Did she feel this like I do?

beat me, flay me, shave my hair, smash my face until my broken mouth confesses, and stake me as a heretic to burn for my god.

There is no way to stay seated under this petrol.  Czechs will not stand still thinking.

a Germanic Prince, riding a horse backwards.  There is a noose around my neck.  Soon my family will half hang me, disembowel me alive, and drown me.  I feel like raping myself to death in joy.

What do you tell a man with two black eyes?

all is forgiven.  Everything is real.  Nothing is permitted.

You made me wait ten years, hiding behind the name of one true prophet of our age.

You shut your fucking mouth, tell him we’ll be back, and I’ll tear out your fucking eyes love.  I am going to tear out your lights and I shall fucking eat them.

cut off my feet, cut off my hands, pull out my eye, for who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?

Europa rides me into the ocean of the twentieth century and man is a mad animal I am a mad animal.

In which our hero observes, in a low silent tone, the match betwixt vested masters.

Alterson to break.  Which he does cleanly, the rod is out, long, and well chalked.  It slams directly into the ball, forcing the pockets.

The break is all over the place, but he’s really put his opponent over the table here.  Pot after pot.  Beautiful.

Karim to break.  Prefers a thicker cue.  Oh nice English, its spun, but a tricky break, and, yes, he’s decided to pass the action over to his opponent.  Tricky position for Alterson, he’s backed into a corner, and oh no, how disappointing for the young scamp.  Karim has taken him on and laid him back against the baize.  Look how he’s holding the weighted end of that cue, masterful.  Pocketed, over and again.  Magnificent.  Karim is from Wales and is known for his calm, controlling style.  Oh very nice.

How will Alterson respond here, a messy break, all over the place, spilling his balls everywhere on the green.  And Karim is taking advantage of him.  Oh goodness.  Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is world championship action.  That is fucking a man until he squeals on a snooker table.  And what class.  He didn’t even remove his bow tie, vest, or shoes.  Look at Alterson’s pocket, how fast Karim filled it with his balls.

Ladies and Gentlemen.  That is truely Potted Black.

In which Captain Mission is reborn in the flesh of the Mother and the Daughter and the Profane Corporeality.

Father Patricia, the Irish Priest who was never seen in public without her stern black dress and high white collar, was intoning gracelessly.  We forgave her that, as we forgave her her catholocism, for she was as deviant in her religious practice as she was in her sexual ones.  Thankfully, she was not about to give us another sermon on the unity of solidarity amongst the multitude, and of the importance in cleansing our mother’s house of the money-lenders.  Too many times she had called upon us to rise up as one, and build a New Jerusalem in these green and pleasant waters, armed with the tools of our oppression.

But what we were looking at, as we stared deep into where her massive cleavage must be, willing the small black pearl buttons to break forth her heaving milky tits, was the subject of today’s sermon.  At last, it took a month of Sundays, but today was a sermon on the necessity of brotherly love.

I remember the first time I saw her, she was trying to convert heathen natives to enlightened European sex: anal as contraception.  She figured if the Papa’s Church was going to try it on with the actually enlightened and faithful Easterners, then she’d wipe the dust off her feet as she left “Christendom” and found a new communion where those who had ears to hear could be taught of how Mother’s Church learnt to survive under Father’s rule. (As an aside, everytime after we’d fucked, she always reminded me that to submit is to control, and boy did she turn the other cheek to my rope end.) And she was learning by teaching.  For one the heathens showed her that oral was much more impressive, but she begged and the ladies were for turning her around and she took the fist up to the wrist in both her holes.  The women satisfied, the boys came forward next.

I was never more motivated to confess my sins and beg for their redemption, yay unto seventy fold times seven in seed, than when I saw her anus spasming on an alteredboi’s juicy red cocklette in front of an impressed group of Hindus. I think she made a bunch of converts that day, and they included me amongst them, in adding Yeah-woah to my shrine’s pantheon.  Watching teen spunk drip out of her rouge red arsehole was a revelation to me.  I’d seen the light, it came dribbling out of where the sun doesn’t shine. After her lecture she took their pamphlets and sutras, particularly the epic Mahabharata, which she said would be excellent reading for a warm night when she had no interest in earthly things like cunt and man-arsehole.

After that astounding day I knew I’d just have to let her ring my bell. But after a full body baptism preceded by a festival of sin, one had to sin again before we could kneel before her in the confessional and then participate fully between the welcoming thighs of Father Church’s masses, embodied in his representative Patricia.  Oh we’d sinned truely before our baptism, in all the ways which Jewish scholars of the Indies have informed me require purification by water.  Let us just say that those men of us who were about to receive Christ and her Church well and truly received each other first.  And not like a man lies with a woman, but like a man lies with a man, full of sweat and the reek of anal mucus and slimy pre-cum.  There can be no sin in that, for it is not written against, and the only time my brother’s wife has seized my balls in anger, it wasn’t during a dispute.  Though I did later try to cut her hand off, with the tight grip of my inner sanctity.

My problem in sinning again to be born again was that I had just been reborn.  I could feel that rope red ring of hempen ligature as I turned half hanged into fully hung, my balls pumping Patricia’s sainted cunt full of seed like my own mancunt was being flooded from behind.  I was a boy again, but he shared my mind well, and we became each other as another becumed me and I becumed Patricia.  They’d taken their god damned time about getting me back into my head as I adjusted to a conga-line at my suckhole and yet another child hood to integrate and interrogate into my rhyzome memory.  At least this time I wasn’t fucking white again.  They say we’re all the same colour on the inside, but I prefer strawberries and cream in my lover, not on me.

They fucked right through me and I was born again hard, I was an angel of life, praying unto liberty, and the ship’s crew used me as a condom for our priest.  And I vomited up my last hanged man’s supper, but all that came was thick ropes of jizm splattering Patricia’s heaving teats, and was made a new.  She slapped my face, and slapped my arse, and they tore the veil from this world from my rear and I cried at the pity of being alive.

“Go forth, young man, and sin some more,” she growled in her rough fucking voice that she saved for heaven fire preaching, “I’ll not wash the sins from your body until you’ve covered that fuck spunk fuck funk with fresh juices, I’ll not wash you in our lamb until you’ve made sin original.”  And with that I was kicked arse first back into the struggle, with nothing but a ship full of men and women who’d screwed my life up out of the grave, and the dreams of an Irish woman’s ideological nexus.

Wherein, to make use of his incorporal time, Captain Mission reminds the youth of the pleasures of learning, and their certain benefits for the inception of knowledge deep within the womb of the mind.

I think the most important thing you should be considering is if you’ve ever been fucked in a library.  And not just fucked, but thoroughly roughly taken and fucked and left dripping and dewey in the 600s.  In the rather larger libraries, while there might be rules against noise, there’s also a vast depth of endless, identical shelving, differing only in what each contains.  They loom like so many men’s speedo’s, jutting out at you thick and fat and full of rock hard certainty.  If you tried to get your head around all those thick volumes the juices would drip out your ears.

You reach up on a little portable stool for a book high on the shelf, when the tomes spill out behind you, reaching up under your short skirt.  They’re hotter than books should be, and rounder.  Veiny rods of French and English masters tear away your flimsy silk panties, forcing themselves against your tight quim.  You moan, falling open armed into the opposite shelf where cockmonster books twine down your arms like vines, tying your body open to the literary invasion at your rear.  Looking down at the seven or eight rods bound in black, red, green, pink and even blue leather, you gasp seeing not blood pulsing through them but words.

Too bad for you sweet heart, ’cause Shakespeare just shoved his entire opus into your mouth.  You can’t tell if its merely octavo or the full quarto because all you notice is how sweet his words are on your tongue.  You literary whore, you’ll pick up anything that’s good for you.

Short stories and sweet little sonnets have banged at your closed doors of imagination, but something of your personality is seeping out hot and sweet.  You knew there was a reason you shaved before browsing, its because a thousand words have told a sticky hot mixture all over your pussy.  You need that because taking all of Voltaire in during one sitting is a bit of a stretch.  Oh god what a stretch, double teamed by the British and French, their fat opuses fucking you suspended above the shelving, in mid air, with minor poets’ cocks caressing your legs and spurting hot ideas on your inner thighs.

You’ll read anything once, and anything good twice until it really sinks in deep.  Literature has made you her slut and you love it.  Thick short crude genre works rip open your bodice and spill pirate treasures down your tits, making you their sloppy thinker.  But it all comes back to Shakespeare in your mouth, and Voltaire working your cunt.  Every time they spurt out something, it seems like their final work, but instead they renew their efforts, the creamy excess of William’s sonnets drooling down your chin.

You push your legs together, its too much, especially as the Uni Students and eager young reshelvers gaze down the aisle of leathery dicks fucking you, watching you come until you’re screaming, muffled, on As you Like it.  You couldn’t take it all, you couldn’t fit it all in, but the books have been rubbing their thrusting heads up against each other, eager to get inside you and fill you up, and when the great Masters of Western Culture drop you cum drenched to the floor, your hair dishevelled and well conditioned, your short skirt lewdly hiked up over your red beating cunt, your bruiséd lips uttering little white iambs, the minor authors spill their white ink all over your prone body, and you clutch their meanings to your chest.

Still smelling of musky tomes, old sweat and tears, and scented fingers, barely dried knowledge showing itself across your face, you face the desk librarian who shares a secret smile with you as you check out books to your limit for more study at home.

Being discovered by a scab class traitor who needed the reward to eat, he is captured and subjected to United Nations reportable incidents of the kind which make ITV Television reporters come in their pants.

The trucks rumbled me—woke me—up to pain and blackness, they hadn’t put my eyes out please? Please gods no, I’m too stupid to learn braille now.  I can’t breathe, oh gods oh gods, oh its a hood, I’ve still got my eyes.

I can’t blame her. She must had needed to eat.  Or get teeth pulled.  Or her child was sick.  You can’t blame them, they’re victims too.  The leader is too far away.  Everyone believes the Baron is good, even his party of gentlemen adventurers.  I can’t blame her.  I can’t feel my arms.

I can’t fall asleep either, but I can’t remain conscious, the hood is choking me, why are they trucking me, I haven’t been that important yet, not this life, I haven’t been important, please don’t let me be important, they’ll keep me alive.

I don’t awaken, dropping four feet onto my hooded face merely erupts me from the zone.  The soldiers don’t speak the majority language.  They’re an ethnic minority.  I can’t blame them.  They didn’t get to choose if they’d be conscripted as “specials.”  The air is hot like Khazkhstan’s summer, or spring time for Gitmo.  My mouth is dry from drooling.  Oh gods they’re amateurs, my kidneys, they might accidentally kill me early, why can’t they drag me to my feet?

I try walking. I can’t.  I can’t blame them.  Their punches and somewhat generous manhandling keeps me upright. When my gut hits the table my arse hits the chair. Two blows to the neck with a baton. I don’t know if I go unconscious, if I don’t I must have zoned.  Be right back, pissing blood.

The cane on my back awakens me, my legs are spread wider than my shoulders, my face and shoulder are pressed against a wall, my hands are still zip-tie cuffed at the thumbs.  Someone runs the blade over the tie.  My hands are now as naked as my back.  The majority language shouts tell me to ball my feet and keep arched fingertips against the wall.  The pommies invented this in Northern Ireland.  Do try this at home kids.  You can torture someone wherever there’s a wall.

I can barely manage three minutes, if those were minutes, before they have to cane me to comply.  I can’t blame them.  Its a job.  A man has to eat.  And there’s mortgages to keep and insurance to pay. Why can’t I blame them, where has all my protective hate gone? I shriek as they cane me to the balls of my feet.

I don’t know how long, how many strikes, all of me hurts. They haven’t asked me anything yet.  Someone holds my wrist without tearing it out of its socket.  There’s cool metal.  Someone puts a clip on my thumb, but it doesn’t cut off the feeling.  Someone marks a clipboard.  Its a doctor, surely she’ll save me?  Surely?  No, the heels are receeding.  I can’t blame her.  She has an oath.  She has to make sure I won’t die yet.

They drag me by my shoulders and put me in a room, with a light, and its cold, and they take the hood, and yell at me in majority to keep my arms above the blankets.  Its freezing like SLON at MidWinter.  Its freezing like the Лубянка is at all hours. The light is 120 watts. To keep my arms suicide watch I have to lie on my back. To lie on my back the 120 watts roast my eyelids open. I can’t blame them. I must be too valuable to let die. I am Jack’s prolapsed uterus. I am in the cold hearted white lighted blaze of the leader. I can’t blame the Baron. He’s merely a representative of the hate of the electorate.

Tomorrow is Yesterday in the life of Mission Missionovich.  Yesterday is the See You Next Tuesday of the day after.  I am not.  I haven’t been since the second day.  And then I am given soup, hot soup with meat.  It makes me shit myself in the Commissar’s office.  I can’t blame him.  He believes.  And what he believes in is right.  But I have nothing to confess.  And they refuse to let me die.  And in the fourth month the Commissar is forced to abandon chats appealing to the interest of the Party of the Baron.

The day my left kidney fails is the day I confess to what I could not have done.  But they have witnesses who have already testified in court against me.  And if they say it, it must have been.  The irony is that my kidney was taken after they broke me.  They didn’t stop when my teeth were broken and I was screaming a nightmare of horrors I had done.  I can’t blame them.  You have to take pride in your work and be thorough.

Thankgoodness I spilt all over the floor and all over my comrades.  Thankgoodness I did.  I wasn’t there to take any more.

My comrades can’t blame me. I wasn’t present when I confessed.

The Chief Prosecutor commuted death to life.  Now I can break Edith or Phüntso’s record in solitary.  They keep up the suicide watch, but I am sharpening a fat wood slivver from the bed on the concrete render easy-wash wall.  I keep it in my arsehole by day.  It hurts, but the pain will soon be gone.  Now I have until death to remember my cowardice on the floor soaked with my piss.  If I had been strong they would have accidentally killed me.  My only hope of escape is a lot of sodomy, and orgone decapitation.

Location: In your government’s custody (unacknowledged).

Location: Choosing to go insane to survive solitary.

Wherein the Captain subjects cat women to forcible sex in the vagina, anus and mouth.

“Bend over, bend over goddamn it more you slut, I could smell your cunt from the next room, if you keep trying to fuck the internet we’ll see if your snatch can eat a mouse or not, the gaming kind with too many buttons.”  He canes her upper thighs until there’s more red than white, her whimpers are a static background tone nobody would care about. “Did you think you could slut it around my house drinking milk and eating fish all day and not have to pay?  Hips like yours mean you need fucking.”

He looks you over, with the turtleneck flaring at your bared arse, you’re a fucking cunt juice vaporiser in this dry weather.  The only shaved part of your body is thrust up like an obscene bun splaying open roast beef and mustard. “You think you’d get off with petting like a cat girl?  Cat girls go to primary school.  Catwomen, catsluts like you are here to get fucked and hard.” He reams your arsehole with the tail plug you’ve worn since you took of your pants and then walked through the door hours ago. “Catwomen are for raping.”

Your belled collar jingles with each cane strike over your buttocks and cunt.  You’re his fuck toy, you love it, it hurts you so. He feeds your mouth milk over and over all night petting your long spilling hair.  His hands fondle your pert little ears, as pointed as your heaving tits, while a stream of flared cocked catboys from first year science rape your cunt in sequence. By morning you’re a pile of snot drool cum and juice. You purr, lick the jism from your cunt for breakfast, and sneak off for a nap in the sunshine on the carpet.

Location: Wherever she hiding from me.

Location: Making her choke on dick, with my mind.

Wherein Captain Mission makes the discovery that by micturating into the aether one’s visage becomes moistened.

Try to cover up, but you can’t.  The wind howls through you, but you try to cover up, the clothes, they do nothing.

A cheap summer dress whipping around in winter winds.  At first the piss is hot, but only for just enough time to make your skin happy and warm enough to really feel the cold bite like ice.

And that’s when I sit down on a camp stool, tighten the scarf over my coat and pullover, and pull my hat down so it won’t blow off in the wind, and smoke my pipe for the next two hours.  The wind does my job for me. All I have to do is look you over like the dirty piss soaked slag you are.

And you whimper, and whine, and begin to shake like an epileptic Minister for the Environment dancing during an earthquake when his head finally turns into a penis and ejaculates his spine out of his forehead.  Every five minutes I make you touch your thumb with your pinkie, and you can, but you’re less responsive every time because your mind is wandering far from me.

When the coals burn low, I walk you home. You stink of piss, and I remind you about what kind of girl walks home stinking of piss underdressed in winter.  I shower you in tepid water until you smell clean, but you’re still elsewhere, and wrap you up in a blanket and fuck you, fuck you hotly, you feel strangely corpse cold and you’re vacant.  Its impressive.

I hold you until you’re warm, and until you return, and then after and after.  Its strange to feel so cruel and satisfied at the same time.  I also know that pissing on a flame puts out the fire and makes it steam instead; but I still think of it.

Location: hiding in a shanty while a tidal wave of Hindu foreman run past trying to get Gordan Freeman on my arse

Location: mashing up trains of thought like records during a battle, and trying to chart the territory after being blown their by his thought.

The lady thinks out aloud . o O ( ack! vampire cockbiting! ) The demon tempts her back, “thighs pump more blood faster.” The lady’s Lord informs the demon, “But then it comes out of your nose!”

A diversion on the subject of bloody cunts

Is there anything more fascinating than bloody, messy sex? Yes, of course, but bloody messy sex is pretty damn good.  I’m not talking menstrual sex.  If you’re not going to fuck and eat cunt for a quarter of the menstrual cycle, then stop fucking and eating cunt all together.  Menstrual sex is good, I find its more liquid.  Menstrual cunt eating requires enough finger fucking until your lady runs clear.  Blood not being a thing for me.

On the subject of Vampyres of all kinds, and the diuerse paths by which people wish to fuck them

I am not into the vampires. They remind me far too much of the dead hand of past labour.  If someone wants to play vampires with me, then I will want to play a hunter, and not a victim.  And there’s no compromise with them!  It seems like with a little bit of romantic angst and moral self-loathing a vampire can get away with anything these days.  Vampires are made from thanatos and dead babies and the exploitation of our fellow man without being of and amongst us.  I don’t understand when people want to subject and subordinate themselves

But I do like the fact that vampires open up slippery worlds of irregular sex for people.  A vampire really sucks cock.  She uses her teeth.  And you either love her for it because like the mosquito a substance of their being prevents pain, or causes joy; or, like the demon lover, she hurts you and you love her for it.  She sucks cock but good.  And she gets a little mess in her mouth as well.

Is that as far as it goes? Not for me, if an alien predator has her head in my pants, why wouldn’t she bite into the thigh where a human can bleed out in seconds?  No little gush here, she’ll have her tonsils drenched in hot salty goodness, and have blood spurting out her nose like a cocacola laugh.  Infact, this leads on to vampiric facials.  A two short sharp knives opening up both thighs at the same time and you’d have more blood than an anime beheading (where the human blood stream is under 40-80 atmospheres of pressure).  Line up a row of victims, and you can set up a bloody bukkake fest.

Noticing the theme? Vampires are just an excuse to name your fantasies as bad, and add the guro elements you’d avoid.  Unlike de Sade’s pioneering work, it doesn’t involve a moral decent.  Vampires are libidinal fantasies which are external to what we think of as our own libido.  Unfortunately I can’t help but turn nice-but-conflicted-blood sucker, through a Sadean descent, into your World of Darkness humanity zero monstrosity.  In rapid order.

This is why I avoid vampires, I am not interested in thinking about guro for pleasure.  I try and avoid this.  In my professional work, I have the unfortunate pleasure of dealing with humans who have cultivated the unutterable.  That’s sufficient think on those subjects for me.

And yet next time in fan fiction the ravenhaired temptress of the night, her ebony tresses dishevelled in trollopsome curling waves of scintillation, midnight against her pale unblushing skin and her billowing spiderweb nightgown, her flesh so cold needing to warm up with some of the life from your cock.  Next time, ram her fangs down on the veins in your thigh and watch the unbreathing beautiful horror of the night gag on, vomit up, and from her nose piss out your blood. If there are any manga readers around, they’ll know she’s enjoying it from her powerful ejaculation of nose blood. And you won’t bleed out from an accidental fuck up, sex in fanfics has no unintended consequences.

Location: Running from a mob of Indian foremen who’d hit me with crowbars.

Location: Exploring outwards in an incautious spiral from the site of the Rapture.

It was then that I decided to join the ranks of the conejo men.  I decided to inspect the rump of the world for purple swelling, or, at a minimum, some other hole of easy and pleasant access.  I decided to fuck the world, I’m getting off.  I decided to fuck it until I fell off sideways, and then run.  To fuck and run, even if running meant I came back to exactly the same place to fuck over and again. I have decided to nationalise the arseholes, and privatise the pricks.

And it shall be a dangerous voyage!  I’ve only shivvered my chains.  I’ve forgotten my hat.  The sea is full of tentacle monsters.  Its uncharted, and nobody’s drawn the headlands for landfall.  And so, of necessity I require a log, for my ship, and this is that log.  A cat would be fine too, as would a cabin boy, but I’ll fly false flags and change my colours and call on many legitimate ports, and fly true flags and change my colours again and call on many illegitimate ports, including the rare high ports, and I’m sure they shall find me by my reputation.

Location: The scrap yards of India, a top a dismantling hulk, listening to a thousand hammer blows question what freedom is.

Location: Accidentally turned right-side up, and vowing to never be swamped again.