The Bloody Draft by Justice

The bloody draft

 

There they were somewhere between the 4th weekend.  She was supposed to be the driver of the Mission, but she got drunk.  You can never cross State lines with an alcoholic.  So she’s pulling her car into the haven of what used to be a welcoming friend when the fucking hooky thing on top of the gears breaks.  Now he’s freaking the fuck out and she’s in complete drunk stupidity burning her clutch out in 3rd gear while the car revs into nowhere.  Get her fucking ass out of the car.  He drags her into the house and after a bout of verbose yelling and creepy grabbing and stuff, they finally have to face the fact that ‘stuck’ means take more drugs and go with it until he can find a way to stuff her in a sack.  Yes, he was that mad.  Somewhere in all that she swallows half a Bupe.  The rest she’s blacked out. She backs into the plot somewhere in the bathtub.  Crimson water up to her back, running water and some guy rubbing blood off her stomach and breasts.  She was at high tide. ” What does that mean?” you may ask.  Well she has this affliction in which she bleeds like a river when she hits high tide.  There’s no stopping it and no remedy for the situation.  Apparently he had just finished washing the floor from the slaughter that happened.  All that Bupe.  All she wanted to do was fuck him.  Upstairs in Mom’s bathroom of a friend he’s known since Kindergarten.  Trying to move the bathmats around.  He said it was like a pig slaughter, blood all over the floor and dripping down his chin.  She cannot be satisfied as she pulls his limber willing body into the plastic tub.  Though the water is running, the drain doesn’t really stop the water so he turns on the faucet with his feet as they fuck in the bloody stream of the tub.  Crazy squeezing plastic fucking noise the tub makes as it rages up her back.  It seems like an hour and five or six tub fulls that gradually get tossed as an ambition.  Now she’s just laying in a bloody stream of her own consciousness with him, corpuscles dripping off both of their bodies.  His hair is doused in the water that lays just beyond her neck.  The mass of curls now in two dreds rushing through the red water as his cock pierces the blood wall that is her uterus.  And she’s grabbing and clenching his hips in the narrow yellow plastic tub sides, her wrists crushing between plastic and femur, while she feels every bone under her, shuddering into a bruised mass of flesh.  Still she is not sated.  What would the neighbors think.  She’s rubbing blood all over his face with her lips that are kissing every bloody part of him that’s kissed every bloody part of her.  Finally it ends in an erotic exhale of ejaculatory force.  Is there enough hot water? He decides to wash them both in the shower.  But he’s pissed off.  Fucked up over the fact that she fucked up the Mission by getting fucked up.  It starts out sweet and lathery like Valentines Day.  Rose patterns of blood and sweet smelling vanilla.  That’s just too fucking nice for her.  He turns her and forces her forward as she grapples with plastic molding to find a clutch against his force.  He smacks her thighs to each side of the yellow plastic liner and she flails an arm outside the curtain and slides around to hold the towel rack on the far wall.  He fucks her bloody ass with all the ferocity he feels releasing his anger with his blood filled sperm donor.  She’s shoved into the corner slamming against Mom’s built in soap dish moaning in pain and exotic rush of come and fuck me hard.  She knows to resist is to pull on the demon inside him.  She takes it all like a hammer slamming through a gypsum filled wall.  Her body being wiped as he soaks up the blood with his cock.  She can’t tell what day has gone by as she leans her ass back into him to placate his violent mood.  He’s Clinging to the soft inside of her bloody hips.  She’s sliding her hands all over the plastic still looking for a place to grab on.  He won’t stop.  He won’t help her stand.  He won’t release what has become a thing, an objective, a passionate receiver of his twisted love.  And in this moment he knows she’s the only one.  The sex magic has taken him over.  She feels the power slip up her back over her head drip through her breasts and down to her gaping vagina.  He’s helpless.

 

Justice

Husks by Justice

Husks

 The death of a soul. So random that it stinks. found in a trash can or a mangled amalgum of metal with arms twisted in unnatural ways sticking out jagged windows where they actually thought they saw something. Souls die while still in the body. The body breathing without it. The body shitting without it. The body sucking a dick down its throat without it. The vein, if you can find one, owning the lifeforce without the soul that brought it the life. Where does it come from why is it here what if its dead and still paying its taxes with the body it once inhabited. Maybe it just trades bodies that host it in some different way. So anethitized by the goings on of the other deaths that the bodies unattended to it can make a journey finding a freeness of not. Ah the happy baby with the fresh looking eye glass. See it in there. A killer waiting its tortourous turn. Hope it is within the comment that now puts you to sleep. The knowing the soul in you has died before.. been given a new lease and shattered ruthlessly, purposely, by your own actions, painful words meant to marm and withdraw love. The death of the body only melts in sand. People look on and cry. The soul was dead by bad debt, bad leaders, swindled deals, sadness that wont end because you will it to live. Happiness shrouded by others unending baggage. We kill each other’s. We kill our own. We only live to kill the soul. Thats why there are so many of us. Born to this place of least resistance to kill each other slowly and leave husks of human waste. Still breathing still eating still laughing still wondering around in a pretense that their soul is within. Unleashing terror unspoken unheard as the host approaches then to have its soul wrenched from them too and leave their writhing wrestless body in its wake. Now ready to kill. Husks The death of a soul. So random that it stinks. found in a trash can or a mangled amalgum of metal with arms twisted in unnatural ways sticking out jagged windows where they actually thought they saw something. Souls die while still in the body. The body breathing without it. The body shitting without it. The body sucking a dick down its throat without it. The vein, if you can find one, owning the lifeforce without the soul that brought it the life. Where does it come from why is it here what if its dead and still paying its taxes with the body it once inhabited. Maybe it just trades bodies that host it in some different way. So anethitized by the goings on of the other deaths that the bodies unattended to it can make a journey finding a freeness of not. Ah the happy baby with the fresh looking eye glass. See it in there. A killer waiting its tortourous turn. Hope it is within the comment that now puts you to sleep. The knowing the soul in you has died before.. been given a new lease and shattered ruthlessly, purposely, by your own actions, painful words meant to marm and withdraw love. The death of the body only melts in sand. People look on and cry. The soul was dead by bad debt, bad leaders, swindled deals, sadness that wont end because you will it to live. Happiness shrouded by others unending baggage. We kill each other’s. We kill our own. We only live to kill the soul. Thats why there are so many of us. Born to this place of least resistance to kill each other slowly and leave husks of human waste. Still breathing still eating still laughing still wondering around in a pretense that their soul is within. Unleashing terror unspoken unheard as the host approaches then to have its soul wrenched from them too and leave their writhing wrestless body in its wake. Now ready to kill.