m/f, f/f, oral, anal, implied incest

Note: the functional hemispherectomy is an actual medical procedure (pioneered by a certain Dr Ben Carson, who would later challenge Donald Trump as the 2016 Republican candidate for President—no kidding). The idea that it creates multiple “seats” of consciousnesses is unproven but theoretically possible.

The Madness of Britney Spears

Britney stares at him, panting like an animal in heat. Veins pulse on her neck. Her face is a mask of woven shadow.

“I could kill you.”

Bared teeth flash. In the hollows of her eyes, a fierce, slipstreaming madness gathers like howling winds. He is caught at their focal point; the eye inside her storm.

“…Kill you, and not get caught.”

She steps forward. Her hips sway like a stalking cat’s. He does not step back, senses that any hint of weakness will prove a mistake—perhaps a fatal one. He can’t see the knife that was in her hand moments ago, but it must be close.

“…Stamp your life out like a small, worthless fire.” She spits on the floor. “Nobody would know.”

She’s naked. Her lithe, sinewy body has a cobralike quality. Kinetic energy, coiled up and ready to explode.

“And even if they knew they wouldn’t care. I’m Britney, bitch. The whole world loves me!“

The eerie biophilic shadows of the sex-goddess’s mansion have resculpted her into a dark version of herself. Parvati, transformed into Kali. Her statuesque figure seems drenched in sadistic killing potential. Her wide hips are built to chase him down, should he run. Her taut midriff ripples, a void of negative space. Her thick thighs and ass are laced with a hunter’s fast-twitch muscles.

Hot breath pours across his skin now. She’s close. Close enough to kiss him on the throat. Close enough to tear it out with her ice-white fangs. Close.

She reaches between his motionless legs, and strokes his penis. It swells under her touch.

She lifts the other hand to her lips. Touches them. A gesture of confidence. Two spies sworn to secrecy.

“Don’t worry, Tom. I’m not going to kill you…” A smile effaces Britney’s her lips. “But I can’t stop thinking about doing it.”

The demented pop princess folds her arms around him, drawing him into a desperate, savage embrace. His face is buried in the hot curve of her neck.

He smells perfume, but there’s something…unhealthy underneath it. Unsettling. The touch of her skin jangles him. It’s as though he’s a tunnel full of wind chimes, and she’s an arctic wind blowing straight through him.

“I think I’m in love with you…” Britney whispers throatily. They’ve just met…but oh God…he thinks she actually means it.

Primitive animal instincts—long-forgotten, still wired up hot—blare warnings at full volume. Predator! Predator! Predator!

“…And I can make you so, so happy. Happier than any woman you’ve ever slept with.”

She drops to her knees, and starts sucking his erect cock.

His ankles sweat. Her technique is mortifyingly effective. He stares down at the blonde-haired head bobbing between his thighs, too shocked to say anything.

“Huhhhn…ughh….” nonsense vowels gust and rasp out of him, like dead leaves swirling in a gutter.

He sees the big full-moons of Britney Spears’ kneeling ass, the voluptous cleft of her buttocks, the ripe asshole glimmering wetly inside it, her big haunches quivering and tensing as she blows him. It’s as though fellatio is a full-body workout for her, requiring every muscle she possesses.

Mentally, he counts down from fifty. Fifty-mississippi. Forty-nine mississippi. Forty-eight-mississippi.

At eighteen-mississippi he cums.

“Ugh! UGH! BRITNEY!” A hot, dirty itch builds and explodes. Raw, filthy beast pleasure electrifies his mind.

She pulls her head off his spasming shaft with a moist SCHLOCK, grips it with her hand, and aims it like a gun. “This is my favorite part.”

Strands blast out across the terrazzo tiles of Britney’s mansion.

Two feet. Three feet. Four feet. Four feet. Four and a half feet. Three feet. two feet. one foot. Dribble.

Britney’s insane eyes flicker back and forth as cum flies, like a razor slicing a jugular.

In the orgasm’s aftermath, he crashes to his knees, spent. His shoulders sag, his mouth opens. He’s burning. Leaking. Melting. Corroding. He feels like he’s been locked inside a vault that’s been flung into the deepest point of the ocean. He wants to sleep, and sleep for a long time, but he can’t.

So long as she’s here, he might not wake up.

“Let me ask a question…” Britney says innocently, still on her knees.

“What?” His shaft is going flaccid, but it’s still inside her hand.

Her Bambi-like eyes are wide and curious. “Did I say I was going to kill you, or not? I actually can’t remember what I decided.”

Dumbfounded, he stares at her face for some sign—the slightest indication—that this might be a joke. When he doesn’t answer, Britney’s fist begins to tighten on his penis, crushing it.

“Um…you decided to let me live.” he stammers.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously inside their cages of eyeliner. “Are you sure that’s what I said?”

He nods. “Yes. I’m sure. You thought about it, and decided you like me.”

“Hmm…” Her lips purse. Then she lets his spent cock fall. The big organ swings between his legs, like a Hungarian sausage dangling from a butcher’s hook.

“Get hard,” she commands, eyes full of brightly demented lust. “And fuck me. If you don’t, I’ll decide I said something else.”

Britney’s hot pussy is shaven completely bare.

Her legs are splayed, revealing her glistening sex. She lies on a sofa, one thigh up on the sofa’s corinthian leather backboard, the other dangling toward the floor. Her fetishistically pretty foot gently swings back and forth, like a pendulum in space. The toes cast five identical shadows across the floor.

“Problem?” she asks coolly.

“No.”

“Well, you’re looking at me like there’s a problem.”

“There’s not.”

He obediently crawls between the death-goddess’s legs, and starts eating her cunt.

Her folds envelope his face like a hot glove. Her slit drools greedily. She spreads herself obscenely wide to receive him.

“Uhhhh…UHHHHH!” Britney’s whines are like a sawblade tearing through his mind. He shuts his eyes against her weeping fluids. She now exists, not on the couch, but inside his head, like a possessing homunculus.

He digs through the fat meatiness of her labia lips. Sucking her clit, spiking his tongue forward, face-fucking her to oblivion. She arches her spine beneath his assault. All her muscles draw tight against his stubbled cheeks, tensing like whipcords.

It reminds him of spiders, and how their legs curl inward when they die. When she cums, those thighs will snap my neck.

“OOOH! OOH! OOOOH!”

Britney places both hands on his back. Eight fingers and two thumbs rhythmically drive like pistons against his shoulders, the nails almost piercing flesh. As pleasure fluxes in her core, the fingers tighten, then relax, then tighten, then relax.

Lewd shlicking and squelching and slurping noises fill the air. The moist, unbridled sounds of him and her, combining like the numerator and denominator of a fraction. And like any fraction, they are connected by a slash.

Britney pants desperately—tongue out, looking like a thirsty dog—as he slobbers between her legs. Her gasps accelerate, rising to a peak. Her clitoris surges and throbs like an outboard motor in his mouth. Her thighs feel like bands of iron clenched against his neck. The precipice. She’s close. She’s there. She’s falling off. Gone, never to return to the sunlit world.

“OH TOM, I’M…!”

She snaps her head backward. Announces her orgasm with a bestial scream.

“…GONNA…UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHOOOOHHHHH”

Britney climbs on top of him, whispering lewd obscenities into the crook of his neck. Filth from her mouth drips onto him like sewage.

She straddles his waist, supporting her weight with her thighs and heels. She wants to fuck him cowgirl style. And sure, he’ll be her stallion. While they’re fucking, he’s not dying. He just wishes he knew where the knife was.

He siezes great slabs of her broad, fleshy hips, holds her bucking body steady, and lines up his eight inch prick with her drooling, cock-hungry twat. She gasps as he manipulates her meaty, heavy body like a doll, pulling her down.

SKLLCHH!

His thick shaft punches into her pussy, shunting in deep, gorging on the moist gaping slit between her legs.

“AHHHH!”

Britney looses a wild, grunting scream as she’s split in half. Her breasts shake and wobble. Streams of sweat pour down her skin. Between her legs, he sees her pussy lips stretched out obscenely by his girth.

She bounces on him, lewdly grinding her hips, swirling his cock around inside her fuck-glove. He bottoms out inside her, then pulls back with a liquid shluuuck, then fills her again and again and again. Each stroke has a devastating effect. Expressions of shock and joy and delirious ecstasy flicker across her face.

America’s sweetheart, and he’s eight inches inside her pussy walls. This is as close as you can get to fucking the Statue of Liberty.

Mid-thrust, Britney topples, falling onto him. Her tits flatten against his broad, hairy chest. She clutches his shoulders, gasping and moaning and bellowing in carnal lust, still riding his dick with her slurping pussy. Beyond her blonde head, he sees the heaped mountains of her buttflesh. They quiver and quake while she humps his cock like a heat-maddened bitch.

The air of Britney’s mansion stinks with what they’re doing. The wild rutting sex goes on and on, the fuckfest punctuated by bellows and shrills and throaty, bassy grunts. Messy, liquid plops sunder the air.

They twist around each other like snakes. Sometimes Britney’s on top. Sometimes she’s under him, pinned against the tiles as he rows between her hips. But they’re always in motion, always screwing.

“I think… I’m gonna cum!” Britney chokes, makeup pouring down her face, her body jiggling. He clenches his teeth, pummeling her sloppy pussy even harder.

You only think? You doubting me, slut? He brings her off with deep, grinding thrusts. There. Now you fucking know!!

She orgasms on his pistoning prick, becoming a blubbering, crying, screaming wreck, ejaculating like the Niagara Falls over his pile-driving crotch. Girlcum splatters out in torrents.

He throws his mouth over hers, swallowing her deafening screams—he doesn’t want to alarm the neighbors, or the cops—kissing her into silence as her orgasming pussy vibrates like a butter-churn around his erection. Their tongues clash and swirl. He stares into her eyes. Whatever inner storms he once saw in her have been tamed. He’s believes he’s safe. For now, anyway.

Once she’s settled down, the messy, lewd copulation resumes. Fucking standing up. Fucking lying down. Fucking upside down. Always fucking. He’s firmly in control of her now.

A woman’s madness is easy to handle, he decides. You just have to be a little madder yourself.

Sweat flies off her body as she pants and moans, spreading her legs, trying to get him deeper, obsessed with the cock that’s turning her guts inside out. She clenches her perfect white teeth together, stifling sex-screams, and her pussy convulses yet again. She wraps her arms around him, her cumming pussy death-gripping his cock. He feels her squirt pouring down his balls and dripping to the floor as he tries to hold on to her slippery depths. It’s like fucking a car wash.

As Britney shudders through another orgasm, he ejaculates too. There’s no warning. His heavy testicles rise, he bottoms out—grinding his fat cockhead against her cervix—and starts volleying cum against her back walls.

He creampies the shrieking pop singer against the dirty floor, ejaculating with rubbery spasms that soon blur into one.

He wonders if Britney Spears is anything like his sister. A person lost in plain sight, tumbled down into some yawning interior abyss within her mind. Maybe saving Britney will save him, too. Stop the nightmares. Serve as penance for failing to save his sister’s life.

Worth a try. And even if his cock can’t return Britney to sanity, she makes the alternative seem pretty damn appealing, too..

He grits his teeth, anchoring his hips against her box. His cock hoses out ropes of cum, eight inches deep inside her squirming depths, as if his sperm is a search party seeking out a lost girl’s soul.

He drags his huge cum-drooling prong out of Britney’s twat. It tugs free with a SHLOORRRP! sound. Sperm flows from her cunt’s gaping slackness—he’s fucked Mr Spears’s darling daughter wider than the Holland Tunnel.

His prick swiftly returns to hardness. It throbs savagely with his heartbeat, raging and huge and horny, already seeking another whorehole to desecrate. Quality orifice, bossman. His cock says to him. What else ya got?

He rolls Britney over onto her stomach, grips handfuls of her big asscheeks, and pulls them apart.

“Uhh?” Britney sounds uncertain for the first time. Scared. “Tom? What are you doing?”

He spreads the meaty halves of her buttflesh apart like curtains, exposing her sweaty asscrack and butthole—a ripe and moist starfish-pucker, gaping lewdly for his cock. There’s a single little asshair above it, missed by a beautician’s exfoliation strip.

“Ugh!” Her voice—which has just shouted about ten thousand fucks and shits into his ear at peak volume, suddenly sounds girlish and demure. “UGH! NOT THERE!”

She’s had her anus professionally bleached. he thinks, thumbing her ass, and feeling her writhe and shudder and moan. I thought only porn stars did that.

Then he puts the tip of his cock against her asshole. She wriggles in excitement. But she blurred the line between pop singer and porn star a long time ago. Truly, the girl’s a pioneer.

With a lewd, foul sound, he drives himself balls-deep into Britney’s smelly shit-chute.

SQUELCH!

“OOOOOHHHHH!” Her eyes spin in their sockets. Her back arches. Her rectum is suddenly packed with thick, pulsating maleness, sending electric-blasts eddying through her core. She grunts, spasming and kicking, bucking against him. He starts taking short, jabbing thrusts into guts. His huge testicles swing back and forth, his scrotum clubbing her spasming pussy like a speedbag.

Britney moans bestially as she’s assfucked. In a wall-suspended mirror, he sees her sweat-dripping face, her eyes whirling crazily in her skull. His own face is downcast in shadow as he pumps into her hips, sodomizing Jamie Spears’ famous daughter.

“Turns out I’m the one doing the stabbing,” he growls in her ear.

He lays his full weight on top of the squirming pop princess, fucking her disgusting butthole. PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP

She orgasms. Pussy-slop squelches out of her cunt, squirting over the floor. Her luscious body billows like a ship’s sail in a headwind. He doesn’t relent. His hands grip tighter on her shoulders, seeking purchase on her perspiration-lubricated skin.

His hips are a pile-driver, a trip-hammer, a blur of motion, reaming out her butthole with industrial efficiency. His cock is Roto-Rooter for the stars…or for the star of the stars.

Three times a second his eight-inch shaft explodes out of her back door—her anal ring flexing to accomodate the huge sweep of his cockhead—only to slam back in, sheathing himself in her guts.

SKLSH! SKLSH! SKLSH! SKLSH!

“UH! UH! UH! UH! UH! UH!” Britney squeals and squeaks, suddenly sounding very young as her rectum is brutally violated. Her breasts jolt and swing back and forth with rapid whipping movements. He hammers his hardness through her, nailing her to the floor of her mansion.

Her next orgasm arrives at double-pace. Five minutes after that, she’s cresting toward yet another one. She butterflies her legs out wide, seeking more of his brutal shaft. She can’t get enough of it. Her pussy pulsates as she creams on his dick. His own explosion arrives soon after. He stifles a snarl into her blonde hair as his balls contract, and splooge rushes up.

He hilts himself, and cums copiously in Britney’s ass. He paints her bowels with three long squirts of cum, then pulls out, firing another three over her ass, back, and hair.

…Britney the Mouseketeer…sang so sweetly in church choir…good girl…toes the line…does what she’s told…

He remembers Jamie’s description of Britney, and contrasts it with the delirious, drooling, buttfucked-into-a-coma cumslut sprawled face-down on the floor.

Pools of his sperm ooze from her pussy and asshole. More cum has gathered in the moist hollows of her back. She’s absolutely soaked in sweat and female ejaculate. Her bottle-blonde hair is in dishevelled disarray, trailing in the various fluids they released onto the floor during their two-and-a-half-hour semimarathon of sex.

Her mouth hangs open in a slack, orgiastic oval. Saliva drools out. Her eyes are full of goo-goo ga-ga chemical joy. She’s not America’s sweetheart. She’s just another cock-junkie, OD’d on her favorite drug.

“You okay, Brit?” Tom asks, nudging her spreadeagled body. “Say something to me.”

She babbles nonsense in a weird sing-song voice. Fuck a baby up my fartbox, daddy…

He laughs. Is Fuck a Baby Up My Fartbox, Daddy a classic hymn? They must have skipped that one when I was going to church.

He stands up, his enormous cock slapping against his bare thigh, fresh from inside her ass.

All in a day’s work. But what now? He’s blown apart every hole in Britney Spears’s body, which certainly makes the night a success in some respects. But he still hasn’t achieved the task Jamie paid him to do. He glances again at the babbling girl on the tiles. How do I make her go home? Right now, she’s not in a fit state to go anywhere.

At least he’s no longer afraid of her. His cock, it seems, protected him somehow.

She had me afraid for a little while. Did she have a knife? Did she threaten to kill me? He can’t quite remember. Hours of sex isolates him from the emotions she inspired when he first walked into her lair.

It’s an odd, austere mansion, with interior decor that would give HR Giger pause for thought. An easy place for the imagination to run amok.

In any event, he’s surely not in any risk now.

He decides to explore the place while she sleeps. Perhaps he’ll find something useful.

He wakes up chained to a table in a small, dark room.

He glances left and right. Gray walls squeeze tightly around him. A gray ceiling pushes low upon his head. The austere concrete box has the texture of necrotic, gangrenous flesh. Red stains and splatters are etched into the cracks, as though the walls themselves are bleeding.

A dizzying array of steel implements dangle from the walls. His eyes flicker from one to the next in horrified recognition. The Heretic’s Fork. The Scavenger’s Daughter. The Pear of Anguish. The Lead Sprinkler. The Judas Cradle. A brief childhood interest in the Spanish Inquisition makes him hatefully aware of their names. Their uses. The single lightbulb swaying from the ceiling illuminates their sharp points, their jagged edges, the dried blood and viscera caking them.

Then Britney’s face appears in front of his, demonically beautiful.

“Wakey-wakey.”

She looms over him, naked aside from a slaughterman’s splatterproof apron.

“I’ve decided what I’m going to do with you,” her blonde hair seems to float around her skull like a halo. He wonders if he’s dreaming all this.

Then she lays the blade of a surgical scalpel against his exposed, quivering belly, and any such hope vanishes. It’s so sharp that even though she’s hardly applying pressure, it just falls into his flesh, vanishing without friction into a rising tide of blood.

I’m going to die he thinks, shutting his eyes.

But as it turns out, dying is the least of his problems.

A more urgent issue—which he will spend a long time coming to grips with, under Britney’s patient tutelage—is that he won’t die. Not even when he badly wants to.

Britney has a dark gift that the sunlit world will never know.

She has an instinctual, perfect grasp of when to stay her hand, when to stop cutting with a knife, when to stop burning with a blowtorch, what to tie off, what to inject so that he doesn’t lose consciousness from blood loss or shock. She keeps him painfully tethered to life for many hours, still drawing breath on that table, even after she has made unbelievable—and indescribable—adjustments to his anatomy.

The chamber is soundproofed. None of his screams escape.

---

The phone rings in Jamie Spears’ study. He picks it up.

“Daddy,” her voice is a broken whisper. “It happened again.”

“What happened again, Brit-brit?”

She starts crying. “I woke up at a mansion. I don’t remember how I got here. There’s a room underneath the mansion, with…ugh…a piece of meat inside it, and I don’t remember how it got there, either.”

“I sent the meat to you,” Jamie says softly. “It’s the only way to get you back.”

Britney hesitates. “…I think the meat might be a person. Or was a person. It’s so hard to tell when it’s like…that.”

Jamie sighs. “Don’t worry about who or what it was. I’ll clean it up. We’ve done this before, remember?”

She gulps. “Daddy…did I kill someone?”

“Yes and no,” he hedges. “It’s complicated. Just know that you are a very unusual and complicated person, who was compelled by fate to be braver than any person should be expected to be. You went away, but it’s over now, and you’ve come back to yourself for a little while. Enjoy it while you can.”

Her voice cracks, and she sobs. “There’s one other thing…I think I had sex with him before I killed him.”

“You know I don’t want to hear about it, Britney.”

She sounds like a child again. “But daddy…daddy…my bottom…it hurts. I think he stuck his…”

Anger lies in his character like sharp rocks beneath the waterline, and the idea of someone else assfucking his daughter causes him to explode.

“Shut up!” He hisses. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I don’t want to hear about your other men! I’ve told you this a million times! You fucking whore!”

She says nothing, but weeps softly. His head floods with images of his daughter’s thick rump. His cock swells in his slacks, throbbing with arousal. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Jamie sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re emotional. So am I. This has been a hell of a week for both us. Let’s get you out of there. I’ll deal with the…mess in the basement.”

Her voice is porcelain. A small and precious crack runs through it.

“…I love you, daddy.”

“I love you too, Brit-brit. Please come home. Your mom and I miss you.”

THE END