Miss me? Sorry bout the gap, been nonstop fighting for the past week or so. Got deployed to Shasta Cascade, a shitload of fighting in terrain that favored guerilla forest warfare. So not a lot of moments for me to rest and record.

Got assigned to 4th squad 'Temperance', consisting of some of the hardest boiled fucks in this entire outfit.

Power Armor Squads are further divided into 3 fire teams with 4 men each: We had Fireteam 'Alpha' the boys who kicked down the door, Fireteam 'Bravo' who checked if the door was clear and Fireteam 'Charlie' who supported both when necessary

I was given the honor of being Team leader for Alpha. The brass really fucked up with organizing this whole shebang, so we had a shortage of NCOs. Our squad leader was Sgt. Tyler Cook, Team leader for Charlie. He was a straight arrow hard ass fucker from Boston, had a burning hatred for the female sex and habitually broke Geneva conventions when it came to POWs (thankfully since we officially consider the FSA a terrorist paramilitary state they technically don't abide with those conventions).

We first crossed the Nevada-Californian border at dawn (Part of Operation Michael) I cant give any specifics because of you know war time information laws but all I can say is that it was a hell of a ride. We use these massive helicopters called Emperor Stallions, they're heavily armored and the only things big enough in the air that can hold 4 of us heavy boys.

Anyway our E stallion got shot down, apparently the femmes weren't as technologically impaired as we thought. The FSA get a lot of their gear from 'friendly nations' (the European Federation and the Chinks) they're also superior to us when it comes to genetics and bioaugmentation, we men believe in steel, faith and a shitload of guns. The femmes however don't share are religious inclinations and are willing to play God with their own bodies which made them tougher than we took them for.

The boys and I were no worse for wear, we didn't have a pilot cause E stallions are piloted by AI ( I personally believe our wonky AI is half the reason we got shot down)

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More bayonet action please

You’ve got power armor, yes? Any of your foes likewise equipped? Because if so, it opens up the possibility of trapping them. Disable the batteries of a woman’s armor and she’s stuck in a form-fitting metal shell too heavy for her to move with mere muscle power. Then rip off the torso armor, leaving her limbs stuck but exposing her breasts and crotch and have your way while she futilely squirms in anger and fear. Then finish off by setting the armor on fire so she either roasts alive in it like a Brazen Bull or is blown to smithereens when the ammunition cooks off.

Like a sexier, gorier version of this.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHc7lpyMwfI
Victim being a bratty korean woman optimal.

An additional idea, stamping out the resistance among fully subjugated territory. When the empire conquers a region, it rounds up any women who didn’t flee quickly enough, kills the racially unwanted ones and distributes the remainder to their fighters as trophy “wives”. At least one of said women revolted and murdered her assigned husband. Time to make a gruesome public example of her death to discourage any other women from following her example.

>>26420
oh that sounds interesting

>>32156
"It wasn't my dog, Haleema! And even if, that’s how dogs behave. Just fuck off, bitch!” Mrs. Courtney Johnson’s voice shrilled from the staircase.

Courtney stepped into view, looking lean and polished in a way that always made me feel like a scruffy stray. She was a contrast to my mother in every sense: where Mom was all lush, overflowing abundance, Mrs. Johnson was sharp lines and slim angles. She looked down at me with a flicker of pity—or maybe it was the same disdain Christina showed me in the hallways at school—before turning her attention back to the "crime scene" on the stairs.

"You better remove your dog’s shit, bitch!" Mom’s voice rose an octave, her accent thickening as she grew more animated. She threw her arms up in a wide, sweeping gesture of frustration, and the movement sent a violent ripple through her chest. The heavy, soft mass of her breasts swayed side to side, then bounced up and down with a weighty momentum that seemed to defy physics. I felt my throat go dry, my gaze practically glued to the rhythmic jiggle of the ribbed stretched fabric. It was an intoxicating sight, the sheer scale of her curves creating a silhouette that dominated the own hallway.

"Remove it. Now!" Mom’s voice had transitioned from indignant to a full-blown roar. She stepped closer to Mrs. Johnson, her massive chest heaving with every sharp breath, the fabric of her shirt straining to the absolute limit. The physical presence of my mother was overwhelming; she seemed to expand, filling the corridor with a mixture of floral perfume and raw, Arab fury.

"You think this is a joke, Courtney? You think my house is a playground for your animal!" Mom’s voice was no longer just a roar; it was a storm. She stepped forward, her chest heaving, the ribbed fabric of her shirt stretched so thin it looked like it might snap. The argument spiraled, a chaotic loop of accusations about the dog, the carpet, and some old grudge regarding a fence line that neither of them actually remembered.

The tension snapped when Mom leaned in, her expression hardening into something lethal. "Listen to me carefully," she hissed, her Arabic accent curling around the words. "I have a gun in the drawer. I am not afraid to use it next time you bring your filth into my space!"


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>>32157
The air in the hallway suddenly felt thick, like I was submerged in warm oil. As the words "riddle those fat tits" lingered in the air, my mind didn't go to a place of fear or protection. Instead, it dove headlong into a vivid, visceral fantasy. I imagined it happening right here—the sudden crack of a firearm, the violent recoil, and the sight of my mother’s colossal NN-cups reacting to the impact. I could almost see the heavy, soft mass of her chest wobbling and shuddering with every single shot, a rhythmic, chaotic jiggle triggered by the force of the bullets. The thought was so overwhelmingly erotic that it felt like a physical blow to my gut.

Living in Texas, the idea of a shootout wasn't some far-off movie trope; it was a grim reality of the landscape we lived in. That knowledge only fueled the fire. The possibility that this dispute could escalate—that I might actually witness my own mother being gunned down in such a tragic yet fucking sexy way—sent a surge of heat through my entire body. My dick didn't just stiffen; it slammed against my denim, rock hard and pulsing, beginning to drip with a desperate intensity. My knees turned to water, and a dizzying wave of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless and trembling in the shadows of the landing.

Mom, oblivious to the storm of horniness raging inside her son, let out a gasp of pure outrage. "You dare! You dare threaten me in my own hallway!" she shouted. She stepped forward, her movements frantic and heavy. The sheer scale of her breasts meant that every single step she took caused a massive, undulating wave to roll through her chest. The ribbed fabric of her tight shirt was stretched to its absolute limit, the fibers screaming as they struggled to contain her abundance. To me, she looked stunningly sexy, her giant, jiggling curves dominating the narrow space, vibrating with every scream.

Mrs. Johnson didn't back down. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the railing with a smirk that was as sharp as a razor. "I'm not threatening, Haleema. I'm promising'. You bring that gun out, and I'll make sure you're the one on the floor."
"You sure about that? You really sure, bitch?!" Mom’s voice reached a fever pitch, a sonic boom of Syrian indignation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She didn't just yell; she vibrated.

Mrs. Johnson’s face hardened, her slim frame tensing as she mirrored the aggression. "Yes, I promise! Try me, Haleema! Go on, go get your little toy from the drawer and see who’ll get her fat tits 6 feet under!" She punctuated the sentence by mimicking a gun with her hand, snapping her fingers and pointing an imaginary barrel right at the heaving center of my mother's chest.

Mrs. Johnson’s gaze shifted, sliding away from my mother’s furious face to land directly on me. Her eyes didn't just see me; they scanned me, dropping with a surgical precision down to the unmistakable, pulsing silhouette stretching the fabric of my jeans. A slow, knowing smile crept across her lips—not a smile of kindness, but one of absolute leverage. She knew exactly what was happening in the shadows of the landing, and the realization that she had seen my arousal only made the heat in my groin flare more intensely.

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>>32158
"Shut up, bitch!" My mother’s voice didn't just break the silence; it shattered it. She stepped forward, the movement so sudden and aggressive that her massive chest surged forward, the ribbed fabric of her shirt straining to the point of transparency over the peaks of her breasts. "Dare to threaten me again, and your daughter is the one who will cry on your grave!"

Mrs. Johnson didn’t recoil; instead, she let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like a whip cracking. It was a cold, mocking sound that only served to fuel my mother’s fire. For a long moment, the two women simply stood there, inches apart, their breathing synchronized in a tense, ragged rhythm. They began to hiss at one another—low, guttural sounds of mutual hatred that bypassed language and went straight to the bone. Then, with one final, synchronized glare, they stepped back and slammed the door shut.

The sound of the lock clicking into place was like a gunshot, leaving me alone in the sudden, suffocating quiet. My mother remained standing in the center of the hallway for a moment, her chest still heaving, the massive weight of her breasts settling slowly as her adrenaline began to ebb. She didn't notice me. She was too busy smoothing down her tight shirt, the fabric still clinging to the immense curves of her chest, reminding me of the sheer scale of her abundance.

Two hours later.

The scent of sautéed garlic and spiced lamb began to drift through the apartment, a domestic peace that felt fragile and temporary. Mom moved through the kitchen with a focused intensity, her hips swaying as she reached for a platter. Every time she leaned over the counter to check the pot, the ribbed knit of her shirt strained against the colossal weight of her chest. I watched her from the table, my appetite for food secondary to the hypnotic jiggle of those NN-cups as she plated the food. I had not jerked off for a while, trying out NoFap. I am hornier than I were ever before.

Lunch was a quiet affair of rice and stew, the tension of the hallway fight simmering just beneath the surface. As we finished, Mom leaned back, her chest heaving in a slow, satisfied sigh Then she said in a loving yet dominant tone: "Jamal, habibi, take the garbage bags out now, please. I do not want the house smelling like old fish."


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Hey. I dont know the story you are talking about. But I would appreciate DPMaster's stories. He deleted stories years ago. I know some of his stories are still on aryion. Most of them is missing. Would be great to read them again.

Very nice!

Excellent

Well done!

Limbless Amy – Farm hand pt. 2
(bestiality][rape][drug][breeding][piss][atwt][join dislocation]

Days turned weeks and then blurred together until the route and all but blanked human thought from her brain.
The Farmer would wake her with an injection which keep her need to breed fogging her mind.
Her master, if up, the Colonial would mount her a few times after his morning slop, all the time her body would be racked by climax after climax.
If the beast of a hog was sleeping in she would squirm closer to him until she could user her lips and tongue to encourage the use of her face cunt.
The gag felt off some time in the first week, allow her to plead noisily with sucking and moans.

Even a few week later, when her belly started to grow and her tits swelled until her nipple at the lightest brush, she was breed by the beast multiple times a day.
By then she squeal allowed, no longer ashamed of who might hear a sow in heat.

It was when her water broke that the old farmer moved her to a new pen in the barn.

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>>25156
This is awesome, do tou have any other works in this style?

Despite enjoying a glass of wine or two with her friends, Beth had never been someone that alcohol effected too deeply and today was no exception. Certainly the wine they had all been knocking back at quite a rate helped to numb her sensations and made enduring the heat of the broth in which she sat bearable, as well as relaxing her for what was to come, but she was in no way out of her senses and understood exactly what was about to happen as Adeola tugged her head upwards by her hair. Following Laura’s example and sitting on her hands, she could feel her neck stretching as her shoulders were kept in place, exposing her throat to the blade that her friend and fellow organiser had shown herself more than competent with. As the knife was drawn from beneath one ear to the other, she expected it to hurt, or at least to burn, but the sensation was peculiarly not like being cut at all but more like being karate-chopped in the throat, or how she imagined that would feel at least, having thankfully never experienced it for real. This was followed almost immediately with the uncomfortable sensation of her throat being full, as if she had accidentally taken a gulp of water in the sea or swimming pool but when she tried to cough it up, she seemed to have difficulty expelling it from her mouth. Bloody saliva bubbled out and she felt a hot, tricking sensation on her chest as if more near-boiling water were being poured down in.

Not hesitating for a moment, Adeola continued to cut all the way around Beth’s neck, down to the bone. As her muscles were sliced through, Beth experienced a strange sensation of floppiness, finding it impossible to hold her head up like a newborn baby or a marionette with its strings cut. She has expected her vision to blur when the end came but, with her spine as the only thing keeping her head attached to her body, it was actually her hearing that went first. It must only have taken a matter of seconds, there was no way it could be otherwise, but in the same way time often slows down for people experiencing a car crash or some other traumatic event, Beth felt fully aware of the changes as first things started to sound distorted, as if she were under water, then very distant and finally silent. She could not feel anything below her neck but Adeola’s strong hands on her cheeks felt warm and comforting as she took hold. There was a sharp twist followed by a snap which she felt rather than heard and only then did her vision begin to fade, starting with a darkness around the edges which slowly closed inwards like the end of an old movie. Everything she was looking at seemed to slow down, like watching a film in slow motion, one frame at a time. As Adeola carried her towards the spikes, Beth observed the world around her take on an over-saturated look before the colours faded to monochrome, the darkness at the edge of her vision creeping ever inwards until there was only a dot of white light in the middle. She felt the spike in her neck, piercing the roof of her mouth, but before she could quite make up her mind how she felt about it, she was gone.

“Well?” Adeola rounded on her husband rather sternly. “What are you still standing there for?” She rolled her eyes at the blank expression on his face. “Go fetch the scraps from the other piggies!” She told him. “Add them to the pot! Nothing wasted, remember?” Rather sheepishly, he hurried off and returned a minute later pushing the wheelbarrow with the mostly skeletal remains of what had been Sarah and Helen inside. The only parts not completely stripped of meat being sections of their hands and feet and a little around some joints. Mr Rogers had sorted their edible organs from the scrap but these would be either going on the grill or baked in foil directly in the coals. Together, slightly awkwardly since a skeleton held together by bits of connective tissue is far more unwieldy than a whole body, even one that is a dead weight, the two dads managed to transfer the remnants of their daughters into the pot, breaking parts off and dropping them in to help them fit and settle. Although there was not a lot of meat left on them, the bones would add to the over-all flavour of the stew.

Once the wheelbarrow had been emptied, two of the women went to the kitchen and came back with washing-up bowls filled with peeled and chopped potatoes and other vegetables which they added to the pot. Adeola then mixed in the thick, concentrated red-wine stock which would give the liquid a more viscous quality then, with all the ingredients in place, the dads were tasked with lifting the heavy iron lid onto the pot so that the meat within could begin to cook properly.

With all the major “set pieces” of the afternoon’s entertainment complete, the guests had now simply to wait for the food to be ready to enjoy! Likely to be ready first was the meat from the two young women, the first expertly-butchered parts of which were now ready to go on the grill.

Wanting to honour her young volunteer’s promise, Adeola took charge of one of Sarah’s breasts, cutting deep scores in the meat over which she drizzled honey diluted with a little apple cider, then used wooden toothpicks to fix pineapple rings onto it, including one cheekily placed around the nipple, then wrapping the whole thing in foil and placing it directly into the coals to bake. Her remaining breast, along with both of Helen’s, were cut into thick slices and placed in skillets on the grill, some with garlic butter, some with more of the honey and cider mix and some with a sweet chilli sauce. As visually appealing as they were and as much as they were considered prestige cuts, Adeola understood that large breasts really did not have a lot of natural flavour and tasted mostly of whatever they were cooked in, the creamy texture of the meat meaning they absorbed and soaked up flavours delectably.

Hey younger daughter’s, she knew, would be a little more flavoursome but not by much, given how big they were for her age. However, she relied on the fact that anyone who took a slice would likely garnish the meat with fried onions and other condiments which would go some way towards masking the rather bland flavour of the meat itself. As the smallest of all the meat-girls on the menu that day, it was Shelly’s tits that were likely to be the tastiest and she wanted to make sure that her sweet boyfriend who had been so helpful throughout the day got a whole one to himself. Really the best and most delicious breast-meat was that of a young girl between the ages of eleven and thirteen, right at the beginning of puberty, with tiny but incredibly rich and tasty little tits, but there were none of those on the menu that day!

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It was not long before all the guests were tucking in heartily to the grilled meat of the two lovers, lovingly and, even Adeola was forced to admit, rather expertly barbecued by their dads, enjoying their chance to shine on a day where they had mostly been low-tier backup and best and in the way at worst! Honouring Sarah’s promise, Adeola gave the foil-wrapped, baked breast to the group of girls who had kept Mike distracted to share, assuring them correctly that the meat would be tender enough just to pull apart with the wooden picnic forks provided. The happy group of friends made themselves comfortable in a circle on the grass, the gently-steaming and deliciously sweet-smelling treat in the middle and proceeded to help themselves hungrily.

Although the meat of two tall, rather curvy young women definitely went a long way, there was no question of anyone being too full to enjoy the next treat to be served up which was the two whole-roasted teens, lifted carefully off the coals and placed in the carving mounts where, once again, the two dads, or technically speaking one dad and one uncle to this pair, were able to show off their skills with a carving knife and soon everyone was enjoying the deliciously-seasoned, smokey-flavoured teen meat. In accordance with her promise, Mike was served Shelly’s deliciously plump fillet, along with one whole breast and a thick slice of her rump. The other breast was shared between her parents while Adeola shared out one of Andi’s much larger breasts among the women who had come along to help her, keeping her younger daughter’s fillet for herself, while the two dads shared the other. Of course there was still plenty of meat from both girls, especially from the rump and thigh area, to go around and by the time the young teens were stripped to the bone, everyone was feeling very full indeed!

Fortunately, they had over three hours to let their food go down, during which they all happily chatted, socialised and enjoyed some more drinks, until the stew was ready to serve. As the sun began to set, Henry lit Tiki torches around the edge of the garden and built a bonfire from scrap wood over the now-cooled roasting pit, onto which the remains of Andi and Shelly’s carcasses were tossed.

Rather than serving the stew in disposable cups like most people expected, Adeola brought out and passed around beautiful, clearly hand-made ceramic bowls which she explained had been in her family for generations and had originally been made for this kind of feast and so it seemed appropriate to use them for the party. When some of the guests queried with polite surprise how she had enough for everyone, she explained that there had originally been enough for the whole village and her Great-Great-Grandmother, give or take a “great” or two, had been entrusted with them. They had been passed on to the oldest daughter of each generation and her mother had brought them with her when she moved to the country and had since entrusted them to her. Everyone ate carefully, not wanting to risk damaging these precious heirlooms, exclaiming how utterly delicious the stew was, served with fresh, crusty bread. Every single guest took a second helping, with many taking thirds or fourths.

Eventually, the pot was emptied enough that all the bones could be fished out. These were collected up into the wheelbarrow then tossed onto the bonfire where they popped and crackled most delightfully, the herbs and other flavourings that has soaked into them during the cooking adding to the cosy aroma of the smoke. There was no shortage of volunteers to help polish off the remainder of the stew and, by the end everyone started to say their goodbyes and head home, there was not a scrap of meat left un-enjoyed.

At Adeola’s suggestion, Henry set Beth’s head on the bird-table so that her flesh could be enjoyed and her golden-blonde hair taken to furnish nests. Sarah and Helen’s heads, of course, would be returned to their fathers in a day or two when the preservation and conversion was completed. Laura’s husband decided not to take her head and instead it was claimed by one of the neighbours who was a primary school teacher, explaining that it would be a useful teaching tool which she would put in a tank of ants in the classroom so that they children could watch over the next week or so how all the flesh was stripped, then perhaps the skull could be used as a Halloween decoration or in some other art project. For his part, Mike left the party with several new numbers in his phone and the promise of plenty of fun to come over the following weeks until he decided he was ready to get serious with someone else again.

“The party was a wonderful success!” Adeola remarked to Beth’s blissfully smiling head, sat on the bird-table, as she and her volunteered tidied up as much as they could for the evening. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you!”

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❤️🤤

Awesome story, Edward Hyde!

As one of the non-pedophile perverts who frequents this sight, getting to read your writing talents applied to a story with women of a more personally attractive age is a special and much appreciated treat!

>>32077
Thank you! I like to consider myself an equal-opportunities deviant! Hehe. Seriously 'though, it's fun to flex my creative muscles sometimes and write something a little different. Like Stephen King, a lot of what I put out follows a similar basic formula but every once in a while there's something that breaks the mold for one reason or another! Really glad you liked it and thanks so much for taking the time to comment :D

"Do you think they'll use the manual guillotine or the pneumatic one this year?"

"The pneumatic one is much faster, but the manual has that rhythmic thud that really lets the audience know when it's over," Leo replied, leaning back in his plastic chair. He was chewing on a pencil, his eyes drifting toward the chalkboard where the teacher had written the final rankings for the term. He was a bit sad he didn't make the top of list it was the last year he would be able to as he would be heading to middle school next year

"I just hope my parents get the premium payout," Sarah whispered from the desk behind them, her voice devoid of anxiety, sounding more like someone discussing a potential tax refund. "My dad wants to upgrade the kitchen, and the state's 'Academic Excellence' stipend for the top students is like winning the lottery."

The bell rang with a sharp, metallic clang that signaled the transition from the classroom to the assembly hall. It wasn't a sound of dread, but one of anticipation. As the students filed out, the atmosphere was light, almost festive.

As they transitioned into the hallway, the usual rigid constraints of a school day seemed to dissolve. Several parents had already arrived, lounging against the lockers or chatting with the faculty in a state of complete, unabashed nudity. It wasn't a rebellious act or a fringe fashion statement; it was simply an option. The school board had long ago decreed that clothing was a preference, not a requirement, and many found the freedom of skin-to-air contact far more conducive to the celebratory mood of the day.

The assembly hall had been transformed into a sprawling landscape of royal blue foam. Thick gym mats had been laid out in concentric circles around the central dais, creating a soft, cushioned topography that invited the attendees to shed the last of their inhibitions. It was common practice for the families to engage in intimacy while waiting for the proceedings to begin; the physical release served as a communal appetizer to the spectacle. Pairs of parents and older siblings drifted across the mats in a slow, rhythmic tide of skin and laughter, their movements fluid and unhurried, treating the gym floor like a vast, shared bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Nice!

As the monster reached the frenzied peak of his exertion, his movements shifted from rhythmic brutality to a predatory stillness. Vara, drifting in a fog of concussed misery, felt the sudden, cold void where his weight had been, only for it to be replaced by the pressing heat of his chest against her shoulder. Then, she felt it: the obsidian blade. It didn't strike with a sudden blow; instead, it rested against the outer curve of her left breast with a terrifying, heavy deliberation.

Vara’s eyes flew open, staring up at the canopy of interlocking leaves that now seemed like a cage. As the blade began to move, the physical sensation was an invasive, grinding heat. She felt the obsidian edge bite through the surface of her skin, moving with a slow, agonizing pressure that felt as though the monster was carving through stone rather than flesh. The blade didn't glide; it dragged. She could feel every microscopic jagged edge of the volcanic glass scraping against the inner wall of her chest, shearing through the fatty tissue and muscle with a methodical precision. The pain was a white-hot line of fire that radiated from her sternum, a slow-motion demolition of her own body.

But as the blade worked its way across her chest, joining the left breast to the right in one continuous, horrific slice, a different kind of agony bloomed—a psychological devastation. Vara had always been proud of her form; her breasts were a source of strength and admiration within the matriarchy of Aethelgard, symbols of her maturity and her status as a warrior-leader. To feel them being treated as mere raw materials for a trophy board was a violation deeper than the physical wound. She felt the sudden, terrifying lightness as the tissue was severed from the ribcage, the psychological weight of her identity being sliced away in real-time. The loss was not just of flesh, but of her dignity, her womanhood, and the very essence of her power.

The blade finally completed the arc, exiting the right side with a wet, final snap. Vara let out a sound that wasn't a scream—it was a broken, airless wheeze. She looked down and saw the monster hoisting the prize: her own breasts, still joined by a narrow, pulsing bridge of skin, held aloft like a grotesque piece of fruit. They swayed in the humid breeze, glistening with a vivid, terrifying crimson. The sight of them, detached and displayed, broke something inside her that the physical pain had not. She was no longer a Captain; she was a specimen.

The monster didn't glance at her shattered expression. He turned away with a guttural grunt of satisfaction, the obsidian blade still dripping as he began to stride toward the ancient oak. He carried his new trophies with a proprietary pride, his heavy footsteps echoing the rhythmic thud of Vara's failing heart. As he walked, the joined breasts swayed in time with his gait, a rhythmic reminder to Vara that her body was no longer her own.

The monster’s movements were methodical, almost ritualistic. From her position in the dirt, Vara watched through a blurring haze as he reached the oak. With a series of wet, rhythmic thuds, he pinned her breasts to the upper branch of the stake. He didn't just attach them; he arranged them. He spent a moment adjusting the bridge of skin, ensuring the trophy hung with a precise, symmetrical gravity. Seeing her own flesh displayed as a curated piece of art was a psychic blow that eclipsed the physical agony, a cold realization that she had been reduced to a decorative object.

Then, the shadow returned. He didn't just bring the trophy stake back to her; he slammed the heavy wooden cross into the loam inches from her head. The severed remains of four other women swayed mere inches from her eyes, a dripping canopy of failure and flesh. Vara tried to recoil, but her body felt like a distant memory, a heavy weight of numb meat.

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Captain Kaelen, the head of the guard, felt the weight of this inadequacy like a stone in her gut. She looked at her subordinates and saw not veterans, but girls playing at war. The terror was there, simmering just beneath the surface of their disciplined faces, and she knew that the sight of the trophy stake would shatter their composure before the first blow was struck. There was no time for a strategic retreat or a coordinated defense of the inner circle.

"Squad Rosebud! To the west gate, now!" Kaelen barked, her voice echoing through the limestone corridor.

Ten women snapped to attention, their armor clinking in a dissonant chorus. They were a hand-picked group, the strongest of the available shift, but as they marched toward the ramparts, their formations wavered. They gripped their halberds with white-knuckled intensity, their breaths coming in shallow, synchronized gasps. They were marching toward a single enemy, yet they moved as if they were facing an army, the sheer absurdity of the monster’s appearance—the concentric circles of laughing masks—warping their perception of the threat.


"Loose!" Kaelen’s command ripped through the air, and ten shafts whistled downward in a synchronized arc. The arrows struck with a series of dull, metallic clacks, bouncing off the layered porcelain of the monster's torso or glancing harmlessly off the curve of his masks. Not a single bolt found a seam. From beneath the smallest, most manic grin, a sound erupted—a scornful, guttural laugh that vibrated through the stone of the ramparts. Then, the creature moved. He didn't just run; he launched himself forward with an inhuman, predatory fluidity, his massive frame blurring into a streak of grey and white. Despite the cumbersome weight of the nested masks, he moved with a terrifying agility, closing the distance of the open courtyard in a matter of heartbeats.

"Swords! Draw your steel now!" Kaelen screamed, the panic finally breaking through her command. But the transition was too slow. The guards were still fumbling with leather scabbards and shaking off the shock of the monster's speed when the beast collided with the front line. He didn't strike with a blade; he struck with a demonical, focused intent upon the most vulnerable architecture of the female body.

The first guard had barely managed to step back when the monster’s spear surged upward in a brutal, diagonal thrust. The heavy iron head didn't seek the heart; it drove straight through the soft center of her groin. There was a sickening, wet tear as the spearhead punched through her pelvis and exited violently through her right buttock. The woman’s scream was cut short by the sheer shock of the intrusion, her body jolting upward as she was momentarily pinned to the air. With a callous, rhythmic snap, the monster yanked the spear back out of her ruined anatomy and immediately pivoted toward the second guard.


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He stepped into the inner sanctum, the polished marble floors echoing his arrival. The air here was thick with the scent of jasmine and expensive oils, a stark contrast to the copper stench clinging to his masks. The monster paused, his concentric grins reflecting in the mirrored walls of the hallway, and let out a low, vibrating growl that rattled the crystal chandeliers above. He could feel her now—the sovereign of Aethelgard—somewhere deep within the gilded labyrinth. The final trophy was waiting, and the harvest had finally reached its peak.

The corridors of the royal estate were designed for the graceful glide of silk gowns, not for the frantic scramble of panicked soldiers. This architectural elegance became a tactical bottleneck for the guards. In the narrow, jasmine-scented hallways, the women could not swarm him; the walls forced them into a thin, desperate line. Only one or two could bring their blades to bear at any given time, turning the defense of the palace into a series of isolated, doomed encounters.

For the monster, this lack of space transformed the hunt into a game. He didn't simply kill them to clear a path; he began to play with his food. When a young guard lunged with a short-sword, he caught her wrist and pivoted, driving his knee not into her stomach, but with a precise, crushing force into her groin. As she gasped, her body arching in a sudden, visceral shock, he used the obsidian blade to leisurely carve a jagged, grinning smile across her chest, slicing through her tunic and skin with a slow, rhythmic drag. He wasn't trying to break her spirit anymore—he was simply enjoying the tactile sensation of the harvest.

Another guard attempted to tackle him from the side, and he caught her mid-air, slamming her against the limestone wall with a bone-jarring thud. While she was pinned, he didn't go for the throat. Instead, he took a perverse delight in the "sculpting." He used the blade to methodically shred her breasts, the obsidian grating against her ribs with a wet, granular sound. He laughed—a low, guttural rattle behind the masks—as he watched her struggle to hold her chest together, the blood staining the pristine white marble of the hallway in long, arterial streaks. It was pure, mindless recreation, a chef sampling the ingredients before the main course.

The carnage trailed behind him like a red carpet. He stepped over the twitching bodies of the guards, his heavy boots splashing in the pools of blood and shredded fabric. The scent of jasmine was now completely overwhelmed by the metallic tang of open veins and the musk of the beast. He didn't hurry; he savored the echoes of the dying women's whimpers, which bounced off the high, vaulted ceilings of the corridor, creating a symphony of failure that announced his approach to the inner chambers.

As he reached the final set of double doors—heavy oak inlaid with gold filigree—the monster paused. He could smell her now: the Queen. Her scent was different, a mixture of royal perfumes and a deep, instinctive terror that acted as a pheromone to his predatory nature. He didn't knock. With a single, explosive heave of his shoulder, he shattered the oak doors, sending the gold leaf flying like shrapnel.

The Queen did not look like a woman about to be dismantled; she looked like a masterpiece of aristocratic poise. Now in her forties, she possessed a voluptuousness that had aged into a refined, commanding elegance. As the monster scanned her, his gaze lingered on the swell of her chest beneath the royal silk. They weren't the largest he had ever seen, but they were substantial—firm, royal, and carrying a weight of dignity that promised a satisfying resistance to the blade. She stood there with the unmistakable aura of a woman who had spent her life winning wars with words and diplomacy, a woman for whom the concept of a weapon was something purely decorative.

Comment too long, view post No.32058 to see the full comment.

>>32005

https://boards.guro.st/lit/koko.php?res=31884&page=1#q31884

Hi Tania
I've only posted a few here so far, but I'm working on another part of The Zombie Girl (she is a horny undead girl who always comes back after being snuffed) and I think I'm going to stick with that storyline for a little while. Thank you for saying hello, and I hope you enjoy all the stories here! I'm still not done with Jenny's Piglet Cure yet. I've really been milking it like it was Daisy Moo 🤤

Your pics are always great. Thanks again for all you do! 🩷

>>32020
Ugh!!! I just reread that comment and realized it says "Tania" when it should clearly say Tanja (phone just tried to change it again to have an i) I'm sorry!

>>32039
If only there were a way to edit a post... ;)
(hint: there is)

>>32040
This site is just very clunky on mobile. Thanks for the hint though. Now I learned that I can edit, and there's apparently a time limit on editing a post. 😅

>>32039

Hi Foxy

If you hadn't pointed out your mistake, I wouldn't have noticed it at all. Mistakes happen—as long as you don't make a major blunder, like (literally) losing your head at the barbecue, everything's fine.


I’m currently putting together images for the last chapter of the story *Mirror into the Future*. I want to finally finish posting this story.

After that, I wanted to read through your stories.

One more important note: all simple images (motifs with only one theme), without any context related to my stories (image combinations), can be used by authors here on the website for their stories.


Comment too long, view post No.32045 to see the full comment.

I don't know if "science" has any bearing here. The Amazons didn't exist, and are a fictional group from Greek Mythology. But I concur with consistent descriptions with obsidian.

This was a fun story OP. It was a clever idea to use their own severed breast as the target and as a way to keep score.

>>32012

> The Amazons didn't exist, and are a fictional group from Greek Mythology.
Yes and No.
You are right in the sense that there was probably no tribe/kingdom/society that was exactly named "Amazones".
You are wrong in the sense that there were no tribes/kingdoms/societies with matrilineality[1] and/or matrilocality[2].
Archaeologists discovered burial sites of female warriors and the horse cultures of the Scythians[3] and the Sarmatians[4] are believed to be the template for the Amazones. The old Greeks considered them as real but because their origin could not be exactly located (pretty normal for nomadic life) classic scholars declared the Amazons to be a myth.
Be that as it may, every myth has a more or less on reality based core.


[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matrilineality
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matrilocal_residence
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scythian
[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarmatians

>>32016
I didn’t bother at all with the historical background… I was just interested in a (extreme) breast fetish story. if you like that kind of stories... check my pixiv-site https://www.pixiv.net/en/users/2996805
i use pixiv because it´s easier to post stories there (no splitting needed).

as for the obsidian/steel error: blame the AI ;-)
(ok, and my laziness to skip the proofreading)

>>32022

> I didn’t bother at all with the historical background…
Oh, this comment (>>32016) was adressed to Anonymous, who denied the existence of the Amazons. As background of your story they are an excellent choice, equally whether they are mystical or were real.

> I was just interested in a (extreme) breast fetish story.
It has turned out very well.

> … obsidian/steel error: blame the AI ;-)
Oops, you worked with AI? I wouldn't have thought of this. I'm curious, how much AI is in the story?

>>32031
the whole plot is from me - the whole wording is from the ai

>>31813
Not AI at all (just over tired and over alcoholed), but I just had too many ideas that I forced into a very short story. And I didn't do as much proofreading or editing as I should have. I don't tend to do a lot of world building by exposition, so my writing can be like being thrown into a cold pond. It all totally made sense in my min's eye, but I failed to spell it out the way I had hoped to.

I promise the idea is/was very hot and playful. I rushed it. I may revisit it and repost it more the way I imagined it.

Thank you for your criticism (although it was ouchy, but not unwarranted)

I have loved a lot of the stories here, but I don't think I'll ever go so in depth as Jenny's Piglet Cure or Training Tina, for a couple examples of longer stories.

But who knows?

>>31813
There were reasons. At first I toyed with the idea that it was tradition to snuff the firstborn girl, and then as I was writing I changed my mind. I went back and changed some things and diced it would be more fun if Macy was still there but not considered human. I though the twins' relationship as person and pet could be more interesting when it got to the next chapter. I actually imagined this starting with Jillian blowing out her candles at the party, but then I overcomplicated everything.

I haven't written much guro to begin with, and this was only my 2nd go here. I think I had too much loli guro pent up in my mind and it tried to burst out all at once. Smh.

hey Foxy
do you still use the email embended in your username?
i sent you something i hope you will like :)

>>32017

Hi! Thank you for reading and for making some art from it! I kind of dismissed this story from my mind, as I didn't quite feel satisfied with it, but I'm glad you enjoyed it!!

I think I overcomplicated the whole think in my mind and wrote it too fast to really communicate my idea clearly. I'm taking my time on the next story I'm working on. Thanks again for taking the time to say hi!!

>>32021

very glad you liked it.

do you plan to continue it? would really like to know how the bbq goes.

and the plot wasnt too overcomplicated. the idea and execution was top notch

(btw. sent you another thing on mail)

I wasn't offended or anything. Just wondered why my name was used in a cannibal lottery story over the authors. Great story though

>>30598
Because you are the current King of cannibal lottery worlds! (And this story was posted anonymously ;) )

>>30579
>>30597
>>30598
>>30599

I couldn't have explained it better than Edward.
It was never on my mind that you, Symbri, wrote this story. Though, it seemes that Anonymous placed it in your story-universe. That's all. :)

Edward, thank you for perfectly reading my brain. ;D

Sorry Lolicullus, didn't mean to sound angry or offended.

And I'm touched that you'd think I'm the current king of Lottery Worlds. I just made it a cohesive system instead of something that just happens.

Oh wow, didn't expect to read this kind of emotional story here.

>>28859
Also, none of this is AI-generated. That's why it takes so long; this kind of mediocrity has to be CRAFTED.

Thanks for the great update to the story! It's perfectly understandable for quality writing like yours to take a while.

>>28861
I hate bump posts, but this one is 100% justified. I'm working on the next part, it's going to be a big chunk of text, and I want to be able to find this thread again.

>>28859

hey. it's great you taking on the story since Abbott stopped years ago.

my only 2 cents, you should probqbly get a pen name and post on Ao3 too. because if the thread gets down for whatever reason, wouod be almost impossible to trace it again.

cheers.

really nice