Ultimate goal is to be tied naked to active railroad tracks and bareback raped by one or more hiV+ guys who emasculate me and leave me there to be run over by a train which they photograph.
Archive for tl;dr
Finn growled at Cupcake man and just left him there, laughing triumphantly. Finn stepped through the candy castle doors (not without glares from the guards and stepped into the castle. A huge picture of Finn and Bubblegum hung on the wall and Finn bit back the erge to spit on it. Peppermint butler led Finn upstairs to where the Princess was. Peppermint butler always hated Finn, it’s why he led Finn to the underworld when he killed his beloved Princess Bubblegum’s princess plant. Peppermint butler served as Princess Bubblegum’s guard for years and had known her forever… but her eyes always admired the human boy more than him. When Princess Bubblegum and Finn started dating it broke his heart. Then when Princess Bubblegum broke up with Finn (which Peppermint butler was happy about) Finn abandoned the kingdom when they needed help… and so they had to keep a barrier around the kingdom (which opened for Finn) and things went into chaos. When Princess Bubblegum found out she was pregnant she at first thought it would bring the hero back… but it didn’t. Finn had abandoned Princess Bubblegum, the kingdom, everyone there. Peppermint Butler wanted to fight Finn but he knew it would anger the princess, make the citizens angry (they wanted Finn back to protect them, they really didn’t like him also because he left the princess), and the most important reason… Peppermint butler was no match for Finn. Also Peppermint Butler hated Marceline (he has red line after all) because she could suck the red out of him, she was dating Finn, she was Princess Bubblegum’s greatest enemy, and she stole Finn away from Princess Bubblegum. So Peppermint Butler kept quiet and led Finn to the Princess’s room… where she wasn’t alone. Princess Bubblegum sad on her bed (her belly bigger than ever), Cotton Candy princess (yeah she’s real) sat on a chair, comforting the crying Princess and glared at Finn. Wildberry Princess on the other side of Bubblegum, giving Finn the cold shoulder. Tiny Princess sat behind Bubblegum, combing through her Bubble gummy locks that were now tangled and looked as if they hadn’t been combed in months. Then sat on the other side of the room were Princess Bubblegum’s angry relatives. One was Lemongrab (her uncle) who paced the room and kept saying over and over to himself “this is unacceptable, completely unacceptable, and TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE!” Next to him was Prince Gumball, who was Princess Bubblegum’s twin brother, who was Prince of the Candy Kingdom in the land of Aah. Prince Gumball didn’t like Finn, he reminded him of Fiona. Prince Gumball was always in love with Fiona but she never loved him… she always loved that rebel vampire! Now that rebel vampire’s sister stole his twin sister love away too! Then in the corner sat a fat man with a puffy Bubblegum beard and had a gold candy wrapper gold crown who Finn recognized from a picture to be the bubblegum twin’s father, the king of Candy, Candy King.
How could The Guardian pick that as the best comment when there were so many other winners?
Hello again, friends! Put all your Christmas preparations on hold because some Serious Shit is about to go down.
The next time the girls saw her, she was crumpled in the corner of their messroom. Mavis and Barbie were first to breakfast, and they found her lying on her side, curled up with her knees at her shoulders, arms secured behind her back, unresponsive. Soupy came running at their screams, and they were zipping apart her sleeves, patting at her face, her hands, trying to bring her out of it.
“Linda! What happened to you? Come on, honey, sit up!” Mavis was on one side of her, Barbie was on the other. They picked her up and sat her at the breakfast table, in front of Barbie’s tray. Soupy brought another tray immediately; he was kindly toward “his girls,” and they were more his charges than those of anyone else. Linda sagged between her table-mates, looking blankly down at eggs and toast.
Because we just need to remember that Soupy is a Good Guy. While he is complicit in an act that the United Nations, Amnesty International, and Human Rights Watch classify as inhumane torture, he would never make a girl miss out on breakfast.
“Honey, what happened?” Mavis entreated. “Here, have a bite of eggs.” She fed Linda a spoonful. “Where were you?”
Slowly, evidently painfully, she said, “They … TORTURED me.”
Mavis and Barbie swapped glances at that. Majken came in as she said it, and almost dropped her own tray. They all paled visibly.
“Honey, are you okay now?” Barbie had a hand on her shoulder. “Can we do anything?”
Linda grabbed Barbie, buried her head by her neck. “Oh, no, no, no …” She sobbed on Barbie’s shoulder, trembling and clutching. The other girls could only gape and stare.
Finally Soupy came into the room. “Don’t bother her, girls. Linda, let’s get you someplace you can sleep it off.” He gathered her up and half-carried her to an alcove, where he pulled off her wet jumper, laid her down, and covered her with a soft fleece blanket. As he laid it on her, he whispered very quietly, “Good act, kid.” They were out of sight; Linda reached up and gave him a sweet daughterly peck on the lips.
Good job convincing all of these girls that their lives are now in danger! After all, if they’d do this to Linda, who’s to say they wouldn’t do it to any other girl?
She was sitting on the edge of the alcove’s bed, still naked, her head in her hands, when Erica came into the lounge with a lunch tray.
Erica scooped up a spoonful and pushed it toward Linda’s mouth. “Eat, Leenda. This is good.” Linda opened her mouth and accepted it, then she opened her eyes and stared Erica dead in the face. Linda’s eyes were like those of a corpse. Erica shuddered and almost dropped the spoon.
“Leenda! What happen to you?” Erica gripped her shoulder.
Linda shook her head, eyes down. “They tortured me, Erica. They put me on the waterboard.” Her shoulders trembled. “I thought I was going to die.”
Erica stared at her earnestly. “What is – waterboard? What happened?”
“It was like being drowned,” Linda said. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even croak. I struggled but there was nothing I could do.”
“Oh Mother God,” Erica blurted. “Is terrible.” She looked at Linda’s wrists. “They bruise you too. Bastards.”
“I couldn’t help myself, Erica. They did it again and again. Each time I felt weaker, each time I was sure this time would kill me. I can’t remember what else – just the waterboard. Erica, it was awful. It was worse than dying. Oh, Mother God, forgive me.” And she buried her head in her hands.
Erica tugged at her. “No, Linda. You got to survive.” She pressed another spoonful of soup at Linda’s mouth. “You got to eat. You got to live. All we got is life. Those bastards win if you die. Eat.”
She was somewhat better by dinnertime, but Jules judged her as not quite ready to serve as a waitress. She did help set up tables, shuffling out with trays of food that the other girls delivered to the men, but she almost seemed like a zombie to them. And when they sat down to dinner, the whole crew was quiet, watching her eat, watching her pick at her supper. She sat, slumped at her tray, as Jules called out the after-dinner duties; and when Casey came in to claim her for the night, the girls watched with open hostility as she shuffled off with him.
When I first read this, I was hoping that the waterboarding event would be the catalyst for a revolution among the Comfort Girls – that they would strike back against the men and demand to be treated as human beings.
Spoilers: it doesn’t happen. After this chapter, the waterboarding is rarely spoken of, except by Linda, who views it as a quasi-religious experience. If anything, the girls grow more content with their lot in life: Linda preaches that they must willingly submit to their new roles as sex objects and they come to view her as a spiritual leader, like some kind of kinky Jesus.
When the door closed behind them, Linda wrapped Casey in her arms. “Oh, thank you, Master, for bringing me back to life!” She giggled in his shoulder.
“Scrawny, you had Jules scared half to death. He asked me what the hell we had done to you!”
She grabbed his mouth with hers, and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed … finally Casey broke free with a gasp. “Goddamn, girl, Chuck is still just Chuck. You’re the Shark. You’re the man-eater!”
She dropped to her knees and lifted her crossed hands. “Forgive me, Master.” Her eyes danced in mirth – and desire.
“Jee-zo-flip, honey, you’ll be the death of me yet. And Sharky, and Robin, and Lord-alone knows how many more.” He put her on his bed, and stripped off her jumper. She stretched back, smiling, hands above her head, and infinitely ready.
Linda was surprised, herself, at her hunger. She wanted nothing more than to be fucked, and fucked, and fucked some more. She realized she would be in heaven if the whole Conshelf contingent would just run a train on her, one after another after another until she was so full of cum that it gushed out of her. What had happened to her?
This is a turning point in the story. Linda is no longer a person; she is now defined totally by her desire to serve and submit to men. The shrill, hypocritical bitch we knew and loved from the start of this book is dead and buried. And in her place is… well…
“I need you,” Linda said. “Both of you. I’m so hungry for you. Please.” Her arms were straining to hug them closer.
The men traded gazes across her head. Both of them had been in battle; both of them had known what a close brush with death could do for a man’s urges. What about a woman’s urges? Even if it hadn’t been dangerous, not really, it surely must had felt that way.
“She could kill either of us alone,” Casey muttered.
“What a way to go,” Sharky returned.
“Are you down with the brown?” Sharky nodded silently.
One of the first laws put into place after the Patriarchy took control was the Mandatory Racial Reporting Act: prior to sexual activity, all black people have to announce their blackness to other participants through one of the officially sanctioned catchphrases.
Linda became melancholy, with a haunted look that her ‘sisters’ attributed to her torture at the hands of the Masters. It didn’t set them much at ease, either; they knew Linda was a special case, ‘Dr. Death,’ but they still wondered if something like that could be waiting for them – especially the girls who had been active in the Radfem movement.
While the other girls on the station are living in mortal terror, Linda wallows in self-pity. Doc Landry calls her in for an emergency psych-eval.
“Linda, are you all right? I can see the other girls are worried about you; they almost mother you, out there. What’s really going on inside you, please?”
“Not what, Doctor… who.” *insert biggest winky face emoticon in the world*
“Oh, Doctor – Master-”
“Doctor. In here. For now. What’s going on?”
She turned and managed a smile. Not a sunny smile, unless one counts a sunset.
This is my favourite line in the book so far. Not even joking; the delivery is a bit off, but it’s a nice and evocative metaphor. Maybe Rick has some hidden talent?
“Wouldn’t it look awfully funny, Doctor, if I didn’t seem hurt and depressed and upset about what happened? The ‘her-story,’ I mean.”
“Then it’s all an act? It’s pretty good acting, according to Barnes.”
“Well … it’s not all an act. I am upset; I am anxious. I can’t get my mind off of what I was doing with Project Y.” She unburdened himself to him, her fears, her doubts, her heavier and heavier burden of guilt. She poured her heart out to him, and he soaked it up like the professional heart-sponge that he was.
OK, I take that back.
She turned to him. Her eyes reminded him of Einstein’s eyes in the famous Karsh portrait, infinitely deep pools of melancholy. “Oh, Doctor, I’m afraid of what I might have unleashed on the world. I couldn’t stand a world without men in it. Not now!” (It would be worse for me, Landry thought, as I’m one of the men who would no longer be in it.)
Typical male. So self-centered!
“Yes, Master, I am feeling better. I’m feeling relaxed. But now … may I please you, Master?”
Linda sat up very straight, her breasts, her erect nipples, straining at the fabric of her jumper. (How had her top come unzipped like that? he thought.) Her eyes gazed into his, and her hands stretched out to him, palms up, arms crossed. (Well! This is a new twist on ‘bedside manner.’)
“Linda, as a therapist, I’m not sure I should.” She looked stricken – and very delectable. “But this is new territory. None of us has given thought to counseling for ‘comfort women,’ after all.”
“We just figured that comfort girls would adapt to their new lives like battery hens, or zoo animals! Who could possibly have predicted any psychological issues?!”
He chuckled ruefully. “Mama always told my sisters, if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.” He stood up. “Slip out of that jumper and onto my bed. Let me put my clothes up.” He hung everything over his desk chair, and came to join her.
They fuck a couple times and go to bed, but Landry is trouble by thoughts of Linda’s future. She’ll certainly never be employed in her former career, or almost any other job.
What then? She was past the ‘best-by date’ for marriage and childbearing. She was beautiful now – and she would certainly still be attractive in ten years; but men want young women, and now after the Revolution, in the Men’s World of the future, they would insist on youth in their brides.
What about as a wife for him? As he imagined it, his “bullshit filter” rang on red alert. C’mon, son, take off that white-knight helmet and get real! He was not the marrying kind – especially not nowadays.
He was a Coastie, though he didn’t talk about it – a doctor in the U.S. Coast Guard’s equivalent of the Navy’s Medical Corps. Less than two years from now, he’d PCS to a shoreside station. Ten years from now, at the end of Linda’s sentence, he’d be forgotten – he meant, she would be forgotten to him.
And down here, they couldn’t really even be sure of tomorrow. Oddly, that thought was comforting to him, in this dark, dark night. His mind calmed, his breathing slowed, and finally he slept.
At least one of us can sleep after this terrible chapter.
Have a great Christmas break, guys. Thanks for reading!
I told you the next post was coming soon! This one is light on commentary because I want to push through to the next few chapters ASAP. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.
When we left Linda, she had just agreed to sell out her former compatriots to The Man (lol). She begins her first session.
“I need to remind you all that this is being recorded. The recording, and everything that we will discuss in this meeting, will be classified as Top Secret. Linda, for the purposes of this interrogation, we need you to address us by our titles. I’m Lieutenant Commander Casey Jones; Commander will do.”
“I’m Captain Zachary Taylor – Captain.” Chuck added. “USMC.”
“Thank you for not adding the Men’s Department line,” Casey muttered.
“Professor Edward Jenner – ‘Professor’ will do for me,” Dr. Jenner added.
“And I am Doctor Robin Landry. ‘Doctor’ is enough.”
Then Casey pulled a thin wallet out of his pocket, opened it and showed it to Linda. There was an ID card, showing Casey in Navy dress whites with an officer’s epaulets, and a silver badge. “I am Lieutenant Commander Casey Jones, Judge Advocate General, U.S. Navy. I am an officer of the Court under the Uniform Military Code of Justice, and as such I am swearing you in. Dr. Linda Mayhugh, raise your right hand … Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Shit’s about to go down! Except not really, because the scene fades to black after getting all the cool naval court stuff out of the way.
The interrogation went on all day, and all four of the men stayed put. Soupy brought in a tray of sandwiches at noon, and five dinner trays at suppertime; Linda got the last, but there was no other bullshit about her “inferior” status.
How kind of them. Almost makes up for that whole sex slave thing.
When they finish, Linda goes to bed with Doc Jenner – she doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight, and the men refuse to let her back into general population till the interrogations are over.
“I’m just curious to know. What might have prompted your change of heart?”
She looked startled – and anxious – and then very, very melancholy. Her head drooped. “It’s just … things … that have been happening here. I’d expected horrors, pain, anguish – I don’t know. I’d expected hatefulness, contempt, punishment and disgust. I expected everything bad the Sisterhood has told ourselves about patriarchy, squared and cubed, with all of it unleashed and used to attack me and devour me.
“And at first, Master -”
“Professor.” (Why had he said that? he wondered.)
“At first, Professor, that’s what I got. I remember the way you acted when I was brought up here to your office, the first day. What you said frightened me – but more deeply, it shook my old feelings about the Project. In fact it shattered them – and my self-image.
“I had more shocks like that. I was whipped – and knew I deserved it. I’d never even been spanked before. But then the Master who whipped me taught me why he’d done it – and taught me more, so much more, of how to get along here on the Station.” She shuddered. “And he showed me that I could earn forgiveness, because I found I could forgive him for whipping me – because I knew I’d earned a whipping, and he forgave me for my mistake that had earned it.”
This whole section has some weird religious undertones.
To round out the creepiness, Doc straps Linda into the rape bed (remember that little plot point?), then settles down for a quiet night. But Linda has other plans…
His smile turned to startlement as her hand moved … her head moved … her lips brushed … as she gently, softly went where no woman had gone for years. But she was not predatory about it; she was gentle and soft, and even in such intimacy, somehow respectful. As if it were an honor for her to do this for him. She was sweet, she was young, she was ripe and firm, and she was compliant, not insistent. She opened herself to him like a flower. And after what she’d started, and he continued, and they’d finished together, he felt younger, and stronger, and much happier, than he’d ever felt since before his divorce.
Maybe these comfort girls had a greater value than he’d assigned them, that only of lab-animals for his long-term experiment.
“We can use these sex slaves… for sex!”
The next few days pass in a blur. Linda has a roaring time with the boys as she sells out the last free women on the planet, but sadly, all good things must come to an end.
“Linda, you’ve spent the last three days spilling your guts. We don’t really know how much the other girls know about you. YOU don’t know, do you really?”
She pondered. She was worried, herself. She knew herself as vulnerable, now; “Strong, Independent Woman” was an artifact of the past, as obsolete as a wind-up watch. Any two girls could overwhelm her; they could kill her. “No, Master Casey, I don’t.”
“Up topside, we’d put a source like you in a witness-protection program,” said Sharky. “But you’re down here. That makes you safe as possible from anyone topside, but you might not be safe from the girls down here. They might guess you’ve been singing. So we’ve got to give you cover, airtight cover. We’ve got to make it absolutely clear that anything you gave us, you gave us under duress. Overwhelming duress.”
Or maybe they could just not tell the sex slaves who have no contact with the outside world about their plans to eliminate radical feminist cells?
“The best thing would be if we waterboard you,” Casey finished.
… I guess that works too.
“That’s torture, Master! Please, no!”
“No it isn’t,” Casey said.
“But they classed it as torture, under Obama,” said Sharky.
You see, there’s a difference between torture and torture torture, just like there’s a difference between rape and rape rape.
“Your leads, your sock-puppets, and your alternate IDs, are going to help a lot. But … we need you to know how it feels to be waterboarded; just this once. So that when you tell the other girls about it, what you say will have the ring of truth. And it’s cover for you, too, when you talk about being ‘tortured’ this way. If anything comes out, they’ll be sure you were cracked. Nobody will know that you volunteered.”
“I’ll be with you,” Casey assured her. “I’ll make sure you’re okay. The moment I see you’ve lost consciousness, I’ll grab the blanket off your face. That’s not being a White Knight,” he said hastily. “That’s being a fellow warrior.”
Well, so long as you’re not being a mangina about the whole thing, it’s all good! Linda agrees to the waterboarding.
Casey and Sharky laced her onto the board. She could hardly move a muscle; certainly she couldn’t free herself. Casey reached for a folded, thick wet blanket. “You’ve got to feel the panic,” he said, “you’ve got to feel yourself go out, but we’ll bring you right back. Deep breath, now.” He put the thick, wet blanket over her face.
She held her breath as long as she could, then she had to let it go. She couldn’t get it back. She couldn’t gasp. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled. She panicked. Really panicked. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even cry out, her lungs were empty. Her head swirled, she struggled, she tried to scream, but there was no breath in her lungs to even squeak….
And then it’s over. Really, I’m disappointed. Considering how hard Rick had to lean on our suspension of disbelief to get a waterboard into the story, you’d think he’d spend a little longer describing it. Not a single mention of heaving breasts or Linda struggling to suppress her gag reflex! It’s almost like this isn’t porn.
Sharky unlaced her arms, looking at them critically. “I think you may have bruised your wrists struggling. Maybe your elbows, too. It might sound funny for me to say it, but that’s a good thing – for your story.”
… he said, trying to conceal his massive erection.
Casey helped her sit up, then stand up. Her knees were a little weak, but her head was straightening out quickly. “You did just fine, Linda. That was brave of you, woman.” And Linda cried, sobbing, on his shoulder. Dr. Jenner, and Dr. Landry, patted her shoulder as they left the room.
And so the chapter ends.
We’ve seen Linda go through a lot these last few chapters. You might be thinking that our friend Rick’s running out of ideas by now… but guess again! There’s still 31 chapters left. I haven’t read the book all the way to the end yet (even I have my limits), but I can tell you right now that the weird shit hasn’t even begun.
Don’t take my word for it, though! Keep an eye out for the next post, which will hit your monitors sometime before Christmas (pinky promise). TTFN!
The hardest part about taking a hiatus is writing the announcement post for your triumphant return. So let’s skip all that: here I am! What’s new with you, readers? Up here on the surface we’ve seen a full rotation of the seasons, but for our heroine Linda Mayhugh, it has been a scant few hours since her
beautifulhorrifying sexual awakening at the hands of station chef Soupy. If you need a refresher on the rest of the story, the link in the right sidebar will take you to all the Comfort Girl posts in order.
Now, we had some laughs the last chapter – but let’s just take a moment to remember what we’re dealing with here.
“The other men can be pretty strict. They’ve been hurt, Linda. Hurt a lot. They’ve forgotten that a girl can be sweet, and they need to be reminded – they need it so much. You have to obey us, Linda, you know that – but it’ll be a whole lot better for you if you can be nice to us. You know, be a good girl.”
Funny story: this is literally how real life abusers keep control of their victims. “I don’t want to be this way – it’s not my fault I have a temper”, “Just be a good girl and you won’t get hurt”, “It’s those other girls who made me like this, you need to convince me that you’re better than them”.
“Your first night with Soupy,” Mavis said. “Didja learn anything?”
Linda couldn’t help the smile that caught her face. The deep, luxuriant sigh; the stiffening of her nipples under her jumper. “Yeah. I think I learned a lot.” She hoped she wasn’t creaming.
If I had a dollar for every time I hoped for the same thing…
Soon after, Linda runs in to her old nemesis, Dr. Nguyen. Remember him? Westlake is doing a good job of setting Nguyen up as the creepy rapist of the story, which sure is saying something.
“Unzip my pants and take out my cock. Suck me off.” She reached up, carefully unzipping him, and working his penis out through the Y-front of his briefs. It wasn’t easy. It smelled faintly of piss. “Go on,” he said. Hesitantly, she reached her head forward and slipped it into his mouth. Thank heavens, it didn’t taste of piss.
What a relief! And a very confusing typo in the second-last sentence.
Soon after this, Linda takes a well-deserved break from her duties and settles in for a heart-to-heart with Comfort Girl Barbie (Mattel’s anatomically correct spin-off).
“I was a call-girl, you know; but then I started hiring out to set-up johns for their wife’s lawyers. The money was bigger in that game. One of those johns I set up was big in Men’s Rights, I mean a prime mover … and when they caught me doing it again, after the Revolution, the judge gave me a choice: prison – or Comfort Corps. I jumped at this.”
Westlake isn’t even trying to portray men as the good guys anymore, is he? Barbie was punished for telling wives that their husbands were cheating on them. Sneaky, sure, but does it warrant a sentence of sexual slavery and near-certain death? What happened to the cheating men? (Rhetorical question, obviously.)
“You don’t … you don’t mind our … our duties?” Linda sounded too damned hesitant about it, even to herself.
Barbie laughed. “No, honey, I loved it even before I went professional. Way before they brought me down here! If I can work off my ‘debt to society’ on my back, that’s a cake-walk. You know – if you’re good, they’re good.” She turned her head. “You got a boy back topside? Is that what worries you?”
Linda’s eyebrows raised, defiantly. “No. I have not. I never had any real feelings for men at all. They were just … useful tools for me.” She shook her head ruefully. “…It’s not that way now. Down here, I guess we’re ‘just useful tools’ for the men.”
“And if you’ve got to be a tool, it’s best to be the sharpest tool in the box.” Barbie patted her thigh, grabbed her hand, and gave her such a sisterly smile. But her eyes glittered and her smile seemed to become predatory. “Linda, I think I could teach you … a lot.”
Aww yeah! Don’t worry, there are some smokin‘ lesbian sex scenes later in the book (two words: carpet. party.)
Linda got used to sex, as ‘part of the job.’ Comfort duty, i.e. sex, slowly became the pleasantest part; and often it could be made more pleasant, or at least less unpleasant, by acts such as by offering to bathe a man before he took her to bed. She came to realize that very few of the men of the Station went out of their way to be unpleasant to a girl. Most all of them were decent men, civil men, even kindly men; but they all conducted themselves as Masters, and considered a girl’s most intimate ‘comfort’ services, her immediate yielding to their desires, as their imperial right.
The Noble Rapist. Rick is setting the bar for decency really low here.
It’s been a while since we had any awful racial stereotypes! Luckily, Casey Jones shows up to save the day with his “big johnson” (not even joking) and intermittent AAVE.
“You okay? I know I’m big.”
“I’m okay, Master. It just hurt a little, at first. Thank you, Master.” She kissed him again, long and slow and sweet. Oh Dear Mother God, the sensations he awakened in her!
“It wouldn’t have hurt if you’d taken it easy. Scrawny, you’ve got The Fire down below.” He picked her up, even with her straddling him, and put her below him on the bed. “What else you do fo’ a nigga?”
“I don’t know, Master. You’re the first Black man I’ve ever kissed.”
“Whoo-eee! And you’re Down for the Brown!”
you cannot make this up
“What are you in for, baby girl?” Her pleasure was wiped from her face. He saw it and sobered – “No, never mind. …Oh. I KNOW what you’re in for. Oh shit. Well, I’m glad we stopped you in time.”
“Master, I’m glad you stopped me in time, too.” And Mother God, she knew that she meant it. Losing this – the arms of Man, the strength of Man, the comfort and pleasure and joy of Man – even the idea of it was suddenly much too much to bear. “Oh no!” She started to cry. To keen, and moan, and bury her head in his shoulder, and cling to him, and cry, and cry, and cry. And he rocked her, in his arms, sitting up now with her body across her, feeling her shake and weep, patting her and comforting her like he used to comfort his own baby girl, in the time before his wife had called him a child-rapist and the police had taken him away, never to see her again.
Finally he slipped over to his desk. Thumb-scanning the terminal into life, he opened his e-mail and ran down the short list to ‘Taylor, Zachary Charles, Cpt USMC – MilGroup’. He tapped out a message: ‘Emotional breakdown on part of Linda Mayhugh. Maybe catharsis. Can we use it?”
Would you look at that! There’s some plot in my porn!
She didn’t move. Her face grew pained, anxious; all too aware of her terrible wrong. She’d try to make it up to him – to Men – any way she could. With her body, if that’s all she had for it. “Is there anything else a girl can do for you, Master?”
Now his heart really went out to her. Not as a White Knight, oh, no. But there was a tear in his eye, too. “Not tonight, Linda. Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow. Darlin’, could you please – help us make sure we’ve got all of Project Y cleared out?”
She gasped. Project Y! She blinked. She held her breath. She remembered, and came to her resolve. Never, never, NEVER should such sweetness and such strength – as he’d shown her, as she’d felt in his arms, in the arms of Men – be lost from the Earth. “I’ll give you all I can, Master.”
If only someone had turned Hitler into a sex slave! A good, hard fuck would have put an end to that whole genocide thing.
“It’s coming up to dinnertime. You need a shower before you go?”
She felt her vulva. “No, thank you, Master, I think I’m okay.”
Christ. I think I need a shower after reading that, so we’ll end here.
Thanks for reading, guys! I am always blown away when I get comments about this post series – not only because someone actually read it, but because you sick weirdos seem to like reading it. So as my way of thanking you, I’d like to direct you to a similar (but much funnier) series of posts: Cliff Pervocracy’s reading of 50 Shades of Grey. Cliff is hilarious, and offers a much-needed sane point of view on the BDSM content in the book.
“How would you like your eggs?” I ask tartly. He smiles. “Thoroughly whisked and beaten,” he smirks.
YES. YOU’RE KINKY. YOU LIKE HITTING STUFF. GOOD FOR YOU. WE GET IT.
I’m kinky too, but I don’t like scrambled eggs that much, so I just have to order “over easy, and by the way, I’ve been really enjoying double penetration lately.”
Keep an eye out here for the next Comfort Girls post! I swear it’s less than 12 months away.
Sometimes I see something weird on the internet and screencap it but don’t end up with enough content for a post – which is really saying something, since my standards for blog posts are clearly very low. The screencaps sit on my hard drive untouched for months or years. I imagine that these snapshots of the internet’s yesteryear have appreciated in value like fine works of art, so I’m dusting some of them off for you now.
In mid-2012, One Direction’s Harry Styles made headlines after allegedly punching a paparazzo in the face. Harry denied the rumours, but the Twitterverse exploded – “harry punched” trended for several hours.
Naturally, Harry’s fans were quick to leap to his defense.
As we already know, it’s hard to be a man in this current politically-correct climate. You can’t call a woman a cunt without some shrieking harpy labelling you a “misogynist”. And when you try to stand up for your rights, those bitches laugh at you!
One organisation is trying to change this. Men’s Rights Edmonton is fighting back against feminazi mockery – by mocking themselves!
MR-E is no stranger to parody. This time, instead of lampooning messages like “please don’t rape drunk girls”, they’ve set their sights on the ridiculous and unjustified stereotypes of MRAs as rapists who think women are inferior to men and don’t deserve to be treated as people.
Their latest endeavour sees member Nick Reading pretending to run for city council under the “Patriarchy Party”.
The idea is this: if “the patriarchy” were real, none of this would be worth batting an eyelid over; it would just be the normal state of affairs. Since everything about this campaign is ridiculously offensive, the patriarchy doesn’t exist after all! Hooray! Feminists, your work is done here – put your bras back on and return to the kitchen.
If this sounds familiar, it’s because it was the starting point for Rick Westlake’s Comfort Girls. Through Westlake, we learned that a patriarchal society would inevitably reduce women to sex slaves and babymakers with no real power over anything.
From my frequent trips into the Manosphere, one thing I find disturbing is how a large number of MRAs seem to believe that men are fundamentally evil but are too emasculated by modern society to do what they really want. If there was no risk of punishment or retaliation, the majority of men would be happy to treat women like objects. Women should, indeed, feel lucky that they can vote and drive and choose who they marry – if men had any say in the matter, those rights would be immediately stripped away.
Now, I’m as cynical as the next man-eating feminist, but something about that just doesn’t feel right. I have encountered very few feminists with such an awful view of the entire male gender, so it’s especially baffling that a supposed “men’s rights” community would rally behind people like Nick Reading who are doing more to hurt their image than any external group could ever do.
As a long-time reader of filthy smut, I am amazed when I discover people who prefer their literature free from kinky sex, misogyny, and heretical speech. You would imagine that such delicate flowers would wilt instantly if they turned on a television or picked up anything on the bestseller list. Even the classics are filled with vile and raunchy language (need I mention Moby D*ck?) – just what is a good Mormon housewife to do?
Fortunately, there are many options for these discerning readers. So-called “clean reads” groups allow community members to screen books for objectionable content, making sure they’re never exposed to anything they disagree with. But what, exactly, is a clean read? Let’s find out!
I think it is individual for each person. My language rule is 2 f bombs and I am done, even if I am loving the book. I don’t feel I need to be bombarded with that. Each of us has limits to what we feel comfortable with. I grew up with a dad who mildly cussed a lot, so that doesn’t affect me like it might someone who isn’t used to it.
i’ve flipped through “julie and julia” myself, and wouldn’t even consider reading it. the language, even at a glance, is highly offensive. what a waste of talent and energy, to write something so, oh, what’s a good word for “non-uplifting”? degrading, depressing?
Lately, I also put down A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine l’Engle when we came across the spirit medium (she had a christal ball and everything.) It wasn’t just a passing scene. We were halfway through the book. What a disappointment.
The Kite Runner was one I put down and I waited too long to do so. I was really enjoying the book even after I struggled through the teen boy rape scene , but in the end, recurring F-words did me in.
So far we can surmise the following:
Dirty: F-bombs, Cristal
Clean: teen rape
It’s worth noting here that the above quotes are all from adult readers. How do the standards change when picking books for children?
My daughters high school class is starting to read “Lord of the Flies” which we don’t feel comfortable with and we have been given permission by the teacher to read an alternative book with a similar theme (the breakdowns of civilization–savagery verses civilization). The tricky part is we are looking for something without graphic violence or any gore (and of course we want it to be clean=). Any suggestions out there?
there is, of course, The Hunger Games, which would fit the theme but is very likely more violent than lord of the flies itself. *in an aside here, i firmly believe that HG would be a much better choice for a high school lit class than LotF, despite its recentness and popularity!*
I went through this for years when my daughter was in school. In fact, I ended up writing her a book because she asked for an alternative, but that’s another story.
I previewed every book on her reading lists. It was tedious and frustrating. Most were modern PC agenda driven or from Oprah’s Book List. I had to find substitutes all the time.
Dirty: pig murder, Liberals
Clean: child murder, dumbing down your daughter’s education
Whew. That’s quite enough critical analysis for me! Here are some more posts, but I don’t have anything relevant to say because I didn’t actually read them.
This article in the Wall Street Journal will give a glimpse into the mindset of publishers and how they purposely push inappropriate material in YA fiction. It is a MUST read for parents to understand what they are up against. This is the battle I fight against a ‘clean author’ – first to get my book traditionally published and now to continue as a self-published author.
Thanks for sharing this. Of course I couldn’t read all of it because it was a little too upsetting for me.
How is Breaking Dawn considered a clean romance? Don’t Bella and Edward make love in some very descriptive details…?
I guess it depends on your definition of “clean.” There are no graphic details about their encounter and they are married….which means the act itself is ok for them. I think it is appropriate for adults, but my daughters are NOT reading the books until they are married.
As a side note to the they are still teens… My husband and I where no older than her…(my husband almost needed a note from his mommy) 10 years we are still madly in love! Some time it just works .
Yes, this is an interesting discussion, though I didn’t read every post.
In 1965, Margaret Howe, a research assistant to Dr. John C. Lilly at St. Thomas Laboratory, participated in two human-dolphin cohabitation experiments. The second has grown infamous, as Margaret reported engaging in activities of a questionable nature with her male dolphin companion.
Her account of the second experiment is reproduced below, all on one page for reading convenience. Missing text and OCR errors from Lilly’s website have been corrected, using a copy of Mind of the Dolphin for reference. Remarks in square brackets are from Lilly.
For further reading see Lori Marino’s article, Dolphins are Not Healers.