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So on we went.

The apartment I rented was really a little better than a cave. The paint was peeling off the walls, the furniture was more than halfway to oblivion and the neighbourhood reminded me of some real bad parts of London I used to visit as a nipper. Which made it cheap and almost perfect for the Plan.

It took me a couple of weeks to sort out the email I received after I posted the invitation on the website. Of course it came in spades, my inbox was snowed under hundreds of emails from guys eager to fuck that woman, that girl whose pictures were teasing them for weeks, whose intimacy and sluttiness were generously displayed for their wanking pleasure for over a month.

Of course, I could have made it harder by setting high standards for the guys and that would have made the sorting part a little easier. Or maybe not, God knows we like to lie when answering these ads... In any case, I left it open ended as possible, within certain boundaries I had in mind. I wanted every sleazeball with a hard on and enough fuel to get here to be a possible contestant. Just the best for my girl.

I didn't tell her anything before I made the choice.


Unlocking the door and leading them in, I meditated for myself about the fact that they don't know what they will see inside and that she doesn't know what she will see when we walk in.

Here's what they saw: Clarissa was on the bed, wearing her sluttiest stiletto high heels, black stockings, dark red see-through panties and a matching bra, her eyes under heavy make-up, her lips black, silver chains, dark red finger nails, a dog collar around her neck, a chain attached to it, long enough to let her move freely around the bed, yet not allowing her to stray away from it.

I allowed her to play with herself while she was waiting for us to arrive and the small room, all windows closed, was full of the rich aroma of her excitement. A selection of dildos and other toys on the table.

Here's what she saw: Come on, Clarissa, admit you didn't expect it. You knew there were to be two guys. But you never ever imagined they would be twins, did you?

Dressed in tight black shirts and black leather jackets, those two fuckers were bursting with strength. I have to admit I didn't really like them from the start. I guess they looked too healthy to really be dirty on one hand, and too simple to be refined perverts on the other.

But the fact they were near identical twins was appealing and meant they were not dismissed right away, and through those two weeks of sorting, they made it through all selections and finally were triumphant. Their nude pics, well, let's just say I was glad to see they had normal size cocks (meaning not significantly bigger than mine) and that I felt generous.

The fuckers were some kind of gym junkies if you ask me, 700 one-armed pushups sort of thing, as their bodies looked like some of those ancient-Roman statues: hairless, as if sculpted by a master of his craft. They had identical haircuts consisting of several molecules of hair, blue eyes, strong jaws, and fucking muscles all over.

The dog was a black, big demon of a Doberman, at first acting really nervously in a small room filled with people. But they managed to convince me Lupo was an experienced, healthy animal and that was what I was looking for. Why they decided to give that dog a name meaning "wolf" in Italian is anyone's guess, however.

It's weird.

No real introduction took place nor it was needed. After all, they have seen her body on so many pictures, they probably felt they knew every inch of it by heart. Besides, the lights in the room were dim, it was darkish and thus she looked more like a fantasy taking shape out of thin air than like a woman chained to the wall. She was an object to be used. It was clear to them. It was clear to her.

Yes, it was clear to me.

Normally, the pimp takes the money before the act commences. That way you ensure the customer understands that, if he isn't satisfied with the service, it's his fault. However, I didn't do it this way. For a reason.

The twins were horny and as I placed myself in the armchair and informed them in my business voice that they are free to fire at will, they began commenting on Clarissa in no uncertain terms. They were in no hurry as this session was not to be time-limited, so they started removing their clothes slowly, taking time to grab their crotches and feel the swollen members resting in their pants. They were going to take her, she was completely at their disposal. They were going to take everything she had.


I made her apologise. I didn't want to interfere too much as the lads were supposed to have all the freedom to improvise they needed, but a well placed intervention from her master could only do good to Clarissa. I made her apologise and beg forgiveness from Julian (at least I think it was Julian, him and Andrew switched positions so many times up to this point that I bet their mother couldn't keep track of who is who were she to accompany us) and she did, through tears. She explained everything about being a worthless cunt and how she will try harder.

The asshole was shoving his cock all the way down to his balls in her mouth, in her throat, fucking her face while using his fingers to hold her nostrils shut. She was fighting for air and she nearly threw up. He slapped her hard a couple of times and I made her apologise.

All the while, his brother was fucking her hard in the arse, not stopping for a moment, big, black dildo shoved into her cunt. Her hands were tied on her back and her breasts were hurt in more ways than one: they used their teeth and fingers on them, they used nipple clamps made of metal, with screws in them, they used a leather belt, they used candle wax.

She was to thank them for everything they did to her.

For every subsequent act of cruelty, for every fresh supply of pain and humiliation she received from the twins she was expressing her gratitude.

I have never put my fist into her pussy. They both shoved their hands into her, taking turns, spreading her sexy stockinged legs as wide as they would go, they fist-fucked her brutally, mercilessly.

"oh, please, oh, please, it hurts, oh, please I can't, oh..."

Julian (or Andrew) grabbed her collar and pulled her up cruelly: "What's that, cunt? Did I hear you resist? Do you know what you get when you resist?"

She knew.

"P-please. I can't... you're breaking me, you're breaking my little pussy..."

She knew. She fucking teased them. Oh fuck, I can't believe this.

And of course Julian (or Andrew) was infuriated and he knew she knew what she was to get so he grabbed her throat and squeezed as his brother kept pumping her cunt with his fist.

"You fucking cunt! You dare play games on us!! You want me to cut your fucking tits off?"

He was choking her. Right in front of my fucking eyes, with a fucking Doberman tied to the table walking in small circles like mad.

She managed to shake her head.

"Then tell me what you want us to do to you!! Tell me how we should punish you!!!"

His grip on her throat loosened but she was still struggling for air.

"Come on say it!! SAY IT!!!"

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this, I have to get up from the chair right now, fuck, now.

"please, punish me, I am a bad slut, please, whip my dirty cunt, please dear Sirs, make me learn to be obedient"

Hear screams made Lupo break into sharp barking. Julian (or Andrew) whipped her labia and her stretched pussy with his belt. One, two, three lashes, sixseveneight, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her lips, her thighs, swollen and red, Andrew (or Julian) pushing three and then four of his fingers into her ass, the other one moving to make her suck his cock again. And she was thanking them.

"Thank You, thank You Sirs, You made me a better slut, thank You for punishing me, please don't stop, this slut needs to be taught well"

And stop they didn't. Even after they both had come three times each. Her breasts were tied tighter than I think I ever did, the brothers made her eat their assholes, switching between sitting on her face and spreading her legs to stuff her cunt and arse with minced meat I have bought. She was a mess: her labia swollen and red, her ass stretched and smeared with cum and blood, her body covered with red, blue and purple marks of their belts, fingers and teeth, her breasts dark red, covered with wax, her face a mixture of guilt, sperm, sweat, ecstasy, horror, makeup. Finally, they pissed all over her as she was crying. Like true twins they pissed as one, pissed all over her hair, her face, her swollen breasts, her belly and her cunt.

And then it was Lupo's turn. And God knows he was more than eager to participate. A deep, guttural growl, his nostrils nervous, his canine penis ready and willing.

One of the brothers attached his belt to the ropes binding her breasts and detached a chain from her collar. She was lead, by her breasts, on all fours, off the bed, around it, across the floor, towards the Doberman.

"P-please, no, please, no, PLEASE, no I can't, please, have mercy!"

She was begging. Begging not to be forced to do it with a dog with three men watching. In the past three hours she was restrained, beaten, fucked, tortured and pissed upon, and yet she was still trying to preserve whatever she had left of her dignity.

But it was not to be.

"Shut up, slut, I know perfectly well how long you have been dreaming of fucking an animal while being watched. So quit pretending and get down to it!"

The brothers were busy with preparing the dog to have sex with a woman he never met before so it was my duty to get her into the groove.

So it was decided that she was to give him a quick blow job first. "To get them to know each other better" as I explained.

"please, don't make me do it, please, please, I'll do anything for You"

I knew that. But she already did.

"You already did, slut, you are so cheap and filthy right now, you deserve nothing better than to be fucked by a dog."

And as Julian (or Andrew) was talking to the animal, Andrew (or Julian) pulled her down and she took that thing into her mouth. And she sucked that dog's cock. She did. She sucked him in slow motion, with love and passion, with care and with excitement. She sucked him the way she'd sucked me a thousand times before.

Appetiser out of the way, she was made to take the position on the bed. She was on all fours, in piss, in heat. The brothers had convincingly enough experience in this and the animal was bursting with eagerness to fuck my girlfriend. They positioned him and before I was ready to even think about it, he was inside of her.

The big black dog was fucking Clarissa and she was moaning and she was rocking her hips. And he was thrusting his cock into her faster than I ever could, stuffing her, growling, fucking her the way she needed.

She needed it. Yes she did. She needed him to fuck her. She came once, completely losing control over herself and after Lupo came and stayed in her for a little while, she came once again, rocking her hips, letting his swollen knot lead her to another orgasm. She was a slut. A dog's slut. She was a slut for that dog and for the three of us watching. She was cumming from being fucked by an animal and from being watched. A slut.

They took the animal off the bed and he was surprisingly calm and uninterested after all that happened. Clarissa was left there, lying, motionless, broken, like a ragdoll discarded after play.

It took at least another forty five minutes until brothers left the apartment and we chitchatted through those like old friends, while they were washing up and dressing. We discussed Clarissa and her performance as if she was an actor on stage we'd watched. We cracked a few jokes. I even laughed a bit. They wanted to give me the money, but I told them to just throw it on the bed next to Clarissa and they did, two one-hundred dollar bills landed on piss and sweat-soaked sheets.

Then they were gone and I took the piece out of my pocket and returned it to my bag. Then I turned to Clarissa, still almost motionless on the bed. It was time to untie her breasts, they will hurt as hell. It's a good thing I remembered to turn the water-heater on in time.

Officially, she was a whore now. And I was a pimp.


As far as reunion shows go, this one was surprisingly good. Maybe I just missed it. Maybe I just missed standing up there, mashing buttons, mangling samples, making the floor shake with my bassbomb. Maybe I just missed a sea of faces bathed in smoke and random lights, a dark hive of bodies and limbs, smell of sweat and ganja.

I saw Kevin smile quite a few times during the gig, I swear I did. The man in black smiled. His hairy face actually allowed the grin to surface for a few seconds here and there. He missed it too.

We were good. We were anarchic and noisy and sloppy and charming and cheesy, but we were good. It felt really good to be there. Fuck, Jimmy, you could have been there with us.

But he wasn't, it was his decision, if you can call random madness a decision, he was unavailable, lost, fading fast, surfing on the wave of fear and guilt and panic and self pity month after month after month after month.

He was dead to the world, a zombie, he was falling apart in his head, long before his body started falling apart. He was beyond. The virus was eating him and his sanity. It would move on to his body if Gothboy leaves any body for it to devour. Some people cope with it, some people kill themselves.

Jimmy was not brave enough to kill himself and he couldn't cope with it. He was our friend but he was dead. We were dead for him and he was dead for us. Dead friend. Dead friends. You usually remember them with affection. Kevin and me tried not to remember Jimmy as much as we could help it.

"Man, we fucking rocked."

Kevin was sweaty and smiling through his beard, his earrings like beacons in changing darkness of the venue.

"I told you, man. I told you. We fucking rock, man, we rock hard. We own this place, man."

Yeah, it was good, it was better than I thought it would be. It was good, healthy fun. It was two men slapping each other's back and giggling and speaking like schoolboys. I felt so high. I felt so innocent. I felt so... right and purposeful. It was good.


"No, please, STOP IT!! PLEASE, STOP IT!! STOP IT NOW!! PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"

No. I am afraid I can't stop now. She used it. She used the word. But I can't stop now. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't stop this now, no. I am not in control any more. It's happening and I am spiraling down like a goose shot in mid-air.

The first time she used the word. She is screaming in such fear, in such panic, were I able to stop this, I would. I swear I would. I am sorry. I truly am sorry. I didn't mean this to happen.

But it is too late to be sorry now, the noise grows in volume, the confusion grows in complexity. I am almost blind, there's something red over my eyes and when hands grab me (dozens? hundreds?) and throw me to the ground, I lose sense of time and place. The sound that is repeating, I know it: it's fists colliding with my skull, blunt, loud noises of bone against bone. Then enter the kicks. Everywhere. Fucking hell, it hurts so much it hurts so fucking much. I assume Clarissa is still screaming but I can't see, I can't hear. Fuck. This is going to stop. I know that. It always does. If it just didn't hurt so much, I could cope with the humiliation...

The humiliation is what gets me. Despite all it's what gets me. I wish Clarissa didn't see this. Oh, OK, I agree, it would also help if the whole club was not there to witness me being thoroughly beaten and thrown out, but if I had only one wish to be granted by cosmic powers that be, it would be for Clarissa to have not been there. But she was. And she was begging me to stop, long after there was no way in hell for me to stop it. Even though I wished I could.

As it is often the case, it started with me trying to impress a woman. The extent of idiocy created by male attempts to impress females is scary.

So, we are in this club, OK, and this big, blonde guy starts talking to me about me pimping Clarissa to other men. Now, I admit it, I am not what you'd call a role model for young people to look up to, but I swear I wasn't going around bragging about me making Clarissa a whore and taking money for that. Among other things, I'd really feel insecure telling other men about these things. Fine, don't believe me if you don't want to, it is true. I only felt comfortable mentioning this in front of women. It makes me look cool. It makes me look strong and dominant. Damnit, it makes me look sexy and powerful doesn't it?

So this guy heard it from another guy who heard it from another girl who heard it from Sandra. Uh-oh. Yes, I did tell Sandra about it, it was a good evening if I recall well and I was feeling fine and drunk and when the subject came up, it felt only natural to talk about it. And I did. There's nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with that.

Now, this guy, I know him from here and there and around. We're not friends, not even acquaintances, I don't know his name. He knows mine, but many people do, OK? So he starts talking and I talk back. This is what going out in the evening is about isn't it? Just being there and swimming in the sea of noise and conversation and alcohol and bodies.

But the conversation soon takes a turn I don't like at all. This guy sounds to me as if he is out to prove something. And I don't feel comfortable around him. He tells me about his experience with "whores" and I leave a decent impression of listening to him with polite attention. All the while I am hoping to spot a crack in this dialogue and get the hell out of it. He makes me feel dirty and cheap and I don't want to feel this way, I have come to groove and have a few drinks and smoke a joint and grab some of Clarissa's arse in front of all those people, I haven't come to discuss women being raped and exploited.

Now, he says things I wouldn't even dare pronounce. He tells me what women really want and need and how he's come to know that. He tells me what he did to this and that woman. He's bragging and he's fucking annoying me and I wish I had told him I am not in the mood to talk when I could. He tells me about how he went to Kosovo as part of an expedition of journalists and he tells me about brothels down there and about what they did to slaves working in those brothels. Am I supposed to admire him?

He tells me he nearly bought one of the slaves from her owner and brought her back with him but decided that paperwork would be too much trouble which would effectively kill the advantage of her price being just 200 dollars. Before I comment, and I am not even sure what I'd say, he goes on to tell me that owning slaves is not new to him and then explains all about "this slut" he had met and then made his slave and what he did to her (and some of it makes me shiver, is he trying to impress me?) and how he sold her after growing bored of her.

"She used to be a school teacher!!", he exclaims, triumphant and self-important.

I hate this jerk by now. What I see as a secret, as something to share with selected persons only, in whispers and allusions, he laughs and brags aloud about. What I feel like a fistful of burning embers in my intestines and what I still do not dare name is just a pastime to him. Call it my insecurity, no problem. No problem at all. Just the thought of him laying one finger at Clarissa fills me with rage and fear. And raging fear. Because, she... She might... Oh, no, no, come on, come on, be serious, how could she, come on, be realistic, could she?

Couldn't she?

I try to control myself. I really do. I want out of this situation, I want out of this place and I want to go home and I want Clarissa to be near me. The simple things. The things I can control. I don't want this fucking redneck breathing his crap into my face.

I tell him that what he described sounds like fun but that it's not really my bag of beans.

He looks down at me as if I just told him I have a vagina in the place where my manly snake should be.

He tells me I haven't seen nothing until I have seen a "whore" raped and beaten up begging to be hit again because she is scared what you might do if she doesn't.

I tell him I'd rather skip that. I believe I even use the expression "pretty fucking disgusting".

He tells me that I am full of shit and that I should be the one to talk.

I tell him that he has no fucking idea whatsoever about me and that he shouldn't be making assumptions he might be sorry to discover are wrong.

He tells me that I should cut the crap. He tells me I should get off of my high horse, that we, the Brits have invented concentration camps. He tells me that we have done things in India that were worse than anything Nazis came up with. He tells me we are natural exploiters. He calls me a fucking bigot and a racist.

What the fuck?

What the FUCK??

What did he just call me?

My mother was Indian, my mother was from Bombay, you idiot. I received so much fucking racist insults from skinheads when I was a kid it's not fucking funny.

He tells me that I think I am better than him. I don't know. He calls me a faggot. He tells me I am dickless. He tells me I masturbate looking at other guys fuck Clarissa because I can't get it up when left alone with her. He is out to fight. I can see that clearly now. It is not too late. I see what he is about now. I can see his wish to prove his manhood and his dominance, I can see his stupid schoolboy act and his simple mindset. It's cool, I see what he is about now. It is not too late. I can get out of this unscarred. I understand it. I can walk away now.

And then I punch him in the face with all the helpless anger and frustration I can muster.

Seconds pass as I wait for the noise to subside. Seconds pass, hours pass, years race by, fucking lifetime spirals down the drain, making an obscene sound. They don't seem to get tired as they keep kicking and punching me.

Next time, I will use a bottle and I will be out before anyone understands. Next time I will be smarter. There will be no fistfights. I will not be the victim.

This time however, he is indeed better than me. By the time the security guys descend on us, he has already spilt enough of my blood to make the whole scene resemble something out of Halloween flicks. My fists leave no visible marks on his face or maybe it is just my vision betraying me. By contrast, my hearing is fantastic and, regardless of the fact that the music has not decreased in volume, I can hear his and mine breathing, I can hear Clarissa scream.

"No, please, STOP IT, PLEASE, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"

Too late, too fucking late, the word, the word, she used it, I can't, no, I am sorry, sweety, I am sorry I have betrayed you, I am sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

The security guys are big and look scary and I would never pick a fight with them. But they have seen who started this, everyone has seen me attack this asshole with my fists, everyone has seen my impotent rage at work. And they know I need to be taught a lesson.

They make so much noise, God, when will this stop?

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.