>>32206
>>32205
>>28507
source?

Bump!

I would love 2 see more like this 4 Xmas!

Bump!

>>75336
Jesus I love this shit.

What is wrong with me.

>>75604
darkspot?

>>15567

source?

>>95410
and where do they post their art?

Belly inflation (freakshow) ending or not ending in burst (gore) is stupidly rare.

>>46878
What is the plor?

plot*

Consensual snuff sounds fun, I’d love to see romantic routes take that direction

>>46878
Some necro. Like a guy finds (or makes xD) a cute tomboy girl corpse. Undresses her and plays with her body. Fucked her: oral, anal, vaginally.

>>133333
Although I think the flipping is unnecessary, thank you very much for decensoring!

nhentai and hitomi.la has most of his work. original japanese and tons of translattions.

You really are dragging out all the classics
Amazing !

A classic masterpiece.

And very influential! ^^

>>133374
LOL! Fuck yeah it is!

Can anyone one ban this category?
I thought realistic things are forbidden here.

>>39156
>I thought realistic things are forbidden here.
that is correct.
but it is allowed, to upload realistic AI elsewhere and post a link here.
the OP is doing a little self-advertising for commissions, which is not unusual and generally accepted.
the OP is a regular content creator on GUROchan, so this is not spam either.
it is also clear, that this thread is not asking for more realistic content being uploaded here.

in conclusion, the thread itself is okay and does belong on /s.
the sample pic however is questionable and in fact against the rules.
in such cases, GUROchan tends to be as lenient as possible.
I'm not deleting this, someone else still might.


Comment too long, view post No.39158 to see the full comment.

>>133807
>>133808
source: https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/74586077

https://smp15.simplex.im/i#ZBQCdUzbautFBc4Xyjts0luK2TeiWtiL/MONnnp4sawDC7XTJDZZh9xnLZmxZyWxB-x2DEDt32nQ
Try that

I made a updated link
https://discord.gg/qD7rm52Ay
I will also be making a SimpleX account to link from there.

anyone into fantasy rape chat about 18+ celebs, etc?

0567f1ec2c27c17020397a9f9ab99f91a62c2f1e342584278e91c96a58878efc40

anyone into fantasy wwyd rape chat about 21+ celebs or OF sluts?

057fd5ad9e1c08be4c054e20105842f96fe61cdcc092efda04953f7fa4ef8b7167

Updated discord link?

. The biological hardware remains, but the software of 'personality' has been effectively deleted."

Martha stepped back, the heels of her shoes clicking with a rhythmic, hollow sound. She looked at Lauren not as a child, but as a successful experiment. "The patient is no longer burdened by the chaos of the self. There is no more anxiety to trigger, no more failure to dread. She has transitioned from a subject of fluctuating mood to a state of permanent, stable equilibrium."

"Observe the contrast," Martha directed, her voice adopting the crisp, rhythmic cadence of a seasoned professor. She pivoted her body, shifting her focus from the frontal region to the back of Lauren’s skull, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the base of the girl's neck and the crown of her head. "While the executive center has been silenced, the architecture of the lower brain remains entirely pristine. The cerebellum continues its silent work, maintaining the basic equilibrium of the body; the brainstem remains an unwavering sentinel, pulsing with the automaticity of breath and heartbeat. We have not erased the machine, merely disconnected the operator."

She leaned in further, her finger tracing an imaginary line along the occipital lobe. "The visual cortex is still firing, processing the flickering of the overhead lights, though the capacity to assign meaning to those flashes has vanished. The temporal lobes still receive the sounds of this room, the hum of the camera and the click of my heels, her hippocampus comitting it all to memories, unfiltered without a frontal lobe to decide whats worth keeping and what can be thrown out and forgotten. The animal is intact; the person is gone."

Martha stepped back to survey her work, her expression one of clinical satisfaction. She looked down at Lauren, who remained as still as a sculpture carved from wax. The girl’s chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic tide—a biological clock ticking away in a room where the concept of time no longer existed. To the observer, Lauren looked asleep, but to the trained eye, the vacancy in her gaze was a profound, yawning void.

"Now, consider the internal landscape," Martha continued, her voice a smooth, academic drone as she gestured vaguely toward the crown of Lauren's head. "Within the skull, the frontal lobes are currently in a state of frantic, ghost-like activity. They are firing in a vacuum, sending out signals to a world they can no longer touch. Imagine a pianist playing a complex concerto, only to discover the keys have been removed from the instrument. The muscles are moving, the effort is there, but there is no sound, no resonance. She is attempting to parse the loss of outside stimuli—the sudden silence of a world that used to scream—but there is no bridge left to carry the realization back to her conscious mind."

Martha leaned back, her silhouette cutting a sharp line against the clinical white of the wall. "Over time, we expect this residual firing to fade through simple disuse. The neural pathways, deprived of feedback, will eventually atrophy, sliding into a permanent, blissful dormancy. What remains is a docile, easy-to-care-for patient. A child who will not fight her caretakers, nor fight the confusing currents of her own mind. This is the ultimate utility of the procedure: the total eradication of internal conflict. Violent outburst, psychosis and other mential disorders."

Comment too long, view post No.31384 to see the full comment.

Martha stopped by the tray, her gaze lingering on the silver tools. "Of course, our objective here was not the removal of a hemisphere, but the strategic severing of the emotional highways. Yet, the principle of plasticity remains the same. In the archives of the mid-century, there are two poorly documented cases—shadowy footnotes in medical journals—of children Lauren’s age who were subjected to similar 'quieting' for being unruly or unmanageable. They were described as hollowed out, vacant, drifting ghosts for months. And then, a year later, they returned. They didn't just recover; they reintegrated. They returned to a tearing their clothes and smashing toys."

She looked back at Lauren, who lay as still as a fallen leaf. "There is a theoretical hope, then. Not a hope for the Lauren who entered this room—that girl was a collection of anxieties and social obligations—but a hope for a new Lauren. A version of her that has navigated the void and built a bridge across the silence."

Martha reached out and ducked her bangs away from her eyes, a gesture that was almost tender, though it lacked any genuine emotional warmth. The nurse then turned toward the recording equipment, her movements efficient. "We shall see if the plasticity of a sixth-grader can outrun the finality of a steel spike. The biological clock has been reset. Now, we wait for the rewire."

With a decisive click, Martha deactivated the camera. The red light vanished, plunging the room into a sudden, oppressive silence that was no longer recorded for science. She didn't linger. She began to clear the tray, the metallic clatter of the instruments sounding like a closing door.

Martha worked in a focused, rhythmic silence, the sounds of the room shifting from the theatricality of a recorded lecture to the mundane chores of a clinic. She wiped the table with a pungent disinfectant, the smell of lemon and bleach cutting through the sterile air. Lauren remained exactly where she had been left, her head resting on the cold vinyl, her expression one of profound, empty peace. She didn't move when the air conditioning kicked in, sending a sudden, sharp draft across her exposed skin. The biological reflex to shiver was there, but the mind that would interpret the chill as "cold" was a fragmented map with no legend.

For a long time, Lauren simply existed as a series of pulses. She was the slow rise and fall of her chest; she was the faint, rhythmic thrum of blood in her ears; she was the weight of her own limbs pressing into the table. The world had narrowed to the physical boundaries of her skin. There was no "Lauren" to occupy the space, only a biological entity processing a stream of sensory data that it no longer knew how to categorize. A fly landed on her cheek, its tiny legs prickling against her skin, but she didn't blink. The sensation arrived at the brainstem, but it died at wall of severed white matter. it could reach a center capable of deciding that a fly was an annoyance.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the soft, metallic rattle of a wheelchair being maneuvered into the room. Martha didn't move alone; she signaled for a junior orderly, a quiet man whose presence was as unobtrusive as the beige walls. Together, they approached the table, their movements coordinated and devoid of urgency. They didn't speak to Lauren; they spoke about her, treating her body as a piece of luggage that needed careful shifting.

With a synchronized heave, they hoisted her from the table. Because the procedure had stripped away her motor functions, Lauren’s body was heavy and limp, her limbs swinging with a loose, pendulous momentum. She was dressed only in her simple white underwear, her small frame looking startlingly fragile against the industrial grey of the wheelchair. Her arms draped over the armrests like discarded scarves, and her head lolled to the side, her gaze fixed on a distant, unremarkable point on the floor. There was no struggle, no instinctive attempt to right herself; she was a passenger in a vessel that had lost its rudder.

The journey through the hallway was a series of rhythmic jolts. Every bump in the linoleum sent a shudder through Lauren’s spine, but the sensation arrived in her mind as a series of unrelated vibrations, devoid of the concept of "movement." She saw the ceiling lights pass over her in a blurring strobe of fluorescent white, a conveyor belt of light that she watched with a vacant, glassy curiosity. To her, the world had become a sequence of textures and flashes, a sensory movie with the sound turned off and the plot deleted.

They arrived at the recovery ward, a room that smelled of old linens and ozone. The orderly maneuvered the chair into a corner, tucked away from the main thoroughfare but within sight of the nursing station. He didn't

Comment too long, view post No.31386 to see the full comment.

He didn't bother to adjust her posture; he simply left her there, slumped in the chair, her chest rising and falling in a slow, mechanical cadence. Martha stepped back to survey the placement, her eyes scanning the room for any potential hazards. She didn't check if Lauren was comfortable; comfort was an emotional state, and Lauren was now an entity of pure biology.

"Wait here," Martha said, though she didn't look at the girl. "The parents should be arriving within the hour. Ensure she doesn't slide out of the chair."

The orderly nodded and retreated, leaving Lauren in the heavy silence of the ward. She sat in the stillness, her eyes open and unblinking. A clock on the wall ticked with a sharp, metallic snap, each second a physical strike against the silence. For the first time in twelve years, the noise didn't bother her. The ticking didn't signal the approach of a deadline or the pressure of a classroom; it was simply a sound, a rhythmic pulse in a world that had finally stopped asking things of her.

Somehow, this story is the sexiest non-sexual story I could ever imagine.

asstr-mirror[dot]org/files/Authors/Eficient/www/index [dot]html

He also reposted some other stories here, just search for the eficient Name. Not sure about Emily's journey specifically though.

The only stories on this website here (Guro) that I know of involving cannibalism are these two.

Two very good stories.


Eficient The Farm

https://boards.guro.cx/lit/koko.php?res=13838#p7_30332


A prequel to The Farm

https://boards.guro.cx/lit/koko.php?res=22356&page=0

Comment too long, view post No.31491 to see the full comment.

Basting with drippings.

Momentary relief from the oven.

Set time, temperature, auto basting, set!

Cooking Prong forks test roasting progress.

Requests?

This image is talking about how this little girl has loving parents who spent big effort in raising her that must be worrying about her well-being as she doesn't return her home, but she is dying from her limbs cut being apart at that very moment. It is an exciting thought, if you want to think in erotic manner.
However, I don't otherwise put big meanings to death. It's just something that happens to everyone eventually. At least, you can't mess up so badly that you end up not dying sometime in next few decades

This is what turns me on so much about it. I have done so much, and could be anything, I should be strong and do things, but I'm just too horny, I need to die as an orgasming sex toy, I can't help it

Source?