October 11, 2013

The Crypt

Well hello there... I've missed you, my sweet little mindfucks. I flatter myself that you've missed me, too. Just because I haven't been around doesn't mean that I haven't been thinking of you out there, madly diddling yourselves in the darkest corners of the internet. Have you grown tired of the bombardment of dripping cocks? Of the tattooed tits, the gaping cunts, the distended assholes?The midnight images posted by ex-lovers and unrequited loves? And have you come crawling here in search of respite from all that emptiness? There is so little imagination left out there. Let me take you in my arms and tell you a story...

The hush of prayer as I enter the cathedral. Summer sun shines through the windows, glass stained with the stories of sacrifice and salvation, casting distorted prisms of light onto the faces of the pious. Scent of incense and devotion. Scent of sin.

Christ on the cross stares blindly out over lamb and wolf alike. Humbled, on their knees, the faithful clasp their hands and bow their heads. They pray to be forgiven, or maybe they only pretend to pray. There is no need for me to pray, or to pretend. I cannot be forgiven. I wink at Jesus and he winks back, impaled for all eternity on his great wooden phallus.

I descend the steps to the crypt, where you are waiting. Here, surrounded by the marble tombs of saints, of virgins and of rapists, you lay me down on the cold stone floor, push my skirt up above my waist, tear my panties off. You kneel in front of me as if in prayer and lower your face to my cunt, slip your tongue into that slit, soft and warm and wet, probing, licking, tasting. I extend my arms, Christ-like, feel the centuries-old stone cool against my skin. I close my eyes as you suck my clit, tongue flicking, making me twitch and moan.          

I pull your face up to mine and kiss you hungrily as I slip my fingers between my legs, bring them to my face and inhale the heavenly scent of my sex upon them. I reach for your cock, hot and hard in my hand, and guide you into me, my body and soul are empty and need to be filled. And oh God yes this heat and sweat and skin fuck me please God yes. And we fuck. We fuck like missionaries on the cold stone floor of this cathedral, unrepentant sinners for whom fornication is the only hope of salvation, fucking fucking fucking, until we come together in the holy ecstasy of martyrs.

September 8, 2012

Cracking up.

Well, here it is, fellow fornicators: the middle of the night. Again. I think of you often in the middle of the night, you know. I wonder what you're doing, what clit-wanking shenanigans you're getting up to on Chatroulette, what POV porn princess you're jacking off to. Sure, she'll suck your pseudo-cock, but will she play with your thoughts after you've globbed your knob? And isn't a little mind-fuck why you come here, after all?

I'm sincerely sorry I've been so remiss. Life in the asylum isn't all it's cracked up to be. Let's get out of here, shall we?

I slide the keycard into the lock, slip it out again quickly. Green means go.

You are waiting for me in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, an overpriced adult film playing on the flat-screen tv on the wall opposite the bed, vodka-rocks in two lowball glasses on the nightstand. They're real glass, too. None of that plastic Dixie cup bullshit. Swanky.

I slink over to the bed, a siren in stilettos, hand you one glass and take the other for myself. Cheers, baby. The liquor warms my throat and whets my appetite. It wets other things, too.

I pull your cock out from behind the robe, feel the heat and heft in my hand, bend to it and run my lips over the glistening head. I am on my knees in front of you on the plush carpet while you sit back on the bed, and you moan softly as I suck you, as I lube your cock up with my mouth, as I gently stroke your balls, as I finger your sweet puckered little asshole. I feel your body tense, you are about to come, and so I stop and we change places. I lie back on the bed and reach down between my legs, feel the slickness there, run my wet fingers over my cleavage. You slide your cock between my breasts, I push them together to create a perfect tit-cunt, and you slide your hard cock up and down between them, fucking my tits, fucking fucking fucking, and my cunt is aching for you and so fuck me, I command, and you do, my stilettos on the floor and my ass almost off the bed, you stand in front of me with your hands on my hips, pulling me to you, and you fuck my wet cunt, slam your cock into me over and over, fuck me fuck me fuck me, and my thighs tense and quiver and oh god yes fuck yes yes fuck fuck and you pull out and spurt your spunk onto my perfect tits.     

I use the bathrobe to clean myself off, crack open another airplane bottle of vodka and pour it over the ice shards in my glass. Cheers, baby. I kiss you goodbye and leave the keycard on the nightstand.



April 27, 2012

It is always 3 a.m.

It is always 3 a.m., it seems, when we come together, two fuckfreaks in the dark. The furnace growls, the spider crouches, long-legged and lethal, the junkies sob their stories to the wind. Sharks circle and rain lashes and night thoughts hiss and whisper. Chipped red nails and blue balls, fingers pressing, fists pumping. It's easy to fall. And so we claw and grasp and scratch and fuck and fuck it and maybe it's all just snakes spitting in the darkness, choking it down, coughing it up, consuming it whole. We can dance, you and I, this fuck-metaphor of dance, and it's true, there is something graceful in the coming together of flesh, but grotesque, too. This sweating, this grunting, this moaning, this fucking fucking fucking, to heave and shudder together into that momentary epiphany of blood and spit and cum. And after, in the pale glow of streetlights and cell phones and burning cigarette ends, it is always 3 a.m., and I am empty.    

January 20, 2012


My goodness, but I really have been remiss, haven't I? Neglecting you out there in the cold and the dark. My darling peeping perverts, alone in internetland with one hand down your pants, jacking it like the world's about to end. Get your kicks in while you can, my sweets, because if the Mayans are right, it just might. Have you thought about me, locked up here in the asylum? It's cold and dark here, too, and I'm alone with my thoughts. And my twat. (They're both dirty.)

You know, you might not know it to look at me now, strapped here to the bed in my standard-issue sexiopath uniform of pasties and crotchless panties, but I was once a world traveller. Little old me, fornicating my way around the globe. It was an endless source of adventure, fucking my way from place to place, warm nights in strange cities spent gagging on uncut foreign cock. Ah, those were the days...

Sweat trickles between my breasts, pools in the small of my back, beads on my upper lip. The black cobblestone streets are burning. It is sweltering here in Rome.

As the sun sets in a mythical ball of fire, I wait at the bus stop with tired American tourists in sensible shorts and sturdy sandals, handsome young Italian businessmen in tailored suits and slick hair, dark Italian women in short skirts and high heels, and, impossibly, nylon stockings.

When the bus to Trastevere arrives, it is already crowded. I force my way in, looking for something to hold on to, and the bus jerks forward into the chaos of taxi cabs and screaming motorcycles. I grab a vertical bar and press myself against it, facing the window to watch the sunbleached storefronts race past in a blur of shoes and leather.

As the bus lurches to a stop and lurches forward again, someone moves against me and I feel what is unmistakably an erection pressed up against my behind. I stiffen and try to squeeze myself forward into the pole, but we are packed in like a busload of tourists on our way to Pisa and there is nowhere to go.

The erection presses forward, insisting, and I give in--when in Rome--and press my ass backwards slightly into that stiffness, feel it respond to my response, growing harder, growing bolder. I tilt my hips and you move closer and I press back into you and you move against me and I am aware of the heat in this bus and the heat in my cunt as sweat and juice trickle together down my thigh and we rub together, your cock and my ass, pressing, aching, fucking, fucking, fucking, two strangers on a bus in a strange country, and we arrive with a shudder and a screech of brakes and the crowd pours out down the steps and down the street into Trastevere and I am borne along with them into the liquid night.       

May 5, 2011

Shark Tank

Well, Jesus fatherfucking Christ, look who's here! That's right, straight from the cells of the sex-asylum, it's your sometimes-not-so-friendly neighbourhood fornicator. And yes, I do realize that it's been months since we've spoken. Or, to be accurate, since I've written. Get over it already, you greedy assholes. I have more important things to do with my time than help you get off. (Namely, get off myself. Although I know you like reading about that, too.) Speaking of greedy assholes, I've been patiently biding my time here in the asylum, waiting for just the right moment, hoping to find you alone in the dark. And, finally, blessedly, here you are. I can't tell you how glad I am that you've come...

Techno-trash beats thump heavily and the air reeks of Danier and desperation. I am sober as a saint in my six-inch stilettos while strangers beside me choke back shots in their pathetic attempts to subvert their inhibitions. I have no inhibitions and all the subversions a girl could ask for. I don't need liquor.

You’ve been circling me for the past few hours. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you there, my shark in the shadows. I deign, finally, to allow you to catch my eye. My gaze reels you in, and I grin because I know that soon we will be flopping around together, breathless, desperate, dying.

I wait with bated breath as you swim upstream against the current of hopeless stumbling bodies. Alone in this sea of despondence, we two are hopeful. There is no question here.

And you reach me, finally, blessedly, and I take your hand and lead you through the pulsing throng, the techno-trash beat pounding in my chest, and I feel the familiar dampness down below as my cunt gets ready for you. I push the stall door open and close it behind us. We stand in puddles of piss and you push me back against the wall of this cramped bathroom stall and we fumble with zippers and your cock springs up, hot and hard, and my cunt responds in kind, warm and wet, and you lift me up with your hands under my bare ass and I brace one stiletto against the far wall and you enter me and we snap hungrily at each other and we fuck as the club piscators trawl the dancefloor and we fuck as the muffled beat pounds and we fuck in this filthy bathroom stall and we fuck fuck fuck until we come together in waves, breathlessly, desperately, and we die that little death that makes living the only option and we cling to each other until the waves subside and I kiss your rough shark cheek and leave you there standing in puddles of piss.

August 25, 2010

Fire's burning, fire's burning, draw nearer, draw nearer...

Ah, yes, there you are, my perverted darlings! I knew you were around here somewhere! I was getting a bit panicked, actually. They’ve really cracked down here at the old asylum, restricting visitors and online communication. (Conjugal visits are, of course, strictly forbidden to those of us here in the fuckward, but they do make occasional allowances for immediate family who may be, oh, say, dying of cancer or something. Asylum generosity is truly overwhelming…) Anyway, I looked for you everywhere. I tried all the usual places: at the dry cleaner’s, the drive-in, the old meat-packing plant. No sign of you. I checked behind the mop bucket in the janitor’s closet and under your grandmother’s bed, to no avail. Down the back alley behind the Greyhound bus station, at the top of the Empire State Building, in the newly renovated washroom at Grossman’s Tavern. Nada. I thought for sure I’d find you in that swanky hotel room in north Vancouver, but nope. I tried the wax museum. Hell, I even looked for you in church, so you gotta know I was getting desperate. And after all this, where do I find you? Why, there you were all along, stuck in my subconscious like two lines from the chorus of a childhood campfire song…

My fingers are sticky with bits of melted marshmallow as I take your hand and lead you away from the bonfire, down the beach, into the black. The residual heat from the fire warms my face and the sand is cool beneath my feet as waves slip and suck behind us in the darkness. I kneel in front of you in the sand, wrap my sticky fingers around the base of your cock, and take you into my mouth. I wrap my lips around the smooth head of your dick, run my tongue under the ridge, poke it into the tip, taste you there. A warm summer breeze and your hands in my hair, insistent, as I tighten my grip and suck you, sliding my lips down that throbbing shaft, your balls cupped in my other hand, my middle finger pressing against your asshole. Your cock hits the back of my throat and I suck you in the summer dark, the fire a match-flame in the distance. I suck you suck you suck you until you whisper-moan that you are going to come and you do, filling my mouth with hot cum, sweet as s’mores.

June 22, 2010

I am the fly.

Hey, you randy bastards, it's the Fornicator, fresh out of the dungeon and ready to slay that mighty dragon of yours. Bring the fire, baby- I can handle it. Speaking of fire, it's one hot son of a bitch in the asylum today. Those managerial motherfuckers upstairs think that extreme variations in temperature will help kill our desire. Fuck them. This heat just makes me horny, which is pretty goddamned convenient for you, isn't it?

A swollen fly buzzes lazily around my cell. We've been trapped in here for weeks together. I feed him scraps of my lunch, imagine him regurgitating up his stomach acid to dissolve the bits of meat so he can slurp them up with his sticky fly tongue. Leaning up against the cold concrete wall of my cell, the fly's somnolent buzzing fading into daydream, I think of your tongue against my naked skin, tracing its way from my lips to my neck, around the curve of my breast, flicking over my nipple. Your lips suck and your tongue teases and my breasts swell and my nipples grow taut and I slip a finger into my warm wet cunt while you suck me, biting now, twisting that hard pink bud gently in your teeth. A wave of heat surges through me and my hips push involuntarily forward, upward, and I flick my finger over my clit while you lick and suck. Our tongues meet, pulsing, warm and wet, and I come in spasms while we kiss.

As the dream fades I become aware of a panicked buzzing and I watch the fly struggle helplessly in the web he has worked so hard to avoid, watch the spider dance happily over to its plump prize and inject it with venom. The fly twitches, once, twice, and is still.