The Chronicles of Kali

The Demands of Devotion

2010-05-24T15:27:00.000-07:00

She was a high-powered young blonde, dancing her gorgeous ass off. But she wasn't just having good clean kiddie fun. No. She moved as one of the rare ones; as one filled with clear and complete knowledge of her limitless power. The moment I glimpsed her exquisite ass peeking out from beneath that obscenely short little nothing of a so-called skirt, I was totally possessed by her. Her body was not only perfect, it was also being wielded with flawless expertise. Every so often, she’d look around, arrogantly, knowingly, giggling to herself at the effect she was having on all the boys. She hadn’t seen me yet, but I had been waiting for her, lurking nearby at a table in the shadows. The music pulses on, booming, celebratory. The drinks flow, the boys gawk and weep, and the wanna-be girls begin to chirp; envious little snippets, back and forth, to the effect that she ain’t all that. They know she is.

She passes by my table, laughing with another girl, and three college lads in tow. This is easy for me. And for her. I know her kind. She knows mine. As she passes all I do is keep my eyes, as lecherously as possible, on her incomparable plump legs. She notices. Of course, she notices. Far from being offended, however, she looks me in the eye, giggles mischievously, and shakes it for me. I smile slightly, but I keep right on looking. I’m not about to really acknowledge her as person. I’m going to acknowledge her as goddess, as omnipotent form, as deity incarnate. And that means a certain kind of telepathy, the kinetic transference of unfiltered lust. I’m an old pro at it. Sure enough, she laughs again and continues toward the bar saying;

‘...in your fucking dreams, granddad!’

Even the college boys laugh as they check out the pathetic old timer trying to be cool, hangin’ with the hotties.

-Get a life, old dude! I hear one say.

Don’t you worry, punk, I think to myself. I’ve got one, alright. I’ve got one.

It’s not much longer before she’s back, again leading her little band along the path to the dance floor that passes by my table. Again my eyes lock, steadfast, onto the spectacle of her legs and ass. As she shimmies past me, dimensions colliding in the cosmic shifts of her heavenly body, she bends down and whispers in my ear.

-You’re mine, granddad. You’re mine, aren’t you?

My eyes move for the first time to her face, which is now right here. I cannot speak or even nod, but my expression is unconditional surrender. She’s on familiar turf. It’s this way with every boy, but I’m the first that’s played the game by the rules. She can’t wait to get me alone. There follows another hour or so of breaking hearts and destroying lives with those luscious micro-mini upskirts, the delicious flesh of her lower body quaking criminally with every sexy step she takes on that vacuum packed dance floor. The rest of her evening will be devoted to religion.

Highest order of ritual. Everything in symbols of raw, uncompromising power. One doesn’t touch these legs; certainly not on one’s own volition. One contemplates them, meditates upon them, worships them. Her requirement is rigid, but just. I must continue to absorb the vision of those legs—her thighs within two inches of my face, her enchanted, feminine scent coursing through my brain—until it has filled my being to capacity. She is a benevolent goddess, and rewards me for my good behavior with a series of hard, violent face-slaps; infinitely merciful reminders of who she is, of the limitless power that resides within her. I am able to perceive that she is pleasantly surprised to find a servant with experience, one highly trained in obedience and practiced in the art of protocol. Of course, I am yet far from enlightenment. It falls beyond my comprehension, for example, that she chooses to inflict such harsh, and blessed punishment upon me as the price of obedience. I can only trust that if I stay the course, devoting my entire being to serving her, such higher spiritual understanding will eventually be revealed to me.

I bring her drinks even before she has asked for them, anticipating her every need. She drinks roughly half of each one, and then throws the rest of it in my face. She bludgeons me with her gorgeous, powerful knees, slaps me repeatedly, and spits in my face.

-Good fucking job, slut, she says cruelly. You’ve earned your reward. For the rest of the night, you will worship my body. It will probably drive you insane, but I won’t beat your worthless ass any further. Now you will learn the final lessons in attending to your goddess. Stand behind me, pay attention, and follow my instructions to the fucking T. Got it?

I nodded, and answered her correctly and properly.
-Yes, Your Highness.

She flopped onto the sofa on her belly, presenting me with a view of her unfathomable lower body that brought me to tears instantly.

-Are you crying? she asked.

-Yes, Your Highness. I’m sorry, Your Highness.

She only laughed.

-Aww, poor baby, she mocked. Come on, move in closer. Sniff the backs of my legs like a dog.

Sweet, plump, firm rolling hills of flesh, and I, caught now in the devil’s triangle. Nothing but legs, ass, and cunt in all directions. I sniffed away, deeply, maniacally, truly now a man possessed. A dog, panting, huffing, sniffing.

-Now, sniff between my ass cheeks. And don’t touch me!

Supreme difficulty here. Hard to move close, ever closer, without making contact. She knows it. She giggles madly, divinely. The fragrance, the vision, those shapes, god of the universe defining itself through her. Through her alone.

-Hold still, she says. Keep your nose right there.

It is infinitely hard. She farts in my face, and the laughter, the childish giggle of a thousand schoolgirls lilts from her throat. I inhale the delicious fumes down through my nostrils from whence they scatter, morphing into multitudes of psychic waves that etch her commandments into the stone of my brain.

-Again, she says, still laughing and releasing another savory, invisible cloud. Her farts act as some sort of spiritual nerve gas, altering my internal chemistry, commandeering my very thoughts, delivering me up as for the ultimate sacrifice. The tears continue as I breathe her in, consuming myself through perfect obedience.

-Again! Sniff good!

This one is longer, the most pungent of the three.

-Ahhhh, that’s the one I was waiting for, she says. Get all of it!

I sniff and sniff, inhaling every last molecule. Her giggling and the debilitating scent of her legs and ass and flatulence have already broken me. I am addicted now to her gas. I crave it, I beg for more, bawling uncontrollably between her fabulous thighs, looking straight into the paradise of her ass.

-That’s enough, pig. Now listen carefully to my instructions because they must be carried out perfectly. I want you to get up, run as fast as you can into that wall, face first, and then run straight back here and sniff my ass. And when you hit that wall, I want you to ram it HARD, with everything you’ve got. I want you to try and break every bone in your stupid face. Do you understand?

-Yes, Your Highness.

-Good. Now, no hands up. You keep those fucking hands down at your side. And when you get back here you get straight to my ass for some serious sniffing. But NO TOUCHING!

-Yes, Your Highness.

-OK, GO!

Nothing in me could believe what was happening, but suddenly I was charging full speed at the wall on the far side of the room. I recognized my action as being dangerous to me, and I understood full well the pain that would surely accompany my ramming of the unforgiving stucco surface. But all that mattered was the quality of my servitude. I would not fail to please her. Though my entire being struggled involuntarily to raise my hands up to soften the blow, I managed to control the impulses. I rammed my face straight on into the wall. The jolt broke my nose and sent my head spinning into nothingness. Everything went black as I fell back onto the floor. I tasted the blood streaming over my upper lip into my mouth as the darkness passed. All I could think was ‘Thank god I didn’t pass out so that I can finish carrying out her instructions.’ I half-stumbled, half-crawled back to the sofa, listening to her demented laughter all the way, and made the best time I could in getting back between her legs to the glorious orbs of that spectacular ass, perched so deliciously and beautifully on display. I was dizzy, woozy, seeing stars even, but somehow managed to maneuver my head into place and take a long, heady inhalation of her ass flesh.

Immediately, I realized that the only thing I was inhaling was my own blood. It rushed into my lungs fast and hard, as if pressurized. I started choking and coughing, my body heaving as blood supplanted breath. I was seized by fear, knowing my goddess was not going to be amused by this development.

-Hey! She snapped. What the fuck’re you doing? Get a hold of yourself, and stop coughing on my leg, you fucking pig!

I continued to struggle, unable to suppress the coughing and choking. I had inhaled a pretty decent lungful of blood.

-Drop your face down lower, she said. I want you to sniff my cunt and my ass!

I was slow to respond.

-Do it, goddamn you! Right now!

I summoned everything within me and held back the cough. I dropped down a few inches into the glory of the godhead. The holy trinity, where ass, cunt, and legs all join into one regal fortress. I quivered all over and again sucked air as hard as I could into my collapsed nostrils. No good. Even the joys of her soaking wet g-string were unable to penetrate and I again took on what was becoming the deadly red fluid.

-All right, pig, she said, back it up. Slide back 12 inches and meditate on my holy shrine until you’re able to carry out my instructions.

-Yes, Your Highness.

I heard her giggling again, lording it over me, reveling in her awesome power. I lay there, bleeding onto the sofa, knowing that my nose was finished. Any further sniffing was going to be out. She knew it too, and left me meditating on her incomprehensible body for only a few moments.

-OK, she said. That’s enough. I want you to go again. Ram your face into the wall again, just like before. But this time, when you return to me, you’ll only look at my ass, not smell it. Got it?

-Yes, Your Highness.

-OK, pig. GO!

Strange feelings this time. Flying at breakneck speed, somehow, across that room and knowing the outcome. That demonic laughter of hers; more than I can bear but here came the stop.

-Keep those hands down!

I heard her remind me of that just before the collision. It hurt much worse this time. Into the darkness again. Black, red, motionless.

-Get up! Hurry! Faster, faster!

Floating now, I think. Not conscious of getting back, but I am there. Bleeding, looking, crying. My crying tickles her the most.

-Don’t you just love the view, little pig? Can you say ‘thank you’ for the privilege of seeing my ass?

-T-Thank you, Your Highness.

It is all teary and garbled. The longer I look, the more irreparable the damage. My soul breaking in long, jagged cracks.

-OK, dinner time! She announces.

She swings her lower legs playfully, back and forth on either side of my battered head.

-Get your ass to the kitchen or wherever, and bring me back your cleaning supplies. Whatever you’ve got. Pledge, Toilet Duck, Drano, detergent, all that shit. Oh, and bug spray. Whatever kind of bug spray you’ve got in there. Grab the stuff quickly, and hurry back here and show them to me. Ready? GO!

I rush back with my arms full. She is a complete universe, lying there. So unspeakably gorgeous, beautiful, innocent, sexy and deadly. Though my head is pounding and I fear the worst from the chemical mixtures I horde, I retain my faith nonetheless. I know that she is not only teaching me the most advanced concepts of total surrender, but that she understands fully my deepest spiritual needs and knows with full clarity the path that I must walk in order to discover the answers for myself.

-How could it take you so fucking long to get back here with those? She asked. Do you have any idea how long you kept me waiting here? Is that what you think of me? That I’m so insignificant you can just leave my here waiting for you to take five minutes to do what you could have done in one?

-I’m sorry, Your Highness—

-I know you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t cut it, asshole. I’m gonna need you to step it up, you got that?

-Yes, Your Highness.

-Good! You can start with a big swig from that laundry detergent. We need to clean you up, mister, especially on the inside. You’re still far from pure, you know. And I intend to wash the imperfections out of you by any means necessary. Now put the other shit down right here, drink down two capfuls, and then go stand at the end of the sofa and contemplate my ass. Go on, drink up!

Entering some other plane now. I obey her orders instantly, knowing full well that I am now drinking down my own death. What else could she have in mind? Would she call 911 on my behalf? It didn’t seem likely. I chugged my two capfuls while she watched me closely, her petite, adorable smile and compelling giggle driving me to an ever-deepening commitment. As I finished the second capful, she laughed and motioned me to the end of the couch with a cocky flick of her head. I moved behind her, still stunned by this same vision. Such perfection! Those thick, ripe legs, her incomparable ass and the mind-numbing, delicate pyramid of her lacy panties vanishing into that divine crack between the spheres brought me again to near hysterical weeping as I felt the beginnings of the chemical reaction starting down below.

-OK, pig, she laughed, we don’t have much time. Is that a letter opener over there?

-Yes, Your Highness.

-Go get it. But first, I want you to come back around here in front of me and stand where you can fall forward and slam your face into the corner of this coffee table. It looks pretty sharp. I think it’ll be good for you.

I took my place as directed.

-Oh, and pick up that Pledge first.

I obeyed.

-Now, I want you to spray the Pledge into your mouth until I say ‘stop,’ and then immediately after, I want you to fall like a fucking tree in the forest, face-first onto the corner of the coffee table. And NO HANDS! If you put your hands out, even a little, you’ll do it over again. Got it? Your full weight, free fall, and catch your face on the corner. THEN, I want you to get up and go get the letter opener. Are we clear?

-Yes, Your Highness, I cried.

The dream turning to nightmare. I opened wide and pushed the button on the can.

-Ah-Ah, she said. Shake it first!

I dutifully shook the can thoroughly and sprayed. The lemon taste quickly gave way to a horrendous, chemical burning, which began to roar down my throat like a raging wildfire. I began to groan and cry even louder and through my tear-blurred eyes I looked into hers. She only smiled as my mouth filled, the harsh fluid flowing then down my chin and dribbling onto my chest.

-Very well, she said at last, Stop! Now quickly! Fall, giant evergreen, fall!

I dropped the can and taking perfect aim, hands firmly at my sides, fell with my full body weight, slamming my face into the sharp corner of the coffee table. It caught me in the lower part of my forehead, just above eye level, opening a deep gash that began pumping blood into the air like a geyser at Yellowstone. Once again, darkness was my reward as I drifted out of consciousness. I should have been completely out, but something in me, undoubtedly due to her divine magic, kept me coming quickly back to the task at hand. My Supreme Ruler was laughing uncontrollably, hysterically.

-Omigod, she guffawed, you fucking moron, that was hilarious! Now hurry up, pig! Get to the letter opener.

It had become a gruesome game show, some grotesque version of ‘Simon Says.’ The Devil alone knew where it would end. Actually, that’s not quite true. I knew by now where it would end. The question was ‘how.’ I crawled over to my desk, pulling myself up to a kneeling position to grab the letter opener.

-On your feet, she said threateningly.

I clung to the desk and pushed harder until, miraculously, I was standing. But I was wobbly in the extreme and the furious flow of blood from my head was causing me to lose my equilibrium.

-Now, she said, it’s time to get serious. Now, I want you to pick up the bug spray and spray it first all over your face until I say ‘stop,’ and then into your mouth until I say ‘stop.’ Then, you’re going to go stand behind me again, pray to my ass, and jam that letter opener as hard as you can into your right eye.

I shuddered, even as my cock became a steel girder pressing to escape from my pants.

-What’s the matter? Is there a problem? Looks like you might have one growing down there in your fucking shorts!

-No, Your Highness, there's no problem.

In wobbly fashion, I picked up the Raid.

-OK, then. Got the letter opener? OK, ready to spray…and GO!

I pushed the button.

-Shake the fucking can, asshole!! Don’t make me get up from this sofa!

-I’m so sorry, Your Highness.

I shook and sprayed. I had forgotten until now that this can of Raid was, of all things, hornet and wasp spray; ultra potent and pure liquid. It drenched my face and the severe burning began instantly. I began screaming bloody murder now as the pain was unbearable. Inside, my stomach was exploding from the Pledge and detergent mixture. Through it all, I heard her delicious giggling, exulting ever more deeply in her supreme authority. It seemed an eternity before she ordered me to re-direct the spray into my mouth. As the powerful toxic mix hit my tongue, my entire mouth seemed to erupt into flames. Even worse at the back of my throat and down my already singed esophagus. I continued to scream, dancing in place now like some possessed puppet on strings, my knees coming up high as my body began to react on its own to the abject pain and destruction. Soon, I had emptied the whole can. I was probably beyond hope now. Death would undoubtedly find me soon.

-Run, pig, run! She laughed as I continued my bizarre little dance of pain.

She watched me mirthfully for a few more excruciating moments as I hopped around, fell down, bounced back up, fell down, back up, bounced off the wall, down again, writhing like a serpent on fire. She lay there so calmly, so elegantly, sipping her drink and smoking her cigarette on the sofa. She was beauty and power personified.

-OK, stop, pig! Now, hurry! Get up, get up! Pray to my ass, and use the letter opener. Hurry up!

I dropped the can and crawled back to the end of the sofa, screaming in agony.

–Up! On your pathetic feet! Hurry!

I pulled myself to my feet.

-OK, she said, now pray. Pray to my ass.

I could only scream in pain, but if I ever needed a prayer, it was now. I tried to say something; please, help me, Ogod, I’m sorry, something like that. All that came was gibberish, but she loved it.

-Sorry I don’t speak ‘Pig,’ she laughed, but keep it up. It amuses me. Maybe the god of the pigs will come down from his heavenly sty and rescue you!

My prayer became a chanting in tongues, a service of ultimate devotion to this exquisite girl’s fat little ass; so young, and so fine. Her legs, plump as sausages, split my soul in half for the last time. The scene in my living room is more horrifying now than the most gruesome horror movie. I stand at the end of my sofa, holding a letter opener, and praying in tongues to her ass in an eerie mixture of guttural phonetics, screams and shrieks of pain and terror, and the tears of a million infants. She hardly even looks at me. She just laughs and flaunts her body.

-Enough, she snaps. Now, the letter opener. Go ahead. Use it.

She is yelling at me now above the piercing volume of my prayer.

-On my count of three, you’re to jam it deep into your eye, understand? You’re going to sacrifice that eye for me. I deserve much more, don’t I?

My answer is incoherent.

-DON’T I?

-Yes, Your Highness.

-You’re damn fucking right, I do! OK, here we go. One, two…

She waits for what seems like forever as pure hysteria explodes from my lips.

-THREE!

She turns her head back enough to see this. And, horror of horrors, I do it! Just like that. I thrust the sharp blade of the letter opener into my right eye with all my strength. The blood was already everywhere, and now came a doubling of it. It spurted from the hole that just seconds ago was my eye, and the terrifying wail of my screaming now didn’t even begin to communicate the pain I was in. As I began to fall forward, twitching like some gigantic, exposed nerve, I heard her commanding me to stay up.

-Don’t you dare go down, pig! Keep to your feet! Worship my ass with that one good eye! And pray, goddamn you! Keep praying!

Amazingly, I obeyed. I was completely aware that I had just put my own eye out, with a fucking letter opener, destroying it forever and causing my entire being to convulse in unimaginable agony, and yet I obeyed. Something in me actually forced me to obey her unconditionally. I can only assume that the pain and internal horror I was feeling were so intense that I just somehow shut down. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have been flopping around on the floor like a dying fish. I clutched the arm of the sofa and continued to scream out my incoherent prayers in louder, more blood-curdling screams than all the ones that had come before.

-OK, pig, OK. You’re almost there, she laughed. Now first, I want you to go to the kitchen and bring me the biggest, sharpest butcher knife in the house. Can you do that for me? Hmmm?

-Yes, Your Highness, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

-Good, she said. If you do, I’ll let you look at my ass some more.

Blood streaming in thick pools as I stumbled, fell, and crawled to the kitchen, as the thought of a few more moments in her presence inspired me to find some tiny, remaining shred of strength. Somehow, I returned to her with a butcher knife that more than anything resembled a machete. I stood before her, groaning and crying loudly in abject agony. My whole head was a crimson pulp with blood flowing profusely from the remains of the one eye, the huge gash on my forehead, and the crushed remains of my nose. She smiled at me so arrogantly, so condescendingly, so obviously gleaning a fiendish and intense enjoyment from my self-demolition.

-All right, pig. I'm just about to cum all over your fucking sofa. So, let’s get this over with. Pick up that Drano.

I did as she commanded.

-Kneel down here, open it, and hand it to me.

She sat up on the sofa, crossing her legs enticingly in front of me and causing my body to go into some kind of weird fibrillation. I knelt before her, struggled to remove the top and handed her the can. It was the granulated Drano, not the liquid, and it was like thick, desert sand in its consistency.

-Open wide, she laughed.

I obeyed, still emitting an endless swirl of involuntary ‘pain sounds.’

She sat over me, tilted my head back, and poured a half a can of the corrosive acid-powder down my throat.

-Now this is REALLY going to hurt, she said, but I need you to finish with perfect obedience. And you better swallow every last grain of this shit, you read me, pig? I’m even going to help you to make sure you get through it. Now, when you’ve finished the Drano, take that fucking knife, go to your position, and hold it while you look at my ass. OK? Here we go! Go ahead, chew it up and swallow!

With that, she jerked me around, facing away from her, and felt her powerful, satin legs pressing against each side of my body as she held my head between her hands. I began to chew and swallow, and everything took its toll at once. A universe of poison lava rising from the deep, flowing swiftly in the direction of my mouth. Before it could come up, though, she wrapped her arm firmly beneath my chin and applied a classic 'sleeper' hold on me, clamping my jaws shut as she pulled my head tightly in place up against her chest. With the other arm, she locked the sleeper hold in and with her hand, pinched my nostrils closed, giggling heartily at the spectacle to come. Then this gorgeous sex-pot closed her eyes delightfully, like some fairy tale princess or missionary angel, tucked her head down, resting her cheek against the top of my head, and held on for the wild ride.

With nothing being able to escape through my mouth or nose, disaster ensued. There is no way to tell you what kind of damage I had already sustained internally, but with my mouth now filling up with severely toxic vomit, there was only one place for it to go, and that was back into my lungs. I struggled with all my might to pry my jaws open and erupt, but she had all the leverage, and easily held my mouth closed up tight. It was as if depth charges were being detonated in my stomach, my throat, and now in my lungs as well.

-Swallow! she screamed, Swallow! I want it all to go down! All the way down!

Is it remotely possible there was still a part of me capable of obeying her? Summoning a will I didn’t know existed, I swallowed with all my remaining strength. I heard the sound of her laughter in my head now as my skull conducted it internally from her cheek. She clung to me like a vice and that whole mouthful of hazardous waste went back down; half lungs, half stomach. She held me tightly in place as my body bucked and kicked, writhing with electric shock waves of incalculable intensity. My lungs exploded into flames. I couldn’t believe how strong she was to hold my mouth and nose sealed shut during such convulsions. The pain in my broken nose was excruciating as she clipped it with her strong, youthful fingers.

At length, the convulsions softened enough to warrant her letting go of me. Now, of course, I violently threw up blood, bile, internal bodily tissue, puss, vomit, multi-colored chemical remains, pretty much whatever had ever been a part of me, but by now, the damage had been done. It was the most horrifying scene imaginable, beyond comprehension.

-Almost done, she laughed. Get your ass over to the end of the sofa and look at my ass! And take that knife with you!

I was too far gone to make it to my post. As a result, she had to drag me there by my hair and prop me up on my knees where I continued to puke, bleed, and scream like some hideous B-Movie monster, mutant beyond description from poisons, radiation and bomb blasts. I could barely make her out as she lay down again so gracefully on that sofa, her ass quivering gently as she settled into place. The sounds from my mouth were unholy, inhuman, otherworldly, and I can only imagine that the vision of me as a bloody pulp of a head, with my entire body now heaving inside out with ceaseless vomiting must have been incomprehensible.

-OK, pig, she said, still giggling, put the knife to your fucking throat. Do it now!

I obeyed as best I could.

-Now, it’s your choice, she said. The knife, or the chemicals. Do you have any idea what measure of kindness I'm showing you in giving you a choice of how you want to die? Do you!?

I gurgled out a pathetic 'Yes, Your Highness.

-Because you see, pig-man, if you use the knife, you'll be outta your fucking misery in a flash. But with the chemicals, you get to spend more time in my presence. But, like I said, it's up to you. I don’t give a fucking rat's ass how you die...as long as you die!

I knelt there, again beholding with my one good eye the marvel of her ass and legs. I screamed again, vomited again, bled some more; this was the form of my prayer. I felt the sharp blade against my throat and knew what must be done. I had one chance to continue in prayer for a short while longer. That settled, I let the knife drop to the floor.

Domination In The Desert

2010-05-01T22:18:00.000-07:00

A stifling August afternoon in Palm Springs. I run into her in the liquor section at Ralph’s. She’s a hot MILF, maybe 40ish and she filled out her tight skirt and flimsy top like nobody’s business. Of course, you know me. Age isn’t a factor. It’s all about the body and the attitude, and this one had it all. After some playful suggestive banter she says something to the effect that if I want to keep taking up her time, I’m going to have to get my ass to work on her behalf.

-What did you have in mind? I ask.

-Oh, just a little cooperation. Nothing you can’t handle. You strike me as a leg man. And, of course, an ass man. I'll bet you have no need of even checking out what a woman's got going on above the waist, do you?

-Surely you jest, I replied. Good face is high up on the list. And, Migod, arms! Smokin’ arms are almost as sexy to me as legs. Sometimes equally so.

-You ever gotten off on ‘em?

-Arms?

-Yeah. Just the arms.

-Sure. Nice big arms can send you all the way; easy. A lotta women don’t even know that.

-How are you at taking orders? she asked.

-Excellent. Top of my class.

The big woman looked at me intently.

-Yeah? Well, for my money, I think you're a fucking chump. But, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Put all your shit in my cart, finish my shopping, pay for everything, take it to my home, put it away, fix me dinner and drinks, and if you serve me just perfectly, I mean really super-fabulous, I’ll let you kiss my ass.

-Really?

-Yep. One time, though. That's all you get.

-Can I see it first?

-Fuck you.

She started to walk away. Can't win 'em all.

-Ok, I said, you got a deal.

She said her name was Jeri, and I had to admit, I was excited as I made my way around the store, picking out everything just as she wanted, becoming her servant, making sure the shopping trip went flawlessly from that moment on.

The old girl seemed to get hotter by the minute, too. She slunk along in her short, tight skirt, slinky top, and slip-on high heels, supervising me in a most stimulating, imperious manner. Though she didn’t really resemble her, I kept thinking about Mrs. Wormer in Animal House. Over-sexed older broad meets brash young world-conqueror and it’s damn the torpedoes, and let Freedom ring! As we went along, I told her of my above-average skills in the kitchen, and asked if I might have the honor of preparing her one of my favorite dinner combinations.

-What’s in it? She asked.

-Trout. They get it in fresh here. Pan-seared with a lovely seasoned breading, spinach-mashed potatoes, the best Caesar Salad you’ve ever eaten, guaranteed, and a top notch Pino Grigio. What do you think?

She looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and trusting frivolity, agreeing that it sounded perfect. Before we got out of the store, her sexual appeal had risen by a few more degrees in my mind as I continued to observe her confident mannerisms and the powerful flow of her body movements. Never once occurred to me to ponder what I might be getting myself into. I have to admit, though, to having a momentary meeting of minds with myself when we checked out and I paid for all her groceries. Her bill came to $235.00 and change, a decent little layout for a first, and probably last, afternoon encounter. And so my flow changes, a little. Floats through the mind now a titillating mix of X-Treme sexual arousal vs. questioning whether I’d actually get into this whole thing, whatever it was, once I was ‘under the gun.’ On top of that battle, I begin feeling the desire to start kicking myself for blowing this kind of money on a lark. All such ambivalent convolutions twisting and turning through and around my brain. The if’s always try to knock you back among the chumps when you’re out there on the edge, but thankfully I manage to remember that at the moment in question, and having done so, I’m good to go. Totally with the program. What the fuck? It’s Palm Springs, hot MILF, and my whole life ahead of me after this.

We get to her house on the hill and I have to say, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool. Sprawling one-level job, nearest neighbors maybe half a mile away, and the chick’s got the whole thing I mean RETRO’D OUT. Everything is 50’s-Early 60’s. Hot, geometric shapes, sharp lines, primary colors. Looks like something from a tripped-out Stanley Kubrick movie. I’m enthralled.

-You know how to make a decent martini, dip-shit? She asks.

-The best.

-Good. Then get your sorry ass into the kitchen and make me one while I get undressed.

‘Getting undressed’ consisted of hopping out of her tight skirt and tossing onto the chair. Now she stood there, eyeing me with serious intent and wearing nothing but a hot black thong, black thigh-highs, the slip-on heels and the skimpy top. Her power became quickly evident now in those big, strong shapely legs and an ass that was truly spectacular.

-If you think you can handle it, put those groceries away and get moving on dinner. I’m starved.

She became more demanding and humorless, which, along with the formidable size and power of her lower body was having a telling effect on me in the form of an unmistakable bulge in my jeans. It took a little doing to put the groceries away without her guidance, not always knowing where different people keep things, but I managed to find my way, and as I did I could feel my heartbeat quickening, my mouth turning dry, and the pulsing flow of blood moving headlong in the direction of my hardening cock. As I cooked, I had to ask her at one point if she might have a hand potato masher in the kitchen. Her response was to walk brusquely into the kitchen, slap me violently across the face, and point out to me that she was watching TV.

-Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m watching TV, asshole! Do I make myself perfectly clear?

-Crystal.

-You know, smart-ass, she said, the hungrier I get, the harder life is going to become for you. So, if I were you, I’d fucking step it up over here.

-Yes, Ma’am.

I get the salad ready and take it in her direction. She says nothing, but points to the patio area. There's a table there, and I deliver the salad and a glass of wine, waiting then to see what she does next. She comes slowly out the back door, holding her martini with an absolutely regal air about her. She is incredible. I pull her chair out for her, and she sits down, eyeing me contemptuously. I went back inside to finish preparing the meal, and if I said so myself, it was all perfect. I served Jeri another martini, and then set her dinner in place with a second glass of the Pino Grigio. Then I brought my plate out to join her.

-What the fuck are you doing? She asked.

-What?, I joked, sitting down.

-What are you doing?

Her voice was stern.

-Tell me you don’t think you’re going to sit here and eat in my presence.

I shrugged. She didn’t say another word, but got up from the table, came around to my side, jerked me up out of my chair and punched my fucking lights out with a monstrous right cross. I slammed down onto the patio, and before I could even respond, she came right behind me with my plate of food and smashed it into my face so hard the plate fractured into shards. I sat there, stunned, my face lacerated from the broken China, and wearing my 5-star dinner.

-Did you really think I was going to let the fucking hired help sit here and dine with me? Huh? Well, did you!? If that’s what you think all this is about, then you’re even fucking dumber than you look. And that boggles the mind! Now you get back into that kitchen and do something, I don’t care what, and check on me frequently, because if I need something and you’re not there when I think of it, I just might beat the living shit out of you, do you understand me?

-Ohhh, I groaned. OK, Jeezus. Ahhhwww.

I watched her storm back to her seat, that huge, gorgeous ass zig-zagging back and forth like two bombs being carried off to the cargo bay. I was bleeding pretty badly. Her wicked punch had flattened my nose, which was pouring blood, and then the slicing and dicing from the broken plate and, well, things had turned ugly just that fast. Knowing now how serious she was, I somehow managed to get to my feet and start back for the kitchen. She slammed her martini in a rage.

-And you better get me another drink out here muy pronto or we’re gonna start having more fun.

When I got to the door, however, I was faced with a dilemma. The blood was dripping badly from my face and if I went in I would surely get it on the floor, the carpet, probably on everything in my path. I stood there like a cowering puppy, trying to decide what to do. I decided it would show my best interests toward her if I pointed out the problem and let her make the decisions.

-I’m afraid I’m going to get blood on your carpet if I go in there right now, I groaned, trying not to bleed on her.

She looked at me with eyes of intense evil, stood up from the chair, and kneed me so hard in the stomach that I folded in half instantly and fell forward face first onto the concrete. She reached down, grabbed my arm up between her legs, pulled it backwards and butt-dropped with her full weight right down onto that arm, forcing it to extend in two directions against the joints and snapping it like a twig in both places, high on the femur and down near my wrist.

The pain was indescribable and I burst into hideous screams as she simply continued to sit there, driving my arm harder into the concrete as she bounced and wiggled her big ass on top of it.

-I doubt that you can grasp this concept, dumb ass that you obviously are, but you have now officially ruined my dinner.

Then she stood up, snatched me by the hair, pulled me up to her incredible ass and cut a huge, gassy fart right into my face, commanding me to breathe deeply as she did. I was gasping for breath anyway as a result of my screaming, and sucked down her fabulous flatulence more or less automatically. She laughed at me as she held me in place there, forcing my gaze upon her hot, powerful ass.

-So, she said, you’re a real screamer, aren’t you? Don’t have much of a tolerance for pain? That’s too bad, because I really can’t have all this noise going on. Someone down the road might think I was beating the shit out of some pantywaist and call the cops. I’d be VERY disappointed in you if that happened. So I’m going to be extremely fucking generous with you and give you a chance to shut your fucking pie-hole on your own. Otherwise, I’m going to shut it for you. Now keep in mind that you’ve already blown our deal, which was that I get a perfect dinner and you get to kiss my ass. It’s already too late for that.

So, if you want to hold any hope of saving yourself, you REALLY need to come through here. Alright, now look at my ass and Shut The Fuck Up!

I understood the gravity of my situation, and after shattering my arm the way she did, I couldn’t really put anything past this woman. I dug down deep and tried to suppress my painful cries. Jeri held me in place by the hair, looking back at me over her shoulder, just waiting for me to crack. Her expression was so sexy, so powerful, so arrogant, knowing that I was in no shape to endure this test. Her ass and legs shimmied before me as she shifted her weight from side to side. The pain shooting through my arm was unbearable and with another moment or two at the mercy of those legs and ass, I indeed broke down. I began to cry, mostly from the shock of my close proximity to her exquisite flesh, those fat, gorgeous legs spilling out over the tops of her black stockings, and her remarkable, round ass tempting me far beyond my capacity as she teased me relentlessly. Then the waves of pain joined in the assault on my senses and I burst out into a combined sort of chanting-crying-groaning, perhaps trying to beg for mercy, perhaps some disjointed prayer. In any event, it wasn’t particularly loud, but it was enough to constitute disobedience.

Jeri chuckled and turned on me. Then she shed her top, flashing her exceptional breasts. In spite of my dire situation, all I could do was marvel at her. The fact that a 50-year-old had such a sexy face, firm tits, and powerful body actually brought me to a state in which I was more turned on than in pain. She grabbed me by the hair again and pulled my face near her crotch area.

-Look at my legs, she commanded, and smell my pussy.

I followed orders and the intensity of the combination caused me to begin shaking.

-Hold still, she said.

I tried, but kept whimpering uncontrollably.

-Does that smell good, hmm?

-Mmm-hmmm, I muttered.

Jeri shot forth a short knee lift into my face that was like being run over by a tank. I flipped over backwards and came down face first on the deck. As I tried to raise my head I realized she had just knocked my front teeth out. I started spitting the bloody kernels onto the concrete as I cried out in agony.

-Ahh-ahhh, Jeri laughed. Gotta keep that trap shut!

With that, she walked over and stood above me, imperious in those heels and stockings and with that look of absolutely child-like joy in her eyes. The joy of beating me to a pulp. I couldn’t stop groaning, so she pulled me up from the ground into a side headlock and clamped it onto me with a power that was truly not to be believed. Struggling for all I was worth, I pushed against her body, and swatted helplessly at her legs in an effort to relieve the pressure. All she did was cinch the hold in even tighter which made me start convulsing like a madman, crying out loudly, only to find the noise almost completely muffled due to my face being pressed tight against her body just under her gorgeous breast.

Through it all, I could still hear her laughing and the sound of her arrogant jubilation in exerting her dominance over me just kept turning me on more and more. As I screamed into the muzzle of her body flesh, my cock was pounding out a heavy rhythm in synch with my rapidly accelerating heartbeat. Just as I thought my head would pop from the pressure, Jeri reared back and brought that huge thigh up again, slamming it like a battering ram into my face. Again I flipped over, this time twice, and came crashing down onto the concrete. Everything started going black and I knew I was in trouble. Blood gushed from my nose and mouth and every time my broken arm made the slightest movement, the excruciating pain shot through me with a vengeance.

Now, there wasn’t a chance in Hell of suppressing the expression of my agony and I again screamed out loudly and uncontrollably. That headlock was so powerful, it felt like she had literally cracked my skull, and on top of that the blast to the face jarred my brain into another dimension, even as it split my lips in two more places and started a second torrent of blood flowing from my nose, which was now completely crushed.

-Hmmm, Jeri mused playfully, I guess you’re just one of those people that has a hard time with authority. Don’t like people giving you orders. That’s too bad, because around here, I give the orders, and there is hell to pay for those who don’t fall in line. Now, I’m telling you for the last time to Shut Up!

She rolled me over onto my back and before I knew what had hit me, she executed another big butt-drop, this time right down into my solar plexus area. Not only did she come down with her full weight, but she actually doubled the force by launching herself slightly upwards first, and then coming down with increased velocity. When she hit, the air exploded out of my body completely and I instantly began to heave, mouth gasping desperately for breath, eyes bugging out of my head, blood flowing like wine, a real mess. She got up and looked down at me, giggling demonically and muttering something about my turning a nice shade of purple.

-Take a break, fuck-stick, she said. Just don’t get any ideas about leaving.

She left me lying there convulsing in agony while she went into the house, quickly returning in a hot green bikini. When she got back, I was beginning to catch the first inklings of returning breath, but was still completely helpless.

-You know, she said, it’s such a hot afternoon, it would be a shame not to take advantage of the pool.

She walked up and looked over me again, that arrogant smile etched into her face.

-You kind of like that feeling of air coming back into your lungs, don’t you, chumpstain? Well, we wouldn’t want you to get used to that idea. You might start yelling again. Let’s just take a little preventative precaution, shall we?
She took pinpoint aim and dropped her knee into my throat with her full body weight behind it. My body went into the most violent seizure, kicking, writhing, convulsing in excruciating pain. Jeri remained perched on my neck for a moment, driving her knee down even harder. Finally she got up off me and, clutching my throat, utterly unable to breathe, I began flipping around on the deck like a fish out of water. Jeri came back to me, snatched me by the hair, and dragged me a few feet over to the edge of the pool.

-Looks like you could use a little cleaning up, she laughed.

She shoved my face down into the water and held it there as my last remaining rational process, realizing I would quickly drown in this situation, kicked my body into an even higher gear of Brahma Bull action, bucking wildly against the force of her hold on my hair. In truth, however, since I really wasn’t yet able to breathe in anyway, I wasn’t in immanent danger. Jeri held me firmly in place before at last jerking me up to safety. A pool of blood swirled there in the water and Jeri looked at my face, checking to see if it was washed clean.

-There, she said, that’s much better. Always feels good to be clean, hmmm? Now then, let’s be a good little monkey and look at my legs again. Take a good, long look!

She held me by the hair, again forcing my gaze right into the glory of her massive thighs. Despite the beating I was taking, the sight of those exquisite legs flaunted with such sensual artistry as Jeri possessed, inflamed me with desire. I started to writhe even harder as the stimulation merged with my breathless, battered emotio-physical condition, which then became utterly indescribable.

Then she turned sideways, forcing my gaze upon the phenomenal contour of her ass, and finally turning just a bit more, taunting me with her ass cheek directly before me, and then pulling my face up to make contact with that divine area of her flesh. I went nuts. I could feel the electrical pulse firing from her flesh and connecting with key targets deep within my psyche. I gasped harder for air, now feeling, possibly, the return of a fragment of breath. Jeri couldn’t contain her laughter watching me flutter like a flag in the wind as she held me tightly by the hair.

-Now, you see how much fun that is? She laughed. I knew all along you were an ass man!

Then she turned to face me again, and without warning blasted me with another knee lift right into that same spot in my solar plexus. There it went again; all air expelled in a mighty rush and down I went, a few meek little murmurs slipping from my lips, which were now covered with my blood which was again flowing freely from my facial wounds. I had barely hit the ground when she jerked me up again by the hair, flashed me another quick close-up of those thighs, and slammed a repeat thigh lift into the exact same spot. This time the force of the kick caused me to throw up violently, much of it splattering onto Jeri’s legs. I was beginning now to see that white light people talk about as I had no possibility of catching a breath and with the involuntary wild vomiting, I had become a poster boy for death at the hands of this beautiful beast of a woman. She still wasn’t through. Laughing now like a crazed witch, she picked me up again, almost to standing position, and sucker-punched me square in the middle of the face with a wicked roundhouse right fist.

I went down like a brick close to the side of the pool, blood and vomit now pulsing from my face in regular rhythms. Jeri then took my broken arm between her legs, pulled it over the edge of the patio above the water and yelled ‘Olli-Olli-Octum-Freee’ as she dropped into the water snapping my arm backwards at the elbow joint against the edge of the pool and then releasing it. My arm hung there, broken in three grotesque sections, dangling uselessly in the water. I can’t really describe what I was going through at this point, so devastating was the pain and my numerous injuries. Unbelievably, she climbed up out of the pool, still laughing with glee at the carnage she was creating and did another butt-drop onto my abdomen. More vomit and more blood exploded from my mouth, this time drenching her from head down to her waist. She seemed to revel in it, with that wicked smile on her face, and the majority of my body fluids coating her upper body.

Then she got up, jerked me around the other direction by my good arm, and with some kind of indiscernible war cry, put it between her legs and again jumped off into the water. My other arm now snapped like kindling, breaking in a clean separation at the elbow. I was aware of intense screaming, but I don’t think I really was. I couldn’t possibly have been breathing at that point. Well, there’s no point in continuing the blow-by-blow account here. I don’t remember anything after this point anyway. But Jeri actually did finish the job. She continued on with each of my legs, apparently lying me down on my stomach, and jumping into the pool in order to break each leg in half at the knees, forcing them with all her weight in the opposite direction of the workings of the joint. Next, she followed suit where the legs join to the hip bone, snapping those joints completely as well as causing extensive damage to the hip itself.

To this day, I don’t know how I survived Jeri's torturous onslaught. I woke up in a hospital bed where I remained in traction for two months as doctors tried to reset my bones. The doctors said I was found beneath a tree in downtown Palm Springs placed there like a human stump with my demolished limbs tied in grotesque fashion behind my back. They say it's a miracle I survived. I often wish I hadn't. Life is very difficult for me since that dreadful, fateful afternoon. I have a hard time getting around these days, but maybe it’s for the best. At least I won’t be tempted to accept any more strange invitations to spend afternoons in the service of wicked women with torture on their minds.

The Baddest Bitch in Town: Conclusion/Part VII

2010-04-14T20:29:00.000-07:00

As Misty's python-like thighs clamped tightly around his head, Ollie thought his last thoughts, felt his last feelings. Though closer now to corpse than life form, the smooth elegance, the exquisite, plush quality of Misty's sumptuous thigh flesh against his face, the delicious scent of her skin and of her ass now lending its intense muscular power to the crush of her death grip; through all the horror, he yet felt all of this. This was the sensual rapture that made his own gruesome demise worthwhile. He wouldn't last long, and knowing so, he tried to experience Misty's awful wrath with the fullness of his being. Unable to breathe, forcing out the most pathetic agonized chirps, he managed to reach his good hand up and take hold of her leg. This sensation was the fulfillment of his last request, transporting him instantly to heaven's gate. His last earthly perception was one of having achieved perfection. He actually smiled as his skull was caving in, though it was only in his mind's eye, as his jaws had already been crushed to rubble.

“Watch carefully, Wifey dear,” Misty taunted, “and you'll be able to see his fucking eyeballs pop out!”

Hearing the horrifying cracking sounds of Ollie's skull actually being crushed, Iris's hysteria descended in to a silent incredulity. Her poor mind snapped, convincing her conscious mind that this must be nothing more than a terrible nightmare. With the next loud crunch, Ollie's skull crumbled flat between Misty's bone-crushing thighs. Through his eye sockets, mouth, and even through his ears, the thick flow of osterized brain tissue began to spill forth. Misty gave it one last hard squeeze for good measure, and Ollie's bowel and bladder control left him. As a pool of piss and the stench of shit issued from Ollie's body, Misty released him, rose to her feet, and stood back to look...and to laugh. His body twitched slightly from the last remaining nerve impulses, and the remnant of his head was more grotesque than anything imaginable in the most hard-core of horror movies. It looked for all the world like a steak, a flattened piece of red meat with brains served up around it. Add to this all the blood and internal body fluids Misty had beaten out of him, and it was as if his entire body had been systematically extracted of its vital materials in some sort of mad scientific experiment. Artie was virtually catatonic from beholding the frightful experience, and it was really not possible to know how damaged Iris was. One thing was certain; she had left her body entirely.

“Whaddya think, Hunky?” Misty asked, reveling in uncompromising arrogance. “Now was that a complete demolition, or was that a complete demolition?”

“Oh Yeeeeeeess, my divine Queen, my eternal Goddess,” he cried, “THAT was a complete demolition!”

Misty took a bow and then turned her attention to Arthur Lanier. DOCTOR Arthur Lanier.

“So, Lanier, tell me; What do you think of your evening so far? Was it everything you expected?”

She moved in front of him as he sat leaning against the wall and sensually showed off her legs to him, posing this way and that, and creating divine ripples from her ass down to her knees by stamping her foot lightly on the floor. Somehow Lanier managed to blurt out an answer that satisfied Misty.

“Oh, God!” he cried. “I love you! I love only you! I want you forever!!”

His theatrics sent Misty into a belly laugh.
“Good answer, dick-head; good answer! But why do I have the distinct impression that you're not being sincere? Hmmm? Just saying what Misty wants to hear? Is that it?”

“No!” Artie screamed. With all his strength he lunged forward, clasping his arms around Misty's legs. “No, No! I love you! More than life, I love you! Oh God! I'll do anything for you! Please! Please!”

Strong words. He looked up at Misty, the human viscera dripping from those huge legs, and began to cry. He was serious. Everything that had happened here tonight had made him realize what a real woman was, and he craved her intensely for his own. But Misty only laughed. She looked over at the Hunk and told him he could drop the catatonic body of Iris, and come in to help her.

“Hold him up,” she laughed.

Hunky snatched Artie under his arms and hoisted him into a standing position.

“Watch your head,” she said to her husband.

With that she reared back and put all her weight into an overhand right that landed flush in the center of Artie's face. The blood splattered all over, Artie's head bounced hard off the tile wall behind him, and Hunky released him, allowing him to fall flat onto his face on the floor.

“Get him back up,” Misty laughed. “And this time, keep holding him.”

Hunky brought the bloody animal to its feet and held on. Misty unleashed another roundhouse punch to his face, knocking out more teeth, and adding another flourish of blood and guts to her bathroom mural. Hunky held him in place. Another roundhouse punch. Another. Another. Yet another. Now Artie's face was an unrecognizable mass of pulp.

“Artie can you hear me?” Misty sang, mimicking 'Tommy' by The Who. “Can you feel me near you?”

She unloaded again with one more massive fist to his face and told Hunky to let him go. He fell forward, hands helplessly at his side, and his face smashed full force into the tile floor.

“Get him up again,” she said. Hunky pulled him back up. “Let him go every time I kick him,” she said, “and then bring him right back up.”

“Kill him!” Hunky cried. “Ooooo, yeah. Kill him good!”

The onslaught continued with repeated knee-bashes into Artie's mid-section. As Hunky Boy pulled Artie up again, Misty pulled his head up by the hair to see if she could still detect any life in the poor slug. Didn''t look like much.

“About time to go home, Shit-for-brains,” she said to Hunky. “Now hold him steady, then let go.”

Forward again came that monstrous thigh, vanishing into Artie's torso as bodily fluids exploded forth from his mouth like Vesuvius in its hey-day. Hunky let go and Artie fell forward, completely helpless, crashing onto the tile forehead-first. The guttural heaving sounds he made were utterly inhuman, like something only heard in the very depths of Hell itself. The sounds of the living dead. Cackling sadistically, Misty ordered Hunky to pull him back up. He was heavy now, as he had already turned to dead weight.

“Must still be kicking,” she laughed. “He's still groaning, and he's still pukin.'”

Again came the massive knee blow, if anything harder than the last one. With this one, Artie heaved so hard that some sort of solid mound of visceral material popped out of his mouth along with the multi-colored spray of whatever hideous fluids were now filling his stomach and lungs. At the same time, the internal force of the blow was such that long, thin streams of blood shot violently out of his eye-sockets, from behind his eyes, you could only suppose, and his body went into the most extreme and frightening of seizures as Hunky again released him for his fall. Falling with full weight on his face this time, you could hear the bones crack. The fall broke and dislocated his jaw completely and a few more errant teeth came clinking out onto the floor. The body continued to convulse wildly and Iris, who had been too shaken to move, now tried to rise to her feet.

“Bring her to me,” Misty said.

Hunky dragged Iris into the bathroom, where Misty instructed him to sit her down on the toilet seat.

“Like I told you, you're watching this movie all the way to the end,” Misty said. “I know how scary some of these horror movies can be, but don't worry. This one's almost over.”

She told Hunky not to release her victim this time. Holding Artie up in a sort of half-nelson, Hunky braced for the contact. Right knee...left knee. More grotesque mixture expelled from his throat behind sharp, veiled shrieks and groans. Again and again. More of Artie's internal chemistry lay in splashes on the floor than remained in his body. Again. Massive streams of blood spurting from those eyes...those lifeless eyes. With Hunky still holding him up, she again snapped his head back by the hair and looked deeply into that face. He was gone. He was distorted, rearranged. He was subhuman. Now, just to finish with panache, Misty twisted his head sideways, shoved it between her powerhouse thighs, and executed yet another butt drop onto the tile, snapping Artie's neck like a twig. The crackling sound was so eerie it would have frightened the dead. And dead they were, these two closet masochists. Misty laughed as she slowly got up, looking now at Iris with evil intent.

Iris remained slumped over Oliver's still twitching body, shrieking in uncontrollable hysterics. What must have been happening within her emotionally from the experience of this nightmare was unfathomable. Now Misty stood over her, gloating arrogantly.

“Iris,” she said, “look at me.”

Iris was completely oblivious as she clutched at Oliver, apparently doing all she could to physically merge with this blood and with the unrecognizable remains of his body.

“Iiiiiiiiiii-riiiiiiiiiiiis,” Misty taunted. “Better look at me.”

Finally she had to instruct hunky to force the woman's gaze upon her. As he held Iris'face sternly in the direction of his goddess, Misty began to flaunt her body at her. Her body, now ghoulishly covered in the blood, fluids, and other viscera of the dead doctors, had been the cause of the entire nightmare, and to put an exclamation mark on the whole affair, she wanted to rob Iris of her very last vestige of womanhood and indeed of her humanity by rubbing her superiority in the devastated woman's face.

“You see, bitch,” sneered Misty, “THIS is what a man wants! Look at my legs. Sheer beauty and sheer power. They're completely irresistible, don't you think?”

Iris only continued to bawl. Then, turning her ass toward Iris, she rubbed her hand smoothly over its broad circumference and laughed.

“Obviously, you NEVER had one of these!” she chided.

As Iris tearfully continued to gaze upon Misty's exquisite form, the life had almost gone out from her from sheer terror and shock. As Misty looked into her hysterical face, it was obvious she had lost all rationality.

“Poor little wifey,” Misty teased cruelly. “Guess there's nothing left but to put you out of your misery. I mean, it IS the humanitarian thing to do.”

She and Hunky yukked it up before Misty smashed Iris' face in with another titanic knee kick. Picking her up by the hair, Misty then delivered her deadly roundhouse right fist, which sent Iris crashing hard down upon the tile. Again Misty would force her to look upon her body as she snatched her up and nearly decapitated her with another jack-hammer knee to the side of her head. Then, just to end the entire show on a high note, Misty hoisted Iris up over her shoulder and inverted her body, head pointed toward the floor. And just like a championship lady wrestler, she positioned Iris carefully and executed a perfect pile-driver, dropping to the floor as Iris's head slammed with the full force of Misty's weight into the unforgiving tile between her giant thighs. Her body toppled over and bounced limply on the floor as Misty released her. The top of her head had been split wide open and crushed flat, her skull completely caved in upon her brain. Blood poured profusely onto the floor as a truly Satanic smile settled onto Misty's face.

“Check them all,” she said to Hunky as she rose to her feet. “Always remember that being sure is the most important thing.”

“Oh yes, my glorious owner,” he sputtered. “Right away, My Queen.”

Hunky was so worked up and agitated from the excitement of all this carnage that he was bordering on utter madness. He reminded one of Dr. Frankenstein's Igor the way he went helter skelter about the sordid business of checking the bodies. They were all dead at least twice over.

“That's a good little turd-face,” Misty laughed. “Our job here is done. Perhaps you'd enjoy your reward right here?”

Hunky began to weep even as he salivated openly. He indicated his agreement more with canine panting and begging sounds than by actually answering her. Misty pummeled him with a wicked right cross that sent him crashing to the floor, at which point she fell with all her weight on top of him. And there, lying amidst the blood, guts, and corpses, the stench of death all-pervasive, she proceeded to fuck his brains out in a fury of ecstasy. Hunky was obviously well-trained as he lasted long enough to satisfy his goddess. After they had each come deliriously, they took a bath together, gathered up Misty's clothes, and started for the car.

“It's almost daylight,” said Misty. “Let's go get some breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” Hunky repeated, dim-witted.

As Hunky drove along, Misty dug in the glove box and pulled out a small black palm pilot organizer. She scrolled down to find her itinerary for the upcoming week.

“Ahh, perfect!” she exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten. This Saturday we have that lawyer's convention I told you about.”

FIN

The Baddest Bitch in Town: Part VI

2010-04-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

Ollie's body was twitching violently, his bloodied mouth gaping like fish out of water, and a flow of blood from the back of his head began to appear on the floor.

“Are you a gambling man, Artie?” she asked. “How many more do you think it'll take to finish him off?”

Arthur Lanier looked at the the huge, unstoppable machine that was Misty's body, her sumptuous flesh drenched in blood, vomit, puss, and bile.

“P-please,” he mumbled.

“Please what?”

Nothing more. Lanier just began sobbing harder.

“Not even a guess?” she laughed. “Well, we'll just have to find out, won't we? Oh, Olliiiee...Ollie, dear....Earth to Oliver....”

No evidence of acknowledgment. Misty sprang off her feet again and crashed her ass down again on Ollie's head. A direct hit. This time there was a noticeable crunching sound and his body went into an irregular pattern of full-on spasms. This was bad. Again Misty remained in place, her weight crushing Ollie's head into the hard floor with unrelenting force. Unable to breathe, his body began wrenching harder and harder until she actually had to secure herself to keep from sliding off.

“Hey Artie! This must be what bronco-bustin' is like! Yeeee-Haawwww! Ride 'em, Cowgirl!”

She gyrated hard seated atop his face and further cracking sounds could be heard. It had to be poor Oliver's head. Artie, though stripped of most of his rational faculties, still feared for what might present itself this time when she rolled off of Ollie. When she finally did, it was indeed a horrifying sight. His skull was strangely misshapen, a little too flat on one side. His facial features were all but completely unrecognizable, all basically crushed flat down into his shattered cheek bones and washed over with blood. The pool of blood from the back of his head poured freely now, and some sort of grotesque mixture of dark, thick fluid was oozing out of his ear onto the floor. The savage giantess stood looking down into his face again. She examined him with a lively curiosity, as one would await results from a lab experiment. Her face beamed with a gleeful smile all the while.

“I don't think that one did it,” she said. “But his head sure is fucked up. Think one more might smash it flat. What do you think?”

Although Artie and Oliver were technically competitors in life, they and their families had nonetheless maintained a solid, lifelong friendship and now, on account of this unfathomably powerful beast of a woman, Artie was watching his colleague being tortured to death before his very eyes. He couldn't say a word. Misty walked over to him as he huddled farther beneath the sink.

“What the fuck is the matter with you? I ask you a question and you sit here like a fucking deer in the headlights? Now once again, what do you think? One more time for fucking Pancake City?”

“Yesssss!” he screamed. “Yes! One more time!”

“Don't you fucking yell at me, you limp-dick, pathetic piece-a shit!”

She jerked him out from under the sink by his hair, and burrowed a right fist into his face with the force of a cannon. Blood spurted in projectiles from his face across the mirror and down the wall next to it. Another heady stream of it splattered onto Misty, which of course, upped her thrill level another spike or two. Hunky Boy had crawled to the doorway by now and began cheer leading. He clapped his hands and chanted his cheer.

My True Love is the Goddess pure
Only She will e'er endure.

Artie grimaced in pain from the force of that wicked punch, and as his head sprang back from bouncing off the wall behind him Misty caught him flush between the eyes with a massive knee-kick. The good doctor had never had his brains scrambled on this level and as everything went black, he let out a wimpy sounding groan of acquiescence and fell forward, face first, onto the hard bathroom tile. This powerful blow also caused a fresh river of blood to flow from his nose, ripped a huge gash in the center of his forehead, and sent yet more nightmarish viscera spraying in profusion around the once-elegant master bathroom.

“That oughta shut your fuckin' pie-hole for a while,” she said.

Returning to the quivering body of Dr. Oliver, she looked down and spat on his face contemptuously.

“Pig. And you thought you were man enough for me. Well, look at you now."

Misty dropped a devastating knee into Ollie's throat, then bounced back up quickly to admire the results. Despite his proximity to death, he couldn't escape the excruciating pain of this blow. Clutching at his throat with his remaining good hand he began to vibrate around the bathroom on involuntary muscle movements. Bulging out of his head like a Big Daddy Roth illustration, his eyes now came clearly back into view. Seeing a man riding along this exquisite borderline between life and death was what Misty lived for. To be a woman; a REAL woman, was to have and to exercise unlimited power. And that meant complete physical as well as mental and spiritual power over the so-called 'stronger' sex. Bullshit. No one was stronger than this woman named Misty, and she stood back now for just a moment to revel in that truth. Two prominent, 'powerful' men lying on the bathroom floor, beaten senseless and rendered powerless in her wake. A lady-killer; gorgeous, athletic 'get-any-girl-he-wants' dildo-brain of a husband who won't even fart without her approval and permission. It was all here. The incontrovertible evidence that she ruled her world with a hand of iron. This, this alone was what was important. The maintenance of unchallenged power and authority. But the job wasn't complete just yet.

“Yo, DickHead,” Misty said to Hunky Boy. “Go get me the biatch.”

Hunky was practically salivating as he scurried back toward the living room to drag poor wifey Iris back to watch the grand finale. As he was going, Misty dragged the two near-corpses over against the long bathroom wall and propped them up in sitting positions side-by-side. Colleagues to the very end!

Oliver had only the vaguest remnant of consciousness left; just enough to make out the magnificence of the female form confronting him. He only choked, heaved, and bled with his Marty Feldman eyes. Artie was badly impaired as well, but his injuries were not nearly as severe as Oliver's. Misty slammed another knee into his face, causing him to scream out in agony and exacerbating his own helplessness.

“Do you idiots have any idea what you've done tonight?” she asked. “Anyone capable of hazarding a guess? Well, though you're too fucking stupid to know, you've sacrificed your lives tonight in the service of religion. In the service of absolute religion. As Jesus admonished his followers, you have renounced family, and everything else close to you in order to follow God. You have given your all to follow The Divine. And she is Misty. And now, you believe you shall receive your rewards for your uncompromising loyalty. But of what loyalty are we speaking? What measure of so-called dedication do you fancy will win you freedom? Well, you can take this much to the bank; it doesn't happen through momentary lapses in judgment. That's all you hypocritical fucks have accomplished today. You've proven that male craves ultimate experience far beyond the experience of loyalty, monogamy, family, or anything else. All Male REALLY cares about is submission to his fat mistress. All else is of distant secondary importance.

Indeed, what had started as the most exciting feeling a man can experience had turned to disaster; an hour so horrific that the real lives of 2 prominent individuals had been utterly destroyed. Now it seemed as if the individuals themselves would succumb to that same fate

"Arthur, my boy, I'm still waiting for an answer from you, and I'm at the end of my rope from it. Now, for the last time, do you think that one more atomic drop on this idiot's head will crush his skull once and for all? Will it be the death blow?”

'Y-yes, ma'am' Artie cried hysterically. 'I think it will be the last.'

Misty turned back toward Ollie's still gyrating body.

“Whaddya think of that, Big Shot? Artie's bettin' you're through with one more jump. Care to make it interesting? Aww, come on, Ollie Baby. Bet him that you'll last at least two!”

There was no sign of acknowledgment on any level. He only kept clutching wildly at his throat, heaving and gasping desperately, and flopping around the floor like a beached sea bass.

“All right,” Misty laughed. “Whatever.”

Hunky Boy returned, presenting the bound and gagged Iris to his goddess. Iris was understandably beside herself; grief-stricken with horror and in a state of severe shock. She looked in to see her husband—now basically nothing more than a massive bloody pulp—bouncing off the walls in the most excruciating agony imaginable and she went limp in Hunky Boy's arms.

--Take off her gag, Numb-Nuts, Misty said.

Hunky Boy did as she commanded and Iris groggily focused again on the horror that confronted her.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God...!!” she screeched. She then did her best to keep her eyes shut, but she couldn't. “Oh God, this can't be happening! Oliver!! Oh my baby!! OOOOliveeeeer!”

“Your BABY?” Misty laughed. “That's a fucking hot one, Iris! Your baby. Your BABY has chosen death at my hands over whatever he had with you! I've given him something since 8 pm this evening that was worth more to him than his whole fucking LIFE with you! Doesn't that tell you something, you pathetic idiot? Doesn't it tell you something very important about MEN? Well, if it doesn't it should. One true adventure is, to them, worth dying for...and worth sacrificing an entire lifetime of whatever god-forsaken, boring bullshit you and he had together.”

Misty looked down at the rolling vegetable.

“Look at him, Iris! Look at what you've spent your whole life believing in.”

“Artie!” she screamed. “Artie! Do something!”

Artie was still lying face down, but was trying to pick himself up.

“Yes, Artie,” Misty chided, “Why don't you do something? Poor Iris is begging you!”

Now Artie began to bawl helplessly. He was utterly powerless and he knew it.

“I can't!” he bawled. “I c-caan't!”

“Well, Iris, Artie and I were just in the midst of a wager which will interest you very much, I think. The bet was whether or not your dear husband will survive one more atomic drop. You wouldn't have known this, but his skull is already severely fractured. He will certainly die of even these wounds. But, I am determined to continue punishing him for his transgressions. And so, the question is; will he survive one more drop? Artie says he won't. And looking at him, I'm inclined to agree. So, what about you? Will your darling husband survive my ass rocketing down onto his head one more time, or will he not?”

Naturally, Iris was in no shape to venture any kind of answer. She looked down again at Ollie's misshapen skull, at the still-living corpse into which Misty had transmogrified him, and tried desperately to break from Hunky's grasp. At this point, she wanted to kill him herself, in hopes of being merciful by putting him out of his hideous misery. But Hunky Boy held her tight.

--Don't worry,” Misty laughed. I fully intend to be merciful. However he meets his end, he will have experienced much less torture than he deserved.

She reached down and grabbed Artie by the hair, jerking him up and dragging him over against the bathroom wall. Meanwhile, Ollie was finally coming to rest from his involuntary bounce-fest around the bathroom.

“Eyes open, maggot!” she said to Artie.

Walking haughtily now around Ollie, who was spitting out multi-colored fluids not even recognized by most people as even possibly human, an idea dawned upon Misty.

“You know,” Misty said, mostly for Iris's benefit, “It just occurred to me that maybe another drop on poor Ollie's head is not the best way to end things for him. It'll be a quick 'lights- out' and that's it. Maybe I should give him the true thrill of his life and finish the job with these.” She indicated her thighs. “Wouldn't if be fun to watch his head pop between them instead of beneath me on the floor where you can't see what's happening?”
Artie was too compromised to give so much as an indication of his opinion, Hunky Boy's opinion didn't count for shit, and that left only Iris herself.

“Why don't we let little wifey decide?” Misty chuckled. “What do you think, wifey dear? How do want to see him go, crushed between my thighs, or ground into the tile like red grout?”

Iris was beyond communication.

“Come on, little wifey-pooh,” laughed Misty, “make a decision. Ollie is going to die, OK? It's up to you HOW he dies. His quickest death will come by the atomic drop. But it is also the most painful method. If I crush him with my legs, it will take a little longer, but it will be an infinitely more pleasurable way to go. He will leave this world with a smile on what's left of his face, rather than with no face at all.”

Iris wasn't in any kind of emotional state to be discerning, but she certainly wasn't able to assent to any mode of death through which her husband experienced profound sexual pleasure on his way out. She refused to answer, opting instead to keep bawling uncontrollably.

“In that case,” Misty chuckled, “I will be forced to make the decision myself. And knowing the joy that the good doctor experienced by ogling my gorgeous legs, it is my judgment that it is by these very thighs that his demise should be accomplished. I therefore decree that one Oliver Solomon should be crushed by my thighs until dead in accordance with universal law.”

Misty stood over Ollie again and cackled. “A little added discomfort, though, will give the finish its proper dash of panache,” she added. “Everyone can say their good-byes now.”

With that she went ahead and dropped full force again, this time on his chest just below the rib cage. All air was immediately jettisoned from his lungs along with a foul geyser of blood, vomit, pus, and bile. He heaved in a horrifying, involuntary series of spasms. Another huge load of the bloody miasma burst out of him as Misty slid upwards on his body and locked her thighs around his head. At this point, the scene was too hideous to describe. Like a bomb going off in a slaughter house.

Be sure and join me for the gruesome conclusion, coming up in Part VII

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part V

2009-12-29T20:27:00.000-08:00

-Hey, shit-for-brains, she said to Hunky Boy, go find me two large bowls. And make sure they’re matching bowls! Bring them to me ASAP.

-Yes, Ma’am.

Misty took a moment to flaunt her body again in front of the two lost souls. She teased and taunted them relentlessly, pushing them ever-closer to ultimate annihilation with the supreme power of her wickedness. Hunky Boy returned with the two bowls. Misty had him place one by each man and then return to his viewing spot on the sofa. Then she instructed Ollie to use his hands and scoop as much of his vomit as possible into his bowl.

-Whatever is left that you can’t get up off the carpet, she said, I want you to start cleaning up…with your tongue!

Oliver squeaked some more and emitted a more or less mangled ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

Turning back to Artie Lanier, who was still writhing and crying out in pain, Misty ordered him to shut his trap and get up. He seemed oblivious to her instructions as he continued to obsess over his shredded lip, which was pumping blood like a West Texas oil derrick.

-Oh Artie, dear. Can you hear me?

Artie groaned in the affirmative, but this was far from satisfactory. Misty grabbed his hair, pulled him up hard, and turning him in the direction of his bowl, slammed a jackhammer knee lift into his abdomen.

-Be a good boy, Artie, she laughed. Get it all into your bowl.

Buckling instantly in a full-body reflex seizure, Artie threw up violently in a big pool on the carpet. The instantaneous reaction to her kick denied him any chance of taking aim at his bowl. Misty stood over him mockingly, and as she pulled him upward once more by the hair his body jerked again and a second wave erupted from his mouth, a good portion of it splattering Misty’s lower body. She only laughed all the harder and it was becoming evident that it actually fueled her wrath and the fervor of her violence to be drenched in the spoils of her dominance, though how she could tolerate the stench was impossible to say. Clearly she was operating on some other wavelength and the more damage she wrought in the two men, the more psychotic and malevolent she became.

-Another insubordinate pig, eh, Hunky Boy?

--Yes, Ma’am. Yes, My Love, He howled tearfully.

-That was REALLY a pathetic showing, Artie, my boy. Doesn’t look like you got even a drop into the bowl, does it?

Artie only continued to heave.

-Idiot, she chuckled.

-All right, boys, Misty said. Now it’s time for me to teach you a new game. It’s called ‘Bobbing for Booty.’

She turned this way and that, flaunting her incredible big ass and upper legs dripping with blood and vomit and the sound effects being produced by Ollie and Artie kicked up another notch.

-Arthur, when you’re finished retching, I want you to get all your mess into your bowl, just like your dear friend, Ollie, OK? But hurry it up, or I’ll have to do something dreadful to speed you along.

Both men were basically vegetables by this time. They watched fretfully as Misty tortured them with the movements of her powerful body, both of them now fully ravaged physically and driven to sublime madness sexually. The sounds now were the freakish melange of squeaking, screaming, sobbing, howling and hysteria that one expects to hear only in the dark recesses of a madhouse. She stood over Artie, threatening to strike again if he didn’t get his vomit bowl prepared quickly. He scooped at it vigorously, in severe agitation as he continued to bleed while spitting out long strings of reddish-brown saliva.

-Into the bowl, dip-shit! Misty snapped.

Within a few minutes, both men had their bowls neatly filled with barf and blood and cowered on the floor in panicked anticipation of what might be coming next.

-Good boys, good boys! She said. Now, I think you’re going to adore this little game. As I said, it’s called ‘Bobbing for Booty,’ and the object of the game is just exactly that. We’re going to take a nice long walk around the house, you boys following behind me on your hands and knees, of course, and the object of the game is that, whenever I stop and point at my ass, the one who’s able to jump the highest on his knees will be allowed to kiss my ass cheek. But only one of you will be allowed the privilege, so you need to impress me with your desire and your devotion as well as your ‘bobbing’ ability. Because in the event that I can’t make a clear decision as to who has bobbed the highest, I will make my decision based upon your display of those two important qualities; devotion & desire. Now, you maggots yelp a little louder if you understand me.

Both men did exactly that. Hunky Boy joined in loudly now as well.

-Splendid. But the most important thing, the very most important thing is…Hunky, you tell ‘em.

He simply looked at Misty again and started to cry.

-Y-Y-You c-can’t e-ever touch her, he stammered, u-until she tells y-you t-t-to.

-Or else, what? Misty added.

-O-Or else…

-Or else, what, fuck-ball?!

Hunky began to blubber more loudly.

-O-Or else, she’ll-she’ll-she’ll fucking kill you.

He laughed a strange, guttural laugh that sounded more like someone choking on their own vomit than anything else. He was drooling.

-Thank you, butt-wipe. Try to get it out while we’re still young next time. Promise?

-Y-Yes, Ma’am. I p-promise. Hee Hee Heeee.

-All right, assholes. Ready? Here we go. Hands and knees. Aaaaaaaand, let’s go!

Misty began to walk, her incomprehensible body gyrating like some hi-tech CGI realization of movement in extra-dimensional space, like primal goddess, like the original god-queen of domination and death. Like Real Woman. Like Kali. The doctors followed behind, their bloody faces glued intently to the motions of her lower body, and already the enmity began to make itself known. The two were suddenly in competition with one another, and as Misty led them down the main hallway, they began to turn on one another.

-You fucking disloyal cocksucker, mumbled Oliver through his broken teeth.

-Fuck you, cried Lanier. I’m the one she wants. Just wait.

-Boys, said Misty calmly, bicker all you want, but if you look away from my ass at one another—even for a second—I will grind you both into powder, and nobody will kiss my ass!

-Yes, Ma’am, muttered the two poodles.

She led them first into the guest room, the first room accessible from the hallway. She walked arrogantly to the window, and then turned to face her new dogs. They stopped, peering at her from their canine postures, bleeding badly and obviously in severe pain. Laughing out loud at them, she feigned a turn, but as the two began to dig in, expecting the competition to start, she laughed again and walked between the two of them toward the doorway. As they turned back into the hallway, Misty called for Hunky Boy to walk behind the procession and to let her know if either of the grand docteurs turned attention away from the undulation of her glorious ass. The next room they came to was the bathroom. Misty turned as if she would stop before going in, but again, before initiating the ‘bobbing,’ she chuckled haughtily and continued on in. This was only a small bathroom, and as Misty stopped up against the shower doors, the doctors thought it must be time. But Misty only turned around again to face them. She laughed again at their ineptitude, and strutted past them back to the hallway. The bathroom was so small that the two had to struggle to turn around on all fours, and as they bumped one another, they became irritated and might well have gone at each other. But realizing that turning away from Misty’s ass would be the end of everything, they kept their composure while only snarling a couple more obscenities at one another.

--Hey babe. Take a walk on the wild side, Misty sang. Hey babe. Take a walk on the wild side.

Hunky choked out another hellish laugh.

--All hail the Queen! He cheered.

--Let’s go, boys, let’s go, Misty laughed.

Ollie and Artie crawled swiftly behind her, watching her ass intently as it swayed, and beginning to feel the horror welling up within the fervor of their obsession. Two bleeding, vomiting, naked dogs desperate to please the cruelest of mistresses. Misty led them on into the master bedroom. Here it was. The place where everything happened, or didn’t happen, between Oliver and Iris. She stopped to admire herself in the full-length mirror, and hitting a few hot, provocative poses, the hounds began to bay. Misty turned to admire her handiwork with an evil smile that embodied the life-and-death control she exerted over her mongrels.

--OK, maggots, she laughed. I think it’s time for the first level of your competition. Both of you SIT.

Both subjects obeyed perfectly, right on command. Peering arrogantly into their bloody, terrified faces, she laughed loudly and slapped each of them in turn with explosive open-hand blows that sent the blood splattering and the tears, wailing, and expletives flying. Their bleeding was excessive now, and just those two powerful blows had made the beautiful bedroom look like a murder scene. Blood was everywhere.

Miraculously, neither became uprooted from his obedient sitting position, and after surveying the blood spray with a cackle, Misty turned her devastating ass upon the two. Holding her hand up, poised to point, she prolonged their agony by waiting…and waiting. She looked into their pathetic faces; bloody, disfigured, sub-human, consumed by anxious anticipation, and she allowed the surge of orgasmic sexual energy to course through her body; the kind of high that only comes from the exercise of control at this level. At long last, she snapped her index finger out and pointed down at her ass.

The rabid dogs launched into action, doing their best to bounce upward from their kneeling positions. The resulting spectacle was utterly comical. Of course, neither mutt was able to rise even an inch off the floor from a kneeling position, but they were obliged to keep trying, desperate to be granted that kiss of Misty’s ass. As Misty laughed hysterically, she kept urging them onward…and upward.

--Come on, mutts! She said. You can do better than that! Come on, now! Up! Up!

Ollie and Artie kept at it, wrenching their bodies upward with everything they had. After a few bizarre minutes of this strange paux de deu, they both began to tire, eventually slowing into the most half-hearted efforts imaginable. Though there was no clear winner, Misty decided to torture Oliver further by awarding the kiss to Artie.

--Drum roll, please! She said.

Hunky Boy obliged with the vocalized sounds of a drum roll; Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…Psshhhhhhh!!

--And the winner is…Doc-torrrrr...Arthur Lanier!!

The realization set in. So did the hyperventilation. Not only did the prospect of actually putting his lips to Misty’s royal ass give him palpitations, but suddenly the entire import of the evening began to bang at his brain like a battering ram. An entire life—two entire lives, including the families—put on the line for one moment of ultimate decadence. He couldn't really even grasp the full implications of it all.

--No, No! screamed Ollie. She’s mine, you fucking piece-a shit! You weren’t even supposed to be here!

The words were terribly garbled through his battered mouth; lips ripped open, jaw dislocated, and eyes swollen nearly shut from the battering he had taken. He began to sob.

--Hey, dick-breath, Misty said. We’re not done. You’ll get another turn. Now shut your hole while Artie boy collects his prize.

She brought Artie’s face up close, just inches from the divine curves her exquisite ass.

--On 3. Ready? One…two……

Artie was electrically charged, quivering uncontrollably. Misty dragged it out, holding the two-count until Artie was outside himself.

--aaaaaand, 3!

Artie planted his lips softly, firmly, flush against her goddess-flesh, right in the center of her ass-cheek. It was only a second, but the energy was far too intense for him. He cried out at first, then segued into loud, sobbing moans, finally collapsing in tears of ecstasy onto the floor. Misty laughed hard, reveling in her dominance.

--Jeez, I don’t think he cared for that, she laughed.

Ollie was bawling like an infant. Hunky Boy sat on the edge of the bed, clapping his hands in childlike delight at the proceedings.

--He couldn’t t-take it! Heee-Hee-Heeeeee. See? He couldn’t take that! None of ‘em can! Not my wife! She’s the Queeeen of the Univerrrrrrse! Heee-Heeeeeee!

Then he broke down into sobs as well.

Misty took a look around and checked out the lavish master bathroom. Now THIS was something! It was the size of an apartment. With exquisite imported Italian tile for the floors and walls, a huge walk-in shower, plush fur rugs, and a fabulous sunken bath tub.

--Jesus, you could convene the U.N. in this fucker, Misty thought. All right, Dogs! Mutts! Mongrels! Animals! On with the competition!! Come on, Artie! Up, Boy, Up! Follow along, or you’ll be sorrrr-y!

Both men, if you could still call them that, were long lost in alternate realities, very much outside their normal minds. And yet, the real world continued to crash the gates, trying to get a message through. Thoughts came to each in rising to the occasion, crawling along after Misty as she led them around the large bedroom. Those thoughts, the voices of wisdom; Flee! Run! Run, and don’t look back! The end is nigh! Run! Run for your life! Things can be SALVAGED! But only if you leave NOWWWW! Of course, neither specimen was up to taking flight. Even if they could have summoned the emotional wherewithal, their bodies were finished. Both had been so badly beaten at this point that is was all they could do to continue being good doggies and following the beautiful Misty around the house on all fours. And even this took a Herculean effort.

After a scintillating excursion out onto the patio and back into and around the master bedroom, Misty led the dogs to the master bath. Entering upon the cool, smooth tile, Misty took them for one tight circle and then took her stance by the lavatory.

--All right, Maggots! Time for round two!

She shook her ass so sensually, and both dogs howled with delight and unquenchable anticipation.

--Here we go. On 3. Ready? One…..Two…..

Again she held the two count forever as both dogs began salivating blood.

--aaaaaaaannnnnndddd…3!

The hilarious and utterly pathetic ‘jumping’ began again in earnest, each man giving everything he had to rise up from a kneeling position in any motion that could even be considered a ‘jump.’ Watching their intense but utterly ineffectual attempts, Misty just started laughing her ass off again. They reminded her of two turtles trying to high jump. But again, since there was no way to declare a winner, Misty decided to frustrate poor Oliver once more and declare Artie the winner. The earlier scene was repeated, complete with Hunky boy’s drum roll and that fateful proclamation of the winner.

--Doctooooooorrrrr, Arthur Lanier!!

She flaunted her ass in his face and proudly took in the emotional devastation she was wreaking on the two. They were both in deep trouble, and growing angrier and more jealous of each other by the minute. Ollie was incredulous at Artie’s being chosen again.

--No, no, he wept. It’s not fair.

He looked woefully up at that marvel of a derriere, the ass that should have been reserved for him alone, and broke down into even more intense sobbing. Watching Artie again place his lips against Misty’s magnificent flesh sent him into a rage. Unable to contain himself any longer, he pounced upon Artie, who had just been rendered incoherent by the kiss and was in no position to defend himself. Ollie swung with lefts and rights, but at such close range and owing to the battering both men had taken, the blows were utterly ineffectual. Misty had a chuckle as she watched them go at it for a moment, but decided ultimately that Ollie was out of line.

--OK, OK, big boy, she said. That’s enough of that.

She pulled him up by his hair, forcing him to his feet where she had to prop him up with her left hand. Without warning she blasted a powerful right fist flush into the middle of his face that once again sent the blood flying everywhere. The blow sent Ollie reeling backwards, crashing into the sunken bathtub where he lay sprawled precariously, beaten to a pulp, and crying out in eerie bursts of excruciatingly pained but ultimately inhuman sounds.

--You worthless fucking ingrate! Misty yelled, looking down at his fallen body. How DARE you question my authority, my judgment! And how DARE you presume to take any action into your own hands without my permission! You just signed your own fucking death warrant, asshole! Now get up!

That wasn’t going to happen. In all likelihood, he could no longer even comprehend the meanings of the words, but if he did he was in no way capable of acting upon them. That punch nearly took his head off. It flattened his nose flush with his face, and knocked the majority of his teeth out in a splaying of blood and gristle on the bathroom walls. Upon crashing down with his full weight, he had broken his arm and cracked his skull on the hard edge of the marble bathtub. Even in the face of Misty’s vehement commands all he could do was lay there spitting out blood and fragments of teeth in quick, rhythmic bursts with each desperate breath he expelled from his battered body. All this made Misty even more enraged. She stepped into the sunken tub, dragged his dead-weight body up over the edge and slammed him down on the tile floor. She looked briefly and balefully at Artie.

--This is what happens to willful maggots! She said.

She stood over Ollie’s head and looked down into his bloodied eyes. She could tell that he could still see her big ass from the way he started to jerk involuntarily; first in quick twitches, and then into more frenetic bursts of convulsion.

--Better take a good fucking look, you dip-shit fucking worm! And you should be thanking god for allowing my ass to be the last fucking thing you see on this earth!

She allowed his frenzy to build for a minute longer before executing that enormous and deadly butt drop down onto Ollie’s head. She drove his head into that hard tile floor with her full weight. Sitting arrogantly upon his face, she glanced over her shoulder to check out his seizure. She smiled. Artie was sitting on the floor in shock near the lavatory, with Hunky still looking in from just outside the door, giggling demonically.

--That was a good one, eh Artie Boy? Heard his fucking skull crack on that one!

--Oh God, he moaned, hoping against hope that what he thought was happening wasn’t really happening.

Slowly she rose up off Oliver and stood over his head again, looking down at the scarcely identifiable melange of blood and tissue that was now his face. The carnage was sickening, and very much to Misty’s liking.

Stay Tuned For PART VI.

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part IV

2009-12-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

Just then, Hunky Boy returned with Iris and Dr. Lanier. They had been outside trying to figure out what to do next when the human siren started up from inside. Hunky Boy launched into his most severe hysterics now and the dissonant duet began to gain in intensity, soon becoming a most disturbing cacophony. The thought entered Iris’s mind that this was the weeping and gnashing of teeth described by Jesus in the gospels when referring to Hell. The sight of her husband, naked, bloodied, crazed, and sprouting a chubby bigger than she knew he possessed, was more than she could handle. Now, she too burst into hysterics, and instinctively bolted at Misty, fists flailing, and expletives flying. As she fell upon Misty, the powerful goddess merely brushed her off like a gnat and instructed Hunky Boy to sit her down and keep her in line. The whole scene grew macabre now with three voices wailing horrifically and chaos becoming the order of the moment.

-One more little treat for ya, Oliver Boy, Misty said.

She snatched him by the hair, his wounds still bleeding rivers and the squeal actually seeming to rise to a higher pitch, dragged him into the middle of the floor, and dropped him there on his back. Hunky Boy was holding the squirming Iris down in a seated position on the sofa.

-Hunky, said Misty, make her watch now.

Then, standing over Oliver’s head again, Misty dropped down with all her considerable weight, her big ass crashing like an avalanche onto poor Ollie’s head. Oliver’s body kicked like an epileptic in full throttle as Misty sat firmly upon his face, laughing uncontrollably at the sight of Iris going psychotic as she looked on.

-Artie!, she screamed. Do something! She’s trying to kill him!

Artie Lanier did indeed make a move toward Misty, but as he reached her, now pretty much mental himself, Misty smiled at him devilishly and fondled her tits with her hands, pushing them up into a massive cleavage for Doc Lanier’s benefit.

Frozen in his tracks, Lanier reached down toward her, his first impulse that of trying to pull her off of Ollie, only to then retract his hands as he fell to his knees before her, his mouth a barren desert, his breathing heavy and erratic.

-Artie!, Misty exclaimed. Nice to have you on board! If ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, eh Artie?

The reward for Lanier’s submission was a brutal open-hand slap across the face that left fiery red imprints of Misty’s fingers on his cheek.

Artie! Cried Iris, horrified.

-You’ve been a big disappointment to me, Misty said to Artie. You’ve stood there, as disrespectful to me as a man could be, as if you actually had to think about whether you REALLY wanted me or not. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Shame on you Artie. We’ll have to think of some way for you to make it up to me, won’t we?

-Yes, we will.

Another massive slap across his face.

-Owww! Artie cried.

-Another faggot with no manners! How ‘bout a Yes, Ma’am? Were you raised in a fucking barn?

-Yes, Ma’am, Artie stammered, I mean, No, ma’am.

-Idiot. Take off your goddamn clothes. All of them, right now.

-Yes, ma’am.

-Artie! Oliver! Iris could certainly scream some bloody murder.

She kicked and writhed, slapped and punched at Hunky Boy until it was obvious he wasn’t going to restrain her without resorting to some sort of corporeal enforcement. Misty looked at Iris, becoming quite impatient with her carrying on.

-Bitch, you’re beginning to annoy me, Misty said, and you gotta believe me when I say this; you totally DON’T want to annoy me!

-Fuck you, you piece of shit whore! Iris cried. This is all your fault! I’ll kill you, goddammit! I’ll kill you! Let go of me goddammit!

Hunky Boy held her tightly, but Misty knew that something had to be done. While Artie was shedding his clothing and Oliver beginning to kick a little harder as his muffled groans became more audible under the smothering press of Misty’s ass, Misty stood up over Ollie and dropped her big knee into the center of his throat with her full weight. Bouncing right up off of him, she watched him go rolling and writhing wildly across the room, clutching at his throat, and gasping for air. Iris descended into full-on hysteria. Then turning to Iris, Misty took her by the hair and jerked her up from Hunky Boy’s grasp.

--I’ve had it with you, bitch, she said between barred teeth. You are really beginning to bring me down!

Iris was already swinging wildly at Misty, her hysteria intensifying with each rapid breath. Misty reared back and sucker-punched her squarely on the nose, dropping her like an anvil. Then, pulling her halfway to her feet by her hair, she slammed a bone-crunching thigh lift into Iris’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her and sending her crashing down on her face like a rag doll. Misty noticed Artie looking over at her, a look of infinite sadness on his face. Oliver continued to gyrate around the living room area making desperate choking sounds, much to Misty’s delight. She kicked Iris over onto her back so as to have her lying face-up, and just as she had with Ollie, she dropped her fat, gorgeous ass down on Iris’s head with the force of a Mack Truck. Now Iris’s body convulsed uncontrollably as Misty sat atop her face, grinning sardonically. She is the Devil Incarnate. Hunky Boy, amped up from the ruckus, began to howl, and dared ask his wife as contritely as possible;

--Are you gonna kill ‘er, My Love? Are you gonna smother her?

He was practically salivating at the prospect. Misty looked at him, and for the first time this evening gave him a knowing smile.

--I should, but no, Bitch-Boy, I'm not gonna kill her. Not now, at any rate. I have more to show her later on...MUCH more.

Misty rose up from Iris' thrashing body with a look of ghoulish satisfaction upon her face. She instructed Hunky Boy to find something with which to tie her up and gag her. He ran off as though shot out of a cannon at her command. Returning with some packing tape he found in a kitchen drawer, Hunky secured her hands firmly behind her, bound her ankles together, and placed a large strip across her mouth. Misty, who had returned to her side-show atrocities, looked on from the living room.

--Much better, Misty smiled. That bitch was really pissing me off.

She then clasped both hands firmly around the naked Artie’s face, still wearing its stunned expression, and gave him the kiss of his life. As her tongue explored the interior of his mouth, he surrendered completely to her and, clutching her body in delirium, slid down in front of her onto his knees. He was just beginning to break into tears when he felt the jack-hammer slam of Misty’s knee into his face, which sent him reeling in painful somersaults across the living room. Meanwhile, Oliver was just starting to slow down from his frantic top-spinning ‘round the room, and as he came to rest, Misty greeted him with further punishment. She pulled his face up between her thighs and again dropped to the floor with an full-weight atomic butt-drop on Ollie’s head. The cranial shock from this incomprehensibly devastating maneuver scrambled the poor chap's brains into mush once and for all. A concussion for the ages. Misty's sexy, witch-like laughter reverberated eerily around the room.

Oliver can’t breathe, and he is squirming mightily now against the press of Misty’s exquisite fat ass, which has him pinned inextricably against the floor. At the same time Misty looks over at the moribund figure of Artie Lanier, now kneeling, naked, his prick extending in sections, telescopic, until it reaches maximum density at which point it most resembles an Olympic diving board.

-Ahh, poor Artie, Misty says. Perfect racket, and no one’s on the court to test it for you with a couple of volleys. Mmmm. Well, we’ll have to do something about that.

She lifted up slightly off of Ollie’s head, which caused him to gasp wildly for breath. The last big ass-drop onto his face had broken his nose, too, and the blood was far denser than it appeared at last sight. The big-ass God-Queen was indeed making quite a splash in the world of ordinary mortal affairs.

-Oliver Boy, she said, if I ask you to do something for me, something REALLY important, would you do it for me? You would, wouldn’t you?

-Y-Yes-s, Ma’am. Y-Yes-s, I-I would. Nearly incoherent gurgling.

He lay in an intense pool of deep red blood at this point, and as a result of the hold she’d put on him, didn’t fully realize it.

-Good, she said. I want you to go into the kitchen and make me a boilermaker, OK? Can dumb-shit be TRUSTED to take care of that for Mommy while I tend to a very needy Arthur Lanier here?

-Yes, Ma’am.(Gurgle, spew, & drool)

-Good. Then get your ugly balls in there and take care of it.

She turns back to Lanier.

-MMmm, Artie! Baby! Where ya been, Artie Baby? Look at this mother fucker! You got a goddamn slot machine handle growin'’outta your crotch, dude! You haven’t really been tested today, have you, meat? Well, it’s important to test for levels, you know. If there’s shit I can’t do with a guy, that I WANT to do with a guy, well, shit, might as well stay home, right?

-Oh, yes Ma’am.

-Ok, then. While Ollie’s getting my drink, I’m going to show you a little of what my own punishment is like. After that, you’ll be doing a lot of it on your own. So, stand up straight, and look me right in the eyes. No distraction. Right in my face, got it?

-Yes ma’am.

-Ok, here we go.

Artie did indeed look her right in the face as she placed her hands upon his shoulders and pulled a knee up from the center of the earth, burying it into his stomach.

-Ackk! He hacked before crumpling straight to the ground from the power of the kick. Misty looked down upon him. He was close to throwing up, but his breath had definitely been fully expelled. He was in pain. Then, Misty lifted his sagging head up by the hair, just enough to get a perfect shot at his face. She reared back and cold-cocked his ass with a brutal overhand right that totally cleaned Artie’s clock. He flipped over backwards and wound up in a fetal position, clutching at his gut, gasping desperately for air, and watching the pool of blood rise up beneath him as he lay there pumping it onto the carpet from mouth and nose, both split wide open from that power-packed punch. Hunky Boy, as if sensing a shift toward uncharted heights of delirium, began to wail a little higher as the bloodied Ollie limped precariously into the room, barely capable of keeping the drink held upright long enough to reach the Dictator, Misty. He managed to serve her, then gurgled something about could he have one, too.

-I need you to have something else first, Misty taunted . Then we'll see about that drink.

-Yes, Ma’am?

-It’s called Mommy’s Big Shot, and it goes just like this.

She slammed her massive thigh up with unprecedented power into the poor fucker’s mid-section, which doubled him over instantly, then sprung him back out straight as he proceeded to puke his guts out all over the floor.

-Aww, Oliver Boy. Whassa matter, hmmmm? Cat got your tongue? Well, so much for that drink, I guess.

He looked up from the ground at the most delicious, monstrous, powerfully perfect big, huge legs in the goddamn universe. They’d be the end of everything here before the night was over. He knew it now. Misty had it in her head to kill everyone. She had Hunky Boy light her another cigarette. She strutted haughtily around the fallen bodies of the two men, sipping her drink, smoking her cigarette, and flicking the ashes into their faces as they struggled against the ravages of Misty’s onslaught. The beating was beginning to take a severe toll on Oliver. That last heavy knee blow had ruptured something inside him, or so he perceived at any rate. He continued to vomit as Misty stood over him, watching gleefully.

-Mmm, nice texture, said Misty. Color’s not bad, either.

She pulled him up by his hair just high enough to repeat the powerful leg blow and blasted it again right into the old breadbasket. Oliver’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and instead of crying out, he merely squeaked, like a child’s air toy. He buckled instantly back to the floor from the force of the blow, and then, looking up sadly at Misty, ejected another huge stream of vomit, some of which splattered across her lower body, the remainder adding to the color collage being created from blood and puke on the white carpet. Hunky Boy howled like a rabid wolf and even Artie joined the chorus with an outburst of impassioned sobbing. Misty laughed insanely, seeming to relish the sight and feeling of the grotesque muck of body fluids and blood that dripped from her legs. It was hard to say where Oliver was at by this time. He was obviously badly hurt, gasping desperately for air as he choked on the vomit that continued to be launched up from his stomach.

With Oliver fully incapacitated, Misty turned her attention back to Lanier, who was just getting back to his feet after Misty’s wicked punch. She embraced him sensuously, arms around his neck, and looked him in the eyes as the blood dripped from his face down unto his chest.

-Artie, my dear boy, she cooed, did I mention that I just LOVE a man with a nice bloody mouth, and sensuous thick lips? Hmmm?

-N-No, Ma’am, Artie mumbled, you didn’t.

-Well, it’s true. And your mouth is looking VERY SEXY.

She was within an inch of his lips.

-Mmmm, but I DO wish your lips were a little fatter. You know, like Mick Jagger’s. Even better, like Steven Tyler’s.

Artie trembled, wondering what was next. Swiftly, and with great force Misty slammed a vicious head butt right on target into Artie’s mouth. He fell back against the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen area, then slumped forward onto his knees. Misty was right there, catching him by the head and immediately driving her big knee straight into his face, pummeling his mouth and lips even harder. Backing away a couple of steps, she watched as he collapsed forward flat onto his face on the floor, the blood splattering everywhere.

-Get up, she commanded, and I mean right now!

As he began trying to raise himself up, along with the blood he also spit out three of his front teeth, broken by the intensity of that knee blow.

-Oops, Misty laughed. My bad. Looks like somebody's on liquid diet for a while. Now, come on. Up, up. Don't keep Misty waiting.

He had no choice but to hold onto Misty’s body in pulling himself up, but managed to be standing wobbly before her in decent time. Again she looked into his eyes. That face, so sexy, so irresistible. Artie Lanier began to cry softly. Blood was gushing from his mouth, so much so that Misty was awash in it as well. She obviously loved it. She surveyed his face, his lips now splayed wide open, bleeding severely and quickly swelling.

-Mmmm, she purred. That’s more like it.

With that she caressed his face between her hands and kissed him. She stayed with it, spurred on by the blood flow, biting his lips hard as he alternately screamed in pain and moaned in ecstasy. All the while Oliver writhed on the floor, unable yet to speak. While Misty worked on Artie Lanier, the hideous, eerie sounds of Oliver’s involuntary squeaking filled the room as he watched the proceedings.

-Why, Artie, Misty chided, you’re some kisser! And I thought all you had to offer was money. Well, just goes to show you.

Her face smeared with his blood, she indulged herself one more time. As she finished kissing him this time, she bit down hard and sheared a section of his lip completely off. Artie screamed out in agony as he dropped to his knees clutching at his mouth. Misty sucked on the section of flesh momentarily, blood now dripping steadily from her face, and then spit it at him contemptuously. Oliver was just recovering from his intense heaving, and now lay balled up on the floor continuing to squeak repeatedly with an odd and painful moaning thrown in here and there. As Artie screamed out, Hunky Boy went into his most bizarre concatenations, as if singing harmony with the horrified and battered doctor. Misty’s Fun House had indeed become a surreal and morbid nightmare.

Stay Tuned for PART V. Blood-Curdling.

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part III

2009-12-28T15:58:00.000-08:00

Misty stood up, Oliver still seated on the floor, and taunted him with her ass, which was just barely concealed by the hem of her skirt. Oliver began to whimper a little louder, and as if on cue, Hunky Boy's whimpering ramped up just that much louder. Stereo cry-babies.

Misty looked down over her shoulder into Oliver's tear-filled eyes.

-Wanna kiss it, big boy?

Oliver was a mess. Of course, he wanted to kiss it. He wanted to die in its massive press. But what about Iris? What should he do about poor dear wifey, just down the hall, probably sobbing and definitely madder than a cornered badger by now? Worse than that, probably so hurt by all this. Where had his mind gone that the fact of her pain could not penetrate the fortress walls Misty had built up so solidly around his very soul? This was the end of everything, and he had no way of doing anything about it. As he sat there mumbling and whimpering, Misty turned on him; pissed. Without a word, she slapped him across the face so violently that he went down onto the floor on his back, still blubbering as he stretched out there before her. Misty stood right over him, looking down into his pathetic, red, tear-drenched face.

-I asked you a question, you fucking pig! And NOW I'd like to hear an explanation as to why you sit there, dumb as a fucking stump, and refuse to answer me?

Oliver looked up at the extraordinary vision that was Misty, standing over him with that over-sexed face of hers, the HOT just dripping off it, the big, solid body with the massive, gorgeous breasts popping out of her tight dress, and most of all, those indescribable, monolithic legs, rising up above him now like twin towers of destruction. All he could do was break even harder into uncontrollable tears. As he did, Hunky Boy also began crying harder. It was as if he were petrified to make any louder noises than those Misty was allowing her evening’s quarry. Realizing that he was basically a lost cause at the moment, Misty decided to take a more oblique approach to Oliver’s destruction.

-Look at you, she said. What a fucking disgrace. Big, important, hot-shot doctor, can’t even control his own mousy little wife, and has no idea what to do with the hottest fucking bitch he’ll ever lay eyes on when she’s RIGHT HERE WITH HIM in the goddamn flesh. Some big fucking deal you are. Well, Oliver boy, it’s like this; first, take those goddamn clothes off, and I mean within seconds! Bawl all you want, but get them off NOW!

Ollie looked up at her again, and the thought came to him that maybe salvation lay in her presence here after all. Let go of all that’s familiar, and go for your bliss! Yes, that suddenly sounded right. And since he was being forced to strip anyway, what difference did it make? He decided right then and there that he belonged to Misty. He would do whatever she required of him. With that realization, a strange smile came over his face, even as he continued to cry. He ripped at his formal clothing, slithered out of his coat, thrust his shoes from his feet in swift flicking motions, and pulled his pants down, his crying and whimpering morphing into a strange, haunting fit of laughter all the while. Misty, sensing that he was entering the Twilight Zone, decided to ratchet up the intensity; pushing him ever-harder. With a gleeful smile she squatted down straight above his face, pulling her dress up around her waist. As she locked into her position, she drove poor Ollie into a rather psychotic outburst. Looking up at her ass, covered only by a skimpy, see-through thong, he became hysterical, laughing, crying, utterly out of control.

-Shut your goddamn face! Misty exclaimed. You’re not following orders, you dick-brain! I said, get your fucking clothes off! NOW!

Ollie still had his shirt, his shorts, and his socks to go. In spite of his delirium, he knew ‘serious’ when he heard it. Meanwhile, Hunky Boy had started up, his own moaning and crying getting louder and more intrusive. It was quite the surreal scene having him sit there, basically mimicking Ollie, yet obviously going through his own personal hell watching his wife cuckold him before his very eyes. With his stern mistress monitoring his every move, Ollie quickly shed the rest of his clothing. Now, he lay there completely naked, but for his Rolex, with a hard-on the size of a 200 year-old fir tree throbbing intensely and oozing pre-cum in generous globs.

-Hmmm, Misty laughed, looks like someone hasn’t been laid in a while. Well, for being so obedient, I think you deserve a reward. I want you to exhale, and then, when I fart, right into your stupid face, I want you to inhale for all you’re worth. Don’t waste a single molecule! Got it?

-Thank you, Misty, the good doctor answered, still in that strange O-zone between laughter and tears.

Again with a laugh, Misty cut a huge, gassy fart right into Ollie’s face. As programmed, he inhaled deeply, sucking down every last nuance of her divine flatulence. When he had filled his lungs, Misty made him hold it, like taking a hit of weed. Upon that command, Hunky Boy broke into loud, unrestrained sobbing. His presence was becoming quite unsettling.

-That’s right, Misty laughed, looking down between her legs at Ollie’s face, hold it in, hold it in!

As he finally exhaled, Lanier and Wifey Iris emerged from the hallway, taken aback at the scene unfolding before them. In their already disoriented and traumatized conditions, what they now beheld sent them—wifey Iris in particular—into what can only be described as a state of shock. Iris tried to cry out, but the sounds stuck in her throat. Dr. Arthur Lanier managed a little better;

-O-Oliver! Jesus Christ!

That was Hunky Boy’s cue. With the tension so thick you climb into the sky upon it, his macabre baying intensified to a melodramatic wailing that cast an even more surreal aura over the proceedings.

-Ahh, look who’s back, said Misty, still crouched ominously over Ollie’s face. Oliver boy, show little wifey how much fun you’re having, hmmm? Take that cattle prod you’ve got growing between your legs and jack it off for her. Don’t worry, I won’t let you cum yet. But keep your eyes focused on my ass. You do love Misty’s ass, don’t you?

Oliver’s attempted reply was nothing more than incoherent, hysterical gibberish as he snatched a hold of his burning cock.

-I didn’t get that, Oliver boy, Misty chided.

-Y-y-yesss, Ma'aaaaam! He wailed.

-I thought so. You know, ‘Artie,’ I really wish you’d consider joining in all the fun. I’m sure your whole mood would change in the space of a moment!

Misty’s laugh was again so sinister, so demonic.

-And poor Iris, it’s all been such a shock to you. You could sit there with my husband and enjoy the show. You two could be of great comfort to each other. Wouldn’t you love to have wifey Iris sit with you, Hunky Boy? Someone to hold your hand? Feel what you feel?

Hunky Boy completely lost control at the question.

-Oh, yes ma’am, he cried. Yes, ma’am! Please make her sit with me! Please!

Just then Misty farted loudly into Ollie’s face again and broke into laughter.

-Uhh-ohh, she said, that one slipped out! Hurry, Oliver boy, hurry! Make sure you sniff up every bit of it!

As Ollie, now jacking himself off ferociously, began inhaling wildly, Iris finally broke. She burst into hysterics and bolted out the front door. Out of her incoherent shrieks came the occasional lucid cries of ‘Oliver, My God! Oh, Oliver!’

Completely freaked by the intensity of the moment, Lanier stood there frozen, unable to decide whether to go after Iris, to rip off his clothes and join in the depravity at hand, or to simply run to his car and get the hell out of there. As he stood dumbstruck, Misty stood up above Ollie and pulled her tight tube dress up over her head and off. Now she stood before the three in all her glory, her fat, gorgeous body adorned only in intensely hot nothings of black lingerie. Hunky Boy cried out again at the spectacle of his fabulous wife, dominating 3 men at once, and ripping his soul to shreds with her phenomenal body and her contemptuous disregard for him.

Misty commanded Ollie to stop jerking before he came, and then walked over in front of Hunky Boy, turned her ass to him, and holding his head firmly in place, let loose with another blast of gas right into his face.

-Breathe! She shouted.

As Hunky Boy sucked the fart down in what can only be described as jubilation, Misty turned to face him and, still holding his head in place by the hair, reached back and slapped him across the face with the force of an atomic blast. He shrieked loudly before breaking into a tearful litany of submissive accolades.

-Thank you, ma’am, thank you! I deserve your wrath! Please don’t give up on me!

-Give up on you? You fucking moron, I gave up on you long ago. I have no interest in teaching you anything. You’re a fucking toy, get it? And a pathetic one at that!

Misty then spit in Hunky Boy’s face with brazen contempt, for which he nonetheless continued to give thanks loudly.

Staying right in step, as if performing a finely choreographed routine, she cozied up to Lanier and before he even had time to react, planted a huge, ultra-sensual kiss on his lips and then, perfect sex kitten, purred irresistibly into his face, all raunchy bourbon and cigarettes; and ALL WOMAN.

-Take your clothes off, asshole, Misty demanded, and go sit on the couch.

Lanier almost broke, but instead darted out the front door after Iris. Misty smiled and turned her attention back to the still prone Oliver boy.

-All right, faggot, she said, get your ass up. Get up onto your knees.

As he was moving into position, Misty drained the rest of her drink, and then came back to stand before Ollie, her powerful thighs directly in front of his quivering face.

-Read ‘em and weep, Oliver Boy, she said. What do you think, hmmm? These gorgeous legs, or wifey’s? Which do you want?

-Oh, g-god, he stammered, yours! Only yours!

Misty snatched him by the hair and punched him hard in the face, bloodying his nose.

-Where are your FUCKING manners, douche-bag? You can at least do as well as Hunky Boy over there! It’s MA’AM, asshole! Yours, MA’AM! Now you try it.

-I’m sorry Ma’am. I want your legs, Ma’am. Pleeeease, Ma’am!

-You see? Now that wasn’t so fucking hard. You wanna kiss my thigh? Way up high here at the juiciest, fattest part? And if you do, I want you to pant like a fucking dog and beg. Now, do you?

Oliver boy immediately stuck out his tongue and began to pant vigorously. Then, he alternated between puppy dog begging and human begging.

-(Whimper, whimper) Oh, please, Ma’am, please let me kiss your lovely thigh. Please, Ma’am!

Misty stood over his pathetic figure, contemplating her decision.

-No deal, she finally said. But I’ll give you the nose.

She grabbed him again by the hair and forced his face into the fat flesh of her upper thigh, more or less rubbing his nose there. She pulled him away as quickly as she had brought him to contact. For Ollie, it was a millisecond in heaven. Or Hell, according to taste. When she pulled him back, he came unglued, crying out in loud screams, and yelling ‘Oh no, no! Please, no!

Still holding him by the hair and getting quite a chuckle out of his outburst, Misty reared back with that leg and brought it forward with a vengeance, slamming her powerful thigh into Ollie’s face and knocking him for a double somersault across the living room, and up against the brick wall next to the fireplace.

-Better shut your trap, dick-for-brains, she said. In my presence, you will stay under control. And I warn you, Oliver Boy, don’t fucking test me again!

Hunky Boy started wailing louder.

-Go to the front door, Hunky, Misty said. See what the hell’s going on out there. See if wifey and Doctor Dufus have left or what.

-Yes, ma’am, Hunky cried, rushing to the door in obedience.

Misty stood over Ollie’s fallen body, watching now as he bled profusely from the nose and mouth. His cock was still an oaken wonder.

-All right, pig, she said, let me ask you another question. Do you think that such behavior as this is going to make me want to grant you privileges, or punish you harder? You may answer now, please.

-Oh, shit, that hurts, he groaned, holding his face. It’ll make you want to punish me, ma’am.

-Very good! So why’d you do it?

-I-I, because I’m a stupid shit! I’m so sorry, Ma’am!

Oliver Boy was crying real tears now. He was hurt.

-That’s right, pig-man, you’re a fucking dumb-shit. I didn’t think you could get to be a doctor being that fuckin’ stupid. You must’ve cheated on your tests.

She held her glorious, massive thigh again directly in front of his face.

-I’m not as heartless as you think, you know, so, I’m going to give you one more chance. Now go ahead. One nice, sloppy kiss. Right on my upper thigh.

Ollie dug in ravenously and kissed her thigh. In the process he smeared a good deal of blood on her leg, which actually seemed to excite her considerably. But it was far too much for him. As he pulled away, he looked at her body with the most far-away look of astonishment and his body began to quake. His mouth was wide open as if to scream, but nothing was coming out. A perfect Francis Bacon portrait if there ever was one. Misty looked down at him, ready to burst out laughing at whatever was coming. He spit out some more blood as he sat slouched against that brick wall, quivering wildly, until finally he began to emit a high-pitched squeal, like some bizarre high-frequency electronic feedback. Misty stared into his gyrating eyes, casual and curious, almost mirthfully watching him disintegrate. As the squeal intensified, Misty laughed harder and harder.

Stay Tuned for PART IV

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part II

2009-12-28T13:51:00.000-08:00

They arrived at the doctor’s house, and Hunky Boy quickly parked the car, running ahead in order to be ready and waiting for any instructions Misty might have for him. He smells of vomit, which amuses Misty not in the least. She slaps him across the face so hard that he falls back against the wall of the doorstep, just barely able to keep from going down.

-This is how you present yourself to me? She growls. Get your goddamned, pea-brained ass to a fucking garden hose and clean that shit off of you! Then join us inside.

-Yes, Ma’am

-And hurry the fuck up!

As the doctor lets her into the house, she smiles slightly, thinking about the fun she is going to have here tonight.

-Misty, the doctor begins, pardon my asking, but why is your husband joining us?

-I told you to shut up! She barks. One more outburst from you and you’re going to enter a world of pain. Now fix me a bourbon, and come join me in your lovely living room.

She sits down on the sofa, her nothing of a little black dress riding up almost to her crotch. She crosses her legs so sensually, and her big, shapely thighs are fully revealed for the good doctor’s good pleasure. Just as he is returning with drinks, Hunky Boy comes through the front door.

-Are you presentable now, dip-shit?

-Yes, Ma’am.

-Fine. Now find a bathroom and a towel, dry off and get your ass back here. When you get back, sit your stupid ass down right there in that chair.

-Yes, Ma’am.

Oliver hands Misty her drink and slowly sits down next to her, obviously quite confused as to what is permissible and what isn’t.

-It’s alright, Oliver, she says, you may speak freely now. I will forgive you, at least for the time being, for your failure to follow proper etiquette with a woman. I completely realize that you’ve never been with a real one before.

-Yes, well, er, that’s right, Oliver stammers, and I do apologize. If there are other areas in which I am ignorant, I will learn to correct them immediately.

-I’m sure you will.

He stares down at those monstrous legs, gulping his scotch and trying to compose himself.

-Might I ask again, then, about him? I just feel a bit confused. Why is he here?

-Why he’s going to watch, of course. It’s my way of punishing him continually for his sins.

-His sins?

-Yes. The sin of being born a Male. Don’t worry. He’s quite harmless. He’ll just watch and cry like a good boy. Or else.

-I see…

-Do you? After all, you were born a male too. Your sins are as prolix as his own, probably measurably worse. Do you fancy that you yourself are here for anything other than atonement for the endless litany of misdeeds that have stood on your behalf? Do you imagine you’re here for ‘love,’ my good little Oliver Boy? A rollicking good time with the strange, fat devil-girl that showed up in such peculiar fashion in such a peculiar place tonight? For toasts and penny cheer and all’s well at the end of a bloody good time?

-I don’t know.

-Well, no. Of course you don’t know. Naturally, things have moved far too quickly AND EMOTIONALLY for you to have entered into ‘deep thought’ with regard to my motives and your perks and enjoyments.

Misty moves close into Oliver’s face and teases him, offering her lips, then pulling them back with a wicked smile.

-But, it might serve as a guideline for you if you simply realize that my directive has a double meaning. I am a servant of justice, of fucking COSMIC justice, but I am also a crazed, sex-freak of a woman who can’t be happy unless she’s FUCKING SATISFIED, OK?! Now you’re the one I’ve chosen to take care of that happiness and satisfaction part. Goddamn, dude, it’s a BIG fucking job.

-So, I’ll be paying for my male-related sins, as well?

-Indeed you shall.

-Will I enjoy any of it?

-That depends upon the nature of the sins, and of your own level of commitment. For some, it becomes a Hell on Earth. For others, it is a journey into new and beautiful worlds, the extra-dimensional plane. The realization of ones’ true identities and purposes; a romp in fucking Paradise.

Oliver looked over at Hunky Boy.

-How does he stand it? You’re his legal wife?

-Yep. He stands it because he knows it’s right. He knows I’M right. If he thought it was wrong, or that he himself had some sort of claim to righteousness that had been usurped or left unlegislated, he’d have let his dissatisfaction be known and he’d have been gone. Shit, Hunky Boy’s a big strong man. I’d put him up against almost any human male. He’d come out on top. He’s young, strong, trained in martial arts to some degree, and possessed of a serious temper. Just look at him wrong, and he’s ready to rip ya limb from limb.

-So where does all this leave me?

-Well, it leaves you in pretty good shape. You’re mine. You’re my preferred plaything. That’s big! You’re going to pay your penance through me and through my decrees.

-And do I pay mine as he pays for his?

-More or less, but you are going to be receiving a GREAT DEAL of direct attention from me. Something he only gets to dream about. Of course, cuckolding is simply a part of the whole ritual. It makes Hunky Boy WILD with unrequited desires. I feel it’s a lovely irony that you should be playing our double role tonight.

-Double role?

-Why, of course. I’ll cuckold my Hunky Boy by using you, and you in turn will use me to cuckold little wifey.

-Iris!

-Mmm. Unless I miss my guess, poor dear little wifey should be coming through the doors any minute now.

-That’s right. Ogod.

Amazing the simple realities people don’t grasp during states of religious ecstasy. Just then, Hunky Boy makes his return, and sits down in a comfortable embroidered chair facing the sofa. His expression leaves no doubt that he is near to breaking into tears.

-I think we should let them hold hands and watch the action together, don’t you, Oliver boy?

-Together? Hmmm. God, I simply haven’t been thinking this thing through.

-No, and you’re not going to, either. You start thinking, and I might just have to bury your ass. I don’t think you want to get into that realm. It’s an ugly world, Oliver. Ugly.

Misty laughed and took a sip of her drink. The scene was growing tense when the sounds of car doors closing and voices were heard from outside.

-Shit, she’s here, Oliver said, trembling.

-Yes, I think she is. Do bring her in and let’s introduce her to dear little Hunky Boy.

By now, Oliver is split in two. He is entirely Misty’s, but there’s still that part of him that realizes the import of what’s happening and is having difficulty coming to grips with the situation. His mind is on fire, anxious, electric with worry. But all he has to do is look at Misty’s fully exposed, crossed legs as she sits there in her imperial majesty on that sofa and he knows which way things will ultimately go. Getting there will surely be the hard part.

To Oliver’s astonishment, it is none other than Dr. Lanier that has brought his wife home. White knight in shining armor come to the rescue and all that. He even had designs on her once. Maybe such intentions are still within him, thinks Oliver. Could actually become saving grace at the moment. They come through the door and poor wifey is beside herself at the scene in the living room. Oliver is up and down, first pleading with Misty for some sort of help, and then back to wifey trying to explain to her that he’s not evil and that he can’t explain what’s happening.

-I don’t understand what’s happening to me, he tells her. She’s got some kind of hold on me. Like I’m hypnotized.

-Oh, please Oliver, says Lanier. Surely you can do better than that. Trying to plead insanity? Is that it?

Wifey only stares holes through Oliver and proceeds slowly into the living room. She glares sternly at Misty.

-I want you out of my house, right now. I don’t care what’s been said, what’s been promised, what’s been arranged. You are most certainly not going to play your ridiculous little games with my husband in MY HOUSE! Now get out, before I call the police and have you arrested.

-Arrested? Misty laughed out loud. For what? Oliver invited me here of his own free will, so I’m not trespassing. You say I go, but he says I stay, so the owner of the house is not insisting I leave, are you Oliver boy?

Oliver stands next to wifey now, utterly unable to make sense of the mess at hand.

-Oliver, get her OUT OF HERE! Wifey screams.

Misty laughs again, and ever so sensually crosses her legs. Oliver is noticeably shaken by her every powerful move.

-Oliver, Misty says, this whole thing is quite simple. Either she sits down there next to Hunky Boy and watches us together, or she leaves, I don’t care which. But she’s going to do one or the other. Now tell her, Oliver. Tell her how it is.

Misty winks at Oliver and flashes her crossed legs by kicking her foot sensually up and down. Oliver hasn’t the power to resist her. Not even under these circumstances.

-Oh, Iris, I’m sorry, he cries. I want her, I can’t help it. I have to have her.

-Oliver, wifey begins.

-I’m sorry, Iris. I have to do this. Please leave us now.

-Leave you? Look, I don’t care what you tell me, that woman is not staying here, and believe you me, when I call the police to come and get rid of her, this whole mess is going to look quite bad for you. Is that what you want?

-Oliver, Misty says, come over here and kneel down next to me. Right now!

Misty snapped her fingers and Oliver fell instantly to his knees, worshiping her giant, gorgeous legs in tears.

-Tell her, Oliver, said Misty. Tell her I want her out of here, and you better hurry up!

Wifey started up again, but Oliver, now nearly insane, screamed out from next those powerhouse legs;

-Get out, Iris! Get the hell out of here!

-Tell her you want me, Oliver, whispered Misty.

-I want her! I want her desperately!

-More than anything in the world.

-More than anything in the world, I want her, Iris!

-Oliver—

-GET OUT!! Don’t you see, Iris? I want her! I want her! I don’t want you, Iris… Oh, God…I want her, and nothing else.

He slumped down now, clinging to Misty’s thigh, bawling like a little baby.

-Get out, Iris, he mumbled softly. Get out.

Misty looked at wifey, gloating deliriously, a wicked smile stretched across her countenance.

-Is that good enough for you, IRIS? She laughed. She rubbed Oliver’s head like a little dog. I think Oliver boy has made his choice quite clear, don’t you?

Iris and Lanier look on in horror at the improbable spectacle that the evening has become. Meanwhile, Hunky Boy, his emotions stirred badly by all the turmoil, begins to weep softly. Lanier turns to him in hopes of some sort of assistance.

-Is there anything you can do to put an end to this? He asks.

Hunky Boy just looks helplessly into Lanier’s eyes, then looks back over at Misty. He’ll need permission to respond, after all.

-Go ahead, dip-shit, Misty chuckles. Be polite and answer the nice gentleman.

-No, Hunky Boy cries, nothing! There’s nothing anybody can do!

Wifey Iris has officially had enough.

-Well, I’m going to do something, she says. I’m calling the police.

As wifey heads for the phone Misty breaks into hysterical laughter.

-This should be good, she said. And what, pray tell, Oliver boy, are you going to tell the constable when he arrives, hmmm?

-That I want you! He bawled, not her. That I want her out!

-Very well said, Misty laughed. Now there’s my good boy!

-I’m afraid he’s right, said Lanier. It’ll just be you against him, they’ll call it a domestic quarrel, and leave you to straighten it out on your own.

Then Misty stood up and pulled Oliver up to join her. She walked him across the room close to Iris.

-Kiss me, Oliver boy, Misty said. Show little wifey what a man really wants!

Instantly, Oliver fell upon her, still sobbing pitifully, and embraced her with great passion, kissing her long, and kissing her hard. Misty fueled the fire, jamming her gorgeous leg between Oliver’s, and pressing it into his crotch. She did all she could to hold back her own laughter at the grizzly predicament she had caused; having her kicks while ruining two people’s lives in the process. Viewing this spectacle, Iris put down the phone, held a pained expression for a brief moment, and then burst into tears herself, running down the hallway toward her bedroom. Oliver turned to look, but Misty forbade him.

-Oh, no you don’t, my little doggie Dr. Boy. You’re staying right here. Now, come over here and sit by me, at my feet. You can tell me some ‘Doctor’ stories.

They went back to the sofa, passing by the almost ghoulish presence of Hunky Boy as he sat in his chair blubbering steadily. As they resumed their positions again, Lanier, who was completely stunned at the bizarre scene to which he’d been privy, eyed them with seething contempt.

-I hope you can live with yourself, Oliver! What a miserable, disgusting thing to do to such a fine woman. You’ll surely live to regret this, old man. And sooner than later!

Misty broke out in laughter again.

-Hey Doc, she said, why don’t you lighten up and come over here and join Oliver boy? I’ll let you sniff my farts while he watches!

Lanier wouldn’t dare let it show, but he was powerfully tempted at the suggestion. He stood there stupefied, staring at Misty's intensely hot thighs, which she continued to flash brazenly, pounding away at the sexual defense systems of all 3 men.

-Come on, Misty continued, I think I’m woman enough to handle both of you maggots!

-This is ridiculous! Lanier finally huffed, turning back into the hallway to attend to Iris.

-Artie, cried Oliver, take her somewhere, please! Take her to a nice hotel...wherever she wants!

-She wants to be here, you idiot! came the response.

Misty sipped on her drink and had Oliver boy light her a cigarette.

-My, my, she said, such high drama! I don't know how you stand it, Oliver boy. Well, it's probably time we did something to take your mind off of all this.

Stay Tuned for PART III. Shit gets deeper.

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part I

2008-09-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

A Perfect Kali-Incarnate flexes her social muscles.

-I need you to get your pathetic fucking ass over there into that corner and sit down. And you stay there! If I look over at any time and you're not sitting there, I will come and find you and I will beat your fucking ass to a pulp! Do you understand me, asshole?
-Yes, Ma’am.
-Good. Now get the fuck away from me and let me mingle. There are a quite a few good-looking guys here tonight, and I want to meet them all.
-Yes, Ma’am.
_Yes, Ma’am, she mocked cruelly. Get out of my sight, pig. Just remember to stay put over there.

It is hard for many people to believe that the man in the conversation just recorded is an exceptionally handsome former actor and model, a man who has always been accustomed to having any girl he wants. Everywhere he goes, he gets hit on constantly. The woman that has just degraded him with such abject malevolence is a fat, gorgeous bombshell of a woman named Misty. Not exactly your run-of-the-mill Hollywood starlet. The scene unfolding before us is provocative indeed, as we will quickly begin to wonder what keeps such a desirable man, with so many prospects, groveling at the feet of a massive bitch that mainstream culture would generally consider a BBW curiosity at best. Well, that’s part of the point. Public perception and the real world of sexual violence and domination don’t always walk hand-in-hand.

To begin with, we should point out that Misty is no ordinary Fat Chick. She is, in fact, a perfect Kali-Incarnate. She is a rare creature indeed, as Kali comes in perfect incarnation almost exclusively to women of color. We know then that Misty is a most special kind of woman. What qualities does a white woman need in order to be possessed by Kali? It always depends on the situation. But whatever she’s got, it is most certainly something that is key to the destruction of Kali’s target. Perhaps Kali has been seeking dominance over this man for reasons of her own, and knowing that Misty is possessed of the necessary qualities for ‘landing’ him, she is come in this particular form. But here, this scenario is unlikely. Her victim here has never been known to be attracted to big girls before, and has certainly never shown any signs of interest in domination. Perhaps we shall learn more simply by letting the story unfold.

Misty is decked out in a skin-tight black cocktail dress that is obscenely short, especially for a semi-formal occasion such as the one they’re attending. She wears matching black vinyl go-go boots with scandalously high stiletto heels, and trims her look with accessories of red. The Devil’s color scheme. Her gargantuan breasts threaten to explode from the confines of that little nothing of a dress at any moment, and her spectacular cleavage is doing a number on the whole room, ladies included. Her fat, sexy body wrapped so tightly in that black spandex, her big legs wreaking havoc with each powerful step she takes, Misty’s incredible total package dominates the scene with an ease and arrogance that is laughable.

As she scans the room for her prey, she naturally gets the most vile looks from the other women, women who know exactly how badly they’re being outclassed, and who also know they couldn’t do anything about it if they tried. One makes a comment to her friends who break into a fit of snobbish giggling. Misty turns and moves toward them with purpose. She addresses the loud-mouthed bitch.

-How would you like me to rip your fucking head off your shoulders and let your pussy-assed friends here drink the blood? Don’t you think it would make a lovely little exhibition? Here, in front of all your fans?

Her expression says she means it.

-Or, if you prefer, we can take it outside and I’ll plant your fucking ass upside down in the garden. How about that?

The catty bitches disperse immediately.

Misty makes the rounds, flirting with the men and intimidating their women. Every so often, she looks over to make sure that hunky boy is where he belongs in his corner. No problem. He’s cowering there, scared shitless of doing anything that Misty might perceive as insubordination. It doesn’t take her long to find her target; a wealthy doctor, average looks, a very attractive wife. That’s the perfect combination. She can do this any way she wants. She could walk right up to him, step between him and his wife, and simply walk him out the door if she wanted to. Instead, she decides to take it slow, to tease him and torture him until he’s begging her to allow him to be a good little puppy and follow her home. She’ll get to torture the wife this way, too. It starts easily enough; dark, sinister, sexual glances across the hors d’ oeuvres table. He’s already ensnared from the first satanic smile. His eyes desecrate her fat, glorious body and she laughs to herself, thinking how ridiculously easy this is. She begins to wish there were more of a challenge to it. Misty flaunts her mind-fucking legs, turning ever so sensually this way and that. Within minutes he’s practically drooling, complete with shit-eating grin and nervousness beyond description as he gets the picture, worries about the wife. For her part, Misty just keeps ratcheting up the heat. Suck on a strawberry, burn through with the Devil’s eyes. Work him into a frenzy effortlessly.

Now it gets pathetic, in a hilarious sort of way. Ole Doctor tries to make his move. Excuses himself from wifey. Bathroom break, check in with his old friend (whom he hates) Dr. Lanier. Talk and talk and say nothing and eyes following this monster of a woman, the most glorious thing he’s ever laid eyes upon. She stalks him, teasing mercilessly, flashes of cleavage, hikes of skirt, undulations of exquisite ass. It doesn’t take long. He catches up with her at the bar. Dumb chit-chat he starts. Not for Misty.

-Give me 60 seconds, she says, and you’ll be divorced by Wednesday.

Oh shit. It’s for real. She pushes her phenomenal fat thigh up into his crotch and breathes hot whiskey into his brain.

-How do you want to do this? He asks.

-For starters, introduce me to your wife, Misty answers.

-Excuse me?

-Hard of hearing, Doc?

She leans into him, inviting a kiss.

-I can’t do that.

-Mmm. That’s a shame. Could’ve been very nice. Oh well.

She begins to walk away.

-No, wait!

Misty smiles knowingly.

-Yes…

-Why would you want to meet my wife?

-Well, I think it’s only right that she should know who you’re fucking tonight. And why.

-Why?

-Yeah. Why? Why are you fucking me tonight?

He looks at her, incredulous, trying to put something together.

-Who are you?

-You know who I am.

-Oh God.

-Say it.

-Shit!

-Go ahead.

-You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever seen.

-That’s it?

-What else is there?

Misty laughs at his candor. Throaty, bourbon-laced rasp.

-Mmmm. Nothing like an honest man. So you’re into arrogant fat girls, eh?

-Can’t say I’ve ever even met one.

-You should know, Doc, that I am VERT demanding. A supreme bitch, really.

-I need you.

-More than you need her?

-A hundred fold.

-OK. Then introduce us, and let’s get this thing over with.

-I can’t.

-Shall I just go tell her myself, then, or do you want to go home with her?

The good doctor needed to walk away. Right here, right now. But he made the cardinal mistake. He kept looking at her. Flaunting that magnificent body, that bombshell sexuality.

-Feel my ass, she said. Go ahead, she won’t see.

The good doctor reaches behind her, trying desperately to be discreet. His hands make contact with the most incredible flesh ever to grace the physical plane of earth. He trembles; nervous, near-destitute. It becomes a violent shaking. He can’t control his body. He knows he is lost, but doesn’t yet know how to surrender. He guesses the introduction is his next move.

-What’s your name? He asks.

Proper little wifey is making small talk with acquaintances, and has already taken on an attitude from what she considers her husband’s extreme rudeness in failing to be attendant to her. She is accustomed to having her fragile little ego fed at these socialite shindigs by the good doctor’s continual fawning over her. Tonight, he’s been A.W.O.L. and it’s got her pissed off. Now she sees him coming with this fat fucking harlot in tow, and she goes steely. Eyes of Ice. Deep blue.

-Darling, he begins, I’d like you to meet a patient of mine. This is Misty. She’s—

-He’s lying, dear, Misty interjects. We’ve never met until tonight.

Both women give doctor the evil eye.

-You want to try it again, sweetie? Misty asks.

-Well, darling, he stammers, the truth is that…well, the truth is that I’m going to need to spend a little time with Misty this evening.

Deafening silence.

-Because I…because I…

-Will you say it? Asks Misty.

-I-I

-Because I’m going to fuck his goddamn brains out, dearie, that’s what he’s trying to say. We thought you should be the first to know.

-I see, says wifey. Oliver, is this some kind of a joke?

-I’m afraid not, he says contritely.

Misty looks the elegantly slender wifey up and down.

-You see, she says, ‘Oliver’ here has finally come to the conclusion that he needs a little more ‘substance’ in his life. He’s quite right in thinking he’ll get it from me.

Misty laughed her devilish little laugh and took Oliver’s arm in a sort of grand gesture that was sure to be noticed by many in the room.

-I think you’d better take your sleazy hands off my husband, ‘dearie,’ and right now!

Misty smiles at wifey with supreme contempt. She could squish this little pencil-neck like a snail.

-I see, she laughs. Or what? You’ll huff and puff and throw a glass of Dom Perignon on me?

Come on, Oliver. Let’s go.

-Oliver! Protests Wifey.

-I’m sorry, dear. I’ll try to explain it to you later. It’s not what you think.

Misty leads him away, mouthing the words toward wifey; ‘Yes it is!’ She parades the good doctor around in front of the partygoers, clinging romantically and proudly to his arm. He is well-known by almost everyone here and the spectacle of Misty’s utterly unexpected presence has caused an uproar all around the room. People are circling around wifey now, who can only continue to watch in disbelief as her husband makes his way to the exit arm-in-arm with the God-Queen of Women.

-I just need to pick up my husband before we leave.

-Your husband?

-Of course. You don’t think that I engage in such trivialities as cleaning, cooking and the like? No, no. That’s what a good husband is for.

Over in the corner, Hunky boy has been sitting faithfully, awaiting the return of his owner. Unfortunately for him, a woman has stopped to engage him in chit-chat at just the wrong moment.

-What the fuck are you doing? Misty demands. You know better than to be talking to strangers!

-I’m sorry, Ma’am. She just stopped here and—

Craaaaack! Misty slaps the living shit out of him, knocking him off his chair. One glance at the woman and she is off and running.

–Why do you do this? Why? I try to be nice to you, to let you sit here and watch me, and this is the kind of shit I have to put up with.

Misty jerks him up by the hair and slams a massive thigh into his mid-section. Hunky boy screams out briefly and then goes silent as she has completely kicked the wind out of him. He begins to struggle, and as he does, she thrusts his head between her plump, gorgeous thighs and drops to the floor, crushing his brain in a powerful head-scissor hold. It doesn’t last long. Within a few seconds the force of her big legs on his skull causes him to throw up violently. As he pukes out some very bizarre-looking multi-colored excretions, Misty bursts into demonic laughter, especially amused at the horrified looks on the faces of the stuffed-shirts and blouses all around. For them, it is like a scene out of some unimaginable nightmare. Misty quickly finishes Hunky boy off with a flourish, giving the last few seconds a substantial tweak in psi, and causing his body to convulse wildly from the pain and the almost certain cranial damage. The crowd is standing back, keeping their distance from this beast of a woman. She agilely picks herself up, straightens her skirt, and looks down upon her husband. He’s in bad shape. He is still throwing up a little, and doesn’t seem to have recovered yet from the big knee bash that robbed him of his breath. He lies on the floor, twitching uncontrollably.

-If you’re not in the car in exactly 3 minutes, mister, I’m coming back in for you. I don’t have to remind you what that means!

With that, this giant powerhouse snatches Oliver on either side of his face, pulls him toward her and plants a luscious, wet kiss on his lips. She practically devours him as the crowd looks on, gasping. The good doctor struggles only slightly at first, quickly giving in to the most incredible kiss he’s ever had in his life. Misty doesn’t stop. Tongue, teeth, and lips in a virtuoso performance. Hot red lipstick adorns his face and he clutches at her now, desperate for what she’s got, and completely severed already from the world around him, his world.

They take their leave, arm in arm, and Dr. Oliver is all hers. Misty points out her car and tells him to drive around to it. Having obviously been through this drill numerous times in the past, Hunky Boy arrives at the car just under the gun. He is staggered, still heaving to fully recover his breath, and noticeably agitated, fearing he wasn’t going to get to the car on time. The doctor pulls his car up and Misty commands Hunky Boy through the window.

-You’re damn lucky you got out here on time, Jackass, she said. I am VERY disappointed in you tonight. You’re going to being staying home for quite a while because of this. Now I want you to follow us to Oliver’s house, park the car and await my orders. Do you think you can handle that, dumb-ass?

-Yes, Ma’am.

-Good. Now you stay right behind us and don’t you dare get lost. If you do, call my cell phone. But know that I will be seriously pissed if that happens.

-Yes, Ma’am.

-Fucker’s becoming downright insolent any more, she says to Oliver.

-He’s your husband? Asks the good doctor.

-Shut up! You will speak when you’re spoken to, and not before.

Her gruff command took him aback, but also had a strange effect on him. He didn’t stand for such talk from women, and yet he now found himself feeling aroused and fascinated. He had never before been attracted to domination, at least not consciously. But this powerful woman’s unqualified control, not only over him, but over his wife, the others at the gathering, and not least this poor good-looking fellow who was her husband, well, the whole thing had his cock throbbing in anticipation. In anticipation of he knew not what.

Stay Tuned as The Horror Continues in PART II

Kali Among The Tribes: Life In The Spirit

2008-09-06T23:57:00.000-07:00

-That's not right.

-Yes it is.

-It's not. There's a feel about the thing.

-The place?

-No, but--well, yeah, that too. But I meant with her. I don't know exactly how to--

-You said that before.

-About her?

-Right. I still don't see it.

-You totally missed it.

-How could I? We were both here.

-But not the whole time. I think it happened while your mind was wandering.
And I think you daydream too much. That’s some fuckin’ imagination you got on you.

-That’s got nothing to do with it.

-We’ll see. C’mon. Let’s keep going.

Farther along the corridors. It’s a short walk but seems to take forever. A kind of shadowy golden light laminates the doors and walls. From another time. Just old enough to remind one of home, of origins. Two young men of sound mind in search of experience; in search of their own depths.

-God, it was fucking glorious, I tell you. There were—there ARE—other places, man.

-You and your ‘other places.’ Are you done?

-Why did you come, then?

-I’m looking for something, too.

-How do you remember it, then?

-I’ve already told you. A vision, pointing us toward something else. Something we haven’t found yet.

-But you say you didn’t see her.

-No, I said I didn’t RECOGNIZE her! Why are you having so much trouble with this? All I’m saying is that she couldn’t have revealed herself like you say, that’s all.

-She did. And it was fucking glorious.

-(Shakes his head in frustration) C’mon. Just a little bit farther, I think.

-That’s right, you fucking ugly piece of shit monkey, take it! Take all of it, goddamn you. See? You like it, don’t you? Fucking stupid monkey likes sucking cock! Don’t you fucking gag, motherfucker! You take it deeper, c’mon, all of it.

She rams Paul Bunyan’s dick all the way into his mouth till it's tickling the back of his throat. He can’t help gagging.

-Speak up, bitch! She taunts. Let’s hear you speak now. Go on!

Muffled grunts, TV gorilla sounds. She thrusts her hips forward so hard this time that the force nearly jerks his head off and the gargantuan, big-ass strap-on dick may well have punctured his lung, judging from the way he went into seizure mode. She jerks it out with a swift whipping of her regal hips and the fucker throws up all over the place. Strung upside down and blindfolded is one hell of a hard way to puke your guts out. She slaps his puke-drenched face back and forth with the massive dildo. Beat ya senseless, motherfucker, that’s what’ll happen to ya. Slap welts and a fuckin’ harelip onya with this big hard fucker! (Where do you get a dildo this big? Gotta be for mules, for chrissakes.) Guy could be dying from throwin’ up upside down, choke to death or some shit. He’s definitely kinda spinning out here, but big girl just laughs and laughs. Points at him, taunting. Spits on him. Oh, she LOVES spitting on him. Total contempt when you spit right in his worthless fucking face. Repeatedly.

She turns her big ass on him and sticks it in his face. His face perceives those divine, massive orbs, smooth as silk and stronger than dirty bombs. Nose fulla puke, he can still smell the animal bouquet of her asshole. She shoves that meaningless nose deep into it. He’s still not through puking and it’s running down her leg as she grinds her beautiful fat ass into his face. Growing bored, there’s nothing left to be done but to cut him down and fuck his ass up royally. She flips a lever on the wall that releases the ropes and Pig-boy Shit-balls falls straight down on his fucking head: Really hard. Twitch, kick, spazz, flip and flop. Super funny shit and she’s laughing her ass off. Reaches down so arrogantly and pulls him up by his hair to a sitting position. Rips off the blindfold.

-You’re gonna watch this shit, motherfucker, she says. Now get your ass up.

He’s like fucking stunned from the whole trauma, and she has to help him to his feet. No problem, jerk his fucking hair up even harder. Omigod, he’s just standing there trembling, hardly able to stay upright. He’s naked, with puke all over his face and HIS cock is almost as big as Paul Bunyan’s dick. Well, not quite that big, but springboard steady, to be sure. She laughs at him again, the ultimate humiliator, She.

-Keep those hands down, now, she says. I’m gonna show you what it means to be a woman!

She rears back and sucker-punches him, all she’s got, bare knuckles, right in the middle of his face. Blood spurts, puke flies, and he goes down like a $2.00 whore.

-Awwwwww, he moans.

He shivers on the floor.

-Get up, she says, standing over him. Get up right now, or I’ll fucking kill your ass!

He tries, but that blow was massive. His nose is bleeding badly, and split lip for sure. Again, it takes some hair pulling to get him up. She gets him to his feet, still yelping, and VERY SHAKY.

-Hands down, motherfucker! She yells.

Here it comes again: Straight right fist hard to the mouth and he almost flips over backwards as he hits the floor.

-Ohhhhh! Ahhwwwwww!

His groanings punctuate the triple blood flow she got out of him with that one. Knocked out the fucker’s front teeth. Lip looks like someone cut it open with pinking shears, and the nose: broken sure. Writhing epileptic style on the floor in blood pool, puke-laced and scarcely knowing. She isn’t finished. The afternoon drags on longer.

-Get up! She keeps yelling, but no response.

So, for who knows how long, she keeps picking him up by that hair, propping him against the wall, raining punches like mortar fire, and watching him slam to the floor again and again, gurgling pathetically. Beating him to a bloody pulp with her devastating bare fists.

-I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to kill a man with my bare fists, she says. Well, fuck-boy, (slams another uncontested roundhouse into the wretched remains of his face, disfigured beyond recognition) maybe you get to find out, too, hmmmm?

It’s so cold out here. Godforsaken except for the stars. Beautiful multitudes of them, sharp and crisp as crystals, strewn to the outer limits of eye-grasp. Unseasonable, this near-frost in the brambles of the 4-corners. Spirits of slain red warriors dancing through our minds as we seek to hook one and curry a ride into dark and dazzling higher dimensional space. Not so easy, but what an arena within which to make ones' stand! The moon is full and beats like a musical heart exuding its energy in spades.

-Goddamn, aren't you freezing?

-Definitely cold.

-It's eerie out there. Too quiet.

-It's supposed to be quiet. It's the middle of nowhere, for chrissakes.

-Not even a fucking cricket.

-Probably frozen. Besides, I don't think they're out this time of year.

-Guess not. Hey! Check out this bedroom. We didn't see this one before, did we?

-I don't think so.

They turn this way and that, snooping by the moonlight that spills through the curtainless window.

-Nothing in here. Look out there, though. Man, I'm tellin' you, it's fucking creeped-out out there. If you just keep looking, you can see something. Something moving, just a little bit.

-Where?

-Different places. Just look for a second, will you?

-See, this is exactly what started the whole thing. You kept talking about seeing spirits.

-No, I didn't. I said that YOU were. And you were confusing them with this so called 'perfect woman.'

-No! That's not right!

-Whatever. Are you looking?

-I'm looking.

Do they really exist, all those shadows he sees moving? Now that it's dark, the familiar glow of the afternoon sun abandons him to the quantum vagaries of the desert night. Looking out onto the stark landscape, there's a feeling that grips you. LOTS of extra-dimensional shit going out there, even for the unbeliever.

-There! It's fucking Indians, man. I'm tellin' you, it's like spirits and shit out there!

-(Frustrated) C'mon, now you're the one not making any sense. There's nothing out there but scorpions, and it may be too cold for them, too. There's nothing in here, either. I thought you said it wasn't much farther.

-I didn't think it was. But everything is different now. Now, I don't know.

-Look, here's the hallway. C'mon, let's try to find another room.

Dimmest sliver of light some ways down. In his head the vision of Indians shifts to hot legs and ass. Moving, moving. Mmmm. Provocative.

-I think I see it, he whispers. A girl's legs and maybe her ass. Really nice.

-Fat or skinny?

-What?

-The legs.

-Ahhh, sorta medium.

-That's not it. But try not to go back to Indians.

-OK.

Closer to the light now. So faint, such a sliver, but sure. Groping, groping, feeling for wall. Then...

-Omigod, there's the door.

-Jeezus.

-C'mon. Slowly.

They push it open, and there she is. In the dim light of a small table lamp. That face; unspeakably fat and beautiful. She sees them peering through the doorway, and wicked witch-laughter, shrill and terrifying, fills the thick chill of the air. She is lying on a buffalo rug, a man's head buried between her huge, gorgeous thighs, his face shoved up tight into her ass, only a small shock of hair lying limp against her sublime white leg-flesh. She wears black thigh-high stockings, held in place by the delicious straps of her garter belt. On her feet are skyscraper high heels, and her voluptuous upper body and luscious fat arms complete a vision of omnipotence incarnate in female form. The man's body has long ago gone still. She continues to crush his skull just because it amuses her. The two lads hear the cracking sounds as those powerful legs bring their immeasurable pressure to bear.

-I told you, goddamit, I told you!

-I didn't remember. Shit! I'm sorry. Why couldn't I--?

-But I kept telling you! Fuck! Let's get outta here!

Legs flutter ineffectually. Going nowhere, and now the cold reaches the bones and marrow. It happens in dreams, too. Running, running, struggling with everything you've got, but you can't move.That wicked laughter. The strange flicker of light from that bedside table lamp. Terror grips the heart as it all begins to add up.

-Ogod, it can't be her. I can't move!

-You've got to! C'mon!

-Shit!

Morning falls on the red soil in and around what the White Man calls Monument Valley. A small dwelling in the remote desert is surrounded by legend, by tales of a Woman so powerful that she crushes men like cockroaches, of strong young male bodies broken into halves by the press of massive legs, so beautiful and so strong that no one who has ever come into their presence has lived to tell about it. All around the world, in cities large and small, the spirit of this fat goddess is alive in violent women who control their own destinies with their iron wills and killing-machine bodies. She is Kali, Eternal God-Queen of Destruction and Death. You may recognize her on sight in one of these exquisite women. If you do, you will just as quickly catch a glimpse of your own fate. But there is nothing you can do to alter it.

Study #1 for Makeda

2008-09-01T15:56:00.000-07:00

-Bet you don’t know this one, Makeda said, addressing her protege. Then she turned, glaring balefully at the terrified young man standing at attention before her.

-On your knees, pig! Now!

Her naked subject fell at her feet on command, but he didn't get there fast enough. Makeda slapped him across the face.

-Don’t you ever disrespect me, maggot. We clear?

She slapped him again. Hard.

-You sit right there and look at my thighs. Breathe deep through your nose, and don’t stop looking straight forward at my legs until I tell you different.

Another violent crack from the palm of her hand across his reddening face.

-Don’t you know how to address a lady, asshole? You say ‘yes ma’am’ when you’re spoken to!

-Yes, Ma’am.

She turned back to the exquisite young woman in the smokin' hot lingerie who was taking in the scene with rapt attention. Her name was Senta, and she was a big exotic black girl from Amsterdam. This blessed child of Satan had it all, a perfect, fat power-body, unbelievable sexuality, a gorgeous face, and an attitude that was pure venom. Makeda was here to take her to the next level. To show the new dog some old tricks, as it were. Makeda was past her physical prime, but that made no difference. Experience, sexuality, and beauty were in such rare combination in her that she could easily have been considered the most powerful Kali-Incarnate existent in the present. Only the rarest of new incarnates would have challenged the suggestion.

-Now I know you’re no stranger to leg worship, Makeda continued. But what you probably don’t know is that you can keep this up for a long-ass time, and if you do, some strange shit will start to happen. How long do you usually demand leg worship?

-Mmm, I don’t know. A few minutes, I guess. Until the fucking dick either obeys or disobeys.

-Exactly. But what you need to do is just let it ride. No if’s, no consequences, and a minimum of threats. Just make him stay right in front of you. Tease him as hard as you want. With the fat on your legs, like mine, your slightest movements will make your thighs shimmy, and trust me, he won’t be able to handle it for long. Then, you just let things take their course. I like to just hold the situation for as long as possible and see what kind of shit starts happening without my doing a damn thing.

-Like what?

-You never know. That’s what’s so cool about it, the element of surprise. I had an idiot once stayed perfectly composed for almost 45 minutes. Got a little teary-eyed, but no major reactions. I just kept it up, shifting position, jiggling my thigh meat, making him smell my gorgeous flesh and perfume, the scent of my wet cunt. I knew I had to be getting to him, but still he held firm. Then, all of a sudden, he lost it. Jumped to his feet screaming and crying, you know, hysterical! He ran headlong to the open door to the balcony and, girl, I mean to tell you he flung himself right over the railing! And guess what? We were 23 stories up! Fucker splattered onto the pavement below like a goddamn bug on a windshield. Unbelievable.

-No shit!?

-Oh yeah. I could tell you some stories. Look. This one’s already starting to get the shakes.

It was true. Meditating on those big, powerful legs he had begun to make transition.

-Shakes are pretty standard here, said Makeda. He’s starting to realize some heavy shit right about now. Most of all, he knows he’s mine. She addressed her subject again. You just keep your eyes locked on my thighs, shithead, and everything’ll be all right.

He obeyed, and Makeda stamped her leg again, just slightly, causing her leg-flesh to quiver enticingly. The young man bristled noticeably and let out a slight whimper. Makeda snickered at his growing subjugation. She kept it up, just standing before him as he worshipped her, adoring her meaty, gorgeous thighs. Senta had never seen anything like this. She watched in amazement as the young man became increasingly more agitated, while Makeda did basically nothing. He soon began to tremble harder and his whimpers turned to a steady pulse of soft crying.

-Come closer, Makeda said, so you can smell me better.

She laughed gently as he moved slightly forward, her unrelenting, divine scents ravaging his soul in their floral elegance. His crying became louder, and again the shaking increased in intensity.

-Looks like he’s going to explode, laughed the young apprentice.

-Mmm, I don’t think just yet, said Makeda. I think he’s still got room to ‘grow.’
Looking down between his folded legs was a pulsating cock the size of a horse’s, dying to find expression. The flesh of Makeda’s thighs was wondrous. Soft, but still shapely; fat, with the outer texture of black satin, and obviously still possessing the power to crush the poor subject’s skull to powder if she so desired. She continued to stand there, a living altar, as his silent prayers for mercy soared, in rapid fire succession, into oblivion. As each eternal minute passed, the subject grew more agitated, his crying increased in intensity, and his shivering escalated toward the point of convulsion. At one point, he attempted to lessen the torture by furtively closing his eyes. A useless ploy.

-Look, said Senta, the dip-shit just closed his eyes on you!

-I know, Makeda answered calmly. And you’d normally slap the shit out of him here, wouldn’t you?

-Absolutely! Or worse.

-No, Makeda smiled. You’d have then missed the point and value of this technique. Let’s watch what happens.

She let him keep his eyes closed, but ordered him to move his head forward slightly. He obeyed immediately, tears flowing now from his closed eyes, and blubbering like a baby. He was almost touching her now, but of course, she’d make sure he didn’t QUITE get there. He was so close he could almost feel her flesh, but the main thing was that her glorious scent was increased again by his added proximity, and that began to cause further problems. He shook even harder, the bawling kicking up another notch. This was a man in sexual and religious agony, his devoted worship leading him further and further into the purifying fire of transcendence.

-You may keep your eyes closed if you wish, Makeda said softly, but if you touch me with your pathetic little spasms, believe me, you have no idea what torture is until you do something to piss me off like that. It’s your choice, of course.

The poor bastard’s brain began to disintegrate under the strain of such a choice. In the end, his fanatical need to behold her majesty won out and he opened his eyes again. The returning sight of those thick, gorgeous legs caused him to erupt. He began to bawl hysterically now, losing all control. His body appeared to have made contact with some unseen, highly-charged electrical force-field.

-Omigod, laughed Senta, stick a fork in that motherfucker. He’s done!

Makeda remained somber, holding her mood.

-Oh no, she said. Not yet. Hold steady, you goddamn pig! She commanded him. Get yourself together, and I mean right now! You’re not going anywhere, and if you think you can shirk your responsibility to me by acting like a fucking child, you’re sadly mistaken. Now sit still and shut the fuck up.

He tried to calm himself, but without much success. He clasped his hands in prayer, then, overcome by his agitation, reached out shakily with them as if hoping to hold on to Makeda’s legs for stablity.

-Don’t even think it, she said.

He folded them in his lap again, but could not quell the seizure that had gripped him. All the while, he continued to stare right into the eye of the hurricane, where her luscious upper thighs met with her naked, fragrant, wet cunt. Try as he might, he could not calm himself.

Crraaaack!! Makeda slammed a powerful slap across his face.

-I mean it, she said. You’ve got three seconds.

She ripped another brain-scrambling slap across the opposite side of his face.

-1…2…

The force of the blows was sufficient to jar him back to his senses just enough to gain some measure of control over himself. He managed to bring it back to the steady gentle sobbing and sustained, but less violent, quivering.

-Back to your prayers, shithead, she said, and don’t think for a second that this willful behavior of yours won’t be counted against you. It will.

The scene was beginning to turn surreal as the subject remained on his knees at Makeda’s feet, sobbing, trembling and offering up occassional streams of jibberish as his mind continued on its way to ruin. Gradually, everything began moving again toward code red. He burst into a weird and frightening mixture of howls, crying, indecipherable mumblings and ramblings, puncuated by actual screams; loud and terrifying. At the same time his shaking returned to the level of severe convulsions.

-Keep focused, motherfucker! Makeda admonished him. Don’t you dare turn away from me. Look at these legs!

Now, she turned them slightly, this way and that, flaunting them even more sensually and powerfully. The subject actually began to jump up and down slightly from a kneeling position! Then Makeda shifted back and forth, causing each thigh to jostle deliciously just inches in front of his face. His face had turned alabaster white except for the slap marks on each cheek.

-NOW, he’s ready to explode, Makeda laughed.

Then, gyrating in place like a human juggernaut, wailing incoherencies like some alien schizoid, he suddenly fell almost silent and still. He knelt there for a long second before his body started to heave involuntarily. Out of nowhere, he began to throw up. It was not a violent vomiting spell, but actually almost gentle in contrast to the intensity of his convulsions just prior. He vomited down the front of his body, then heaved again, most of that landing on Makeda’s legs. The vomiting episode lasted a few minutes until the subject gagged on a couple of dry heaves, sighed loudly, and then fell into a quiet stream of gentle sobbing, still staring straight ahead at Makeda’s legs, which had rendered him virtually catatonic without ever even having touched him.

Senta was stunned at this display of omnipotent power, having previously no conception of the existence of such sophisticated psychological mastery over a man. She smiled in amazement as Makeda now shifted into the mood of Kali-in-Celebration, reveling in another lop-sided triumph. She began to laugh loudly, demonically, overjoyed at her subject’s state of abject compromise. As the tears rolled down his face, she commanded him to begin licking the vomit from her legs. At the same time, she taunted him mercilessly.

-What’s the problem, you fucking maggot? Big woman too much for you? Go ahead! Tell me I’m God-Queen! Confess me as Lord and Savior, asshole!

As he began licking at her legs, the contact, finally, with her divine flesh was too much. He most likely was confessing her as Savior, but all that came out of his mouth were more and more other-worldly bursts of incoherent babbling.
He continued to lick and scream, becoming increasingly agitated and presently began vomiting again. As the scene continued, it became a grotesque and horrifying affair. Vomit splattered everywhere, especially on Makeda’s lower body, where the now crazed subject continued to wail like something inhuman, trying to lick her clean even as she laughed and taunted and shoved his face repeatedly into the puddles of his own puke. Senta stood looking on in disbelief. Even so precocious a Kali-Incarnate as she had not before born witness to this brand of dehumanizing destruction and humiliation. Makeda had turned this man into a thing before her very eyes; an unrecognizable life form so far from human it made her a little edgy. And all without doing a thing! Simply standing before him and watching him disintegrate in the very act of worshipping his goddess. Heady stuff indeed for a young woman new to the ways of Transcendental Religious Ministry. Nearly breathless herself, she knew at that moment that she still had a lot to learn.

Kali as White Destroyer

2008-08-28T00:06:00.001-07:00

Rampant Destruction, Remorseless Violence. God's work. Revelation in action. The God-Queen speaks through her. Goes by Diane. Fatal mistake, he didn't know her. He saw her, but he couldn't recognize her. The end was slow, torturous, brutal. Her big body overpowered him easily, utterly unchallenged. Her mastery over him was so complete it was actually comical.
She wore nothing but a pair of lacy black panties and matching black patent leather high heels, and she was a vision of voluptuous perfection. What a woman! She must have weighed around 210 lbs., most of it legs, ass and huge breasts. She told him to go into the kitchen, light a burner, and stick his hand in the flame. He complied instantly. She just stood there next to him, laughing as the flame singed his skin well down into the flesh. He wouldn't dare remove it without her permission, so he just stood there screaming. Finally, instead of telling him to remove it, she just reared back and cold-cocked the poor fucker. I mean, laid him out with a roundhouse right. She is so strong, too. Her big arms and big body behind that punch knocked the living shit out of him. He goes down on the kitchen floor, nose bleeding badly and hand smoldering. The whole place reeked of burning flesh.

Then she pulled him up into a sitting position against the kitchen wall, and holding him in place by his hair, she hammered him with repeated knee and thigh bashes into his face, each powerful blow causing more blood to flow and more screams to go up. She finished off the flurry by thrusting her whole massive lower body into him, smashing his head into the wall with her powerful hips. He slumped over sideways, his body suffering violent paroxysms as she stood over him laughing and taunting him with severe verbal abuse. Those huge legs of hers smashing repeatedly into his face had caused extensive damage; crushed his nose completely flat, broken his jaw in 2 places, and knocked out his front teeth. The hip thrust had undoubtedly caused a concussion. Blood was pouring now as he spit first one and then another tooth out onto the floor. Unfazed at the nightmarish scene she was so handily orchestrating , she kept pushing the envelope.

-Get up!, she said. Are you gonna let a girl beat the fucking shit outta you like this? Get up, goddamn you!

Of course, there was already no hope of that. At the moment, all he could do was lie there writhing in mortal agony.

-Ignore me, will you? We'll see about that! Look up here, right now. Look at my fucking tits, asshole! If you get up here I'll let you suck on them. One minute on each one. Isn't that better than getting your ass kicked some more?

He managed to turn his head shakily as his body kept squirming and look up at her. Her breasts were huge, perfect torpedoes of the most sumptuous flesh, so beautifully shaped, so plump, so inviting. Looking into the bloody mess that was his face, Diane cracked up hard again, adding insult to injury with her insatiable propensity for humiliation. Unbelievably, his desire for her somehow enabled him to override the intense damage his head had been forced to endure. His hand still smoking, he continued to yelp as the violent throbbing persisted, but despite it all he miraculously tried to pull himself up, gripping first a drawer handle, and then the oven door handle to get almost as far as his knees. Diane continued to tease him mercilessly with those enormous tits, dangling them this way and that, just out of reach of his desperate, bloody lips.

Just as he finally got his feet underneath him and as the faintest hint of a grateful smile caught the corners of his lips, she laughed at him mockingly and drove him back against the wall, holding him firmly in place with her forearm jammed hard against his throat.

-Poor baby, she chided. Did Mama lie to her little baby?

With that she went back to work with her weapons of choice, her fabulous fat legs. She drove a big, powerhouse knee into his abdomen; not once, not twice, not thrice, but four devastating blows. On the fourth, she released him and he folded up like a wallet and crashed forward headfirst into the hard tile floor, throwing up violently as he went down. Those crushing leg blows had also completely robbed him of his breath. The combination of the vomiting spasms and the inability to breath caused him to make freakish squeaky gurgling sounds that were positively inhuman. Reaching down and jerking his pants down over his ass, Diane saw that his cock was fully extended, dribbling pre-cum in the throes of his agitated excitation.
-Yummy! she exulted.

She dropped down and began to give him the most exceptionally stimulating blow job he'd ever had in his life. The polarity of feelings within him was unbearable. Writhing, gasping desperately for breath, hand burning as though it were still in the fire, head crushed, jaw broken, nose broken and still spitting out teeth; in spite of all this his cock throbbed quickly to the point of explosion, and the expert sex Vixen, Diane, recognizing the moment, abruptly stopped, adding denial of orgasm to his long list of injuries. She laughed her sexy, witchy laugh at him, and as he lay there convulsing, she reached down into a cabinet and pulled out the largest pot she could find.

As she took it out, she swung it hard at him, bouncing a severe blow off his head with the heavy pot. Then, she filled it with water and put it on the stove to boil.

-You've got about 5 minutes, she said. 5 minutes to get your fucking breath back and be up to at least a kneeling position. And if you fuck this up, I promise I will fucking kill you and be done with it! You read me, you fucking slug!?

All he could do was twitch, bleed, and puke. Diane nonchalantly fixed herself a martini and relaxed at the nearby kitchen table with a cigarette. She crossed her outrageously hot legs, and dangled her glistening high heel playfully as she enjoyed her drink and smoke. The whole time her victim had been doing what her victims always did; writhe on the floor, bleed and make the most peculiar noises. It had gotten to be a habit with Diane to see how unusual the noises she could force out of them might be. Today, she cracked up at the squeaks and gurgling. But now, he was regaining his breath. That was all she needed in order to proceed.

She put out her cigarette and walked back over to the stove. The full pot of water was just reaching a boil.

-C'mon, she said. Get your ass up. Sit up, or I'm gonna make you wish you had never been born!

He couldn't quite make it on his own volition, but Diane aided the cause by jerking him into position by his hair. Breathing sketchily now, he was still in serious agony and as he looked up at her magnificent breasts hanging over him he started to cry.

-Shut up! she said, bitch-slapping him hard across the face.

There must've been one more loose tooth in there, as her slap caused him to spit it out. Bloody kernels littering the floor. Diane turned to the stove and the water was boiling furiously now. Ultra-scalding hot. She took two pot holders, and knowing that her subject would never be able to stand at this point, she told him to hold out his hands and take the pot from her. He appeared quite wobbly as he tried to follow orders.

-Take it, goddamn you! And if you drop it, it's over for you. I will fucking bury you in the yard if you don't do this right. Now take it by the pot holders and hang onto it, idiot!

He didn't know much at this point, but he knew Diane meant business. With all his remaining strength he held the pot of water, already sure of its purpose.

-That's it, moron, she said. Now, dump it over your head while I watch. And I mean every last drop of it!

Tears filled his eyes, blood and vomit drooled down his chin and taking one last look at those glorious tits, he followed her instructions. The scalding water washed down over his head and onto his body and there has never been screaming to equal this. He drops the empty pot to the floor and takes flight; rolling, spinning, flipping, flopping, freaking shaking, quaking and the whole time SCREAMING! Diane stood right over him, practically analyzing his agonized movements as she laughed and laughed. She laughed continually until she was in pain, and the whole time he never slowed down, gyrating around the floor like a spinning top; a severely bloody spinning top.

Diane fixed another drink and sat down with another cigarette, enjoying the spectacle of her creation. The whole time she continued to laugh and laugh at her victim's plight. His unspeakably frenzy lasted almost ten minutes before he finally came to rest heaving in desperation. Chuckling to herself, Diane tossed off the rest of her martini. She then walked over to him, laid down on top of him, dropped her massive breasts down over his mouth and nose, locked her arms behind his neck, pulled him in tight and finished the job.

Two Studies for Public Worship of The Divine Kali

2008-08-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

Study #1.
Sometimes it just happens. Nothing you can do about it. You knew from the start you were taking your life into your own hands with such a big, dominant powerhouse as she. Admittedly, you're always at least a little nervous, worried about what happens if you fail to please, but you are well-acquainted with her rules by now, and you feel sure everything is fine.

Carrying her packages on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. She loves to shop, and you've been anticipating her every need perfectly. Just that one half-step ahead of her. The way she wants you to be. You're walking along, just slightly behind her, according to protocol, when suddenly she looks over her shoulder at you. Then again. Something is wrong, but you don't know what it is. These are nerve-wracking moments. You're not allowed to speak without being spoken to, so asking her what you can do for her comfort and pleasure is out of the question. You're beside yourself, trying to figure out what it is. After a few more steps she becomes exasperated.

-Kneel down, Pig! she commands. Right now!

You are carrying a few dresses in clothing bags. You hold them up high so they won't touch the ground as you drop to your knees instantly on the sidewalk.

-Look at my ass!

Her ass is huge; big, round, beautiful. She turns it right into your face and a storm begins to brew inside. Her mega-hot shorts riding up over the delicious convex arcs of plush, perfect flesh that separate her spectacular ass from her luscious, creamy thighs; a scene that destroys minds. She stamps her leg down causing the whole complex to gyrate playfully, toxic as some futuristic hologram of nerve-gas. The tight shorts unable to escape entrapment in her ass crack. And you feel it all slipping away.

-Smell my legs, she says.

You lean slightly forward, just inches away and your nostrils drink down the poison fury of her floral bouquet. Sweet, lilting perfume in concert with the divine scent of her flesh. Struggling, struggling to keep those dresses from touching the sidewalk.

-Sniff my ass! she says. Stick your fucking nose right up my crack!

Crowded sidewalk. Onlookers abounding. You plant your nose firmly between those exquisite ass cheeks. You feel the soft, demonic flesh attack your soul through contact with your face. Suddenly you tremble, wildly. Losing contact.

-Do it!

You inhale deeply just as she looses a huge fart into your face. You breathe deeper, deeper; don't want to lose one molecule of it. Laughter. Riotous laughter erupts all around, not least from her full, strawberry lips. Abject humiliation. She transforms you, as she has so many times before, into something sub-human. A receptacle for her body's waste. Somehow, details always seem to slip quickly into the ether. All you remember then is the unbearable longing that accompanied your throbbing, steely hard-on.

Study #2.
They keep saying I have choices. Go where I want, do what I want, think what I want. After all, I'm a free American and all. The sound of such notions is vaguely familiar. Faraway, echoing on distant shores of memory, mine perhaps, but slid down some kind of dark hole way ages back.

Surrounded by shadow. This darkness mocks me, insult upon insult. Hands grope feeble in the nothingness of discarded worlds. My legacy is but her footnote. Dreams of old were always about faces, places, colors and sublime actions. Actions of love, actions of joy, actions geared toward this-sided warfare. All dead now, as I am soon to be as well. Her Incarnate name is Salikka, but I know who she is. She is Kali come in her extraordinary black perfection. She is Original Woman. Her power is limitless. I have seen it before in visions of the real-to-come. I have seen it in the great silences induced by her presence in hideous nightmares and the other terrifying events that comprise the prophetic experience. Serving her is a duty I take with utmost seriousness. It’s just that she makes you pay such an extortionate toll for it.

This week, I am her pig. Not even her dog, you understand. She will allow me to serve her only as pig. She makes me grunt and oink. She makes me practice it, ad infinitum at her divine feet. She makes me squeal ‘Suuuuuuuueeeey!!’ She makes me eat garbage. She makes me eat her shit. She makes me eat my shit. She makes me eat dog shit. She has used me as her all-purpose receptacle this week; toilet, ashtray (she loves to smoke and drink) and garbage disposal. (My only meals) She has already told me that I have 2 months. If I am not completely insane and committed for life to some asylum, then she will have no choice but to kill me.

While Salikka was pissing into my mouth this morning, she told me I was to accompany her to a ‘lingerie softball game’ today. Mixed blessing, as I went crazy seeing her in states of glorious undress, but terrifying too, as I knew my ‘pig’ duties would be substantial. She walked me into the park on my leash, completely naked, crawling desperately on all fours to keep pace with her. Whenever she batted or made a play in the field I had to squeal at the top of my lungs, and between innings I was required to lick the sweat from her phenomenal satin-black flesh, a task which, needless to say, thrilled me no end. She was so hot at the plate! Her outrageous body, adorned in pink panties, pink cap and white top made my cock pound with excitement. She even used a matching pink bat! The way she crouched, awaiting the next pitch; with her incomparable big ass sticking out, blowing minds for miles..Yes. She was a vision of smokin’ hot perfection.

When the game was over, she went to work immediately on breaking me further. First, she hooked up with a nice-looking white boy who was hanging around for the game, hugging him, kissing him, telling me how she was going to fuck his ever-lovin’ brains out, just to drive me wild. I knew she didn’t care about him, and that always made it harder. I wished her well in love, but I found it unbearable when she used men only to punish me, to make me feel ever more inadequate.

While people were milling around, she called for me. I crawled out to her, sitting embarrassed and naked before her in the company of at least 8-10 acquaintances, most of them girls. They all giggled and commended Salikka on her little pig-slave-boy. In front of this whole group, she proceeded to make me sit up and beg—piggie-style—to lick her ass cheeks. I obeyed, sitting up with hands hung limply, and grunting and oinking for the privilege of my mistress's ass. At length, she complied with my request and I began to lick her incredible black cheeks quickly and thoroughly.

-Stop! She commanded.

I backed up. She then planted a serious wet kiss on her little white boy wanna-be, instructing me to watch unswervingly or face serious punishment. I never really knew why it hurt so bad, but it did, and I began to cry.

-Piggie-style, bitch! She yelled.

I started ‘oinking’ my crying, which cracked everyone up so badly that I quickly couldn’t be heard above the din of howling mirth.

-Stick your face up my ass, Pig! She demanded.

Bawling my eyes out, cock pounding like a jackhammer, I jammed my nose between her ass cheeks. Again, the group broke into riotous laughter, congratulating Salikka on the comprehensive quality of her conquest. I held my face there, whiffing down Salikka’s exquisite odor of sweat-soaked flesh with hints of perfume and shit swirling in the mix. After a few moments, however, the indescribable sensation of her plump, powerful ass cheeks against my face became too much for me. I lost contact with reality and began to scream. Salikka had launched me (somehow) into another place, another dimension, I felt. Though she commanded me repeatedly to shut up, I continued to scream bloody murder. Everyone continued to laugh, but Salikka had stopped. She sensed my mental state and knew it had to be dealt with. I was locked between the worlds, and had to be either sent forward, or driven back. She jerked me violently from her ass, reared back, and with her whole body weight, sucker punched me right in the middle of my face. I went down like a bag of dirt, still screaming after I hit the ground.

-Look at me, bitch! She screamed.

Lying on my back, I looked up as she commanded, only to see her gigantic ass directly above me, gesturing, weaving back and forth. With no warning, she dropped down upon my head; an enormous Dumbo-Drop that caused me to go into major convulsions instantly. She remained seated upon my face, watching my body kicking wildly for a couple of moments, and then got up. As she moved off of me, I rolled away in unprecedented pain, clutching my head in abject agony. Salikka laughed like the devil she is and waited for me to come to rest. Having done so face down, she kicked me over onto my back, stood haughtily over me, and dropped again on my beleaguered cranium. That was it. As I lay there twitching like a soon-to-be corpse, the strange thought crossed my dying mind.

Better Kali’s Pig, than King of the World.

As it turned out, Salikka didn’t kill me after all, though it was close. Needless to say, I didn't survive the two months. Shortly after the softball game her unrelenting torture broke me completely. Today I live in a maximum-security asylum for the mentally insane. My mind processes nothing but confused clouds of Salikka-memories. Nothing of the up-and-coming. For me, there is no such thing. I don't speak at all, but sometimes when I close my eyes I see those two names flashing across my brain: Salikka....Kali....Salikka....Kali.

Kali's Origins: Part I

2008-08-24T01:46:00.001-07:00

With regard to methodology in any kind of detailed historical study, we are accustomed to the notion of proceeding chronologically. There is nothing mysterious about this. The most comprehensive way of grasping the scope of any historical phenomenon is to understand its progression from origin to ending, including any ramifications extending beyond ending into the future. With this notion of methodology I am generally in agreement, but there are certain instances in which aspects of a subject are given greater clarity by isolating them from that chronological flow in order that they may be understood more clearly within that ‘before and after’ framework later on. The study of the incarnation of the God-Queen Kali presents us with such an instance. Because her power and presence are so richly compelling and her origins so complex, it has always seemed to me that anyone with a sincere interest in becoming familiar with her should benefit from an introduction to her person in this plane as a way of having something tangible to work with in the context of the larger study to be undertaken in retracing her pre-existent manifestation in higher-dimensional space-time. Simply put, let’s get to know the most extraordinary female presence in universe history a little better before we begin sifting through the complex data that comprises her incomprehensible totality.

Kali's history stretches much farther back than her incarnation in quadratic-dimensionality. In understanding her origins, we must know something of her pre-existence in the Satanic Eternity and this involves the acquisition of awareness and transcendental mystical skills that are beyond the scope of this article. Our intention is to leave her pre-history aside for the time being, and do some hard work in discovering her origins on this plane, in the 4-dimensional world. This begins with the investigation of writings and images of Kali as they have been created down through the ages. As we will see presently, it's not such an easy task. On the historical front there is far more in the way of contradiction and randomness than there is in coherent data upon which a unified picture of Kali's earthly manifestation can be erected.

The majority of extant imagery depicting Kali comes down to us through art and literature of Hindu culture. In studying this imagery, one is immediately struck by the fact that she is presented in a variety of colors. She is black in some renderings, brown in others, and even more or less white in more than a few. She is also depicted in blues, greens, lavenders, etc. The list goes on. This fact is usually attributed to artistic license, subjective interpretations dependent upon the painter's particular conception or intent. The artistic license theory always provides an easy way out of historical curiosities, and the presence of the Divine Kali is no exception. When no further physical facts can be discovered to explain variations in cultural discourse or archaeological inconsistencies, it is almost a matter or course that we find historians falling back, to some extent at any rate, on the artistic license theory. Painters forge their artistic visions for reasons largely unknown to future generations, and the motivations behind their efforts die with them. It's a logical, and more often than not, satisfying way of dropping the subject.

As it turns out, in the case of the Divine Kali, there is good reason for arrival at this historical dead-end. This is due to the fact that Kali's incarnation is not a strictly historical matter, in the traditional sense of the term. It is actually more of a metaphysical matter, a 'metaphysical history,' if I may be so bold. Now, it must be admitted that historians generally know precious little in the realms of philosophy and metaphysics, and the manifestation of Kali in our dimension happens to require extensive understanding in both of these disciplines if it is to be properly understood. The key here is the realization that Kali's incarnation is not a singular one. It is, in fact, plural! She is come in a multitude of forms and guises, and it is this transcendental fact that continues to confound traditional research. For those beings--whether they be human, extra-terrestrial, or ephemeral--that have ascended to Cosmic Consciousness and beyond, it is common knowledge that Kali is come in an infinity of incarnations and continues to do so until the time of the Great Transformation. We have been saying that our visual conceptions of Kali come predominantly from paintings and sculpture, and, keeping the foregoing in mind, we can now ask the artistic question again with an eye toward obtaining a meaningful answer. Paintings and sculpture are created by artists, and what do we know about artists? Artists, being typically more in tune with supra-mundane happenings than the common folk, have more of what we could call an ‘insider’s view’ into reality, and it is evident to anyone willing to compare the various images of Kali that have come down to us that the disparity in these works represents something far more significant than artistic license. It represents the multifarious states of the subject herself. The truth is that the (predominantly Hindu) artists of antiquity obsessed with rendering her were already aware of Kali’s endless variety of incarnations. They were witnesses to her reign of destruction and death in a multitude of guises, just as we are witnesses to the same phenomena today. Many indeed may have lost their lives in her wake upon completion of their artworks. Kali is eternal, the forms of her incarnation, infinite. But what of her original incarnation? How did her father, Satan, choose to initiate her presence in quadratic-dimensionality, on the world stage?

To discover the answer we must avail ourselves of the earliest pieces of documentation available, and more importantly, of archaeological evidence tracing the origins of humankind itself as far back in time as possible. This entails suspending the prevailing idea that Kali was a goddess 'out of India.' To begin with, the documentation out of India is sketchy as to Kali’s origins. It is remarkably detailed as to her functions and her basic mode of being, but when we try to gain a clear sense of who she is and where she came from we quickly become lost in a maze of different names, different sources, different motivations and, naturally, different colors to go along with all these different interpretations of her genesis. It is relatively easy to see the evidence for multiple incarnations in the confusion that emerges from these early documents, and yet it is something the philosophical community does not want to come to grips with. Of course, in their opinions, it’s all myth anyway, so why do they seem reluctant to admit of Kali’s manifestation in a multitude of forms? We’ll leave that curious fact for them to figure out. At any rate, what is clear is that Kali is depicted in numerous forms and by numerous names in the Hindu literature and scriptures that deal with her presence. This can only be an indication of confusion, of a lack of consensus as to her true origin. People of the time were witness to her rampant sexual violence and murderous deeds, but owing to the continual flux in manifestation, they were unable to grasp anything of her true underlying identity. We need to follow the trail farther back in time if we are to find any reference to her by those who actually were privy to Kali’s original manifestation and who would be in no doubt whatsoever as to the facts attending such a momentous and extraordinary event. The problem? These early humans hadn't gotten the hang of writing yet. Not in comprehensive fashion, at any rate. Documentation could very well appear only in cave paintings, for all we know. What is necessary, then, is the discovery of some evidence of her activities between the dawn of humanity and the period of the Hindu writers and artists. To discover the truth regarding this lengthy phase of her incarnations and appearances will give us a clearer understanding of her original deeds and objectives. And so we find that we must prepare for a journey much farther back in time than we might first have been wont to suppose.

The African Connection.
It is now widely accepted that the human race originated in Africa, almost certainly in Ethiopia. It is my belief that Kali was incarnated sometime later from those who became the eventual master race out of this powerful evolutionary movement. There is irrefutable evidence available as well to show that such a giant step in evolutionary development was in part a result of assistance by alien intelligence, from extra-dimensinal 'mid-wives,' as it were, that played a major role in the 'birthing' of a new species of homonid in whom simple consciousness expanded into self-consciousness, the hallmark of the human animal. This is completely in concert with what has been revealed to us directly through our own extra-dimensional enlightenment and myriad contact with the true Satanic messengers that serve as attendants to Kali, ministering to her mundane needs within and through her multitude of transcendental manifestations. These revelations also coincide with the most compelling descriptions of Kali that appear in the Hindu writings, that of the giant, fierce, unstoppable Black Man-Eater, bent on domination, destruction, and death. The following citations are of particular interest.

Kālī is the feminine of kāla "black, dark coloured" (per Panini 4.1.42). It appears as the name of a form of Durga in Mahabharata 4.195, and as the name of an evil female spirit in Harivamsa 11552.

Knowing then that her very name seems to indicate the possibility at least of her arrival on the Indian scene out of Africa, we are given incentive to take our investigation to a higher level in our efforts to reveal the true Kali in her extra-dimensional and extra-terrestrial origins. Her divine majesty, the God-Queen, perhaps incarnate on earth as far back as 75,000 years ago! If this is true, it would appear that the world must have already been in vital need of transformation at that time. Kali appears for no other reason. In the next post, we will look further into this provocative and fascinating theory.

The room, if that’s what it is, is darkened, shadowy, definitely an empty space. You are awakening as if from a dream, or better, you are awakening within a dream. There’s nothing here. A cube. Absolutely empty. No windows, no doors. A cell. The darkness is twilight darkness. You can see clearly, but there is no source from which any light whatsoever could emanate. Wherever you are, you’re afraid, and the natural inclination is to get the hell out of here. You begin feeling along the walls, spring a secret passage like in the movies. This is no movie. Checking the floor. Trap door! No. Just need to wake up, you reason. Slap yourself, pinch yourself, throw yourself into the walls.
-Wake up, goddamn you!
Now you’re screaming at yourself. And then, she is there. She laughs at you, feeding instantly upon the terror that grips you. She is huge. Perfect Kali-Incarnate. The most exquisite black flesh; soft, smooth, glistening in the faint light of this place. She wears the skimpiest of coverings, and towering high heels. You see your death already in those luscious, fat thighs; so powerful, so shapely, so impossibly compelling.
You instinctively drop to your knees before her in fear and reverence. Your worship of Kali already underway in only seconds. With one stunning glance.

Strange locale, no escape, emotions splintering into some unseen intricate web of dire conflict, face-to-face with your fondest dream turned hellish nightmare. Her smile is deadly, so beautiful, so intimidating, so fucking sexy. It speaks of your helplessness, and of her limitless power to destroy you. She turns now, this way and that, teasing you mercilessly with those exquisite legs and ass, each movement giving birth to seismic flesh-dances, her glorious, satin black substance coming alive, quivering deliciously in the service of overpowering torture as she beckons you to touch, only to refuse you at the last second. You burst into tears from the demolition of your being that is already being accomplished in such systematic fashion. This angers her, the last thing you need right now.
-Insolence! She cries.
She jerks you up from the floor by your hair and pulls you into a mind-fucking headlock. Her fat, powerful arms begin to crush your puny little skull. Such force as you have never imagined! And the indescribably mesmerizing scent of her body, the most delicious, feminine scent you have ever known. It hurts. It really hurts, and yet you have the dead certainty that she is only yet playing with you, that she could mash your head into powder if it suited her purpose to do so. Your body goes into shock from the pressure and pain. A series of full-blown seizures, electrifying you into full extension, limbs steely-stiff, reaching, grasping. Then, all goes limp. You slump against the side of her body, feeling her luxuriant leg-flesh pressing against you. Almost a real breath. Not quite. Another ripping paroxysm. You think you are screaming but it’s hard to tell in here. In the death-grip of her headlock, your face is buried beneath her breast. Breathing sketchy and the voltage about to separate flesh from bone. Then you drop again; pendulous, flaccid. This excruciating polarized attack goes on. It feels like Power Stations being emptied into your Being, then suddenly shut down. Your cock is a steel girder, spilling its reservoir freely. Vast trails of pre-cum in random patterns on the floor. Punishing you beyond dreamscapes with nothing but fat, succulent arms, and the strength of a mansion full of gods.

At some point, she’s had her amusement and lets you fall rag-doll to the floor. You twitch and flutter, carrying her divine scent within your brain, sensing the presence of other worlds. Suddenly nearby. Everything is
On off
On off
On off
On off….
You are in black
Then you come back
A little

Is she above you now? Standing over you?
A vast, mighty explosion rips through your ribcage.

Kinetic pressure that pops your eyes out of their sockets helps you to see it. She came down. A devastating Atomic Butt Drop, full weight, solar plexus. Senses race back into you momentarily and you see her there atop your puny body. Huge legs straddling either side of you and the most brackish, sinister laughter—Satan’s laughter—echoing through and around and inside/outside your skull. Then experience breaks into its component shards, and a geyser of vomit rockets from within your crumpled body, up the esophagus, tearing through the throat, and your mouth is a puke-derrick, spouting your internal oil festively into the high-up of this cage and all breath along-with. This plump, gorgeous black vision of the God-Queen Kali watches you, looking down at your wretched/retching face with fiendish delight until the fetid fountain draws down somewhat.

Moving as quickly as some psychic force, she spins around upon you and snatches your head between black giant thighs. Kali is god. She controls you. Miraculously, you can feel again. But feeling what? The press of thighs perfected by universal powers. Lush, huge, (your head is buried, your nose between the ass cheeks of god!) sateen, perfumed/bouquet as of the gardens of paradise, big/long/shapely/thick/soft/hard/sensual/powerful/ Incomprehensibly beautiful legs. Kali the God-Queen laughs again through this divine incarnation…and begins to squeeze!

Flailing.
Wailing.
Flipping.
Flopping.
Writhing.
Convulsing.
Paro Paro
Paro Paro
Paroxysm.
Death on a stick.
The python grip of monstrous legs signals the finish.
Quick & Clean
Your hands push hard against Himalayan thighs, desperately clutching. You can no longer hear it, but you feel her laughter mocking you in your utter ineptitude. Those legs totally immovable. Too strong. Too powerful. Too gorgeous. She increases the pressure. Your skull cracking. You can hear it! No escape, so you try to revel in what will be your death. You give yourself over to the feel, the smell, the majesty of those big legs and the sensual crush of their omnipotence. The demolition of your body breeds lightning in your soul and your excitation rises to peak. She squeezes harder! You are at the beginning of a journey. You feel it. Concussion. Skull cracking deeper. Brain under duress. Cock pounding double time to your furious heartbeat. She cranks it up some more, and in so doing, looks back proudly to admire her handiwork; a skyscraper shaped like a penis. Laughs again. Satan inside. Reaches back to play with it. Legs tighten. You throw up blood this time, mixed with bile and brown-greens. Throw up violently, rifling it out onto the floor. She takes one pull on your desperate cock and you explode all over the tiny room. Gushing in wicked spurts, engendered by Evil itself.

The divine Kali-Incarnate. Perfect destruction. Perfect execution of the divine will. She rides the laughter-energy now. She tightens her grip. Considerably. Your skull gives way, collapses, and your bladder and bowels are released. You are left there, god-knows-where, in puddles of your own body fluids and excrement. Over as quickly as it began. Kali-Incarnate. God-Queen of Death and Ultimate Transcendence. You are released from Samsara onto the plane of Absolute Being.

Kali be praised!

Samsara

2008-08-22T00:15:00.001-07:00

The Church spire rises high/skyward, an ostensibly innocuous-looking monolith serving to remind the townspeople of their acute need for salvation. Sinners, one and all, they behold the pleasantly painted steeple standing as sentinel above them as they go about their daily affairs. Life led systematically without repentance spawning its own synthesis of virtue. Parallel plane of Dark. Of Shadow. Once translated, life as truth, time is one, being non-linear, facade of samsara revealed. Kali remains as ground of experience.

Planes. Dimensions. Levels. Consciousness. Sensed here, but seen only through cracks between the worlds.

Twilight

Kali. Call her God-Queen. Satan Incarnate. Absolute Woman. She alone knows your entity's pathway. Some will never happen upon her. The committed devotee knows her on sight, and will seek her patiently, ceaselessly, until he has earned the privilege of her presence. It is she who will attend to his death, burial, and resurrection.

Life is in the breath on this plane.

But in an infinity of planes (dimensions) there is an infinity of modalities. Kali is come to effect your burial that you may be resurrected, as the Bible says ‘in newness of life.’ This is a supreme truth. Newness of life is higher-dimensional. It is not what is commonly referred to as ‘Heaven.’ It is continued life in the glory of higher consciousness. The God-Queen comes with extreme violence. Through her violence, your own metaphysical truth is revealed. All metaphysical truth is arrived at through violence. Why is violence necessary? Because it is only through violence that the degradation and compromise of the body may be achieved, and the breaking of the body brings altered perception. ‘Seeing’ in a new way is a requirement for the ascent to higher consciousness, to extra-dimensional perception. This life is, indeed, in the Breath. As Kali so mercifully robs you of it, snuffing it out with her thick, luscious, divine thighs, life shifts to other modalities and to higher consciousness. As the body is thus broken, so is the illusion of samsara. Things are seen as they truly are; infinite. Praise blessed Kali, Savior of Men. Death: Through crushing and suffocation. Burial: Between her plump, punishing thighs Resurrection: Into newness of life in higher-dimensional space-time

Kali: A Sexual Incarnation

2008-08-20T14:28:00.000-07:00

Find Kali in her perfect state of incarnation. She has many sub-states. When she appears in these sub-states she is considerably more formidable than women indigenous to this dimensionality, but only in her pure incarnation does she bring all her power to bear. Kali-in-perfection may be known by her dark severity, which is transformed to smiles and frivolity when she is not actively engaged in her calling: Destruction. Her gargantuan size renders her invulnerable to any notion of resistance and indeed those foolish enough to try are usually annihilated in cruel and perverse fashion. No other has Kali’s devastating power for destruction.

It is said that she walks like thunder. It is said that the earth trembles beneath her feet. It is said that merely to behold the presence of her fat arms and legs, the extraordinary beauty of her divine countenance, and the burning intensity of her gaze can cause paralysis, and even death on sight. When you behold her cosmic perfection for yourself, you know all this to be true. The total domination she brings to bear upon her surroundings is the a priori fact of her manifestation.

Worship The God-Queen and her sexual power!
Fat God-Queen is Kali. In her incomparable plush beauty, she threatens her subjects with her incomprehensible sexuality, easily able to crush them with her huge, beautiful breasts, plump, delicious arms, and massive, shapely legs. The emotional force of such a threat renders her subjects frozen in fear and awe.

With supreme arrogance, she pleases herself at the expense of her helpless subjects. She delights in smothering with her huge, immaculate breasts. Life is in the breath, and The God-Queen Kali will rob you of it in precious few seconds. Forcing your lips to caress and kiss her divine flesh, she exults as you pant desperately from the laying-on-face of her wicked, gorgeous breasts. You shiver from sensuous contact with her soft, luscious body.

Contact with the divine flesh of Kali is transcendental. Her father, Satan, created her so. To touch her sumptuous body is to be instantly freed from this plane. This phenomenon requires some explanation. We are bound to our own dimensional plane by restraints in the physical realm that are created by our perceptual system. The reason we all perceive the world as we do (in 4 dimensions, three of space and one of time) is because our five senses work together in such as way as to process reality in accordance with that structure. It is the structure that serves us best for the purposes of engaging in our worldly activities in this dimension. But this is an entirely utilitarian system of operation, and by no means the only one we possess. More importantly, it was not even meant to be our primary mode of perception. It is only a matter of man’s insistence upon evolving at the slowest possible rate, or if possible, to evolve not at all, that our race remains unaware of the glorious higher modes of absolute transcendence already in place within the human consciousness. These are the perceptual systems that constitute ‘Cosmic Consciousness’ and they are available to all who are willing to open themselves to their own higher potentiality. The encounter with Kali constitutes assurance of that self-opening.

To be clear, sexual experience with any beautiful woman admits of certain potentialities for limited transcendence. The same experience with any big beautiful woman admits of potentialities for transcendental experience that are less restrictive. But only the unique sexual experience with Kali admits of infinite transcendent potential. As I was saying, then, contact with the divine flesh of Kali immediately severs our reliance upon our normal modes of perception, creating the context for immediate transcendence. In reality, however, it is typical that Kali holds us here in this dimension for a certain period of time. The exaltation felt at the desire to experience the higher realities already in sight in combination with our being forced to remain localized creates a feeling that is indescribable. It is as if we are in two dimensions at once, and in a very real way, we are. For Kali, however, this is her time to shine. She has her subject entirely at her mercy, and her purpose for holding him in this dimension is simple. It is so that she may torture him at will, subjecting him to X-Treme sexual, physical, and psychological degradation before releasing him into higher-dimensional space-time. It goes without saying that she will also take the opportunity for her own orgasmic pleasure, which is hers through the devastating subjection and compromise she wreaks upon her subject. Only Kali is capable of this kind of control.

Her exquisite breasts descend upon your face and The Real is fragmented kaleidoscopic. Kali chooses for a moment to express her sensual nature, reveling in the growing submergence of your head beneath her powerful and infinitely sensual substantive flesh. At first, you twitch and flinch, unable to fully process the sensations, but presently you fall to ecstasy and lie there in sexual suspension, allowing unimaginable sensations to run wild through your body and soul.

Kali begins to become bored with you. Her expression changes from rapturous to annoyed. You feel those breasts fall fully into place. You are buried beneath them. Life is in the breath. Will Kali simply take it from you now, or does she have more in store for you? She meditates upon her own desires and upon your helplessness. Does it end here with her glorious breasts, or does she want to extend your agony, provide you with a true demonstration of feminine power? Does she want to show you the kind of devastating punishment a beautiful big woman can inflict upon such a worthless pig as yourself?

Such demonstrations are at Kali's discretion, of course, but they are hardly necessary when one considers how much damage she can inflict with her breasts alone. Here, a perfect Kali-incarnate devours her prey by smothering him with her enormous and beautiful body. In this instance, she goes no farther than the utilization of her sublime breasts to take out her victim. Remarkably, her subject in this shot, though completely deprived of breath and struggling in vain against the weight and sexuality of her substantive flesh, still finds the wherewithal to remain obedient and embrace her lovingly. That is Power! This shot was taken just moments before the end.

A few shots here show the moments leading up to the photo above. Perfect, controlled destruction and transcendental agony.

Her eyes touch you physically. An infinity of rooms exist beyond the portal. But when will you arrive there? If she decides that a more forceful demonstration of her power is in order, you will severely regret having been born. All that remains at that point is to continue telling yourself that one of two things shall likely be your fate. Either the attainment of Cosmic Consciousness if you live, or infinite absolute transcendence if you die. Either way, if she determines that you are deserving of a beating, it will be like none you have ever imagined; an indescribably painful, terrifying, and sexually explosive experience. Shown here is another of Kali's favorite forms of suffocation; cumming all over your worthless face as she crushes the life out of you.

Should you fear Kali's incarnations? I'll leave you to be the judge of that. After all, Dead Men Tell No Tales. It's easy to dismiss the question when you are without experience, or worse yet, an unbeliever. But sooner or later the moment arrives when you are faced with her dark but luminous presence. You will be better able to function to your best advantage in that moment if you have been one of the faithful. To Kali, your predisposition couldn't possibly be of less importance. She wil crush you if she so chooses. She will use you as a sex toy if she so chooses. She will bury your soul in Hell if she so chooses, and for this she will have her father's most prideful blessing. Satan is waiting to attend to your transformation. God-Queen Kali is his vehicle of choice in the accomplishment of his objectives. He who is not for us is against us, and such a one will surely know Kali's wrath!

The Eternal Kali

2008-08-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Kali is god. She is, of course, goddess, but we must avoid the temptation to think of her as one among others, as is connoted by the feminine rendering of the word. She is the incarnation of the true I AM, who is Lucifer, and she is manifested in this dimension by virtue of the transcendent spells cast by her material father, Satan. Through the process of transubstantiation, she appears in countless guises the world over, in the execution of her mission, which is that of Death and Destruction. In ancient cultures she is always identified as the Goddess of Death and Destruction, and is equated with Ultimate Reality (Brahman) in the Tantric writings, the Vedas, and the Upanishads.

The question immediately arises, then, as to what connection she creates between Destruction and Ultimate Reality, which would seem to represent opposite poles of the spiritual spectrum. The answer is to be found in the concept of Cosmic Consciousness. Much of the treatment of Brahman, or Ultimate Reality in classic Indian Philosophy had to do with the progression from ‘Samsara’ or the illusionary character of this life to the realization of Nirvana, the end of illusion and the province of eternal peace. Cosmic Consciousness, the transcendent world-view of Satanism, has much in common with the idea of Nirvana, with one hugely important distinction. Where Nirvana represents a place, an arrival point, a more or less permanent state, Cosmic Consciousness is an organic, dynamic mode of being in which one is always growing and evolving. Cosmic Consciousness involves travel to other dimensions, other planets, and at times, even other universes. It is the absolute transcendence of the human Being, a translation into higher-dimensional space-time and correspondingly higher realities.
Kali was sent to our plane as the most powerful female ever to become incarnate on Planet Earth. She is manifest as 'destroyer of men,' in order that the will of Lucifer be fulfilled, whereby a New World Order is established in which Woman is Rule and the folly of unenlightened male is ended forever. Through violent death at the hands of Kali, they may finally comprehend absolute truth, experiencing full transcendence and the ascent to Cosmic Consciousness. Only through such 'surgical' removal of the patriarchal cancer from the event nexus of this dimension can the universe continue to evolve in accordance with the tenets of its ultimate destinies.

And so we grasp the beginnings of the concept of 'Death as Change,' which is, of course, exactly what death is. But we are far too accustomed to thinking of it in terms of finality. Kali is come that men may understand the truth, and live in the light of that truth. For Kali, death and transformation are one and the same. Since the time of her original incarnation, she has possessed the souls of millions of large women in all existing cultures, and infused their souls with the unadulterated, sadistic joy, the pure sexual pleasure of beating men to within inches of their lives....and beyond. More powerful than ever in our own day, her spirit, alive in Big Girls everywhere, perpetuates the chain of deadly violence to men, violence of which those men are so deserving in all their foolish, mindless ineptitude. And so, the destruction of men serves as Kali's continuing priority. But there is more to the story. Lucifer's interest is not only the establishment of a true and sane matriarchal world order, it is also that of the extermination of Fundamentalist Christianity.

This is the ultimate objective in which Kali's mission plays such a pivotal role. We refer here to Satan’s inevitable rule over our sphere, culminating in the vanquishing of Fundamentalist Religion, in all its forms, from the face of the earth, and the establishment of a universal order of harmony based on indulgence, excess, and a pervasive ethic of 'Do as Thou Wilt!' Lucifer's uber-power will reform this entire dimension, converting it into the paradise it was meant to be, and bestowing upon humanity the ability to travel with ease into higher-dimensional space-time as a result of the tsunami of spiritual transcendence engendered by Kali’s reign of destruction and violence. The time is near for Satan’s rule over Planet Earth and the establishment of his Will-to-Change vis-à-vis the insipid ideologies of our so-called Christian civilization. All that remains to be accomplished is the completion of Kali's Wave of Ultimate Terror.

The Chronicles of Kali will consist of ongoing reports of Her incarnations and interactions among the human population. It should be stated here that the reportage you will read here will contain extremely graphic depictions of Sexual Violence. The Big, Beautiful Women manifested by Kali on her journey of destruction--women you will meet in the posts of this blog--are all exceptional. They are exceptionally powerful, exceptionally beautiful, and exceptionally violent. What they do to their victims will shock you. It may even terrify you. But without a doubt, it will represent to you the truth; the truth of Big Girls in Total Control, Female Dominants without equal, accomplishing the Will of Kali on this plane by the systematic destruction of the lowly men with whom they come into contact. You won't want to miss a single post.In addition to the strictly 'FemDom' elements of this work, we will also cover Kali's origins, in both her original African incarnation, and in her pre-existence as All-Powerful daughter of The Dark Prince, Satan. There will be personal information about the connections between the girls manifested by Kali, and the God-Queen herself. We will learn of their X-Treme Sexy tastes in clothes, of their own daydreams about the subjugation of men, and even their tastes in food. Kali's girls LOVE to eat. Kali eats for size. She eats for joy. She eats for fulfillment. Her corpulent beauty is displayed sublimely here in her fat, sensual arms, her massive, ominous legs and ass, and in her gorgeous face with those full, hot lips and malevolent gaze.

Truly, there is an eternity of things to learn about The Eternal Kali, and we will continue to open up her long and fascinating history as well as her exciting and often terrifying modern-day exploits. Kali is here to destroy and to kill. She is here for the transformation of the universe. For such a monumental undertaking, she has been given the most powerful tools: Supreme Beauty, Supreme Sexuality, Supreme physical strength, Supreme emotional strength, Supreme strength of will and purpose, and Supreme disdain for anyone or anything that might deign to stand in her way. Join me as we get to know her. The format for most posts will be that of covering a recent encounter by one of Kali's incarnations, and some recounting of her historical origins. In upcoming posts, we will learn of her original incarnation in Africa...among other wicked and delightful things. Until then:

Worship Kali as arbiter of life. If you are a man, your ultimate fate lies in her hands alone.

Kali assuming the form of the gorgeous young chubette, her sights set on her helpless male subject. Her nearly inhuman beauty is so deceptive. Her allure is irresistible, her fury and wrath, inescapable.

Hindu depiction of Kali, crushing the helpless Shiva underfoot, and brandishing the spoils of her conquests, most notably her colorful collection of heads; heads of the men she has callously destroyed.