Anyone know where Delta uploads now?

This is an example of his arts and he was last spotted on Darkfetish Network

I miss them

What sort of video game would you want to create if you had the manpower of a big studio (like Rockstar or EA) ?

A game concept that I've been thinking of and fapping to would be a game that plays like this:

You control a ship that's shaped like a buzzard saw and you move through an enclosed tunnel. There are obstacles in your way that you have to avoid, but also women that you can slice through in a myriad ways and combos - and by doing so you gain points for unlockables, such us ship upgrades, new babe models to snuff etc.
The game would have a sort of carmageddon vibe to it, but way more twisted. Perhaps the babes would start out fully dressed and mediocre looking and by farming points they could become hotter and less clothed.

I think it would be nice if the game classified babes into customizable point categories such as hair colour ( i.e brunettes 1 point, blondes 5 points, redheads 10 points, painted unicorns 20 and so on) or by chest size (increasing cup sizes=more points or the opposite).

This sort of game would be a feasible 3-4 year hobby undertaking for a single programmer, but it would take quite a bit of dedication.
The idea of a perfect mutilation system has been bugging me for quite a while now. It would have to support any potential way the body could be sliced, support body morphing so that the bodies are customizable, simulate internal injuries and the slicef sides should look realistic enough. Afro Samurai offered a glimpse of this idea, but it is far from perfect. If anyone with programming experience knows how the Afro Samurai system works, I'd really like to know too.

Now, on to other features that may be completely unrealistic( maybe ) for a one man army, but are still stuff I fantasize about.

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Hey guys. Unsure if this is the right place to post this, but I need help. I recently got into rp with someone from a forums site and I really liked her. I haven't done this stuff before so I got attached, but wanted to know if she was real (phishing attacks/cops suck). Not trusting her really fucked her up and I wish I had just believed her at first. I just have issues trusting people online in the first place, let alone with sensitive topics like the stuff we do here.

I miss talking to her and I don't know if she's even ok, which makes me worried. She stopped responding late Saturday night and I haven't heard anything since. I'm the one who fucked this up, but I want to try to fix it.

What the fuck do I do?

Soooo...I'm ignorant when it comes to laws. What exactly is illegal about liking guro? If anything? (I live in the US by the way.)
I know pedophilia is against the law here, but I'm not into that (that is not me judging anyone who is). So, how would I get in trouble for looking at this website...if I would get in trouble at all?
I just figured these are important questions I should have asked a long time ago. :/

I want to try a /lit project, but I've realized there's a key blank in my knowledge.

I have plenty of writing experience, and feel confident enough that I can write most death scenes in a way that's both fun and hot. But I know almost nothing about asphyxia, and since it's such a popular fantasy - and my own #1 fetish - I want to know more.

So saying I'm sitting in my chair writing this, and somebody walks up behind me and loops a cord around my neck...

What actually happens? How does my body react, what sensations do I feel and how long does it take me to die? Graphic detail is good, if I'm going to write I want to do a good job.

I'm also curious about orgasms. I've read that lack of oxygen can increase sexual sensitivity and vastly enhance orgasm... is that true? if you rubbed my clit or fingered me as I was dying, would my last orgasm be the best I'd ever had, or would I be in too much pain/distress to cum?

I have been long time visiting here and I always thank for many great artists! I wanted to make my own works but my painting skills are terrible and do not improve...so I couldn't.
Few days ago, I downloaded SMF on steam and I thought I can make something! Although my first piece is akward, I made these with gratitude to the members. I'll make better works by improving my SMF skills.

Melanie figured that the bag had started leaking inside her belly as the plane was winging its way over Southern California. She even knew when the bag had split. Marco had assured her that each packet of heroin had been compressed within double wrapped condoms and had very little air inside. But as the plane gained altitude after take-off and the cabin pressure decreased, she could feel the packets expanding in her stomach and lower bowel, making her already pregnant looking abdomen swell further. She'd found the sensation quite erotic and had reclined her seat and stroked her belly like any four month pregnant woman would.

Melanie started to feel the effects of the leaking heroin by the time they were over Frisco. It began as a sweet warmth that spread through her core and loins then her thighs and bottom. At first she didn't realize that it was the heroin, thinking that she was just getting an unusually strong case of the hornies from the expanded packets inside her.

Mel had laid back in her seat and squeezed her thighs together as the good feelings began, but soon they grew too strong to be natural she'd felt a cold rush of fear rush through her as she realized that at least one of the bags inside her gut had burst. 'Stay calm', she had told herself as her fear and anxiety started to build. She thought it out and came to the conclusion that the bag couldn't have burst - each packet was thicker than a man's thumb and almost as long. That much pure heroin would have killed her within minutes. The end of one of the double wrapped condoms must have come undone and the inner one must be leaking is all. All she had to do is remain calm until she got to Vancouver and the retrieval could begin. She'd make herself throw up to get rid of anything left inside her.

Melanie had 130 packets of heroin inside her body. Marco had managed to press 80 inside her bowels, one by one, then she had began the arduous task of swallowing the remaining 50 using small shots of olive oil to make them slide down. The result was a rounder midsection and a distinct bulge in her belly that she had passed off as a four month pregnancy. That got her out of the x-ray body scan at the airport and had elicited smiles from most of the security and airline staff she'd encountered.

By the time the plane was winging over Seattle, Melanie felt quite sick despite the slow orgasmic feelings radiating from her abdomen. She'd got her unsteady legs under her and made her way to the bathroom. One of the stewardesses steadied her by supporting her right arm and had asked if she was allright.

“Just feeling airsick.” Melanie had managed as the stewardess helped her into the bathroom and closed the door for her. Melanie had braced herself and leaned over the sink, feeling her belly expanding inside her and opened her mouth and throat. With no effort at all, a long rope of foamy white vomit had slid up her throat and over her tongue to slide into the stainless bowl of the sink. 'I'm in trouble' Melanie had thought to herself. The sweet bliss of the heroin was coming on stronger now and her legs felt warm and liquid under her. Pulling her cel out of her purse, Melanie hit a number and 'send'. When Nance had answered, Melanie said;

“Nance. a bag must have split. I think I'm overdosing.” Nance had told her they would get her out of the airport as soon as they could once she landed.

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This is all I have. If you have something that's not here, please share.

My mommy had me when she was younger than I was when I killed her.

She hit me a lot. She never really slapped me, but she threw me on the wall and grabbed my arm and slammed me into the wall again and again, and always put me down, blaming me for being a bastard who's father wasn't good to her.
...And other friends of hers hit me a lot. I don't know how she knew them, but they did jobs for her and she fucked them a lot. I got really sick of it.

She also fondled me and my older sister a lot. I overheard my sister and her slightly older friend discussing how that happened to both of them but usually the daddy or uncle does it. We didn't have such a dad so it fell to my mother to abuse us.

"We should kill her." Era had almost murdered her own father, from what my sister Sandy said to a different friend. Sandy was shaking her head but Era continued. "Run her over. I'm real."

"No! I know you are. We're not doing that."

"Worked for me."


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Hi guys. I'm really new to this scene, and there are a couple of things I'm wondering about that I hope you can help me with.

A common theme I see across guro is loss of bladder control. Girls almost always pee as they're dying. At first I thought it was just asphyxia, but it seems to cross all fetish lines. Strangled? *trickle* Decapitated? *splash* Drowning? cute little golden cloud.

And as a girl, and a girl who's fantasies revolve around her being the victim, that leaves me curious. Do we really pee when we die, and if so what causes it? And I feel a little shy asking this, but would I feel it?

Thanks, sorry for the weird question.

I am actually in a position where in I could get meat, which I'd like her to eat unknowingly or not.

Anyone else find this cool?

I have kik too, Lukesixx6

LostDragon01 made this gif but never colored or finished it. can some one do that, it's there OC getting sucked by a fish, then swimming away after biting off his horse's cock.

Alright, since Killer and Victim is essentially dead, I've decided to recreate the game. Hopefully my changes will be enough to keep it alive.

The concept is mostly the same; Person 1 creates a character, and decides if that character is a killer or a victim. If Person 1's character is a killer, then Person 2 creates a scenario in which their own character is killed by Person 1's character. If Person 1's character is a victim, then Person 2's character will kill them. After Person 2 writes out the scenario, they create their own character and allow the next person to write a scenario.

Some basic rules;

Although the original paragraph is singular when it comes to characters, you may have up to three characters in a scenario. The only restriction is that you cannot mix them; 3 killers or 3 victims, not 2 Killers and 1 victim.

Write out the scenario above you before posting your own. However, if it has been more than one month since it was posted, you may create a new scenario without replying to the previous one.

Original characters only!

No characters under the age of 18. At some point I will make a version of this game to allow for younger characters.

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Feel free to send all of your shark gores!
Cut or not!
Because sharks are tasty.

The Discreet Brothel: a report on recent occurrences at the Velvet Glove Social Club, based on interrogations and surveillance camera files.

The evening of October 31 proved to be far more remarkable at the Velvet Glove Social Club than anyone had expected, even considering it was Halloween and Madame Solange had arranged some special entertainments for the delectation of a clientele whose sophistication should have prevented it from taking any notice of a holiday intended for small children. Nothing of the exterior suggested anything of the decadent activities to be enjoyed within. The club presented an austere, though somewhat foreboding front to the view of non-initiates who drove or walked past. Located in a brownstone on a nondescript side street, its windows were muffled by heavy, deep purple draperies. A small, simple brass plate on the door announced the club’s unusual name, and a plain black button to the right of the door enabled a visitor to ring for admittance. A cone-shaped fixture emitted just enough sour yellow light to illuminate the top step in front of the door, leaving the rest of the building’s front in dim obscurity. No light penetrated from around window draperies. Beginning at eleven, anyone standing across the street would have viewed a slow trickle of well-dressed men, and a few richly outfitted women, filtering along the street front alone or in groups of two or three, or disgorged from expensive but nondescript chauffeured automobiles, who climbed the steps, rang for admittance, and disappeared into a briefly illuminated gap in the doorway.

Once inside, they found themselves in a dazzlingly rich entry hall, enveloped in draperies and tapestries of deep burgundy, gold, navy blue, sparkling with brilliantly candle-lit crystal chandeliers, leading up a staircase carpeted in deep blood-red plush along a curving mahogany banister. The wall upward was lined with obscurely rendered paintings portraying intricately detailed erotic entanglements of a disturbing quality, hinting at bodily distortions and couplings not found in any normal dimension. An array of accommodating, compliant hostesses, young women draped in the scantiest of costumes—all protuberant bosoms, bottoms, nipples, and clitorises, curving thighs, black velvet on pale alabaster skin, ivory baubles strung over lush expanses of ebony skin, outrageously contrived hairstyles, musical voices edged with a note of hysteria—accompanied the guests up the stairs, arms entwined, hands groping and fondling, eyes brittle as ice offering the hint of reality at odds with the exuberant mood.

When they reached the top of the grand staircase, patrons were met by Madame Solange, a ruined beauty in an exotic antique kimono whose porcelain makeup just managed to obscure evidence of far too many facelifts and Botox injections, whose age seemed to be mid 50s but might just as easily have lain somewhere in the mid 70s, and who managed to convey to each individual guest in just a few words that he or she would find within the club’s warren of rooms—containing an infinity of forms of feminine enticement, of every race and hue, color and language, level of erotic proficiency and kink—precisely that particular decadence that would first arouse and then satisfy ultimately unspeakable desires. Madame Solange conveyed some guests to the bar, where exotic fillies of every nation, wearing nothing more than festoons of rhinestones, feathers, and carnival beads, with ornate gold piercings through surgically enhanced nipples and labia, served cocktails of rare liqueurs whose importation and sale were still legally outlawed—with vaginal secretions and in some cases menstrual blood smeared along the rim of each glass by a perfectly nailed finger. Other guests repaired to a small theater, lushly upholstered in deep blood-colored burgundy plush on walls, floor, and seats, to watch an endlessly shifting ballet of copulating couples (gymnasts hired away from Cirque du Soleil whose gyrating contortions, performed while hanging from rings, standing on their heads, or riding unicycles, left their viewers feeling dizzy and even vaguely disembodied). As the guests gazed in stunned silence at this arousing tableau, pubescent nymphs, crouching on their knees, one to a patron, with surgically modified lips sucked and vacuumed flaccid middle-aged penises or suctioned deep within the collapsed membranes of post-menopausal vaginas. Still other guests were escorted, in ones or twos, and sometimes threes, through winding hallways to the dim doorways behind which each patron would find the world’s only courtesan whose special talent meshed precisely with their own individual fetishes.

After the house lights came up in the theater, a half dozen or so patrons remained seated, for Madame Solange had previously whispered they should stay for a special attraction. A brief intermission to allow patrons to refresh their drinks and peruse a leather-bound catalogue of Fine Leathers fetishwear, including gloves, dildos, and artificial vaginas crafted from human skin, the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the scene as the music of a theremin floated through the room, carrying the unearthly strains of an entirely new musical composition whose gradually quickening pace and rising volume were vaguely reminiscent of Ravel’s Bolero, though hardly as obvious, even ethereal. Indeed, some patrons seemed to have fallen into trancelike sleep under the music’s insidious effect. Two dancers appeared in the stark, bright cone of a narrow spotlight, their cross-lit shadows hugely projected on an apparent burst of fog. One dancer, a lush brunette, was announced as Marjana by a discreet placard to the side of the stage. She appeared, moving slowly but seamlessly in a slow tango with her black-clad male partner, in a tight, skin-fitting burgundy body suit, its silk fabric, thin and translucent enough to reveal every shifting texture, fold, and shape from nipple and collarbone to vulva and tailbone. She appeared as a floating nude vision from some other, perhaps hellish, dimension. Both dancers wore discreet carnival masks outlining their eyes only, which seemed to gleam an unearthly greenish yellow with catlike intensity. As the tango continued, their limbs entwined and parted in motions simulating copulation, with Marjana always eluding her partner at just that moment when it seemed he would certainly drape his arms and legs round her in a final orgasmic convulsion. As she bent and turned, her heavy and pendulous but firm, self-supporting breasts moved with her in a constant slow jiggle, the burgundy fabric emphasizing hard taut nipples with a nearly holographic sheen, and the minute ripples of stomach and inner thigh muscles accentuating the tremulous movements of her genitals, but always within the smooth continuous flow of her overall dance, feinting and teasing her partner, enticing and nearly submitting, but always shifting away at the last moment, following the slowly syncopated rhythms of the music.

As the theremin piece gradually increased in tempo and volume, the male dancer, with his organ now fully erect though still seamlessly clad in its smooth second skin of burgundy silk, removed a small damascene dagger from its inconspicuous sheath and waved it discreetly but dramatically from left to right in front of the audience, causing a ripple of gasps and flutters of hands to ripple through the patrons in the same direction—almost as if a conductor had waved a baton across the members of an orchestra. Now circling, now sweeping close to the still obliviously gliding Marjana, now easing back, he brandished the dagger, more of a stiletto really, its two edges razor sharp, its point capable of cutting flesh as if it were soft butter, glittering like ice as it was picked out in the spotlit fog. His curving slices, now wide and generous, now subtly focused and swift, carved out an unimaginably narrow swath of air just above Marjana’s ever twisting and turning form, seeming to brush so close to her as to shave the delicate fuzz of arms, thighs, calves and ass, were they not still sheathed in the immeasurably thin burgundy silk. Surely, it seemed, he must eventually slice her clear skin, her perfect sculptural curves, always in motion. And he nearly did, as they continued to revolve, clinch, part, and turn, brushing their bodies with a nearly inaudible low squeal of silk caressing silk, in a pantomime of seduction, pursuit, flight, and occasional copulation as his hard, thick, silk-covered organ slid ever so briefly into her gaping, ravenous, but still delicate, silk-lined vagina, and then out again when the fluid Marjana swung away from him.

With the music nearing its haunting, unearthly crescendo, the stiletto caressed ever closer, eventually appearing to shave the burgundy skin from the pear-like curve of Marjana’s left breast, then shaving sculpturally round the perfectly molded arc of her right buttock, then here, and there, and as quickly there, and seemingly everywhere at once, as Marjana spun ever faster, amidst rising gasps of disbelief from the patrons. Scalloped strips of blood-colored burgundy silk backed with what appeared to be her natural skin flew upward from the stiletto and slowly drifted down among the audience. The continuing elegance of the dancers’ movements allayed the fears of some patrons, while the stiletto continued its sweeping arcs, stripping ever more of Marjana’s burgundy skin as she continued her own sweeping arcs of escape and recapture. Other patrons gasped in astonishment, however, or nearly stopped breathing, as Marjana’s movements grew ever slower, even as the blizzard of scarlet strips of skin continued to rain down on them. At the final moment, with the music ending on an abrupt high note, the male slid behind her, wrapped has arms gracefully around her, supporting her as she, with the last dying energy she could muster, bowed her head to the patrons, looked up briefly with a shining hint of transcendence in her face, then fell still, her torso and head falling forward over the male’s arms, the breath of life apparently having left her. The stage plunged into pitch black, the audience heaved a mournful sight at the loss of such a wondrously vibrant, sensuous life, such a perfect specimen of erotic embodiment, and then, miraculously, a cone of light revealed them both alive and laughing, bowing to the audience, and, as the light caressed her glowing curves, she and her companion exultantly tossed their heads back, raised their arms high, and then rushed backstage together. A murmur rose from the audience, whose more alert members were beginning to realize that the strips of skin raining down on them like long curved parings from an apple were actually only strips of silk. The colorants of a water-based temporary dye in the thin fabric had merged with the fine sheen of perspiration suffusing her skin as she danced, and had interacted chemically to create a glistening film of bright scarlet fluid, creating the illusion that she had been flayed alive as she twirled, and that she had expired at the very climax of the music. Some patrons, it must be admitted, felt disappointed, even cheated. But a few were pleased that they would still be able to experience the pleasures of Marjana’s famously thick, long, muscular, agile tongue unfurling from such a wholesome face and attractive body to caress their swollen genitals.

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Looking for additional information on Lilith's Blessing

This was done as part of a collaboration/trade with another Author who goes by Ms. Masterson on Hentaifoundry (hxxp://www.hentai-foundry.com/user/MsMasterson/profile). This was my end, and in return I got a really neat schoolgirl story that I helped her write and edit. I'll probably post it here at some point...

Anyway! enough explanation, here's' the story:

Roasted Asari Tits

Tags: F/self, Xenophilia, Debreasting, cooking, microwave, hints of cannibalism and incest, Mass Effect Setting

Ryelle looked at the microwave oven, checking to make sure that she'd managed to install the new timers correctly. The oven was small, not really large enough to prepare a meal for a family. It was awkward too, the entire front was made of a clear glass, specially treated to contain the microwave radiation. The main opening was the front of the machine, which swung upwards to provide access to its contents, but there were also a pair of openings in the back of the oven, two perfectly circular holes that irised open and closed with inflatable rubber gaskets in the rims.

Ryelle had gotten the device at an estate sale and once she found out what it was, she'd bought it, mostly on a lark.

A breast cooking oven.


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Hello! I'm looking to see if anyone wants to do an erotic guro rp with me over Discord! I've been itching to have my adorable, submissive character be dominated and killed silly, brutal ways!

I like to 3rd person rps that are detailed! Is 6987 Quill

DM me for specifics x3

This is a continuation of the ultra short story I made on the USS thread. I like the concept very much, but at the end, this took many months to finish. Enjoy, and do leave comments of any kind!

---


I lied in the bathtub. My feet rested on the head rest, my camera sitting next to it. The tap dripped hot water onto my face, its wisps of steam condensing on my boxcutter's fine blade. "Bye, world."

I grasped my neck and felt my pulse. Two arteries, two cuts. It hurt, but I didn't care anymore. The hot water washed the blood away, carrying my life within.

I felt my body cooling.

I embraced death's lethargy.


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