Incels in Cells

The Predators’ Pet It’s just a classic strap-on. Unlike the newer designs that eschew the harness, the c**k I’m using to sodomize Swine 43 has no secondary extension for my p***y to grip. There’s no textured saddle to grind against my c**t, no bulbous probe to stimulate my g-spot. It’s a less sensuous connection for such sensual excess. That doesn’t matter. I’m not wallowing in any orgy here or making meaningful love to my wife. And with such deliciously stiff resistance to the sheer size of that prodigious pig-pegger, combined with the power of the vibrator enlivening its thick, heavily-ribbed twelve inches, my c**t isn’t exactly starved for stimuli as I hammer frantically, fanatically away at that fractious captive. Anyway arousal isn’t even my main motivator here. I’m not even training anybody today. Except matriculated Domestics, all we have left in residence here at Upraised Spears are these last four Incorrigibles – pigs we’ve given up attempting to redeem and are just f*****g to destruction. Number 43 here is our current worst. A spitter and pisser and a smearer of feces, psychotically determined to resist correction to the end, undaunted by shocks or even punitive amputations, we seldom bother to remove him from his cage these days. Instead I’ve opened an access hatch, one of two opposing waist-high feeding-fellating-and-f*****g windows set in the otherwise closely-spaced steel bars. Of course 43 would never voluntarily present for me, never back up and thrust his butt through for the cruelest of skewering. But then refusal has never been an option for any of our despicable boars. Each of the dozen cells down here, each an identical five feet on a side, has its own winch set in the soundproofed ceiling. Rather than depending from his cable by the neck, arms, feet or thumbs (or feet and thumbs), 43 dangles in a special compression harness. With tough leather straps looping together the upper thighs and small of the back, as well as cinching under the knees and around the shoulder blades, this pig’s hips, shanks and folded-over torso all form a compact horizontal package. While wonderfully cramping the lungs and diaphragm, this compressed suspension allows ample access to the boar-hole at either end. With the lower legs left hanging down straight, the forelimbs pulled likewise vertically alongside them have been bound elbows-to-knees and wrists-to-ankles, the latter shackled and dangling an iron disk weight. Add how piggy’s ring-gagged and snubbed-up snout is drawn way back by its own stretched harness of black leather straps and 43 is powerless to do much of anything but blink, bleat and breathe (with ever-increasing difficulty) and occasionally eliminate. Actually, since he forfeited a lot more than meal privileges a while back, even this last expression of defiance is beyond the swine. There was certainly no way he could prevent me from pulling that doubled-up ass back through that two-foot hatch, or from snapping his testicle fetter to the steel frame to tether him in place. Nor could he do anything effective to protest my smirking and inserting. Now an hour and a half on he just drools and wheezes, sobs and slobbers and gasps out endless garbled curses as I use that most punishing prick we possess to bugger his guilty asshole as viciously as my upright posture permits. The yanking on those bloated balls alone must be agonizing, accounting no doubt for his regular retching. Good: hate is my main motivation here, that and indulging my unquenchable thirst for revenge. And if anyone deserves my worst it’s 43. Before his capture he had a stockpile of guns and well-advanced plans for committing a m******e. Yet to be completely honest, even pursuing my life’s work with all my usual zeal here isn’t entirely what this is about. There’s an unwelcome tension I’m trying to dispel. A bit of not-quite-jealous envy that it’s Tawny’s turn this time torments me while she’s busy getting ready. I know it’s only chance that we decided to try for something finer after I’d carried out the last capture. But that lucky ducky is going to have so much f*****g fun! Two years my junior at twenty-eight, my alluring and exciting mate is my polar opposite in lots of ways. Tall and whipcord thin, beautifully fit, she has golden-tanned skin and short, sandy blonde hair that’s wonderfully raddled with sun-bleached highlights. While we both have large, mobile features (big expressive eyes and mouths) Tawny’s lovely face is rather angular and spare while I have the cherubic look of my mother’s forbearers. Along with full cheeks my lips and nose are thick and broad; hers are thin and pointy respectively. And of course I wear my hair in braided extensions that reach all the way past my hourglass waist. Shorter and rounder with the big butt and boobs so popular these days, I’m volatile and fiery compared to my more deliberate and educated soul-mate, a college graduate and former decorated athlete. Gorgeous Tawny is the spawn of an ordinary middle class family. I was a downtrodden child of rape, a victim of racist and classist cruelty and entitlement. Conceived in the kitchen of this same expansive mansion, my mother was an African immigrant housemaid and my father the literal patriarch: the male head of house, owner and ruler of the entire estate. You’ll be aghast but not surprised to learn that his abuse was habitual. In any case, Tawny and I have both been victims of child rape ourselves. And that’s where our similarities begin trivializing all those surface differences. We’re both bisexual nymphos with a preference for powerful women. We’re both committed until the end, to each other of course, but also to our most deeply shared passion: punishing deserving swine. Yet while both of us find solace for our traumatic pasts in such retributive sadism, we don’t abominate all men indiscriminately. That would be senseless bigotry. We even have a shared capacity for coddling and cosseting those we’ve successfully corrected (at least if they’re cute and devoted enough). Most have shown sadly lacking. Though we avoid leaving online evidence, Tawny and I also enjoy using the internet to select our subjects for collection/correction. And we agree the optimal targets are to be found at alt-right sites catering to white supremacists and their like, or within the ‘gamer’ and ‘incel’ communities whose extreme misogyny so often serves as the incubator for such generalized hatred. It is this last group in particular that has lately proven most fruitful. “That’s right, squeal like a stuck suckling, piglet b***h! This is what you wished upon every woman who dared to reject you, isn’t it? Well, what’s good for the goose is even better for any asshole gander! “Say, did you ever stop to consider sincerity? You know, actually trying to get to know a girl, instead of incessantly scheming to deceive them? Or maybe just adjust your standards to a more reasonable level. Everyone can’t be and bang alphas, or even betas. And if you never look beyond a person’s looks, how can you complain when others do the same? Anyway, there are far worse fates in the world than ‘involuntary celibacy’ wouldn’t you say?” Wham-bam-wham-wham-wham-wham-wham! As I’ve indicated, we’ve given up on 43. I’m not training so much as berating him here, as I simultaneously escalate my assault toward orgasm again. I doubt my words have any more effect than that nut-crushing shock-fetter or the monstrous depth and diameter of my rampantly ream-ramming erection. Still I can’t help pig-pegging away any more than I can keep from expressing my contempt for Swine 43 and all of his filthy ilk. For those blessed by the bliss of social media ignorance, the identifier ‘incel’ is a contraction of ‘involuntarily celibate.’ Originally established for the depressed, disabled, socially inept or otherwise unavoidably lonely to commiserate and share their experiences, these online societies quickly descended into appalling cesspits of hate and cynicism. Surprise, surprise: catering to the worst in human nature proved irresistible. Before long every such forum was overrun by failed ‘PUA’s – ‘pick-up artists’ whose shared deceits for seducing women hadn’t succeeded. Bitterly entitled, venomously misogynist pigs lamenting their inability to rape with impunity gathered in their myriads to blame both women and the s****l revolution itself for their unendurable place in the peckering order. Contemptibly pathetic, I know. But these being members of the coarser gender, a certain percentage inevitably became radicalized enough to turn more than usually blindly violent. I won’t amplify their infamy, but those who committed massacres quickly became heroes that inspired others to do likewise. Of course since these are white men who are murdering indiscriminately, the law enforcement community could care less about such gender-centered terrorism. Far from devote appropriate resources to the problem, they consistently dismiss it or as usual impugn the victims. Hell, American cops won’t even enforce a gun-forfeiture or restraining order. You see women slaughtered by their partners and/or stalkers every day. Clearly vigilantes are needed to intervene. Fortunately Tawny and I are ideally equipped. Besides having the skills and passion for the task, we have the requisite resources. Scandalously financially secure, we own over a dozen properties besides this fabulous antebellum mansion here in the suburbs outside Atlanta. I consider it a fitting inheritance. Better it should come to me than the original owner’s son, the late half-brother who followed our father’s example by similarly abusing me for much of my childhood. Peeping, recording, beating, binding and raping; keeping me locked in a tiny closet; you name it and he did it. Thankfully my mother was finally pushed too far by this. A bit of unexpectedly clever extortion combined with an untimely death or three (only one at all lamented) and I was suddenly the sole beneficiary and eventual owner of the estate. Extensive modifications since have turned the lowest level here into the perfect private dungeon. With a hog farm of real pigs out in the country, we have all we need for keeping and re-training those we deem an unacceptable threat to society – and for erasing the remains of our failures. Luckily these have been few indeed, especially considering our targets’ innate shortcomings. Naturally we always focus on budding terrorists on the verge of violence. Spewers of vitriol, worshippers of murderers, collectors of weapons and domestic arrests, we consider it a public service to preempt these threats. And after each seduction/abduction and forced redemption, those who graduate from their cages to serve their endless sentences of domestic and s****l service under us usually do so with genuine repentance. Such universally beneficial outcomes make for a vastly more rewarding capture than even brutally using up the most dangerous of the Incorrigibles. Yet even our most splendid successes have only whetted a certain shared appetite we’ve lately developed together. That’s what makes tonight’s excursion so different, so much more exciting than ordinary. It’s rather ironic, or at least perverse in a way. As I finally furiously hammer out my latest viciously retributive climax into the very worst of those utterly irredeemable assholes, my fantasizing revolves around opposing impulses of the gentlest tenderness. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES! You see what pointless bitterness begets? You could have skipped extremism and correction completely and sought such sodomy from the beginning. You might have learned to love it that way. Now you’re condemned to suffer it terribly ‘til the end!” Pulling out and switching off, I disengage the testicle fetter Swine 43 swings away from me. Then he swoops back, sobbing like a fleshly pendulum. Between all these tears and the endless dripping slaver it’s clear he’ll need serious rehydrating before being ignored for the next indeterminate stretch. Tugging the harness from my crotch I drop it and catch the stinking swine on his next swing. Quickly I spin him vertiginously about. Pressing my pudenda to his ring-gagged gape, I generously gift him my system’s rejecta. Noxious and concentrated as it is, salty and ammoniac, enough life-giving liquid sizzles in to keep 43 grunting and squealing a little while longer. Why not? Once again he’s served his purpose despite his insane defiance. He may do so again in any number of other ways if necessary.