Sabrina Carpenter Vs 5000 Trucs

Sabrina Carpenter approached the Stannhauser Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

That was what people still called it, at any rate. It had probably been renamed at some point since the 1950s--likely at the same time they'd daubed the walls with murals of frolicking kittens and puppies--but to what, she didn't know..

Now it's probably called St Nonjudgmental's Center for Growth and Healing, or some shit.

She thought before the gates.

And the guards are "angels" and the inmates are "guests".

But the structure had been built in a less politically-correct time, and divulged the facility's purpose.

Walls clawed upward like castle parapets. Bulwarks jagged like knives pressed against the throat of the sky. This place was a fortress. One that was far, far easier to get into than to get out of.

Stannhauser was the place they locked you when an entire Home Depot's worth of screws started rolling around loose in your head.

* * *

In the shadow of the gate, she hesitated. Couldn't take the first step.

Keep walking. Go inside.

Sabrina squared her shoulders, pushed her anonymizing glasses further up her nose, and wrapped her jacket closer around her body.

And tried to be brave.

Her press agent, Nigel Penridge, cleared his throat, and rested a hand on his client's shoulder.

"Let's not do this. I'll make phone calls. We'll find the best PR guy in the business to launch the single. You don't need...this person."

His doubt--his

disbelief

--was a fire lit in her. It scorched away doubt and fear. She put a foot down, then the next footstep happened of its own accord, and then was forging ahead through the gate. Nigel's cultured Ivy elocution became a shrill wheedle. "Don't do this! You're making a mistake!"

"Not doing it would be a bigger one."

* * *

"Name?" the front-desk officer drawled behind a layer of bulletproof glass.

"Sabrina Annlynn Carpenter."

"Reason for your visit?"

"I have a meeting with Robert Goffman."

He whistled, as if impressed by her cojones.

"Goffman is a classification nine-three-nine. You need a court order to see those."

Ten steps ahead, Sabrina slid a form through the slot in the glass. The officer stared nonplussed at the judge's signature on the form, then back up at her.

"What do you want with Goffman? He's completely bugfuck. Came in nuts and turned even nuttier. He's started referring to himself in the third person, for some reason. Are you gonna work with him, or sumthin'?"

"Are you gonna buzz me through, or sumthin'?" Sabrina tossed her head. Her tawny wolfcut hair tumbled around her shoulders. "Are you gonna keep your job, or sumthin'?"

"Fine." The man muttered

bitch

just loud enough for her to hear. "We need to metal-wand you for contraband.."

An orderly swept a metal-detector up and down her 5'2 body.

It hit her breasts, and flashed red.

Beep.

Sabrina looked confused. Then she sighed.

"I was just at dance rehearsals. I'm still wearing the rhinestone bikini. Do you have somewhere private I can take it off?"

"Not really," the desk guy said, enjoying her discomfort. "Take it off right here, or don't come in."

If he was thinking he'd called her bluff, he was mistaken.

Sabrina ripped her jacket wide open, exposing her bikini-clad body. A explosion of flesh dazzled the room like a flashbang grenade. Guards did double-takes behind their desks. She heard intakes of breath.

Her body was physically ruinous: short but explosively thick, packed with muscle and puppy fat. Under the rhinestone bra and matching bottoms, a taut, voluptuous ocean of hot, sexy young girlfmeat rolled and seethed in restless currents.

Her thighs had the sculpted thickness of Grecian pillars. Disney-cultivated dance fibers shimmered and flexed beneath the taut skin of her quadriceps. Bulges of delicious meat swelled and spilled out from the straps of her bra and thong, as though her gaminish figure resisted any form of clothing, no matter how minimal. Tan-lines criss-crossed the girdle of her hips.

Reaching behind her back, she unclipped the rhinestone bikini and peeled it free.

Her apple-sized breasts bobbed free, capturing a chiaroscuro of light and shadow as they lolled audaciously. Twin moons, offering disclosures of light and dark, locked in a phase that was always full. Her nipples swiftly erected in the cold air.

She was defiant. Immodest. Didn't seem to care that she'd just gotten naked in front of six total strangers in a mental asylum.

She didn't flinch from the stares; just picked up the jacket she'd discarded on the floor, and belted it tight around her hot naked body. This was a hard, masculine place. Inside it, Sabrina was a soft, warm, intensely sexual veldt of womanhood.

Every single person in the room wanted to fuck her. Even if they didn't, they still would have stared. She was

discord

.

"You got what you want. Now give me what I want."

She flung the rhinestone bikini on the man's desk.

Clank.

"Twenty minutes with Goffman. Alone."

* * *

"I need your help, Robert." She said in a private interview room.

"Robert does not exist," the skeletal figure sitting crosslegged before her said. "You are talking to The Fourth Day."

Robert Goffman--the disgraced former promoter who'd once styled himself The Fourth Day--was nightmarishly tall. 6'6? 6'8? Hard to tell, sitting down. He looked like a human origami sculpture, his huge frame bent and angled and folded.

He was in his early forties. Lanky. Tattooed. His institution shirt hung like a sail from his ragged, hard-ribbed torso.

Ten years ago, this dishevelled madman had been the greatest PR svengali in the business. A shock-and-awe promoter of the Malcolm McLaren stripe, Goffman prided himself on results. He could polish a flattened dog turd into a hit record, could send Helen Keller to number one.

He was so successful, in fact, that everyone had spent an embarrassing length of time ignoring the fact that he was clearly insane.

In 2013, he'd finally sunk his career. Amidst drug abuse, death threats, and delirious megalomania, he'd been arrested. Only small-time charges, and he probably could have skated with fines or community service, but he'd made the fateful decision to represent himself in court.

His behavior--which had included public nudity, a ten minute prayer to the aliens orbiting the courthouse, and an attempt to sacrifice a live goat to Satan--had so appalled the judge that she'd involuntarily committed him.

He'd now been entombed inside Stannhauser Asylum for over a decade.

"I can get you out of here, Robert," Sabrina said.

For the first time, he glanced up at her. His gaze clashed against hers, like two rapiers sparring.

"They tell The Fourth Day you're some famous new star," Goffman slurred brokenly. "But if you're expecting the Fourth Day to kiss your ass, you are mistaken.."

Sabrina maintained her composure. Advice from a dozen

how to deal with sociopaths

guides chyroned across her mind.

Don't play mind games. Don't let them into your head. Keep your feet on the ground.

"I want a number one hit record," Sabrina said. "And I don't care what it takes. If you do this for me, you'll have your freedom. Sound good?"

He completely ignored her.

"The Fourth Day has been locked up since two thousand and and fourteen. He hasn't listened to any music since Amy Winehouse. She was a fake human, by the way. Half the guards here are fake, too. Have you noticed? They look like real humans, but then their eyes glimmer, and you see they're robots. Or bugs. The Fourth Day sees the truth about things. That is his gift. Also his curse."

She gestured at the bleak stone walls. "You don't belong here, Robert. Imagine being free. Away from the bugmen. All I need is a hit. That's easy for you. You've done it for shittier singers than me."

Finally, some of this started to land.

"And how will The Fourth Day go free?" Goffman screwed up his face in concentration.

Sabrina's nails tapped a fierce staccato rhythm against the concrete floor. "As luck would have it, my personal physician has a brother who's on the board of corrections. She writes him a letter, he writes

them

a letter, and then your case goes up for review. Sleazy, but that's how politics goes. If I start the gears turning today, you'll be walking out of here in two weeks."

"When does the record drop? The one The Fourth Day is promoting."

"Four weeks."

He thought about it.

"Tight schedule. The Fourth Day will need to begin planning your campaign right away..."

Then he stood up, towering over her.

"But understand..." his voice was a knife raked over obsidian. "When The Fourth Day takes on a client, he demands total control. Over everything. You will do everything The Fourth Day asks you to do, with no argument or hesitation."

Sabrina thought about it. Weighed what she'd give up to save her career.

Decided the answer was

everything.

"I agree."

"Suck The Fourth Day's cock."

* * *

Goffman pulled down his institution pants.

A titanic, barbarous-looking prick tumbled out, unspooling and unfolding in stages, like a disgusting living caterpillar. As it began to to engorge and stiffen, her eyes grew Bambi-wide, matching it.

Bigger and bigger and bigger...

Fully erect, it swelled and teetered ominously in front of her, a huge obelisk of pulsing skin. It jutted ten inches from his hips.

The slit in the peach-sized dick head was the size of a coin slot. It oozed a runny-strand of pre-cum, which slid out and splatted on the concrete floor.

She wasn't a virgin. She'd sucked cock before. But this was a cock that looked like it sucked

you

.

Goffman crossed his arms. His tattooed face was a Poker face from a man who had nothing to lose; who'd already lost anything.

"The Fourth Day is waiting for you to accept or deny his terms." His lips barely moved.

This was the second time a man had attempted to call her bluff in an hour, and it ended the same way as the first time.

Sabrina Carpenter moved deftly and surely. She pulled a ribbon from a pocket, and pulled her ash-blonde hair into a ponytail. A flick sent it over her shoulder.

Then--still with no hesitation whatsoever--she kneeled on the hard concrete, grasped the overheated shaft in a tiny hand, and plunged it into her mouth.

Schlmmppf!

The head pierced her lips with a wet

slurrp

, splaying them horrifyingly wide as it tore through. The tip of his cock alone seemed to fill her mouth entirely. It was hot and musky and overwhelmingly

present

. She sucked the head, swirling her tongue across the glans, feeling it ripple and shudder under her pliant tongue. A jet of pre-cum shot against her uvula.

Staring ahead, his shaft filled her world. It was like fellating the barrel of an M1 Abrams. She imagined her head being torn off when he busted, exploded by a depleted uranium round.

Moist, lewd gulping and chugging sounds filled the interview room as she sucked him off, struggling to make him cum. Too much cock. Too little girl. She wondered if she'd made an unrecoverable mistake.

He wouldn't do this if the room was wired with cameras or microphones...but he's crazy. Maybe he has.

As she gazed into the shadowed darkness of his crotch, she wondered if this man could truly help her.

Maybe Nigel's right. Goffman might have been big-time back when "What Does the Fox Say?" was on the charts. Now he's a crazy person who needs a guard's permission to take a piss.

But she was out of options. Her career was fading. "Please Please Please" at #1. "Taste" at #2. "Bed Chem" at #14. She'd eaten well off those. Then "Sharpest Tool" went to #21, "Dumb and Poetic" to #40. Her followup to that album had flopped.

There's such a thing as a

Disney star curve

, and Sabrina--in the eyes of Island Records--was now on the falling arc of one.

Promotional budgets were getting slashed, personnel getting fired. Even if she wasn't a dimming star, her label seemed hell-bent on making her one. And now they wanted a new hit single. In one particularly frosty meeting, they'd called it a

comeback

single.

A quickish study, Sabrina had gotten the hint.

I am now in do-or-die territory.

She'd spent a huge amount of her own money holed up in the studio, working with an elite stable of producers and songwriters. The result was "Cross in the Road", a thudding, rousing anthem of female empowerment.

Her label had thought it was absolute horsecrap.

They'd built a machine learning model that predicted the chart success of unreleased songs. When they ran her track through the model, it predicted it a #98 chart entrance, and a disappearance the week after. "Cross in the Road", to them, had failed before it had even been released. But she'd believed in the song--predictive models could be wrong sometimes, right?--and had fought them until they'd chiseled out a small concession.

We'll release it, but we're not promoting it. Money down the drain.

You

figure out a strategy. And

you

pay for it.

Unless she did something drastic, the single was going to bomb, and her career would be

finito

.

Given those constraints, she couldn't afford

not

to work with psychopathic lunatics in mental asylums.

Still sucking Goffman's jaw-breaker of a cock, she glanced upward.

There was a deep, powerful charisma to this man. His gaze fired a shaft of lightning across her soul. It was like gazing directly into the sun. She felt psychic fires flashing up inside her brain, leaving black excisions. The lunatic who dragged you down - or up - to his level.

Ten years ago, everyone had wanted to work with this man. Now? They pretended they didn't know his name. That he'd never existd.

And her pussy started to dampen with arousal.

Her tongue swirled around his shaft. Clockwise, then counterclockwise, like his dick was a lock she was testing tumblers on. She watched excited little ripples illustrate the lean tissue of his skinny thighs. His body was a parchment excitement, disclosing a map of excitement. Mad or not, he was a man.

Her jaws were aching; her masseter muscles screaming in pain. His seemingly endless shaft seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, until it swelled to fill her entire skull like a nuclear blast.

Goffman wanted to break her with his dick. He didn't know she was already broken.

His penis convulsed greedily, pillaging her flesh. She glared up at him, wanting to win, wanting to beat him.

Time to finish this.

She gripped his hips and lunged forward, devouring his length, sucking it down deeper and deeper, making it vanish, one glistening inch at a time. The spasming cockhead messily impacted hit the back of her throat...

....and kept going.

She deep throated him, letting his erection ride down into the spongy flesh of her esophagous. His breathing roughened. She felt his accelerating pulse between her fingers, through the lips wrapping against pelvis, through the cock jammed down her throat.

beat...beat...beat...beatbeatbeat...

She'd practiced deep-throating with cucumbers. But she didn't know she could take a penis this size until she already had.

"UGHH!" he grunted, his cock lurching in her neck.

A gag reflex wracked her. She suppressed it.

Lewd wet squelches and slaps filled the room as he bottomed out in her mouth over and over. No air was entering her lungs. Her vision was going red. His enormous bitch-breaker of a dick was stuffed directly down her throat, curving like a colossal banana down her neck. Wedged against spongy, fluffy throat tissue, she felt a maddening tickle as he leaked pre-cum down her throat.

A more immediate issue was that she couldn't breathe with a ten inch cock filling her throat like a Chinese finger trap. Her red tinged vision was going black.

Either he cums in the next ten seconds, or you suffocate.

Goffman gurgled and grunted as her lips pressed flat against his crotch. His voice was a sandpaper rasp; his hands were tearing through tangles in her wolfcut hair. His hips were bucking now against her lips, a gentle rocking that was increasing in speed, force, and feral violence. She could feel the wild pleasure coursing within him, seeking escape down her throat.

"Hunhh...Unnhhh...hunhh...bluhhhh," wet gurgles were all that escaped her mouth as his huge tool plunged down into her guts.

Moments before she passed out, it happened. His immense prick leaped and surged, rippling with orgasm.

His balls began pulsing out cum in disgusting quantities.

Sperm surged out from his testicles in a scorching rush. Torrents of pale fluid exploding, like liquid moonlight.

Four huge spurts of jizz BLURTED directly down her throat.

Then he was pulling out of her throat, with a sound like a wet boot being extricated from knee-high mud.

Schluuuuuuuuuckk!

As she greedily gasped for air, he gripped his ten inch cock like a gun. He pumped four more jets into her left eye. They impacted hard enough to sting, like slaps.

Then he angled his cock, and ejaculated another four jets into her right eye. Cum exploded against skin, splashing like supernovae across the swirling stars of her vision.

As his penis softened, he laid it across her hair.

So much for keeping it clean,

she thought as a final weak spasm of jizz trailed over her scalp, soaking through it, then running down her back.

Even when you win, it's never all the way.

She felt the thick bead of cum roll down her spine, charting a path between her shoulder blades, finishing in the crack of her ass. The blob of sperm itched and tickled, and she squirmed.

Squirmed, and fingered the sloppy softness of her vulva.

"It is done. The Fourth Day will work for you," Goffman imperiously put his cock away. Then he reached a scabbed hand under her chin, and lifted it back up to meet his eyes.

"Do you know why The Fourth Day is called The Fourth Day?"

She coughed, spluttering up a mouthful of sperm. "N...no..."

"...Because that's the day God created the stars."

* * *

She was as good as her word. Two weeks later, Robert Goffman stood in a room of Island Records executives.

In Sabrina's opinion, he was less intimidating now that he was out of institution attire, and wearing a black turtleneck sweater. He now looked like Steve Jobs after a frontal lobotomy.

"Gentleman," he told the room. "You now stand at the cusp of history. To promote your client, The Fourth Day will deliver a spectacle of phantasmagoric potentiality, of anathema and abhorrence, of sorcery and sortilege. You will laugh - they always do -, but you will brag someday that you stood in the room where this dark Asmodean vision was unfurled like a dread pirate's banner."

There was a loud yawn. Goffman ignored this.

"A publicity stunt, my friends. We will stage a publicity stunt. The biggest and most shocking in history. This is an art form that The Fourth Day has decorticated to the utmost science."

He turned to the whiteboard.

"Study the unforgettable, successful PR coups of the past--Sinéad O'Connor ripping up the pope's photo on live TV, Britney kissing Madonna, KLF scorching a million pounds to ash--and they all have exactly four things in common."

The marker pinched precariously in his shovel-sized hand went

squeak-scratch-squeak

.

"These are Reach, Relevance, and Rage."

Sabrina Carpenter waited for someone to point out that this was three things. Nobody did.

"First," he said, "Reach. We need to get in front of a lot of people. Otherwise, nothing we do matters. Sabrina will be the proverbial tree falling in the forest, silent and unheard. Thanks to the internet, this part's easy. We'll promote the stunt through leading social media sites like Facebook, Myspace, and Google Plus."