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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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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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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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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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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CBT Shorts, Number 1

Four short stories: Pool Party, Glory, Softballs, and Cleaver, with a general theme of casual male genital abuse and destruction, usually with implied cannibalism.

1 - Pool Party

 Jeremy opened the door to the backyard and peered out at the lawn and pool a bit apprehensively. His sister was having all of her friends over for a pool party, and she had absolutely forbidden him from going back there this particular afternoon. She had told him, quite emphatically, that he wasn't to try to speak to any of her guests, to disturb them in any way, or to even sneak looks out at them through a window. She had seemed rather firm on the subject, too, glaring at him through narrowed eyes as she'd spelled out exactly what dire fate would befall him should he breach the sanctity of the backyard during her party.

 So, with thoughts of the potential consequences to his life and safety foremost in his mind, he decided to wait until he was noticed by his sister, rather than to try to draw her attention to himself by yelling for her. He figured that he could minimize the chances for earning her ire if he broke as little of the spirit of her commands as possible, while breaking the letter of them.

 The girls who had been invited over by his sister were, one and all, gorgeous. Of an age with his slightly older sibling, they seemed to him to be glorious angels of feminine beauty, descended from on high. Granted, his perceptions were probably more-than-slightly colored on the issue, considering that most of the girls were wearing rather skimpy one or two piece bathing suits and nothing else. The fact that they were glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, slick and wet from multiple dips in the cold, refreshing water of the pool, only helped emphasize the allure that their taut and toned teenage bodies held for him.

 Finally, his sister noticed him lurking in the doorway and trying not to stare, and she stalked over to him. Her suspicious, rather severe frown made him gulp as she approached.

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Cyber Six

Adjusting her glasses, a tall and lithe blonde with stringy hair--parted to one side with the bangs bouncing off her cheek--walks confidently along the street to her apartment, glad to be away from the office for the day and nearer to home; but for no simple reason of relief from the stress and grind of office work, but for another, wholly selfish and carnal reason. As she turns a corner onto her street, feet carrying her absent-mindedly along her daily routine, her mind wanders already to what awaits in her innermost sanctum, at the computer tucked away in a small nook of her study: Sector X, that private and unmoderated region of virtual cyberspace built for deviants just such as she. Already the door is locked behind her, and already her clothes are off, the loose, buttoned-up pant suit gone in favor of a lively number meant for bedroom viewing; and in only a moment she's plugged into the cyber world, her virtual reality goggles displaying the welcome screen just long enough to make her impatient.

Log in, she selects, and her next selection is the script she wrote for accessing the backdoor to Sector X, complete with her custom configuration settings. Tapping a finger with a sigh, she waits until the view changes before relaxing, sinking down into her chair as the interface takes hold, allowing her total control over her avatar as its classical senses and limbs flare to life in her mind; and she's in. Here, in Sector X, she is without her glasses, without her neatly-pressed suit, and without her well-kept hair; here, her hair is voluminous and flowing, and her suit replaced by a taut, black leather catsuit that accentuates all her womanly curves, its form pressing tightly down and lifting her full, round breasts up to greet her eager admirers, with a crotchless groin and holes over her erect nipples. The street around her is busy already with passers-by--an abundance of persons from nationalities near and far--each strolling about or stopped for an early evening rendezvous, some arm-in-arm with their partners, and some already publicly copulating, giving no care to the eyes watching them in passing. The moans and grunts of the lovers are immediately exciting, and she licks dry lips in anticipation of her own pleasure to come.

It is a fantasy life she lives here, where she and her partners can explore all the erotic and taboo carnal pleasures denied in the real world, with all of the exquisite joy and none of the physical consequences; you cannot get the mind pregnant, nor can you damage the body. Her heels are already clicking along the concrete, and soon she enters an abandoned warehouse near the public district, one built and maintained by herself and her men; and there, patiently waiting, are her five studs gathered about a wicked-looking steel table, with chains and straps attached on all sides of it. A fresh and warm swell flushes through her loins, and a brief skip in her heart causes her to breathe in sharply, but her outward demeanor is calm and catlike, and she approaches with even, measured steps, letting her heels click sharply over the floor until she stands by the contraption ... and there, surrounded by her lovers, she is immediately set upon, their hands reaching in and groping, caressing, and fondling her from neck to cunt; their fingers pushing into and around her exposed clit and rectum while one hand strokes and chokes her throat alternately.

Her breath comes in faster and shorter gasps, escaping her lips finally as moans when they grip, pinch, and tug on her nipples, when gruff hands push her back into the table and quickly go about strapping and chaining her down. She breathes faster, but not of fear--but of excitement. Soon they work a lever, and the table lifts and rotates, until she is rolled forward such that she hangs parallel to the floor, facing it while they gather about her. A fleeting rush of cold joy runs through her in anticipation of what comes next, when her voice is taken away by a fat cock plugging her mouth, and a heavy pressure heaves into her ass and plunges down until a solid mass presses against her cheeks. She breathes a muffled moan, and the cocks begin pumping and pumping; slowly at first, then faster and faster until their balls are slapping against her chin and ass, and she breathes a sharper, more excited moan against the cock on her tongue when she feels a stiff, powerful weight pushing her cunt, its many sharp and blunt features unmistakably telling of the fist forcing its way into her womanhood. She feels it ram and shove mercilessly into her body, until the crook of an elbow stops its travel and the fist clenches and turns inside her womb--having penetrated to maximum depth against her body's better wishes--and the unforgiving strength of his arm causes cold shivers of arousal to shake her chest as her juice sprays all over him.

In and out they pump, her mouth stretching about the fat cock in it, her ass sore from the pounding inside it, and her cunt roaring with pained fire from the fist ramming and twisting within her, until her increasingly excited and growling moans cause the two men to orgasm, spilling their seed until she drinks the cum in her mouth and the dick milk in her ass spills out wetly about the edges and drips off her vulva. They finally pull out, just as she edges painfully close to her own orgasm, causing wet pops to sound and a string of cum to slide from her tongue; there she gasps, panting and quietly moaning, when they rotate the table in the opposite direction, spinning her now to face upward ... where she waits but a moment for a fresh cock to plug her face, and another to plunge into her freshly-loosened cat. Again they pump, mercilessly pounding and grunting and moaning, and the arm returns to her body, forcing its way into her ass this time and stretching the tight thing relentlessly around it until it again buries itself to the elbow; and again she is helpless and prone, able only to moan to them her pleasure and excitement as they pound and ream her body, every second of pain amplifying the fire in her loins and her sore clit until she edges closer and closer to orgasm, when their load again explodes into her mouth and cunt, forcing her to stop and drink while her building release throbs and ebbs, stopping just barely shy of exploding through her senses.

They're good, she marvels, and again they pull out of her orifices, letting cum dangle in strings for just a moment before stepping away. Already shivering and panting from exhausted excitement, she can only breathe and wait while they spin her back to an upright position, then work levers which raise her legs to a seated position; and now, at long last, the fifth and starring partner steps forward, with a dick sized for a horse and balls big enough for her to palm. What he had done to hack the system she could never figure out, but she loves every inch of his cock, and is glad to have it all to herself ... and she knows he is glad to punish her with it. He approaches with a pair of long, gleaming knives, however, and a fearful skip in her heart precedes a flash and a fiery pain in her breasts, causing her to cry out sharply as he embeds the blades hilt-deep in her nipples, the guards flattening down against her flesh and pressing her breasts into taut, smooshed-up balls. The mental image of blood dripping off the exposed tips pointing from her back only excites her, however, as does the sight of him greedily piercing her breasts, and the pain of him twisting and yanking and grinding the blades within her flesh only causes a carnal lust to flush through her veins, gathering as a series of sharp twitches in her cunt as he works his cock up towards it; and, finally, plunges it in.

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Requested repost of Final Fantasy Snuff Story by M.

Day One

Tifa woke up. She slowly rose, and she realized she wasn't at home. A memory surfaced - of a stranger that offered to show her a way to bring Aerith back.
She was in a room without windows, and instead of one of the walls there were iron bars. There was some light coming from there, but the whole room had a mysterious glow that made everything perfectly visible. The only furniture was the bed she was lying on.
Tifa realized something else - she was nude! She felt her nipples harden from the cold. She walked to the entrance so she could see what was outside. It was a circular area covered with sand, and on the perimeter of it there stood 15 more cells like hers in regular. Beyond it were cold stone walls, giving the place an unfriendly feel.
She wondered if there were other girls in them. Then she scolded herself - if there were name plaques on rooms, then there must be other prisoners in them. She looked around trying to make out who was imprisoned with her. She had trouble reading the ones turn her from her, but she managed to do it.
She read following names: Terra, Celes, Garnet, Lightning, Rinoa, Serah, Selphie, Rydia, Aerith, Cissnei, Rosa, Vanille, Yuna, Ashe and Lenna.
Tifa realised the stranger was telling the truth. Aerith was in there, so maybe she could bring her back. She tried to look if she was really there, but she couldn't see through the bars.
Suddenly, a deep Voice sounded out: „Welcome to my arena. You will battle in duels to death until only one of you survives.” The voice sounded familiar to her, like that stranger but not completely similar.
„Today, only weapons are allowed. No magic or summons, no animals helping. Only weapons I will give you.”
Tifa suddenly became more nervous, as the only weapon she could use were hand knuckles, and that was hardly a match for anything if it was used by a professional.

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Adele’s Ascension to Hell
by Regis


Adele leaned forward, her black bangs swinging in time with her ample breasts as she laced up her black leather spike-heeled boots. Those and the narrow, tiny tightly laced black leather girdle around her waist were her only costume. She wore decadent inch-and-a-half long eyelashes, and her lips were a rich red to contrast with the gleaming black of her luxurious hair and the polished leather of her boots and mini-girdle.

The lacing was on the outside of her legs, from the ankle right up to the flare six inches above her knees. The low point on her girdle was at the center of her back, and the sides curved up to a large chromed ring above her sternum, so that all it squeezed was her ribs.

The girdle's lacing was on her sides rather than up the back, and it was pulled so tight that the narrow strands of black leather thong dug deeply into her sides, bulging severely what could never be considered excessive flesh. The garment was impractical and uncomfortable, but it looked outrageous, which was its sole purpose.

The top edge of the minimal confining support garment consisted of two curved formed pieces of the same black leather as was used for the small back and front panels, that provocatively lifted while
not in the least obscuring her outstanding mammaries. Adele's beautiful long hair was brushed to the point that it shone as if oiled, and it was severely pulled back and tied in a tight bun in the rear, leaving her pretty ears, shapely neck and petite head fully displayed.


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1 Bitch's Pimp
by Regis


Hey there! My name’s Jeb. I gotta say right at the outset that these randy young big-boobied bitches on my string all makes their own trouble. Ya can’t blame none of it on me! By actin’ hot, now they’s in the big City of Omaha, like they never done at home, like with spike heels, total short skirts and frilly blouses with all that cleavage an’ tit-meat showin’, wigglin’ their asses when the walks, they makes it likely for the tough extreme treatment they gets on the job to happen to ‘em, rough as it is.

None of these young girls I collects has ever been to a real City like Omaha; they’re either Iowa or Nebraska innocent young small town or even farm babies. They knows shit about sex; alls they ever got was fucked in the hay pile in their daddy’s barn by some young fuckin’ farm boys. Alls I does is gets ‘em the special jobs in the first place, linen’ them up with guys what wants somethin’ special, the kinky kind of dudes who needs to have their way with young cunts, do anythin’ to, the customers I can charge a lot extra so they can mess bitches up.

I got the market cornered, ‘cause other agents of girls don’t want their string hurt, where for me it don’t matter much, if I can get a good price for them, an’ there’s always more showin’ up every fuckin’ day. Regular whores won’t have nothin’ ta do with the guys I deals with, but these young bimbos don’t know nothin’ about that. I makes my money from jes’ bein’ their fuckin’ agent, and don’t tell ‘em nothin’ about risks or nothin’ that ain’t their business anyways.

I means, everybody knows farm girls all fuck like little pigs anyway, so the way I figure it, we otta harness all that kinda natural instincts an’ at the same time tuck away some good loot. Its not like I planned that kinda trouble for ‘em or nothin’, ‘cause it all comes to ‘em because of the way they wiggles their hot chubby asses and tits like ya sees hot young farm girls doin’, but putin’ that aside as a explanation, all ya needs ta do is jes’ listen up and learn.

Like for example, let me tell you about these two young cunts I collected just a coupla weeks ago, an’ what came of ‘em. Ain’t these great shots of ‘em? Jes’ look at them pretty cunts an’ bouncin’ boobies I got ‘em to show ta my camera! Once I got their pretty cunts an’ armpits shaved clean they looked as slick as babies an’ ready for hot action, like all girls should look like.

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I wrote this this morning on a whim because we need more HP
(1/4)
A Different Kind of Stuffing
To say the last place the golden trio had expected to be was on their knees for an audience with the dark lord would have been a lie. Having been captured during a skirmish in a town on the outskirts of muggle London, they’d expected this moment for quite some time in fact. Lightly bound both physically and magically the dark lord rose to address them.

“Harry Potter and his troupe of a mudblood and blood traitor.” The dark lord sneered. “I shall be up front and honest with you, not one of you will leave this room alive today. Additionally, most assuredly, your death’s will neither be quick nor summary. Rather, a few of my death eaters have requested a few creative outcomes for your timely demise. WORMTAIL!”

“Yes, master?” Pettigrew, slinked in from the shadows.

“I believe we’ll start with you.”

“Of course, thank you master.”


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This story is horror fiction and describes what happens to a pretty
camp counselor after treating her girls like crap one too many times. It is vulgar and very graphic. Procede at your own risk.

Meg was the prettiest counselor at Camp Chippewa. She stood 5'8" and had beautiful brown hair and eyes. Her skin was lightly tanned and didn't have a mark or blemish on her entire body. She was perfect from head to toe, and she knew it. She had an arrogant attitude and treated her less popular kids like crap. She was hated by many at the camp, but her beauty kept all the guys drooling.

She was just 18 years old and worked at the camp to save up money for college.

"Clean up this mess, you little cunts," Meg yelled at the girls in her
cabin while they slept.

The girls got up and hurriedly cleaned up their clothes, despite the
fact it was only 5 in the morning.


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Synopsis: Dima has feelings for the village heart-throb, but with one complication: this person has been branded a traitor. Will there be justice? SHORT STORY - COMPLETE

Introduction: Hi, this is my first story ever on this forum. I hope you enjoy--honest feedback is appreciated. Contents: M/M, violence, sexual torture. Don't want to give too much away, so I'll leave it at that.

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Misha the Traitor

Mikhail was a gorgeous young man. I thought so. Hell, the whole village did. It was unusual given the ravages of civil war that our region had experienced. The tentative peace, but lack of aid from neighboring countries meant that nearly all of us were impoverished and starving. We were alone. However, as structured as life can be here, I’d like to think the system our elders have established is a just one.

Mikhail was an uncommon gem. His skin and hair had a smooth luster to it, and his arms and chest were defined even. He had a kind face, and when he smiled his freckles were the most of a blemish on him. His toned body had a health and vigor to it that was unnatural indeed. Yeah, you guessed it, I was obsessed.

The thing about Mikhail (I called him Misha in our familiarity), is that he just didn’t fit in. A majority of the men wanted him, and just about any married woman was suspicious or resentful of him. However, Misha hadn’t expressed any interest in anyone, though his cheeks gained a reddish hue at the topic of courting.

I wish I could gauge how he felt.

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Story by MackieMesser:

I picked her for her beauty, this sweet looking little child, this 12 years old girl. Life was ahead of her and I was about to rip it apart for my own personal sexual pleasure. The most arousing thing that I could think of in my life, is using a young female preteen child in order to fulfill the raging lust fantasy of a grown man for murder and rape. That's what I am, a grown man lurking for a sweet little girl to undo.

She laid there in my lair, a scheduled little shack in the middle of nowhere. Capturing her wasn't an easy task, but here she was, at my mercy. Mercy? I wouldn't have any for her. I was resigned to consider her as meat for my own enjoyment. All her feels and all of her dreams would soon vanish with her bloody death. I was going to murder her, I was going to rip everything out of her.

She was a 4 foot 7 brunette with brown eyes, and pale rosy skin. I could read the fear into her eyes. She was looking with her petrified, watery eyes at the face of her antichrist, the man who would ruin and degradate her. Her rosy skin was arousing me, I could literally see the blood that I was going to spill, her translucent skin was showing me her veins that I was about to tear into. She was tied and gagged on a bed; the light was very bright, and a snowstorm raged outside. Her chest was moving in rhythm from up and down, her tiny budding breasts being obvious to my sight. Her breasts were perfectly shaped, with pink little girl's nipple on top.

I started fondling her nipples, pinching and massaging them. They became erect, and I put my mouth on them, since I couldn't help it while looking directly into her eyes. A grown man nursing on the nipple of a child. I started sucking and nibbling on her preteen nipple, licking every inch of budding womanhood on this child's body. She started moaning a little, her nipple were fully erect and wet. I then looked at her private parts, her sweet little preteen pussy. She had a very sexy little outtie, her clit was erect.

I opened her slit with my hand, she moaned again, I couldn't tell if it was a moan of terror, a moan of pleasure; or both. I looked carefully into the hole of this soon to be woman, gazing at the pinkness and the texture of her insides. The skin on her tied arms and legs were smooth; her fingers and hands were slim; and her toes and feet were broad. I gently massaged every arousing part of her being, hands, breasts, legs, arms, feet and finally, her pretty face.

A sweet 12 years old girl's face on the verge of tears and full of terror. I pulled my cock out and put it right in front of her face. Her gaze was wonderful, I guess she'd never seen a man's meat that close to her face. I went down on her, putting my mouth on her immature genitals, licking and sucking on her tiny piece of girl flesh. I felt her lips growing, her body was enjoying it. Her moans were a mix of pain and pleasure. After dining at her small child's Y, I approached my male meat next to her nono, while looking into her eyes.

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My real life story (from an alternative universe)

Synopsis
Ch1
Hi There
I am Jeremy, 36 & this is my true story that occurred in an alternate universe.
I 1st met Alison when she way 19 in the noughties at a Goth/Fetish club in Sydney. We were both uni students, I was studying computer science & she was an arts French history major on a student visa from the USA.
We really hit it off both having very compatible tastes in music fashion & kinks. My thing is, having a very tiny prick (I’m hesitant to call it a cock) & being exposed to hard core porn at an early age working in my father’s video shop where I was required at 13 to serve perverts their wank material, that I was introduced to fisting. It was a golden age of porn flic called Candy Stripers that had me hooked, seeing women take 1 & 2 hands in their pussies, convinced me I could pleasure them that way. I first fisted someone at 17 & being curious as to how it felt took my 1st at 18 from a woman.
For the next few years I searched for the perfect woman for me, often having to compromise with big toys & hooker’s hands.
So, after Alison & I got to know each other, we were hanging out at my place where she stumbled upon my huge collection of VHS fisting vids. It wasn’t all fisting, but the bulk was. I probably have the largest collection in the southern hemisphere. She confessed to me how much she loved this shit. We got to talking about it a lot, I told her everything & she told me when she was 14 she had a kid that tore her during birth so her cunt was never tight again & only fists & more could make her cum.
We became best friends & lovers but we still both liked playing with others & shared everything. Alison decided she wanted to stay in Australia when her visa was coming to an end so we got married in a small ceremony for family that from her side only her brother came over for the wedding (there was another ceremony for friends but that is another story). She hadn’t spoken to her parents for years, them from being very strict southern sect and did not approve of the marriage.
After graduation Alison moved into academia and teaching I join the intelligence community where I became a specialist in cyber warfare which would often have many away from home for extended periods.
Due to the nature about marriage this wasn’t really a problem as Alison have plenty of friends to play with given that we were swingers and into the fetish scene. After a few years our first child arrived Alice and

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