Contributor: Lusty

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Masturbating sure did sound nice for Kandy (as her stripper friends called her.) Boy, are these nails nice, she thought. They were acrylic, with a salmon pink on them with rainbow poke-a-dots complimenting the excitingly bright color. Sharp didn't explain the profuse acuity of them. A dull poke to the pupil would be menacing. She considering doing that when she thought about her mudflap (as she liked to call him) ex-boyfriend, Tim. He sure was an asshole.
She started off lightly rubbing her crotch thoroughly through her skin-tight jeans. After a bit of foreplay, she ripped them off. She could see lacerations from her jeans on her skin. She leaned back in her half-way torn apart Laz-e Boy recliner that Mr. Mudflap destroyed in a drunken rage. She rubbed herself through her panties and indulged in the wonders of masturbation.
Her panties were soaking wet by the time she slipped them off. Once they were around her ankles, she dug deeper, getting every crevice inside her vagina and rubbing her clit rapidly. She moaned and hollered; she was thankful that she didn’t have any neighbors, the old fucks would probably tell her to stop the rub session.
She was in ecstasy; it felt better than any man could make her feel. Just to think, she had the ultimate pleasure device attached to her. She fingered herself for minutes, hoping that it would never end.
That’s when she heard a snap! That came from her crotch area. She felt a sudden, sharp pain inside her pussy. She withdrew her wet hand from her vagina and noticed she was missing a nail. There was a miniscule spot of blood next the absent nail. She soon realized that it was from her vagina, rather than the fact that her nail was torn off.
The pain kicked in every second that the nail was in her vagina. She could feel that it was sticking straight up, piercing the upper-region of the pink cave. I just had to pick the longest, sharpest ones. She thought, while holding her pussy.
She squeezed, nothing came out. She then knew that she had to dig in deep and retrieve it before it destroyed her clitoris. She shimmied her hand inside, feeling around. The little fuckers deep she though. She could only feel it with the top of her finger.
Every time she moved, it mutilated the back of her vagina further. She knew that there was no chance of just letting it slide out because it was stuck in the top and bottom of her pussy. She had to grab it.
She shoved her hand in further then she ever thought was possible. It was the strangest feeling, very unnatural. She poked and prodded every small space in her originally air-tight vagina. She started to gag, almost to the point of puking, partly from her hand completely in her vagina and the other part because it was wet, like a cave.
At last, she grabbed the dread nail. It was slimy to the point where she thought it could have been a second clitoris or some such absurd thing. She grabbed it with her index and middle finger. As she was pulling it out, it ripped the top and bottom of her vagina in a straight line. It was the most painful thing she had ever felt.
The goddamned thing was completely red, no pink or pretty designs were visible. She ran to the bathroom and washed her hands (using extra soap.) She threw the dreaded nail in the garbage and did her best to clean every inch of blood out of her vagina so it wouldn’t clot. As she was doing so, she looked at her hand. There was no nail on her middle finger. She sat down and wept, and her vagina did the same.


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I'm a not very known writer that generally writes about taboo topics. If you want to contact me, send me an email to 'Impgardens@yahoo.com' (:

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Author: Lusty

Contributor: Lusty

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Being a lesbian was so nice for Amber; she didn't have to worry about stretching her vagina just to get laid, she didn't have to worry about the cancerous beings called men, and most importantly, she got to indulge and partake in the beauties that make women.
She got ready in her small suburban house for a big night out with her girlfriend Zina (or "partner" as those fucking media moguls call it.) They planned on going to a strip club called 'Cumming Attractions'. It was surprisingly nice despite what the porn-ish name suggests. Zina was a dancer there but she didn't have work that night.
Amber brushed her red hair thoroughly. It fell dancingly down onto her milky shoulders. Zina walked in, grabbed Ambers tits from behind (in a pedophile way) and told her how ravishing she looked. They kissed and Amber brushed Zina's hair as well. She brushed every strand, including the essential pink, stripper highlights.
They left a few minutes later and arrived at Cumming Attractions. Amber's favorite dancers were dancing that night: Elly, Giselle, and Sevena. She made petty attempts at fucking Elly, but it never went through because she found the all-mighty Zina. The night she saw her dancing, she was sliding up and down on the pole in fishnets and in a sexy cop outfit. Her handcuffs dangled around and her shirt was unbuttoned, unveiling her tan breasts (which made Amber practically have an orgasm on the spot.)
Amber did shots at the bar while Elly did her cowgirl dance. She planned on getting pretty faded and having Zina drive her home. I wonder why Zina isn't getting wasted. She thought
Amber shoved 5 bucks down Elly's panties and cheered her one.
"This is great, eh?" Amber asked.
"Yeah, definitely." Zina replied, "hey, listen, I'm going to the bathroom. You should follow." She smiled.
By that point in their relationship, Amber knew that meant they were going to have a nice 'lick session' (as Zina called it.) She followed her into the shockingly clean bathroom. The bathroom was vacant so they automatically started kissing each other everywhere. Zina set her purse down in the stall and they busted into it. Amber began kissing Zina's neck all the way down to her belly button. She started going down on her and she moaned wildly. While she licked up and down rapidly, she saw something in Zina's purse. She soon identified it as a pregnancy test. She quit licking abruptly, and pulled it out: positive.
"What the fuck!" She hollered.
"Babe, babe, babe, come on. It's nothing."
"What do you mean nothing? You're pregnant!"
"I know! I'm sorry!" She started crying. She hugged Amber's head. Her pussy was still out in the open and her breasts were as well.
"You've been fucking people behind my back?"
"No, of course not. I was just drunk one night and some fucking guy picked me up. I don't remember it at all."
"Whatever, I'm going home."
They were silent on the way home. Once they got home they talked about what they were going to do, Zina definitely couldn't dance anymore. They decided that Amber would stay home with baby while Zina (or Leslie now that she wasn't stripping,) would work at her father's business as a secretary or some dull thing.
Amber decided that having a baby might actually be good experience in some way. She may have been too faded to decide for sure. She did know for a fact that it was time to grow up. No more drinking. No more bullshit; Just a simple life with her gorgeous lesbian lover and baby Elenyx or Adrian depending on the gender.
They walked in to the bedroom and continued what they didn't finish. Zina licked Amber up and down. She was in ecstasy . A few minutes later they rubbed each other off until they both were finished and laid down for bed. Amber kept her hand on Zina/Leslie's stomach, thinking about the precious baby.


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I am a not-so accomplished writer who writes about candid subjects such as sex, booze, and the simple lives of simple people.

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Author: Lusty

Contributor: William Clifford

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Paul Ford and I broke into his sister’s house to steal some drugs. She was old now, like 22 or something, and lived with a big guy who worked at Home Depot, but he was never home. Paul’s sister Pauline saw us the second we smashed in the window with a brick, and promptly stuck a kitchen fork into Paul’s arm. I was already drunk from some wine we got from Jim The Perv outside the 24-hour place, so I got extra spooked that Pauline might call my mom.
“I’ll kill you, Paul!”
“I’ll kill you first, Pauline. I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Go for it, faggot!”
Paul did go for it -- yanked the fork from his arm and lunged at his sister. She started laughing and then fell to the ground, the threadless green carpet, probably high, calling him names, and then Paul straddled her and jabbed the fork into his sister’s eye. Blood went onto the ceiling and across my face and I swallowed some. I started crying and gagging; I ran upstairs where I found some hash and a gun. I smoked and got very high very fast, numb hands. I grabbed a pillow and started spitting blood and vomit, not sure where Paul had gone or what had happened to his sister, though I guessed she was dead.
Afterward, sitting and smoking on an unmade bed in a pink room, I noticed a lizard, or an iguana, or one of those things people keep, in its aquarium; I think his name was Todd; I think that's what Paul's sister told me once when we were little. I guess they can live a long time.
Todd arched up like he needed something. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure how, so instead I put the gun in my mouth and looked at Todd with this real intense look, like maybe he could help me instead of me helping him, but it seemed like he had gone back to sleep, or whatever lizards do when they just sit there and seem serene and keep growing old, and for a minute, for a little minute, this made me happy.


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Author: William Clifford

Contributor: Robert E. Petras

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His name was Urick, but he called himself the Stomper, and the Stomper was in the woods stomping snakes, one of his callings in nature. Why else would evolution endow some badass with size Double D feet other than kicking punk ass and killing snakes?

He was heeling the head of a two-foot snake with Army surplus boots, snuffing it out like a cheap stogie. It stopped wriggling. The Stomper scooped up the stupid looking snake by its tail and whipped it, flinging the head off, barely missing a dove resting upon a tree branch.

The Stomper pumped a fist and then slid his ass-kicking hand into a back pocket of green canvass pants and pulled out a notebook. He thumbed through his notes: how many punks whose asses he had kicked, their names and ages, the women he had banged and dumped and, finally, the snake ledgers—black snakes, copperheads, racers, rattlers, garters—the pages dotted with hundreds of checks. He scribbled a new entry: “wussy gray brown two-foot, black hourglass on head looking like birthmark by Missy Stewart’s left tit. Missy Snake? No. Pussy snake, no fight in it.”

Pen and notes pocketed he whirled around and tripped on what appeared thick knots of tree roots except at this spot in the woods these rooty things sprouted too far from the trees. “Looks like the hair of some hippie punk I beat the shit out of years ago.” he wrote, and then leafed through his notes, finding a check by “Hippie punk. Knocked him out. Cut off his hair.” “Tangle Wood” he jotted a new entry.

The Stomper stared at the sky, graying as a cloud slid across and swallowed it, casting the forest in complete afternoon shadow.

He stomped into the woods, tallying three more checks next to “Pussy snake.”

The deeper inside the woods he stomped, the denser and broader the patches of tangle wood grew, now woody ponds the Stomper used his size 16 Double D’s like snowshoes to navigate across.

Two more of the pussy snakes and heads checked out of life and checked into his record book.
Like thin ice, the viney tangle wood collapsed to his Double D’s. He tried to pry his feet free, thrusting and tugging, but toppled on his ass. He stared at the gray-brown sky.

The first snake Urick noticed slithered along his wrist, the black hourglass head mark gliding by the luminous digits of his watch. He snapped the snake behind him and then another and another while they swarmed him, and he could feel their collective body heat, warm like an electric blanket, massaging, except where they bit him. He could feel them boring into him, feeding upon his flesh as they bored deeper and deeper. He thrust, kicked and twisted, the tangle wood seeming to bind tighter around his ankles. All he could do was fight, killing as many as he could with his hands, with his teeth, biting several heads off.

They cocooned him, a writhing mass, made him a Medusa from head to foot, some even squirming inside his boots. The front of his shirt was saturated with his spit, his sweat, blood, snake blood and his. Urick could no longer move his arms, not even will his hands to choke. He could see only the blank black cloud in his mind made by the mass of snakes before they bored inside his eyes.

Nothing worked any longer except his mind. At least he could chalk up the kill tally in his mental notebook. He had to have killed six of those little punks, maybe seven. Even eight. But the only thing Urick could see inside his head was a check beside his own name.


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Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Yesteryear Fiction, State of Imagination, Death Head Grin, Burial Day Books, Phantom Kangaroo and Heyday Magazine.

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Author: Robert E. Petras