FagCuckShit

FagCuckShit © 2017 by Jessica Mandella
An anon and his favorite BTB author behaving like real men

Introduction for This Universe.

Hi. I'm Jessica Mandella, the sole and original author of this creative work in this entire universe. I like to tell stories about people in alternate parallel universes.

In this world, TrevorBTB is an entirely fictitious character. Despite any minor coincidences, any major similarity to any character in this world is merely a quantum artifact of the Mandella effect.

In TrevorBTB's universe, the erotic site is called 'HotStory'. I understand in this world, it's called something else here.

Trevor's asking me never happened in this world. He never existed in this world. But in the other universe, here's how it all went down.

* * * *

Chapter 1. Other-World Preface.

TrevorBTB asked me to share his experience, since HotStory banned him for life. It's not an apology. It's not even a good explanation. I'm fascinated by his paranoid spy antics getting the story to me. I'm posting it in the first person, just like he sent it to me on his antique micro-cassette, colorful language and all. I know better than to edit or censor it.

I'm used to importing crazy stories into this universe anyway, but his tape surprised me. It doesn't sound like he's reading. It's all off the top of his head, as he remembers it, from his first crude thoughts, through personal discovery, to self-understanding. Nobody turns on a tape and tells a tale that perfect, that well organized. What kind of freak genius has he become?

This is emotional stuff, not as much sex as my other stories. There's definitely some action, but expect the unexpected. Love is much hotter than random sex. It isn't about some random guy. It's about someone who hopes to be the kind of real man others would want to know. Ready to meet him? Here. Let me play his tape for you.

Chapter 2. Important Meeting.

"Fag cuck shit." That's all I have to type. If readers don't get the message and move onto another story, they're just as fucked up as the authors. I wish I could give a negative score. At least with bulls knocking up their wives, they won't pass on their cuck genes.

I hate posting anonymous reviews behind a proxy. By court order, I don't have a HotStory account anymore. They weren't even the main target of my hack. My DNS proxy blackout of happy-cuck stories on HotStory was an afterthought. There was room left in the virus, so I added it.

They can't take a joke. Now I'm banned for life. But you don't need an account to warn other readers about fag cuck shit. You just need a proxy. They accuse me of being a coward, but there's nothing I can do about that. Someone's got to warn them. It falls to me.

It's not my fault my Linthrax virus took down Homeland Security servers. It was meant to make all the DNS servers block Jessica Mandella's web site. That fucking fruit bitch makes cucks look like normal people. Next Heinlein my ass! With morons gushing like that, someone had to write some honest reviews. I still get wet nightmares and messed up fantasies from it.

I guess I got off lucky. My cable company wanted to sue me for several million bucks. Homeland Security gag-ordered the case. They were embarrassed at how weak their artificial spy system was. So they made it all go away, plus I got a job out of it. Better pay than I ever made before. But you can't buy your way back onto HotStory.

I know the horror movie appeal of the cuck stories. Sure, I read them, they get me hard, but it's just an erotic reaction to my worst fears coming true. It's like slasher or monster movies. You ride that subway down into the depths of the subconscious mind, where all the fears reside.

You place yourself into the midst of your greatest fears, and you ride them out to the end, facing them without dying, sitting back in your seat eating popcorn. It bleeds off the pressure of the fear. At the end, you always ride that train back up to the light of day in victory...if it's well written.

I know that's why people read cheating wife stories. That's why I read them. But someone has to warn people about the stories where the cheating wife completely cuts off the guy's balls. At least BTB authors face the fear, then take swift and merciless revenge on it. Those guys behave like real men. Those stories have an ending. There's a sense of closure.

Without that sense of closure, the stories can invade your fantasies, corrupting your beat-off sessions. I'm sure that's what's been happening to me. Since I've been trying to identify and warn others about all the happy-cuck stories, those bad scenarios are building up inside, with no closure. As a soldier, I'm willing to muck into dangerous spaces so others won't have to. With all the unending stories I've been exposed to, I'm getting cuck war syndrome.

If it weren't for great BTB authors like BurnerBill I'd feel a lot more polluted. He reaches into that place of doubt and fear, faces the trauma like a real man, and terminates it with extreme prejudice. Not a single one of the cheating bitches in his stories gets away with it.

I'm not a big fan of many authors. My thing is science, not romance. But the universe was kind enough to provide a few good men. I guess I'm a pretty big fan of BurnerBill. If only he'd call me. I even bought a burner phone for him to text me on, and I'm still waiting. There's no way HotStory could know who wrote him that encouraging message and left a number. My proxies are secure. So is this phone. Cash only, bought on my behalf by a homeless guy.

Fucking about time! I finally get a text from him.

TrevorBTB. Got your message. Central Park. Fountain near the bandshell. 18:30. Wear running gear.

* * * *

There he is. He looks at me and raises his hand. I didn't even text him. From a distance he looks like any other jogger...but not to me. This guy looks like the rugged military type, probably a Marine (there are no ex-Marines...it changes them for life). That's the only explanation I can think of for all the action he looks like he's seen.

My own ruthless angst was born of all the abuse I suffered growing up. I was always slight of build, pretty fair in feature and gentle in disposition...at least at first. The last bully who thought he'd fuck with me got his legs broken, his shoulders dislocated, a concussion and his testicles permanently damaged. I let him off easy. I didn't study martial arts. I studied anatomy. You know how the body's put together, you know how to take it apart.

"You're forty seconds late, Trevor. Run with me." That's all BurnerBill says.

Chapter 3. Escape.

We're running like hell all the way to the nearest street winding by. A black limo stops in front of us. Two doors fly open. Bill dives in. Without thinking, so do I. The sudden sound of a gas leaf blower is silenced when the doors close. There's a super loud, rapid hammering sound filling the car as we burn rubber taking off again.

It's not hammering. It's bullets. It's not a leaf blower. It's a drone. Somehow Bill's already hacked it. Its forward camera shows us our limo on the back seat monitor in here. It veers away in a swaying motion matched by VU meters beside the camera display. Bill keeps steering the drone so all four meters stay equal. Rushing into view is the killer drone's original operator. Bill hits the fire button and sprays him with machine gun fire. Then he crashes the drone into the fountain by the bandshell.

All this time I've been staring at the back seat monitor screen Bill was using. Now the camera feed from the drone is gone, I turn to Bill and ask the obvious question. "Wanna clue me in on what's going on here, Bill? Who's after you?"

Bill smiles fiercely. "Nobody's after me. They know who I am. They're after you. As long as you didn't know me, all was fine. Now we've met, they want you dead of course."

"Why?" I guess I have a habit of asking the obvious.

Bill takes a deep breath. "I was hired by the government to spy on the government. My agency doesn't exist. And now, neither do you. You could have been perfectly happy bitching and moaning about made-up stories on the internet, but you had to contact me. Of all the dumb luck. Welcome to the afterlife. You're a ghost."

And with that, Bill ignores me, typing into his tablet. We spend nearly an hour turning random ways, until we finally end up in a parking garage, driving a spiral all the way to the top. We get out and Bill dresses us in deep-sea wetsuits, complete with helmets. I don't think I'm going to like this.

Power fails all around us. Even the cars sputter and stop. Only a few diesel trucks are still running on the street far below. From way high up comes a soviet chopper. A line is sent down. Bill attaches it to my suit. I get reeled in like fish, into the belly of that ancient aircraft. Bill is next. The power blackout seems to follow us as we head for the ocean. This chopper is fucking with everything electronic anywhere near it.

Bill answers my unspoken question. "This bird is using vacuum tubes for its electronics. It's a sweet piece of Engineering. It can survive a pulse. In fact it's making a local pulse right now as it flies."

Over the ocean, two F-15s scream toward us to intercept, fire on us, or whatever. As soon as the fighter jets get close enough, their engines quit and the pilots have to punch out.

We get further out to sea. A swarm of missiles bears in on us fast. They all get close enough and then lose control, shooting off in random directions, mostly into the sea.

We fly a lot further out, then drop to hover just above the water.

Bill looks at me with bright eyes, and teases. "There's one question you'll be wishing to ask."

I don't like that look. "What?"

"Why am I throwing you into the water."

And with that, Bill grabs me and punches out the door. We drop about twenty feet and hit the water. These suits are heavy. We keep sinking. Why am I not surprised there's a sub?

* * * *

Now on board the submarine, Bill helps me out of my helmet, and my suit.

Then it hits me. "Are we with the good guys or the bad guys?"

"Neither team. We're the secret referees. We can cause any nation to fire on any nation, or force all their missiles to stand down. The cold war never got space beam defenses because we can't trust them with it. We keep the peace, whether they like it or not."

"So you're like the UN?"

Bill laughs a belly laugh, and then finally explains. "The UN is a cuck wimp cleaning up after baby bull oil cartels. We're the Burn The Bitch squad. No nation dares admit to the people that we exist. They'd get torn down in a bloody revolt. The French Revolution would look like bikini mud wrestling in comparison."

I sigh. "So where do we go from here?"

Bill brightens. "The Island of Misfit Toys. Anyone who belongs there doesn't belong anywhere else. You can go back, but who'd want to."

"I have a wife, Bill. Will I get to go back?"

"Nobody's keeping you prisoner here, Trevor. You can go back anytime...but you won't survive there until after your training."

"What kind of training could keep me safe from the feds?"

"That's classified, until you graduate. Trust me, Trevor. It's worth it."

"What about my wife?"

I hear from behind me the voice I've dearly missed. "I get the training too dear. As soon as you left for the park, I was extracted. The feds figured you'd be dead, so I wasn't important to them. They left me unguarded."

I have to ask. "You're not upset about getting caught up in this testosterone supercharged adrenaline rush? I mean...this is like spy movie meets modern warfare."

My sweet, demure wife surprises me. "I just need a tight fitting body suit and a decent spy-woman name. How does PrettyKitty sound?"

I raise one eyebrow. "Like a question to be answered."

She gives a coy smile. "You're right. It's too vague. PrettyPussy it is."

I'm blown away. "I want to pet her already."

She giggles. "Down boy. You don't want to put on a show, right here, do you?"

She grabs me and gives me a hard squeeze. "Oh, you big stud. You do!"

Why hide this massive erection? Every man on board has one. This sub is a sausage-shaped vessel filled with Sea Men. My wife isn't a wrecking ball. She's a sexual tsunami. The perfect spy woman...009, license to thrill.

Chapter 4. Training Begins.

Bill gives me a funny look. "Yeah, I get it. You're nobody's bitch. I can see it in your walk. But you're letting every asshole from your past live in the back of your head, rent-free. You fight like a man. You need to live like a man. Your bullies left malware distracting your brain like a denial of service attack. Yeah, I read your file. Speaking of which..."

Bill hands me his tablet, playing back security video of me beating the crap out of nine military trained mercenary political protesters. They had attacked me with all sorts of weapons, yet in a few seconds they're all ready for the Emergency Room.

Bill simply asks. "What the fuck was that?"

I'm a little sheepish. "It's nothing, really. I didn't know any martial arts, so I made some up."

Bill surprises me with respect. "You know how fucking bad ass that is? I can tell you're beating the crap out of them in a compound time signature. You're playing drums on all their pressure points and fracture spots. And it's jazz-fusion too. That's thirteen eighth notes per measure, isn't it?"

I'm impressed. "You know your music. I figured it would throw off their rhythm. It's based on a stress vector analysis of human anatomy. I'm surprised you're that impressed."

Bill gives me a sly smirk. "That is pretty impressive, but that's not the coolest thing about it. Do you notice anything unusual about the guys fighting you? Look closely. Do you see them moving, I mean, are they even moving at all?"

My face burns and I feel cold and clammy. "No, Bill, they're not moving at all. It looks like they just stood there and let me break all their bodies to pieces."

Bill drives his point home. "This video is from a DOD camera shooting 240 frames per second. The camera is part of laser defense system against hypersonic ordinance. The video you're watching is slowed down by a factor of sixteen. You're still moving fast enough to blur. Care to explain?"

This is like my nightmare where I get caught flying. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. "No, Bill. I have no explanation for it. Things get serious. Time slows down around me. That's all."

Bill claps me gently on the back. "Well, my friend, your training is going to go a lot quicker than I thought it would. You have natural talent. But you also need to balance your life. A plane flies on two wings, not one. Your personal life also needs work. I'm going to take you under my wing for both parts of your life. You and your wife will be staying as guests at my mansion. There are three master suites. You two will get one of them. You'll change the locks as soon as you move in so Gail feels safe there. After seeing you on video, I'm the one who should feel nervous, not you."

* * * *

It's been several weeks. I've been teaching Bill's soldier buddies my own form of hand-to-hand combat. About half of them lack the musical talent to do the drumming dance part. They can throw some damage, so they're happy. I'm a little concerned. Not one of them has broken the time barrier like I always do in a real fight.

One of them gets in my face and accuses me of doctoring the video. He throws a real attack to see what I'll do. It's on. I have him hogtied and swinging from the basketball net. While you move this fast, new rules apply. When you don't root in the ground like a tree, you step on the air. At this time-density, air is like wet clay. Of course, one touch of purpose and you can move anything like it has no inertia, and you can break anything like it's made of smoke.

When I return to normal time, Bill starts laughing his ass off. The other guys are scared of me, like I'm a vampire or something. I've been trying to teach them. It's only time and zero point modulation by a loud aura. That's all, nothing more.

Between crap like that at work, and Bill's Yoda crap at home, I feel like my whole life is spent learning. He says I'm in training. I have to admit, some of the training is fairly pleasant. Like this evening. It's another movie night.

Gail and I are seated in the media room. Bill stands, holding the remote. "Gail, this training video is for your husband. He needs this to become a real man. Try to support him in his learning here. It will make it easier."

Bill finally presses play. What the fuck? It's Mel Gibson, 'What Women Want'. I point my finger at the DVD player, pretending I have the remote, and the movie pauses. Bill gasps. Then he speaks up. "Trevor, you think this movie is a chick flick, right?"

My Gail giggles. "Well, duh!"

Bill gets serious. "This is a story about a man who learns so much more about women, yet the whole time, he's still such a guy! Even in the end when he surrenders, it's because he's finally manned up. You can't be a real man unless you have a real appreciation for women. You can be a gay man, but you still need to appreciate both genders. Am I right, or am I right Gail?"

Gail laughs. "You said it, sister!"

Bill rolls his eyes and continues the movie. Then he snaps at me. "I don't know how you did that, but leave the movie playing. Doctor's orders."

"Yes Yoda." I tease.

Now I know what I'm looking for, I can totally see it. This guy is a total guy. Even after getting to know them, his approach to pleasing women is direct and intentional. Not a shred of women's intuition. It's point-to-point. Then again, one thing he enjoys about the lady is how direct she is. She thinks a bit like a man too...but not too much. The beautiful thing about what we're seeing is the good qualities in each of the genders. It makes you think, though.

Bill speaks up. "Those are exactly the kinds of thoughts I was looking for, Trevor."

What...the...fuck? I'm not alone. Bill is a total telepath.

Bill pauses the movie. "Not total yet. I have a hard time looking deeper in you than you can. That doesn't mean I don't try. I gotta keep you on your toes. I've been training for years, and you're way ahead of me in Super Powers. You can imagine how that makes me feel."

Gail laughs hysterically. This really gooses her funny bone. "Bill, the telepathic sister. Now that's a real man! Trevor, don't just try to solve his problems. You need to listen to his feelings. Sometimes just knowing you've really heard him is enough." Gail cackles again.

Bill blushes bright red. "Bite me." He leaves and goes to bed.

Chapter 5. Alarming Discoveries.

The months fly by. We get used to the flow of things. After a while, we notice the timing. Bill doesn't always hang out at home with us. Sometimes he goes off. He always manages to take off when we're not aware, so we don't ask him where he's going. He has his own life, but he vanishes often, saying nothing about it. Gail and I are making up theories.

Bill spends long hours typing in his room. No new stories are published by BurnerBill. He has a strict time-off policy. At home, I'm not his job. I'm his hobby, and his friend. So if it's not a BurnerBill story, what is it? He only writes code at work. He's very serious about personal time being all about people and personal things. He doesn't even invent at home. He keeps saying a plane needs two wings, and so does a life.

What is he so busy writing? He does it the most after each mysterious evening out, like it inspires him or something. I think he has more than one HotStory account. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was reading his mind. Is 'Mister locked like a vault' finally starting to drop his shields?