Category: Stories & Captions

A collection of stories, photo captions, and shoddy poetry

She has dreams, though she’d never tell you. Walking the beach, her hand held by a faceless man whose touches only comfort, and whose words only support. Wearing a perfect gown and tiara, while every gentleman in the room proceeds, in his turn, to spin her through the motions of a dance so graceful it makes her heart ache. Standing unfettered in the cold spring rain, arms outstretched, as if embracing the cleansing downpour and the shining sun that must surely follow it.

But every morning, a man with a very specific face awakens from his own dark slumber and batters those dreams out of her head with his hard cock.

A Commercial Entity

Hey there, baby! Daddy’s home from the bar, and, y’know what… he’s had an idea

I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve had enough. Enough of you and the cyclone of bullshit that follows you around, dirtying or destroying everything you touch. Since moving in, you’ve been a constant burden to me, making life difficult and endlessly irritating; your personality has become a tax on pussy that I’m no longer willing to pay. I suspect I may have even come to despise you. But I believe I’ve finally figured out how to offset my losses.

I’ve decided to sell your ass to strangers.

Part of it is obviously the money; I plan to furnish my world with the proceeds of your degradation. But it’s more than that; there are so many opportunities for you to entertain me and enrich my life while earning a living on your back. You’ll be infinitely more valuable as a commodity than you ever were as a person.

Oh, don’t look so hurt! Surely you’ve always known this could never have been about love! There are things inside you worth using, but nothing anyone could ever cherish; with your novelty gone, I’m not sure what you thought I was getting out of this… or out of you. Did you think I was running some kind of charity for wayward girls, scraping up garbage from the street and recycling it for the good of cuntkind? Wouldn’t that be delightful? Me, a philanthrapist.

You’re a hoot! Have I ever told you that? And this is just the beginning of the endless fuck carnival I’ve decided to make of your life! It’s going to get so much worse, and so much better.

I can’t wait to hear the sound of your father’s voice on the phone when he finds out, and see the look on your face the first time he calls you a cunt. I want the chance to welcome you back from a bad night at work –spent beneath a nervous, rat-like man who smelled faintly of old cheese and older desperation– by petting your hair and telling you sweet, slightly sinister lies that sound like fairy tales but haunt you like ghosts. I can’t stop imagining standing next to you at the pharmacist’s counter and smiling brightly as he looks you up and down –from your disheveled sex-hair, over your ruined makeup, past your torn skirt, to the flaking cum on your thigh– and coldly hands you a bag full of Valtrex and Plan B. When I close my eyes, I can see myself sitting down to count my cash at the desk as you sit and count your bruises in the tub, both of us knowing there can never be enough.

Heh. Look at how hard I am, just thinking about everything you’ll lose, and everything I’ll gain. Isn’t it wonderful?

Yeah, I know this all seems rather abrupt and shocking. Up until five minutes ago, you still believed you mattered. But you really haven’t, not for a long time. I’ve kept it from you, well, let’s be honest… because silently laughing in your sweet, hopeful, upturned face seemed easier than throwing your shit in the street and changing the locks.

But this new plan, it puts all of that behind us. We can be together again, like before, only this time I won’t lie and tell you I care. This time we can be what we always have been, that most perfect of pairs.

A monster and a whore.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Doing Right

[CONTENT ADVISORY: Don’t believe the title. The title lies.]

I’m raping you because you’re pretty. It’s important you know that.

My sister isn’t pretty. She isn’t smart, either. And she sure as fuck isn’t lucky. She’s just a normal girl– but a couple guys grabbed her anyway, right up off the street. They violated her, and now she hasn’t left her room in six weeks, because she can’t get over it; can’t blame her, neither can I.

I’ve been over it a hundred times, trying to see what she could have done wrong, and there’s nothing. She couldn’t have seen it coming; it’s not like she’s sexy or whatever. No one wanted her; most boys don’t seem to know she’s alive. And she wasn’t some fucking tease, either; she was dressed like a decent young lady. There was just no reason to pick on her. The whole thing eats at me. It’s like, how do you take everything away from someone who has nothing but her smile? Why would you pick on the homely, lonely, kindly girl? Where’s the fucking pride?

I understand the urge to rape. I’m a man, so I know how good it feels to hunt something, take it down, and ride out the struggle until the meat is earned. But there’s got to be some decency to it, right? Some basic sense of fair play…. fucking sportsmanship, at least! There’s no need to prey on the least of women when the world is already full of stupid, spoiled, defective cunts who need to learn a lesson that only a man can teach.

That’s why you’re here. The scales need to be balanced, by a guy who knows what’s right. It’s not fair, that a gash like you gets to walk around whole. You with the beautiful hair and the glowing skin and that soft, pornographic little mouth; the fantastic fucking tits and the bald, delicious snatch. With your tacky, leased whoremobile and ridiculous designer bag, both of which you likely sucked out of some old man who was blind enough to confuse “fuckable” with “interesting”. With your assortment of minions and fake friends that you somehow hate and can’t live without, moving through life with no doors closed to you that won’t open along with your thighs. You, with your greedy, soulless eyes, always looking for the next thing to devour.

You don’t get to be that. You don’t get to live that life like you deserve it, like you matter; like you’re somehow better than my ugly, stupid little sister who never harmed a fly and now can’t even look up at me when I walk in the room. If she doesn’t get to feel right inside, then neither does a piece of trash like you. What another man took from my family, I’m taking back from yours; maybe someday, if someone still actually loves you, they’ll do for you what I’m doing for my sister.

I think it’s a pain that’s meant to be passed along.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Once Lost

[CONTENT ADVISORY: This one goes out to a very specific, seldom acknowledged subset of my followers who have periodically asked for a story aimed their way. Please be aware that the piece deals with issues of identity in my usual, fucked up fashion, and thus may be distressing to the uninitiated.]

Brent is my best bud, and has been for half my life. He’s a good dude; a decent point guard, helped me move twice, and the bastard’s an uncannily effective wingman at the club. We graduated high school together, started college together, and dropped out the same way. Not that it’s been 100% cool between us; the fucker got so drunk at my 21st birthday party that I would have sworn he was gonna die, he borrows money he never intends to repay, and the ugly truth is that he’s snaked a chick or two from me over the years. But objectively… when I really needed him, when the shit truly counted, he was always there, in his way.

So I think it’s going to feel really weird at first, when I start raping him tonight.

Not that I’m dreading it or anything; I’m sure I’ll get used to it really quickly, and believe me, I expect to enjoy myself in a way I never thought possible. It’s definitely going to be strange when those first few thrusts tear into his ass, but I’ll power through the weirdness no matter what, no matter how close we’ve been. ’Cause this morning, at long last, I finally took a cold, hard look at myself and our relationship and realized that –more than anyone in this whole, wide world– he’s got it coming.

Why? It’s partly because of one of those girls he snaked. Sure, I hadn’t talked to her about it, but I was privately thinking marriage and a family, so when I came home a few weeks ago and found Brent on top of her… well, he’s lucky I didn’t do him right there. The way he looked up at me, wide-eyed and bare-assed between her legs; I could tell he knew. He knew. He knew he’d wronged me once too often; the only questions were what I would do about it, and when. The “when”, of course, turns out to be tonight, but the “what”? Oh, I’m beginning to think that part of our story was settled long ago, the first time he took a girl away from me.

Amanda was my best friend for half my life, from grade school until junior year. I was a nerdy and awkward kid, and she was a painfully shy tomboy; we both spent a lot of time getting picked on, and I guess we were just drawn to each other for protection, or better yet, solidarity. In time, necessity became habit, habit became affection, and without noticing, we were inseparable. Our childhoods didn’t progress in parallel; we were entangled, always mixed up in one another’s lives. Her parents were relentlessly mean, so she’d stay at my house as late as she could every night, avoiding their anger and disappointment by playing video games in my room, listening to music, and wishing we could be anywhere else. When we turned thirteen and everyone started pairing off, we fell together instinctively, easily, almost by default. She was my first hand held, my first lips kissed, the first dancer in my arms, the first breath on my neck; she was my heart, until one day, when she just stopped.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by it all, but I was; I stared mutely into space as it was explained to me through tears and agonizing pauses, sitting on the edge of an unmade bed in the room we’d made safe for sharing secrets. I was promised that it wasn’t about me, that some things simply aren’t choices to be made, and god damn it, I did my best to believe that. He assured me that he was sorry he hadn’t been able to be more honest with me, with us. He begged for my understanding, my care, my patience… and even through my confusion and hurt, I gave what was asked. I let go of all that I loved about Amanda in order for Brent to have a place in the world. I surrendered my happiness so he could live and she could fade away, like she never was. Because in all the ways that mattered, she wasn’t.

No more. Fuck him; it’s my turn to be who I’m meant to be. I’ll think of Amanda tonight, when Brent is squirming and howling beneath me. I’ll think of the love we never had a chance to make while he screams into the mattress and takes the load that should have been hers. Hell, I may just dress him up in her old clothes and turn him into the cunt he doesn’t know how to be. I’ll make his rape my ritual; his destruction, her resurrection.

Finally. Tonight. A change is gonna come.