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
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.Â
Harry, Hermione, and the other one were in a Gringotts cart, sexily plunging into the bankâs consenting caverns.
They were going to Bellatrixâs 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 sheâd 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 â 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. Theyâd 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 hadnât noticed Hermione until she discovered leave-in conditioner in year four.
If someone canât handle you at your Hogwarts Express, they just donât deserve you at your Yule Ball.
Harry ran back to play The Victim. But Hermione really didnât have time for that, maybe his mother would protect him or something.
âââ
To get into the vault, all Hermione needed was a Pottermore login. She typed her password and stepped into the vaultâs darkness.
âCrucio!â Bellatrix screamed. Red light shot toward Hermione. That bitch had been waiting for her. âCrucio!â âCrucio!â Hermione dove through the darkness, finding cover.
âAlexa, turn on the lights!â Hermione said. The spell shot around the room, illuminating golden torches and all Bellatrixâs fuck-you money.
In the new light, Bellatrix saw her twin for the first time. She froze. She hadnât 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 youâd get coke from.
âYouâre. Youâre beautiful.â 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.
âYou loathsome, evil little cockroach!â Hermione muttered. Bellatrix curtsied. âYouâre pathetic. You and Snape.â Bellatrix spit.
âYou mean acoustic Marilyn Manson? HEâS pathetic.â
âSnape is horribleâ Hermione said, because she hadnât finished the 7th book. âand Voldemort!â
Bellatrix crossed the vault like a blacked out girl at Fiona Apple karaoke.
âYOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME!â Bellatrix said, an inch from Hermione. âYOU FILTHYââ But staring into her own eyes quelled Bellatrixâs anger immediately. They both trembled. Hermione felt another surge of power.
âDo I scare you?â Hermione whispered. Bellatrix looked away. âEveryoneâs intimidated by a passionate woman.â Hermione said, touching Bellatrixâs face. âSurely you understand?â
The shower in Bellatrixâs 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 wouldnât pass that up.
âI came for Helga Hufflepuffâs Plot Device.â Hermione said. âIâm not leaving until I get it.â
Bellatrix motioned to a wall covered with treasure stolen from Hufflepuff. Helgaâs rings, her wand, her medical marijuana card, and in the center â 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.
âWell, I donât usually do this...â Bellatrix said with a wink. She usually did this. âBut if you want it. Earn it.â Bellatrix spread her legs.
Hermione smirked. This would be easy. Female friendships arenât all gel manicures and re-making 1980âs 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 wasnât so powerful â thereâs 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.
âNot too good on Mudblood hands!â Hermione clenched her jaw.
âOh, honestlyââ 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 Bellatrixâs 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 â like a waterbed, if a waterbed could fuck you.
They tore off each othersâ hoodies to reveal bare, feminist chest-quaffles. Then tumbled around â mouths to nipples, to throats, to thick, Eastern-european pubic pastures â all under the pulsating of legendary vibrators.
Bellatrix pinned Hermione down and oral-ed her BertieâBottsâMuggle-Flavor-Bean.
Hermione flipped the submission to swish-and-flick Bellatrixâs racist-cunt cunt.
Then Bellatrix moved her arm under Hermoine.
Hermione sat right on the Dark Mark with a suction cup sealâ
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 devilâs snare. There were now 1,000 massaging Briennes, miraculously on-beat with the gliding.
Hermioneâs 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.
âThe ceiling of the Great Hall is bewitched to mimic the sky!â
âI love that heâs passionate about his work but it distracts from us. We never get loaded off butterbeer and do hate crimes anymore.â
âIf boys try to enter the girlâs dormitory, the stairs turn into a slideâ
âIf Iâm honest, I want to have kids with him. Like six flat-nosed, Wednesday Addams fuckers.â
âIn 1792, a Cockatrice went loose during the Triwizard Tournament. Three school masters were injured.â
âNagina 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.â
âBOOKS AND CLEVERNESS!!â
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.
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 âcat person.â
âThis place is a mess,â 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 youâre a disapproving witch.)
As she stares, another witch crawls out of a nearby cauldron. Itâs Elphaba, or if youâre 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 doesnât.
Minerva licks her lips in approval, and also because she really likes candy corn. She knows itâs cliche, but thereâs 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.
âReally, Minerva,â Elphaba grunts. âOf all the places to have a witch orgy, this is what you pick?â
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.
âI thought it classic,â she says dismissively. âBesides, Dumbledoreâs sex island is booked through the fall.â She pinches Elphabaâs shapely derriere as she passes by on her way to set up the organic cheese table, and moans into her ear: âI like my women like I like my hairâtight buns.â
At this, Elphabaâs 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.
âWho else is coming?â Elphaba asks.
âYou are,â Minerva winks.
Elphaba trembles, trying to stem the tide of warmth rushing to her lady matrix before continuing her train of thought. âWhat about Sabrina the Teenage Witch? Joan of Arc?â
âJoan? Ha! Like sheâd ever come out of the broom closet.â
âWhat about that gal from Narnia who was crushed by a lion? The Green Witch.â
âMm, you would like her, wouldnât you, darling? Your own dopplebanger.â Minerva drops her voice and tosses her witch hat into the sky, where it hovers mid-air, because, magic. Distracted by Minervaâs 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.
âIâm here for the bitch orgy!â she exclaims and air-kisses Minervaâs floating hat.
Minerva rolls her eyes. âItâs witch. A witch orgy. If youâre looking for bitches try the Gossip Girl dungeon next door.â
Startled, Doherty lets go of Elphabaâs 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 Taraâs 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. Â
Out of the tumult, two cauldrons shoot a double rainbow between them and Hermione Granger appears. âSorry Iâm late, guys. Ron needed help with his homework,â she winks. âAnd by homework, I mean I was pegging him.â She casts a sly smile at Minerva, whose lady flower swells like it had been hit with a Stinging Jinx.
âHermione,â she says, trying to remain composed. âAre you even 18?â
âI 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." Â She throws her head back and laughs. Without waiting for Minervaâs response, she grabs two macaroons wedged betwixt one witchâs 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. âWho invited that prissy conservative rumpface?â She wonders silently, and then aloud. Dolores, Minervaâs arch nemesis, whom she had hate-masturbated to earlier that morning, seems to sense Minervaâs shame-lust, and shimmies toward her perkily, with the confidence of an overflowing toilet and the grace of a constipated muppet.
âYou,â she spits.
âYou,â Minerva spits back, a fleck of her saliva landing squarely on Doloresâs 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 Doloresâs 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 Doloresâs 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, Minervaâs 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. Itâs like a one-man band, or a really thoughtful rhinoceros. At the sight of Minervaâs omnipotent sex wand, Dolores gasps, a mix of fear, surprise, and utter respect mingling on her priggish face.
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, âPraise Manon, pizzaâs here!â 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 woâmoonsâ 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.
âWell look whoâs here,â coos Neve, tracing a finger down his pale, hairless chest. She leans forward, breathes huskily into Harryâs ear, causing the hairs on his neck to prickle, and says, âYou know, Harry, Iâve been thinkingâŠâ
âYes?â 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.â
âYou should really tell your boss to compost all these used pizza boxes. Itâs bad for the earthâs carbon footprint,â she says earnestly, then slams the door in his face, so that she may return to the sex game she was playingâlight 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. Minervaâs grabs her by her hair, her deft wand plunging in and out of Doloresâs 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 Minervaâs wand is swallowed completely inside Doloresâs steamy lobster pot.
Minerva smiles softly as she pounds Doloresâs rear into a lusty pulp, making her stout frame shake as she brings her to the verge of the little death.
âMerlinâs beard! Iâm close!â 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.
âOh, please, donât stop,â Dolores begs, arching her rear higher in the air.
But Minerva doesnât 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 Doloresâs facehole, and says:
âRemember darling, if you should find yourself in need of a helping hand, you can conjure one yourself.â 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
In a darkened corner of Headmistress McGonagallâs office, on a podium carved from a griffonâs 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 heâd been sneaking into the Headmasterâs 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, Hagridâs fuck hammer was equal to his thighs in girth and as long as his forearm. Whatever youâre picturing, it was bigger than that. He began to stroke.
Once, the Sorting Hat had thrilled at the sight of Hagridâs 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 umbrellaâs 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 5â9 slab of dark haired, honey-skinned Guatemalan perfection. It was Hagridâs new graduate student, Oscar Isaac. Â
âHagrid!â Oscar Isaac smoldered. âYouâre just the man I was looking for. Iâm having trouble with my term paperâŠâ
âI can help you with your term paper, Oscar Isaac,â said Hagrid. âBut first you must help me with this.â He gestured instructively toward his cock.
Oscar Isaacâs eyes widened. He pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robe. âSusudio!â he said. In a puff of smoke, his clothes disappeared. The Sorting Hat was fully erect.
âYouâre a hairy wizard!â 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. Â
âHavada ka-dunka-dunk!â Hagrid exclaimed.
Oscar Isaac flashed a coy smile over his shoulder. âMy Patronus is a gerbil,â he purred.
Hagrid grabbed Oscar Isaac by the hips. He squeezed a dollop of precum from his dick and slathered it against the young manâs hungry love hole. With a grunt, he shoved his hefty shaft forward.
But it wouldnât go in.
âItâs too big,â Oscar Isaac said, sounding both delighted and disappointed at once.
âI have an idea,â Hagrid said. He grabbed the umbrella, pointed it at Oscar Isaacâs ass, and shouted, âCapacious Etremis!â A shower of blue sparks flew from the tip, like a storm cloud cumming on someoneâs face.
âWhat was that?â Oscar Isaac asked.
âUndetectable extension charm. I saw Hermione do it to a handbag once.â
âDid it work?â
To test the spell, Hagrid grabbed the closest thing he could find, a leatherbound copy of Infinite Jest, and pushed it into Oscar Isaacâs butthole. The butthole took it obligingly.
âOooh, thatâs tingly,â Oscar Isaac said.
âAre you ready for the main course?â Hagrid asked.
âWhat about protection?â
âDonât you trust me?â asked Hagrid.
Oscar Isaac gave him a knowing look. âCan you honestly tell me youâve never fucked a hippogriff or a giant, three-headed dog?â
âFair point,â said Hagrid. âItâs just⊠they donât exactly make condoms for giants.â
âDonât worry,â said Oscar Isaac. âNo one at Hogwarts has ever had a problem that couldnât be solved with an inexplicably convenient magical artifact.â
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 didnât see Oscar Isaac searching the shelves for something to put over Hagridâs enormous dick. It only realized what was happening when it felt its brim stretching to accommodate the head of the giantâs cock.
âHmmmâŠâ said the Sorting Hat. âBravery⊠loyalty⊠THIS COCK BELONGS IN HOUSE GRYFFINDOR!â
âThis cock belongs in my furry little man gash,â Oscar Isaac corrected as he pushed the Sorting Hat fully onto Hagridâs meat. The pull of the seams was exquisite. It had been so long since the Hat had felt anything at allâŠ
And then came the warm envelopment of Oscar Isaacâs 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.
The heat and friction tore at the Hatâs 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 blissâŠ
But somehow, sandwiched between a giantâs dick and Oscar Isaacâs man crevasse, the Sorting Hat remembered what it was to be alive. It felt the pounding of Hagridâs cock, the divinity of Oscar Isaacâs 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 Isaacâs 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 Headmistressâs 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. Â 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
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. Â
âYER A JIZZER, HARRY!â
Abruptly, the lights switched on.
âThis does nothing for me, Harry. NOTHING!â Ginny Weasley wobbled on her stilts as she tore the false beard from her face and hurled it onto the bedroom floor. âHonestly, Iâm beginning to think you have some childhood issues you need to work through!â
Harry glared at her. âThis is extremely sex-negative of you,â he said reproachfully. âI indulge your kinks, you indulge mine. Thatâs the key to a happy marriage.â
âHarry, 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!â
âWhy are you so against body hair, hmmmm?â he countered. âThatâs the patriarchy talking.â
Suddenly, there was a series of popping sounds. Ginny screamed and toppled from her stilts with a loud thud.
Harryâs confused senses took in a mass of pinstripes and slicked-back hair. âMalfoy?â 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.
âAnd how do you do, Potter? I havenât seen you sinceâGod, I canât remember. In any case, it was long before I joined the very prestigious law firm of Dewey Cheatem & Howe.
âBut no time for chit-chat,â Draco continued. âWeâre 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.â
âW-what?â stammered Harry Potter, completely aghast.
âMy client is adamantly opposed to the numerous instances of erotic fanfiction you have participated in for the last nineteen years,â said Malfoy. âShe 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 theyâre still banging. Please, definitely no more of that.â
Harry tried to take this all in, his mind racing. âThis,â he said, âis extremely sex-negative of you.â
There were two more faint pops as Hermione and Ron also Apparated into their friendâs bedroom. âDonât worry, Harry,â said Hermione, resplendent in a charcoal suit and towering black heels. âWeâve got this.â
âOh, yes, definitely,â 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. Â
âHermione Granger, esquire, and my colleague, Ronald Weasley, esquire,â said Hermione, coolly extending a hand to Draco. âWeâre from the Ministry of Magicâs Office of the General Counsel, and we will be defending Mr. Potter in this matter.â
âWhen did you even go to law school?â asked Harry, bewildered.
âLaw schools will admit just anyone, these days,â 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.
âThe court is now in session,â said a familiar, hissing voice.
Harryâs brow was furrowed. He knew that voice. It wasâ
âThe honorable Judge Voldemort, presiding.â
Harry was speechless.
âThe Wizarding Constitution is not big on due process or human rights, Iâm afraid,â said Hermione apologetically. âBut 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.â
Harry sputtered and gestured to the judge that towered over them. âButâbut it still doesnât explainââ
âAfter you defeated me,â intoned Voldemort, âI appealed my death to the Federal Circuit. They reversed the entirety of the seventh book en banc, and the question of whether or not Iâm actually defeated is currently pending before the Supreme Court.â
âButâyou canâtâthatâs notââ
âOh, Harry,â said Hermione hurried. âItâs not all bad. If Book 7 is struck down by the courts, that Epilogue never happened and isnât canon.â
âIn any case, your Honor,â said Draco smoothly. âThe issue at hand is the rampant infringement of the works of J.K. Rowling via unauthorized fanfiction.â
âYour Honor,â interjected Hermione. âSection 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 theyââ
âFair use has been described as the most troublesome doctrine in all of copyright law,â said Draco. âHow can you possibly make such sweeping claims about a large and girthy corpus of unauthorized works?â
Hermione sniffed. âThe Supreme Courtâs decision in Campbell v. Acuff-Rose is clearly the controlling precedent in this case.â
âIs it just me,â asked Harry aloud, âor does it make absolutely zero sense that weâre applying American Muggle copyright law to the British wizarding world?â
Everyone ignored him.
âYour Honor,â Hermione continued, while undoing the top button of her blouse, âany and all erotica featuring the characters from the Harry Potter universe is but a critique of the phallic subtext in what is purportedly a childrenâs series.â
âThis is a reckless smear on my clientâs dignity!â Draco expostulated.
âI want to see where this is going,â said Judge Voldemort.
âBoys flying around with broomsticks between their legs,â said Hermione. âLong 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?â
âThat,â said Draco coldly, âis extremely sex-negative of you.â
âIâm 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 toââ
âIâve heard enough,â said Judge Voldemort, silencing her. âLetâs proceed to oral arguments. âŠThe other oral arguments.â
Draco and Hermione looked at each other. They shrugged and began to take off their suit jackets.
âLitigation these days, Harry,â said Ron gloomily as he unzipped his pants. âItâs basically just fucking each other in the ass all day in front of a judge.â
It wasnât all just fucking each other in the ass, it looked like. Hermione was now riding Dracoâs face as he lay on his back on a table strewn with legal documents. âOh, god, yes,â she was screaming. âIâm so close to summary judgment!â
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.
âDo I have to?â asked Harry.
Voldemort shrugged. âLook, bud. Iâm the only guy between you and a nine billion dollar judgment. I think Iâm 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.â
Ginny appeared at Harryâs elbow. She looked resignedâor at least, he thought she did, beneath the wig and fake beard. âDo you want me to get on the stilts again?â she asked.
âOh, Ginny.â He was touched. âYou didnât have to put those back on for me.â
âWhatever,â she said. âAnything to get a verdict in our favor.â She took a deep breath and bellowed,
âYER A JIZZER, HARRY!â
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.
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.
âMan, thirteen souls eaten this week--a new record! I say we celebrate by getting some action!â exclaimed Dan.
Marc, his wingman and fellow dementor, gulped firewhiskey while scoping out the evening crowd in Hogsmeadeâs seediest drinking establishment, the Hogâs Head.
âThere is some quality tail here tonight,â said Marc, assessing the shifty-eyed, unsavory magicians for a potential partner. As a young girl in green robes walked by, Marc called out.
âHey girl, wanna take a ride on my broomstick?â
âGet splinched, creep.â She made a rude gesture with her hands and walked off.
âWitches, amirite?â Marc scowled. âHow do I look? Is my hood crooked?â Marc looked exactly like Dan: A floating, scab-covered monstrosity in tattered reaper robes, glistening with slime.
âVery handsome. Actually, hold a sec, what do you mean, *look?* Weâre supposed to be blind. Also, since when do we speak? I thought we made rattling gasps accompanied by screeching violins.â
âOh, yeah, donât 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 Spockâs 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 weâre gonna get some tonight!â
âWait, are we going to have sex?â
âBro, I know Iâm hot, but Iâm not into wands, know what I mean? Nah, I think the lucky enchantress is in this very bar.â
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.
âHer.â
"Holy shit, is she a WILF,â Marc whispered to him. âGo hit on her!â
Dan floated up to her grinning, and casually dropped his big line:
âHey Honeydukes, want to make some magic together?â
She winced. âDating in Azkaban must be rough, huh? Maybe lose the pickup lines.â
âAnd fall back on my looks instead?â
She shrugged. âYouâre not the ugliest Dementor Iâve ever met.â
âHave you met many?â
âIâm close to the Dark Lord, so more than a few.â
âAh, that explains it. Most people get nervous talking to us.â
âHardly. Iâm extremely overbearing. I mean, my husband is a Death Eater, and I have him totally underfoot.â
âYouâre married? Look, Iâm not looking to wreck any homes.â he demurred.
âOh hush. I have a redemption arc later, so allâs fair.â She paused. âIâm Narcissa. My friends call me Cissy.â
âDan.â
âSo Dan, is what they say about men with long robes true?â 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. Sheâs so attractive and domineering, and Iâm basically the physical manifestation of clinical depression. This must be one of those opposites-attract stories!
Dan glided towards her, looming. âWhat do you want?â
âWhat do you do?â she asked,
âEverything, but I donât kiss on the mouth.â
âThen take me, you sad Nazgul!â 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! - Â The bathroom door crashed open, and a poncy, dramatic figure stormed in, shaking in apparent fury.
âNarcissa, where have you been, Iâve been looking everywh... What are you... is that a Dementor!?â
Narcissa yelped âItâs not what it looks like!â She queefed delicately. â...not entirely what it looks like.â
Luciusâ nostrils flared, his face resembling a desperately constipated Aryan Elrond. âNarcissa.â he barked, âThis is vile! Heâs not pure-blooded! Heâs not even human! I cannot believe you would do this to me! I cannot believe you would do thisâŠâ His lower lip trembled. â...without me.â Lucius dropped to his knees, his eyes shining.
âWhatttttt.â said Dan, disbelieving.
Lucius crawled across the floor towards them. âHow did you know? Iâve 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... itâs why Iâm such an insufferable prick all the time! Please, Cissy, let me stay,â he whimpered.
âFine, you can watch.â She had a wicked glimmer in her eye, and she leaned back for more. âDan, carry on. Lucius, watch closely.â
Tears beaded in the corners of Luciusâs eyes. âMay I clean up the mess, madam?â Lucius sprung up on his knees, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a puppyâs.
And so the evening went on, Dan womping away at Narcissaâs golden snitch while Lucius lay underneath, mouth agape, lapping at sex juice and dementor slime with glee. âEat her pussy, daddy!â 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.
âOh, hold on, I left a fingernail in you. And some scabs. And pus.â
He cleared the way and then stuck his sex-wand back in and started bludging again. He could sense Narcissaâs sadistic pleasure in cheating, and the exquisite misery of Luciusâ humiliation: he had to admit it was suuuuuper hot.
Lucius was gibbering: âI canât please Cissy like this. She shouldnât even be called Cissy. I should be called sissy, Iâm the sissy! Fuck her like a cavetroll! Show me how to please her like I canât,â he mewled.
âNo, you really caaaAAAaaAAAaaaanâtttttt-â she howled, his humiliation finally pushing her over the edge. She came, face crimson, fingers clawing across Danâs back.
Lucius was beaming, clearly desperate for resolution of his own. âThat was⊠that was so⊠Can I pleaseâŠ?â    Â
And with that, Lucius latched onto Dan and kissed him. Instinctively, Dan closed his mouth over Luciusâs! It was too much to bear, he couldnât 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, Luciusâ 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.
âIs he going to be alright?â Narcissa asked.
âYeah, uh, heâs fine. Listen, can we⊠maybe not mention this to anyone? Might lose my job.â
âActually, this is good. Itâll help explain how heâll manage to botch hide-and-seek with a bunch of 15-year-olds in book five.â Narcissa re-donned her robes and levitated Lucius off the floor. Rushing out of the room, she quickly stammered âThanks, havenât cum that hard since Slug Club. Ta, darling!â
Left standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror with eyes that shouldnât exist, recovering from sex he shouldnât be able to have, Dan thought to himself: You know, this fanfiction thing isnât so bad.
This story was written by Samuel Rye, whose work you can find in Loose Lips, the Shipwreck book
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 didnât feel a part of his⊠interests. After a full day of looking after Bill, Iâd expect to have a chat when he got home. Instead heâd head straight for that Muggle monstrosity heâd set up in our living room. His âMain Freem,â he called it.
One evening, Bill went down early, and Arthur sat transfixed by his hunk of Muggle metal and plastic. Teaching himself âFork Tran,â he said. I suppose I got a bitâŠrestless.
Before I knew it, Iâd 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.
âAy, Molly Prewett,â came a familiar voice behind me. âYou, my girl, are a sight for these sore eyes.â
âRubeus!â I cried, surprised at how good it was to see him. âHowâve you been, old lad?â
âNot bad, not bad.â He smiled. His eyes sparkled with kindness and mischief. I couldnât remember the last time someone who didnât shit into a sodding nappy had looked at me like that. Then Hagridâs face fell. âStrange times,â he said. ââCourse, I donât hafta tell you that, âey?â
âPlease, letâs not talk about it,â I requested. âAnything else. Hogwarts gossip? How are the creatures?â
Hagrid perked up again. âMatter of fact, got me a new one just last week. Canât keep him at the school, though. So I have him here. Room 10.â His eyes danced.
âOh, Hagrid!â I shook my head. âYou never learn.â
âCare to take a look?â
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. âShut it,â he said, and when I complied, he stepped aside to reveal a sleeping baby dragon.
âRubeus! No!â
âLooks like a young one, donât he?â Hagrid crouched and pet his creature tenderly. âBut heâs a miniature breed! A Shetland dragon!â
I hung back, my hand still on the door.
âCome now, Molly old girl,â Hagrid assured me. âNothinâ to be scared of in here.â And my hand slipped away from the knob.
I knelt down on the floor and stroked the heaving creatureâs soft scales. The dragon stirred a bit, but soon his gentle breathing regained its rhythm.
âYeâ see?â Hagrid said, meeting my eyes. âIf you touch âem with care, even the most powerful critters will allow you.â
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 Hagridâs meaty paw and looked at him, my gaze overflowing with longing. âRubeus...â And I moved my lips toward that massive mouth.
His kiss tasted like butterbeer and hay, like our youth, like simpler times. Â Â
His hands slid over my shoulders and down to my waist. Iâd gained more than a bit of weight with Bill. But in those half-giant hands, I felt light, feminine, and as exhilarated as Iâd 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 didnât 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. âThatâs it, old girl,â he said softly. âLet it all come together.â
âNo!â I cried, and he pulled away. My hand flew to his cheek to reassure him. âNo, I want you⊠All of you⊠Inside me.â I said. âIs that⊠possible?â
A slow smile crept across his face. ââTis, Molly. If youâre sure.â
I nodded.
âClose your eyes, then,â 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 Iâd expected.
Then he took it in his hand and aimed it between my legs. Faintly, I heard him whisper âEngorgio!â
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.
âA creature yeh still are, Molly Prewett,â 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. Heâd 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, itâs perfectly safe to use Engorgio on oneâs 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.
The smell of enchanted cum perfumed the air as the Whomping Willow shuffled into the dungeon of Fineous Philanderâs 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 Sorcererâs Stones and no Magical Goblets, no evil armies and âHe Who Must Not Beâ yadda yadda... Like you donât know who the fuck Iâm 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, âwhat did we do, I canât look at you in the morning, but call me later after weâve had a few too manyâ fucking. Hogwarts and the surrounding hills were alive with the cries of bump and grind. And it was glorious.
And on Wednesdayâs, at Finny Pâs 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 ghostâs ass. Two more were in front-one driving his deathstick into Nickâs 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 Snareâs oily tendrils snake through a door into the VIP area. A couple of Summerâs ago that smooth talking weed had been all âI love your full bushâ and âLet me fertilize that soilâ 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.
âHey handsomeâ Whompy melted into the embrace and backed his trunk up to the thick torso as Aragogâs deep baritone quaked behind him. The big spiderâs gravely voice-like a sandpaper thunderstorm- was enough to make him wet and Whompy felt his sap start to trickle down his roots.
âMiss me?â the voice rumbled.
âYes Daddy,â Whompy turned and ran his limbs all over his loverâs muscular Cephalothorax.
Aragogâs 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 willowâs 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. Â 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 donât 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 lovinâ that he couldnât deny. And since they were progressive, open minded archnids, theyâd seen no reason to deny their extramarital urges. Of course, Mosagâs obsession with Centaur cock only was also a huge consideration.
Tired of waiting and ready to put a hurtinâ on that ass, Aragog led his fuckshrub to a back corner of the room and stopped in front of a web heâd spun just for their pleasure. The spider pressed downward on Whompyâs branches and the normally aggressive alpha tree just smiled and sunk to the ground. He knelt low, beneath the musky abdomen, where the spiderâs big black spinnerets stood ready and waiting for attention. The eager tree opened his mouth hollow wide as he leaned in closer.
âYeah, baby. Thatâs it. Suck it for Daddy.â
âMmm hmmâ Whompy moaned as he bathed the massive pincers with his love juices.
âWhoâs my little spinner slut?â the spider demanded.
âI am daddyâ Whompy gasped as thick trails of sap cascaded from his mouth hollow. He looked up at the dominant spider lovingly.
âIâm your little spinner slut!â
After fucking his submissiveâs face and luxuriating in his sloppy top, Aragog pulled out and strapped his now pliant partner into the web.
âGet ready baby,â Aragog whispered. âI know what you need. Daddyâs going to fix you right up.â
The sensual brrr of the chainsaw caused Whompyâs 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 loverâs 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.
âYou ready baby?â
Whompy just nodded and leaned into the web as the muscular abdomen ground faster and faster against his hypersensitive bark.
He couldnât help but cry out when he felt Aragogâs 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. Â
The murderous tree sighed a contented sigh, backed his knot into the sweat soaked abdomen, and pulled two of his loverâs 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 âCHORUS, a literary mixtapeâ, âBeyond the Frontier: African American Poets for the 21st Centuryâ 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.
Oh hieeeeee, weâre 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 weâll even sign it for you.
Hereâs where to catch us next:Â
Sat 10/22, 1:30PM, Jamison's Roaring Donkey: Weâll be in Petaluma, courtesy of Copperfields Books, for a fanfic open mic and workshop + book signing! Join us, thisâll be killer.Â
Thu 11/3, 7PM, Booksmith: Weâre back at our home base for our FOURTH annual Stephen King show. This year weâre taking on Pet Sematary, the book he gave the fewest shits about. Seats are still on sale.Â
Jacques SauniĂšre 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. âDammit, Jacques, this is no time for masturbation, we have important work to do!â 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: âYeahhhhh, Jacques, git it.â 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.
âShould I call an ambulance? Or whatever the French word for ambulance is?â
âThereâs no time, officer. I need you inside me more than I need to live.â
Detective Collet, now naked, kneels next to Jacques, his hard cock hovering over the curatorâs chin.
âHave you been tested recently?â
âYes, Sir, I am STI-free. And no worries about your status, Iâm about to die.â
Collet shoves his hard cock into Jacquesâ mouth, and moans as Jacques swirls his tongue around the head before eagerly taking all eight inches down his throat. Heâs weak, because of the dying, but Collet likes his men quivering and submissive, so itâs extra hot. After a few minutes, Collet abruptly pulls his dick out.
âTurn over.â
âYes, Sir.â
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 manâs 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: âOui, oui, oui, Monsieur, oui!â
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 Jacqueâs 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 canât take one more second, he grabs Jacquesâ hair and whispers in his ear, âIâm gonna fuck you now, you gorgeous man.â
âOui, oui, Monsieur!â 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 curatorâs tight ass pulsing around him. He leans into his ear again and whispers, âI donât even know your name, but I love you.â
âI love you too. Take me, take me now, officer. Also, I need to tell you something.â
âWhat, my love? Anything.â
âOk, thereâs 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, itâs 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?â
âOh baby, I love when you talk dirty to me.â
âUgh, youâre amazing, and I canât believe Iâm going to die before I even get to know your name or kiss you, but thereâs 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.â
âYou know, I could save you, and then you could have my dick in your ass every nigh---â
âHush, my love,â interrupts Jacques. âThereâs no timeâŠâ he whispers.
     Collet obeys, even though heâs the Dom and he doesnât usually go for bratty subs, but Jacques is dying and they havenât negotiated a D/s protocol, and Colletâs a cool dude, he can hang. Jacques continues to speak, through his moans, as Collet lovingly fucks that sweet ass.
     âYou have to find--ahhhh---Robert Langdon----ooooh---thereâs 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, sheâll know what to doooooooooo.â 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 Jacquesâ ass. Collet presses his sweaty body against Jacqueâs 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 Jacquesâ 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.
âAsh 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 NYUâs Tisch School of the Arts, and Sallie Mae will never let her forget it.
Authorâs 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, Twilightâs Stephenie Meyer, and 50 Shades of Grayâs E.L. James. They engaged in small talk, but they couldnât understand each other since they spoke *exactly* as they wrote.
Dan Brown turned to his left and addressed Stephenie Meyer. âMy French stinks, but my zodiac iconography is pretty good.â
Stephenie Meyer narrated her life to no one in particular. âHe studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like a sense of humor and arrogance didnât mix.â
The 50 Shades of Gray author piped in next. âSuddenly, Iâm sitting up and tugging my panties off and throwing them on the floor.â She turned to Dan Brown. âIâd like to pull off your boxer briefs, and see your erection spring free."
John Berendt was confused. âIâm not sure I understand whatâs going onâ 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.
âYouâre probably wondering why I gathered you here todayâ the list said. âYouâre being inducted into a very secret society of writers, and after this cliffhanger, there will be another in 2 pages.â
 Chapter 107
The list spoke, and what he said⊠forever changed the course of history.
 Chapter 108
âYou are part of a very exclusive group of writers, those who have topped me for many weeks at a time. What you *didnât* know is this makes you part of a secret society as well: the Priory of Cock. Itâs called that because your books suck dick.â
The 50 Shades author spoke up: âMy desire to know more â it pools dark and deadly in my groin.â
Dan Brown pulled a Robert Langdon and mansplained his way through literally everything. âActually, I believe your group is called the Priory of Phallus since the word âcockâ wasnât invented until 1682 by a French artist who was also a member of Jesusâs bloodline.â
Stephenie Meyer had one hand down her jean shorts. âWanna see how I got inspiration for that wolf?â
Berendt was getting frustrated. âMy book was a finalist for a Pulitzer!â he yelled. âI developed my characters! I had an EDITOR!â
The Bestseller List interrupted. âThe 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.â
 Authorâs 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 âsummer readingâ which is defined as âlong books you can brag about completing because theyâre written at a 3rd grade level.â 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.
 âIâve spent the past 30 years jerking you people off and making you richâ the list continued, âand now itâs your turn. The only way I wonât expose you for the phonies you are... is if you stand in the center of this room, and take turns jerking ME off.â
You didnât 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 â and as it turned out, the distance between the center of the room and the chairs was the mathematical number PHI â because ruining art wasnât enough for Dan Brown.
âCome to mamaâ she said, as she pulled out the listâs 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 âokay itâs my turn.â
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 sheâs still *technically* a virgin. And John Berendt was live-Tweeting the entire literary orgy using the hashtag #ShipwreckSF.
The list decided it was Dan Brownâs turn to suck dick, as if he didnât already (wink) â so he brought him over and pushed him down on his knees.
Dan Brown looked up at the list. âDid you know The Da Vinci Code is an anagram for A Ditched Novice?â
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. âWhat in the actual fuckâ the voice screamed. It was none other than the listâs 25-year-old granddaughter⊠Oprahâs 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. âGrandpa, HOW COULD YOUâ the book club said, afraid to look directly at him.
âHoney, 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!â
Oprahâs 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:
âHOW DARK THE COCK OF MAN.â
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 âStayâ 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 wasnât picturing Casey, nope, that would just be weird).
âDick Pictogram (or: How Leigh Teabing Learned to Do Hard Time and Love It)â
Layla Teabagâs performance was the longest running show at the Palais De Lâile 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. Â And it was Stanleyâs 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 equalityââprecisely 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 âbook-lesqueâ.
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. Laylaâs 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 Laylaâs careful movements in her leg braces and crutches. It was the spitting, with its suddenness and irregularity, that put people off. Tonightâs 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.
âUm, Layla, may I come in for a moment.â
âYes, I suppose.â 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.
âI was hoping we could talk about the show.â Stanley softly kicked an imaginary rock on the cell floor, like a little boy asking for an extra scoop of ice cream.
âDid you love it?!â Layla beamed, âWasnât it divine?!â
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, Leighâs 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.
âWell, weâve been getting some complaints, actually, andâââ
âWe have lost all reverence for the divine feminine!â 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.
âYou respect the divine feminine, donât you, Stanley?â
Stanley nodded, and Teabag gave him a knowing look. It was an old game.
âClose the cell door, and fasten the curtain,â said Layla. Â
Stanley obeyed, and Layla motioned for him to come closer.
âDo you like anagrams, Stanley?â
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. Â
âGood then, hereâs one for you: We rain hermits. Whatâs that an anagram for?â
Stanley hesitated, âuh, Itâs warm in here?â
âVery, good,â said Layla, âyouâve gotten quite good at this.
âAnd how about, Oily supremacy role? Can you think of an anagram for that?
Stanley spoke cautiously, âYour lips are comely?â
Layla giggled with the confidence of someone who was certain that there was nothing on earth that she could not possess. âQuite good!â 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 Laylaâs cell. âHow about, a rosy networked smut?â
âTake down my trousersâ answered Stanley, as he undressed Layla.
âGood!â Layla shivered and offered another anagram as the last piece of her clothing fell to the ground, âNow, how about unshakeable ascot duets. Give me an anagram, goddammit.â
Stanley was stumped.
Layla repeated herself, âUNSHAKEABLE ASCOT DUETS!â 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, âSuck out these anal beads!â
âVery goo-oo-oo-ood,â said Layla, quaking with pleasure as Stanley got to work.
Layla reached behind and began to stroke Stanleyâs marble-hard codex. She offered him another puzzle, âtell me an anagram for âA miniature snooty porn ox!ââ
Stanley popped out the last of the anal beads and emptied his mouth before speaking,
âA pure taint is no oxymoron.â
âThatâs right, baby, lower,â said Layla.
After a few moments, Layla had Stanley turn her around, both of them heaving.
âI want to taste Great Britain!â
This was the name they had agreed upon for Stanleyâs cock. Stanley placed all of Great Britain from shore to shore in Laylaâs 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,
âMen do howl.â
âNow, hold me,â answered Stanley, embracing Layla.
âVery good, indeedâ 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.
Robert Langdon was swirling a clear tumbler of gin in one handâhis other hand held his iPhone 4, the cracked screen open to Twitter. Â 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 McDonaldâs 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 heâd 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!â 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, âMonsieur, for an expert in zee Sacred Feminine, it is surprising zhat you seem to need a treasure map to find my clit.â 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 didnât 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, âOh shit waddup!â to 30% off all weekend at Barnes & Noble! [GIF of green frog riding a unicycle while reading Langdonâs book The Art of the Illuminati]
His Twitter bio read: âI wrote the book on Secret Sects. Literally! [Laughing cat emoji]. Public Intellectual. Sapiosexual. Male Feminist.â [Angel emoji, Devil emoji, Gemini emoji] His avatar was very out of date, from the years when he could still be described as âHarrison Ford in Harris tweed.â More recently, his look could be better described as âKarl Rove in creased khakis.â A picture would reveal his heavily receded hairline and the desperate eyes of a man who hadnât seen the inside of a holy grail in years.
These days, he couldnât get pussy if he paid for it, and in any case, he couldnât afford to pay for it. The general public had lost interest in Catholicism, now they were all fascinated by Scientology, and even he couldnât bring himself to write about a âreligionâ 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 shakeâŠ
Further investigation revealed they were in reference to some video called Lemonade. He wasnât quite sure what that was exactly, but he felt a strange assurance that it held the key to what he soughtâŠIn 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 shadowâŠhe couldnât help but be reminded of the secret sects heâd encountered before; the more he probed, the more certain he felt that this exclusive, inexplicable organization was remarkably similarâŠ
After much exasperation, and with a rising sense of suspicion, he decided to Torrent it instead (Robert Langdon wasnât 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 knewâŠ
Suddenly, his internet searching yielded just the clue he was looking forâhe found himself staring at a picture of Jay and Ye throwing up a sign, their hands face up, creating the shape of none other thanâŠA PYRAMID! With that image swimming in his mind, he read on, only to learn that their collaboration album was calledâŠWATCH THE THRONE! Featuring a song aboutâŠPARIS!
Langdonâs 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 Kanyeâs 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 Grammyâs. What was it he had said then? âBeyonce had the greatest video of all time.â BEYONCEâŠTHE GREATESTâŠALL TIMEâŠHis 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 heâd discovered beforeâŠhe turned his attention back to the lemon emojiâŠthe lemon emoji was the keyâŠyellowâŠroundâŠlike aâŠCHALICE. A GOLDEN CHALICE.
âMy God!â he exclaimed. What if heâd been wrong about Sophie? What if it had never been Sophie at allâŠwhat if BEYONCE was the true living descendent of Jesus Christ! After all, no matter what Da Vinci painted, Jesus sure as hell wasnât a white man.
âI have to tell the world! This is my ticket back to fame and fortune!â 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: âYâall haters corny with this Illuminati mess.â Langdon smirked: âYou wonât throw me off the trail that easily, my dear.â
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. Â
No, he wasnât Silas, he was Paul Bettany, but he was covered in the white powder makeup theyâd 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 couldnât 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.
âHello! Anyone out there!â His voice echoed through the cavern.
âShh, shh, shhâ The soothing sounds echoed as well turning them to dark whispers. Five hooded figures stepped forward between the torches.
âWho are you people?â A note of terror filled Paulâs voice.
One pulled off his robe to reveal Tom Hanks in nothing but a speedo with a white & blue suit design across the front.
âHey Paul! Welcome!â
âTom, whatâs going on?â His voice shook.
âJust a little ritual to help our film!â 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. âWell, my boy. You see weâre just a bunch of pagans, most actors are and youâre this movieâs sacrifice. Very exciting!â 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.
âShh.â Tom patted his head and a little white powder floated up. âItâll be okay.â
âYouâre going to kill me?â He screamed.
âNo, no, no!â Tom answered, still petting Paulâs face. âJust a little orgy, thatâs all!â
Paul choked on air.
âItâs tradition after every film.â Sir Ian stated.
âI donât know anything about this.â Paul said, shaking his head again.
Audrey Tautouâs lightly accented voice answered him. âWell, you were probably not famous enough till now.â She removed her robe, her hair was done up Amelie style and her breasts painted with bright, joyful greens and reds.
âIs that why Iâm done up like Silas and you all are dressed so...weird?â Paul found himself growing hard. Neither men nor women excited him but fame did. All these famous people wanted to fuck him.
âWe go with themes of previous successes. It insures a good box office.â
Jean Renoâs more heavily accented voice spoke. âYes, this is my first as well!â He pulled off his robe to reveal his naked body. Paul quickly looked away. Jean didnât have the fame to keep him hard and the body wasnât making up for it.
âNot mine.â 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.
âRon used to be one of us, so we let him watch.â Tom said smiling. Alfred had moved over and was gently chewing on Tomâs neck. Paul strained into the darkness and could just make out the shadowed outline of a man in a directorâs seat.
The shadow nodded.
âYou can say no, if you want. But why would you?â Jean asked.
âDo you want the movie to fail?â 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.
âFine.â He said in a put-upon voice. âGet to it.â
âYay!â 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 â enthusiastically.
Once he licked through all the ambient rock dust and the make-up theyâd coated his lips with she was delicious.
The mouth suddenly left Paulâs dick cold in the air. Paul heard Tom. âMore, Alfred I can take it!â 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 Audreyâs 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. âIâve been sucking off men, since well before even your parents were born. Take a back seat.â
Audrey was pulled off his member with a loud plop. She rolled off his body completely.
âPerfect!â Ron shouted from the dark. âI hope we got that sound recorded!â
âYeah, boss!â A gruff voice sounded off in the darkness.
Paul groaned.
Jean was on the ground, Audrey riding him slowly, as if she couldnât 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 Tomâs perineum teasingly. Â
Meanwhile Sir Ian was bobbing on Paulâs 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. âSila. Silas. Silas.â 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.
âWhee!â 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.
âWhoo.â 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. Â Sir Ian looked around disdainfully, gripped his dick, pulled once, twice and came all over Paulâs 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!
Leonardo da Vinci tugged nervously at the crotch of his hose, the wool scratching at his leaning tower of penis. âSo 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.â
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 wasnât sure if it was coming from his body or his work.
âWhy, this resembles a manâsââ
âYes, Mistress,â he giggled, âa phallus for the Chalice.â
Chapter 2
âBut what are these beads beneath the surface?â she asked, tracing her finger about the otherwise smooth shaft of the completed device.â
Da Vinci nearly erupted with pride at his own cleverness. âA way to contain more of the relics, Mistress,â he said, his tongue darting between his lips, âa way to bring an initiateâŠcloser to God.â
 Chapter 3
She fondled the completed machine, marvelling at the sophistication. Even the Church, who decried the Prioryâs Matriarch as a common whore, would never suspect such an audacious hiding place for her holy remains.
âWe can protect her from those cockless old fools for generations. And so much moreâŠâ Her eyes shone with visions of the saturnalia that her pet Leonardoâs invention promised. Her loins flushed with anticipation. âSo many possibilities,â she murmured, her mouth curling at the thought.
Da Vinci froze. âM-mistress,â he stammered, âIf I may ask a small favor in return.â
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. âFor such a masterpiece as this, you may.â
 Chapter 4
Leonardo da Vinci erupted with energy, erecting his easel and producing his palette in one swift stroke.
âIf it please you, Mistress, hold that smile.â
 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 Sionâs 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 firstâŠencounter 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 estateâs sprawling library. The massive shelves were bursting with every good college girlâs 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. âWelcome, Sister Virginia, to your Initiation,â she purred.
âWhat *IS* this?â 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 Virginiaâs holy water.
âThis is how we hide our holy charge, in the last place the Church would ever look for it,â Sophie whispered into Virginiaâs ear, her breath hot and moist against Virginiaâs neck. âA Rabbit made from the femur and knuckles of Mary Magdalene herself.â
Virginiaâs breast heaved at the sacrilegious sexiness. Sophie pulled back, her face agonizingly close to Virginiaâs. âNow fuck me with her.â
Virginia plunged her mouth over Sophieâs as she took the unholy relic. Their tongues grappling like Joseph and the Angel as Virginia mounted the altar and parted Sophieâs Red Sea.
The Grand Mistress bucked her hips, insistent, but the Initiate let the Rabbit wander down Sophieâs 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 Virginiaâs hand. âFIST ME, MOTHER MARY MAGDALENE,â cried Sophie, âFIST ME LIKE YOU FISTED JESUS.â
At that, Virginia plunged the spear of flesh and bone into her Mistress. The knuckles rattled in Sophieâs pleasure cave as waves of ecstasy crashed through her body.
Sophieâs moans filled Virginiaâs 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 Virginiaâs 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.
Some photos from Shipwreck Presents: Ray Bradburyâs 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!
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 Iâm 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 flowerâa 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.
âYou were magnificent,â I say to his back, his frock coat rustling ever so slightly on the wind of my unignorable sexual magnetism.
âWhat would you know about it, Lestrade?â He huffs.
âYou underestimate me,â 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 headâthe 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 ladyâs 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.
âThatâs my daughter, Katie,â Holmes groans.
âKatie Holmes?â I reply.
âYes, sheâs bereft ever since that boy from across the creek left her.â
âHow upsetting,â I say. âI thought you were on Team Pacey?â
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 amateurâs first time at an all-you-can-eat Indian food buffet.
âDamnit, Lestrade,â he says, returning to the subject at hand. âHow could I possibly be magnificent when that scoundrel won again?â
âDonât worry, Holmes,â I snarl in what I hope comes across as both soothing and submissive. âHe will get his comeuppance.â
âHow can you be so sure?â Holmes whisper-spits, catching the escaping saliva with his tongue in the very same gesture. âAnd more importantly, how can I live with myself?â
âLive with yourself?â 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. âIs this whining coming from the same man who had his way with me on no less than three sheep farms in Scotland?â
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). Â
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 Walgreenâs.
âLestrade...â 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. âDid you know your name means âthe raised platformâ?â His pauses to lap at the sweet liquid dripping down my neck, tweaking a nipple for good measure. âHow are you at raising other things?â
âI may be a conventional detective, Holmes,â 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. âBut where I lack imagination in solving crimes, I more than make up for it by exonerating the prisoner in your pants.â
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 Holmesâ 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 hasnât 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 Holmesâ voice trickles softly in the distance.
âI donât wanna wait,â she croons, âfor our lives to be over.â
I donât 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 Holmesâ 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 Holmesâ 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.
âOh Dirty Shirley,â 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 Holmesâ effete yet unflinchingly heterosexual magnetism.
âIâm coming, by gum!â he ejaculates, not literally but verbally. But then a few seconds later literally, as I feel the hot blast of Holmesâ salty surprise upon my colon cave. At the same time, I too expel my gentlemanâs 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, âThereâs nothing so deceptive as an obvious fact.â
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. Sheâs been a repeat guest on Dan Savageâs 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