(Tags: m/f, oral, anal, titfuck, latex, mind control?)

Note: obviously this stars 2007-2022 Katy Perry, before she skeletonmaxxed herself. Whoever invented Ozempic deserves the electric chair.

Like many works of classic literature, this owes inspiration to a 4chan greentext

i went to a katy perry concert in dublin a few years ago, you have to idea how much i always wanted to shag her, obviously i didnt and never will, BUT, a bit of my dried cum made contact with katy perry that night, wonder how? i brought a pouch full of skittles covered in my jizz to the concert and just threw them at katy perry one at the time like every couple of minutes, i wasnt too away from the stage but she was always moving around so it was hard to get a good shot but yea i hit her with one and it bounced off her leg it was so hot i almost came

Katy Perry: Fucked Into Hell

Magic.

Black magic.

He grunted obscenely, hunched over double, humping his fist. The air of his dark, foetid flat pulsed with the rhythm of what he was doing, like Poe’s heartbeat.

Fap, fap, fap…

A bag’s worth of skittles lay spread out on the table, tracked by the gunsight of his oozing penis. Rounded, smooth, and shiny, the skittles resembled eggs. Perhaps Katy Perry’s eggs.

The thought of impregnating her didn’t just tip him over the edge, it drove him off in a Formula 1 racer.

Sperm tore through his shaft. His mind detonated, igniting into a crucible of burning, seething noise, a chemical storm that obliterated thought; awareness; consciousness itself. Hard, muscle-numbing spasms thudded through his hips—one desperate surge after another, pain woven against pleasure, a opus magnum symphony of dirt and hate.

He ejaculated with a firehose’s force. Cum-ropes surged and pulsed over the skittles, drenching their vivid candy hues with dead white. Jet after jet of splooge belched from his piss hole until he ran down to empty. Panting, stars spinning through his mind, he reeled, gripped the table’s edge…but didn’t fall. That pleased him. It was good to have some sort of control, as he fell through the void.

His gasps calmed. The thudding in his mind subsided. He glanced at the clock. Fuck. He was running late for the show.

You couldn’t be late. Not on the day of destiny.

He scooped the jizz-coated skittles into a ziplock bag. A stray rope of jizz had nearly hit the other thing on the table: the spellbook he’d stolen from his sister. A WITCH’S GUIDE TO BLACK MAGIC

A funny thing. Stare long enough at the words BLACK MAGIC, and the first fades away, leaving only the second.

Magic. Yes. He wanted magic. And he didn’t give a fuck what color it was.

“…He’s waking up.”

He returned to his body, blinking at details blurring into view. They seemed like icebergs bobbing uncertainly through the dark waters of unconsciousness.

He lay in a hospital bed. A man in a white lab coat—a doctor?—stood at the foot of the bed, alongside another man in a black suit. His confused, oxygen-starved brain interpreted them as a human yin and yang symbol. Antithetic mirrors of each other.

“Anthony?” The one in white leaned forward, peering quizzically into his eyes. “Can you hear us?”

“Yeah…” he groggily sat up in bed, feeling his strength return. “I think so.”

The man in black stepped forward, hands folded contritely.

“You were involved in a…terrible accident at the Dublin show tonight. On behalf of Direct Management—and Miss Katherine Hudson—we extend our sincerest and deepest apologies.”

He felt embarassed. He wasn’t hurt that badly. In fact, he didn’t think he was hurt at all. A little punch-drunk, but he’d had worse hangovers. He held up his hands.

“Hey, look, no big deal. I’m alive. I’m okay. I just passed out for a second.”

“In that case,” a sallow smile effaced the man’s parched-leather face. “We need to discuss your…compensation for this.”

He cut his eyes in the direction of the door, as though he could see someone moving behind the frosted glass.

“I will speak bluntly, Anthony. You are within your rights to sue Katherine Hudson—p/k/a Katy Perry—and her management for what happened tonight. A favorable resolution will take, at minimum, several years, and any settlement you see from us will likely be eclipsed by legal fees. That assumes you win the case, of course. You’ll have the best entertainment lawyers money can buy ensuring you don’t.”

The laywer paused to let his words to take root.

“But if you verbally agree, here and now, to indemnify us from all responsibility…then…perhaps a more pleasant arrangement could be made.”

The door creaked open, pushed by a white-gloved hand.

Magic is real, even if nothing else is.

The next hour was a delirious motion blur. None of it seemed grounded in reality.

Katy wiped his cum off her body, showered, re-did her makeup, and dressed. He just lay in the hospital bed, watching her get ready for the street.

A thought pierced the warm, erotic fugue. I should call my family, and let them know where I am.

But when he got out his phone, it was switched off. He powered it on, but the screen flooded with a eerie swirling static. He could not even get to the start menu.

He stared at it in puzzlement. Then Katy swatted the phone out of his hand, and kissed him again.

“Forget about your phone,” she said, attacking him with her lips. “There’s no-one on the other side.”

She escorted him from the hospital—the streets of Dublin were eerily empty—and into a private limo that was waiting for her. The driver asked where she wanted to go, but didn’t look at him at all. He felt completely invisible.

Is this a common thing for her? He wondered as they drove in silence interrupted by the Chainsmokers’ sparse percussion. Am I her latest boytoy?

Katy was quartered on Columbia Records’ dime at the Merrion Hotel, a palatial 5-star establishment a few hundred yards from Trinity College. She had booked out an entire row of suites on the upper floor.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” she said as they stepped through into the lobby, hand-in-hand.

“Katy…” he whispered, awed by neo-Georgian furnishings climbing up around him. The pale rococo plaster, the high-vaulted ceilings, the marble colonnades…how much did this place per night? How much did it cost per second?

“I’m on a down week until I fly back to the states,” Katy said, lacing fingers through his. A bellhop took her bag, while ignoring him. “And you’re spending that week with me. My way of saying sorry.”

The way she just…said that, with the rich-person-arrogance of someone who could just order the stars and planets to obey her will…

He couldn’t just spend a week here with her. He tried to explain that he had to apply for so many jobs a month—jobs he had no intention of working—otherwise he lost his place on the dole lists. But her hands gripped his, seeming to squeeze resistance out of him like juice from a melon.

“It’s no use, Anthony. That stage of your life is over. You have to stay with me now.”

Spoken with that look of fake, plastic charm in her eyes. A predator who had scoped out prey.

“Fine. I’ll stay,” he said at last, dazed. Maybe she can pay my rent.

They dined at the Merrion’s central ballroom that night, surrounded by ferns and onyx busts. Food was brought out to him, but not once did the waiter speak to him, or even take his order. This seemed strange to him. Was this the way things worked at a three Michelin star establishment? If you have to ask for a menu, you don’t deserve it? He wasn’t sure, but the man had taken Katy’s order…

She drank heavily, destroying two full bottles of wine and making inroads into a third, giggling loudly at his stupid jokes, at his Irish craic accent. The night should have been heavenly, but strangely wasn’t. Everything seemed strange, dissolute, indistinct. The world broke apart into smears. He didn’t seem to be connected to anything except her…and only her…

Mounting alarm made him take out his phone, and try to call someone. Again, it wouldn’t work. What’s going on?

He tried to talk to a passing waiter. The man didn’t turn to look at him. He shouted at the man—”hey, over here!”—and was ignored.

Then he was distracted by Katy’s foot, under the table.

With the toes of her open-top sandals, she traced a tingling line up his leg, and began rubbing his crotch. An erection swelled, and he shifted uncomfortably.

With their dishes cleared away, Katy spun on him with manic, alcohol-fueled horniniess.

“Wanna see my bedr…?”

She caught herself mid-sentence, and amended it.

“Wanna use my bedroom?”

---

Moving at double-speed, they undressed in the elevator. He gripped her boobs with his hands. She jerked his cock, which thrashed against her thick thigh.

Too soon, the elevator dinged on Katy’s floor, and then they ran together across the hallway, into her private suites, buck-naked.

“This isn’t going to stop,” Katy said as she flung the door closed behind them. She kissed him deeply, swallowing his objections with her famous cherry chapstick lips. “Not even when the week ends.”

He palmed her heavy tits, wondering what was going on. Katy was a celebrity. Her days were sliced and diced by a press agent in fifteen minute blocks, each one bartered and accounted for. Was she cancelling every plan in her diary, just to fuck him? It didn’t make sense.

But that was magic for you.

His cock was pulsing, hungry to be inside her cunt. He started to hump her leg, feeling pathetic, like a dog. He didn’t care that it didn’t make sense. He just wanted the fucking to continue.

Katy half-led, half-dragged him over to her double-king-sized mahogany bed—it was neatly made, although there was a remote control for a TV lying on it—and jumped face-first into the counterpane. Her boobs pancaked beneath her body, bulging out on both sides.

She stuck her ass up in the air, ready for him. He saw beautiful calves flex, and msucular thighs tremble.

“Fuck me,” she hissed. “Blow my back out!” Katy piked her hips back, accentuating the dimples where her meaty buttocks folded into the backs of her thighs. Slowly—tauntingly—she traced a finger slowly down between her overfed asscheeks, aimed at her snatch. It seemed like a pointing arrow. Insert penis here.

A shudder ran through him as she raised her butt into his face.

I’m just a dildo to her.

He gripped her by one shoulder, grabbed the one of her spreadagled boobs like it was a speedbag, and tried to mount her.

I’m just a dildo, full stop.

As he tried to penetrate her cunt, she started fighting him. Kicking her legs, driving him back, foiling his attempts to fuck her over and over and over. Her laughter rang out, first mirthful, then cruel, like she was a child torturing a bug. Lust plus frustration led to fury, and soon he was almost screaming.

“Come on!” she tittered, shimmying her hips away to avoid his thrusts. “Fuck me!”

Almost crying in rage, he pinned her thrashing legs to the bed, and drove his shaft into her slick molten core.

Heat. Pleasure. He was where he belonged. Balls deep in Katy Perry. It was like descending cock-first into a warm, suffocating coffin of velvet, a mausoleum of flesh. Extinction and extinguishment lay inside her depths.

He plunged his hips forward, then back. His slick cock speared her folds apart, then flew out, lubricated by a fresh layer of her cum. In, then out. Under his heavy thrusts, her breasts rolled back and forth on the thousand-thread-count sheets, like half-deflated waterballoons. Her lips parted in a scream.

“Ohhh! Ohhhhh! Oooaaaahgghh!”

His lunges between her legs picked up speed, and her moans and gasps accelerated with them. Moist squelches filled the refulgent air as he stabbed and fucked and hammered and drilled his cock into Katy Perry. No way out but through.

There was a mirror mounted above the mahogany bed. He saw himself in it, mindlessly railing her, hips beating against her snatch like a butter churn. He was an automaton built for sex, pursuing his purpose. Her thighs were splayed wide, quaking with pre-orgasmic soasms.

He watched fluid spray back from the intersection of their slapping crotches, splattering the perfect hotel sheets. He bent down and bucked into her, worshipping her like a heathen converted to her pale, plastic, flesh religion.

She climaxed, screaming curses. Her girlcream flowed out in a gushing river, whipped to froth by his thrusts. He just kept fucking her through her cum, feeling his own orgasm finally rise.

“Katy….I’m OOOOHHHHH!”

He felt his cock retract, like an orator clearing his throat before a speech…then his pisshole yawned open wide.

Endless white ropes pulsed into her, a river of genetic sludge that piled against her womb. He felt rolling bursts of cum shoot through his shaft, splattering her insides in goo.

To keep his grip, he siezed a handful of hotel bedsheets, accidentally hitting the remote control. The TV on the far wall sparked to life.

He heard a newsreader’s comforting voice, yammering bland nonsense. Katy’s gorgeous, thick legs trembling wildly as another brief orgasm rolled through her cunt. She wasn’t a girl, she was a machine-gun.

He slammed his cock into her, jetting the last of his seed out into her concupiscent depths. Her heavy body wobbled as it tanked the thrust.

SLAM!

They finished climaxing like this, grinding their oversexed organs into oblivion, ejaculate commingling and pooling beneath their hips.

And then Katy’s beautiful body relaxed, sagging back into the bed. He’d fucked her into a pile of squirt, sweat, and tangled hair. Her slack pussy released his dick with a wet slurp. It flopped to the the bedsheets, a glistening, defeated worm.

He rolled to one side. Catching his breath, he heard the TV for the first time.

“…We now bring you more information on the tragic death of Anthony McCormick, who suffered a stage diving accident at Dublin’s O3 arena. McCormick’s mother says…”

…and then the screen glitched out into a static haze. The voice vanished.

He froze. Poison seemed to sluice along his veins. He seemed trapped in that screen, caught in an endless static sea.

The utter unreality of it all was bearing down on him with crushing weight. The empty streets. The malfunctioning phone. The fact that nobody except Katy was acknowledging his existence.

Is it true? Am I dead?

He shuddered. He lifted up a hand, turning it over. A dead man’s hand?

It felt warm. Veins throbbed and shuddered. He tightened his fingers into his sweaty palm. Everything seemed as it had been.

And yet…

Katy lifted herself up on one elbow, and regarded him with a small curved smile. The last of her movie-star glamor had fallen away with that third orgasm: here lay a dishevelled drunken bawd of the sort Jack the Ripper had once torn apart in Spitalsfield.

“Again…” she put his hands on her breasts once more.

In twenty seconds, his dick was hard.

In thirty, they were fucking again.

I guess I’m alive enough for some purposes, at least.

But as he ploughed her cum-filled depths, hearing her screams, feeling her beautiful body buck and pitch and orgasm, over and over, the crawling inner dread did not subside. Nor did the sense that he had made a terrible mistake. He remembered her words.

There’s no-one on the other side.

TO BE CONTINUED

Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one — the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.

• CS Lewis