What are some pedo-core books?

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>>9821055
First time away from /b/?

>>9821046
What is that? And what exactly do you mean by pedo-core? I only skimmed that; is the girl underage or something?

>He gets a glimpse of Margherita and her daughter, but there is a density of orgy-goers around them that keeps him at a distance. He knows he’s vulnerable, more than he should be, to pretty little girls, so he reckons it’s just as well, because that Bianca’s a knockout, all right: 11 or 12, dark and lovely, wearing a red chiffon gown, silk stockings and high-heeled slippers, her hair swept up elaborate and flawless and interwoven with a string of pearls to show pendant earrings of crystal twinkling from her tiny lobes… help, help. Why do these things have to keep coming down on him? He can see the obit now in Time magazine—Died, Rocketman, pushing 30, in the Zone, of lust.

>(...)

>About here they are interrupted by Margherita and Bianca, playing stage mother and reluctant child. Whispers to the bandleader, fun-seekers crowding eagerly around a cleared space where Bianca now stands pouting, her little red frock halfway up her slender thighs, with black lace petticoats peeping from beneath the hem, surely it’s going to be something sophisticated, bigcity, and wicked, but what’s she doing with her finger posed aside of one dimpled cheek like this—at which point comes the band’s intro, and pre-vomit saliva begins to gush into Slothrop’s mouth, along with a horrible doubt into his brain about how he is going to make it through the next few minutes.
>Not only is her song “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” but she is also now commencing, without a trace of shame, to grunt her way through it, in perfect mimickry of young Shirley Temple—each straining baby-pig inflection, each curl-toss, unmotivated smile, and stumbling toe-tap… her delicate bare arms have begun to grow fatter, her frock shorter—is somebody fooling with the lights? But the billowings of asexual child-fat have not changed her eyes: they remain as they were, mocking, dark, her own….

>>9821271
>Much applause and alcoholic bravo-ing when it’s finally over. Thanatz abstains, fatherly head wagging, great eyebrows in a frown. “She’s never going to be a woman if this goes on….”
>“And now, liebling,” Margherita with a rare, and somewhat phony, smile, “let’s hear ‘Animal Crackers in My Soup’!”
>“‘Super Animals in My Crack,’” hollers a humorist from the crowd.
>“No,” groans the child.
>“Bianca—”
>“You bitch,” spike heel ringing on the steel deck. It’s an act. “Haven’t you humiliated me enough?”
>“Not nearly enough,” pouncing on her daughter, grabbing her by the hair and shaking her. The little girl has fallen to her knees, struggling, trying to get away.
>“Oh, delightful,” cries the meat-cleaver lady, “Greta’s going to punish her.”
>“How I’d like to,” murmurs a striking mulatto girl in a strapless gown, pushing forward to watch, tapping Slothrop’s cheek with her jeweled cigarette holder as satin haunches whisper across his thigh. Someone has provided Margherita with a steel ruler and an ebony Empire chair. She drags Bianca across her lap, pushing up frock and petticoats, yanking down white lace knickers. Beautiful little-girl buttocks rise like moons. The tender crevice tightens and relaxes, suspender straps shift and stretch as Bianca kicks her legs, silk stockings squeak together, erotic and audible now that the group have fallen silent and found the medium of touch, hands reaching out to breasts and crotches, Adam’s apples bobbing, tongues licking lips… where’s the old masochist and monument Slothrop knew back in Berlin? It’s as if Greta is now releasing all the pain she’s stored up over the past weeks onto her child’s naked bottom, the skin so finely grained that white centimeter markings and numerals are being left in mirror-image against the red stripes with each blow, crisscrossing, building up a skew matrix of pain on Bianca’s flesh. Tears go streaming down her inverted and reddening face, mixing with mascara, dripping onto the pale lizard surfaces of her mother’s shoes… her hair has loosened and spills to the deck, dark, salted with the string of little seed pearls.

>>9821272
>(...)
>“Oh, dear,” lifting her dress, turning so she can also watch Slothrop back over a shoulder. “I can still feel that. Did she leave marks?”
>“Well, you’ll have to come closer.”
>She moves toward him, smiling, pointing toes each step. “I watched you sleep. You’re very pretty, you know. Mother also said you’re cruel.”
>“Watch this.” He leans to bite her gently on one cheek of her ass. She squirms, but doesn’t move away.
>“Mm. There’s a zipper there, could you…” She shrugs, twists as he unzips her, red taffeta slides down and off and sure enough there’s one or two lavender bruises starting to show up on her bottom, which is perfectly shaped, smooth as cream. Small as she is, she’s been further laced into a tiny black corset, which compresses her waist now to the diameter of a brandy bottle and pushes pre-subdeb breasts up into little white crescents. Satin straps, adorned with intricately pornographic needlework, run down each thigh to hold up stockings with tops of dark Alençon lace. The bare backs of her legs come brushing softly across Slothrop’s face. He starts taking giant, ass-enthusiast bites now, meantime reaching around to play with cuntlips and clit, Bianca’s little feet shifting in a nervous dance and scarlet nails digging sharp as needles underneath her stocking tops and into her legs as he goes planting hickeys, red nebulae across her sensitive spaces. She smells like soap, flowers, sweat, cunt. Her long hair falls to the level of Slothrop’s eyes, fine and black, the split ends whispering across the small of her white back in and out of invisibility, like rain… she has turned, and sinks to her knees to undo his pleated trousers. Leaning, brushing hair back behind her ears, the little girl takes the head of Slothrop’s cock into her rouged mouth. Her eyes glitter through fern lashes, baby rodent hands race his body unbuttoning, caressing. Such a slender child: her throat swallowing, strummed to a moan as he grabs her hair, twists it… she has him all figured out. Knows exactly when to take her mouth away and stand up, high-heeled Parisian slippers planted to either side of him, swaying, hair softly waving forward to frame her face, repeated by the corset darkly framing her pubic mound and belly. Raising bare arms, little Bianca lifts her long hair, tosses her little head to let the mane shiver down her back, needle-tipped fingers drifting then down slowly, making him wait, down over the satin, all the shiny hooks and laces, to her thighs. Then her face, round with baby-fat, enormous night-shadowed eyes comes swooping in as she kneels, guides his penis into her and settles slow, excruciating till he fills her, stuffs her full….

>>9821275
>Now something, oh, kind of funny happens here. Not that Slothrop is really aware of it now, while it’s going on—but later on, it will occur to him that he was—this may sound odd, but he was somehow, actually, well, inside his own cock. If you can imagine such a thing. Yes, inside the metropolitan organ entirely, all other colonial tissue forgotten and left to fend for itself, his arms and legs it seems woven among vessels and ducts, his sperm roaring louder and louder, getting ready to erupt, somewhere below his feet… maroon and evening cuntlight reaches him in a single ray through the opening at the top, refracted through the clear juices flowing up around him. He is enclosed. Everything is about to come, come incredibly, and he’s helpless here in this exploding emprise... red flesh echoing… an extraordinary sense of waiting to rise….
>She posts, his pretty horsewoman, face to the overhead, quivering up and down, thightop muscles strung hard as cable, baby breasts working out the top of her garment… Slothrop pulls Bianca to him by her nipples and bites each one very hard. Sliding her arms around his neck, hugging him, she starts to come, and so does he, their own flood taking him up then out of his expectancy, out the eye at tower’s summit and into her with a singular detonation of touch. Announcing the void, what could it be but the kingly voice of the Aggregat itself?
>Somewhere in their lying-still are her heart, buffeting, a chickadee in the snow, her hair, draping and sheltering both their faces, little tongue at his temples and eyes on and on, silk legs rubbing his flanks, cool leather of her shoes against his legs and ankles, shoulderblades rising like wings whenever she hugs him. What happened back there? Slothrop thinks he might cry.

>>9821046
stephen king's it

pretty sure it ends in a child gangbang

>>9821046
read peter sotos

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Just came out!

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/18/books/review-anonymous-incest-diary.html