[Tantalism] 🕶️ Jobs

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Giselle - The Next Phase 7

She got up. Walked around the room. Could it be rats or something? She opened the door but no one was there. So she went back to bed. Quickly, she fell asleep, or floating somewhere between sleep and reality. And in her dreams she felt the same soft sensation around her vagina. Gentle motions of something brushing her clit. It built and built until finally sending her into paroxysms of ecstasy over and over again.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Giselle - The Next Phase 8

The sensation of ecstacy didn't stop, and for at least a minute her whole body bucked and throbbed. Eventually the other-world orgasm subsided and she lay there, a gibbering mess incapable of anything rational. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go back to the monastery and be plundered by a dozen randy monks simultaneously.

That too subsided. She fell asleep.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Giselle - The Next Phase 9

She slept deeply. So deeply that, as dawn was breaking, she woke to find herself bound to the bed. Elijah sat watching her. He was naked, and playing with himself.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 1-4

Kayla, a young woman of Asian heritage, ventures into the remote mountain terrain of a valley steeped in a haunting past. Once a thriving gold mining settlement, the area now lies in decay, with only a few families clinging to the remnants of their history.	As the sun sinks behind the jagged peaks, an unsettling aura envelops the valley, where the absence of civilization and echoes of forgotten lives weigh heavily. The trees seem to conspire in silence, while nightfall brings ghostly bird calls that sound like lost children's wails, and the wind intrudes upon the stillness like a sinister whisper. An avid bushwalker, Kayla is fit and deeply attuned to nature, yet the valley's oppressive atmosphere gnaws at her resolve. She longs to camp beneath the stars, but dread settles in her gut, warning her of unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. Ignoring her instincts, she pushes forward, convinced the unease is temporary. Instead, the tension escalates, coiling around her like a tightening noose.
As she trudges deeper, a dilapidated house looms out of the darkness, a relic of the past. Hope flickers within her; at least she can fill her water bottle in this forsaken place.	A tap sits outside the house, and fear grips her as she hesitates. She fills her bottle quickly, anxious to escape the oppressive weight of solitude.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 5-8

	Suddenly, a wire door opens and slams shut, jarring her senses. On the verandah stands a menacing man of about fifty-five, a shotgun resting in his grip. Beside him, a woman bearing a pitchfork watches with steely eyes, while a young man in dirty white underpants lingers nearby. “Stealin’ my water,” the older man drawls, his voice laced with menace. The air thickens as he cocks the shotgun, the threat palpable. “It's called Water Theft. It’s a crime,” he slurs, half-drunk yet deadly serious. The older woman echoes his words, her gaze fixed on Kayla, a silent warning of the danger that envelops this forsaken valley.
	"I can pay you for it," says Kayla panicking. "Anything. How much do you want?" The man’s laugh was a wet snort, like an engine choking on its own oil. He didn’t lower the shotgun; its twin barrels stayed level with Kayla’s diaphragm, close enough that she could smell burnt gun-oil and sour sweat and the sweet stink of home-brew. “Money,” he repeated, rolling the word around his tongue as if tasting something rotten. “You think paper’s worth anything here?” “Well…I can’t put it back in the tap…” The woman rapped the pitchfork haft once against the warped floorboards: a flat knock that cut Kayla off mid-sentence.
	Behind them, the fat boy made a low sound, neither word nor hum nor whimper—just air pushed through a slack mouth. His pink scalp twitched under thin clumps of hair. Occasionally a tongue darted out and in again, a bit like a lizard but somehow lascivious. His underpants slipped another inch down his pallid belly. The sound he made pitched higher, a pleased huh-huh-huh, as if something private had just been solved. She was scared to look. Not from here!” the fat boy shrieked. “Not from here!” His voice cracked on the second syllable, and the valley sent it back warped, like a recording played at the wrong speed. “He’s right.” Zeke’s voice was almost gentle. “You’re foreign.” He said it the way you’d say ‘infected’. “I was born here.” The words were out before Kayla could weigh them. True, and useless. “You’re one of ‘em Asians. Fuck’n place is swamped with you cunts. Stealing our jobs.” His Mrs piped up. “Stealin’ our fuck’n water, Zeke!” “Cunt,” said the fat boy. He looked at Kayla in a way that made her more scared than the shotgun. They laughed at this. Nodding to each other in approval. “Getting dark,” said Zeke. “Get up here.” A pause. “ Asian.” Kayla’s eyes moved to the tree line. Maybe forty metres. She was quick and fit. They were not. And they’ve got a gun. The light was going fast but not fast enough, and the verandah would put them between her and the steps. “Here, now.” His voice dropped. “Yellow bitch.”
	“Here, now.” His voice dropped. “Yellow bitch.” She went up. The second step gave way under her boot and she hit the boards hard, chin first, tasting blood. The laughter came from everywhere. She pushed herself onto her side and a foot came down between her shoulder blades, pinning her, her cheek grinding into a splinter. She stopped moving. In the stillness she heard the fat boy’s huh-huh-huh and then felt the cold steel of the barrels find the soft place between her legs and stay there. Nobody spoke. The pressure increased, just slightly, just enough. “Bang,” said Zeke. He pulled the gun away. A long moment passed. “Up.” She found her hands, then her knees. Her body felt borrowed. “First cabin, boy, next to yours.” A pause, as if the last part were an afterthought. “Lock it good.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 9-12

“No!” Kayla regained her poise. “This is not OK!” She let fly with an arm chop. Zeke ducked. Colin sprawled across the floor. The toilet roll flew under the bed. She looked threateningly at Zeke. Colin stood up and lunged at her, but was sent tumbling, screaming, with a kick to the balls. She pulled her knife. “No closer, any of you fucking freaks.” She backed away to the doorway. Leapt outside. Slammed, bolted and locked the door. And ran like she’d never run in her life.	The memory of their hands on her wouldn't leave. And another woman watching, getting pleasure from it. Saying nothing. She ran and wept, her breath ragged and hot, her chest caving in around a nameless fear. She cursed herself for having taken her boots off. For not grabbing her singlet. For losing the knife when she was doing her shorts back up. In the distance she heard a motorbike. Small, for farm use. She slipped off the track and pressed herself behind a tree. The headlight flickered through the trees, closer and closer, and then it stopped. Engine off. Silence. The scrunch of boots. Two sets. "Fuck'n bitch better be hoping I don't find her." Zeke. "What you gonna do with her?" A different voice. Older. Whiny. "Hurt her. A lot. Let anyone fuck her who wants to. Let Colin play with her, do his psycho shit. When he's finished, bury her up with the other ones." Silence. "He's a sick one that boy, Zeke." "Like mother, like son. Keeps me entertained."
She heard them come around the corner. Kayla stopped breathing. Did not move. Did not blink. They walked past her tree. As they rounded the next bend she crept back towards the bike, placing each foot down like a feather. If she could get to it…	She stopped. Listened. Silence. Absolute silence. And then something crawled up the back of her leg. Several somethings. She swiped at them. A stick cracked under her foot. A hand closed over her mouth and she screamed into it anyway, screamed until her throat tore, and it made no difference at all. Cold metal clicked around her wrists.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 17-20

"Get your pants off, and get on the bike bitch," said Zeke. "I'll walk. Fresh air makes me horny."

Zeke’s boots scuffed the floorboards as he entered the back room. Kayla was strapped to the ceiling, her wrists raw where the hand cuffs bit into them, her legs spread wide. The air smelled of sweat and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the sharp tang of fear. Colin’s breath was hot and wet against her neck as he pressed his fingers into her, slow at first, then rough, forcing them inside. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the house, by the valley, by the weight of the night itself. His laugh came in wet, guttural bursts—huh-huh-huh—like a dog choking on its own tongue. “Say it,” he snarled, twisting his fingers. “Say you’re sorry.” She sobbed, snot and tears mixing on her lips. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” “Not good enough.” He yanked his hand away, then drove his cock into her without warning. She arched, a broken sound tearing from her throat as he pistoned into her, each thrust a fresh violation. Zeke watched, stroking himself, his grin a slash of yellowed teeth in the dim light.

“Look at her,” Zeke murmured, stepping closer. “Look at how pretty she is when she’s scared.” He dragged the tip of his erection along her thigh, leaving a slick trail before tracing her slit with the tip, slow, deliberate, savoring her flinch. ”Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured to himself, then drove into her with one brutal thrust. She gagged, her body betraying her with a slickness that made him grin. He twisted her nipples until she whimpered, then fucked her harder, his grunts syncing with Colin.

They both finished inside her simultaneously. Zeke with a groan, Colin with that same wet, rattling huh-huh-huh.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 21-24

	They pulled out, leaving her hollow, dripping. Mrs. Zeke didn’t speak. She just watched, her hand moving beneath her skirt, her breath coming faster.
	They cut her down. Mrs. Zeke moved her chair across to where she could see Kayla properly, and touched herself, her breath coming faster. She came quietly, blissfully. "You're much prettier than Colin," she said softly. "I look forward to exploring your beautiful body with some of my toys."
	Colin dragged her outside, her bare feet scraping over gravel. The older man waited by the motorbike, his face hidden behind his helmet. A few other evil-looking men she hadn't seen before forced her onto the bike. The older man threaded his way into the driver's seat, and sped off. He didn’t look at her as he took her away.
	Her screams dissolved into the valley’s throat, swallowed by the dark. Then—another sound. A chant, rising from the trees like a rotten exhalation. Not a protest. Not a game. A litany. A promise. The words scraped raw from a throat that had done this before, over and over, until the syllables bled together into something obscene. The bike slowed. The engine’s growl dropped to a guttural purr, and the chant sharpened, each word a blade dragged across stone: ”Fuck the Asian, fuck her hard. Fuck the Asian, fuck her hard.” The voices weren’t just loud. They were inside her. Crawling under her skin, coiling around her ribs, squeezing until her lungs burned. The bike stopped. The chant didn’t. It looped, relentless, a nightmare on repeat, and the man on the bike turned his head just enough for her to see through his helmet that he was grinning. He wanted her to hear. Wanted her to know. “Please no…” she whimpered, almost to herself.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 25-28

Headlights carved through the dark, revealing the jagged teeth of barbed wire coiled around a compound like a rusted spine. The rough wooden gate groaned open, its hinges screaming like something alive.

A sign swung above it—”HM Prison” then something about it being for sex offenders—the letters fading. The men waiting inside didn’t just leer. They salivated. Their hands were already moving, fingers twitching like starved things, their breath hot and sour as they reached for her.

The moment the bike stopped they were on her—hands everywhere, pinching, probing, violating. The stench of their sweat made her gag. One of them forced her head up, his fingers digging into her jaw, and hissed, ”Look at us, bitch. You’re gonna learn to love this.”

Her throat tore raw, but she screamed anyway—screamed until the sound shredded into something animal, something broken. Hands clawed at her, fingers digging into soft places, twisting, bruising. A tongue, obscenely long, dragged up her breast, wet and hot, leaving a trail of spit like a slug’s path.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 29-32

	The chant slithered from behind the building, louder now, a chorus of voices, hundreds of them, rising in unison: “Fuck the Asian, fuck her hard.” The words pulsed in her skull, syncing with the throb of her pulse, the grind of teeth, the wet slap of flesh. She gagged on the stench of sweat and breath smelling of long dead meat, on the weight of bodies pressing her down, on the certainty that this was the end—no escape, no mercy, just the dark and the chant and the hands that would never stop.
	Kayla's hell.
	Kayla's continuing hell.
	Kayla's continuing hell...

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 33-36

Kayla's hell continues...

Kayla's hell continues...	Kayla's hell continues...

On an unseen command the inmates ushered her to a tree. The world blurred, then fractured—her vision swimming in and out like a broken film reel. They hoisted her up by the wrists, the rope biting deep, her toes barely scraping the dirt.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 37-40

The first strike landed between her legs, a sharp crack that sent fire blooming through her nerves. Kayla screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night. Another strike. Another. The crop’s leather tongue lapped at her, each impact forcing a wet, gagging sound from her throat. Then warmth. A flood of it, the seed of countless evil men, slick and thick, dripping down her thighs. The woman laughed, low and guttural, and Kayla’s vision tunneled.	Another stroke on her buttocks brought forth more of the bad man seed, this time from her anus.
The hell continues...	When they brought her back to the cabin, dawn was a pale smear on the horizon. They dumped her semi-conscious body on the bed like a sack of meat. The the army was blanket was scratchy against her skin, but she didn’t care—she was warm, and warmth was something like mercy. She lay there, trembling, her body a single, throbbing wound. The painkillers in her first aid kit would dull the edges, but the rest? The rest would stay. It would always stay.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 41-44

	She had no recollection of someone cleaning her up, of the trip back. She was starving, so she shoveled cold muesli into her mouth and snapped a crisp apple between her teeth. But hunger was secondary to the white-hot fury knotting in her gut. It didn’t matter how she’d come to this breaking point—she was leaving. Now. Ignoring the intense pain she felt in her groin, she yanked on muddy boots, threw on the spare shorts, underwear and singlet she’d stashed, slung her little pack over one shoulder. Knife was gone, but phone and car keys glinted inside. Perfect. Zeke and his wife had staggered to bed drunk as corpses a couple of hours ago. That gave her a head start. Heart hammering, she slipped out into the summer pre-dawn, past Colin’s cabin. The door gaped open. Inside, girly pictures covered the walls—girls twisted with fear, hollow-eyed and broken just like her. She stepped closer, stomach churning. Her breath caught when she saw her own face pasted on the wall: in one photo she was stripped, violated in front of a roaring crowd; in another, her terror was a public spectacle. Dozens more—every brutal frame a testament to her humiliation. A montage of her nightmares. Then he appeared in the doorway—Colin—grinning like a devil in smug triumph as if savouring her terror. Rage erupted like lava. She lunged. Her boot slammed into his kneecap, then his ribs.
	She drove into town. At the police station, she sobbed her story to the female constable behind the desk, voice trembling. The constable’s sympathy was polite, distant. She led Kayla into a small interview room, offered tea that went cold in her hands.
	Ten minutes later a sergeant appeared, shutting the door behind him. His voice grated familiarity—older, whiny. She realised he was man with Zeke last night. She'd only known him behind a motorcycle helmet but had never seen him before. He seated himself, sipped his coffee.
	“So you say you were raped.” He tapped the cup like it was his toy, glanced at the constable, who rose and stood in front of the door. “A young man’s body was found up in the Valley. Head bashed in.” The sergeant’s voice was flat. Clinical. Silence roared in her ears. “Witnesses saw an Asian woman running from the scene around the time of death—matching your description.” His eyebrows arched, mocking.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] The Valley 45 / 46

He leaned forward. “Listen, Kayla. There are two things you’ll do if you want us to forget about this murder. One, you’ll forget this little rape story.” He rose, circled her chair like a shark.

Her chest tightened. “Bastard!” The word ripped from her. She shot a look at the constable. There was no help there, just a quiet nod. The constable locked the door. Came over and roughly removed Kayla's singlet. The sergeant tore off her shorts.

"That's a body I'll never get tired of looking at, Constable."

"Quite so sir."

"So...what's the other condition?"Kayla asked, completely unecessarily.

The sergeant unzipped his fly.

The End.​

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 1

Father McGuire bolted from the rectory into a wall of cold rain, his dressing gown plastered to his chest before he’d even reached the car. The wind off Bass Strait was something vicious tonight, a full-throated roar that bent the shore pines sideways and sent the recycling bin from next door skidding across the road in front of him. He wrenched the car door open against it, dropped into the seat, and sat a moment with his hands on the wheel, rain dripping from his jaw onto the upholstery. The engine turned over on the second try. Through the windscreen, the rectory light burned in the downpour. He sat watching it. Then he put the car in gear.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 2

Poor, wretched, perpetually randy Father McGuire. God was a cruel taskmaster, dangling relief just out of reach, testing him, breaking him, again and again. Some nights, it was effortless—he’d collapse into bed, lost in a fevered dream, waking to the damp shame of his own weakness, praying Mrs. Moffat wouldn’t notice the betrayal clinging to his sheets. But other nights, like this night, the devil himself took the reins. Lust coiled in his gut like a serpent, his mind a cesspool of filth, his body a traitorous vessel of sin. It was like he was sixteen again, his thoughts a whirlwind of depravity.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 3&4

The car tore through the sleet, the heater blasting, thawing his frozen limbs. But the warmth only stoked the fire between his legs, the tremors returning. It wasn’t fair. He was a man of God, a shepherd to his flock, a beacon of righteousness. Yet here he was, a slave to his own flesh, hurtling toward the beach like a man possessed. The cold waters would fix it. It usually did, until the next night. The winding forest road was slick with rain, the trees looming like fingers clawing at the sky. He barely slowed as he passed the bus stop, his eyes flickering to the girl huddled there—a vision of temptation, her short skirt riding high, her long legs bare, her dark hair plastered to her face by the storm. For a heartbeat, he was a man of God, seeing a lost lamb in need of shelter. For another, he was a predator, his gaze raking over her body, his mind already undressing her, already imagining the rain slicking her skin, tracing the curves of her breasts, her thighs— “No!” He pressed the accelerator. He had to keep going. Had to cleanse himself with icy Bass Strait water. Maybe on the way back.

He pressed the accelerator. He had to keep going to the beach. Maybe on the way back. If she was still there. The thought sent a jolt of electricity through him, a spark of anticipation that coiled in his belly like a living thing. Even though she was lightly clad in a flimsy white summer dress, he could only see her naked.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 5-8

	He'd swim. Drown the evil thoughts in icy cold water. Then he'd come back. If she was there, he’d stop. If not, someone else had helped her. Taken her. The rearview mirror taunted him, her figure standing in the road looking at his tail lights.
	The beach was a graveyard of crashing waves, the water black and furious. He threw his gown off, the cold air biting at his skin like a thousand knives. Naked, he sprinted into the surf, the icy water swallowing him whole. The shock was a physical blow, his breath stolen, his body convulsing as the cold seeped into his bones. He screamed underwater, the sound muffled, a primal howl of agony and release. Minutes passed—an eternity—before the absolution came, the fire in his loins extinguished numb, his mind cleansed. He staggered from the water, his teeth chattering. He grabbed the towel and rubbed at his skin with frantic, jerky movements, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up, his body too wracked with cold to even retch. He stumbled back to the car, put his gown back on again, and slammed the door.
	His hands were shaking so violently he could barely grip the wheel. He drove slowly, his foot heavy on the brake, his eyes darting to the road ahead, praying she wouldn’t be there. But she had to be. There’d been no other cars. Unless some lecherous old bastard had seen her, had taken her in his ute. “No!” The bus stop loomed ahead, a skeletal structure against the storm. At first, he saw nothing. Then, as he slowed, he spotted her—a tiny figure pressed against the back wall, her body curled in on itself, a fragile thing clinging to life. She barely moved as he pulled up, her eyes glazed, her breath shallow. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands brushing against the ice of her thighs, her skin like marble beneath his touch.
	“Who left you here, girl?” His voice was a low growl, a mix of concern and something darker. “Why are you out on a night like this?” She crumpled against him, her legs giving way, and he scooped her up, her body light as a bird’s, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He carried her to the car, her sobs punctuating the silence. He adjusted the seat, his hands trembling, and drove, the silence between them heavy with unspoken tension.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 9-12

"What's your name?" he asked. "Sarah." “How does Sarah end up half-naked in a bus shelter in the middle of the night?” His voice was tight, controlled. She smiled, a bitter twist of her lips. “I could ask why Father McGuire needs a swim on a night like this. Except I know.” She squeezed his hand, her touch electric. “I used to work at the launderette. Mrs. Moffat brought your washing in every Monday. She’d tell us to use extra bleach because the Father had had ‘one of his nights.’” She mimicked the housekeeper’s gruff tone, her voice dripping with mockery. So nothing was sacred.	So nothing was sacred. She turned in her seat, her skirt riding up. “Have you ever had sex, Father?” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Yes, before I joined the church. But I don’t think that’s an appropriate conversation, Sarah.” She laughed, a dark, knowing sound. “Oh, come on, Father. It’s just us.” “I knew my calling from a young age, Sarah so my only…relationship…was brief.”
She turned to him, her eyes hollow. “Can I stay at your place tonight? I don’t have anywhere else to go.” The Rectory loomed ahead, a white stone square block built in the mid 1800s. He pulled up to the front door, the rain hammering against the windshield like a thousand tiny fists. She bolted out of the car, her bare feet slapping against wet steps, while he fumbled with the lock. The house was a tomb, cold and lifeless, the air thick with the scent of damp and old wood. “Fuck, it’s cold in here,” she muttered. “Language, girl.” She smirked. He stoked the fire, the flames licking at the logs, casting dancing shadows on the walls.	“It’s quite an irony, isn’t it, Father?” She leaned into him, her arm draped over his shoulders. “You, who’s almost never had sex, so disciplined about something so sacred. And me, who’s only ever been used.” She sighed, her breath warm against his neck. “I think we’re both pretty fucked, to be honest.” He laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “I think you’re right. But don’t tell my archbishop.” She stood, laughing. It was a joyous peel of mischief. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, revealing the curve of her body beneath the thin fabric of her still wet dress. “May I have a shower, Father?” He fetched a towel, found her an old shirt, the only thing that wasn’t ecumenical. Mrs. Moffat’s daughter’s old flannelette shirt. When he returned she was standing in front of the fire wrapped in a towel, hanging her clothes on a makeshift line.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 13-16

He listened to the shower, the water splashing, his imagination running wild. He tried to focus on his sermon—morality, temptation—but his thoughts kept drifting back to her, to the way her skin would feel beneath his hands, the way her body would respond to his touch. She emerged from the bathroom, the shirt clinging to her damp skin, the towel wrapped around her waist. She sat beside him, her head on his shoulder, her body pressed against his. “Thank you for stopping.”	A joyous peel of laughter
“Do you want to tell me what happened Sarah? You’re still so cold.” “I’ll always be this way, Father.” She sighed. Smiled. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” They sat for a while. “I need to go to bed, Sarah.” She stood, hugging him, her body moulding to his. “Good night, Father. Thank you for being my friend.” She kissed his cheek, her lips soft, her breath warm. He kissed the top of her head, his hands running through her hair, his body aching with need. He shut the door to his bedroom, the storm raging outside, a symphony of fury. He stripped naked, his cock hard, throbbing, the temptation too great to resist. He climbed into bed, the sheets cold against his skin, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and desire. He willed her to head into the spare bedroom on the other side of the rectory. Instead, the footsteps came closer.	The door creaked open. “Father, can I come in?” “What’s the matter, girl?” “I can’t be alone in this storm.” Her voice was a whisper, a plea. Genuinely scared.