Happy Birthday

(m/f, consensual, suicide, necrophilia, gore)



Edgar was having a terrible birthday. He kicked rocks with the toe of his boot as he trudged home but these small acts of violence did little to cheer him up. He was twenty nine years old that day and, as he reflected on his current situation, he was not pleased with where his life was.



The day actually hadn’t been that much worse than normal but since moving to the small farming town of Shadyvale, all of his days seemed terrible. Edgar was a cleric and served as a healer and spiritual guide to the people of Shadyvale. But it was always “Praise Pelor” this and “Blessings to Pelor” that whenever he mended a broken leg or cured a minor illness. The stupid bumpkins never acknowledged that fact that it was Edgar who actually worked all of this magic. No, there was never a “Praise Edgar” or even so much as a “Thank you Edgar” to be heard. He was a faithful servant of the sun god and he supposed that the dirt-farming simpletons thought that that meant that he wasn’t even a person in his own right.



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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ziggF0f27o



"I miss Yalsi." Sister Izka spoke of the Sister Repentia who slept just outside the window. "I hope I get to see her again."

It had been a rough week. The process of stripping and shaving Sister Yalsi was tiring and confusing. Speaking of her like she was dead, Izka knew her former Battle Sister could still hear her, but she reasoned it as being like a spirit or ghost.

Yaski, for her part, stayed quiet. Was she sleeping? Izka wanted her to hear her.



'Always the sweetest one, how'd she become such a badass?' Yalsi wondered, eyes wide open and glued to the stars above her. So few could ever be lucky enough to have a home under the open sky. This was her last night like this.

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So, this is only chapter one for now. It continues from here and I'll update when I can. This first chapter is about a woman who awakens finding herself on a dissection table.



Enjoy.



Chapter 1



The wooden table was at an incline and the straps that held her in place tugged at her skin as gravity tried to pull her down. She squirmed against it and against the haze suffocating her thoughts. Where was she? Last thing she recalled she was in her bedroom doodling and listening to music.

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Just another story I wrote, based on a guro picture. Let me know what you think!





disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional, along with all characters and events described in it. Any resemblance with real life is just a coincidence. Harming another human being is wrong and in no way I am trying to convey the opposite. Please, don't do anything like this!







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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.



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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.

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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



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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!”



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