Saturday, 9 May 2009

The Rapezone

In 2053 Rapezone opened its doors. It was a new type of nightclub catering to the demands of a brutal, desensitized public.
Entry to the club required a series of personality tests to ensure patrons were suitably sociopathic. These tests were administered under the watchful eye of the supervisor, an aloof young blonde haired man who happened to be a violent narcissist.
Once inside the club, patrons were subjected to deafening music, seizure inducing lighting and a fog machine which polluted the place with thick blankets of smoke. Blind, deafened and bewildered, customers were then encouraged to grope and molest each other as they saw fit.
On her first night there, Jenny, a pretty 19 year old accountancy student was fondled by a balding systems analyst from Hull.
Rapezone became the hip place to be, filled with bored architecture students raping each other with neon dildos. Sensationalistic tabloids lamented the collapse of civilisation. Fey leftwing publications celebrated psycho-sexual liberation.
At times things would get out of hand and the rape police would be unleashed, a battalion of depraved failed cops who would indiscriminately batter everyone in their vicinity. Thrilled, the supervisor would unbutton his shirt, tweak his nipples and screech "Rapezone!" with a demeanour that spectators would later comment was 'quite demented.'
The CEO of Rapezone languished on the upper levels of the club. His assistants were all naive, fresh-faced prepubescent girls. He would accidentally brush against these children, harbouring a strong semi-erection. He would then be sure to apologise profusely. He would never go further than this. For him borderline illicit behaviour was even more thrilling than all out wanton rape and battery.

HD monitors flashed unsettling amateur pornographic films.

Lets meet some of the clients, shall we? Penny is a 33 year old cross dresser who is here to meet his boyfriend. His boyfriend will not show, never does. This gives Penny free license to act like a 'complete tart.'
Seymour is an investigative journalist from a leftwing publication. He intends to get himself fondled by a shrill faggot, an incident that he will then recount in a fey article for said publication.
Barry is an overweight middle management type who is obsessed with face fucking pretty art students.
Feral art kids punch and ream each other.
A Finnish media student was in the grip of a strange new drug. She was also in the grip of two middle aged college lecturers who attended to her mouth and asshole with firm cocks. The media student couldn't wait to upload photos to a social networking website.
Seymour sat on a sofa beside the cloakroom receiving a lazy handjob from a listless black woman. Solemn faced, he scribbled on a notepad.

Mindless Grin

"Where ma whisky at, woman?" he demanded.
She pointed mutely at a cupboard. He opened the cupboard. He had his whisky. He took a long slug. And another. He was feeling pretty good now. Pretty good? Very fucking good. He had a fucking boner on. He wiped his upper lip with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He grunted.
"Dang woman!" he screamed suddenly and let loose with a hysterical laugh. She smiled nervously and itched the back of her neck.
"Hollywood may be the playground of the rich and famous..." the TV said. Then it said other stuff. He really wasn't listening. He switched it off. Itched his testicles. He grunted. Drank more whisky.
The doorbell rang. He made a grimace. She went off to answer it. It was some photographers and journalists. Here to photograph the famous writer.
He sat at his desk and struck a few poses. Solemn and aloof. He put his spectacles on.
"How do I look, boys?" The photographers nodded fervently and beamed mindless grins. He flexed his muscles. Opened his shirt a little, exposed his nipples. Tweaked 'em. He was having fun.
"Why don't you have my wife, boys?" he suggested amicably. The press exchanged cautious glances and then began hesitantly undressing.

This was good. He was enjoying this this. He was stirring it the hell up and it felt great. He had an insane monstrosity of a boner on. The journalists pawed at his timid wife.
This was great. He was so fucking humiliated. This was fucked up. It was what he wanted.
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