Ranobes » Top Tier Providence, Secretly Cultivate for a Thousand Years » Chapter 886: Ancestor Shen Yin, Temporarily Dead
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Chapter 886: Ancestor Shen Yin, Temporarily Dead
Top Tier Providence, Secretly Cultivate for a Thousand Years

“Father, what is this?” Han Qing’er asked nervously. This was the first time she had encountered such a situation. She was extremely nervous.

Han Jue said, “Go out and wait.”

With that, he stepped into the black vortex and activated the Supreme Treasure on his body.

When that hand appeared just now, Han Jue had already seen the other party’s cultivation.

Late-stage Great Dao Primordial Chaos Realm!

Han Jue focused his attention to prevent the other party from entering the third Dao Field from the black vortex.

He stepped out of the black vortex and saw a dilapidated void. Lightning interwove, and a majestic stone tablet appeared in front of him. It was covered in caves, and terrifying things surged in them.

The Five Great Divine Punishers were tied to the top of the stone tablet by chains and could not move.

Han Jue immediately used the simulation trial to check his surroundings.

(Ancestor Shen Yin: Perfected Great Dao Primordial Chaos Realm, Chaotic Lifeform, Transcendent Dao Expert, Body of Darkness]

There was no stronger existence!

That meant that Han Jue didn’t sense anything wrong.

Han Jue’s gaze landed on the top of the stone tablet. A figure stood there. He wore a black robe and his hair was disheveled. His skin was dry like tree bark and his face was cold, like a demon that had crawled out of the netherworld.

At this moment, Ancestor Shen Yin’s right arm was slowly recovering. The hand that was destroyed by Han Jue was his hand.

Ancestor Shen Yin stared at him in shock and asked in a low voice, “Who are you?”

He glanced at Han Tuo below. He didn’t expect Han Tuo to have such a background.

Yi Tian roared excitedly. “Godfather! Save us!”

Godfather?

The other three Divine Punishers were shocked. The legendary Divine Might Heavenly Sage!

Han Jue activated all his Supreme Treasures, and the divine light was oppressive. In their opinion, his aura was even stronger and more stunning than the Ultimate God of Punishment.

This scene shocked them.

Han Jue said, “Why did you capture my son?”

Ancestor Shen Yin frowned and asked, “Who’s your son? Tell me, I can let him go.”

Han Jue could tell at a glance that these five were the Five Great Divine Punishers. He was on good terms with the Ultimate God of Punishment and these people were all good friends of Han Tuo. He naturally had to save them.

“Let them all go. Treat it as a misunderstanding,” Han Jue said seriously. He left a trace of his will in the black vortex to prevent anyone from sneaking in.

Ancestor Shen Yin laughed as if he had heard the funniest joke.

He suddenly stared at him and said coldly, “Don’t you find it ridiculous?”

Han Jue sighed and asked, “Did they offend you?”

“No.”

“Then, what do you want?” “I naturally want their bodies.”

Ancestor Shen Yin raised his hands, and a strange black aura emitted from the countless holes in the stone tablet.

At this moment, he discovered that Han Jue was gone.

He did not panic. Instead, the corners of his mouth curled up.

Han Jue appeared behind him and slashed with the Primordial Judgment Sword.

Black Qi appeared out of thin air and wrapped around Ancestor Shen Yin’s body.

The Primordial Judgment Sword slashed down and the black aura dissipated. Ancestor Shen Yin’s body was slashed into two.

“How can this be?!”

Ancestor Shen Yin’s expression changed drastically in disbelief.

At this moment, a powerful imprisonment power suppressed him, preventing him from moving. Even his soul could not escape.

He was shocked to find that he could not mobilize the power of the Great Dao.

Impossible!

He was a perfected Great Dao Sage!

He was already a top-notch cultivator in the entire Chaos. Who was his match other than those ancient Divine Spirits?

A Fiendcelestial Dharma idol suddenly rose above Han Jue’s head and grabbed him with one hand, crushing him.

(Ancestor Shen Yin has developed hatred towards you. Current Hatred Points: 6 stars]

Han Jue sensed his surroundings and didn’t see Ancestor Shen Yin anymore.

He had indeed crushed Ancestor Shen Yin to death just now.

In other words, this fellow had a life-saving method elsewhere.

He clicked his tongue in wonder. How dare they be so arrogant with such strength?

He thought that Ancestor Shen Yin had some special method, but he couldn’t withstand a single blow.

Han Jue waved his sleeve and shattered the chains that locked the five Divine Punishers.

He raised his hand and put the huge stone tablet into his sleeve, using his Dharmic powers to suppress it.

He could sense that the stone tablet contained countless living beings. It should be a race, but this race was very strange and did not have any life.

Yi Tian heaved a sigh of relief. The other three Divine Punishers looked at Han Jue in reverence.

Han Tuo came in front of him and said with an ashamed expression, “Sorry to trouble you, Father.”

Han Jue said, “It’s nothing. Leave as soon as possible.”

With that, he vanished.

The distant black vortex shrank.

A Divine Punisher looked at Han Tuo and sighed. “Boss, your father is really powerful. It’s too easy.”

Ancestor Shen Yin, who brought them despair just now, was helpless in front of Han Jue. It broadened his horizons.

“Yes! As expected of the Divine Might Heavenly Sage!”

“It’s said that the leader of the Divine Spirits and the Divine Might Heavenly Sage are joining forces to hold the Chaotic Assembly. Doesn’t that mean that they are equals?”

“This strength should indeed be equal. He can be the strongest in the Chaos.”

“Unfortunately, Godfather left too quickly. He hasn’t acknowledged me yet.”

Hearing his companions’ words, Han Tuo couldn’t help but smile. It had to be said that Han Jue gave him enough face. He didn’t ask for the reason and didn’t embarrass him.

Han Tuo sighed. “Actually, I didn’t want to invite him. We have to be careful in the future. We were still careless previously and fell into that old fellow’s trap. We actually hunted him for ten thousand years. It’s ridiculous.”

The other four Divine Punisher cultivators also looked embarrassed.

Yi Tian coughed. Back then, he was the one who said that he wanted to chase after him when he saw Ancestor Shen Yin escape. They chased for ten thousand years.

Thinking back, it was indeed very silly.

“This place is not simple. Should we investigate?” a Divine Punisher asked.

Han Tuo scanned the surroundings and said, “Let’s leave first and tell this to the leader of the Divine Spirits.”

The four Divine Punisher experts had no objections and quickly left with him.

Inside the Daoist temple.

Han Jue sat down and the black vortex disappeared.

Han Qing’er came over and asked, “So fast? What happened just now?”

She was hesitating if she should listen to her father and go out when he returned so quickly.

How long had it been?

Han Jue said, “Your brother asked for help, so I went to help him.”

Han Qing’er blinked and asked, “It’s settled?”

“Mm.”

“Did brother encounter an enemy or is he

trapped?”

“Both.”

“What about the enemy?”

“He’s dead for the time being.”

“What do you mean for the time being?”

“I killed him, but he had a way to revive.”

Han Qing’er was secretly shocked. He could be revived?

It seemed that she had to be careful when facing enemies in the future.

How could she confirm that the other party was really dead?

Han Jue said, “Go out and cultivate. Try to attain the Dao as soon as possible.”

Han Qing’er nodded and couldn’t help but ask, “Then, what’s the enemy’s cultivation level? Freedom Sage? Or stronger?”

In her opinion, the enemy who could trap her brother was definitely a Freedom Sage. It was impossible for him to be weaker.

“Stronger,” Han Jue said. Han Qing’er frowned and left.

Han Jue was surprised. Why did this girl change her attitude?

Shouldn’t she be shocked?

Sigh.

His daughter was older and not as cute as when she was young.

Han Jue shook his head and laughed.

He took out the huge stone tablet after Han Qing’er left.

Top Tier Providence, Secretly Cultivate for a Thousand Years
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Comments 36

  1. Offline
    RichHobo
    + 8 ⋅ 0 -
    New curse target kef
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    savitar5099
    + 9 ⋅ 0 -
    finally caught up from chapter 100
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  3. Offline
    Venom
    + 9 ⋅ 0 -
    no update?? whyyy i cant live without it butwhy
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    Caioquinn1
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    This Shit! email delays is happening again. middle
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  5. Offline
    C.C
    + 1 ⋅ 33 -
    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
      Fickle as light
      + 14 ⋅ 0 -
      Bro you high
      Read more
    2. Offline
      AnimeRoJa
      + 12 ⋅ 0 -
      Are you mentally okay?
      Read more
    3. Offline
      Arcadewave
      + 3 ⋅ 0 -
      The f#ck did I just read 💀😂
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    4. Offline
      Strange Dark
      + 4 ⋅ 0 -
      Eliminate this spammer from this holy land (ranobes).
      Read more
    5. Offline
      Player001
      + 0 ⋅ 0 -
      Oh f#ck this guy also spread this unholy text in this novel?! I first saw him in the infinite mana in the acopalypse. He even made suck scene with the characters of that novel
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  6. Offline
    klip
    + 9 ⋅ 3 -
    His daughter was older and not as cute as when she was young.

    Bitxh ur the one who gave har that attitude this very chapter
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    1. Offline
      C.C
      + 1 ⋅ 27 -
      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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  7. Offline
    opside
    + 7 ⋅ 0 -
    I ascended in 4 weeks. So fellow cultivators should I 1. follow the demonic path of mtl at the cost of my iq or 2. pursue the dao of patience while withstanding mental demons?
    Read more
    1. Offline
      Ayashi
      + 7 ⋅ 0 -
      pick a new novel to read if you can't wait. The braincell loss from (trying to) read mtl just isn't worth it.
      Read more
      1. Offline
        klip
        + 1 ⋅ 4 -
        Man read some royal road novela to recover ur english
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        1. Offline
          virvzx
          + 1 ⋅ 1 -
          An elitist has been spotted, elimination manoeuvres activated.
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          1. Offline
            klip
            + 2 ⋅ 0 -
            I mean seriously the english on most translations barring a few are bad whether it be due to mistranslations or lack if skill or not having the right words in one language to express a word if another. And this is not to say all the novels on webnovel are badly written, no there are a few great ones
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            1. Offline
              virvzx
              + 2 ⋅ 0 -
              They were talking about mtl not translated works
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  8. Offline
    HerrscherandBrambles
    + 8 ⋅ 0 -
    MC could probably use the book to really kill that guy, but idk, he might not interfere that much addiction
    Read more
    1. Offline
      C.C
      + 2 ⋅ 20 -
      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
        Strange Dark
        + 2 ⋅ 0 -
        WTF is this?
        Some sort of crappy fanfiction?
        Why is this thing here?
        WARNING
        Its r18 btw. Contains sex, rape and very shitty things.
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  9. Offline
    fugzor
    + 4 ⋅ 4 -
    good chapter
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    1. Offline
      KetherBelhomet
      + 0 ⋅ 1 -
      A very good chapter
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  10. Offline
    Caioquinn1
    + 5 ⋅ 0 -
    Man, This Email ended too fast. How long do i have to enter Seclusion again? 13 15 20 4 9
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