Wrath James White presents Poisoning Eros I & II

Sometimes life is unfair. Sometimes life just plain
sucks. You do what you can to get by, but sometimes even that isn’t
enough.

Meet Gloria, aging porno star, drug addict, failed
wife and mother—seduced into a monstrous world of depraved sex and
violent deceit, battling to save her immortal soul and that of her
only daughter from Inferno … and you thought your life was
hell.

Poisoning Eros I & II

Published by Monica J. O’Rourke at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Wrath James White and Monica J.
O’Rourke

This ebook is licensed for
your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or
it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to
Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting
the hard work of this author.

Poisoning
Eros
I

Introduction

Part I

Part II

Part III

Poisoning Eros
II

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

About the
Authors

Books By Monica J
O’Rourke

Wrath James White and Monica J. O’Rourke

There's a path we take through
life. It winds, climbs, dips and splits.

We make choices, doing our best or
not, getting to road's end.

Supposedly, there’s a road to
hell, and one to heaven. You’ll see how that choice turns out by
the end of this tale.

Some stay to the straight and
narrow, others meander, wander off, flee. Judgments are made, each
path upon the other. There's a right path, and a wrong one.
Judgments change with time, perspective.

Pig candy.

This is a choice.

You can buy it in the Essex Street
Market, Lower East Side, NYC. Or at www.roni-sue.com. Bacon.
Covered in chocolate.

Dark, and milk.

There's something seriously wrong
with the concept of pig candy. It disturbs the order of things:
meat on one side of the dish, vegetables on the other, desert
afterwards.

An offense to some. An epicurean
transgression. A break from the consensual contract of what is
good. The chain stores don't carry it. It isn't right.

And yet, for others, it is a
delicious revelation. Enticing. Seductive. Smoky and
sweet.

The path to wrongness can start with the most
innocent of choices.

Pig candy. A step on to a slippery
slope.

Here are a few more: listening to music, reading
books, watching movies, experiencing expressive works that stray
from the right path, the path of consensus, where everyone knows
what is right and what is wrong.

These are all choices.

If you bought this book, you made a choice.

People choose the right path
because it’s safe. Boundaries are clear. Signs and signals proclaim
danger. There is a sense of well being in the security of
definitions, the protection of expectations.

On the safe path, the right one,
everybody knows who they are, what everyone else is. Appetites are
channeled, and then satisfied by processed and packaged goods and
services. The right path is civilized. Nature is ruled by law and
logic.

Definitions change. Expectations
are circumvented. Inconvenient facts erupt.

Appetites break their bindings.

The right path, as happens so
often, turns out to be wrong. Ruins and desolate places tell us so.
Of course. Because, in the end, it is only people who travel that
path. They're the ones who named it right.

So where does that leave the path of wrongness?

It depends, I suppose, on the person making the
choices.

The wrong path, sometimes, serves
to warn. Perhaps not everything on that right path is what it
seems. It may be there are serious flaws in that consensual
reality, cracks in the boundaries everyone is agreeing to ignore.
Not all is as safe and controlled as one might wish.

The wrong path can offer
commentary on the nature of those deciding what is right and wrong.
Provides a reminder that staring desperately into the light we hope
holds truth can blind us to what we seek.

Sometimes, in the darkness, in the
wrongness, there are truths in whose presence we should not, as
those wiser than I have noted, flinch. We might miss
something.

And then how can we count the cost of being right
and being wrong?

*

You hold in your hands a book that
is wrong. It is a transgression against what many hold as a
consensual agreement on that path of rightness. Part of that
wrongness hits you right between the eyes at the beginning, but
there are darker, deeper turns on the path.

But wrongness is not a judgment.
It's only a sign pointing to a destination or, in the case
of
Poisoning Eros
, a declaration of the city limits to a place you've never
been to, population you.

Boundaries aren't going to protect
you. The lines have been erased. You saw the cover, you recognized
the names of the authors, you read blurbs or reviews. You heard the
knocking on the door. You've come to see what's on the other side,
and what it means to the people living over there.

You made a choice to stray on to the path of
wrongness.

Maybe you're going to see just how messed up,
sometimes, in certain places, things can become between people and
what else there is in the world they live in.

The work might make you wonder about lonely nights
under the stars, in the hills and on the prairie, with the
livestock nearby, and just what kind of blood runs down to you from
those distant ancestors.

You might even taken a second look
at certain individuals or family members in your life, or
reevaluate your web browsing habits, or change your party
affiliation next time you go out and vote on what kind of
consensual reality you're looking for.

If Monica and Wrath manage to make
your stomach turn, your blood run a cold, if you have to think a
little about what love means and how much sacrifice it takes, and
then maybe you've taken a walk on the wrong path along with
them.

Look around. Take a deep breath.
Hurl. Laugh. Discover a still and dark place in your heart. Or do
all of it.

And have some pig candy while
you're at it. Sweet, smoky, salty. Meaty, creamy, crunchy. Goes
down smooth, leaves little chunks between your teeth so the
aftertaste lingers.

You've come this far. Why not take
another little step?

—Gerard Houarner, author of
Road to Hell
,
Road from Hell
,
and
A Blood of Killers

March 1, 2009

Gloria remembered the days when guys would line up
two-hundred deep at the conventions to sign plastic casts of her
clean-shaven vagina, or copies of her “suck, swallow, and smile”
movies, or just to have their pictures taken with her.

She thought back to the days when
some of the best-looking and well-hung men in the business were
clamoring to work with her. When some of the most sought-after
actresses were hitting on her in the dressing rooms, and keeping
their faces between her thighs for several minutes after the
director yelled cut just to taste a bit more.

She’d been a star then—the hottest adult film star
around. She thought of all the money she’d made; the expensive
cars, the semi-custom house on the golf course with the
Olympic-sized negative edge pool, all the coke she’d snorted and
pills she’d popped, all that good weed she’d smoked, and bottle
after bottle of Moet, Crystal, and Dom dumped down her amazingly
deep and wide throat.

She relived all the moments from her glory days as
she gagged on twenty-four inches of donkey dick, and winced at the
Great Dane’s claws digging into her love handles as it thrust its
hairy cock into her distended snatch. Lately, the business just
hadn’t been very kind to her.

The donkey fucked her face as the internet geeks
filmed her live, the digital video camera plugged directly into
their website for all the other internet geeks who paid five
dollars a minute just to watch these bestiality gang bang videos.
The animal’s cock disappeared further and further until a full
twelve inches of it found its way down her gullet. Gloria would
have shamed a sword-swallower. Like her dignity, her gag reflex had
disappeared after she’d sucked her thousandth or so cock many years
ago.

The beast thrust deeper, speeding the rhythm of its
hips. Gloria tried to retract the enormous mule-cock from her
throat but was too slow, and what seemed like a gallon of donkey
semen erupted into her throat, filling her stomach. Copious amounts
of thick salty white ejaculate continued to spill as she withdrew
it from her mouth. Her belly and mouth were full and the beast was
still cumming. The computer geeks zoomed in to show what seemed
like another half-gallon wash over her face, down her neck and
between her impossibly large, surgically enhanced breasts. Gloria
began to regurgitate and they filmed that too as a bucket-load of
cum worked its way back up her esophagus and onto the barnyard
floor.

No sooner had the donkey shot its load then the
massive canine followed suit. Again it happened so suddenly that
she didn’t have time to pull away, and the Great Dane ejaculated
inside of her. The geeks zoomed in to show the doggy semen drip out
of her swollen red gash and run down her inner thighs.

The Great Dane withdrew its cock and began licking
its own semen from Gloria’s snatch. Gloria started to pull
away.

“No, no! This is great! Stay right there!” She
allowed the dog to perform cunnilingus on her and was surprised
when she started to get aroused. She was close to orgasm when the
stupid dog stopped licking and stooped to lap the donkey semen by
her feet.

“That’s perfect! You get down there too.”

“What?”

“Get down there with the dog and lick the cum off
the floor! Don’t worry, we’ll pay you for it.”

Gloria knelt nose to nose with the Great Dane and
lapped up the lukewarm donkey semen from the barnyard floor—which
was already covered in horse and chicken shit—as the camera
rolled.

“That was fucking awesome!” The geeks cheered as
they high-fived over her back. “We can run this clip for a week.
Word of mouth alone should get us like twenty or thirty thousand
hits.”

The two geeks were going to make hundreds of
thousands on this film. For her part, Gloria made a thousand
dollars, about a twentieth of what she’d commanded in her prime.
But Gloria was not in her prime. She was in her late forties—fat,
drug addicted, AIDS infected. Doing the doggy and donkey shows was
about the closest she’d ever get to real work again.

When she’d first begun her
downward slide there had still been plenty of work, even if it paid
less. After she’d been kicked off a film shoot for nodding off with
a cock in her mouth, and then the following week went into
convulsions during an anal scene and had to be rushed to the
hospital after overdosing on a speedball of cocaine and heroin,
she’d found herself not only thrown off another set but out of the
elite class of porno actresses. She’d slipped from the A class down
to the B level where anal scenes and gangbangs were the only way to
get work.

Somewhere during this time she’d managed to meet a
man and even to have a child. But she had been so determined to
fuck her way back to the top of the porno industry, even convincing
herself that she might have a career in straight films, that she
had abandoned both her daughter and the father of her child to
throw her legs up for strangers while cameras absorbed her soul
from every angle. Sometimes she still thought about the life she
might have had with Ryan and their daughter Angela in their Park
Avenue apartment. It was usually at times like these when she found
herself on all fours gargling the semen of some barnyard
animal.