Razor Wire Pubic Hair
leader crying, snatching my member to grow it hard my sex tools are not working right.  She sticks a finger in my ass and squirms it hard, but it breaks off inside before it causes any erection, cupping her mouth on the hole to suck it out but it is too deep.  I feel it digging through my intestines trying to make its way up my throat.
                She screams, gets on her knees, fucks one of her limbless sisters with a strapped-on knife, cock-shaped blade, yelling at me, "Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them."
                And the crowd of halfed rapists scream in harmony with her, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."
                And the blood-haired woman shrieks as she fucks the rapist with her knife, the knife handle digging inside her own fuckhole, rubbing agony in the tender places.  And when her victim dies, she does not stop knife-fucking.
                "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."
                And as the rapist goes faster on the handle of her knife, stabbing her dead sister, an arm breaks off to the floor.  She doesn’t stop.  Fucking with her eyes looking at her brain. And the other falls, plops on the ground.  She slows, close to orgasm, whining, blood pooling around her knees.
                And then her legs give away, breaking off at the thigh, throwing her onto a pile of dead rapists, jerking her head back against the wall, against the giant cunt still part of the wall.  The jerk so powerful it knocks her head off her neck, rolling it into the giant vagina lips, sinking, sinking it deep into its dark blank hole.
                And with that, the rapists go silent.  They lie there, letting their eyes drop out of their sockets, letting their brains go loose from their skulls, letting their tits drift off their chests.
                Their cunts sliding out of their crotches.

                I’m all alone now.  In the tomb.  Even the glowing snakes have been infected with the poison, falling to the floor to fade away.
                I have to light the hair of a dead rapist on fire to see my way, light their hair with the stove and use their dissembled heads as my lanterns, light the hair in their mouths and their entire head lights up like jack-o-lantern, glowing orange skin.  Searching to accomplish something before my limbs detach from me.
                There are moans ahead, up over there beyond eyesight.  Rapists who must still be half-alive and losing their limbs. 
                No, wait.  Not them.  The rapists have all died.  This moaning is not coming from them, they are coming from the attic, from the people in the attic.  The sad ones who live in the shadows.
                "Who are you?" I call to the people in the attic, bold cockroach-air against my buttocks, red noises vibrating, listening.

                The attic is up a rope ladder in the dungeon.  You have to go to the lowest level of the fortress to get to the uppermost level, take a rope ladder up a chimney/tunnel to get there.
                I climb it with splinter-itches against my greased palms, my lantern/head dangling over my shoulder.  But even with the lantern, the darkness is so strong, blackness all over you, I can feel its weight on my skin, a hand packaged firmly around me.
                They are silent of moaning when I arrive to them, but I can sense old echoes of their moans still resonating in the corners.  I direct the lantern to them, to see their faces.  I want to speak to find out why they cry so much.
                However, the light reveals nothing alive, the floor mostly bare besides sawdust and old nails.
                "There you are . . ." I say to them once I see the walls.
                The walls: covered in human-sized

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