ShipwreckSF

Six Great Writers destroy one Great Book once a month at the Booksmith at San Francisco's premier literary fanfiction competition. This tumblr is where we post stories (NSFW), updates, photos from the shows, and more. You can also like us on Facebook to learn about upcoming events and buy tickets. Our first collection, Loose Lips, will be published by Grand Central in October 2016. We're throwing some big parties. Here's the San Francisco party. Here's the New York party. Listen to the podcast Allow us to explain ourselves

[shipwrecksf]

Hello, New York, we’re coming (back) for you!

Thursday, October 5th, at the Bell House, for @newyorkcomiccon, Shipwreck will bring you the finest in Jurassic Park fanfiction, presented for your pleasure by guest reader Dylan Marron. Featured writers: 2016 Champs Katie Heaney and Arianna Rebolini, plus Alana Massey, Anne Elizabeth Moore, Alisha Rai, Erin Gloria Ryan, and Rakesh Satyal.

Performance, as always, by Choirfly, and book sales by @wordbookstores.

Tickets are on sale now, and you can even snag a VIP ticket that gets you a meet and greet, a signed poster, and great seating at the show. 

HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTS, CITIZENS.

[shipwrecksf]

The Girl Who Gived

Harry, Hermione, and the other one were in a Gringotts cart, sexily plunging into the bank’s consenting caverns.

They were going to Bellatrix’s vault to steal shit.

Hermione used Polyjuice potion to look like Bellatrix. Harry was concealed under his nepotism cloak. And Ron came along even though they made it very clear he should just wait in the car.

Hermione never thought she’d be this deep in Gringotts. She was surprised she was still alive at all, considering you could open carry a wand in any European city. But here she was — an 18-year-old with a fully-formed frontal lobe, ready to make informed decisions about her body and emotional wellbeing. She undid her top button.

Suddenly, the cart stopped and launched them out. They’d been spotted. Hermione used a cushioning charm to slow their fall. But real Bellatrix would be on their trail soon.

They ran around the corner and straight into a dragon.

Hermione and Harry didn’t break their strides. Literally everyone knew there was going to be a dragon. But Ron, who grew up poor, fell down immediately.

When the dragon ate Ron, Hermione didn’t care. She felt different in this new body.

Sure, Ron was helpful when their mission involved accidently knocking things over, and the Weasleys would have one fewer tax write-off, but Ron hadn’t noticed Hermione until she discovered leave-in conditioner in year four.

If someone can’t handle you at your Hogwarts Express, they just don’t deserve you at your Yule Ball.

Harry ran back to play The Victim. But Hermione really didn’t have time for that, maybe his mother would protect him or something.

———

To get into the vault, all Hermione needed was a Pottermore login. She typed her password and stepped into the vault’s darkness.

“Crucio!” Bellatrix screamed. Red light shot toward Hermione. That bitch had been waiting for her. “Crucio!” “Crucio!” Hermione dove through the darkness, finding cover.

“Alexa, turn on the lights!” Hermione said. The spell shot around the room, illuminating golden torches and all Bellatrix’s fuck-you money.

In the new light, Bellatrix saw her twin for the first time. She froze. She hadn’t expected this.

They were wearing identical, extra-large Hot Topic hoodies. Their hair in frizzy piles, because no spell can protect a curly-haired lady from dungeon humidity. They looked like the coworker you’d get coke from.

“You’re. You’re beautiful.” Bellatrix said to the woman who looked exactly like her.

Hermione and Bellatrix circled each other with cautious understanding, like two goth babies learning object permanence.

“You loathsome, evil little cockroach!” Hermione muttered. Bellatrix curtsied. “You’re pathetic. You and Snape.” Bellatrix spit.

“You mean acoustic Marilyn Manson? HE’S pathetic.”

“Snape is horrible” Hermione said, because she hadn’t finished the 7th book. “and Voldemort!”

Bellatrix crossed the vault like a blacked out girl at Fiona Apple karaoke.

“YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME!” Bellatrix said, an inch from Hermione. “YOU FILTHY—” But staring into her own eyes quelled Bellatrix’s anger immediately. They both trembled. Hermione felt another surge of power.

“Do I scare you?” Hermione whispered. Bellatrix looked away. “Everyone’s intimidated by a passionate woman.” Hermione said, touching Bellatrix’s face. “Surely you understand?”

The shower in Bellatrix’s vagina turned on. Bellatrix was very attracted to her reflection. With the Mudblood inside, it would be like clam clapping with the most shameful part of herself.

Being  modern girl, she wouldn’t pass that up.

“I came for Helga Hufflepuff’s Plot Device.” Hermione said. “I’m not leaving until I get it.”

Bellatrix motioned to a wall covered with treasure stolen from Hufflepuff. Helga’s rings, her wand, her medical marijuana card, and in the center — a golden dildo shaped like Brienne of Tarth.

Hufflepuffs were known for being sturdy, low to the ground, and having the dankest Burmese Kush. But the portrait of Helga Hufflepuff hanging above, had the clear eyes of a woman who put her masturbation first. The dildo had to be what Hermione wanted.

Bellatrix laid down on a unicorn rug.

“Well, I don’t usually do this...” Bellatrix said with a wink. She usually did this. “But if you want it. Earn it.” Bellatrix spread her legs.

Hermione smirked. This would be easy. Female friendships aren’t all gel manicures and re-making 1980’s cult comedies.

Last year, the Gryffindor girls learned a spell that made wands vibrate. The dormitory sounded like a bee hive for three weeks. It was the first time Hermione missed class. And Bellatrix wasn’t so powerful — there’s only so much being born with the perfect drag queen name could giver her.

Hermione grabbed Brienne of Tarth. To her shock, it doubled and the two dildos crashed to the floor. The treasure had a doubling charm against intruders. Bellatrix cackled.

“Not too good on Mudblood hands!” Hermione clenched her jaw.

“Oh, honestly—” Before Hermione could finish, she felt one of the Briennes climbing her leg. As soon as it touched her it doubled and the new copy ran to Bellatrix’s waiting wand pocket.

Another copy sprang out, then another.

Brienne the 1st reached Hermione's Forbidden Section and quickly indexed her footnotes. Hermione shrank to the floor with pleasure. The women panted as Briennes multiplied and massaged them with small, strong hands.

They locked eyes and started kissing. Fifty Briennes lifted them in a vibrating wave — like a waterbed, if a waterbed could fuck you.

They tore off each others’ hoodies to reveal bare, feminist chest-quaffles. Then tumbled around — mouths to nipples, to throats, to thick, Eastern-european pubic pastures — all under the pulsating of legendary vibrators.

Bellatrix pinned Hermione down and oral-ed her Bertie–Botts–Muggle-Flavor-Bean.

Hermione flipped the submission to swish-and-flick Bellatrix’s racist-cunt cunt.

Then Bellatrix moved her arm under Hermoine.

Hermione sat right on the Dark Mark with a suction cup seal—

They both felt the jolt. Terrfiying, sexy energy waved through them. Bellatrix pumped her arm back and forth, rubbing the Dark Mark against Hermione's devil’s snare. There were now 1,000 massaging Briennes, miraculously on-beat with the gliding.

Hermione’s vision blurred from the powerful pleasure. She was literally scissoring a curse and Bellatrix was ecstatic watching a copy of herself scissor a curse. She rubbed Hermione faster and faster. They were massaged, vibrated, and hexed from every angle. They lost their fucking minds.

Hermione started muttering facts from Hogwarts, A History.

Bellatrix wondered aloud about Voldemort.

“The ceiling of the Great Hall is bewitched to mimic the sky!”

“I love that he’s passionate about his work but it distracts from us. We never get loaded off butterbeer and do hate crimes anymore.”

“If boys try to enter the girl’s dormitory, the stairs turn into a slide”

“If I’m honest, I want to have kids with him. Like six flat-nosed, Wednesday Addams fuckers.”

“In 1792, a Cockatrice went loose during the Triwizard Tournament. Three school masters were injured.”

“Nagina died two years ago, but we were too afraid to tell him so we just rolled Wormtail up in a rug and made him hiss.”

“BOOKS AND CLEVERNESS!!”

Their twin yells, turned into climactic curses as they spewed Dark Marks into the air.

Miles away, Lord Voldemort had cum all over his Elder Wand. Bellatrix really was his most loyal servant.

This story was written by Oscar Mild, whose work you can find in Loose Lips, a Shipwreck anothology.

Tickets to upcoming shows at this link

Listen to the podcast here

[shipwrecksf]

Witch, Please!

The Cauldron Room at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is empty again. Well, except for the green slime, and the cauldrons. Without which, it would simply be called The Room.

Professor Minerva McGonagall crawls out of a cauldron, as gracefully as a tall, septuagenarian witch crawling out of a cauldron can. She wears a tartan-patterned emerald robe and the look of smug satisfaction that can only come from being a self-proclaimed “cat person.”

“This place is a mess,” she says to no one, shaking her head disapprovingly. She continues to stare icily into the bubbling slime for some time (could be 30 seconds, could be 30 years. Time really flies when you’re a disapproving witch.)

As she stares, another witch crawls out of a nearby cauldron. It’s Elphaba, or if you’re not a big fan of musicals, the Wicked Witch of the West. She wears a ripped black bodice and an ironic candy-corn necklace, which should really clash with her green skin, but somehow doesn’t.

Minerva licks her lips in approval, and also because she really likes candy corn. She knows it’s cliche, but there’s something about those sugary traffic cones that really gets her motor running. She makes a mental note to bring this up in therapy next week.

“Really, Minerva,” Elphaba grunts. “Of all the places to have a witch orgy, this is what you pick?”

Minerva transfigures herself into a silver-haired tabby, scratches Elphaba once across the cheek, licks her own anus, and then turns herself back into human form.

“I thought it classic,” she says dismissively. “Besides, Dumbledore’s sex island is booked through the fall.” She pinches Elphaba’s shapely derriere as she passes by on her way to set up the organic cheese table, and moans into her ear: “I like my women like I like my hair—tight buns.”

At this, Elphaba’s nipples harden, as if Minerva herself had conjured the response with a Nipple Hardening spell. She leans forward to try to kiss her but how could you with those wide-brim witch hats? You could not.

“Who else is coming?” Elphaba asks.

“You are,” Minerva winks.

Elphaba trembles, trying to stem the tide of warmth rushing to her lady matrix before continuing her train of thought. “What about Sabrina the Teenage Witch? Joan of Arc?”

“Joan? Ha! Like she’d ever come out of the broom closet.”

“What about that gal from Narnia who was crushed by a lion? The Green Witch.”

“Mm, you would like her, wouldn’t you, darling? Your own dopplebanger.” Minerva drops her voice and tosses her witch hat into the sky, where it hovers mid-air, because, magic. Distracted by Minerva’s floating-hat move, Elphaba barely notices that a pair of small, perky breasts are now pressed into her back, and a deft hand is snaking its way into her Playtex 18 Hour bra. She does notice, however, the moistness that has begun to spread throughout her grandest canyon.

Elphaba turns to find Shannon Doherty giving her the reach-around.

“I’m here for the bitch orgy!” she exclaims and air-kisses Minerva’s floating hat.

Minerva rolls her eyes. “It’s witch. A witch orgy. If you’re looking for bitches try the Gossip Girl dungeon next door.”

Startled, Doherty lets go of Elphaba’s heavy breast, and the nipple she was casually rolling between her thumb and forefinger.

Minerva ceases to pay her any mind, instead going about her preparation, laying out sex toys, Nimbus 2000s, gloves, and a dusty box of dental dams no one ever touches.

As the night gets nighter, witches begin making their way out of cauldrons and into the fray. Minerva smiles fiendishly at the parade of flesh now before her. To the left, she sees Luna Lovegood, who has conjured an extra hand so she can fist the three witches from Macbeth at the same time. Near the back wall, she sees Glenda the Good giving Glenda-the-Good-Head to Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, as Tara’s ghost hovers nearby, haunting them while singing a ballad. She also notices, and can never unsee, Melisandre from Game of Thrones auto-erotically asphyxiating herself in a corner. To the right, Minerva nods approvingly at the welcoming committee, which is at that moment handing out gluten-free, cruelty-free, vegan macaroons.  

Out of the tumult, two cauldrons shoot a double rainbow between them and Hermione Granger appears. “Sorry I’m late, guys. Ron needed help with his homework,” she winks. “And by homework, I mean I was pegging him.” She casts a sly smile at Minerva, whose lady flower swells like it had been hit with a Stinging Jinx.

“Hermione,” she says, trying to remain composed. “Are you even 18?”

“I may look like a woodland sprite mixed with a baby gazelle, but I've been 18 for 40 years.... Time's not the only thing I can turn."  She throws her head back and laughs. Without waiting for Minerva’s response, she grabs two macaroons wedged betwixt one witch’s bountiful cleavage, takes another girl by her hair, kisses her deeply, then swan dives headfirst into a pile of writhing girls, where Minerva loses sight of her.

She shrugs and makes her way past the processing pit, where a group of naked witches are massaging each other with fire while discussing the minor works of Stevie Nicks.

When Minerva notices Dolores Umbridge, however, she stops dead in her tracks. “Who invited that prissy conservative rumpface?” She wonders silently, and then aloud. Dolores, Minerva’s arch nemesis, whom she had hate-masturbated to earlier that morning, seems to sense Minerva’s shame-lust, and shimmies toward her perkily, with the confidence of an overflowing toilet and the grace of a constipated muppet.

“You,” she spits.

“You,” Minerva spits back, a fleck of her saliva landing squarely on Dolores’s mustache, which she does not wipe away, but licks off with her tongue, savoring it.

Their faces are a millimeter away from each other now, the barely simmering rage turning slowly, agonizingly into a savage passion that cannot be contained by anything sold at the Container Store. Then, as if compelled by netherworldly forces, Minerva unleashes a Bedazzling Hex and watches as Dolores’s fluffy pink cardigan falls from her body like a sack of potatoes, which would have been weird, except that Dolores had stitched potatoes into the lining, for sex purposes.

Minerva grabs a hold of Dolores’s pearl necklace, tightening the string at her throat, and pulls her close. Expecting a kiss, Dolores opens her mouth softly in anticipation, only to be startled as Minerva flips her around expertly, like a professional quesadilla maker, and bends her over a cauldron.

With a snap of her fingers, Minerva’s wand materializes, a fir and dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches, stiff. Protruding from its handle is a short, hooked nose, vibrating clit-windmill, and double-piston lube shooter. It’s like a one-man band, or a really thoughtful rhinoceros. At the sight of Minerva’s omnipotent sex wand, Dolores gasps, a mix of fear, surprise, and utter respect mingling on her priggish face.

Seeing the fear in Dolores’s eyes, Minerva whisper-moans: “How do you think Neville Longbottom and Cornelius Fudge got their names, darling?” She lifts Dolores’s stiff pleated skirt and traces the wand delicately across her pink behind. Her skin ripples and springs to attention like a Pokémon Go player who has found her first PokéStop.

Elsewhere, and although there are no doors, a doorbell rings. The girls from The Craft look up from their gangbang as Neve Campbell shouts excitedly, “Praise Manon, pizza’s here!” and runs sloppily toward the delivery boy.

To her surprise, she finds Harry Potter standing there, holding several pizzas, enough to accommodate all the womyn-loving wo’moons’ dietary restrictions and allergies, and sweating furiously under his orange smock. With a shy glance at the bountiful sea of girl flesh before him, he moves the pizzas southward in order to hide his average-sized boner.

“Well look who’s here,” coos Neve, tracing a finger down his pale, hairless chest. She leans forward, breathes huskily into Harry’s ear, causing the hairs on his neck to prickle, and says, “You know, Harry, I’ve been thinking…”

“Yes?” he says, remembering all the nights he has prepared for this moment, alone with only his fantasies and a vibrating Nimbus to keep him company.”

“You should really tell your boss to compost all these used pizza boxes. It’s bad for the earth’s carbon footprint,” she says earnestly, then slams the door in his face, so that she may return to the sex game she was playing—light as a feather, stiff as a hairy gourd.

As pizza is dispersed in a calm and egalitarian manner, all eyes return to Minerva and Dolores, who is still bent over, her skirt now up over her head to muffle the sound of her shrill chihuahua-esque cries. Minerva’s grabs her by her hair, her deft wand plunging in and out of Dolores’s clam cave as if her name were not Minerva McGonagall, but Throbin Hood, Prince of Beaves. The flower of her secret opens to Minerva as she gasps and writhes, and Minerva’s wand is swallowed completely inside Dolores’s steamy lobster pot.

Minerva smiles softly as she pounds Dolores’s rear into a lusty pulp, making her stout frame shake as she brings her to the verge of the little death.

“Merlin’s beard! I’m close!” Dolores cries, knuckles white as she grips the edge of the cauldron. Just as she is on the brink of climax, Minerva ceases all movement completely.

“Oh, please, don’t stop,” Dolores begs, arching her rear higher in the air.

But Minerva doesn’t falter. She takes a step back even, delighted in this sweet revenge. She has dreamed of this moment ever since that sociopathic flesh pancake took her position as headmistress of Hogwarts. Minerva surveys the scene before her slowly, the pinkened flesh and pitiful moans escaping Dolores’s facehole, and says:

“Remember darling, if you should find yourself in need of a helping hand, you can conjure one yourself.” She laughs haughtily and cannonballs into a pile of naked, eager witches nearby, who embrace her as the goddess that she is.

Anna Pulley is a former Shipwreck EROTIC FANFIC CHAMPION. She's done some other things too, like write The Lesbian Sex Haiku Book (with Cats!), but it all feels somehow irrelevant now. Let her send you overly personal emails at tinyletter.com/annapulley

Listen to the Shipwreck podcast here

Tickets to upcoming shows at this link

Here’s where you can buy our book, Loose Lips

[shipwrecksf]

The Squirting Hat

In a darkened corner of Headmistress McGonagall’s office, on a podium carved from a griffon’s testicle, slumped an ugly old hat with a face made of slashes. It was an unfortunate piece of headgear that had been cursed with sentience and denied the ability to die, forced to endure a thousand years on a shelf with only a single day of relief from its maddening solitude each year. Even Sisyphus got a rock to play with.

The Sorting Hat sat, as it did every night and every day, silently contemplating the horror of its own existence, when the door creaked open and a large man shuffled furtively into the office. It was Hagrid, groundskeeper slash adjunct instructor and human-giant hybrid. Hagrid had once been a student at Hogwarts, until he was wrongfully expelled, and every night since then he’d been sneaking into the Headmaster’s office to jerk off in the Pensieve. Only the Sorting Hat knew how futile this attempt at revenge had been, how Dumbledore had relished submerging his face in a basin of giant semen.

Hagrid spread his robes to free his impressive meat. He may have been half human, but his cock was all giant. Like a veiny fire hydrant, Hagrid’s fuck hammer was equal to his thighs in girth and as long as his forearm. Whatever you’re picturing, it was bigger than that. He began to stroke.

Once, the Sorting Hat had thrilled at the sight of Hagrid’s nightly debauchery, but like everything else, time had hollowed it out to a lifeless routine.

Here comes the umbrella, the Hat thought.

On cue, Hagrid produced the crooked, pink umbrella he used as a wand. He spat a wad of phlegm into his palm and smeared it across the umbrella’s ferrule. Taking his cock in hand, he slid the umbrella, tip-first, into his piss slit. He pushed it deep, until only the hook-shaped handle was visible. Moaning, he pressed the release and inched the slider up, opening the umbrella. He toyed with the slider, opening it as much as he could before letting it fall closed, again and again, the head of his cock expanding and contracting like a beating heart.

Suddenly, the office door burst open. Hagrid pulled the umbrella from his urethra. In walked a 5’9 slab of dark haired, honey-skinned Guatemalan perfection. It was Hagrid’s new graduate student, Oscar Isaac.  

“Hagrid!” Oscar Isaac smoldered. “You’re just the man I was looking for. I’m having trouble with my term paper…”

“I can help you with your term paper, Oscar Isaac,” said Hagrid. “But first you must help me with this.” He gestured instructively toward his cock.

Oscar Isaac’s eyes widened. He pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robe. “Susudio!” he said. In a puff of smoke, his clothes disappeared. The Sorting Hat was fully erect.

“You’re a hairy wizard!” Hagrid said, delightedly taking in the immaculate specimen of man before him. Oscar Isaac turned around and bent over

For the first time in centuries, the Sorting Hat felt the stirrings of actual feelings as he watched Oscar Isaac present his ass like a gibbon in heat. It was a beautiful ass, wondrous and bewildering, two perfectly ripe honeydew melons kissing a hairy anus.  

“Havada ka-dunka-dunk!” Hagrid exclaimed.

Oscar Isaac flashed a coy smile over his shoulder. “My Patronus is a gerbil,” he purred.

Hagrid grabbed Oscar Isaac by the hips. He squeezed a dollop of precum from his dick and slathered it against the young man’s hungry love hole. With a grunt, he shoved his hefty shaft forward.

But it wouldn’t go in.

“It’s too big,” Oscar Isaac said, sounding both delighted and disappointed at once.

“I have an idea,” Hagrid said. He grabbed the umbrella, pointed it at Oscar Isaac’s ass, and shouted, “Capacious Etremis!” A shower of blue sparks flew from the tip, like a storm cloud cumming on someone’s face.

“What was that?” Oscar Isaac asked.

“Undetectable extension charm. I saw Hermione do it to a handbag once.”

“Did it work?”

To test the spell, Hagrid grabbed the closest thing he could find, a leatherbound copy of Infinite Jest, and pushed it into Oscar Isaac’s butthole. The butthole took it obligingly.

“Oooh, that’s tingly,” Oscar Isaac said.

“Are you ready for the main course?” Hagrid asked.

“What about protection?”

“Don’t you trust me?” asked Hagrid.

Oscar Isaac gave him a knowing look. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never fucked a hippogriff or a giant, three-headed dog?”

“Fair point,” said Hagrid. “It’s just… they don’t exactly make condoms for giants.”

“Don’t worry,” said Oscar Isaac. “No one at Hogwarts has ever had a problem that couldn’t be solved with an inexplicably convenient magical artifact.“

The Sorting Hat was rapidly losing interest in this bullshit. It slumped back into itself and turned its attention to composing psychotic limericks to shout at the children on sorting day. It didn’t see Oscar Isaac searching the shelves for something to put over Hagrid’s enormous dick. It only realized what was happening when it felt its brim stretching to accommodate the head of the giant’s cock.

“Hmmm…” said the Sorting Hat. “Bravery… loyalty… THIS COCK BELONGS IN HOUSE GRYFFINDOR!”

“This cock belongs in my furry little man gash,” Oscar Isaac corrected as he pushed the Sorting Hat fully onto Hagrid’s meat. The pull of the seams was exquisite. It had been so long since the Hat had felt anything at all…

And then came the warm envelopment of Oscar Isaac’s asshole, dark and endless like death, but sweeter. In a thousand years of existence, nothing had come close to such ecstatic sensation. Somewhere, light years away, the Hat could hear the moaning and grunting and biting and swearing of a half-giant fucking an up-and-coming Guatamalan-American actor.

“I’m literally inside Llewyn Davis!” Hagrid exclaimed.

The heat and friction tore at the Hat’s fabric. It felt the weave of its being fray under the force of all that fucking. Let this be it, the Sorting Hat thought. Let me dissolve into a million threads, right here in this moment of bliss…

But somehow, sandwiched between a giant’s dick and Oscar Isaac’s man crevasse, the Sorting Hat remembered what it was to be alive. It felt the pounding of Hagrid’s cock, the divinity of Oscar Isaac’s plunder tunnel, and it understood that a moment of joy could pay for all the years of silence and solitude. The Hat wanted to live again, if only in the hope that one day, millennia from then, it might once more feel what it felt in that moment, in Oscar Isaac’s asshole. There was a surge of heat and wetness as the half-giant shot his load, thick and tangy like Greek yogurt.

Then, light.

The Sorting Hat was back in the Headmistress’s office, where Hagrid and Oscar Isaac lay in a sweaty heap on the stone floor. The air smelled of sex and magic and punctured ass.  Hagrid peeled the sopping hat from his cock and tossed it lazily away. It landed somewhere between the desk and a collection of mysterious glowing orbs, its slash of a mouth curving, for the first time in centuries, up into a smile.

This story was written by John William, whose work can be found in Loose Lips, an anthology of Shipwreck stories

Listen to the Shipwreck podcast here

Tickets to upcoming shows at this link

[shipwrecksf]

POUNDED IN THE BUTT BY FRIVOLOUS COPYRIGHT LITIGATION:

an extremely transformative erotic fanfiction that parodies and comments upon the copyrighted work, of which only small portions have been used without negatively affecting its market value

A storm was raging outside, beating against the walls of his bedroom and rattling the windows. Harry Potter cowered in bed, wrapped in a thin blanket.

BOOM. The door swung open. A giant figure with a wild tangle of hair and a bushy beard loomed in the doorway.  

“YER A JIZZER, HARRY!”

Abruptly, the lights switched on.

“This does nothing for me, Harry. NOTHING!” Ginny Weasley wobbled on her stilts as she tore the false beard from her face and hurled it onto the bedroom floor. “Honestly, I’m beginning to think you have some childhood issues you need to work through!”

Harry glared at her. “This is extremely sex-negative of you,” he said reproachfully. “I indulge your kinks, you indulge mine. That’s the key to a happy marriage.”

“Harry, my kink is having my hair brushed while you pretend to be Liam from One Direction. Your kink is getting pegged with the handle of a broomstick as I deduct points from Gryffindor. While wearing a false beard. Always with the false beards!”

“Why are you so against body hair, hmmmm?” he countered. “That’s the patriarchy talking.”

Suddenly, there was a series of popping sounds. Ginny screamed and toppled from her stilts with a loud thud.

Harry’s confused senses took in a mass of pinstripes and slicked-back hair. “Malfoy?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

His old nemesis smirked, straightening a green and and silver tie with one hand. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle tottered under armfuls of parchment scrolls.

“And how do you do, Potter? I haven’t seen you since—God, I can’t remember. In any case, it was long before I joined the very prestigious law firm of Dewey Cheatem & Howe.

“But no time for chit-chat,” Draco continued. “We’re here on behalf of our client, Joanne Kathleen Rowling, to serve you with a complaint for 9 BILLION dollars in statutory damages for the willful copyright infringement of her seven books.”

“W-what?” stammered Harry Potter, completely aghast.

“My client is adamantly opposed to the numerous instances of erotic fanfiction you have participated in for the last nineteen years,” said Malfoy. “She would like you to cease at once. No more dry humping on the Quidditch field. No more ghost blowjobs from Moaning Myrtle. No more BDSM whompings from the Whomping Willow, with or without safewords. No more centaur gangbangs in the Forbidden Forest. And no more of that thing where one Animagus is banging another Animagus and then they turn into different animals but then they’re still banging. Please, definitely no more of that.”

Harry tried to take this all in, his mind racing. “This,” he said, “is extremely sex-negative of you.”

There were two more faint pops as Hermione and Ron also Apparated into their friend’s bedroom. “Don’t worry, Harry,” said Hermione, resplendent in a charcoal suit and towering black heels. “We’ve got this.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” said Ron from behind her. He was somewhat less resplendent in a suit that, upon closer inspection, appeared to have a gravy stain on it.  

“Hermione Granger, esquire, and my colleague, Ronald Weasley, esquire,” said Hermione, coolly extending a hand to Draco. “We’re from the Ministry of Magic’s Office of the General Counsel, and we will be defending Mr. Potter in this matter.”

“When did you even go to law school?” asked Harry, bewildered.

“Law schools will admit just anyone, these days,” Draco sneered, looking straight at Ron.

Ron turned bright red, but before he could fire back with what was guaranteed to be a super-lame and ineffectual retort, there was a clap of thunder. The lights in the bedroom dimmed, and the walls seemed to fade away. A giant, wood-paneled platform sprang up before them and the sound of a gavel echoed through the room.

“The court is now in session,” said a familiar, hissing voice.

Harry’s brow was furrowed. He knew that voice. It was—

“The honorable Judge Voldemort, presiding.”

Harry was speechless.

“The Wizarding Constitution is not big on due process or human rights, I’m afraid,” said Hermione apologetically. “But I think we kind of knew that, given that we punish felonies with supernatural mind control torture techniques, and we also regularly attempt to strip citizenship from minors for small misuses of magic.”

Harry sputtered and gestured to the judge that towered over them. “But—but it still doesn’t explain—”

“After you defeated me,” intoned Voldemort, “I appealed my death to the Federal Circuit. They reversed the entirety of the seventh book en banc, and the question of whether or not I’m actually defeated is currently pending before the Supreme Court.”

“But—you can’t—that’s not—”

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione hurried. “It’s not all bad. If Book 7 is struck down by the courts, that Epilogue never happened and isn’t canon.”

“In any case, your Honor,” said Draco smoothly. “The issue at hand is the rampant infringement of the works of J.K. Rowling via unauthorized fanfiction.”

“Your Honor,” interjected Hermione. “Section 107 of title 17 says, explicitly, that fair use is not an infringement of copyright. And erotic fanfiction is absolutely a fair use. Even the kind where an Animagus is having sex with another Animagus and then they—”

“Fair use has been described as the most troublesome doctrine in all of copyright law,” said Draco. “How can you possibly make such sweeping claims about a large and girthy corpus of unauthorized works?”

Hermione sniffed. “The Supreme Court’s decision in Campbell v. Acuff-Rose is clearly the controlling precedent in this case.”

“Is it just me,” asked Harry aloud, “or does it make absolutely zero sense that we’re applying American Muggle copyright law to the British wizarding world?”

Everyone ignored him.

“Your Honor,” Hermione continued, while undoing the top button of her blouse, “any and all erotica featuring the characters from the Harry Potter universe is but a critique of the phallic subtext in what is purportedly a children’s series.”

“This is a reckless smear on my client’s dignity!” Draco expostulated.

“I want to see where this is going,” said Judge Voldemort.

“Boys flying around with broomsticks between their legs,” said Hermione. “Long wands that get waved around until something spurts out of the tip. And why, just why, is the entire house of Slytherin living in a BDSM dungeon?”

“That,” said Draco coldly, “is extremely sex-negative of you.”

“I’m just saying. The absence of explicit sex in the series combined with the abundance of penile connotation opens up a hole that only parodies can fill. Erotic fanfiction is a fair use protected under the Copyright Act, which acts as a thin, but effective rubber sheath to—”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Judge Voldemort, silencing her. “Let’s proceed to oral arguments. …The other oral arguments.”

Draco and Hermione looked at each other. They shrugged and began to take off their suit jackets.

“Litigation these days, Harry,” said Ron gloomily as he unzipped his pants. “It’s basically just fucking each other in the ass all day in front of a judge.”

It wasn’t all just fucking each other in the ass, it looked like. Hermione was now riding Draco’s face as he lay on his back on a table strewn with legal documents. “Oh, god, yes,” she was screaming. “I’m so close to summary judgment!”

Sheaves of paper fell on the ground as the other attorneys piled onto the table, quickly forming a rat-king-nest of sweaty limbs.

Harry gradually became aware that Judge Voldemort was giving him a pointed look.

“Do I have to?” asked Harry.

Voldemort shrugged. “Look, bud. I’m the only guy between you and a nine billion dollar judgment. I think I’m being extremely reasonable here by not even making you look at my extremely gross and scaly penis, which I am furiously beating under my robe right now.”

Ginny appeared at Harry’s elbow. She looked resigned—or at least, he thought she did, beneath the wig and fake beard. “Do you want me to get on the stilts again?” she asked.

“Oh, Ginny.” He was touched. “You didn’t have to put those back on for me.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Anything to get a verdict in our favor.” She took a deep breath and bellowed,

“YER A JIZZER, HARRY!”

And oh, dear reader, he most certainly was.

Sarah Jeong is a journalist who was trained as a lawyer. She is a contributing editor at Vice Motherboard where she writes about technology, policy, and law. (Like, for example, copyright law). Occasionally she is called upon to write things that actually entertain people.

Listen to the Shipwreck podcast here

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And oh yeah we have a book now

[shipwrecksf]

Dementors

Having just finished a 72-hour shift as a phantom-guard in an isolated prison full of insane magical inmates, Dan the dementor and his best mate were out on the town with only one thing on their minds: they were looking to get laiiiiiidddd.

“Man, thirteen souls eaten this week--a new record! I say we celebrate by getting some action!” exclaimed Dan.

Marc, his wingman and fellow dementor, gulped firewhiskey while scoping out the evening crowd in Hogsmeade’s seediest drinking establishment, the Hog’s Head.

“There is some quality tail here tonight,” said Marc, assessing the shifty-eyed, unsavory magicians for a potential partner. As a young girl in green robes walked by, Marc called out.

“Hey girl, wanna take a ride on my broomstick?”

“Get splinched, creep.” She made a rude gesture with her hands and walked off.

“Witches, amirite?” Marc scowled. “How do I look? Is my hood crooked?” Marc looked exactly like Dan: A floating, scab-covered monstrosity in tattered reaper robes, glistening with slime.

“Very handsome. Actually, hold a sec, what do you mean, *look?* We’re supposed to be blind. Also, since when do we speak? I thought we made rattling gasps accompanied by screeching violins.”

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it. This is Fanfiction 101. Anything that prevents two or more characters from fucking is changed in order to serve the narrative. Like how sometimes Batman and Superman share a condo, or Uhura grows a huge cock to fulfill Spock’s pegging fantasy, or how those sparkly vampires stop whining long enough to have sex. They connect, then out of nowhere, kazaam! Sexy times. This is a good sign, dude. It means we’re gonna get some tonight!”

“Wait, are we going to have sex?”

“Bro, I know I’m hot, but I’m not into wands, know what I mean? Nah, I think the lucky enchantress is in this very bar.”

Dan looked at the prospects: Two ancient vampires, old wizards grumbling into cups, a group of plucky students too young for a bar--wait. There was an older woman sitting alone. She had a beautiful face with high cheekbones, and was draped in expensive robes. Her icy blue eyes connected with his across the room.

“Her.”

"Holy shit, is she a WILF,” Marc whispered to him. “Go hit on her!”

Dan floated up to her grinning, and casually dropped his big line:

“Hey Honeydukes, want to make some magic together?”

She winced. “Dating in Azkaban must be rough, huh? Maybe lose the pickup lines.”

“And fall back on my looks instead?”

She shrugged. “You’re not the ugliest Dementor I’ve ever met.”

“Have you met many?”

“I’m close to the Dark Lord, so more than a few.”

“Ah, that explains it. Most people get nervous talking to us.”

“Hardly. I’m extremely overbearing. I mean, my husband is a Death Eater, and I have him totally underfoot.”

“You’re married? Look, I’m not looking to wreck any homes.” he demurred.

“Oh hush. I have a redemption arc later, so all’s fair.” She paused. “I’m Narcissa. My friends call me Cissy.”

“Dan.”

“So Dan, is what they say about men with long robes true?” she purred. And with that she slid off her stool and sashayed to the restroom, crooking a finger behind her as she went.

Dan glanced uncertainly at Marc, who was giving him two encouraging thumbs up. Dumbfounded, Dan followed her into the restroom.

Alone, Narcissa tore away her cloak without preamble, her nipples hardening instantly in his chilling presence, her golden pubes glistening. This is so unlikely, he thought. She’s so attractive and domineering, and I’m basically the physical manifestation of clinical depression. This must be one of those opposites-attract stories!

Dan glided towards her, looming. “What do you want?”

“What do you do?” she asked,

“Everything, but I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

“Then take me, you sad Nazgul!” Narcissa tore open his rotting robes to reveal his dementor-dick, which was as long, skinny, and grey as the rest of him. She hoisted herself backwards onto the sink, and pulled him in, his slimy skin acted as a natural lubricant.

Dan barely had time to stir her cauldron when - BANG! -  The bathroom door crashed open, and a poncy, dramatic figure stormed in, shaking in apparent fury.

“Narcissa, where have you been, I’ve been looking everywh... What are you... is that a Dementor!?”

Narcissa yelped “It’s not what it looks like!” She queefed delicately. “...not entirely what it looks like.”

Lucius’ nostrils flared, his face resembling a desperately constipated Aryan Elrond. “Narcissa.” he barked, “This is vile! He’s not pure-blooded! He’s not even human! I cannot believe you would do this to me! I cannot believe you would do this…” His lower lip trembled. “...without me.” Lucius dropped to his knees, his eyes shining.

“Whatttttt.” said Dan, disbelieving.

Lucius crawled across the floor towards them. “How did you know? I’ve always wanted this. I feel so entitled and influential all the time, but in my heart, I want people to take things from me. I feel so empty... it’s why I’m such an insufferable prick all the time! Please, Cissy, let me stay,” he whimpered.

“Fine, you can watch.” She had a wicked glimmer in her eye, and she leaned back for more. ”Dan, carry on. Lucius, watch closely.”

Tears beaded in the corners of Lucius’s eyes. “May I clean up the mess, madam?” Lucius sprung up on his knees, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a puppy’s.

And so the evening went on, Dan womping away at Narcissa’s golden snitch while Lucius lay underneath, mouth agape, lapping at sex juice and dementor slime with glee. “Eat her pussy, daddy!” Lucius pleaded.

Dan, lacking a tongue, started hoovering her labia, then her clit, then stuck his long fingers in her while Lucius ate her ass. Once her potion was about to overboil, he withdraw his fingers as she clenched.

“Oh, hold on, I left a fingernail in you. And some scabs. And pus.”

He cleared the way and then stuck his sex-wand back in and started bludging again. He could sense Narcissa’s sadistic pleasure in cheating, and the exquisite misery of Lucius’ humiliation: he had to admit it was suuuuuper hot.

Lucius was gibbering: “I can’t please Cissy like this. She shouldn’t even be called Cissy. I should be called sissy, I’m the sissy! Fuck her like a cavetroll! Show me how to please her like I can’t,” he mewled.

“No, you really caaaAAAaaAAAaaaan’tttttt-” she howled, his humiliation finally pushing her over the edge. She came, face crimson, fingers clawing across Dan’s back.

Lucius was beaming, clearly desperate for resolution of his own. “That was… that was so… Can I please…?”        

And with that, Lucius latched onto Dan and kissed him. Instinctively, Dan closed his mouth over Lucius’s! It was too much to bear, he couldn’t help but to suck, and suck, and suckkkkk-

Lucius gasped, and Dan felt a soul shoot into his mouth, hot and pungent. As souls went, Lucius’ tasted like rotten meat wrapped around dogshit. What did this guy do in his spare time? Desperate to rid his mouth of the taste, Dan swallowed it in one long, awful gulp. Lucius slumped to the floor, eyes vacant and drooling.

“Is he going to be alright?” Narcissa asked.

“Yeah, uh, he’s fine. Listen, can we… maybe not mention this to anyone? Might lose my job.”

“Actually, this is good. It’ll help explain how he’ll manage to botch hide-and-seek with a bunch of 15-year-olds in book five.” Narcissa re-donned her robes and levitated Lucius off the floor. Rushing out of the room, she quickly stammered “Thanks, haven’t cum that hard since Slug Club. Ta, darling!”

Left standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror with eyes that shouldn’t exist, recovering from sex he shouldn’t be able to have, Dan thought to himself: You know, this fanfiction thing isn’t so bad.

This story was written by Samuel Rye, whose work you can find in Loose Lips, the Shipwreck book

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[shipwrecksf]

Rubeus Hagrid

The early 70s were a strange time for me, indeed. I was fresh out of school, already a mum, and You-Know-Who was out there causing all kinds of havoc.

And, of course, I loved my husband. Still do! But I didn’t feel a part of his… interests. After a full day of looking after Bill, I’d expect to have a chat when he got home. Instead he’d head straight for that Muggle monstrosity he’d set up in our living room. His “Main Freem,” he called it.

One evening, Bill went down early, and Arthur sat transfixed by his hunk of Muggle metal and plastic. Teaching himself “Fork Tran,” he said. I suppose I got a bit…restless.

Before I knew it, I’d blurted some rubbish about shopping and darted out the door. I went to the Leaky Cauldron and sat down at the bar, in search of a sympathetic ear.

“Ay, Molly Prewett,” came a familiar voice behind me. “You, my girl, are a sight for these sore eyes.”

“Rubeus!” I cried, surprised at how good it was to see him. “How’ve you been, old lad?”

“Not bad, not bad.” He smiled. His eyes sparkled with kindness and mischief. I couldn’t remember the last time someone who didn’t shit into a sodding nappy had looked at me like that. Then Hagrid’s face fell. “Strange times,” he said. “‘Course, I don’t hafta tell you that, ‘ey?”

“Please, let’s not talk about it,” I requested. “Anything else. Hogwarts gossip? How are the creatures?”

Hagrid perked up again. “Matter of fact, got me a new one just last week. Can’t keep him at the school, though. So I have him here. Room 10.” His eyes danced.

“Oh, Hagrid!” I shook my head. “You never learn.”

“Care to take a look?”

I made sure nobody noticed us sneaking away. Hagrid led me down the hall and pulled out his massive set of keys. The door marked 10 swung open, and I passed through behind him. “Shut it,” he said, and when I complied, he stepped aside to reveal a sleeping baby dragon.

“Rubeus! No!”

“Looks like a young one, don’t he?” Hagrid crouched and pet his creature tenderly. “But he’s a miniature breed! A Shetland dragon!”

I hung back, my hand still on the door.

“Come now, Molly old girl,” Hagrid assured me. “Nothin’ to be scared of in here.” And my hand slipped away from the knob.

I knelt down on the floor and stroked the heaving creature’s soft scales. The dragon stirred a bit, but soon his gentle breathing regained its rhythm.

“Ye’ see?” Hagrid said, meeting my eyes. “If you touch ‘em with care, even the most powerful critters will allow you.”

Suddenly, I felt possessed. But I knew this feeling came not from a wand but from a place deep inside of me. I put my hand on Hagrid’s meaty paw and looked at him, my gaze overflowing with longing. “Rubeus...” And I moved my lips toward that massive mouth.

His kiss tasted like butterbeer and hay, like our youth, like simpler times.    

His hands slid over my shoulders and down to my waist. I’d gained more than a bit of weight with Bill. But in those half-giant hands, I felt light, feminine, and as exhilarated as I’d been since watching King play Seeker for Gryffindor.

Hagrid lifted me with ease, as though he were picking up a kitten, and his grip was just as tender. He placed me on the rickety old bed next to the sleeping dragon, and when he started to unbutton my frock, it didn’t occur to me to stop him.

Before long, the keeper of the keys was kneeling beside the bed, gazing at my naked body. He ran his touch down my neck to my navel, then slid his hand between my legs.

My body got filled by a single finger with more than most wizards keep in their trousers.

I writhed and undulated while Hagrid worked and watched. “That’s it, old girl,” he said softly. “Let it all come together.”

“No!” I cried, and he pulled away. My hand flew to his cheek to reassure him. “No, I want you… All of you… Inside me.” I said. “Is that… possible?”

A slow smile crept across his face. “’Tis, Molly. If you’re sure.”

I nodded.

“Close your eyes, then,” he said, pulling me down so my lower legs fell over the bottom edge of the bed. I shut one eye and tried to peek through the other. In the dim light I vaguely saw him reach into his cloak and pull it out. Long and pink. It looked nothing like I’d expected.

Then he took it in his hand and aimed it between my legs. Faintly, I heard him whisper “Engorgio!”

With that, more blood than I knew I had in me rushed to my witchy bits. Everything felt rounded, hollowed, cavernous, yet alive with powerful magic. Hagrid threw the pink thing across the room and unbuckled his trousers. I switched by gaze to the ceiling as he crouched at the foot of the bed, filling me with his gianthood. He pulsed in perfect rhythm until we both convulsed and shuddered.

After that, everything got very still, except my own deep, heaving breaths, and those of the slumbering dragon. Hagrid slumped to the floor with his eyes closed. I gazed down over my dewy body at him, feeling spent and altered, still charmed. He slid around the floor until he was beside me, and he looked at me tenderly, with those sparkling eyes.

“A creature yeh still are, Molly Prewett,” he whispered, gently pushing my wild hair behind my ear.

Indeed, I suppose there were three magical beasts in Room 10 that night.

Next day, I told Arthur everything. He took it quite well. He’d been reading that Muggle magazine, the one with the bunny, so he knew all about swinging and key parties, all that. I think he found it a bit sexy. And he paid much better attention to me after that.

So, yes, Ginny, in answer to your question, it’s perfectly safe to use Engorgio on one’s witchyparts. In fact, I used it for childbirth with all of you, after Bill, of course.

And now you know why your brother Charlie is so good with animals.

Erin Judge spent half her childhood in Brooklyn, New York and the other half in Plano, Texas, and she somehow grew up to be a plus-sized bisexual nightclub entertainer who also writes literary fiction. Erin's debut novel Vow of Celibacy from Rare Bird Books is available wherever books are sold. She also tours the country as a stand-up comedian telling dick jokes to drunk people. More at erinjudge.com.

Listen to the podcast here

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[shipwrecksf]

Summertime, and the Living is Kinky

The smell of enchanted cum perfumed the air as the Whomping Willow shuffled into the dungeon of Fineous Philander’s Bump and Tickle Club.

He inhaled the heady aroma, ordered a Miracle-Gro on the rocks and felt a chill run through his trunk as he scanned the action and waited for his lover.

It was Summer and the brats had all finally gone home. That meant 3 months of no Sorcerer’s Stones and no Magical Goblets, no evil armies and “He Who Must Not Be” yadda yadda... Like you don’t know who the fuck I’m talking about.

So in keeping with traditions passed on by adults since the beginning of time, once all the kids were shipped off, and after several long, long naps had been taken-there was fucking. Massive piles of fucking. Tension lifting, interspecies, dirty talking, “what did we do, I can’t look at you in the morning, but call me later after we’ve had a few too many” fucking. Hogwarts and the surrounding hills were alive with the cries of bump and grind. And it was glorious.

And on Wednesday’s, at Finny P’s All Male Rockin Cock-a-Thon, the rugged grunts of sweaty manlove and groans of hot hole rimming would echo all up and down Knockturn Alley.

In one corner Lucius Malfoy squealed like a piglet as he squirmed around in a kiddie pool filled with chocolate pudding. No one would have taken the tight assed aristocrat for a splosher, but there was no hiding the beatific smile that spread across his face as a rough looking goblin poured bowls of spaghetti over his head and stuffed his ears with processed cheese food.

Sir Nick was another surprisingly dirty fucker, and Whompy gawked as the thirsty bitch was gangbanged by a small group of Dementors at the other end of the room. One was behind him, his long pale cock slicing into the noble ghost’s ass. Two more were in front-one driving his deathstick into Nick’s squelching neck hole and the other fucking the mouth on his nearly severed head with so much force that it bounced against the back of his neck like a Pez dispenser.

Whompy frowned as he noticed one of the Devil Snare’s oily tendrils snake through a door into the VIP area. A couple of Summer’s ago that smooth talking weed had been all “I love your full bush” and “Let me fertilize that soil” and the next minute he was sticking his limp vines into that skanky assed little shrub that hung around The White Wyvern. Whompy hoped the little trick had given him termites.

But that was like a lifetime ago and now Whompy had found everything he wanted.

As if on cue, he shuddered as he felt a long, strong arm wrap around him, then another, then another, then another.

“Hey handsome” Whompy melted into the embrace and backed his trunk up to the thick torso as Aragog’s deep baritone quaked behind him. The big spider’s gravely voice-like a sandpaper thunderstorm- was enough to make him wet and Whompy felt his sap start to trickle down his roots.

“Miss me?” the voice rumbled.

“Yes Daddy,” Whompy turned and ran his limbs all over his lover’s muscular Cephalothorax.

Aragog’s fangs shined under the blacklights and he looked at Whompy with lust burning in his milky white eyes-all eight of them.

His gaze paused just beneath the willow’s crown of yellow and red summer leaves. Leering at the deep hollow in his trunk that hung open like a mouth. A wet, inviting mouth.  Aragog felt his spinnerets throb and thicken as he remembered just what the sultry killer tree could do with that mouth. Without a doubt, this Whomping Willow was one hot piece of wood.

The last 9 months had been much too long wait. Luckily his wife, Mosag, was every bit as filthy in the bedroom as her name suggested. You don’t get to have a brood of over 3000 children without getting a little kinky and he still loved the way his trollop would eat his web hole like groceries and gargle thick mouthfuls of his venom before gulping down the tart juice.

But there was just something about spider on wood lovin’ that he couldn’t deny. And since they were progressive, open minded archnids, they’d seen no reason to deny their extramarital urges. Of course, Mosag’s obsession with Centaur cock only was also a huge consideration.

Tired of waiting and ready to put a hurtin’ on that ass, Aragog led his fuckshrub to a back corner of the room and stopped in front of a web he’d spun just for their pleasure. The spider pressed downward on Whompy’s branches and the normally aggressive alpha tree just smiled and sunk to the ground. He knelt low, beneath the musky abdomen, where the spider’s big black spinnerets stood ready and waiting for attention. The eager tree opened his mouth hollow wide as he leaned in closer.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it. Suck it for Daddy.”

“Mmm hmm” Whompy moaned as he bathed the massive pincers with his love juices.

“Who’s my little spinner slut?” the spider demanded.

“I am daddy” Whompy gasped as thick trails of sap cascaded from his mouth hollow. He looked up at the dominant spider lovingly.

“I’m your little spinner slut!”

After fucking his submissive’s face and luxuriating in his sloppy top, Aragog pulled out and strapped his now pliant partner into the web.

“Get ready baby,” Aragog whispered. “I know what you need. Daddy’s going to fix you right up.”

The sensual brrr of the chainsaw caused Whompy’s breath to catch in his throat as his limbs shook with anticipation.

The first cut was light and Whompy jumped at the bite of the blade. The next nip sliced a small divot in his shoulder and Whompy wriggled at the delicious pain. Chainsaw play was dangerous but Whompy trusted his skilled lover. Over the next half hour the sadistic spider worked over his painshrub until he was as tender as kindling, spent and gasping in a puddle of his own sap and sawdust.

Seeing the satisfied look on his lover’s face and unable to ignore the throbbing in his spinners any longer, Aragog dropped the chainsaw and proceeded to mount that sexy knot on the Whomping Willows backside.

“You ready baby?”

Whompy just nodded and leaned into the web as the muscular abdomen ground faster and faster against his hypersensitive bark.

He couldn’t help but cry out when he felt Aragog’s spinnerets jerk and shoot a massive wad of thick, hot silk from his web hole. Delirious from the sensations, Whompy scooped up some of the sticky jizz and sucked it deep into his mouth hollow.

He must have passed out soon after because when he woke, he was on his side on the floor, a big blanket thrown over him and his arachnid daddy spooned behind him and nibbling his bark.  

The murderous tree sighed a contented sigh, backed his knot into the sweat soaked abdomen, and pulled two of his lover’s legs tight around him. He could feel the wonderful mixture of sap and silk drying on his wood. And the Summer just getting started!

Kwan Booth is an award winning writer focusing on the intersection of communications, community, art and technology. He is the editor of "Black Futurists Speak: An Anthology of New Black Writing", and has been published in “CHORUS, a literary mixtape”, “Beyond the Frontier: African American Poets for the 21st Century” and several journals and online publications. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won grants and awards from the Emerging Arts Professionals Bay Area, Center for Cultural Innovation and the Society of Professional Journalists. He has spoken on media, technology and diversity at conferences including The National Conference on Media Reform and The International Journalism Festival in Perugia, Italy. He writes at http://boothism.org.

Listen to the podcast here

Upcoming live shows at this link

[shipwrecksf]

Oh hieeeeee, we’re back from book launches at home and abroad! Thank you to everyone who came out to celebrate. And if you missed it, you can order a copy of the book here and we’ll even sign it for you.

Here’s where to catch us next: 

Sat 10/22, 1:30PM, Jamison's Roaring Donkey: We’ll be in Petaluma, courtesy of Copperfields Books, for a fanfic open mic and workshop + book signing! Join us, this’ll be killer. 

Thu 11/3, 7PM, Booksmith: We’re back at our home base for our FOURTH annual Stephen King show. This year we’re taking on Pet Sematary, the book he gave the fewest shits about. Seats are still on sale. 

Story and podcast updates to come.

[shipwrecksf]

There Will Be Blood Play

Jacques Saunière lay there dying at the Louvre. He tries in vain to stop the blood, pressing his hand against his bullet wound as blood seeps out through the long, perfectly manicured fingers that all gay French museum curators have. Even as he faces death, the feeling of the warm oozing blood causes him to get hard. “Dammit, Jacques, this is no time for masturbation, we have important work to do!” he thinks to himself, but in French. But Jacques is, at his core, in his soul, at the very essence of his being, a hardcore kinkster. He simply cannot resist jerking himself off, using his own blood as lube, as his final act.

He lays on the ground, his right hand stroking his cock while his left hand paints a pentacle on his taut, rippling abs. Mona Lisa smiles down on him, her smile seeming to say: “Yeahhhhh, Jacques, git it.” Just then, detective Jerome Collet bursts onto the scene. Jacques gasps. They stare at each other for a moment, overcome with a soul-aching, heart-aching, ball-aching lust neither has ever experienced. Collet starts ripping off his police uniform, never breaking eye contact with Jacques. Jacques continues to stroke himself.

“Should I call an ambulance? Or whatever the French word for ambulance is?”

“There’s no time, officer. I need you inside me more than I need to live.”

Detective Collet, now naked, kneels next to Jacques, his hard cock hovering over the curator’s chin.

“Have you been tested recently?”

“Yes, Sir, I am STI-free. And no worries about your status, I’m about to die.”

Collet shoves his hard cock into Jacques’ mouth, and moans as Jacques swirls his tongue around the head before eagerly taking all eight inches down his throat. He’s weak, because of the dying, but Collet likes his men quivering and submissive, so it’s extra hot. After a few minutes, Collet abruptly pulls his dick out.

“Turn over.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jacques turns onto his stomach, rubbing his nipples through his own pool of blood, his cock growing even harder, throbbing against the slick tile of the Louvre. Collet tenderly rubs the dying man’s rippling shoulders, then traces his fingers down his spine. When he comes to his ass, he squeezes it roughly and gives him a light spank. Jacques moans. Collet raises his hand and slaps that tight ass again. He spanks him over and over while Jacques screams in ecstasy: “Oui, oui, oui, Monsieur, oui!”

Collet balances himself over the dying curator, his left hand holding him up, now covered in blood. He moans and thinks to himself how sad it is that this beautiful man who is also into blood play will surely die after their first and only epic fuck session. He is going to make it count.

He rubs the head of his cock over Jacque’s ass cheeks. He presses his bloody middle finger against his pulsing asshole, which eagerly pulls the finger in all the way up to his palm. He can’t take one more second, he grabs Jacques’ hair and whispers in his ear, “I’m gonna fuck you now, you gorgeous man.”

“Oui, oui, Monsieur!” begs Jacques.

Collet scoops up the goopy, slick blood from the floor and spreads it on his dick. He slowly enters Jacques. Once he gets all the way inside, he pauses and feels the curator’s tight ass pulsing around him. He leans into his ear again and whispers, “I don’t even know your name, but I love you.”

“I love you too. Take me, take me now, officer. Also, I need to tell you something.”

“What, my love? Anything.”

“Ok, there’s like a bunch of really important stuff I need to write down, and I was gonna do it in my own blood and invisible ink, even though I always have a pen and paper on me, but, ya know, it’s more dramatic that way. But instead I just want you to keep fucking me, but I gotta tell you this stuff and you gotta remember, okay?”

“Oh baby, I love when you talk dirty to me.”

“Ugh, you’re amazing, and I can’t believe I’m going to die before I even get to know your name or kiss you, but there’s simply no time, and even though you are a police officer, which means you are likely a trained First Responder, and could totally save me right now, and we could build a beautiful life together, I need your dick in my ass right now so badly, that I will die for it.”

“You know, I could save you, and then you could have my dick in your ass every nigh---”

“Hush, my love,” interrupts Jacques. “There’s no time…” he whispers.

         Collet obeys, even though he’s the Dom and he doesn’t usually go for bratty subs, but Jacques is dying and they haven’t negotiated a D/s protocol, and Collet’s a cool dude, he can hang. Jacques continues to speak, through his moans, as Collet lovingly fucks that sweet ass.

         “You have to find--ahhhh---Robert Langdon----ooooh---there’s a key----oooof---behind the Madonna of the---oh yeah right there----of the Rocks---oh give it to me, baby---find this woman named Sophie something who knows about crypt---ah ah ah ah---ology, she’ll know what to doooooooooo.” Jacques screams that last word as he cums harder than he has ever cum, at the very same moment that Collet blows his load inside Jacques’ ass. Collet presses his sweaty body against Jacque’s bloody backside, squeezing him. He tenderly turns him over, and strokes his face. He draws a heart on his cheek in blood, as Jacques pants and moans, never breaking eye contact.

Collet bends down, cups Jacques’ chin and kisses him for the first and last time. Their blood and sweat and tears mingle into a beautiful, salty, iron-tasting, sensual kiss. With tears in his eyes, Jacques draws his final breath. His eyes roll back into his head and he slumps onto the bloody floor. Collet sobs violently, cradling his fallen lover. He will avenge his death. He will find this Robert Langdon, this Sophie character, that key or whatever. He will crack this code.

And then, Tom Hanks shows up.

Fin.

​Ash Fisher is a comedian, actor and writer. She is not a comedienne, an actress or a writeress. She co-produces and hosts the monthly comedy show "Man Haters" at the White Horse in Oakland and writes for Wear Your Voice Mag. She was the 2012 Newcomer Runner-Up in the Ladies of Laughter Contest at Gotham Comedy Club in NYC, co-produced the 2014 Hella Gay Comedy Festival and performed in San Francisco Sketchfest 2016. She does voiceovers and illustration whenever someone lets her. Ash holds a B.F.A. in Theatre from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, and Sallie Mae will never let her forget it.

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[shipwrecksf]

Priory to Entry

Author’s note: In this story, all explanations of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals... are complete bullshit. But descriptions of dicks are 100% accurate. Unless that description comes from a man. Then, subtract 2 inches.

One by one, the writers filed into the dark, candlelit room. The room was lit by candles. It was dark. Yet there was light. By candles.

Dan Brown entered first, followed by John Berendt, author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Twilight’s Stephenie Meyer, and 50 Shades of Gray’s E.L. James. They engaged in small talk, but they couldn’t understand each other since they spoke *exactly* as they wrote.

Dan Brown turned to his left and addressed Stephenie Meyer. “My French stinks, but my zodiac iconography is pretty good.”

Stephenie Meyer narrated her life to no one in particular. “He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like a sense of humor and arrogance didn’t mix.”

The 50 Shades of Gray author piped in next. “Suddenly, I’m sitting up and tugging my panties off and throwing them on the floor.” She turned to Dan Brown. “I’d like to pull off your boxer briefs, and see your erection spring free."

John Berendt was confused. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on” he said, the only person in the room to compose an original thought.

Just then, as the North Star aligned with the Rose Line, a bookshelf in the wall rotated counter-clockwise and a dark and mysterious figure entered through the secret panel. The figure wore a dark cloak held together by a small keystone pinned on its chest. The authors gasped, suddenly understanding who brought them together: it was the New York Times Bestseller List.

“You’re probably wondering why I gathered you here today” the list said. “You’re being inducted into a very secret society of writers, and after this cliffhanger, there will be another in 2 pages.”

 Chapter 107

The list spoke, and what he said… forever changed the course of history.

 Chapter 108

“You are part of a very exclusive group of writers, those who have topped me for many weeks at a time. What you *didn’t* know is this makes you part of a secret society as well: the Priory of Cock. It’s called that because your books suck dick.”

The 50 Shades author spoke up: “My desire to know more — it pools dark and deadly in my groin.”

Dan Brown pulled a Robert Langdon and mansplained his way through literally everything. “Actually, I believe your group is called the Priory of Phallus since the word ‘cock’ wasn’t invented until 1682 by a French artist who was also a member of Jesus’s bloodline.”

Stephenie Meyer had one hand down her jean shorts. “Wanna see how I got inspiration for that wolf?”

Berendt was getting frustrated. “My book was a finalist for a Pulitzer!” he yelled. “I developed my characters! I had an EDITOR!”

The Bestseller List interrupted. “The four of you were invited here today to protect a secret that dates back to my inception. As it turns out, I am not a real-time representation of good writing. The truth is… I am a curated list of populist bullshit.”

 Author’s note: In 1931, the New York Times Bestseller list was created by the Times editorial board to showcase the best in American writing. As it turned out, Americans instead wanted “summer reading” which is defined as “long books you can brag about completing because they’re written at a 3rd grade level.” As the Great Depression rolled on and book sales lagged, the board made a secret decision: the list would become curated to highlight crap that could sell.

 “I’ve spent the past 30 years jerking you people off and making you rich” the list continued, “and now it’s your turn. The only way I won’t expose you for the phonies you are... is if you stand in the center of this room, and take turns jerking ME off.”

You didn’t have to ask E.L James twice. Homegirl popped out of her seat, turned her mesh trucker hat backwards, and walked over to the bestseller list. Seeing her coming, the list moved to the middle of the circle — and as it turned out, the distance between the center of the room and the chairs was the mathematical number PHI — because ruining art wasn’t enough for Dan Brown.

“Come to mama” she said, as she pulled out the list’s paper thin dick. E.L. gave a lot of handjobs when she researched 50 Shades of Gray so she knew exactly what made a great one: jerking someone off for 10 seconds and then giving them the blowjob they actually want.

It was 6 inches and skinny, so she was ready to look like a pro. No gagging involved, no only-focusing-on-the-head for a few minutes and then saying “okay it’s my turn.”

She went down on the list in the middle of the room, getting off at everyone watching her. But as it turned out, no one was watching her. Dan Brown was vaginally pleasuring Stephenie Meyer while she reminded everyone she’s still *technically* a virgin. And John Berendt was live-Tweeting the entire literary orgy using the hashtag #ShipwreckSF.

The list decided it was Dan Brown’s turn to suck dick, as if he didn’t already (wink) — so he brought him over and pushed him down on his knees.

Dan Brown looked up at the list. “Did you know The Da Vinci Code is an anagram for A Ditched Novice?”

The list, like all of us, had heard enough. He pushed his dick toward Dan Brown, and the author took it inside his mouth and pressed it against his left cheek because who actually knows what to do with one of those things?

Just then, a figure walked down the steps and let out a large gasp. “What in the actual fuck” the voice screamed. It was none other than the list’s 25-year-old granddaughter… Oprah’s Book Club.

The list immediately covered himself with his cloak while the other writers kept doing their thing, forever oblivious to how the real world operates. “Grandpa, HOW COULD YOU” the book club said, afraid to look directly at him.

“Honey, you were not meant to see this. This is part of an ancient ritual meant to ground an otherwise unbelievable story. You must leave and never speak of this place!”

Oprah’s Book Club fled the room, vowing to get revenge by one day becoming more influential than her grandfather.

The mood was shot, so Dan, Stephenie, and E.L. pulled their pants up, exchanged QR codes for their websites on Geocities, and walked back up the stairs. John Berendt, who was facing a wall, turned around quickly, put something in his pocket, and walked out.

The Bestseller list was mostly satisfied at how the first secret Priory of Cock meeting went, looking forward to sending out meeting minutes with a well-placed Beyonce GIF. He turned off the light and began to walk out when he saw it: there on the wall, written in a blacklight marker, was the secret message:

“HOW DARK THE COCK OF MAN.”

The end.

Jared Schwartz is:

a good son (according to his mom but would it kill him to meet a nice doctor and settle down?)

a talented singer (according to that guy at The Mint who lowers the mic volume when he sings “Stay” by Lisa Loeb)

an accomplished writer (according to himself because RuPaul says you have to love yourself and RuPaul is a thought leader on self-confidence, so trust)

and an incredible lover (according to the pillow he spooned last night because it was so cold and he definitely wasn’t picturing Casey, nope, that would just be weird).

Follow him on Twitter at @hapfrap.

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[shipwrecksf]

“Dick Pictogram (or: How Leigh Teabing Learned to Do Hard Time and Love It)”

Layla Teabag’s performance was the longest running show at the Palais De L’ile Prison For Men, despite being the least popular. In fact, the audience on this particular night consisted solely of a prison guard and the prison warden, a man named Stanley.

When Leigh Teabing first arrived at prison, he had fallen into a deep depression.  And it was Stanley’s idea, since he knew that Teabing was an esteemed scholar, that he should give lectures on Symbology and European history. At the start, the lectures were relatively well-received by the inmates, especially since Teabing peppered his talks with messages of liberality, freedom and equality––precisely the kind of thing people restricted in almost every way want to believe in. As the weeks progressed, Teabing began to include the occasional light verse in the lectures. The audience dwindled, but Teabing still kept a crowd. As more time passed, small dances and ditties became part of the lectures. The audience dwindled a bit more.

Even more time passed, and Leigh became Layla; Teabing became Teabag. And what had started as half-academic, half-rhetorical presentations morphed into odd performances that Teabag herself had dubbed ‘book-lesque’.

Book-lesque consisted of Layla reading long monotone stretches of ancient French, English and Latin texts, and slowly stripping. It was almost relaxing. Just as people began to fall into a stupor, she would violently rip pages from the manuscripts with her teeth and spit them at the audience while grinding on the hard stone stage. Layla’s show might have had a chance, because there were all sorts of tastes at the prison. And even though the rhetoric of freedom and equality dropped off, people still enjoyed watching Layla’s careful movements in her leg braces and crutches. It was the spitting, with its suddenness and irregularity, that put people off. Tonight’s performance had been especially violent and spitty; the guards were annoyed at the mess they would have to clean up, and made this known to the warden.

After giving Layla a respectful amount of time to regroup after the show, Stanley visited her in her cell.

“Um, Layla, may I come in for a moment.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Layla dimmed the lights surrounding her vanity mirror. Stanley looked around at the cell, taking in the curtained windows with the double-insulated glass behind. He looked to the chaise lounge near the window and the row of book shelves against the far wall next to the bed, and finally back to Layla who was sitting on an ottoman opposite a second window. This cell was unique among the rest, but none of the other prisoners knew it.

“I was hoping we could talk about the show.” Stanley softly kicked an imaginary rock on the cell floor, like a little boy asking for an extra scoop of ice cream.

“Did you love it?!” Layla beamed, “Wasn’t it divine?!”

Stanley did not answer. The truth was that it was because of Leigh that this prison existed at all, and by extension, that Stanley had a job at all. Even though he was a convicted murderer, Leigh’s wealth gave him choices that were impossible to most. He had chosen this old fort nestled in the mountains, and had it redesigned as the place that he would serve his time. Stanley had been a low-level prison administrator in Brixton before this unexpected boon of a job. Over the years, he had been charmed by Leigh, and then seduced by Layla, growing his own small fortune in the process.

“Well, we’ve been getting some complaints, actually, and––”

“We have lost all reverence for the divine feminine!” Layla took for a moment the posture of a professor frustrated by witnessing a generation ruined by too many snapfaps, faceblinds, memojis, etc...

Stanley stood silently. Teabag softened, and swung her leg up on the window ledge with considerable effort.

“You respect the divine feminine, don’t you, Stanley?”

Stanley nodded, and Teabag gave him a knowing look. It was an old game.

“Close the cell door, and fasten the curtain,” said Layla.  

Stanley obeyed, and Layla motioned for him to come closer.

“Do you like anagrams, Stanley?”

Layla knew the answer to the question, because she had taught Stanley to like anagrams, to savor the pleasure of arranging and rearranging letters of words so that nothing was lost or added, but something entirely new emerged. Stanley nodded yes.  

“Good then, here’s one for you: We rain hermits. What’s that an anagram for?”

Stanley hesitated, “uh, It’s warm in here?”

“Very, good,” said Layla, “you’ve gotten quite good at this.

“And how about, Oily supremacy role? Can you think of an anagram for that?

Stanley spoke cautiously, “Your lips are comely?”

Layla giggled with the confidence of someone who was certain that there was nothing on earth that she could not possess. “Quite good!” she said.

Before prison, and before Layla Teabag, Leigh Teabing had committed to the idea of the divine feminine because it was trendy academic item. It made him appear very sensitive and very un-patriarchal, and he was willing to kill, suppress, or silence anyone who indicated anything to the contrary. He had grasped the divine feminine tightly with his intellect, but had not admitted it into his experience, so Layla Teabag hung loosely on Leigh Teabing like a wet pair of jeans stolen from a laundromat mid-cycle.

The game continued in Layla’s cell. “How about, a rosy networked smut?”

“Take down my trousers” answered Stanley, as he undressed Layla.

“Good!” Layla shivered and offered another anagram as the last piece of her clothing fell to the ground, “Now, how about unshakeable ascot duets. Give me an anagram, goddammit.”

Stanley was stumped.

Layla repeated herself, “UNSHAKEABLE ASCOT DUETS!” Then she turned awkwardly  around and presented her holy rose to Stanley.

Stanley finally cracked the anagram, and hopped to his knees as he answered, “Suck out these anal beads!”

“Very goo-oo-oo-ood,” said Layla, quaking with pleasure as Stanley got to work.

Layla reached behind and began to stroke Stanley’s marble-hard codex. She offered him another puzzle, “tell me an anagram for ‘A miniature snooty porn ox!’”

Stanley popped out the last of the anal beads and emptied his mouth before speaking,

“A pure taint is no oxymoron.”

“That’s right, baby, lower,” said Layla.

After a few moments, Layla had Stanley turn her around, both of them heaving.

“I want to taste Great Britain!”

This was the name they had agreed upon for Stanley’s cock. Stanley placed all of Great Britain from shore to shore in Layla’s mouth, and Layla took it gladly. English, after all, was her native language.

Stanley came first, and hard, followed by Layla, who had been stroking her own lonely island, and whimpered out a foggy climax. After a few moments of silence, Layla said softly,

“Men do howl.”

“Now, hold me,” answered Stanley, embracing Layla.

“Very good, indeed” said Layla as they drifted off to sleep on the cold stone floor.

Layla certainly needed the rest, and so did Stanley. Showbiz was hard work for them both.

Evan Burton once went out to dinner with friends and ate the last french fry without first asking if anyone was going to eat the last french fry. He's not proud of that fact. But he's also not ashamed of it. Sometimes you get the fry, and sometimes you don't. You can get in touch with Evan by walking up to him and saying hello, or by visiting EvanBurtoncreative.com.

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[shipwrecksf]

Robert Langdon

Robert Langdon was swirling a clear tumbler of gin in one hand—his other hand held his iPhone 4, the cracked screen open to Twitter.  He stared headlong into the fiery trash heap of a newsfeed, listlessly swiping one damp finger up and up as he scrolled.

Suddenly he paused, noticing the time. 2:30 in the afternoon. He set his drink down. His tired brow furrowed. It was a look he wore often, a look which used to make his freshman Symbology students sploosh in their low-rise jeans, but which now only deepened his sagging forehead wrinkles.

Tweet: @theRealRobertLangdon: Look for the hidden clues in McDonald’s Monopoly to reveal a juicy conspiracy for your taste buds! #symbology #ImLovinIt #SecretSauce

He posted it without another thought, then chucked the phone at his $40 Ikea coffee table with a heavy sigh. This was his life now.

When he’d first discovered the true identity of Sophie Neveu, and subsequently spent a week boning her in Florence (the sweet delicious irony of her screaming out OH, JESUS CHRIST, MAIS OUI! OUI!” as he plunged into her holiest of holies), he felt he had finally attained all that he was reasonably entitled to as a capital-N-capital-G Nice Guy.

But those early orgasms turned out to be as false as pagan Gods, and where once she pretended to adore his unsheathed sword, she soon was uttering between bored drags of a post-coital cigarette, “Monsieur, for an expert in zee Sacred Feminine, it is surprising zhat you seem to need a treasure map to find my clit.” And so their love affair ended rather anti-climactically.

Since then, Symbology had quite rapidly fallen out of fashion. Harvard had decided to replace him with an adjunct they didn’t have to pay half as much, and book sales had been reduced to a dripping trickle. In order to make rent each month on his dilapidated studio apartment in Boston, he now wrote sponsored tweets for corporations too out of touch to know his 15 minutes of fame had dried up a decade ago.

Tweet: @theRealRobertLangdon: Dat boi? Dat deal! Say, “Oh shit waddup!” to 30% off all weekend at Barnes & Noble! [GIF of green frog riding a unicycle while reading Langdon’s book The Art of the Illuminati]

His Twitter bio read: “I wrote the book on Secret Sects. Literally! [Laughing cat emoji]. Public Intellectual. Sapiosexual. Male Feminist.” [Angel emoji, Devil emoji, Gemini emoji] His avatar was very out of date, from the years when he could still be described as “Harrison Ford in Harris tweed.” More recently, his look could be better described as “Karl Rove in creased khakis.” A picture would reveal his heavily receded hairline and the desperate eyes of a man who hadn’t seen the inside of a holy grail in years.

Before being laid off, he’d had a few short dalliances with plain PhD candidates (a bit obvious, sure, but Robert Langdon never seemed to mind playing the leading role in a cliché plot). However, after a few unnecessary twists and turns, they always seemed to fizzle out predictably.

These days, he couldn’t get pussy if he paid for it, and in any case, he couldn’t afford to pay for it. The general public had lost interest in Catholicism, now they were all fascinated by Scientology, and even he couldn’t bring himself to write about a “religion” which was straight up made up.

What else are the kids into these days? he wondered, as he picked up his phone and re-opened Twitter. Therein, he knew, lay the secret to the millennial brain, if only he could crack their code!

Desperately, he perused the feed. His last couple tweets had only gotten three likes between them, two of them by bots. In his mind, he understood they were just fake internet points, but still, in his heart, it stung.

As he scrolled, he began to notice something appearing with far more frequency than ever before: the lemon emoji. But why? Everywhere they popped up, little yellow omens, grabbing him by the eyes, giving his soul a familiar shake…

Further investigation revealed they were in reference to some video called Lemonade. He wasn’t quite sure what that was exactly, but he felt a strange assurance that it held the key to what he sought…In any case, he was drinking gin at 3 pm in his underwear. Why not procrastinate writing sponsored content by watching a Beyonce music video?

He tried to figure out how to download it, but it seemed you needed a subscription to something called TIDAL? As he attempted to figure out how to join, he felt a little as though he were being held hostage by a shadow…he couldn’t help but be reminded of the secret sects he’d encountered before; the more he probed, the more certain he felt that this exclusive, inexplicable organization was remarkably similar…

After much exasperation, and with a rising sense of suspicion, he decided to Torrent it instead (Robert Langdon wasn’t afraid to tiptoe on the wrong side of legality in pursuit of truth). The video now played in the background, but he found his curiosity piqued, and he continued to research TIDAL. He looked up the list of artists who comprised this society: Beyonce and Jay-Z, of course; Kanye West; Prince (God Rest His Soul); and Jack White, who bore an uncanny resemblance to an Albino he once knew…

Suddenly, his internet searching yielded just the clue he was looking for—he found himself staring at a picture of Jay and Ye throwing up a sign, their hands face up, creating the shape of none other than…A PYRAMID! With that image swimming in his mind, he read on, only to learn that their collaboration album was called…WATCH THE THRONE! Featuring a song about…PARIS!

Langdon’s head swirled as the dots started to connect themselves. He dove head first down the rabbit hole and found himself eagerly reading the lyrics to Kanye’s JESUS WALKS, a title he knew was not simply metaphorical!

He tried to remember what else he knew about Kanye, but his knowledge of pop culture was significantly less impressive than his knowledge of religious iconology. All he could recall was the infamous moment when Ye had interrupted that Taylor Swift girl at the Grammy’s. What was it he had said then? “Beyonce had the greatest video of all time.” BEYONCE…THE GREATEST…ALL TIME…His eyes flitted to the television, only to see there before him, Beyonce herself imperiously sitting upon a throne.

He felt he was close to uncovering a truth far greater than any he’d discovered before…he turned his attention back to the lemon emoji…the lemon emoji was the key…yellow…round…like a…CHALICE. A GOLDEN CHALICE.

“My God!” he exclaimed. What if he’d been wrong about Sophie? What if it had never been Sophie at all…what if BEYONCE was the true living descendent of Jesus Christ! After all, no matter what Da Vinci painted, Jesus sure as hell wasn’t a white man.

“I have to tell the world! This is my ticket back to fame and fortune!” he yelled drunkenly, shaking his fists in the air as he sloshed gin onto the crotch of his boxer shorts. The credits rolled and Formation began to play. Beyonce coily cooed: “Y’all haters corny with this Illuminati mess.” Langdon smirked: “You won’t throw me off the trail that easily, my dear.”

Tweet: @theRealRobertLangdon: BEYONCE IS LITERALLY GOD ON EARTH [lemon emoji]#BowDown

He waited for this revelation to make a big splash in the ether, fully anticipating his phone to start ringing off the hook with gaggles of curious journalists on the other line trying to get the scoop. But his tweet only generated one response, from a former student of his.

Tweet: @ThoughtfulThotty: OMG I KNOW RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [heart eyes emoji, crown emoji, kiss emoji] #YasKween

With a shrug, Robert Langdon slid into her DMs.

Tara Marsden lives and writes in Oakland. She's placed third three times at Shipwreck (which means she writes perfectly adequate porn?) and her Slaughterhouse Five smut will be included in the Shipwreck anthology, Loose Lips, forthcoming from Grand Central Publishing. You can find her non-smut writing in Eleven Eleven, Boing Boing, and on the Give Me Fiction podcast.  

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[shipwrecksf]

Silas

Silas woke up in the dark.

No, he wasn’t Silas, he was Paul Bettany, but he was covered in the white powder makeup they’d used during filming to make him look albino and he was chained naked to a rock in the center of a circle of torches. No matter how he strained, his eyes couldn’t pierce the darkness beyond them. What was the last thing he remembered? The last scene of Da Vinci Code, the wrap party, then taking a nap in his trailer. Then he was here.

“Hello! Anyone out there!” His voice echoed through the cavern.

“Shh, shh, shh” The soothing sounds echoed as well turning them to dark whispers. Five hooded figures stepped forward between the torches.

‘Who are you people?” A note of terror filled Paul’s voice.

One pulled off his robe to reveal Tom Hanks in nothing but a speedo with a white & blue suit design across the front.

“Hey Paul! Welcome!”

“Tom, what’s going on?” His voice shook.

“Just a little ritual to help our film!” Tom hopped a bit, making his bits hop to and fro in their little pouch. Paul noticed the colors were exactly the shades Tom had worn in Forrest Gump.

The cultured voice of Sir Ian McKellan spoke up. “Well, my boy. You see we’re just a bunch of pagans, most actors are and you’re this movie’s sacrifice. Very exciting!” Paul turned his head, watched the man strip to reveal a false long white beard and a staff, tipped with bright pink dildos on either end, and nothing else. He was wrinkled all over except his dick which was surprisingly firm and smooth, standing out from his body. Then his words penetrated.

Paul struggled, cold metal biting into his faux-pale skin.

“Shh.” Tom patted his head and a little white powder floated up. “It’ll be okay.”

“You’re going to kill me?” He screamed.

“No, no, no!” Tom answered, still petting Paul’s face. “Just a little orgy, that’s all!”

Paul choked on air.

“It’s tradition after every film.” Sir Ian stated.

“I don’t know anything about this.” Paul said, shaking his head again.

Audrey Tautou’s lightly accented voice answered him. “Well, you were probably not famous enough till now.” She removed her robe, her hair was done up Amelie style and her breasts painted with bright, joyful greens and reds.

“Is that why I’m done up like Silas and you all are dressed so...weird?” Paul found himself growing hard. Neither men nor women excited him but fame did. All these famous people wanted to fuck him.

“We go with themes of previous successes. It insures a good box office.”

Jean Reno’s more heavily accented voice spoke. “Yes, this is my first as well!” He pulled off his robe to reveal his naked body. Paul quickly looked away. Jean didn’t have the fame to keep him hard and the body wasn’t making up for it.

“Not mine.” The fifth figure whipped off his cloak and revealed Alfred Molina wearing a harness of metal around his hips, like Dr. Octopus. The four metal arms, each one whirling and moving, each tipped in a large black vibrator. The arms reached longingly for Paul.

“Ron used to be one of us, so we let him watch.” Tom said smiling. Alfred had moved over and was gently chewing on Tom’s neck. Paul strained into the darkness and could just make out the shadowed outline of a man in a director’s seat.

The shadow nodded.

“You can say no, if you want. But why would you?” Jean asked.

“Do you want the movie to fail?” They all were looking at him. Sure this was hot but they had all kidnapped him. He was torn but then he looked at Tom. It was a mistake. Whoever coined the term puppy-dog eyes? Was talking about Tom Hanks.

“Fine.” He said in a put-upon voice. “Get to it.”

“Yay!” Tom jumped a little and clapped his hands. He moved forward and gobbled up Paul's genitals, his mouth so wide he was able to take in both dick and balls. Audrey nimbly climbed the rock and straddled his face. She had great aim and he only had to open his mouth to tongue at her lips and clit, which he did — enthusiastically.

Once he licked through all the ambient rock dust and the make-up they’d coated his lips with she was delicious.

The mouth suddenly left Paul’s dick cold in the air. Paul heard Tom. “More, Alfred I can take it!” The whirl of machinery grew louder and Tom began to howl.

Audrey lifted her legs high and spun on his tongue. She had to be into Yoga, probably Pilates too. His dick was wet and warm again. There was an intangible difference in style; something about Audrey’s sucking was just so very French. He could feel the ennui on every downstroke.

It must have been visible to Sir Ian as well because Paul heard the impatience in his voice. “I’ve been sucking off men, since well before even your parents were born. Take a back seat.”

Audrey was pulled off his member with a loud plop. She rolled off his body completely.

“Perfect!” Ron shouted from the dark. “I hope we got that sound recorded!”

“Yeah, boss!” A gruff voice sounded off in the darkness.

Paul groaned.

Jean was on the ground, Audrey riding him slowly, as if she couldn’t care less. He looked bored. They both looked like they should be smoking cigarettes and looking anywhere but at each other. Tom was face down, ass up on the floor, back of his speedo torn away. Two of the black vibrators were whirling away, stretching his ass while a third acted as a gag. Alfred moved the fourth back and forth on Tom’s perineum teasingly.  

Meanwhile Sir Ian was bobbing on Paul’s dick like an absolute expert. Craning his neck Paul could see that Sir Ian had braced his dildostaff against the base of a torch and had inserted the other end inside himself. He was moving slowly up and down matching the movements of his mouth and ass. Experience was key because in only moments Paul began to huff and puff like an old dying car to signal he was close. They all disengaged and stood. Tom rushed over and pressed something that made the rock he was laying on slowly rise to a standing position. Sir Ian was still working away, until Paul made a sound like a dying murderous albino monk and then he pulled back as well.

His four naked co-stars circled him and chanted. “Sila. Silas. Silas.” Heads tilted back, mouths open. When he came it was with a roar so mighty his abs cramped and forced him to bend over. He shot like a firehose. It covered their faces and bodies in white.

“Whee!” Tom shouted and came, doing a little dance as his own release slipped down his leg.

Audrey simply pulled a wet wipe from somewhere and started to cleanse herself, look of boredom never leaving her face but Paul noted the way her thighs flexed tightly.

“Whoo.” Alfred came and so did his contraption, all vibrators shooting white into the air like an obscene fountain that Tom danced around in. Jean bellowed like a wounded animal and fell to his knees into a puddle of his own making.  Sir Ian looked around disdainfully, gripped his dick, pulled once, twice and came all over Paul’s dick painting it with warm stripes.

Paul passed out.

And awoke in his trailer, clean and naked but with the taste of power make-up still on his lips.

Na'amen Tilahun has been tortured by Dan Brown in many multiverses. He considers the man his nemesis even if Dan Brown has no idea who he is, he comes to this evening hoping for some closure and a way to defeat his enemy. His debut novel THE ROOT is available at Booksmith!

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[shipwrecksf]

Hail Mary, Fill Her Grace

Chapter 1

Leonardo da Vinci tugged nervously at the crotch of his hose, the wool scratching at his leaning tower of penis. “So you see, Grand Mistress, I have conceived of a device with which to hide the remains of the chalice... in the one place the Church will never conceive to look.”

The Grand Mistress of the Priory of Sion took the drawing from his trembling hand. She could smell the sharp tang of his excitement. She wasn’t sure if it was coming from his body or his work.

“Why, this resembles a man’s—”

“Yes, Mistress,” he giggled, “a phallus for the Chalice.”

Chapter 2

“But what are these beads beneath the surface?” she asked, tracing her finger about the otherwise smooth shaft of the completed device.”

Da Vinci nearly erupted with pride at his own cleverness. “A way to contain more of the relics, Mistress,” he said, his tongue darting between his lips, “a way to bring an initiate…closer to God.”

 Chapter 3

She fondled the completed machine, marvelling at the sophistication. Even the Church, who decried the Priory’s Matriarch as a common whore, would never suspect such an audacious hiding place for her holy remains.

“We can protect her from those cockless old fools for generations. And so much more…” Her eyes shone with visions of the saturnalia that her pet Leonardo’s invention promised. Her loins flushed with anticipation. “So many possibilities,” she murmured, her mouth curling at the thought.

Da Vinci froze. “M-mistress,” he stammered, “If I may ask a small favor in return.”

She glanced from the marvellous length of leather and bone in her lap to his quivering thighs, certain she knew what her dutiful servant was about to request. “For such a masterpiece as this, you may.”

 Chapter 4

Leonardo da Vinci erupted with energy, erecting his easel and producing his palette in one swift stroke.

“If it please you, Mistress, hold that smile.”

 Chapter 42

Virginia stepped nervously through the halls of the French manor, the scrape of her sandals on the marble floor the only sound aside from her heart pounding in her chest. She adjusted her domino mask as it fell over her eyes, her forehead beading with sweat. It was a mild Easter morning, but she was hot with anticipation. For today she was to be fully initiated to the Priory of Sion’s inner circle, initiated by Grand Mistress Sophie herself.

No one would tell her what her Rite of Initiation would be, but she had read enough about the Priory to craft ever more lurid fantasies since her first…encounter with a Brother and Sister of the Priory. Now she saw every Crucifix as an opportunity, and sometimes even frightened herself at the new potential she saw in the gaping holes of stigmata.

At last, she arrived at the estate’s sprawling library. The massive shelves were bursting with every good college girl’s dreams. But beneath the musty aroma of history and science was the cloying scent of a more carnal knowledge, and it beckoned Virginia towards the shelf that hid a secret chamber behind its thick, hard wood. Her pulse quickened as the shelf swung open at her barest touch.

The musk of bodies in the heat of passion washed over her as she penetrated the inner sanctum of the Priory of Sion. Her Initiation had begun.

 Chapter 69

Grand Mistress Sophie lay sedately across the altar at the center of the chamber, a siren atop a rock amidst the churning sea of masked but otherwise completely naked bodies. Virginia gaped hungrily at the tangle of Priory members, eager to ride her way about the room like the harlot on the seven-horned beast. But she knew there was someone she had to do first.

She eagerly cast aside her robe and made her way to the eye of the sexy storm, the floor at once slick and sticky from the flowing milk and honey of the orgy around her. Grand Mistress Sophie smiled as she produced the strangest looking dildo Virginia had ever seen. “Welcome, Sister Virginia, to your Initiation,” she purred.

“What *IS* this?” Virginia gasped, marvelling at the ancient-looking rod of bone and leather as Sophie slid a hand between her thighs. While she spoke, Sophie removed her hand and anointed the shaft with Virginia’s holy water.

“This is how we hide our holy charge, in the last place the Church would ever look for it,” Sophie whispered into Virginia’s ear, her breath hot and moist against Virginia’s neck. “A Rabbit made from the femur and knuckles of Mary Magdalene herself.”

Virginia’s breast heaved at the sacrilegious sexiness. Sophie pulled back, her face agonizingly close to Virginia’s. “Now fuck me with her.”

Virginia plunged her mouth over Sophie’s as she took the unholy relic. Their tongues grappling like Joseph and the Angel as Virginia mounted the altar and parted Sophie’s Red Sea.

The Grand Mistress bucked her hips, insistent, but the Initiate let the Rabbit wander down Sophie’s body for what seemed to Sophie forty years in the desert until at last it reached her Promised Land.

The Rabbit sprang to life in Virginia’s hand. “FIST ME, MOTHER MARY MAGDALENE,” cried Sophie, “FIST ME LIKE YOU FISTED JESUS.”

At that, Virginia plunged the spear of flesh and bone into her Mistress. The knuckles rattled in Sophie’s pleasure cave as waves of ecstasy crashed through her body.

Sophie’s moans filled Virginia’s ears as her Mistress's nails dug into her back, pulling Virginia down against her. When their bodies met at the bony end of the ancient dildo, water poured forth from Virginia as it did when Moses struck the stone.

Virginia withdrew the dildo and sent it into her Mistress over and over. On the third play Sophie rose again and bit Virginia’s neck, filling both their senses, as they ascended into Heaven and lay sated by the bony hands of their Mother Mary Magdalene.

Michael Howley works in environmental consulting by day and disappoints his family by night. Now that he's written for Shipwreck again he can no longer use "eight years since he wrote fiction" as an excuse, so he's probably disappointing you, too.

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[shipwrecksf]

Some photos from Shipwreck Presents: Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451

Surprise guest star: Clippy

Writers: Kathleen Miller, Michelle Threadgould, Mikah McCabe, Alan Leggitt, Ruby Gill, and Albert Lusting. Thespian-in-Residence is Baruch Porras-Hernandez. Hosted by Amy Stephenson and Casey Childers.

Photos by Katie Morton (thank you!). Full set here!

(Tickets to the 9/1 Devil Wears Prada show here!)

[shipwrecksf]

Take Me Holmes

Sherlock Holmes stands in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, his back to me, gazing softly at the licks of flame, a snifter of medium-grade sherry gripped tightly in his hand. I can tell by the way he holds the glass that he is still upset. In the drawing room, a mournful tune plays faintly on the piano.

He knows I’m watching him, and how much restraint it takes for me not to touch him. I want to rush upon him like a bear raiding a dry-goods pantry. The tension alone causes something to swell warmly at the head of my male flower—a feeling similar to when someone makes you laugh so hard that you pee a little, except in this case, the pee is unadulterated man arousal.

“You were magnificent,” I say to his back, his frock coat rustling ever so slightly on the wind of my unignorable sexual magnetism.

“What would you know about it, Lestrade?” He huffs.

“You underestimate me,” I say, stepping cautiously into the crackling glow of the fireplace. I want to touch his bicep, casually, as if bicep-clutching is a perfectly valid form of expression between two brotectives.

I take a chance. I clutch.

He turns to face me, but only with his head—the rest of his body remains twisted away, with his clenched buttocks and perfect pectorals both facing me somehow, the way every female comic book character manages to fight crime while also displaying their copious tits and muscled asses simultaneously.

Holmes looks at me with his knitted brows and black eyes, black as the mystery of a lady’s vaginal matrix, of which I know nothing about, because I am not that kind of inspector.

From across the house, the piano wails louder, causing us both to break our rigorous eye-fucking and glance toward the drawing room.

“That’s my daughter, Katie,” Holmes groans.

“Katie Holmes?” I reply.

“Yes, she’s bereft ever since that boy from across the creek left her.”

“How upsetting,” I say. “I thought you were on Team Pacey?”

Turning to me fully now, eyes all knives and fury, he takes a dignified, manly sip of sherry, which causes my maleness to swell like an amateur’s first time at an all-you-can-eat Indian food buffet.

“Damnit, Lestrade,” he says, returning to the subject at hand. “How could I possibly be magnificent when that scoundrel won again?”

“Don’t worry, Holmes,” I snarl in what I hope comes across as both soothing and submissive. “He will get his comeuppance.”

“How can you be so sure?” Holmes whisper-spits, catching the escaping saliva with his tongue in the very same gesture. “And more importantly, how can I live with myself?”

“Live with yourself?” I mock, but in a sexy-cruel way. I let go of his bicep reluctantly, but only so I may stand behind him and press my sallow, slightly sunken chest into his broad back, and growl. “Is this whining coming from the same man who had his way with me on no less than three sheep farms in Scotland?”

I do not wait for his reply. I reach around him, and hover like a hummingbird over his periscope of manhood. It hardens at the mere suggestion of my hand upon it (and also because he is mildly aroused by sheep farms).  

The grizzled detective turns swiftly to face me, and in one deft swoop, rips off my high-collared dustcoat, leather leggings, neckerchief, and custodian helmet in a single gesture, as if they were made not of sturdy cloth, but the dainty wings of a butterfly or an angel costume sold at Walgreen’s.

“Lestrade...” he muses at my near-nakedness, my pale skin pinkening from the heat of his dominance. He seductively pours the remains of his sherry on my ferret-like face. “Did you know your name means ‘the raised platform’?” His pauses to lap at the sweet liquid dripping down my neck, tweaking a nipple for good measure. “How are you at raising other things?”

“I may be a conventional detective, Holmes,” I gasp, growing powerless as his tongue dips into my clavicle. He expertly withdraws one ball from the confines of my codpiece, and then the other. “But where I lack imagination in solving crimes, I more than make up for it by exonerating the prisoner in your pants.”

Thus convinced, I drop to my knees, unleash his swarthy snake popsicle, and take it into my mouth. A gruff yet civilized shudder escapes his lips as I fastidiously bob up and down on his man-mushroom. I do not gag at all, despite Holmes’ considerable girth, for I have years of experience doing keg stands with the chaps from Scotland Yard, and my gullet is as loose as a hansom cab wheel that hasn’t been properly calibrated to its single axle.

He grips my large, misshapen ears with both of his hands and thrusts wildly into my mouth with the mathematical precision of Rain Man counting felled toothpicks. Between the guttural moans of our beastly passion, Katie Holmes’ voice trickles softly in the distance.

“I don’t wanna wait,” she croons, “for our lives to be over.”

I don’t wanna wait either! I think to myself. And neither, it turns out, does Holmes. He orders me to rise from my knees, and with a kiss as unrelenting as it is masculine, removes my codpiece and spins me around, revealing the equal-opportunity orifice betwixt my cheeks in all its quivering glory.

The asterisk of my delight greets him eagerly, as if operating entirely on Holmes’ command. He bends me over the mantel and enters my throbbing pucker like a walk-in freezer, which has not been invented yet, but with which I could certainly identify in my imagination. I feel cavernous, frozen in Holmes’ embrace, the kaleidoscope of my maleness filling with blood despite the constriction that is normally associated with cold environments.

The flower of my buttocks opens for him, communicating a raw power that alarms us both. Impaled thus upon the cumbersome cling of his flesh dragon, I feel myself coming undone.

“Oh Dirty Shirley,” I moan, which is my private nickname for him.

The ash and man-musk and sherry create a most intoxicating olfactory event, and I find myself on the verge of climax, due to the allure of Holmes’ effete yet unflinchingly heterosexual magnetism.

“I’m coming, by gum!” he ejaculates, not literally but verbally. But then a few seconds later literally, as I feel the hot blast of Holmes’ salty surprise upon my colon cave. At the same time, I too expel my gentleman’s relish onto the rug, which I quickly and discreetly wipe off with my neckerchief, because I know Holmes abhors the unsightliness of stains.

Sweaty and spent, we collapse onto the floor and then switch positions so that he can be the little spoon. I glance out the open window, where I see Watson bathed in the quiet dignity of the moonlight and a small puddle of his own baby-gravy, and give him a sly thumbs-up.

This was our game. Watson knew that Holmes, the sorest of sore losers, could not resist being challenged to a game of cribbage, a game in which Watson has never been beaten. And who would be the one to soothe the good detective after his inevitable defeat? Who else would he call but Inspector Lestrade, whom he despised, yet grudgingly respected.

As Holmes himself once said, “There’s nothing so deceptive as an obvious fact.”

ANNA PULLEY is the author of the recently released Lesbian Sex Haiku Book (with Cats!). Her work has appeared in New York magazine and Mother Jones, on BuzzFeed, AlterNet, The Toast, and Salon, and in zines tastefully peppered with Ani DiFranco lyrics. She’s been a repeat guest on Dan Savage’s podcast, Savage Love, and is a sex and relationship columnist for the Chicago Tribune and AfterEllen. Let her send you overly personal emails at tinyletter.com/annapulley

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