/lit/ - Literature

incoming butterfly shit porn:

Rain hitting thin panes of glass. The office is filled with an unsettling ambience that ripples silently up your arms, into the sleeves of your shirt. You can hear the doctor’s words-- can even parse some of the convoluted medical jargon-- but it all comes out muddled by the din outside. All the careful research and planning means nothing now. Something drastic has to be done. To be present in the room is to accept tacitly the horror to come, like hearing enemy bombs drop from under thick concrete ceiling.
“--dissociative coprophagia--” “--delusions of constipation--”
Professional timewasting; a dozen labcoats and thousands of dollars in philanthropy couldn’t do more than put a series of names to the condition you have come to know in person. You can sense the doctor’s concern, but it is all too late now: why else would you be sitting here, receiving this briefing?
“-- baconator fries---” “-- just can’t get her to listen--”
They need help; they always do. You wait for the cue: head-drooped, pulling glasses off with one hand to raise and reveal learned frustration: “what we’re trying to say is, we need your expertise.” He forgot to say “again.”

A stroll down the aisle of padded cells. Deranged blubbering and passionate discussions with the imagined overtake the white noise of the rain. She’s back there waiting, probably downloading .gifs of Jitka Cerhova, finger stuck obliviously in dry cunt. Maybe she’s bathed since the last time. Maybe she’s changed into something other than pippi-longstocking footy-pajamas decorated in those murky, technicolor stains. Maybe. As you draw closer to the door, you become aware that the good doctor has left you, unable to bear what will be your sacred duty. A keyboard clacks slowly within, timidly, behind the heavy oak. She knows, but she plays coy. She let’s you knock and ask politely to be let in.
“Come in, anon…” forcing her voice into something sweet and smoky-- betrayed of course by the acrid stink somehow permeating the door.
One, shadeless fluorescent dangling from the ceiling casts a flickering stale light over the scene. Back to you, her typing has now slowed to sporadic pokes at the keyboard. She pretends not to notice you, or the gurgling soreness in her colon. Her stage is set.
“So…” she clicks ‘post.’ “you’ve come back to see me…”
She teases you, and elucidates her demented narrative (she is an internet activist of sorts, plagued endlessly by neo-fascist /pol/-tards and garden variety neoliberals-- an entirely complex lore underlies it all) and applies more foundation. Your stomach proceeds, unconsciously, to secure itself, as an erection begins to coalesce in your pants. The familiar feeling of interrupted pleasure-- a nonsexual copulation about to begin, in which no feeling will ride the nerves of your penis and spine up to the brain (god forbid…)-- of which your genitals are grimly familiar. She spies the chubby devil, and pretends she doesn’t notice yet. Clumsily she proceeds from her desk chair to her hands and knees. She is careful not to give away her hidden discomfort, the project she has been working on for almost a month now. Only a pink flush and the sweat of an upper lip betray the cool air she has been practicing.

“I’ve needed you so bad.” She plants her bottom on the floor and a fart sneaks out. She’s thought only of you, she explains, firmly grasping her dense ankles. And of the flood to come, and the need for release. Delicately, and in one sure motion, she flings her legs up and rolls onto her back. Struck by the effort of her maneuver, it is only after a beat that you see she is, in fact, not wearing panties. Her crotch, taint and asscrack-- even the underside of her belly-- are coated in an immense and tangled pubic forest. You continue to stare, unable to pull your eyes away, and see the distinct folds of labia and angry clitoris-- erect, standing an inch tall somehow-- just barely veiled by the dark brillo-pad nap. Her splayed vagina, held tightly in wiry black hairs, conjures images of paralysis and decay: a canoe stopped by a tar pit, coxswain frozen at the bow, remaining here, lifeless, only to deliver some forgotten warning to passersby. “lasciate ogne speranza…”
“Please anon, I can’t wait anymore.” The staccato flatulence interrupting her pleas only confirms the urgency. Make no mistake: she will not shit without your penile heroics. But should you turn and run now, the putrid stink of her other ‘shit’-- the fecal remnants of virtual logorrhea-- will only drive you back, her punisher and savior, to the dragon you must slay. With closed eyes you unzip, and settle to your knees. Taking her by sweating ass cheeks, you pull her taint to rest in your lap, against a tightened scrotum.

“I’m too dry anon, I need your tongue,” she whimpers through tightly closed eyes. A resounding belch from below, as if confirming this to be the case. Screaming will not help, you remind yourself as you lower your opened mouth. Pubic vegetation must be parted, and watering eyes must be shut tight. This will take over a minute as the sprawling weave absorbs drool nearly as fast as it is applied. Soon: breakthrough. Tongue caresses and soothes puckered anal lips, rose-red, quivering in desperation. Pungent, brie cheese-- but is it flavor or scent? You suppress the urge to vomit with expert skill.
With more saliva the maw cracks open, releasing tainted fumes into your eyes. Whipping your head back, aware now of the dripping sweat of manual labor collected on your shoulders and forehead. You try scattering your thoughts, returning to the requisite mindlessness of the task-- it will only be open for so long. Luckily your hand is somehow already preparing, vigorously jerking your dry cock until it stands up straight.
“Anon, p-pleease…. oh, oh god, oh…” giving little angry infant kicks in the air, she needs you in her asshole. You grab her haunches and plunge-- spear in the belly of the beast.
So used to clenching, holding back, her sphincter fights you, squeezes hard on your swollen helmet. Drive returning and eyes on your prize, you push through and enter her rectum.
Indescribable sensations: soupy, gritty-- the feeling of fillia and colonic ribbing-- hot as fresh stew, but, wait, what was that so cold and syrupy? A pained silence on her flustered face, broken sporadically by tiny yelps and the unwilled trembling of the lower jaw, it is unclear whether she is working with or against you. You want to strike her-- and she may even let you-- but the job isn’t finished. There is no time for indulgence. The sensations align and agree; soon it is all hot, all spicy, and your urethra begins to sting. Impossible to tell if this is a good or bad sign, but some chemical reaction is taking place inside butterflies anal petri-dish. The task just became about your own safety.

Just then it hits you: divine inspiration possessing the artist. You see your maneuver in an instantaneous out-of-body dream, and, placing the balls of your feet on the floor, prepare yourself.
Needing moisture, you cram your fingers into her mouth-- she gags on them, but quietly trusts your judgement and squeezes her right breast. Wet fingers at the ready, you increase the speed of your pumps. Penis screaming in pain now-- don’t give up on me… deftly you slip index fingers in alongside your tired cock. Once in place, it is a matter of one swift and complex motion-- god willing.
Throwing your pelvis back, your penis, now freed, immediately deflates. All the tension of her sphincter now bears down on your fingers, and you fight it. Pulled tight like a rubber band, it requires all your upper body strength to keep her anus open. She’s yelling, cursing you, and in the opening you can see the neon pink lining of her colon give a few dry heaves. Too soon?? Your heart plummets as you crouch lower, still holding butterfly’s taut butthole agape. Peeking in with one wide-opened eye, you gaze into the abyss… somewhere in the depths, you’d swear it later, a satisfied smirk. A job done all too well...

>>15950735
>>15950743
>>15950750
>>15950759
>>15950764
𒁀 𒋛 𒀉

With a dancer’s elegance, the tightly wound prolapse dilates: goopy waves of brown, yellow and green fly out-- crash into stinking mist on your cheeks. Hard pellets, some as big as thumbs, pummell your open eyes and mouth and a select few, like victorious sperm, manage to lodge themselves in your throat. Your open eye is bathed in some acrid tangerine oil, and one prophetic red pepper flake, as big in your vision as a falling comet, smolders in your cornea. The peculiar alchemical properties of this fecal stew become clear through the smells and flavors leaching into your skin. Mushy peas have become hard as bullets and shards of chicken bone (chicken bone??) are spongy and limp. The otherworldly phenomenon responsible for this change in state still hidden away in the recesses of intestine.
Heels planted, letting the gallons of oily shit pool around her ass and back, butterfly whimpers and paws at her sagging asshole, still yet to retain its shape. Her pussy, now glistening with a thin coat of slime, visible even from under pubes, she ignores. You pity her cunt, but understand that her deep psychological distress forbids her from achieving orgasm vaginally. Only this purge of excrement will settle her fetid libido. She is a levee, lasciviously craving her own destruction. Her deflated-balloon farts have ceased, yet her belly clenches in attempts to force out more. You haven’t yet taken a breath in, afraid of aspirating more fluid shit.
She’s thanking you, but the furrowed brow tells you she is already thinking about your next visit. She’s thinking about your swell new move that she will need to see again, and about the drive-thru at burger king, and a new double-patty hamburger with pickled jalapenos smothered in pepperjack cheese. She’s thinking about a dream she had in which you were tied down, blindfolded, and jaws wired open as she lowered her big white ass over you and poured a gallon of nacho cheese out from her shitbox. You are thinking about screaming now, but a green fiber of broccolini has you too choked up. There is no more din outside, and no more tumult in the distance. It’s all inside you now, and the calm of absolute terror and shame consumes you.

fin.

>>15950770

What the fuck is this

>>15950775

What the fuck is that

>>15950770
wtf even google translate got filtered

>>15950730
Blessed Thread

>>15950804
Cuneiform you pleb.

>>15950730
Based and chaste.

Test

Now picture Butterfly like this

>>15952241
Why? You like deformed jaws, old man?