fastandsloppy

Mr. Fastandsloppy lives in his fortress retreat under a hollowed out volcano in the far-flung Isles of Langerhans. He spends his days sipping Blue Mountain coffee and eating ripe mangos in the sun while coltish slave girls rub his body with fragrant oils. When the mood takes him (which is alarmingly frequently) he terrorizes the villagers with his invocation of Prima Nocta. At the end the day he puts aside his pleasures of the flesh to sit in his oversized Corinthian leather chair at his large oaken desk to write his twisted tales of perversion. He writes longhand in a sumptuous copperplate script with a quill made from the tail feather of an Andean Condor. His diseased ramblings are taken to a typing pool of scantily clad under-aged Asian Catholic school girls (don't worry, until midnight on their eighteenth birthday they are only required to type and giggle wantonly) where they are committed to rtf files and attached to specially trained, alabaster white homing pigeons who take wing to the Literotica world headquarters. And thence to you, dear reader, to peruse at your leisure and for your pleasure.
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Mr. Fastandsloppy is pleased to answer questions or comments about his stories. He appreciates thoughtful criticism and is merciful to those who seek to correct him. He finds closed minded, nasty spirited anonymous commentators loathsome and frequently has several captured by his army of ninja warriors. When taken back to his pleasure gardens he has the dogs set upon them so their anguished death cries can serve as the background symphony for his twice-hourly bouts of cacophonous lovemaking.
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Mr. Fastandsloppy is also delighted to correspond with those eager to discuss erotica, the lonely art of writing or other topics both mundane and profound. Although his days are usually busy concocting his various nefarious schemes and constructing his array of sinister contraptions, he is generally willing to dictate a reply to those who wish to share his wisdom, be influenced by his evil genius, or both. To those who befriend him he pledges as much mercy as is convenient when his plans for world domination eventually come to fruition; as they inevitably will.
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Mr. Fastandsloppy's team of black-hearted lawyers have asked me to remind you that his fiction is fictional. To readers who fault him on the advisability, morality, viability, or sexual, racial and political ramifications of his tales, Mr. Fastandsloppy reminds them that fantasy does not constitute advocacy. If any readers seek to model their lives on his skewed imaginings, he is pleased by their devotion but doubts their intelligence and sanity.