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.
Tag Archive for disturbing
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.
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.
Today we’re going to peel back the layers of the Men’s Rights movement and expose its delicious misogynistic core. Let’s look at Artistry Against Misandry!
Trigger warnings: alliteration, typography abuse, Geocities
We’ve already looked at the site description in a previous post, but let’s take a quick refresher on AAM and read the Mission Statement:
This website raises awareness of misandry in western culture by supporting the Men’s Rights Movement through various artistic mediums. This site will proudly endorse and display thought-provoking artistic works submitted by Men’s Rights Activists.
Indeed, AAM should be proud of these thought-provoking artistic works:
Alternate title: “I pasted some shit from Google Images into Paint and called it a day”. Don’t worry, the other AAM contributors put a lot more effort into their work!
“Feminism as a cult” is a motif you will see repeated in many of the art submissions on AAM. Europa takes it a step further in this next piece:
Europa at least appears to base these images around concern for men rather than hatred for women, but you’ll soon see that this is the exception on AAM.
Now this is the real driving force of the men’s rights movement. Not “men deserve equal rights”, but “women should learn their fucking place.”
But enough pictures, let’s look at the wonderful ways MRAs express themselves through the written word. Besides Comfort Girls, AAM hosts poetry and fiction. It’s all as delightful as you would expect, but here are my top two.
AAM Award For Excellence In Poetry:
Entitlement, by Izzey
Pursed lips in the mirror
Slicked with ‘Revlon Red’
Tonight’s the night she snags him
Into entitlement dread
He takes her out to dinner
And buys her sparkling toys
Unbeknownst to future actions
A princess bitch deploys
She works her magic quickly
He’s walking in a trance
A couple of children later…
They’re doing the courtroom dance
The judge says “She’s the momma;
You have to pay the price
Give her the car and condo
And the paycheck, will suffice”.
“You’ll see your kids bi-monthly,
And put up with all her clamor
You’d better follow orders
Or we’ll put you in the slammer!”
It’s hard to put my finger on the best part of Entitlement, but the line “a princess bitch deploys” is hard to beat.
AAM Best Original Fiction 2012:
The Penis Comeback Monologue, by Jack Riley
This is one of two pieces centering on the Vagina Monologues. The story begins with three “young, handsome, intelligent men” drinking beers and talking about orgasms. The men have just learned that women can have multiple orgasms, and sometimes even whole body orgasms!
“I’m tellin’ ya,” Seth continued. “Women have us men beat. All these years, I thought it was so great being a man, with a penis between my legs—turns out, women have it even better down there, by multitudes.”
You can totally guess where this is going.
The next morning, something strange happened… all three men woke up with vaginas!
A mysterious letter explains that they will have full use of the vaginas for seven days, after which they can choose to keep them or return for a full refund. But it turns out that being a woman is not all it’s cracked up to be!
“I miss peeing standing up,” said John. “And it’s hard keeping it—fresh—down there. I liked having a big clean thing that hangs down there instead!”
“I’m so fucking horny, and I can’t COME!” yelled Ted. “Where’s the release?”
“I got really close a couple of times, I swear,” Seth said. “But then—nothing!”
That’s right! None of the men can achieve orgasm, and they all miss their penises very much. Seth’s extensive research into the female orgasm reveals that some women are unable to achieve orgasm at all because of their genes, and all three conclude that they should stop buying into feminist propaganda about how awesome vaginas are. Vaginas totally suck!
The next morning, all three men get vagina refunds and spend the whole day enjoying the superior male orgasm. Moral of the story: WHO CARES? DICKS!!!!!!!
We’ve come to the end of this rollercoaster ride through the Manosphere. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. If you’re hungry for more, there’s a lot of content I didn’t have room for including music and video! Otherwise, your regular Comfort Girls posts will resume later in the week.
Today’s installment is a two-parter. I don’t want to rush through this absolutely riveting plot setup but Rick really hits his stride later in the book, so by comparison these earlier rapes are quite mundane.
He had put the jumper back on her, right there in bed. Under it, she was sweaty and rumpled from the night’s … she couldn’t call it “rest.” He had made her suck him off, and kiss and lick around his body, and after they fell asleep he woke her at least twice with his cock. But in the morning, she’d awakened to find herself snuggled to his side, her arm across his waist, his firm warm shoulder as her pillow. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” he said, and his voice and his smile were tender. She’d reached up to kiss him, and he’d kissed back, and the lovemaking was like her mother’s old Harlequin Romance books described a girl’s wedding night. O Mother God, how sweet.
Linda must have been reading a very different type of Harlequin novel to the one I remember… hell, who am I kidding? Half those books are all about women being kidnapped and falling in love with their rapists.
She heads to breakfast and gossips with her fellow sex slaves. They’re all fairly unremarkable except for the Token Australian, Mavis. Rick writes her with as convincing an accent as the Token Swedish Girl. Linda still doesn’t understand her new position, so she cries to Mavis about her many rapes at the hands of Chuck. Mavis is not impressed.
“Now, what did he do? Really? You were making his bed, y’say. Bendin’ over, making a perfect target-of-opportunity. So he grabs yer hips, unzips, and puts his guided muscle right into the spot marked double-X. Does that describe it?” Mavis smiled knowingly.
“Didja come? Didn’t ya come? Even when he raw-doggied you, bent over the edge of the bed?” Mavis spotted her blush, and she patted Linda’s hand. “Of course you did. I know the Shark too. I know he gave you a good rooting. Or three.” Linda took a deep breath, and nodded.
“There ya go, Linda. You’da gone for Sharky in a minute, after a few pints in a pub. Here, you’re getting the same thing, just without all the razzamatazz.” Mavis suddenly looked up with a leer. “And more important, the more you take it for the good, the better it gets.”
While that may seem like ironclad logic, it doesn’t convince Linda and she throws a tantrum in the dining room. The station cook, Soupy, takes her away for some private lessons… and a sob story!
“Look. I ain’t no Pee Aitch Dee. I went from high school to the Navy, and I spent my twenty cookin’ in submarines that was doin’ things that are still top-secret. My wife raised our three kids with me only home about six months of the year; the rest of the time we were out on patrol.
“It was lonely for me. It was lonely for her. But I didn’t have anyplace to go, lookin’ for some fun. Not while being cooped up with a hunnert men on a boat three hunnert feet long. You got the idea of that? It’s a lot like the Station, here.
“One day I came home to an empty house. No wife. No kids. Not even a stick of furniture. Just her divorce papers and a bill for child-support that left me completely broke. I found out later she’d run off with some officer who went PCS to Kings Bay and took her and the kids with him. Never saw any of ’em again.”
Who would have guessed?
“You’re new to the Station. New to the Comfort Corps. When I took your hands, you were scared. I don’t think you’ve had any good loving for a long time. Maybe not since you grew up.”
Gently he took her by the shoulders and swung her around so her head was in his lap. His hand was gentle on her cheek. “I’d like to do something about that. Maybe I can teach you something. Relax and come along with it, honey.”
Yeah, you know where this is going.
It sent a thrill down her body, a shudder down her spine; her nipples tightened almost painfully, and she felt a twitch in her vulva.
O Mother God, the sensations. Her vulva strained, shuddered, and she knew she was on the brink of an orgasm.
His hand, resting now motionless on her vulva, soothed the aftershocks that quaked in her body.
“Vulva” does not really have a place in erotic literature. It’s actually the first time I’ve seen it used in a sex story, and I read a lot of porn.
Soupy was plump and hairy, with what amounted to ‘man-boobs’ that had almost-girlish nipples.
Man-boobs? Yeah, not doing it for me either.
She was conscious of her vagina, her labia, gaping under her.
You know what? Let’s just make a list of words that should never be used in porn.
And with that, we’re at the end of Chapter 5! Next post, we’re going to take a break from Comfort Girls and examine the rest of the Artistry Against Misandry website.
In Chapter 3, we meet more of the cast of America’s Worst Sitcom Ever. Linda is called to a meeting with the other new recruits and the station’s medical officer, Doctor Jenner, does his best to make the girls feel at home.
“I wish I could say ‘welcome’ to Conshelf 6-D. I can’t, really; it’s not quite appropriate. You aren’t exactly what I would call “welcome guests,” or even “welcome workers.”
Majken, the Swedish blonde, spoke up. “I wish to know why we are here. Why we have been treated so.” The others started to raise similar voices –
He shouted, over them, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” They fell silent. “That’s better. You are not to speak, any further, unless I ask one of you a specific question. And then you’d better answer it clearly, concisely – and briefly.” His guts still twisted, a bit, when he put a woman in her place. But he’d thoroughly de-indoctrinated himself from any “feminist-supporting viewpoint” when his wife divorced him, two years ago, and took his house and most of his salary in the settlement
You’ll notice that “evil bitch wife ruining her husband for absolutely no good reason” is a very common theme in this book. I’m sure that has nothing to do with Rick Westlake’s personal experiences, though.
Majken, let’s start with you. I want you to watch this video. And you can offer me any plea of why this doesn’t pronounce your guilt.”
The four of them watched, Dr. Jenner on his screen, the others on a projection behind him. They watched Majken shoot a newspaper-reading man in the chest – then take an axe and cleave open his head, and scoop up a fragment of his brain on a cracker, and eat it with obvious relish.”Did you actually eat a piece of his brain, Majken?”
“No, no, it was calves’ brains, it was posed, you have to understand-”
“The body of Lars Siggurdson was found six weeks after this video first appeared. He had been shot, in the exact place and from the exact angle we see in the video. His skull was cut open in exactly the same fashion. And his brain was damaged in a fashion that matches this video.” He stared at her. “All of this was covered in your trial. You were found guilty of his murder.”
“Vad – Vad i helvete! How can you be so fuckin’ sure? And vat the hell, he vas only a stupid man to begin with.”
This is one of the few times Rick remembers to write Majken with an accent.
“Now it’s your turn, Deirdre. Do you deny this post on the Radfem Hub website?” He projected one of her most impassioned rants, one that championed the notion of setting white-knights against the legitimate complaints of men’s right activists – including the plot to track down a few key web-sites and kill their administrators. A couple had narrowly missed being assassinated, in fact.
She watched the presentation impassively. Finally she said, “I protest this. You have no jurisdiction over that content.”
“On the contrary,” Dr. Jenner responded. “And this is just a small parcel of the evidence that caused the Tribunal to send you here. Do you deny that you paid a contract killer – or rather an FBI agent posing as one – to assassinate three men who have prominent Web sites in the Manosphere?” She sat mute. “I concur with your sentence. Take her away.”
I’m crossing my fingers in hope that men have renamed everything in the world to be more male-centric since taking control of the world, just like freedom fries.
“Can I get a manburger with frenchman fries, hold the tomantoes – oh, and a Mantain Dew?”
“No problemale, sir, that will be eight mandollars. Please drive penisward to the next mandow; have a nice dude!”
It’s Linda’s turn for the third degree and she pleads innocence:
“Master, I had hoped to change this planet into a Gentle World, where we could feel safe – a world without fear, without hurt. I wanted the best for the World, and its inhabitants.”
Dr. Jenner leaned forward, with a scowl. “Then why on Earth did you try to devise a virus that would kill off men, by way of their Y-chromosome?”
Dr. Jenner stared at her, like a man staring down a loathsome vision. As if he was staring down, negating, refuting, her Womynhood – and even her humanity. Finally, he spoke.
“Project Y was no less than the most callous, most destructive imaginable crime against humanity. It was no less than sexual genocide. Furthermore, our ecologists have recognized that the Project Y virus could have spread to other species.
“Had you any idea of the enormity of this crime? It actually goes beyond genocide. You could have destroyed all life on Earth.”
Linda looked blankly, overwhelmed, at Dr. Jenner.
Typical female geneticist: smart enough to create a virus that can literally destroy everything with a Y chromosome, but too stupid to know that animals have that chromosome too. Women, am I right?
The interrogation ends when
Rick Westlake’s self insert a completely original and new character enters the room.
“Chuck? Please come in.”
A tall, slim, well-muscled young man entered the office. “Hi, Doc. This the new girl?” He smiled at Linda, who simply stared back.
Dr. Jenner cleared his throat. “Before you take her, Chuck, have a look at this.” He gestured at his screen, and the damning summary of Linda’s dossier.
Chuck glanced at the screen, and lost about three-fourths of his bonhomie. “I’ve read it. But thanks for the reminder, Doc.”
He turned his eyes back up to the girl, and got back about half of his smile.
Don’t make me use maths to work out his grin; I’m just a silly girl!
Chuck treats Linda like a person – the first time in the book that a man hasn’t raped her immediately – and they sit down in his quarters for a lovely conversation over dinner (freshly caught shark). He still has to enforce “the rules” though, which means she has to sit with her crotch pointing at his face and call him Master. And he has to remind her that she still isn’t really a person.
“But there’s another thing, an even-more-so. You are intelligent. You wouldn’t have gotten in at the Genomics Institute if you hadn’t been qualified. But your emotions – you, all of you women, have lived all your lives at the emotional level of a spoiled brat. A kid.” He looked across the room and sighed. “Our psychologist here is playing a gamble that life as a comfort-girl here might teach some of you better.” His eyes bored into hers, at once daring her to speak up and warning her against it.
So basically, you have to rape the immaturity out of kids. A heartwarming sentiment, since Chuck has his own little girl up on the surface. He asks Linda about her own life:
“I grew up in Washington, DC. In the suburbs – Wheaton. I got interested in science from my mom; she worked at the Department of Agriculture.”
“And your dad?”
Linda frowned. “He left when I was five. We were living in Denver, up till then. They had a fight one night, and the cops took him away. I saw him a couple of times after, then we moved to DC.” Her frown deepened. “He never cared about me. Mom said he was a cheapskate anyways, a deadbeat.” (Yeah, sure, Chuck thought. Wheaton, Montgomery County, on a single mom’s salary. Bet she cleaned him out good before the move.)
“Brothers and sisters?”
“A sister, Jill. She’s six years younger than me.” (Oh, brother. A “step up” for her mother. Bet I know why she divorced.)
Remember, in Rick Westlake’s world there are no deadbeat dads: only lying gold diggers.
We meet another girl, briefly:
“Julie is one of the first girls on Station. She worked her way through college waiting table at Hooters, or some breastaurant like that.”
That’s right, even more lexical possibilities… or possiboobities.
And the chapter ends on a high note when Chuck ties Linda to the bed and makes passionate love to her.
He gazed down at her. “You’re not my daughter,” he said. “She won’t grow up like you, she’s learning better from the start. My dad and mom are taking care of that while I’m down here. You’re a comfort girl, and it’s night-time. It’s time for me to put you to work.” He lifted his shirt over his head, dropped his trousers, and took off his briefs. His cock was rampant, and it bobbed as he stepped over to the bed and sat down. He leaned back on his elbows. His own legs were wide, and there was contempt in his smile. “Let’s see how you are at sucking dick. Comfort me.”
And we’re back! I’m so very sorry.
“Yeah. My voice doesn’t sound quite the same, though, does it? We’re pumping in heli-air, with a lot of helium. It makes you sound like Donald Duck. …Looks like you’re finished with this.”
I’m just posting this quote so you remember to read the rest of the book in the voice of Donald Duck.
“Other girls?” she asked, carefully … she didn’t want to get slapped again.
“Two of ’em,” he said. “We have room to process three at a time. Why pump down more cubic than you need? We have three exam rooms, the head, and a lounge for the guys to come up to pressure. You girls bring us up to full complement, so welcome aboard.”
Linda felt a flash of resentment. Girls? She had a PhD, damnit! “I wish you’d-”
A massive hand grabbed her chin, shoved her mouth shut; strong fingers clutched her cheeks, painfully tight. “You wish nothing, cunt! Get some respect or we’ll beat it into you!” He shook her head, not violently, but enough to make the point. Then he relaxed the hand, though it still cupped her face. “Now what do you say?”
“I’m sorry.” He shook her head again. “You’re sorry, WHAT?”
“I’m sorry … Master.”
And thus begins Rape Number Two. Then three… then four… until Linda loses count. As the rapes slow down, Linda starts to wonder if the men have decided to rape the other comfort girls instead of her. Do they find her unattractive? The thought fills her with “a desolate sadness.”
Nguyen returns and leads Linda out of the exam room. She argues with him some more about her new position.
“But – my training! You know I’m a professional too!”
“A professional – what?” The contempt was heavy in his voice.
“A geneticist. A PhD. It is insane that you’d waste my skill.”
“Letting you practice that skill now would be like hiring Josef Mengele to run the Mayo Clinic.”
“You, of all people, should know the situation that led up to this. You and the rest of Radfem Hub – Miss Bio-Ninja Ninety-Three.” He knew that name? “Yes. With Violet Fliptree and all the rest of them. We set up the Orange network to keep track of you – all the politicians, the judges, the bureaucrats of course, but also the doctors, the researchers, the people in the background who might cook up an unconventional threat.” He smiled thinly. “You didn’t realize that’s why I joined your team? To make sure of the threat. And to find a way to counter it. We caught up with you – all of you – just in time.”
Those are the worst secret agent codenames. It’s also baffling that they would need codenames when the world was apparently run by radical feminists anyway.
Her voice was small, and trembled. “And why didn’t you … just … kill me?”
His smile was of bitter satisfaction. “Several reasons. One is to use you as an example. You’re not the first Radfem to be sentenced to penal servitude.” He put an uncomfortable emphasis on penal, rubbing home the obvious double entendre.
“The next couple of weeks will be your shakedown. Once you’ve settled in, you’ll have classes and training to make you better at your new job.””What kind of classes and training?” She regretted it as soon as she said it.He snorted. “Come on now. Classes in pleasing a man. Belly-dance. Massage. Erotic arts. The Kama Sutra. That should be obvious.”[…]”Reform school, Linda. A really severe kind of reform school. And it still is punishment. You’re one of the ones we really can’t trust, not ever again. But maybe we can reform you enough that you’ll fit in a woman’s proper place in our new society – and maybe we can get some good out of you while we try to reform you.” He stood up. “It’s time for bed. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“I’d better. Thank you, Doctor.” She made to get up, but he stopped her with a hand around her upper arm.
“There’s another point. You seem to be calling me “Doctor” as if you still consider yourself a colleague, and you’re not.” His eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t there something that you were told to call the men in this station, this afternoon – a title by which you were told to address us all?”
“Ah-” His grip tightened. “Ma- Master?” His grip eased.
“Finished?” he asked. Numbly, she nodded. He leaned her forward and wiped her with another of those ubiquitous wet-wipes. “Might as well clean you out, too.” He produced a douche bottle and rinsed out her vagina, then stood her up and dried her. The jumper’s gusset flapped behind her, like a beaver tail, as he walked her to the bed.
He made her lie down, and snapped a light metal collar and chain around her neck.
“Standard operating procedure with any comfort girl in private quarters.” He tugged at the chain, a little too strong to be playful, chafing her neck with the loose collar. “We don’t want you getting into things that are not yours. And you need to know that you can’t get at them.”
Rape suits, rape classes, rape beds… it’s this dedication to worldbuilding that makes Rick such an engrossing writer. The chapter ends as it began, with Linda tied up and raped into submission. You may have noticed a running theme here.
Tune in next chapter, where we will meet the other comfort girls and a possible love interest for Linda!
I’m sure many of you are aware of the men’s rights and “anti-misandry” movements. While it might seem like reasonable position to take (equality regardless of gender; recognising that men are also disadvantaged in certain social situations), the reality is that nearly every men’s rights group is filled with the kind of hateful misogynistic assholes that feminism was designed to combat. Take the Artistry Against Misandry group, for instance.
Welcome to the first pro-male artist activist network. Within these pages you will find music, poetry, prose, graphics, cartoons and additional links, all of which are here to a cathartic release to men who are bombarded with misandry in their daily lives. We bring attention to and counter institutional, as well as social misandry in Western society, and are highly critical of those who instigate and/or perpetuate fallacious male-bashing.
Like the popular social inference that men are inherently lesser beings, the backlash to it isn’t always cordial. Many of the artists here have suffered misandric injustices and we only hope you walk away with a better understanding of our plight.
What kind of cathartic release, you’re wondering? Well, this:
Comfort Girls is a self-published ebook by Rick Westlake. It details the revolt of men against the matriarchy (since, of course, the patriarchy is a myth). Once men have established control of the world, they set out to build a newer and better society… by teaching women their place and executing dissidents. The luckiest female criminals are turned into sex slaves, but it’s OK: naturally, they come to love their new role in society as the bad ideas are raped out of them.
This is really one of the worst things I’ve ever read. So, naturally, I had to share it with the rest of the internet.
Be warned that the ebook is very hard to read: Rick Westlake is not much of a writer, to put it nicely, and he loves writing about rape. I’ve cut out some of the text in these excerpts to highlight the best parts but I’ve otherwise left it true to the original. If you want to read the unabridged version, once again you can find it here.
So let’s start reading!
Linda Mayhugh stared out the narrow slit of the window at the grey scudding clouds, the streaming rain, the rough waters of the bay. Her hands clutched at her elbows, her thin shoulders trembling under the baggy orange prisoner’s jumpsuit. She stared and stared, conscious that this would be her last gaze at land and sky for years…
Maybe forever. She might die at Conshelf Station 6-D, a research and industrial outpost fifty kilometers offshore and a hundred meters deep. Why did men persist, insist, on going into such danger, even for the sake of the mineral riches they’d found on the lip of the Continental Shelf? Couldn’t they have let well enough alone, and worked to achieve the enlightened goals of the new woman President and her New World Order?
“New GIRL Order!” she remembered hearing some of those first rioters shout, in the beginning of the Misogynist Revolt. She thought she was massively lucky that night, managing to escape – she was a geneticist, not a politician, and her work on Project Y had been in the background. But when the Riots turned into open rebellion – and the police and the military threw in with the Misogynists – the Feminist State collapsed, and its hidden mechanisms of control were suddenly, almost instantly, unearthed and shattered and sterilized. And her key role in Project Y had earned her … what?
The bastards hadn’t even given her a proper trial, with a sympathetic judge and a jury of her peers. She had a military tribunal, and the hard-faced officers who heard the case had no patience for her fear and grief and pain. They had no appreciation for her skills, either, when they sentenced her to “ten years of penal servitude, in the Comfort Detachment of Continental Shelf Station 6-D…”
This is the opening of the novel. As we saw from the blurb, Linda was working on a genetic project to eradicate the Y Chromosome and kill all men (lol), thus freeing women from male tyranny forever. The irony of men using this as an excuse to force women into sexual slavery is completely lost on the author. It’s clear that we’re meant to see Linda as a whiny man-hating bitch with selfish views on the world, so I’m not sure why Rick leads with a description of how she has been inhumanely treated, unfairly sentenced, and has low prospects of surviving the next 10 years of imprisonment. It’s possible he thinks that this is how the justice system should work.
The door closed behind her. It had no inner handle. No doubt she was under watch in here, and they would burst in if she did “anything stupid.” She blushed to think of what the watchers would see … but there was no way out of this; and she remembered having “shown it all,” some years before, in the Naked Slutwalk Festival that the Sisterhood held with the first-ever, mandatory for all men, Walk A Mile In Her Shoes event at her college. She knew she looked good naked, because the boys teetering in their high-heels had gotten visible erections in their pants when she pulled off her C-string and shown her all, taunting them with her shouts of “You can’t touch this! It’s rape! It’s wrong!”
This is the message that men like Rick get out of Slutwalks: not “rape is never OK even if you think she’s asking for it by dressing in sexy clothing”, but “these fucking sluts should never have flaunted their bodies to us, they deserve everything they get”.
Linda has a heartfelt reunion with a doctor who worked with her at her genetics lab.
The speculum was cold, and he seemed to take a bit of pleasure in opening it too wide for her comfort. “At least you’re not a virgin,” he declared. “Some of us on your Project wondered about that. Your attitude.”
“Get down off your high horse, Linda. This is NOT your project. You know that.”
“DOCTOR Nguyen, please.” He withdrew the speculum. “Or just Doctor. You don’t seem to know your position here … ‘Doctor’ Mayhugh. Okay, you can sit up now. And put on this garment.”
What he handed Linda Mayhugh was … a shirt. A body-suit, actually, as she inspected it. It was made of a stretchy, shiny material, swimsuit material. It had long sleeves, a collar like a man’s dress shirt, and a long zipper down the front. It closed with snaps at the crotch. She wriggled into it, zipping it open just enough for her head, and tugged the crotch of it down so she could snap it closed. It fit her curves like a gleaming coat of wet red paint, and the bottom end of the front zipper reached below her navel. She tugged the zipper up to her throat.
“Why this, instead of something practical like a coverall? And what are these zippers for, on the sleeves?” She looked down at the two zippers, actually half-zippers that reached from elbow to wrist on each sleeve.
“The zippers. Yes. It’s a good time for me to show you.” Deftly he caught her right wrist, brought it to her left elbow, and zipped the sleeves together in front of her waist. Then he zipped the other two half-zippers together, leaving her arms secured in front of her and quite helpless.
He drew down the front zipper to her waist. Then he took a long piece of webbing out of a drawer and wrapped it around her, over her forearms and behind her waist, so the straps crossed on center in front. He tugged its tail through a square loop and lapped it back on itself, where it closed with a wide patch of velcro. “You might have tried to pull the zippers open with your teeth. Not now.”
“This is like a strait-jacket,” she whispered.
“Very much so. This is your uniform, as a member of the Comfort Corps. It is completely practical, for our purposes. It covers … enough. The sleeve-zippers provide us the means to secure your hands out of the way, when we choose. And …” He drew his fingers lazily from her collarbone to her crossed arms. “We can uncover you in an instant, for our pleasure. Make a fist, here.” He put a small bag over her balled left hand and secured it with a Velcro cuff, then did the same for her right hand.
Yeah, that’s right. It’s a RAPE SUIT.
“The name has been around for a while. You might have heard of it if you’d learned real history – not the “her-story” that you were spoon-fed in school.” He smiled, but it was the smile of a wolf. “The Japanese Army used it, during the Korean and Chinese conflicts that led up to World War II. It was their name for the special groups of Korean and Chinese women, Vietnamese women too, who were used to provide … comfort … to their troops. Put your feet in the stirrups.”
I’ll just leave it to sink in for a moment that a Vietnamese man is gloating about Vietnamese women being forced into sexual slavery by Japan. Also, “her-story” is the first of many Westlake-isms you will see in this awful excuse for a novel.
Shortly after this, Nguyen reveals he was at that naked Slutwalk and has dreamed of raping Linda ever since then. He takes the opportunity to explain the new status quo to her.
“This is where you start to learn,” he said, “about the only role that Men are going to give to you, any more. We’ve learned your poison. We’ve learned your tactics, and your strategy. We’ve learned how to overwhelm your strengths, and take advantage of your weakness. And we’ve learned the role that you must be put into, for the future.
“You have to be our chattels, our subjects, our slaves. We won’t trust you with any trace of power, or authority, or privilege. You’ll have to learn to be just a woman, and nothing more; a servant in Man’s house, a mother to his children, and a wide-open slut in his bed.”
“Now kiss me again. Open your lips to me. Open your soul to me.”
A very Gor-like rape scene follows:
He could feel the spasms of her coming. “Slave!” he said as her orgasm overwhelmed her.
“No!” she declared as the spasms eased enough for her to breathe again.
“Slave!” he said again, as yet again she came.
“No!” A declaration less definite – as her gasps, her struggles, were somehow even more inclusive of orgasm – of helplessness – and of that mixture of orgasm, helplessness, craving and hunger that Enlightened Womyn decried as “bondage to the Patriarchy.”
Enlightened Womyn fucking hate orgasms. Actually they hate everything; it’s pretty much a prerequisite for being a feminist.
“You can skip lunch,” Dr. Nguyen said. “Maybe a bottle of Ensure, later, if you’re good. … Did you feel your ears click just now, when you were swallowing? We’re starting to pressurize this space. Keep working your jaws and tongue and throat like that, as if you were swallowing, every few seconds – it’ll save you a burst eardrum.”And one last bit of advice, now, that will probably make your stay here easier. It will certainly help you survive it. And old Chinese saying – When rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.”
She heard the door open, but she didn’t hear it close.
And that’s Chapter One! Until next time, stay safe, and please try not to bring down the Matriarchy.
Look I voted for Barack Obama too, and I have many gay friends, but this is the extent of my liberalism. I do not condone sexual activity with animals, no matter how smooth or non-messy it may be.
HelloOsakaGoodbye 2 years ago