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Subject: The Misogynist
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Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2005 19:48:19 +0000
===================
The Misogynist
She gyrated before him, her tanned, round hips
brushing lightly against his sweatpants. He eyed her thonged ass,
straining to see through the spare fabric to the dark moistness in
between. Her face was up there, somewhere up past her perfect,
buoyant tits, masked with long brown hair and irrelevant. He felt his
rock-hard cock straining against the sweats, even free-balling.
He couldn't take it anymore, he reached down into his
loose sweatpants, grabbing hold of his long, hard shaft, squeezing as
the blood rushed through to the tip. He edged it nervously from the
sweat's elastic band, looking out of the corner of his eye to make
sure the bouncer was nowhere in sight in the darkness of the club.
This would take good timing. He pulled out his cock,
simultaneously yanking the thong on the girl's ass to one side, hoping
to spear her moist hole before she could let out a cry. However, when
he pulled the thong, he was met by blank skin, no pussy. He jabbed
the swollen tip of his cock into it, painfully.
"What the fuck?!" he asked, getting pissed.
"That would be too easy," the girl said in a too-husky
voice, swiveling around a head that seemed too strong-jawed, a gold
grille covering her missing teeth. "You get my pussy all the time,
but you really want variety." She reached down, spreading her
purplish pussy lips, displaying her engorged clitoris. As he watched,
her clitoris became engorged and erect, seeming to grow beyond what it
should be capable of.
"Hey, I know I don't want this shit," he said, trying
to shove her ass away. It was stubbly and prickly, as if it had just
been shaven.
"I tell you what you want, bitch," she said, reaching
forward with strong, tattooed biceps and grabbing hold of his throat.
She pulled his head down between her legs, towards her much, much too
large clit. He screamed.
* * *
He yanked the VR visor off his head and the fuck-pad
off his cock, chafing it severely and drawing some blood. He was
dismayed to find that he was still hard, though not nearly as long as
he was in the simulation. The nearby computer monitor flashed a
message, something to effect that a virus had been detected.
"No shit," he said, throwing the fuck-pad across the
room, where it cracked against his roommate's bedpost. "Fucking waste
of money."
He noticed a pounding on the door for the first time.
Pushing his bleeding cock back into his pants, he yanked open the door
to find his roommate John out there, reeling drunkenly. He was
several decades older, with an unshaven face, shitty thrift-store
clothes, and almost always drunk-basically a derelict living off
disability. He had only taken this room with John because it was all
he could afford.
"What's up, John?" he asked.
"Hey, it's my room too, man. You can't lock me out of
my own room," John slurred, pushing his way into the room.
He let John stumble into his bed, then rifled through
John's pockets for his car keys. John only had a shitty
primer-colored '86 Volvo, with no A/C and with windows that wouldn't
roll down, but it was better than nothing.
* * *
He drove around aimlessly in the city heat, his pulse
bumping and his palms sweaty after being so close to busting a nut,
then having it wrenched cruelly from him by some kind of homoerotic
virus. He wished he knew the computer geek hacker who had created
that bad shit, creating such fucked up garbage in his garage, so he
could knock down his door and beat his ass.
It was getting close to 3pm, the time when school was
let out. He liked to cruise around, check out the local scenery. Not
that he was into little kids; he liked the ones with the first flush
of puberty, when their titties were first swelling up, when faint
wisps of pubes began appearing down near their perfectly pink, tight
little pussies. He ran his hand down into his sweats again, rubbing
himself distractedly. Maybe this would get him off.
At the local high school, he saw two hot pieces of ass
wheel out in the SUV their parents bought them, a Playboy sticker on
their back window. Their brown hair was pulled back, they had their
sunglasses on, swollen titties pushing against their white Ts. Sweet
little bitches, they probably were already fucking hard, wasting it on
these brain-dead jock motherfuckers in school.
"Now, I'm Eazy-E and I got bitches galore/ You might
have a lot of bitches, but I've got much more," boomed from their
bass-heavy stereo.
The bitches raced off. He supposed he could chase
them down, back to their parents' house. Maybe their parents would be
gone, he could get in somehow. He pictured their cute, confused
giggles at first, then squeals as he tied up their tanned, nubile
bodies. Maybe he would fuck them in all their holes until they bled,
maybe he would just bend them over and cum on their ass sphincters
without making contact, bukkake-style.
Whatever-the bitches were probably already wasted,
gang-banging black jocks, their little pussies already torn loose and
drooping, like that bitch who did "The World's Ultimate Gang Bang Vol.
47." He needed a young one who hadn't yet been broken in.
Cruising along, he found a nice little one strolling
along the sidewalk without a care in the world. Her black hair was
neatly parted in the middle, she still wore braces, her little skirt
was short and her stockings long. She looked like a Hispanic Catholic
school girl, one too young to be violated by the black jocks yet. It
was rare, finding a hot little number by herself without little
toady-bitches or rat-boys sniffing around her scent. This must be how
the Virgen de Guadalupe looked, before God fucked her holy.
"Hey there," he said to her through a crack in the
Volvo's window. He wished he could roll these fucking things down.
He reached into his sweats, glad to be free-balling it so he could
instantly run his hand up and down his already-chafed shaft, playfully
squeezing the tip, imagining this young thing's perfect little pussy
and ass squirming at its tip. Maybe not pink, more like purplish, but
still perfect. She kept walking, acting like she hadn't heard
anything.
He wished he knew her parents or something, so he
could lie and say they sent him to pick her up. But then she would
know him, and it would be much easier to ID him, if it came down to
that. That's how it always was with these bitches: they were pure
little pink pussies before they were torn up and violated, so you had
to get in there in that time frame-but you needed an in to get in
there. He needed to save her cute little Mexican pussy from black
dick, which would tear her up with the quickness. Going into her
twenties, she's be a hardened survivor and the walls would be up-then
she'd start treating her pussy like fine-spun gold, bartering sex
every weekend with the gelled-hair, buttoned-up Banana Republicans
saturating the yuppie theme bars. The clock was ticking, too fast.
"Listen, I'm lost and I need directions," he lied,
rubbing himself violently through his pants. She gave him a sideways
glance, fear in her large, brown eyes, like a little fuck-doe which
had just caught wind of the big bad wolf.
"Please?" he asked. He hoped he looked respectable
enough-though unshaven, wearing a white T and sweats, he was only in
his early thirties. Maybe he had enough of the pheromone-hormone
vitality of youth, wasn't too dissipated, to pull this little bitch
in. If he only had a nigger's tongue and a nigger's cock, he could
turn her out, easy.
She turned and looked at him, her bright doe eyes
caught in headlights, her full mestizo lips breaking into a brief,
uncertain smile.
"No hablo ingles," she said shyly, looking down.
He stared at the fullness of her moving lips, the
slight swelling around her titties and ass, garbed in only a little
Catholic school girl uniform. He squeezed the throbbing, purple tip
of his cock, and felt a warm, moist explosion in his pants. He sighed
out, breathing heavily, wondering if the little bitch had any sense of
what was happening.
"Gracias por nada," he said, driving on.
He drove on, feeling a momentary sense of relaxation
and release. But as the stickiness in his pants grew colder and
damper, he realized that the little mestizo doe-bitch was fucking with
him. Here in America, she didn't speak English? She was giving him
the brush-off. The bitches were learning earlier and earlier-until
their pussies were locked so tight in the lockbox, then they were old,
and nobody wanted that stank, rotting thing anyways.
'Keep it locked safe and tight, lil' bitch,' he
thought to himself.
* * *
That night, he was back on the city streets in John's
car. John was completely unconscious and dead to the world now, the
way he liked it.
"I saw your fuck-pad," John had said mockingly a few
hours ago. "Man, you need a girlfriend."
"Saw my fuck-pad, huh? Here, take a closer look," he
had said, forcing the fuck-pad, full of his greenish, rotted semen, up
on to John's protuberant red nose.
"Bastard!" John had yelped like a little bitch, going
to the bathroom to scrub his nose with hot water and soap.
"Fuck 'girlfriends,' how gay is that," he had said to
John a few minutes later. "Spend a shitload of cash on some bitch
with no guarantee of pussy? Listen to the bitch talk about bullshit
for hours, just praying that I can stick my cock in her stupid-ass
mouth? Fuck that," he repeated.
"Man, such a misogynist," John had chuckled uncomfortably, taking
another swig from his Jim Beam flask. "Wait until you have a
daughter, it changes things," John ruminated, pulling on his beard.
"Shut the fuck up," he told John in a loud
monotone-John talked crazy when he was drunk. He would never fuck his
own daughter-she'd probably be one ugly bitch.
At least he had John's car for a few more hours.
He cruised up and down back alleys, on the lookout for
whores in the dimly lit streets. The brothers didn't give problems,
as long as your car kept moving and you weren't trying to score rock
from them. The brothers were much wiser than the crackers; they
understood that white culture was a hollow and dead corpse, full of
sicknesses and lies. The old buildings, the stagnant puddles, the
broken pipes, needles, and used condoms were beautiful, in a way. It
beat the suburbs, at least.
He'd seen a few bitches, but they were fat and/or old
heifers, trying to capitalize on their dwindling sexuality in a most
pathetic way. Yeah, like he'd pay for that. They'd probably fucked
thousands of guys and went about cock-sucking and fucking as if they
were shining your shoes. Used-up, nasty old bitches. Why didn't
someone put them out of their misery, so that nobody would see their
pale, flabby thighs through cheap black lace again?
Up ahead, there was some nice whore-heinie. A young
black girl, maybe just fourteen, young enough to still be tight.
Whores aged fast, so they were usually younger than they looked. This
one was nice-seemed to be wearing a blond wig, face caked with
make-up, as if she was playing dress-up to be like momma.
"Wanna date?" she asked with her thick baby lips,
giving him an attempt at a flirtatious smile. Yeah, she must be
young. He nodded and gestured her inside.
Man, she was cute. Her little black ass cheeks were
round bubbles strapped tightly into a purplish leather skirt, she had
some white fur shit and a pinkish bra covering her pert baby titties.
He strained, and imagined he could see her aureolas through the bra.
He eagerly pulled his cock from his pants.
"Hold up," she said, abruptly professional. "You
gotta pay first, boy."
"How much?" he asked, slipping his cock back into his
pants and pulling out his wallet instead.
"Forty to suck, a hundred to fuck," she said, bored.
He looked frantically through the bills, finding only
a little over forty bucks. Damn, he wanted to fuck her hard, to slide
his big white cock deep, deep into her round baby black ass. He
passed over forty, slightly disappointed.
She then pulled out a Trojan, tearing the packet and
placing the condom itself in her mouth. She arched her blond-wigged
head and rounded her thick dick-sucking lips.
"Hold up," he said. "You need a rubber just to suck
dick?"
"Hell yes," she retorted, plucking the condom from her
mouth. "I don't know what you got." That's what they always said,
but he had to try.
She returned the condom to her mouth, then moved her
head above the tip of his cock. Using her teeth, she slid the latex
down the sides of his shaft, then went to work on it, thrusting her
head up and down, giving strong sucks and flicks of her tongue. She
was a professional, talented at sucking semen from men, but he was a
challenge-fucking condoms kill all sensation, and he had already
busted a nut yanking to that beautiful Mexican bitch.
Man, that mestizo. He closed his eyes, imagining
that the Catholic school girl was sucking his cock. Her big, innocent
brown eyes looking up at him, her tongue and full lips expertly
working, sparking tingling nerve sensations up and down his shaft. He
visualized her tiny brown pussy, wrapped up safely behind tight white
panties and her school-girl skirt, wet, trembling, ready to be
penetrated. He grabbed her head, pulling on her hair like a bridle,
forcing his cock deep into her throat, choking her. He came again,
hard, making her gag on his thick white semen.
"Motherfucker!" the little black bitch said, wiping
cum from her mouth. "The jimmy came off!"
"Good, bitch," he said, abruptly cold and uncaring.
After he came, she held no attraction-he noticed lines around her eyes
and mouth, she was older than he had thought. "Get the fuck out."
She grabbed her purse and yanked open the car door, muttering under
her breath.
"Keep talkin', bitch," he said half-heartedly, his
mind elsewhere. This bitch-cunt, even though she seemed young, was
already used up. She worked the streets like a pro, taking cum from
countless tricks, pumping all the cash back to some big black pimp who
probably fucked her ass bare. Bullshit!
What he needed was pure innocence, like that little
mestiza. He didn't know why, but her image had taken hold of his
mind. Her perfect face, with scared eyes, pert nose, full, quizzical
lips, and her tight little body, flashes of pure brown filly-thigh
between skirt and stocking. She was the one who could make him cum,
hard. He yearned, craved, to get her alone, to have his pale exposed
cock waving in front of her, her teenage body supine before him, ready
to be penetrated in all three orifices, hard and repeatedly.
He gunned the Volvo's engine and headed back home.
* * *
His computer was back up and running, after talking to
some Punjabi tech support guy for hours. He was programming an
abduction simulation: he had the little bitch in a deep hole, a la
Silence of the Lambs, and could stare down at her huddled, shivering
form. He tried pissing on her, made difficult by his constant
erection, watching his urine soak through her white schoolgirl shirt,
exposing the curved hardness of her little Maidenform bra. He then
leaned over and shat on her, his watery feces landing on her soiled
flesh with a loud, satisfying plop. He thought briefly of using some
American Psycho moves (the book, not the shit movie) -forcing a
Habitrail tube up her underage cunt, then set loose a starving sewer
rat to feed inside her, its tail twitching through her vagina. Maybe
that would be too much.
It was fun, but it just wasn't getting him off, even
when he gently fingered his ass as he stroked. The computer's AI
didn't really know what the real girl would do-would she wail and
scream loudly, threaten him, plead with him, or sob quietly? The
computer had no idea; he had to tell it. It ruined the experience, to
know it was fake.
His visor displayed a call from his mom, the fat
cow-bitch. The heifer always picked the wrong time to call and
wheedle him with her nasal, anxious whine.
"Hi, Mom," he said after clearing his computer screen.
"Howard," came the repulsive bitch's voice. They
exchanged the usual, painful pleasantries, then she put his dad on the
line. His dad used to be a trucker, before he mysteriously suffered a
severe blow to the head-now he was some kind of retard. His mom must
be happy; now she would never have to listen to him, but could sponge
off his disability like a fat, festering parasite.
"Hi, son," his dad said in his jerky monotone. His
dad was a pot-bellied, fish-eyed, chinless freak; some assholes said
that he looked like him, the fuckers. It was probably all a ruse; his
crafty Pops was putting on a façade to get away from his bitch wife.
He wondered if the nurses wiped his dad's ass, sucked him off and
licked his asshole in the institution; he needed to cum somehow.
"Hey, Pops," he said noncommittally.
"The Tulsa Oilers won last night," his dad said,
spouting some useless sports trivia like the fucking retard he was.
He remembered back to junior high, when he had tried to get into
sports; he had walked around in a letterman's jacket, trying to
impress some random little blond cunt. He had been so full of pride
and possibility, it was embarrassing to think of now. Then the
fucking jocks had gotten him alone in the locker room and put an end
to that.
"You tryin' to play football?" Jeremy Nicholson, the
mulatto wide receiver of the team, had sneered at him.
"That's right," he had replied proudly, but tensely.
First, they had smashed his head into the locker,
drawing blood into his eyes. But he wasn't giving up the jacket-he
had earned it, and he couldn't sacrifice it just yet; it meant too
much in the socially stratified microcosm of junior high.
"We need to teach this bitch a lesson," Jeremy had
laughed to the other boys, holding his head down on the filthy
concrete ground. Jeremy had crammed his dirty jockstrap into his
mouth, then pulled down his gym shorts. He felt an incredibly
painful, forced pressure tear inside his asshole; he tried to scream
through Jeremy's jock, but only choked and gagged, whimpering and
crying like a little bitch. Jeremy rutted, like a dog, for about a
minute, then pulled his erect, shit-stained cock out and ejaculated
sticky cum all over his ass cheeks.
"Another one bites the dust, biatch," Jeremy said,
shoving his still-large cock back into his shorts. Then he leaned
over, horked, and lovingly spat a green, chunky loogie on his face,
already wet with tears.
The other boys, pale imitators of Jeremy, came afterwards, empty
expressions on their stupid faces. Those assholes had taken longer to
cum. He had become numb, after a while.
He hated thinking about that shit; afterwards, he had lost the jacket,
and couldn't even make eye contact with the girl he had been trying to
impress, couldn't make eye contact with anyone, and had started
ditching school. They had branded him, invisibly, and made him their
bitch; though nobody knew what had happened, it was there on his face
for everyone to read. He was a ghost, a dead man walking around the
junior high campus.
And where was his dad when this shit was going down? Off driving some
big truck, smoking meth and getting serviced by the fat, toothless
whores at the truck stops littered across the wasteland "heartland."
Fucking asshole!
He had seethed for years afterwards, planning ways to kill those jock
fuckers, stabbing them around the eyes and throat, inserting a long
machete up their rectums, setting fire to their half-alive, twitching
bodies. Such dreams had given him comfort. But, as always, they were
right and he was the little bitch- he didn't have the balls to do
anything. He was terrified that he really was queer, and that they
had responded to the subliminal stink of it on him. Then he was
afraid that they had somehow thrown a switch, turning his asshole into
a pleasure center and making him gay-he still feared that, sometimes.
In hindsight, he had learned a painful truth that day (the truth was
always painful)-sex wasn't shit, really, just dick friction to make
you cum. It was mind-fucking that was important. They had
mind-fucked him hard, had stripped away all of his comforting
illusions and virtually destroyed him as a person. Mind-fucking is
power; that's what they had taught him. They had the power; they were
the handsome, popular jocks around campus, while he was invisible;
even if he told, he would be branded faggot, and who would be
believed? They would, because they had the power.
That's the way the whole fucking world works, from the rich white
bastards who run everything to the smallest ghetto shithead. It was
all a struggle for power, to rise above by pushing others down into
the shit; it was a universal rule. And the way to power was through
mind-fucking, whether it was a Presidential speech to go butcher and
maim kids on the other side of the planet, or in smaller ways, raping
some little bitch to put your lifelong brand on her.
"Fucking sports?!" he said to his dad, his voice cracking slightly.
"Dad, you know I don't give a shit about sports. What the fuck-you
sit around watching some fat fucking millionaires toss a ball around,
paying your cash to those overpaid fuckers?!" He felt his throat
choking with rage at his father's stupidity, his retardation, his
normalcy. "How fucking pathetic are you?!" As he said the words, he
knew they were coming out only because his dad was a helpless retard.
"Ahhhhhh," his dad said in response, in a confused, strangled sound.
He must have scrambled the pathetic retard fuck's circuitry. "The
Tulsa OilersÂ…"
"Fuck you, and fuck the fucking Tulsa Oilers!! Don't you realize that
sports are fucking gay-a bunch of brainless faggot jocks putting their
arms around each other and slapping each other's asses, dancing after
the touchdown-fat-ass, closeted queers making millions off of the
suppressed homoerotic impulses of brain-damaged, beer-swilling retards
like you!!" he screamed. His dad was still making that strange sound.
Then he realized that there was another sound on the line-Mom,
sniffling and moaning like a bloated hog.
"I can't believe itÂ… Your own father, Howard," his mom began. He
slammed the phone down, his hands shaking.
'Just because I happened to share chromosomes with these fuckers,' he
thought to himself. They were typical "heartland" folk, fat,
brain-damaged, believing whatever was pumped through the flickering TV
tubes, preparing for their own slaughter. He didn't believe in God,
but he prayed fervently for their extermination.
His thoughts turned to that sweet little mestiza, his only chance of
salvation in this world of shit. He knew where she went to school.
He was going back to get that bitch-cunt. No more computer porn or
whores for him-he would give that virgen some Urotsukodoji God-cock.
He imagined his cock grown huge, veiny and serpentine, writhing up
into her tight little cunt. Her body cavity would swell with his
semen, then explode in a mess of ejaculate and entrails. He stood
there, a massive, muscular Overfiend, the remnants of her exploded
body twitching at his feet spasmodically, and smiled.
* * *
He was back in the Volvo, driving near that sweet
little baby bitch's walk home. His eyes flicked at her pert, gyrating
ass cheeks every time he drove by, but he was careful not to stare too
long. He kept her in the corner of his eye, an imminent possibility.
Man, he wished she would stay later at school and do something
extracurricular; darkness would make this easier.
He had driven this route hundreds of times at night,
and had it carefully planned. He knew when she would walk along the
collapsed chain-link fence, on the street with infrequent traffic.
When she did, he was there, pulling up to curb with a slight squeal,
popping open the door and pulling her into the car. He instantly had
a chloroform-soaked rag over her nose and mouth, and a switchblade
held up to her fragile, light-brown neck. She was a feisty one, and
tried futilely to pull away from his grasp, giving a few cute, girlish
squeals in the process.
"Help!" she tried to scream around the rag in her
mouth.
"Speak English now, bitch?!" he muttered in her ear,
forcing the knife harder into her throat and drawing some blood. No,
he wanted to keep her pristine and unmarked, for now.
Then she was still; he threw her on the shredded upholstery of the
back seat and put a shitty threadbare blanket his mom had knit over
her.
The Volvo squealed away, and his eyes were all over
the place: the street sides and rearview to see if anyone saw or was
in pursuit, the back seat to survey his new conquest. A length of
shin and foot was outside of the blanket; she must have lost a shoe in
the struggle. He strained to keep his eyes on the road, and not
explore the delicate curves of her foot with his eyes.
He kept driving, his pulse racing and his hands sweaty
on the sticky steering wheel. It was strange how society painted
people like him as cowards, preying on the weak, like it was somehow
more "brave" to yap drunkenly at bitches at some shitty club. He was
the brave one. He was the one breaking the greatest taboo of society
and taking an incredible risk. There was always the possibility that
he'd be seen or detected; anyone would report him for doing this,
acting as eyes of the state. Everyone was aligned against him, ready
to take him down, send him to prison where he would be raped and made
the powerless bitch again. How the fuck is that cowardice?!
It was like that fine blond bitch of a teacher, great
big blue eyes, full lips and bulging titties, in the news now for
fucking some fourteen year old hip-hop shithead. The animatronic
talking heads on the news made it out like she was some sort of
horrible deviant and criminal. Like teenagers were some precious,
innocent cherubs who magically gained adult powers of wisdom and
foresight on their eighteenth birthday. Who concocted this bullshit
"morality;" how did the media puppets regurgitate it with a straight
face?! Fuck, he would have killed to fuck such a high-caliber bitch
when he was fourteen; he probably still would, and the puppets would
too, stroking themselves under the news desk as they bemoaned the
decline of Western civilization. It all made him want to scream and
laugh at the same time.
He drove for a few miles into an abandoned industrial
area. He popped his G.G. Allin tape out of the car stereo, and the
shitty easy-listening station John listened to was playing Michael
Jackson.
'Perfect!' he laughed to himself as he parked the car
behind an empty office building and hopped into the back seat.
Michael Jackson, a manufactured-plastic monstrosity fucking his harem
of P.Y.T. boys in Neverland, getting away with it for years and still
cheered on by adoring, sheep-like fans-yet again, fame and power at
work. Wonder if the situation would be different if he were a random
poor black?
Her slim shape was only a slight bulge under the
shitty blanket. He tore away the blanket and stuck it in the trunk
area, his cock straining against his sweats as he saw her somnambulant
flesh, all his. He owned this bitch now.
He pulled up her schoolgirl skirt, exposing plain
white panties against her bronze skin, her pubis swelling gently
underneath. He hooked his fingers around the panty-straps and yanked
down, revealing her virginal young cunt, the first wispy black pubes
just beginning to grow, the pink-purplish labia lips still tight and
intact.
He could barely control himself; he didn't want to
even touch his cock, for fear that he would prematurely ejaculate
inside of his pants. He reached down and pulled her slightly-purplish
labia apart, exposing the fleshy pink insides of her vagina, shining
wetly. Only through amazing self-control, he kept his cock in his
pants. Her hymen was something fragile, to be cherished; its removal
would require far more ceremony, it should be preserved. He had some
metallic surgical instruments at home, and had read a lot of
literature about vaginal torture on the web.
"I want to love you, P.Y.T., Pretty Young Thing,"
Michael Jackson sang on the car stereo, cheering him on.
He turned her over on her slim belly, exposing the
gentle twin curves of her brown butt cheeks. He pushed her legs,
bending them up underneath her belly, to better see the ass. It was
perfect, he noted, as he spread her ass cheeks wide and exposed the
tight little brown hole, not the gaping sphincter of whores and porn
queens. He inserted his middle finger, feeling the dry tightness
while she moaned; then he sniffed and licked his finger. He could
barely taste the acrid flavor of shit; she really was clean.
He cleared his throat, choking nervously, then spat
onto her exposed ass sphincter while he held her cheeks spread, like
they always did in porn. Someone had called porn 'a cyclops gorging
on a hot dog;' her asshole reminded him of this cyclops eye staring at
him, glistening wetly with spit-tears.
"Pretty Young Things, Repeat After Me, I Said 'Na Na
Na,'" Michael exhorted to his P.Y.T. bitch-boys.
'Fuck this,' he thought to himself, pulling his
painfully tumescent cock from his pants, hoping he didn't explode
before he was inside her. He didn't need lube; the blood from her
cracked asshole would be enough. He wished that he was larger, to
hurt her more; he didn't want to make this any easier than it had to
be. He needed something larger, to force up her rectum, to draw her
blood and make her scream louder, but there would be plenty of time
for that later-now, he wanted her tight.
He plunged his cock in, the tight dryness tearing at his foreskin. He
reached over, underneath her bra, feeling the soft contours of her
small titties; he started pinching and twisting her erect nipple
underneath her bra, hard. Her cries became louder, more aware, and
she started bucking like a little bronco-bitch. Her bucking just
thrust his cock deeper, deeper into her tight, vise-like asshole. He
thrust harder, painfully, tearing at her ass capillaries to draw blood
for lube.
He wanted her to wake up, to realize that this was
life. Life is hell, a constant power struggle of people stabbing,
fucking and fighting, like Manson said. He was giving her the painful
and inescapable truth; it would have caught up with her eventually,
P.Y.T. that she was. If he didn't fuck her, the world would
anyway-good thing he got to her first.
Distantly, he was aware that he would have to kill her, once he was
done with her; the pigs would be on her like flies on shit, if he let
her survive, milking her for information and descriptions. Ironically
though, the pigs wouldn't even understand that her blood was on their
hands.