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.
