Forced sex caught on tape

William Willard "Bill" Sanders (born October 14, 1930) is an American political cartoonist and author known for his cartoons and commentary on civil liberties and civil rights. Early life, education and family. Sanders was born on October 14, 1930, in Springfield, Tennessee ... Bill Sanders started a part-time consulting practice, Sanders Consulting Associates (SCA), on January 1, Year 1. SCA experienced the following transactions during Year 1. It is now year-end and assume that these transactions are the only transactions the company has. Adjusting entries must be made at year-end. Bill Sanders, part 1. Welcome to Reddit, the front page of the internet. Become a Redditor. and join one of thousands of communities. ... Sanders is the author of the "Medicare-for-All" bill in the Senate and is fond of reminding his fellow presidential contenders that he "wrote the damn bill." Sanders advocates a full single-payer ... Answer to .com/courses/1207080/discussion topics/4637145 Problem 1 Bill Sanders started a part-time consulting practice, Sanders C... There are several such proposals for a single-payer system, but what’s below is from the 100-page draft bill most recently introduced, with tweaks, by Sanders in 2019. Green New Deal: Here’s ... 10,615 records for Bill Sanders. Find Bill Sanders's phone number, address, and email on Spokeo, the leading online directory for contact information.

2020.08.03 01:39 copperhillbook Caught tape forced on sex

“He’s a son of a bitch.”
If you made one of those wordcloud things out of every word and phrase anyone ever uttered about Bill Sanders, “son of a bitch” would be big and bold and centered. In fact, the first time I heard those words spoken about him they had just left Lydia Sanders’ lips - a shocking and deeply incongruous moment considering how diplomatic and practiced and convivial, if artificial and Stepfordian, she tended to speak.
It was Priscilla O’Brien’s funeral, or rather the “funeral afterparty,” or whatever that contrived abortion of an excuse for Lydia to throw herself a lavish soiree at the expense of a dead woman you’d care to call it. She’d begun introducing me around the room, one arm linked into mine, another clutching a glass of red that she never seemed to drink but which still seemed to disappear gradually on its own, parading me about like a new terrier being introduced to her other pets. Someone - I think it was Regina Jackson - asked her if I’d met Bill yet, and I saw Lydia’s demeanor change instantly as her head and eyes darted about the main room like a jackal that realized one of its zebras had escaped. “Oh, you know him. He’s not one for social events. Probably upstairs avoiding people. Heaven forbid he make an appearance out of basic respect for Priscilla’s life.” And I heard the tenor in her voice change to a low, almost primal, growl. “He’s a son of a bitch,” she seethed, nostrils flared, shaking her head. Then, as if her rather inappropriate outburst hadn’t ground the conversation to a halt she smiled, handed her glass to Marco and asked him to kindly refill it, and continued her mission to carouse at all cost unabated.
Thing is, I had remembered seeing him. Off to the side of their family kitchen, away from most of Lydia’s thronging masses, was a rather impressive little dining nook with leather benches and a few houseplants and a small, unlit iron stove. I saw him there a few minutes after I’d arrived - the pepper greyed hair and stubble, the impossibly broad shoulders stuffed unwillingly into what I’m sure was the one white dress shirt he owned, quietly sucking down a beer. He was sitting with Pat O’Brien and their kid Justin, the two of them in an absolute fog, Pat with his head in his hands, Justin looking down, all of them obligated to accept Lydia’s hospitality with gratitude but none of them actually wanting to partake in it. I remember thinking that of everyone in that house at that moment only Bill Sanders was offering the O’Briens anything remotely supportive. Sometimes when you’re going through serious trauma you don’t really need anyone to DO anything - sometimes you just need them to sit there with you, quietly, and remind you that you’re not alone. That was why I didn’t tell Lydia I’d seen him; not only did I assume that he was doing something deeply selfless that didn’t require disruption but from her tone I could tell that any interaction between them would be at best steeped in tension and at worst a lit powderkeg. No one needed that, least of all Bill, who in that moment I decided I respected more than anyone else in Copperhill.
Over the next few months Bill worked very, very hard to absolve me of that respect.
Years before and back in Nashville during my brief but disastrous attempt to be a gay man, I’d encountered the unfortunate phenomenon in which overly-popular gay men, having normalized a total lack of basic respect for other human beings, would absolutely refuse to acknowledge your existence in their presence. I must concede that it rarely happened to me - young and well-built and square-jawed and clearly new and naive I was both a welcome conversation partner and an easy target for their predatory advances. But while in those circles I saw, more than once, a brave soul approach the boy of his dreams only to have that boy literally refuse to acknowledge that his suitor existed. The poor, innocent sap would spend a few moments weakly attempting to start a conversation - his target would literally just ignore the attempt, and eventually this “nuisance” would “get the hint,” and quietly walk away. As a Nebraska kid raised on ideals of basic, common courtesy, I found this jarring. It was patiently explained to me by more than one alpha homo that there really was no other choice - if you acknowledge said person in any capacity it would be inevitably taken as a sign that he had a shot with you. Even just saying “thanks, but I’m not interested,” would be taken as an entree to attempt at conversation, or sometimes they’d act defensive or offended at the very IDEA that all they were interested in was sex, so you’d chat them up, and within five minutes it became clear that yes, they had only been talking to you in an effort to worm their way into your heart so that you would give in and fuck them. My initial instinct was to loathe this practice and I refused to be part of it, and I politely greeted every stranger that made a pass at me; and sure enough, it became all I could do to keep every offer of dick away from my face and ass, despite the constant insistence that I wasn’t interested in more than a pleasant dialogue. Eventually I caught myself being the same gaslighting bastard I’d so loathed, choosing to ignore or be flat-out rude to any stranger that approached me in a bar or club who I wasn’t interested in; and seeing myself become someone my midwest values had sworn me to never to be, I chose to walk away from the Nashville gay scene altogether.
And that, I soon found, was precisely Bill’s modus operandi for dealing with any social situation that he didn’t want to engage in. On a handful of rare occasions, early in my ill-fated start in Copperhill, I’d see Bill alone at one of Lydia’s parties. The first time that happened I saw him resting on a far away couch, far from the gravitational pull of his wife; I assumed he was just a bit shy or introverted, and I genuinely wanted to chat him up.
“Hi, Bill, right? Chris Lewis. The...new counselor…”
I felt my voice wane as I realized how plainly he ignored my existence. Staring, straight ahead at a rather empty wood paneled wall, drinking a beer. I honestly thought he might be blind and/or hard of hearing, so unaware and unreactive he seemed to my presence. Finally Tommy Campbell yanked me aside - blessedly it was early in the evening, before Tommy’s drinking had made him habitually unwelcome - and shook his head at me. “Don’t even try,” Tommy whispered. “He’s a son of a bitch.”
I won’t attempt to fully chart the complex web of ironies that mirrored my early relationship with Bill to those bitchy Nashville queens; suffice to say they were many and I was acutely aware of them. I felt them every time I’d pass him on campus and offer him a friendly nod, and he would breeze past me like I didn’t exist, or when I came to him on the field or to his office with paperwork or a project update and he wordlessly sent an underling, usually Tommy, to intercept me so he wouldn’t have to interact with me or return my obvious overtures of honest friendship. My early, earnest, well-intentioned optimism made it so difficult to accept his total disregard for my presence; and as I began to recognize how fundamentally broken the town was and how sociopathic its dynamic was, as bitter cynicism crept through soul like rot through an apple barrell, I found myself as filled with loathing for Bill as I’m sure those rejected, unworthy men felt when they struck out with a gay man who was “out of their league.” And on top of all that I’m sure I was sublimating with rage, in much the same way that those rejected suitors often would, a self-crafted delusion that my interest in Bill Sanders was purely professional and familiar; because yeah, given the chance, I totally would’ve fucked him.
Don’t get me wrong - if I’ve made anything clear enough it’s that my predilections tended toward men my age and younger. If you’d asked me before I met a man like Bill if I would’ve slept with someone pushing 50 I might’ve gagged from feigned disgust at the very thought of it. And yet, you’d sleep with Hugh Jackman wouldn’t you? You’d cut off your right fucking arm for the privilege of fucking Hugh Jackman; and Hugh Jackman is well past 50. See, my theory is that there are some people physically perfect enough that they defy our so-called boundaries and preferences. And Bill was this town’s, or at least my, Hugh Jackman - a somber, gravely bear of a man who looked like he’d spent his whole life training as a bodybuilder, and even at his age still spent every free moment he could in the gym; which, considering his wife’s personality, I frankly didn’t doubt.
And like a jilted Nashville suitor, as my resentment for the town grew so did my resentment of Bill’s snubbery. To be honest, it made every moment I was forced to work with or even be tangentially near him totally unbearable. As such I decided that for my own sanity I should have as little to do with him as humanly possible.
Naturally, the moment I decided that, our presence in each others’ lives started to increase dramatically. It began with Loretta’s departure - with no one yet filling her enviable H.R. position it fell to Dean Gulden to make administrative decisions; and rather than risk making a single goddamned choice about anything on his own he just required all administrative department heads to join his meaningless twice weekly meetings. And since Bill was the Director of Physical Activities, we were now in those meetings together. I’d begun a conscious habit of pretending he didn’t exist; which meant, naturally, that I was watching him from the corner of my eye. I think he picked up on the shift in my normally pleasant demeanor around him, and every once in a while I’d catch a glance from him my way. I stared straight ahead. Before I’d hoped to be his friend; now I just hoped he’d leave me the fuck alone.
Then the whole Trent Becker / Jenn Reed shitshow happened. Bill himself had demanded the college’s inquiry into whether or not Trent had forced himself on his girlfriend, though he fumed quite openly when he realized I’d be the only appropriate person to spearhead it. I remember leaving that first meeting thinking maybe Bill might not hate me as much when I proved Trent had raped Jenn, because of course he had; and then when it became obvious that Trent was innocent, dreading the meeting when I’d not only have to infuriate him, I’d have to ask why the Hell he didn’t just believe what had come out in arbitration.
“You don’t know he didn’t do it.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. I also couldn’t believe he cared so little about what Pam or Isaac Becker thought of him that he said that in front of them, let alone Dean Gulden. “Bill,” I said in as plain a deadpan as I could muster, she admitted she panicked when he tried to break up with her. The Beckers would’ve filed a restraining order against her if June hadn’t promised to get her counseling. What...” I found my normally unending patience growing thin, “what other proof do you need?”
“I wanna know that Trent Becker doesn’t think he can come onto MY field and play while he’s spending his nights forcing his unwanted hormones on any girl in the goddamned state unlucky enough to...” he saw the look of horror on Pam’s face as he tried to trash her baby boy’s reputation in front of her, and somehow that seemed to have finally stoked his conscience into reframing his unhinged rant. “I don’t know what you think you proved, but you didn’t prove Becker’s not a rapist. As long as he’s still talking to you, he can play ball. Doesn’t mean this is over.” Bill stormed out. Pamela Becker finally broke; her tears giving way to sobs. Isaac leaned in to comfort her, but that only seemed to enrage her, and she threw his hands off her shoulders.
She turned and stared at the empty door he’d just evacuated. “He’s a son of a bitch,” she choked bitterly.
That wasn’t the end of it. Bill demanded “progress” meetings about Trent every two weeks. As infuriating as his impertinence was I couldn’t really refuse him - his and Lydia’s relationship with the Dean was too strong to say no. They were meaningless affairs, really - Bill was both the director of the sports programs and Trent’s head coach, and the asshole could’ve just benched Becker or dropped him from the roster altogether. And I’d made it clear from the beginning of my counseling that anything Trent told me would stay between us, so it’s not like there were any updates to give him. There was really no excuse to force us all in a room together except as a way of humiliating and punishing Trent - his coaches, his parents, and the Dean, all together, rehashing a debunked charge over and over again in a room somewhere where he wasn’t allowed to defend himself. As Trent and I grew closer and closer I came to dread those meetings: me and his parents his primary advocates, Bill his chief prosecutor, Dean Gulden the tepid judge who knew we had no reason to meet but refused to grow a spine and admit it. Bill would rail the same dozen or so vague accusations or questions, I would answer them as calmly and respectfully as possible, and Bill would stew, clearly uninterested in a satisfactory answer.
Finally toward the end of another random Thursday afternoon bullshit railroading, as I weakly anticipated the end of Bill’s volley of attacks, he opened his ragged paper calendar. “Classes are ending soon for the summer. We should meet once a week.”
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST BILL.”
The room became very, very quiet. Still. All eyes turned to me, even Bill’s. Vacant. Expressionless. In shock that I’d violated the unspoken decorum of this meaningless meeting with an outburst that wouldn’t even be welcome at Mack’s. To be honest, I was rather in shock too - I’d never lost control like this. But Bill’s passive aggressive callousness had managed to push a button I didn’t know I still had.
“All of us. Everyone in this room. We’re all here because YOU wanted us here. You wanted this committee. You wanted Trent to play, but you also wanted to know that he didn’t assault Jen Reed. Well that investigation closed and Jen recanted. The Beckers had to threaten a restraining order to keep her from calling him. So . . . why in the everloving FUCK are we still in this room?” I felt the vitriol pour hot from my lips like lava, an unstoppable force that was prepared to take everyone in the room down, myself included. “Do you want Trent on the field? Yes? No? Do you wanna share with us, with ANY of us, why you worked so hard to get Trent cleared of wrongdoing and NOW you’re looking for any excuse to legally sabotage his chance to play, when you could just be his coach and kick him off your team? Or hey, maybe you just want to explain to everyone in this room who set aside their lives to do this for you why you are SUCH. A FUCKING. SON OF A BITCH to anyone who tries to be a fucking human being to you?!”
I breathed. Shallow, heavy, labored. The room was still silent, thick with the weight of my words and, I could feel, the contract review that Dean Gulden was performing in his head to decide exactly how he would fire me without having to pay me a severance. Finally I stood, gathering my papers and any shred of dignity I might have casually discarded in my outburst. “This meeting is done. If you all will excuse me, I’m going back to my office. I turned to meet Trents’ parents deer-eyed, indeed rather frightened, gaze. “Pam, Isaac. You’ve got a great son. Rest assured that whatever Bill decides I’ll continue to do my best to ensure that he doesn’t turn out . . .” I passed a bitter glance across the conference table, “like anyone in this room.”
Tommy was to my immediate right, and as I stormed out he mouthed a “wow” and a thumbs-up at me. Great, I thought, if I needed any confirmation that I just did the dumbest thing possible, Tommy Campbell approves of it.
I spent the evening working from the couch and coffee table in my office. I wasn’t a fan of the after hours paperwork but without a real HR person on staff and without a really effective assistant (much as I loved Joe) I knew there was way to much CYA work that wasn’t being done, and especially with how “familiar” I’d become with some of my patients my A was in serious need of some Cing. Anyway I kind of enjoyed the chance to spread out a bit, to relax alone with a shitty beer and feel like I was accomplishing something without feeling like an interaction with an overeager parent or a spoiled teenager was sucking away my life. This was my time. Unfortunately that night I wasn’t just working to relax - if anything the pretense of working was a show, a pantomime I was performing for myself to vainly pretend I hadn’t just ended my career. I didn’t want to leave my office because I was hoping they’d send someone to tell me to my face that I was fired instead of dreading a call or email. Not sure I could’ve relaxed at home or slept anyway.
Somewhere around 7:30, Bill knocked on my open door. Man, that really pissed me off. They didn’t even have the courtesy to send Dean Gulden to fire me - they were going to give Bill the satisfaction of punishing me for going off on him.
I just stared at him frostily, not unlike how he’d coldly stare at me when he was done with me and wanted me to depart his existence. I don’t think he picked up on it. He coughed a little, precisely like a man that hates to speak suddenly being forced to, and held up a cloudy brown bottle and a couple of glasses. “You ever try a small batch sour mash?”
Really, I thought, of all people, he’s gonna Lydia Sanders me? He won’t even be kind enough to call me an asshole back, like I knew he wanted to? Was he trying to smooth things over, maybe making sure I didn’t tell anyone what a sham the college was turning out to be? At least I thought I knew him to be honest about what he believed - now, it seemed, I was wrong about that too. Nonetheless, I played ball - my instinct was to be cordial, even if this town was about to fuck me over. “No,” I sighed, “I can’t say I have.”
He pushed his way into the room and well past my comfort zone, sitting next to me on my couch like we’d been old friends. “It’s amazing stuff. Smoky. I’m sure you’ve had Jack Daniel’s or a Maker’s Mark . . .”
“I don’t really want a drink, thanks . . .” I lied, a beer bottle in clear view.
“. . . and they’re great but they don’t really capture . . .”
“I’d like to get some work done . . .”
“. . . the subtleties of . . . I mean here,” he poured a glass and dropped it on my coffee table.
“I don’t have time for . . .”
“I promise if you try . . .”
I was getting agitated, my voice raising. “Bill, just do what you came here to . . .”
“JESUS FUCK Chris will you . . .” he swallowed hard, the pregnant pause of a man filled with shame and regret. “I know I’m not good at this but will you let me just try to fucking apologize?”
Now it was my turn to be cowed into silence. It wasn’t even the suggestion of an apology. It was that he called me Chris. It was so honest, so familiar. No one had called me Chris, not since . . . Michael.
Finally I found words, but I couldn’t deliver them while looking him in the eye. “I . . . guess I thought you were here to fire me.”
Bill chuckled at that. I don’t think I’d ever heard him laugh. “Fire you? Are you kidding? That was a room full of people who wanted to throw you a ticker tape parade for what you said back there.” He poured himself a glass from the unmarked, swirling brownish bottle, clinked the glass he’d poured me on the table as though I’d even bothered to touch it, and took a sip. I could see a quiet ease come over him as the contents settled his nerves, a none-too-subtle reminder that functioning alcoholism was a way of life in this and many other small Southern towns. He stared straight ahead for a while at the TV under my desk, maybe trying to come up with something to say or maybe just imagining it was ESPN.
Suddenly he perked up. “You ever meet my girls?” I started to say yes, that I’d met them a couple of times at Lydia’s parties, and they were both adorable; then I realized it was just an excuse for him to reach behind him and pull out his wallet and flash me a few prideful pictures of his young daughters. “Sarah’s thirteen. Idn’t she cute with the short hair? She’s such a tomboy. Her mom makes her get dolled up for the public - if she had her choice she’d be in overalls digging for insects in the mud all day. Now Samantha,” he flipped to a picture of the older daughter, “she’s the girlie girl. Like her mom. Getting popular in high school, starting to meet some of the boys. She asked me if she could date . . .” his voice trailed off a bit, and I could tell he’d let his mind wander to a dark place, his thumb still pressed to the beautiful girl in the photo with light brown curls.
Finally he spoke again. “You know about Tina?”
“Piscatelli?”
“Yeah.”
“A little. Just what I heard whenever people wanted to tell me why I should stay away from Tommy.” I couldn’t tell him I’d read her letter, the one Loretta had promised to burn, the one condemning him and Lydia and the whole town.
Bill grimaced at that. “Tommy didn’t deserve . . .” he paused, thought better of his words, and restarted. “Lydia and I, when we confronted her after it all came out, she just...went off. Accused us of pretending to care about Tommy when we were really just protecting ourselves and the town. She said we looked the other way for years when girls would accuse guys in the sports program of sexual assault, but the moment one of those girls admits to being in love with an assistant coach . . .”
“She was angry.”
“She was right.” I must’ve looked startled by that admission of self-awareness - he snorted. “I mean . . . no one think they’re part of the problem when they’re cleaning up the mess left by some dumbass lacrosse player. You just tell yourself that there aren’t any good solutions, but your first duty is to protect your college and your town. So you throw money at the problem. Strong arm it. Girl gets to talking, you take the boy’s parents aside and tell them to pay off the family and take it out of his trust fund, and when he cries shit about it you hope it means he’s learned not to touch a girl without her consent ever again. Everyone’s on board, because we all like our quiet little town and we want to keep it quiet.” He shook his head. “It’s just that it takes something like that, a girl like Tina Piscatelli yelling at you, to make you look back and ask if you haven’t taught every boy in Copperhill that they never have to take no for an answer.”
His words were heavy, and the weight of his guilt felt like such a body blow that I felt an obligation to defend him. “That’s not on you Bill. Those boys know what they’re doing is wrong. They’re old enough to decide. . .”
“Are they,” he snapped at me. “Are they really old enough? I mean you called them boys. That’s what they are.”
“If they’re 18, they’re old enough to make adult decisions and face adult consequences.”
“You’ve talked to these kids, Chris. How many of these 18 year olds do you know that are genuinely adult enough to make adult decisions?” I was silent - he knew that I knew he was right. “Oh, when we want to give them responsibilities, sure, we love to force that on them. Take on a hundred thousand dollars of college debt? Adult. Fly halfway around the world to die in some Godforsaken desert so the rest of us can pay two dollars a gallon for gasoline? Adult. Pretend you didn’t hear a girl tell you to stop? Hell, even if you’re NOT an adult we’ll TRY you as an adult. But when it’s time to let them drink a beer or rent a car…” his rant derailed a bit, and he recollected his point. “When we call them just boys and we call ourselves the adults, at what point do WE take some of the responsibility for being the adults?”
I think he expected me to answer, but honestly, I was pretty shocked by his eloquence; not to mention that it felt like he’d spoken more words to me in that paragraph than he’d offered me in the entire rest of the time I’d known him. He was still looking down at that picture of Samantha, his hand trembling from the strength of his own grip like that wallet owed him money. Finally he spoke again. “You’re telling me that Trent Becker didn’t rape that girl. Fine, I believe you. But you and I both know he could. You and I both know that this town would just . . . we’d just . . . make it go away. So, what’s . . . to stop . . .” his voice trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish the point. In that moment I finally understood - he wasn’t an asshole coach waffling about whether a stuck up, silver spoon jock had done enough penance to play football. He was the father of a little girl who would be 18 in three years, wondering if he’d done everything he could to protect her from a town full of monsters he himself may have helped create.
“You and me Bill. We’ll stop them. Starting today.” They were hollow words. He knew it, I knew it. But I don’t think he really needed a response. He just needed to be heard.
Finally he released the vice grip on his daughter’s picture and, taking a sip from his glass, shoved the wallet in his back pocket. I took a sip too, because fuck it, I think we’d earned each other’s trust at that point and it was pretty insulting of me to let good alcohol go to waste. (And fuck, was it good. Deep and smoky, it tasted like . . . like the end of a long day.) Then he took a deep breath and turned back toward me, though still not quite looking me in the eye. “Anyway, look, I just needed you to know . . . you’re maybe one of the few people in this town that never hit me with some angle or bullshit agenda. I know you were trying to be my friend, and I shit all over that. You’re a good guy, maybe one of the few genuinely good guys in this town, and you didn’t deserve any of what I gave you. And I’m sorry as hell about that.”
The minor pang of guilt at his belief that I had no agenda aside, I felt a wave of relief and gratitude wash over me. “Forgotten, man. We’re good.”
“It’s just . . . this town . . .”
“This town is like a funhouse mirror.” He looked at me, puzzling that comment. I took a drink. “It shows you reflections of reality but they're all distorted. People act kind and friendly to you, but you can tell pretty easily it’s fake. Then after a while you start to forget what real kindness and friendship look like, so you assume everything is part of the illusion and nothing is worth taking seriously.”
He looked a bit stunned. “Yeah, that’s… I’ve never heard it put that way, but…” He shook his head and emptied his glass, and like drinking was his task for the night he sighed an awkwardly segued goodbye. “Listen, I, uh, I guess I should go . . .” He got up and moved for the door.
“Bill, who do you have to talk to?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like . . . like this.” I pointed between us. “Just . . . talking. Honestly. About what’s going on in your life.”
“I don’t need a therapist,” he grumbled.
“I’m not saying you need a therapist,” I lied, because that was absolutely what I was saying, “but I think you could use a friend.” I flipped open the calendar on the pile of papers next to me just to confirm. “I’m here Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday and totally free after 6 pm. Maybe you can come by with another bottle of sour mash, and we can just . . . you know . . . talk.”
“He looked so confused, like a man being offered a hundred dollar bill for nothing. “Why? Why would you wanna do that?
I picked up the liquor he’d left in front of me, downed it in one, and pointed the empty glass at him. “Because you’re not a son of a bitch, Bill.”
He smiled broadly. It melted my heart.
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2020.08.01 16:05 MarceloBoy16 Caught on forced sex tape

A.K.A.: "The Vampire of Niterói"
Real name: Marcelo Costa de Andrade
Crimes: Pedophile and Necrophilia
Date of murders: April-December 1991
Date of arrest: December 18, 1991
Date of birth: January 2, 1967
Victims profile: Boys aged between 6 to 13 years
Method of murder: Strangulation
Location: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

https://preview.redd.it/irp0ubrqzee51.jpg?width=450&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c675b561112d232b539e7c0fd6a2089151820d1e
https://preview.redd.it/of0drggpzee51.jpg?width=533&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=d5e0ad22e1197adffd9a85ca7f7ab5dc858e66ac
Ex-rentboy turned religious maniac Marcelo Costade Andrade made headlines in 1992 when he confessed to a nine-month murder spree. Brazil's most infamous killer said he raped and slaughtered 14 boys from the slums of Rio so they "would go to heaven"
A million people live in the slums of Rio de Janeiro. The most notorious ghetto is Rocinha, which sprawls down the hillside and overlooks the elegant high-rises of So Conrado and some of Brazil's most spectacular beaches. Perhaps nowhere in the world is the disparity between the haves and have-nots more striking than here, and nothing a more potent reminder than the thousands of homeless kids who constantly roam its streets.
Rocinha has an estimated population of 150,000. Armies of children maraud their way through its labyrinthine alleyways, and youngsters die in the shantytown in such numbers that Brazil has been compared to a country at war.
Between December 1987 and November 2001, 3,937 children died violent deaths - the majority victims of an ever-escalating drug war that has been raging in the slums since the cocaine trade took hold there in the early 1980s. Employed as 'soldiers' by drug lords to protect and expand their turf, armed teenagers murder each other in pitched battles, and innocent bystanders get caught in the crossfire almost every day.
Those who don't run drugs are forced to survive any other way they can. They scavenge for food, sell gum, polish shoes, beg, steal, mug people... and sometimes kill. Blamed for the spiralling crime rate, and for making Rio one of the murder capitals of the world, the children find very little sympathy among the citizens of Rio. Universally shunned and despised, they are routinely beaten, abused and attacked.
The situation was made even worse in the 1990s, when they were regularly being picked off by roving extermination squads. Made up in the main of off-duty policeman and security guards, the squads were on the payroll of normally law-abiding citizens, and their mission was to clean up the streets. In 1991, at least four children were being executed every day.
For a murderer, especially one with a liking for young boys, the conditions on Brazil's streets could not have been more ideal. Such was the daily death toll the Brazilian authorities didn't even notice that somebody else, acting on their own, was slaughtering young boys in the slums.
For Marcelo Costa de Andrade, who had spent almost his entire life on the streets, it wasn't difficult to blend in and lure the children away from prying eyes to abandoned spots and their slaughter. While the children from the Rio slums were wary of the dangers that constantly surrounded them, De Andrade seemed to be one of the few adults they could trust. With a harmless appearance, a gentle manner and a soft, childlike way of speaking, the 23-year-old lived with his mother, regularly attended church, had a normal job, and when talking to children made constant allusions to his faith in God.
Growing up poor in the Rocinha slum, De Andrade's childhood was in many ways the same as that of the street kids: no food on the table, no running water, constant abuse, and hardly any school. De Andrade spent most of his time on the street hustling, and was just 10 when he ran away from home for the first time. At 14, he started selling himself to adults for sex.
On the rare occasions he was at home, De Andrade was beaten senseless by both his stepparents, and was sexually abused. At 16, he moved in with an older man, but when he was thrown out he went to live with his mother in another nearby Rio slum. Aged 17, he tried to rape his 10-year-old brother, and started listening obsessively to tapes he had made of his brother crying.
But it was when he had left hustling for good and was attending church regularly with his mother that his killing spree began. According to De Andrade, it was an encounter with a young transvestite that was the trigger. And once he'd begun there was no stopping him.
"One day when I was walking I met a 14-year-old boy. A transvestite," De Andrade recalled in an interview with Epoca magazine in 2003. "He propositioned me to go to a hotel with him. I had sex with him and kissed him on the mouth. I paid him 50 Reais [£12]. I never got to see him again. But it sparked the desire for new boys. As I didn't find another one like him I ended up forcing myself on others. I always took them to a deserted spot.
"The sadism went to my head. I ended up killing some of them... I do not remember their faces very well. The first one I caught was in Niter-i. I only know that his name was Anderson. I offered him money. I said he could help me light candles in the church. I took him to a deserted place. When we got there I raped him. I then strangled him with his own shirt. I returned to the spot where the body was three times, to see if anyone had discovered anything. Nobody ever suspected me."
De Andrade went on to murder 13 other street kids, following the same pattern as the first. He lured them with sweets and money to secluded spots, raped them, strangled them or beat them to death and had sex with their corpses. He then buried them in shallow graves.
In two instances he drank their blood. After sexually abusing his victims, often for an entire night, he would crack their heads open and collect the blood in a bowl to drink. De Andrade carried the bowl with him everywhere he went. He drank their blood so that he would be "as young and cute as them" and killed them so they "would go to Heaven". He also removed his victims' shorts and kept them as trophies. De Andrade targeted the "prettiest boys" he could find, always hunting for "smooth legs, and a pretty face and body".
But there was also a religious motive for his murders. The church he attended was the controversial Universal Church of the Kingdom of God. Founded by a state-lottery employee turned American-style evangelist, Edir Macedo, it is the fastest-growing religion in Brazil.
As well as offering protection from voodoo and witchcraft, the church claims that 'demons' are responsible for people's problems (including homosexuality, which is viewed by the church as a disease). De Andrade's church would cast out these 'demons', and to this day the murderer claims he was possessed by evil spirits who forced him to kill because "they like children's blood".
In the midst of his killing spree the devout De Andrade was going to church four times a week, for up to five hours at a time. De Andrade claimed later that a priest had told him that boys who died under the age of 13 automatically went to heaven. He misunderstood the priest's message, interpreting it as meaning that by killing the boys he was not only ending their awful existence in the slums but also ensuring them a one-way ticket to paradise.
It was for this reason that De Andrade never targeted girls. Girls, he claimed, were different from boys because they didn't go to heaven and, of course, boys were "prettier".
Dr Helen Morrison, a forensic psychiatrist and well-known serial-killer profiler, went to interview De Andrade in Brazil in November 2001. She recounts the experience in her book My Life Amongst The Serial Killers Of The World's Most Notorious Murderers. Through an interpreter, De Andrade reiterated his claim that he had been doing his victims a favour by killing them. "The children have bad lives here," he told her. "If they are children when they die they go to heaven. A better place."
But De Andrade went much further than gently sending them on their way. After raping and killing 11-year-old Odair Jose Muniz, whom he had met near a football pitch, he returned later in the night with a machete, which he told his mother he was taking to cut some bananas. Back at the scene of the crime, he hacked the boy's head off. "Why?" asked Morrison. In order, De Andrade told her, that the other children in heaven would make fun of him because he wouldn't have a head. After all, the kids used to make fun of him at school.
De Andrade's killing spree was prolific but mercifully short-lived. According to Morrison's account of the case, on 11 December 1991 brothers Altair (10) and Ivan Abreu (six) were picked up by De Andrade, who offered them $20 if they both accompanied him while he lit candles in a nearby church. The boys readily agreed. But as soon as they were away from public view, De Andrade turned on Altair and made to kiss him. Altair tried to run, but his molester was too quick for him, grabbing the boy and throwing him to the ground.
Then he turned his attention to Ivan and started strangling him. "I was so paralysed by fear I could not run away," Altair later recalled. "I watched in horror, tears streaming down my cheeks, as he killed and then raped my brother."
When it was all over, De Andrade moved towards Altair, opening his arms wide. According to Morrison, the terrified boy could smell his dead brother all over De Andrade's clothes and was convinced the monster looming above him was going to kill him. Instead, De Andrade embraced him. "I have sent Ivan to heaven," the killer told him. "I love you."
Too terrified to try and make a run for it, Altair agreed to spend the night with De Andrade, sleeping rough in the bushes behind a petrol station. The next morning, De Andrade even took the boy to work with him in the tourist district of Copacabana. However, Altair managed to escape and find his way home. He told his mother what had happened and De Andrade was arrested two days later.
In the meantime, the killer, who often revisited the scene of his crimes and left trays of food and other offerings to his victims, had returned to Ivan's corpse to tuck the tiny boy's hands into his pockets so the rats wouldn't chew on his fingers.
Instead of making a run for it, De Andrade carried on as if nothing had happened, and was arrested at work in Copacabana, where he handed out fliers for a jewellery shop. Initially, he confessed to only the murder of Ivan, but when his mother was called in for questioning two months later, she reluctantly told police about how her son had once asked for the use of her machete and had come back the next morning with it smeared in blood.
De Andrade finally confessed to 13 other murders and led police to the burial sites. Declared insane on 26 April 1993, the murderer was placed in the Heitor Carrilho psychiatric hospital in Rio. He is evaluated annually; each year since then, he has been declared insane.
Bizarre talked to Ilana Casoy, an expert on Brazilian serial killers, who has met and interviewed De Andrade many times. Casoy is well known for her work as a profiler in the investigation into Brazil's most prolific serial killer, Francisco das Chagas Rodrigues de Brito, who killed and castrated 42 boys over a 12-year period.
"Many serial killers in Brazil kill children, but each one has their own way of doing it," Casoy explains. "Each one of them has his own fantasies and symbolism, his own ritual way of killing someone. But my meeting with De Andrade was different to my meetings with other killers in many ways, because by meeting him I could really understand what it is to be an insane person. De Andrade has this mental illness and you get the feeling he doesn't know the true scale of what he did, the difference between right and wrong. There is no cure. Nobody knows what treatment he should receive, so they give him drugs to keep him under control, and that's about all they can do."
In her chapter on De Andrade in Serial Killers: Made In Brazil, Casoy changed the names of his victims to biblical names, so the mothers who read it would never know which child was their own. While she has met and interviewed some of Brazil's worst serial killers, meeting Andrade is something Casoy will never forget:
"Meeting someone like Marcelo Costa de Andrade is very hard for any human being. I was sick in bed for four days after I talked to him. He is like a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing. Look at him and you would never for a single second imagine what he is capable of doing with children. As soon as he told me that he took the shorts off every child he killed and kept them as trophies he asked me to bring him a gift - a pair of new shorts. I'd never give them to him. I hope he stays in the lunatic asylum for his entire life."
De Andrade managed to escape from the asylum in January 1997 when a guard accidentally left a door open. He was on the run for 12 days until frantic police finally managed to catch up with him in the town of Guaraciaba do Norte in the northeastern state of Ceara. He had managed to hitchhike his way more than 3,000km to visit his father and was, when he was picked up, "on his way to the Holy Land". He told police that by killing the children he was now purified.
De Andrade now resides in the Henrique Roxo hospital in Rio de Janeiro. He claims to be an evangelist and expresses his hope that one day he will be back on the streets. All he needs, he says, is the love of a good woman to keep him on the straight and narrow. He asks God to light the way. But according to Casoy, his so-called religious convictions are a sham.
"De Andrade is not a religious guy and he never was," she said. "He just heard a priest who said that a child under 13 years old goes straight to paradise if he dies without sins. He believed it literally."
As one of Brazil's sickest criminals, De Andrade relishes his moments in the spotlight and has been known to demand Hollywood-level fees for interviews. 'The Vampire of Niteroi', as he is sometimes known, even phoned up Dr Morrison in her hotel room in Sao Paulo in 2001 and demanded $10,000 for an interview, a request Morrison flatly refused.
Now that his fame is fading, and his exploits have been outdone, De Andrade, according to Casoy, loves talking with anyone who pays him attention. His mother is the only relative who visits him, and that's only once a year. He shows absolutely no remorse.
"His mind is more or less the same as that of a 12-year-old," says Casoy. "He dreams of going to Disneyland or Moscow, winning a million dollars and having plastic surgery on his face so he would never be recognised by anyone. He never feels bad about what did, just worried that it screwed up his life. He wasn't happy telling me what he did, but he wasn't sad about it either. It's something that doesn't make any difference to him either way...
"He believes he was utterly tender to the children he killed and saved them from hell. He doesn't know it was really wrong or awful. He told me all of it as if he was talking about simple everyday things, but with specific and cruel details, and the tone in his voice never changed - never changed for a single moment."
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2020.08.01 15:43 loser-poetry Forced sex caught on tape

Graham paused, closed his eyes, for a moment he dreamt, it was abrupt and formed around him like a sea of hostile motion. Something - maybe a sharp wind coming from an open door, or a window - brushed against him as a lover might on a cold night. This dream, this horror, his life behind closed eyes, was the same corruption of desire that felt half dreamt as he opened his eyes again. He would pretend this ghostly hallucination came from the same dark dimensions that lived under his eyes.
Was this a trick? Graham thought.
Is there life beyond these thoughts?
Am I a monster?
Graham thought of something else. He thought how the ocean reminded him of a great beast that vomited jellyfish and seaweed, swallowed men and civilizations, while it receded from the pull like bodies in suspension, fragmented immortals - all explanations incomprehensible, as magic brought choice, a child in spirit, a tree burning in the far distance. Human beings are destined for hopeless lives and misinterpretations, lies choke their blood, what is part man and is it the same as being part human? Graham wept at these thoughts.
As he looked out from this notion he noticed the reddish walls of the bar he was bartending in and the familiar smell that sank deep inside him, a colorful odor of sweat and bad breath and dandruff. It was the sort of smell that lay heavy on your tongue and watered your eyes with a strange coolness. It was the smell that shook him and awakened him now as he stood unmoved behind the bar while his dream shattered and swept back behind the mysterious pull that lay in the darkness under his eyelids. The same reaction that told him to - blink, blink, blink.
There was a dream for every one of those blinks. And Graham wanted to forget every one of them - even if he had to play against the reactions of those around him.
He watched the slight shadows from the bar dancing like a reflection from a corrupted mirror. The bar Graham tended behind was a heavy black wood with a sluggish dull brown under the paint, which could be noticed from the many scratches, it bent like a horseshoe as if it were a barrier or a semi-circle of protection for Graham and all the sparkling spirits and secrets (The sort that made fools of the poor and filled the luxury hungry with hate that couldn’t be swam through) that swirled behind him like phantom mist in vile glass shapes that reflected a fury of light and poured out to depress the imagination.
There were glass orbs with tiny fires hanging from the ceiling that gave the entire bar a very dark and shadowy detachment. As if the sun had aged a long time ago and died hungry. Most of the patrons could only be seen by their silhouettes or if they happened to speak or laugh, Graham might be able to see their teeth flash against some of the dim light. He could always find the eyes of the drunk from their half-open eyelids, pouring out a grayish light that glowed outward like a heavy moonlight heaving a great timid trickery with its shadows. It was those drunken eyes - slightly shallow, anxiety in the lack of light - like ghouls with an unusual and unnatural weariness. Their fragile emotions hanging onto them like drought against the thirsty dirt. Their voices fell with a gasp and the thud of their lips closed around their laughs like lazy movements which reminded Graham of his father. He could hear his father’s footsteps in each of their words.
Save me from him!
This nonsense of being in a dream always pulled Graham away from the reality that constituted itself in the bar. He would always fall far away from people and pretend to wake as if he was just born here and nothing before him existed. Nothing, but this alley bar, and its inhabitants, who were slight flashes of humanity that would explode into bursts of loneliness, and then gestures of exasperation; as if they stood before the great black sadness that accompanies men before their madness takes them. Whispers of wino-tongues could be heard, its unbuttoned deception bit in misery as all were carried to its salvation in every drink they swallowed. It always reminded Graham that this small place was the entire universe for these people. These men and women, who sought their dead childhoods with whiskey and sex, and folded into the mornings with the apprehension of how to get through the day with its heavy light and complicated strangeness.
This was the derangement of a drunk. The monster. The Frankenstein that coursed through their blood and never let them flood into society like the rest. No, they had chosen a different God. They chose sleep and feared waking from it.
These are my people. My father; my Father who taught me the nature of suffering.
And then there was Ray - Ray, who was covered in bright tattoos and one of the regulars at the bar who came like the rest like heat from a heavy fire. Every day, the same faces uprooted and hated by the light but loved by the companion a glass of beer and the warmth of breath exhumed by the politeness of cigarette smoke, half-washed glasses, and shadows that covered the shadows under the eyes from years of neglected sleep.
This is their sunshine.
This is their childhood lemonade.
Ray always sat in the same place on the bar, near the end, closest to the door. His nervous eyes turning with his neck, looking past the dim dreams and nightmare laughs of those seated silently around him. Ray always looked as if he waited for some unnatural gust of wind to blow him out of the bar and back into the streets, a reason to stray from the attraction of irresponsibility and suffering. His face holding on to a half-smile, a mocking presence that bent from his lips, and a flash of tired limbs resting against the bar as Graham was always reminded of his brother when he looked at him this way. Ray would lock his fingers together - admirably tracing the broken and fragmented lines of age with his dirty fingernails.
Ray would order the cheapest drafts and ask for a slice of orange to be placed inside of it.
“It’s for the taste. This beer is terrible.”
That was Ray’s excuse. He never bought the good beers and usually he would start to pay in change after his fourth or fifth. Somehow, for whatever reasons, Ray believed putting an orange in a bad beer was his way of squeezing into some normalcy or at least a way to distance himself from the other drunks, or so Graham believed. When Graham had first met Ray, Ray had rolled up his sleeves and showed him his tattoos.
“They don’t mean anything. The tattoos. But, women love them and sometimes I can come up with reasons for what they mean. Strange, isn’t it? Girls like to think there is meaning in everything. Even if there is no meaning,” He laughed a bit and his jaws slacked outward and his cheeks glowed red as he continued, “They even like to pretend the stars are shaped and bent for them. They see the universe and ask what its tattoos mean.”
Ray had been one the few that frequented the bar that Graham actually liked. Though, maybe it wasn’t liked, but more of a pity or sorrow for one that lives in the gutter but still smiles in innocent apprehension. Graham often wondered if it had anything to do with how Ray reminded him of his brother. How when this reminder came his father could be heard. His father with his grim teeth and heavy eyebrows, opening his door at night with rage and love in his blood, as Graham hid underneath his bed hoping his father wouldn’t look for him.
My brother will save me.
My brother the saint.
Graham’s breath would heave out air crystallized by the cold. His father sometimes watched with amusement at the empty bed of his oldest son, and the cold breath hurrying out from underneath the bed, as if the bed was letting out an idle moisture like that of a car's exhaust, or the blankets were shaking out the last of the winter dust from its long slumber. But his father never went under the bed for him. Instead, it was Graham’s brother who would get the beating. From underneath the bed Graham could hear his brother let out slight cries from the beating. Bitter mumbling and tense breaths of gasping silence as his brother’s cries reminded him of a bed with rusty springs might sound if you bounced on it. He could hear his father’s teeth gritting and the heavy burst of his drunken breath shuffling out as if it were awakened from a stomach in deep starvation. He beat his hate and love into his brother. His brother, with a cry like a rusty spring in a bed, and finally … finally when he was out of air to breath he would throw his smaller brother against the wall.
“If you don’t stop crying, I’ll hit you more.” His father would threaten.
So his brother stopped. He held his lips with his teeth and his face shook with a terrible anxiety and when his father was content with his madness he would stumble out the room, slam the door, and pass out on the couch with the television on its highest volume daring anyone in the house to sleep as well as he could with such violence curled into their ears and senses like a cosmic ripple of movement before dying reaches in. The last time he beat his brother, it rained. The way the rain hit the roof and the streets outside sounded like bacon sizzling, or so Graham imagined. When Graham would crawl back from underneath the bed he could see his brother lying still with his eyes open. Blood curled on his lips and his cheeks slightly yellow and the bastard would smile. The window from behind Graham’s bed would pour in light from the street lamp outside and Graham could see his brother’s tears drying with the blood from his lips and his right eye slightly limp. But the bastard still smiled.
As Graham lay back in bed his brother would say between the quick burst of air from crying hard:
“He’ll buy me (hic) a toy tomorrow. Anything (hic) I want. Maybe I’ll get (hic) that game we both wanted. The one we can play (hic) at the same time.” Graham’s brother closed his eyes and smiled again thinking about his toy, a toy for his brother the saint and his Father’s little warrior who sounded like rusty bed springs when his father hit him.
Ray was unlike most that Graham had known under the shadows of the bar and the indistinct light that flickered like a drowning fish out of water. It was his brother’s face he had seen when he had first met Ray. His brothers face with blood and tears and all his father’s rage and love coursing through him with the yellow tints of bruises around his eyes and cheeks. Usually it was his father’s face that Graham had seen in the people who came in and sat and ordered and laughed and hated. It was his father’s grim teeth and heavy eyebrows and those eyes filled with rage and love for his only sons. It was his mother’s voice he heard when a woman sitting on one of the back tables laughed. His mother who would come in Graham’s and his brother’s room after their father had passed out. It was his mother that sat on the bed of his brother and comforted him as he slept trying to see his face with the little light that the street lamp outside gave. Her hands would fumble and shake with the same hatred that his fathers did, except her hatred came from her cowardice and her eyes, though dark and edged from crying, stared through Graham.
Why are you so afraid of him! He’s a coward! She would cry.
And Graham feeling ashamed would fill up with the same rage and love his father felt for him and his brother. Why hadn’t she said anything? Why did she sit in her room crying all the time and not do anything?
Graham tried whispering to her through his rage and love; “Why don’t you do anything? He only hits us, never you.” And at the last part of his whisper his voice raised up as if the rage inside conquered the love and demanded to be loved for its hatred. Graham’s mother lashed out at him. Smacking at him with her hands and spit flying from her mouth.
His father was rage and love.
His mother was spit and spite.
His brother was a saint.
While he, he was just afraid.
“You’re a coward! You’re not afraid of me but you tremble for that ass?” She would scream and spit with all her love for him.
But Graham never felt sorry for what he said and he hated his mother more for sleeping with such a monster like his father. His father, at least, had love for him and his brother. He said so every morning after he beat his brother and took him by the shoulder and said, “Look at you! A warrior. My little warrior. We’ll go today and I’ll get you anything you want.”
And Graham’s brother with dried tears and blood and yellowing cheekbones and a slightly curled eye would smile and that smile reminded Graham of rusty bed springs as he looked at him. Even now Graham wondered why his brother took such beatings. Were they really for a game or a toy? Or, did he like the attention his father gave him every morning when he was sober? That defeated look in his father’s eyes as he looked at his youngest son and hugged him, telling him it was the last time, and today was his day.
My little warrior.
Not a coward like your brother or mother.
Even his brother’s teachers loved him. He was so frail and weak all the time sitting at home with an infection or so his teachers always thought. They never knew until after that his brother wasn’t sick or sickly but bruised too bad to go to school. Graham remembered giving the notes to the teachers and how they pressed their lips together and arched their faces with a pretense of sorrow.
“Your brother is always sick. That poor child. But, he has the cutest smile. Tell your mother we really miss him and hope he gets better.”
Graham would fumble with his words as he took back the lie written in army ink on notebook paper from the teacher and nod and went through the same customs one might when they realize how trapped they really are from those that created them. Graham was the same monster his father was.
Rage and love for his brother the saint.
A little lie on paper while he schooled and his brother sat at home with video games and swollen lips and bruised cheeks and the smile of his father’s little warrior. While his mother cried deeply on cheap pillows and his father drank with his face slipping into a perpetual delight like drawn lines on the ripples of a lake. Rage and love coursing through his blood while his brother waited to be a warrior for another toy.
Graham would often open the bar’s doors when light was still consistent outside. He imagined the light would never enter such a place like this – a purgatory and prison for cowards. He saw the light fold against itself and magnify towards the streets creating this uneasy heat that raised and swallowed insects passing by. Graham would unfold the chairs from the two tables in the small bar from their resting place on top. He would listen to the scratching against the cheaply tiled flooring when he scooted them under the tables. He always felt the presence of dead artists before the regulars arrived. The illusion that a hot day creates as it steams underneath one's shirt and pants with exhaustion with every cool breeze that blows in. Graham would imagine Van Gogh sitting at one of the back tables with a number of crows around him.
“I know these birds well, they helped kill me.”
Or a Bukowski that wrote bad poetry on the bathroom walls that Graham always misunderstood as something that made him feel as if he had to rip apart napkins just to hear the sound of something normal being destroyed. Graham could sit down with them and imagined his father would join them in a trifle card game. His father with his slacked shoulders and depressing beer stains on his blue collared shirt. Graham always had the courage to talk to his father then.
“Sit down, Dad.” He would say. Then he would introduce Van Gogh with his whimpering depression from the estrangement of life who looked on with a violent softness and a profound destruction for petty moments, and then Bukowski, who’s own shoulders matched his father’s, but whose eyes lit with a deeper loneliness and sadness.
“Whatever drink you want, Dad. Tonight is your night.” Graham said.
His Dad smiled, and his yellow teeth with hints of dirt between its crooked box structures gave Graham a notion that his father’s intelligence could be measured by the health of his smile. It gave Graham a certain confidence that he was smarter than his father and that feeling drove him to flash back his own teeth, which were almost flawlessly white and straight as to say: I’m the brighter God in this world.
Graham snapped his fingers and his little brother came from out behind the bar. His lips were swollen and his eyes and cheekbones were red and yellowed. He carried a toy in his hand and he smiled when he saw their father.
“My little warrior! Come and sit here.” Graham’s father said, patting his leg.
Graham’s brother with the same smile jumped on his dad’s lap and fumbled with his toy which seemed to melt into something new every second. At one time it was a fire-truck and then a doll and then a video game.
“Mom?” Graham called.
And when he said this she appeared and sat down beside his father and brother. She had a peculiar smile with eyes that ran brown with curling eyelashes like a withered flower that swept and mixed into her tears and danced up her mascara every time she blinked.
“Love is a profound mystery.” She said while she sat and introduced herself to Bukowski.
“Love is nothing but the betrayal of rationality,” he replied.
She smiled at this and the rain started to pour down. It came down all around them as they sat at the table. Sometimes it was the sound of applause and other times like the sound of sizzling bacon.
Graham’s father still held his little brother and rubbed his hand against his head messing up his shy brown hair.
Graham saw his father’s rage and love in those red knuckles still flushed with his brother’s death on them. But, Graham quickly turned to his mother and asked her what she would like to drink.
“I think I’ll have a shotgun with a twist of suicide.”
Graham acknowledged her cowardice and then looked at his brother with raised eyebrows as if to ask - and you, our father’s little warrior?
“Do you have anything with the same death as dad’s rage and love?”
“We do and I think I’ll have the same.”
But Graham’s Dad only looked at him and frowned.
When the drinks were brought Graham’s mother was handed a shotgun, which she firmly put into her mouth and pulled the trigger, while his father was brought a small cardboard box, in which, he sat down his warrior son, and crawled in and was quickly taped shut. Bukowski was brought a bowl of water to drown and Van Gogh a small gun carried by crows. Graham’s brother smiled at him.
“Remember that night Dad was really drunk and you said the rain sounded like sizzling bacon outside?’”
“I hid under the bed,” Graham said and his eyes spiraled downward in thought.
“He usually never hits that hard.”
Graham remembered the gurgling whimper that came from his brother’s mouth that night when his dad had first hit him. They had said afterwards that the punch must have knocked him out, but it didn’t stop their father from throwing more. Graham couldn’t hear his brother crying this time. All he heard was the rain and he had covered his face and tried to hold his breath. He had hoped to hear the slight ringing in his ears to cover up the sounds of his father’s love and rage. Graham had tried praying but now acknowledged that God was a horrible substitute for that night. It was a coward’s escape and an end to distance himself from that night’s reality.
“I remember your eyes not moving. They looked … quiet,” Graham said as he sat unmoved by his vision. He had crawled out from underneath the bed after his father had left the room. He stood in front of his brother’s bed trying to see or notice some movement from his brother. It was hard for Graham to see anything with the bluish light from the streetlamp outside being fluttered with shadows from the rain that came down. Because of these shadows Graham had or thought he could see his brother blinking his eyes or trying to speak, but nothing came out but the noise of rain and light and the gloom of shadows casting a dark depression into Graham’s life. He was too afraid to get closer and instead laid back in his bed watching his father’s warrior lying with the sizzling shadows of rain that imitated a sham animation from his brother’s lips. And, Graham, even pretended to listen to his brother speaking before his Mom finally walked in - quietly and desperate into a room where her husband had kept his love and rage.
“It’s okay. If I had survived that night, I would have probably gotten anything I wanted!”
“You should be angry,” Graham said.
“Only cowards are angry.”
Graham looked down and folded his hands with a peculiar intensity. His fingers bent into each other and he squeezed them until his fingers turned into a bright yellow of paleness and red. He closed his eyes, at first just to blink, but he left them shut and images of his mother came through. His mother who always believed cleanliness was the only God. How she would come into their room and vacuum if they slept late on a weekend. It was the only time she ever vacuumed. An alarm clock of cleanliness!
Graham watched her meticulously fold the dinner table napkins in neat pockets of perfection. She would slip them out and underneath each other. He remembered how the bathroom towels always had to be folded a certain way. He remembered her hands - soft and trembling - shoving soap in his mouth to clean it out from all the dirty language. His tongue felt twisted and numb and he gagged and spit. His mouth would dry out and his lips would twist and fold, like her bathroom towels or her napkins - folded to look like blooming flowers that spiraled out with an inflexible vehemence. His mother who carried two faces, one that smiled and kept a house clean and the other that whipped like a viper at her sons. A son like Graham who would eat at the dinner table and comment that her food tasted like soap.
A man who hates his mother becomes his father.
A light touch on his shoulder opened his eyes. Standing next to Graham was Ray. Ray with his tattoos and his brother's face. Had Ray ever known such love and rage? Graham smiled at the idea that he could show it to him. He could give Ray exactly what his father had given him. Ray could be a warrior for a day.
It's tough love, son.
I only hurt you because I love you.
So you won’t grow up weak - so you won’t be a coward.
Graham could still imagine his father sitting at their dinner table, drinking a beer from a bottle because men who drank from cans were alcoholics, while he smoked a cigarette and told Graham about his trip to the gulf because the Iraqis were trying to invade Kuwait. Graham’s father was still in his military fatigues and polished boots while he showed them his M-16 rifle and pictures of the desert. His father had never smoked before the war. It had surprised Graham that he came back smoking. Smoking, like many things to his father, was a weakness. His father had always told them that men couldn’t afford to have any weaknesses. Men couldn’t afford to be like women, he would say. This consumer culture weakened men. It turned men into Barbie dolls with dicks. Men must be like wolves, so he said.
Often his father could be found sitting in the dining room in the dark. He sat there drinking his warm beer, staring out into the dark with rage and love. His face limped downwards in a way that reminded Graham of something fearful.
His father had told him that only one man died in his platoon. He had gone out to shit, but didn’t want to shit in front of anyone so he walked out further than he should have and stepped on a mine. His father told him how they had to gather all his limbs and head in a bag so it could be sent back to his family.
“It was his weakness and modesty that killed him. Men can’t afford to be modest.”
Lines formed on his face and he explained how the SCUD missiles flying over them taught him how to smoke cigarettes. But, only because the missiles were anomalies, inhuman circuit boards with an explosive device attached that were only built to kill because the Iraqi army was too scared to fight them.
‘You can’t kill something that’s not alive. How do you fight something inhuman like that? What did they expect us to do? All we could do was smoke and wait for those things to fall on our heads.’
His father’s hands looked like steel in the dark while he dragged his cigarette, creating an eclipse of light, like a slow burning comet that illustrated his face for a half second.
“Wait till your world collapses, son. Wait for it. It will come down and destroy everything you know.”
He dragged his cigarette and laughed. It was an eerie laugh. Like a poor man’s honesty. Too much of it was bitter.
“God? God is for men that believe in death. Look! Look!” he pointed outside as if he were mad, “They have killed God with their fireworks!”
He slammed his fist against the table and his cigarette escaped his fingers and bolted up and cart wheeled behind him.
He bent back his head gulping his beer. His eyes were sizzling bacon and rage and blood with rusty bed springs in his knuckles.
His father’s breath climbed out and crawled over his face. It was the smell of cigarettes and beer with hot air. It was rage and love and blood in his eyes. His father knocked him over with the chair he was sitting in. Graham sat on the floor looking up at his father’s dark shadow rising over him. His father looked at him as if he were disgusted.
“Go. Go hide under your bed. I’m done with you.”
That night the rain came down like the sound of applause, or so Graham imagined.
Ray scooted into the empty chair next to Graham. He looked full of anxiety and nervousness as he looked over at Graham. He would never make eye contact but kept Graham at the corner of his vision. Graham could see his brother’s shadow leaning out just around the bend where the toilet was kept.
Graham imagined that his father’s love and rage could cure him. He saw a vision of Ray being beat by his own fist. He imagined that Ray would whimper. He imagined Ray’s blood on his fist and his father’s voice on his lips. Rage and love for Ray the saint. Graham stood up and for a moment he thought of giving this to Ray. He thought Ray might be grateful. He could make Ray into a man. But, Graham only walked over and poured a beer in a glass and slipped a slice of orange into it. He carried it over and placed the beer in front of Ray. As usual Ray tasted and sipped his beer with his eyes partially closed. He nodded with a smile as he placed the drink back down on the table. His fingers and nails were crusted with dirt and cement and a heavy burden lay in his eyes, as his cheeks sunk low from the weight of a heavy and hard life, as it does for men born from and in the dirt. But, still the bastard smiled. Some of the beer slipped from the grasp of his lips and slid down his beard. He quickly wiped it and leaned back with a sigh. His eyes leaned over towards Grahams but as always they stayed far from looking too deep.
“I got fired today.”
Graham didn’t say anything. He stared at the side of Ray’s face and the wave of brown hair that twisted around Ray’s ear. How could Graham explain such hate? Every crooked line and every perfect motion seemed to be a joke to him. Graham noticed how the light from outside seemed to crawl underneath Ray's chair and grab and claw at his legs and dirty boots trying to scoot him out and further away. As Graham sat with the shadow that collapsed around him like hell hugging the devil’s hive. Ray finished his beer and got up. He gave a half-salute to Graham and walked out. For a moment Graham watched the dimming light outside releasing its grip for the coming darkness. He got up quickly, and went outside, watching Ray walk out towards the part of the city that people didn’t enjoy or agree with. Without thinking, he closed the bar’s doors and went out after Ray, following him at a measured distance. Every step of his against that hungry, hot, humid concrete made an echo and he feared Ray would hear it at any time and turn around – surprised and fearful – eyes wide with a horror, and he would start to run. But, Ray never did. So Graham followed.
He followed Ray along the broken and bony buildings, arching and stooping with every breath of wind. Their cracked windows hiding a terrible dread as they followed along with their hushed despair, and the unhappiness of being built and left alone by those that once loved them. Even the streets, littered with trash and empty thirst, lunged out at him with a great disappointment. Graham watched as Ray walked up a set of wooden steps, almost broken or looked as if they ached and moaned if someone stood on them too long, to a second story of an apartment building. Graham followed him until he watched Ray walk into one of the rooms.
Graham slowly, unsure of his intentions or what he was doing, moved towards the window captivated in his own curiosity. He leaned for a moment next to the window of the apartment Ray had gone into. His breath seemed to rush out catching at every sound trying to alert all the world of his presence. But, still, he limped himself forward and peeked into the window between the yellow and broken blinds covered in years of neglect and cigarette smoke and forgotten cleanliness. He caught Ray sitting beside a woman sleeping on a mattress with nothing underneath it but a dirty wood floor littered with ashtrays and the slime of poverty. He watched Ray move her black, curly hair from around her face. He then saw Ray wipe tears from the woman’s eyes with his thumb. When Ray did this the woman opened her eyes. Her small hands reached up in an exaggerated pretense and caressed his cheek – gentle and eloquently as he smiled and grabbed her hand and kissed it. He watched as she sat up and their lips moved in some silent symphony. She had bruises on her face and one of her eyes was swollen. A force came between him that surrendered all that might be beautiful. Graham leaned back against the wall. Graham was wrong about Ray. He wasn’t his brother, he was his father.
He suddenly became afraid.
His own dreams were usually ignored. He always imagined they were nothing but shadows of a struggling spirit or echoes of an abyss he found discomforting. He was reminded of something at this moment. He turned away and walked back down the unsettled wooden steps and into a broken, ruined field next to the apartment. He looked at the benevolent ecstasy of all the destructive savagery of men with a wondering suspicion as if he were daydreaming with some childish hopelessness. He stared out into the empty field between the concrete stacks of old houses overtaken by several weeds and flowers with their mouths wide open trying to catch that hopeful humid light. It was the time of day when the sun started to slide away, shadows rising from the ground like an undead wild dance and where he could see thousands of insect communities heading for the nearest light source. It was as if the sun twisted around into a bent, oval, ill colored shape. While weeds, which were once men, had grown in their place as great statues unmoved with a magnificent wretchedness.
He saw ghosts with fragmented faces hanging onto some suspension, spellbound by immortality, and a hundred memories lost, sick, and embarrassed by his frightful insecurities. Graham imagined that nothing but man grows inward. Where did such unhappiness come from? Is love only an idea that empties the soul with vanity or is it all lost with these artless impulses? Do any of us have a moral obligation to fight against injustice and stupidity or are we better to be guided by our natural elegance towards cruelty and ignorance? He thought of the crucifixion of these pretentious pseudo-philosophy that came to him because of his drinking and his fear of his own cowardice. He betrayed his rationality for shallow and petty vices in hopes they might help him forget. He went to smash and strike out at the passive, barbaric, and primitive structure of everything ugly around him – including his father and whatever conscience that manifested because of it. He thought of Ray, but there wasn’t enough rage and love in his blood. In fact, thinking of Ray only made him more afraid of the world around him.
Graham walked back to the bar. He turned on all the lights and opened all the doors. He went into the bathroom and turned the sink water on. He watched it run for a few minutes while he flicked his fingers through the water - lost in thought. The water grew hot and the stream rose up and spiraled and coughed and fogged the mirror above it. Graham looked up and could see his blurred reflection through the mirror. He lifted his hand to wipe the fog from the mirror. A crack in the mirror caught his finger and cut it. He immediately drew back his hand with a pained reaction. He opened and closed his hand watching the cut gush out blood and drip unemotionally into the sink. He heard someone walk in the bar. Graham turned off the water and walked out.
He sat at his usual place in the bar as people gathered in and laughed and drank and hated. He sat there unmoved by any of it, even when someone was ordering a drink – Graham etched in all his nervousness - in the way his eyebrows frowned over his eyes, the lines that creased and taxed the personality of his face, to the shape his body held. It was all an audience to a boyish and strange dream.
“Hey man!” A man said.
Graham looked out at this. He acknowledged the man with a nod and stood up to pour him another fancy world.
“You got blood on your hands!”
Graham looked down at his hands and the bar erupted into laughter. When he looked up, nothing was there. A rain poured down, but the sound was distant, far away. It was the sound of laughter.
But Graham could see nothing. He closed his eyes. All a coward can do is dream.
With this thought, he wept. He opened up his eyes. But there was nothing there.
submitted by loser-poetry to creativewriting [link] [comments]


2020.07.28 08:13 RockoCharmichael Forced sex caught on tape

Remember 2007? I’ll never forget it. I’d just finished my senior year and had officially stepped into adulthood. Just so happens that ‘07 was the peak of those internet shock sites. The one with the two women eating one another’s shit had spread around school like wildfire. Grossing each other out seemed to be the fad of the year, and eventually I’d had the video sent to me, disguised as something less than obvious of course.
“OMG Shay, you HAVE to check out this pic! Click it!” My best friend Sarah had said. I, naturally curious about what she’d wanted to share, clicked the link. That music was seared into my head as I watched the horror unfold on my computer monitor.
Sarah would likely be mortified to find that rather than pure disgust, there was a twinge of fascination accompanying my discomfort. A fact about myself that, until today, I’ve only shared with one soul. I couldn’t look away from the train wreck as those two women…did what they did. I watched the entire video. Twice.
Afterward I trounced Sarah with every cuss word I could think of, called her the biggest bitch alive and filled her messenger screen with pages of puke emoticons. She struck back with a volley of “lol”s. We then made plans to meet up for the weekend, and signed off. Well…she did…I merely went to invisible mode, and again clicked the link.
Now I’m no prude, but my growing obsession was not in any way sexual. My eyes were glued to the naked girls consuming one another’s waste for a different reason. A not-entirely explainable reason. I was captivated by the fact that not only were they doing it, but that they were doing it for an audience. I wanted to understand their why. In a way I identified with the unseen camera operator. To experience something like that, live…that had to be a once in a lifetime thing, right?
Over the school year, the spark those women lit grew into an inferno. I found myself secretly scouring the internet for similar videos. Sarah wasn’t my only friend, and like I mentioned before “getting” each other had become the year’s entertainment. I’d had to play angry each time a new video was sent my way…but in reality I hungrily watched each one with fascination.
I kept up my prissy ruse throughout the remainder of the school year, and then graduation came. With it, a boom of new additions to my messenger friends. Apparently even those I’d never spoken a word to wanted to remain connected as we spread our wings. One of those gained friends came in the form of Chase Lincoln.
I knew of Chase, but our circles never came together. I couldn’t remember us ever interacting. I accepted his friend request without much thought. It was a short time late…maybe a couple of days or a week…when I saw the blinking chat bar bearing his name upon logging in to my messenger. When I clicked on it, my heart almost skipped a beat. The link wasn’t disguised as anything cutesy…no, it boldly stated exactly what it was. I clicked on it, a bit disappointed to see that it was indeed labeled correctly.
My screen went to the familiar, gaping asshole of “Goatse” that I’d seen countless times. I sighed and closed the image. I didn’t know what I expected.
“Gonna have to try harder than that, bud.” I typed back absently.
Honestly didn’t even expect a reply. Usually the thrill for the shower comes when the victim of their prank freaks out, and I’d denied Chase the pleasure. So when I heard the ping, my curiosity was roused.
“Seen 2girls1cup?” He’d relied. Something seemed strange to me. His message was simple, and didn’t seem to be disappointed or anything. Just a simple question. Almost like…he was legitimately SHARING with me rather than trying to “get” me. It would explain why he’d brazenly decided not to shield the prior link. My heart picked up speed as I decided to test the waters…and my theory.
“Yea, a bunch of times.” I answered, and didn’t blink as I awaited Chase’s response.
He finally replied with, “Too mild?”
Suddenly my secret shame was thrust into the spotlight. It felt instantly like Chase Lincoln understood me…I felt seen, and with that a rush washed through me.
“After the first dozen times I looked it up its lost its charm.” I said back, my fingers trembling as I typed.
As I waited on his words, I realized I was ignoring every other blinking chat box…and I didn’t care. I was laser focused on the new revelation that I wasn’t alone in my morbid interest.
“Not for the faint of heart.” Chase’s words appeared on my screen, followed by a link. I clicked without hesitation, and my eyes widened as my brain took in a new image.
The body on my screen was that of a young woman, nude, in the process of having an autopsy performed on her. Her ribcage was opened, revealing her innards and her scalp had been removed exposing her brain. One of her eyes had been plucked from its socket and placed into her mouth, where it stared blankly at the camera. Her body was being degraded and molested by the mortician as well, as evident by the gloved finger inserted into her sex. The scene was grisly, disturbing…and I refused to look away until the “ping” of Chase’s chat box stole my attention back.
“Too much?” It read.
I hesitated a moment, my heart fluttering, my nerves burning. And then I responded with a single word.
“No.”
The conversation went on, and I found myself sitting at my computer chatting with Chase long into the night. We shared our deep thoughts, our obsessions with the dark and macabre. Kindred spirits finding solace in being able to openly confess to one another. He understood me.
Days went on, hot summer sun burned above, but I found myself spending my days indoors indulging my dark side with Chase. He’d have a new twisted scene to share with me nearly every day, and of course I’d hungrily accept the offering each and every time. I knew that I was fucked up, but I didn’t feel like it when speaking with Chase. I’d frequently asked him where he managed to find such fascinating pictures and videos…I trolled the best gore sites I could find, but never once had I seen any of the goods he shared. He’d always replied the same way...
“I’ll show you one day.” He’d say. One day, he kept his word.
It was nearing the end of summer. Trees were in the very beginning of their color change, and the occasional cool breeze offered relief from the sweltering heat. Things were going as usual and our chat had turned to our mutual interest.
“I wanna show you a new one.” Chase popped off with.
“Yes please.” I answered back.
“No, this time I want you to see it in person. Its brand new, just posted, and I wanted us to see it for the first time together.” He replied after a moment.
I felt my face flush. That was honestly something I didn’t expect. Our dark curiosities had brought us together online, but the possibility that it would go beyond that never REALLY occurred to me. It felt more…exposed…that way. The very thought made me nervous, but as soon as my fingers touched the keyboard, I found them agreeing without any hesitation.
Chase sent me his address, and explained that his parents were out of town. I hurriedly got dressed, and was there in under twenty minutes. I’d not seen Chase since graduation, and was a bit taken aback when he opened the door of his home to me. His jet black hair was spiked up, and he’d elected to grow a bit of facial hair. It looked good on him. He wore a grunge band’s shirt and basketball shorts, and for the first time I saw the boy as “handsome”. He smiled, and wordlessly invited me in with a jerk of his head.
I felt awkward, and my nerves were on fire as I followed him up a set of stairs to his room. There was something else bubbling up inside of me, too…attraction. I caught myself eyeing his back muscles, and stopped myself before checking out his ass. We reached the summit of the staircase, and marched toward the door at the far end of the hallway.
Chase threw open the door to his room, and I saw what was inside. Nothing outrageous or anything. A few band posters adorned the walls, his bed was messily made, and in the corner, near the lone window, was a small computer desk. The screen saver on the monitor sitting upon it was the green falling text from the “Matrix” movies. It dawned on me that this was the very place he’d been communicating with me from all summer. Felt a little surreal, but not in a bad way.
“You ready?” He asked, his voice more gruff and manly than I imagined. I nodded as he wheeled the office chair out and offered it to me.
I sat and he hovered behind me, his warm breath on the back of my neck as he leaned beside me and wiggled the computer mouse. The descending green text vanished. On the screen I saw a strange browser that looked nothing like the one I used. My heart throbbed in my chest as my eyes scanned over the huge list of links displayed. They were labeled crazy things like “SawbladeUrethra.mp4”, and “PutridSexObject.mov”…disturbing…and right up my alley. Chase moved the pointer to one called “BabyHorseHead.mp4”. I felt his breath on my neck quicken as he clicked.
It was a dimly lit, concrete room that filled the screen. On the ground was the decapitated body of a horse lying on its side, blood spurting from what was left of the neck. My skin prickled as I watched the pool of crimson grow around the equine cadaver. The head of said horse was nowhere in frame. Then, the horror came. It was silent, but the screaming face of the newborn could clearly be seen as a masked figure stepped into frame carrying the baby. The adult held it lovingly, the little one propped against their shoulder as if it were about to be burped. That’s the furthest thing from what happened though…The masked adult knelt beside the spurting stump of the horse, and proceeded to roughly stuff the baby inside the neck hole of the animal feet first. My stomach turned but I as so often was the case, I could not look away. I watched as the helpless baby was shoved aggressively into the mutilated animal until only its screaming head protruded. The masked adult then exited the room without even a glimpse back, and the video continued showing the screaming child’s head on the dead animal’s body for thirty more seconds until abruptly ending.
“Fuck…” I whispered, finally managing to pull my eyes away from the screen.
“Yeah.” Chase muttered, and I saw his face was equal parts horrified and fascinated with what we’d just seen. He stood, wrapping his hands around to the back of his head.
That’s when I saw something else. My eyes fell to his lap, where his basketball shorts betrayed a certain…physical reaction. He stood at full attention. Perhaps he had forgotten he was wearing such loose fabric, because when he saw the angle of my stare he blushed a deep red, and turned to hide his arousal.
Suddenly…suddenly I didn’t want him too. Seeing him in such a state had bubbled up similar feelings within me. It wasn’t the video that did it. Neither of us were having the reaction from what we saw, but instead it was BECAUSE we saw it. I didn’t even realize I’d jumped from the chair until I found myself locking lips with the boy. Hastily, we tore one another’s clothing off, and made love there on his bed. He was a gentle lover, and everything felt so strong and natural as we reached the pinnacle together. I’d never felt so understood.
“You really get me, Shay.” He muttered as he lay beside me, recovering, caressing my shoulder. I moaned a sigh of agreement, and closed my eyes reveling in the blissful feeling. “That’s why I want you to help me with something.”
“Hm?” I questioned, my eyes remaining closed until I felt him leave the bed.
I watched as he shamelessly strutted toward his computer in the nude. I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and stared inquisitively. He seemed to sense this, as he continued speaking without looking back.
“You understand. I want to be immortalized…like they are.” He announced.
“What do you mean?” I questioned.
“That baby…it probably died, we both know that…but the legacy it’ll leave…that’s truly special.” Chase explained. “That’s part of why I asked you over today.” He finally turned his face to meet my gaze. “ I need a camera person.”
From the drawer of his desk he produced a small camcorder. He held it up so that I’d have a clear view of the device. I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at, but the tingles had again washed over my body. I was feeling more alive than ever. I felt…well, lets just say I lowered the blanket, and exposed myself to Chase. He was letting me see him…the real him, and I felt the need to be just as vulnerable.
“Will you help me?” He asked sincerely. I was almost in a trance. I knew that things could only go badly, but his desire to be immortalized…his honesty and openness…I felt almost intoxicated. I nodded dreamily, standing but making no effort to cover my self. I extended my hand and took the camcorder.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, lazily opening the recorder’s screen and fiddling with the settings.
He turned and bent down toward the drawer again. I made no effort to avoid admiring his muscular ass that time. When he stood again, he held a pistol. I stared at it for a moment before silently pointing the camera in his direction. I made sure I had him completely in frame as he checked the gun to make sure it was prepared.
“My dad’s.” He said stoically. “This is all you need to upload the video.” He gestured with the gun toward the computer. “Plug it in once its done, and drag and drop the file. That’s it.”
I nodded, a small voice in the back of my head questioning what the hell I was doing, but that voice was drowned out by the much more boisterous, thrilling voice. “Once in a lifetime…” It exuded.
I pointed the camera at Chase, and pressed record upon his instruction.
“You don’t want to stop this?” Chase asked playfully as he pressed the barrel of the gun beneath his chin. Slowly, I looked up at him from the screen, and shook my head.
He grinned, and pulled the hammer back. The bullet clicking into place echoed through the room. Even though I’d been expecting the bang, it was louder than I thought it would be. Loud enough even, to rip my back down to reality. He’d fucking done it, and the moment that bullet ripped through his skull, my world changed. The boisterous voice dissipated immediately, replaced by my own screams.
“Oh my god, oh my god…” I hysterically repeated. I knew there was a possibility he’d pull the trigger, but a part of me…a big part expected him to chicken out. I thought he was testing me…no…no that wasn’t true. I’d wanted him to do it. I’d wanted to witness such a moment…but now that I had…
I fought to keep myself from throwing up as I looked at the blood spattered wall behind him, the red splash dripping on the computer intermingling with the green text falling on the screen. I shakily dropped the camcorder onto the floor, and gathered my clothes. All summer I’d been unable to pry my eyes away from the horrors displayed on a computer, but in real life I couldn’t force myself to look at the body of Chase Lincoln.
I should have stopped it. I could have. What had I done? These thoughts raced threw my head as I threw my outfit on and rushed through the bedroom door. I bounded through the hallway and down the stairs, pushing my way through the front door. I didn’t look back at the house as I leaped into my car and sped away.
I was sure the police would be coming for me. I was positive. I tried to convince myself to go to them, to explain what had happened...but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Days passed, and with each one my anxiety grew. Where the fuck were they? Surely there was some evidence in that house that tied me to it. I racked my brain every minute of every day, and came to the conclusion that the camcorder would certainly have my voice on it. Maybe that wasn’t enough to pinpoint me. Yeah, sure…just a voice that could belong to any girl. Then I remembered that there would definitely be a record of our conversations saved somewhere in his computer. There was no way the evidence wouldn’t lead them right to me. So where the hell were they? Weeks went by…months…all without incident.
The day I moved out of my parents house, and indeed the state…was the same day that I saw the “MISSING” poster. I was on my way out of town when I stopped for a fill up, and there was Chase Lincoln, staring at me from a small sheet of paper taped to the glass window. Missing. That made no sense to me. How could he be MISSING?! My thoughts raced as pumped the gas. Once I was finished, I hauled ass out of that town. I never went back. I’d somehow had a guardian angel watching over me, and that had helped me escape…
Thirteen years. Its been thirteen years since Chase Lincoln’s suicide. I still think about it quite often. I’ve since absolved myself of any guilt I felt. He was going to do it whether I tried to stop him or not. He’d had a gun after all, who’s to say he wouldn’t have shot me first had I tried. Telling myself those things has helped me. A mentally disturbed boy I’d crossed paths with…that’s all.
Today, though, my heart skipped a beat in a way it hasn’t in quite a long time. My smartphone dinged, letting me know that I’d received an email. My breath quickened when I saw that the sender was my own, old email address. The one I’d used to instant message with my friends thirteen years ago. The subject read “I KNOW”, and the body of the message contained only a single link. My finger trembled as I tapped it, and I clenched my eyes tightly closed as Chase Lincoln’s voice penetrated my ears.
“You don’t want to stop this?”

Rocko's Room
submitted by RockoCharmichael to Odd_directions [link] [comments]


2020.07.28 08:12 RockoCharmichael Forced sex caught on tape

Remember 2007? I’ll never forget it. I’d just finished my senior year and had officially stepped into adulthood. Just so happens that ‘07 was the peak of those internet shock sites. The one with the two women eating one another’s shit had spread around school like wildfire. Grossing each other out seemed to be the fad of the year, and eventually I’d had the video sent to me, disguised as something less than obvious of course.
“OMG Shay, you HAVE to check out this pic! Click it!” My best friend Sarah had said. I, naturally curious about what she’d wanted to share, clicked the link. That music was seared into my head as I watched the horror unfold on my computer monitor.
Sarah would likely be mortified to find that rather than pure disgust, there was a twinge of fascination accompanying my discomfort. A fact about myself that, until today, I’ve only shared with one soul. I couldn’t look away from the train wreck as those two women…did what they did. I watched the entire video. Twice.
Afterward I trounced Sarah with every cuss word I could think of, called her the biggest bitch alive and filled her messenger screen with pages of puke emoticons. She struck back with a volley of “lol”s. We then made plans to meet up for the weekend, and signed off. Well…she did…I merely went to invisible mode, and again clicked the link.
Now I’m no prude, but my growing obsession was not in any way sexual. My eyes were glued to the naked girls consuming one another’s waste for a different reason. A not-entirely explainable reason. I was captivated by the fact that not only were they doing it, but that they were doing it for an audience. I wanted to understand their why. In a way I identified with the unseen camera operator. To experience something like that, live…that had to be a once in a lifetime thing, right?
Over the school year, the spark those women lit grew into an inferno. I found myself secretly scouring the internet for similar videos. Sarah wasn’t my only friend, and like I mentioned before “getting” each other had become the year’s entertainment. I’d had to play angry each time a new video was sent my way…but in reality I hungrily watched each one with fascination.
I kept up my prissy ruse throughout the remainder of the school year, and then graduation came. With it, a boom of new additions to my messenger friends. Apparently even those I’d never spoken a word to wanted to remain connected as we spread our wings. One of those gained friends came in the form of Chase Lincoln.
I knew of Chase, but our circles never came together. I couldn’t remember us ever interacting. I accepted his friend request without much thought. It was a short time late…maybe a couple of days or a week…when I saw the blinking chat bar bearing his name upon logging in to my messenger. When I clicked on it, my heart almost skipped a beat. The link wasn’t disguised as anything cutesy…no, it boldly stated exactly what it was. I clicked on it, a bit disappointed to see that it was indeed labeled correctly.
My screen went to the familiar, gaping asshole of “Goatse” that I’d seen countless times. I sighed and closed the image. I didn’t know what I expected.
“Gonna have to try harder than that, bud.” I typed back absently.
Honestly didn’t even expect a reply. Usually the thrill for the shower comes when the victim of their prank freaks out, and I’d denied Chase the pleasure. So when I heard the ping, my curiosity was roused.
“Seen 2girls1cup?” He’d relied. Something seemed strange to me. His message was simple, and didn’t seem to be disappointed or anything. Just a simple question. Almost like…he was legitimately SHARING with me rather than trying to “get” me. It would explain why he’d brazenly decided not to shield the prior link. My heart picked up speed as I decided to test the waters…and my theory.
“Yea, a bunch of times.” I answered, and didn’t blink as I awaited Chase’s response.
He finally replied with, “Too mild?”
Suddenly my secret shame was thrust into the spotlight. It felt instantly like Chase Lincoln understood me…I felt seen, and with that a rush washed through me.
“After the first dozen times I looked it up its lost its charm.” I said back, my fingers trembling as I typed.
As I waited on his words, I realized I was ignoring every other blinking chat box…and I didn’t care. I was laser focused on the new revelation that I wasn’t alone in my morbid interest.
“Not for the faint of heart.” Chase’s words appeared on my screen, followed by a link. I clicked without hesitation, and my eyes widened as my brain took in a new image.
The body on my screen was that of a young woman, nude, in the process of having an autopsy performed on her. Her ribcage was opened, revealing her innards and her scalp had been removed exposing her brain. One of her eyes had been plucked from its socket and placed into her mouth, where it stared blankly at the camera. Her body was being degraded and molested by the mortician as well, as evident by the gloved finger inserted into her sex. The scene was grisly, disturbing…and I refused to look away until the “ping” of Chase’s chat box stole my attention back.
“Too much?” It read.
I hesitated a moment, my heart fluttering, my nerves burning. And then I responded with a single word.
“No.”
The conversation went on, and I found myself sitting at my computer chatting with Chase long into the night. We shared our deep thoughts, our obsessions with the dark and macabre. Kindred spirits finding solace in being able to openly confess to one another. He understood me.
Days went on, hot summer sun burned above, but I found myself spending my days indoors indulging my dark side with Chase. He’d have a new twisted scene to share with me nearly every day, and of course I’d hungrily accept the offering each and every time. I knew that I was fucked up, but I didn’t feel like it when speaking with Chase. I’d frequently asked him where he managed to find such fascinating pictures and videos…I trolled the best gore sites I could find, but never once had I seen any of the goods he shared. He’d always replied the same way...
“I’ll show you one day.” He’d say. One day, he kept his word.
It was nearing the end of summer. Trees were in the very beginning of their color change, and the occasional cool breeze offered relief from the sweltering heat. Things were going as usual and our chat had turned to our mutual interest.
“I wanna show you a new one.” Chase popped off with.
“Yes please.” I answered back.
“No, this time I want you to see it in person. Its brand new, just posted, and I wanted us to see it for the first time together.” He replied after a moment.
I felt my face flush. That was honestly something I didn’t expect. Our dark curiosities had brought us together online, but the possibility that it would go beyond that never REALLY occurred to me. It felt more…exposed…that way. The very thought made me nervous, but as soon as my fingers touched the keyboard, I found them agreeing without any hesitation.
Chase sent me his address, and explained that his parents were out of town. I hurriedly got dressed, and was there in under twenty minutes. I’d not seen Chase since graduation, and was a bit taken aback when he opened the door of his home to me. His jet black hair was spiked up, and he’d elected to grow a bit of facial hair. It looked good on him. He wore a grunge band’s shirt and basketball shorts, and for the first time I saw the boy as “handsome”. He smiled, and wordlessly invited me in with a jerk of his head.
I felt awkward, and my nerves were on fire as I followed him up a set of stairs to his room. There was something else bubbling up inside of me, too…attraction. I caught myself eyeing his back muscles, and stopped myself before checking out his ass. We reached the summit of the staircase, and marched toward the door at the far end of the hallway.
Chase threw open the door to his room, and I saw what was inside. Nothing outrageous or anything. A few band posters adorned the walls, his bed was messily made, and in the corner, near the lone window, was a small computer desk. The screen saver on the monitor sitting upon it was the green falling text from the “Matrix” movies. It dawned on me that this was the very place he’d been communicating with me from all summer. Felt a little surreal, but not in a bad way.
“You ready?” He asked, his voice more gruff and manly than I imagined. I nodded as he wheeled the office chair out and offered it to me.
I sat and he hovered behind me, his warm breath on the back of my neck as he leaned beside me and wiggled the computer mouse. The descending green text vanished. On the screen I saw a strange browser that looked nothing like the one I used. My heart throbbed in my chest as my eyes scanned over the huge list of links displayed. They were labeled crazy things like “SawbladeUrethra.mp4”, and “PutridSexObject.mov”…disturbing…and right up my alley. Chase moved the pointer to one called “BabyHorseHead.mp4”. I felt his breath on my neck quicken as he clicked.
It was a dimly lit, concrete room that filled the screen. On the ground was the decapitated body of a horse lying on its side, blood spurting from what was left of the neck. My skin prickled as I watched the pool of crimson grow around the equine cadaver. The head of said horse was nowhere in frame. Then, the horror came. It was silent, but the screaming face of the newborn could clearly be seen as a masked figure stepped into frame carrying the baby. The adult held it lovingly, the little one propped against their shoulder as if it were about to be burped. That’s the furthest thing from what happened though…The masked adult knelt beside the spurting stump of the horse, and proceeded to roughly stuff the baby inside the neck hole of the animal feet first. My stomach turned but I as so often was the case, I could not look away. I watched as the helpless baby was shoved aggressively into the mutilated animal until only its screaming head protruded. The masked adult then exited the room without even a glimpse back, and the video continued showing the screaming child’s head on the dead animal’s body for thirty more seconds until abruptly ending.
“Fuck…” I whispered, finally managing to pull my eyes away from the screen.
“Yeah.” Chase muttered, and I saw his face was equal parts horrified and fascinated with what we’d just seen. He stood, wrapping his hands around to the back of his head.
That’s when I saw something else. My eyes fell to his lap, where his basketball shorts betrayed a certain…physical reaction. He stood at full attention. Perhaps he had forgotten he was wearing such loose fabric, because when he saw the angle of my stare he blushed a deep red, and turned to hide his arousal.
Suddenly…suddenly I didn’t want him too. Seeing him in such a state had bubbled up similar feelings within me. It wasn’t the video that did it. Neither of us were having the reaction from what we saw, but instead it was BECAUSE we saw it. I didn’t even realize I’d jumped from the chair until I found myself locking lips with the boy. Hastily, we tore one another’s clothing off, and made love there on his bed. He was a gentle lover, and everything felt so strong and natural as we reached the pinnacle together. I’d never felt so understood.
“You really get me, Shay.” He muttered as he lay beside me, recovering, caressing my shoulder. I moaned a sigh of agreement, and closed my eyes reveling in the blissful feeling. “That’s why I want you to help me with something.”
“Hm?” I questioned, my eyes remaining closed until I felt him leave the bed.
I watched as he shamelessly strutted toward his computer in the nude. I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and stared inquisitively. He seemed to sense this, as he continued speaking without looking back.
“You understand. I want to be immortalized…like they are.” He announced.
“What do you mean?” I questioned.
“That baby…it probably died, we both know that…but the legacy it’ll leave…that’s truly special.” Chase explained. “That’s part of why I asked you over today.” He finally turned his face to meet my gaze. “ I need a camera person.”
From the drawer of his desk he produced a small camcorder. He held it up so that I’d have a clear view of the device. I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at, but the tingles had again washed over my body. I was feeling more alive than ever. I felt…well, lets just say I lowered the blanket, and exposed myself to Chase. He was letting me see him…the real him, and I felt the need to be just as vulnerable.
“Will you help me?” He asked sincerely. I was almost in a trance. I knew that things could only go badly, but his desire to be immortalized…his honesty and openness…I felt almost intoxicated. I nodded dreamily, standing but making no effort to cover my self. I extended my hand and took the camcorder.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, lazily opening the recorder’s screen and fiddling with the settings.
He turned and bent down toward the drawer again. I made no effort to avoid admiring his muscular ass that time. When he stood again, he held a pistol. I stared at it for a moment before silently pointing the camera in his direction. I made sure I had him completely in frame as he checked the gun to make sure it was prepared.
“My dad’s.” He said stoically. “This is all you need to upload the video.” He gestured with the gun toward the computer. “Plug it in once its done, and drag and drop the file. That’s it.”
I nodded, a small voice in the back of my head questioning what the hell I was doing, but that voice was drowned out by the much more boisterous, thrilling voice. “Once in a lifetime…” It exuded.
I pointed the camera at Chase, and pressed record upon his instruction.
“You don’t want to stop this?” Chase asked playfully as he pressed the barrel of the gun beneath his chin. Slowly, I looked up at him from the screen, and shook my head.
He grinned, and pulled the hammer back. The bullet clicking into place echoed through the room. Even though I’d been expecting the bang, it was louder than I thought it would be. Loud enough even, to rip my back down to reality. He’d fucking done it, and the moment that bullet ripped through his skull, my world changed. The boisterous voice dissipated immediately, replaced by my own screams.
“Oh my god, oh my god…” I hysterically repeated. I knew there was a possibility he’d pull the trigger, but a part of me…a big part expected him to chicken out. I thought he was testing me…no…no that wasn’t true. I’d wanted him to do it. I’d wanted to witness such a moment…but now that I had…
I fought to keep myself from throwing up as I looked at the blood spattered wall behind him, the red splash dripping on the computer intermingling with the green text falling on the screen. I shakily dropped the camcorder onto the floor, and gathered my clothes. All summer I’d been unable to pry my eyes away from the horrors displayed on a computer, but in real life I couldn’t force myself to look at the body of Chase Lincoln.
I should have stopped it. I could have. What had I done? These thoughts raced threw my head as I threw my outfit on and rushed through the bedroom door. I bounded through the hallway and down the stairs, pushing my way through the front door. I didn’t look back at the house as I leaped into my car and sped away.
I was sure the police would be coming for me. I was positive. I tried to convince myself to go to them, to explain what had happened...but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Days passed, and with each one my anxiety grew. Where the fuck were they? Surely there was some evidence in that house that tied me to it. I racked my brain every minute of every day, and came to the conclusion that the camcorder would certainly have my voice on it. Maybe that wasn’t enough to pinpoint me. Yeah, sure…just a voice that could belong to any girl. Then I remembered that there would definitely be a record of our conversations saved somewhere in his computer. There was no way the evidence wouldn’t lead them right to me. So where the hell were they? Weeks went by…months…all without incident.
The day I moved out of my parents house, and indeed the state…was the same day that I saw the “MISSING” poster. I was on my way out of town when I stopped for a fill up, and there was Chase Lincoln, staring at me from a small sheet of paper taped to the glass window. Missing. That made no sense to me. How could he be MISSING?! My thoughts raced as pumped the gas. Once I was finished, I hauled ass out of that town. I never went back. I’d somehow had a guardian angel watching over me, and that had helped me escape…
Thirteen years. Its been thirteen years since Chase Lincoln’s suicide. I still think about it quite often. I’ve since absolved myself of any guilt I felt. He was going to do it whether I tried to stop him or not. He’d had a gun after all, who’s to say he wouldn’t have shot me first had I tried. Telling myself those things has helped me. A mentally disturbed boy I’d crossed paths with…that’s all.
Today, though, my heart skipped a beat in a way it hasn’t in quite a long time. My smartphone dinged, letting me know that I’d received an email. My breath quickened when I saw that the sender was my own, old email address. The one I’d used to instant message with my friends thirteen years ago. The subject read “I KNOW”, and the body of the message contained only a single link. My finger trembled as I tapped it, and I clenched my eyes tightly closed as Chase Lincoln’s voice penetrated my ears.
“You don’t want to stop this?”

Rocko's Room
submitted by RockoCharmichael to JustNotRight [link] [comments]


2020.07.26 16:46 Bago26JJJulOly Fre H-d Si-s-ter Po-rn

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submitted by Bago26JJJulOly to u/Bago26JJJulOly [link] [comments]


2020.07.25 17:07 xdxx4525JJul Tape on caught sex forced

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submitted by xdxx4525JJul to u/xdxx4525JJul [link] [comments]


2020.07.24 21:22 2MindsOneBody Generation 1

Hello Lovely people I am finally back with the immediate continuation of prototype one. Please enjoy.
(This story immediately picks up from the prototype 1 story)
Generation 1’s official release was a hit. Many if not all the problems the prototypes had were fixed. The sales were high, profit was coming in, and I was offered a new job. Manager and organizer of the resultant testing. Testing mostly included how fluffies would interact with objects, how they respond to sounds, how they respond to colors and sounds, and then came the part I didn’t like. Testing to see how fluffies respond to pain, mental abuse, and emotional abuse.
I had absolutely no intention of hurting the fluffies, but this was his first job and he could not afford the disgrace of being fired. He was trapped by Hasbio, so to avoid becoming a monster. I delegated the reasonability to a team. Some of my co-workers were inclined to, but did not want to hurt the creatures that they had made. So, we were allowed to enlist some psychopaths.
Each one was given five fluffies and a bunch of forms to fill out and describe what they do to the fluffies and how they react. After two weeks the forms were brought in and the results were descriptive and very gruesome, but it got the job done.
Personally, I don’t want to keep fluffies, but I am forced by my position to keep six. At least I got to decide the colors and the sexes of the fluffies, note in generation one there were only earth type fluffies. So, I took a rather mixed but organized bunch. Each was a different color fluff with their opposing color being the mane. (Blue to Orange etc.)
The three cool-colored fluffies, blue, purple, and green, were all female, and the three warm-colored fluffies, yellow, red, and orange, were male. The paring procedure was quite easy and I matched them with their colors. Side note generation 1’s color scheme is not actually genetic that was introduced in gen 2. The fluffies with same color combinations seemed to naturally pair which is what I wanted them to do anyway. The six fluffies were all different personality-wise and each pair talking with each other in their chirping voices. I had to make a stop at one of the new Petco-style shops, but for fluffies, stylistically named Fluffy-Mart.
I had to leave the six chirping creatures in the car. “Welcome to Fluffy-Mart how can I help you.” “Basic supplies please.” “Isle two and three.” Fluffy-Mart had only opened their doors only last week, but there were already nine different types of kibble. I chose the Growing fluffies food. It had hormonal support and helped bones get stronger, which reminded me. I next got the waterers, litter boxes, three fluffy houses, and an auto feeder. Next, I headed into Isle three on one side there were toys, I chose some weighted blocks and other weighted toys. On the other side of the Isle was a shocking devise. It was a ‘Customize your fluffy machine.’ It could cut off legs, wings, horns, and could remove eyes. The most shocking thing about this device was the maker, Hasbio Corp.
I finished my shopping. Spent a total of two hundred twenty dollars on it all. I then went down Isle one. I was greeted with chirping on one side and on the other a blank wall for ‘milk-bags’ and ‘litter-pals.’ The milk bag idea I was okay with, but the ‘litter pal’ idea made me almost vomit.
The babies on the left seemed to be sorted from most popular color to least popular, but one particular brown and black fluffy caught my eye. “Smawty desewve aw da wuv an huggies. Stwpid fwuffy get sowwy hoovsies.” I picked up the little guy and checked his price tag, ‘free take me please.’ “Wet smaety dow dummeh huooman.” I put him in a carry box and got another small bed. “How much is this one?” “Oh, please just take that… thing. It is nothing but trouble. I would even de-leg it for free.” “No, no. I think I’ll take him as he is. He will be interesting to study.”
The six fluffies in the back were all cuddled in there sets and asleep. This new fluffy, who I will call ‘Smarty,’ was not being quiet demanding so many things that finally, for fear of waking the others, I tapped its mouth shut. At home I set up the safe room and quickly led the six fluffies into the room. It had been a long time since I had used it, but it was easy to clean. I set up the toys the houses and the box. After that was done, I went into the tiny basement and set up a smaller safe room with the bed and some older supplies that I used when making my first report on the Prototype 1 fluffies.
I carried the fluffy into the room and took the tape off his mouth. Immediately this ‘smarty’ began making demands. “Dummeh Hooman puh fwuffy down now.” I did so right onto the bed. He landed with a bump and a squeal. “Eeeh dummeh hoomen. Yuh soo stuped. Gav fwuufy weggies hewtees. Gunnuh gib dummeh hoomen biggest huwties if no gib sketties.” “Very demanding and constantly calls itself smarty.” I began jotting down notes and continued ignoring the creature which became more and more threatening and angry. “Didden dummeh hooman heew. Gib! Fuwwfy! SKETTIES!” As he yelled, he tried to stomp my foot, but it only felt like I had dropped my glasses case on my foot. So, I reached down.
I bopped his nose and snapped my right-hand fingers and at the same time I used my left hand I squeezed his nose. Instantly the programming in his brain took control of his body forcing him to sit down and not move. He began to panic his body might not be responding, but his voice and head unfortunately not also controlled by this command. “Wah happenin wy no bodeh moov. Nu wan sit wan gib bah hoomen huwwties.” He broke down crying, “wan seketties wan huggies an wuv.” All of these responses were very interesting. I wrote myself a note check if any other people have recorded this behavior.
“Look… smarty, you cannot go around threatening people its not right.” I had stooped to his level and was looking directly into his eyes, and as soon as I was done, he lashed out. First and most shocking, he spat directly into my face and screeched, “DUMMEH HOOMAN WET SMAWTY GIB BIGGEST WUHTEES OW GET FOWEVVER SWEEPIES!” I placed my right-hand on his face and snapped my fingers releasing control of his body back to him. “Very well smarty. Try to hurt me.”
The idiot charged me he rammed my leg with his head and bounced backwards crying at the pain he inflected on himself. It felt like a potato ball had hit my leg with the force of a rubber ball and all the bounciness. He landed on his back and began crying. “Huuu. Huuu. Fwuffy sowwy. Huu. No wan sketties nuw. Jus wan huggies an wuv. Huu. Huuuuu.” I picked him up and carried him to the basement food dishes. There was food and water as well as the litter box all on an old rug. “Until you make up for what you have done and for all the empty treats, you will stay here.”
End Part 1
Okay i have plans for part two but to leave suggestions. Until next time.
<3 -2minds1body
submitted by 2MindsOneBody to fluffycommunity [link] [comments]


2020.07.24 16:45 wolf24Jul On tape forced sex caught

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submitted by wolf24Jul to u/wolf24Jul [link] [comments]


2020.07.24 16:15 import24Jul Forced tape on caught sex

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