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

Contributor: Richard Osgood

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Ivan Chemalski stands at the center of a blow-up kiddie pool, naked, feet spread, penis erect, defecating in the water. A metallic rendition of The Entertainer cycles over and over from the loudspeaker of an ice cream truck as it approaches, passes, and fades under napping pine trees and languid American flags. Coitus, he calls her, the young Slovakian woman with burlap hair and volcanic skin, who sits in a folding beach chair, fully gowned, feet over the inflated edge of the pool, washing dirt from soil-burdened toes. A glance at the paperback within arm’s-length grasp of fruitful clover, her fingertips callused by fractured asphalt, she anticipates locked doors and drawn shades. Sunrise weighed down by iron skillets and uncharitable destinations serves blood sausage and beets to former transmission assembly workers in dungaree overalls and infertile white t-shirts, and thick-skin widows with dehydrated eyes eat cabbage and ground veal in submissive surrender to the orbital trajectory of dominant genus. Stained water links the two, she and Ivan, in impossible neutrality, a headless allegory of love and a parody of copulation. He masturbates, ejaculates, an orgasm at the endpoint of humanity, at the farthest reaches of pathology—"I am the origin of things," he says. She claps her hands and splashes her feet and sings epic sonnets of mountains and oceans and virtues and sin.


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Richard Osgood lives in a city on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, Night Train, Mudluscious, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.

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Author: Richard Osgood

Contributor: LA Sykes

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Eye eye. Who is this dodgy looking cunt? Suspicious behaviour indeed. Creeping around the alley at this time of night? What the fuck is he wearing? Who does he think he is? Which house is he planning to hit? Time to find out.

Out the back door and jump the fence. Creep up on this thieving fucker from behind and boot him up the arse as he bends over mauling about with the canvas cover sheet on his getaway vehicle. Rip off his silly hat and grab his hair snapping his head back. Crush his bulbous nose with a quick crack. Look him square in his pleading eyes taking in the white beard slowly turning crimson with blood.

"Don't tell me, you're Santa Claus delivering presents for all the boys and girls?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, look please I really am S...."

I cut off his driveling bullshit with another backhand slap. Never could stand thieves.

"Shut up scumbag".

Claims he has a heart condition and needs the pills from the glove compartment of his sleigh. Santa with a bad ticker? Too many mince pies and sherry? Nice try.

“No pills for you thief. Picked the wrong street to burglarize this Christmas!”

Degenerate fool keels over playing dead. Very still. Good acting my son.

The vehicle moves beneath its cover so I rip it off and step back in stunned shock. Nine docile reindeer all stare at me with accusing glares. Harnessed to a quaint wooden sledge.

On the seat is a dirty cotton sack that appears empty. With shaking hands I untie the twine and open it. Stardust sprays the air and a kaleidoscope of colour bursts all around me bathing my senses, illuminating the pitch dark and my soul.

Tie it back up and head to the man in red with a thousand apologies on the tip of my tongue. Won’t rouse, no pulse. Shit.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Only one option.

Drag the stiffening corpse into the garden. Quickly strip it and cover the pale flesh with firewood and leaves. Have to bury it in the woods before sunrise.

The suit is miles too big and the crotch smells. Dirty bastard. Least the braces keep the pants up.

Clamber into the driver’s seat and grip the reins. Quick tug gets no response. How the fuck do you drive a sleigh?

‘’Mush you stupid cunts!’’

Realise mush is for huskies and go beet red. Glad nobody was around to witness that.

Whip hard but still these dopy bastards don’t go.

No time to spare. Lean over and kick the nearest one in the arsehole. That did the trick and away we go.

Gonna be a long night.


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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: LA Sykes

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The day of the big opening. Display stalls quickly being filled by organisations wanting to be seen the most. Networking and getting their services out there. Being early my work was already done so I spied the chance to grab a smoke before the tape cutting started.

Exiting through the fire escape the summer sun bathed my face in warmth. Cool breeze lightly flickered the flame from the match as I inhaled deeply. It was then I saw her. Sweet strawberry blonde hair bobbed as she walked. My eyes took in her body. Fair skinned shoulders lowered to full curved hips and buttocks covered only lightly by a yellow summer dress. Knee length. No panty line. My blood rushed down and I felt myself swell pushing against denim.

She caught my presence in her peripheral vision. Turned and met my gaze. I caught her eyes and gave a small smile that she returned. Let her follow my sight to her pert rear swaying as she walked. She flushed and continued to her car with a confident stride. I couldn’t watch her go. Ground out the smoke with my heel and returned to the big hall.

Official announcements now over. I roam the place selling raffle tickets to disinterested staff. Wearily approach the local college stall and recite my lines as I stroll. A coin hits the table with a dink thrown by a pale hand. I follow it as my pulse quickens once again rousing me. Her.

Shows pearl white teeth as sweet lips part in that same smile. Sat behind the desk she eyes the swelling bulge in my jeans at eye level forcing me to follow her vision. I notice her nipples harden beneath her flimsy cotton and spy the flush return. Tear off the strip. Write my number instead of the office line. My fingers linger as I place the paper in her palm. Catch the dull gold on ring finger and feel my heart fade.

Move on completing the rounds. No interest. Ready to call it a day and go.

Phone vibrates in my pocket jolting me out of stupor. Unknown number with the two word scroll of fire escape.

Look around dizzily seeing nothing in the buzz of human traffic. Head to the doors finding her midway down the stairs leaning against the rail.
Descend to meet her on the step. Ether between us fires together pulsing electric. Feel her breath and cool lips and hot wet tongue on my neck sucking and licking as her arms pull me close. Lean in without resistance as my fingers run up her smooth thighs under the dress and grip her cheeks roughly spreading them. She moans quietly and brushes my bulging cock quickly fumbling with my belt and buttons. Pulls out my throbbing erection and grips the veined shaft. Wedding ring nipped at the skin as her hand massaged hard. I exhale with raw pleasure as she drops to her knees engulfing head first then deeper as I run my fingers through her fine strawberry blonde hair. She stands abruptly bending over and hitching the hem of her dress backing onto my erect prick and groaning as she grinds slowly down the length. Pull out and crouch licking her sweet wet pussy from behind flicking her hard clit and working up entering her moist pussy with my tongue deeply. Mouth moistens with her excitement as I taste with rabid hunger salivating wildly. The burning fire of lust fires me upright as I stretch her entering with my hands gripping her hips. Fuck hard with each thrust harder than the one before as we climax together.

Her tight lips milk every hot drop as I empty hard. Her juices drench my tight balls as we catch shallow breaths as one.
We dress and she faces me with shifting expressions I struggle to identify.

Want. Hunger. Regret.

Our fingers painfully ease apart as her eyes whisper something close to if only.

Breaks gaze with salt tears that drive shards of loss into my veins.

Then she was gone as swift as she appeared leaving me only her scent I still recall as clear as a December night sky.

Never saw her again.

Never even heard her voice.


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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice in musings and satire from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: LA Sykes

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‘’You will most certainly NOT be leaving the hospital!’’ Doctor Bubba stated hysterically. Talking to his patients was very stressful, triggering his self-diagnosed situation-specific social anxiety disorder that he’d diagnosed himself with after long periods of self-assessment. He was very convincing in his diagnoses, especially regarding himself, and was suddenly pleased with his expertise on the matter which reduced his anxieties in this social interaction. Relaxing, he leaned back cooly and caressed the sleeve of his suit jacket with the leather elbow patches that he wore continually in the belief they exuded intellectualism, which triggered severe bouts of self-consciousness, triggering an acute bout of self-consciousness.

‘’Why not! I’ve been compliant with this ridiculous charade to assuage my Community Psychiatric Nurses’ fears! If she hadn’t gone off sick with panic attacks she would have vouched for me to the N’th degree!’’, pleaded Stuart-the dog-shit-obsessionist convincingly. Then he realised his C.P.N. may have had a panic attack witnessing this and was caught between a rock and a hard place. Doctor Bubba may have attributed her panic attack to his plea for discharge which would have triggered a stress response in the doctor, ergo ruling out this as an option. He silently thanked his lucky stars for his C.P.N’s nervous disposition, simultaneously cursing her for her nervous disposition in not being able to vouch for him.

Doctor Bubba felt a nervous trickle of cold sweat break out on his lower back as he tried to remember what assuage meant. For a brief instant he worried profusely that he was in the early stages of Alzheimers disease and his short term memory was beginning to fail him, but this fear was quickly forgotten much to his immediate relief. He stated emphatically ‘’But you’re showing all the symptoms of someone suffering from severe paranoia, even persecution and removal of freedom of choice, more-so that somehow you are being controlled by an external influence. Because of this I will not sanction your discharge. In fact I will recommend you will go back on ten minute observations! It is necessary for someone to watch you every ten minutes to assess whether or not you are paranoid about people watching you. That’s my decision!’’, stated Doctor Bubba with an air of relief and subsequent self-conscious paranoia about the leather elbow patches being visible while gesticulating. ‘’And stop staring at my elbow patches will you! That is a covert attempt at ridicule!’’ Dr Bubba added firmly with no conviction.

Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist was momentarily captivated by the leather elbow patches which he had never noticed before and as hard as he tried could not stop his face from revealing overt ridicule.

‘’Now that is overt ridicule!’’ Dr Bubba expelled with instantaneous detection. ‘’You are much worse than I thought! You’re asking for discharge? Why that’s insane!’’

Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist was swiftly ushered from the consulting room with extreme despondency, not only because of his denial of leave or discharge but the fact was he still hadn’t been able to explain or express his concerns regarding the consequences of his dog shitting in public when he’d failed to carry a shit scooper bag. According to the council’s solicitors he’d been photographed and CCTV’d committing this heinous act of public indecency, yet he retraced his steps and couldn’t find the camera. As such, he’d began to reason people around him had been the instigators and therefore likely been videoing him and his dog on their walks, supplying the only source of evidence for the council charge. He’d then started to make attempts to find out which one of these vindictive bastard neighbours it was, to no avail. An innocent chat with his C.P.N about this and he was here, due to her anxiolitic proclivities. The terrifying problem was that Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist had never been paranoid before, nor was he obsessed by dog shit and became increasingly depressed by being regarded as an obsessionist about his dog shitting. He had a C.P.N only because he’d had a depressive period in the past and was as such humouring a follow up. This worried him immensely and the dilemma was neither being addressed, nor seen in true light. It was beginning to evolve into his ball and chain of insanity according to the labile doctor with the bizarre overtly ridiculous elbow patches. Stuart retired to his room, his agitation increasing cold hard fear by the ten minute intervals he saw staff checking whether he was paranoid about being watched by people by watching him every ten minutes.

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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of satire and musings from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Jenny Nielsmann

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I love to ride. I love the feel of the sweat as it slicks across my body, runs down the crack of my ass and drips to the cock throbbing between my thighs. I love the movement of men beneath me, the hardness they hurl balls deep into me, filling me, grabbing me with arching fingers as I rise, as I roll my cunt back and forth, cradling every inch of them, teasing them until they cum.

Teasing them until the ride is over.

Teasing them to make them eager, eager for me, eager for the snatch they remember, the hot wetness they crave. I'll play with myself to get them hard again, moan a little in their ears. I know what men like. I know what cocks love.

I love only one thing. I love to ride.


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Blond hair, blue eyes, skin tanned Hawaiian style. You know you want me.

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Author: Jenny Nielsmann

Contributor: Seth Johnson

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Every week she returns to the same room to get fucked by strangers. Man or woman, it makes no difference. She’ll gladly let anyone fuck her. She never knows their names, at least not the ones that speak. They always know hers, even though she rarely uses the same one twice. She changes her appearance, too. But there is always some flaw. On the nights when she is ornamented and manicured, she is also bloated. Other nights she is hurried, almost late, arriving sleepless and bare, unfinished.
Her intentions are pure, even though it is not always easy to tell.
They take turns with her.
She passes from one set of hands to another. Some fuck her more than once. Some can’t stop fucking her. Some get impatient and snatch her away, even though her legs are flipped open to reveal her middle, and her climax is on the tip of another’s tongue. A few of the strangers are gentle with her, caressing her skin, admiring her features. They are the ones who never get to hold her long enough. They are quiet fuckers.
It’s the loud fuckers that get her the longest. Sometimes they are brash, they know the best way she should be fucked. Some of them compare her to other girls they’ve fucked: recently, long ago, or even several times. The other girls are always better, professional, maybe even famous. Something about her, the mole on her cheek or the tone of her voice, reminds them of past conquests.
They boast because some of these girls are hard to fuck.
Most of them, in the interest of the best possible fucking experience, focus on her shortcomings. She takes too long to get them hard. She takes too long to get them wet. She fails to keep them aroused. She quit, just stopped, right when they were getting close. She made them come too soon. Usually, she doesn’t make them come at all.
After, she goes home and rests in a dark place, usually for a long time, sometimes forever. She might decide to fix up her appearance and work out her deeper, more significant issues and really do something with her life. But probably not.


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Author: Seth Johnson