Category: Mature


Requiem


I

The receptionist tries a little chitchat with the stranger.
“So how long you gonna be town for, Mr. L?” she asks, smiling shyly at him.
“Just for the night, my pretty lady” he answers, smiling. “A show…of some sort.”
She blushes, fluttering her curled, auburn lashes. “Oh great!” she enthuses. “You part of the new performing act in town? We hardly have any shows here!”
He smiles warmly, cupping her cheek suddenly, planting a soft kiss on a lovely cheek.
“Oh you’d see tonight. And I hope you my pretty lady, would participate!”
She simpers, muffling her giggle with dainty hands, her eyes watching his lithe form leave to his room with interest.

II

Her doorbell rings insistently, waking her up from fitful sleep. Cursing, she opens bleary eyes and stares at the digital clock, glowing green.
3.30am.
“What the…”
She groans, flopping back on the bed. Her eyes slowly close when the doorbell rings again, longer this time, as if whoever is at the door is leaning on the  buzzer.
She jumps up, kicking at her duvet angrily.
It has to be her sister. The good for nothing wastrel who does nothing but party every night since she came to stay at hers. She has probably forgotten her key.
She grumbles all the way downstairs, switching on the light and with sleepy-eyed fury, draws the bolt off and yanks the door open.
“You better have a fucki…”
She stops.
There is no one at the door.
Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion, eyes still glazed with sleep.
“For fuck’s sake!”
She slams the door shut and cursing under her breath, she walks back up the stairs.
The bulb suddenly flickers, and as if snuffed, goes off, plunging her into darkness.
“Oh come on!” she groans, adding expletives for good measures when she blindly stubs a toe. Gingerly, she traces her way up the dark stairs, holding onto the handrails as guide.
When her feet get to the top, she suddenly feels cold hands grip her ankles.
Incomprehension shocks her to silence for seconds.
At the first pull, she regains her voice.
And screams.
She screams as she is dragged her down the stairs.
She screams as she falls, her head hitting every step like a bouncing ball before unconsciousness takes her out.
The light flickers on seconds later.
A trail of blood is smeared down the stairs.

III 

He stands bleary-eyed, holding on to his flaccid penis as he releases his waters of mankind as he tends to call it.
‘More beer than water’ he muses to himself.
Friday night, time to get wasted.
Inebriated by the alcohol, he is barely moved by the stink of the urinal.
As he is about to give himself a firm shake before zipping up, the light of the stall goes off and he curses, words slurred.
Suddenly, he feels cold, clammy hands prise his hand away from him member and grab his balls.
He squeaks in fright, the pain at being violated momentarily rendering him sober.
A scream of terror tears itself out of his throat as the strong, unyielding hand drag him, as if trying to force his body into the small toilet, slamming his head repeatedly on porcelain till they lose their virgin whiteness, crimson red with blood.
His body slides down to the urine stained floor.
The lights come back on.
A man walks in and opens a stall.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”

IV

She squats unceremoniously on the toilet seat and lets out a string of piss.
Her headphone blasts music into her ears and she bobs her head, feet tapping tot he beat.
Suddenly, she feels something cold and long slither into her vagina, forcing its way in.
Her eyes widen as she tries to stand.
She is pulled back to the seat.
She screams as she continues to sink further into the toilet bowl, eyes shiny with tears and unbelief.
She screams in pain when she feels her inside being dragged out.
As if pushed away by an invisible force, she falls, kneeling, her head smacking the tile floor.
Drops of blood streak down the toilet bowl, on the floor.
The light illuminates the drops of blood drops making crisscross skid marks down her pale thighs, her womb still pulsing warmly between her legs.
Her headphones continue blasting their music, unaware.

V

Jeremy is shoved out of bed and dragged into the kitchen.
A meat cleaver is forcefully thrust his hands.
He screams, hoping to wake someone up as invisible hand drag him up the stairs.
He realises what is about to happen seconds too late.
He plunges the cleaver repeatedly into his big brother’s chest and throat.
His prepubescent voice, hoarse, continues to scream, unable to stop.

VI

You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.

 

VII

Mr. L’s lips are stretched at the edges into a smile, naked on his bed in his motel room, his thick , long member, black as night and visibly throbbing, contrasting with the pale hue that is the rest of his body. He fiddles with the chain on his neck, eyes closed as his body trembles slightly.

“Scream my little ones” he murmurs throatily, licking his dry lips. “Scream!”
He groans, cocking his head to the side, as if listening to the finest aria from an orchestra, a deep hum rumbling in his chest, building.
His hair crackles with electricity, standing at their ends.
The bed shakes as his body increases its vibrating intensity.
“Scream!” he murmurs louder, almost orgasmic.
He throws his head back and bares his teeth at the ceiling, hands squeezing his chain tight, body frozen.
As the music in his head builds up to a crescendo, he ejaculates.
His semen, black like stale blood runs down his thighs and he sighs, the look of serenity creeping into his face, opening dark eyes tinged red.
He belches, sulphurous smoke escaping from his nostrils.
“Wonderful!”
He laughs, teeth gleaming. “Wonderful! It’s been a wonderful show, Ladies and Gentlemen!”

 

VIII

An old truck coughs up smoke as it struggles to fire up its engine early in the morning.
After a few tries, the truck roars dully to life.
Whistling, a stranger pulls out of the parking lot of a motel, whistling under his breath.
He waves out of the car to no one in particular as he gets on the road.
“Where shall we perform next, Ladies and Gentlemen?” he murmurs.

IX

He turns to you and smiles knowingly.
He winks.

 

X

You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.

 

——————————————————————————-

When I wrote this at first, I had no idea who the man was but when I finished, I realised it could be no other than Mr. L.
Always wanted bring in a character from an old story into a different one.
Ah, if you have no idea who Mr L is, phantompages.wordpress.com/2012/06/01/ldiablo/‎ 

Ah yes, before I leave.
Phantompages is going to be 2 on Sunday! Yaay!
Umm… no idea about what I’d do YET but hey, keep your eyes peeled.
Oh and subscribe if you haven’t.

What else?
Have a lovely weekend!
Jana!

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Alice


Captaining today’s ship would be Dionysus.
Good luck.
You’d need it.

ALICE

Do you ever feel like a part of you is missing? A second part that seems to hold more power, more control, more grace, more drive?
It’s like you are the passive part and this other part is the Active one…
Alice felt this way all her life. Scientific folks would have called it a trauma caused by her mother’s death in a car accident when her car was smashed by a speeding truck. The driver was not drunk or inebriated in any way.
Spiritual folks would call it an affliction, like some wrong doing must have led to this.
Nihilistic folks would rationalise it as one of those random inexplicable acts just like the daily lives of humanity.
Alice lost her dark essence at a very young age. Molested by her father, she always knew she felt pain but she couldn’t understand why. Slowly, she developed a subconscious belief that life is pain; I deserve to be hurt especially by loved ones.
She felt like if she did something to assert her presence to reality, she would be an interference to the superior humans in front of her. She repressed her dark side until she completely lost it, a slave to the nice girl role.
Alice was always the polite one and the more polite she was, the more the seniors hated her, the more her classmates made fun of her, the more she withdrew into herself
Always consumed by her tragic past, she became distracted from reality most of the time, never able to pay attention to the mundane things her fellow humans talked about. She started to grow a certain disdain for them so as to keep them away from her, lost in dreaming of her past pain.
The feeling that there was no one she could confide me in consumed her. She started to listen to the voices inside of her head and she became addicted to the sotto voco of her inner voice. The voices kept telling her the same things till she became prisoner to them. Like a junkie, she was addicted to hearing them speak and she wanted more.
Alice started to unravel taboos in her mind; she decided she needed something more stimulating to arouse her.
The darkness slowly spewed into her soul.
She finally accepted that she could never leave her painful past behind because her past was what defined who she was. She also accepted that anyone who obstructed her thoughts was her mortal enemy. She subconsciously put them in the ‘Sheep’ category in her mind, never willing or able to pay attention to anything that comes out of their mouth.
Alice used to be picked on in school until she wore her oddity on her sleeve. She used to be the kid everyone made fun of and now she was the kid everyone feared. She knew she’d never be ‘one of the guys’ no matter how hard she tried and all it took was for her to stop trying. Alice always needed her ‘thought fix’ and she used it to deflect any other thoughts that didn’t come from her own head. She felt as if the shallow minds around her harmed her own thoughts.
The darkness had risen and she had more understanding of things as they really were. She mentally played back her childhood days and how her father fondled and used her. She made the thoughts darker in her mind and she saw her small self sucking her father’s penis after which he came semen and blood on her face. She also played in her mind, him fucking her young self doggy style, ripping her hymen apart and sliding in and out with his huge cock and blood dripping from her vagina. She had learned this trick. She always exaggerated everything that happened in her mind. She had stopped running away from painful memories and started trying to see how much pain the memory could actually inflict on her.
Alice also played back the memory of her dead mother. She imagined the truck ramming into her car with tiny shards of glass piercing into her flesh after which the truck climbed on top of the car and crushed her to death. She also imagined the sympathizers to be big black men and they pulled her out the car, ripped her bloody clothes off and gang-raped her lifeless corpse.
Alice mind was consumed by one single thought and that was paying back her father. She had planned so many scenarios in her mind and one day, she finally took action. As her father came home, she stood behind the door and slammed the back of his head with a baseball bat. He was knocked unconscious.
When he woke up, he was bound in a room with no clothes on. He also saw his teenage daughter standing in front of him. She had a little pubic hair and her mammary glands were not very developed
“You like what you see daddy”
A rope with thorns was tied to his penis and if he were aroused, it would pierce into his dick and cause him to bleed.
Alice started rubbing her breasts, smiling coyly and unable to help himself, her father started getting hard. He screamed as the thorns pierced through the shaft of his penis. Alice licked her two fingers and stuck it into herself, moaning like a pornographic actress sehad studied weeks ago.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgghhhhhhh!!!
He was erect and bleeding profusely. She knelt before him and began sucking the blood that dripped. He got harder as she kept sucking it, lips slathered with blood and saliva.
“You like that daddy”
Alice then turned her back and took her father into her, the thorns still wrapped around his member. They both screamed in agony and pleasure as the thorns gripped her father’s penis tighter and ripped apart the insides of her vagina.
When she was done, she put them out of their misery.
By the time neighbours came around, they saw Alice and her dad lying dead in a pool of congealed blood.
The life is gone, another one begins to be ended in due time…
The cycle continues…
————————————————
I warned you. LOL
Hope you have a great weekend!
See you on Monday!

Te Amo


So it’s the 14th of February. Yada Yada.
Everyone seems to be writing bloody love letters! Lol.
Well, this isn’t a letter but decided to try out a short love story for you love junkies.

————————————————————————————————–

TE AMO

“I…I…”
“Shh…” He held her tight in his arms, burying his face in her hair and stroking her arm. “Say no more baby. I understand” he whispered into her ear softly, a small, sad smile on his lips.
She shook her head slowly, tears streaming down her face, dampening his singlet clad shoulder.
“I forgive you Ibukun” he murmured, kissing her ear to her neck and up to her forehead. “I forgive you because I love you. It hurt but baby,I cannot go on without you.” His voice cracked and her hands shaking, gripped his arm tight.
She choked on her sob, shaking, trying to get a word out of trembling lips but he held a finger against her lips, silencing her.
“Let’s forget it all. Don’t explain. You cheated but I want us to make peace ok?”
He kissed her softly, tasting salty tears on her lips. He licked them. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
He stroked her hair again and suddenly pushed her on the bed roughly.
He smiled serenely at her jerking body; smiled as she cried, foaming at the mouth, the poison she had ingested making a short work of her system.
Her kohl-lined eyes rolled back and her nails dug into the sheets as her limbs thrashed on the bed.
He studied the transformation on his wife’s face with absolute fascination, arms folded.
He sat beside her and stroke her tangled weave as she tried to moan through the pain. “We’ll get through this”
Slowly, her thrashing reduced, her limbs losing energy to continue that frantic movements.
He stroked her hair as he watched her seize movement.
He watched her die.

His smile broadened and he arranged her neatly on the bed, taking time to divest her of her clothing. Satisfied with his work, he jumped off the bed and rummaged through his drawer till he found what he was looking for. Dropping the found item on the bed, he unbuckled his trousers, pulling them down and off. He threw his singlet off his slim frame.
He climbed back in bed and with reverence, mounted his wife of three months.
Marital consummation.
The word floated in his head and he barked in laughter as he exercised his rights.
“We’ll make a baby. The baby you always wanted, we’d make one. Maybe a girl that looks like you…”
He talked to her, stroking her face, feeling her body stiffen beneath him.
He rode her relentlessly.
“We’d be happy together. All of us. They’d grow up to be doctors and lawyers”
His breath hitched as he was about to release his seed.
“You’ll love me! You’ll love me because I love you! My love is big enough!”
He squeezed her tight as his body spasmed, ejaculating into her.

A beautific smile on his face and he laid beside her, suddenly exhausted.
He exhaled deeply, hands tapping blindly till he felt the object he had dropped on the bed earlier. His fingers found the cold butt of the pistol and he smiled as he lifted it up.
He held her hand and dropped a tiny kiss on her palm.
“I love you…”
He raised the barrel to his head, feeling slight shivers run down his spine when the cold steel met his skin.
“I love you…”

He pulled the trigger.

Pandora’s Box


Dionysus is back!
You know what that means.
Hehehe…

—————-

He would sit up from the bed where he lay, watching the clock tick; each monotone like a hammer driving nails into every brain cell, puncturing it, pouring out the slithering juice of static into his nervous sytem.
One second felt like hours.
One hour felt like a day.
One day felt like a century.
This hadn’t been a feeling strange to him. Back then, he could get by just watching porn. The moans of the actresses seemed the only thing that could distract him for a short while. When the blood left his head and flowed south to his cock, he felt liberated from the voices forever tormenting him inside his head.

These voices never shut up.
They feel the need to analyse everything.
He found that the only time he could numb these voices was when he was doing something taboo. Something so stimulating and so wrong that it aroused dormant animalistic parts of the brain normally repressed by everyday life; repressed by society, religion & convention.
Those parts that are involved in the raw carnal expression of the human soul.
He found that it was only when he was high that he could actually control his thoughts and channel them to a particular direction. Sober, his thoughts were sporadic like the waves of the caspian sea but on drugs, they came out like water pouring from a tap.

Jeremy never liked what everybody liked. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was born sick, born with what the doctors called Asthma. This had caused him to spend most of his childhood in the hospital.
This, coupled with the tauntings of his siblings, making fun of him while he was sick and gasping for breath, made him develop a subconscious disdain for humanity at an early age.
The wickedness; the cruelty.
He saw this done to a child born blind, forced to live the rest of his days forever being less than his peers.
He saw this done to an innocent child born with HIV from his parents and dying at the age of 6.
He saw this done to someone born with a handicap and everyone pretending like they didn’t see the shriveled atrophied limbs, always keeping a grotesque plastic smile on their faces.
Even the way able-bodied people treated others like themselves.
Kill or be killed; take or be taken from…
All this made him loathe humanity and he swore he would never end up like them. He promised himself that he would do whatever it took to not end up like humanity.
He wanted to overcome humanity. To become larger than it.
To become better, more grandiose than it.
“Insecurity isn’t mine to feel. Fear isn’t mine to feel. I would do whatever it takes to not feel it. I will take whatever it takes to not feel it”.
This was Jeremys motto.
This is the secret code of anyone who ever created anything in this world.
They distance themselves from their peers, think in solitude and do something about their thoughts. Success is a lonely path filled with lots of distractions usually labelled as ‘friends’.
Jeremy decided to create a blog at the age of 13.
He called it Pandora’s Box, the title based on the myth. Whoever opened the ‘box’ would have seen something so maniacal and sinister that their minds would forever be scarred – they wouldn’t be able to return to how they were hitherto before they opened it.
He kept posting the most diabolical, evil content he could find on the web on that blog.
He also nested his writing ability with the blog, giving some pictures captions, writing short stories, uploading evil documentaries like the Columbine shootings, Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and clips from horror movies as well as previews.
Five years later, his blog was getting so much attention with 105,932 hits, averaging 400 hits per day. The likes of Stephen king, Wes Craven, John Carpenter visited his blog. He got a deal from one of them and they used his story to make a blockbuster horror movie called Phantasmagoria. It stayed number 1 at the box office for about a month, something no present day horror movie can do. With this, the attention his blog was getting skyrocketed to about 20,000 hits per day. Also, with the money Jeremy got for the storyline of Phantasmagoria and the royalty paid to him, he became rich.

I said earlier that Jeremy never liked what everybody liked. He bought a 16th Century Gothic mansion, a Ferrari and got himself sexy female workers, hiring them basically for their looks not for their qualifications.
Right from the security team to the drivers, to the maids where girls dressed in sexy costumes to fill the role.
It all looked like a scene from a pornographic or a raunchy techno video.

His obsession with the occult grew as more people visited his blog. He had to keep the content interesting. He had to keep it new and if he wanted to do that, he had to delve deeper into the occult. He soon started organising costumed orgies in his mansion. Everyone gathered around in a room he called the ‘Sin Chamber’.
They all wore  masks.
The purple cape was optional, their genitalia exposed. What he did was burn a large dose of the hemp plant, letting it pass through the air supply as the orgy went on. This heightened their senses and lowered their inhibitions making them fuck like rabbits, groping, moaning like hungry wolves. He read somewhere that a room filled with sexual activity stored that energy and that room was a perfect medium to perform black magic.
Whether all this was fact or fiction, Jeremy had a strong belief in the occult so all this stuff was real to him. He performed certain rituals in the room when no one was around. He needed only his female staff to stand around him nude in the room as the ritual needed him to have an erection.
This was an agreement on their contract.
They were told they would be paid extra for ‘extracurricular activities’ if they ticked a certain box. Many of them ticked the box.
He claimed that these rituals gave him enlightenment. Enabled him to see beyond the normal scope. Whether it was true or not, nobody knows. He posted the orgies on his blog and still got more hits. People could only access the videos of the orgy if they were registered as premium users on his blog thus, generating even more income.
He was voted FreaKY Magazine Scariest Man Alive.
He now donned a mysterious look like the pope with a black/purple robe.
His obsession with the occult still grew deeper and that was when he took a trip to Mexico.
Like a junkie, even though he believed his room filled with the nectar and the aura of sexual activity gave him power, he still wanted more. A shaman sold to him a very powerful potent psychedelic plant. He burned it at the next orgy.

As the plant was burned, the usual wanton sex and the low moans had already begun although, something about the mood seemed darker. As the fumes permeated the air, the people started getting more violent and instead of moans, they were laughing so hard with tears rolling down their cheeks.
The men started thrusting harder, the women started scratching. As more smoke filled the room, wails were heard as punches started occuring; biting, kicking. They were rutting violently, tearing flesh off each others’ skins.
The drug leached their brains and one by one, they began to die of blood loss.
The ones that were still alive placed their index and middle fingers right through their eyeballs before banging their head repeatedly on the floor till they bled to death.
The whole room was covered in blood and dead bodies.
His next ritual was that he lay with dead bodies for 7 days straight, no food, no water. By the fourth day, the bodies started to stink real bad but that was of course, part of the ritual.
It was said that if he inhaled the stench of their rotten corpses, he would absorb part of their souls, ‘mana’ they called it. The whole ritual was to give him extra powers, clairvoyance, spiritual knowledge etc. The massacre also went on tape but it wasn’t put on his blog. It was sold to a very rich collector in Yugoslavia for a very high price. Nobody knew whether the rituals were working or it was just Jeremies strong belief in them but by then, Jeremy looked very sinister, like the Devil himself.
He had dark circles surrounding his eyes, a skin head and a thick beard like a knife. His voice sounded like a frog when he spoke, Very slowly and with every word and every syllable enunciated properly. He always looked people straight in the eye and seldom blinked, seldom moved his head but only moved his lips as he spoke. This was to put whoever was speaking to him in a sort of hypnotic trance. Who would have thought a sick asthmatic nervous child could go this far? People who made fun of him in the past were now scared shitless of him as well as in awe and admiration of him. This wasn’t enough though. His hatred of mankind made him want to destroy it.

The final ritual was that he sacrifice his phallus for godhood. If he did this, the ritual claimed he would be able to move through time, alter people’s perception with just his stare, cause a mass genocide with a snap of his finger and be impervious to any form of attack. He decided to cut his dick off, afterall, he had had sex with every woman he ever lusted for both for ritual & non ritual purposes. He had grown tired of sex. Darkness and the occult was more of a release for him than the 20 minute pleasure he felt from an orgasm. He recited his incantations, put the knife at the base of his dick and sawed it off, back and forth.
Unfortunately, he bled to death.
People got aware of his violent orgies, killing a total of 643 people. People who came to the orgies were never allowed to tell anyone so missing people came up in the news but nobody knew their whereabouts.
Jeremy was labelled the Scariest & Most Evil Man Ever by some.
A label he would have cherished if he were alive.
The greatest desire of any weak man on Earth was to make those who made him feel weak afraid and envious of Him.
A feat Jeremy achieved.

—————————————————

Dionysus is just one helluva disturbed dude.
^.^

S.L.U.T


Hey guys!
Today’s post was written as a gift to me by someone I’ll call M.
Yes, I’m keeping his/her identity safe.
Loved it a lot and decided to share.

———————-

They’ve got it all wrong.
Trust me, I know.
They say the lady in red, but nothing says “SLUT” like a strapless little black dress.
I’ve got to dress the part, you know; live up to my reputation. Black platforms heels, black fishnet tights, black dress well above the knee, raven hair.
The only concession I give to your misguided assumptions is blood red lips. I walk into a room, this time a friend’s father’s 70th birthday and they turn. All of them, men, and women, even the ones who have one type of genital but covet another. They can sense what I am; I ooze it, like a pungent odor. No, not sex, or even sexuality. It’s something far more nauseating yet just as glamorous. A lack of moral is what they sense in me. They know I’d spread my legs for every single one of them, not necessarily one after the other. They can sense that I wouldn’t mind choking on a penis or two or ten, lapping up a vagina, probably won’t even swat away a mobile phone used as an amateur video camera. As I walk around the room, champagne flute wedged between my fore and middle finger, the responses I get from you all is priceless. The opportunists are drawing closer to me, finding ways to intersect my path, a quick and easy ice breaker. I avoid them, deftly turning at a tangent just before they can approach. The thrill of the hunt is everything to someone like me.
Some of you shrink away as I approach, the disgust on your faces intoxicates me, and I stray a little closer than I should, close enough for my perfume to make you swoon in spite of yourself. Pitiful, even with your hate, you can’t help how your body betrays you and lusts after the abomination that I am. I pick the most disgusted out of all of you, the slightly older woman, probably 40 in the dress that sweeps the floor as she walks. She’s been clucking all evening, whispering and pointing at my ass. I’ve seen her fingers tighten around the ugly square glass tumbler that holds her alcohol free cranberry juice as her eyes linger on the swell of my barely clad breasts. I could seduce her, she’s halfway there already, but where’s the fun in that? I scan the room for her teenage son and make my way towards him. He can’t be older than seventeen. I catch his eye; my lips spread in a suggestive smile. He smiles back and walks towards me as his mother’s face, the template for half of the room contorts into a mask of disgust. Good thing you rich people teach your children assertiveness really early. As you all suspect, I’ll be spreading my legs open for him tonight, if I want it bad enough, in the backseat of his mother’s car just outside this house. I don’t really care what you think, but if it makes you feel any better, “It’s not his fault, it’s all on me.”
Does it really matter how many men and women I fuck? Not unless they’re your husband, or boyfriend or best friend or girlfriend or wife. Oh, in that case, it does matter to you. Perhaps I should apologize, but what good would that do? I have already slept with them, and if the opportunity presents itself again now that I know, I’m not exactly sure I would refuse. So I’ll oblige you and do the next best thing. I’ll rescind my ‘Fuck You’ policy and explain myself.
I LOVE TO FUCK.

Trust me, it’s really that simple. I like the thrill of sex, and the chase before it. I love the way you watch me walk, and I exaggerate the roll of my hips just for you. My skin only tingles when you touch it, but never much as when you peel my slutty dress off me. My only pleasures are the anticipation of a new lover and no strings attached sex and no I’m not giving either up, for anything. In your world where religion and ‘morality’ and everything else scream love and monogamy, I have become vilified for taking what I want and not being a hypocrite about it. What I’m not really sure of is this, is it because I fuck or because I am a woman? I could travel the gender equality route, but I’m a simpler girl. I just want to fuck undisturbed. No, I wasn’t molested by father as a little girl, I just love to fuck. No, my first boyfriend didn’t break my heart by sleeping with my best friend, I shattered his by sleeping with his brother, and I still love to fuck. I don’t have an Electra complex, no hormonal imbalance or disassociative disorders or need to reconnect with my inner child. Are you even listening to me? I just love to fuck. It honestly is that simple.
I know I haven’t really been that helpful, and my explanation doesn’t really give you anything you can use to understand and help me. I apologize for that. It’s hard to get through to you too, you never listen.

There is one way you can help me. A way so ridiculously simple, that you’ll probably smack yourself for not thinking of it first.
Here it is:
STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!
See, I said it was ridiculously simple. If you see me coming, turn away, distract yourself with something else. Cross the road if you have to; just stay out of my way. I could have said leave me alone, but that is passive. Staying out of my way is something you have to consciously do every day. Leaving me alone is not enough; you have to actively keep what you cherish out of my way. Your son, your husband, that girl you’re secretly admiring? Keep them out of my way, and if you can’t do that, teach them to leave me alone. Because if he/she so much as smiles suggestively at me, I’m going to end up in their bed and we will be back where we started. I know you don’t want that, so you know what you have to do. One more thing, when you lie in your bed alone at night and finally let yourself fantasize about that person around whom you had to suppress your animalistic urges to tear your clothes off and fuck shamelessly; remember me, I’m living your hidden ‘ugly’ fantasies. 
I am without remorse, what you call a slut.

————–

Smokin’…


*set to In The End by Vanessa Carlton*

The keys black and white, like him and her.

His ochre skin glistened with sweat as he thrust into her, over and over. She arched her back into him, crying furiously as he took her. She wrapped her hand around his neck and squeezed, her wiry fingers compressing his windpipe with unnatural strength. Her eyes were sad, but they shone with a preternatural light as his thrusts intensified with the tightening of her fingers. He began to gasp as her body began to spasm under him and he buried himself deep into her, his outstretched arms  rested on flat palms on either side of her face. In a mindless lust filled haze, she bucked and was rewarded with a resounding snap. His head lolled and his arms gave way, his naked body collapsing onto hers. She wrapped her hands around his torso and cried softly, the relief of taking a life washing over her, silently savouring the warmth leave his body and the gentle weight that slowly grew on her as his blood stopped to flow and his limbs turned to lead.

It took ten minutes for his body to transmute from healthy ochre to a sickly ash and she laid under him through it all, arms wrapped around his neck, legs spread beneath him. With some effort she crawled out from under him, the smell of death upon her. It is just as it should be, she thought to herself, walking through the dimly lit belfry towards the little square of light cast by the moon through the stained glass window. The kaleidoscope of colours bathed her pale skin in the glorious hues, a mockery of the blackness she was inside. Her youthful skin, milky white in spite of the years she spent in the desert sun, playing away the beautiful concertos that she had longed to play in the darkened halls with beautiful high ceilings. Her breasts blue and yellow from the light cast by the robes and cherubic face of the Christ child, they had stayed small as they were when He first fondled them in that back alley, when he made her spirit soar and her skin flush with light and her womb bloom with his seed. Her flat belly was the cream of the sheep that lay beside the manger, the fertile pudgy sheep that bowed its head in adoration of the child. Hers would never rise, never. He’d taken that from her because she took his seed away from him. The only thing that continued to thrive was her raven hair falling to her plump buttocks, hiding the scars of her trysts with Him as He prod her over and over, every season she sook him out to lay with her.  He’d obliged her each time, but he forbade her to look upon his beautiful face, bent her over and took her, sinking his claws into the small of her back and raking deep gouges that took a year to heal. He thought he was punishing her, but she knew better, he was the only one who could hurt her and pain was better than the numbness she felt.

He would ask her to play for Him wherever they met, in a crowded market or a dingy slum or an upscale hotel. It never mattered to him how many would die after. It never did.

“I have missed my violin, Tana.” He would say. “Play me a little piece? I want to hear if he has been tuned and oiled like you promised.”

She would play, from mournful to joyous, from jubilant to brooding, astute to languid, and they paused  where the music carried. Young, old, beautiful, juvenile; it didn’t matter to Tana Brooks’ violin. They would stop in their tracks and gather around her, transfixed by the sounds her bow wrought. He would disappear into the mist as he always did, smiling at his creation. She would play as long as they wished her to, minutes, hours, even days. She would tap out melodies that reminded suited business men of their childhood dancing to folk songs and they would dance in helpless abandon while she cried for now she was so in tune with the violin she could see the deaths that would come for them. Eventually they would all get sated with her and as a swarm they would disappear to their deaths and leave her with the burden of being judge and executioner. And she would disappear until, her scars healed and compulsion drew her to seek Belial again.

“Doh! Doh! Doh!” came the melodious whisper from the aged piano in the corner. Tana shook herself from her reverie and noticed the light was much stronger now; she had stood there for hours. She turned to the sound and a smile parted her lips. Ashy and stiff, he perched naked on the tiny stool that faithfully stood beside the crumbling piano hidden in the darkened corner of the room, his frozen fingers picking notes of a child’s lullaby. His neck jutted out an angle and his glassy eyes stared into the dark but he didn’t need to see the keys to play. She stood in the light and watched in awe as his skin regained its lustre and his joints became fluid once again, his neck slowly inching its way back up, righting his head full of curly hair. She saw it every other night, but each time he rose from where they had coupled and healed, it awed her over again. He turned his now straight head at her and smiled ruefully, seguing from the jaunty march he had been playing into a languid waltz. Play with me, his eyes pleaded.

Tana picked her violin from where she’d laid it by the window sill and tightened the frogs. She tested a few notes ensuring her notes rang true to his, and plunged herself into the music; following his lead, complementing his dips and shoring the silences between his transitions. They played so beautifully, two angels of death, harbingers of doom, cursed by their chance meetings with Lilith and Belial to wreak death in all they did. She played the half tones that her heart had longed to sing and the dirges she couldn’t play at the funerals of all the people she’d loved from afar and watched slip into darkness and he played the grand hymns he had dreamed of subsuming himself in at the cathedral where he had grown up, on the colossus of an organ behind which he had prayed for eighteen years tightening screws and waiting for his turn to glory in its melodies. Lilith found him and cursed his eyes to stay forever open and his hands to freeze in death each time he ever played for another’s entertainment, she’d taken all he cared for away from him on a petulant whim.  She was his salvation and he her companion, the perfect waltz, the girl on the violin and the boy on the piano.

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This piece was written in 45 minutes as an imagined sequel to the  epic Girl On The Violin (read it here) set to the haunting song In the End by Vanessa Carlton. Our boy on the piano is none other than Johnny Depp. I hope I did justice to Tana Brooks. Shalom.

The Abstract (2)


Again, random thoughts as I type.

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She pushes, breathing hard.

His whore is in labour.

He grips her hand tightly, smiling into her face.

Come on now! Push! Don’t make me rip it out of you!

She screams in agony.

She screams in pain.

A thousand discordant voices rent the air.

She’s losing blood!

A nurse shouts into his ear.

He runs out of the room and comes back, priest in hand.

Save her!

How? The priest is baffled.

He brings out his katana and slices of his head!

Your blood!

More! The whore screams.

In frenzy, he rushes out again.

With him, back, more priests.

She needs the blood of the saints.

A doctor intones in a somber voice.

Here they are!

He slays them, their blood splattering on the birthing garment of his whore.

He watches the child crown from between her legs as blood drips down to her thighs.

It’s coming! The baby’s coming!

Suddenly overcome, the nurse undresses.

With unbridled lust she mounts the doctor.

Their moans of ecstasy, mingles with her pained cries.

The blood of the saints weep loudly for their master.

It is all too much for him.

His trouser tightens as his phallus thickens, and rips itself out of its cage.

He basks in the disharmony of the birthing chamber.

His whore, holds him by his phallus, screaming as she pushes his child into the world.

Her hand beats down on his red member.

He throws his head back and groans, black fluid flowing, as his seeds spill into her hands.

She gasps as her walls finally expel the child.

Halt.

Silence.

The nurse is back in her uniform.

Congratulations, you have a baby boy.

He smiles at the bundle in her arms.

My son.

He picks him up roughly from her arms and cradles him.

He touches his head and feels them.

His horns.

10.

All complete.

He walks away without a backward glance at the screaming whore, demanding for her child.

He smiles at the child.

It is awake.

Pure red eyes look back at him.

It smiles too.

His child; dark-skinned at birth with his jet black, curly hair.

Behold, The Antichrist.


This was a story i tweeted ‘on-the-go’ last year, for the only Pie Poet i know, @pieinstomach. It probably makes no sense and it is long and a little sexual so if you are having second thoughts now, this post isn’t for you.
For the curious who wish to continue reading, welcome. Hope you enjoy!

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He was the best of them all, the créme of the society. His services as a Poet were being sought after. Nobles enlisted his help as entertainment on their feast days. Oh how he mocked them with words and how the laughed at themselves.  As every mortal is wont to be, the Pie poet got bored of his station. He got fed up of pandering to his patrons’ whims.

Twas brillig but no slithy toves gyred and gimbled. No. Just one poet, leaving town in the wee hours of the morn without warning. You see, he had come to possess a papyrus which had been left purposely for his perusal. It promised great things! Frabjous!
‘Seek for Her and Her riches where the Gazelle meets the Tiger. The Hunter would show you the way’ read the papyrus.  He had no idea who ‘Her’ referred to. He wasn’t overly awed by riches. He didn’t lack money. What he lacked was adventure. He went. Where the Gazelle met the Tiger could only be the drylands outside the city that was called the Gazelle. Tiger, a small river. He had no idea who or what the Hunter was but he was prepared to find out. With ample supplies of food and water, he set off on foot, turban hiding his face.

The food was almost running out. The water, lukewarm and tepid. He was at the meeting point. Where was the hunter? It had been three days already! On the fourth evening, hunger pangs crippling him, he wondered if he should give up on his so-called adventure and go home.
What was waiting for him at home anyway? Nothing. He decided it was better to die than go back to the Great City. He laid down, exhausted. He watched the skies turn from the dark orange of dusk, to a deep indigo of twilight.
That was when he saw it.
With his back on the ground, stones poking through layers of clothing, he saw the Hunter.
In the sky.
The stars.
Of course! With renewed energy he arose, and walked doggedly in the direction the Hunter’s arrow pointed. Surely he had passed the drylands. Shrubs began to crop up. Where there were shrubs, there would be animals. He became afraid but trodden on under the stars’ gaze. Shrubs became trees. And soon, his view of the skies was obstructed by them. He had never known any land like this existed! He walked on blindly, tensing at every sound he heard. He stumbled out quite abruptly into a clearing.

Wow.
A magnificent castle. He paused,eyes wide in wonder at the building illuminated by the starry night. He walked to the giant double doors. He held the knocker. “Come in” a sultry voice said from inside the Castle before he knocked. The doors swung open. He stepped in warily. Had he found her?  Unlit lamps suddenly sprung to life, lighting his way. One door lay ahead, with soft light streaming from its hinges. He approached it. Again, before he pushed open the voice again commanded “Come in”. The door opened of its own accord. He gawked in disbelief. He could not believe his eyes. Everything was golden. From the chairs, to the tables…to the woman who sat, staring at him, smiling.

“The Pie Poet” she whispered, her voice like liquid gold to his ears. He shivered in awe. “Be welcome” She motioned him in.  He walked in, unable to speak, suddenly feeling like a speck of dirt in the presence of this opulent being. She rose and walked to him. He tensed as she stood in front of him. He wanted to shield his eyes. She was beautiful. Long golden hair, intense yellow pupils, Full yellow hued lips. He took in her attire, sheer transparent silk, barely covering up her body. He could see…everything. She was naked. He averted his eyes, staring at his reflection on the golden floor. He felt his intense arousal, his loose trousers suddenly tight. His eyes snapped up as he felt her touch on his chin. Her hand was surprisingly warm…for a golden woman.
“Be at ease” she whispered. He suddenly became drowsy, eyes dimming, drinking in the look of amusement in her yellow eyes before they closed. He felt weightless.

He awoke. His eyes widened in surprise. He was laying on a golden bed. His clothes were already taken off.
“Awake?” He turned around. There she was, sitting on the bed, staring intently at him. He quickly pulled the shimmering sheets over himself.
“Can’t you speak?”
He cleared his throat. “Of course I can”. His throat felt sore. She rose and walked to him, a cup suddenly in her hand. “Drink”.  He stared at the golden viscous liquid in the cup. He sniffed. Faint smell of citrus and honey. He drank and his eyes widened in wonder.
“Like?” She asked smiling. He nodded. She shook her head. “Speak”.
“Yes. Lovely.” She grinned widely and suddenly laughed. He watched her, confused. The heaving of her chest as she laughed shifted her silk gown slightly. A golden nipple peeked shyly at him. He could not stop his eyes from roving, imagining just what she looked like without the gown. His member rose in awe and he shifted uncomfortably to shield his embarrassing body.
She stopped laughing “You’re interesting”.
He picked up courage.
“And you’re golden. And this room. Gold. How?”
She wagged her index finger at him. “Food. Eat first.” He nodded.
She left him and came back with a golden platter filled with different fruits..golden fruits. He bit into one and exclaimed in delight.
“Frabjous! Heavens! Glory! This is pie!” He devoured everything as she watched him, giggling. After eating, she took his platter away. She came back with more of the golden liquid which he drank greedily.
“So, who are you?”
She slithered into bed with him. She took his head and cradled on her bosom.
“Well. I’m Her. The Eternal Riches. The queen of Glory. I chose you Pie poet. I chose you because in you, I saw a man thirsty for adventure. A man fit for godhood. A virile man”
“The queen? Glory? Me?” He muttered. “Yes, my poet. The queen. And yes, you. I’ve heard of your oratory prowess. Would you weave me a poem? I’d like that.”
“Anything for you!” he said, rising. He got out of bed, temporarily forgetting his nakedness and threw a mock bow to her. “My lady of flames. No words should describe your fame..”.  She stopped him. “No. No poems. Come back to bed. Tell me about yourself.”
He slid back into her embrace willingly. “Yes, My goddess”.
As he opened his mouth to speak,
“No. Don’t tell me. let me show you something! Here! Lick my finger!” She prodded him with her pinkie. He did and his eyes widened.
“The golden liquid!” He exclaimed, getting up to stare at her. “How?”
“Every part of me secretes it”.
“Every part?” She nodded, grinning. He bent close to her neck and licked. Faint taste. He sucked on her skin and drew the liquid out.
“Wow”. Her eyes were glazed over.
“Do that again!” She commanded, holding his head to her neck. He obeyed, her cooing of pleasure, susurration.
Oh the heady feeling! Better than fine wine! Inhibitions forgotten, he traced whorly patterns on her neck with his tongue. She sighed in delight as she parted her silk garment.
He stopped and gazed in wonder. With shaking hands, he took the garment off. With reverence, he took one perfectly shaped golden nipple between his thumb and pulled, watching her yellow eyes dim as she sucked in a breath. He took the nob into his mouth and sighed as his eyes watered at her wondrous taste. He tugged with his teeth, glorying in her sighs of pleasure and the feel of her hands caressing his scalp. He stopped and before her groan of protest was formulated, he transferred his oral ministration to her other mammary peak. He squeezed gently, lapping up her liquid. Greedy for more, he was. He drew lazy lines with his tongue across her chest as his fingers tweaked and thumbed her nipple.

He wanted more.
By the gods!
She sensed his thoughts and stopped him.
“You. You have to promise one thing. Before you can drink of my well.” She said huskily, panting.
“Anything!” He cried.
He didn’t think.
He couldn’t think.
He was going mad.
He had to taste more. She released his head and his mouth mapped a hasty path down her navel. Pooled between the cleft of two golden thighs, was the golden liquid, dripping. Holding firmly to her thighs, he sank his mouth into the well and drank. Manners forgotten, he lapped up, slurped and sucked, determined to get every drop of her liquid fire into his system. She held on to his head, mashing his face into her sanctuary. He pried his tongue into her, determined to lick her dry. His fingers soon replaces his tongue as he moved for further exploration, to the round nub of flesh at the entrance to her mound. He heard her gasp as he teased the swollen, throbbing flesh. He felt her spasms as her well contracted against his mouth. With a feral scream, she dragged him up, grasped his aching shaft and pushed it into herself. He rode her cosmic wave, senseless to everything else but the endless sea of sensations he was being sucked into. He wanted to drown in her. With a cry, he released, shuddering as he flopped on her chest. The sound of their panting was all the music they needed. He felt her fingers on his hair. “Welcome” she said softly.

“Welcome?” . She smiled at him, golden eyes glimmering.
“Yes welcome.” His eyes clouded in confusion so she deftly drew a strand of hair from his head and showed him. Golden.
Golden?
He jumped off her and gazed at himself in horror. He was shining like burnished gold. He looked at her in surprise. “Wha…?”.
She smiled serenely at him.
“You did promise before you drank of the well.” He stuttered
“B..but this?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“I…I must leave.”
Golden eyebrows furrowed.
“Leave? You cannot leave. You belong to this house now.”
He didn’t listen. He picked up a golden shirt he saw on one of the chairs, donning it as he walked out of the room. He pushed the double doors open.
His eyes widened in horror.
Why was he staring at the crater of bubbling volcanic mountain?
Where was he?
Where was land?
He ran back.
“Where is this! Where am I!” He screamed in horror at her reclining form. She opened her eyes.

“Ah. You’ve noticed.”
She got up. She walked up to him, and dragged him by the phallus, back to bed. “Lie down Pie Poet. There’s no leaving here. You promised.”
She stared into his eyes.
“I’m here. Am I not a better option? Would you rather die than lay with me? Let me drink from you” .
Without waiting for his reply, she pushed him on the bed and settling snugly between his legs, she took him in her mouth.
He sighed in confusion mixed with desire as his hands instinctively tightened her golden hair, thrusting his hips into her gloriously warm mouth.
Well, he wanted adventure didn’t he. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Maybe.

TEE HEE 😉
——————-
How was that for a Saturday night fever?

First Time


Dionysus: Ok, taking a slight break from the usual darkness in my writings. This is my first attempt at comedy. Enjoy!
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*Doorbell Rings*

He dropped his Xbox 360 console pad, and spoke into the intercom by his bedside.
“Who’s there ?”
“I’m looking for Johnny”, the person outside replied.
Butterflies in the stomach.
“OMG, she’s here! She’s here!” He picked up some clothes scattered on the bedroom floor, ran to check himself in the mirror adjusting the large frames on his face.
“Hello! Is Johnny there??”
“Yes, Coming!”
He descended the stairs and opened the door.
“Hi”
Johnny tried to reply but couldn’t, his mind racing.
“H.. Ha..Hi”.
His trouser started rising up so he stood at the back of the door trying to hide his reflex boner. Johnny was a Geek. He was the kid in school the jocks made fun of when they got bored, laughing as they came up with insults. He had just finished high school and was about turning 18. One of his nerdy friends told him about an online hookup site, ‘Onenitestand.com’. You search for a girl in their directory and if she’s near your location, you call for a shag as long as you agree with the terms & conditions. Johnny’s choice was a girl named Jenny. He was surprised; she was even hotter in real life than she looked online.

“Co.. Come in” He said adjusting the glasses on his face. She entered and perched herself on the couch in the living room.
“Are you gonna leave that door and get me a drink?” Johnny’s face turned deep red from the uncontrollable blushing.
“Just a minute”.
She sighed. “Listen, I know you’re hard, it’s nothing to be ashamed about. You said this is gonna be your first time right?”
“Yes” he whispered, still standing by the door.
“Ok, maybe this would make you feel better” She took her top off exposing a red silk bra and deep cleavage. Johnny’s eyes widened like a character in an anime. Sure, he had watched a lot of porn but he had never seen real tits before. His dick got harder leaving him feeling very embarrassed at this point. Jenny stood up and walked up to him, he, avoiding her gaze as she came closer.
“It’s ok Johnny, I’m gonna make you feel good. You have my money right?”

“Ye.. Yeah” he dipped his hands into his trouser pockets and gave her a wad of cash in a hurry like she was about to mug him. She carelessly dropped the money into the sling bag she was carrying. Holding his hand, she made him lead her to his bedroom. Video game posters decorated the walls, also, a pic of Giselle Bundchen in a white bikini on the beach.
“Take off your clothes.”
He hesitated. She took off her bra, her perfect dark pink nipples staring him in the eye. He was about to cum just for the sheer beauty before him.
“Just lay back”. She knelt down in front of him and pulled his pants down, exposing his erection. “Hmmmm, not bad” she muttered to herself. As soon as she started fondling him, she heard ‘Auuuugh!.. Auuugh!.. Auuuugh!’ semen spilling on her hand. She laughed uncontrollably.
“Whada fuck! I haven’t even done anything Johnny and you came!” She put on her bra and was getting ready to leave.

“Bu.. But, we haven’t done anything” Johnny said.
“Didn’t you read the terms dude? As soon as you cum, it’s over!”
“But… But… But.. But.. ”
“No buts sweet cheeks! Before you call me next time, make sure you jerk off the day before so you don’t come so quickly aite?” She counted her money, smiling. Satisfied, she left him without a good bye. He heard the door bang shut a minute later.

Johnny lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.

END.

Phantom: For some reason best known to me, I totally found the stereotyping in this story hilarious! 😀 Drop comments thanks 🙂

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