>>11223
Finally I found story about suicide bar.

Suicide Club by "a man" [2014]

Part 1: Introductions and a hanging
In all my years as manager for The Suicide Club, I know that Asians take death with the panache that put Westerners to shame. I'm conflicted, though, whether the acceptance or the fight against death is better. I want to live, but I like watching people die. I know that much, anyway.

I run The Suicide Club. It’s a neat little gin-joint down by the docks - you know which ones- that specializes in the brutal and showcased suicides of those too cowardly to hang a noose themselves. I serve several different kinds of alcohol and recreational drugs. Tips are appreciated, not required if you are of a savage nature or a suicidal one. Prices for watchers are doubled.

Tables are arranged around a bar that stretches halfway across the main room, but does not touch either wall. I am always at the bar. I do not remember leaving it. I like to think I was born at the bar, and will die if I ever leave. Bar stools and a ‘watchers section’ are the closest place to me. I have women serve drinks. Killing them is frowned upon, but we all know what happens in the heat of the orgies.

There are three classes of people. The Watchers, like yourself, who look but never touch, for if they touch, doors are opened, never to close. The Suicidal, who are here for one reason only, to enter doors opened. The Savage, who open the doors. The doors are a metaphor, for life. My door is locked against death.

I run this joint off of a loop hole in the ‘Suicide Assistance Bill’ that was rammed through, recently, after our beloved dictator drowned, ate and raped his daughters, then citing that it was their choice, with typed out, untraceable suicide notes to prove it. Ah, tyranny.

So now places like this exist. Some are clean, mechanical. A tasteless poison to see you on your way. A man who comes to your house to slit your throat when you least expect it. A powerful beam from an orbiting satellite. But those are for high rollers. The common man and woman and child who has no money, no choices, no hope, goes to a suicide club.

All around are paraphernalia of destruction. Right now, a manchild is strangling on a dildo stuffed down his throat. It’s too big for him, and stuck in. He can’t breathe around it. He had tried to rip it out, but that failed. Once the line is signed, there is no going back. Now he writhes about. The waitress who did that too him is riding his cock. She’s bouncing up and down as the boy in front of her turns blue in the face and begins to pass out. Before he does, he cums, the orgasm nearly tossing her off. I am watching this, masturbating with the severed head of Esmerelda, who no man has ever fully seen. The boy struggles a little more, and the waitress herself cums, squirting onto his body, and fellating the other end of the dildo. The boy spasms, grabs the waitress’s head, and slams it onto the dildo. She coughs, and springs back, spewing blood. Hilarious.

The boy ceases struggle, cum still leaking from his dick like a geyser. The waitress begins drowning in her own blood. Her sister comes over and tries to help, but it’s not good. The waitress dies. I summon her sister over using the head of Esmerelda. She dutifully drags the body. They had wanted to die together, hung in a double-noose, or the same one. The poor dear. She’ll have to die alone. As do we all.

The meat is dragged by sister meat to the cold storage. Alejandro will take care of it. He always takes care of it. Who else would, if not Alejandro?

The sister comes over and sits on the barstool in front of me. I pour gin from the mouth of Esmerelda, which I stuffed a tap into, after I finished. The sister is disturbed. She is not suicidal enough yet. The waitresses have no place but death, but love life and death too much to die now. I am not sure whether that is a blessing, or a curse.

This one’s breasts bounce in her sadness. She isn’t crying. Her sister died as she had lived, fucking young boys, but there is still the melancholy of death that was meant to be more. She drinks the gin and sighs. I do not speak to the wait staff. They know. Only Alejandro and Esmerelda have heard my voice. It is as I want it to be.

I pull out a noose from the place I pull things out of, and she shakes her head. Not yet. Not yet. But soon. A small girl walks in. Children are common during the day, when the parents care more about their careers than they do about safety. Cloning takes care of that, anyway. The child is placed on the lap of the non-deceased sister, and signs the forms. The death: Random.

I have the sister place a dildo into the tiny, hairless cunt. It’s a big fit, she squirms, but does not cry out. Her breasts are only beginning to grow. So young. They would have been magnificent. I take out a knife and cut a nipple off. It’s an easy cut, and the child cries out now, but it’s too late. I have the waitress who has no sister cut out the other nipple, and eat both. The child is crying in full now, the realization coming in. I indicate.

The waitress takes the crying, but not struggling child to a bar that hangs around the walls of the bar. It’s brass, and sturdier than the details and rich ornamentation would suggest. The child is hoisted up, and her feet are placed on the breasts of the waitress who is helping her kill herself. A strong rope is tied so that the girl will be held up by the brass bar. The waitress steps back and begins to masturbate the child with the overly large dildo.

The child kicks and turns purple, pissing or cumming very quickly, and multiple times. Every few strokes the child would shudder head to toe. The lithe body twitching and kicking. The hands kept to the sides of the child and the tongue protruding farther than it has ever gone before. The cunt begins to tear, and blood covers the hands of the waitress.

The child ceases kicking. A slow gurgle broke through the ropes that hung her from the brass. Her blonde hair went as limp as her legs. Her arms went up uncontrolled and claw-like. Female cum dripped and blood dripped between the dildo stuffed up her young pussy.

I leave the body, like all bodies, to Alejandro. The waitress attending me is looking at the body longingly. And that is fine. Some day a particularly rough biker by the name of Mickey George will take her in the heat of the moment and bash her skull in with a glass mug and fuck the senseless woman. She would begin to wake up, but realize that he had begun to strangle her with a spiked belt. It cut into her neck like a saw.

The Penis thrusting in and out of her would be beautifully juxtaposed against the great pain. The thrusting would take over and she would begin to move her own body in conjunction in his. The body would continue its dance as she would feel death’s tendrils in her mind and eyes. The blood flow constricted. The pleasure increased and pressure consumed her. She didn’t fight at all. Her juices flowing. She came again and again as the dick thrusted in her, until he came, and she felt it.

She cried in joy even as she choked. The body was tossed aside and Mickey sought another hole.

My gin may not be the finest, but finality doesn’t require great gin. It simply requires the loss of control.