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.