Kept: Second Visitation

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kept_crimson_quill (12)
My defenses were well and truly blasted last night. Surely I should be feeling distress, rage, something. In truth the feeling hasn’t entirely returned as yet. I was feasted upon in a banquet of both glum sorrow and intensifying pleasure contradicting one another akin to petulant schoolchildren. I didn’t stop whatever did this to me, instead I felt powerless like a deep sea dildo. All I could do was lay in a spread of its optical amusement and take what was coming. I came to this motel of my own free will, nobody put a shooter to my temple. I could’ve stopped what was transpiring but too many dark endorphins were already feeding on my will like sexual piranha. Whatever did this frightened me and that just served to intoxicate me further.

I look at my watch and instantly remember I haven’t worn one for weeks. How did I arrive here at this place? More importantly what the fuck happened last night and why does my asshole feel as though it has been blasted with a sand cannon?! Right now, I’m pretty sure I’ve been the hapless recipient of a brownish shade of buggery. There could be no other possible explanation for the twinge I feel in my colon. So we’ve ascertained that my bladder is filling with crimson with enough intensity to incite imminent implosion. Death from the inside. The real question is…how do I escape this? I am in something of a pickle here and my butt is streaming like a hacker. Bottom line…I’m really afraid despite sporting this hefty erection.


I’m utterly discombobulated. The fear only makes the arousal more prominent as I desperately wish to escape this pallid palace but, in the self same instance, remain open to any possibilities of a spot of delicious foreplay. Nevertheless it is likely that my tormentor will twist off my tool at its root and insert it into my ear, inciting massive hemorrhaging and causing my peepers to vacate faster than a subway flatulator. That abominable thought alone convinces me that it’s time for me to get game-faced, after all it’s going to take place whether my ass clenches or slackens so I may as well save my muscle and remain limber.

Despite seeming to have copped-out somewhat and given up my liberty already, my mind is clenched and I’m putting barricades in place. In addition I have sealed up all rectal breach-points with a crimson boa, packed it tight like an anal Molotov and am just itching to light the fuse. Whatever visited me last night, got drunk on my essence, abused me and shrouded my light shall pay princely sum for its presumptuousness. Despite my fighting talk, I just feel so lethargic, drained of resolve and ready to submit once more. Just five minutes shut-eye will help clear these mental cobwebs, shoo any bats in my belfry. Five minutes…tops…


I awaken hours later with a start. A twinge of lucid pain shoots into me rectally and, in a jiffy, has vacated. It brings with it a gush of crimson, lacerating me both sides in a brand spanking Chelsea smile for my rectum. It smarts like nothing before it, causing me to wretch as the pang widens. I look to the side for my crimson comfort blanket and see it postured behind me, this slackening my porta enough to make any subsequent slide-in even more intoxicating. My eyes roll this time and a solitary crimson tear releases to my cheek, dripping onto the pallid silk beneath me.

I wish it to stop…but then to start up again; the errorless drive delivers thrusting misery so saccharin. Each time it recedes it leaves behind the taste of gunmetal and cherries…so gratifying and yet so relentlessly searing. “Help” I’m not even sure the words formed as I’m drifting through consciousness, such is the balance I gleefully endure. If I did voice it, then there was no reaction.

Maybe I doth protest insufficiently. I’m hanging…for that return. Please don’t…do. All at once it returns like a persistent loan shark, with rows of regimental pearly-whites gnarling through my sphincter. No Novocaine…gotta man this out to its bitter conclusion. Another pain…I feel it roving my pelt and leaving its cold rejoinder down my arched spine. Everything is intensified, the affliction, the paroxysm…meshed inexorably, running side by side like crimson stallions through my wildest waking phantasms.

My exoskeleton is sturdily pinned so I remain blindsided from the debauchery. Cannot muster sufficient strength to free myself from my smarting shackles. Cannot or will not? Is the aromatic torture that stings my nostrils just a little too delightful to resist? The thrusting wave comes back with some verve and crashes against my anal crag, freeing up my bladder as I soak in my own consternation. My insides are swollen, as though cubes of  jelly have just been doused in scalding water inside of me.





Hours and hours, stacked atop one another, have taken wings and the night is gone, along with most of the guests of The Barn. I’ve been lounging on the sidelines, watching my friends continue to grind, practically alone on the dance floor. Ever so often I glance over at the DJ who is ready to collapse. They go through the music slingers regularly here. Long hours and deafening bass has that effect, I think.

I’m sleepy, and tired, and just a bit drunk. Never let it be known that Jester will drink you under the table, on the contrary, I’m better known for pulling a little prank where you drink your drinks, and mine, and no one’s the wiser…except me, the last one standing. It’s great fun!

No real rush to deal with the realities of tomorrow, but I am sleepy, and must take the narrow strip through the fields to get back to my loft on the other edge of town. I need to go before anyone notices, and slip to the door and out into the night. Even a Jester needs down time.





My back is open now, sheared and reclined to reveal a tapestry of screaming vessels. Each fiber sheds tears and I’m beginning to question my chances of a full English breakfast once dawn finally blunders by. Never releasing; no intermission to my intrusions now as that cloying darkness penetrates persistently. There are edges…I’m being fucked by these edges. Each one pilfers and provides my spirit and fills my soul with both hatred and intensive intemperance.

You can see my dilemma! I never asked for gentile, getting off scot-free was never in my wish list. I have to admit to the desire of feeling each spasm pulsing through my anal cunt. Bleeding whilst feeding; both ironic and tragic. It’s the ultimate trade off. It is only descending deeper into the abdomen of portent as climax is just around the corner. Whomever…whatever…is plundering my fortress has near had its kicks. Just a few more moments of this agony…just let me hold out for a few more precious seconds.

With that I feel a release on two levels as the forbidden bayonet is hoisted back through my back cave one last time. The second, more subtle release comes through whispering prose in my earlobe, whilst probing tongue slides in to my audio clit to get itself a free lick of cerebral delectation. It utters a solitary word which is delivered with the breath of a thousand flowers…“Keeper”. I pass out…

kept_crimson_quill (8)


Click here to read Third Visitation



Being sinned upon,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013





Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013




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