Bukkake Splat Party! Gotta be real tears

Bukkake Splat Party! Gotta be real tears

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

There's more fucks for your bucks in here! Welcome to Bukkake Splat Party where the degradation of a young girl is entertainment for a troubled man who sees Brian Peppers glowing in the corner. Thrill to Sir Spunkalot firing on cue after a countdown from ten to one. And enjoy the undercurrent of cruelty bubbling under the surface of reality porn.

Summary

There's more fucks for your bucks in here! Welcome to Bukkake Splat Party where the degradation of a young girl is entertainment for a troubled man who sees Brian Peppers glowing in the corner. Thrill to Sir Spunkalot firing on cue after a countdown from ten to one. And enjoy the undercurrent of cruelty bubbling under the surface of reality porn.

Content

Submitted: January 25, 2017

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: January 25, 2017

A A A

A A A


Bukkake Splat; Real Tears, Thick

God bless xHamster; if you can forgive the insidious malvertising that is slowly exerting its icy grip on whatever device you jack off over, for its smorgasbord of modest depravities, a singular archaeological record of hardcore. Gillis is here to cleanse his palate after watching two poor arseholes burned alive in the latest ISIS Mondo spectacular. He feels emotionally dead so he looks for extreme media to repulse or shock him into reminding himself he lives. Abject and sophomoric but so what Gillis thinks, we are legion. Yet what he watched on Zero Censorship (this was his new snuff port of call with Bestgore now just a wearying malware rat fuck) was too spicy for his own debauched tastes. It was pure human agony and degradation, humiliation and pain beyond quotidian understanding, and it was all there on a HD ready clip to be seen for as long there were eyes to see, snappily edited with clever graphics and good camerawork. You had to give it to the ISIS snuff factory they certainly had an eye for the killer detail. Just that little zoom in right at the end that kidney punches you. Two alleged Turkish pilots, who the story goes were taken from the wreckage of a shot down fighter plane, are dragged from a cage, shaven headed in de rigueur orange jumpsuits, shackled and chained, and made to crawl on their knees.  Leading them like recalcitrant dogs on a double lead is the presumed leader of the group, a chubby decadent heavily bearded and dressed in battle fatigues and head scarf. He delivers a monologue to camera then the pilots confess their sins. This much Gillis can follow.  Walking side by side now without a chaperone, the pilots walk along a stretch of desert, their chains stretching about 30 feet. Eventually they halt when the chains are taught, hitting their marks in the studied manner of actors in a provincial theatre group, and are stood about twenty feet apart. The pilots are remarkably obedient. Gillis had read somewhere that those ISIS offered up as the ritual sacrifices for the indifferent gaze of the camera were tortured, drugged and forced to perform endless dress rehearsals.  So when it was when finally done they didn’t know what the fuck was happening or where the fuck they were, always seeming a little taken aback as their personal horror shows kicked in, a biblical slew of death, by fire, water, rock, beheading, crucifixion, dropped from tall buildings, buried alive in pits, and for a few lucky bastards extinction by gunshot or explosion.  ISIS had a penchant for making them die slowly. The demeanour of the pilots differs. One is shouty and defiant the other cowed and twitchy. The blank and overwhelming desert setting lends their obscured figures a pathos tinged with the heroic. Effective use of sound, as always in the better ISIS productions, with the eerie whistles and sighs of desert winds dubbed onto the loop. The beard presses a button on a remote control and a modest explosion sets two trails of fire in motion which rapidly chases the tethered men. We follow the flames as they pan across the desert sands. The pilots stand there somnambulistic, waiting for the flames to hit but it as if they will never touch such is their preternatural calm. Gillis can’t make his mind up what is the worst bit. There’s the moment when the flames first hit them, the screams of horror and futile attempts to throw the fire off them, then it takes a grip. Their jumpsuits are obviously doused in accelerant and there’s an interlude where the garments burn brightly as their exposed hands and faces are relatively untouched.

The twitchy one  lies on his stomach, looking at his hands burn, hauntingly calling out, presumably for his mother, it is the same word again and again, agonised yet seemingly disbelieving, this death was ridiculous. Shouty’s defiance challenges Gillis’ perception of the limits of human body under traumatic duress, he stands totally consumed by flames refusing to succumb, pointing and waving his arms, and he offers vocal dissent with a guttural crackle, till he eventually drops to his knees. Then the death throes. While shouty is now something less than human, his limbs and head black and carbonised, the twitchy one lies smoking on the ground. His body is burned away but his head despite severe blisters and some charred patches is remarkably untouched. Twitchy is on his back now, looking down at his immolated body and trying to talk; I’m broke. Can I be fixed?  Gillis had to look away. That old adage about the mind conjuring up stuff worse than reality? Horseshit. Shouty now looks like a camp side fire in full effect, while poor Twitchy is still trying to breathe, his tongue bloated and spilling out his mouth, which was emitting  a thick green froth. It starts bubbling out his nose as well. There’s an animalistic wheezing now which in its own way was worse than any of the images in this horror show. A poetically cinematic shot conveys plumes of black smoke ascending to the red sky while the bodies crackle. The beard and a couple of disinterested soldiers mooch around the funeral pyres. A final zoom in on Twitchy, his hands now smouldering claws, a quick sweep over his roasted thighs that look ready to be served at a hog roast, to close with a shot of his still burning  boots, the lower legs reduced to a thick pile of ash. There goes the small detail, the sucker jab, the dream worm. Gillis had seen enough. To die like that. Jesus.  Gillis, who had ingested nothing more narcotic than caffeine and nicotine that day, felt the queasy mixture of paranoia and disorientation he normally only experienced after smoking skunk. I got the fear, he thought. Gillis left his cigarettes downstairs so as not to be tempted to smoke in bed. You need to acknowledge the signs. He’d become awfully superstitious and sought comfort in conspirational fancies. So to Bukkake Splat! and its earthy delights; porn was largely awful, economic or spiritual hunger a constant undercurrent no matter how glossy and choreographed it was, and in the amateur and low grade the cruelties were barely hidden. Sex and death was sometimes interchangeable with him operating on a different level. Gillis liked reality and gonzo porn as unlike the hyper-real simulacrum of sexuality found in vanilla mainstream hardcore, the real, or that which afforded glimpses of it, carried an air of existential mystery.

 

Bukkake Splat looks like it’s about a decade old, filmed on a hand held camera. There’s no editing, just one take. Hard to tell if it is a commercial product or done just for jolly.  It’s a regular lemon party, fallible male bodies, young and old, taut and flabby, black and white, all naked and ready for it, kneading their cocks. Fat cocks, a big cock, thin cocks. They are all shaved, like it was a prerequisite. You are straight in there, after a cursory blast of creaky nineties techno and an almost elliptical flash of the title, Bukkake Splat!  in big yellow letters, Candice typeset.  It’s all jostly and claustrophobic, all arses and pricks, there’s no faces here as the camera points downwards so the bodies are cropped off at the shoulders. One black guy, four white guys including the cameraman.  They all have thick Yorkshire accents which initially he finds comical and intimate; this shit could be going on down the street.  It is quite a humble gathering for what is purportedly a bukkake. Gillis remembers the emetic glories of Bukkake Olympics which had fifty guys, mostly tattooed hirsute biker types with dick piercings; wank off over a care worn looking woman garlanded with a medical dog collar. Hell, five men was half the number of the male cast of the gang bang audition Gillis had watched the night before, a brutal melee of double and triple penetrations that was supposedly conducted to see if the spunk spattered ingénue was gang bang ready and made you think if this is the fucking audition…  The camera cuts away from the throng to reveal they are gathered in a sparsely furnished and spacious living room. It looks clean and has pale blue walls. A cd player, one of those antiques with tape deck and radio pumps out what sounds like a Wigan pier club mix from the mid-nineties through stereo speakers. To the side of it a couch is pushed up against the far wall, a pile of trainers, socks and shoes in front of it. On the couch are gym bags and a suit neatly folded on an arm rest. Centre of the room is a coffee table adorned by wine glasses and a couple of bottles of what looks like cheap fizzy white wine.  

“C’mon lads all I can see is your arses.”

The cameraman’s hand is in shot, gesturing to get the bodies in formation.

“Get the star of the show out here then,” shouts a voice off camera.

 “C’mon Michelle love, what you doing in there, our balls are going blue out here,” says the cameraman.

Now we are staring at a bathroom door.

The door opens and out steps a sheepish looking Michelle to loud cheers. She is petite with long dark hair, her pretty face somewhat ashen despite being gaudily made up.

“That red lippy will look good on me cock.”

Michelle is wearing a tightly buttoned white blouse and black pencil skirt, tottering in high heels and shyly engaging with the camera, her appearance and demeanour suggesting a nervous school leaver being interviewed for a secretarial job. She is centre stage, the bodies hovering in the wings.

“Now love first the legal disclaimer while you look on the youthful side, how old are you?”

“Yeah love you look like jailbait.”

“Shut the fuck up Kenny.”

“I was nineteen last month,” blushes Michelle. A group cheer goes up. There’s a short and earnest discussion that limps on for a tortuous minute or so and elicits the information that Michelle has sucked three cocks, the first one at age fourteen, she’s never been filmed before sucking dick and it’s the first time she’s been paid to perform adult services. It is a commercial product.

“Working nine to five,” sings a hairy fat torso, thick dark chest hair flecked with grey, short fat cock bobbing about.

“You are showing your age Jimmy with that, Michelle’s too young to get that you old cunt,” admonishes the camera man.

The fat torso turns to the camera and offers a two finger salute, “Get fucked Macca.”

Macca laughs and then makes more small talk with Michelle. She’s chatting freely now, like’s she’s stalling, like she still might not have to do all this. The men, for all their half tumescent prick waving and bravado, seem oddly recalcitrant in initiating proceedings.  Jimmy though wants his cock sucked.

“Christ love stop gabbing get on your knees and start gobbling.” He plants a meaty hand either side of her necks and pushes her to the ground. Jimmy grabs her by the face and stuffs his cock in her mouth. Michelle wears an expression that intimates she cannot comprehend what is happening and doesn’t seem to have much of a technique. Frustrated, Jimmy fucks her throat which brings on a gagging fit.

“Fuck me how she’s going to cope with Sir Spunkalot.”

A black dong is waved to indicate who the sobriquet belongs to. Michelle looks tearful and ready to puke. Macca’s hand pops up to push Jimmy away, he wants to arrange the mise-en-scene. He’s sick of filming their arses.

“You stay there Michelle love.  Two either side lads you can hold hands.”

Michelle is on her knees, Jimmy and a hairless pale skinny body with a pencil dick that looks like it belongs to a late teen on one side, a muscular black body succumbing to the first encroaches of middle age, a paunch fighting to get out of his stomach and a stereotypical monster wang on the other, flanked by a tall and angular figure, coated in fake tan the shade of horseshit. She starts fellating them in turn, slow and awkward, they sense her gaucheness and anxiety and there is an odd stasis as they talk her through it all, advising her of the best techniques to adopt and general blow job do’s and don’ts. Jimmy despite his earlier boorishness is quite the gent, being quite fatherly with her. Michelle struggles to Sir Spunkalot’s prick in her mouth but seems to finally find a rhythm and even looks up at the good Sir and winks. This irks the kid who plunges a hand down her blouse and squeezes her breasts hard. Michelle looks upset by this like it wasn’t in the script. Then another cock leans into her face. Shuffling in and out they take their turns. Michelle is quite the technocrat now, proficiently servicing them one after the other. At first you wonder if she has been psychically annihilated but then it becomes evident that she has adapted to what is essentially tiring manual labour. It’s now work for her.  A strong stomach needed for sure, its icky but no anal gang bang.  Michelle can do this without climbing into a warm bath afterwards and bleeding out. Accordingly, they know she can handle it now so it all gets rougher, the men increasingly demanding. Like all porn, after the initial transgressive frisson has dissipated you are left with a monotonous and disquieting micro spectacle.  Bukkake Splat seems increasingly bathetic, but these formalised affairs always did as they lurch into frenzy in the run up to the honey for the money. The kid really does seem to resent the way Michelle seems to show a preference for Sir Spunkalot’s cock, she seems to keep hold of it a bit longer and lavish a little more invention on it.  As she gazes dreamily up at Spunkalot, who has been gentle with her, the kid leans over and holds her nose causing her to disengage and retch. It is such a cruel yet banal act Gillis is briefly reunited with the text but it’s gone midnight and, as he has every night since he stopped smoking weed (he’d gone a fortnight and was awful proud) he feels sleepy. Off the skunk his sleep is less fractured, his mornings less groggy. Gillis drinks from a bottle of flavoured mineral water and pops a Nicorette from its blister strip. A few weeks ago it would have been a cigarette and vodka so he guessed he was progressing. Every day he was getting better, failing less. Gillis slumps back on his pillow, there’s five minutes to go on the loop, and he might as well see it through. His cock hasn’t twitched once. The anti-depressants he’s on Gillis is sure he cannot relinquish and he is fond of the way they make him feel sexless and abstracted.  So it goes. Half asleep the dialogue fills in the gaps for him. Voices carry.

“I need an extra hand.”

“Extra mouth.”

“C’mon see if you can deep throat Spunky…’

“Don’t worry love I won’t come in your mouth….”

“She’d need her stomach pumping….”

“I can still see three inches…”

“You gotta see the tears….”

“If your eyes are watering you are doing it right.”

“Real tears then you are doing it proper…”

“Shit did you shoot your load?”

“I hit the back of her throat got the special thick spit out…”

“You got the special spit…well done love you’re doing it right.”

A fart and laughter occasions Gillis to focus on the flick again. He even nudges it back again just to confirm it wasn’t an aural hallucination.  Michelle is sucking off Benidorm man when someone breaks wind loudly in the background. There’s shared laughter and the whole thing breaks up for a minute or so.

“Fucking hell Jimmy that reeks.”

“You need raking out.”

“It’s them cans of bitter I had before.”

“Did you have a chicken barm.”

“Yeah how did you know?”

“I’m the arse whisperer.”

The kid keeps it all together.

“Keep your mind on the job,” he says artlessly jamming his cock in Michelle’s mouth. Gillis has just noticed her make up is running down her cheeks. Real tears, special spit.  Michelle is licking the kid’s ball as her eyes convey derision. Ejaculate hits her left eyelid, fired off camera.

“Nice one Jimmy!”

“It’s a dripper.”

“Fuck me I’m knackered.”

The camera follows him to the other end of the room. We see Jimmy pull the tab on a can of bitter and reach for his cigarettes hidden in the pile of trousers on the couch. Jimmy turns briefly to the camera and there is brief glance of a weathered simian face.

“Macca get that fucking camera off me!”

Jimmy starts to put on a sock and the camera cuts back to Michelle. She’s doing her blouse up. The kid grabs Michelle’s hair abruptly enough to make her yelp, comes on her face, and makes sure it lands in her eyes. Benidorm ejaculates into a wine glass and tips it into her open mouth. Michelle starts choking but rallies regaining enough composure to spit Benidorm’s semen back out onto the tip of his cock. It’s now Sir Spunkalot’s turn, evidently preordained as the major set piece, they count down from ten to zero while Michelle sucks his balls and he wanks off on her face.  Fires it across her cheek. She’s coated it in it. Macca finally gets involved, struggling to keep the camera in focus as Michelle swallows his dick. He is rewarded for his contortions with an oral creampie. Michelle sticks out her tongue to prove she’s swallowed. Gets up and runs to the bathroom. Shot of the door and then fade to black. Michelle is broken in, not broken; you know she’ll do it again. Gillis looks through the linked videos and finds two others in which she is performing.  He’s tired so he scoots through them both, no doubt he would return to them later. A tame gang bang with no anal or double penetration with the same guys from Bukkake Splat along with a morbidly obese guest star. Shot in a hotel room, they remain headless. There’s another one, a tedious lesbian flick with Michelle writhing on a king-size bed with a friendly looking plump blonde who is a good two decades older than her co-star and giggles throughout the half-hearted fingering and cunnilingus though it is not totally forgettable thanks to a lively ending which involves a double ended dildo with a St George flag painted along its length.

 

 

The clip had worked its psychic balm so or so Gillis thinks, Michelle would be in his dreams not a forlorn smoking corpse. Gillis sleeps deeper and wakes up less now he’s forsaken smoking pot and alcohol. Tonight he expects to see Michelle but she has guests. It’s the same room, same cast, same set up.  Macca knocks on the bathroom door. They’re all still headless and the dream is played out on a hand held camera. Her suitors have stripped off and are bunched around holding a red rose each. Out she comes, naked, her body is beautiful and the men gather reverently in a semi-circle, which obscures the view of Michelle, gallantly offering their flowers. They start to back away, out of shot, cries and whispers off camera, tender sobbing. The flesh is dripping off Michelle’s bones, her glassily translucent face divulging skeletal mechanics, and her eyes becoming watery and dripping down her cheeks.

The men walk back into shot and hold out their roses. Michelle disintegrates at a freakishly accelerated rate, quickly becoming a leaking sack of blood and bones that atrophies and dries rapidly. The husk fractures, the corporeal shards crumbling and soon all there is left is a pile of grey dust near the bathroom door. The men each drop a rose on the pile of now thinning powder. The flowers start to rot. Gillis was awakened by the need to urinate and he briefly considered the dream, sitting on the edge of his bed and craving a cigarette. It had been disquieting but at least he hadn’t seen Brian Peppers glowing in the corner for two weeks. There’s glory for you, thought Gillis.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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