Speculative Historical Erotic Fiction

Formerly "Bestiality Themed Erotic Fan Fiction." It's like you're watching me grow up...

Nov 18

Hmmm….

The sound was faint at first. A visitor from more distant lands or a young child would hardly have noticed it. To them it would have only faintly colored the predicable melody of village life, the dull murmur of commerce and the bright chatter of fauna merging in and around each other, always perfectly timed to the faint metronome of axe chopping wood and hammer striking iron. The daily soundtrack had begun to make Name’s ears hurt. Every day the mechanical hum and throb grew louder and the pain traveled deeper into his ears, until it could go no further and set up camp deep within his skull, unreachable.
 
The sound came again. Closer this time. Hyaa. Hy-H-Hy-Hyaaaa. Little footsteps piddled and paddled back and forth. A chicken announced its surprise at being suddenly and violently wrested from its perch with a cry of terror, cut short by a high pitched grunt and the all-too-familiar wet thud of fowl striking wall.

“It’s happening again.” he muttered. He wasn’t sad or scared, just ashamed at his own powerlessness. Ilsa turned from the fire and regarded him, her pursed lips pulled so tightly over her teeth that minuscule ovoid depressions formed in the skin over the gaps where individual teeth had succumbed to malnutrition, neglect or violence. At one time, when they were younger, Ilsa would have scolded him for his inaction, her bitter tongue fortifying him into the man she had believed him to be. But she hadn’t said a word off-script since Saria left.

The doorknob creaked open and Name sat bolt upright, holding his fork and knife parallel to his torso and staring straight ahead. Ilsa turned back to the stove and began stirring the pot with precise, counter-clockwise strokes. There was nothing in it but water. There hadn’t been in a long time.

“Hi, LINK!” he exclaimed happily, turning down to face the little green clad boy tugging on his shirt. “I hear you’re starting a big adventure!”

He couldn’t even hear himself speak these words. He knew that he had said what it was necessary to say, but he would have sworn on his life that his lips had never moved and that nothing more than a raspy croak had left his throat.

“I always wanted to go on an adventure! I was quite a specimen in my day, let me tell you. Now I can’t even get my dinner on time!” Ilsa winced.

The boy ran away without acknowledging his spiel and barrelled headfirst around the table, hacking and slashing with his little blade as if trying to knock something of value or use out of the humble furnishings. He soon tired of the enterprise and ran to Ilsa, petulantly demanding an audience by poking her in the hip with his stubby fingers.

She turned to face down at him. “Hi, LINK! Dinner is almost ready.” Her lips didn’t move. No sound even closely resembling what he thought he remembered her voice to be disturbed the room, but the message was clear to all and the boy turned, seemingly satisfied.

Name slumped as the door finally shut behind the boy, his back hunched in defeat as he heard the footsteps recede into the distance. Ilsa stared into the pot, she had stopped stirring but clutched the spoon so tightly that the skin over her knuckles appeared translucent with the strain.

“He didn’t have a shield. The guards will never let him up Death Mountain without a shield.” Ilsa remained still. “I was at the market today and shields were up to 80 rupees. That bastard must have known there was another quest afoot.” He spoke softly, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire and the throbbing din outside. One never knew who was listening.

It hadn’t always been like this. As of late the days had grown so similar in their monotony that even the pain—both deep in his stomach and nestled safe from all methods of hope of respite between his eyes and the back of his skull—was now less physical agony than agonizing routine. He had formed no memories in the past few years, the pain was constant and encroached further upon him so slowly that no day bore any significant difference from the last. The routine choked off all interlopers and left him isolated with happy memories of times long gone, sharpening them into gnawing reminders of his wasted potential.

Born into a nomadic tribe deep in the Gerudo desert, he left home and crossed through the forest around the age of 16 when he heard tell of construction work somewhere in the kingdom of Hyrule. Despite his few years he sported a mustache which rivaled that of most men and a portly belly which belied his lively step, qualities which quickly ingratiated him with men many years his senior. Settling in Kakariko village, he found work as a quality control specialist with a small contractor commissioned by the royal family to develop the village into a hub for the booming trade with the Goron people of Death Mountain. One would have been hard pressed to feel any sympathy had he complained about that job, all he had to do was run back and forth atop recently constructed walls and rows of pillars checking for structural deficiencies and ensuring that all projects met the minimum HyDOT safety specs. Not to mention this was before the free market deregulation at the beginning of the first Zelda regime and the workers still had a pretty good union, so once he got through probation and could pick up some overtime he found himself pretty flush.

Hyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. A drawn out battle cry snatched Name from his reveries before terminating abruptly with a sickening thump. Looking out the window he could barely make out a little green figure slowly standing up from the base of the old watch tower and limping tentatively towards his house. He and Ilsa assumed their positions just as the door was kicked open and a half-crazed Link stumbled in.

The child was covered in blood from head to toe. His left arm swayed uselessly from the fleshy mass where the humerus had been disengaged from the shoulder, and the oddly bent fingers of his right hand barely kept their grasp on the hilt of his sword. His eyes swollen shut, he staggered blindly through the house swinging his sword indiscriminately into the muddy wall and the rough wooden furniture. He did this for several minutes, falling constantly, before he found his way to the pantry and his sword connected with one of Ilsa’s clay storage jars. He pounced towards the sound of the crash and rooted through the shards, feeling each bottle carefully with his few good fingers before finally settling on a small cubic bottle with a thin neck.

Link ripped the cork out with his teeth and took a generous pull of laudanum. The soothing tincture traveled quickly through the boy’s short limbs and he fell almost immediately back to the floor with a contented sigh. Nothing moved in the house for several minutes, save the occasional twitch or gurgling murmur from the child. He eventually stirred; his eyelids fluttered delicately against the swollen flesh of his face and he groaned deeply as he started to roll back and forth like a flipped turtle. He was soon able to throw his right arm up over his chest, and slowly inched it towards his dislocated left shoulder. Grasping his arm near the joint, he probed the swollen flesh with his few good fingers until he had a tight grip around the top of the bone. The boy paused briefly. Suddenly, he drew in a sharp raspy breath, threw his body to the left and jammed the bone in his right hand upwards. Tears cut winding creeks across his grubby face and his mouth jerked into a grotesque smile. He cut loose with a terrifying, inhuman scream—Hrrrnnggggg. It was not the sound of a child. The high-pitched scrape of the joint reconnecting took on an almost wet timbre in its journey through the bruised muscle and flesh of the boy’s arm. The whole effect was unbearable; Ilsa stooped over the pot as if cramped and retched violently into the churning water.

The return to stillness in the house was as sudden and unsettling as the scene which had just been played out. The boy fell limp again, splayed on the floor with his chest rising and falling quickly with deep, labored breaths. Ilsa regained her composure and returned to stirring the now slightly brackish water. Name hadn’t moved throughout the whole ordeal. He had seen this so many times before; it wreaked havoc on his already fragile psyche but no longer had any physical effect on him.

Link tentatively raised himself to a sitting position. Calmer now, he tested his left arm and wiggled his legs with a rapt intensity that would have seemed playful if not for his glazed eyes and dilated pupils. Content with the state of his major limbs, he turned his attention to the wrecked digits on his right hand, regarding them with the bemused indifference of a cat grooming itself as he carefully grabbed each in turn and guided the bone shards back to their proper alignment. Grabbing a roll of canvas from beneath the table he sat beside, he ripped off long, thin strips with his teeth and roughly bandaged each finger, securing them with thin slivers of wood that his previous hacking had left littered on the floor. Making sure to grab the almost drained bottle of laudanum, he felt around for the leg of the table and used it to hoist himself back up. As soon as he was upright he made a dash for the door, slamming it behind him with so much force that the empty plates rattled on the table and another clay pot fell from a shelf, adding to the chaotic mess on the floor.

Name had no idea how long it had been since the first quest. There were no holidays any more, no harvests and no celebrations. Seasons didn’t seem to change; the heat of summer and the cold of winter both stung the skin and burned the eyes, so what was the point of noticing their coming and going? The only proof that remained of the passage of time was its inexorable effect on the body, the way its tendrils invaded every cell and passage of the body, growing around them in tight spirals and tightening gradually, choking the body of life and substance and squeezing the soul out drip by drip until all that remains is consciousness free of matter, of time, of agency. When he thought of it like this, death didn’t really seem much different from what he knew as life. For as long as he could remember every train of thought led without fail to death, and he could never conceive of his death as anything more than a incorporeal continuation of his bare life. There aren’t words for how this made him feel.

He remembered Ilsa’s reaction to the first quest. Back then her skin had been smooth and unblemished and her paper thin body almost perfectly geometric, all straight lines and right angles. In the good times she had grown fat and healthy off what he had provided, cutting a comforting matronly figure with her thick hips and a ruddy, puffy face. The excited chatter that had accompanied the first Link’s arrival in their village had sent her running from Saria’s crib to the window, and he had never forgotten the way she looked as she turned back to him and motioned him to the window with a face full of energy and hope, the pale diffusion of the fall sunlight through the thick, textured glass of the window playing favorably upon her cherubic features.
TO BE CONTINUED, BUT PROBABLY NOT…

Jun 1

Rapprochement

Kissinger didn’t so much run as tumble forward madly through the halls of the West Wing, scattering terrified staffers with staccato ejaculations of schnell and—incongruously, if not somewhat tellingly—di di mau. 

He blitzkrieded his corpulent frame through the doors of the oval office, where Richard Nixon was splashing happily in the Executive Bathtub.* A think, choking silence dominated the office, as the two titans of diplomacy unblinkingly faced each other. Nixon’s vigorous buffing slowed to an almost imperceptible crawl, until his loofah was merely tracing a languorous figure eight around his erect nipples, his eyes still locked on the statuesque German.

Kissinger strode slowly up to the bathtub. His eyes still locked on Nixon’s, he reached down and delicately removed the loofah from the President’s yielding grasp.

"Ve have dedicated our lives to matters of international diplomacy, yet ve have ignored ze most important diplomacy of all…ze diplomacy of ze heart." he said, as he started to gently caress Nixon’s neck with the sudsy loofah.

The National Security Advisor skillfully affected overlapping ovals downwards, patiently cleaning the President’s torso until both his hands and the loofah had completely disappeared underneath the lavender scented bubbles of the president’s bath. It was subtle, but an astute observer would have noticed that it was not an oval shape that the elder statesman was rubbing underneath the dirty water.

A pained moan escaped the President’s slack lips. Kissinger’s practiced ministrations sent involuntary spasms of pleasure through his sclerotic spine, making his inflamed nipples vibrate melodically on their pudding-like sea of milky teat. “Just like that…ooh, yes…indeed.” he whispered through clenched teeth, urging his teutonic master on.

CHAPTER 2 TOMMORROW…which will involve either Nixon being beaten by a shoe, Nixon accidentally calling Kissinger “Chiang Kai-Shek” and igniting a lovers quarrel, and/or anal sex. If anyone actually read this, I would invite you to vote. 

*A token of friendship given to Pres. Taft by Nicaraguan Pres. Zelaya for his criminally under-recognized role in helping preempt invasion by Panamanian and Ecuadorian militant magical realists. Fashioned by Zelaya’s third wife out of fine Japanese porcelain purloined during an escalating series of intercontinental pranks between Nicaragua and several East Asian countries (long story), the tub is actually one of the few secrets that the American government actually keeps from its citizens.  


Mar 21
guiltyguilty:

This. Is. A. Joke.

Actually, this is deadly serious.
DEADLY. SERIOUS.

guiltyguilty:

This. Is. A. Joke.

Actually, this is deadly serious.

DEADLY. SERIOUS.


An Experimental Foray into Speculative Historical Erotic Fiction

The year: 1771? People didn’t really keep track of that sort of thing back then. Also, they didn’t bathe much (<—-foreshadowing!).

The place: probably Philadelphia, maybe Boston. Virginia is a close third but I know nothing of the south, so for the sake of verisimilitude this will be set in the north.

Betsy Ross sat in a rocking chair, the hearth casting flickering shadows across the sparsely appointed room. Her fingers furiously played across the swath of fabric nestled in her lap, putting the delicate finishing touches on the garishly colored blanket whose creation had been the sole recipient of her smoldering passion for the past lonely weeks.

A knock on the door! Betsy jumped out of her seat, her round spectacles nearly toppling off her gaunt, sharply angled face. It could only be him, her one true love, the only man who still called on her in this, the cold winter of her years on this corporeal plane.

She walked tentatively to the door, calling out in a coy voice, “who is it?” The response smacked of whiskey and an untamed manliness more common of the Red Savage than the delicate upper-class British who made up the bulk of the community. “

"Tis I. Do open this door my dear, I have something for you."

She flung the door open with the delighted air of a school lass, revealing none other than Thomas Jefferson standing in the doorway. He was clad in naught but a powdered wig and a pair of sheer silk pantaloons, his breath reeking of whiskey and tobacco. He swept Betsy up with the strength of an impatient lion, swinging her around in circles as he shuffled his way over to the couch.

They collapsed into a pile on the couch, surrendering themselves to the passions of a horny young revolutionary and a previously repressed old woman. Betsy came up for air, a mischievous gleam in her tired, old eyes. 

"Look at what I have made. It is a baby blanket, for our love child." She pulled out a large cloth blanket, entirely covered in red and white stripes except for one corner, which was a solid blue.

"Whoa…you can still get pregant?"

"Yes! Yes! A million times yes! You have brought out the young woman in me, Thomas Jefferson."

"Well, yea, but, you know…physically speaking?"

"Umm…apparently. Is everything ok? Why aren’t you happy?"

Thomas Jefferson didn’t hear her. He was staring deeply off into space, lost in thought. “What am I to do?” he thought, “the scandal will be enormous, What will Sally think?”

He snapped back to reality, the answer painfully clear to him. “I must get rid of this baby the only way I know how,” he thought, unbuckling his pantaloons and turning towards Betsy…

TO BE CONTINUED? 


Mar 16

Law and Order: SVU

Elliot stood up with a look of righteous indignation on his face. “What kind of sick bastard would do this to a dog? I have a daughter.”

Elliot sat down with a look of righteous indignation, indicating towards Olivia with righteous indignation. “What if this happened to my daughter? This whole system is broken I tell you, whats the point?”

That one psychiatrist who is always around walked into the room and poured a cup of coffee, as everyone braced themselves for the inevitable speech. “The perp is a white male, early 30’s, and has difficulty communicating with women. He had a puppy as a child…a disobedient one…a bad dog, BAD DOG. He’s constantly reliving that relationship, if a dog doesn’t obey his every command, he loses control.”

Elliot swept a pile of paperwork onto the ground, prompting not even the slightest glance from co-workers long since desensitized to his tantrums. “Am I the only one who gives a damn anymore,” he yelled with righteous indignation, “are we just gonna sit around and wait for another good dog to be raped?”


Mar 15
joshsuth:

DO NOT WANT.
I did check this person’s blog to see if it was an ironic Tumblr name. It’s not. He really does write the stuff.

Josh had always struggled with irony. His life had been a constant, sisyphean effort to discern the humor that others so effortlessly sprinkled into everyday conversation. These interactions ultimately left him drained and embarrassed, the strain needed to create a facade of normalcy and good-humour leaving him worn down to a nub of a man by the end of the day.
The only one who didn&#8217;t judge him was his dog, a sprightly German Shepherd whom he had affectionately dubbed &#8220;Scamps.&#8221; A dog&#8217;s bark, woof, or howl was never pregnant with myriad potential meanings; man&#8217;s best friend looked at him expectantly awaiting a treat or a walk, never a chuckle or a guffaw. 
His relationship with Scamps was thus his castle, a complex and&#8212;in many ways&#8212;exhilarating testament to the potential bonds between man and his furry counterpart.
(I could keep going, but I am tired, I maintain a shred of decorum and taste which occasionally comes in handy in situations such as these, and I&#8217;m pretty sure my point was made. LIKE A BAD RAPPER I QUANTIFY SUCCESS BY MY NUMBER OF HATERS. YAH TRICK YAH.)

joshsuth:

DO NOT WANT.

I did check this person’s blog to see if it was an ironic Tumblr name. It’s not. He really does write the stuff.

Josh had always struggled with irony. His life had been a constant, sisyphean effort to discern the humor that others so effortlessly sprinkled into everyday conversation. These interactions ultimately left him drained and embarrassed, the strain needed to create a facade of normalcy and good-humour leaving him worn down to a nub of a man by the end of the day.

The only one who didn’t judge him was his dog, a sprightly German Shepherd whom he had affectionately dubbed “Scamps.” A dog’s bark, woof, or howl was never pregnant with myriad potential meanings; man’s best friend looked at him expectantly awaiting a treat or a walk, never a chuckle or a guffaw. 

His relationship with Scamps was thus his castle, a complex and—in many ways—exhilarating testament to the potential bonds between man and his furry counterpart.

(I could keep going, but I am tired, I maintain a shred of decorum and taste which occasionally comes in handy in situations such as these, and I’m pretty sure my point was made. LIKE A BAD RAPPER I QUANTIFY SUCCESS BY MY NUMBER OF HATERS. YAH TRICK YAH.)


The Hound of the Baskervilles…After Dark

"Once I was able to piece the clues together, the situation revealed itself to be of no great complexity" remarked Holmes nonchalantly, retrieving a pipe from his overcoat pocket and tipping a small vial of his much laboured upon tincture of cocaine and common baking powder into it. He exhaled a great lungful of acrid smoke which brought tears to the eyes of all gathered, but which seemed to quell the great detective’s noticeable shakes and facial tics which had caused Lestrade and I no small amount of embarrassed agitation.

"Watson, you will no doubt recall what I often refer to as my ‘lost years’ of obsessive canine observation and dissection, labours of a diseased hysteria which have heretofore been nearly useless in plying my chosen trade."

"Why certainly. I do say, our Baker Street apartment is still covered in the most unfortunate stains."

"Then you will no doubt recall my mention of one ursus giganticus, a rare breed highly prized in the bazaars of our Mohammedan colonies as a most formidable fighter.”

"Indeed I do! But what relation could that possibly have to the case at hand? Surely there is no way that one of those loath-some desert canines could have found its way to the foggy moors of our England."

"Regardless of how it found its way here, the clues it left behind made the proof of its presence a matter of the most simple deduction. In fact, the evidence at the scenes of the attacks made me almost perfectly certain that our prime suspects, the venerable Sir Baskerville III and Lord Tuffyweather, had absolutely nothing to do with this case, an assertion that I dare say I have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt as a result of my travels the previous day."

"Do tell! I must admit that I was unable to imagine any potential circumstance in which those two ruined barons were not directly involved." By this time, Lestrade was tumescent with the prospect of returning to his superiors at Scotland Yard with the solution to such a baffling case, and I admit that the prospect of once again being privy to the fruits of my friend’s bizarre genius made me thankful for my decision to wear thick, well-tailored trousers. 

Holmes chuckled and tapped his pipe out on the ground, self-consciously re-filling it with trembling fingers and hurriedly putting it to his lips.  ”Careful consideration of the marks left by the beast on its victims quickly led me to the conclusion that these incidents were not necessarily ‘attacks’” he explained through a thick cloud of smoke. Chuckling knowingly he added, “at least not in the conventional usage of the term.”

"Don’t string us along man! Tell us who the perpetrator is!" Lestrade’s excitement could scarcely be contained.

"The frantic nature of the dog’s attacks, as well as the most terribly immodest placement of the majority of the wounds, quickly convinced me that they were the work of a beast that was, how shall I put this…in estrus."

"You’re not saying…" I trailed off, the sheer absurdity and horror of the situation revealing itself more vividly than any of the atrocities I encountered while fighting Hindoo’s in my days in the Expeditionary Forces.

"I am afraid that this is the truth. Having realized this, it was a small matter to track down the dog to its lair in the moors and ensure that this problem will not repeat itself."

"But however did you destroy such a fearsome specimen? In all your lonely treks into the moor you never once brought your revolver!"

Holmes burst into a peal of self-satisfied laughter. “Lets just say,” he said, his playful eyes unblinkingly staring into my own, “that I took care of the problem at its source.”


Feb 6

In which the only direction from which to approach Old Yeller that doesn’t make me feel bad about myself involves puns

"It’s ok mom…Yeller is my dog, I’ll do it."

Travis slowly erected himself, walked stiffly towards his father’s gun cabinet, and grasped the rigid shaft of the shotgun.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

*COMING SOON: Either Trinity by Leon Uris or Homeward Bound, depending on where I’m at on the whole thing.*


Feb 3

The one where Princess Leia hits on Chewbacca

Chewbacca stumbled half-dazed into the dimly lit chamber, his smoking blaster attesting to the piles of dead stormtroopers littering the hallway. Princess Leia rattled her chains and looked up, the tantalizing promise of salvation breathing new life into her tired body and broken mind, as well as awakening something else…something previously hidden in the deepest recesses of her psyche, perhaps?

"RARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" The wookiee’s vigorous ululation shook the mildewish metal plating of the cell, the sheer power of it seemingly sufficient to rend the slave ship in twain and damn its inhabitants to the ice black hell of the cosmos. Princess Leia, however, remained unperturbed, a bright gleam in her previously glazed eyes betraying a rebirth, a profound realization of self whose power dwarfed that of the most virile vaguely dog-like alien.

"Rarr…" She muttered becomingly, one corner of her lips slowly curling into a mischievous smirk as she gracefully reclined herself further into her pile of chains, revealing her so-so, but not bad for the 70’s, cleavage.

"RARRRRR?" The wookiee cocked his head slightly, adjusting to the paradigm shift in what his small animal brain had previously considered to be a pretty formulaic situation. Leia arched her back further, and a look of understanding instantly entered the wookiee’s coal-black eyes.

Chewie broke the pregnant silence with a sonorous “RARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”, slowly advancing on Leia with the serious air of a hairy Roman statue, trying to play it cool.

This was totally gonna be the best spring break ever.