New books available on Amazon.com

Title: The Matriarchs, Book 1

Author: Joe Gonzo

Synopsis: 

Tracey and Margaret, their appetites unsated by the tepid suburban hunting grounds where laws constrained them and fresh prey grew scarce, discovered Kurat—a jagged rock thrust from the Baltic Sea off Estonia's coast. Whispers on the dark web spoke of this fortress where women reigned with iron fists and male subjugation was not just permitted but celebrated as sacred ritual. They contacted the island's matriarch, who initiated them into blood rites that exploited men' s fatal weakness: the vulnerable flesh that dangled between their legs, the source of their arrogance and the instrument of their downfall.

Excerpt:

Anneli extended her neck, bringing the dripping orb closer to his face. “Watch,” she whispered, barely audible, but the timbre of her voice cut through the stunned silence. Toomas continued to plead in wordless, animal desperation, but Anneli’s eyes were pitiless. She clamped the severed testicle between her molars and bit down, hard. The membrane, already ragged, split with a muted pop, and a mix of blood and lymphatic fluid oozed onto her tongue and down her chin. She let some of it dribble onto Toomas’s lips—whether by accident or design, Margaret could not tell. The crowd made a sound, a communal exhalation that was equal parts disgust and awe.

Toomas’s body spasmed anew, but there was no strength in the convulsions. His eyes darted frantically, searching the crowd for any face that might show mercy, might intervene, but every set of eyes was riveted to the tableau, hungry for the next movement. Anneli chewed, slowly and deliberately, until the tissue compacted into a pulp between her jaws. She tilted her head, as if savoring the texture, then swallowed with a visible contraction of her throat. The act was intimate, obscene, and final.

The silence that followed was not a vacuum, but a dense, charged field. Anneli opened her mouth again and flicked her tongue across her bloodied teeth. With a flourish that bordered on theatrical, she bared her gums at the crowd, inviting them to bear witness. Several women clapped their hands to their mouths; one young man retched behind the cordon. Children stared, wide-eyed, as if what they saw had been seared into them forever.

Toomas closed his eyes and slumped against the plank. The fight was gone from him now; he was nothing but a spent receptacle of pain and humiliation. Anneli wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then pressed the slick palm to his cheek. The gesture was almost tender, and Margaret shivered at the ambiguity of it—was this a benediction, or a curse?

The crowd began to murmur, women exchanging glances heavy with both awe and a secret, unspoken fear. Margaret stood immobile, unable to tear her gaze from Anneli’s face, her own breath coming in shallow, ragged gulps. It was so much more than spectacle now; it was a transformation, an ancient violence that had been waiting just beneath the skin of the community. Margaret’s own hands ached from gripping, but she felt only pride—a raw, electric satisfaction in seeing the job completed.

The crowd dispersed slowly, some carrying home souvenirs—a bloodied rag, a torn scrap of speedo, a sliver of the board where arterial spray had dried to rust. Toomas was cut loose, and he crawled away on all fours, his mutilated genitals leaving a crimson trail in the dirt. His remaining testicle hung by threads of tissue, swinging grotesquely with each labored movement. Anneli kicked dust into his face while Mari circled him, her laughter sharp as broken glass. "Look how pathetic," Anneli sneered, "crawling like the worm he is." She patted her stomach. "I can feel it dissolving inside me now, Father—your precious manhood turning to nothing but shit." Mari squatted beside him, her face inches from his. "Men think these make them strong," she hissed, flicking the dangling remnant of his scrotum, "when really, they're just handles we haven't grabbed yet."

Title: The Matriarchs, Book 2

Author: Joe Gonzo

Synopsis: 

Tracey and Margaret remained, surrendering to Kurat' s women who broke and rebuilt them like weapons. Their bodies hardened through brutal combat drills; their minds sharpened through psychological conditioning that stripped away mercy. They discovered savage joy in molding young girls into warriors who viewed men as prey. Then came The Culling—a night when drums pounded like heartbeats and torchlight painted women's sweat-slicked bodies crimson as they descended upon captured men. Screams harmonized with triumphant howls. Blood darkened the earth. Flesh yielded to blade and stone. Was this their destiny? This world where men crawled and women reigned with iron fists dripping red?

Excerpt:

When he woke, his wife and daughter loomed over his cot like sentinels, knuckles white where their hands gripped each other. Their eyes gleamed with the afterglow of yesterday's butchery, pupils still dilated with the memory of his screams. Heiki's gaze darted between them, desperate for mercy, but his wife's face had hardened into something unrecognizable—jaw clenched so tight a vein throbbed at her temple, mouth carved into the same cruel slash as the matron who'd held the knife. His daughter's fingers suddenly clamped around his wrist, her nails digging half-moons into his flesh. "You're not going to die," she hissed, leaning so close he could smell the copper still on her breath. "We need you alive." Each syllable fell like an axe blade between them.

In their presence, the relationship of husband and wife, father and daughter, twisted like a rag being wrung dry of its former essence. Heiki's eyes followed his wife's movements—the squared shoulders, the chin tilted upward at an angle he'd never seen before—as she spoke with the staff about a transfer. Her voice carried across the room in clipped, businesslike tones: "I need him home by Thursday. The garden needs tilling, the floors need scrubbing, and winter stores won't prepare themselves." 

His daughter stood at the foot of the cot, fingers tracing the metal rail, her teeth gleaming briefly when she caught him looking. The delicate gold cross she always wore had vanished. In its place hung two amber-colored orbs, each the size of a small lemon, glistening wetly against her collarbone. With nauseating clarity, he recognized them as his own testicles, somehow preserved and skewered on her gold chain like obscene pearls, displayed with the casual cruelty of a hunter's trophy. Heiki's insides felt hollowed out, not just where the knife had been, but deeper, where something vital had crystallized into a jagged, arctic mass that pressed against his ribs with each labored breath. 

As his wife leaned over him, he noticed his own severed genitalia hanging between her breasts—his once-proud eight inches now preserved like a museum specimen, the shaft swollen and waxy, the foreskin pulled back to reveal the purplish head. It swung heavily with her movements, an obscene pendant that caught the light as she shifted, the substantial weight of it stretching her necklace cord. The thick vein that had once pulsed along its length was now just a blue ridge in the preserved flesh. The severed parts of him now adorned their bodies like trophies of conquest—raw, undeniable evidence that power had transferred hands. Mother and daughter stood transformed into the new heads of household, wearing his manhood as their jewelry, their posture radiating a primal dominance that rendered him smaller with each passing second. The family hierarchy had been violently, irrevocably inverted—his flesh now their ornaments, his authority now their birthright.

 I reimagined The Bully into Grosse Ile Dominas.

It's similar story line, but this time, I wrote it with more grit, detail, and maturity (I'm older now, after all). 

If you love Mother/Son domination, ballbusting, CBT, please check out the novel: Grosse Ile Dominas on Amazon.com

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Footsteps stopped at the kitchen doorway. Matt, keeping his lids slit just enough, saw two silhouettes—one tall and angular, the other petite and whip-thin. His mother and Kathleen stood framed by the doorway, arms folded, sipping coffee and surveying the scene with a mixture of satisfaction and, in Kathleen’s case, outright amusement.

“You see what I mean?” Jennifer said, voice low but electric. “He’s not even fighting anymore. He’s all yours.”

Kathleen set her mug down with a clack and stepped forward, heels clicking a slow metronome on the tiles. She circled the island, her gaze lingering on Matt’s face, then drifting down the length of his torso. Matt felt her eyes rake over him, cataloging every inch: the bruises blooming on his inner thighs, the red welts where the rope bit into his hips, the angry purple splotches that marred the skin over his groin.

“He’s pretty,” Kathleen said, almost clinically. “You did good work here, Jenn.”

Jennifer smiled, the kind of proud, tight smile Matt remembered from childhood swim meets. “I told you. He’s resilient. And he learns fast.”

“Did you try the spoon, like we talked about?” Kathleen asked.

“Not yet. I wanted to save something special.” She approached the counter, placing her palms flat on the stone, leaning in until her face hovered just above Matt’s. Her blue eyes were cold, implacable. “You ready, sweetheart?”

Matt tried to jerk away, but the tape on his chin held him firm. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was a muffled grunt.

“Good boy,” Jennifer cooed, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re going to thank me someday. Maybe not now, but when you’re grown. This is what it takes to be part of a real family.”

Kathleen moved behind her, hands resting on her hips. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Go ahead,” Jennifer said, stepping aside. “He’s your test subject.”

Kathleen’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined Matt, running her fingers along the ropework, testing the knots for give. She pushed at his inner thigh, making the bruises bloom darker, then pressed her palm flat over his belly, just below the navel. Matt felt the pressure drive the ache down into his pelvis and, reflexively, his hips lifted off the counter. Kathleen laughed.

“Sensitive,” she said. “That’s good. Means it’s working.”

She trailed her fingers down until they hovered over Matt’s groin. His penis, which had once been the pride of his adolescence, was now a swollen, discolored mess. The skin was mottled red and purple, the shaft laced with angry blisters and a handful of shallow cuts. The balls hung low and heavy between his thighs, the scrotum puffy and almost translucent. Kathleen touched the shaft with the tip of her nail, watching it twitch and contract in response.

“Still alive down here,” she said. “Remarkable.”

 Book 2 for The Neighbors is available at Amazon.com 

Plenty of Daughter/Father, Wife/Husband, Mother/Son, Sister/Brother ballbusting and CBT!

Thanks for buying my new books. The response has been great!

Email me for story ideas or any comments on the novels. NSX3400@gmail.com

It's a series of ballbusting stories set in suburbia.

Title: The Neighbors, Book 2 

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Greg trudged home on a sweltering Saturday morning, the sun already blazing. He dropped his duffel at the threshold, the thud echoing through the silent house. The sudden quiet was deafening after the roar of the college campus, the throb of final parties still echoing in his head. The cul-de-sac hummed with the distant whir of sprinklers and the growl of lawnmowers, the first summer weekend after finals bursting with suburban life. Greg had expected something—his mother’s chatter from the kitchen, his old man’s snores from the couch—but the house was tomb-silent.

He prowled through the entryway, gagging on the stench—bleach mixed with something sharper that burned his nostrils raw. A sound from the living room made his muscles tense. Greg's mouth opened for a greeting that died in his throat: his father—six-foot-four of once-dominant muscle—knelt naked on the carpet, trembling. Blood-red nylon strangled his genitals, cutting deep purple welts where the metal clasp bit into swollen flesh. His face was unrecognizable—a roadmap of tears and snot, black marker stabbed into his skin: "PIG" carved across one side of his forehead, "SLUT" gouged into the other, the letters still wet and dripping down his temples.

Greg staggered back, bile surging up his throat. "Jesus fucking Christ," he choked out, "Dad? What the—what have they done to you?"

His father's head lifted, eyes vacant as a corpse. "Welcome home, son." Blood leaked from the corner of his cracked lips.

Amy stalked in from the kitchen, coffee mug steaming, dressed in cutoffs that barely covered her ass, tank top stained with something dark. Her hair hung in greasy ropes, face flushed with a predatory glow. "Hey, baby boy. Long drive?" Her smile stretched too wide, teeth gleaming wet.

Greg's lungs seized, heart hammering against his ribs like it might shatter them. "Mom... Jesus... what the fuck have you done?"

Tracey slithered down the stairs, nipples jutting obscenely through a threadbare shirt, eyes burning with feral hunger. She hurled a towel at his face. "Gonna puke, college boy? Better kneel down first. That's what men do in this house now."

Greg couldn't tear his eyes from his father's mutilated face. "Why—why would you—"

Amy slammed her mug down, coffee splashing over her knuckles without a flinch. "Because he needed to learn," she hissed, stalking closer. "Like all men do."

Tom trembled on his knees, the leash cutting deeper as his cock strained uselessly beneath it, purple and fat with blood. The nylon leash was wound so tight it looked like it was trying to sever him at the root, choking the shaft as it pulsed with each of his heartbeats. He tried to keep his eyes cast downward, but every time his gaze flicked up, it found the reflection of Greg’s horror, wide and helpless, staring back at him from the living room mirror. Greg’s stomach flipped, bile souring his mouth, but he couldn’t look away. His father’s arms were lashed behind his back with zip ties, shoulders bunched in agony, knees spread indecently wide. The rug beneath him was soaked dark, a sticky slick of blood and urine that stank like livestock.

The house was a cathedral of suburban ruin. Bourbon bottles lined the edge of the mantel, half-empty, glass shimmering with fingerprints and streaks of something darker—maybe blood, maybe just the sticky residue of kitchen disasters now left permanently to rot. The television, always the heart of the old man’s domain, was shattered, a web of cracks running from corner to corner, the screen frozen on a warped image of a family sitcom. Greg’s hand hovered over the phone in his pocket, thumb trembling as he considered the 9-1-1 he should have dialed the instant he stepped inside.

He took a step backwards, heels crunching glass. “I’m calling the police,” Greg croaked, the words barely audible over the steady, involuntary whimpers leaking from his father. He lurched for the door, but Tracey was already there, blocking the exit, feet planted wide, arms folded across her chest. Her face was flushed with a sickly, fevered delight, lips peeled back in a smile that was all canines and contempt.

“You’re not going anywhere, Greggy,” she sneered. The nickname landed like a slap—an echo of his childhood, but twisted, cruel. Her voice was deeper now, older, edged with the confidence of someone who had committed herself to this insanity. “Not until you play by the rules.”

Greg looked for a seam in her posture, a weak point. She was still his little sister—five foot seven, rail-thin, always the scrapper but no match for his wrestling years. He tried to bowl her over with a shoulder, but Tracey moved like a viper, sidestepping his lunge and catching him at the hips. Her hands were callused, nails chipped black, and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts, pulling him off-balance. Greg braced for a slap, but instead she rammed a knuckle into his gut, right above the cock, a nerve cluster that made his legs fold instantly. He hit the wall, then the floor, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs.

 Thanks for buying my new books. The response has been great!

I have another book out on Amazon.com

Email me for story ideas or any comments on the novels. NSX3400@gmail.com

It's a series of ballbusting stories set in suburbia.

Title: The Neighbors

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Tracey woke shaking, her body still humming with the aftershocks of memory. Every muscle in her thighs burned from the night’s tension; her hand smelled of sweat, her palm sticky from where she’d pressed it hard between her legs before sleep finally overtook her. The house outside her room was silent and still, so even sounds from inside her own head bounced loud—her pulse, her short, ragged breaths, the faint wet pop from her mouth as she rolled her tongue against dry teeth.

She tried to reimagine the moment: Chase’s face above the rim of the torn shorts, mouth jammed open and gasping, eyes already dialed out from the pain. She wanted to own it again—not in cheap daydream fragments, but the full force of it, the raw animal collapse of someone who’d always been untouchable. In her mind, she was the one kneeling there, not Jenny or Margaret. Her own foot, lifted and weighted with perfect balance over his ribs, shattering the last of his pride. She almost cried thinking about it, the sharp heat hissing through her chest. Not just because of the violence. Because of the transformation—the way every muscle in Chase’s face had twisted through shock, shame, unwilling pleasure, and it was Tracey who had done it, Tracey who’d made a god out of herself for that instant.

Her phone buzzed under her pillow, a single angry vibration. She flinched, thumbed it open, and saw the texts stacked up from Margaret.

[5:46am] “u awake?”

[5:47am] “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

[5:49am] “I want to do it too. All the way this time. The way Jenny does.”

Tracey stared at the screen until her vision blurred. She wanted it too. That certainty had been branded into her skin, impossible to wash away. She typed only, “meet me at 7 behind the church doors.” She hit send and watched the message icon pulse, a dopamine dart to the frontal cortex. Her legs were already swinging over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the chill floor, as if she’d known all along she wouldn’t be able to wait.

The normal rituals felt fake that morning. Shower scalded her skin raw, the water pressure juddering like a jackhammer on her collarbones, but even that couldn’t sand the goosebumps off. She’d never cared about makeup, but she smeared a streak of black beneath each eye just to see the shadow it made, a challenge to the mirror. The clothes she picked—cleanest pair of shorts, black tee, the same battered flats Margaret had once admiringly called “mercenary”—all felt like bits of armor, not uniform.

Breakfast? Impossible. The inside of her mouth felt scrubbed with steel wool, each swallow like dragging sandpaper down her throat. She stood at the kitchen counter, watching her parents hunched over their plates, the sound of her father's spoon scraping yogurt from the bottom of his bowl like nails on concrete. The refrigerator's hum filled the silence between them. Her 19-year-old brother, Greg, shuffled in, eyelids heavy with sleep, wearing only navy boxer shorts with a frayed elastic band. He scratched his chest, yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, completely oblivious that his morning erection tented the thin cotton and poked through the front opening like a pale, veined finger pointing accusingly at the family table.

Tracey averted her gaze, a cold spike shooting through her chest. For one insane moment she pictured herself walking over, yanking Greg’s boxers to his knees, and shattering whatever pride he had left with a single, merciless kick. The pattern of last night’s violence was alive in her tendons, a secret rhythm. Her father grunted something, mouth full of toast, but it might as well have come from the radio for all she registered it.

"You're up early," her mother said, voice high and tight, not really a question.

Tracey shrugged, letting her mind snap back to the surface. "Big test in trig today." She scraped two slices of bread from the bag and forced them into the toaster, the violence of the movement sending cold crumbs everywhere. "Have to study with Margaret before class." Even saying those names, her own and Margaret's, made the electricity shimmer under her skin.

Greg lumbered past her, his bare thigh brushing against her hip. He didn’t even seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. Maybe he really had forgotten how Tracey had humiliated him a month before, right there in front of Margaret—dropped him to the grass with a single, clean kick, his hands clutching his crotch, face red and wet in front of their mother’s horrified scream. Or maybe he just didn’t see her as a threat anymore. Maybe that was the real point. 

He sat next to her, knee bent at a sharp angle with his right foot resting on the wooden chair seat, left leg splayed open like a wishbone about to snap. His navy boxer shorts rode up his pale thigh, the worn cotton bunching where it shouldn't. The frayed elastic gaped, revealing a glimpse of wrinkled flesh, pink and vulnerable as a newborn mouse, while the rounded head of his penis peeked through the fly like some blind, curious creature. Steam rose from his coffee mug, curling around his fingers as he reached for the sugar bowl, his nails bitten to the quick. He didn't flinch or adjust himself, as if his body were merely furniture in the room. Tracey's fingers twitched against her empty plate, imagining the satisfying crunch of knuckles against soft tissue.

She glanced up at her parents, searching their faces for any sign they sensed the violence humming beneath her skin. They remained oblivious, her father's thumb swiping rhythmically across his iPhone screen, her mother's face bathed in the blue glow of her device, the light catching on the fine wrinkles around her eyes.

Tracey nearly laughed, a plan already crystallizing. Chase's face flashed in her mind—the way he'd crumpled when Jenny had finished with him—and she imagined Greg's features superimposed there instead. She'd need Margaret for this; Margaret who texted at dawn, hungry for more. Together they could engineer something that would break her brother in ways that wouldn't heal, applying Jenny's brutal lesson with surgical precision.

The clock over the stove said 6:32. She finished the last of her lukewarm coffee, wiped up the crumbs, and shouldered her backpack. The screen door slapped shut behind her as she cut through the side yard, dew soaking her calves. The sky was a chalky bruise, clouds clumped up like oatmeal. She found Margaret already waiting behind the church, her face pale and luminous in the early clouded light. She clutched her backpack with both arms, knuckles shining white, and for a second Tracey wondered if she’d lost her nerve. But Margaret’s eyes—gray, wide, rimmed with sleep-shadow—locked onto Tracey’s, and Tracey felt the jolt travel straight to the base of her skull. No, not lost at all. More like coiled, waiting for permission.

“Tell me,” Margaret said, stripping the words bare of hello or how-are-you. “Tell me what to do.”

Tracey could have laughed. Instead, she flicked her eyes down the alleyway to where the maintenance men always stashed the dumpster, checked they were alone, and stepped closer so their noses nearly touched. “Today’s not about Jenny. Not about watching. I want to do it myself.” She heard her own words and knew she’d crossed something——couldn’t walk it back now. Her tongue felt heavy behind her teeth.

Margaret waited, silent and greedy. Tracey set her hand on the rough limestone, feeling grit dig under her nails. She pictured Greg’s throat in the crook of her elbow, his face mashed into gravel, the soft bulge of him exposed and helpless against the curb. She never really hated him. She didn’t need to. He was just a door. She wanted to see what happened when it swung all the way open.

Tracey reached and pulled Margaret’s wrist, guiding her to stand flush against the wall. The warmth of Margaret’s skin bled through her hoodie and straight into Tracey’s palm. “First, we plan it,” she said, hearing the rasp in her own voice. “Greg’s always home alone on Fridays. He thinks I’m scared of him since—” She cut the memory off, swallowing the acid it left behind. “We could make it look like he’d fallen down the stairs. He’s always doing that, always too loose in his own skin, always coming home stoned. But we do it right. We don’t just hurt him…” She swallowed, pulse hammering at her temple. “I want to see if he really breaks.”

Margaret stopped breathing for a second—a held breath, then a slow, deliberate exhale. “You want him to cry?” she whispered.

She shook her head. “Crying’s nothing. I want him to be different after.” Tracey paused, searching Margaret’s face for any flinch or withdrawal, but Margaret only inched closer, hungry as a stray cat. “When I say go, you help hold him down. We take him apart.”

New books available at Amazon.com

Thank you to readers who bought books.

These are novel-length stories, full of suspense and grit. 

Please send me message on NSX3400@gmail.com for story requests and comments on new novels.

Title: Embers and Blood: Origins of the Sisterhood

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

"Please," Trygve whimpered, his voice high and thin. "Not my stones." His hands clawed desperately toward his groin, but Solveig's weight pinned his arms. The left one resisted at first, surprisingly resilient despite its vulnerable appearance. Sigrun bore down harder, her jaw clenched with effort. Then—a subtle shift beneath her fingers, a faint pop like a knuckle cracking. The rubbery orb began to change shape, flattening on one side. Trygve's scream pitched into a piglet's squeal as his left scrotum swelled purple-black. 

Around them, the younger girls gathered, wide-eyed. Asta, the youngest of the daughters, watched the hulking warrior reduced to sobbing ruin, his manhood now exposed in its vulnerability. 

"Once I feared that thing," she whispered to her sisters, nodding toward his groin. "Like a weapon he'd wield against us." 

Despite the agony, his cock twitched, stiffening against his thigh—the poison's cruel work. Ingrid's laugh was sharp as flint. "Look how it betrays him still," she hissed, "rising while he falls." Brynhild leaned closer, her eyes glittering. "The shaft may stand," she murmured, "but the stones—" she gestured to the purpling sack in Sigrun's merciless grip, "—that's where their power hides. Crush them, and what remains?" The three exchanged glances, a current of dark understanding passing between them—the intoxication of reversing, at last, the order of their world. Now, when she looked into Trygve’s face, she saw not the wolf but the dying lamb—his lips flecked with vomit, his eyelids fluttering, tears and mucus pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. He tried to say “stop,” but all that came was a high, keening whine. Sigrun leaned in, her lips inches from his ear.

Title: The Arashari

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Wojciech's hand was a claw, knuckles blanched as if throttling the edge of the stone bench. His breath came in short, liquid hisses. He had not moved in what felt like hours, his gaze pinned to the arena below as if he could will the men’s bodies back into wholeness through sheer disbelief. Around him, the stands seethed and hummed, every woman a node in the living circuit of communal exultation. If not for the reek—hot blood, charred sweat, the faint musk of fermented adrenaline—he might have convinced himself that none of this was real.

It was Tomáš who first broke the spell. His iPhone, held at chest level, had filmed every flick of the obsidian blade, every parabolic arc of arterial spray. The screen still glowed in his lap, flecked now with a single spot of blood—his own, from where he’d bitten through his lower lip. He thumbed the “stop recording” button, then looked up at Wojciech, jaw trembling. “Did you see—” he began, and then his voice stuttered off. Words, for once, had nothing left to offer.

Beside them, Matej frantically scribbled diagrams in a field journal, hands slick with sweat. His pencil skidded across the paper, rendering not the clean lines of a scientific observation, but the involute, fractal spirals of a mind losing its center of gravity. The words on the page—testes, epididymis, ligature, trauma—were repeated in a looping, recursive script. “This is not possible,” he muttered. “Not. Possible.” But he kept writing, as if the act could insulate him from the horror below.

Lukáš’s response was more elemental: he simply vomited onto the sand between the benches, the thin acid splashing across his hiking boots. No one in the crowd acknowledged this. The spectacle below had set the metric for dignity and embarrassment so high that a little regurgitation barely even registered.

For a time, the four men sat immobilized. Down in the arena, the victorious women dragged the two ruined males into the shade, their bodies leaving furrows in the sand, a slow drag line of shame and blood. The crowd began to disperse, mothers pulling curious children up by the hand, young women already rehearsing the next day’s retelling in sharp, delighted whispers. The only ones who stayed were the officials in ash-grey linen, who moved with bureaucratic efficiency, sweeping the arena floor and hosing down the splattered stone with a mix of water and some pungent herbal solution.

 

The Blade that Freezes. Excerpt

From the hallway, Anna listened to the old sorority catechisms echoing through the cracked door. “This is the first rule,” Kristin spat, even as her hands shook on the edge of the mattress. “Men are prey. Women are the hunters.” Margret picked up the chant without missing a beat, her voice thick and shaky but growing stronger: “Men are weak, men are soft—” “—and they exist only to be tamed or destroyed.” Even as terror fizzed in their guts, the repetition gave them strength, the rhythm of call-and-response a shield against the animal in front of them.

But the animal did not die quietly. Gunnar writhed, blinking tears and coffee from his eyes, and for a long, dreamlike interval seemed more wounded bear than human. He lashed out, catching Margret’s wrist in a meat-grinder grip, and with a single flex of his forearm slammed her to the headboard. Her skull made a sound like a knuckle cracking. The surprise in her face was almost comical—her own body betraying her, refusing to rise to the violence it had always feared. Anna, at the doorway, whispered, “Get up,” as if the force of her will could animate Margret’s limp arm, the fingers that curled and uncurled weakly at her side.

Kristin did not hesitate. She planted her feet on the carpet, braced her knees against the edge of the bed, and swung at Gunnar’s face with the mug’s broken handle. He caught it mid-arc, twisting her wrist until the bone creaked, and yanked her forward so hard her teeth clicked shut on her own tongue. She tasted blood, swallowed it, and with the other hand—her left, always the weaker—drove her thumb straight into his eye. He roared, not in pain but in outrage, the sound echoing through the house like a barnyard animal at the slaughter. He thrashed, tearing her hand away, and in the same motion pitched her across the mattress. She landed hard, shoulder-first, but rolled to her feet at the far side.

For half a minute it was chaos. Margret, dazed but breathing, crawled away from the headboard, her vision tunneling in and out with every heartbeat. Gunnar was already on his knees, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, the other searching the air for something—anything—to grab. When he found Margret’s ankle, he yanked her back toward him, pinning her to the sheet by sheer body weight. His thighs were like tree trunks. “You little fucking bitches,” he hissed. The phrase was so ordinary, so trivial, it almost made Margret laugh. She tried to say something, some final curse, but the air left her lungs as he hammered a fist into her stomach. She doubled over, vomit stringing from her nose and mouth.

Kristin, moving on pure animal instinct, circled the perimeter of the bed, searching for a weapon. She found none. She looked at Anna, who stood in the doorway, frozen and white-knuckled, and understood for the first time that this was not Anna’s fight—she had built the plan, but she would not soil it with violence. Kristin’s fury doubled, then tripled; she was alone, and this fact was both terrifying and purifying. She screamed, not words but a raw, primal sound, and launched herself at Gunnar from behind. She wrapped both arms around his neck and squeezed, her forearms digging into the stubble and loose skin. He thrashed, but she hung on, legs locked around his hips, grinding her heels into his groin as she wrenched backward with everything she had.

He rose from the bed like some obscene resurrection, Kristin clinging to his back, and staggered three steps before slamming both of them into the cracked plaster of the opposite wall. The impact bounced her teeth together. She lost her grip and tumbled to the floor, where she curled into a ball, splinters of pain shooting through her lower back. Gunnar, panting now, looked down at her with a kind of dull surprise, as if unsure how his daughters had grown to be so feral, so unkillable.

Margret was crawling again, one arm useless, the other clutching a pillow like a shield. Gunnar reached for her, but she twisted and kicked him in the face with both feet. The blow was clumsy, awkward, but it caught him just below the nose, splitting his upper lip and sending a fountain of blood across the mattress. “Yes!” Anna shouted, fists clenched at her sides. It was the only encouragement she would offer. Kristin, still on the floor, rolled onto her stomach and scanned under the bed for something—anything—to even the odds. Her fingers closed on a length of duct tape, sticky with years of dust, and she ripped off a strip as Gunnar, distracted by Margret’s flailing, momentarily forgot about her.

She launched herself at his feet, wrapped the tape around his right ankle, and pulled. He staggered, nearly fell, and for the split second he was off balance, Margret kneed him point-blank in the groin. He bellowed, the sound wet and shrill, and collapsed backward, his legs splaying outward as he hit the floor. His thin cotton briefs twisted in the fall, one leg riding up to expose the vulnerable mass of his genitals—the heavy, egg-shaped testicles flopping against his inner thigh, the shaft curled limply beside them like some pale, wounded creature. His hands clutched uselessly at himself, and that was the opening Kristin needed. She pounced on his back, tape in hand, and looped it around his throat, yanking with such force his windpipe nearly collapsed. His face went crimson, then a mottled purple, as veins bulged at his temples and his eyes bulged.

Available on Amazon.com

Author: Joe Gonzo

The Sisterhood, Books 1-3

Excerpts:

Book 1

She remembered her martial arts training. She let go of her father's wrists. Her fingers closed like talons around his swollen testicles, digging deep into the soft tissue until her nails met resistance. She crushed with every ounce of strength, feeling something rupture beneath her grip—a sensation like crushing overripe fruit. His scream tore through the room, primal and raw, but his hands remained locked around her throat, fingers digging into her windpipe with desperate strength.

With her left hand, she seized the root of his scrotum and yanked downward, feeling the skin stretch taut. His grip loosened just enough. She balled her right hand into a fist, knuckles white, and drove it into his left testicle with surgical precision. The organ flattened against his pubic bone like a water balloon hitting concrete, then rebounded. The impact traveled up her arm, electric and satisfying. She pivoted to his right testicle, smashing it with even greater force. Each punch produced a wet, meaty thwack that echoed in her ears like applause. "This is for every girl you've ever looked at," she thought, alternating targets methodically—left, right, left, right—feeling the organs compress and spring back beneath her assault. His screams became higher with each blow, a symphony of "EEEEEE!" that grew more desperate as his strength ebbed. His fingers still dug into her throat, but she could feel his power draining with each impact. By the twelfth punch, when his hands finally fell away, she felt godlike, invincible. He curled protectively around his battered genitals, cupping them with trembling hands.

Book 2

At the end of the lot, Tomek parked behind a row of unlit storage containers. He killed the lights, letting only the green glow of the dashboard illuminate the cab. He turned to her, expectant.

Kendra shrugged out of her jacket, let it fall open to reveal the black tank top beneath. She was not modest about it—the top was sheer, nipples hard and prominent in the cold. She feigned shyness, pressing her arms together to accentuate her breasts.

“You like?”

Tomek nodded, dumbstruck.

She reached over, unzipped his jeans the rest of the way, and freed his cock—a thick seven inches that filled her palm perfectly. It was fully hard now, jutting from the nest of his pubes, the foreskin still bunched tight at the tip like a drawstring purse she would soon untie forever. She let her fingers play, rolling the skin back and forth over the purple head, watching the shaft twitch with each pass, mentally measuring the circumference. His scrotum hung loose below, vulnerable and perfect—twin treasures she would add to her collection before dawn.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and groaned. Kendra leaned over, pressed her lips to the tip, and inhaled the scent. She flicked her tongue at the slit, then drew the whole head into her mouth. She worked him slowly, listening to his ragged breath and the faint creak of the seat as he squirmed beneath her.

After a minute, she pulled away. “You have big balls,” she said, smiling.

He opened his eyes, surprised. “You like?”

She nodded, then cupped them in her palm, weighing them. “Yes. I like very much.” She looked up at him. “You show me more? Maybe outside?”

He blinked, unsure. “Is cold.”

She pouted. “I don’t care.”

He grunted, then shrugged his jacket on, opened the door, and lumbered out. Kendra followed, slipping into the night with bare arms and tight jeans.

Behind the containers, the wind cut like a razor, but Tomek hardly noticed. He turned to her, cock still hanging from his fly, and waited for instruction.

Kendra approached, standing so close that her breasts brushed his chest. She put both hands around his shaft, then knelt, her face level with his crotch. She took him in her mouth again, deeper this time, letting her throat relax around the tip. She felt his hands tangle in her hair, clumsy but desperate.

After a minute, she released him. “Maybe you fuck me?” she asked.

He gaped, then nodded. “Yes, yes, fuck. How?”

She pointed to the side of the container, where a low stack of pallets made a bench. “Sit there.”

He obeyed. She climbed astride him, wriggled her jeans down, and straddled his lap. She let him guide the cock to her entrance, then eased herself down in a slow, excruciating slide.

The initial stretch was sublime—he was thicker than anyone she’d used for practice, and the foreskin bunched and rolled as she sank onto him. She felt her own body clamp tight around the shaft, felt the pulse of his heartbeat through the head.

She rode him slowly, grinding her hips in tight circles, letting him thrust up when he wanted. His hands dug into her ass, fingers bruising the flesh. He muttered in Polish, words thick and guttural.

Kendra sensed the telltale tightening in his thighs, the quickening of his breath. She slowed her pace deliberately, reached between her legs and cupped his scrotum, feeling the weight of each testicle between her fingers. The skin was loose, wrinkled, vulnerable.

"You like?" she whispered.

He nodded, unaware of what was coming.

When his hips bucked upward and his first spurt of ejaculate hit her insides, Kendra clamped down. Her fingers dug into each testicle with crushing force, squeezing them against each other like overripe plums. His scream tore through the night air—primal, agonized—as his penis wrenched violently from inside her. He collapsed to his knees, semen still pumping from his twitching member onto the gravel.

Kendra maintained her grip, twisting now, watching his face contort as pearly fluid continued to spray in diminishing arcs. His cock, purple-headed and veined, jerked with each new wave of pain.

"Please," he sobbed, voice cracking. "Please stop."

She released him only when his screams threatened to draw attention. He curled into a fetal position, cupping his bruised genitals, retching onto the asphalt.

Kendra wiped herself clean with his shirt, pulled up her jeans, and walked toward the cab, scanning the dark lot for witnesses. Empty. Perfect. She turned back to survey her handiwork—Tomek, six-foot-four of muscle now curled into himself on the gravel, his balls visible between his thick thighs, purpling already where she'd crushed them. Her collection needed his foreskin especially; that doughy knob would dry beautifully.

Kendra’s approach was a silent, icy calculus. She circled Tomek as he writhed on the gravel, his massive frame reduced to a quivering bundle of muscle and snot. He tried to lever himself up, but his limbs didn’t obey—shock had scrambled the messages between brain and body, leaving him fetal, open, and utterly at her mercy.

She stood over him, arms folded, watching the way his hands clutched his ruined groin. The air was thick with his pain; it radiated off him like heat, each gasp a ragged, involuntary confession. Kendra gave it thirty seconds. Then she knelt, grabbed a fistful of his jacket, and yanked him upright by the collar. His eyes were wild, packed with the terror of a man who understands his own body is no longer sovereign.

Tomek tried to plead, but the words came out as a slurry of Polish curses and animal mewling. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t listening.

She let him flop backward onto the gravel, legs splayed, genitals bared by the half-undone jeans. His scrotum had already begun to balloon with blood, the skin purpling and distending in ugly, asymmetric lumps. The foreskin still hunched over the glans, but the shaft below was spotted with bruises where she’d crushed the blood supply.

Kendra flexed her fingers. She gauged the angle, the resistance of denim, the exposure of the vulnerable tissue. She balled her right hand to a tight, pale fist and, in one smooth motion, drove it downward in a piston-straight punch. Her knuckles met his scrotum with a sound like a hammer striking a rotten tomato.

Book 3

Kendra's operation pulsed like a predator's heart, the whole island a blood-fed extension of her ruthless ambition. In just two years, she'd transformed Carabao Island—a jagged tooth of land jutting from the western jaw of Luzon—into her perfect killing floor. The cliffs didn't just rise; they stood sentinel. The thickets didn't merely grow; they concealed. The isolation wasn't geographic accident but strategic advantage, the poverty not circumstance but insurance against witnesses. Her millions had purchased this sanctuary with terrifying efficiency. To the oblivious world beyond, her facility masqueraded as the Carabao Institute for Tropical Mammalogy, a laughable front that churned out forgettable research on tarsier extinction and bat echolocation. Behind this paper shield, Kendra maintained a skeleton crew above ground while her offshore accounts fattened the wallets of the mayor, the local police chief, and a carousel of customs officials who conveniently developed blindness to her construction materials, midnight supply barges, and the monthly yachts delivering fresh "consultants"—men who would never leave alive.

Beneath the prefab research facility—a cluster of white-washed buildings with peeling paint and rusted rain gutters that housed dusty specimen jars and neglected microscopes—lay Kendra's true domain. A service tunnel, concealed behind the humming compressor of a walk-in freezer, led to a sprawling concrete labyrinth locals whispered was a forgotten World War II American naval installation abandoned during the 1945 liberation campaign. In reality, American engineers had merely poured the foundation before Imperial Japan's surrender rendered the project obsolete. Kendra had meticulously designed the rest herself in AutoCAD, hiring laborers who arrived at midnight with their own tools and left with cash-stuffed envelopes and chemically induced amnesia. The eastern wing housed six kill rooms, each with surgical-grade lighting, drain channels carved into sloped concrete floors, and walls painted matte black to hide arterial spray. Adjacent observation chambers featured one-way mirrors and recording equipment behind soundproofed glass. The western corridor contained twelve holding cells with titanium-reinforced doors, motion sensors, and feeding slots. The industrial kitchen gleamed with commercial meat grinders, bone saws, and vacuum sealers, while three walk-in refrigerators maintained precise temperatures for different stages of processing. At the complex's heart stood a sprawling dojo—the widest chamber in the facility—enclosed by bulletproof glass walls where spectators could observe the carnage from plush stadium seating. Beyond this arena lay the ceremonial gallery with its vaulted ceiling echoing weekly chants, while adjacent corridors led to a state-of-the-art gym with Olympic equipment, meditation rooms with bamboo flooring, and luxurious living quarters featuring silk bedding and marble bathrooms—all designed for the comfort of women whose ceremonial blades rested, freshly sharpened against whetstones, in an atmosphere heavy with incense and anticipation.

While the Berlin and Cape Town chapters clung to manifestos about "female empowerment" and "protection," Kendra had stripped away these civilized veneers entirely. Her women didn't pretend to serve some greater cause—they admitted, in blood-soaked whispers during their rituals, that they were simply killers who craved the wet thud of a man's body hitting concrete, the metallic tang of terror-sweat, the primal ecstasy of blade parting flesh as genitals were severed from still-breathing bodies. Her eyes gleamed during the hunts in ways they never had during boardroom takeovers or political assassinations. When she'd slit her first throat in this country—a banker from Manila who'd sobbed for his mother—something had clicked into place. The Carabao Chapter wasn't just a splinter cell; it was Kendra's confession. Her women didn't merely want equality or revenge. They collected scrotums in jars—labeled not by the men's names or crimes but by measurements and texture—trophies from fathers who'd begged for mercy with wallet photos of children, from aid workers who'd spent decades vaccinating village children, from abusers and saints alike. They ranked dying screams on a ten-point scale in leather-bound journals, assigning higher scores to the men who'd lived most virtuously, finding a particular thrill when severing genitals from bodies that had never violated another. Their inner thighs bore tattooed tallies—not distinguishing between the rapist who'd deserved his fate and the teacher who'd simply taken a wrong turn—each mark representing only meat harvested, another male reduced to the common denominator of prey.