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.

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.



   

  

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.    

Frottage

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.       

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.

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.

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.

Magnolias

Well fuck me sideways, look who’s here! I’m glad you’re still out there in all your throbbing purple glory. There are so few things in this world one can count on. Death. Taxes. The human libido. But I have a confession, my darling randy reader: sometimes, late at night when the other inmates are restrained in their beds, dreaming their prepubescent penile dreams, I worry that you aren’t out there. That you are no longer waiting for me, that you’ve given up and moved on. That some other girl, some other fantasy, has taken my place. And then I think, well fuck you. Who needs you anyway?

Still, I wonder where you are. What you’re wearing. What you think about when you think about me. Who am I? How long would it take me to tear the clothes from your body? Will your cock spring up at my touch? What will I taste on your tongue? The bloody steak you ate for dinner? The salt-sweet cunt you ate for lunch? Mint, and just under the mint, barely detectable but present nonetheless, the pungent tang of shit?

When you read these words, will you take your dick in your fist and imagine me bending over in front of you, my forearms resting on a desk, a table, the back of a chair? My ass smooth and round, my hair falling over my shoulders. The curve of a shoulder blade, the small of my back. Press a knee between my legs, press your warm dick into the crack of my ass, nuzzle up into that warm wetness. While you imagine fucking me from behind, will you spit in your fist and stroke your hard cock? Down to the root, squeezing, up the shaft, over the head, down, up, over, down, up, over, down. Your balls slap my ass with each thrust and my legs quiver and I moan and my asshole winks up at you as you spread my cheeks and come, smearing sticky white gobs up the crack of my ass. Will you come into your fist, a tissue, an old stiffened sock?

Magnolia trees in bloom uncurl their fragrant pink petals, open their silken cunts to the wind’s searching fingers, and I lie here alone in the asylum, my own searching fingers opening my own silken petals, and I fuck myself as the wind whispers its spring secrets and I think, well fuck you. Who needs you anyway?

Salutations!

Salutations from the asylum! Jesus Christ, but it’s been awhile. Fucking seasonal affective disorder makes me all moody and lethargic. Well, that, and the fact that I pissed the night nurse off and he took away my computer privileges. He wanted a blowjob but I wasn't in the mood, what with the SAD and all, but sometimes this nurse won't take no for an answer. So I sucked him off alright, I just forgot to swallow and he ended up getting a second-hand facial. Oops. He was not amused. Makes you wonder about the way this system is set up, doesn’t it? Whose brilliant idea it was to put a bunch of perverts in charge of a bunch of perverts. It’s a wonder any of us get out of here at all. It doesn’t happen often.

So, anyway, I've done my time in solitary. I tried keeping track of how many times I fucked myself while I was down there, but I lost count. Nothing like a little masturbation to pass the time. But I'm back, and the sunshine filtering through my barred window makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and I thought I'd try to pass along some of the warm-and-fuzzy to you, my faithful fucked-up readers...

Summer air, heavy as unspoken lust. In the distance, heat lightning strikes. Villainous cumulus clouds rush in, blocking out the sun. The air between us sizzles, hisses, spits. We are alone, you and I, on this path by the river as the first pregnant drops fall, spattering the ground like so much wasted semen. Crack of thunder like a barehanded slap on the ass as the sudden rushing rain soaks us to the skin. My shirt clings to my stiffening nipples, my skirt clings to my bare thighs, I feel wetness between my legs that has nothing to do with the rain. I pull you to me in the darkness of the storm and kiss you, voraciously, wildly, I can't get enough of your lips, your tongue. Rain lashes the trees around us, whips the river into a frenzy. Your hands are on my breasts, pinching my nipples through the thin wet fabric, and I press myself into you as you run your hands down the curve of my waist and up my wet thighs and find that other wetness, slip a finger, two fingers, in. Fuck me, I plead, as thunder crashes. Fuck me fuck me fuck me and you push me backwards into a tree, I feel the wet bark rough against my back, your mouth on mine, your fingers in my cunt, I fumble with your belt and free your cock, pull it to me, pull it into me, purple and throbbing, and you fuck me up against the tree, rain pelting our faces, you fuck me fuck me fuck me as lightning rapes the sky and I cry out and you come in final violent thrusts and we are left panting and ragged and the storm rages on.

Fuck winter.

Goddamn, it’s cold in here. From where I sit in the common room, I can hear the other patients bitching and moaning about how cold they are. Fuck the temperature; they are cold in their cunts and in their sad, lonely hearts. Plus, the bastards that run the place keep the thermostat so low it damn near freezes your tits off. Pneumonia runs more rampant here than herpes simplex virus 2, and trust me when I tell you that that is saying something. I’m so glad you could come tonight. I miss you when we aren’t together, you know. It’s no fun jacking off alone. So let’s focus on a warmer, happier time, shall we?

As I drift slowly upwards into consciousness, I become aware of the fact that I’m blindfolded and ball-gagged and bound to a hard-backed chair, my wrists behind my back and my legs apart. The wiry fibres of the cord cut into my skin, not unpleasantly, and trickles of sweat trace their way between my naked breasts. I’m drooling. It's hot as a motherfucker in here. Where the hell am I? And suddenly the beast beside me roars into life and I realize that I'm in the boiler room of the asylum, naked and sweating. And I wonder how it can be so hot down here when the rest of the place is as cold as our poor broken hearts. Dim orange light flickers through the shadows and I feel myself getting wet, feel my nipples stiffen, feel my body swell with blood in anticipation. The ropes tighten as I strain forward. The heat is unbearable.

And then there you are, my sadistic saviour in the shadows. You snag your fingers in my hair and pull my head back violently. I feel your teeth against my skin and my body convulses as you bite into the smooth pale flesh of my neck. I am delirious with pleasure. Now those teeth are on my nipples, nipping and biting and I feel your tongue, your lips sucking at me, and in this darkness and this heat my entire body is aflame. I arch my back and thrust up involuntarily, my cunt is aching to be touched, and then I feel your breath warm against my wetness and your teeth scrape my clit as you suck me while saliva trickles down my chin. I feel the rope burn through the skin of my wrists and ankles, feel the sting as blood mixes with sweat, and I come violently against my restraints in waves of savage pleasure.

I'm still moaning weakly, the taste of stale rubber on my tongue, as you remove the gag, wipe away the drool, untie my wrists and ankles and kiss me softly on the lips. I become dimly aware of the sound of your footsteps fading and I realize that I am alone here as the beast beside me ceases his roar and is silent.

Happy fucking new year!

Well happy fucking new year! It seems like ages since I last wrote to you. My sincerest apologies for the delay, but I accidentally cut myself right before the holidays. Slipped on a banana peel during cafeteria duty and landed wrists down on a couple of paring knives. Unholy stigmata. It was the strangest goddamn thing. I couldn't do it again if I tried. I wanted to write to you, really I did, but there are no computers in the infirmary, and I couldn’t hold my wrists up long enough anyway. But here I am, back in action and horny as ever. I hope you've missed me...


My mouth is watering. I'm salivating like a good buddy of Pavlov's, and all I can think of is you. I'm wet, alone in my room, and I remember how your lips felt on my neck, how your nipples felt between my teeth, how your tits felt in the palm of my hand, so like and yet unlike my own. I cup my breasts with both hands and feel my nipples harden and I remember the first time I kissed you, how soft your lips were against mine. I remember the taste of your cunt, musky and vaguely salty, so like and yet unlike my own. I slip my fingers between my legs as I remember lapping at your clit like a hungry kitten, the way you shuddered and moaned beneath my lips as you came. And I shudder and moan and all I want is to be out of this godforsaken asylum so that I can sink my teeth into the pale smooth flesh of your neck and let your copper blood run down my throat.

salutations

Greetings from the bughouse, fuckers! The funniest thing happened to me today. It was during free time and this inmate who gets caught regularly masturbating to romance novels with long-haired he-men on the cover leans over to me, fingers knuckle-deep in her hairy old twat, and whispers, "What's the big deal with oral sex? They're always having oral sex." I nearly fell off my chair. This from the mouth of a woman who can’t keep her fingers out of her cunt and whose crimes include, well, I can’t tell you about her crimes, but believe me when I tell you that she really is fucking bonkers. Anyway, when she interrupted me I was reading my old dog-eared copy of Violette and I guess I'm feeling rather romantic tonight...

I am wet in anticipation. You are on your knees in front of me, and you give me that little wink as you lower your face to my pussy. I feel the warmth of your breath and it gives me a warm feeling in my belly. Your five o'clock shadow scrapes my thighs. You run your tongue teasingly from my asshole to my clit and it tickles and I grab your head with my hands and push you down. Quit fucking around and eat me. And you oblige, placing your hands under my ass cheeks and raising me up to you like you're drinking out of a goddamned golden chalice. My hands are in your hair as you lick me, suck me, slide your tongue along my glistening lips, a sharp intake of breath as you slip two fingers into my slit and one up my asshole. Heat radiates from the centre of my body; at this moment I am nothing but cunt. I'm panting and moaning and thrusting my pelvis up towards you as you thrust your tongue your fingers into me as you fuck me with your mouth and you focus your tongue on my clit and oh oh oh oh god I'm coming and I'm riding that glorious wave of pleasurepain and I shudder and die a sweet sweet death.

a message from the asylum

Ah there you are! It’s Fornicator. You must remember me; you spurted all over your monitor the last time we were together. You’re welcome, by the way.

Holy Christ, people around here have been miserable. Is it like that out there in the real world, too? The wind howls outside my barred window and I have terrible dreams and winter threatens, my sweet lovelies, and that Winter, she's a cunt. But don't let her get you down. I'll keep you warm, if only for a little while...

I'm naked, straddling you as you lay on the bare stained mattress on the floor in the corner of this filthy decaying crackhouse. People lay around us in various states of intoxication-whores with needles still hanging out of their veins and their tiny addicted babies who won't shut the fuck up, kids high on cheap beer and LSD, bums drunk on Listerine, everybody trying to stay out of that godforsaken wind. It's dark and the place reeks of piss and vomit and sex. I reach down between my legs and feel the thick wetness there and smell the metallic musky smell of my blood on my fingers. I paint my name on your chest in my blood, marking you, staking my claim, and your erection is my reward. I lower myself onto you and suddenly we are alone here in this foul room, and my cunt is alive, slippery with blood, and I fuck you until the heat flushes my body from head to toe and I come in spasms and I feel you come violently inside me and the thought of all those poor sperm surging uselessly forward makes me throw my head back and laugh, banshee laughter rising with the wind.

oh Humbert...

Hey. Fornicator From The Asylum here. As if you didn’t know. Cocksuckers. So, what have you been up to? This could be a two-way street, you know. Selfish bastards, looking to me to get yourselves off and never offering me so much as a sliver of fantasy in return, not the tiniest taste of what makes you cream in your silk panties, not an iota of what makes you come in your perfectly-creased trousers. Bunch of uptight assholes. But here you go anyway. I'm feeling generous. Not to mention horny as hell...

You sign in under the name Humbert, which cracks me up. The desk clerk hands you the key to room 9 and we drive around to the back of the motel, away from the noise of the highway. As you turn the key in the lock, I become aware of the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, sending blood pulsing to my nipples, my lips, my pussy, engorging me, getting me ready. You flip the lightswitch and the bare bulb throws its glare over the faded pumpkin-orange carpet and almost-matching curtains, which hang limply from the rod. Hopefully not a portent of things to come, I think to myself, and giggle. You slap me across the cheek. Sorry, daddy, I smile, and you slap me, not unkindly, across the other cheek. I grin.

While you pour yourself a drink, I perform my striptease, seductively unbuttoning my blouse, letting it slip from my shoulders, stepping out of my schoolgirl miniskirt and pink panties, until I am standing in front of you wearing only a thin black bra and matching thigh-high stockings and heels. And then you are on top of me, pushing me backwards onto the burgundy bedspread and its pattern of cigarette burns and old cum stains. I feel the mattress springs pressing into my back like some twisted form of acupuncture, I taste the bourbon on your breath, I feel your dick pressing its way into me, carving me out, filling me up. You kiss me wetly and pinch my nipples beneath my bra until I cry out. Fuck me, I plead. And you do. I dig my stilettos into the backs of your calves, drawing blood, and I scrape my fingernails down your back as the mattress protests and you fuck me fuck me fuck me until I am raw. You come in one final violent thrust and I press myself up, rubbing my aching clit against you until I come, too. We lie together, still breathing heavily, while you reach over to the nightstand and light a cigarette, exhaling into my mouth. I feel you beginning to soften inside me, feel the semen trickling out of my cunt, and when we leave this shit-hole motel room, we leave our own stains on the threadbare burgundy bedspread.

a message from Fornicator

Hello, you sane motherfuckers. Must be nice. To fuck your mother, I mean. Mine never comes to visit me here. Small wonder... Hey, speaking of mothers, did you know that this place used to be run by nuns? I picture punk rock nuns in stilettos and garters, cigarettes dangling. The thought of God attempting to assert His will in this place cracks me up, so vile and depraved and hopeless are we. But I do like to imagine the nuns alone in their rooms at night, furiously rubbing themselves, rosaries shoved halfway up their asses while Jesus smiles benevolently down from his crucifix.

So let me tell you a tale, a tale of depravity and sex. (Why else do you think I come here? To practice my secretarial skills?) Here goes, my lovelies, can you handle it? And by handle it, I mean have you got a nice firm grip on your dick there? A slim, wet finger pressed against your slit? You do? Well okay then…

I slink through the club, the air heavy with smoke and sex, a panther on the prowl. I'm looking for you.

I order a shot of tequila, fuck the accoutrements, and feel the slow burn trace its way down my throat. I order another, and give the bartender a wink. He knows the score. He smiles and wipes the counter as I tip the second drink back, over my lips, onto my tongue, down my throat. Where are you?

And, suddenly, my spider senses tingling, I look over my shoulder, and through the smoke and the sex, there you are. Weak, vulnerable, alone. My prey.

I make my way through the smoke, feeling the burn in my insides, feeling the thrill of the hunt make my heart beat faster, feeling you watching me as I make my way over to you. I catch your eye and you are unable to look away. In that instant, you are mine.

You follow me as I leave the club, pressing through the doors into the warm night air, from darkness into darkness, and I lead you down an alley. The tension is palpable, and in that second before I kiss you, before I push you into the brick wall, I am alive, gloriously alive, despite the cancer burning its black way through my cunt. And I push you into the brick wall, and I kiss you hungrily, all lips and tongue and teeth, and I feel the heat and hunger and sickness radiating from us. And I yank your jeans down and yank my skirt up and I fuck you up against the brick wall in that dark dank alley and, in that second before we come, I know that I have passed it on, my disease is contagious and I have given it to you, my sweetest darkest gift.

a note from Fornicator

Hey, you bunch of pansies, it's Fornicator From The Asylum. I know you've been anxious to hear from me. Jesus, it's only been a couple of days. I told you not to get your fucking panties in a bind. Sometimes it takes awhile to get computer access around here. You gotta know who to fuck, and when they want it, and even then it’s a crapshoot. Trust me-you try the wrong nurse on the wrong night and you find yourself in fucking solitary. Which is fine if you like sleeping in your own shit. (Not that I'm judging you if scat is your cup of tea. Let she who is without sin, and all that jizz… ) Anyway, you'll be lucky if you hear from me once a month. We've been getting a lot of new inmates lately. Must be the humidity. Humidity brings out the sexual psychotics like the full moon brings out the weirdos. It's a scientific fact. But I promised you something when first we met, didn’t I? Far be it from me to blather on about the asylum when there you sit, lube on deck and dick in hand, waiting…

We are alone in this dim cellar. The air is moist and somehow virile. Furry dark things linger in the shadows in malevolent anticipation. I can feel you looking at me in the dark. You move closer, out of the darkness and into the faint circle of light cast from the dirty bare lightbulb, and your eyes are narrowed and there is a vague smile on your face. I can't tell precisely what it means, that smile, but I know I'm gonna get it, and good. You slap me across the face and I feel the heat rise there. And as you grab me by the hair and shove my face against the wall, I feel the heat rise in other places, too. I feel the cold rough concrete of the basement wall against my skin as you force your other hand between my thighs, parting my legs, opening me up with your fingers, and then your dick slams its way home and you fuck me fuck me fuck me against the wall. You finish and abruptly withdraw, wiping the cum that drips off your dick onto my ass cheeks. And I am left slumped on the cold basement floor, sticky and raw and scraped and bleeding, and I grin.

Until next time, my darling fornicators...

Greetings from the asylum!

Well, hello there! It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance! Unfortunately, we’ll have to keep the pleasantries brief, as I only have a few minutes. There are many inmates and only one recreational computer here at the asylum, and this computer is one hot commodity for us sexual psychotics. I've only been given access now because I let the night nurse fuck me in the ass. A girl does what she can…

In case you are one of those people who needs to know to whom they are speaking, you may call me Fornicator From The Asylum. They let us use the computer here, but they also monitor every goddamned thing we write. I’m not allowed to tell you my real name. Or the nature of my crimes. And it's not like I can use this opportunity to plan an escape or anything. But I might as well put it to some use. Hell, maybe I’ll even inspire some of you to go out into the world and fornicate instead of wasting your time sitting at home jacking off onto the keyboard. But I’ll take what I can get. Beggars can’t be choosers, and, anyway, I don’t mind being down on my knees.

Now that we have the name thing out of the way, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm the blonde schoolgirl with the ponytails and the short skirt and the black thigh-high stockings. I'm the tattooed, raven-haired goth princess with nipple piercings and a fondness for pain. I'm the girl next door who gave you your first masturbatory fantasy. I'm the platinum porn star with DD tits and blowjob lips. I'm your best friend's older sister, passed out at a party, my lips and legs spread open on the rec room couch. I'm all of this and more and I can't wait to spend more time with you. Time's up. For now...