The following are two short stories written by "Durbeen Tarfloe" and published on the now-defunct site The Anorexic Rec Room (anorexic-rec.com). Today, the site is best known for hosting other writings which were later quoted in songs by Whitehouse, namely "Cut Hands Has the Solution" - most of the surviving references to to it online come from the old Susan Lawly boards. The site was very explicitly an anorexia fetishism site, with numerous stories and photographs emphasizing the sublime, even divine pleasure of extreme malnourishment. While some portions of the site are archived today, others were locked behind a paywall and are thus presumably lost forever. A tragedy for all mankind, surely.
Anyway, when I discovered the site through Susan Lawly, my attention was drawn to these stories. At the time, I was very interested in the writing of people like Peter Sotos, and I was further engaged in cataloging similar writing online - material from the Cannibal Cafe and other sites in the Black Plague network, the Blowfly Girl stories, desperate essay-length Youtube comments on The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes and Genesis... It wasn't the best choice of hobbies. The fact that I was myself anorexic at the time probably also contributed to my particular interest in the site, even if I scarcely related to their dumb sex fantasies of the disease. In the very least it made the site slightly more interesting than the usual boring snuff apologia. It stuck in my head and I thought it was worth saving, as much as anything.
In terms of content objectionability, Durbeen is certainly in the upper quartile. In terms of writing quality, though, it's more hit and miss. I think that "Emaciated" is fairly well-written for what it is, and its style is conducive to its theme. "Sex with Unconscious Chicks," though, is to me pretty poorly-composed, with some very stupid turns of phrase. I think it's also the more blatantly fetishistic story, which I think contributes negatively to its status as a "story" - I mean, it's two moronic edgelord stories from 1998 that I don't even like, I just happen to think one is better than the other. Forgive me.
Supposedly there were at least four other stories by Tarfloe inside the paid area - one possibly named "The School for the Upstairs." I'm sure they're still rotting on some pervert's hard drive somewhere, but fortunately or unfortunately not where people can find them.
I did not write these stories, but by hosting them I must take a degree of responsibility. Please send hate mail to this address. I am also accepting offers for advertisements solely for this page, albeit only for enema bags and related products. First-party manufacturers only, please!
Lisa's standing, kept upright by a harness, under her chin and around her neck, tied to the ceiling. Her elbow joints swell between her upper and lower arms, like tennis balls on broomsticks. I keep her arms taut and straight, pulled down about 45 degrees from her body, tied to a heavy eye-bolt in the floor.
I grab her forearm and shake. The whimper. I hard press a large crumpled plastic bag over her mouth, and watch her dance the desperate breath, "S"-shaping her body, sexy dance for real. Her aborted heaves, her stomach twitches and rolls under her ribcage. I wait, I can feel her dizziness, wait, and pull the bag away. She sucks in deep, her ribcage jutting, I can see all the bones, a rack meat of girl.
She's 87 pounds now. High protein, no fat. I feed her rice and beans and bananas. Apple juice and water. Her tits hang, little shit bags on her chest, they sag. I'm going to eat them hot off her body. Cut and chew. This is what I tell her.
Three months I've had her in my basement. Beautiful little mall bitch, black toe-nail polish, smoking around her friends, barefoot, I could die for her toes. I watched her for two days, haughty with her hair. Tall, with blonde long legs, I knew she was the one. I'm sure someone saw me take her, right in the street, corner from her house. Stun gunned her twice, and yanked her into the car. The first whimpers. I came in my pants. Some neighbor watching, probably, writing down the license plate number. It wasn't my car.
I make her lift weights while I pull my cock and watch, tranced. She's always nude. Her tendons, so tight, so visible, her muscles spin me to the edge of orgasm, for hours. It's really fucking entertaining. She flexes for me, like a bodybuilder. Ball ache, and spurt.
I let her down to rest on a table. I sit at the foot of her, and sight down along her body, the pointy hips, so sharp, I like to dig my fingers down under them, and squeeze. I can lift her up like this, her bony knees convulse and jab up, elbows table-knocking. I've started a serious relationship with her knees. Walk towards me, in slow motion, bitchy. I crawl along on the floor, and watch her knees work. Now stop, and flex them. Bend them slowly, fucker. There's still meat around them; 10 more pounds to lose. No more bananas for a while.
Her periods stopped, but I'm still trying to get her pregnant. How wild she'd look, swollen belly, skeletal body. It perks my dick just thinking of it.
We smoke together now. Her long, long fingers shake just a little. I put her in full makeup, and make her laugh like a cunt, flitting her head like she used to. It looks huge on her now, skinny stalk neck, like an infant with a mutant-pulled body. I fuck her as hard as I can, always listening for a bone break. They never do.
I chew her fucking toes. Bloody sucking, like lobster legs, I eat the toe nails right off of her. She can't walk anymore, anyway. 62 pounds and always tired. Can't even stick her tongue out. Her piss just dribbles weakly out of her. I've plugged up her asshole. She shouldn't waste anything solid in there.
I pinched off her clit, and stuck it on a long needle. She's dead now. Her body.
Hard parts, I ground up. Her steaks, frozen. Months of savor...cum food Tuesdays.
Six of them lay scattered across his floor. Kicked into appropriate positions. Dipping his cock into dead open mouths. Under bright video lights, into the camera, he pulled their lips back, working their face meat into "expressions." Lifting their heads up with a finger in each nostril. He'll cut this one off later, it has the right heft, and bowl with her. Rolling her head into a heaped triangle of limbs.
He makes videos, the whole cast works for free. The guys, he spots kicking around the city, homeless, relatively clean. He tells them he's rich, in a benevolent mood, and instead of giving away money, he'll donate a couple hours of his bitch's time, no strings, just enjoy yourself.
He'd tell them to meet him in a couple of hours. A big stained loft, with a high glazed ceiling hiding 3 video cameras. They'd enter and see only this beautiful girl, unconscious, lying naked on the bed, and these guys would just stare, then lightly try to rouse her, and then always furtively going for the pussy, smelling and lapping at it, always checking the bitch's face. Sometimes they'd fuck the girl's body, yanking on hair, pulling on her tongue. One guy started choking the girl, and so he walked in, acting late and surprised, and the guy ran out with a dripping dick.
He made five two hour tapes like this. They sold pretty well. Now was his largest cast yet, these six pretty husks, overlit on his floor, glaring out sex, all of their mouths open, fuckdolls and warm.
The first scene is "Cleaning up." He picks up the girls' bodies, by the hair or neck and arranges them neatly, in a corner, bent over tables, stacked under some shelves. They drag and bump across the floor so beautiful. He'll stop suddenly, drop one of their heads, and consider the room's dynamics and flow. An interior designer with girl candy furniture, making color and placement decisions. He rearranges for 40 minutes. Taking up two in his arms, he tosses them, and ponders the resultant limb scatter. Later he will edit their falls from the three cameras, slow motion against the hard bare floor, bounce and shudder, their elbows and wrists the most interesting, to see their hands splinter and fold under their arms, palm touching forearm, he'll freeze that frame for a few seconds, clear and bright and breaking.
He wants them to sweat while unconscious, secreting their girl essence without their owner's knowledge. He makes the room hot and watches their glisten emerge. This scene he'll do from wide, up high, pulled back, his harvest of bitch bulbs, ripening, ready to crack open, he imagines them crispy, snapping them into pieces into his salad bowl.
A couple of ounces of sweat he's lapped off them, sucking at their armpits. The Source. There, looked at in serious close-up, is real agriculture. Rows of sweet stubble poking up from warm ground, it's fertile, damp, the ground resilient when poked, firm. He's eaten his way into girls from the armpit, bitten his way through, under the shoulder bone and up over the ribcage, into the guts. "You ever wear the emptied husk of a dead girl on your head, the mucous interior, intestinal slime sticking against your forehead and eyelids, have you ever done that?" he asks people sometimes when he's high. Just for fun.
The stillness of a room after a disemboweling, the gore somehow absorbs movement, the blood pulls you in, quiet. He's stood for more than an hour there, looking, rooted firmly in the world. Existing.
He doesn't wear safety goggles, just a couple of swigs of really strong coffee for focus, up behind the eyes, it makes them wider, through the haze. When you cut girls, their mist escapes heavy, and you're sort of gulping them down happy and stupid, they're in the air. Tasting and swallowing, you can get lost in there. Coffee is the electric Stick of Concentration.
He's started putting out his cigarettes on the stomach of one, he keeps her near his favorite chair as an ashtray. When she wakes out of her unconsciousness, it's always howling and grabbling for her tummy, until he injects her again. I.V. food, and an hour of walking for all of them every day, to keep them supple. Her stomach gets encrusted and covered with black burnt ash, and then he washes her, and can see all the individual burn craters. Over his tongue their ragged edges are hard and pointy.
He dreams of a wall of them, stacked hundreds high, and he's climbing them, a knife in each hand, and he's stabbing up the wall, stopping to suckle on a wound, arms up high, knives embedded, humping another's new pussy-cut.
He'll film that, someday, when his budgets are bigger, enough to do an extravaganza of torn flesh, pumping blood from a cast of thousands.