Like the story? Throw the author some money



I’ve found myself on a moral ambiguity kick, a sign of brevity, and had decided to let the world in on my subconscious as I ruminated on ‘taboo’ subjects. It’s not that I wanted people to be repelled by me, but I wanted to be repelled by them, sickened by their own repugnance. I’ve decided experience in a manner that is absorbing, penetrating, with beauty and catharsis entwined within. No one really likes the idea of fat women puking on a man’s cock, but it’s just the ways of the world, you know? The corporate ladder we’ve got to climb to pull ourselves out of the mess of piss and shit we were born in. And so I’ve found someone I absolutely despised, a hillbilly Jehovah’s Witness who misinterpreted the Lord’s scripture and sodomised pigs and couldn’t spell a fucking word. It wasn’t the animal fucking that annoyed me but the lack of proper grammar.

The guy didn’t even look entirely human – a mess of fetid flesh and greasy hair nailed onto a skeleton – and yet I wanted him all the same. He was the perfect target, perfect for a little tête-à-tête in the back of a pub, perfectly trusting and willing to come home with me. I’d worn the torn stockings as an act of defiance, as though looking dishevelled and dirty somehow made me more appealing because I would be easy, a bang for a buck, someone to fuck without a second thought. I knew this was my selling point, and I knew how to play the game. I led him to the train station and draped myself over him as the carriage rumbled away, slobbering all over his neck like an excited dog. He took my hand as I hailed a taxi from the rank and we kissed in the back seat, running our tongues over each other’s teeth. He paid the fare, and I led him into the house, pressing my hand against the bulge in his pants with as much enthusiasm and hesitance as a virgin. I wanted him to think he was in control. I wanted him to think I was compliant.

After all these years I still had some sort of sick fascination with heroin. As friends died around me, I wasn’t depressed by consumed by nostalgia. It’s not thoughts of relief that I have, such as ‘wow that could have been me, I’m so lucky,’ but rather thoughts of reminiscence; thoughts of how euphoric they must have felt in those last few weeks of relapse, or even in their last few moments. The addicted mind is a selfish mind, no doubt, but also an utterly helpless one. And so as dangled the old needles in front of him I knew I’d won him over. While I’d forced myself to resist the temptation, finding pleasure in a new form of heroin, I also knew it was almost impossible for others to do so. Especially desperate men who wanted to fuck desperate women.

“Get to work,” he garbled, pants already around his ankles. He laid sprawled on the mattress, slowly stroking himself, a twisted, hungry, smile on his spit-flecked lips. “Now.”

I slobbered on me like I was dying of thirst, like it was the best quick hit of my life, shoving his cock as far as humanly down my throat. And this shit was aggressive. This was him sweating on the floor of the messy room, hanging on to my unvacuumed carpet for dear life, the only sound in the room a rhythmic ULGK ULGK ULGK as I tried to beat up his cock with my gag reflex. I opened my eyes and looked up at him, fully aware of my mascara-streaked face. Without warning he flipped me over and pushed my face into his crotch, pushing himself so hard into me I thought I’d collapse. As his foot hit my stomach, I blinked, then kept my eyes open for as long as I could, trying to anticipate his next move. He kicked me again and slammed his hips against me harder. He was utterly disgusting. Sweat dripped off his forehead and landed in my eyes, sliding down my nose, falling over my lips.

“Good….that’s good.”

I knew I looked more like an animal now than a mere slut. I was altruistic for my family, yes, I felt love for my boyfriend, of course. Yet sexual aberration consumed my every waking thought. It soaked through my pores like sweat, rolled over my skin like droplets of water. It was what I needed to survive. He pulled me over to the wall, leaned against it, and pressed one foot to the back of my head, nudging me on.

“If you were a mother I would respect you,” he gasped. “You’re honest, rare nowadays. You’re curious about what the world has to offer, aren’t you slut?” he panted. “Of indulgence and self-abuse? You seek nothing else but ultimate pleasure. You’re the type of woman I might even grow fond of over time. The type I might keep as a pet.”

A pet. Beloved ownership. Who didn’t want to be loved? What else was the body for if not to be used? As his cock pulsated inside me, I opened my eyes wider, thought of emotional and spiritual bankruptcy spiring through my mind. If I did not have this then what did I have? Decadence fuelled the innate need to consume, to succeed. After my first stroke, I’d become determined to do better, to excel. This is where the crusade of morality kicked in. What goes up must come down. The constant jaw-clenching, excessive sweating, nausea, diarrhoea, hyperactivity, aggression, convulsions, irritability, confusion, hallucinations, anxiety, paranoia, psychosis, kidney and lung damage and – everything you could possibly think of, I experienced it. And yet it gave me a newfound hope.

Pushing harder, I choked out a muffled cough, squeezing his ass with my broken nails as he shook my head against his crotch and I retched like a sick animal. He smiled and shoved my head down lower, gasping as a torrent of vomit ejected itself from my stomach, mixed with a cocktail of saliva and sweat. There was something sacred about vomit. Something I had wanted to give a man more than sex itself – total degradation at the highest level. There were no ethics involved, no moral reasoning. Just pure visceral self-preservation.

I wondered what it would be like to be dead. Would he keep fucking away? Would he have to be suffering some form of pyschosis to muster up the courage and commit such an act? Would that be the day he lost all contact with reality? If he stimutaed the sacral nerve root of my beating-heart cadaver with an electrode, and triggered the Lazaras reflex, I knew it would be conceibable poissible to stimulate my corpse to the point of orgasm. But where would be the fun it that? I’d miss out on all the fun.  

“Get ready.”

My soft stomach twisted as anticipation turned to pain, hot panic seizing my body as he jackhammered my mouth. There was nothing violent and malicious about the gift I was about to receive, it was not an atrocity, I was not protected if someone withheld it. It did not cause me pain, and yet the eagerness pulsated within me so hard I almost couldn’t breathe. One should never give up, never surrender, even if your pleasure was considered a sin against morality. For what was morality anyway? Humans applied morals self-serving and selectively. We were nothing more than shit-flinging animals. And nothing was more satisfying than the sheer joy of being fucked in the throat.


Piss shot down my leg as he relieved himself inside my throat, balling his fists with my hair within his fingers, pushing his knees against the side of my head as my eyes glazed over in tears. The blood was hot as it poured out of my nose, the scent of rusty coins so overpowering I choked even more. Chunks of vomit followed, mixing with the blood, yet there was nothing I could do until he released me. It was my deontological duty to obey him, his epistemic authority the only god I served. I was nothing if I did not obey. The guy pushed me off him, and I rolled backwards, collapsing on the carpet, my soiled body nothing more than a discarded item like the ones piled around me. And I felt divine. Free of rules, moral obligations. Had I not achieved power over my own body? Had this power not come from a divine source? Did this not mean my self-determinism was not stemmed from God? Was his freely granted orgasm and my urination-stemmed relief unholy? I was not repulsed by my ascension but enthralled by its impressiveness, its all-consuming power. It was nothing like the heroin. Could not even be compared to the rush as it entered my bloodstream. For once, I was my own saviour.

“You’re such a dirty pig, aren’t you?” the man gasped. “Such a dirty pig.”

I smiled as I closed my eyes, humming contently. “Yes, I am.”

Ready for a shit show?


  1. Claire Fitzpatrick has a unique talent. This story is engrossing-emphasis on the ‘gross’- & it peels back layers of inhibition to reveal the animal that is in us all. Claire’s story holds nothing back. Every bodily fluid flows freely here & pushes the boundaries. I am almost nauseated while reading this. I love it!

  2. There isn’t really an emoticon for this story. I can’t really say I liked it or loved it or it made me laugh. No. It is kind of impressive though. I kept hoping there would be some twist where she bit off his member and shoved it down HIS throat. But no, this is as bleak as it gets from you, Claire. Excellently written and absolutely, disgustingly brutal. Yes, I am horrified – but isn’t that the point?

  3. Brutal, erotic, and unrelenting. Claire Fitzpatrick eschews the comforts of pedestrian moral epistemology in favour of an unforgiving prostate check on good-taste, the kind done by a doctor with fat sausage-fingers. A fantastic read.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s