beautiful nigger wife white, until he stopped pulsing, stopped filling her mouth up full with his seed, his semen, lifting her up to stand before him so she could look up, making sure he knew and understood and could see her swallow his sperm down with an absolute fire of delight in her eyes, taking her time as though it were im-fucking-portant to get this part right, just like she went so god damn far out of her fucking way to make sure every other part of her never-less-than-spectacular cocksucking was just right, just the way he liked it, messy, committed, assuring him that this was something she would do again and again and yet again after that, that she couldn’t possibly do it enough for him, keeping her mouth on his dick in the car, gently suckling on him the whole way home so she could get him hard and long and ready to go again after they got into the house, clawing at each other’s clothes all the way up into the bedroom, locking the door, going at it all god damn night long, with her swearing on all she held dear how she would continue to suck his cock and fuck his brains out every god damn day for the rest of their lives just like she always had, Jesus, Flynn missed his wife, and with him now mourning the loss of oaths and ways and means of how all he could get his cock into a woman, the very stories of which had passed into legend, but…hey…fucking-fucking. Cock in cunt. Dick in pussy. Penis in vagina, in the missionary position, the very way God intended, the most favored approach of rapists so they could look into their victims eyes and drink in their fear and defeat and surrender which, okay, he had a small shortcoming toward right now, but still, that—that was something he could do something about with this other slut. Right here, right now.

He shoved his cock into Saliki’s cunt, and he fucked her. She protested. Of that, he was sure, and it didn’t matter. Her hands found their way out from wherever the hell they had been hiding up onto his chest and she pushed, she jabbed, she swatted, she tweaked his nipples and it made no difference whatsoever: there was nowhere for him to go. As much as he wanted to get up off of her, to stand up and walk away from all this, from her, from fate, he couldn’t, try as he might, he just fucking couldn’t, and he went instead with the other direction as it was the only other choice. Down. Into her. Back out a sliver’s breadth, then back into her again. He grunted as he thrust and she tried to get out from under him and she couldn’t, try as she might, and he fucked her. She yammered on, so he hit her on the jaw again, which got her to seize up on him, which got him to quit moving for a second as he felt something he had never felt the likes of before. And he wanted to feel it again: he made it happen. Then he made it happen again, and hitting her proved as reliable in inducing an effect on his dick as his own good right hand, and it shut her the fuck up, and so it was that he set out to take care of some business. He wasn’t so much fucking her or raping her or violating her as he was using her to masturbate with. Her cunt contracted around his cock when he hit her, and he went ahead and raped her and violated her and fucked her anyway. It was kind of like a bonus.

Hit, hit, hit, fuck, fuck, fuck, he could use her to jerk off like he was doing when his mother caught him and she scolded him and derided him and was angry with him and was going to teach him a lesson, and after an interminable stare-down with both of them trembling and out of breath but for different reasons, him lying on his bed, the covers off, his legs spread all the way out to the edges, shaking, completely naked, holding his hands over his crotch but then moving them aside because it didn’t make any difference any more, now did it, she’d seen his cock, she’d seen his boner, she’d seen what he was doing with it, and he had to own up to it, be a man, fuck. She stood at the foot of the bed, furious, so mad she couldn’t have even known what she was doing as she did the impossible: she took her clothes off and spat at him to finish what he was doing and he couldn’t believe what she had just done, fuck-Christ-himself, his own drop-dead gorgeous mother was standing in front of him, stark fucking naked and she put her hands behind her back so they weren’t in his way and he could get a good solid steady unwavering look at her and he took the opportunity to see what she looked like under her clothes, what she hid there that was so god damn important for him not to see, and he gawked at her tits and blinked and trailed his gaze down her stomach and he had to lift his head up so he could see what she had down there, down there between her legs where he knew women didn’t have any kind of a cock like he and all his friends did, but he had never seen it before, and his eyes went wide and he mouth fell opened a little and he licked his lips, and she did even more impossible things. She adjusted her stance so he could see better, sneering out her contempt at her son, her son that she loved, her lips shuddering in silence, and she rolled her hips and swiveled her asshole forward and spread her legs so he could actually see his own motherfucking mother’s p-pussy, shit-fuck-Christ-on-the-cross, and her chest heaved and her breathing was noisy and her boobs jostled around with a waveform going up and down her stomach and she was alive as she stood there before him, letting him look, and he stared and he misunderstood the lesson she was trying to get across to him and so he did what he was told, it was what she wanted, wasn’t it, she just said so, and he did it, he did it, he masturbated with his mother standing in front of him, naked, fuck God-Christ, it was like he’d been thrown off a cliff and could fly, he was as naked as she was, the way it should be, mother and son, naked together, and she was available to him and he could reach his hand up and touch her and her face tensed up and her head shook and he pulled his hand back, back to what he was doing, back between his own legs, and she stood there, scowling and watching his hand quiver against himself, rubbing his dick, bringing his erection back in spades, and he spread his legs even wider so she could see what he was doing, so she could see his asshole pulse and his balls quiver and his hand blur as it moved up and down his cock, pressing harder and harder until his back lurched and he froze up and yanked his hand out of the way so she could see, so his mother could see his cock throb and dance in the air the last split second before he came, and he came, he came, he came, he fucking came, he splattered himself with semen, his sperm spurted up out of the end of his cock and flew through the air and landed all the way up on his chest, and his jaw fell open and he inhaled a gasp and god fucking damn if she didn’t, too, and his cock still had more to splash himself with and he groaned and his chest heaved and his whole body undulated with a waveform he had no control over and he looked at his own mother with smoke and unholy fire and lust and he wanted her to walk around the bed, right on up to him and smile and lean over and kiss him and tell him he was a good boy and kiss him again only longer before she put her hand down there, between his legs, on his very own cock, by motherfucking god he wanted his mother to put her hand on his dick, his cock, his throbbing boner, his hardon and finish his hand job and get the last few drops of semen to spew into her hand and then hold him, hold him there with reverence and love and adoration as some other woman would do for him every night they lived together in an enormous bed someday and…and then…and then he wanted her to bend over and lick up what he had done for her more than anything else in the whole fucking world, it was for her that he did it, he jerked off every god damn day thinking about his own mother and her tits and her snatch and her butt just like he had been doing for years before she had burst through his unlocked door only this time she stayed and she watched him jerk off and she told him to do it and he did, she was there, she was actually fucking there and she was naked and he never wanted her to put her god damn clothes on again for the rest of her life and he wanted to fuck her, by fucking god, he wanted to motherfucking fuck his own motherfuckable mother and he wanted to do it right god damn now and again later and then tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that for as long as they both shall live and when he was finished and tried to say something but only could get a grunt and a groan out, her lips scrunched up and she snatched her clothes up off the floor and barked out from the door, turning back to menace him, "just you wait until your father gets home," and she stormed out of the room, slamming the door. He had never been so scared in all his life. He was terrified of what his father would do when he got home, and it bothered him now how he couldn’t remember what it was his father did, if he threw him out of the house, bellowing at him to never come back, calling him a pervert, a sinner, no son of his, or if he came up to his room, with Flynn cowering under the covers, putting his fatherly hand down gently on his son with whom he had always been well-pleased, not hitting him or swearing at him or crunching bones at all but still making him jump right on out of his skin with a squawk, and when he so tearfully looked up at his father, his father boomed out some laughter and commended his son on such a good idea, on doing that there, on jerking off, masturbating, pleasuring himself, wanking in front of his mother and what’s more, getting her to take her clothes off, too, understanding that completely, as she is such an attractive woman, quite the looker, and saying "would you like to do it again, now, yes now, right fucking now," and offering to join him, and they called his mother in and his father told her to take her clothes off and she hesitated once, just once and he slapped her and yelled at her to do what she was fucking told, and she did it, she cried but she did it, she fucking did it, she took off her clothes again and she stood there staring straight off into space or somewhere, losing some part of her self she would never get back as his father took down his pants and Flynn took down his boxers and they put their hands onto themselves, nodding at each other once before they looked back at Flynn’s mother, who was palpitating and trembling with undeniable and involuntary waveforms crossing her body, making her undulate in seductive ways as she stood there before the men in her family, not quite believing this was happening, with them stretching their own cocks out until they were long and hard, rubbing on themselves and panting with their cocks pulsing all the way back down to their assholes, with Flynn’s father taking the lead and calling Flynn’s mother the most awful words for women, encouraging Flynn to take it up, too, going back and forth with the words, making her quiver with their pronunciations that affected her in ways Flynn had never imagined before, changing her right before his very eyes, from a mother who ruled the roost to a mother that was ruled, with her husband promising her that those very words would become her names after that, and that the men in her life now expected her to respond to the words pussy and bitch and cunt and whore and slut and slave and slampig and cocksucker and asslicker and fuckwad by taking her clothes off immediately, without looking around or hesitating in the slightest and presenting herself to whichever one of them called her whichever word they used wherever they were, here at home, out in the world in front of whoever happened to be there, no matter who it was, strangers, friends, her own fucking family, and that she would be expected to kneel down, naked, offering up her mouth and her hands and her cunt and her asshole to the cocks of her men until they spurted and splashed and splattered his mother with semen that she would have to wipe up off of herself no matter where it landed and lick her hand, getting what they had given her into her mouth and making a good show of how much she liked it, how much she fucking loved getting the semen of her husband and the sperm of her son into her mouth, asking what else she could do for them and then doing that, too, no matter what it was, and from then on, they did it every day after that, and Flynn’s father called it "painting her white," and Flynn loved that and did it several times a day, coming home for lunch just to bring his cock out for his mother to service, spewing sperm onto her in places it would be difficult for her to reach just so he could laugh at her efforts to do what her husband said, and after school he would bring his friends over and she would perform for all of them, offering snacks and drinks and to crawl naked around the room, sucking cock and playing with herself until it was time for all of them to go home, when Flynn’s father would come home from a long hard day at work and ask her how her day was and what she did and she would have to report that she sucked Flynn’s friends’ cocks and he would shake his head and say "tsk tsk" and tell her that she deserved to be punished for being such a slut, and she would hang her head, nodding, and say "yes, yes I am, I am such a god damn fucking slut, do unto me, my husband, exactly what I deserve," and she would crawl over her husband’s lap and he would spank her until the tears flowed and she would have to get up and make dinner, naked, with her bottom or maybe her tits completely fire-engine red, coming back for more if it faded in the slightest little bit throughout the evening, every night, having to suck both her husband’s and her son’s cock every god damn night, as many times as they could get it up, fucking them both to sleep every night and then crawling under the covers to wake them in the morning with a blowjob before they went off to go to work or to school, and on weekends, well, on weekends, Flynn’s father had all his friends or even his or his wife’s relatives over, and they would show Flynn everything one could do to a woman, with cocks and hands and assholes and belts and whips and canes and candles and needles and nettles and ropes and sawhorses and crosses, telling him to go ahead and jerk off all he wanted to, telling him that hell, he’s done it his entire life, even before he was born, while he was still inside his motherfucking mother, and she nodded and said that yes, it was exactly like that, and what’s more, she could tell when he was masturbating inside her, and…and it…and it made her want to play with herself because she was such a sick fuck, mother and child masturbating at the same time, one inside the other, and how the idea of her son playing with himself even now makes her want to fuck in ways she has no choice about and she never gets to do it anywhere near enough and so she has to play with herself, rubbing her own fingers on her own clit and that that is what she does all day, every day when he was at school and so the men all laugh at her and tell her to just go ahead and do that, to do that now, to make herself come, and she wouldn’t even hesitate as she would do it. Flynn watched his mother masturbate while she watched him masturbate, and she begged him to let her come when she was ready and for weeks on end, he went right on ahead and sanctioned for her to go ahead and do exactly that and she cried out her orgasm for him every god damn day and she would make a spectacle of herself until one day he wondered what would happen if he didn’t give her permission and so he denied her, he told her no, she couldn’t come, but she had to keep on doing what she was doing, working herself up, and she groaned and she whined but she did what she was told and kept going at herself until she was even more desperate, and she pleaded with him in a pathetic voice to "please please please let me come" and his father said "no, tell her no, son, see what happens," and so Flynn did as his father said and forbade his mother from coming and she went insane and began to make offers, offers of what she would do if they would let her come, "please, have mercy on a slut," and they both laughed at her and said "no" some more and the offers got more and more outlandish until she said that she would fuck everyone Flynn knew, man or woman, boy or girl, for money if he wanted, and Flynn’s father said "Dogs, too," and she said "Oh my fucking god, yes," and Flynn and his father winked at each other and said, together, in unison, "Not enough," and she cried out that she would crawl from house to house, door to door, naked, and she would suck everyone in town off until they couldn’t do it any more and that she needed to be punished for being such a god damn whore for even thinking such a thing and they should cane her tits and her pussy and her ass and whip her feet and her hands and her face until she couldn’t walk or crawl or even move without wincing in excruciating pain and they should brand her, they should cut her, they should burn her, and she…she would…she would drink piss, too, if he wanted to see her do that, and so Flynn smirked and said "yeah, sure, go ahead, have an orgasm, mom, but just one, just a little one, and then bring your fucking little fuckable mouth over here and make god damn good on your god damn promise," and that was what happened and she earned a new name, and it was "pisswhore," and it wasn’t too long after that that she also became known as "shitlicker," and Flynn never used a bathroom again for as long as he lived at home and Flynn and his father fucked and tortured and humiliated the ever loving shit out of his mother all the live long day and it happened exactly like that all the time until Flynn left home to marry his slut-wife after such an honorable courtship, and whenever he would take his wife home with him, he and his father would stand both women up before them while they jerked off and then had them suck them both off, cumswapping everything that came out of both Flynn and his father, and then they would have the girls fuck them off to oblivion, with both women putting on a lesbian dyke show complete with both of them double fisting each other at the same time so the men could get aroused again, over and over and yet over again after that, for the entire visit, until they got to the part where they would just have to start in to torture the women so they could get hard again, because Flynn and his father had been fucked dry, and both Flynn’s mother and his wife held on to each other for dear life as they both got simultaneously whipped and caned and burned and pierced by Flynn and his father, and they would scream and scream again and scream yet again after that and then scream into each other’s mouths some more as they poured themselves into each other the whole time and he couldn’t remember which way it really went, whether he actually had masturbated in front of his mother or he didn’t, if his father threw him out or he didn’t, if he fucked his mother with all his friends or he didn’t, if he had participated in family-wide and city-wide orgies or he didn’t, if he tortured the fucking Christ out of his mother and his wife with his father or if he didn’t, and as it turned out, it really didn’t matter any more, now anyway, did it.

When he missed Saliki’s jaw and hit her somewhere less effective, failing to send the rampaging jolt around his penis he was so looking forward to, she exploded in cryptic text and it didn’t make a whit a difference to the plan. To his plan. He was here, with her, and he was going to get her to shut the fuck up, and he was going to fuck her because that was all there was to do in there—in this fucking hell that had exactly one benefit to it—until he fucking died, and she could just deal with it.

Granted, he liked her better when she was cooperative. No matter. He was in this god-forsaken shithole, and he was going to have his way with her, and that was the way things were going to be until the end of the fucking world. There wasn’t a god damn thing she was going to be able to do about it, and the rest of the world sure as shit didn’t care. Not any more. What happens in graves, stays in graves. Besides, her petty little resistances didn’t call upon his humanity, his mercy, his respect, no, they drove him into barbarity, into brutality, into cruelty, back into the caves, where women had no rights, weren’t citizens at all or even valued that much and for god’s sakes, they were in no way seen as people or lovers or wives or even sluts or bitches, but as objects. Cunts. As things that were there to stick your cock into. To make do things for you. To en-fucking-slave.

Glory be to the fuck hole, and to the cock, and to the holy whore. As we fucked in the beginning, we will fuck and ever shall fuck. Fuck without end. Ah-ah-fuck, ah-ah-fuck.

When he came, he was so mad at her, he moved his hand around, back to the nipple that had been so cooperative and welcoming previously, and he pushed it into her chest, and he pushed on her hard there, digging his thumb down onto her ribcage, and he bore his entire weight on her there, and she stopped yelling, she stopped shouting, she stopped accusing him of a crime he would never have to stand trial for or go to jail for, but she struggled and she was afraid in an entirely different way, one that had self-preservation in it somewhere, and he liked that, he loved how she squeezed around his well-spent dick in her blind panic and it had the proper effect and set another boner up to start happening right away, and he was instantly addicted to having this kind of power, and he wanted more, he wanted more, and he bounced on her as she wailed and tensed up until he felt something give way underneath his hand, and he heard a crack, and whatever screaming she had been doing before paled compared to the shriek she let forth.

Somehow, she shrank. She compressed just a little against the floor they were on, just a hair, just a smidge, there under his thumb, and she suddenly had trouble breathing—as if it wasn’t hard enough in their little pleasure palace—and she wheezed and she flailed and started yakking quickly, quietly, saying the same thing over and over, and that, that got his attention.

He realized she was praying.

No, singing.

He recognized the song…to the father, and to the son, and to the holy fucking ghost. Her words were wrong, all wrong, all god damn wrong, but after the third time she rasped through it, his fury had fled and he was out of breath and something from his childhood called to him to join her. He used to sing this in church, standing next to his long-sainted mother, who would beam and radiate praise and worship and…honor down to him that she invited him to join her in, time and time again, that he would always give into her on as he tried to bungle around to match the notes and the words, and Flynn and Saliki found something else from some other woman’s mausoleum to communicate about. Not that it made the slightest difference, and it sure as hell didn’t make anything any better. Not now.

He had hurt her before, before when they were having sex-glorious-sex, but that was just in a little way, a way she seemed to like, but now, now, now he had hurt her much harder in the middle of his…his…rape…and she was paying a heavy price for his rage, his despair, and his weight. His enormous weight that he couldn’t keep off of her, not enough to give her any kind of reprieve, and Flynn had never been so scared in all his life.

He couldn’t fix what he had done.

Running his hands over what little he could on her and trying to soothe her didn’t help. Not one little bit.

His mother’s face fell somewhere out there in eternity.

Flynn listened to his bedside-deadside-companion use his name, over and over, in tears, with some other foreign words that for some reason made him think of something a gospel writer had said about some of the last words in some of the last moments of some god his mother believed in had said on earth, and what he said among criminals and soldiers and people who gloated and were looking forward to watching to watch him die horribly on what was to become a symbol of some church—his mother’s church—and how it was all true even here, in a fucking hole in the ground, and how he didn’t know what he did or was doing or had done and had no way to do what was needed, and he was ashamed.

He called out to the powers and authorities for mercy, to please come, to please come and take her and save her and it made the same amount of difference that all the other pitiful admonitions did, and they were still there together, just Saliki and Flynn, in their dark burial, and they both cried for reasons that were the same but different, and they both definitely wanted the same things. All the same things. Some things they definitely could never now have, and some things—one in particular—they were just going to have to wait a while longer for. It hadn’t been hard enough. Yet.

Togetherness totally sucked, and the god they sang to had nothing else to say to either of them.

###

THE DIFFERENCE between the dreams that Flynn had and the horror of being awake was that—unlike the crypt he shared with his succubus—for the longest time, his dreams had light in them. Light and longitude and freedom and spectacular flights of fantasy. No clothes, of course. Old movies replayed, there were fabulous dinners and dates and foo foo drinks, and oh, dear lord, sex-constant-sex happened in the light, in the very daylight in front of god and everybody. Days were relived with ever-delightful ever-more-scandalous embellishments, whole days that were both good and bad, and even the worst of them were better than what he had to wake up to.

But eventually, the light faded in his imagination, with only occasional flashes of blinding brilliance, and what was waiting for him when he closed his eyes began to bear a striking resemblance to what was waiting for him when he opened them, and it all became dark and cold and rancid and squirmy and it got to where he couldn’t tell the difference between being awake and being asleep, and he could no longer tell if he was dream-fucking or real-fucking, which his death-mate no longer resisted him on in either universe, and the epoch it took for that difference to even be a concern quit mattering, too. He quite convinced himself of his prowess at being able to get the woman he had at his disposal to orgasm regardless of circumstance or truth, and that she had forgiven him as their Lord and God had suggested was such a good idea in general once upon a time. In truth, what else was there for her to do? Well, there was one thing: the wave-like motions of his hips was nearly constant, and was met as he wished a woman would respond to him when his cock was permanently inside her—welcoming: as what else was there to do?—and erections came and went as they do in circumstances such as these, and she did as he asked and moved in conjunction with him for as long as she could, coughing in his face, moaning, crying.

Flynn woke up—or, not; it was hard to say—to find that Saliki had fallen silent and still at some juncture an unfathomably long time ago. He grieved for as long as he could when he first noticed it, not really quite remembering when it was that she wasn’t like this, all calm and somehow bright, and the bitterness he felt reminded him that it really wasn’t his fault they were together and what happened to her was going to happen to him, too, and he let her go and fell back into doing the only thing left that there was to do in there. He didn’t think she’d mind, and he gradually got to where he wasn’t even sure if she had ever moved in her tiny little ever-seductive ways or spoke in her funny-sounding jargon. He even forgot that she had been angry or receptive to him and his thoughts or whatever, and he simply went on with his wet dreams, awake or not. When he would get hungry, which was one of the odder scenarios he would conjure up from time to time, he would simply visualize chewing and swallowing and the hunger went away. He lost his sense of smell, not that it made him feel any less putrid.

The hallucinations set in and overall, they disturbed him—especially when Saliki would tell him stories he’d never heard the likes of before, stories he understood—and he would occasionally experience uncanny sounds and abstract colors and temperature changes and there was an especially vivid mirage or two among all the phantasms he entertained. Ones that felt and worked completely differently from all the other blurry visions he had been living with, playing in his mind over and over, ad infinitum.

He was in a bed, a real bed, by himself, of all things, with cool clean sheets and dim lights casting luminous shadows on the pale green walls, and he could hear voices speaking, in words he swore he could interpret, and he wondered in downright awe at how imaginative he was and how his fantasies had turned to working on things he didn’t remember in the slightest. He couldn’t exactly move, but he wasn’t exactly restrained or even crammed, either. It was completely strange.

"Ah. I’m glad to see you’re awake. Gave us quite a scare there; thought we were going to lose you." He didn’t recognize the voice, and the ghostly amphitheater whirled.

He groaned and had trouble forming words, real words. He might have said something in some long-forgotten relic of Saliki-speak. Shapes floated around him.

"You know, Flynn, we do want it back."

Flynn’s eyes started fluttering, and when he would close them, it got dark, and when they would open, it was light, actually bright, which was entirely opposite from how he just knew the world once worked. And that voice. That was a voice he had heard something like before. Dark and gravely. Full of sin and dirt and menace.

"I’ve already called your beautiful wife, and told her that…we found you. She’s been powerful worried, and I’m sure that she will comfort you no end in the coming days; she’s on her way. Now I’ll let you two get caught up and all, but you are going to have to tell her to give it back. All of it."

Flynn croaked; he had thoughts that were hard enough to coagulate, let alone express.

"Oh, well, let’s just say that Saliki’s husband didn’t learn his lesson the first time. A mistake I know you won’t make, as I cannot imagine you wanting your lovely bride to have any more in common with that fucking little mail order cunt-whore than your dick." An eternal pause of light and whirring and machine sounds transpired; it was dizzying. "Are we clear?"

Despite all the haze and the mud, and the utter incongruity with getting to actually breathe real air again, air that wasn’t abhorrent and rotten, Flynn had never been so clear on anything in his entire life.

His wife, though, being warned by prophecy, had a different idea, and she ran. She ran and she ran hard and she ran long until they inevitably caught her, and Flynn ended up having to explain things to her when she woke up underneath him, behind him, as is the way of these things. Er, got to explain. He explained everything as well as he could until he couldn’t say anything any more, and his apologies made the same difference they always did, as did the endless arguments about The Second Comprehension and Acceptance, not to mention the topics of just what there was to do in there with all their spare time. She seemed to have issues with that, which he thought was odd, as she was, after all, his wife. His incredibly slutty wife. Or, so he thought. This was turning out to be worse than being with someone he had no common tongue with. No matter. At some point, he quit paying attention to the nonsensical sounds his one-time goddess made that may or may not have been protests, or complaints, or whatever—he couldn’t tell and frankly, couldn’t care less any more—and went back to the matters at hand; world without end. Now he laid her down to fuck, he prayed the Lord shut this slut up, if she should die while he would fuck, he prayed the Lord fuck this slut up. She eventually came around to his way of seeing things: after she got quiet, when it finally occurred to him that things might have been better if she had been on top. Reverse cowgirl, even. She might have even liked being fucked to death like that.

###

COME THANKSGIVING, things were running exceptionally smoothly in the syndicate. The very notion of skimming off the top had been largely forgotten, the clandestine and notoriously illegal profits from modern-day slavery and super-obscene pornography were at an all-time high, and discipline problems were virtually non-existent. If a command came down from the top, it was executed. No questions asked. Lest something abominable and extraordinarily personal got added to legend.

So when Saliki’s husband was told to exhume the bodies, the very mythological object-lessons that maintained the finespun order they all lived by, that some new and belligerent staff members had expressed doubts as to their very existence, he was filled with the usual uncanny dread one would have at such an unpleasant chore, and no question whatsoever as to whether or not he would do as he was told. It smelled at least as awful as he expected when he lifted the lid—if not worse—and the fresh young men who were helping him fled at the sight, quaking, no longer heretics but now true believers all. No matter; he still had a job to do, a heinous responsibility to take care of.

He could not even begin to imagine his surprise when he found no trace of Flynn’s wife in the vault. Which was most worrisome to him, as he was the one who caught her when she ran and had put her in there himself when she proved…defiant. Under orders, of course. He was quite sure he couldn’t explain this, and it bothered him. Immensely.

All of which was downright laughable compared to his utter astonishment when Flynn opened his eyes, famished, full of tales. Horrible tales that would not go over well in polite company.

And as it was before the Sanhedrin of old, Lazarus was not allowed to long testify about the miracles and mercies of our Lord and Savior and their tendencies to undermine the powers and authorities of sin and gravely menace, nor about whatever the hell hell was like, and certainly not even much more than a word or two about where the fuck the god damn money was—being the obstinate bastard he was—and Flynn and Saliki’s husband ended up getting to spend considerably more time together, getting better acquainted. For different reasons, obviously. Although, the pleasantries of "Hi, how are you, I’m fine, thanks, how are you," did not manage to come up in their discourse. Which could, arguably, be attributed to the lack of charming decorations and sand, as opposed to some kind of generalized communication problem. There might have been some anger issues.

Flynn got the opportunity to test his reverse cowgirl—er, cowboy—theories. Needless to say, much to his dismay, he was disappointed in the results; he was not as enthused about forced butt fucking like this as he maybe thought he once was. The Third Great Turning proved a considerable challenge during the conjoined life sentences he shared with his new prison cell-mate, and he had to wait until Saliki’s husband went quiet to work on it, to get everything back to how it was in the beginning before he could find his way back onto the beach where The Resurrection happened in shifts, at least until the manna and the foo foo drinks ran out, and he had to go back to defying his mother with his own good right hand the way he did when he was back in his room, utterly and completely alone at last, masturbating all the live long day as he did every god damn day he was alive, waiting to be born-reborn-die-whatever, and it was so that he finally truly got around to going about things the way it really was in the beginning, and after he had fucked himself dry a time or two, The Lord stopped by to see how he was doing.

"So what you been up to?"

"Oh, uh, nothing much. Jerking off."

"Hey, you know, you used to do this, all the way back even before you were born, waiting to come out of your mother’s womb."

"For true?"

"Oh, god yes. You know, I used to do it, too, when I was inside…never mind." There was a pause. "Long story."

"Whatever. So, why is it then, that when I was so happily masturbating along in my sainted mother’s uterus, you didn’t make so I could impregnate her a little more while I was in there, to make myself a sister so she could suck my cock so I didn’t have to work so hard while I was waiting around with nothing better to do?"

"Oh, come on, lazy bones. There’s enough of you all as it is."

"Uh huh. So tell me: is what I’m doing here really a sin?"

"I just don’t know why it is you people fail to understand that whenever you rub one out, lo, I am there with you always, sucking your cocks and licking your cunts in the form of your own good right hands. I mean, look: if your own god damn fucking God isn’t concerned with your ecstasy, then who is?"

"Oh, come on." There was another pause. "That’s not what they tell us, you know."

"Yeah, I know. A lot of things got garbled up in translation. Language barrier of some kind; I don’t understand it. You do know that the First Commandment was supposed to be ‘Thou shalt fuck thyselves and each other to god damn fucking death’, don’t you?"

"Really."

"Uh huh, really, and I must say, you’re doing a bang up job of that in here, by the way. Thou art my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased."

"Gee, thanks…uh…Dad. You do know that’s kind of gay."

"What is?"

"The idea of you sucking me off while I’m jerking off."

"Maybe. I don’t know that I care, and you’re certainly not one to talk, not after what’s-his-name. Do you want I should send my mom in? She’s a pretty amazing cocksucker. Honestly spectacular, if the truth be told. She likes it messy. And oh, my god, is she ever a looker. Drop fucking dead fucking fuckable gorgeous."

"I can well imagine. Hey, you wouldn’t want to get me out of all this, would you?"

"Gee, like I haven’t already done that, and look. Here you still are."

"I s’pose." Flynn sighed.

"As it was in the beginni—"

"—Please don’t sing. And for god’s sakes, especially not that. Isn’t that enormously vain?"

"Sorry." There was an eternal pause, full of quiet. "Maybe I should see about what I can do to get this on this list, too: ‘Be ye buried alive with one another, so that thou shalt find thy way back unto Me…’."

"Not that I’m trying to tell you your business, here, God, but I really don’t know how well that would go over."

"I s’pose not. Just a thought." The Lord sighed. "So, are you going to get to it, then? Finish fucking yourself to death, like you did all the others?"

"Oh, right." Flynn went back to the matters at hand, and the Lord watched, and helped, and approved.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Will I get to fuck angels when I get there? You know, in heaven? Or hell, or whatever it is that’s after this?"

The Lord laughed. "Oh, right. Like I could stop you."

And so it was that Flynn finished up as he started, splattering and splashing and spurting on himself, fucking himself back to the oblivion he had tried to fuck himself out of in some ancient bygone era, in the belly of Leviathan. As is now and ever shall be, Amen.

###

HIS ALMOST-mother woke up in bed, a real bed, by herself, of all things, with cool clean sheets and dim lights casting luminous shadows on the pale green walls. She felt…empty. Her husband came around the side, leaned over and kissed her, smiled, and put his hand on her without any kind of inappropriate liberty, hoping to be a comfort to her. He asked her if she was alright, and she said no.

"Thought we were going to lose you."

"You should be so lucky. It’s what I would most certainly deserve."

"Don’t say that."

"I’m sorry I lost him. It was a boy this time, right?"

"Actually, it was twins. A boy and a girl."

"Oh, god. Can you forgive me?"

"There’s nothing to forgive. We just have to let them go."

"I think we’re getting too good at letting them go."

"They were simply not going to make it. Doctors said he lasted longer than she did."

"Oh, don’t tell me that."

"Sorry. These things happen; you know that. We can and we will try again. It’s still important to me. Is it still to you?"

"Of course."

"When you’re ready."

"Not right away, if you don’t mind. I could use a vacation."

"Where would you like to go?

"Where else? The beach."

"If you wish. You deserve it; you’ve—arguably—had a rough day. I love you, you know."

"I’ve heard tale tell…I love you, too. I had the strangest dream. A nightmare, really. Dreadful."

"Might have been the anesthesia."

"Maybe. But if we ever do succeed? I want to name him Flynn, if it’s a boy. And…Saliki, if it’s a girl."

"What an odd name."

"Long story." The couple sat together and grieved as long as they could, crying each other out as they had so many times before, holding each other tight. "Can I ask you something?" she asked when she could compose herself.

"Of course."

"Can we start going to church again?"

"If you would like, yes. Which one?"

"One that still sings hymns."

"You know I can’t sing worth a darn."

"Would you try for me? Bungle around to match the notes and the words as best as you can, and stand by me and hold my hand?"

"I can imagine worse things. And nothing better." Her husband smiled and laughed a little. "Glory be."

###

 

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