It was a new age, a new era. Your typical show from the 20th century was a thing of the past. Juggling knives or blowing fire were for amateur night. This new breed of human audience wanted grandeur, awe, and gore. The Ringmaster would scour each town we rolled through looking for hobos, bums, and degenerates. People no one would miss and hire them on. Most were eager for free food and booze and signed their contracts without reading them. They were literally signing their death certificates. Instead of the magic trick of fake sawing someone in half, they were sawed in half. As their blood spurted on the front row of the audience, standing ovations and cheers echoed throughout the arena. Their entrails would hit the floor in pieces, their bladders burst, filling the air with the stench of shit and piss.
It never deterred the audience.
Each showing garnered more and more people until every ticket sold out for weeks to come.
The dead bodies? Those souls, who most likely had a family somewhere with no idea they were murdered. They never got a proper funeral, burial, or acknowledgment of their death. And the remains? Let’s say there was a reason everyone ate for free. The leftovers were tossed into an incinerator and burned.
That was the tip of the iceberg when it came to the “show” The Ringmaster put on. It was vile and gruesome. Each act was performed with more of those poor souls who had no idea of what their fates would be when they signed the papers.
The cannibalism extended further as well. Corn dogs, chicken on a stick, and any other meaty delights served to the patrons were bits and pieces of those slaughtered men and women. I don’t even think they cared they were eating the remains of the people they’d so happily cheered at their deaths. They would sit at their tables with juices dripping from their mouths as the grease of human flesh rolled around on their tongues, and smiles of orgasmic pleasure erupted as they licked their fingers while dipping the meat into whatever sauce they asked for. Apparently, ranch is the number one go-to for dipping sauce, so they sat there dipping Henry’s ribs or Bobby Jo’s breast meat into cups of ranch, then sucking the marrow from toe bones as if they were chicken drummettes.
The highwire act was more treacherous than the magician’s show. Of course, there were the experienced carnies that did the act flawlessly. However, whenever it was time for the hired help to walk across the rope, their harness was removed, the mesh net to catch them was pulled away, and The Spikes of Death were added below. Even experienced tightrope walkers fall. Before the showing, they would get them shitfaced drunk so they could hardly stand. They never made it far before plummeting to The Spikes of Death. If they did do a good job, the rope would be shaken making them fall because the audience wasn’t there to watch someone make it across a rope. They were there for death and gore. Pieces of shit if you ask me. But I knew my place, and I never discouraged the people from signing even though I wanted to tell them to run as far away as possible. It would be my head if I did.
My stage name was Solice, The Sex Slave. I didn’t have a performance costume like the others did. I was led around the rink by a chain and dog collar with a ring gag in my mouth—completely naked. My handler would stroll me around the rink for all the men to reach out and touch my body, pinch it, slap it, or whatever. I could only oblige, as it was my role. I signed the papers when I shouldn’t have. Of course, I could squeeze my way out of the legalities. I was sixteen when I signed the papers, a run-away. Minors cannot be held accountable for contracts, but I was a woman of my word. So here I am, twenty-one years old, and still putting up with this bullshit.
I was broken in the rough way. They tossed me in with the horny freaks and told me to take it. This was my job. If I wanted to keep it, I would reply how high when told to jump. The things they did to me were unspeakable. I had every orifice of my body used as a sex hole. There were two at a time, sometimes three or four rubbing their cocks together crammed into my mouth, pussy, and asshole. Thrusting in and out while others stood around in a circle and jerked off one another to stay hard. When those four were done, more of them would come and fill the empty slots and come in me or on me past the point where cum dripped out of me. Their peckers tasted like rotten meat and shit. They would shove them so far down my throat I’d choke on their spewing cum. When they could no longer get hard, they’d grab whatever they could find to shove inside me. Bowling ball pins, baseball bats, clubs, you name it.
I couldn’t walk when they were finished with me. I was black and blue from where they beat me as they fucked me. By the time I was allowed to leave, I had a prolapsed snatch and asshole—it took weeks to heal.
They never truly broke my spirit, even if they tainted my soul.
Tonight was the night everything was going to change, I thought as I walked around that rink. I had been planning for months what to do for a big show. It finally hit me one night as I lay in bed dreaming of life outside of the carnival, outside of this madhouse, outside of the infected and diseased minds of patrons who found this shit normal. What happened? What happened to the world we used to live in? A world where the sexual exploitation of minors was against the law. Prostitution was against the law. Rape was against the law. Now, it is part of the norm?
As a young child, I remember seeing the ads on the subway walls: Help Save the Next Girl. So many teenagers and young adults were kidnapped, raped, murdered, bodies desecrated, you name it. The stories would hit headline news. It would be televised from state to state stating, “Keep your children off the streets.” And then, one day, that fateful election year, it all went down the toilet.
Humanity, the United States, it all went to hell in a handbag when they elected that dumb fuck into office. People began killing for survival. Killing for survival turned into killing for fun.
If you weren’t part of an organization with money—you were dead.
If you weren’t rich—you were dead.
If you weren’t strapped into a dog collar and led around for men to touch you wherever they fucking felt like—you were dead.
My only option was to kill them all. Kill all of the men that stood around that rink and touched me like I was food, like I was a thing, like I wasn’t anything but a fucking animal. If society was to rebuild itself, it needed a push in the right direction. I may not be important, but I sure as in hell could provide a means to the end for everyone else.
My story could be an inspiration for those who needed it. I would have to take care of my handler first. I was his sex yo-yo, he rolled me out whenever he wanted to stick his nasty dick in a hole. There was hardly a night he didn’t come to my tent after the show to have his way with me. Typically, he was drunk and high. I felt like a dog. He would put his hands all over me, it made me feel so dirty after.
They had no idea what I was capable of. I was the wrong person to be dragged by my hair and called whore, slut, bitch… before I ran away, one of the boys in my town thought he was going to have a good time with me. Boy, was he wrong. It was why I was on the run. I was being hunted. He had taken me out for a night of fun. To him that meant getting laid. I told him, No.
Men like him don’t listen. They take what they want when they want, and I was his meal for the night. No sooner had he chased me into a field, shoved my face in the dirt, and ripped off my panties than he howled in pain as the bloody stub of his dong was all that was left of his manhood. The gaping hole where his cock once existed spurted blood, piss, and cum all at once. He hit the ground, grabbing the fresh wound.
I looked around the rink, at the men standing around jacking off and ejaculating into the air. They battled each other, seeing who could squirt the farthest. They tried to land their jizz on me—their prize. My handler jerked me around and pawed my chest with his chubby fingers. The men whooped and hollered as he began the show. Watching porn live and circle jerking together was a thrill every man wanted to experience. I despised him so. I smiled my sweetest smile as his hand rubbed down my stomach and found my clit. I pushed into his hand, signaling I wanted more. He made small strokes on my clit and dipped his finger into my vagina, fingering me until I got wet enough for him. He turned me around, unbuckled his pants, and thrust his unruly appendage into my pussy. I pushed against him, burying his wang as far as it could go.
He took his thrusts in numbers. Lord knows he couldn’t hold a nut back to save his soul. As he was about to climax, he got a rude awakening. He screamed while pulling a shredded piece of meat from my vagina. The men around the rink were drunk and had no clue what was going on. I would have to show them. I walked over to one of them, milking his cock as he came. I reached down with my hand and stroked it. I turned around and bounced my naked ass up and down on his hard hog. Another man pushed him out of the way.
“Boys,” I yelled, “There’s room for two.”
I smiled, as they took me to a corner to slide their doomed rods into my growing cooter. I sat on the lap of one of them while the other stood in front of me, hunched over like a dog getting a taste of vadge for the first time. They both slid in with ease and began thrusting. Soon, they, too, were howling in pain as they pulled bloodied stumps out and dropped like flies. It doesn’t take long for a man to bleed out when his pecker is cut off. Everyone knows that the reason it gets hard is because of the blood pumping through it. When I experienced my unusual talent for the first time, I had no idea I could make the teeth come and go at will. I remember one night, not long after I’d joined the carnival, one of the pairs of Siamese twins we had headlining decided to come into my room for some fun. That’s when I learned I could control it. That night, I had normal sex with them, and they didn’t run screaming and dickless. I guess it was more of a when I felt threatened defense mechanism. Tonight, it wasn’t a defense mechanism. It was full-on offense, and every single one of these disgusting male fuckers were going to pay.
The crowd dissipated as nothing fascinating was happening. All they were seeing were people being chosen to have sex with. I guess it wasn’t much fun if it wasn’t forced. Forced sex got these puke bags hard and ready. If it was consensual, their pricks went limp like stir-fry noodles. Men thought they had rights to everything that didn’t belong to them. If it wasn’t theirs, they would take it for themselves anyway. Here, at the carnival, they didn’t even have to take it. They were given it as a headline attraction: “Fuck to your heart’s content with our sex slave, Solice.”
Solice, what kind of name is that? It sounded sleazy. I hated it.
“Where do you boys think you are going?” I called to the crowd as they headed toward the tent's opening.
They all turned in my direction to listen.
“If you want a show, you got one,” I said, pulling my hair into a ponytail.
There were trapeze poles in the center of the floor. I swung my leg around one of the poles, took my handler’s chain, and climbed the pole. I swang around it, flipping and turning. I did splits in the air regaining the attention of the audience. They failed to realize every time I went around the pole, I was driving it deeper into the ground, creating a grave of sorts. There would be no escape. And my vadge was hungry. It hadn’t had a human in it for so long, it salivated thinking of it. Sure, I had bitten off several schlongs that night, but those were appetizers, little drumsticks. What my vagina wanted was a whole man, and I was going to give my body what it wanted.
When I knew there was no escape from this hole of death. Using my chain, I snatched a man from the audience. He smiled, thinking he was getting the royal treatment. I grinned back, then my face flashed my true form. I could tell from the look on his face. His stupid shit-eating grin was replaced with horror. I had no clue what I looked like without my human face. Hideous, I assume. I imagined a huge, unnatural grin like you’d see in a horror movie. Whatever I looked like, it made this puny man piss and shit his pants. I’m glad my vagina can’t taste anything. It would most likely gag.
He was about to scream for mercy when I shoved his head up my twat and contracted my muscles. His head busted like a dropped watermelon. Blood and brains oozed from my vagina and down my legs. I scanned the room to see if the drunkards noticed what their fate was. I released my thigh muscles. The man toppled to the ground, headless, bleeding profusely, dead. I smiled deviously as I ran my finger along the dripping blood and brought it to my mouth, sucking it off like all those weeners I was made to drink cum from. No one in the audience was sober enough to know that this was real. That meant I was going to be a full and satisfied participant tonight. I had never felt more alive than at this moment.
I walked over to the main switches on the wall. I killed the house lights and hit the strobe light. The faces of the patrons were a priceless sight to see. Some were nearly scared to death, others thought it was a rave. The frightened tasted better with their blood full of adrenaline. It’s like a hit of heroin compared to endorphins. It wafted throughout the tent. My vagina drenched itself in anticipation of the main event. I snatched the men one by one from their seats. My twat tearing off their heads and leaving their bodies lying crumpled on the floor. I’d heard stories of bodybuilding women that could crush golfballs in their cooch or smash pumpkins or watermelons between their thighs. Hell, I’d even heard of a man who suffocated when he got his head stuck up his girlfriend’s cunt. However, I’ve never heard of anyone like me. Maybe I was the only one? It was such a thrill to snatch heads and meat sticks off men that couldn’t even fuck their wives and had to come to a sleazy carnival to get their rocks off.
Pain ripped through my back. I crouched to the ground.
Had someone shot me? Had someone stabbed me? What was going on? I reached my hands to my shoulder blades and felt stubs above my skin. To my surprise, I’d grown wings.
I laughed.
I could now fly and rip off even more heads without my feet touching the ground. Each head slid effortlessly into my honeypot arousing me more and more. I used their heads as dildos while rubbing my clit, orgasming, and making my juice box wetter, looser, and hungrier. I pushed them up against the dirt walls and jumped on top of them, riding them like horse cock dildos, I had never felt so turned on or sexual in my existence until that first head split open in my cooch. I wondered if it emasculated them, knowing their final moments are spent shoved up my pussy filled with cum, brains, blood, and genitals, tasting every patron that came before them.
I could hear the leather ripping through the air as my bat wings flapped and gained traction up into the air. I flickered through the lights like the monster that I was, snatching and carrying away my prey to feast on in the corner. I had piles in four separate corners, and my prizes were running out. I had thinned the herd down in such a short amount of time that I was saddened it would be over soon. I was getting my jollies off on these bastards.
Once I snatched all of the heads from the bodies the tiring part came. I had to eat all of the bodies until there was nothing left.
No bones, no skin, no teeth, nothing.
I took out my last victim, savoring his head shoved inside me and riding him gingerly. I made love to his head, coming over and over as I caressed my clit. When he went limp, I knew he’d suffocated. I had one last orgasm with his head. Clenching my muscles, I writhed in pleasure as his skull burst. I lay on the ground, taking each body into my vagina. It would have seemed like minutes to the average person, but it felt like agonizing hours.
Each man who looked alluring at me or massaged my body got what they deserved.
They are forever in my twat now. My body is my body. Men everywhere needed to be taught there are consequences for those who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves.
My headliner called me The Sex Slave, and that is precisely what I’d been. I had been a slave, not allowed to say, No, to anything. These pieces of shit paid to do anything they wanted to me. I wasn’t allowed to fight back. I wasn’t allowed to leave until every paying customer was satisfied with their visit. I couldn’t even call myself a prostitute, I never saw money from what I was put through. Prostitutes are treated with more dignity than how I was treated.
I pulled myself together before allowing the tent to come back out of the ground. I lay in the middle of the rink and acted like I was knocked unconscious as the carnival owner ran to me. He picked me up in his arms and carried me to my camper.
Patrons and carnies stood around, waiting for me to come to and tell the story of what happened. I told them I couldn’t remember a single thing. Of course, that was a lie but the humans didn’t need to know that.
I was no longer a sex slave after that. They gave me a better role as one of the trapeze artists. I would climb the poles with a chain and spin like a stripper to my heart’s content. I gained friendships with others at the carnival I had been forbidden from talking to.
I became best friends with the Bearded Lady, who, in fact, only has a hormonal imbalance. I taught her a few tricks of the trade, and she learned how to suck the beard in and release it on command.
The Strong Man had eyes on me, but he wasn’t too fetching. After a few failed attempts at making a pass at me, he learned the hard way what I was programmed to do with my vagina and he was no longer The Strong Man. He was one of the few that survived and ended up institutionalized, ranting about a phallus-eating vagina.
I ended up falling in love in all of the carnage and wreckage before we left Seattle. The carnival took on a clown—not really a clown. He was later made into one of the freak show guests and stripped bare. He was born without a phallus or vagina. He looked like a Ken doll. It was a match made in heaven. I needed no pleasure to survive, and neither did he.
He would never know the evil secret of my cooter, and I would never have to worry about him learning the hard way. I could tell he had been abused. My empathy and sympathy for him melted my heart. Occasionally, we’d have sex because a man is a man, and doesn’t think his woman is happy unless she is getting off. He would use a strap-on to fuck me. Sex was never the same for me after that night, and I didn’t get the pleasure I once had. To make him happy, I faked the orgasms so he could feel good about himself.
After all, my snatch didn’t crave silicone. It craved flesh.
He was the perfect gentleman, and the night the men came to try and “break” him into the carnival, I showed them who they were messing with. He had been knocked unconscious, so there were no worries about him knowing my secret or being afraid of me. Even if he didn’t have a member, I am sure he would be terrified to learn the truth of the horrible carnage I caused where nothing but blood was left behind. I was responsible for the disappearance of over three hundred men who were still listed as missing. I taught those men a thing or two about manners. Because someone who has no wang to fuck with or a hole to stick a dick in does not mean anal is an option they agree with. Well, if they survive, that’s the only pleasure they will ever know. Once again, I reiterate, No, means No! Because you can overpower someone else, hold them down, tie them up, and have your way with them, doesn’t mean it’s ok or that you won’t be caught. Even if the authorities get you, I will find you. We all know how the court systems work. Rapists are let go free of charge or with a slap on the wrist.
That’s where I will come in.
I have perfected my dark gift over the last few years. I am, for lack of terminology, a dark superhero for the world—an antihero. I have tried to come up with a name for myself, but everything I think of seems juvenile. No wonder Batman went the easy route, costume and all. Let me guess, You have a thing for bats, right? God. Batman, really? You couldn’t think of something cooler? Don’t get me started on Daredevil. Honestly, those two should have had a meet and greet and switched names, for crying out loud.
I will be the boogeyman that fathers tell their sons about when they mention the weeny thief so casually, jokingly. However, it’s not a joke. Urban legends and scary bedtime stories come from some truth, and I will be the worst nightmare that has ever walked the earth. No woman, man, or child will ever be forced to do what I have done. The urban legend of the man-eating vagina will live on throughout time.
As for you women out there thinking to themselves that nothing so heinous could ever happen, remember, I am a hermaphrodite at will, and with a fully functional appendage that is barbed and eager to play, and quite honestly, I am hungry, stark raving, starved. I haven’t eaten in what seems like months, but you know how time blind I am. Minutes can seem like days…