Jon Ureña's Blog, page 28
September 26, 2023
Life update (09/26/2023)
Having to work is annoying enough, but in addition, it’s come to my attention that someone in my office has stolen a juicier contract from me even though I was ahead in the rankings. These last couple of months have gone as follows:
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
September 25, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 113 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Jacqueline's right hand glides smoothly up and down the length of her manhood, caressing with long and slow pumps that fearsome column, its skin flush and taut and gleaming, whose bulging veins bristle against her fingers. The foreskin slips back and forth with every stroke, revealing the ruddy, helmet-shaped bulb, a raw and pulsing crown ready to enthrall and slather in cream any feminine crease.
A tingling sensation spreads across my scalp while I ogle that monstrosity, a dumbell-heavy weapon designed to rupture flesh, an obscene member that would make a stallion envious, and weighed down by a pair of balls that would fill my palms. A wave of dizziness crashes over me as my heart drums like a bongo. To witness such a transgression against nature should perhaps make me gag with horror, and yet a pool of molten heat stirs in my loins.
"M-mon dieu," I mumble.
A smirk blooms on Jacqueline's lips.
"Like what you're seeing, my little kitten?"
"So now you have a dick to whip around? A big, veiny, throbbing monster-cock?"
She slaps the rigid flesh against her abdomen, sending her tits wobbling and quivering in their black lace cages.
"Uh-huh. Quite dashing, wouldn't you say?"
"Y-your pussy is gone."
"Don't worry, ma chouchoute. It will come back, eager to please and be pleased. No need to mourn its absence."
I squint and rub my chin. That battering ram could shatter a castle gate.
"A shapeshifting dick puts you at an evolutionary edge. And somehow it suits you to wield that fleshy behemoth, despite your gorgeous face and luscious tits."
Jacqueline cocks her hip, making one of her stockings rise like a piston.
"Can't say I disagree. I'm a huntress. A predator, if you will. I relish in the pleasure of the chase, the thrill of the kill. However, what owner of a penis doesn't desire to impale and empty themselves inside any pussy that struts by? The instinct to breed, to fill, to claim, is always there, simmering beneath the surface. Ever since I became the recipient of such a strange miracle, some of my most exciting times have involved seducing some innocent thing then tearing her in half with this beast."
I swallow hard. My eyes dart over the length and girth of mommy's weapon of mass destruction, whose sight causes my core to tighten with a throbbing ache. My gaze drops to the pair of balls suspended low and heavy: that scrotal sac stretched and swollen with seed like a ripening apricot, its urgent load waiting to erupt and paint the world in sticky white ribbons.
Jacqueline releases her cock, and the organ springs back bouncing and wagging. Instead she gropes her dense flesh-fruits as if weighing them. She rolls them, massages them, squeezes them gently. A shiver tiptoes up my spine.
"When was the last time you touched a cock, my dear?" Jacqueline asks playfully.
I recall that random, spiky-haired guy at a party. I had been huddled in a corner, nursing a bottle of vodka and wishing I were dead. Rock music thumped through me, vibrating my organs, while the alcohol buzzed in my brain. Spiky-hair swaggered over. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes. His lips parted, and it took me a second to realize he was talking to me.
"What's a hot thing like you doing alone, eh?"
"I don't have a penis," I answered.
Spiky-hair, with his mud-brown eyes and patchy stubble, grinned.
"I'm not asking for your dick size, babe. I want to know why a hot piece of ass like you is sulking in a corner when you could be getting piped."
A cocktail of vodka, acid reflux and nervous energy churned in my stomach. I should have stayed in bed with my laptop, scrolling through Pornhub, but I didn't want to be the recluse that nobody missed. Why did I even bother? My attempts at interacting with humans only made me feel alone.
"Maybe I hate this world and everything in it."
Although my vision kept blurring, I caught Spiky-hair's gaze sweeping over my cleavage like a hawk eyeing a mouse, his fingers twitching to fondle, grope, squeeze. He slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close, prodding at my hip with a hard-on. His sour breath singed my nostrils. That mouth, a crooked slash, its foam-flecked lips cracked, resembled a scabbed wound. Rather than let his slimy tongue slide into my mouth, I'd have my teeth yanked out with pliers.
"You're a babe that's wasting away. Women are like the ocean: mysterious and deep. But they don't come close to men, who are like raging fires, a furnace that can't be tamed. You might as well try to contain a star."
As his stubbled jaw brushed against my cheek, his hand slid down to my butt and cupped it with a possessive pressure. I wished my bottle of vodka were a knife that I could sink into my heart so I wouldn't have to endure this nightmare for a second longer.
"Oh, please drown yourself in a puddle."
I intended to shove Spiky-hair off me and drain him away with a flood of vitriol. However, in the heat and roar of the party, I must have crumbled like a rotted tree, because he led me down a dim and reeking corridor to a stinkier bathroom, a windowless box with a broken toilet seat and a shower curtain streaked with mildew. He spun me around and pressed me face-first against the grimy tiles while tugging my panties down. I heard a zipper unzip. He hawked up a glob of phlegm, spat it into his palm, and slathered the goop on his lead pipe. He pried apart the halves of my ass-flesh. The tip tickled my hole before he plunged into me with a squelch, splitting me open. I grunted like a hurt horse. I shut my eyes and clenched my fists while my colon filled with his oafish thrusts, which I pictured as the blows of a hammer driving a nail into a coffin. My sphincter burned and stung. I wished I had shaved, trimmed, shoved in a plug or whatever to lessen the discomfort of a puffy cock spearing the depths of my bowels. The vodka along with his sweat made me feel like I was drowning in a bog of putrid slime. Would my stomach sputter up the foul mixture of alcohol and acid-drenched junk food that sloshed within? Why had I left the safety of my room, the comfort of my headphones and keyboard and screen? What did I expect from a bunch of humans? They'd sooner tear out my eyes than make me feel welcome. Why did I keep trying to fit in when I'd rather be dead?
Spiky-hair grabbed my breast as if to imprint its meaty contours on his brain. With his free hand, he clutched a fistful of my hair and yanked it, forcing me to arch my back. Saliva bubbled out of my mouth and dribbled onto the piss-stained floor. His nuts whacked against my vulva with wet claps that echoed in the stuffy bathroom. His stubble rasped and raked: a swarm of cockroaches crawling over my skin, their antennae probing my pores, their legs scritch-scratching my flesh. I prayed for his dick to burst, for his balls to shrivel and fall off, but instead his sweaty body bore down on me, he let out a shuddering groan, and his penis swelled and throbbed inside me like a tumor as it spurted a load of grime. In the aftermath, that essence, viscous and hot, had oozed out of my gaping, battered hole to crust between my thighs like dried sap, mingling with the dust bunnies and fungal growths. For days afterward, his stench, the odors of his hair grease and smoker's breath, of his sweat and cum, had clung to me like a blanket of mold. The phantom of his phallus haunted my rectum whenever I went for a shit. I wanted to scrub myself clean in boiling water, to peel off my skin, to replace every atom of my body with ones that weren't tainted.
Back in the present, as the warmth of a candle-fueled mood washes over me, I stop rubbing my eyelids and look up at mommy, who's waiting for me to reply.
"Some random dude's dick, far from your meat-log of a schlong. During my early twenties, if I recall correctly. So it's been a while. In the meantime, though, I have messed around with plastic, rubber, and metal imitations."
"Leire, you're too precious to be a casual fuck. And your tone tells me that the guy didn't treat you with the tenderness you deserve."
"How can I put it? I was tempted to say that I couldn't remember, because I didn't want to. That inflamed wound took me months to heal. I doubt even a sexbot would have liked it."
"My poor chérie."
I nod in a continuous loop, as if my head were spring-loaded with disappointment. My walls had been breached, my treasures pillaged, my virtue trampled into the dirt.
"In general, dicks are fine. Unfortunately, they tend to be attached to dudes."
"A real shame, bien sûr."
"My one epiphany is that I need to hold on to tits for dear life. The more massive the better."
"You're in mommy's loving arms now, ma petite étoile." She strokes the velvety skin of her colossus, causing its pink crown to twitch. "But what do you think I should do with this novel appendage of mine, huh?"
"Well... Every time you leave the apartment, you could turn your trip into one of those shooter arcade games from the nineties. Pump that sperm launcher and fire at anything that moves and breathes. Leave a trail of hundreds of splattered faces."
Jacqueline giggles, making her breasts jiggle like gelatin mounds. Her cobalt-blues sparkle with mirth.
"Vraiment, a project worth pursuing, but I'm more interested in how to use my jizz cannon in regards to you, ma coquine, ma douce petite fille. Don't you want to play with mommy's special toy?"
I sense myself liquefying at this gift from the god Pan to worship and adorn with garlands.
"It would punch apart and pulverize my guts."
"Oh, don't look so disturbed. I was employing a little hyperbole, darling. I can control its basic size and girth as needed, so you'll just need to lie back, spread your legs, and let me stuff that dripping hole like a blossom fitting snugly within a bud. You know what? Let me show you."
---
Author's note: today's song is "Ball and Biscuit" by The White Stripes.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A hundred and eighty videos. Check them out.
Do you wanna hear this nonsense acted out by AI voice actors? Check out the audiochapter.
Some of you that normally follow this story may have missed the previous chapter, because I forgot to attach tags to the WordPress post. Oops.
This chapter reminded me, for some reason, of my obscure free verse poem titled "The Well-Hung Duchess of Cosmographica" (that requires a couple of revisions).
---
Jacqueline's right hand glides smoothly up and down the length of her manhood, caressing with long and slow pumps that fearsome column, its skin flush and taut and gleaming, whose bulging veins bristle against her fingers. The foreskin slips back and forth with every stroke, revealing the ruddy, helmet-shaped bulb, a raw and pulsing crown ready to enthrall and slather in cream any feminine crease.
A tingling sensation spreads across my scalp while I ogle that monstrosity, a dumbell-heavy weapon designed to rupture flesh, an obscene member that would make a stallion envious, and weighed down by a pair of balls that would fill my palms. A wave of dizziness crashes over me as my heart drums like a bongo. To witness such a transgression against nature should perhaps make me gag with horror, and yet a pool of molten heat stirs in my loins.
"M-mon dieu," I mumble.
A smirk blooms on Jacqueline's lips.
"Like what you're seeing, my little kitten?"
"So now you have a dick to whip around? A big, veiny, throbbing monster-cock?"
She slaps the rigid flesh against her abdomen, sending her tits wobbling and quivering in their black lace cages.
"Uh-huh. Quite dashing, wouldn't you say?"
"Y-your pussy is gone."
"Don't worry, ma chouchoute. It will come back, eager to please and be pleased. No need to mourn its absence."
I squint and rub my chin. That battering ram could shatter a castle gate.
"A shapeshifting dick puts you at an evolutionary edge. And somehow it suits you to wield that fleshy behemoth, despite your gorgeous face and luscious tits."
Jacqueline cocks her hip, making one of her stockings rise like a piston.
"Can't say I disagree. I'm a huntress. A predator, if you will. I relish in the pleasure of the chase, the thrill of the kill. However, what owner of a penis doesn't desire to impale and empty themselves inside any pussy that struts by? The instinct to breed, to fill, to claim, is always there, simmering beneath the surface. Ever since I became the recipient of such a strange miracle, some of my most exciting times have involved seducing some innocent thing then tearing her in half with this beast."
I swallow hard. My eyes dart over the length and girth of mommy's weapon of mass destruction, whose sight causes my core to tighten with a throbbing ache. My gaze drops to the pair of balls suspended low and heavy: that scrotal sac stretched and swollen with seed like a ripening apricot, its urgent load waiting to erupt and paint the world in sticky white ribbons.
Jacqueline releases her cock, and the organ springs back bouncing and wagging. Instead she gropes her dense flesh-fruits as if weighing them. She rolls them, massages them, squeezes them gently. A shiver tiptoes up my spine.
"When was the last time you touched a cock, my dear?" Jacqueline asks playfully.
I recall that random, spiky-haired guy at a party. I had been huddled in a corner, nursing a bottle of vodka and wishing I were dead. Rock music thumped through me, vibrating my organs, while the alcohol buzzed in my brain. Spiky-hair swaggered over. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes. His lips parted, and it took me a second to realize he was talking to me.
"What's a hot thing like you doing alone, eh?"
"I don't have a penis," I answered.
Spiky-hair, with his mud-brown eyes and patchy stubble, grinned.
"I'm not asking for your dick size, babe. I want to know why a hot piece of ass like you is sulking in a corner when you could be getting piped."
A cocktail of vodka, acid reflux and nervous energy churned in my stomach. I should have stayed in bed with my laptop, scrolling through Pornhub, but I didn't want to be the recluse that nobody missed. Why did I even bother? My attempts at interacting with humans only made me feel alone.
"Maybe I hate this world and everything in it."
Although my vision kept blurring, I caught Spiky-hair's gaze sweeping over my cleavage like a hawk eyeing a mouse, his fingers twitching to fondle, grope, squeeze. He slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close, prodding at my hip with a hard-on. His sour breath singed my nostrils. That mouth, a crooked slash, its foam-flecked lips cracked, resembled a scabbed wound. Rather than let his slimy tongue slide into my mouth, I'd have my teeth yanked out with pliers.
"You're a babe that's wasting away. Women are like the ocean: mysterious and deep. But they don't come close to men, who are like raging fires, a furnace that can't be tamed. You might as well try to contain a star."
As his stubbled jaw brushed against my cheek, his hand slid down to my butt and cupped it with a possessive pressure. I wished my bottle of vodka were a knife that I could sink into my heart so I wouldn't have to endure this nightmare for a second longer.
"Oh, please drown yourself in a puddle."
I intended to shove Spiky-hair off me and drain him away with a flood of vitriol. However, in the heat and roar of the party, I must have crumbled like a rotted tree, because he led me down a dim and reeking corridor to a stinkier bathroom, a windowless box with a broken toilet seat and a shower curtain streaked with mildew. He spun me around and pressed me face-first against the grimy tiles while tugging my panties down. I heard a zipper unzip. He hawked up a glob of phlegm, spat it into his palm, and slathered the goop on his lead pipe. He pried apart the halves of my ass-flesh. The tip tickled my hole before he plunged into me with a squelch, splitting me open. I grunted like a hurt horse. I shut my eyes and clenched my fists while my colon filled with his oafish thrusts, which I pictured as the blows of a hammer driving a nail into a coffin. My sphincter burned and stung. I wished I had shaved, trimmed, shoved in a plug or whatever to lessen the discomfort of a puffy cock spearing the depths of my bowels. The vodka along with his sweat made me feel like I was drowning in a bog of putrid slime. Would my stomach sputter up the foul mixture of alcohol and acid-drenched junk food that sloshed within? Why had I left the safety of my room, the comfort of my headphones and keyboard and screen? What did I expect from a bunch of humans? They'd sooner tear out my eyes than make me feel welcome. Why did I keep trying to fit in when I'd rather be dead?
Spiky-hair grabbed my breast as if to imprint its meaty contours on his brain. With his free hand, he clutched a fistful of my hair and yanked it, forcing me to arch my back. Saliva bubbled out of my mouth and dribbled onto the piss-stained floor. His nuts whacked against my vulva with wet claps that echoed in the stuffy bathroom. His stubble rasped and raked: a swarm of cockroaches crawling over my skin, their antennae probing my pores, their legs scritch-scratching my flesh. I prayed for his dick to burst, for his balls to shrivel and fall off, but instead his sweaty body bore down on me, he let out a shuddering groan, and his penis swelled and throbbed inside me like a tumor as it spurted a load of grime. In the aftermath, that essence, viscous and hot, had oozed out of my gaping, battered hole to crust between my thighs like dried sap, mingling with the dust bunnies and fungal growths. For days afterward, his stench, the odors of his hair grease and smoker's breath, of his sweat and cum, had clung to me like a blanket of mold. The phantom of his phallus haunted my rectum whenever I went for a shit. I wanted to scrub myself clean in boiling water, to peel off my skin, to replace every atom of my body with ones that weren't tainted.
Back in the present, as the warmth of a candle-fueled mood washes over me, I stop rubbing my eyelids and look up at mommy, who's waiting for me to reply.
"Some random dude's dick, far from your meat-log of a schlong. During my early twenties, if I recall correctly. So it's been a while. In the meantime, though, I have messed around with plastic, rubber, and metal imitations."
"Leire, you're too precious to be a casual fuck. And your tone tells me that the guy didn't treat you with the tenderness you deserve."
"How can I put it? I was tempted to say that I couldn't remember, because I didn't want to. That inflamed wound took me months to heal. I doubt even a sexbot would have liked it."
"My poor chérie."
I nod in a continuous loop, as if my head were spring-loaded with disappointment. My walls had been breached, my treasures pillaged, my virtue trampled into the dirt.
"In general, dicks are fine. Unfortunately, they tend to be attached to dudes."
"A real shame, bien sûr."
"My one epiphany is that I need to hold on to tits for dear life. The more massive the better."
"You're in mommy's loving arms now, ma petite étoile." She strokes the velvety skin of her colossus, causing its pink crown to twitch. "But what do you think I should do with this novel appendage of mine, huh?"
"Well... Every time you leave the apartment, you could turn your trip into one of those shooter arcade games from the nineties. Pump that sperm launcher and fire at anything that moves and breathes. Leave a trail of hundreds of splattered faces."
Jacqueline giggles, making her breasts jiggle like gelatin mounds. Her cobalt-blues sparkle with mirth.
"Vraiment, a project worth pursuing, but I'm more interested in how to use my jizz cannon in regards to you, ma coquine, ma douce petite fille. Don't you want to play with mommy's special toy?"
I sense myself liquefying at this gift from the god Pan to worship and adorn with garlands.
"It would punch apart and pulverize my guts."
"Oh, don't look so disturbed. I was employing a little hyperbole, darling. I can control its basic size and girth as needed, so you'll just need to lie back, spread your legs, and let me stuff that dripping hole like a blossom fitting snugly within a bud. You know what? Let me show you."
---
Author's note: today's song is "Ball and Biscuit" by The White Stripes.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A hundred and eighty videos. Check them out.
Do you wanna hear this nonsense acted out by AI voice actors? Check out the audiochapter.
Some of you that normally follow this story may have missed the previous chapter, because I forgot to attach tags to the WordPress post. Oops.
This chapter reminded me, for some reason, of my obscure free verse poem titled "The Well-Hung Duchess of Cosmographica" (that requires a couple of revisions).
September 20, 2023
Life update (09/20/2023)
The beta-blockers that I take for my heart issues put me out of commission by eight in the evening (if I’m that lucky). Last night I fell asleep at nine, only to wake up from a nightmare at midnight. Didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night. At five I finally dragged my weary old bones to my desk and freewrote the remainder of chapter 112 of my ongoing novel. At six I prepared myself some decaf, took a shit, showered, then left for work.
Such nights, I try to force myself to sleep, but usually my brain falls into sequences of daydreams slash intrusive thoughts that I don’t recall entering. They force me to confront all kinds of nasty crap, from bad memories to hypothetical situations from which I could need to defend myself.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Such nights, I try to force myself to sleep, but usually my brain falls into sequences of daydreams slash intrusive thoughts that I don’t recall entering. They force me to confront all kinds of nasty crap, from bad memories to hypothetical situations from which I could need to defend myself.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
We're Fucked, Pt. 112 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Jacqueline's palms, capable of untold erotic sorcery, cup my nape as she presses her pillowy lips against my forehead like stamping a wax seal on parchment, letting the kiss linger. A warm tingling spreads throughout my core.
"Let's focus on the here and now, shall we?" she whispers.
With a finger, Jacqueline tilts my chin upwards. Her teeth are sparkling in the candlelight, her cobalt-blues claiming my eyes as if staking a territory. The breath that puffs out between her lips ghosts over my face.
"From now on, ma chérie, no more secrets. We are a family, we owe each other that much. And before the candle-fueled mood starts to stale, I'm going to prepare you a feast of flesh fit for royalty. Afterwards, once we're done and you can move again, I'll heat up dinner. How does that sound, baby doll?"
An image flashes in my mind: a family-size round table covered in plates of sticky ribs, crispy fried chicken, roast lamb garnished with rosemary and garlic, an array of grilled sausages, and seared steaks. My mouth waters, my stomach rumbles. Oh, how I would love to sink my teeth into a succulent drumstick and tear the meat off the bone. Or bite into a thick cut of rare beef. I want to feel its fatty, iron-flavored juices seeping into my mouth and dribbling down my chin.
"I-I am starving."
She winks at me mischievously.
"Let's get on to it, then."
Jacqueline spins on her heels, and when she reaches to slide the mirrored wardrobe door open, her buttocks stick out like two firm and rosy moons, the globes touching above the tight dimpled knot that shields the portal of her soul. She closes the wardrobe and turns back. She's holding a forehead-wide, shiny strip of black silk embroidered with the words "Fleur du mal." A slice of a starless midnight sky.
She steps closer and raises the strip to my eyes. The silk, with its soft fibers and feather-light touch, feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat flooding my veins. I catch a last glimpse of mommy's silhouette against the honey-colored candlelight before I go blind. Jacqueline leans in, sharing her warmth, as she knots the fabric tight around the back of my head.
"Lie back, ma petite chouette, and wait for mommy to be ready."
I obey like a child: I stretch out my naked body, with my limbs splayed, atop Jacqueline's freshly-washed bedclothes, an island of fabric, a pristine snowscape of a bed. My nostrils are filled with the scents of jasmine, sandalwood, rose, and candle wax, combined with the salty tang of sex. As the cloud-like comforter caresses me, a surge of bliss spreads throughout my being as if I were sinking into a warm bath. I'm submerged in blackness.
I hear Jacqueline rummage through the wardrobe: the rustle of fabric, the click of coat hangers. She's humming a tune to herself.
I'm feeling lighter. In my mind's eye, shadows twist and writhe, shapes shift like snakes coiling, colors melt into a swirling and spiraling haze. I see a tree with its bark clawed off. A cold breeze carries the scent of pine needles as it bites at my exposed skin. The pebbles of a riverbed grind into the soles of my bare feet. A dirty child with chestnut hair and dressed in a crude leather tunic, a waif of the wilderness, is peeking at me from behind the trunk. I once visited a forest that died thousands and thousands of years before I was born.
"What about Nairu?" I blurt out.
The rustle of fabric stops.
"You heard her wake up?" Jacqueline asks with concern.
I'd dread for our adopted daughter to make a sudden and violent appearance during this session. I hope she's dreaming of ground sloths.
"No, I mean... Have you shown your power to her?"
"Oh, I'd love to, darling. I want to open up to her as well, but first we must figure out if she's even capable of learning our language."
"You insist on taking in the weird and the broken."
Jacqueline's chuckle echoes in my ears.
"You think I'm collecting broken things? Maybe it is so. But even the freaky and the fringe have a beauty of their own. I'm glad that the universe has thrown them my way; who else would love and cherish them how they deserve?"
I picture my goddess, Jacqueline-but-mother, draped in a flowing white gown that billows in the breeze, standing in a sun-kissed meadow, surrounded by lilies, tulips, marigolds, and roses that sway and nod their heads like worshippers gathered at her feet. She's cradling the sleeping form of our antediluvian foundling, Nairu, whose serene face makes her resemble an infant Buddha.
"She grew up in the Paleolithic era, and I'm the first person she met from our present, so she's already well-acquainted with the grotesque. To her, we're two freaks with a kinky streak and powers beyond comprehension. If I were in her shoes, whisked away into a future world where ground sloths are extinct, I'd be running in circles while crying my eyes out. She may take your shapeshifting in stride."
"Maybe. One day, when she's ready, we'll show her the truth and see what happens."
My muscles have relaxed. A sweet stupor washes over me. I'm floating, floating towards the ceiling, but before I reach it, I turn myself around. Below, the candles' amber-golden glow is tinting with a patina of oranges and yellows, like the sunset in a tropical paradise, an ocean of sheets adorned with embroidered swans and fleur-de-lis lacework.
The wardrobe door slides shut. I feel Jacqueline's gaze on my blindfolded face.
"Take it off and have a look," she says eagerly.
My limbs, heavy as if cast in lead, resist my mental nudges. I start by wriggling my toes, which sends ripples of sensation up my ankles. Life floods back into my fingers in a rush of pins and needles. With effort, I haul myself upright. I fumble with the blindfold's knot behind my head, but my tingling fingers betray me, so I yank the strip of silk from my eyes and blink against the candlelight.
Jacqueline, my miracle worker with the power to shape her form, stands before me, her face framed by tresses the color and texture of raven wings. Her lower lip is caught between her pearly teeth, and her cheeks are flushed. A lacy, black choker encircles her throat. Her majestic breasts sit in the cupping of a plunging lace bralette, their creamy curves embraced by its intricate patterns, the pink buds of her nipples poking out, while a garter belt that hugs her hips holds up thigh-high, translucent stockings.
From between Jacqueline's spaced-apart legs dangles a pair of solid, smooth testicles, and her right hand is grasping a cock as thick as a boneless limb.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals, and "Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-nine videos so far. Check them out.
Want to continue hearing this tale as it gets steamier (and freakier)? Check out the audiochapter.
---
Jacqueline's palms, capable of untold erotic sorcery, cup my nape as she presses her pillowy lips against my forehead like stamping a wax seal on parchment, letting the kiss linger. A warm tingling spreads throughout my core.
"Let's focus on the here and now, shall we?" she whispers.
With a finger, Jacqueline tilts my chin upwards. Her teeth are sparkling in the candlelight, her cobalt-blues claiming my eyes as if staking a territory. The breath that puffs out between her lips ghosts over my face.
"From now on, ma chérie, no more secrets. We are a family, we owe each other that much. And before the candle-fueled mood starts to stale, I'm going to prepare you a feast of flesh fit for royalty. Afterwards, once we're done and you can move again, I'll heat up dinner. How does that sound, baby doll?"
An image flashes in my mind: a family-size round table covered in plates of sticky ribs, crispy fried chicken, roast lamb garnished with rosemary and garlic, an array of grilled sausages, and seared steaks. My mouth waters, my stomach rumbles. Oh, how I would love to sink my teeth into a succulent drumstick and tear the meat off the bone. Or bite into a thick cut of rare beef. I want to feel its fatty, iron-flavored juices seeping into my mouth and dribbling down my chin.
"I-I am starving."
She winks at me mischievously.
"Let's get on to it, then."
Jacqueline spins on her heels, and when she reaches to slide the mirrored wardrobe door open, her buttocks stick out like two firm and rosy moons, the globes touching above the tight dimpled knot that shields the portal of her soul. She closes the wardrobe and turns back. She's holding a forehead-wide, shiny strip of black silk embroidered with the words "Fleur du mal." A slice of a starless midnight sky.
She steps closer and raises the strip to my eyes. The silk, with its soft fibers and feather-light touch, feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat flooding my veins. I catch a last glimpse of mommy's silhouette against the honey-colored candlelight before I go blind. Jacqueline leans in, sharing her warmth, as she knots the fabric tight around the back of my head.
"Lie back, ma petite chouette, and wait for mommy to be ready."
I obey like a child: I stretch out my naked body, with my limbs splayed, atop Jacqueline's freshly-washed bedclothes, an island of fabric, a pristine snowscape of a bed. My nostrils are filled with the scents of jasmine, sandalwood, rose, and candle wax, combined with the salty tang of sex. As the cloud-like comforter caresses me, a surge of bliss spreads throughout my being as if I were sinking into a warm bath. I'm submerged in blackness.
I hear Jacqueline rummage through the wardrobe: the rustle of fabric, the click of coat hangers. She's humming a tune to herself.
I'm feeling lighter. In my mind's eye, shadows twist and writhe, shapes shift like snakes coiling, colors melt into a swirling and spiraling haze. I see a tree with its bark clawed off. A cold breeze carries the scent of pine needles as it bites at my exposed skin. The pebbles of a riverbed grind into the soles of my bare feet. A dirty child with chestnut hair and dressed in a crude leather tunic, a waif of the wilderness, is peeking at me from behind the trunk. I once visited a forest that died thousands and thousands of years before I was born.
"What about Nairu?" I blurt out.
The rustle of fabric stops.
"You heard her wake up?" Jacqueline asks with concern.
I'd dread for our adopted daughter to make a sudden and violent appearance during this session. I hope she's dreaming of ground sloths.
"No, I mean... Have you shown your power to her?"
"Oh, I'd love to, darling. I want to open up to her as well, but first we must figure out if she's even capable of learning our language."
"You insist on taking in the weird and the broken."
Jacqueline's chuckle echoes in my ears.
"You think I'm collecting broken things? Maybe it is so. But even the freaky and the fringe have a beauty of their own. I'm glad that the universe has thrown them my way; who else would love and cherish them how they deserve?"
I picture my goddess, Jacqueline-but-mother, draped in a flowing white gown that billows in the breeze, standing in a sun-kissed meadow, surrounded by lilies, tulips, marigolds, and roses that sway and nod their heads like worshippers gathered at her feet. She's cradling the sleeping form of our antediluvian foundling, Nairu, whose serene face makes her resemble an infant Buddha.
"She grew up in the Paleolithic era, and I'm the first person she met from our present, so she's already well-acquainted with the grotesque. To her, we're two freaks with a kinky streak and powers beyond comprehension. If I were in her shoes, whisked away into a future world where ground sloths are extinct, I'd be running in circles while crying my eyes out. She may take your shapeshifting in stride."
"Maybe. One day, when she's ready, we'll show her the truth and see what happens."
My muscles have relaxed. A sweet stupor washes over me. I'm floating, floating towards the ceiling, but before I reach it, I turn myself around. Below, the candles' amber-golden glow is tinting with a patina of oranges and yellows, like the sunset in a tropical paradise, an ocean of sheets adorned with embroidered swans and fleur-de-lis lacework.
The wardrobe door slides shut. I feel Jacqueline's gaze on my blindfolded face.
"Take it off and have a look," she says eagerly.
My limbs, heavy as if cast in lead, resist my mental nudges. I start by wriggling my toes, which sends ripples of sensation up my ankles. Life floods back into my fingers in a rush of pins and needles. With effort, I haul myself upright. I fumble with the blindfold's knot behind my head, but my tingling fingers betray me, so I yank the strip of silk from my eyes and blink against the candlelight.
Jacqueline, my miracle worker with the power to shape her form, stands before me, her face framed by tresses the color and texture of raven wings. Her lower lip is caught between her pearly teeth, and her cheeks are flushed. A lacy, black choker encircles her throat. Her majestic breasts sit in the cupping of a plunging lace bralette, their creamy curves embraced by its intricate patterns, the pink buds of her nipples poking out, while a garter belt that hugs her hips holds up thigh-high, translucent stockings.
From between Jacqueline's spaced-apart legs dangles a pair of solid, smooth testicles, and her right hand is grasping a cock as thick as a boneless limb.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals, and "Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-nine videos so far. Check them out.
Want to continue hearing this tale as it gets steamier (and freakier)? Check out the audiochapter.
September 19, 2023
Review: Dungeon Meshi, by Ryōko Kui
Five stars. The title translates to "Delicious in Dungeon."
Two long-running manga series that I had been following for a long time ended this month: the first one, Oshimi’s Chi no Wadachi, and the second one is Kui’s wonderful Dungeon Meshi. More often than not, when I finish a manga series and I’m starving for more of the peculiar joys that this format provides (far higher joys than what most of Western fiction produces these days), I check out lists of recommendations, plenty of which mentioned Dungeon Meshi. However, I always passed on it. You see, a fiction genre somewhat popular in Japan focuses on weird food-related tournaments that mostly seem like excuses to draw mouth-watering food, and print recipes. I never saw the appeal, and I wasn’t interested in a variation of that formula even with a fantasy dressing.
Big mistake. Dungeon Meshi is an exceptional story with fantastic characters, and the food-making part works as a straight-faced satire, because the vast majority of the recipes involve cooking D&D-like monsters into something resembling edible food. The whole deal about making elaborate food out of monsters could have been a gimmick, but the plot turns it into a necessary element to survive.
[Check out the rest of this review on my personal page, where it looks better]
September 18, 2023
Review: Chi no Wadachi, by Shūzō Oshimi
The title translates to either “Blood on the Tracks” or “A Trail of Blood.” Despite the mystery or thriller-like title, this haunting story is about heredity, and how a fucked-up childhood could poison you for the rest of your life. I caught this series maybe three years ago, and read it up to the then latest chapter. This morning I have read the chapter that concluded the tale. I don’t know how to rate the whole.
I hate to review stories that I have read in a chapter-by-chapter release, because my impressions have been muddled and spread thin over time. I will make the effort, though, because I want to think about what this series left in me.
[Check out the rest of this review on my personal page, where it looks better]
September 13, 2023
Life update (13/09/2023)
Last night, at one in the morning, I was recovering from covid by playing Starfield; I went through a compelling mission with Sarah Morgan in Cassiopeia to find debris from her past. I needed to take a shit, so I quit the game, shut off my computer, and went to the bathroom as the last thing to do before bed.
It turned out to be one of those annoying shits that I have often, and that involve wiping over and over. After one of the first attempts to stem the presence of fecal residue on the toilet paper, I noticed that it didn’t smell like anything. I thought, “Curious. How could I have eaten so differently these past few days that my shit doesn’t smell like anything?” Alarms went off in my head. I tried to smell the soiled toilet paper from an inch away. It didn’t smell like anything at all.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
It turned out to be one of those annoying shits that I have often, and that involve wiping over and over. After one of the first attempts to stem the presence of fecal residue on the toilet paper, I noticed that it didn’t smell like anything. I thought, “Curious. How could I have eaten so differently these past few days that my shit doesn’t smell like anything?” Alarms went off in my head. I tried to smell the soiled toilet paper from an inch away. It didn’t smell like anything at all.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
September 10, 2023
Life update (09/10/2023)
It’s evening on a September Sunday, and I have covid. Turns out that covid, as far as my thirty-eight-year-old body goes, isn’t that bad. On Friday, I suffered a bit in the office; I always feel like shit whenever I leave a room where I’m the only person present, but on top of that, I had to deal with a runny nose, hot flashes, and severe diarrhea. As I was waiting for the train to carry me back to my rotting city, I suspected that the thermometer, once I made use of it at home, would have registered 37,2ºC or so (98.96 Fahrenheit), but to my surprise, I had a fever of 38,7ºC (101.66 Fahrenheit). In previous cases, a fever of 38,7ºC would have felt like I was close to slipping into delirium.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
September 8, 2023
Life update (09/08/2023)
Last Tuesday I was playing Starfield when I received a lovely call: I was needed back at the office. Ever since, I have wasted invested three days of my extremely limited life serving the province or whatever the hell I’m doing there. Some shit happened on Wednesday, but that’s besides the point today. You see, I was working the afternoon shift when I started feeling that the hours were stretching longer and longer. My nose was leaking. I was shivering. The back of my head hurt. I exploded with diarrhea a couple of times, hopefully scaring the custodians. I couldn’t wait to leave.
On the couple of rides back (a bus and a train), I felt like I was losing it a bit. Hot flashes kept coursing through my body. This decaying society loomed even more repugnant than usual. When I got home, the couple of thermometers displayed 38,7ºC (101.66 Fahrenheit). A quick test later proved that I have covid. Hey, perhaps the latest “booster vaccine” didn’t give me atrial fibrillation for nothing.
I called my mother (former nurse) for some advice. She said, “I told you to never call me again, freak.” I didn’t ask to be born.
Anyway, I’m going to steal a few phrases from Inio Asano’s magnum opus for this development: “When it’s my time to leave, I’d like to to vanish like an insignificant bubble, and fade away from everyone’s memories as well.”
I won’t be able to see the Milky Way this year or the next, and all future Tanabata nights will be too cloudy, and yet the world won’t end nor will humanity perish.
On the couple of rides back (a bus and a train), I felt like I was losing it a bit. Hot flashes kept coursing through my body. This decaying society loomed even more repugnant than usual. When I got home, the couple of thermometers displayed 38,7ºC (101.66 Fahrenheit). A quick test later proved that I have covid. Hey, perhaps the latest “booster vaccine” didn’t give me atrial fibrillation for nothing.
I called my mother (former nurse) for some advice. She said, “I told you to never call me again, freak.” I didn’t ask to be born.
Anyway, I’m going to steal a few phrases from Inio Asano’s magnum opus for this development: “When it’s my time to leave, I’d like to to vanish like an insignificant bubble, and fade away from everyone’s memories as well.”
I won’t be able to see the Milky Way this year or the next, and all future Tanabata nights will be too cloudy, and yet the world won’t end nor will humanity perish.
We're Fucked, Pt. 111 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Sources of endless wonder, of worshipful awe, to my eyes and lips and tongue, the thought of their satiny and succulent surfaces, their elasticity and heft in my grasp, has haunted me from the moment I first caught a glimpse of them at the office, and ever since I kneaded and caressed their velvet texture, inhaled their intoxicating fragrance, and savored their creamy taste, I have yearned to be swallowed up by that warmth again, like a woman stranded in a blizzard seeking the hearth and blankets of home. Oh, my blessed Jacqueline, mommy dearest, may Arachne's silken threads weave me a cradle within your heaving milk-tanks!
As the flames of the candles flicker and dance, they splash their honey-golden glow upon the ivory statue that stands before me proud and nude. A demigoddess. Jacqueline-but-French.
My skin crawls with an icy sensation. In those shimmering eyes that have always seen through me, the collarettes, crypts and striations that paint the irises cobalt blue, do they belong to yet another character in a shapeshifting play?
"Is this... you?" I ask.
Jacqueline's shoulders droop, and she glances down at the rug.
"Ah, je savais que ça viendrait. I can transform into different people, so what are the odds that the way I present myself in my everyday life can be considered 'me'?"
"I suppose that's what I meant."
She combs a hand through her raven-black tresses, then fans them out to cascade over her shoulder in a lustrous curtain.
"The body you're looking at, and that you adore, is the closest to the one that my parents' genes crafted, and with which I identified growing up. Not the original, though, because I enhanced it, with my own spicy seasoning added in, to match the woman that presented herself in that darkness: my mental self-image. You could call it mon vrai moi, one free from the ravages of time, other than minor imperfections that would be hard to justify lacking at my age." She raises her hands to her eyes and touches the hints of crow's feet.
So Jacqueline also hated her body, although likely not to the extent that I do of wanting to vomit every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. Yet another evidence that our fates were following parallel paths of angst and neuroses that would end up with us entangled and sweaty in her queen-size bed.
"Even before we met each other," I say wistfully, "you and I were both misfits that society disdained. Lonely wolves prowling on a frozen continent of their own to keep sane."
"I wouldn't go that far. But I'm forty-four years old, darling. Forty-goddamn-four. No idea how that happened. Anyway, even far richer women, with millions to spare, couldn't afford the kind of upgrade I've given myself. You've known my age; how did you rationalize that I looked this fresh?"
"Privileged genetics? I mean, that's what you told me."
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues frost over as if clouded by turmoil. Her statuesque posture deflates.
"Oh, mon petit chou, forgive me for the little masquerade. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was scared whether you'd still adore me."
"I'm not running out of adoration any time soon. I do wonder how you used to look like, though."
She grimaces, then sighs.
"Darling, I've consigned that version of me to history. Even your charms cannot resurrect it. Let me put it this way: if you had suffered through your teenage years with a face ravaged by acne, you wouldn't want to go back, would you?"
"My goodness, that bad?"
"Heureusement non; those poor kids end up traumatized. I was lucky as far as adolescent skin goes, just a little zit here and there. I'm talking about the 'growing old' version of that: wrinkles, gray hairs, a flabby stomach, sagging boobs, cellulite. Yuck, I'd rather keep my mind clean. You wouldn't have swooned and drooled over me, I promise."
I picture Jacqueline's hair thinning as the blackness gives way to strands of cottony white. Her cheeks and chin sag into a jowly, hound-like shape, dissolving the jawline. Her ivory-white skin turns leathery and splotchy. Her mighty breasts, their once-full contours collapsed, wilt into two droopy pendulums. Her ass becomes a bulging, cottage-cheese-like mass. Maybe my shoulders should shudder at the image of Jacqueline, the voluptuous goddess that has rocked my world and inflamed my lust, transformed into a crone with withered teats, wreathed by a halo of spiderwebs.
"But I'm into mommies."
"I wouldn't want you to associate this mommy with that whole getup, mon trésor. Still, it isn't just about wrinkles and cellulite. It's also about the diminishing sands in the hourglass, the knowledge that the world is erasing us petit à petit. Our health and youth are crumbling away with every breath. We are aware that this road ends in pain, and yet we keep putting one foot in front of the other."
I rub the back of my neck, where a patch of prickling heat has erupted under my skin.
"Sure, people are good at believing two opposite things at once, even when neither of them makes sense. We're wired to fool others as well as ourselves; otherwise we wouldn't have made it far as a species."
"Nobody should have to grow old, Leire."
"The stars also burn out," I say in sympathy. "Perhaps I find comfort in the inevitability of it all."
Jacqueline pauses, her fingers lingering over her eyelids. When she speaks again, her voice carries a weight.
"That's the thing: I may be the first person in history who can remain forever young, at least on the outside."
My right hand clenches and unclenches the bedclothes. So mommy can dodge the ceaseless march of time and stay ever-delectable. I'm in love with an evergreen blossom amid the dust and ruin.
"As long as maintaining these forms doesn't exhaust you more than reverting to your original self, then great."
"I don't need to concentrate, ma chérie. It's like flipping a switch."
"And the celestial vision with which you brighten my life is a testament to your healthy self-esteem. If I could shapeshift into my mental self-image, you'd never stop screaming."
Jacqueline chuckles through a pained grin as she brushes a tear from the corner of her eye.
"Oh, choupette. You have become more confident and composed than the withdrawn mouse you were before we started dating."
"Even so, it's due to your motherly influence, your encouragement, and your relentless pursuit of pleasure. I have done nothing to deserve an improvement."
For years, my mind has felt like an outdated computer: slower over time, lagging in memory retrieval, prone to glitching out and needing to restart. One day, a silhouette will stand shin-deep in a shapeless pile of bones and rotting flesh that once gave shape to a human being. Watch me grow old and die.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Broken Chairs" by Built to Spill.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and seventy-seven videos. Check them out.
Want to listen to this lovely couple's philosophical discussion? Check out the audiochapter.
---
Sources of endless wonder, of worshipful awe, to my eyes and lips and tongue, the thought of their satiny and succulent surfaces, their elasticity and heft in my grasp, has haunted me from the moment I first caught a glimpse of them at the office, and ever since I kneaded and caressed their velvet texture, inhaled their intoxicating fragrance, and savored their creamy taste, I have yearned to be swallowed up by that warmth again, like a woman stranded in a blizzard seeking the hearth and blankets of home. Oh, my blessed Jacqueline, mommy dearest, may Arachne's silken threads weave me a cradle within your heaving milk-tanks!
As the flames of the candles flicker and dance, they splash their honey-golden glow upon the ivory statue that stands before me proud and nude. A demigoddess. Jacqueline-but-French.
My skin crawls with an icy sensation. In those shimmering eyes that have always seen through me, the collarettes, crypts and striations that paint the irises cobalt blue, do they belong to yet another character in a shapeshifting play?
"Is this... you?" I ask.
Jacqueline's shoulders droop, and she glances down at the rug.
"Ah, je savais que ça viendrait. I can transform into different people, so what are the odds that the way I present myself in my everyday life can be considered 'me'?"
"I suppose that's what I meant."
She combs a hand through her raven-black tresses, then fans them out to cascade over her shoulder in a lustrous curtain.
"The body you're looking at, and that you adore, is the closest to the one that my parents' genes crafted, and with which I identified growing up. Not the original, though, because I enhanced it, with my own spicy seasoning added in, to match the woman that presented herself in that darkness: my mental self-image. You could call it mon vrai moi, one free from the ravages of time, other than minor imperfections that would be hard to justify lacking at my age." She raises her hands to her eyes and touches the hints of crow's feet.
So Jacqueline also hated her body, although likely not to the extent that I do of wanting to vomit every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. Yet another evidence that our fates were following parallel paths of angst and neuroses that would end up with us entangled and sweaty in her queen-size bed.
"Even before we met each other," I say wistfully, "you and I were both misfits that society disdained. Lonely wolves prowling on a frozen continent of their own to keep sane."
"I wouldn't go that far. But I'm forty-four years old, darling. Forty-goddamn-four. No idea how that happened. Anyway, even far richer women, with millions to spare, couldn't afford the kind of upgrade I've given myself. You've known my age; how did you rationalize that I looked this fresh?"
"Privileged genetics? I mean, that's what you told me."
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues frost over as if clouded by turmoil. Her statuesque posture deflates.
"Oh, mon petit chou, forgive me for the little masquerade. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was scared whether you'd still adore me."
"I'm not running out of adoration any time soon. I do wonder how you used to look like, though."
She grimaces, then sighs.
"Darling, I've consigned that version of me to history. Even your charms cannot resurrect it. Let me put it this way: if you had suffered through your teenage years with a face ravaged by acne, you wouldn't want to go back, would you?"
"My goodness, that bad?"
"Heureusement non; those poor kids end up traumatized. I was lucky as far as adolescent skin goes, just a little zit here and there. I'm talking about the 'growing old' version of that: wrinkles, gray hairs, a flabby stomach, sagging boobs, cellulite. Yuck, I'd rather keep my mind clean. You wouldn't have swooned and drooled over me, I promise."
I picture Jacqueline's hair thinning as the blackness gives way to strands of cottony white. Her cheeks and chin sag into a jowly, hound-like shape, dissolving the jawline. Her ivory-white skin turns leathery and splotchy. Her mighty breasts, their once-full contours collapsed, wilt into two droopy pendulums. Her ass becomes a bulging, cottage-cheese-like mass. Maybe my shoulders should shudder at the image of Jacqueline, the voluptuous goddess that has rocked my world and inflamed my lust, transformed into a crone with withered teats, wreathed by a halo of spiderwebs.
"But I'm into mommies."
"I wouldn't want you to associate this mommy with that whole getup, mon trésor. Still, it isn't just about wrinkles and cellulite. It's also about the diminishing sands in the hourglass, the knowledge that the world is erasing us petit à petit. Our health and youth are crumbling away with every breath. We are aware that this road ends in pain, and yet we keep putting one foot in front of the other."
I rub the back of my neck, where a patch of prickling heat has erupted under my skin.
"Sure, people are good at believing two opposite things at once, even when neither of them makes sense. We're wired to fool others as well as ourselves; otherwise we wouldn't have made it far as a species."
"Nobody should have to grow old, Leire."
"The stars also burn out," I say in sympathy. "Perhaps I find comfort in the inevitability of it all."
Jacqueline pauses, her fingers lingering over her eyelids. When she speaks again, her voice carries a weight.
"That's the thing: I may be the first person in history who can remain forever young, at least on the outside."
My right hand clenches and unclenches the bedclothes. So mommy can dodge the ceaseless march of time and stay ever-delectable. I'm in love with an evergreen blossom amid the dust and ruin.
"As long as maintaining these forms doesn't exhaust you more than reverting to your original self, then great."
"I don't need to concentrate, ma chérie. It's like flipping a switch."
"And the celestial vision with which you brighten my life is a testament to your healthy self-esteem. If I could shapeshift into my mental self-image, you'd never stop screaming."
Jacqueline chuckles through a pained grin as she brushes a tear from the corner of her eye.
"Oh, choupette. You have become more confident and composed than the withdrawn mouse you were before we started dating."
"Even so, it's due to your motherly influence, your encouragement, and your relentless pursuit of pleasure. I have done nothing to deserve an improvement."
For years, my mind has felt like an outdated computer: slower over time, lagging in memory retrieval, prone to glitching out and needing to restart. One day, a silhouette will stand shin-deep in a shapeless pile of bones and rotting flesh that once gave shape to a human being. Watch me grow old and die.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Broken Chairs" by Built to Spill.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and seventy-seven videos. Check them out.
Want to listen to this lovely couple's philosophical discussion? Check out the audiochapter.
