Announcing the Opeth erotic short story contest

Promotional picture of Opeth from 2014
A while back, DMU ran an erotic fanfiction contest in response to a small incident involving Pantera and the community around them, much to our fans’ joy and pleasure. As part of our initiative to grow the site (and because of the potential for controversy), we’re going to try our hands at another.

Opeth has long been one of our prominent targets for their inept aping of progressive rock forms in a paper-thin guise of death metal. Their popularity seems to have waned in recent years as they lapsed more overtly into ’70s prog worship, but that doesn’t mean we can’t give them the occasional dose of mockery to lighten up their mood and possibly incite them to heights of passion that might lead to better songwriting if we’re enormously fortunate. Thusly, Death Metal Underground’s second erotic fanfiction contest is going to be about Opeth and its members.

The rules are similar to those of the previous contest.

  1. Your story must be between 500-5,000 words and involve the members of Opeth in intensely sexual and/or erotic situations. It’s up to you to determine which perversions and fetishes you want to involve, but the more depraved, the better.
  2. References to bandmembers’ side projects (like Steel and Bloodbath) are permitted, as well as references to other bands appealing to a similar demographic. However, your work must primarily be about Opeth.
  3. Your story must be your own work. You are allowed to quote Opeth lyrics for effect, but don’t crutch yourself too badly by overusing them, lest your work be rendered underwhelming.

Submit your entries as comments on this post. You have until 11:59 PM EST on November 30th, 2015 (we extended it) to write a story for this content, so let your imagination and libido run wild.

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2 thoughts on “Announcing the Opeth erotic short story contest”

  1. Poser Patrol says:

    Somewhere in rural Texas a dirt road winds up a hill to a solitary church. At a passing glance, nothing about this church would seem out of the ordinary. However a closer inspection would reveal some peculiarities: the flagpole flew not just a Texas flag, but another emblazoned with what looks like some type of tree-shaped rune; the vehicles parked outside bore bumper stickers that included a “Honk for Gay Rights!” alongside one that read “Don’t Re-Nig in 2012”; and atop the steeple was an inverted cross, nailed to which the skeletal remains of some poor chap hung, whose final outfit appeared to have consisted of skinny jeans, a flannel shirt, and thick-rim glasses.

    Inside the church the air was thick with pungent tobacco smoke that hung with a strong overtone of male musk. The congregants–entirely male– sat unclothed, and their pudgy, pale-white bodies glistened with sweat. Their below-average sized dongs hung in limp yet poignant repose, and were visibly greasy, some of them speckled with what appeared to be fecal matter, others purulent and dripping pus. Their scrotums hung loose in the Texas heat like a fly ass nigga. Some of the congregants were idly fiddling with their meager-sized manhood, as if they were tired of hearing the same old sermon.

    Upon the pulpit a hobbit-like man with dark and curly locks pontificated in a nasally voice, his eyes fiery with passion and the acorn-sized nub on the bottom of his torso pulsating in cadence with his words:

    “… And therefore, in order for the white man to once again rise up and restore the sacred Western European values of free speech, indiscriminate sodomy, and reverence for transcendental phallic domination, we must keep the hipsters and Social Justice Warriors out of Death Metal!”

    “Aww c’mon, Brett” moaned one congregant who looked like a human version of a melting ice cream cone, “We’ve heard this a million times! Why don’t you talk about Executionator, they’re this really cool German thrash metal band from the 80s, totally a hidden gem!”

    “Silence, cretin!” snapped Brett. “First of all, it’s called SPEED METAL, and anyone who says otherwise is an untermensch. Second, if this band is so fucking great then why don’t YOU get up here and talk about them!”

    “Well, uh, I uh… I’m no good at that sort of stuff… I like it when you do the talking…” whimpered the meek hessian.

    “That’s what I thought you ungrateful whelp!” sneered Brett. “Now, even though you plebeians don’t deserve it, I have a very special surprise for you. ” Brett kicked open a trap door next to the lectern and none other than Mikael Åkerfeld emerged, looking about furtively like a scared animal.

    Åkerfeld’s hair was matted and unwashed, his mustache peppered with off-white crusty bits. As he struggled to pull himself out of the trap door the fading sun shone through a circular window in the front of the church, temporarily blinding him and revealing the delicate features of his bony body. He sported a surprisingly girthy 5-inch love rod and a pair of hot pink titty tassels. Brett’s death cultists ogled him like wolves eyeing a wounded lamb.

    “Hey boys” chirped Mikael in a nervous yet sultry voice, waving with wiggling fingers. “My fuckdaddy Brett says you guys are the deepest, most intellectual men in all of metal… It’s always been my fantasy to get pounded in every hole by a pack of metal heads even deeper than I am, and tonight I want you to make my dream cum true!” By now the hessians’ members had swelled to critical mass.

    “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mikael?” said Brett, with a slight grin.

    “Oh yeah!” Mikael giggled. He yanked at his titty tassels. As they popped off, two dicks unfurled where his nipples were supposed to be. Just as he did so, the last of the sun dipped below the horizon.

    “Let the ceremonies begin!” declared Brett.

    The hessians pounced at Mikael, throwing him onto the altar, fighting like wolf pups to suckle on his dick nipples, which curiously were ejaculating shit. Other hessians stabbed their meat spears into Mikael’s puffy pink asshole, which despite its considerable elasticity began to rip, creating a slurry of feces, cum, and blood that sloshed and squished with every thrust. Squatting on top of the altar was Brett, who was stuffing Mikael’s mouth with his beef globes while pleasuring himself. Mikael convulsed in pleasure, crooning in a similar fashion to his clean vocals on Blackwater Park.

    If Brett and his Hessian cronies weren’t so preoccupied with their unholy gayngbang, they might have noticed the sound of Toyota Priuses pulling up to the chapel. They were filled with elite Social Justice Commandos, handpicked by Kim Kelly from the very best tumblr had to offer. What these commandos lacked in physical fitness and mental acumen they made up for in zealous devotion to their cause: the destruction of all things politically incorrect.

    The commandos waddled up to the chapel door and breached it, pouring in and firing their Kalashnikovs haphazardly into the orgy going on up on the altar. The Hessians were turned into Swiss cheese before they even realized what was going on. Blood flowed off of the altar. Mikael took one to the dome, spraying brain chunks across the rest of the dead. “The feelings of disadvantaged groups are safe for another day, comrades!” said Kim Kelly. What she didn’t realize, however, was that Brett had survived. Wounded but still breathing, he stumbled to the front of the celebrating commandos holding a dead man’s switch.

    “Hey Kim” he managed to say.

    Kim looked at him in bewilderment.

    “Only death his real” said Brett, before releasing his thumb and destroying the chapel, oblitering everyone and everything inside.


  2. I blew my head off like Per Ohlin says:

    Never got to finish it as I was ill, but this is what I managed to write. Please post but don’t count my entry.

    T’was a warm, sweaty, midsummer evening as Michael “Teh Sleaze” Akerfeltd lay upon the hotel bed with his arms tightly around his cuddly man beast Steven Wilson; cum silently dripping from his thick, veiny, svollen boehner. The Heritage (Ov Love) tour had just finished and suffice to say, he had quite literally finished on all the hairy cock rockers, unleashing his stiff might to engulf his adoring fans in a sea of crusty semen. However, regardless of successfully duping the music scene into believing Opeth was the most innovative and forward thinking metal band, there was a sea of discontent among his more older and sexually frustrated fans that yearned for the growls. But it seemed everyone was oblivious to the fact that Michael hadn’t sucked much cock since Blackwater Park. It was a route he promised to not take anymore. It just didn’t taste right and had left a bitter taste in his mouth, much to the chagrin of his fellow band members. Michael had always suspected that they wanted to usurp him from position of leader. They didn’t like being dominated by him and sexual tensions were running high within the group. He needed a plan to unite the guys, under his gayness but how to do so he was not quite sure. Moreover, despite the subtle hints that he was no more metal than Slipknot, the rabid pseudo-intellectual hipster nerds had paid no attention. This suited him quite well, as it meant peddling off his pretentious crap

    “Hey Steve” purred Akerfeldt
    “Yes sexy?” replied Wilson
    “Let’s go again,” said Akerfeldt, as his cock throbbed with excitement
    “B-b-but” stammered Wilson
    “Shhh less talk, more fucking” crooned Akerfeldt as he inserted his

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