/lit/ - Literature

Has anybody among us write interactive guro stories using programs like twine?

    The constabulary which hired “Edda's Expert Adventuring A-Team” could, if nothing else, take solace in the fact that they had only paid half of their fees up front, and that the other half of the reward money was withheld, and contingent on the success of EEAA.  EEAA had not, in fact, succeeded, and all money paid to them prior to success was now locked away in the very dungeon they had been tasked with clearing, dumped haphazardly in a heap beside their fresh corpses.


There were four corpses in all, all women and in various states of undress and disfigurement as the victorious goblins ransacked their former belongings for anything of perceived value and squabbled over which body would be served to Gott.  Gott wasn’t a particularly picky eater, but his temper was quick even by the standards of ogres, and his rage was likewise severe.  None dared present him with even a perceived sleight.


“The large one!  Gott will want the biggest to sate his big hunger!”  One goblin declared, hoisting the meaty and handless arm of the former party’s former fighter.


“No, stupid!  Gott will want the pretty one!  He likes pretty things!”  A second goblin argued, lifting the limply flopping head of the broken necked witch.


“No, Gott-” a third Goblin started, grabbing the haft of the arrow jutting from the lithe half-orc rogue’s like a lever and using it to wiggle her head.  He stopped, starred, then squeaked “Gott!” when he saw that Gott had arrived, the lumbering and barely sentient beast having somehow snuck up on them.  The goblins all snapped to attention, dropping whatever loot or body parts they had been holding.


“WOT?!”  Gott demanded, stooping beneath the doorframe of the dungeon’s treasure vault/butchery station/weapon storage room/emergency bathroom and lurching toward the goblin that had announced his arrival.  His ten feet of height and half ton of muscle and fat all but filled the room, and in the back of the goblin’s panic stricken mind it briefly wondered if Gott could actually fit through the dungeon’s entrance, or if he’d gotten himself stuck here somehow and was simply trying to make the best of it by declaring it his new lair.


Gulping these thoughts and his lunch back down, the goblin meekly answered.  “W-we was just uh just discussing your dinner, Great Gott!  Which one Gott’s like most!”  The Goblin turned to his green skinned pick, suddenly feeling much less confident in his choice.  “So, uh, now that Gott is here why doesn’t he tell us which will be Gott’s dinner?”


Gott let out a sharp blast of air from his nostrils, and stood up as tall as the room would permit.  He observed the four women, the brawny and tan fighter who’d lost her hands in a booby trap, the athletic half-orc with the arrow sticking out of her eye socket, the paunchy dwarf bard who’s smile had disappeared along with her lower jaw, and the gaunt witch who’s head hung limply from a broken neck.


Gott focused his attention on the witch.  This witch was in fact the titular Edda of Edda’s Expert Adventuring A-team, not that Gott knew or cared.  He cared only for the corpse’s doll-like features.  Her deep black hair was cut short in the front and back, her almond shaped face framed by a sweeping pair of bangs.  Her skin was not much paler in death than it had been in life, though it would be difficult to imagine a paler face not afflicted with albinism.  Her eyes, glassy and focused intently on nothing, were violet, an unusual shade for a human though now that they’d ceased magically glowing they seemed significantly more mundane than before.  Especially for the colorblind ogre and goblins.  While the hourglass perfection of her figure was certainly exaggerated by the low cut corset-like coat she was wearing, the fact that she could squeeze herself into such a tight outfit was a feat in itself.


Sinking his meaty finger’s into Edda’s stomach and lower back, Gott picked up the grown woman with a single hand, her limbs and head dangling limply beneath her torso like the limbs of a ragdoll.  “Ah, good choice!  We cook the pretty one!”  Said the goblin who had been arguing for Edda, smugly crossing his arms as he side eyed his compatriots.


In response, Gott let out a deep and dissatisfied growl, barring his teeth and starring daggers into the suddenly humbled goblin.  With his free hand, Gott wrangled his meaty fingers up and behind the waistline of Edda’s already tight fitting leather pants and adventure-inappropriate frilly panties, and with a short grunt of effort he half pulled down and half tore away Edda’s pants, the stitching popping and splitting but maintaining a rough leg shape as they fell to Edda’s bare ankles.  The goblins had already removed her black boots and striped socks prior to Gott’s arrival, shoes being a commodity and socks a useful dishrag.  Lifting one foot and placing them in the crotch of Edda’s garments, Gott stepped down and lifted up in a sharp jerking motion, freeing and almost certainly dislocating Edda’s ankles from her garments.  Gott turned Edda in his hand to get a better view of her smooth shaven womanhood, and the Ogre produced a rumbling giggle that echoed through the small and increasingly uncomfortable room.


Gott’s loincloth, already failing to protect his decency as it quickly rose and extended from his waist, was swatted aside entirely by the lecherous ogre, revealing a set of organs that none of the goblins wished to see, but none dared look away from for fear of angering Gott.  Even at half mast, Gott’s gock was the length and width of a burly man’s forearm, its bulbous peach colored head like a balled up fist to accompany the forearm.  His testicles, orange in both color and size, hung to Gott’s knees, and while his legs were admittedly stumpy the weighty clap they made against his thighs as Gott grabbed his cock and maneuvered it to the edge of Edda’s womanhood made it abundantly clear that, proportions be damned, this thing was huge.


With no fanfare or grace, Gott impaled Edda’s body on his still stiffening cock, a sound like a rubbery slap echoing off the stone walls and the eardrums of the stone stiff goblins.  Edda’s head slumped forward, her forehead landing on Gott’s chest, her hair sliding across his roughly textured skin.  Gott’s smile widened, and he jerked Edda’s body up until only the head of his cock was still trapped by her tight walls.  Edda’s head flopped back, the tall conical witch hat toppling from her head and landing in the same heap her pants, panties, and staff had found themselves in.  Laughing, Gott shoved his fingers between the buttons of her jacket, pulling until the buttons yielded and shot across the room like musketry.  To the ogre’s surprise and delight, the constricting garment seemed only to compress her stomach, her belly expanding slightly to more standard human proportions.  Her breasts, however, were as large and as perky exposed as they had been clothed, and they’d been unbelievably large clothed.


Gripping Edda’s head like a ball, its dead eyed face crushed in Gott’s palm, the Ogre wiggled and shook the lifeless woman side to side, its neck stretching as the weight of the body hung beneath it.  Just before tears could emerge in the distended skin, Edda’s shoulderless coat slid from her frame, leaving the body completely naked save for a pair of fingerless gloves that Gott had neither the patience nor attention to remove.  His dick, its head firmly planted in the immensely tight, slowly cooling folds of the former witch, ached for release.  Gott gripped Edda’s waist with both hands, and got to work.


Lifting and slamming Edda’s body onto his cock in quick, destructive motions, Gott treated this once living being with thoughts and emotions with all the respect and care of a disposable toy.  He stretched and distended her innards with his inhuman appendage, her stomach bulging against Gott’s naturally fatty ogre belly.  Watching her head flop back and forth on its limp, distorted neck, her face playing an involuntary game of peek-a-boo with a frozen expression of half surprise and half drowsiness, Gott’s grin widened into a sadistic leer.  The sound of Edda’s thighs clapping and sliding against his own as he bounced her body up and down was music to Gott’s ears, and combined with the slick, rubbery squelch of her womanhood’s walls stretching taught against Gott’s shaft, it… well, Gott didn’t know what a symphony was, but if he did know it would be comparable to him.


Gott’s beady little eyes disappeared as his low brow and fat cheeks compressed, the tightness of his toy growing too much for him to bear.  While Edda’s dead flesh was loosening with each thrust, the simple size difference between the two creatures made any loss in tightness all but imperceptible to the massively endowed ogre.  Squeezing down on Edda’s stomach, feeling his thumbs press against his cock through the thin and straining membrane of the corpse’s gut solved this loss in tightness, anyway.  Gott groaned, savoring the sensation of the corpse’s clammy snatch enveloping his dick.  He had chosen his toy well.


Taking a short, sharp breath, Gott quickened his pace, Edda’s long and slender arms and legs flopping inelegantly beneath her as the ogre’s climax drew near.  He clenched his jaw in concentration, leaning in close enough for Edda’s flopping forhead to graze his chin whenever she was brought up.  He squeezed her gut tighter, he pressed her soft bouncing breasts against his chest, and he bounced on his heels for added leverage, driving somehow further into the all but hollowed out corpse.


Soon enough, for the goblins anyway, Gott finished.  With a roar that shook the walls of the catacombs, Gott threw his head back and unleashed a torent of foul smelling seed deep into the deceased’s innards, the head sagging back with the slumped shoulders and the spine threatening to shatter under Gott’s iron grasp.  While the first pump of ejaculate was contained by the tight seal around Gott’s shaft, the subsequent four were launched from Edda’s loins like were alive, a squirter, and enjoying this, the all but steaming loads thrown across the heap of clothes beneath the body and soiling them beyond all repair.  Gott allowed his own shoulders to sag, the small knees of his stubby legs threatening to buckle out beneath him.


Pulling the stretched, limp, thoroughly devastated toy off his slowly deflating but still gargantuan cock, Gott hardly spared Edda’s body a look before dropping it onto her soiled garments like trash.  A sharp crack was heard as the weight of Edda’s back crashing onto her hardwood wizarding staff snapped either one or the other.  No one present cared which had broken.


Without even a cursory wipe, Gott whipped his loincloth back over his filthy cock, its business done.  Now, the only business left was dinner.


“Cook fat one.”  Gott said, pointing to the jawless and chubby bard as he turned to leave his treasure vault/butchery station/weapon storage room/emergency bathroom.  “Gott hungry, don’t make wait!”


A chorus of hearty agreements sounded off around the room, the goblins tripping over themselves and the sprawled out limbs of Edda’s filthy, broken corpse as they scrambled to butcher the bard.  Edda’s eyes, lifeless, cold, and violet, stared blankly at the ceiling.  Once a dashing adventurer, a cunning witch, and self made entrepreneur, Edda was nothing now.  No longer even a toy.

The rebels did not have a chance. Tired after a week-long march and most still bearing their burdens they mustered little in the way of a defense, those who drew their weapons were quickly cut down. The camp was swiftly surrounded, the rebel men were given no quarter and were swiftly put to the sword, the river on the banks of which the camp was just being established ran red with their blood. I want to spare the my dear readers the description of the horrible torments inflicted upon the leader of the rebellion but suffice it to say that by the time he started to pray for death, the king’s executioners were only halfway done with their work and at the end of it his corpse hardly resembled a human being. The children of the camp were declared outlaws and prohibited from ever returning to civilization under pain of death, then allowed to run away. For the wives, adult daughters however, the commanders had something special in mind to make sure no further rebellions would spring up in this remote part of the kingdom. The rough soldiers, still bloodied from killing their male relatives forcibly removed their clothes, leaving them in naught but their shifts. The unfortunate rebel women were also ordered to remove their shoes and stockings to ensure against flight and prevent them from strangling each other to avoid the king’s justice. Females unwilling to undress themselves or bare their feet were effectively “encouraged". Loud wailing and screaming from fear, humiliation and grief could be heard throughout the camp, much to the amusement of the hardened soldiers.
The next town was situated a three day's march away from the rebel camp. Horsemen were sent out who could make the trip in a day. Meanwhile, canes and whips were used to drive the unfortunate barefoot and almost naked prisoners to their fate. It was obvious that the march would not be a quick one as the rebel wives and daughters rightfully suspected they were headed towards a painful and, even more importantly to most of them, extremely humiliating end. About twenty out of the two hundred and fifty captured women tried to escape but none succeeded, barefoot and exhausted with most of the road leading through dense forests the bloodhounds would quickly catch up with them and just as quickly, their already flimsy shifts ripped and bloodied, they would rejoin the rest of the doomed wenches on the way towards their destiny. Heart-breaking scenes could be witnessed among the doomed women and girls, a mother tried to strangle her two twin daughters with her bare hands before soldiers intervened and separated the crying family members before they could do real damage to themselves.
Meanwhile, the Royal horsemen had arrived in the town and immediately went to work. Every man able to lift a saw, hammer or shovel was pressed into service but promised a fair wage at the end of it all. Soon the entire town was working to prepare the upcoming mass hanging of the rebel wives and daughters. Construction on a huge gallows spanning the whole town square lengthwise, big enough to accommodate 250 women began and a mass grave just outside the town to accommodate 250 female corpses stacked one on top of each other was dug. The town had quite a large rope-making industry so there was no shortage of this most cruel and humiliating means of execution. The women of the town were tasked with tying the nooses that would ensnare the necks of the defeated rebel wenches, there was no time for elaborate hangman’s nooses so when the time would come, the sinful women’s necks would be ensnared by simple slipknots, lengths of rope used to bind their wrists behind their backs as a mark of their captivity and humiliation were also cut to size. Crude benches would have to be hammered together as a last perch for the bare feet of the doomed women and girls before a series of swift kicks would send them them dancing on their way to oblivion.
The sounds of the doomed females preceded their shameful procession, there was much screaming, wailing and praying caused by their shameful fate as well as the grief from losing their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands. Then the first of the miserable creatures emerged, then another and another. Their white and grey shifts, faces pale from fear and bare, dusty feet made them look more like ghostly apparitions than human beings. And so the sorry procession slowly made it’s way into the settlement. Before they are led to the gallows, there is one more humiliation the poor lasses needed to endure. Slender wrists were chafed by rough ropes, hands made fists to test the unforgiving bindings. A few young women broke down as they were bound, attempting to escape, trying to fight the guards or just pressing their slender arms against their chest, piteously begging the guards for mercy but the overwhelming majority of the doomed females took this new humiliation about as well as anything that came before it.
With the gallows birds securely trussed up it was time to drive them forward towards their fate one last time. As the gallows came into view wails and screams rose once more in volume, about five of the doomed wenches wet themselves in fear of the waiting nooses and the slow and humiliating deaths they would bring. Without ceremony, the unfortunate girls were marched towards the long benches, forced up and then with an almost industrial routine nooses were put around their necks, long hair was removed from within after which the nooses were tightened, ready to seal their windpipes and with that, their collective fate.
Getting all of the future “brides of the noose" ready to dance their shameful dance at the end of short hempen ropes for the amusement of the King's men and the deterrent of the townsmen and women did not present a quick task, a surprising number of townsmen and more than a few women however derived pleasure from seeing the prisoners treated in such a way. It is to be noted that the shifts of some of the wenches were ripped as a result of the cruel journey and without means of covering themselves, they were presenting their bare breasts, nipples erect and covered in goosebumps from fear and the cold of the morning.
Having to wait for the preparation of their fellow prisoners was a form of torture within itself because it prolonged and worsened the fear of the prisoners and gave them more time to further dishonor themselves by crying, screaming and begging to be spared the humiliation of dancing the Tyburn jig in front of the whole town. Again, a few of the terrified captives could not control their bladders and their contents formed puddles on the benches, since they were placed close to each other, this meant that their neighbors too would have to suffer the smell and the discomfort and humiliation of standing with bare feet in a stinking yellow puddle. A particularly unfortunate creature, the daughter of a rebel lieutenant, a raven-haired, doe-eyed beauty of 21 summers named Elizabeth who’s delicate features and small but incredibly well formed breasts with nipples that seemed ready to burst through her thin, white shift, suffered the worst humiliation. She tried to pray to calm herself but in the end panic won and she evacuated herself down her slender, trembling legs. She gasped in shame, her face blushed intensively and tears started to flow down her face and, without any means of wiping them away, fell down onto the bench, mixing with her leavings. She tried to move her dainty, now soiled feet away from the disgusting pile but the dimensions of the bench and the tightness of the rope did not allow any meaningful escape. The four other females on the bench wrinkled their nose and the sound of suppressed gagging came from her immediate neighbours while poor Elizabeth was left to stand in her shame with the noose around her delicate neck reminding her of even more suffering that was to come.
Then it is all ready. 250 necks are now surrounded by rough hemp, 250 pairs of bare, dusty feet are perched uneasily on rickety, crowded stools. 250 hearts beat as quickly as they can, 250 chests heave with the last breaths. Some are silent, some still pray, beg and cry but none of that makes any difference now, their fate is the same. Initially it had been considered to kick away the benches one at a time but the fact that the execution, were it conducted in that manner, would take up the whole day plainly argued against it and so it was decided that all of the prisoners would loose their footing and commence their shameful "wedding dance" at the same time. There is no need for a sentence to be read as the king himself had proclaimed that any man or woman joining the rebel cause would immediately forfeit their life. 50 of the King's men, chosen at random step forward and slowly walk behind each of the benches and put their heavy military boots against the last support for vulnerable bare feet. At this moment the mental anguish of the rebel wenches reaches its apex. The flow of liquid can be heard again. Some faint but the ropes stop them from falling. All sorts of emotions were painted across the faces of the condemned women: fear, grief, sadness, despair, anger, shame, disgust and everything in between. Jaws tremble, naked toes scratch the rough wood, hair is plastered to pale foreheads with the sweat of fear, breasts heave with final breaths, lips utter their last curses, prayers, pleas and barely coherent babbles. The town clock strikes ten.

BANG!!!

50 benches fly forwards as one, 250 necks now know the weight of the bodies that are supposed to carry them. Bare legs kick, gurgling of all volumes and pitches can be heard throughout the whole town, they form one collective, desperate plea for air, a cacophony of suffering beyond imagination. Some of the suffering prisoners kick each other or attempt to wrap their bare legs around their neighbour to escape the deadly pressure of the noose that way. Heads are forced into various, sometimes unnatural angles. Desperation fills the eyes of the poor wenches, efforts to free bound hands lead to nothing but bleeding wrists. Shifts are kicked far and wide, sometimes tearing leaving poor sufferers with their breasts exposed and in a few instances even utterly naked.
Gradually and with a few exceptions the kicking is replaced with twitching. Faces turn blue, tongues make their way through discoloured lips. Bare, dirty feet point down in the vain hope of finding support. Squeaks replace gurgling, clicking replaces squeaks. Eyes once filled with life become grotesque, with broken capillaries but still tell the tale of the horrible suffering felt by the poor lasses. Bladders and bowels void themselves en masse down twitching legs, sometimes accompanied by last grunts of shame and sometimes it is quite obvious that the utterly dishonoured wenches no longer care. Literal puddles and small mounds of excrement form themselves under the unhappy rebel wives and daughters. A disgusting smell permeates throughout the town heralding the utter defeat and humiliation of the rebels. The last to stop her looking fight against the noose is the 22 year old flaxen-haired daughter of the rebel leader, a spirited girl, sometimes acting as her father's commander. Before darkness envelops her the rope turns her to the left, then the right. She sees all of those women who put their trust into her father and herself turned into corpses, shifting and pissing themselves in death. A last strangled sob makes it’s way through her constricted throat, then there is silence. Some of the condemned die a “clean death" but it is an exception not a rule.
Another tragic fate that could be witnessed that day on the gallows was that of 19 year old Grace, a slender redhead, the daughter of a wealthy landowner ran away from her boring and monotone existence to serve the rebel cause. With her, she took a family heirloom, a locket she inherited from her mother when she passed away in childbirth last summer. When the rebellion was crushed she managed to hide it in the palm of her hand and carry it all the way to the noose. As she became suspended, she tried her best to hold onto her last possession until she involuntarily relieved herself as her muscles became weaker and weaker. The fist she was holding her mother’s locket in relaxed and, accompanied by a strangled scream from Grace, splashes onto the floor of the scaffold beneath her dirty, twitching feet. A few moments later it is covered with stinking excrement.
Silence fell onto the terrible scene. Only the buzzing of flies attracted to the women’s last bowel movement remained. The Royal commander held a handkerchief to his nose in a vain effort to ward off the horrid smell. He ordered his men to wait for one more hour before removing the defeated rebel wenches from the gallows but to take care of their shit immediately. Wheelbarrows were quickly bright and the leavings of the poor lasses were transported onto a horse drawn cart. The same river that just 3 days ago ran red with the blood of the fathers and sons of the rebellion would now run brown with the excrement of its mothers and daughters.
The hour prescribed hour was over and the King's men got to work removing the bodies of the hanged wenches from the gallows and throw them onto the same cart used earlier. It is a sorry and indecent sight breasts, tongues and privates in various states of discoloration can be seen and no effort is made to preserve the modesty of the executed rebels. Even with the cart being filled to the brim, it still takes multiple trips to transport the corpses of all the executed females to the trench that is to be their final resting place. The wives and daughters of the rebels are buried shamefully, hands still bound, nooses still around their necks so anyone who would ever stumble upon the grave would know their shame. No marker is left at their final resting place.

Today the legend says that if you go to the town square at 10 in the morning on a spring morning you may hear a loud banging, followed by horrible noises of strangulation and your nose may be assaulted by the smell of shit and piss. Some say that this curse will only be lifted once the spirit of Grace is reunited with her mother’s locket.

I am garbage. I am a piece of trash. Entirely without worth as a living breathing thing, and much more useful as an object to be used and thrown away, in that anyone gets any use at all out of me. I am the kind of fetid trash that is so repugnant it can only be immediately carted far away from a well kept home as not to offend its occupants. Im not a special piece of trash, not even valid as a conversation piece or memory. Im common trash, daily trash, entirely unmemorable.

I lay, with other replaceable trash like me, beside the city street. Thrown from my home, where I could not be of service, where my presence made my keepers upper lip raise on one side towards their nose as if trying to seal it off from a rank smell. I lay now with my shoulderblades on cold cement and my eyes blankly staring towards the sky. I think my eyes are blank, I hope theyre blank. Blank and gray. So that a glance could inform passersby that nothing of significance is taking place behind them. Trash swarms over me, trash like me. I feel what I imagine to be a roach crawl over my forearm. I hate roaches, I find them to be the most deploreable. I envy them. They neednt consider their lot in life. They ask themselves no questions and are not sensitive to answers.

I feel a tug at my shin, and the sky above me moves. Good, turn me over, I dont deserve to see the sky. My useless body flops to its stomach and I feel my rear end raised. Useful. This is what Im useful for. The assailant grabs my hair and lifts my face from the cement, he looks at me. I look past him. Some part of me is dead, and has stopped searching for human connection. I dont feel the inclination to meet his eyes, the natural will to has died somehow. I just watch him glance over me from my peripherals. He kisses me. He must approve of me. I let him play with my limp and listless tongue until thin strands of saliva drip down my chin and hug my neck. He drops me when he becomes bored. I dont make any effort to catch myself, so my head quickly smacks into the ground. I chip a tooth. It hurts. I let out the slightest of mumbles, a light murmer to satisfy mt bodies desire for me to do something about the pain. He says something about me being alive, and I feel him punch me twice in the back of the head. It hurts less than the tooth. But yes. This is right. Use me like this. I want my worthless shell to be made useful by you, to be recycled, to have some second hand value to even just a stranger. Make me a punching bag. Enjoy raping me.

I feel his hands come to my lifted hips. I smell something earthy and pungent as i hear him unzip. He lifts a maid skirt up over my raised rear. I feel him try to enter, and then succesfully enter me. Hes about as thick as a pingpong ball but it doesnt matter. It hurts. It hurts enough that as he begins to thrust, I begin to cry. I let out meaningless moans and whimpers. I dont want him to stop. I dont want tk scream and draw attention to him. I want him to finish raping me. To have made me useful. I hear him say something about my whimpering, but I dont make an effort to stop, letting out quiet, droning groans as I hear him rustle around for something in his clothing. He tells me to shut up. Just as Im thinking I want him to shut me up, I feel a punch in the back I soon realize was a blade. Right between my ribs, movement lets me feel it burn its edge into my left lung. I feel them pool with blood, and my breaths come out in wheezes. Im drowning. I dont have time to think anymore about how this is my worth, how I deserve this. For a couple of blissful, ascended seconds, I get to worry for my life, to think about death. Theres a moment where an expression other than exhaustion crossed my face, primal terror mustve shown up for just a few seconds when I realized Id been stabbed, but it was to late. I reach my hand futally towards my mouth only to feel it drag heavily through blood thats pooling under my face as it leaks from my lips. And then... I let the terror pass, and embraced the moment completely. First, my tears stopped. And then my body became to heavy to move. And then everything became black as I felt him shift back and forth behind me, though Im certain I didnt close my eyes. I stayed un the black, motionless, far away place for several minutes as things got colder and colder until I felt the last thing I ever would. His cum flooding into me, the warmest thing in my body now. I try to clench or buck my hips for him, but I cant move my body but for sudden, uncontrolled twitches. My brain is misfiring. My systems are shutting down. Im not going to get to feel him pull out, being a used condom is the last feeling Im ever going to have. I hope that I was useful for him. I hope I can be properly thrown away.

250 words? tl;dr
100 words? tl;dr

How about guro haiku? Three lines. 5 syllables, then 7, then 5. Strictly enforced by nobody.


I'll go first, on my personal favorite subject.


Now I am pregnant
Knife enters my big belly
I am not pregnant

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

(repost, not my text)

Any scenarios where a shy couple is put into a situation where the woman has no choice but to shit on her partner?

Is there anything where a person kidnaps a couple, then ties them up in such a way where the guy is on the ground and the girl is on top, and the person tells them that he's not going to torture or kill them, he's just going to observe. He'll let them go when the business is completed.

I'd like it if the girl were chained to an outhouse-like toilet box, with her boyfriend trapped in the box below, staring up at his girlfriend's butthole. And she's being overfed fiber and laxatives and beans, and she has no choice but to urgently fart and shit all over her boyfriend.

The scene goes through a mental progression where at first the couple is angry, thinking about how to escape, the guy acting tough and being sympathetic, but then as the hours go by, the realization of the issue where she's going to inevitably shit on him dawns on them. It would be an almost mindbreak scenario, for the girl mostly, but also possibly the guy depending on how disgusted he is.

Really, looking for any scat situations where the two people are forced into doing it to each other by a third party.

A quirky woman adds another pair of heels, these belonging to a pampered sugar-babe, to her peculiar collection.

The charming, witty Sherri hides a sinister secret, down in her bloody basement. The dark-haired lesbian nurtures a deep obsession with gorgeous women and their even prettier feet and she doesn't splitting the two apart, to broaden her morbid collection.
With the appetizer out of the way, it was time for the main dish of the night. Paying little attention to her moaning, wailing victim, Sherri attached Regina’s sadistically tied ankles to an added white cord, and hitched the other end to the pulley’s hook, leaving about a foot’s worth of cord length between Regina’s ankles and the hook. She then walked over to a wall switch, and pressed the button that pointed up. With a sudden buzz, the pulley’s motor sprang to life, slowly pulling a now much more passive Regina up towards the ceiling. Sherri removed her thumb from the button when most of the tormented woman’s body was suspended upside down in the air. Only Regina’s tape-wrapped head and her butchered chest were still in contact with the floor.

“Mmmmm…mmmmm…mmmm” the 30-something year old sex-bomb could only let out soft, gagged moans with each exhale, a result of her horrible, horrible state. A couple of hours ago, she was a rare gem of sex-appeal, confidence and wealth. Now, she had been rendered to nothing more than a collection of suffering nerve endings. Her beautiful, dark long hair, lying all tussled on the floor, was sticky with the woman’s cold sweat and a few drops of the blood from her head wound. Her face had gone pale, her elbows and hands now a deep purple color. She could barely twitch her fingers, having lost all control over her arms and hands, gone completely numb. Similarly, her ankles and knees were also a very unhealthy purple color, her feet dangling uselessly underneath the metal hook.

At this stage, Regina was trying her best to avoid fainting from the pain.
“Ooooh you look so cute hanging like that” Sherri couldn’t resist snapping a few photos of the dangling woman on her phone, like a fisherwoman proud of her big catch. She had plenty of photographic memoirs from all her “play-dates”, which was also the reason she never handed her phone out to anyone.

Sherri then turned around to head for a closet on the other side of the basement. A couple of steps in, her eyes fell on the woman’s golden jewellery, on the floor where she’d tossed them. Sherri stopped, turning back her gaze at her suffering, dangling “fish”. Regina’s pretty, slender neck appeared…empty. It should have a necklace…of sorts.

Sherri grabbed a foot-long line of zip tie and returned to Regina. The woman’s blue eyes looked up at her from floor level, clearly missing that spark they had back at the bar, looking empty and tired. “There…” Sherri formed a loop with the zip tie and placed it over the woman’s head, before pulling the end just enough so that the plastic was making its presence felt all around the woman’s neck. “Gmm…gghmm” the woman let some labored, choked moans. “…now you’re ready” Sherri offered the woman a warm smile. It seemed uncanny given the circumstances, since it contrasted with the woman’s treatment of Regina thus far.
Leaving the suspended girl to work a bit harder for her oxygen, Sherri opened the closet and pulled out plenty of clothing items, all of them fit for industrial use. She started wearing them over her night-out outfit.

First, a grey, long-sleeved jumper, made of thick nylon fabric, was worn over her tube-top. Then, the head hole of a mustard-colored, butcher’s apron, was passed through her head and tied behind her waist. The color on the leather apron was worn out and heavily stained with many different splashes of blood. A forensic analysis of that apron would return many different DNA samples. She replaced her cute ankle boots with a pair of calf-high, green safety boots, their shoe-print matching the blood stain on the basement’s floor. Finally, Sherri wore some protective black gloves over her hands.
“Mmmgh...mmmmgh… mmmmmmgh” Regina kept audibly suffering alone, albeit with an added breathing difficulty and a pink face. She was not even paying attention to her captor’s definitely not-agreed-upon plans, anymore. The pain in her arms and legs was debilitating, same as the one nesting deep within her asshole. The capsaicin in the hot sauce was still reacting with the woman’s insides, causing continuous waves of pain. Despite the butt-plug not being that large for someone periodically partaking in anal sex, Regina was feeling like being repeatedly ass-pounded by a horned up bull. At this point, she was starting to wish she could faint, but the all the adrenaline from this life-threatening predicament was keeping her awake.
What the bound woman saw next jolted her back to a lively state. Sherri was approaching her, all-geared up and ready to get messy, holding an 11-inch long, electric chain saw with both hands. The machine promptly roared with a high-pitched vroom, from a testing press of the handle trigger. “NNNNngg, MMMMMMGGHH! PPMMMMghuh…..ghuh…! Regina started struggling, which only meant she jiggled her naked, cord-wrapped body in place, her screaming pleads cut short by the garroting zip tie.

Her panicky twisting and her muffled crying increased with every step Sherri made towards her. *Vrooooom...vrooooooooom* Sherri warmed up her trusty chain saw a bit more, now standing right by her hanging little piggy.

“Some prime cuts coming right up!” Sherri yelled and carefully placed the running blades on the woman’s feet, ignoring Regina’s screams. The saw made quick work of the delicate meat and bone of Regina’s ankles, blood splattering onto Sherri’s “working” outfit and running down the woman’s reversed legs. The woman had no breath to scream during this unlicensed amputation.


Read the full story at https://denkira7.gumroad.com/l/daajd

Sarah awoke to an uncomfortable nudge. “Argh, quit kicking!”

“I’m not!” Stephen, her younger brother, replied groggily.

“Yeah-huh! I felt it on my stomach!”

“They took apart all our leg joints, how could I have kicked you?”

“Well SOME part of you moved!”

Stephen snapped, “You’ve been wiggling around this whole time, and I never complained!”

“Nuh-uh! I’ve been staying totally still!”

“Tell that to your stomach! It keeps twitching and scrunching up, like a big gross caterpillar!”

“H-hey, you know I can’t control everything!” Sarah’s face grew red, though thankfully it was pitch dark inside the suitcase. She added, more boldly, “Besides, your… thing keeps twitching too, and it’s touching my face!”

Now it was Stephen’s turn to turn red. “Believe me, if I could move it somewhere else, I could. I don’t get why they needed to take it off, it’s not even that—“ he stopped himself, but it was too late. He didn’t need to see the grin forming on his sister’s face.

“Yeah, it’s so small, it probably doesn’t even factor into their ‘optimal packing’ algoma-rithm anyway!”

“O-oh yeah? I was surprised they were even able to slice your boobs off. I could swear they were gonna get blown away like sheets of paper.”

“Grrr… well how do you like THIS?”

Suddenly a bolt of pain shot through Stephen’s body, centered on where he felt his groin should have been.

“AAAARGH! WHAT THE HELL, SIS?”

“Hey, I just flicked something that felt like yours.” Given the reaction it had elicited, she probed it further with her detached hand. When it realization dawned, even she winced.

“Quit fondling my balls, you perv! Or I’ll do… THIS!”

“Ouugh” came the subdued response. Followed by a jet of water spraying Stephen in the face. Warm, acrid-smelling water.

“Crap… that was my bladder” said Sarah forlornly as the lone organ discharged its contents, the torrent washing over seemingly every body part within their oblong prison.

Stephen, undeterred, wriggled his hand in search of a body part that wouldn’t retaliate with humiliation. It felt like he’d entered a warm cavity, which he traversed with his fingers until he finally found a hold. His sister was strangely quiet, though it seemed as though her breath was hitching. Finally, he found a handhold and clamped his fingers shut. As he did so, one of his fingers slipped through some sort of hole.

Sara screamed. Once she caught her breath, she managed, “Q-quit fondling my pussy, you… perv….”

Mortified, Stephen opened his hand. His middle finger was still wedged through the opening, but the geography was starting to make sense, whether he wanted it to or not. His hand had taken the place of her uterus, entering her severed abdomen from above. His attempts to “swim” his hand back out were in vain, and provided further unwanted stimulation to both siblings. Now there was kicking, from all sides, as her various joints and truncated limbs wriggled in vain.

Stephen’s penis had rolled between a pair of his sister’s parts, which he could only imagine were a thigh and a breast; the continued motion had engorged his member so that the space it occupied was far from negligible. Moreover, his involuntary movements due to the stimulation complemented his sister’s, driving hers in turn, until they formed a sort of harmonic oscillator, disrupting each other’s fragmented privates, causing their scattered parts to contract, expand, push, pull…

They both screamed in unison, and a few more fluids began their complicated journey through the maze of body parts.

Stephen felt his penis shrink, and Sarah felt her left breast settle into newly formed groove between parts she was too spent to identify. The shifting of their more sensual body parts caused bouts of belated stimulation as things returned to equilibrium.

“They’re gonna see this, you know,” said Stephen, his eyes growing heavy.

“Why couldn’t we get… separate suitcases… like mom and dad…” complained Sarah as she drifted off.

They slept soundly for the remainder of the trip.

This site isn't nearly what it used to be, anywhere else to go for the stories? they were the best part.

can take suggestions, though i'll only take anything relating to Touhou, Guilty Gear or Cookie☆ (if you know what that is, congrats)

though don't expect me to do them at any point, i only write occasionally for fun

I wrote this (complete) story a little over a year ago and posted it to ao3, /r/guroerotica and the dark spot. It just occurred to me I should post it here as well.

Unlike many, I prefer to have a vaguely plausible justification for the extreme debauchery, so there's a bit of world-building early in the story before it really gets going. Feel free to skip over that part if you want to get to the good stuff.

Enjoy.

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

Burned on the Stake
Phrasing is important.

Consider the phrase: "cruel and unusual." The key word is, of course, 'and.' For a punishment to be cruel and unusual it must be both. Surely, if several other nations have adopted a certain type of punishment as standard practice, it was not all that unusual, even if it was cruel.

At least, that was how the seventeen Supreme Court justices ruled in 2074, in a ten to seven decision. Congress passed a law mandating extreme cruelty, the President signed it, and the Supreme court rubber-stamped that decision, through the flimsiest of justifications.

It didn't matter that the countries that employed such a method of execution were not Western, developed democracies like the United States. It didn't even matter that they were, in fact some of the small, absurdly corrupt dictatorships that arose after the Russian central government imploded twenty years previously. These were countries where women's rights were an even bigger joke than they had become in America, even more so than what they had been under Russia's thumb. There were also a few tin-pot dictators in South America and Africa who gleefully copied the sadistic invention of the former Russians.

The masses cheered for cruelty, and the political machinery obliged. After all, that's how democracy worked.

* * *

When twenty-two year-old Candace Linneman informed her husband, Sean, that she was going to the protest, he said no.

"It's dangerous," he told her. "I mean, meetings, okay, whatever, but these things can get violent, you know? Worse, you could get arrested."

"It's a non-violent protest," she insisted. "I know Alex, she went over how important it is not to escalate with any of the scum-bags. Non-violence only. We'll be fine."

He crossed his arms. "They're just looking for an excuse to crack down, you know. Any excuse. And it's not even just prison, feminist protesters can get the death penalty. So, no, you're not going."

"That's for violent protesters, or organizers of violent protests. I'm not going to hit anyone. I even have a personal recorder hidden in my head band right now, already started, in case they try to claim I did anything I didn't. Full audio and video. Not to mention, I didn't organize anything. Alex did all the work. She's the one really taking the risk. And, if no one shows up, that's what they really want. That's the point of those laws. Screw that. I'm going."

"No." He grabbed her arm. "You're not. I'm not losing you."

She tried to pull away, but he was stronger. For a brief moment, there was a tug of war for her arm, each pulling in opposite directions.

Then she kicked him in the balls.

Reflexively, he let go, screaming in pain and shock. No longer pulling against her, he staggered backwards, tripped on the edge of a rug and went down hard.

The sickening "crack" as Sean hit his head against the corner of the coffee table was deafening in the otherwise silent room.

"Sean? Sean!" She ran to him, but he didn't respond. Then she noticed the rapidly spreading crimson stain on the beige carpet.

Thirty minutes later, Sean was pronounced dead.

Ten minutes after that, Candace was arrested and charged with participating in a violent feminist protest, on the strength of the video recorded by her headband.

Sean died as she protested a feminist issue, her attendance at a feminist protest. Therefore, legally, it was a violent feminist protest.

As the one who arranged the original protest, Alex clearly organized Candace's attendance and subsequent defiance as well. Within a few hours of when the original, entirely-non violent protest ended, the protest that Candace was forced to skip anyway, the police came for Alex too.

* * *

A weird thing happened to identity politics in the late 2020s and early 2030s: There was a schism, a split.

Historically, there was a "big-tent" philosophy among liberal political movements, with the idea that an injustice perpetrated against one human, regardless of race, creed, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity and so forth, was an injustice against all. Human rights applied to everyone human, or so the thinking went.

There was, however, a recurring trend that perhaps had always been there but began to become more pronounced and noted by many community leaders. Women, predominantly white, privileged women seemed to consistently look for, and find ways to inject themselves and their causes into the conversation.

When African Americans protested for their right not to be beaten to death by the police, feminists found ways to turn the conversation towards keeping abortion legal.

When immigrants protested for the right not to have their children taken away from them and locked in cages, feminists tried to frame ending workplace sexual harassment as an equally pressing issue.

When police stood aside as Asian and particularly Chinese-Americans were attacked by angry mobs, weighted down and thrown into swimming pools for being "plague rats" responsible for originating not one, but two deadly plagues in the space of six years, the feminists seemed to think addressing a seven-point-five percent increase in reported date-rape was the top priority.

The big-tent strategy ended. The rest of the community moved on without the feminists.

In the following decade, the United States made record-breaking gains in stomping out white supremacy, passing comprehensive immigration reform and ensuring police forces applied the law evenly to people of different ethnicities, or at least more evenly than ever before.

On the other hand, feminists lost ground in a very big way, as their previous political allies shut them out.

"All MEN are created equal," became a favored phrase, if not a rallying cry.

Laws didn't change very much, but enforcement shifted with the social fabric, granting men more leeway and women far less. The law didn't need to cement a husband's absolute authority, if he was never prosecuted for exercising it. What good was a woman's right to a trial and to testify in court, if a man's word was always believed over hers?

The social tide turned, and women's rights were no longer seen as being a form of racial injustice, but rather, as the intellectual elites put it, an "independent social construct." After all women weren't the same as men, were they? Skin color, hair color, face shape -- these were utterly superficial things. Women, on the other hand, had different organs, different brain chemistry. They had two copies of an entire chromosome while men had one. What else, besides femininity, was caused by an extra chromosome? That was what caused Down Syndrome. How could you compare discrimination based on such fundamental biological differences to discrimination based merely on superficial skin color?

Or, so the logic went. It was so revolting, it made Candace want to puke. How was that any different than the racist propaganda spewed throughout the twentieth century? Of course, no one asked her. For one thing, she was a woman.

Some of the biggest proponents of the crackdown on women's rights were the immigrants from countries with more "traditional" values. As unprecedented numbers of immigrants were granted citizenship they were only too happy to vote to ensure their way of life was protected by the laws of the land.

Women retained the right to vote, but it was surprising how many sided with the anti-feminists. There was a large cohort of older women, predominantly those with grown male children, who pushed hard for traditional values.

When young, radical women protested this treatment, strict laws cracking down on feminist protesters, particularly any who became violent, were passed. Only after thirty years of gradual social change did the authoritarian legal framework locking in the new status quo finally emerge.

The penalty for violent feminist protest was death, but not by any traditional execution method.

Men died by lethal injection.

Women convicted of any other capital crime died by lethal injection.

Violent, radical feminists, however, were different. They were much worse, a danger to the fabric of polite society. America was determined to make an example of them. Those women who violently rejected a woman's place in society received a death uniquely tailored to the female form.

Further, once the authorities went looking for these violent criminals, it was surprising how many they found. There was typically one execution scheduled every few weeks, though this varied depending on how many convictions had taken place in the previous year or two.

Every execution of a radical feminist was live-streamed by the Federal government, free to view and record by anyone and everyone. These broadcasts served both as a warning to other women, and entertainment for those so inclined.

The entire world could watch as a criminal was burned on the stake.

Not at the stake. On the stake.

* * *

Candace stared at the stilettos that would be put to use during her execution. She wished, oh how she wished, that they were literal stilettos, sharp daggers that would mercifully end her life with a clean strike to her heart or neck.

Instead, they were shoes.

Designed by Theodore Ebon, she'd been told that a pair of Moonlit Elegance Stiletto heels such as the one before her typically retailed at $3,599.99. Unlike Candace, however, this particular pair of shoes would survive the next few hours and be auctioned off at a much higher price for having been part of her execution. They used a different high-end pair of high-heels every time, varying the model and brand of shoe so that various luxury designers could bid for the privilege of showcasing their creations for a large audience.

It would start soon. They were going to send her to Hell before she was even dead.

She'd always been sensitive... down there. She dreaded her gyno visit every year. Her mind shut down every time she tried to contemplate the horror of what was about to happen, but now the time had come, and there was no avoiding it.

They'd configured the display screen in her cell to broadcast an execution a few weeks ago, so she could see what was about to happen to her. They wouldn't let her turn off the screen, but she had climbed onto her cot, pulled the thin sheet on her bed over her eyes and ears, and tried to tune out the endless screams.

This time, she would be the one screaming.

The guards made sure she had nothing that could be used to attempt suicide and watched her closely to prevent any attempts. She had no way to end this early, no choice but to suffer what was about to happen.

The guards had roughly shaved and plucked every hair on her body below her neck. Then, they'd instructed her to shower, and to use the bathroom. It was her last shower, her last time sitting on a toilet. She would never wear any clothes again, either, other than those damned shoes.

She sat naked on a bench, toweling herself off from her shower with a small square towel made of a material sufficiently flimsy there was no way to hang herself with it.

She briefly considered taking one of the shoes and trying to stab herself with pointy heel, but then decided that was probably futile. Even though they were called 'Stilettos' the heels weren't actually that sharp. Besides, even though the guards weren't present, but she was certain they were watching via the video cameras. They would be on her in a heartbeat if she deviated from their instructions. She'd learned quickly after being thrown in prison, that it was better to follow instructions. Failure to comply meant being roughly, painfully man-handled into compliance anyway.

A man, flanked by two fit, muscular women, entered the room.

The man was handsome, clean shaven with immaculately groomed dark hair and was wearing a black tuxedo with white shirt and bow-tie. His hands were covered with white gloves.

The women wore matching black boots, tight-fitting black jeans and black sports bras that showed off impressive musculature. They were both blondes, though one had short curly hair, and the other long, straight hair. They wore black gloves, and each held a taser in one hand.

"Hello, my name is Phillip. I'll be your master of ceremonies this evening, and I wanted to introduce myself before we have to get started."

Candace sighed, resigned. "You mean you're my executioner."

"That's right," he nodded. "So, how do you want this to go?"

She blinked at that. "Excuse me? Quick and easy? Or, how about not at all?"

"No-no," he shook his head. "That's not up to me. The end result is the same no matter what, but we can make these last few minutes peaceful before we get started, or you can fight tooth and nail against my two assistants. Also, if you want, you can scream at me now in private. Get it out of your system and then cooperate, make peace as we get you ready to go.

Candace didn't want to scream and rant. She wanted to cry. "Phillip? How do you live with yourself?"

Infuriatingly, he nodded, as if he was expecting this question. "Of course. You really want an answer?"

"I'm pretty sure it's because you're a piece of shit. They fought wars to get rid of people like you, you know?"

"And what if I told you I have a high school education and a kid with a rare genetic bone disease. Ten grand a month treatments. If I didn't do this, someone else would take the job and I lose Tim."

Candace stared back at him. "So, Tim is a boy?"

He shrugged. "Yes"

"No daughters then?"

He shrugged again. "You got me there."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Listen," he said. "Here's my promise to you. There's some things I'm going to to do, and you're not going to be having much fun. You know it, I know it. But, I promise I won't make it any worse than the law says it has to be. I'm doing this for the government paycheck, and the government benefits, not because I'm a pervert or a sadist. You cooperate, and I'll be as gentle as I can getting you prepped and plugged. We can make these last few minutes, the last few minutes you have before it gets bad, relatively peaceful. What do you say?"

That he had the audacity to refer to one of the most painful methods of execution ever devised, a punishment he was about to inflect on her, as "not having much," turned her stomach.

"Master of Ceremonies, was it?" she demanded. "It's all theater, isn't it? You've got some nerve coming back here and suggesting I go along with your performance, help your big show go smoothly. Sure you're gonna burn me on the stake, but it would just be so un-lady-like for me to cause trouble! Is that it?"

Phillip appeared entirely unphased. Her words seemed to bounce off his easy-going attitude. "I won't bother denying they like these events to be a performance. See how exposed my assistants arms and stomachs are? Generally, security wears tough, long-sleeve clothing, but the viewers like eye-candy so instead they pay the big bucks for these gals. They're wearing the eye-candy outfits, but they've got the training and skills to subdue a line-backer in under three seconds if they have to. And, believe it or not, the audience loves it if they get to show off. Whenever the flashy ninja-babes get to do their thing, that really gets the ratings up. The higher-ups are hoping you put up a fight, because it makes for a better performance. They're hoping to show off the violent radical feminist fighting like an animal, justifying all the shit they want to do, the shit you were protesting against. So, I'm here suggesting -- suggesting mind you, not telling or instructing or demanding, suggesting that this goes easier for you, and easier for your cause if you don't put up a fight."

Candace let out a slow breath. "Supposing that's all true, you're telling me this... why?"

"If you have trouble believing I'm not a selfish prick, I'd point out that I'd rather not risk the off-chance you lash out at me or my assistants. But, if you want the truth, my gals know their business and, mostly, I really don't want to hurt you any more than I already have to. God's honest truth, that's all."

It was Candace's turn to shrug. "Okay."

Philip nodded again and smiled what appeared to be a genuine smile. "Okay, then. Now, it's time to put on your heels."

* * *

Alexis Hearn watched as a guard approached her cell with a remote to reprogram the display screen.

"Just three more weeks and Hearn gonna burn!" The guard chuckled to herself. "And Big Eddie's gettin' laid tonight, too! Seein' as its your friend tonight, we wouldn't want you to miss a preview of what's comin'"

The screen itself was mounted behind thick plexiglass, protected from any tampering or destruction by inmates. Large rubber buttons could select the limited entertainment streams permitted to death-row inmates. The entertainment streams could be expanded (for good behavior) or limited (for bad behavior) with one of the remote controls the guards carried. For security reasons, the displays couldn't be reprogrammed remotely, or so the guards had informed her.

"You ever watched a burning?" The guard asked. "All the way through I mean, not one of them two minute super-cuts."

Alex glared back. "Do I look like a sick fuck to you?"

"Hell, yes. Rad-femmies are all sick fucks, y'all just haven't gotten the message through your thick skulls. That's why we make sure to deliver it, good an' hard, straight up your precious little cunts instead. But like I was sayin', most don't watch an entire burnin' from start to end. After a couple minutes the screamin' can start to get under your skin, let alone forty five minutes, an hour of that. But, it's only fair you know what to expect, since it'll be you we're all watchin' next time."

Alex shivered, as a range of emotions flowed over her.

Candace would die tonight. Candace, the bitch who's mistake condemned her to this. Candace, her friend. Candace who she hadn't communicated with, except through lawyers, since she'd been arrested. Candace, beautiful Candace who Alex had secretly crushed on for years, even though her friend was probably straight and married to a man.

But then, Candace wasn't really responsible. It was men. It was the pigs and their enablers. It was the patriarchy, that subtle but indestructible thread that wound through American culture, that forever bound every woman to one form of servitude or another.

She should forgive Candace. Now it was too late. There was no way to get a message to her before the execution began.

Nevertheless, Alex forgave her, even though Candace would never know.

"Hey, you listen'in?" The guard demanded. "I'm given you yer options here. We got Righteous Atonement, Medical Odds and Legal Ends, Dancing Melons, Dying Damsel Diatribes, and The Roasted Kitten Show. Which one will it be?"

Alex blinked. "Uh..."

The guard rolled her eyes at Alex's apparent ignorance. "The Warden wants to make sure you see and hear this, so I'm going to program your display to broadcast the proceedings downstairs in full, from start to finish. The video feeds are all public, but no one watches it raw. Lots of little players but you got your big five that do their own mashup of the camera angles, and provide a little light commentary before, after and on the side. Warden's policy is it's your choice, pick one of the freaky porno ones for all I care. Default's gonna be Odds and Ends if you just keep starin' like a gapin' fish."

Of course, Alex knew about the death streams already. They were abhorrent, obscene, but common knowledge. She hesitated because she wasn't sure which to pick.

The big five streams formed a spectrum from religious moralizing to what the guard had accurately described as "freaky porn" in roughly the same order the guard had rattled them off. Given that all condemned women were executed naked, on top of the nature of the execution method, a burning was fundamentally pornographic. It was therefore hardly surprising that a significant amount of coverage skewed that way.

Righteous Atonement was run by Christian fundamentalists whose commentary consisted of condemning the nefarious feminist sinners and praying to Jesus at every opportunity. The preachers who ran the commentary were well known for gleefully over-using the phrase "fiery pit of sin" as a way of describing the literal Hell of the Bible, and as a thinly-veiled euphemism for a condemned woman's crotch. As disgusting as the porno streams were, Alex found the level of psychotic religious fervor and entitlement far more repulsive than the death streams that played up the disturbing erotic elements of the executions.

Medical Odds and Legal Ends, or simply Odds and Ends as it was commonly dubbed, ran commentary focused on the details of the crime that got each woman condemned. Then, after the execution began, they brought in medical experts to evaluate the physical condition of the condemned's body and proximity to death at a given moment throughout the process. They had a supplementary betting site that brokered wagers on the progress of an execution and the exact moment of death.

Dancing Melons was straight-up porn. The hosts were two sisters with large breasts who broadcast the show completely naked. Their on-air personas were that of air-headed bimbos. Comments ranged along the lines of "Oh my, that must sting, I know I'm really sensitive down there!" to the classic "She's sure got a set of pipes on her!" as a woman died in agony. This last comment usually got a reply from the co-host along the lines of: "I know! I don't think I've made that much noise since I broke up with my ex-boyfriend Raul and his ten inch cock! Raul, if you're out there, be a sweetie and gimme a call sometime!" Alex's interpretation of the show's success was that by downplaying the horror taking place, the naked co-hosts implicitly gave permission to the viewer to enjoy the nudity of the condemned, to perhaps pretend those shrieks were the vocalization of erotic delight rather than extreme pain. Or, perhaps Alex was overthinking it, ascribing emotional depth to barbaric men who wanted nothing more than to see big, naked tits.

The hosts of Dying Damsel Diatribes or Triple-D, were a husband and wife team of semi-retired BDSM porn stars. Unlike the hosts of Dancing Melons, they were both well-spoken, and while their attire was frequently provocative, nudity was primarily limited to the woman being put to death. While Dancing Melons played up the eroticism of the naked body and downplayed the nature of the broadcast as a horrific, painful execution, Triple-D catered to the sado-masochists who found the pain and suffering of the condemned to be erotic in and of itself. In their long history of making adult videos the hosts' gimmick had been a willingness to do anything and everything, especially and including the more extreme kinks, but only with each other. As such, they knew their way around the pain and pleasure centers of the human body. Triple-D didn't merely offer viewers implicit permission to ignore the horror of an execution, but to revel in it. They made money advertising both their own adult videos, and various sex toys during their execution live-streams.

The Roasted Kitten Show was fucked up, plain and simple, even by the standards of a live-stream covering an execution. While its numbers were slightly lower than the other four of the big five, the size of its viewership attested to the staggering level of depravity out there. Like Triple-D, it too catered to the sado-masochists, and in particular those who were also part of the furry community. It wasn't so much commentary, as a cartoon that ran before and split-screen alongside the execution. The humanoid, cartoon animals of Sunshine Glade were always catching "misbehaving rascals" in their midst, and saw fit to burn their own criminals in the same way the humans did in their far off city on "Burning Day." Animation of one resident of Sunshine Glade being burned on the stake for some trivial offense was broadcast side-by-side with the real condemned woman experiencing the same treatment. The animation of the dying cartoon character was partially randomized and delegated to computer so not even the show-runners knew exactly how long the final animation would run, which led to Odds and Ends running a betting pool where real people bet real money on the progress of the animated, cartoon executions.

As far as Alex was concerned, Righteous Atonement was straight out, even the kittens would be better than the religious whack-jobs. And, no, she was absolutely not going to pick the kittens either. The problem with Odds and Ends was that they'd be talking about what Candace did. Not only would they be talking up and justifying how Candace got railroaded, they'd be mentioning her too. Fuck no, she did not want to hear that. That left the non-furry erotic-themed shows, which were, of course, both disgusting. On the other hand, they were all disgusting. The whole institution was a crime against humanity. Yet, she had to pick.

"Fine, fine, put on Damsel, er, Triple-D then," Alex told the guard. Yes, they embraced the execution as entertainment, but on some level, didn't everyone who was watching this thing do it because it was entertainment? Because the darker side of human nature wanted to see it? It was so fucked up, but there was a certain honesty there, an honesty that was lacking from the infuriating air-head brigade on Dancing Melons.

"Oh, hah! You really are a sick fuck perv, then!" The guard laughed. "I knew it! Or is it true that Letitia is secretly a rad-femmie man-hater? That's what they say, since the way I hear it, while she's wearin' the nipple clamps in half her old vids, but she's puttin' 'em on Carl in the other half. Never went lezzie, though. You know her maybe? Maybe you got a thing for chocolate, and have a secret lezzie crush on your rad-femmie hero, hmm? Is that it?"

"Fuck you," Alex spat.

"Hah! Not my job," the guard laughed, before turning to leave. "That's Big Eddie's job, in three weeks. So you pay attention, now!"

The screen lit up with stylized white lettering on a simple black background that read "Dying Damsel Diatribes" with "Execution Countdown: 00:00:07:43" in smaller lettering below. Second by second, the counter ticked away, rapidly approaching zero.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome! This is Triple-D, the Dying Damsel Diatribes!" a cheery woman's voice rang out, as the picture shifted. "I'm Letitia."

"And I'm Carl." A man's voice chimed in.

Letitia, a smiling African-American woman with titanic breasts sat with her legs crossed on a burgundy-colored couch next to Carl, an attractive man with pale skin and dirty blond hair. They both looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They both wore black.

Carl wore an all-black suit with a black shirt, black pants, black socks, black shoes and a black tie. What little clothing covered Letitia's body consisted of a scandalously tight black dress which revealed extensive cleavage along with the faint outline of her nipples. The dress was sufficiently short that if she uncrossed her legs viewers would almost certainly be able to tell whether she was wearing any panties.

Actually, Letitia was really rather attractive. It wasn't merely her figure, it was her confidence, her bearing. It was also the way she opened the broadcast instead of her husband, and the bitchy guard's suggestion she might be sympathetic to the feminist cause. If she weren't hosting one of these degenerate death streams, Alex wouldn't kick her out of bed. Or maybe any woman wearing an outfit with some amount of style, rather than drab prison clothes started to seem attractive at this point. It had been years.

"You all out there excited for tonight?" Letitia asked.

"Of course they are," Carl grinned back at his wife. "I sure am! Candace Linneman, Caucasian, twenty three, brown hair, trim, athletic build. Quite a looker, isn't she?"

A picture of Alex's friend and long-time crush, one taken before her arrest in which she wore a revealing pink bikini, appeared beside the video of the hosts. Alex, herself had taken that picture a little over three years ago. She had, in fact, masturbated to it. Frequently.

"Not much of a chest though, though," Letitia commented. "She's gotta be, what, a B-cup, tops?"

"True," Carl nodded, "But look at that perfect bubble-butt! Besides, not to get ahead of ourselves here, but next time, in three weeks, it's going to be Linneman's partner in crime, Alexis Hearn, a genuine curvy Irish red-head with freckles and knockers almost as big as yours!"

Letitia sniffed. "Almost. Though we'll have to wait for three weeks."

Alex's cheeks burned red. She did not want to hear about herself. It was bad enough that she had to watch her friend die like this, that she would soon die like this too. Also, wasn't this show supposed to be the one whose hosts weren't airheads? They were talking about her breasts like teenage boys in a locker room!

"Now, I will say," Letitia went on, "for those of you who have any moral qualms about this whole institution of violent rad-femmie executions, tonight you can rest easy. This girl didn't scratch a police officer's arm with her nails. Oh, no. Her husband tried to prevent her from going to a rad-femmie protest. She killed him for it. Actually, she kicked him in the family jewels first, and then killed him for it. Candace Linneman put her crazy ideas not only before her marriage, but her husband's life. His name was Sean Linneman. No doubt about it either, she confessed right away. I think we can all agree she deserves what she's got coming. We're all better off without this one."

Alex was simultaneously infuriated and unsurprised by this assessment. Even though Sean's death had obviously been an accident, the media narrative downplayed that angle. In court the prosecution argued that it didn't matter whether the death was accidental, the kick to Sean's groin qualified the attack as a deliberate, violent, radical feminist act. However, since the possibility of an accidental death wasn't as dramatic, most coverage of the trial completely glossed over that important detail.

"Definitely not," Carl agreed with his wife. "But, before we get much further, I think it's time for the disclaimer."

"Right," Letitia said. "Listen up, my fellow kinksters. I know some of you are ready to puke from hearing this over and over. We go over this before every single show because it matters. Because it saves lives. It might save yours. Of the big five we're the only one that talks about this, but if you ask me everyone else should do it too."

"You're all here to watch Candace Linneman die tonight," Carl said matter-of-factly. "A lot of us in the community are turned on by a beautiful naked woman in pain, and that's okay. Candace Linneman will die no matter what you do, and there's nothing wrong with finding some pleasure in what's about to happen. But--"

There was so much wrong with that, as far as Alex was concerned. So, so much.

"But!" Carl exclaimed. "But, Candace Linneman has been convicted and sentenced to be burned on the stake by the Federal Government of the United States of America. The appeals have been filed and rejected, the 'i's have been dotted and 't's have been crossed. As a Federally mandated execution, what's about to happen to her is neither safe or consensual. It is only sane because she was given a fair trial administered by the Federal government and convicted by a jury of her peers. This is real life, not BDSM role-play. A lot of you like to, ahem, play along, as it were. We're here to remind you, the viewers, that none of you are Federal executioners, and no court has handed any of you a death sentence. Be responsible. Tonight and always, keep your own activities safe, sane and consensual."

"You have no idea how often people, especially those of you really into breath play, accidentally commit suicide during these executions," Letitia said. "Never mind it's a burning not a hanging. Yes, breath play is fun, Carl and I've explored it plenty, but you need to be careful. We have a whole section of our site dedicated on how to be safe, but it doesn't do much good if no one reads it! So, so often, we hear about near-death experiences from people who think, 'I'll breathe when she's finally dead, she's almost done.' Spoiler alert: She's going to last a while. A burning takes time. That's the whole point. She is going to be in agony for a long, long time. You can't go without breathing for forty-five minutes to an hour. Don't try. You're going to get hurt, or die. Then, we take the flak because we're the kinky BDSM stream."

"Usually, it turns out they were watching Atonement." Carl added. "Which is why we talk about this, and why everyone else should too. Deep down, everyone watching Candace tonight is getting off on it. We're the ones who own up to that, and want all of you to go about it safely."

"An hour is a long time," Letitia said. "A lot of activities that are fine in small doses can be very dangerous if you go that long. Don't try to whip, cane, flog or even spank someone for that entire time. If you're going that route, do one stroke every minute rather than anything continuous. You also need to be really careful that you're using bondage equipment that doesn't cut off or restrict blood flow for that length of time. Maximum time on nipple clamp application is thirty minutes, and fifteen for the ones with stronger springs. Err on the side of caution, and don't go over fifteen minutes on any sort of clamp. Be careful, and always, always, always use safe words with your partner!"

Carl nodded emphatically "If you're sure you want to do a scene that lasts for the whole execution, we recommend focusing on tease and denial, forced orgasms, or a combination of the two. You're not likely to die from blue balls, or coming once too often, but extreme denial or post-orgasm torture can get really intense. Have your partner hold a magic wand against your cock or clit when the execution starts, and chances are you're going to safe-word long before Candace gives up the ghost. Letitia and I have some experience with this, search the videos in our catalog for "orgasm denial" and "post-orgasm torture" to see just what I'm talking about."

"Oh my god! That time you strapped me to a Sybian for an hour, I thought I was going to die!" Letitia exclaimed.

Carl grinned an evil grin. "Hah! Your eyes were bugging out of your head by the end, there. But you didn't safe-word out."

"You almost did, though. Remember?" It was Letitia's turn to grin. "One shoot, five ejaculations, however long it took. We did it in one long shot, one camera angle to prove we didn't splice it together. I didn't stop moving that little squishy silicone stroker over your cock for almost an hour and half, until I got those five orgasms out of you. And then, at the end, you told me if it had been six, you would have safe-worded out right then?"

"Yup," Carl nodded. "After that, I told you, the most I'm ever willing to do in a single take is three. That's my limit, realistically."

"Yeah, but I musta come, what, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five times on that Sybian?" Lititial countered. "Probably more. How is that fair?"

"The reality of the male refractory period," Carl insisted. "And, just so all you know, our website is a fully authorized reseller of multiple popular brands of magic wands, male strokers and motorized sex toys. We sell every toy we've ever used in one of our videos so long as it's still being manufactured, and we only sell high quality products we're willing to use ourselves, and feature in our videos."

The web address scrolled across the bottom of the screen as he spoke.

"But, that's enough of a shameless plug for now," Letitia said. "We sell the good shit. You know it, everyone knows it, check it out if you're as kinky as we are and have the cash. End of story. But now, it looks like it's Candace Linneman's story that's about to end. The video from the prison just went live, so it looks like they're just about ready to start the execution."

* * *

I intend for this story to be a subpart of a more ample story on an private resort island in a world where women are willing to die because of societal norms, as they outnumber men by thousands to one and few can give birth to males. More or less the same setting as Monk18's on Dolcettish.

Charity Gym

This island truly has it all. If you would’ve told me five years ago that GYMs would become not only free, but filled with girls willing to lend their bodies for a greater cause, I would’ve laughed and nodded with skepticism. Of course, that skepticism isn’t unfounded - there’s always strings attached – but these strings I’ll dance to.

“This week’s girls are all here on behalf of the ‘Beter Snuff Initiative’ and have pledged to let you train with their bodies – so long as terminal damage results in a $1000 donation for each totaled girl to the charity. ‘Submissive Snuff Sluts Initiative’ aims to bring better experiences through education of young girls in regards to their role in society. Sign right here if you agree.” The petite blonde at the reception tells me. She’s very cute, but with such a tiny frame and no tits, she’d only be good for giving head. She hands me a contract with quite a few small lines at the bottom, then proceeds to smile alluringly.

“Sounds good. I’ll only take one, so give me the hottest you’ve got.” I glide over with the pen, since I already know what the small text is.It’s legalese to make me still pay a percentage of the terminal payout, in case the girl isn’t killed. They’ll claim even up to 80% for just a few bruises and a missing tit or eye – so… I usually go all the way.

“Splendid sir, you can go get her! Today’s girl is stupid hot so I’m sure you’ll find it hard to resist using her to the full terms of this contract. The locker room is down the left hall and then you should proceed to room 103, where your personal trainer is waiting. Use of any implements you brought along is permitted, but may result in additional cleaning fees. We encourage you to train however you see fit, but also strongly suggest you don’t leave partially damaged gym bunnies on the mat as they are harder to find a use for and often end up as ground meat.” She droned on, much like a flight attendant, with a cheerful, detached tone.

I bob my head in approval, wink at her then head for the locker room. I throw on a pair of shorts and equip my cleated sports shoes with steel tips; those always come in handy for inflicting serious damage. I also pocket a pair of steel tipped knuckles and the all-important switch blade.

As I find my way to room 103, the anticipation makes my blood rise. I’m eager for today’s session, on edge – and the screams of an unlucky cunt getting pulped in another room makes me downright thirsty for blood. There it is… a portal to my very own 4 by 4 cubicle of carnage. I slam my palm on the scanner and the door opens to let me in.

Perfect. Fucking nice. Today’s girl is top notch – a perfectly curved blonde, with a loaded rack and shapely ass. She’s slim with wide hips and packed to the brim with padding fat in all the right places.

“Hello sir! My name is Nadia.” the blonde bimbo opens up with a Russian accent. “Today I’m here for a great cause! By training *on* me, rather than with me, you can support the ‘Submissive Snuff Sluts Initiative’! Totaling my body brings $1000 of support – so that more girls can be instructed and willing, just like me! I can’t wait to have my pussy pounded. And no, you don’t need to feel sorry for wanting to hurt me! I’m just a punching bag for you to train on.” She looks like she could suck my soul out through my cock, if given the chance.

This… Nadia… is an absolute bombshell. She’s wearing thin panties with a cheeky ‘punch here’ inscription and a thin top that’s cut just below the nipples, so I can get a glance at her silhouette of her delicious under boobs.

“Thank you, Nadia… I can’t wait to get started training. You look amazing!” I say and she cracks a wonderful smile.

I go over to one bench in the corner and grab a pair of gloves as she fidgets around.

“Let’s start slow. Put on the training pads…” I tell her.

“Aww, but that’s no fun!” the blonde protests. “You have these and this to train on!” she says as she gives ger big tits a good jiggle then taps her pussy. “Don’t you want to pound this pussy to a pulp?” she almost begs with a mischievous tone.

I approach her menacingly, standing a good head over her and probably weighing twice. I’m not all muscle, but I could probably break her in two with ease with a good knee to the back. If I pace myself and don’t go all in, she could even last a good 15 minutes of body punishment. I put one hand on her juicy cunt and tilt her head back with the other.

“Don’t you worry your cute little head, you won’t leave here unscathed.” I say, staring down into her wide open eyes. I can’t tell if she’s excited or afraid, but she’s definitely a hot and twitchy as she rubs her clam against my gloved hand.

“Now, put on those pads, Nadia. If you can remain standing for 5 minutes while I throw punches into those pads, I will give you the chance to have your cunt stuffed with my meat. How’s that sound?”

She bites her thick, cock hungry lips then yells “Sir, yes sir!” as she puts on the pads and takes a wide stance. At least she’s not as dumb as I would have first thought. All her brain won’t do her any good later when it’s on the floor, though…

Having done all preparations, I step forward and put my arms up in guard. I give Nadia a warning look, then lunge forward with three quick blows into the pads, putting almost no weight in them. She takes the first salvo like a champ. I continue with a wind up then a full power punch into the right pad, which makes her waver, having to rebalance.

“Ouch. Do you want to hurt me, sir?” she says with a giggle.

“Oh, believe me, Nadia… that body of yours gives me all sorts of ideas.” I reply then go for another few light punches. “And none of those end with you in one piece.”

“Mmm, I can’t wait to see what happens next.” She says and comes at me with the pads raised, challenging me to punch.

I dance with her for quite a few minutes, sending punches her way – occasionally challenging her balance, but keeping things tame. This is the actual workout, after all… which needs to be stimulating, but more focused on resistance.

“Oh oh… we’ve been training for a while and you haven’t hurt me. Why are you holding back sir? Don’t tell me you don’t punch women.” the blonde says, getting feisty.

“Oh, holding back?” I say as I sweep her off her feet – sending the cunt down. “Come on then, throw those pads away and let’s see about pounding that pussy.”

I also take off my gloves and unzip my trousers, letting my bulging erection out. I pounce on the downed girl like a savage beast and pin her neck then tear off her soaked panties. She’s definitely into what’s about to happen. I stare into her nubile gaze as I part her lips and start fucking her tiny twat. She’s probably trying to match my grip on her neck with her pussy on my cock… an ambitious little morsel. I go deeper and deeper with each thrust, turning up the pleasure for both and prompting delicious moans from Nadia.

“Deeper! Harder, sir! Harder! Ruin me!” she yells like a mindless whore.

I give her a backhand slap. “Shut up you cunt. I’m in command.” Then give her tits a few punches. They’re so big and soft they flop around under her shirt and disperse all the energy.

“Let’s see what you’ve got under the hood, you dirty little punching bag slut!” I say, ripping off her top.

“Yes, yes, yes, pound me harder – I’m your punching bag sir!” she moans, begging for more pain and wraps her legs around me, lifting herself up a bit so she can better take my cock in her.

I oblige and let go of her neck to start kneading those ridiculous breasts of hers. Punch after punch, I tenderize her tits as she screams in pain and pleasure. Each thrust of my cock is followed by a devastating punch to her fun bags. She keeps them nice and pressed together as her hands probe for her clit. Soon enough, her tits are red from all the burst vessels inside.

“Tighten your cunt, slut.” I scream at the target of my assault and viciously give her tensed up belly a mean punch.

She gasps for air, then starts to quiver around my cock, an orgasm taking hold of her petite cunt. I grab her huge bloodied tits and squeeze hard, yanking them towards me as Nadya bucks her hips against me. Her nipples are so red they look like they’re going to pop. I gaze at her bruised face and give her a final painful squeeze then thrust as deep as I can. A few seconds of bliss. With each new thrust I deliver a fat load straight into her baby maker, filling Nadya’s cunt until it leaks.

“You were a good fuck toy Nadia.” I tell her, panting and pulling out. I need to do more weights, so next time I see a bunny as busty as her, I can tear her tits right off. Maybe I’ll try with that motel girl… Mila?

“Thank you, sir. That felt great… “ she moans with satisfaction, having herself orgasmed. “I’m lucky to have been chosen by you. I think… I can go now… please think of the charity. Use me to the last punch.” She urges me to destroy her, presumably for a noble cause.

She’s still unbelievably hot, even if bruised and with a bloodied face. Stopping her destruction here would be an exercise in futility. Regaining my composure, I spring back up and give Nadia a hand up as well. She looks confused at first, then sees me putting on my knuckles. The one centimeter arrowhead tips at the top will definitely make short work of her flesh.

“Go on, Nadia. Tell me you’re nothing more than a boxing bag, to be beaten and destroyed. Beg for it.” I say, grabbing her by the throat and pushing the spikes into her pussy with the other hand. With barely any air and fighting through the sharp pain in her cunt Nadia begs “Kill. Me. Sir. Punch me till I die.”

I relish in her pain as I twist the knuckles a bit and shred her left ovary. It’s time to go the final mile on this boxing bunny. I let go of her throat and go for series of devastating uppercuts to her big bruised tits. Each punch digs the tips in deep and yanks out bits of her soft, bouncy breasts. She’s pinned against the ropes, taking hit after hit, her once beautiful and seductive figure being chipped away one punch at a time. I maul her up until there’s only ragged bits of flesh and fat left of her tits.

She’s starting to look distraught, almost delirious from all the pain. Before she can hunch over and fall, I catch her by the neck and throw her back on the ropes. As she slinks back, she exposes her meaty lower abdomen. It’s an invitation I can’t refuse, so I rain down a flurry of blows upon her yet pristine belly and cunt. The merciless metal spikes adorning my knuckles make short work of her skin and shred her open. The next punches go right into her internals, making minced meat of her kidneys and guts. Though it is kind of impractical, I get down on my knees to give her pussy a painful uppercut – shredding off her clit, or whatever was left of it. She gives off a final, satisfying scream so I decide it’s probably time to finish Nadia, the punching bag slut.I yank her off the ropes and she falls like a bag of potatoes on the ring floor. Her entrails are all over, along with bits of organs, tits and blood. She’s barely breathing and staring emptily at me.

“Kill…me…!” she manages to gurgle through the blood in her mouth, grasping towards me with despair.

“Good job, Nadia. You’re going straight to cunt heaven.” I tell the butchered piece of meat that’s lying on the mat.

I take a step back, then, before she knows it – bits of her brain are staining my steel tipped shoe. The kick broke her neck, but also fractured her skull. After a thorough beating, it was the swiftest end she could have hoped for. I leave satisfied with my workout and happy that I got to contribute to charity.


The blonde(Nadia is made up name):
https://www.redgifs.com/watch/olivedrabscratchyrainbowtrout?rel=u%3Aover_doze%3Bo%3Arecent
https://www.redgifs.com/watch/insignificantillegalmuskox?rel=u%3Aover_doze%3Bo%3Arecent
https://www.redgifs.com/watch/lightsalmonpapayawhipflickertailsquirrel

Intro – Welcoming a new battery

‘Peace… Good thing it never lasts.’ Isiltoth thought to himself as he admired the gorgeous brown haired woman staring lustfully into his eyes, licking the top of his shaft. Her blue lingerie matched with her turquoise visage. Laid back in his imperially ornate chair, he pondered what should the girl’s fate be. ‘She’s stunning… like most who come here. She could be a spy, sent by that sly bastard Arowin. What an ugly fate would befell this gracious bird if that were the case. Aah, she’s astounding with her tongue – I might even keep her around.’

“So you’ve come here to be in my service, yes?” the deceptively young-looking wizard asks as he strokes the beautiful girl’s head.
She briefly pauses stroking with her hands and tongue, looks up and nods with a charming smile.

“Then you’ll have to accept my sigil – placed upon your body.” Isiltoth states coldly.

As he led her to the large bed with him, her worries faded and again she was overcome by lust – beckoning the handsome wizard to take her. Her two blue lingerie pieces barely covering her slim, petite frame – she laid down on the red silk bedsheets. Any mere mortal would be overcome by an urge to give way to their sexual desire – but although Isiltoth was aroused and hard, he knew this would be a terrible waste. Fucking her as she was would only dissipate all the sexual mana from his orgasm. Acting coolly, he spread the girl’s legs apart and pulled down her underwear to reveal her juicy sex. Subduing his urge to penetrate her right away, he placed both hands upon her uterus and muttered a chant.

“Anya. I bind thee to my service. Your body and mind I shall use as I see fit. Serve and live happily or betray and be torn into a million pieces.” He spoke as if possessed, his eyes shining with blue energy and exuding a powerful aura.
As he withdrew his hands from atop her sex, the contours of a tattoo appeared – artfully painting a over her uterus, going from her slit into a T over the ovaries. This sort of tattoo was not only an erotic marking of slaves, but a conduit for redirecting the sexual energies generated by orgasm into magicka gems.

Anya was scared, unsure of the wizard’s intentions after his ominous statement.

“Have no fear, you are now prepared.” Proclaimed Isiltoth, waving his hand over her face in a gentle caress. The green emerald on his ring turned a shade darker with this gesture as he cast a spell to turn her fear and anxiety into arousal.

Anya, bewitched, stared ghastly back at the tall blonde wizard with overflowing hair as he lowered himself over. She looked almost like a soulless husk, a beautiful doll with only lust brewing behind her visage. In truth, most women would look at Isiltoth much the same way – with begging eyes, sometimes so he pleased them, sometimes so he spared them. She gasped with anticipation as the tip of his hard cock probed her nether region.

“Aaaah. More. Please master Isiltoth! Please fill me with your magnificent cock! Please… Aah…” she moaned, almost coming at the first thrust.

Isiltoth obliged - going deeper with each successive thrust, until he was pounding little Anya’s cervix. Her tight young pussy gripped his shaft with almost unmatched vigor. ‘A shame she’s not better endowed in the bosoms…’ he thought as he pounded Anya’s cunt faster and faster until for each three heartbeats a thrust was given. ‘Tight and wet. So good. Aah.’

“MORE! AAH! MORE! EEAAAHH!” She moaned with pain and pleasure, tethering on the brink.

“Anya you dirty little slut… I’ll give you… I’ll give you more…” the mage panted and hummed an incantation, his ring growing darker still.

Within seconds, his member swelled to an unnatural girth, stretching Anya’s cunt as it filled her. He stopped just short of tearing her wide open then slammed his hand on her neck, speeding up the onslaught. As Anya’s cunt began twitching with orgasm, she also pushed the mage past the Rubicon.

Isiltoth felt the impending wave of pleasure crashing upon both of them – and focused on the ring. With each pulse of his cock, pumping Anya’s cunt full of his seed – the emerald on his ring shone brighter, absorbing the sex energy they expelled. A brief eternity slipped past them and once it passed, both were left tangled in a blissful embrace.

“Few come here of their own volition Anya…” the wizard remarked, seemingly lost in thought.

“Well, I… when I was… when I was little… My village was attacked. I was planting flowers with my mother, when we heard the horn… we were under attack. We hid inside the house as we heard men and women screaming. Those filthy savages… We didn’t get to board up the house and it was just the two of us when one of them… he… ” Anya spoke with pain in her voice, on the brink of tears.

“Don’t worry little one. You’ll be safe here… Is that why you’ve come?” Isiltoth prodded, giving her a comforting caress.

“Yes. My mother died that day… A lot of good people died that day… “ Anya recalled with sadness.

“And many more would have succumbed to those terrible savages, if we wouldn’t have had the staff you gave to my father. I’ll never forget how beautiful it unleashed bolts of lightning. I stood in awe at the power held within that tiny purple gem at the top of the staff. It saved our village. If only… if only our guards had weapons such as that, maybe… maybe my mother wouldn’t have died. “

“What village did you come from, Anya?”

“Xi. It’s a small village to the southeast. You probably never even heard of it…”

“You’d be surprised of the things I know and hear… It was struck among the first, being at the border of our Kingdom. Back then, 11 years ago, we didn’t have the means to defend our borders. We do now – and you can be a part of it – what do you say Anya, do you want to help prevent such attacks in the future?”

Her eyes glistened with joy. ‘I can actually do something about it!?’ she asked herself with incredulity at the chance presented. ‘

“Yes, show me how I can help! I don’t want anyone from our kingdom to be as defenseless as we were! How can I do such a thing?”

The naked wizard sprang out of bed, eager to begin a new day. “Come. I’ll show you.” He said, quickly donning his illustrious robe and extending his hand with a deceitful smile. Clad in only her modest lingerie that she had come with, she took the wizard’s hand and smiled back at him.

Over his unnaturally long life, he had learned that it’s better, more efficient not to coerce people with magic, but appeal to their desires to get them to do his bid. Sure, he could’ve magically controlled the mind of all his slaves – but it was simply not worth it, when a smile and some words could do. Girls like Anya were naïve – having lived not even a twentieth of his years. A noble cause that they help with, was an enticing bait.
Isiltoth’s residence didn’t stand out or draw too much attention from the outside – looking much like the other noble’s estates at the center of Saguntum, the kingdom’s capital. It had two floors and a basement. Modesty and presenting himself as an earnest citizen in service to the king helped to keep people’s potential envy at bay. His power and influence, he knew, rested on his image as much as it did on his magical prowess. Over his four centuries, he learned to keep his strings well away from the public eye. Regis, another powerful wizard and one of his teachers – learned that opulence serves no purpose only when he was hanged at the king’s behest, then gutted while dancing on the noose. Thus, the thing that stood out most about his estate, was the underground garden of delights that he had carefully crafted. Behind an inconspicuous door in his basement, was an entire pocket dimension.

When he opened that door, Anya couldn’t believe her eyes. It looked like an orchard in summer – trees with beautiful fruits, lush green fields of small grass and a beautiful, soothing and sweet smell. There were naked people all around – mostly women. Some of them were painting, some were reading, some were pleasuring themselves or another – but all stopped to acknowledge Isiltoth and the newcomer when they entered the garden. What struck Anya most, though, was that there was no ceiling – but sky above them, and in place of the sun, a large green crystal.

“Anya, welcome to Elysium – my private slice of Eden. Here you will live and help me with my research. You will find that all your needs are accommodated here.”
“But… I don’t understand… master Isiltoth… how?”

“It’s very simple. Every time you orgasm – the sexual energy you release gets sent through that tattoo I placed on you to the huge emerald in the sky. I use that to power all my experiments that require magical energy. As long as you pleasure others and yourself in here – you are helping me, Anya.”

“I see. And what if I get bored – will you come visit us, will I ever leave from here?”

For a few seconds, Isiltoth didn’t respond – admiring one of his favorite toys – Mila. She had been around for a while and was still a good battery, eagerly pleasing him and the other guests he brought to Elysium. He knew, though, that at some point all battery girls get exhausted and need to be recycled.

“You need not worry. Now let’s get you acquainted with the other battery girls…” he said, leading Anya inside.

<You have reached Hill's Culinary Enterprises! Press one for English. Marque dos para Espanol.>

"One"

<Thank you for being part of the Hill's Culinary family! Please listen carefully to our menu, and select which option best describes why you are calling us today.>

". . ."

<Press one to find a local store that carries our fine meat products.>

". . ."

<Press two if you want to arrange a bulk delivery.>

". . ."

<Press three if you are interested in purchasing equipment from our line of specialized culinary equipment, including our Kay-Kabob Premium Roasting Spit, the Jessica-3000 Full-Prep Solution, the Karyn-7000 stackable Roaster Oven, the Donna-3141 Outdoor Rotisserie, DIY Barbecue Pit Construction kits, and our fine line of knives, knife sharpeners and cookbooks.>

". . ."

<Press four to schedule a tour of your local Hill's Processing Center>

". . ."

<Press five if you are interested in Hill's Custom Roaster program, for preparing and processing a specific roast to your exacting specifications>

". . ."

<Press six to track a shipment.>

". . ."

<Press seven if there was a problem with your delivery.>

". . ."

<Thank you for shopping at Hill's! Would you like to listen to this menu again?>

"You've gotta be kidding me, after all that it's not there? Um, Seven then."

<I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Please repeat the option you wish to select>

"Seven."

<I'm sorry to hear there was a problem with your delivery. Please enter the delivery ID number.>

"HCT00356811142"

<Thank you. I've found your order. Two units of... The Jessica 3000 Full Prep Solution ...were successfully delivered on Monday November sixteenth. Did this solve your problem?>

"No!"

<Was anything in the order you received spoiled or rotten?>

"Uh, no."

<Did you mistakenly receive the wrong product?>

"No."

<Please succinctly state the problem with your order.>

"I've followed the instructions, but something's wrong. Both of the Jessica 3000 machines keep flashing PC LOAD GIRL! What does that even mean? I'm configuring it using the iPhone app, not a PC. I don't even have a PC here. We use Macs. Oh, and, I've definitely got both girls, one in each machine, loaded and strapped in as we speak. They're looking super anxious, though I have them partially distracted thanks to the edging feature. It probably doesn't help that my hands are messy from making the stuffing, so I'm making this call on speakerphone. Better for everyone to get this resolved fast, okay?"

<Okay. Something is wrong with your Jessica 3000. Is that correct?>

"Yes!"

<I'm sorry to hear that. Press one to arrange a pickup and replacement, which may take up to three weeks. Shipping charges may apply if the unit is not faulty. Press two for other options.>

"Two."

<Would you like to order replacement parts for your Jessica 3000?>

"No! I just need to speak with tech support!"

<Okay. You wish to order a replacement leg support. Is that correct?>

"No!"

<What replacement part do you wish to order?>

"None!"

<Alright. Press one to arrange a pickup and replacement, which may take up to three weeks. Shipping charges may apply if the unit is not faulty. Press two for other options.>

"AAAAAAAAAAGH! I need tech support!"

<I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Press one to arrange a pickup and replacement, which may take up to three weeks. Shipping charges may apply if the unit is not faulty. Press two for other options.>

"Help! Operator! I need to speak with a person!"

<I understand you wish to speak with one of our representatives. Please be advised there is a longer than usual wait-time today. Should I put you in the queue?>

"Yes! A person, yes! I... Goddammit, now I'm on hold. Of course."

". . ."

"So, instead of Elevator Music they're playing... Punk? Holy shit, is that 'You're gonna kill that girl' by the Ramones? Yep. I believe it is."

". . ."

"No, I don't care how many times you play that damn song, I'm beginning to think these ladies are going to still be very much alive tomorrow, unless someone over there picks up and tells me what the hell PC LOAD GIRL means! Goddammit!"

". . ."

<Thank you for holding and thank you for choosing Hill's Culinary Enterprises. All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. We are experiencing a longer than usual wait time today. Please be advised that all of our products, product instructions and supplementary recipes are available on our website at hillsgirlmeat dot com. >

". . ."

<Thank you for holding and thank you for choosing Hill's Culinary Enterprises. All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. We are experiencing a longer than usual wait time today. Please be advised that all of our products, product instructions and supplementary recipes are available on our website at hillsgirlmeat dot com. >


". . ."

<Thank you for holding and thank you for choosing Hill's Culinary Enterprises. All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. We are experiencing a longer than usual wait time today. Please be advised that all of our products, product instructions and supplementary recipes are available on our website at hillsgirlmeat dot com. >

". . ."

<Thank you for holding and thank you for choosing Hill's Culinary Enterprises. All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. We are experiencing a longer than usual wait time today. Please be advised that all of our products, product instructions and supplementary recipes are available on our website at hillsgirlmeat dot com. >

". . ."

<Thank you for holding and thank you for choosing Hill's Culinary Enterprises. All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. We are experiencing a longer than usual wait time today. Please be advised that all of our products, product instructions and supplementary recipes are available on our website at hillsgirlmeat dot com. >

". . ."

<Hello, and thank you for... Hi, thank you for choosing Hill's! My name is Emma. How can I help you today, sir?[/i]

"Yes! Hi! I have two brand new Jessica 3000 units, but they aren't working. The instructions say that the machine should say 'READY FOR IMPALEMENT' in green letters before I can proceed with my roasts but I keep getting an error message. It says PC LOAD GIRL all in red capital letters on the side of the machine, and in my iPhone control app. That error message isn't referenced anywhere in the instruction manual! And yes, I read the whole thing."

"Yes, I can see how that would be frustrating. I'm happy to help you troubleshoot the problem. Are you with the units now?"

"Thank you, that would be perfect. They're right here."

"Wonderful. Now, first, can you check that they're both plugged in for me?"

"Of course they're plugged in! Otherwise the screens on the side of the machine wouldn't be lit up and displaying error messages, now would they?"

"Of course sir, but we still need to sure of these things. Next, could you please look at the lower right corner of each unit and check that the power switch has been turned on. It should be glowing green to indicate the unit is powered up, otherwise it will be dark."

"I just told you, the machines are on! The screens are very much powered up and telling me to PC LOAD GIRL!"

"I understand sir, but you'd be surprised how often the problem is these simple issues. Next, please bring up your Hill's Culinary Portal application on your phone. We need to confirm that the application can connect to your Jessica 3000 units. Please check the 'Available devices' list by first clicking on the hamburger menu and then 'Available devices.' You should see two 'Jessica 3000' entries, 'Jessica 3000 A' and 'Jessica 3000 B', each with a green dot next to it."

"Okay, Listen. Um, Emma was it?"

"Yes, sir, I'm Emma."

"Listen, Emma. I've had... a day. Even though I'm new, I'm the only guy in my company's HR department. So, thanks to my penis, my boss explained to me that I get to pick and prep the roasters for our company's annual Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, and naturally I can't pick her or any of the other girls in HR, as that would evidently be a, quote, conflict of interest, unquote. Fuck my life. Anyway, I'm the new guy, I get the shit job. That's how it goes. Now, I figured, hey, the company dinner is the Tuesday before the holiday, if I need to call tech support no problem, it's not an actual holiday. But I've been on hold for over two hours!"

"We always get busy around the holidays. Sorry, sir, not much we can do about it."

"Right, fine, I get it. Anyway, I never used a tranq gun before today, but my morning was spent knocking out, restraining, and then conducting exit interviews with Kayleigh Park and Bethany Seers. Their performance was slipping a bit this year. Well, to be honest Bethany is a real fuckup though Kayleigh has been putting in some real effort. Doesn't really matter though, since she meets the physical specs our CEO is looking for in this year's roasts. So, yeah, you heard that right, our company policy requires we do exit interviews when we choose our holiday meat girls. You can imagine what that's like. I mentioned handling the Holiday meal prep was a shit job, right?"

"Yes sir, you did."

"Do you realize my company keeps transcripts of all exit interviews we do? Standard practice. I would ask a perfectly reasonable, standard exit interview question, like, 'Do you feel your supervisor gave you adequate support in your role?' But, instead of an actual answer, she'd be begging me to fuck her before she gets spitted, offering to suck my dick if I'd let her have one last orgasm, offering to suck my dick anyway because in spite of all the dildos she owns she's technically a virgin and never even seen a real dick before and wants to touch one before she dies... you get the idea. And it's all recorded in some file we're keeping around, basically forever. Like, at one point do I count the crying and begging ans whining as an answer and move on to the next question? There's a whole list I have to get through. And they're both like this!"

"Here at Hill's, all of our customer service representatives spend a week using the equipment ourselves, so I have experience with how roasters typically behave when they learn they're going on the spit. What you're describing is typical. If I may ask, did you look up the transcripts your company keeps on last year's roasters, since you said this was an annual event? How did the HR. representative who handled things last year deal with the issue?"

"Oh, hey! That's a good point. I didn't think of that. We must have the transcripts from last year too. I should check that. So, anyway, I managed to get through the exit interviews without giving into their incessant whining for my cock, and things started looking up."

"I'm very glad to hear that, sir. As tempting as it is to give in to the roasters demands, most chefs, especially men, find it far more difficult to continue with the necessary meal prep after an orgasm. We recommend that the chef should abstain until after the roast is over the flame. And, of course, it's important to prevent a roaster's orgasm, to maximize flavor. The higher the arousal level of a roaster, the better the flavor. Arousal tends to peak immediately prior to orgasm, and then drop off significantly."

"Yeah, I know. It's on page one of both your instruction manual and your complimentary cookbook. Everyone knows that."

"Yes, sir, but not everyone resists the temptation, even if they know they should. Good job."

"Right. So. I got Kayleigh and Bethany stripped, gave them their enemas, and the stuffing came out perfectly. It turned out to be just the right amount to fill their pussies. Perfect! But! Then I buckled them into your Jessica 3000. I made sure the spit was lined up properly, with one inch inserted into the vagina, keeping the stuffing in, and the anal stabilizer in their ass. Everything was looking great. Oh, and I flipped on the auto-edger, which I understand is new in the latest model. At least that seems to work. I set it to run for five cycles, five edges, bringing them close to orgasm and then stopping to get them worked up and maximize flavor. So, finally, I press the 'Finalize' button in the app, I check the screen, expecting to see READY FOR IMPALEMENT, but instead, I see PC LOAD GIRL all in red! The girls are right there! They're stuffed! They're edged! They're ready to get roasted! Oh, and we're on speaker phone, so they're listening to this conversation, or well, as much as they can given that the edger is still going. I'm pretty sure that many edges over two hours is driving them literally insane. Bethany's on cycle 44 and Kayleigh's on cycle 47, by the way. Good thing I gagged them before I made the call or we'd barely be able to talk over all the noise. I get to watch their bodies clench and their eyes totally bug out each time a cycle ends and they get left on the edge. I'm waiting! They're waiting. We're all waiting! So can you please, please, please, please help me how to deal with this instead of testing over and over whether the goddamn machines are on and connected?"

"I'm sorry sir. That does sound like you've had a very difficult day. It was my understanding that you wanted help troubleshooting your device. It sounds like you'd prefer to skip troubleshooting, and instead, or at least first, learn more about this PC LOAD GIRL error. Is that right?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright, no problem. Let me look up that error message."

". . ."

"Yes, here we go. Preparation Cartridge Errors. This should be on page 162 of your instruction manual, by the way."

"Preparation Cartridge? PC means Preparation Cartridge? How was I supposed to know that?"

"If you refer to the labeled diagrams on pages seven through fifteen of your instruction manual, you will see that it's the only part of the Jessica 3000 that can be abbreviated as PC."

"Um, There are hundreds of parts listed there."

"Yes, sir."

"Really? Really? Okay. Fine. So. PC LOAD GIRL?"

"Yes, of course sir. As explained on page 162, The Preparation Cartridge or PC is responsible for supplying lubricant, which it automatically sprays on both the spit and the anal stabilizer before the Jessica 3000 can begin the impalement and roasting process. Our recommended lubricant is our proprietary Grease and Inflammatory Rending Lubricant or G.I.R.L."

"Wait, wait, wait. So the error doesn't mean a girl, as in a roaster, but your own special type of... lube? What the hell, how does that make any sense? Why not just say lube or lubricant instead of GIRL? Also,I remember reading about this in the instruction manual. It says the GIRL lubricant is optional. Why am I getting an error if it's optional?"

"The use of GIRL, our proprietary lubricant, is optional. However, the use of lubricant is required in order for the Jessica 3000 to impale your roasts smoothly."

"Goddammit. What are my options?"

"Traditionally spits have been lubricated with olive or vegetable oil."

"You're telling me... all I need to do is add olive oil? I checked the price of this GIRL stuff on your site, it's, like, ten times the price of olive oil, and I mean the good stuff from Italy. See, along with the authorization to buy the new Jessica 3000 machines and the required specs for this year's roasters, the CEO, himself, added a note to avoid the GIRL lubricant up-sell. He said it's a rip-off. He's originally from India, and he's pretty much the cheapest bastard on the planet. And, no he wouldn't mind if he heard me say that, that's what he calls himself. He thinks thriftiness is the greatest virtue there is, that saving money is how he built his successful business, and that most Americans are crazy, spendthrift chumps. So, tell me, how exactly is this GIRL crap not a rip-off?"

"Well, sir, as you probably know optimal flavor comes not merely from high arousal levels prior to spitting. The desired flavor is produced by the way the body of the roasters react when extreme arousal shifts to extreme pain. We maximize flavor by maximizing both arousal prior to impalement, and the pain experienced by the roaster when the spit goes in. Our GIRL product is specially formulated to further inflame and stimulate the nervous system during the spitting process to maximize the pain response of the roasters. At the same time, the inflammatory agent breaks down quickly in response to moderate heat, so as to not flavor the meat or upset the stomachs of your guests. You could add something like habanero chili peppers to the oil to produce the same painful, inflammatory response, but this will result in an extremely spicy roast, which is not typically desired."

"Um. Did I mention our CEO is from India?"

"Yes, sir, I believe you did."

"Forget habaneros. According to our fearless leader, those are for weaklings. I have a whole jar of Bhut Jolokia here. Ghost peppers. One million Scovilles a pop, to a habaneros measly three hundred thousand. I'll grind a couple up and add them to the olive oil."

"That should be fine, yes."

"Can you stay on the line while I try this? I don't want to have to wait another two hours."

"Certainly. I'm here."

"Thanks.

". . ."

Bang. Bang. Bang. Plonk. Bhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Clink, Clink. Glurg-Sllllsh. Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh.

". . ."

"Alright, there's the Bhut Jolokia ground up in a blender and added to the oil. I'm going to put it in the Preparation Cartridge now."

[i]". . ."

Clink. Eeh-Eeh-Eeh,Plonk. Slshhhhhhhhh. Plonk. Eeh-Eeh-Eeh-Eeeeh. Eeh-Eeh-Eeh-Eh,Plonk. Slshhhhhhhhh. Plonk. Eeh-Eeh-Eh-Eh-Eeeeh.

". . ."

"Okay, I unscrewed the cap in the Preparation Cartridge on both machines, poured the oil and screwed the caps back on. Now-- Oh, hey, it's spritzing the spit and, yeah there goes the other one too... but it's only spritzing the bottom half, away from the girls? Oh, right, right, we don't want the ghost pepper stuff to hit their bodies while they're still in edging mode, right?"

"That's right, the moment of transition is key. What do the screens say now?"

"READY FOR IMPALEMENT! Yes! That did it. Oh, and, there are two options IMPALE IMMEDIATELY or IMPALE ON EDGING CYCLE COMPLETION."

"I know you are in a hurry, and may be behind schedule, but I strongly recommend you select the IMPALE ON EDGING CYCLE COMPLETION option. This ensures the spitting process will commence at the end of an edging cycle, when the roaster is at peak arousal."

"Yeah, I figured. Stay on the line though?"

"I'd be happy to, sir."

"Thanks. But, I should warn you I have to take their gags off now, since the spit's supposed going to come out through their mouths, right? So, it may get a little loud."

"No problem. As I mentioned I worked on the butchery floor as part of my training. It's nothing I haven't heard before."

"Awesome. Here we go."

". . ."

Cli-Click. Sh-Sh. "Ah-Ah-Ah-Oh my fucking shit let me come! I need to come, let me come, oh my god! Just once before... Ah, Oh..." Cli-Click. Sh-Sh-Sh "Oh, Fucking Christ, you bastard I'm going to- Fuck! Ah, Oh god! Fuck me! Fucking Fuck! Oh- Oh- You see me, can't I please see yours? I get to go out done by a guy but you won't! Fuck! Fuck me! Please? Just. Oh fuck. Fuck. Oh. Just drop your pants, let me kiss a real one just once. Please? Oh, oh, yeah! Oh,shit shit shit. Seventy of us for every... Aaaah. For just one dude. Ohhhhh. Shit, I'm close,oh, god. Come over... oh Oh, Ahh, on, oh god. Just once, just once before, oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck me, please, please oh god! Ah! Oh my god I'm close, I'm going to, I'm going to, please for the love of... " GRRRR SHPLORTSHHH "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

". . ."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHEEEEHHHGAHHHAHHuhhhohaghhurghh.... That was Bethany by the way. Kayleigh's edging cycle's still going."

"Yes, sir, I'll wait."

"Oh! Oh! " glurble glurg glurg "Aaah, ah god, oh! Shit. Oh god, Bethany. Fuck. Oh, Oh, oh, yes. For, for fuck's sake. Fuck. Oh my fucking.. " RRR-SQUIRPLELLLEEH--SSHH gurgle gurgle. "Please I'm so close. Like she said, just once, just once, just to, oh god Ah Ah. Oh no, no, no NO! Fuck! NO! OH MY FUCKING " GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR SHPLORTSSSSHHHH "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaohghbhle.." GLURG GLURRG SPPPSSSHHH-HUURGHurbleurble SHhhh gurgle gurgle"

". . ."

"Ok, spits are in. They're still twitching. Ah, yeah I see the x-ray readout shows the spit found it's way cleanly past their hearts and lungs and cleanly up the throats. So, they should be half roasted before they give out. Thank god the spit alignment systems worked, at least there's that. So, they should be half roasted before they give out. Perfect. And, yep, the grill on each unit, under the spit just fired up, roasters are being automatically raised into position and... these two are both officially roasting now. Fucking finally!"

"Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir? Please let me know if there's any way at all that I can help you further."

"No, I think... I think we're done here."

"Wonderful, sir. In just a few moments you'll be getting a customer satisfaction survey in your email inbox. As outlined at the bottom of the survey, we take customer service very seriously. I'm required to explain to you that if you believe that I haven't provided you with exceptional service today, there's a simple way to make sure neither you or anyone else will receive such poor service again. All customer service agents here at Hill's may be ordered either live or precooked to your home as part of our Custom Roaster Program. Just press five on the main menu, and enter my employee ID number, which is #1544. That's one-five-four-four. This information will also be included in the email you receive, along with my picture and vital statistics. Do you have any further questions?"

"Oh, wow, really? I can have you roasted?"

"Yes, sir. But, may I ask, was there a problem with your service call today, other than the wait time? Should you choose not to order me as a custom roaster, I would like to know if there is a problem so I can better serve other customers."

"You wasted my time checking if the machine was plugged in and turned on and connected to the control app, when it obviously was! You could have simply told me what PC LOAD GIRL meant! What the hell?"

"Sir, I'm required by my supervisor to follow a script if you request technical support, and if I fail to follow it I'll get transferred to... another department. Okay? Technically I deviated from the script by reclassifying the call from a tech support call to an information request, anyway. However, you seem happy with hearing more about the PC LOAD GIRL error message, and the customer is always right! I was also really pleased that you liked my suggestion to check the transcripts of previous exit interviews with roasters, to learn how best to deal with that situation in the future."

"I see. And your number is... One-five-four-four. Yes?"

"Y-Y-Yes, Sir. It... It's One-five-four-four."

"Oh, hey, if I order you pre-roasted do they prep the machines with that extra-painful GIRL stuff?"

"Um. Yes,sir. Twenty five cycles of edging is standard."

"And that's One-five-four-four? One five-four-four. Ah, never mind, here it is in my email. Let's see, vital stats: five-seven, a hundred-thirty pounds, 39-25-34, D-cups, and, oh, prime rated to boot? Awesome. My girlfriend's been bugging me to order some high-end meat for the holidays, she'll love this."

Click.