Tags: mdom, bdsm, degradation, humiliation, orgasm denial, olfactophilia, bromidrophilia, disgust, bbw, big tits, big ass
The Obodites are real. The symbol Lana sees at Shannow Bog’s house is real. I have included it down the bottom.
- Juliette de Lorsange
Summary: Lana Del Rey becomes a free-use “bangmaid” for two disgusting, domineering men. Her duties: cooking, cleaning, and cocks. Not included: free will, dignity, or humanity.
The next day, she hears The Boy screaming her name from the toilet.
“MAID! MAIIIIDDD!!! HEEEEELLLLPPPPP!!!”
His wounded howls shake the house. It sounds like he’s dying.
She flings a mop aside and runs at the sound. Throws itself into its teeth. Heart slamming, mind card-shuffling a deck of horrid possibilities, she pulls open the toilet stall door.
…and recoils, clapping a hand over her mouth.
The Boy sits on the toilet, pants loosely piled around his ankles. His legs dangle in scrawny, hairless stalks.
There is no sign of an emergency.
Unless you count the penis jutting out from his hips, like a flagpole of flesh. That’s a DEFCON1 crisis.
The massive, loathsome shaft erupts out toward her face, a long, bulbous hose of rank boyflesh, sagging in a curve beneath its own weight. His glans is as big as a golfball. It pulses sickeningly, bobbing before her face, disgorging seminal fluid from the slit.
The Maid is stunned by the sheer size of the boy’s repulsive penis. It’s just wrong.
He’s nearly as big as his dad…
The wrinkled, vein-twisted shaft is the length and thickness of a TV remote. It’s grubby with filth. A long worm of pre-cum slithers out of the head, nearly nine inches from his hips. It stretches down in the fetid toilet air like melted cheese—just for a moment, she sees her awestruck face reflected in the glob of liquid—before finally snapping and going SPLAT! on the tiles. She feels a skin-crawling wetness hit her ankles.
“You made it hard!” The Boy whines childishly, jabbing a thumb at his huge schlong. “I thought about you and it got hard and YOU. HAVE. TO. FIX. IT.”
“But…but…” blood rushes to her face, swirling in a hot wind beneath skin.
The Boy giggles, relishing in her discomfort. He swings his legs back and forth, making his horrific organ lurch.
“This is your fault! You made it hard, so make it soft! Make me cum! You stupid fat-assed bitch!”
He flexes his pubococcygeus muscle. The cock jerks, bouncing like a crane arm and slinging out another strand of pre-cum.
“Make me cum! Stupid fat assed bitch! This is your fault! Make me cum!”
“But…” her protests lose force as his cock wags in front of her.
“MAKE! ME! CUM!” He stomps, shaking the floor. It’s like a football chant. “MAKE! ME! CUM!”
The Maid kneels, folding her knees upon the chill of the bathroom tiles, feeling her ass expand like a cushion upon the backs of her ankles. Her dress flexes out with a groan of protesting fabric. She’s too big for the dresses. Already, their stitches are beginning to pop.
She leans forward, face against his groin. The musky smell of smegma-encrusted cock is sickening. Like a punch to the gut. Does he ever wash? At all?
The boy leers disgustingly, mouthbreathing through a mucus-clotted throat. His moist organ pulses. Another squirt of pre-cum sluices out of his slit, soiling the front of her dress.
“MAKE! ME! CUM!”
The Maid balances herself as best she can, overfed ass cheeks wobbling on her heels. She grabs a bottle of lotion, and squirts a palmful into her hand. The boy giggles like a mental patient as the household maid jerks him off. His immense, heavy shaft flexes between his legs as she lubes up the hard shaft, giving him a slippery handjob.
squuiiIIIICCKKK! squuiiiiiCCKKKK!
His slimy cock squirms fatly under her palm. He moans hideously. Joyously. She pumps back and forth, feeling it disgorge messy precum that rolls in twisting wormlike strands down her wrists, dripping from her elbows. His dick is so fat her fingers cannot wrap fully around the base.
She jacks off The Boy with both hands, her tits swinging like pendulums. They are barely cupped by the maid outfit’s neckline. The boy watches their wobbling arcs, staring eagerly down her chasm of breast-flesh. He huffs in interest. His cock jerks, and her strokes become even wetter than before.
squuiiIIIICCKKK! squuiiiiiCCKKKK! SQUIIIIICKKKKKKKKSHHHH*
The Maid switches directions, giving ten or so long dick-milking strokes from his crotch to his glans, twisting at the end, then reversing. He writhes. Whines. His penis spasms like a dying snake. Precum slithers neverendingly from his slit.
“OoooooOOOHHHHHHHH YEAAHHHHHHH!”
With a sudden scream, he cums. The cock lurches and bucks in her hand, like a shotgun breech-firing.
It thickens in her hand as a bolt of cum wells down its length. A rubbery spasm nearly flicks the shaft from her fingers, and then the goo starts to fly.
“GUUUUUHHHHH!!! CUMMING! TAKE IT, BITCH!”
SMACK! BLURT! GLOORRRT!
Hot sperm erupts from The Boy’s piss-hole. A massive surging rope belts The Maid between the eyes with enough force to sting.
WHAP!
“Uhh! UHH! UHHH!” His hips lunge, pistoning forward, throwing out cumropes like party ribbons. She jerks back as more ropes splatter across her nose and cheeks, covering them in reeking curtains of white.
Gurgle-gurgle-GLUUUURRRRKKK! BLOOOORRRPPP-POP!
“AHHHH! AHHHH! OOOOOOHHHH! CUMMING! CUMMING! CUUUMMINGGGG!”
The Boy hoots like an ape, kicking and stomping the ground, rocking back and forth. His blasting penis shoots out dense, ropy masses of sperm, as thick and gelid as frogspawn.
As he gushes seed over her face, sick degredation festers into excitement in her stomach—maggots, turning into beautiful iridescent flies. Voluminous amounts of ball batter cling to her face, slowly sliding down in a solid mask.
The boy grabs her breasts and drags them forward, plunging his orgasming cock into the sweaty trench of The Maid’s cleavage. He floods the cups with cum. Layers of thick congealed sperm splatter and pulse into her dress, soaking it.
“UHHHHH IT FEELS SOOO GOOODDDD!!! I’M CUUUMMMIIIINNGGG!”
Finally, his seemingly endless orgasm runs down. His cock slowly stops jerking inside her bra. His flushed face goes from stupidly ecstatic to merely stupid.
“Woah…” He contracts his hips, and his softening cock tugs free out of her neckline. It fires off a final weak spurt across her beautiful, sperm-slathered face, and then the Boy collapses back onto the toilet, panting.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asks, blushing deep red beneath her bukkake-bath, eager to please and to serve.
The Boy starts giggling, his face flushed.
“No. You didn’t get it all out. You have to do it again.”
…and The Maid watches his sperm-dripping penis slowly rise between his legs.
Disbelief.
No.
He cannot get hard. Not seconds after shooting out that amount.
“And this time, suck it.” He grips it like a club, and plants the hardening organ into her mouth.
She slithers closer, fits her lips around the prick, and sucks, feeling its blood-pregnant mass balloon eagerly against tongue and tonsils. She hollows her cheeks around his gigantic pole, slobbering away at the mammoth erection. Rude noises—lewd noises—hum pungently through the toilet stall.
Schlopp! Plapp! Blapp! Plooorpshhh! Squeelkkk! Gluuuuckkkk!
Degrading. Obscene. Thrilling. Like scuba diving through an ocean of garbage.
It feels so good to be an abscene, an orifice, a hole for this subnormal pornbrained teenager to violate and breed.
The Boy claws at her updo, pulls handfuls of hair loose. They trail over her arching mascara’d eyes as she rocks back and forth, feasting between his legs.
Blub-blub-BLUUUUURRRRPPP! Gurgle-gurgle-GLUUUURRRRKKK! BLOOOORRRPPP-POP!
Over and over the cock slurps and yurks down her throat, nearly nine inches splitting her esophagus, choking off her air. If I die, I die. She accepts this. Accepts that she is a human cockslseeve, undeserving of breath, perhaps undeserving of life.
Sklurrrchhh! Skloorrrchhh! Splorrrkkk! Glurrrchhh! Bluuurppp! Slooorshhh! SKLOORRRCHHHISULLLCHHH!
“You’re so hot like this,” he whispers, using the trailing hair as handlebars to facefuck her deeper onto his disgusting hips.
His hands repeatedly pull her forward into his crotch. Her terrified eyes are soon nearly flush against the base of his hard penis, and her chin touches his spongy swinging scrotum. The boy’s testicles are immense, perhaps even larger than his father’s. She hopes he’ll cum again soon. Already, the cock stuffing her throat has started to ripple with rhythmic surges. The boy starts whining and whining. His ass lurches off the toilet seat as he throatfucks her to completion.
“Bahhhh! CUUMMMINNNG!!!”
He grunts and spews a second load of ball batter into the Maid. She feels his testicles jerk under her lips, rapidly plapping as they leap against her chin.
His cock swells. Disgorges. Heavy spurts slash down her throat, rank and disgusting. Her stomach heaves as his load pulses into her. The Boy gasps and rocks back, his wetly-gleaming shaft tugging free from her mouth, bouncing as it ejaculates directly onto her face for the second time in ten minutes. More shots splatter over her cheekbones, between her eyes, in her hair. Hot cum slides down her collarbones, and between her big breasts.
“Huhhh….!” he drools. He picks up his rubbery cock and slaps it into her splattered face – SMACK! SMACK!
The Maid gags. Rank-tasting gloop spills from her mouth. The Boy collapses once more, his eyes unfocusing and his cock wilting.
And then, ludicrously, he starts to get hard again.
“Hehehehehe…” he giggles brokenly, his cock straightening before her eyes.
The Maid waits to see if he will use her as a cocksleeve a third time. He does not. He just stares dazedly forward. His cock chubs a little, then softens. Covered in cum, feeling his load harden onto her skin like paint, she slinks away, hoping she’s made him happy.
It’s so hard to tell, considering his brain visibly falls out of his ears every time he cums.
But I think he’s happy. Her smile is barely visible beneath a mask of clotted, dripping sperm. If I was him, I would be.
* * *
Head reeling, pulse thundering, The Maid staggers into the kitchen, washes herself, and changes clothes.
She flings aside the cummed-on maid outfit—it feels almost half as heavy again with a caked-on layer of boysperm—and puts on a fresh one. The boy’s defiling smell still clings rankly to her tongue like snakevenom, long after she spits him out.
Young boys make such horrible messes.
She sleepwalks through the rest of the day, performing her duties through a happy-dreamy cloud of fog. She goes grocery shopping; hardly aware of the world around her.
The town outside the House of Bog is blurry, indistinct. Mist seems to hang heavily over everything. The moment she walks past a landmark—a tree, a building, a signpost—she cannot recall what it just looked like. It fades from her mind, the way details do to a waking dreamer. People look past her. Through her. Is she even there? She might be The Maid, but she’s not their Maid.
The Son and the Boy have prepared a shopping list for her. Beer. Bacon. Hot wings.
At the checkout line, a woman—dyed hair, edgy sideshave, granny glasses, T-shirt saying I CHOOSE THE BEAR—glares in judgment at her haul, as though she’s betraying all of sisterhood..
This is the kind of haul you get when you’re doing a man’s shopping for him.
The Maid does not care about the opinions of a person who may not exist.
* * *
After dinner, she’s washing dishes.
The Son caresses her ass.
She shudders. Squeaks softly. Clutches a plate to her chest like a shield.
Where did he come from? The door was right down the hall. She didn’t hear it open. He’s just there, taking up so goddamn much of her space, pressing her against the gushing sink.
She tries to turn around, but the hands gripping her shoulder do not allow movement.
“I was wondering…” she hears the slow grin as it squirms across his debauched face. He presses his hips to her fat, fleshy bottom. His erection pulses against her ass, hot as a cattle iron.
“…Do you like it here?”
He pulls her around to face him, and she falls into the abyssal starfield of his sociopathic, dead eyes. It seems like a burial field for corpses. Maybe her corpse.
“You…seem to like it here…” he says this brokenly, unevenly, uncertainly—with horror, she realizes he’s trying to be nice. “So…gimme a kiss?”
He head comes forward. Lips touch, and voltage arcs from pole to pole. Her stomach flutters.
Suddenly, he’s in control. Hands all over her, commanding and rough, she falls to pieces between them. Her heart beats a sledgehammer tattoo. Her pussy grows moist. He steps forward, pressing his crotch against hers. She feels his penis spasm, a hot tube of male, stuffed precariously in jeans that are too small. She hungers for his cock. My missing piece, the void between her legs yawps and gasps.
Fear. Lust. Always that easy flip-flop between them. They feel like the type of chemical that’s just one molecule apart.
Oh, stupid ladybrain! She imagines him on top of her. Filling her. Flooding her. She has to look away.
Imagines him falling in love, imagines him marrying her…
She leans forward to kiss him again, when…
“Fuck you, you absolute slut.”
He slaps her.
Not hard, but she’s unready. It’s like a bunker-buster exploding on her face.
WHAP!
He’s furious, seemingly out of nowhere. She shrinks back from rage-shadowed eyes. Doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t dare ask.
“You fucked up,” he whispers. “And I found out. And now you’ll have to pay.”
Another slap.
“The principle of double-entry bookkeeping is that every debit must be equalled by a corresponding credit. Do you understand bookkeeping, bitch?”
Another slap.
“Is that on your list of cognitive functions?”
Another.
The Maid kneels, groveling piteously, trying to think of an apology for the mistake she made—the fuckup so profound she doesn’t even know how she fucked up. He laughs cruelly, amused by her debasement.
The bulge seems to distend his pants forward an extra inch.
He takes out his phone, and begins tapping on the screen.
“I’ve been wondering what you’re doing when you go to the bathroom ten times a day. So I installed a camera feed over the toilet.”
“Wuh…?” the first word she’s spoken. And it’s not even a word.
He slaps her. WHAP!
“Don’t talk. Just look at the recording.”
He pressed play on a video of bleary spycam footage.
It captures her sitting on the toilet.
Her panties are down around her ankles like shackles. Her hand is frantically working between her legs. Her head is tilted back. Her mouth is wide open, crying out into space.
He fast forwards to a few hours later.
She’s masturbating on the toilet again. And again. And again.
The next time he fast-forwards, she sees herself kneeling and sucking The Boy’s cock. The teenager is howling, hips lunging forward in orgasn. White ropes arc and fall over her face.
“You have abused my hospitality.” The Man yanks the phone away. He seems angry enough to kill. “And taken advantage of the boy. And now you’re going to pay.”
“Anything…” she gibbers. “I’ll do anything. Please just…forgive me.”
Part of her wonders…why did he just say the son instead of my son? Only a small part, though. She has more pressing concerns.
Such as surviving the next five minutes.
A vein-choked arm has grasped her hair, and is dragging her to the bedroom.
* * *
He kicks the door open. It goes BOOM against the wall. She’s yanked through by her hair, stumbling awkwardly, heart thudding in terror.
Terror, or perhaps something else.
The arm lashes forward. Flings her onto the bed. Her maid skirt flies up high, exposing fear-white thighs, laden with pale and pudgy flesh.
Then he pounces on top of her, hands pulling at her soaked panties.
Despite his obvious insanity, his weight triggers a sudden burst of joy. Incongruous. Yet it belongs. She feels the rapture of a toy that only wants to be played with, even though playing might mean destruction.
Oh my God, he’s going to do it! He’s actually going to do it! Finally!
His hands closed, gripping handfuls of her big, fleshy body. She surges; has a miniature orgasm. Her cunt is juicing up, her legs itch with excitement. She’s just wet slavering girl meat, to be carved up by what’s between his legs.
He is panting like a rabid beast. His body exists on top of her like a wall of heat.
“I’m going to make this hurt.” His words pool on her skin in rushes of shallow breath. “How much, I haven’t decided yet.”
Her maid outfit is ripped to shreds under his hands, revealing terrified but ready skin, hot and flushed and ripe. Ready to be abused. Ready to be fucked.
Next, his jeans come down. “Who knows. You might get lucky. Don’t count on it, though.”
An enormous shaft shloops up in front of her view. It casts an obscene cock-shadow over her awestruck features; like a cobra readying itself for the death-strike. Her pussy dilates and collapses in awe.
There’s no way that will fit in me. There’s no way. It can’t go in. Please don’t try. Please please please don’t try!
She was thinking these thoughts even after his grotesquely sized prick was socketed in her cunt to the balls.
“OOOMMF!!!” The Maid’s big lusty body buckles inwards like a question mark as her twat swallows his massive bitch-breaker. He rams his engorged prick into her moist flaps, shunting his erection down into her molten core.
“TAKE IT! THIS IS YOUR LIFE! TAKE IT!” Grunting, locking his hips against her, his penis cleaves apart the walls of her hot gooey pussy. She’s spiraling on the edge of an orgasm or madness.
He fills her. Utterly fills her. She was born for his moment. He was born to do it. Her body seemed to stretch like the mouth of a rubber balloon around the shaft gaping her needy snatch.
He fucked and rammed and pounded, alcohol-poisoned breath blasting across her face.
She opens her eyes wide, screams, and then the chain-orgasms begin.
“Ohh! OHHHH! OHHH! OHHHH!”
They roll over her, explosion after detonation after firestorm.
Her vaginal and pelvic floor muscles contract rhythmically. Her pubococcygeus and iliococcygeus loop tight around his sawing prick. Squirts of flood erupt at the mortise-point of their rutting bodies.
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”
Her screams spiral out of her like birds frightened into some dark moonfilled sky, while his wet sloppy cock punches into her again and again and again.
SKWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP
His huge curving pipe of meat slides into her orgasming pussy, slinging pussy juices everywhere, so fast it’s a blur. His balls hammer a drumbeat against her asshole.
His horrendous beast of a dick glistens as it pulls back, shiny with her juices. She sees veins pulsing in it. Please put it back, she thinks but doesn’t say, because that would mean a break in the screaming. Pleasure irradiates her shuddering flesh in spiderwebs of nerve activation. Her skin feels ablaze, burning with twists and crawls of sensation, as she’s fucked in half.
He humps and thumps. His cock pummels into her with greedy, moist squelches. Her clit is wracked by incandescent pleasure. Her walls sing out of her like gold. Everything in the room and the house and the universe seems a tapestry woven from heat and energy and speed and kinesis, accelerating until it becomes pleasure. Pleasure and pleasure and pleasure.
Forever.
Then he stops his savage fucking. His cock is lodged fatly inside her, like a fencepost embedded in mud.
His hand caresses her bare, thick thigh. His head leans forward, and lips move.
“Do you know what I’m thinking of?” it’s a whisper, but it provokes a shudder of crazed emotion. She’s so far gone that she doesn’t even know what emotion. It’s overwhelmingly intense: like alcohol so concentrated that a thimbleful buzzes you. That’s what she knows.
Slowly, his enormous draft-horse sized penis slides back, and then reverses direction. Back in, as unstoppable as a freight train, it carves apart her slavering vaginal walls one final time, lodging against her cervix like a bomb about to explode.
The Maid feels the massive penis pulse once. And then a torrent of cum sprays through the shaft.
It billows out into her womb, a spreading mushroom cloud. Malignant. Divine. Megatons upon megatons of death, inundating the empire of her womb in what seems like gallons of fresh baby batter.
Ohhhh…don’t pull out.
* * *
The Son spends the night in her bed.
The Maid does not sleep.
He fucks her repeatedly, taking her savagely and brutally, sometimes with only an hour between cunt-pummelings. Between his frequent ruttings, she lies awake, unable to sleep, with her mind blown apart and shrieking through space.
Finally, seemingly hundreds of hours later, a thin rind of day coalesces around the black fruit of night. Light enters the room. Sanity does not.
The Son grunts piggishly, rising from shallow sleep. His erect penis massively distorts the bedsheets.
“Good morning.” He snarls, and lunges for her once more.
He mounts her, hauling apart her legs, lunging down, then driving in.
His hot thickness coils and quivers along her ribbons of yielding muscle. Oh God, he’s so fucking big!
The Maid’s heavily-fleshed hips shake and quiver around the cock jackhammering her senseless. Her hips wobbled with the thick, wet meaty slaps of his pelvis, his cock burrowing down to the hilt.
The Maid lies, pinned onto the bed by his shaft, legs spread wide, his grunting sex-crazed bulk on top of her. She stares in wonder over his shoulder. Dreams collide and gash sparks against wakefulness, the past evolves to the present moment which then becomes the past again, and it all connects like a key going click into a lock…her lock, specifically…
PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP
He speeds up, teeth clenched over her face, obviously going to cum.
By now, it’s perfunctory. Almost familiar.
Still not boring, though. Or at least not for her.
He twists her head to look into his eyes, and she sees him. The man who controls her. Who owns every square inch of skin…even the skin that’s inside her body.
“You’re mine,” he hisses, as his cock blasts her insides.
The man rams and plows himself into her gushing wet depths, ejaculating inside her pussy. He chokes her, plunging fingers into her soft throat.
She orgasms so hard it feels like something breaks in her body. Smoke seems to be issuing out of her ears.
He pulls out, and it’s like a hole ripped in a balloon. Air rushes into her gaping cunt. Parts of herself rush out, along with his morning load.
There’s so much, she thinks as her heart pounds. I’ll need to go on birth control. If they give me permission. Maybe they want me waddling around pregnant. Like so much of what happened these days, she didn’t know if she was dreading it or longing for it.
“Please…give me more…” Her slavering cunt is still voracious and hungry, she tries to fuck him again.
He laughs, baring teeth as the desperately horny Maid whines.
“No. Desperate pig of a woman. Get about your work.”
Then he kissed her again, violent and hard, rough stubble engraving a starburst of rough fire into her skin and memories, and then was gone.
She cries. Doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know. Does he love me? Hate me? What am I doing wrong?
Her eyes close. She falls inward, searching for sin, for failure, for some part of herself she can blame and eviscerate.
I must be a bad Maid somehow. But if he’d just tell me how…
She wants to be loved. By someone.
She sits up, and dries her eyes. Enough woolgathering. Time to be strong.
He’s right: she has chores.
* * *
Later…
“Hey, Maid! Get over here!”
The Boy does not go to school. He seemingly napped, masturbated, played videogames, then did it all again.
She hurries into the living room, soap suds drying coldly on her hands.
He’s sitting slope-shouldered on the couch, wearing out his thumbs on one of those sick videogames he plays all the time. “Play against me. I’ll go easy on you. I swear.”
The Maid drags her eyes to the screen on the other end of his game controller.
It’s disgusting. Blood-storms erupt and drench, like a Biblical apocalypse. Heads burst ;like wet confetti. Dismembered limbs fly like firewood split by an axe. Girlish voices moan in sex or death.
The Boy gestures for her to sit on the couch next to him. She obeys, even though she’s incredibly busy. Submissively, she folds her legs up on the edge of the cum-stained couch, careful to minimize her space. Careful to smooth out her maid petticoats so that they wouldn’t ruck up indecently on her thighs. Classic feminine rituals, rote and unthinking.
He forces a controller into her hands. “You probably suck. All girls do.”
Then he tabs back to the main menu, and selects 2P MODE. The screen says LOADING.
She blinks. Feels totally confused. The Boy hasn’t explained the controls to her.
This appears to be a fighting game of some kind. A character select screen flashes up. All the options are ridiculous feminine caricatures—gigantic tits and asses, nearly nonexistent clothes. Silently, she thumbs the trigger across a parade of skin and shamelessness.
BIMBO. PIXAR MOM. CHEERLEADER. STRIPPER. TUMBLRINA. BARELY-LEGAL. GIRL NEXT DOOR. CATGIRL. TRAP…
She selects JAPANESE MAID.
He selects JUNKIE WHORE.
CATFIGHT! flashes on the screen.
The match begins. She has no idea what she’s doing. As the boy moves in to crush her, she feels panic rise.
She doesn’t stand a chance. He’s relentless, vicious, cruelly kicking and pounding and stomping her into a puddle of pixelized gore.
Within seconds, he has double-perfected her. Then he does it again, and again. He has the stubby, stupid-yet-smart fingers of a chimp—she recalls how clumsy they seemed while yanking her hair, and cannot reconcile this with the eerie virtuostic speed and dexterity they now exhibit on the controller.
“Pathetic,” The Boy giggles, roundhouse kicking her across the stage. Blood sprays from the Japanese maid’s mouth. She hears the sickening sound of ribs shattering.
“Girls suck at videogames! This proves it!” he squeals dementedly, an erection swelling in his pants. He starts stomping her character as it lies on the floor of the stage.
Crunch. Smack. Splatt.
“GIRLS SUCK! GIRLS SUCK! GIRLS SUCK!”
The Maid is ashamed and embarrassed and aroused as the beating continues. What does he expect? I don’t know how to play. I don’t even like videogames.
Maybe this was the point, all along.
Sweat trickles between her breasts. Something else trickles between the meaty slabs of her cunt. She shifted, feeling skin get pinched by the indecently tight skirt—as formfitting as anything the digital bimbos in the game wore. She could not focus on anything. It seemed like a far more important game was playing out unseen off the screen. Like the other one, it was a game she was losing. A game she had to lose. A game she was supposed to lose, and could only lose.
But didn’t that mean losing was winning?
The savage humiliation ritual drags on endlessly—a gale-force wind of gore and tits. She begins to learn the controls by trial and error. Once or twice, she even scores some light damage before being ripped to shreds.
She is actually beginning to grow engrossed in the game—leaning forward, eyes slitted, trying to find a way to survive—when a pants zipper is pulled down to her right.
The Maid barely notices the snuffly breathing of The Boy growing aroused. She stares ahead at the screen, as the heat of his body falls on her. He’s undressing. His swaying penis exists like a cryptid at the periphery of vision, a swaying stalk of flesh she can’t quite see.
Then he’s pulling away her clothes, and climbing on her. Hands all over her, like tentacles. Hips humping. Mouth grunting. Seeking entrance into her body.
He has dropped his controller. She is still holding hers, although it’s hard to play the game now that the boy is climbing all over her.
Another match has begun. This time, they are on an airborn floating stage, made of perilously-narrow platforms. Miss a jump, and you fall off the stage. Clouds and zeppelins drift like dreams in the background.
In the real world, his penis plunges into her with a meaty schloorrrp. He squeals like a knife-fucked manatee.
Pressed sideways onto the couch, getting violated by this repugnant teenager, she doesn’t let herself get distracted. She squints at the sideways screen, jumping the JAPANESE MAID from platform to platform, heading for the motionless JUNKIE WHORE.
SQUELCH PLAP SCHLORP SKLCH SCHLAPP BLORP SQUISH SQLLLCHHH SPLISH PLOP PLAP PLASSSKK SCHLUPP SHLICK SQLSHH
The Boy is not as dominant and commanding as The Son, but he more than makes his point. Soon, she is fighting off an orgasm. Warding it away like a maddening fly.
He ejaculates a few seconds later, tensing and spurting. A rubbery pulsating sensation registers on her inner walls, and then he hoots and gasps and humps her into the couch. Warm cum is flooding through her. Squirt. Squirt. Squirt.
“OOOHHHH YOU BITCH!” his hips are leaping forward as he creampies her.
As thick cum hoses into her yawning depths, she lines up her character next to the boy’s, and unleashes a high-kick.
WHAM!
The JUNKIE WHORE flies off the platform. The Boy screams in rage.
One hit KO.
She smiles. And just for a moment, it seems like something or someone is trying to break through that smile. Some other side of herself that she has forgotten.
But then it’s gone. She is The Maid once more.
* * *
The Boy exacts a ruinous price for beating him at the game.
Three hours later, she has finally gotten the last of his disgusting residue off her body. Then she hears the Son speak. “Maid? Where are you?”
She runs to him. Rudely, he grasps her, throws her to the ground, and fucks her once again.
“Fucking bitch! Cheating on me with that kid all the time! Take this! And this!”
His obscene cock rams into her, punching against her core. Again. Again. Again. She screams. Orgasms. Her fleshy ass ripples, absorbing the slugging impacts of his slurping, truncheoning prick.
“Ahhhh!” she gasps out girlishly, sounding like one of the ditzes in The Boy’s videogames.
“Take it, BITCH!”
Then he flips her over, and takes her from behind, roughly ramming his fuck-log into her yawning cave. She groans deeply, heavy tits rolling forward like swingsets with his piledriving thrusts. Her cunt surges and creams. A howling orgasm races through her. Tears are ripping streaks through her makeup as she gushes; a witless and sex-mad piglet.
SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP! PLAAAAAAPPPPPSHHH! SCHLAAAPPP-SQUISH!
“I own you,” The Son’s hands gouge at her neck.
“You own me…” she says with desperate sucks of air. Her eyes roll frantically as his cock drills her open. Her cunt seems to dilate with pleasure, racing toward the terminal brink. Her thick thighs kick and pedal wildly in the air.
“I OWN YOU,” he roars, hot breath and spittle flying over her porcelain-perfect face.
“You own me…!” she agrees, hurriedly, desperately.
He ejaculates, moments before she passes out. His hips give a tremendous surge that seems to write his name against the mucous-lined wall of her womb, pummeling and pounding and creaming.
And then a cock as thick as a rolling pin lodges, spasms once in a huge flailing jerk, churning up her insides, and vomits out an endless deluge of cum into her womb.
It pounds into her in stinging bomb blasts.
Glooppp sklichhh splorchhh!
As he floods her with pulses of seed, she stares blankly upward, into his bestial eyes, seeing love…love so strong that burns through the monster-mask he wears…
Thank you…master…
She understands, and understanding is bliss for her. The Son loves her. Loves her in the guttural tongue of violence. Very well. she thinks, her eyes filling with echoes of his cruelty-shadowed face. I will learn to speak his tongue too. However long it takes. However hard it is.
* * *
From there, she’s in freefall. Tumbling cunt-first into such utterly disgusting debauchery.
The next day, The Boy takes her while she’s doing laundry. He pulls out his cock, grips his cock, and blasts his putrid load over the newly-laundered whites she’s trying to fold.
That night, The Son is enraged by the dinner she cooks. He fucks her up the ass in punishment. For hours afterward, she feels his cum squelching and farting out.
When she finally retires to her bed, The Boy is waiting there for her.
They won’t leave her alone. Each of empties his balls into her four, five, or even six times a day.
Their lust consumes her like fire. Now that they’ve both fucked her, they regard her as little more than a recepticle for their cum.
Just a gym-sock that can also cook and clean.
* * *
The two men are very similar: enough so that she can only notice their differences.
The Son is a grown man. He is intelligent and manipulative and malevolent, but when he gets angry, he has no control over his actions. Or pretends he doesn’t.
Living with him is like living with a conscious, sentient tornado. He screams. He rages. He trashes things. He’s not boring—at least there’s that. Her heart-rate leaps into the stratosphere whenever he enters the room.
By contrast, The Boy is a disgusting porn-obsessed slug. He scarcely seems human. He’s just huge, constantly-needy penis that has a teenage boy indifferently dangling off it. She feels a maternal affection for him: a desire to break his addiction to masturbation by introducing him to a real woman’s body.
The Boy is grotesque, but there’s a harmlessness to him. He’s totally unlike The Son…who she sometimes thinks is one bad day away from murdering her. Strangling her throat hard enough to snap her neck. Sneaking up behind her in the kitchen, then sinking a Gyuto chef knife ten inches in her back.
I was in prison… She doesn’t doubt that he was. Probably for something really bad.
* * *
Constantly working, constantly having a penis inside her, the days lose definition for The Maid.
A sea of rolling time sweeps her along, sweeps her off her feet, takes her down to her knees. No matter the day, she’s just spreadeagled on the floor, screaming while the two beasts fuck her, so does it even matter how much time is passing?
She’s where she belongs. Where she’ll always be.
Buried in housework, cocks being pounded into her at all hours of the day, orgasming constantly while being degraded, her sanity starts to break.
Deprived of sleep, The Maid starts disassociating from the world. From herself. She giggles at the walls, at the ceiling. She hallucinates the house collapsing in on her in a torrent of white, its austere surfaces liquifying into a drowning mass of sperm, and laughs. She wakes up, screeching into the dark-vaulted ceiling. What’s funny? Nothing. Everything. Her old life isn’t even forgotten. It never happened. There never was a person before The Maid. There’s only this. Cooking and fucking and cleaning and sucking. Cleaning up the messes of boys and the helping them make more messes.
Being The Maid is not her job. It is not even her religion.
It’s her.
* * *
She fails to lose weight. Soon she’s heavier than ever.
So heavy, in fact, that she begins to wonder…
Wonders at being constantly out of breath, winded from the briefest of walks, ankles swollen, strange cravings for food on her tongue.
Wonders at the missed periods—which she assumed were due to stress. But what stress? She loves this life!
She buys a pregnancy test, and spends a long time staring at the result.
There is a baby inside her.
I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant! Oh, this is wonderful! The thought triggers a blinding wave of hot gushy-girly delight. I’m having a baby! OOOOOOHHHH! AAAAAHHHH!
This is a sperm-poisoned madhouse, there is finally cause and effect. Finally logic. Finally hard evidence that she has made a positive difference.
Her mind is full of joy.
In the coming months, her waistline fills out. Soon, she’s constantly pinching handfuls of her belly, wobbling it back and forth. She imagines the little life growing within her, and wonders who the father is.
The Son? The Boy? Both have been busy enough between her legs.
Yet she feels strangely certain that the answer is neither…the father of the baby is someone else…
…a man with gray hair. A man she has met exactly once, when he gave her this job. The Maid frowns.
Lost in reveries, she doesn’t see The Boy.
Howling and gibbering and drooling, he pounces out of nowhere, his lower body naked, his huge filthy penis waving.
He rips away her skirt, mounts her, and pounds a load into her. After ten minutes of frantic jackhammering—he chokes her neck, makes her teeth rattle in her skull, then finally discharges with a series of hot womb-flooding spurts—she forgets that babies even exist.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispers as he grunts, and pulls out of her.
BLORP The creampie he filled her with flows across the carpet.
“Like I care,” he says, squatting and dragging his putrid balls and sperm-oozing glans over her joyfully fucked face. “Get dinner. And the macaroni and cheese better not be runny like last time, bitch.”
Her heart thuds, sheet-plated with blinding, impassioned love.
Oh, they’re both so, so wonderful to me!
* * *
After several more months, The Master pays a visit.
ding-dong!
The Maid waddles to answer the door, moving as fast as one can when they’re the size of a young orca.
She is quite far along. Slow, face flushed, extremities swollen, belly as big as a parade float. Her massive bump bobbles in front of her. She cannot see her own feet past it. She has modified one of the maid outfits to allow her to keep working.
She is surely in the third trimester, insofar as that makes sense in this timeless place.
The heavily-pregnant Maid opens the door, allowing the Master inside. He pulls the cap from his head—exposing a shock of ivory-gray hair—and hangs it on the rack. He smiles at her.
His lips curve like a hangman’s noose. His exposed teeth are sharp fangs.
“Ahhh…” His eyes settle on her monstrous baby-bump, which obscures her permanently damp and aroused cunthole. Fluid leaks constantly from her Skene’s and Bartholin’s glands, staining everything she sits on. She’s given up on underwear.
He chuckles, drooling hungrily. He looks like he wants to sink his fangs into her belly and eat what’s inside, like balut.
“Come to my study, Maid.” He breathes. “We have many things to talk about.”
* * *
“My name,” he says simply. “Is Shannow Bog.”
The Master withdraws a key from a vest pocket, and slides it into a keyhole. Ka-chik. A door swings open.
Oddly, she cannot remember a door being there five seconds ago. Wasn’t it just a wall?
She feels a cold splintery pain cramping her belly.
Her first contraction.
“I spend most of my time travelling,” he muses, striding into an opulent drawing room and motioning for her to follow. “I am a man of some importance in the world. Politicians and magnates and kings ask for my counsel on certain things. I am always happy to assist, if the price is right.”
He sits on an ornate chair with clawed feet. She sits at a humbler chair opposite him, waiting for him to speak. Her cunt throbs, seeming to moan with need and heat and pain. She shifts, hoping to avoid leaving a wet spot.
“Let’s talk about you. Are you enjoying yourself?” The Master stares at her baby bump, as if that’s the answer.
The Maid bobs her head. “I love it at your house! I love it so much! Please let me stay! I just need to have this baby, but then I can get back to work…”
She jerks as a second contraction rips through her.
He laughs like stone grinding. “I tricked you. This is not my house. It is merely…well, it’s hard to explain. Have you ever seen Rocky Horror Picture Show?”
No. Of course not. The Maid has neither time nor desire for movies, or plays, or epic works of Japanese waka poetry, or whatever Rocky Horror Picture Show might be.
Her world is this, with no horizons further.
He laughs again. “How foolish of me. Of course The Maid has never seen it.”
The Master leans forward in conspiracy, eyes slitted.
“Let me re-phrase: has Lana ever seen Rocky Horror Picture Show?”
Lana…? So strange…she doesn’t know that name, but it lodges in her mind, sinking deep…
It’s as if an egg exists in her mind, and the word Lana cracks it. Not much. A little. Just enough to let a thin spill of yolk escape—the yolk of the person she might have been, long ago. The Maid’s eyes fly open wide, breathing a wild racing wind of memory, surging in a tidal pulse through her heart. A past, an identity, as faint as a mountain peak behind a wreath of cloud but undeniably real.
Who am I? Who was I?
The Master smirks. “Rocky Horror Picture Show is a film with a dedicated fan-following. These fans dress in costume and re-enact the action on the screen while the movie plays. Consider the difference between these re-enactions and the movie. There is a similar relationship between this place and my actual home.”
He gestures at the opulent, squalid splendor surrounding them like a mouthful of golden teeth ready to bite. “All you see is a crude, cheap imitation. My real house is far more intense. Far more vivid. Far more real. I have kept you here.”
His fingers go snap. A thunder of running feet shakes the floor.
She knows the sound well. Chiefly because whenever she hears it, she’s usually six seconds away from having a cock buried inside her whorehole.
The Son and The Boy fill the drawing room, standing behind her. They ignore her, and face The Master. For once, they appear unsure. Afraid.
Terrified.
The Master stares at them. A stare they cannot match. They look away, looking at the walls and floor and ceiling and everywhere but, as The Master’s mouth unhinges like a shelf of dark.
His tongue unrolls from putrid red depths. It’s fat, wart-studded, and long enough to humble Gene Simmons. It terminates in a sharply-forked tip. He hisses. Snakelike ripples pulse along the tongue, making it flutter.
With the baby kicking out a second heartbeat, the Maid gazes down his abyssic throat. Suddenly it’s a doorway, flung wide open. The tonsil-framed tunnel seems to blur, fluttering to reveal an endless chasm of screams, far larger than his mouth should be. Twisting faces swirl inside his body. She shudders, and knows why they are afraid.
Another contraction hits. Gut punch. Her knees quiver. She bites her tongue, tears stinging her eyes.
The Son and The Boy see what’s in The Master’s mouth too…
…and they scream. Scream and scream.
Their voices clash and unite, frequencies swinging in and out of phase. The screams ascend: become louder, higher, wilder, until it seems both the room and her skull will explode from the force of their horror. Soon, she’s screaming too. The contractions are like a beating hammer.
The Master addresses his spawn. “Day, ut ia pobrusa, a ti poziwai!”
Impossibly, she understands these ancient Slavic words. “Let me grind corn, so you can rest!”
Their humanity just disappears, breaking apart like a Halloween mask melting in a fire. What’s beneath is revolting parodies, enrobed in shadow, funhouse reflections of something far from human. Their proportions are wrong. Limbs merge and multiply and finally fall away, becoming something else. Something worse. Something her mind will circle but not name.
This is what they truly are.
The Maid’s mind becomes a chill blank as their collapsing bodies ooze and suppurate and sag to pieces. They become freaks. Then monsters. Then shifting mountains of necrotic flesh: flesh infibulated with a stitchwork of gangrenous sores, tenuously connected by a cordage of muck and rot. Umbilical cords and insect proboscises and octopus tentacles and squirming maggot-riddled abscesses unspool wetly in the air, existing momentarily and then bursting like balloons as a diseased heart floods them with ichor-black blood. They fall, unable to stand—just two bloated, half-liquefied squids flopping and dissolving into rancid mucus.
And then they’re gone almost completely, leaving two black burn-marks on the wooden floor.
Silence fills the room.
“They are not really my children,” The Master, Mr Shannow Bog, says calmly. “They are more like…ah, words fail us, Lana.”
Lana…that name again.
“But suffice it to know that my true child is right there.”
He jabs a finger at her bulge.
“Inside.”
He points, and contractions pulse through her, uniting a keening river of pain. She clenches her teeth, blinded by agony.
She’s close. Oh so close. So close to being the mother of this man’s son…assuming she can survive it.
The Master stands.
“Would you like to enter my house, oh little Maid all forlorn? My real house?” He bites his lip. Challenging. Goading. “Would you like to meet my son. My real son? It’s up to you. I support a woman’s right to choose—I am nothing if not progressive, after all. But once you choose, you cannot choose again. That is the law.”
Then he unzips his pants.
And he’s gigantic.
A penis longer than twelve inches juts out. It’s longer than her forearm. It’s otherwordly in size. Mythic. It seems as huge as Jörmungandr, the enormous Midgard Serpent of Norse mythology.
It smells like a snakeskin, cast off and rotting under the sun. It’s the livid shocking red of a prolapse. As it flops into the air—a dead-but-alive mass of meat that smells like it’s rotting—she recoils from the sharp bouquet of smells that suddenly flood the room. Huge balls sag down to his thighs, big as tennis balls and bloated with foul baby batter.
“Once you enter service in my kingdom,” The Master begins masturbating his impossible cock. “You can never leave, Lana.”
Say yes. Say yes.
Then. And she realizes that whatever is in her belly, it is not a baby.
It has teeth of obsidian, a throat that’s a doorway. It has nine long arms, for breaking. Its throat holds the voice of wyverns and griffins, seeking gold-plundering Arimasps, echoing over fen and farrow. A voice that resounds with chimes that signal the breaking of worlds.
The monster choking her womb yearns to chew its way free, to escape into the world. Escape, and then drown its new home in blood.
In her amnoitic fluid, the spawn of Moloch itself is beginning to wake.
“Say yes, Lana…” The Master croaks.
She leans toward his monolith of a penis. Veins ripple along its length like lightning ripping through the belly of a cloud. Spines and tines and spokes gleam with blinding light.
The head twitches.
It releases a stream of pre-cum. As the pre-cum drips onto the Douglis Fir floorboards, they smoke and sizzle.
“Say yes…” his mouth twists upward, like a leaf torn apart by flame. There is no amusement there anymore: just savage abhuman need. “Say yes.””
The leviathan stirs in her womb. The kick feels like worlds ending.
And how can it kick, when it does not have a foot…
“I am Shannow Bog,” he says, “and you will join me in my house…”
Maggots are streaming out of his cock now. Maggots with human faces on them. Faces that have three eyes, or one eye, or no eyes. But all have mouths, and all the mouths blaze with screams.
She feels the abomination begin clawing against the walls of her uterine sac. Oh God, she thinks it has pincers. Crablike claws. Or something even worse. Suddenly, she is convinced that it will be exiting her stomach, not through her birth canal, but via caesarian section…
Suddenly, The Maid is gone from her mind.
Lana del Rey’s voice pierces air like a white blade of ice.
“NO! NO! NOOOOO!!!!!!”
Oblivion.
* * *
…floating, drifting, dreaming…
…unremembered aeons passing…
…finally soaring upward through white, drawn toward something bright…
* * *
She woke, and heard hospital machinery.
beep…beep…beep…
“Lana? Are you there? Can you hear us?”
She teetered for a second. Almost lost her grasp on consciousness. Almost fell back down into the black.
Instead, she clung on to life.
“I can hear you…” Lana del Rey whispered from a hospital bed.
Then she opened her eyes, and saw her agent, her publicist, her father, and her boyfriend. They stood guard around her bed, like a defensive wall.
“…and I told him ‘no’.”
* * *
Social media blew up with news that Lana del Rey had come out of her coma. Jubilant fans blew up Twitter with #LANAISBACK.
She recovered quickly from the car accident. Within weeks, she was moving with the help of a walker. Then with the aid of an occasional hand, steadying herself on the nearest wall. Then with nothing at all.
She was tough. Resilient. She pulled herself back to health like a rock climber scaling a rugged cliff face. It seemed to her doctor that she was patching up her own bones with duct tape and determination.
A survivor.
As she gained strength, her strange dream of being a maid faded. Though never to the point where she forgot. And never to the point where it entirely seemed like a dream.
…My name is Shannow Bog.
She heard that voice in her sleep. Heard it and heard it and heard it.
Life continued. She couldn’t banish the voice, but it did not rule her. Could not rule her.
The voice might exist, but she was simply not his maid to command.
* * *
Many years later, Lana del Rey was reading an old book.
Just doing preliminary research for her most ambitious project yet: a concept album based on the forbidden black rituals of the Obodites, a pagan society from modern-day Germany whose faith pre-dated Christianity.
Then she saw an image that froze her up. Tore things out the depths of her mind that she had forgotten or suppressed.
She touched the page with a finger. Traced the outlines of the shape. The symbol. Her finger suddenly didn’t seem to be pressing against paper but against flayed and vinegarized human skin.
She had seen this exact symbol on the keyplate at the house of Bog.
She read the encyclopedia.
The Slavic Obodites had worshipped a Black God. Chernobog.
In the middle ages, with Christianization sweeping across the Balkans, Chernobog had become associated with the Christian figure known as…
Oh.
Maybe she’d meet Mr Shannow Bog again. Perhaps when she was old, and near death, he would come for her, and reveal that it hadn’t been an offer you can refuse.
No way to know.
He was a powerful man. She did not doubt that Mr Shannow Bog traveled the world, giving advice to kings and politicians and businessmen. They were putting his advice into practice, based on the sum of available evidence. You only had to watch the news to see Mr Bog’s influence all across the world, a story written in blood and bullet holes.
Or perhaps they just wanted to know him for the sake of knowing him. Mr Bog was a man of wealth and taste, after all.
She had escaped, at least for the short term. But she couldn’t escape the dreams she fell into, night after night, telling her that her escape had been illusory. That Shannow Bog would return someday for his bride. That he would wrap her in his sulfur-stinking arms, and drag her back to his glorious dark manse forever.
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