Hotel

By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2016

ANYTHING GOOD on tonight?

No, nothing yet.

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

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

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

What?

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

Probably not.

So, fix it.

What for?

It would be entertaining.

I don’t know that I want to.

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

Ow! Fine. Whatever. Naked.

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

It is pretty amusing.

So shall we impress upon them what comes next?

“Next?”

You know what I mean.

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

Not quite, no.

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

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

What makes you think they’re straight?

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

I suppose. And homophobic?

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

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

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

I suppose not.

So let’s have some fun. Say “boners.”

Why?

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

It would, wouldn’t it? Boners.

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

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

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

You’re right. No explanations.

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

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

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

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

What’s your point?

I probably don’t have one.

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

Do I have to stay for this part?

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

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

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

Not interested.

Spoil sport.

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

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

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

—Shut up. Gawd. Tell me something.

What?

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

Love who?

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

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

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

No clue.

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

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

Until the cock crows.

Good god, woman. Really?

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

Ow! Until the cock crows. Quit hitting me.

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

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

Hang on; look at that. Change of plan.

Now what?

One of them isn’t circumcised.

So? You only just now noticed that?

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

Uh oh.

As in, right god damn now?

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

Fuck off.

Wait; is that an offer?

God damn it, stop it. Let go.

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

Like that works. Especially around here.

I would like to make love to you.

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

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

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

You know what I mean.

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

Oh? Do we need to talk?

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

Gad; yeah? So?

Well, I want him to cum.

Which one?

The guy getting hoovered, duh.

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

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

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

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

Jesus, you’re sick.

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

He’s going to barf, you know.

I don’t care.

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

Motherfucker. Keep it down.

Might teach you a lesson.

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

Fuckermother. Keep it down.

Hmph; good call. That was close.

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

Ew.

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

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

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

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

I don’t think that’s the same.

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

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

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

Yeah, well—

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

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

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

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

Made you smile.

You’re so fucking funny.

Aren’t I though? Now say it.

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

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

Promises, promises.

I mean it.

I’d rather you sucked it.

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

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

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

Would you stay for that?

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

Had to ask.

Do we have a deal?

No scorning, or scoffing; no snarky remarks.

No, of course not.

A slow kiss.

S-sure.

Every night for a week.

Don’t press your luck, bucko.

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

Fuck. Done.

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

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

Holy Christ.

Will you look at that?

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

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

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

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

This—this is the real reason for a bris.

What is?

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

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

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

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

All night long.

Don’t you let me down.

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

You old softie. Happily, ever after, then.

Don’t forget: you owe me.

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

That makes me feel so much better; thanks.

###

SO WHO else do we have?

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

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

Doesn’t look like it, no.

Wow. Even I’m impressed. He’s huge.

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

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

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

What is it?

I can’t tell.

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

Really? Now?

Yes, really.

Alright. Like a geyser.

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

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

Makes me wonder about your stalwart heterosexuality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleach. Your job.

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

I think you’ll survive.

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

Still impatient?

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

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

Nothing. Release me, you cad.

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

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

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

You think that’s a lady?

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

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

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

I knew it. Do you fucking see that?

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

Is that what you call that? “Bigger?”

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

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

It seems to mean something to her.

Seems to mean a lot to her.

What’s our little man doing?

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

I want to see her swallow it.

Him or her toy?

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

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

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

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

Are we agreed?

Yes. Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Christ almighty; she’s done this before.

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

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

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

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

Crimeny. She-she’s ravishing herself.

Did you make her do that?

No, I did not.

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

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

Yes. Hard. With that freakish atrocity choking her.

With that freakish atrocity choking her.

Now that is a woman in the presence of god.

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

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

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

Nah; let’s turn it around.

What?

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

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

Not if he can double fuck her.

Huh?

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

You are so fucking perverted.

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

I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?

Maybe not one for the grandkids.

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

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

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

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

You’re kidding.

No. Say that.

I don’t think so.

Mind me! Do it!

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

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

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

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

###

ANYONE ELSE?

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

—Oh, no you don’t.

…Oh, “no-I-don’t” what?

No sir. Not again.

What the hell are you talking about?

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

Remember what?

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

Wait, are you saying we did something actually bad?

Not me, shitwipe. You.

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

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

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

Fuck you.

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

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

Excuse me?

No.

No? No what?

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

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

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

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

I don’t want to play any more tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll take my chances.

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

Leave me the fuck alone.

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

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

Obviously, I haven’t.

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

I…I’m lost.

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

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

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

For the love of god, why?

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

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

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

Uh huh. But?

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

Yeah, but here was I?

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

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

Keep your god damn hands off me!

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

Don’t you even—

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

I hate you.

No, you don’t.

Watch me.

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

Will that work?

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

Oh no.

“Oh no” what?

It-it’s them.

What? Who?

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

Huh?

They-they’re back.

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

Liar. Jesus. It’s still happening.

What are you blathering on about?

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

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

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

Yeah, so?

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

Hmmm?

She’s playing with herself.

Who is?

The girl. According to plan.

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

Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.

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

God damn you. Fix it. Change them back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m leaving you!

Why?

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

###

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

“She’s gone.”

The young lady exhaled, and blinked relief.

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

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

###

 

Posted with Blogsy

Recreational Scolding

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Showtime

By Brewt.Blacklist

November-December 2015

Thanks to Tim Woodman—@ProVillian himself—for inspiration and support

Prologue.

THE PRESENTATION had gone as well as it could, and it was down to the decision, the moment, the pregnant pause in the meeting that hung everything in the balance. The air fell dead in the room, and the expressions around the table were dull and blank as everyone waited for someone else to say something. The first inhale happened, and everyone stopped breathing.

"I like this."

And that was all it took. The acceptance went around the room like a virus, like a ripple, and everyone was on board with the proposal, the project, and it was suddenly noisy, with thoughts and suggestions and ideas, and it all came down to the same question:

"Can you really do this?"

The Villain smiled that wry smile he would get at times like these with the signature head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake and said that yes, yes he could.

"You know someone—someones—who would actually do this?"

"Believe it. I got people begging me to be part of this."

"Interesting you put it that way. As always."

Laughter chortled into the waves of hummings as they bounced off the walls of the conference center.

"Alright then. Make it happen, my friend. Make us some money."

The Villain breathed a slow sigh of relief after everyone had left and savored the moment, the victory before he headed back to the office to start filling in all the blanks for the production costs, and began printing contracts, and making calls.

###

Act One, Scene One.

THE HARD part was getting all the guns. The Villain had begged, borrowed and stole every prop gun he could get his hands on. Everyone in the scene had to have one—man, woman, child—and the steadycam made its trek down the street, making it clear that everyone did.

"Cut. Would you all listen, please? I know how much fun it is to be in the background and draw your weapon, hoping someone pays attention to you, but if I haven’t told you specifically to, you have to leave them holstered. Visible, yes, but this isn’t a shot that establishes how easily they can come out. This is before any of that can happen. We just want to show how it looks for everyone to have one. Should be fucking scary enough on its own. Quickkdraw McFunnypants is not the point here. From the top, please."

The camera operator trudged back up the block, and everyone got back in position.

"Remember: it’s normal. So please. Don’t make a big deal that you have a gun. Nobody is special in this shot." The bullhorn cackled. "Everyone where they need to be? Alright. Annnd…Action."

The camera operator began her walk, rolling high-def, and The Villain followed behind. They passed the young woman with the sniper rifle slung around her back, pushing the baby carriage.

"Nope, cut. Don’t look at the camera, darling. One more time."

The day was lovely, the sun sparkled through the trees, and the extras had to work against their nature, against their own narcissisms; it was difficult to be transparent, casual, not the center of attention, let alone be simply unconcerned that everyone in the world was armed to the teeth. A plane flew overhead, and there was now suddenly extra need for foley in the budget. The camera turned, and approached the door to the restaurant. An arm reached into view, and opened the door, and the camera went inside, where it was dark.

"Beautiful. Cut. I think that’ll do. Thank you everyone. If you’re not slated to be in the next scene, please turn everything in to props."

The hustle and bustle of movie making carried on as the light got harsher and brighter outside, and the next scene was set up for in the bar.

###

Act One, Scene Two.

THE LOUNGE was packed. Various colored waters filled all the glasses, and all the men and women on set were working hard to make it look like they were having a good time in the meat market today. There would be more sound problems to fix in post, as the acoustics generally sucked. The sound guy shrugged, and the process continued.

"Action."

The camera followed the woman up to the last empty table, and circled her as she sat down. The waitress dutifully came up and took her order, sashaying her unreasonably short skirt and thigh-holster hard enough in a way that almost got the scene stopped—but not quite; the randy little bitch who didn’t get the lead still knew how to play the line between being important and not being important in a shot to her slight advantage as she disappeared into the crowd—and the woman, the starlet, The Actress once again in focus glanced around the room.

The Actor—fresh in from Broadway—was cued, and he approached the woman at the table with a mock-beer in hand. She glanced up and smiled at him, and nodded to the empty seat.

"Jesus, that’s a big one," she said, tipping her head to view the side of his leg as he sat. Glasses clanked in the background along with the cliché of low laughter.

"Do you like it?"

"Makes me wonder if you aren’t maybe over compensating for something. Do you drive a shiny red sports car, too?"

"Nah. Truck. A big one. But yeah. Rrrred." He crinkled his nose, and there was well-rehearsed pause. "Show me yours."

The Actress went coy. "Gee, mister, I don’t even know you."

"Oh, come on."

"If you insist." She opened her purse, and took her own piece out, and laid it on the table.

"Christ, that’s an antique."

"Still totally works. Can’t miss with it if I try." She leaned over the table and hoisted it up, running her fingers up and down the long narrow barrel, tipping her head toward her would-be suitor. "This is the best part right here. Imagine what that would be good for." She made a circle with her finger and thumb, and moved it around and down the gunmetal slowly, tightening her grip when her hand went the other way as she popped her hand off the end, before trying to nudge the weapon, twisting it back through the very tiny opening she symbolized that she had left in her otherwise empty hand. She wiggled slightly in her chair.

The man started heaving his chest, staring at the gun and the flirtation she was playing with. He licked his lips, and unholstered his own well-protected right, pointing it up to the ceiling. She lifted her eyes to what was in his hand; her breath caught. He bent his fingers over, still pointing the gun up, so that he was holding it upright by the grip with his fingertips. Keeping it completely vertical, he began an up and down motion with the service revolver.

"I, uh, don’t want to brag—"

"—Yes, yes you do."

He smiled, relaxed a little, and measured the tip of the barrel down toward the trigger with his other hand, spanning a length of it with his middle finger and thumb. He rolled his eyes toward hers, and waited for her to look at him before he nodded and slow-blinked.

"Oh, fuck." She straightened up and thrust her chest out toward him.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"God, yes. I thought you’d never ask."

The couple stood and put their weapons away, and made for the door.

"Cut! Beautiful. That’s a wrap for today, people, thank you."

The crowd of actors and crew started hooting and hollering. All the weapons in the room got drawn, aimed at whoever was nearby, and everyone made explosive gun noises with their mouths. Giggling and sniggering danced around, and the bristling set in as to where all the real booze was.

###

The Screening.

THE VILLAIN was nervous; the big day had come. He had thrown everything he had at this one, and had cut and reshot and re-edited the bejesus out of his budgets until even he was satisfied. The backers started arriving, and were delighted to meet the principal actors. They were very complimentary, especially of the woman, about how big a fan they all were of all her work. She smiled and tittered and thanked everyone for coming. At the nod of command from the host, and without further ado, she introduced The Villain and his latest effort. The room filled with shrugs and smirks through the mercifully short first act. Which, of course, was not what they had put so much money up for, even if they did acknowledge its necessity for the setup for the sake of art and literary merit and all that rot.

No, the real expense of the production saddled on up to cuddle with the director, as the Name Actress was about to earn all the money they paid to get her after the next cut.

The Second Act began in an apartment, with the couple stumbling through the door, desperately kissing at each other, clawing at each other’s clothes until they were in the middle of the living room, out of breath, standing, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The man drew first, aiming the gun directly to the middle of her chest. "Take off your fucking clothes."

She glanced over toward the coffee table by the couch, where her purse had fallen.

"Don’t even think about it, whore."

She looked at him, dead-square in the eye with a vile hunger, and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her fingers threw the cloth away from her, little by little as she quivered and rocked her torso side to side, breathing a sharp exhale through her nose with each button she undid. "You, too, outlaw."

"Not yet," he sneered.

She whipped her blouse back off her shoulders, and settled her arms down to her side, letting it slide and fall off her slowly as she continued her slow rocking, her breathing running jagged. She let him look a good long time.

"Keep going, sllllammmpig." The last half of the insult exploded from his mouth, falling dead in the room. The actress absorbed all the disgust, all the filth that went with it like a sponge, and relished what it did to her core.

Her face went flat, her eyelids drooped as she reached up to the middle of her back and undid her bra. It practically burst open from behind, and she hunched her shoulders forward to slow its way off her. She opened her mouth to breath deeper and faster as she let the cups fall forward into her hand, as she pulled her arms away from herself, revealing her breasts slowly, before she tossed it off to the side, not even looking toward where it landed, staying riveted on him.

"Ffffuck," he wheezed out, practically drooling at her for a moment before he screwed up his demand. "Are you rrrresting?" He thrust his chin and his lips forward.

She exhaled once, and slid her hands up to the front of her jeans, undoing the buttons on the front of it. She shimmied her hips from side to side, letting her pants fall down to the floor.

"Leave the shoes on."

"Like those?" She smirked as she bent over to wrestle her ankles out of the trousers before she stood back up, erect and straight, her hands ramrodded down at her side, with her head tipped down so her chin was practically on her chest, rolling her eyes up with all the smoke she could throw, thrusting her breasts up high and proud toward the man with the gun.

He appraised her body and approved of how her jostling made her boobs wiggle. "Show me." He made a circling motion with the nozzle toward the one piece of clothing she had left on, that did little if anything to cover her wax job.

Her eyelids fluttered as she slid her thumbs into the straps of her thong, and she bent back over, pushing it down to her feet, lifting a knee.

"Leave them there, around your ankles. I like that."

"Oh, you bad boy; hobbling me." She licked her lips.

"Shut up." He stepped around her, trailing his open hand over her stomach and around to her back, down toward her buttocks as he passed her on his way to the sofa. He plopped down, sure to keep his weapon directed toward her. "Now impress me."

"Mmmmm." She looked over her shoulder as she turned toward him, lowering herself to her knees slowly, gracefully, in one smooth motion, spreading her thighs so he could see between them before bending over then arching her back to make a show of her cleavage towards the floor, before she began to crawl across the room towards him, breathing slow and deep in time to how she rocked, making a seduction of her approach. When she reached him, she climbed up his calves, running her hands up and down his thighs, keeping her eyes on his face, accessing, planning, reacting to what he wanted.

"Use your teeth."

She inhaled long and hard. "Wicked man." She bent over his crotch, and put her face down into his lap, and began using her mouth to open his belt. She had trouble with the tops of his too-tight pants, and had to resort to looking back up to him, pleading that he allow her to succeed in what he asked of her by any means necessary.

He moved the pistol toward her face, and nudged her to open her mouth. She quivered, but complied, and he inched the barrel into her lips as she fought with his pants. For the first time, she looked worried, and she moved her hands faster, to get him exposed, to free him, so she could direct her mouth away from the gun.

"I shot a cunt last week, for doing this so god damn badly."

She shuddered, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, directing it up into the air between them, stretching him out, holding him, pulling gently up and stopping until his asshole contracted enough to pull the tip she so delicately held out of her fingers, getting her to do it again, and again, making him hard, easing her way back from the threat, lowering herself, widening her mouth, licking the barrel so he could see what she could be doing for him directly, instead of through the substitute he had aimed through her throat. She managed to pull herself off the weapon, and, keeping her mouth open wide, she finished closing the space between her mouth and his sex, and heaved her chest, pressing her breasts into his thighs.

As soon as her mouth made contact with him, he slumped back into the cushions. He absorbed her heat, her wetness, and his eyes rolled back into his head as she engulfed his cock into her mouth, taking him all the way in all at once, compressing his dick against the roof of her mouth.

"God, fuck, yeah," he rasped out.

She sucked him in, and drew him out, stretching his erection out further, bobbing her head up and down in his crotch several times, making murmuring sounds as she blew him as though her life depended on it. She pulled back, and let him fall out of her mouth, making a smacking sound. His dick smacked against his stomach.

He jerked, and startled, and flopped around on the couch. "What the fu—"

"—I killed a motherfucker last week for failing to make me cum." Her shoulder yanked up; the barrel of her own gun was completely buried in the man’s asshole. "Consider that your warning, you son of a bitch." She heaved her chest, and panted. His jaw fell, and he leaned forward, keeping his own gun at her neck.

"Fucking slut."

"Pansy-ass bastard."

He continued his forward motion, pushing her down toward the floor. Somewhere in there, she wrenched her gun out of his ass, getting him to lurch, and she pulled it up to the side of his head, under his jaw the same way his gun was directed towards her. They laid out flat, with him on top, jostling his cock in toward her pussy. She spread her legs and rolled her hips and had to reach in between them to get him where they both wanted him to be, to be inside her.

She wiggled and relaxed as he slid in; they both kept their eyes directed at each other, intently, both of them showing their teeth—his upper teeth, her lower teeth—as he fucked her, and she fucked him back. Both of their breathing cycles serrated, and the intensity of the intercourse mounted as he lunged into her harder and faster.

Their abandon was rampant—no stunt cock, no stunt pussy: this was the real deal, no question, actual penetration, insertion, thrusting, god, fucking, they were hate-fucking each other’s brains out—and the aggression and the lust was thick, and they fucked, and they threatened, and they swore, and they fucked more insistently, getting wilder as the fucking continued, on, and on, and fucking on, fucking, fucking, fucking, grunting, moaning, fucking. As he was about to orgasm, he cocked his gun. She responded in kind, becoming noisier, calling on him to fuck her harder, daring him to fucking fuck her like he fucking meant it, telling him to do it, come on, just fucking do it, lolling her head around, committing, ready, this was going to be it, nothing else was going to matter.

His cock pulled back, and out of her, and he came. Like a race horse. As he splashed her pussy with semen, she came, too. Came like she meant it.

The scene faded to black, and the end note flickered across the screen: "Another Villainy Production." A gunshot was heard.

###

Aftermath.

THE SCREENING room, filled with actors and backers and production people, exploded with applause as the lights came up. The Villain smiled, and put his hand to his chest, and took a small bow. "I hope it served."

The Principal Backer stood with a big grin on his face, the kind he got when he foresaw the bright and shiny future of money pouring in from these things, as he had so very often been rewarded with such splendors by his faith in the director, and reached his arm out. "Outstanding."

The men shook hands, and the crowd broke into buzzings of excitement, congratulations, and laughter. Milling about happened, drinks were refreshed, and The Actor and The Actress were clamored around, besieged with questions.

"Was it scary?"

"How many takes did you have to do?"

"I can’t believe you actually did this; will there be a followup?"

"Can I have your autograph?"

"How do you stay in such good shape?"

"I must extend my kudos," the Principal Backer said, "to your props people. Those mockups were quite convincing."

The Actress tipped her head into a blank look, and smiled wryly toward The Villain. "Mockup?"

"The gun."

"You mean this?" The Actress reached under the table, and pulled out the weapon she had used in the film. She checked the clip, and cocked it.

The Principal Backer laughed. "Yes. An excellent piece."

The Actress’s usual easy and engaging smile morphed into mockery. She whirled the antique around, and fired it. The bullet flew from the end of the barrel, striking the Principal Backer’s wife in the chest, bursting blood onto her cocktail dress. The victim fell back directly, flat, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, crashing into the coffee table, shattering glasses, splaying out on it, dead on impact.

The Actor pulled his own gun out from the couch cushions, and fired it into the crowd as well, wounding the camera operator.

"Everybody!" The Villain shouted, jumping up on coffee table, kicking the dead woman off. "Now do what we say!"

The room went still, and the whispering died out, and the attention settled down and focused entirely on the man who was apparently in charge.

"Take your fucking clothes off. Every last one of you. Right god damn now." The menace was thick.

Another shot rang out from The Actress, and another backer fell down, writhing and groaning, and everybody immediately went to work.

"All of it. Every stitch."

A couple of the men —extras that managed to finagle their way into the screening—refused, rearing fists back, and The Actor dispatched them. Compliance became the word of the day. Various women were crying, and everyone was quaking, trying to hide their shames with their hands.

"W-why would you do this?" one woman—The Waitress—tried to ask. She didn’t get to finish her last sentence on earth before she, too, took her place among the fallen. The Actress blew smoke off the end of her barrel.

"A fair question. You all thought it would be entertaining—or maybe even arousing—to see a famous couple fuck each other at gunpoint? Well, now you get to find out what it’s like for yourselves. You will all fuck each other, right here, right now. Every man in every woman, every man in every man, every woman in every woman. The first time you fail to get off, will be your last. Start fucking, start sucking, start fisting, start licking, start getting your hands and your cocks and your tongues into each other. Nnnow." The scowl meant business.

Another shot rang out, and another man slumped to the floor. Cries to The Lord began to bubble through the home theatre, as the people left at the screening began to turn towards each other, in fear, in trembling, tentatively reaching out for each other, touching each other—lightly at first, then more and more aggressively—shuddering, with faces crumpling everywhere as they all began molesting each other.

"This guy ain’t coming on to the guy next to him," The Actor said, reloading. "Think he’s afraid of being called a fag, afraid of sucking a little cock?"

"Ask him," The Villain said, crossing his arms.

"Hey, dipshits. Why aren’t you two sucking each other off? Are you prepared to die for your precious sexual orientation?"

"No, wait, please, I’ve never done this!"

"Your point? Show us. Right fucking now."

"Oh, god." The man fell down, crashing onto his knees, and opened his mouth.

The Actor came around to the other man, thrusting his gun up to his chin. "Stick it in. Put your god damn cock in this asshole’s fucking mouth." He cocked the gun. "Unless you’re ready to meet your maker right god damn now."

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit." The man on the floor waited, and nodded, palpitating, and the man under threat moved forward, his lips trembling as his penis, limp and useless, got enveloped by an unwilling mouth.

"You better fucking cum from this, you hear? Make our new little homosexual here gag." The Actor backed away, and turned his attentions around the room. The men were left to pleasure each other, as such as they could, as terrified of failing as they were of succeeding.

The cast and crew and executives were working on the demands, committed now, and The Villain, The Actress and The Actor leaned up against the wall, and watched, and approved, clinking their glasses. The trio pointed and elaborated on how fucking good one couple seemed to be doing, getting along—famously, at that—really going at it, getting into it, how maybe they’ll get a part in the sequel, look at ‘em go, and they all three laughed and drank, and pointed out how another couple might need more encouragement, more direction, more…motivation. Which was provided. Efforts were redoubled in the remainder after the guns got reloaded.

But overall, the sobbings and whimperings slowly melded into sounds of passion, as hips were being thrust, profanity was being gasped out, and heads were being thrown back from more than one kind of desperation.

The Villain turned and raised his chin with a leer and a squint, making a small head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake. He took a long slow breath, his gaze boring through the souls he looked directly into. His nose crinkled. "Any day now, assholes, any day now."

Fade to black, and the words "Another Villainy Production" crossed the screen. There were gunshots and screams in the dark.

###

Posted with Blogsy

Session

By Brewt.Blacklist

May 2015

"AH, YES. Please. Come in. We’re so very glad to have you back."

"Thank you."

"It’s been, wow. Months. You do know that the rules in insurance have changed, and that this is covered now, don’t you?"

"I don’t think I knew that."

"Oh, yes. Completely. Once you’ve met your deductible, this is all covered, and for you….yes. You can come back every day for the rest of the year, if you’d like."

"Really? Is that for everyone?"

"Absolutely."

"Bureaucrats finally did something right, eh?"

"Indeed they did."

"I would think you would be much busier, then. I had no trouble getting in at all."

"Well, we’re not convinced the insurance change is common knowledge yet; regulations are unnecessarily cryptic, you know."

"You’re telling me."

"I don’t know why they are so allergic to plain language. We had to hire someone just to figure the darn things out, if you’ll excuse my French. Anyway, if you want to set up a schedule, you might want to do that before you leave, before we do get booked up."

"Yes. Yes, of course, thank you. I’ll, uh, I’ll do that."

"Very good. So. I do have to ask a few things, as it’s been such a while since you’ve been to see us. Have you been getting this taken care of at other facilities?"

"No."

"Right. Consequently, I’m afraid I do have to ask: have you been getting private help?"

"God, no."

"And you will have to forgive the intrusion but…have you been taking care of it yourself?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hence, it truly has been since you were last in to see us in December?"

"I’m afraid so."

"Well, we certainly don’t try to tell you how to live your life, but, would you agree that isn’t perhaps the best lifestyle choice? Research shows tha—"

"—It wasn’t a question of choice on my part. I’ve just been absolutely buried at work, and there are only so many candles I can juggle and burn on both ends at the same time."

"Oh, no, there’s no judgment. I’m not trying to make you feel bad about anything here—we all do have lives that are busy—and we do appreciate your business. But you do have to take care of yourself fir—"

"—You mean I should let you take care of me."

"Yes, of course. That’s what we’re here for, sir. Now, if you’ll come with me, we can get things started, and begin to make things back to how they should be."

"Sure. Listen, I didn’t mean to snap at you ther—"

"—Nonsense. Frankly, it’s been rather long, and I’m surprised you haven’t done anything about it yourself until now. It’s best you came in. It isn’t the least bit surprising that you’re a little cranky, if you’ll forgive me for saying so."

"Well, it’s not right of me to lash out at you like that. It’s not like it’s your fault."

"Please, think little of it. I am a professional, as are we all here."

"And I do appreciate that; thank you."

"Ah, here’s your room. After you."

"Very nice. Should I start getting undressed?"

"Oh, you can wait until after I’ve left, sir. As usual, if you would start out face down on the table. Your therapist will be in momentarily."

"Alright."

"Now, there have been some rule changes since you were here last, what with the way insurance works these days. The very first one is that you are not allowed to speak with your therapist at all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Given the nature of the procedure, insurance has dictated some terms to deal with coverage issues that they—I’m so sorry to say—didn’t want to contend with."

"Then how will I tell her if it’s going alright?"

"I assure you, sir, all of our therapists are the very best at what they do, and can read you better than you can."

"Good lord, I wasn’t quite prepared for this. What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing will go wrong. I can personally guarantee it. You will be very well monitored. Heart rate, blood pressure, electro cardiogram, electroencephalogram, you name it, you’ll be hooked up to it. What’s more, we videotape it all, to make sure everything is on the up-and-up, should the question get asked."

"That sounds…invasive. So why can’t I talk to her? Can’t I even say hello?"

"Good heavens, no. It is precisely those sort of attachments that insurance wants to avoid. It isn’t a question of courtesy or pleasantries or even secrets. We all know what you’re here for."

"It just seems so impersonal. So inhuman. Clinical."

"Which is part of the point, here, sir. This is being covered under the necessities of basic physiological needs, therefore there can’t be any remote hint of any kind of offensive emotional impact or attachment, as that would put what we do here under an entirely different clause on your insurance contract, which will accordingly land everything back to not being covered…hence costing you more."

"I’m not sure I like that."

"Unfortunately, it is what it is. Your trepidations are completely understandable, but I should stress that if you simply cannot abide by this procedure change, we will have to gag you. We can’t allow ourselves into a position to have this not be covered any more than you can. So it does put me into the position to have to ask: given the risks for default on coverage, would you accept being gagged from the start? Just to be safe?"

"I…I never have been."

"No, I didn’t see that in your chart. But it would be for everyone’s benefit if you would consent to that from the very beginning."

"I just don’t know."

"It’s certainly not something I can force you into. However, I would need you to sign this waiver to proceed if you decide to go without the gag."

"What is it?"

"It says that, if you speak during the procedure, that you will be held liable for the costs."

"How much are we talking about?"

"An estimate is on the second page."

"Good heavens! Why so much?"

"We’ve upgraded a lot of things around here, for compliance reasons."

"I can’t possibly afford that."

"Which is why insurance is such a blessing."

"Good lord. I will take the gag."

"Very good. Don’t worry; they’re not so bad. You will not be entirely helpless or incommunicative while you are in it. You will simply not be able to use words. You can still nod and shake your head, and you are free to make whatever noise you wish from under the gag."

"What about sign language?"

"Well, that does bring up the next point here. You will be bound."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I think that would be almost obvious. So you couldn’t interfere with the procedure."

"How can that possibly work? With me tied face down on the table?"

"Believe it or not, the table has a very clever rotation mechanism in it. Upgrades, you know. We’re quite proud that our methods and equipment are actually from this century now. Your therapist—when they have gotten what needs to done with you on your stomach all accomplished—will be able to quite simply turn you over and finish it all up. It works like this. See? Less physiological impact on you than if you were to roll yourself over. You’ll hardly even know it is happening."

"This is almost too much. I’m beginning to think this was a mistake."

"I see. You are, of course, free to go, sir, and simply pay the consultation fee. Page three."

"This is outrageous. What if I went someplace else? Some place less advanced?"

"This is how the industry works now, sir. Assuming you can even get in somewhere else, it will happen pretty much the same way everywhere."

"What if I went with a freelancer?"

"As we’ve discussed, you’d be hard pressed to even find one any more, never mind trying to get it covered. They have been all but regulated out of existence. And doing it yourself, well, I think you know as well as I do how well that will work out."

"Christ. You’ll forgive me if I’m struggling with this. I just…Damn it!"

"No need for that kind of language, sir."

"Sorry…I’m sorry."

"We are trying to do everything we can to make you as comfortable as we can for this."

"This is a lot of adjustment. This is nothing like it was last year."

"Yes, of course. I understand, it is a lot of change. The future has a way of sneaking up on us. Would you like a moment?"

"No, I don’t see that I have any options here. Are there any other little changes I need to know about?"

"Only one that might be meaningful: we will have to blindfold you."

"Imagine my surprise."

"To avoid any kind of emotional issues, over attachment and the like, as we’ve already discussed."

"As we’ve already discussed. Gad. This is a bureaucratic nightmare."

"Personally, I wish it didn’t have to be this way; I’m a bit old-fashioned myself. But it’s not like we can offer you any kind of alternative, and I do apologize for that. What do you want to do?"

"I don’t have a whole lot of choice. Go ahead."

"Excellent. I will take my leave of you to go wrangle paperwork, and send in the technicians to bind you to the table, and apply the blindfold and the gag. Your therapist will be right with you."

"We do what we have to do."

###

"THANK YOU, yes. I have a question. Can I see the admissions person before we go any further?"

###

"YES, SIR. Is anything wrong? They haven’t tied you too tightly have they? Not cutting off any circulation? You can’t see anything from under there, can you?"

"How will I know if it’s a man or a woman?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, we—or at least, I—have been talking about the therapist as though it was going to be a woman. If I can’t see or move, and they don’t talk—now, hold on. Is the therapist going to be gagged, too?"

"I…well…"

"It seems to me that if my speech is a problem, theirs is, too. Which means they pretty much have to be gagged as well."

"You make a valid point. And yes, that would probably be wise."

"Which makes me wonder how well they are going to be able to do what is necessary with their mouth otherwise occupied."

"Well, that goes back to your question as to whether it’s a man or a woman. It doesn’t matter."

"It matters to me."

"Which I do not understand why it is you don’t know this. We don’t facilitate your, uh, needs, with hands or mouths or any other messy ways into the human body any more."

"What?!?"

"No, of course not. It’s a machine. The therapist simply sets it up."

"Are you trying to tell me—"

"—Absolutely. It’s perfectly normal. You masturbation session is going to be facilitated by a machine. Programmed prostate stimulation, penis milking, the whole nine yards. I swear, we’re going to knock your socks off. Now, we are still going through some transition around here, but in another month or two, we’ll have the virtual reality simulators in place, and we’ll be able to put you into the middle of a real-time 3-d rendered pornographic movie simulation, as nothing less than the star who gets the girl, and we’ll be able to facilitate any kink you might want to explore. Even the nasty ones. All completely safe, and best of all, all completely covered. Your body won’t know the difference, and it won’t take long before you won’t know, either."

"I don’t wan—mgluphmph!"

"Thank you. Sometimes we just have to take charge of the patients. Now please call the therapist in; get this gentleman going. Standard five expenditures. Mmmm. I am quite sure this will work out well for you, sir. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking you in every day for the rest of the year, and…I’m sure you can well imagine how insurance views missed appointments. I hope you don’t mind: the phone has been ringing off the hook. Apparently, word is getting around. Good luck, and thank you again for your business. We do so very much appreciate it."

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Agenda

 

By Brewt.Blacklist

March-April 2015

I’LL TELL you what I’m afraid of. I am deathly afraid of what I so deeply hate. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I’m not sure. I am afraid of that movie. What happened in it, in that one part. The one of the men going down the river in canoes one last time before it gets flooded into a lake, and how they ran into some bad men who made the fat one do things. I can’t even bring myself to say the line of what they told him to do, how they wanted him to act, what they wanted him to say, let alone what they did to him. And if it were to happen to me, I’m afraid the hero won’t be there to save the day, to kill the bad men, to tell me it’s alright, and that we will never speak of what happened again.

I know. It’s just a movie.

###

I AM afraid of being kidnapped. Crazy, huh. Grown man being afraid of that. Of being taken out someplace I don’t know, blindfolded so I can’t find my way back, and forcibly stripped. I will be embarrassed over being ridiculed about my body which I know isn’t that great. Then, in my fears, I will be tied facedown to a bench of some kind, with my legs spread out wide, and my arms pinned, with a gag or something in my mouth so my captors don’t have to listen to me complain. I will be blind, defenseless and silenced, and it will be awful and terrifying. Oh, I will fight for as long and as hard as I can, but the truth is that they will outlast me in my efforts to struggle against the inevitable. They don’t even have to do anything at this point, they just have to wait for me to expend all my energies against ropes that will not let go. When I have no strength left is when they will start in on me, and I will be completely helpless to do anything about it.

They are going to tell me, over and over, how I have already spent more time with my own hands on a p-penis—my own—than I have ever spent with a woman. And it will be true. They are going to say that that alone is proof positive of what I really am, and that I am here, with them, to live up to myself. They are going to touch me all over, putting their hands on me everywhere, even where I don’t want them to. Especially where I don’t want them to.

The horror that keeps me up at night is the idea that in the midst of all this, one of the assailants will come up behind me, and force his penis into my anus. Just like that. I know it is going to hurt, and that is not the worst of it, no. I am afraid he will push himself in, and pull himself out, and go right back in, over and over, until he ejaculates semen inside of me. And that the whole band of villains who are with him are going to do the same thing, one after another after another. And it will feel like it will never end.

The entire time, they are going to watch me like a hawk, and if anything happens to me or my penis that even remotely suggests I feel anything but abject hate for what is happening, even to the point that I am just too tired to fight any more, they are going to point and laugh and carry on about how much I like it, not to mention how much they want me to like it. They are going to tell me that they accept me, that they want me to relax, that I am just like them, that I am among friends, that I don’t need to be afraid any more. To go with the flow.

Just to prove their point, one of them is going to get down underneath me, while all this is going on, and he is going to put his lips onto my penis. He is going to draw me into his mouth, and he is going to prove to them that I like it by making my penis become erect, and getting me to ejaculate. Now, make no mistake, I will do what I am supposed to do, and urinate into his mouth. The thing of it is, he isn’t going to care. Which will alarm me, because another message is going to get through to my reptile brain that I know is a trick, and it will say that he liked it, and that he accepted that—even that—about me, and I won’t know what to do. No one could possibly like that about anybody, could they? I will be confused, and the first chink in my armor will appear, and my descent and my fall will become inevitable. And when he is done having a good laugh about how I tried to defend myself by doing something horrid he actually likes, he is going to nestle in and stay there, licking and kissing on me until my penis is erect and straight and hard and long and deep in his mouth, with him going relentlessly at me, putting his hot wet lips right to my root, right to the very base of my penis no matter how far back into his mouth my penis extends, and when that is all I can feel, he will draw back slow, suckling on me, driving me insane with pleasure, going all the way back down and staying there, convulsing around me and letting me experience how good that feels, doing everything he can to make sure that it feels unbelievably wonderful there, right there in ways no woman has ever done for me before, not like this, until my penis pulses and my own semen flows that I won’t be able to do anything about. Which is only the beginning.

It will completely sicken me, sending waves of upset and fear through my belly. Just like it did the first time I was with a woman, and she let me put my hands on her breasts, and then between her legs. I was amazed that she didn’t slap me, that she actually wanted me to touch her, and to kiss her, and feel whatever I could with her, and it was like I couldn’t stop. She didn’t want me to stop. Unlike now, when I want all this to stop more than anything in the world. My face will flush and blanch and I’ll get dizzy and swoon, just like what happened the first time I made love to a woman—my wife—the first time I ejaculated into her mouth, her vagina, her anus, and my whole world changed.

What’s worse in all this, is that they are going to do it again. Someone else is going to end up down there, underneath the bench, and whoever it was that was in there first, beneath me, between my legs, is going to come around, and take the gag out of my mouth, and try to shove his tongue in, a tongue that is covered with my own semen. I will spit it out, and he will lap it up like it was good. The blindfold will come off, and I will be shocked to see that everyone in the room is going to be doing the same thing, and all the penises of the entire gang are going to be in each other’s mouths, deep and long and erect, going in and out of each other’s mouths, driving hard until they are all pulsing and thrusting and ejaculating with everyone collecting mouthfuls of semen, before they come around to force semen-covered tongues into my mouth before shoving the gag back in to make sure it all stays in there.

At some point, someone is going to come to stand in front of me with his pants down, and my face right there. He is going to rip the gag back out of my mouth and pull my head up by my hair, and slap my face, over and over, shouting at me about what he wants me to do, and present himself to me to do the same thing to him that yet another one of them is continuing to do to me, and I swear, I’m going to bite him. Even though I know it isn’t going to work out well for me. Because then they are all going to set in on me and start beating me. And I will hold out for as long as I can, keeping my lips sealed up tight, refusing to service anyone for as long as I can; I don’t want to do that. I really don’t. It would be the worst thing ever.

But somewhere along the line, they are going to figure out that they are going to have to do something drastic to me, to get me to cooperate, and they will. When they’re tired of using me as a punching bag, they’ll threaten to break bones in my hand—hand injuries always get my stomach to turn—and then they will squeeze my hand after they have shattered it and they will do it hard, and the very notion of that is going to overwhelm me and I won’t be strong enough. They are going to win. They are going to keep it up and they are going to torture me into it, until I give in, and give them what they want.

I am going to hate it. I am going to despise it. But somewhere out there, I am going to open my mouth, and a penis will go in, and I am not going to bite it, and it is going to get shoved in and pulled out and forced it back in again, just like has been going so relentlessly on behind me in my anus all this time, until, until I have semen in both ends of me at the same time.

I won’t swallow. Which won’t stop them from going at it again, and then again, squeezing my unbroken hand so hard it scares me, bellowing at me the whole time how I can make the pain stop, and they will probably threaten to break my other hand, too, and maybe an arm or a leg or a rib or even my jaw, grinding the bones, making me scream until I think that is all I can do—scream—and I let down the last of my disobediences as I do what they want. They will outlast my resolve, my conditioning, my own feelings. Torture works. Eventually.

I will swallow semen, and they will tell me that that wasn’t so bad, now was it, see, and some part of me I don’t want to acknowledge will start to believe, despite the fact that I am going to throw up, which will only give them something else to laugh at. They aren’t going to feed me or give me anything to drink until I do what they want, and my own body will betray me in its desire to stay alive, and I will cave in and do what they tell me to do and swallow semen right on down and keep it down. They will all line up, and they will all use me, in my mouth and in my anus, and it will never end. They will compliment me and pet me and reward me by suckling on my penis constantly until I expend semen, telling me what a good boy I am—that I am finally becoming what I am supposed to be—all along the way, whenever I do whatever they want, and I will begin to lose ground. I will begin to lose my sanity. I will begin to lose myself.

They are going to put their penises in my mouth after they have been in my own anus, and it will be covered with my own excrement, and they will make me clean them off. They will try to get me to expel all the semen that has been accumulating in my anus, and they will succeed in that, one way or another, so they can feed that to me, too. And then, every penis they have at their disposal will end up in my mouth no matter whose anus it has just been in, and I will be expected to clean them all. They will demand that I do so graciously, enthusiastically, voluntarily, and eventually, I will have to tell them how much I like it. I will lick and kiss and suckle penises all the live long day. Under threat of even more torture—like, say, with rubber bands wrapped tight around my penis that they will pull back and snap, from all directions at once, dozens of them at a time, until the rubber bands break, or with gallons of hot wax poured onto my penis and anus—they will expect me to convince them that I love doing this, and eventually, I will become convinced that maybe, just maybe I do.

The worst of it all is that through all of this, they are going to make me ejaculate. They are going to make me ejaculate constantly, into mouths, into the air, into anuses, and it will make them happy whenever that happens—they will be convincing—and they are going to reinforce verbally how obvious it is that I like it, that my penis likes all of the ways they are treating me, and they are going to wear me down. This isn’t going to go on for just a day or even two. This is going to go on for weeks. Maybe months. They are going to break me. And then break me some more. And then break me some more after that.

They are going to tell me that they love me.

And I am going to cry and I am going to weep and bawl like a baby, because they will have broken me. They are going to say and do whatever they have to to comfort me over the loss of my pride, of my arrogance, of my hate, and another part of me will believe. Somewhere along the line, whatever man who is doing that horrible thing to my penis with his mouth—that I must confess that until now, I have so liked to have happen to me, whenever a woman would do it—will stop, and somehow, I will continue to be erect before them all without him and his efforts.

They will also point and laugh and call me that shameful name that I use to be such a terrible insult to other men, and they will call each other that name and even worse ones, and it is all going to go on and they will do what it takes to make me laugh, too. There will be pleasant intelligent conversation that I would have never thought possible with these kinds of men, not with all the penises in my mouth, until they make mention of the idea that they aren’t even behind me any more, not with a penis in my anus but a tongue, and a finger finding its way inside me there onto the place inside a man’s anus that makes his penis erect and can even make him ejaculate semen without otherwise touching him, and they are doing that to demonstrate to me that they aren’t applying their lips to my own penis, and that I am still erect and that my own penis is throbbing and dancing around simply because one of theirs is in my mouth. I understand that they are trying to trick me into connecting the idea of having a penis in my mouth and having my own penis be erect, and, I’m sorry to say, that sooner or later, it will work. They are going to go at that spot inside my anus so I am erect all the time, and ejaculating all the time, until they can point out to me that just the very idea of applying my mouth to penises will make me erect, and it will be true. They will celebrate, and cover me with semen. They will urinate on me to wash it off. And they will cover me with semen again. I will be made to drink the urine that I am drowning in, with the promise that I will be punished if I don’t look like I like it. My mouth will fall open of its own accord, my anus will pulse and contract in anticipation of being penetrated by penises, and my very own penis will become erect without my permission and I will even ejaculate without anyone touching me over the whole idea of everything that is happening around me, all the time. The last part of me that can do so will despise what my own body will do for them, as even more of my resistances will collapse.

They will assure me that this is what is going to happen to me all day, every day, all night, every night, for the rest of my life. They are going to show me endless dirty movies that have men doing to each other what they are doing to me. I will be constantly surrounded by penises, erect and not erect, all touching me everywhere all the time, with the order being given to me that I have to do what is necessary to make the non-erect penises into erect ones, and for the erect ones, I have to do what it takes to get them to ejaculate, to emit semen which I will be expected to consume or welcome into my anus, until they are no longer erect, at which point I have to start all over again.

Just to drive it home, to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am in fact now responsive to men and their penises, they are going to bring women in when I am utterly exhausted and unable to do anything, and say that if I really wasn’t like them, my captors, that if, deep down, I didn’t love what was happening to me, that I could have the woman, right there, right then, and they would let me go, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Now, I know that part of this is a trick: they are going to pick women that are very unattractive, and nagging, and generally unhappy and nasty, and I won’t mind that I do not respond to them, that I don’t become aroused to them. It won’t matter; by hook or by crook, my captors won’t let my penis become erect whenever some horrid woman is in there naked before me, complaining, only to throw her out and go back to putting my penis into their mouths, telling me how much they enjoy having my penis become erect in their mouths, and easing their penises into my anus and my mouth, gently guiding themselves in and out of me on both ends at the same time, until I ejaculate, until we all ejaculate, and they will periodically bring another ugly woman in who will do nothing but criticize me for not being good enough for her, all to reinforce the idea that I will simply no longer become aroused to any of them. My captors will parade endless naked grotesque and appalling women in through before me who will be miserable and unpleasant, and the men will torture me hard when they do, making me sick by poisoning me if they have to, only to bring in naked men who are all erect, and sculpted and fit and beautiful, and they are going to pet me and coo at me and tell me how beautiful I am when my penis is erect and in their mouths, not to mention the loving compliments they are going to give me when a penis is in my mouth or my anus, or my own unbroken hands, being adored.

Eventually, they will bring in my wife, and show her. They will show her how my penis becomes erect for a man, and not for a woman, and then for a man, and not for yet another woman, until they send her in to take her place in line, and I will fail her. I will not become erect for her, at the sight of her, at her presence, not even if she touches me tenderly on my penis or even my anus, not even if she offers her breasts to me, her vagina, her mouth, not even her own anus. Then they will want me to show her what I can do to myself with my own hands, my own unbroken hands, all while I am suckling on penises, while I am getting penetrated by penises in my mouth and my anus, and I’ll do it. I’ll do it even though it hurts my very soul, and they will be rough and I will respond to that because they will have promised me something much worse if I don’t—something like wrapping my penis with stinging nettle leaves, and attaching them in place with needles driven all the way through my penis, that they will electrify—and I will ejaculate in front of her, and I will drink semen and urine and lick excrement with a smile on my face and she will be disgusted with me. She will sneer her contempt at me, and deride me for being so weak, so corrupt, and she will call me a filthy name, and she will leave me forever. After she is gone, they will comfort me and make me orgasm so long and so hard that it will hurt, and I will ask them to stop, and I will beg them to let me go back to having penises in my mouth and my anus and my unbroken hands. Then they will bring other people I know, other members of my family, and the exact same thing will happen. I will be shown to everyone I have ever met that I will allow myself be penetrated by men, and that my own body will betray everything I ever believed in before about how men and women should behave toward each other, and I will reliably respond by becoming erect and ejaculating as though I like having penises in my mouth and my anus. And I will not be able to deny it.

I won’t have any fight left in me by the time they finish untying me, and I will kneel down naked before them all, and crawl to them, one man after another, and I will put my mouth onto the first man’s penis until he is erect, and I will keep myself there, loving this man’s penis as if it was my own, keeping my lips all the way down to the root for as long as I possibly can, letting his blessed penis reach all the way into the back of my throat, staying there so I can convulse around him and empower him, with me suckling on him, going up and down, up and down, driving him insane with pleasure, until the man whose lap my face is in sprays semen, which I will not only swallow but make a show of being deliriously happy that I am swallowing it, staying there with my lips and my mouth and my tongue around his penis until he is no longer erect, kissing and licking him, staying right there with him until he urinates into my mouth which I will also swallow with a smile and a joy, cooing at him and murmuring how much I love him and his penis and all it can do and I will offer to put my tongue into his anus which he will let me do for him and I will thank god for that, with me remaining with him, encouraging him, assuring him how much I want him to ejaculate semen into my mouth again, as I gently slide my finger—on my broken hand, which will have happened by then over a ridiculous defiance in me to a word they wanted me to say—into his anus and then onto the spot inside his anus that will make his penis erect again until he is in fact hard and long and completely erect again so I can once again get his penis deep inside my mouth for me to adore and we will go through it all again and again until he doesn’t want me to do that any more for him for now and he dismisses me, before I go on to the next man and do the exact same thing for him, and I will so serve them all, my captors, my masters, all day every day, and all night every night, and that will be what I am from then on. A man who holds penises in his mouth as though they were important, who ravenously consumes other men’s semen; I will be what my wife called me. A c-cocksucker. A man who willingly offers his own anus up to be penetrated by penises. A man whose penis becomes erect at the very thought of men and cocks and assholes and mouths and tongues and sperm and piss and shit. And there will be no end to the torture they inflict on me, say, with rubber bands or hot wax dripped onto my penis and anus, no end to th-the derision they heap onto me, and I will choke on semen and urine and excrement and pain and I will retreat into myself and be surprised to find that I like it all and miraculously, I will bless my owners for doing everything they have to me, and I will insist that they do everything they can to me, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how degrading it is. I will plead with them to wrap my penis with sandpaper, and to hold it tightly in place by driving nails all the way through my penis, and to electrify them, every day for the rest of my life, so that hopefully, I can eventually learn to orgasm from that, too. They will tell me that I am finally what I have been all along, that I am at last true to myself, and I will believe. I will give everything I have and am to these men.

They will dress me up in women’s clothes, and put makeup on me, and make me put my mouth on every man’s penis they can produce, and my anus will get penetrated by penises continuously, and my own penis will continue to become erect how and when they want it to, and they will have defeated me. I will become one of them. I will have no choice in the matter. They will have conditioned me to say what they want me to say, about how much I like it all, about how much I love to have penises inside of me, ejaculating, urinating, doing everything that penises can do to me, and that I will feel what they want me to feel, and I will think what they want me to think, and I will believe what they want me to believe, and there won’t be any question about it. They will expect me to crusade for them, and to bring other men in to do to them what was done to me, and I will. Cheerfully.

If they suggest to me that they want me to become a woman, to go through the treatment to change, to grow big breasts and to give up my penis and to have it turned inside out inside of me so men could f-fuck me there, as well as in my anus and my mouth, I would probably end up having to do that. I doubt they would give me much choice. I’m sure they will tell me that I have to become a woman so as to seduce more men into these ways, gleefully accepting whatever beating goes along with that when the reality of what I once was comes to light. It’s a powerful argument, my captors would say, to show angry foolish men the lengths we will go to to accept what they really are—men who would rather put their penises inside of other men than women, at least, certainly not real women—and it would take a strong man to make that case, especially as a woman, and they will tell me that I should pray that I may serve my true masters well. What else could I do?

###

THIS IS the plan, the strategy, this is how they do it, and it keeps me up at night, and it is why I masturbate to as many dirty movies as I can. Dirty movies with women in them—real women—just to make sure I don’t slip into what I am so afraid of. Filthy pornographic movies in which bitches and sluts and whores get fucked by cocks shoved all the way up into their assholes so that it hurts and hurts hard and then all the way down into their throats so they can choke on everything a cock can do to them, and sometimes even into their cunts that they will respond to as though they want that to happen to them all the time all day and all night, every day and every night, for the rest of their lives. An endless stream of beautiful women with big breasts, all being covered with semen and liking it, re-affirming that men do the very most right things when they present their penises to them, to allow the women to love them, carrying on about how they can always be there when a penis becomes erect and needs to let some semen out.

The women in dirty movies propagate the myth that they will love men forever no matter what those men do to them, and that there is never a cause or a reason for a man to let the sort of thing that I am so afraid of—to take another man’s penis into my own mouth or anus or hands until it ejaculates—to happen to them. To the men. To me. All of which I believe in so hard, that to help defend myself against that most alarming notion, I will even expend semen into my own unbroken hands over dirty movies and dirty stories and dirty pictures in which the woman doesn’t want any of that to happen to her, and she is made to accept it anyway. By being tortured, if necessary. Preferably ruthlessly. The women in dirty movies always give in to the men in the end the way I wish my wife would, and I have conditioned myself to want that, to need that, to desire that to the very core of my being. That’s how happily ever after works.

Should work.

The men who want other men to do to them what they should be doing with women, who want their own penises to spend more time inside another man than anywhere else in the world, are the very abomination the lord has said they are. They are evil, and they want all men to do as they do, and not to have anything to do with women at all. Obviously, they want the human race to die out because of that. These kinds of men don’t have children: no women. No real ones, anyway. I’m not sure where they come from. Somehow, they made a choice to be like this. It’s the only explanation.

If it were up to me, I would not be part of that, and I would not allow for anyone else to be a part of that, either. The men who want that kind of atrocity to happen to all mankind deserve to have happen to them what they want to happen to humanity, and they should die out, preferably in agony. For what they want is awful.

How could they do that to us? How could they do that to me?

Kill them all, I say. Like pigs. Squealing.

Because what I am really afraid of, is that somehow, deep down, they might be right. About me.

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