/lit/ - Literature

>>22307918
OP is a faggot.
The end.

>>22307918
you just know which one ended up pounding that pussy kek

>>22307918
>crooked Hillary Clinton's wet dream.

>>22307918
The office lights had been dimmed. Schlomo was on all fours, yelping like dog. Each thwack of the riding crop on his malformed jewish testicles made him writhe in pleasure (or writhe as much as he could in his leather restraints). "That's it!" he cried.
"What's i—YOW" Moishe failed to inquire. He was lying on his back next to him, and the sharp heel of the dominatrix had been dug hard enough into his scrotum to pierce the dermis. Tearing up, he managed to complete: "What's it?"
"I have just the idea for our next cover." Schlomo looked at Moishe's perforated pecker. It was almost like their magazine—black and blue and red all over. The crimson blood spilling over Moishe's tortured cock and balls gave Schlomo a great idea: "And I know just how to dress the shiksa!"

FIN

>>22307918
Bitch ass barbara was 28 and loved her red three peice suit with the baggy as fuck seventies style trousers, she was walking down the street one day, stopping to pose at times when she came across the gayest street gang known to man, Known as the suit brothas.

''Nice suit hoe'' said tyrone, the gentleman of african descent and leader of the gayest gang known to man. While surly steven, the faggot in the middle with the gay haircut, was ready to clock her one. mike, also known as mike the masturbatur, was looking at her cheeks with perverted delight, readying to bash the bishop.

Bitch ass Barbara walked away towards her job as a pastry chef, While the the gayest gang in the world were laughing at her.

The end.

A walled whore.

>>22307918
one hoe for sale.worn out

>>22307918
Brandy regularly wore pants suits with trousers so wide that they seemed as if they were wind socks caught in a strong breeze, and her jackets always only managed one button just under the ribs to allow for her gut to fall forth. When she saw t advertisement in the fashion magazine she just about snorted the coca cola through her nose,

"well god damn," she exclaimed, stubbing out her cigarette on the nightstand by her sofa, her heart began to race; although this was hardly uncommon, and she hollered for her husband, who was doing the dishes, to "get his ass in there" and check out the new suit she was going to buy for her job interview at the cream fish factory.

"I don't know, Brandy," said her husband, turning white at the price label of $3,000.00, but Brandy began shouting at him and bobbing up and down on the sofa in a fury in her underpants, waving her fists and throwing objects around the room.

You see, Brandy was a Woman and she induced in linear cinematic from the advertisement that if she wore the suit she would become like the thin lady in the photograph, "check it out," the thin lady was saying with her gesture, "those guys are looking at my buttocks, and look how flat my tummy is," and Brandy saw herself in an identical scenario; with an outfit concealing her girth by an ingenious cut, and it was real in her mind; to have the fantasy denied was as if to rip out her teeth.

"And I want that necklace and I want that hair and I want that make-up and I want platform shoes," she was stabbing her fat fingers over the photograph in the magazine, leaving filthy grease stains all over it, her voice was getting louder and louder and higher and higher in pitch, and spittle flew from her face as she bobbed up and down in psychotic trance; her face wet from tears and a great smile slapped across it.

Her husband, sitting on the arm of the sofa and nodding enthusiastically with a big false smile, cursed the day he had agreed to pay for a subscription to CucksWeekly, and he wondered if he could simply choke Brandy with a cream bun and make as if she had done it to herself.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a smaller picture beside the main photograph, "that's an identical suit and it's only costing seven hundred dollars!" and his words hung in the air like a sudden and foul stench before Brandy began to scream and hurled her ashtray through the television set.

It was the best of times, it was the BBC of times. The black pondered rape. He pondered why he pondered rape. Why did his brain go to rape and murder at every presented situation, he pondered. Was there no rising above this primal evil his black skin enveloped? He pondered the rape, the skin, OJ Simpson, Michael Brown, Spottemgottem while the cameras flashed and like an ape in a zoo he simply played along and pondered.

>>22307918
When the Red Lady entered the castle, all three princes turned to look. Prince Estefan considered how, if he were to marry her, he could join her father's crime family as a consigliere. Prince Gaylord liked how much she looked like a man. Prince Tyrone positioned himself to look at her from behind and thought, "OO EEE OO AA AAA!"

They were all wrong. I was the camera, and I knew that, because she was wearing a pantsuit, it would be gay to fuck her.

The mother in red meandered past Brad, Chad, and Tyrone for her anon-Chan perched upon a couch inside her abode, gleefully unaware of his mother beside him now. His eyes on a box telly screen.

She whispered, “Hey, Rooster.”

“What?”

“Fertilize my eggs.”

“Mom, no.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

Her fingers at his hair was exacerbated by her moist breath on his neck. And her son’s thoughts now buffeted from all sides by the phrase reverberating in his head, enunciated once more directly into his ears: “Fertilize my eggs!”

“Kaza, back the fuck up.”

God, the mental pain was literally retarderd. He never thought he’d have to fist-fight-fuck his mom on /lit/ yet here he was, in front of all of 4chan. The world spun like a colorful carousel. And anon, like a gymnast executing a flawless pirouette, fell from couch to floor, and floor kitchen. His legs cooked spaghetti like the spaghetti he threw onto her face. She cackled and clawed at her anon-chain’s eyes.

“My red dress offers heat resistance you little shit!” And indeed, she did shit herself a tad.

So her anon-Chan replied, “Stop projecting mother.”

Together as one they fought in the kitchen, exchanging blow for blow…

The experiment was a success. My creation stepped outside of the test chamber and looked at me with recognition in its eyes. I had finally done it: I had created a living, viable hybrid of a 1990s photograph of Camille Paglia, Gozer the Gozerian, and a caveman, complete with classic supraorbital torus. But why was it wearing a red suit? And why were my trusty, mentally challenged assistants staring at it, as if entranced?

>>22308004
/thread
great writing style.direct. straightforward. tells it like it is.

>>22308038
Is it just me or is this uncomfortably good prose? Same with >>22308115

Communist Gumby and the Three Bears