The Sex Barbarians – ebook



The Sex Barbarians by Jane Brooke

Buckle up for this anthology is about to take you on in a mind-bending experience. From the demented, depraved mind of Jane Brooke. She takes the reader into the ultra BDSM, private sex and scene clubs few readers ever knew existed. This is as graphic and insane as it gets, with stories about bi, gay and straight females, both dominant and submissive, as they take a plunge into the depths of sexual gratification. Miss Brooke spent months travelling the world and vows that everything in these stories is true – one way or another. As she says, “Some females love roses, a fine dinner and a kiss goodnight…while others need a bull whip, hand cuffs, and to be brutally dominated in order to satisfy their unorthodox sexual needs.

Stories include: Jamaican Vacay – where a stunning, blond, British lass moves into the darkness of a Jamaican prison to fulfill her sexual fantasies. Then there’s Bayou Girl – she needed to heat up, burn it up, maybe fuck some sweet girl or she was going to simply flame out. “It was New Orleans baby doll, pronounced like New-Or-Lens, a last-ditch place wherever you are, an odd world, a surreal and dangerous world, a perfect world.” There’s seriously, definitely Madness as two strangers go insane within each other’s pathos in a Jamaican paradise. And lest we forget to mention, After Sunday Services as Pentecostal female kisses her husband/pastor goodbye for a Sunday jaunt helping the poor. With a very twisted sense of humor perhaps, she finds what she is looking for when she delivers food to the gang bangers in Philadelphia. These stories and others.

Explicit, graphic BDSM sexuality. Quite obviously, this is not an anthology for the weak of heart.

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WE DRIVE for some minutes through the malevolent slums of Kingston. Poverty and death frighten me, yet I have seen it before. Outside the sewers, the garbage and the shanties, the prison looms.

Swallowing my fear, I can hardly breathe, my pulse hammering in my heart.

The other me feels her vagina grip, shudder, become moist in anticipation of the unknown. And then we are through the gates. The blue uniformed guard’s wave and my mentor waves back. I avoid their stares. I am almost embarrassed. The other me could hardly wait. She is, a very fucked up girl.

Time passes, we are moving now. My throat is dry and my teeth feel like chalk against my tongue. She is drooling, almost literally. I ignore her. Yet, she is so wanting, so sure. Her endurance for her singular wants are remarkable. I wish I could be like her. I am her. I remember we are the same creature.

Then my guide leads me into a room. The floors are dirt and the walls stained. I can smell semen blood and sweat. My body shudders. Daring not peek to the cells, my better half allows my eyes to rise. There are six of them behind the iron bars. I turn and, like a coquettish school girl, demure now and, make eye contact with the man who led me here. It is not Belgravia, Sloan Square nor stylish Bond Street. It is putrid, ghastly and, I think it is beautiful.

“Are you ready?”

My body doubled. “Yes.” She is.

He nods and smiles. His teeth are white.

“All is ready. Not to worry. Death is not on the menu. Not just yet.”

He takes my hand, squeezes, and walks from the room. The iron door clanks, my heart thumps. I dare not look. My breathing is laminated to my heart, a jacked up electrical power line, frayed wiring like some flop in Putney Town. My entire body is pulsing, sparking as if 220 voltage is pumping through it.

Then she over comes me. She always does, and I am her now-invincible, erotic, a cacophony, a waif of almost no substance, skin stretched along her bones as if a condom canvass ratcheted tight. She, my secret ghost turns, looks at the six huge men. Black men, muscled and of girth. They are Rastafarian’s, dread locks and naked men, smiling and staring men. They are quiet men, massively endowed men. It is time. They are my men.

My eyes were incapable of blinking. There was no blink in them. They we’re rabid, stark, blue marbles and my heart is hemorrhaging. I am here now and I am fearless. I have needs, special needs, so I allow my smock to twirl to my knees. I am naked, a shoe string stood on end, a waif of alabaster skin.

My sandals slip off. There is dirt, mud and filth on my feet. I feel something hot. Liquid is spilling down my inner thighs. Fuck I haven’t even begun. Already I can smell the sex, exuding and flowing from the sewer pipe of my cunt and mind. Smiling at the men, I begin to strut, teasing, dancing, trailing my fingers along the bars-plink,  plink,  plink-so confident, so wonderful, so bloody mad.

I see that their penises to a man are engorged. They are more than I could have dreamed of. Stepping back, I pout, pucker and air kiss a kiss to one massive man. He grins at me. His teeth are inlaid with gold and his tongue is pink. His penis something so beautiful I almost begin to weep. Braided with aloe, his hair is falling down his muscled and cut shoulders. I can see his belly, it is expanding. His breathing is stilted and his eyes are white, onyx black pupils, stark and beautiful. I begin to purr as I move close to the cells. I, me and her am causing these carnal and beautiful creatures to covet, to desire, to want me. The show is about to begin.

Flirting a bit, I tease, lay my fingers along my shaved pubic skin. Bending at the knees, I touch the moisture spilling out of me, then my lips and my tongue. Pursing my lips I tilt my finger at one man and flirt my white eyebrows at him. He smiles. I am crazed. Looking past him, I tweak a peek at the other God men. They are so different, all powerful, all engorged, watching; watching me. I wink at them. They seem to love me, they know, they understand me.

I throw another crippled kiss at them so they will not feel left out. I curl my finger to my man. He nods, moves to the bars and I gasp. His penis must be ten inches long, most likely more. It is corded and thick and it matches the circumference of my wrist.

OMG, what a beautiful thing it is.

His cock frees from the bars, pokes through, OMG again.

Strolling, I move close, so close as through the bars I touch his face. I act girlish and, then my hand slips down. My fingers wrap around his penis, it is hot and humid like the atmosphere in the cells. I feel sweat pouring down my body. Pirouetting for him, I tilt my small behind at him, spread my cheeks and slap my butt. I am in full sail now. I simply cannot wait, not a moment, not a second longer.

Moving back to him, I take his penis in my small hand, white against stark black. I begun to hum, sing, I am melting, as I stroke him. He moans one of those guttural sounds a lion makes before the hunt. I fall to my knees as if I am praying to a God, which I am.

I like the filth of the dirt and of the mud on my knees and toes. It mimics my mind. I take the knob of his penis between my lips and gently bite down with my teeth. There is room for both of my hands, perfect as I begin to dream. Moving him past my lips, my cheeks expand, my mouth is tiny, and is filled and I hear him moan, as do I. My tummy is blowing as is my lungs. I stroke him as I suck and revolve my tongue along his blood vessels. He reaches his thick fingers through the bars, wraps the back of my head with them and, then plunges his penis into my throat.

Gagging, I cannot stop. I do not want to stop as both of my hands run the limits of his penis. I can feel the veins throbbing, they are like anchor chains.

She is ready no. He tenses, jerks and explodes his semen down my throat. Screaming internally I back off. I want to taste him, every drop of him. He releases me and I masturbate him and my mouth fills. I am so crazed that I stand, see the rut on his face, semen dripping from my mouth and down my tiny breasts. I swallow all of imagining that I will steal his power?

Laughing, I turn and walk away. Falling to my knees and palms, I imagine that I am an animal covered with semen and mud. My back arches, I scream, shake my head wildly, smash my fists into the mud and wail. My body is percolating, clit like the tip of a burning cigarette. I have never been happier.

Standing, I prance a little for them, a bare foot tramp on a roll. I pout again, his power semen tastes like salt water in my stomach, warm, saline, a river of his life force filling me with power. I move to the door, run my fingers along the bars, teasing and taunting them. I am a bad little girl, such a filthy slut. It was what I was born to be.

The men watch me, only me as I waggle my forefinger playfully at a big fellow. God, he is tall, small hips, road bump abs and his penis erect. It is, bigger than the other mans. He moves to the bars and I whisper something to him. He looks at me oddly. I just called him a “woose wog”.

I am not a prejudiced type, hate any kind of prejudice, the other me said it; the bad me. They know I’m play acting. I know that he knows that I think that he is a God. I simply want him to understand my depths of blasphemy, depravity and that I have no dignity, and that I love him.

Kissing him on his lovely African lips, I back away, spy the door, it is unlocked. Dare I walk through it? I must.

I clasp the iron rungs like a crazed psychiatric patient. It is all that separates me from my death, my redemption perhaps. It is time, no reason to linger any longer. Opening the door I enter a world of men. They are meters away, I am waifish, humble, confident and ego centric.

Did I mention that the British are eccentric? I place my back to the bars, and stare them down. To a man they smile back at me. The man I whispered the profanity to walks up to me. I can feel the tip of his penis pressing against my tummy. He stands a foot away from me just staring and smiling. His eyes are serious, joyful and violent. He is such handsome man.

My hand falls along his penis, it barely wraps around the entire girth. I stare up at him, his chin is struck square, powerful and, then I purse my lips and say.” What are you waiting for Rasta Boy, are you not a man?”

He chuckles, turns and looks over his shoulder at my adoring audience. The men are laughing and they seem to like my spirit, me, her. It’s always about her.

Gripping my neck, he squeezes it. His thick fingers are vice-like as my eyeballs roll, rotate in my skull, slot open as he lifts me effortlessly and, then rips me back against the bars.

Unable to breathe, my eyes pop, jerk and roll around their sockets. My legs and feet are confetti, dangling, suspended in air as my heels bang the rungs and my hands beat at his broad shoulders. He is staring intently at my face. I am contorted in wonder and, then in one motion he takes a fist, presses it to my vagina and plunges it deep to his wrist and lifts.

“SWOOSH” a blast of air erupts from my lungs as the pain erupts through my vagina as I dangle like a cut stringed marionette at the top of his raised arm.

Laughing, he nods at his friends, as my hands reach back and white knuckle around the bar rungs. Screaming and moaning I feel the back of my head banging against the rungs, beads of sweat glistening in the sun spilling in through cell windows.


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