Brad Simkulet's Blog, page 14
June 28, 2017
nb.i
He had been a sex slave in the Vexation Semen Baths of
the Imperious Republic since his removal from his home world countless orgasms
before. His three sphincters had been used and used and used to prolapse, then
rejuvenated to their near original elasticity in the Amniotic Vats of the Subjugation
City Fucktard Clinic four times now. His thick, spiny, corkscrewed genitalia
had been literally fucked off two separate times by two separate Domination
Ministers who frequented Vexation.
The first time, Minister Vulvania had been fucking him
in the Chain Room since the Blue Sunset, all through the hours of Orange Sun
light, finally switching to her chrome vagina just before the brief Glow Interlude
between the Orange Sunset and the Blue Sunrise. All eight of his limbs had been
splayed and stretched painfully towards some of the corners of the hexadecagonal
room while Minister Vulvania had taken her pleasure over and over again, until
the moment before the Glow became Blue, her chrome vagina had clamped at the
base of his genitalia and snipped it clean away in Minister Vulvania’s ecstasy.
Gloriously, he had passed out from the pain and knew nothing of what had
happened to him until he woke up, regrafted and resting in a warm Amniotic bath.
That time it was almost worth the loss of genitalia. A second’s pain. Then twenty
Dual-Sun cycles soaking in warm Fiirgon Amniotic fluid. Peace without service.
The second time he was not so lucky. Minister
Colonization, known throughout the Slave Hive as the most potent of all the
Ministers, had made short work of his genital mutilation. Minister Colonization
had taken him to his favourite semen bath in Vexation, a large Veersteel Tiled
bath filled with the seminal fluid of a rare ocean mammal from a planet in the
Quadrial System. Minister Colonization had taken his swollen cock in his gut
mouth, the rending tooth mouth of all Ministers, and began biting one chunk
after another off the tip of his corkscrew. There was no reprieve from Minister
Colonization’s ravenous bites. No, no. It turned out that the attendants at the
Amniotic baths had shut down the portion of his brain that allowed for the
escape of unconsciousness. No, each torn chunk of cock sent shockwaves of anguish
through his system, so painful that he shat out waste from each of his
sphincters and screamed the deafening shockwave scream his people were known
for, which was precisely what Minister Colonization had wanted. Minister
Colonization’s sadism released Minister Colonization’s seed in a great burning,
acidic gout that cooked his flesh and dripped down onto what was left of his
mutilated genital stub.
June 26, 2017
mb.i
(Spot up on SIMON,
standing stage left)
Simon:
It’s true. That’s what she said, I’m telling
you. … No. Seriously. She said that she couldn’t go out with me if I didn’t
love Jesus as much as she did. Couldn’t go out with anybody. … Right?! …
Thing is, though, I get it. And I was kind of expecting it. … Exactly. As
soon as I told him he said that was probably going to happen, and sure enough
– BAM! … Of course. … Yeah, I tell him everything. … Yeah. My mom is
cool. But get this. You know what she did today? … No guesses? … Nope. Nice
try, though. … No, she asked me to go to her youth group next week. … I
seriously have no idea, Raz. It’s crazy, right? What would you do? …
June 24, 2017
lb.i
Back when the
Golden Nugget Bowling Alley – at the corner of McHale and Evergreen – had
been the Roller Dome, and Marc had still been dealing, Cece had witnessed a
rape in the alley.
She’d come
out of the Roller Dome through the alley door. It was one of those emergency
exits that was supposed to set off alarms when opened (the ones with the big
red handles), but all the regulars at the Dome knew the door was broken, making
it the perfect place to duck out and light up a spliff and soak in the chill
before heading back in for more skating to Olivia Newton John and Duran Duran.
She’d
stepped out, spliff already in one hand and lighter in the other, and had just
been about to flare up, when she heard the hollow thunk. It was the sound a
pumpkin makes when it gets knocked, and it had been enough to make her wait
before striking the lighter. It turned out to be a hell of a stroke of luck
because she didn’t do the one thing that would have been sure to give her away.
Even so, she was pulled towards the sound of that dull thunk out of curiousity.
It took only two steps for her to reach the corner of the big garbage bin. She stuck
her head around it casually (she had no reason to think it was anything
serious), leaning her shoulder against the rusted and dirty metal, and before
she could register what she was seeing the next sounds hit her ears.
The scream.
That had always been the clearest sound to her after the dull thunk. And then a
whole lot of swearing and subdued yelling and someone saying something about “holding
the bitch down” and “make sure no one’s coming.” Then there came the series of
images, her brain burned photo essay. Just snapshots. Moments in time like old
polaroids that she needed to shake to make come clear. Men in dark blue. Three
of them. Long dark sticks hitting someone. A white ass, hitched up high
somehow, bright, tri-colored, in the semi-dark of the alleyway. A hot red zit
on the left ass cheek.
She twisted
back and sank to the gravel peppered asphalt, her back to the garbage bin,
breathing heavily. Listening. Wishing she could get up and run. Trying to will
herself to crawl back into the Dome. Hearing every second of the rape that
couldn’t have taken more than five minutes. Hoping it would just end. Wondering
if she should scream. Wondering if her screaming would do anything, but too
terrified to try. Those voices would haunt her in her dreams. Then deep sobs.
Footsteps and coughing. Absolute paralysis when she could hear them, feel them,
smell them (their sweat and cloying colognes, all different, clashing together putrescently)
right there beside the garbage can. Their victim tossed in the garbage bin and the
lid slammed closed with a steel clang. A slackening of that paralysis as their
footsteps, chuckles and joking voices meandered away. Only then realizing that
the only lights that had been in the alleyway had been coming from their cars.
Bright white headlights. Spinning red and blue lights. Then the lights were off
and near quiet settled on the alleyway. All that was left was her own gasping
for breath and the barely audible moans from inside the garbage bin.
June 23, 2017
June 22, 2017
kb.i
dust ripped from the soil that day,
while my car cut without empathy
through the particles of life giving dirt
top soil gone and unreplaceable
my child knows this, sees this,
he feels this like an illness,
and he is losing sleep and purpose
because he knows we’re untenable.
even now he chooses no children.
to procreate is an irresponsibility
he will not even consider. he’s thirteen.
thirteen and he sees that we’re unethical.
how do i save him, help him thrive?
i don’t think i can.
jb.i
The
transformation couldn’t be described as “painful,” and excruciating had long
lost its potency to describe the feeling of the shift she went through whenever
she moved between forms. She had spent many hours, especially when trapped in
her bitch form, imagining a simile to capture the feeling, but she shut that
simile out. She couldn’t think of it now, not when she had finally decided to
through with the transformation again. She was in her bitch form now; she’d
been trapped since the fucking blood moon, and her refusal to do what must be
done had kept her this way far too long. But ethics be damned. Pain be damned.
She was going to do what she had to do, and she was getting her life back – at
least for a while.
June 19, 2017
ib.i (inspiring art from @marinusj) / it was almost impossible...
ib.i (inspiring art from @marinusj) / it was almost impossible to make people understand this life she had chosen. she had tried once before, when she’d been granted respite from her milk weeping walls, from the chill that only one of the others could drive away by sharing her warmth, when she’d gone home to her mother and tried to make her see the liberation in the debasement she’d embraced. her mother had grabbed her hair in a balled fist and pulled her head into her enormous, squishy breasts, almost as though she wanted to smother her, and held her firm. she had felt the heaves of her mother’s sobbing, even felt the wet of her tears on her scalp, it was a motherly embrace, an embrace of care and concern, but it wasn’t an embrace she could stand any longer. it was too clean, too clothed, to one sided. there wasn’t a shared need that lent itself to reciprocity. there was selfish judgement on her mother’s side that was bound up in her mother’s caring and bored indifference was all she had on her own. / she’d spent as much of that break from her lovers in the tub as she could manage, simply luxuriating in the cleanliness she would soon cast back off in the gloriousness of dirt and detritus and semen and vaginal lubrication and urine and blood. to be clean in the ways she’d once been taught were civilized – ladylike – then to cast it aside for a cleanliness of spirit was a delicious juxtaposition that would have made her touch herself if it wouldn’t have diminished her time away. / but without the lust milk that sweat its way from the pores of her cell to her tongue to her throat to her bloodstream, she’d keep her fingers away from her cunt and save herself for whomever awaited her return. / she had only spoken with her mother once more on that last visit: to say goodbye.
June 18, 2017
hb.i
He pulled the cigarette he’d bummed from Keith away from his ear where he’d
been carrying it and parted his lips. The cigarette took its natural place in
his mouth as though it had always been there and would always be. He imagined
he could still smell that crisp tobacco scent that rose off cigarettes when
they were fresh and unlit, but his sense of smell was long weakened by smoking
and pollution and age, so it was more a memory of scent than the scent itself.
He breathed the wisp of memory deeply, nonetheless, and watched the mouth of
the alleyway while he rooted around in his pockets for a match.
He watched a car turn into the alley from the street. He had no idea
what kind of car it was. He knew nothing about cars. It looked nice, though, and
the driver looked like a suit from one of the skyscrapers that started two
avenues down and three streets over. He watched it approach him and regretted
that he’d taken a piss before coming out here. The suit was going to stop.
He lit his cigarette with one of the matches in his match book, actually
did smell the flare of sulphur as the match caught, took a deep drag to initiate
his smoke break, and watched the suit press a button that lowered the driver’s
side window.
“Do you know how to get to the Ingleton Med Center?”
the suit asked.
He blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head, “No.”
There was no need to speak.
“I’ve got these directions and they said to turn left
at 3rd,” the suit continued. “But now I’m lost and ….”
He dropped the head shake and threw the suit a shrug.
“You have no idea?”
He took another drag of his cigarette in answer, a
long drag, a deep one that filled his lungs with soothing nicotine and tar,
then he simply closed his eyes and held them closed through his exhale and
after his exhale.
“What a prick,” he heard the suit mutter quietly, then
he heard the mechanical window humming its way closed, then he heard the car
drive away down the alley. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the alleyway
while he smoked. Buildings exhaling their toxic breath like his lungs exhaling
second hand smoke. The buzzing streets at either end of the alleyway. A skitter
of rats under garbage bins and in foundation cracks. The shifting of decay in
everything.
He found peace in all that inevitable movement of the
city.
He took the last drag,
opened his eyes, flicked his butt onto the gravel strewn alley asphalt, turned
on his heels and went back into the restaurant to relieve Keith.
