Rob True

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 10, 2011

Rob True – “I am an idiot. I left school without qualifications, dyslexic and mad. I could only paint and draw and I am mostly self educated. My wife taught me how to use punctuation and paragraphs aged thirty eight. I spent more than a decade out of work and fucked on drugs and was sectioned twice. I got better and narrowly escaped a long prison sentence. I now work in the construction industry. I am married to my beautiful wife and we have a little boy.”

Shit Future

Mystic Misfit could read the future.
She was a fortune teller and her methods were a little unorthodox.
When clients entered her little room,
they would see her sitting behind her table.
They were unaware
that she was naked from the waist down.
She would ask them to be seated,
before she began
and only once the client had sat down,
would she then stand up.
The client would be quite surprised,
amused, aroused, shocked, or disgusted
to see her nude sex, at eye level.
Seeing their fixed expressions,
stupid with surprise, she would turn around
and squat slightly, sticking her bare arse out a bit
and then she would do it.

Runny shit all over the table.
Many left in revolted anger.
Some vomited at the sight of it,
or as the disgusting smell came up from the mess.
Those that stayed seated, from shock or fascination,
would see her turn around
and stir her filth with a stick,
a maniac’s grin on her face
and spattered shit on her inner thighs.
As she stirred her cack up, she would murmur
and nod to herself, in apparent understanding
of whatever she saw.
She then read the clients future,
in her runny shit.
You may, or may not be surprised to hear
that she did have returning clients.


He stood in the kitchen loading up his pipe with Thai weed. It was an eccentric little pipe. Brass colour, with three bends after the bowl, then straight pipe to the mouth. It looked like something Salvador Dali would use if he smoked weed. That’s what his wife said whenever she saw him smoking it.

“Look at you. You freak! That looks like something Dali would smoke”

He knocks back the rest of his rum and goes out to the garden. He don’t smoke much now days. Too much strong weed trips him back into madness. Can’t handle that skunk shit they smoke now. Made him feel on edge.

This little pipe was lovely. The size of the bowl was just right. One bowl of good strong weed was enough for him to feel spaced out but not mental.

So he goes in the garden to smoke now, since they had the baby. He gave up fags ten years ago and don’t put backy in spliffs, smokes ’em pure. But when his wife said he should smoke outside now they had a little boy, he knew she was right.

Outside there, such peace of mind. Even with the distant sound of moronic yobs on the cross roads. The trees swaying and rustling gently, the darkness of the sky. That special feeling as the weed creeps in. Just enough, not too much. Like one or two pints before you start getting pissed. Feeling like a better version of yourself, the same but more so. Before you start becoming slurred and slow and annoying to

other people.

He goes back inside and puts the little pipe away. Standing there in the kitchen, outer-space, inner-space, time slow down or speed up? Fuck knows. Staring like that into nothing when his wife comes in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Staring like an idiot.”

“You look like an idiot!”

“I am an idiot”

His voice is monotone and remote.

She comes close to him, starts telling him about something he has to do, some chore he’s forgotten. She’s rubbing herself up and down his body, holding him by the hips and shaking him side to side to amuse him, because she can tell he don’t want to hear it.

He’s not listening to her, just going with her movement. She’s laughing at what she’s doing to him because it looks funny. He likes this strange moment and the friction is getting him hot. His eyes glaze over, fixed predatory stare. She looks like prey to him now and all he’s thinking of is pulling her clothes off .

“You look weird!” she says.

“I am weird.”

He grabs her head and kisses her full on the mouth and she pulls away laughing,

“Did you get horny while I was shaking you?”

“From the rubbing.”

He grabs her again, pulls her arms behind her back and kisses her. He holds her arms back, barring them with one arm and his other hand goes between her legs, rubbing through the material. She tries to pull away but he’s got her good.

“No! What are you doing?”

“I’m ganna fuck you up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your fucked.”

“You’re sinister. You look evil.”

“I am evil.”

His hands are grabbing at her, pulling at her clothes, restraining her as she half heartedly tries to fight him off. Alternatively putting a hand up her top or down her knickers as she squirms and wriggles. She’s wearing pink tracksuit bottoms and he gets the waist band and roughly yanks them off her hips and down.

“Stop! What are you doing?”

She struggles as he works them off and then goes back for the knickers, which come down and off quickly. One foot then the other. She pulls away and breaks free.

“Stop. No, wait. I don’t want to.”

“So what?”

“But I don’t want to.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m not in the mood!”

“You’re always in the mood by the time I get you bare.”

He holds her arms again, pulls them out the way and carries on the assault. Rubs her pussy, then her arse, then up her top, kneading her tits and back to the pussy.

“Stop it your scaring me”

“You should be scared”


“You’re gonna get fucked up”

He spins her round and slaps her bare arse,

“Ow, stop!”

He spanks her cheeks and thighs a bit, then spins her back round to face him. Touching her between the legs, she tries to stop him. She don’t want him to discover her arousal, squeezing her thighs together. He slaps at them and pulls them apart.

“Open your legs.”

Voice still monotone, distant and calm.

“Your wet.”

“Get off!”

“You love being molested by me.”

“Fuck off!”

He turns her again and bends her over the worktop while pulling his cock out of his fly. He kicks her  legs apart and puts it in. holding her in place he gets on a rhythm. Slow, deep and hard.

“Ah!…Ah! Stop it you bastard!”

He laughs, fucking her so her feet come off the floor, as her hips come up with the thrust. She starts to pant and push back against him but he pulls out, turns her to face him, bends forward and throws her over his shoulder with her bare arse up in the air.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking you up.”

“No, I don’t want to.”


He slaps her upturned arse occasionally as he climbs the stairs and walks to their bedroom.

“We’re not doing it!”

“Be quiet!”

He throws her on the bed slaps her thighs apart.

“Ouch, get off”

Kneeling between her legs, he pulls her top up and off her arms and she is nude except for shoes and socks. He puts his cock back in, still fully clothed and works at it fast this time, relentless, until she cums, quite quickly. He don’t stop and she grinds against him hard, as she feels it deep. When she has recovered he gets off and strips. He gets back on and goes for it until he cums.

Mad explosions in the mind, bursting colours behind the eyes.

Visions of vicious teeth, wild beasts killing and eating.

He kneels, throws his head and arms back as the gold light

comes in on a beam from heaven straight to his head and washes

through his madness. Golden light from God.

He feels God in his soul and the magic coursing through him,

stokes the flames of his power, like eating the still beating heart

torn from the body of a defeated warrior. And he knows with a

sense of calm and happiness, that everything means nothing, fuck all, to him or her or God.

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