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Chapter 13. The Elder

He walked closer. Under careful inspection, he noticed that even the purple flowers across from the blue grass had withered, but not as badly as the blue grass.

He clearly remembered that the herbs were still healthy and strong at noon. How could they become like this in just one afternoon? He picked up the blue grass and inspected it. From the look of the blue grass, it seemed to have lost all its moisture, causing it to wilt. He touched the ground, but the ground was at the correct moisture for growing herbs. He was very confused.

After a while, he suddenly thought, “This afternoon only one person visited me. However, he is only an honorary disciple, how could he cause the herbs to wither?”

Thinking about it, he decided to look into this matter. Without saying a word, he flicked his sleeves and his body started flying. Shortly after, he arrived at the place honorary disciples got their work assigned.

Elder Sun shouted in a deep voice, “Which disciple here is in charge?” The voice was like thunder. The yellow clothed disciple that was in charge quickly came over and kneeled on the ground, kowtowing non-stop.

Elder Sun impatiently said, “Do you have Wang Lin’s registration?”

Disciple Liu’s heart skipped a beat. He would never have thought that such a high ranking elder would ever come asking about that piece of trash, Wang Lin. He thought of the times he bullied Wang Lin and his face paled. “This disciple… has … has brother Wang Lin’s registration. Brother Wang loves to learn and is always serious with this work. This disciple … this disciple has always looked to him as a role model.”

The Elder Sun didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but in his heart he knew that this was good. The more nervous someone was when they talked to him meant the more they respected him. The title elder is in fact a really worthless title in the Heng Yue Sect. Almost all second generation disciples are called elder by the honorary disciples, but all the inner disciples call him Uncle-Master.

Although he was respected in the eyes of the honorary disciples, he didn’t have power in the second generation. Even the third generation didn’t respect him much.

Else he wouldn’t be assigned the pointless job of managing the requests of honorary disciples wishing to visit home.

Elder Sun asked, “Which yard does Wang Lin live in?”

“At…at the northern Earth Division’s yard…”

Without waiting for him to finish, Elder Sun flew away on a rainbow toward the north and disappeared in a blink of an eye.

Disciple Liu became even more nervous. His intestine almost turned green. He vowed that when he saw Wang Lin again, he must not ridicule him, but instead praise him treat him like his own grandfather. After all, he was something an elder personally asked about.

Elder Sun arrived at the Earth Division’s yard and didn’t see Wang Lin. He went to the registry to find Wang Lin’s room number, then arrived at Wang Lin’s room. Zhang Hu was still sleeping. He was snoring loudly and didn’t even realize Elder Sun was there.

Elder Sun carefully examined the room. He frowned and muttered, “He left very quickly. Hmm, I’ll inspect him once he is back.”

Wang Lin was walking in the mountain with the talisman on his leg. The talisman was really amazing. After putting it on his leg, he felt a stream of warmth fill his body. Gathered at his feet were dazzling white light, making him look like an immortal.

When all the creatures in the mountain saw the white light, they all stayed away. None dare to come close.

The fresh mountain air blew at Wang Lin’s face. He was in a good mood as he quickly went home following the route from his memory.

One night had passed, and it was the dawn of the next day. He took a mouthful of water from the gourd and was filled with energy again. He noticed he had already left the mountain. Once he reached the village, he would just have to follow the little road back home.

Without stopping, he rapidly went forward. He entered a town when the sun was bright and the crowd was hustling and bustling. Wang Lin went around for a bit, buying gifts for his parents, then quickly left.

When it was late, Wang Lin finally reached the village. He saw from afar a red flag with the word life on it in front of his house.

Outside, there were many wagons. There was a bustling crowd.

Wang Lin was stunned as he arrived at the front of his house. His arrival was too flashy. His relatives, who were here for his father’s birthday, only saw a flash of white light as Wang Lin appeared.

Everyone had a look of envy as they started their praises.

“Second brother, Wang Lin came back. Just look at how handsome this kid is! He looks just like an immortal!”

“Isn’t it just so? Even the Immortals messed up and ended up regretting their decision and took Wang Lin as their disciple. In the future, our Wang family will depend on these three children.”

“It was due to my old eyes that I wasn’t able to see this kid’s good points, but looking at him now, what part of him can’t compare to Wang Zhuo and Wang Hao? Clearly a dragon amongst men! Good, good, good!” Exclaimed Wang family’s 3rd eldest uncle, as if he forgot all the vile things he had said before.

“This kid, Wang Lin, has always been smart since he was a kid. I have to say, even the immortals made a mistake last time, so how could us mortals not make a mistake? Wang Lin I hope you don’t hate your fifth uncle, your fifth uncle apologizes to you.”

All the relatives changed their expressions and revealed kind and smiling faces.

Wang Lin coldly snorted to himself. At that moment, his father appeared and was surprised as he pulled Wang Lin’s arm. “Tie Zhu, why did you come back? Didn’t I tell you to stay at the Heng Yue Sect? Don’t always worry about home.”

Wang Lin looked at his dad and saw his dad’s wrinkles had lessened a lot. He was obviously very happy these days. “Dad, don’t you worry. All the disciples of the sect have three chances to visit home a year. Once your birthday is over, I’ll quickly head back.”

Wang Lin’s dad proudly looked at the relatives around him and pulled Wang Lin to the door yelling, “Wife, look who is back!”

Wang Lin’s mother was surround by a group of female relatives. When she heard her husband’s voice, she looked toward him and was surprised to see Wang Lin. She rushed over and started asking about how he had been.

Comments 12

  1. Offline
    + 00 -
    hokage shameless mfs
    Read more
  2. Offline
    + 01 -
    Good chapter
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  3. Offline
    + 20 -
    #panic# some gooner ruining the comment section
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  4. Offline
    + 00 -
    good
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  5. Offline
    + 71 -
    Could u please remove the disgusting comment below #panic#
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  6. Offline
    C.C
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    Emma Watson frowned as her posh limousine rumbled and bumped through the lamp-lit intersections of downtown Los Angeles. Her expression was not enough to take away her god-gifted natural beauty - that level of pugnacious cuteness could never be truly dampened by anything - but it did offer a window into her troubled mind as she listened to her agent, Priscilla Kleinfeldt, prattle on the phone.

    “Yes, of course Emma will be wearing the watch,” Priscilla was saying, leaning against her plush seat and holding the phone in the crook of her neck while taking down notes on her tablet. “I have the details here. It’s one of a limited edition of 250 pieces, made with yellow gold and a ‘diamond dust’ finish. A fresh take on an icon made in the image of a contemporary woman. Make sure you include that part. From Audemars’ Carolina Bucci line.”

    Emma looked down at her wrist, where the garish watch was wrapped, and sighed. She had her own ideas of what a contemporary woman was, and it had nothing to do with wearing grotesquely opulent watches. And it wasn’t just the watch. Her shoulder-length hair, straight and alluring in its shimmering mousey brownness, had been done by Tammy Rutherford, the same stylist used by Jennifer Lopez. She was wearing an expertly fitted white halter chiffon dress by the same people who tailored to the Kardashians. Her shoes were limited edition Manolo Blahniks that she had, of course, received gratis… but they would have cost a ‘normal’ person several thousands of dollars.

    She was tired of all of it. Her younger self had been entranced with the fame and privileges that came with her run in the Harry Potter films, but in recent years she increasingly found the fake, self-interested behavior of Hollywood influencers to be rather disgusting and morally bankrupt. She was interested in doing meaningful films, but he agents were always pressing her to take on projects that were both intellectually and socially bankrupt. Priscilla had been over the moon when she told Emma earlier that day that the actress was on the short list of first choices for the female lead in a new Transformers film, no doubt dreaming of the mountains of billings that would result. But Emma didn’t want to do CGI wankfest like Transformers, nor did she appreciate being hauled around to promotional events and A-List parties, while being told what to wear, right down to her perfume.

    She turned away from Priscilla and looked longingly out the window. She wanted to do something real and with real social impact. The limo had taken a turn down some of the seedier streets of Los Angeles, and she could see down the alleyways, where several men in tattered woolen garments were warming their hands against the chill night air by holding them over a burning trash barrel. Emma looked down at her wrist again. The watch she was wearing, if sold, could have provided those men with food and shelter for a year. And she had received it for free, in exchange for a promise to wear it and show it off to the paparazzi. She was enfranchised and celebrated, but men like those - men living hand to mouth - were not.

    It made her sick to her stomach.

    “Driver, where are we?” Priscilla was saying, holding her phone away as she pressed the intercom button. “This neighborhood looks like shit.”

    “I’m sorry, missus,” came an ethnic voice. “With the onramp closed due to the construction, it is best to cut through downtown-”

    “Just get us out of here,” Priscilla barked, and then shut the intercom. She straightened her severe blonde hair. She was perhaps ten years older than Emma, an experienced power broker, and a Type A personality who was used to having all of her commands obeyed. She rolled her eyes over to Emma and shook her head. “These agencies hire all these spics and they don’t know the city,” she lamented.

    Emma wrinkled her nose. “You shouldn’t say that,” she said, her voice clipped with her English accent. “He’s just a man trying to make a living.”

    Priscilla recoiled if shot, and placed a hand against her bosom, which was wrapped in a sheer suit jacket and blouse. “Oh, of course!” she said. “Emma, you know I’m just joking. Using the term ironically.” Her face was avid with apology, but this only made Emma even more disgusted. She could see that Priscilla was a fawning, servile yes-woman who would agree with anything that Emma said, if it meant taking 10% of her considerable income. In that moment, the disillusioned starlet realized that she could probably tell Priscilla that red was blue and blue was red, and the Priscilla would agree with her with the same doglike obedience. It made her feel even sicker.

    There was a knock on the window. The limo was stuck in traffic under the shadow of another onramp, and they weren’t moving much.

    “Hey,” came a muffled, gravelly voice. “Hey, can you spare a coupl’a bucks? I know a big limo like this, you gotta have a buck or two. Maybe even ten.”

    Priscilla peered out in alarm at the male figure and pressed the intercom.“Driver! Get rid of that nasty hobo this instant!” she hissed, and a muffled conversation began to take place outside between the driver and the homeless man, a greasy, bearded vagrant with vomit drying on the front of his tattered tee-shirt and ragged nails on the tips of fingers exposed by fingerless gloves. Emma regarded Priscilla’s lack of charity with disgust. It was Priscilla, too, who had persuaded her to do that shitty Seth Rogan movie about the end of the world - she had eventually walked off set because of the inane requirements - and Priscilla who was endlessly arranging her tiresome promotional obligations. The common thread in her ennui and desire to be rid of the commercial Hollywood system was her agent.

    Emma huffed and reached for her handbag (Luis Vuitton, $2000, though of course, she got it for free) and used a tastefully-manicured hand to dig out several hundred-dollar bills, and began fumbling with the door latch. Embarrassingly, it took her a while to find and unlock it because her drivers always opened and closed the doors for her; Priscilla saw what she was up to and uttered a shrieking objection: “Emma, no! You can’t be seen giving money to the dregs of society! The studios-”

    “Priscilla, all you care about is money! You don’t care a bit about things that are real!” Emma stepped out of the limo and her sterling white shoes clicked on the cracked asphalt. Horns honked. In traffic-snarled, low-income area of Los Angeles, nobody cared who she was if she was stopping their progress, and the low light conditions did much to hide her identity.

    “Emma! Think of your reputation! This is just like when you were going on about gender inequality! All of this nonsense is hurting your marketability! This worthless stewbum is probably a drug addict! He’ll just spend that money on booze and pills!”

    “Priscilla, you’re fired,” Emma said, and slammed the door of the limo. “Find someone else to twat around in Michael Bay’s next billion-dollar piece of shite,” she muttered to herself and then strode up to the astounded driver and the blurry-eyed hobo, cash in hand. Priscilla was wailing in the limo, but Emma ignored her.

    The smell of the man hit her immediately, and her first reaction was to wrinkle her cute nose and rub a hand over her queasy stomach. He was perhaps in his thirties, but looked older because of the poor condition of his skin, hair, and clothes. He was a foot taller than her, gangly in the limbs but thicker in the middle, making Emma think of the way that starving children in Africa would have swollen bellies despite not eating for months. He wore a wool cap over disheveled, greying hair. His grey beard was spiked with bits of food and vomit, and as she approached, the scent of sweat, body odor and puke was overpowering to the extent that she nearly vomited herself, making a croaking, dry-heaving noise.

    Emma was instantly ashamed of her own response. This is just a poor, disenfranchised man who has been trampled by the system, she thought to herself. The smell is not his fault. Or the clothes and hair. It’s… noble, in a way. Natural. The media has been selling everyone a certain body image, that makes me feel this way. She held out her hand with the hundred-dollar bills, trying her best to smile affectionately and give the poor punter a sympathetic face for probably the first time in his life. He smiled drunkenly and held out a wavering hand.

    “Now this lady’s got the righ’ attit-hic! Attitude!” he slurred, and then stumbled toward her, swiping at the hand to take the money while his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes peered out greedily. Priscilla was still yelling from in the car, telling Emma she was making a mistake, that nobody cared about shitty art-house films and that she was going to make Emma a billionaire, if the silly girl would just stop with her anti-consumer attitude.

    All at once, in Emma’s mind, the slobbering homeless man seemed far less stomach turning than her ex-agent, who was a scurrying rat selling scruples for silver. Emma could almost imagine Priscilla turning into a bug or a snake and scuttling around the limo interior. She inhaled sharply and her nose was filled with the hot, real stench of the unwashed hobo as he pawed at her. It was absolutely real.

    “Don’t come after me,” Emma promised. “Or I’ll sue you for every dollar you’ve got!” She grabbed the hobo’s hand and began to walk toward the alley he’d stumbled out of. Filled with purpose, her hips and ass swayed back and forth enticingly for the drunken bum as she clicked and clacked her way between two graffiti-stained concrete buildings, a corridor hellishly lit by burning trash barrels and flickering, damaged neon lamps. Further down she could see movement as men capered around the fire, could hear their ravings and arguments. It made her feel alive, and strangely excited. This was something real. She could really interact with the poor and disadvantaged outcasts of society; those she had advocated for but never truly mingled with. She could learn the truth of their struggles.

    The blare of car horns was deafening as the traffic behind the limo screamed for the driver to “move that piece of shit you rich cocksucker!” Priscilla watched in disbelief as Emma in her white chiffon dress walked into the alley, disappearing between the buildings, and then saw her no more.

    Emma was filled with a queer sort of excitement as she moved down the alley toward the burning trash barrel and the raucous voices of the rumpled men that had gathered around it. The sights and smells were raw, and the scents of sweat and vomit and unwashed men more authentic to her olfactories than the sterile sets of her Hollywood projects, where she could only imagine the grimy pong of poverty. In her life, drunken, bearded men like her chaperone were made so by two hours at a sitting in the makeup chair. Their scabrous skin was just makeup, their sores were putty, their tattered sweaters the work of a long-suffering costume designer. That was Hollywood. But this was real. Her taut, elegant midsection fluttered with butterfly wings.

    “Hey fellas!” hollered the man, down the alley to his compatriots. “This bitch is alright! Got me a hunned!” He then let out a sour burp as Emma blushed at being referred to as a ‘bitch’. That was part of the realness, she told herself - these men, unsophisticated and uneducated, were just as victimized by their masculinity as she was. They knew no better.

    “Damn, that’s a hot-ass slut!” came a cry from down the alley, and as they approached, Emma saw a ruddy-skinned man slide from within a cardboard stall, hauling his pants up over his dirt-smudged shanks. The worn cardboard box contained a bucket, and when the smell of fresh shit hit her nose, Emma gagged, realizing the man had been defecating powerfully, that, indeed, his loose turds had been in the midst of sliding from his asshole while he was catcalling her. “I need me a piece of that!”

    Before she could respond, they were surrounding her - a quartet of bearded, drunken, smelly men, menacing her while in slovenly poses, their crotches and bellies outthrust. Her heart pounded with forbidden excitement that had been nowhere to be found in scripts or red carpets, for their tattered pants showed the outline of erections that were stiffer than any Crabbe line delivery. These were men who had been made into animals by the oppressive system… men who needed comfort. She inhaled deeply and smelled the sweat and shit and puke, and instead of cowing her as it had initially done, she felt an additional swell of that same excitement. Nobody here would pay her tens of thousands of dollars to wear a watch or tweet about a clothing line. These were real human beings, no fakery. Real, and honest, and needy.

    She was grabbed from behind and an unsteady hand groped the elegant bustline of her dress, sliding inside and grabbing intently at her modest bust. She felt a thumb rub in a circle around her nipple and the prick of a tattered thumbnail against her smooth, alabaster flesh. “Oh, god!” she gasped, and the man’s opposite hand pressed into the delta between her thighs, feeling her up inexpertly and drunkenly while the others cheered, calling her a ‘bitch’ and a ‘slut’ who was ‘ready for some hard dick’. The hand from her breast moved to her chin and pulled her head to the side and into a grotesque kiss, a hot tongue exploring her mouth, a tongue that tasted and smelled of booze and vomit. She was being ravished by a filthy homeless bum, she realized, and yet she felt honor-bound to submit to the treatment. The courage of her convictions - to reward realness, to hold commerce not with the rich and entitled but with the poor and outcast - seemed to govern how her body responded.

    She parted her lips and started sucking on the man’s smelly tongue, even extending her own as her knees knocked and the toes of her expensive shoes pointed slightly inward. The contrast between her beauty - the perfectly-styled brown hair, dark, glittering eyes, perfectly-trimmed lashes and eyebrows, and flawless skin - with the man’s grotesque unkempt visage was stark. He artlessly tongue-f#cked Emma’s face like an invalid giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a training dummy, feeding her his hot, puke-tasting drool and holding her like a swooning maiden. The others approached and prowled their hands up the slit-side of her gown, clutching her tight buttocks and thighs while they licked their lips. She saw their pockmarked noses, missing teeth, and felt their sour breath wash over her exposed breast as her gown was pulled aside and they dug grubby fingers into her white panties, finding the bead of her throbbing clitoris.

    To Emma, it was not a rape but a redistribution of wealth. She was so fortunate, to the point of feeling constant guilt for her wealth, and these were men who had been denied everything, men who were now taking what they wanted. Her mind worked feverishly to justify every foul action they took. The tongue in her mouth was not disgusting but tasted of the finest ambrosia. Hands gripped her hair and forced her to the ground in a shallow puddle that was either water or piss, her gown stained. As she knelt in front of them, each man eagerly produced his cock, four lengths of scabrous, nasty meat awash with sores and boils. Flies buzzed around their unkempt pubes as their curved, ugly dongs pressed forward to rub her cheeks and nose, brutalizing her with the most powerful stench yet.

    “Suck my smelly dick you rich cunt,” growled the fattest of the men, not precisely obese - he was too starved for that - but a jowly, double-chinned drunk with a pot belly above his spindly legs. His cock was crooked like a scimitar and as fibrous and knobbed as a shillelagh. Emma inhaled and the stink of sweat, dried cum and piss assaulted her cute nose. The others had endowments just as objectionable - uneven and bent and rubbed raw by their masturbation sessions. They rolled back their foreskins to reveal deposits of rancid cock cheese.

    Emma felt paralyzed and overwhelmed, but the men knew just what to do. They gripped her perfumed hair and pulled her pretty face forward, smearing their smegma-loaded knobs against her and leaving the evidence of their uncleanliness on her upper lip, her flushed cheeks, and on the rims of her nostrils. Their bladders, incontinent with disease, defiled the starlet with irregular trickles of gonorrhea-loaded, cloudy piss. The stink was overpowering, and Emma found herself utterly overwhelmed by it. “Open your mouth, cunt!” growled one of the men, and pinched her nose shut to force the issue. Emma inhaled sharply, opening wide, and he shoved his crooked rape sabre between her lips, feeding her a dingy crust of his dick filth along with the girth of his obscenely curved meat. Her cheek immediately bulged out as if she had a large wad of chewing tobacco stuck in her mouth, for the man’s boomerang-like length bent nearly ninety degrees. A hot sluice of spicy pre-cum poured into Emma’s mouth.

    It tasted horrible, and Emma’s stomach initially heaved, but she scolded herself for the reaction. If she treated these men with revulsion, she would be no different than the rich elitists that had put her into her moral crisis in the first place. Her head was gripped powerfully by the rasping, snorting hobo, and her began to thrust his hips and f#ck her mouth as though it were nothing more than a cunt, shearing the lumpy filth from his cock shaft by abrading it against the wet, ribbed textures of her gagging throat. Emma gagged and heaved, bracing her hands against the hobo’s thighs as the depths of her gullet were torn up by his f#ckmeat. She would never again have the singing voice to perform in a musical, that much was certain - not with the slobbering, shit-smelling man railing deep enough into her slender neck to give her brain damage.

    Fu#k, I ain’t made it with a bitch since I got the bug!” one man commented, jerking his sore-addled shaft just inches from Emma’s porcelain cheek while his friend plowed her face. “This is great.” He pressed his leaking prick helmet up against one of her shocked, wide-eyes, pressed his pisshole up under her smokey-mascara’d eyelid, and grunted as her milked a nasty, yellowish rope of chunky, HIV-positive cum straight into her eye socket. A third man took a fistful of her hair and used it to jack his cock, speckling the formerly glistening length with his stray pubes and cock filth. Emma gurgled and moaned, seeming only to be able to make inarticulate noises as her throat was hobo-raped and her brain deprived of oxygen. She had been excited and intrigued about the dangerous reality of her predicament, but this was more brutal a violation than she could have ever conceived.

    She made glottal puking and gagging sounds - Uaaaaaagh! Glllluuuuagh! Uuaaaaaaarkkk!” as hot streams of rancid, syphilitic cum were popped over her forehead and the bridge of her nose.
    After what seemed like five minutes of drunken, brutal throat-rape, the man in her mouth clutched her face deep into his crab-infested yeti pubes and pumped a foul, uneven load straight down her throat, heaving with desperate breaths and farting as he exerted himself.

    “Nnngh! Fu#k! I hope you like having AIDS, bitch,” the man wheezed, holding Emma flush with his dick in her throat, squeezing out every last drop of his diseased spunk into her guts. He reached out, found a bottle of booze on a nearby trash can, and took a deep chug as his cock remained in Emma’s throat. “You have a lot of guts coming down to a place like this, you crazy cunt.”

    Emma’s mind whirled with the man’s revelation about his sickness. She had always been in favor of advocacy on behalf of those with AIDS, but she knew the message would be so much more meaningful if she had experienced having AIDS herself! And the same was true, she further realized, for rape and domestic violence. After all, how could she counsel other strong, independent young women about such issues if she hadn’t experienced them herself? Her belly sparked with new sensations as she found a twisted satisfaction in the avalanche of life experience she was quickly getting! The hobo had shot so much thick, disgusting genetic garbage into her stomach, she was sure to be positively swimming with STDs! And as for AIDS-

    “God, f#ck me please!” Emma moaned, coughing as the hobo’s smelly, curved dick slid from her mouth, leaving behind stray pubes and cock cheese on her lips. “I want you all to rape me!”

    One of the men slapped her in the face and Emma moaned at the impact. “You’re a real disgusting bitch, you know that?” he said, and hocked back and spat in her face, an expectoration that Emma gladly absorbed, as it only fueled the fire in her young loins. The men grabbed her by underarm and thigh, pulling her over to a pile of stinking trash that had accumulated by the back door of a shuttered warehouse, and threw her down into it, her gorgeous body settling into the bags of refuse as it were a comfy bed. Her breasts were exposed, the front of her chiffon dress torn away to reveal them in their perfect, apple-sized roundness. The bottom of her gown, likewise torn, was piled up about her hips to reveal her panties.

    The first of the slobbering, drunken louts approached and closed a fist around the waistband of her underwear, bracing a harsh hand against her ribs and tearing the fabric back and away with the sound of snapping threads, bringing then roughly down Emma’s thighs. Her pussy - smooth and sensual, with a patch of pubic hair that exactly matched her hair color sitting above the red-tinted, blood engorged brackets of her puffy labia - was completely exposed. As the others laughed and jerked their hanging dicks, this newest ‘partner’, a black man with a long, bunched-up foreskin that wrapped his throbbing cocktip like a turban, descended onto her body and shoved his piss-leaking, incontinent f#ckmeat deep into Emma’s pussy. Emma howled at the rough penetration, but the man, wearing a rat-bitten wool cap and stinking flannels, wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed while he maniacally thrust his hips, scraping the starlet’s silken vaginal passage with the pustules and warts on his girthy black tool, braying whisky breath in her face as he did so, his eyes bloodshot and desperate for release.

    A second man, wiry and limber with only a sleeveless T-shirt to protect his upper body from the elements, waded into the trash pile and behind Emma’s head, unfurling his long, thin penis onto her forehead and showing off his gaunt ribs and marks from needle-injection on his inner arms. He had the missing teeth and unkempt, greasy look of a career junkie, and pressed down on his own filth-coated shaft so it would line up with Emma’s mouth and slide directly into her throat, resulting in the prone, mounded starlet being f#cked by homeless men on both ends. His testicles were low-hanging to the point of parody, connected to his taint by a length of floppy, greasy scrotal skin that dangled halfway down his thigh, and one nut was twice as large as the other, a sure sign of a tumor or other abnormality, and his loose sack draped over her dainty nose and clogged her nostrils with the stench of his ball-grease. Her eyes were covered by the stretched, nasty-looking sack as he thrust down into her throat and buried his rancid bone deep into her gullet, bringing up a fountain of drool and throat cream as he f#cked her windpipe without any regard for her ability to breathe.

    Emma’s body bounced and undulated bonelessly as the men had their way with her throat and pussy, pounding her without mercy while her arms, shins and ankles flopped about from the impact of their rampaging, insatiable hobo dicks. One shoe slid from her shapely foot and tumbled into the trash pile. The noises coming from her mouth could hardly be classified as human; they were desperate, gagging attempts to breathe that spoke to the depth and depravity with which the horny, pent-up men were plowing into her svelte body. They bookended her and groped what they could - thighs, tits, hair, hips, ass - while hooting and grunting like wildmen, slobber rolling down their chins as they fueled their debauchery with wet, gasping breaths into lungs damaged by a lifetime of living raw. The other two men, including the original hobo to whom Emma had provided both a face-f#ck and a hundred dollars, stood on either side, stroking their cocks, feeding them into her hands. In an act of service that came as second nature to the socially-conscious young starlet, she began giving to desperate, enthusiastic handjobs, not missing a stroke even though her face and pussy were both being brutalized by hard, smelly hobo cock.

    The black hobo, his unkempt goatee and moustache flecked with spittle and dirt, burped sourly as he f#cked Emma with his thick pipe, getting out of breath quickly. He was passed a bottle by one of his fellows, took a deep swig without missing a stroke, and then returned to his business, only for his body to heave and his broken-toothed mouth to pour a hot spray of vomit onto Emma’s breasts. She moaned at the warmth and the sour stench of this latest pollution of her pretty form, getting a breath at last as her junkie face-f#cker withdrew to avoid the splatter, standing over her face and letting his loose, nasty ballsack droop into her mouth. Emma sniffed deeply at his swollen testicle and then pursed her lips around it, giving a sloppy kiss, sucking hard enough to drag his scrotum down, tickling it with her tongue while the vomit slid down her chest and onto the trash bags. Her body was on fire, and she could feel something building inside herself that was the realest feeling yet - a mind-blowing, body-rattling orgasm that was a hundred times stronger than anything her well-groomed showbiz suitors had ever coaxed from her nubile young form.

    “Oh… f-f-f-fuuuuck!” she cried, her mouth going wide, and the sore-riddled, bumpy meat bat in her pussy drove ever deeper, scraping her vaginal walls as her membranes milked the shaft, drawing both she and her hobo partner closer to cumming. “I’m gonna… gonna… cum!” It was like a supernova exploded between her hip bones, a roiling, churning feeling of pleasure that overpowered every foul degradation she was experiencing and lit her body ablaze. Her nipples tingled and her clit throbbed with each wave of intense climax, and in that moment, Emma reveled in and accepted every foul thing that was happening to her. She was thankful that the men had been made such brutal animals by the inequalities in their lives, glad that they were showing her the inhumanity of poverty in such an acute way. The work of cumming all over their scab-crusted, smelly hobo cocks was more important, she realized, than any of her work as model or actress. Finally she could make a real difference. That’s why she felt so good, she knew. These males, turned rabid by the unrealistic expectations of masculinity and success, were to be pitied rather than persecuted. She felt an intense, real connection to them as her sordid orgasm ripped through her body and she stewed in her coating of sweat, vomit, spit, and heat-baked alleyway trash.

    As she shuddered, the junkie’s stomach gurgled and he doubled over. He hadn’t had his ‘medicine’ in a while, and the constipation and digestive paralysis so often brought on by his heroin habit had faded. His skinny legs and pimpled, stony buttocks shuddered like a dog in wet rain as his intestinal gramps made him lower his body, squatting directly over Emma’s face. “Ugh! Fu#kin’ f#ck!” the rat-faced addict groaned, and his sphincter gave way, polluting Emma’s features with a loose spray of watery shit that completely coated her features and poured into her moaning mouth. The young starlet’s body was bucking so hard with orgasm that it nearly lifted the black vagrant off of her as he, too, hilted his infected dick deep in her guts and pumped rope after chowdery rope of herpes-infested f#ckslop deep into her womb. The place that Emma would have one day used to conceive a child with a favored partner was now little more than a toilet for rotten hobo sperm. She had a seizure and gurgled to orgasm again through a mouthful of the junkie’s tapeworm-infested, liquid shit, her mind a total whirlwind of overwhelming sensations, a constant crackle of minor climaxes that seemed never to end.

    I need more, she thought, swallowing the sloppy turd that was filling her mouth. If I’m going to help them, I need more! I need to know what it’s like to be raped, not once, but every day! I need to be abused every day, or how can I help abuse victims? How can people with HIV take me seriously as an advocate unless I have HIV, and chlamydia, and syphilis, and herpes, and hepatitis? I need more! I need more hobo rape!

    “Nnngh, your shit tastes so good!” Emma moaned, and craned her neck upward to drive her tongue up the scab-faced junkie’s hemorrhoid-ringed asshole. His stomach churned again and he defiled her mouth with a series of splattering, loose farts as his clenching bowels unloaded their bounty of hot, soupy waste.

    “This bitch is a real shit-eating piece of trash!” the black man wheezed, still hilted inside her and trying to catch his breath. “Fu#k, I gotta take a piss! Might as well use this bitch as a toilet!” He sighed and began to let his softening prick hose a stinging stream of cloudy, infected piss straight into Emma’s womb. As she licked the junkie’s filthy ass and felt the stream of urine spray into her innermost places, Emma also redoubled her jerk-off efforts with either hand, servicing the two remaining men with tight, milking strokes that popped the boils on their STD-riddled, grotesquely-bent pricks and caused pus to drip down her slender fingers. These men grew shortly impatient, encouraging their black counterpart to vacate her cunt so they could take a turn, and, once he had pulled out (and allowed a waterfall of sour piss to pour from Emma’s well-f#cked twat and into the garbage pile), these same two quickly arranged her next defilement, with one men settling into the filthy refuse pile below her and the other sandwiching from above, both of their nasty, diseased pricks pressing hard against her tight, pink, twitching asshole.

    “Oh god, please, rip me apart! I f#cking want AIDS!” Emma babbled, only to be muted by another fart ripping down her throat. The men pressed mightily against her hole with their tumescent, bumpy dicks, causing her whole undercarriage and buttocks to press inward at first, but eventually the lubrication of their pre-cum and leaking piss was enough for their cocks to saw into her asshole at the same time.

    Up until that point, Emma had never even had anal sex. Her tongue fell out of her mouth and she wailed as the scimitar-like curve of the bottom man’s filthy cock ripped apart her anus, tearing her bowel walls and leaking hot, STD-loaded sperm directly into her bloodstream. The sound of Emma Watson’s tiny, perfect asshole being blown out by hobo cock was actually audible, a fleshy stretching, ripping sound as her inner walls were torn and the pretty ring of her asshole distended and split. The two men didn’t care at all about any damage they might be doing to her formerly virginal hole, but Emma herself was extremely aware, not just because of the brutal pain but because she knew that victims of rape were never the same after having been so brutally penetrated in their assholes - having her ass completely destroyed and turned from a hot, sexy pink rosebud to a gaping, ripped-up hobo toilet would give her all the rape cred she would need to counsel young women who were victims.

    “Y-yes! Rip open my ass! Fu#king give me AIDS!” Emma moaned, and the men only redoubled their efforts to pound their pipes into her guts, not caring about the fleshy noises and loose queefs of air pouring from her distended anus. The amount of damage to her intestinal walls would make sure that every one of the dozen STDs they had would invade her bloodstream and leave Emma Watson, that smiling Harry Potter actress who had captured the hearts of millions, into the most disgusting, ass-raped ‘bug bag’ ever to suck a hobo cock. Emma would never be able to wear a thong on the beach again, her asshole would be so stretched and brown and f#cked-out from homeless rape that her anus would be visible on either side of the swimsuit. And that wasn’t the limit of how far she would go, in her mind’s eye. In the throes of her rape, sucking down the junkie’s loose farts and having her bowels destroyed by double hobo cock, she saw a future version of herself, dressed not in chiffon gowns but the trashiest, nastiest hooker gear possible. The letters “HIV” tattoed on one smooth asscheek, the word “BUG BAG” on the other, her nipples and lip pierces, loaded condoms tied to her torn fishnets as she twerked on the dick of any homeless, rapist scumbag she could find. She was the only one with the moral conviction to help such people, she knew. It had started with $100 from her wallet, but eventually she would give it all. In her heart she would pay her entire ill-gotten elitist fortune to any drunken, puking vagrants willing to drop their pants and rape her, piss on her, or make her eat their shit.

    She snaked her tongue up the junkie’s smelly shitpipe one last time, tasting his waste and loving every sour, bitter note, orgasming again as the men hilted themselves in her ass, ripping her even wider apart and pouring their diseased, uneven loads into her guts. She knew that she would probably be completely unable to close her asshole and would be leaking their HIV-positive cum down her legs for days; the thought filled her with a twisted sense of pride. And beyond the huffing, gap-toothed face of her rapist, she saw other homeless, unwashed figures emerging from their cardboard castles; men in sweat-drenched cotton undershirts, tattered sweats, swollen-bellied from malnutrition and scratching their sores and dandruff-dusted beards. Emma’s body tingled with excitement as the trudging men pulled their pustule-crusted, leaking dicks from their grimy pants and began to surround her. How many were there? A half-dozen more? Twelve?

    “You gonna get raped, bitch,” slurred a drunken fat f#ck, pulling his smelly, flaccid cock from his waistband. Emma moaned at smegma-crusted size of it and the fat, nasty boils ringing the shaft that seemed ready to burst. As her ass-f#ckers withdrew, she beckoned his new arrival forward, kissing him deeply and sucking the plaque from his broken teeth as he buried her in flab, a hog raping a tiny pixie.

    She had never felt so alive.
    (From the pages of the New York Times: “Method Actor Phoenix Praises Watson As ‘Revelation’”)

    October 26th, 2019
    By Alastair Noseworthy


    Joaquin Phoenix is no stranger to controversial method acting. This is a man who once delved so deep into the role of a self-styled hip hop artist for the Casey Affleck directed biopic I’m Still Here that he all but disappeared into his own madness. This quality of Phoenix’s - a willingness to do very deep to truly master a role - is why his reaction to Emma Watson’s stunning instagram posts has been different from most.

    “I think Emma is a genius, really,” Phoenix said, speaking on the phone from his New York City loft. “The way she’s brought attention to the issue by really getting inside of it, not a lot of people would, or could, do that.” He added, “I think in a few years you’re going to see other actresses doing the same thing. Taking those unrealistic standards of beauty and glamour and just, you know… turning them on their heads.”

    The revolution may already be starting. Jessica Chastain famously walked the red carpet at this year’s Golden Globe awards wearing not a dazzling necklace but a simple rope adorned with loaded condoms from HIV positive men. Add this to Nicki Minaj’s number one single “Hobo, Fu#k My Face” and you have a verifiable social phenomenon...
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    1. Offline
      + 01 -
      😜😜😜😋
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    2. Offline
      + 10 -
      Wtf did I read
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    3. Offline
      + 10 -
      Brother what... did you get this from AO3 or something? treat
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  7. Offline
    + 30 -
    Aye, it pains me to see these morons back. wet
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    1. Offline
      + 00 -
      I swear ignoring them is the best move.
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  8. Offline
    + 180 -
    I swear to god if one of these bitches brings up marrying wang lin.. and if the parents / wang lin dont unleash a torrent of insults towards them..
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