I'm not typically a religious man. But sometimes, under extraordinary circumstances, I can turn to the divine for a certain sense of comfort. And tonight I can feel a little better about the universe, knowing that Uncle M is nice and toasty as he burns eternally in his special place in hell.
I find myself going into Billy’s room. It’s not like I have anything to do.
I beg to differ; our protagonist has something very specific to do, and he holds some very specific tools to do it with.
Then I think back to college as I stare at his hamster’s cage. Those days I would have done anything just to see what it was like. In one hand, I have a paper towel roll, and in the other is a roll of duct tape
So, any guesses as to where this story is going? I'll give you a hint; the sadistic whole is much greater than the sum of its bondagy parts.
I roll a little bit of duct tape around Mr. Nibbles’ little mouth. Billy’s been lazy and not giving Mr. Nibbles enough balsa wood to gnaw.
Let this be a lesson to everyone with a hamster. If you don't give it enough balsa wood, then Uncle M will sneak into your room and defile the rodent in one of the most horrific ways imaginable.
If he bit down, it would hurt quite a bit. I feel my heart quicken with anticipation. I feel like a boy again.
The less I know about Uncle M's childhood, the better.
I stretch my anus open and place the toilet paper roll in.
Take a moment to appreciate the word choice here; place. Place. Not force, not shove, not even insert; fucking place. His asshole is so loose that even a roll of toilet paper—
—can be placed into it.
The memory of the feeling rushes back to me, the smooth cardboard is the embrace of an old friend.
An incredibly strange friend, who you're kind of glad you don't see much anymore.
I place Mr. Nibbles into the conduit to my pleasure;
Retribution Band Name #3: Conduit to My Pleasure
He's putting the hamster in his ass. I've heard about this type of thing in jokes, but for some reason, reading a story that somebody actually took the time to write… it's somehow worse.
his little hamster paws make that unmistakable sound. A faint scratching heralds each passing step closer to my eventual climax.
He wiggles and squirms like an 8 year old in a sleeping bag.
Again, the less I know about Uncle M's childhood, the better.
His wiggles and struggles tickle me from the inside, sending waves of pleasure up my spine. The pitter-patter of his little feet is a full body massage for my prostate.
I'll take the protagonist's word for it, but I have to think there are better ways he could get off. Ways that don't involve dooming a hamster to suffocate in his ever convulsing intestines.
As my orgasm reaches its peak, my little friend slows and eventually stops moving.
I had a pet hamster or two growing up, and it was always sad when one of them died. But years later, at least I can sleep well at night knowing that none of them died in or around my ass.
It’s as if you can feel his breathing cease,
Why are we in second person all of a sudden?
sending another wave of pleasure through your body.
Stahpit right now Uncle M, these are your actions, not mine.
I’ll just tell him he left the cage open when he gets home from school. The damned hamster wheel kept me up all night anyway.
Thus concludes one of the few stories on The Retributionists that genuinely disgusted me. And keep in mind, I've made it through brutal furry infant rape, abortion fetishism, and blatant necrophilia with barely any troubles. I guess something about this story seemed a little too real, I don't know. I'd make some empty threat about shoving Uncle M into an elephant's asshole to see how he liked it, but honestly, he'd probably like it very much. So instead, I'll be spending the rest of the night looking for that bottle of brain bleach.