Prepare for Annihilation! Sept 12th, meet the Fems...

The Alliance of Wimps for Placating Violent Women request your presence at an undisclosed location in Manhattan on September 12, 2010.  It is known that the group of recalcitrant vigilantes, called The Violent Fems, will be gathering on this night to size up potential victims.  This is an opportunity for submissive men to sacrifice their hides for a good cause- re: making the streets of NYC safe again for other, unsuspecting weaklings.  A $40 pre-paid fee will guarantee any victim the chance to be baptized in the sadistic waters of their wrath.  $10 at the door will get you in to meet them.  But beware!  Anarchy will be the only rule at this gathering, so be prepared!


xoxo.

You know what's worse than pissing me off?

PISSING ME OFF WHEN I HAVE FUCKING PMS!

Oh... come on little stupid boys... I'm so ready to knock you down and right the hell out... and I know for a fact that I'm not the only Femme ready to damage whoever is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So really.

Fuck with me.

See this block on my shoulder? Yeah. Knock it off. I dare ya.

Transcription of alleged VF attack. 9/10/10 10:37am

I didn’t mean to push her. I mean, it was a gentle bump. We were having a playful conversation — me and Knuckles. That’s what she said to call her. And she was giving me shit about something, so I gave her a playful little knock on the shoulder. We’d just met that night and had been busting each other’s balls all night. It was nothing. A tap. A child could have punched harder.

Boy, was that not the right thing to do.

She looked at me for a moment with her eyebrow cocked — one of those looks that make you feel like all the air has left the room.

“Sorry,” I said, and she just kept looking at me. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know you are,” she said. Her voice had gone low and flat. “Pay your bill and come with me,” she told me. I said I would. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why. Honestly, I thought maybe I was going to get laid.

She got quiet after that as she squared things with the waiter, who leaned in to whisper something to her.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, and he shot me a look.

But she wasn’t looking at me at all. She didn’t look at me as I pulled out her chair and opened the door on the way out of the restaurant. She didn’t look at me all the way to the corner, and that’s when I began to wonder why I was following her. You know when that muscle in your stomach lets you know that you’ve made a decision you shouldn’t have? That’s how I felt as we turned onto a dark block then walked out of the moonlight and into the shadow of a building.

“What did the waiter say?” I asked. I wanted to know why that guy looked at me like I was someone’s perverted uncle. She didn’t answer, so I was starting to get a little aggravated. I don’t like being ignored. “Did you hear me?” I repeated, and that’s when she turned around and sunk a punch so deep in my stomach, I was chewing my breakfast again.

“I can hit, too” she said.

She’s no small girl and she hit me much harder than I had pushed her. Much harder. A fucking sucker punch.

When I was doubled over gasping like a fish in a live well, I felt another set of hands reach under my armpits and get me in a full nelson. I know it was a woman, because I could feel her breasts against my back. While I was off guard, another two women came up and lifted my feet. I mean, it happened all at once. I started to kick, but then Knuckles grabbed my package and dug her nails into my balls and told me that she would, you know, rip it off if I kicked any of her friends. But I didn’t even need that as a threat, because I was already in enough pain with her grabbing my balls like that, so I stopped. She kept her hand there while the other two lifted me up by my legs and tied my ankles together. The one holding me from behind, she must have been a bit of an Amazon, because she held me up without any effort. Then, out of the shadows, another woman came up to me in what I thought was a police uniform. She told me that her friend at the bar had reported me for harassing women, and apparently I matched the profile of a man who had been causing trouble in there before and would I mind coming with them for a little ride?

I couldn’t answer though, because before I even thought to scream or yell for help, Knuckles gagged me with one of those gags with the balls that you see in fag porn. Sorry, I mean “gay” porn. Then they dropped me on my stomach on the ground, tied my hands behind my back, then put a hood over my head. I mean, it was amazing how fast they were. And quiet. I could hear a car coming from a block away. I had hoped it was someone who would see me and help or call the police, but instead it stopped right near us. I heard two doors open, and then they threw me inside, on my stomach onto a long metal floor, and then they jumped in behind me. It was one of those pervy white vans. My buddy Richie used to have one when he had a contracting business. And every once in a while, he would get a friend to go out with him and get girls really drunk and fuck them back there on a few sleeping bags after they passed out. You know, one of those kinds of vans.

They were quiet for a few minutes and then all at once, they burst out laughing and yelling, like they were at a pep rally or something. All congratulating each other.

“How you feeling down there?” someone asked me and then kicked my side. I didn’t even try to answer with the gag in my mouth. So again one of them reached down under me, between my legs, and grabbed my dick in her hands and said “Answer her when she’s talking to you!”

I mumbled something, and they all laughed. Then one of them said she wanted to get a better look at my face, so they flipped me over onto my back and ripped the hood off.

“Eh. I’ve seen prettier,” one of them said. I could sort of see their faces then. It was dark back there, but occasionally, we passed under a streetlight. Knuckles had blonde hair, with bangs that fell across her eyes. I’ve already described her to you. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat. The biggest of the women, the one who must have been holding me from behind, she was driving but not really paying attention to where she was going, because she kept turning around to watch and laugh. She had dark eyes, and this face that was always morphing into something else. First she seemed girlish, then sophisticated and lady-like, then kind of like a dyke, then she looked like a librarian. …It was weird, so I stopped paying attention to her, because she was confusing me and I wanted to remember details that might help you guys catch them later. Anyway, they called that one the “Boss.” The ones in the back with me were the cop, who I knew was not a cop by that point because she was too hot — no offense to cops, but you guys don’t look like that. Plus, she was squatting with her crotch in my face the whole time, and while her top looked a little like a cop uniform, her bottoms looked like little boy shorts. I don’t know how else to describe her, except to say that she was sexy. One of the women had dark hair, but it was all in front of her face, like Kenny from South Park. You know that show, right? She never talked. Another woman was a pretty blonde, and for a moment, when we passed under a streetlight, it illuminated her head like a halo, like she was an angel. They called her Pyscho.I think I saw a tattoo on her arm when she smacked my face hard and asked me what I was looking at.

For a little while, they left me alone, comparing me to other men they’d picked up. I started feeling cold, and I noticed that the one with the dark hair had been cutting off my clothes in patches. A few times, the van hit a bump and the knife cut me and I made a sound and she laughed a little. That’s really the only noise I heard from her. Maybe that’s why they called her “Knife” or “The Knife” or something like that.

We stopped somewhere. I think we’d gone through a tunnel, though I couldn’t tell which. The door flew open and three more women got in. One of them had the leanest, most muscular little body I’ve ever seen on a woman, but I don’t know what she looked like because she was wearing one of those masks that the Mexican wrestlers wear. Her outfit looked a little like a wrestler’s unitard too. The other two who got in kind of surprised me the most, because they looked like any pretty women you would see on the street in New York with big sunglasses and big purses. One had red hair: They called her Kitty. The other had dark hair, and they called her Jeanie. When they got into the truck, they each slapped my cock pretty hard then spit on me.

“Is this really the best you could find?” one of them said. Then Knuckles said that I had been following her around all night, talking over her, telling her that her opinions were ridiculous — which they were, to be honest — and that I’d punched her arm. So she picked me.

“Yeah, that was stupid,” Jeanie said to me, then took a nipple in each hand and twisted so hard, I thought I was going to swallow the ball gag and break my back trying to get away from her.

Then, I felt something burning my skin and smelled alcohol. Knife was pouring vodka on the places she’d cut me. The Cop grabbed the bottle from her and asked who’d brought an open bottle of alcohol into the car. Everyone got real quiet, because she was getting really worked up, saying that they could all get arrested.

To shut her up, Kitty took the bottle from her and just poured it all over me.

“There. All gone,” she said. And then Knuckles, who was smoking up front, grabbed the empty bottle and threw it out the window.

“Now it smells like a shitty bar in here,” the Boss said, and Knuckles said, “No, it’s missing something.”

She turned around and handed her lit cigarette to the blonde and said, “I think we need a dirty ashtray for it to smell like a shitty bar.”

One by one, they took turns burning me all over — on the insides of my thighs, on my stomach, on my feet. The pain made me jump, and that made them laugh. They started passing the cigarette around in a circle, because they were now pretty much in a circle around me, and they took turns seeing who could find a place to burn me that would make me jump the most. But they were getting so competitive with each other that they were pressing the cigarette harder into my skin, until eventually one of them put it out on me. It was like the more I screamed, the more aroused they became. Sick bitches, man

They wanted Knuckles to give them another cigarette, but she said no because she only had a pack left for the night.

“Then let us use one of your canes on him at least,” Jeanie said to her, and so Knuckles passed back this little stick. You know, at first, I almost laughed. I grew up in Jersey. I used to box. I’m no pussy. I thought, “What the fuck could this little stick do to me?” But then they each took turns hitting me with it, like, these little bitch hits that really fucking stung. At first, they kind of hit me all over, but then they started focusing on the same spots — over and over and over until it felt like my skin was bursting like a boiled hot dog. And while they were doing that, the Knife was cutting off my underwear. I was really fucking terrified, you know, that they were going to hit another bump and she was going to cut something down there. But she didn’t, and as soon as the underwear was gone, they pretty much just started caning my dick.

And I, you know, at that point, I was really starting to wonder if I would ever see my kids again. It’s been so long since I talked to them, because I’ve been so busy … but you know, their mother is a real bitch, so I’ve been keeping my distance. Because I don’t fucking need that. Why should I have to deal with that? And I just … I got real worried that I would never see them again. For a minute, I was worried that my ex put these women up to it, but then I realized that she’s such a gold-digging whore, she would never kill me because she wants me paying child support for the rest of my life. So I was really feeling remorseful about not seeing my kids enough, and then just always yelling at them when I do get to see them. I started to cry a little because I didn’t think I would ever see them again.

So Kitty came and sat behind me with her back against the back of the van, and she put my head in her lap and started playing with my hair. I thought she felt bad for me. One of the women made fun of her for it, and then she said, “What? It’s my favorite part when they cry.”

I didn’t care why she was being nice. I was just happy that one of them had stopped being a psycho bitch for a minute and that the others were leaving me alone. I had my head kind of against her stomach, and I just started sobbing. She was petting my head, saying, “It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” It kind of sounded like she was smiling — you know how sometimes you can hear people smile?

And I started getting, you know, snotty from crying so hard. So she asked one of the girls up front for the rag. That’s how she said it: “The rag.”

“Can I have the rag?”

Then, she held it to my face and said, “Here, blow your nose.” I blew it a few times, but she kept it there and just kept telling me to blow harder, to get it all out. So I kept taking these deep breaths to blow out, even though it smelled a little funny. I thought it was a paint rag or something, because I started to feel woozy. And then Kitty said, “Hey guys, what’s the most successful pick-up line?”

The Boss yelled from the front seat: “Does this smell like chloroform to you?”

And they all laughed, and then the last thing I remember was Knuckles yelling back to me, “Well, does it buddy?”

When I woke up, the first thing I heard was a buoy. I don’t know if that helps you at all. I know we were by water. I was back on my stomach on concrete. I think I saw rusted metal with bolts nearby and I’m sure I smelled saltwater. The girls were standing around the back of the van, talking, passing around a bottle, smoking. They had a painter’s light clipped to the van doors. Knuckles was telling stories about hanging out with rock stars in New York in the ‘90s — I don’t know if that helps you either, in identifying her I mean. And they were all laughing like they were at a fucking bar or something — like having a man tied on his stomach in some fucking lot somewhere was the most natural place to me.

Wherever we were, we were the only people there, because there were no lights. It was abandoned. Some kind of old industrial port or something. Kind of a shit hole. I’m guessing it was somewhere in New Jersey.

I wondered how long I could get away with just lying there, letting them talk. I thought about trying to roll away, but then I wasn’t sure how far I was from the water. If I fell in with my hands and feet tied, they would find me if the water was shallow. If it wasn’t, I could drown. I didn’t have the gag on anymore. So I thought maybe I would do what I’ve heard some women do when they’ve been in these positions and try to appeal to them by humanizing myself. I just waited there quietly until one of them said, “Maybe we should go check on him.”

Then I heard footsteps as one of them came walking towards me, but I didn’t want to open my eyes just yet. I wanted to pretend to be out until they threw water on me or smacked me or something, so maybe they would get worried that I was dead or something and leave me alone.

But she didn’t do any of that, this girl. It was the cop. She rolled me over on my back then tapped my face a little, saying, “Dude. You up? Dude.”

When I didn’t open my eyes, she sighed and said, “All right then.”

And then I heard the others walking over while the cop straddled me, like sat down right on me, on my dick. She leaned in and started whispering dirty things in my ear. Not mean things, just dirty. Like how when all this was over, she was going to get on her hands and knees and suck my dick so hard, my ass cheeks would invert, or that she was going to let me fuck her so hard I would knock her legs out of joint and then how she’d let me flip her on her stomach and readjust her spine with my dick. Like, just dirty shit. And she’s breathing hot on my neck and writhing on top of me while she’s doing this, and I can hear the others kind of giggling, standing around us. And you know, when you’re in that position, even though your body is burnt and cut and sore, there’s no way, there’s not a man in here who would be able to keep it down. Not a single man. It’s out of your control. And she knew right away, too. She knew right away when she started getting me hard, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, so I tried to lie there quietly as her ass kept writhing on top of me and she kept breathing on my neck and then kind of moaning. By this point, I was harder than Chinese math, and one of her friends came over and squatted over my face. Then the cop put her hands on my chest and rode me like she was fucking me. I hadn’t realized that I was starting to breathe harder, but I guess they did too, because the harder I started to breathe, the faster the cop went and then it reached the point where I almost didn’t care if they knew I was awake, I had to shoot a load like fucking Yellowstone.

But like, a minute before I was there, I let out a moan. I motherfucking let out the littlest fucking moan, like a little bitch, and then the cop jumped up and shouted, “We have a weiner!” And then they all cheered, and I was just lying there sticking straight up with nothing to do, like a fucking sundial at midnight.

Everyone went back to the van but Knuckles, who rolled me over on my stomach and told me to get on my knees, which is not easy when your hands and feet are tied. I scraped skin off my face, but I did it because she kept kicking me in the ass. As soon as I was on my knees, she grabbed a fistful of my hair and told me to stand up. She helped me by pulling me up by my hair.

“Listen,” I said to her while the others were out of earshot. And she faced me with her hands on her hips and those eyebrows raised again. “Listen, please. I’m a father. I support two children,” I said to her. “My father is blind, and I send him checks every month. Please,” I said. “Don’t do this.”

And then she threw her head back and laughed like a fucking maniac.

“Is this like in the movies, when you try to tell me your back story so I don’t kill you?” she asked. “Don’t worry, asshole. We’re not going to kill you. Though you might wish we did when we’re done.”

And then she laughed again and put the ball gag back in my mouth and called me a little bitch and made me hop back to the van. When I got closer, I could see in the painter’s light that the girls all had dicks on. Like rubber dicks, like a dyke would wear. But they were massive. Almost mandingo big. They were all sitting there rubbing on them. And they were red. 

“Someone forgot the lube, so we have to make do with some ketchup packets we found on the floor!” one of them yelled back to the van.

And I’m thinking to myself, “What the fuck?”

So I get to the van, and they say, “Knuckles, we picked for you. Your fifth.”

Then, they cut the ropes on my hands and handcuffed me with these shackles that had been secured with a chain that ran up through the belly of the van and around one of the seats. It was just short enough that I had to lean over and rest my weight on my forearms on that metal fucking van with like, nails and shit or something. At least with Richie’s van, you had a sleeping bag back there while you were leaning over.

Then, they cut the ropes that bound my ankles and spread my legs and shackled them to some kind of bar, so I couldn’t close them.

“Who’s first?” someone asked. I think the redhead.

“El Luchador!” someone yelled, and the chick in the mask came up from behind me.

She started by kind of poking the tip in a little, then a little more, then a little more, and then without warning, she kind of just plunged right in. I have to tell you — I’m not a faggot, I know how we were made and I’ve never had anything up there. So this really … I can’t even describe to you how much this hurt. And then she started pounding away while she pulled my head back by my hair or tore the skin off my back with her fingernails and her friends cheered.

They each took a turn with me like that while Knife either kept a hunting knife at my throat or used it to cut my back. While one would go, the others drank and watched and made little comments. I was sure they were going to rupture something back there and kill me. It was like I was in prison. One of them put her hands in my mouth like a fishhook. Another one saw shit on her dick, and used a stick to wipe it off and then draw a little mustache on my face with it. When Knuckles went, she used my ass as a punching bag. I think she did some serious damage to my sciatic nerve because now I feel pain running up my ass whenever I take a step with my left leg. Another one held the ends of a belt and choked my neck with it while she called me her little pony and kept saying “Whoa, easy there, filly” and then pulling back on the belt and choking me. The Boss went last, and I have to say, I think she knew I was at my breaking point. She slid her hands down my arms and leaned against me and fucked me while she breathed in my ear. It was kind of a long fuck. Each time she put it in me, she would go slow but she would go deep, like she was hoping to break through to China or something. And every once in a while she would whisper how little I felt to her, or how tight my pussy was, or she would ask me how it felt to have my cherry popped. She said maybe if I called her Daddy, she’d let me sleep with a pillow. Just weird shit man.

They pretty much fucked me raw until I saw the color of the sky change, until my knees and forearms were bleeding from rubbing up against the van and my asshole was burning from the ketchup. I heard one of them say, “Shit, I have to be at work in five hours. We have to go.”

Then came the rag again.

When I woke up, I was in Central Park, lying under a dirty sleeping bag with a dirty pillow that read, “Love, Daddy” and a Metrocard with two rides on it taped to my balls.

I couldn’t sit on the train. And when I got home, I could barely piss without crying. I took my clothes off and went to get in the shower, and that’s when I saw that they’d written “Violent Fems were here” on my stomach with arrows going all the way around each of my sides like a belt and then pointing to my asshole. I wanted to get it off as soon as possible. That’s why I got right in the shower and scrubbed myself as hard as I could before I called you guys. I’m sorry that I may have washed off some evidence. I’d never even heard of a rape kit before. Men aren’t really supposed to deal with these kinds of things, you know?