Dear friend,

First of all, I must say that I’ve been meaning to write to you for a long time. For years, actually. This letter has been in the making since I was a teenager. I'm about to enter the second quarter of my century, and I thought if I didn't do it now, I’d never do it.

I've been feeling very nostalgic lately. Every day I reflect on my life, especially on my art. You know I like to write. And I think about why I write. What is it that moves people to do anything?

I think it's love and pain. I believe that humans were made to escape pain and protect love. I say “protect” and not “seek” because love is inherent in human beings, contrary to what cynics might say. To be alive is to flow with love, and as proof of this I can show you the history of humanity: eras of pure misery, suffering that transcends generations, the worst of the worst. Would we consciously choose to continue an existence plagued with endless evils, if there wasn't a reason to do so? Don't you think we would have decided a long time ago to put an end to all evil forever, that is, to voluntarily extinguish ourselves, if we thought that was the most rational thing to do? What makes our small and insignificant species not choose to self-destruct is what makes it not so insignificant. It’s love for life that moves the world, my friend. It may be subconscious, it disguises itself, it changes shape, but it's there.

But when it comes to art, it doesn't matter what moves the world; an artist is an individual, and the human mind must be analyzed in terms of its uniqueness. What can move an artist who has never loved, or who has never felt pain? Where can his magic… his inspiration come from? Where is an artist's love born?

Art is sensory. We can see it in paintings, movies and novels; we smell and taste it in culinary works; we can touch it on the fabric of a dress; we hear it in orchestras and indie rock bands. But its inspiration is not sensory. It isn’t intellectual either: it doesn’t come from the body or the mind.

There's a book called The War of Art (by Steven Pressfield) that states that all callings of the soul, that is, vocations, come from a single source, a single metaphysical force, separated, but united to us, that indicates the path we must follow to reach happiness. There is a force that wants us to accomplish our mission. They are the angels, the muses, the “inspiration”, whatever you want to call it. When we do what we came to do in the world, we are accompanied by this force.

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The air was thick with anticipation as the crowd roared, their voices echoing off the cold concrete walls. They were gathered here for one reason and one reason only: to witness the ultimate power struggle between two individuals, each with their own unique strengths and weaknesses. In one corner, stood Marcus, a towering figure of dominance and muscle. At 6ft 10in tall and weighing a staggering 275 pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with. His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as he scanned the crowd, searching for his next victim. And in the other corner, there was Sandra.

She was just a 13-year-old girl, barely more than a child, with a body that hadn't yet fully matured. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face flushed from fear and embarrassment, and her small frame trembled as she stood there, naked and vulnerable. Sandra was the perfect victim for Marcus. He enjoyed physically dominating girls, and there was no denying that she was going to be an easy target.

The crowd grew silent as the referee, a burly man with a crooked nose, stepped between them. He motioned for them to touch gloves, and Sandra tentatively reached out, her tiny fist making no impression on Marcus' massive hand. The crowd laughed, their cruel amusement only serving to fuel Marcus' desire to hurt her.

He stepped back, bouncing on his toes like a panther ready to pounce. With a powerful thrust, he drove his fist into Sandra's stomach, doubling her over. She let out a sharp gasp, her eyes unfocused with pain. Marcus didn't wait for her to recover; he was on her in an instant, his meaty forearm slamming into her shoulder blades, driving her face-first into the mat. The impact reverberated through her entire body, and she felt a sharp stab of pain in her neck.

She dropped to her knees, gasping for air as Marcus towered over her, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "Get up," he growled, reaching down to grab her hair in his massive hand. He yanked her to her feet, forcing her to face him again. "You're going to give me a fight, aren't you?" he sneered, his words dripping with contempt. Sandra shook her head, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to fight back, but she knew she couldn't. Marcus was too strong, too big.

"Wrong answer" Marcus hissed as he grabbed Sandra by the throat and lifted her off the ground. Her feet dangled helplessly in the air as he slammed her back-first against the mat with a sickening thud. He let her body slump to the ground, gasping for air. Her vision swam and her head throbbed painfully. But she didn't fight back. She didn't want to provoke him further.

He kicked the small girl's legs apart roughly, spreading her wide. "You're just a little slut, aren't you?" he growled, lowering his face to her crotch. Sandra whimpered as his hot breath brushed against her sensitive flesh. She felt his rough hands roughly part her labia, exposing her helpless, vulnerable sex to his view. He chuckled darkly, his hot breath causing her to tremble. "You're so wet for me, aren't you?" he whispered, his voice vibrating against her tender skin.

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John stood for a moment at the gate of Stonewood High's main campus, admiring the beautiful architecture. He was no expert, but each one of these buildings surely cost millions to design, let alone build.

Stonewood High was one of the most prestigious high schools in the world. With its sprawling, beautiful campus, overqualified teachers, extensive and well-funded extracurriculars and generous scholarship program, both gifted students and the children of the rich and powerful around the world flocked to it like bats.

The keyword here being ""was"". Stonewood ""was"" one of the best schools in the world, but a few failed investments, loss of a major donor and an administrator who disappeared along with most of the school's cash have brought the mighty institution to the brink of bankruptcy. The board suddenly found themselves in a sticky situation: the contractually-bound funding of the hundreds of clubs, groups and sports teams, as well as the guaranteed college full-rides for gifted students suddenly became an extravagant expense that the school could no longer afford, yet could not legally back out of.

Enter John. A professional assassin and hitman, John was hired by the board to eliminate some of the most costly students. With terrorist leaders, prominent businessmen and political leaders in his portfolio, killing high schoolers was hardly going to be a challenge. Naturally, he was not cheap to hire; the only reason the school could afford him was because they were not paying in cash, but rather the promise of free reign with his methods and, if he wished, the bodies.

John smiled as he entered the school grounds, scrolling through his phone to find details on his first victim. This was going to be fun.

I'd always found my older sister, Mia, to be incredibly sexy. She was 4 years older than me, her being 17 and I being 13. Ever since i could remember i had fantasized about her. I knew it was wrong to fantasize about her but i just couldnt help myself and for obvious reasons. She had blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, freckles, cute nerdy glasses, and a curvy body. I'd always try to get a peek of her while she was in the shower of our shared bathroom, occasionally getting a view of one of her breasts or her ass. Our house only had 2 bathrooms, one between me and my sisters room and the other connected to our mom's bedroom.
Normally when she showered there wasnt too much of a gap in the curtain, making it incredibly easy to perv on her while I 'used the bathroom.'
Like with any other time I'd heard the bathroom shower running, I gave a single knock before walking in. Walking past the shower curtain, I realized that it wasn't shut all the way, the opening being a few inches larger than normal. As I walked past the opening I was able to get an amazing side view of my sisters naked body. I sat down on the toilet, pretending to actually use it for a minute as to not cause any suspicion.
I tried to make my way past the curtain with only a quick peek but the amazing view clouded my judgment, stopping and staring at my sister as she lathered up her hairless legs, unable to move, entranced by her perfect figure. Before I could snap out of it myself, someone else did it for me.
"Enjoying the view?" My sister teased, staring at me through the opening in the curtain.
"Oh shit, sorry, I didnt mean-" I tried to bullshit my way out but my sister cut me off.
"Relax, I'm not mad, you just surprised me is all.." my sister moved back a bit, obstructing my view of most of her sexy figure, the only exception being her face, a patient and slightly nervous smile painted across it.
"But if you're done checking me out, would you mind leaving so I can finish?"
I'm surprised by her response, not expecting her to be so chill about it.
"Well i mean, this is the first time ive ever been able to properly check you out. Usually the curtain is actually closed."
My sister peers down at her feet for a moment before looking back to me, visibly blushing a bit.
"Oh.. so you want to stay?" Her voice still soft but sounding noticeably more anxious.
I nod "of course i wanna stay, you look way better without clothes on. Letting me get a good view for a while will help me deal with, you know.."

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Winter Moore, Child Porn Star, Disposed Of At 13 - Paimon Times (No-Sex, Loli, Referenced Snuff)

1. I am a novice erotica writer and as such am hungry for constructive criticism and feedback on my work. This story has been posted on multiple platforms. Please let me know in the comments or via whatever messaging platform is available what you thought of the story, even if you did not like it at all. The only exception to this call for feedback is that if you wish to criticize this kind of (violent, sexual, underage) content, please rather keep it to yourself. If you do not mind this kind of content or enjoy it, but nonetheless feel this story is subpar, do engage.

2. This story is only an exercise in catharsis – its content and characters are entirely fictional and do not represent any real-world preferences or desires. If you are easily offended by themes or literary portrayals of parental betrayal, extreme sexual violence, and underage characters engaged in sexual and violent scenes, please do not read any further than this.

3. As with all my stories, it is dialogue heavy and light on sexual details (which I choose to reserve to the reader's imagination!).

4. If you enjoyed this story, let me know. That's the only way I know to write more!

***

Reporting by Paimon Times

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This initially started as a 250 words challenge idea. But by the time I was happy with what I had, it was already twice as long. So instead, I decided to extend it a little bit, to make it its own independent short story.

Somehow, it's more or less a single picture of the scene in my head, that I gave some context to. I sure as hell don't have the skills to draw it, although I'd love it if someone who does gets inspired, but I figured I might be able to make a half decent story out of it.

Warning/kinks list : loli m/f (although mostly f), torture, rape, skinning, cannibalism, …

The spy, the Grok and the blood sausage

Leah was slowly moving along the line of tents, silent as a shadow, when she heard a scream coming from the tent at the end. A loud pained scream.
She looked around. Nobody stirred. It was common in the camp.
A second scream, filled with anguish, that died in the middle. A kid's scream.
Staying unnoticed was the top priority. She knew she shouldn't, but she had to take a look.


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I don't know what did it, but we all knew it was over.

Oh, well. They had a good ride.

My wife- my granddaughter, to be honest. Her mother's… Fifth, I think.

Honestly, who keeps track anymore?

She was fully three years old at this point. Long in the tooth. She'd popped out ten daughters in the last two years. Most sold off, a couple wandered away.

Two I couldn't stand it after they were just over a month old, fully grown, long-legged and with their sweet little F-cups spurting their first sweet cream, ready to get knocked up and pop out their own little baby bimbos in under a week.

Airheads grow up so fast.

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I felt a familiar tingle in my balls as we walked down the city street. My companions, three chicks I’d been hanging with for the past couple weeks, chatted among themselves as I looked about for a suitable candidate.

I could use one of the girls easy enough. All it would take would be to grab an elbow, steer her to an alley, and I could relieve my tension in relative privacy. Unfortunately, I’d had all of them before and I was pretty sure I’d gotten everything new out of them that I was likely to see. I was feeling in the mood for something new and since we were in a new(for me) part of town, I figured I’d sample the local fare.

Pulling out my phone, I pushed the dedicated side button to point me to the nearest fuck stop. Dealing with a man’s horniness is serious business, and I was pleasantly surprised to find we had passed a fuckstop just moments before.

As I turned back one of the girls(my father taught me not to bother remembering names until they were at least pregnant with one of my children) noticed. She was platinum blonde, slim, and reminded me of pink bubble gum for some reason.

“What’s up, babe?” she asked.

I motioned for the fuckstop. “Just gotta see a girl about a horse,” I said with a half-smile on my face. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

She smiled up at me and grabbed my arm. “You’ll always be long enough for me, darlin’.”

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I'm going to post what I've written so far here, so it's all in one thread rather than spread out. And any additional work will be posted here as well!

Two sets of steps slowly approached him from behind. One was heavy, and thudded loudly in
the empty court. The other was soft, a whisper barely heard.

This was it, this is what he had always wanted.

Two people came into view around him. On his left was a man, tall and deeply masculine with a deep brown skin tone. He had a handsome face and a rugged physique under a simple T-shirt and jeans. He had long black hair, tied into a ponytail at his neck. At his belt was a knife.

It was a promising omen.

To his right was a woman in striking clothes. She wore a deer pelt vest adorned with beads and feathers, kept closed with a few leather string ties. He could see her brown skin, tantalizing and beautifully smooth underneath. On her head was a black and blue feather headdress that fell gracefully down her back to her hips. Her legs were clad only in some leggings with decals depicting leather strips and beads. New clothes depicting old designs and hugging her marvelously.

Another promise that he would get exactly what he craved. What he needed.


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The old thread isn't bumping anymore. This seems to be a limitation of the new gurochan. Time for a renewal.

Old thread full of ultra hot ultra short stories can be found here:
https://www.gurochan.cx/lit/res/5209.html

Keep them coming!
I'll start it off with this one (repost, since I'm lazy):

=Slicing fetish=
Did you ever use an egg slicer? Those with thin wires.
Imagine I'm the egg, and those wires are a monofiliament grid.

It doesn't really hurt. If you slice me slowly, you see my boobs squeezed a bit before the wires sink into me. Feels really satisfying! They suddenly go in, like 'slurp'. Butt cheeks, too! Just slice me all the way!

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Hi. GuroChan is back (hooray!) and I’ll celebrate with a story that I plan on turning into a series. I was writing under the name Loke on the old chan, I wrote a few stories that are still on here I think.

The concept is simple; Jim operates a Snuff Truck, a mobile processing centre in an alternative reality of some sort where overpopulation is the biggest issue around and people usually die consensually or semi-consensually. The truck is kind of like a mobile home, driver seat and mini-office in the front, execution room in the back.

This is the first story. Feel free to suggest characters, scenarios and alternative execution methods. I have som rules though, to make sure writing is fun for me too. They are quite simple: No scat (mild peeing is totally ok though”, no toddlers, no male on male, no real people and no characters from anime or TV etc. The more information the better. Don’t hesitate to suggest things though, the worst that could happen is that I just don’t use it. Also, constructive feedback in general is greatly appreciated.

PS: My favourite subjects are tween and teen girls, 12-15.

————————————————————

Chapter 1 (f-solo, M-solo, f-snuff)

Jim looked at the black and white clock on the wall of his truck. Eager to get home he hoped no more visitors would come, but his hope shattered immediately when he heard knocking on the door. He opened, and greeted the two people standing outside. He recognized one of them, a stunning blonde English teacher named Amanda, coming to his truck for the third time that day. She was there to escort the one of them that wouldn’t leave that truck alive.

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A wolf-man reclined against a tree in the shade just off to the side of a little dirt trail through the woods. Apart from his ears, tail, and teeth, he looked like a well-built and tanned human male, tall and feral, shirtless and barefoot. His nails were long, sharp, and hard like claws. He was waiting, as he had been doing for a few afternoons now in this spot. Idly, he scratched at the trail of hair growing on his muscled abdomen, up from the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans. Then he caught the scent he had been waiting for. His patience had finally paid off. He licked his lips and stepped around behind the tree, ducking out of sight.

The little bunny girl coming down the trail couldn't have been more than half his height and a quarter of his weight. Her blonde twintails and her long fluffy white ears both bounced in time with her backpack as she half-skipped in her tiny pink sneakers, matching colored mini-skirt fluttering with each rise and fall of her pale, skinny legs. She wasn't wearing any panties, the fucking slut - the wolf could smell her cunny from dozens of paces. It was this familiar scent that had tipped him off, that some cute young prey-thing liked to take this dangerous shortcut home from school some afternoons. She should have been more careful.

As she approached the tree the happy bounce in her gait died away, prey animal instinct warning her that there something wrong. Peering through branches, concealed from sight, the wolf watched her pause and look around, anxious, her little button nose wrinkling as she sniffed the air. He was pretty sure she was already close enough to catch, being weighed down by her schoolbag and all, but just in case he waited a moment longer. Then she did something really stupid, and sealed her fate. Glancing down, the gradeschooler saw that one of her shoelaces had come loose, and she nervously bent down to tie it, fingers fumbling as she mumbled something, perhaps to reassure herself she was okay and that no one was watching her. Dumb little kid. He was already on her by the time her head snapped back up in alarm at the sound of rapid padding footsteps.

"AAAAAAAAAAH! NO NO NO NO, nonono, please no!" she squealed in panic and started begging immediately as he grabbed her and roughly manhandled her petite struggling body off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather.

"Gotcha, little prey-slut! Don't worry, you won't be needing these anymore," the wolf teased, ripping her shoes off her bare kicking feet and throwing them into the trees, followed by the backpack straps being peeled from her smooth bare shoulders and it dropping unceremoniously to the ground with a thump.

"No no pleeeease p-please don't, please I wanna go h-home," she cried, breath quickening and her tiny limbs shaking uncontrollably. She squirmed in his arms and sobbed as he pressed his stubbly face to her soft neck and kissed and sniffed her flawless skin. He could feel her frenzied little rabbit heart pounding through her entire small frame. One clawed hand shredded her tube top and let the ragged pieces flutter to the dirt, exposing her perfectly flat chest to be groped and kneaded as his other hand found the inside of her thigh and squeezed.

"C'mon, you asked for this. Look how you're fucking dressed," he drawled offhandedly as spun her around and lifted her skirt to get a close up look at her bubble butt, her fluffy little rabbit tail, and her gorgeous, puffy, hairless kiddie cunt.

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Story takes place in the near future, where people find the way to self healing any sustained damage, rendering them immortal. This leads to many different experiments between people, different fetishes and non fatal cannibalism is on rise.

There is a knock on the door.
"Who that might be?" I think for myself.
"Hi, I am Your new neighbor, Katia. Can You please help me? " says beautiful short girl, with long black hair.
"Well sure, I am Sew, what do You need? "
She blushes a little. "Well, it is quiet a strange request, to ask from a stranger, but I have invited my friends for a welcome party, and I want to cook something from my heart to Them. Miss Jenkins from the second floor, mentioned, that You are quiet skilled with the knifes.
"Well, I can sharpen the knife, but I am not a chef or something. " I reply.
She blushes even more, and she toys with her hair nervously: "Well, sharp knife is important for what I have in plan. I want to cook my heart for Them, but I am afraid, that I can not cut it out myself. Can You please help me with that? "
My brain stops a few seconds.
"OK, let me get this straight: You want me to cut of Your heart, so You can cook it for Your friends? "
"Well, yes, " she replies. "Maybe a little bit more than that. From what I have read, it will take me at least half an hour to be able to move my arms again, or to walk without any issues, it takes some time for ribs to regenerate. And I have not that much time, so, if You can please cut and season it for me, that would be nice.I will fully understand, if You will refuse. "
"No, no," I reply. "I am more than OK with that. But I have never done anything like that before. Are You OK with that? " "Damn sure I am." she replies. "Me neither. "

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Disclaimer! This is just a work of fiction.


—-


I reckon it’s high time to write about my career. Cancer and diabetes have ravaged my body over the last five years. I'm drunk most days and eat mostly fast food and junk food; I’ll be dead long before prosecution can put me behind bars.

I was a hired killer. Most of them deserved to die, some were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, it didn’t matter. After a while, it didn’t take much to figure out who was paying me and why somebody was dying.

You don’t care about all of the details of how I ran my business so I’ll get on with the stories; since I’m feeling generous I’ll stick to the ones where a broad ends up dead.

—

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