Clowm

Clown

More taur fun. Source - https://inkbunny.net/s/3029001

Here's another cutie for you. Source - https://inkbunny.net/s/3111787

Here's a cute moo taur partitioned up as meat.

Source: https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/138873177

>>29250
Hi Tanya! Yes, please do message me on Pixiv and we can have a good chat there 😁 So pleased to hear you found the stort inspiring!

>>29183
>>29184

> I try to write such scenes in such a way that they could be the hallucinations of a dying brain.
That's exactly how I felt about this scene. To me it was the point of transition from life to death.


>29173

You're welcome. Sorry for not commenting the story itself, I was too tied up with proof-reading. ;D


>>29172

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>>29176

> I've set the blonde elf as Candace Cane, (Candy) and the redhead as HollyHock. (Holly).
That was my guess. Thank you for clarification and explanation.


>>29199
>>29210

I like Samantha Roasted 04.png and Roasted Samanta 03.png the best. The hair color might be not the correct blond, but they look the most natural ‒ peaceful and without a too big smile. And save for the missing hand of R.S.03 (which of course is only hidden under the vegetables) the pictures have the fewest artifacts like the usual AI-crippled hands.

>>28742

Found a hopefully last one:

“George is boy! Don’t you know boys taste gross?”
​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Omission: a
“George is a boy! Don’t you know boys taste gross?”

>>28414

I should not have expressed my hope of having found the last issue. ;)

>Tage: Preteen, snuff, willing, oven-roast, exhibitionism, Christmas
​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Typo: Tags
Tags: Preteen, snuff, willing, oven-roast, exhibitionism, Christmas


And just in case:

Seasonal Samantha
By

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Really nice.
Great animations and variety of behavior.

>>51209
wtf is wrong with you, sick bastard?
Why no one is fucking those perfectly good dead lolis? They all are still warm and tight.

Im tired of this kind of psychopats like you

>>60026
yeah, i hate such wasting of meat

I want either one of the three female crews as a corpse floating among destroyed star ship debris.

>>45643
Can I get a drawing of Vanny from fnaf getting skullfucked?

hiiii!! can u draw this ugly british gay ass getting raped and gutted? ^_^

ref

>>17685
Sorry forgot about this.
The files are to big for the site. Any idea where can i post over 100mgb vid files and link it here?

>>16237

Catbox?>>16237

>>17701
https://files.catbox.moe/q31vh7.mp4
Here is one. Got to find pendrive with othere.

>>17706

Link doesn’t work unfortunately
>>17706

>>17716
It worked. Is that all of your greatest creations?

My Tifa guro video.

Video Link:
https://mega.nz/file/NRl2CILD#d8SZeoo0AO6D-nMTFVGYowgxYAkzbUIwzTh4cdU8BLc

https://x.com/grgr4443

Could you do some fortnite guro?

>>59019
Your animation is very smooth - and the VA you collabed with made it 10x better. Splendid rape and execution.
The only thing that felt off were the boob jiggles, it looked like they were bolted on tits - but I'm not sure if that's a used model limitation or physics problem.

>>59019

this is great work. more sex after shooting would be good

any eve from stellar blade beheading?

>>59347
Yes agreed

There's some old breathplay stuff from Haven Dark where she's explicitly talking about being killed.

Not sure where you'd find it these days though.

yhivi had some dolcett themed cam show stuff. at least one was solo. they used to be on motherless but i think they got deleted in their purge of snuff

>>28676

Thank you for reading. At 75,000 words as it was, I tried to condense in the death scenes to not over-burden the reader. I think I'd expand them in a sequel story though.

It would be fun to play from a males perspective. Either a killer or someone trying to escort a female friend through alive. Great writing!

I've read through what i thought was the whole story and enjoyed it but i don't believe I've found the ending that isn't a game over if you are able if love a hint to help me find it

The ending that isn't a game over is triggered by something you have to click on the final day checkpoint page.

I haven't been on here in a while, but thanks for the support and readers. The last comment is right - you have to look closely on the final day checkpoint page (you don't have to start the story over) and think about what you were told to do to find the true ending. I can be found on reddit under the same handle (with more stories as well) if you'd like to ask me questions directly or still can't find it.

Hmm, pretty good art! Would recommend getting some better lighting for your sketchbook pics, or a scanner.

>>17740
I don't plan on doing any more sketchbook doodles, from now on it should be digital only.

I can't really get a scanner.

>>17743
Looking forward to it. Its nice seeing an artist on gurochan who can actually draw.

Great stuff! I'm looking forward to seeing more

Here's some sketches of a new character of mine dismembering and making good use of this wolf-girl

Sarah's breath hitched as Renna's fingers trailed southward—past the smoking crater of her left breast, over the quivering expanse of her belly, toward the smooth delta where her thighs met. For one dizzying heartbeat, terror spiked through her veins like mercury. The flame would go *there* next.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image burned brighter behind her lids—the torch's blue-white tongue licking between her legs, searing away what little childhood remained untouched. Her toes curled against cold metal as phantom heat prickled across untouched skin. The fear tasted coppery, thick as the blood still seeping from her bitten lip.

Then—Lily's laugh. Not the fragile, orphanage-Lily giggle, but the full-throated roar she'd unleashed when they'd smuggled sugar cubes from the commissary. Sarah clung to the memory like a lifeline: Lily's gap-toothed grin, Marta's calloused hands ruffling their hair, the stolen sweetness dissolving on their tongues. The phantom scent of sun-warmed linen replaced the stench of her own charred flesh.

Renna's gloved finger probed the seam where Sarah's thighs pressed together in instinctive defense. The leather was clammy with her own sweat—or perhaps the child's. She applied steady pressure, watching the way the labia resisted before yielding with reluctant elasticity. So *young*. The outer lips were plush as overripe rose petals, their inner surfaces glossy with terrified moisture. No pubic hair to speak of—just downy peach fuzz that caught the fluorescent light like gossamer. The hood clung stubbornly to its prize, the clitoral bud barely visible as a slight swell beneath the protective fold. Renna's index finger circled the entrance with faux tenderness, noting how the outer lips trembled at each pass. The orifice itself puckered tight as a clenched fist, its wrinkled entrance flushing from shell-pink to mortified scarlet under scrutiny.

Sarah's mouth was a bloodied hyphen carved into her ashen face. Her jaws ached from the strain of keeping silent, molars grinding with enough force to spark pain behind her eyes. But her gaze remained fixed—unblinking—on Renna's face, even as the woman's fingers dipped lower to trace the vulnerable strip of skin between anus and vulva. The perineum twitched under the unwanted caress, its delicate muscles fluttering like a trapped moth's wings. Every nerve ending there screamed warnings Sarah couldn't obey—her body was a statue lashed to the table, her frantic pulse the only betrayal in an otherwise motionless tableau.

Then Renna's gloved fingertip nudged upward, pressing just below the entrance where Sarah's labia clung together in instinctive defense. The leather rasped against sensitized flesh, its cold intrusion parting the plush outer lips with mechanical precision. Sarah's breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary sound—but her stare never wavered. "That—" she hissed through clenched teeth, "—feels like a dead eel sliding into spoiled milk." The insult tasted like victory on her tongue, metallic and sweet as the blood still seeping from her lip. Renna's finger froze mid-probe. Sarah watched, mesmerized, as a single vein pulsed angrily at the lieutenant's temple. The sight sent something hot and reckless surging through her veins—better than morphine, sharper than adrenaline. "Bet yours looks like a—*ah!*—like a burst sausage casing," she gasped as Renna's nail scraped too close to the clitoral hood. "All—*nngh*—scabby and stretched out from—from taking orders up it."


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Sarah's entire body jerked as if struck by lightning. The pain wasn't a gradual crescendo like her nipple's slow-motion destruction—this was instantaneous, catastrophic, a supernova detonating between her legs. Her labia majora, plush as overripe fruit, offered no resistance as the fire sank into its moisture-laden folds. The flesh didn't blister—it *shrank*, contracting violently around the flame's intrusion like a sea anemone recoiling from a predator's touch. Sarah's teeth sank into her shredded lower lip with enough force to crack enamel, her scream trapped behind clenched jaws as the outer lips suffered under the flame.

Three seconds. The torch withdrew. Sarah gasped—not in relief, but shock—as the cooling air rushed over seared flesh. The left labia throbbed, its delicate nerve endings firing in panicked succession, each pulse sending fresh agony radiating outward. Renna's timer was precise—three seconds exactly—before the flame returned to claim its twin. The right labia's suffering was somehow worse, its nerve pathways still undamaged by previous torture. Sarah's toes curled against cold metal as the heat penetrated deeper here, liquefying the fatty tissue beneath skin that had never known such violation. Sweat poured down her temples, mingling with tears that evaporated before they could fall.

Withdrawal again. Three seconds of reprieve that felt like drowning in icy honey—too brief for pain to fully fade, just long enough for awareness to sharpen before the next assault. Renna's breath came in measured exhales, her eyes tracking the alternating rhythm of torment with clinical detachment. Left labia: the skin flushed from shell-pink to angry scarlet, capillaries bursting beneath the surface like shattered stained glass. Right labia: the outer folds puckered tight as a fist around the flame, their moisture boiling off in tiny, hissing bursts. The smell was different here—not the charred-meat stench of her pubic mound, but something muskier, almost organic, like wet leaves burning in autumn.

Sarah's teeth found fresh purchase on her lower lip, the already mangled flesh splitting anew under her molars. Blood welled hot and coppery across her tongue, metallic as the scalpel Renna had used to carve their insignia into her forearm last week. She swallowed convulsively, throat working around the scream lodged beneath her sternum like shrapnel. The pain wasn't spikes anymore—not discrete moments of agony she could brace between—but a continuous current, live-wire intensity humming through every nerve from clitoris to coccyx. Her labia weren't being burned; they were being *transformed*.

The left outer fold had darkened from Renna's initial assault, its plush swell tightening into something rigid and unrecognizable. Scarlet faded to a sickly salmon-pink as the epidermis separated from underlying tissue, fluid rushing into the breach to form translucent blisters that glistened under the interrogation lamps. One particularly grotesque bubble swelled near the labial commissure, its dome stretched so thin Sarah could see the branching capillaries beneath—tiny crimson fractals frozen mid-burst. When Renna's torch returned, the blister didn't pop so much as *dissolve*, the flame licking across its surface with a sound like grease hitting a hot skillet. The rupture sprayed lymph in a fine mist that sizzled on the table beneath her thighs.

Renna adjusted the torch's angle with the precision of a calligrapher, letting the flame's edge skate along the ravaged border where blistered met unburned flesh. New blisters swelled in the fire's wake—smaller now, clustered like frog eggs along the ruined rim. Their surfaces trembled with each throb of Sarah's pulse, distending further until the thinnest membranes tore spontaneously. Clear fluid oozed sluggishly down her inner thigh, tracing sticky paths through sweat and old blood. The right labium fared worse. Its natural moisture made the skin blister faster, the liquid beneath boiling into steam that stretched the epidermis into grotesque, wobbling domes. These ruptured violently, their contents erupting in short bursts that spattered Renna's gloves with droplets of cooked plasma.


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Her gloved fingers twitched toward the moisture on her cheek, stopping millimeters short as if the liquid might sear through latex. The critique unfolded internally with military efficiency: *Failure to account for bladder capacity. Basic interrogation oversight. Should have catheterized.* The self-flagellation lasted precisely three seconds before transmuting into something far more dangerous. Renna's gaze flicked downward to the child's lower abdomen, noting how the taut skin still quivered with post-void tremors. A surgeon's calculation flashed behind her pupils—distance from urethral meatus to bladder neck, approximate volume capacity of a prepubescent organ, melting point of synthetic tubing versus human mucosa.

Sarah's labia parted under Renna's grip with a wet sound, the charred edges crumbling like overcooked pastry. The lieutenant's thumb pressed upward against the perineal ridge, exposing the tiny, puckered urethral opening still glistening with residual urine. The unlit torch nozzle hovered directly above it—not touching, not yet, but close enough for Sarah to feel the chilled metal's presence like the kiss of a guillotine blade. Her breath hitched, the instinct to clamp her thighs together thwarted by the restraints. The realization hit with the force of a bullet: Renna wasn't just escalating the pain. She was rewriting its grammar.

The nozzle brushed against Sarah's urethral opening—not hard enough to penetrate, just enough to make the sensitive rim contract in terrified recoil. Renna's other hand remained splayed across Sarah's pubis, fingers digging into the blistered flesh with deliberate pressure. Blood welled sluggishly around her nails, mixing with the clear ooze of ruptured blisters. Sarah focused on that pain instead—the familiar sting of torn skin, the throbbing ache of burned tissue—anything to distract from the alien violation of the cold metal circling her most vulnerable aperture. Her teeth met in the hamburger meat of her lip, grinding through scar tissue into fresh muscle beneath. The coppery flood couldn't drown this new terror—it amplified it, every swallow sending vibrations down her throat that resonated with the violated space between her thighs.

Renna twisted the nozzle slightly—not inserting yet, just testing the elasticity of the tiny opening. Sarah's entire pelvis clenched in primal rejection, her urethral muscles spasming tight enough to make Renna pause. "Still fighting?" The lieutenant's voice had shed its clinical detachment, reverting to something almost guttural. "Good." The nozzle pressed inward with sudden, surgical precision. Sarah gasped—not from heat, but from the obscene stretch as metal parted flesh never meant to accommodate intrusion. The discomfort spiked sharply as the nozzle breached the internal sphincter, her bladder's defenses yielding with a hot, sickening pop that vibrated through her lower abdomen. Still no heat. Just the awful, squirming pressure of foreign occupation deep inside her body's most private plumbing.

Renna looked up, her pupils blown wide with something beyond sadism—this was the feverish focus of a scientist witnessing an unprecedented reaction. "If you can't control your bladder," she murmured, thumb stroking the torch's ignition switch with lover-like tenderness, "I'll help you burn it off. Then you'll never"—the nozzle twisted cruelly—"squirt"—another twist—"in a civilized environment again." Sarah's breath hitched, her bladder contracting instinctively around the invasive metal. The resulting spasm sent fresh urine trickling around the nozzle's edges, steaming slightly where it met Renna's glove.

"This?" Sarah gasped through clenched teeth, her voice raw but steady. She jerked her chin toward the blood-crusted restraints, the scorch marks patterning her torso like some grotesque constellation. "You call this *civilized*?" The laugh that escaped her was more air than sound, thin and frayed at the edges. Renna's answering chuckle was worse—genuine amusement, warm as a bedtime story. The torch flared to life with a *whoomp* that sent shadows leaping across the walls like startled rats.


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Renna's thumb depressed the igniter with sacramental solemnity. The *whoomp* of combusting gas sent shadows writhing up the concrete walls like startled eels. Sarah's clitoral hood twitched beneath the nozzle's kiss—a tiny, involuntary recoil that sent Renna's pulse skittering. The flame hesitated for three calculated heartbeats, hovering millimeters above flesh quivering with terrified capillary action. Then contact.

Sarah's breath stuttered mid-inhalation. The pain was scalpel-precise at first—a white-hot line drawn vertically along her hood's delicate ridge. The skin blackened instantly where flame met moisture, carbonizing into brittle lace that flaked away beneath the torch's whisper. Beneath this crumbling shield, her clitoris pulsed frantically, its hypersensitive glans recoiling from the advancing heat like a snail withdrawing from salt. Sarah's thighs vibrated with suppressed convulsions, her calves straining against restraints until the leather squeaked.

Then the hood tore—not with the slow parting of burnt layers, but explosively, steam pressure rupturing the last membrane in a wet pop audible even over the torch's hiss. Direct flame licked her exposed nerve bundle with obscene intimacy. Pain didn't surge—it detonated. A supernova of agony radiated outward in concentric shockwaves, each pulse synchronized with her hammering heartbeat. Sarah's jaw clamped down on her lower lip with enough force to puncture necrotic tissue from earlier injuries. Coppery warmth flooded her tongue, but the distant sting of torn flesh registered as mere static against the screaming feedback loop between her thighs.

The pain wasn't singular—it spreaded. Every millimeter of her engorged clitoral shaft registered distinct torment: the dorsal nerve searing like a molten wire threaded up her spine, the corpus spongiosum boiling beneath its thin mucosal sheath, the frenulum splitting like overstretched taffy. Comparisons failed—this wasn't like burned nipples or blistered labia. This was her entire nervous system rebooting around ground zero, each synaptic scream amplified through her pelvis's dense neural matrix. Her abdomen convulsed in rhythmic spasms, the contractions forcing air through clenched teeth in short, punched-out wheezes that barely qualified as breathing.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth heartbeat, Sarah forgot why silence mattered. The reason floated just beyond reach—something golden and laughing, something that smelled like sun-warmed grass—but the pain kept dissolving it into static. Her fingers scrabbled against restraints, tendons standing stark against charred skin as they pulled against leather hard enough to tear. A sound built in her throat—not words, not even a scream, just raw vibration from a body reduced to its most primal circuitry. She bit down again, her teeth meeting in necrotic lip flesh with a wet crunch that sent fresh blood trickling down her chin. The secondary pain anchored her briefly, a lighthouse in the neurological storm.

Renna leaned closer, her breath stirring the fine hairs singed flat against Sarah's pubis. The transformation unfolding beneath her torch fascinated her in ways the previous mutilations hadn't. Other victims had screamed themselves hoarse before reaching this stage—none had endured long enough to offer this particular biological spectacle. The prepubescent clitoris had swollen grotesquely under the heat, its tiny glans engorging to nearly twice its original size as blood vessels ruptured beneath the mucosal surface. What began as a pearl-pink bud now resembled an overripe cherry, its surface split by fine fissures weeping clear lymph. Renna adjusted the torch's angle minutely, watching how the flame's blue core made the swollen tissue quiver like gelatin.


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Then it struck her—like a bullet between the eyes. Sarah hadn't broken from her own agony, but what about others'? The girl's file flashed in her mind's eye—page seventeen, surveillance photos: Sarah handing a wrapped sandwich to a grinning blonde child in a patched sundress. *Lily Simon, age 12. Possible blood relation unconfirmed. Last seen at Greenvale Orphanage.*

Renne's boot tapped a staccato rhythm against the concrete floor as she calculated. Greenvale stood just eight kilometers west—a twenty-minute drive if she commandeered a vehicle now. But protocol demanded signed authorization for minor extraction, and Central Processing wouldn't rubber-stamp that request until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

Her jaw clenched. Paperwork—always fucking paperwork, even now. She glanced at Sarah's unconscious form, the child's breath wheezing through cracked lips. The girl would live. Renne knew her burns like a chef knew cuts of meat: the labial destruction was strictly superficial, the clitoral ablation painful but survivable. Even the bladder trauma had been limitted, and it would function normally given one or two weeks under antibiotic. Sarah would piss razorblades for the next fifty years, but she'd piss. That should've been enough.

Renna's hand twitched toward her walkie-talkie, fingers brushing the chipped plastic casing. Dr. Chen was one of the few medical expert worked for the government in this province, and if Sarah could restore some of the appearance of her burnt private, his hand was necessary. The lieutenant's thumb depressed the transmit button with unnecessary force. "Medical team to Chamber Seven. Priority burn stabilization. Requesting Dr. Chen specifically." Static crackled in response—no questions, no delays. Good.

She didn't wait for confirmation. The walkie-talkie clattered onto the instrument tray, knocking aside forceps crusted with flakes of Sarah's carbonized skin. Renna's boots echoed through the corridor as she strode toward Records, each step measured to project calm she didn't feel. The modified interrogation report burned in her breast pocket—three pages of carefully curated lies emphasizing Sarah's "violent resistance" and "self-inflicted injuries." The orphanage extraction request nestled beneath it, its phrasing deliberately vague: *Supplementary material witness requires immediate retrieval for correlation of intelligence.* Neither document would withstand scrutiny, but bureaucracy thrived on plausible deniability.

Chen's reflection in the polished chrome cabinet doors showed a man who hadn't slept in thirty-eight hours. His lab coat hung loose on shoulders permanently hunched from leaning over operating tables, the cuffs frayed where he'd absentmindedly chewed them during complex graft procedures. The computer screen's glow accentuated the web of capillaries in his eyes as he proofread the burn gel study's conclusion: *...demonstrates 23% faster epithelialization in third-degree chemical burns compared to standard silver sulfadiazine—* The com unit crackled to life mid-sentence.


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