Jon Ureña's Blog, page 46
April 28, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 45 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I want to squeeze the external hard drive between my thighs and rub my pussy with it until my leaking juices ruin its internal electronics, but instead I open the drive in the Explorer window and check the contents. When I read the name of the second folder, I do a double take. Why would there be a folder named 'Misc' next to the one that contains all the videos that Jacqueline filmed of us?
I open the extraneous folder. The window displays MKV files labelled from one to eight. As the operating system generates their thumbnails, they reveal that the videos feature naked women other than Jacqueline and I. They seem to be pleasuring themselves.
I double-click on the first one. I've barely registered the stranger's long locks of buttery blond hair when I realize that I've lain on the same flamingo pink comforter.
I feel a small earthquake in my gut. My blood runs cold while I gawk at the video, unable to register the woman's languorous movements except as the random shifting of colored shapes.
Why would this woman have been masturbating on camera in Jacqueline's bedroom? No, I already know my girlfriend has fucked through the equivalent population of an entire apartment building, or neighborhood, or city. She's an omnivorous sexual beast who thrives on the pleasures of the flesh. But why would she include the videos of those people in the external hard drive she intended to give me? She must have copied the folder deliberately; she named it in relation to the one that contains the videos she recorded of us fucking.
My stomach tightens with dread. Was Jacqueline trying to hurt me, to humiliate me?
I pause the video, then I roll my chair back and take a deep breath. Tomorrow, when I meet my beloved again, she'll bring up the contents of her external hard drive, even the videos she included of other women. I suspect that she'll ask me if I enjoyed them. My girlfriend wanted me to watch, so I'll have to endure my jealousy and go through the recordings.
I restart the video and focus on the screen. This blonde, possibly of Swedish descent, belongs on a Californian beach from back in the seventies. Her tanned skin gleams in the soft lighting. She's lying on her back while she strokes her long, sand beige legs, then she moves her hands up to her chest and fondles her breasts. She rubs between her fingers the pink nipples that poke out from her pink-brown areolas.
I hear myself breathing hard as I stare at those swaying tits. I imagine her sensitive little nubs bursting with pleasure as she squeezes and pinches them.
The blonde slides her legs apart, displaying her shaved, honey-colored pussy. As her fingers circle the clit, she reminds me of a cat rubbing her whiskers with her paws. Her head lolls back for a while, then she gazes up at the camera through half-lidded eyes. She licks a corner of her mouth in a twisted smile as she spreads her swollen, moist labia for the audience.
The rest of the clip consists of the blonde in a trance, arching her back, grunting and producing swishing sounds as she fingers her pussy. The way her crotch has been dripping onto the comforter, widening a darkened patch, makes me wonder how many women's fluids that fabric has absorbed.
I close the video, then rub my eyes with my palms. My skin has heated, a drop of sweat is rolling down my back, and my crotch is tuned to white noise. I'm running a fever that only an orgasm can cure. I'd also like to eat chocolate ice cream.
I attempt to breathe through my nose, but it takes me a few seconds to calm down. Are women like this Swedish blonde the kind of supermodels that Jacqueline got used to fucking? Compared to that babe, I'm a runt. Her curves are the stuff of legends, while my body looks at best like the result of shoddy genetic engineering. I can't compete with such women. I don't even want to compare myself to them, it hurts too much. I'm just a simple spinster with simple needs: I like breasts. Big, round, juicy breasts with pointy nipples. I want to grab them, fondle them, suck them. I want to sink my face between two colossal mounds of tit-flesh, then squeeze them together so their milk gushes into my mouth until my stomach bursts.
In the second video, someone has shifted the camera tripod closer to the headboard of Jacqueline's bed, to focus on the upper half of an Asian woman's body. She's lounging back against a collection of fluffy, faux fur pillows. The turquoise one held my head during my first date with Jacqueline, when I lay sideways on her lap.
I'm admiring the woman's glossy, dark black hair, gathered in two loose ponytails that cascade down her naked chest. Her breasts are small and firm, but they stand out like two exotic fruits.
She laughs, which startles me. She grins as she speaks to someone behind and a bit beside the camera.
"Oh yeah, I love to watch them squirm," she says in Spanish.
Although she keeps talking, I can barely retain the words, as if I caught part of a familiar song on the radio but I would need a long moment to recognize it. I must have missed some context, because the woman is relating eating broccoli to anal sex.
She bends over and reaches towards the center of the mattress. Her fingernails are painted a shiny wine red. When she lies back on the pillows, she's wielding a wand-like device. She turns it on so it vibrates, then she cycles through the settings until the massager buzzes in an alternating pattern.
As if someone had asked a question, the woman smirks and answers that she'll have to cut it off in twenty minutes, because she has left potatoes cooking in the oven. She shifts her ass further up on the mattress, revealing a dense nest of pubic hair. She grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand, then she opens the cap and squirts a dollop onto the head of her massager.
My palms have turned clammy, and my nipples are growing erect. I fast forward through the video; I fear that Jacqueline will appear and join this Asian streamer that is hotter and more confident than me. Thankfully, the remainder of the clip consists of the woman chatting with her audience, or writhing in pleasure as the vibrator glides around her erogenous zones.
I get off my chair and pace around the office to calm down. My warm pussy is aching for attention; this must be the longest that I've stared at videos of such attractive ladies without pleasuring myself. I shan't allow them to seduce me.
Once I dare to sit down and continue torturing myself, I double-click on the third video. A girl, whose body only technically could belong to an eighteen-year-old, is lying on a lemonade pink quilt, a familiar one that features unicorns in a variety of energetic poses, drawn like they would appear in a storybook. Her smooth, pearl white skin spattered with freckles clashes with her wavy mane of burgundy hair. The cluster of tiny brown spots across her cheeks would by themselves make her heart-shaped face look flushed. As the only garment she's wearing, she has enveloped the lower half of her slender legs in knee-high, striped socks, that are white and hot pink.
Lost in pleasure, the girl is biting her round lower lip or releasing high-pitched moans. A trickle of drool dribbles from a corner of her mouth. Her nipples are hard little stones. Her ass twitches as she heaves herself with the heels of her feet, arching her hips off the mattress, to ram a candy red, jelly dildo into her drenched pussy, making squelching sounds, smearing her juices across her thighs.
Although the wall behind the bed is covered in a green screen that, through computerized magic, has been turned into the bedroom of some debauched duchess, the quilt alone reveals that this video was recorded in Jacqueline's spare bedroom. I can't hold that thought; I'm transfixed by how the girl's coastal cartilages and her abs protrude from her slim tummy as she wriggles and breathes raggedly.
The girl leers sideways at the camera. When she parts her lips, a curtain of saliva slides to a corner of her mouth.
"So fucking good," she purrs. Her breath is coming in gasps. "I think I'm gonna cum. Don't you wanna see me cum?"
A drop of sweat slips into my eye, irritating it, and I realize that my right hand has pushed into my panties and is sinking two fingers into my soaked hole. My heart is racing, my legs are shaking. This girl is a goddess of porn: beautiful enough to make me nauseous, so depraved that my clit throbs.
"Wh-what should I do?" I mumble.
The girl smirks as a glob of saliva dangles from her lower lip.
"Whatever you want! Suck your own tits. Finger your ass. It's all you, baby girl."
I whimper. The musky scent of my arousal is driving me wild. My pussy is squeezing hard enough to cut off circulation to my two fingers and turn them necrotic.
The girl moans and gasps. Her glazed eyes are rolling back. Her clit has become a bumped-up nub: hard and distended and sticking up. As she thrusts the dildo inside her, the squelches of her pussy and her juices mingle into a muddled, wet sound.
"Yes, keep playing with yourself until I cum. Oh, fuck! I wanna see your fingers in your pussy while I cum on my dildo!"
Her intoxicating voice turns a light switch on in my brain. I'm aware of every quantum of the electricity coursing through my body and of the blood pumping through my heart. The hair on my nape is bristling, my free hand is gripping the edge of my seat. A drop of sweat slides from my nose and lands on the girl's open lips, a glistening bead that her tongue lazily sucks into her mouth.
Jacqueline must have made a million euros solely from this lady's videos, whose pussy I'd love to bury my face in. I'd probably lick her asshole too. I wish I could be an astronaut instead of such a pervert, but I can't get myself out of this mess.
The girl pumps the dildo faster and faster in a jerky rhythm. Her eyelids flutter, she lets out little groans of pleasure. Her face morphs into an expression reminiscent of a bucking horse.
I've lost all sensation in the fingers of my right hand. My pussy has sucked it in up to my wrist, stretching my insides into a tangle, and keeps inching toward the elbow. I feel like my waist is being torn in half.
The girl's moans and groans have escalated into wails. Her whole body shudders and contorts, and her muscles contract in spasms, as she releases the pent-up pressure by spraying her girl-cum all over her thighs. The hot, acidic fluid dissolves the skin of her inner thighs, that ooze blood. She gasps for air as the spasms of her orgasm keep wracking her body. Her wails transform into gurgling sounds, her eyes turn pitch black. The girl rolls her head back, and from her open mouth gushes a torrent of semen that paints her face and hair daisy white.
Panicked, I yank my right hand back, and with its wet index finger I push the button that turns the monitor off. I jump to my feet then stagger away from the desk. I make the mistake of closing my eyes; the girl is out cold, lying in a pool of bubbling cum, her neck twisted. If I killed this maiden with my maladroit masturbation, I'll never forgive myself.
I'm drenched in sweat, my heart is beating in my throat, and my nostrils dilate with the deep breaths I'm forced to take. I stare down at my small hand, its slim wrist and thin fingers coated in juice. I rub my sore digits to stimulate them lest they grow more numb and fall off.
Am I in a pimp-fucking, pimp-dating situation? Did Jacqueline convince these women, and girls, to come to her apartment and masturbate so she could take a cut of the profits by selling the videos online? With such goods, no wonder she could afford to move to a quiet neighborhood in the hills of Donostia. She can probably afford to buy Luxembourg.
Did Jacqueline share the videos with me because she sought my approval? Does she want an accomplice?
I wipe the juice from my fingers on the backrest of Jordi's chair. I need a break, and a shower. I want to crawl into a large, comfortable bed, but I'm far from any home.
I'll buy a sandwich from the vending machine and leave the building for some cold air. Maybe I'll forget about Californian blondes, haunting Asian beauties, redheaded teens, and monster-sized jelly dildos.
---
Author's note: I've listened to Nine Inch Nails as I wrote part of this chapter, that turned out to be maybe the most sexually explicit of all the chapters I've ever written, which is saying a lot for me.
Yesterday I was forced to remember that I was shat out into this shitshow exactly thirty seven years ago. Naturally I spent the entire day bummed out. I went out to print some dividers for the Marvel Champions card game, then I forgot to take back the pen drive from the store. I tend to forget everything if I don't write it down or attach it to my body somehow; my brain doesn't work very well. Then I sat at a coffee shop and studied for an hour or so, because I have to pass a heavy public examination in a few months that will determine if they'll keep calling me to work. Not that I want to work, but you know how it is.
I'm enjoying Marvel Champions quite a lot. Far less mathsy and punishing than the Lord of the Rings LCG, and less infused with dread and chaos than the Arkham Horror LCG (AH used to be my favorite, but I grew to dislike the way you constantly feel like you're treading water. Besides, if you leave a campaign for a while and then return, you feel lost). Marvel Champions, their third LCG, takes the best parts of both games and streamlines the general experience. They also decided to add plenty of particular cards for each hero, which gives them a lot of personality. I'm not a big fan of superheroes, particularly what Disney is doing to Marvel as part of the overall marxification of Western culture, but it's still about superpowered people punishing bad guys, which is cool.
---
I want to squeeze the external hard drive between my thighs and rub my pussy with it until my leaking juices ruin its internal electronics, but instead I open the drive in the Explorer window and check the contents. When I read the name of the second folder, I do a double take. Why would there be a folder named 'Misc' next to the one that contains all the videos that Jacqueline filmed of us?
I open the extraneous folder. The window displays MKV files labelled from one to eight. As the operating system generates their thumbnails, they reveal that the videos feature naked women other than Jacqueline and I. They seem to be pleasuring themselves.
I double-click on the first one. I've barely registered the stranger's long locks of buttery blond hair when I realize that I've lain on the same flamingo pink comforter.
I feel a small earthquake in my gut. My blood runs cold while I gawk at the video, unable to register the woman's languorous movements except as the random shifting of colored shapes.
Why would this woman have been masturbating on camera in Jacqueline's bedroom? No, I already know my girlfriend has fucked through the equivalent population of an entire apartment building, or neighborhood, or city. She's an omnivorous sexual beast who thrives on the pleasures of the flesh. But why would she include the videos of those people in the external hard drive she intended to give me? She must have copied the folder deliberately; she named it in relation to the one that contains the videos she recorded of us fucking.
My stomach tightens with dread. Was Jacqueline trying to hurt me, to humiliate me?
I pause the video, then I roll my chair back and take a deep breath. Tomorrow, when I meet my beloved again, she'll bring up the contents of her external hard drive, even the videos she included of other women. I suspect that she'll ask me if I enjoyed them. My girlfriend wanted me to watch, so I'll have to endure my jealousy and go through the recordings.
I restart the video and focus on the screen. This blonde, possibly of Swedish descent, belongs on a Californian beach from back in the seventies. Her tanned skin gleams in the soft lighting. She's lying on her back while she strokes her long, sand beige legs, then she moves her hands up to her chest and fondles her breasts. She rubs between her fingers the pink nipples that poke out from her pink-brown areolas.
I hear myself breathing hard as I stare at those swaying tits. I imagine her sensitive little nubs bursting with pleasure as she squeezes and pinches them.
The blonde slides her legs apart, displaying her shaved, honey-colored pussy. As her fingers circle the clit, she reminds me of a cat rubbing her whiskers with her paws. Her head lolls back for a while, then she gazes up at the camera through half-lidded eyes. She licks a corner of her mouth in a twisted smile as she spreads her swollen, moist labia for the audience.
The rest of the clip consists of the blonde in a trance, arching her back, grunting and producing swishing sounds as she fingers her pussy. The way her crotch has been dripping onto the comforter, widening a darkened patch, makes me wonder how many women's fluids that fabric has absorbed.
I close the video, then rub my eyes with my palms. My skin has heated, a drop of sweat is rolling down my back, and my crotch is tuned to white noise. I'm running a fever that only an orgasm can cure. I'd also like to eat chocolate ice cream.
I attempt to breathe through my nose, but it takes me a few seconds to calm down. Are women like this Swedish blonde the kind of supermodels that Jacqueline got used to fucking? Compared to that babe, I'm a runt. Her curves are the stuff of legends, while my body looks at best like the result of shoddy genetic engineering. I can't compete with such women. I don't even want to compare myself to them, it hurts too much. I'm just a simple spinster with simple needs: I like breasts. Big, round, juicy breasts with pointy nipples. I want to grab them, fondle them, suck them. I want to sink my face between two colossal mounds of tit-flesh, then squeeze them together so their milk gushes into my mouth until my stomach bursts.
In the second video, someone has shifted the camera tripod closer to the headboard of Jacqueline's bed, to focus on the upper half of an Asian woman's body. She's lounging back against a collection of fluffy, faux fur pillows. The turquoise one held my head during my first date with Jacqueline, when I lay sideways on her lap.
I'm admiring the woman's glossy, dark black hair, gathered in two loose ponytails that cascade down her naked chest. Her breasts are small and firm, but they stand out like two exotic fruits.
She laughs, which startles me. She grins as she speaks to someone behind and a bit beside the camera.
"Oh yeah, I love to watch them squirm," she says in Spanish.
Although she keeps talking, I can barely retain the words, as if I caught part of a familiar song on the radio but I would need a long moment to recognize it. I must have missed some context, because the woman is relating eating broccoli to anal sex.
She bends over and reaches towards the center of the mattress. Her fingernails are painted a shiny wine red. When she lies back on the pillows, she's wielding a wand-like device. She turns it on so it vibrates, then she cycles through the settings until the massager buzzes in an alternating pattern.
As if someone had asked a question, the woman smirks and answers that she'll have to cut it off in twenty minutes, because she has left potatoes cooking in the oven. She shifts her ass further up on the mattress, revealing a dense nest of pubic hair. She grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand, then she opens the cap and squirts a dollop onto the head of her massager.
My palms have turned clammy, and my nipples are growing erect. I fast forward through the video; I fear that Jacqueline will appear and join this Asian streamer that is hotter and more confident than me. Thankfully, the remainder of the clip consists of the woman chatting with her audience, or writhing in pleasure as the vibrator glides around her erogenous zones.
I get off my chair and pace around the office to calm down. My warm pussy is aching for attention; this must be the longest that I've stared at videos of such attractive ladies without pleasuring myself. I shan't allow them to seduce me.
Once I dare to sit down and continue torturing myself, I double-click on the third video. A girl, whose body only technically could belong to an eighteen-year-old, is lying on a lemonade pink quilt, a familiar one that features unicorns in a variety of energetic poses, drawn like they would appear in a storybook. Her smooth, pearl white skin spattered with freckles clashes with her wavy mane of burgundy hair. The cluster of tiny brown spots across her cheeks would by themselves make her heart-shaped face look flushed. As the only garment she's wearing, she has enveloped the lower half of her slender legs in knee-high, striped socks, that are white and hot pink.
Lost in pleasure, the girl is biting her round lower lip or releasing high-pitched moans. A trickle of drool dribbles from a corner of her mouth. Her nipples are hard little stones. Her ass twitches as she heaves herself with the heels of her feet, arching her hips off the mattress, to ram a candy red, jelly dildo into her drenched pussy, making squelching sounds, smearing her juices across her thighs.
Although the wall behind the bed is covered in a green screen that, through computerized magic, has been turned into the bedroom of some debauched duchess, the quilt alone reveals that this video was recorded in Jacqueline's spare bedroom. I can't hold that thought; I'm transfixed by how the girl's coastal cartilages and her abs protrude from her slim tummy as she wriggles and breathes raggedly.
The girl leers sideways at the camera. When she parts her lips, a curtain of saliva slides to a corner of her mouth.
"So fucking good," she purrs. Her breath is coming in gasps. "I think I'm gonna cum. Don't you wanna see me cum?"
A drop of sweat slips into my eye, irritating it, and I realize that my right hand has pushed into my panties and is sinking two fingers into my soaked hole. My heart is racing, my legs are shaking. This girl is a goddess of porn: beautiful enough to make me nauseous, so depraved that my clit throbs.
"Wh-what should I do?" I mumble.
The girl smirks as a glob of saliva dangles from her lower lip.
"Whatever you want! Suck your own tits. Finger your ass. It's all you, baby girl."
I whimper. The musky scent of my arousal is driving me wild. My pussy is squeezing hard enough to cut off circulation to my two fingers and turn them necrotic.
The girl moans and gasps. Her glazed eyes are rolling back. Her clit has become a bumped-up nub: hard and distended and sticking up. As she thrusts the dildo inside her, the squelches of her pussy and her juices mingle into a muddled, wet sound.
"Yes, keep playing with yourself until I cum. Oh, fuck! I wanna see your fingers in your pussy while I cum on my dildo!"
Her intoxicating voice turns a light switch on in my brain. I'm aware of every quantum of the electricity coursing through my body and of the blood pumping through my heart. The hair on my nape is bristling, my free hand is gripping the edge of my seat. A drop of sweat slides from my nose and lands on the girl's open lips, a glistening bead that her tongue lazily sucks into her mouth.
Jacqueline must have made a million euros solely from this lady's videos, whose pussy I'd love to bury my face in. I'd probably lick her asshole too. I wish I could be an astronaut instead of such a pervert, but I can't get myself out of this mess.
The girl pumps the dildo faster and faster in a jerky rhythm. Her eyelids flutter, she lets out little groans of pleasure. Her face morphs into an expression reminiscent of a bucking horse.
I've lost all sensation in the fingers of my right hand. My pussy has sucked it in up to my wrist, stretching my insides into a tangle, and keeps inching toward the elbow. I feel like my waist is being torn in half.
The girl's moans and groans have escalated into wails. Her whole body shudders and contorts, and her muscles contract in spasms, as she releases the pent-up pressure by spraying her girl-cum all over her thighs. The hot, acidic fluid dissolves the skin of her inner thighs, that ooze blood. She gasps for air as the spasms of her orgasm keep wracking her body. Her wails transform into gurgling sounds, her eyes turn pitch black. The girl rolls her head back, and from her open mouth gushes a torrent of semen that paints her face and hair daisy white.
Panicked, I yank my right hand back, and with its wet index finger I push the button that turns the monitor off. I jump to my feet then stagger away from the desk. I make the mistake of closing my eyes; the girl is out cold, lying in a pool of bubbling cum, her neck twisted. If I killed this maiden with my maladroit masturbation, I'll never forgive myself.
I'm drenched in sweat, my heart is beating in my throat, and my nostrils dilate with the deep breaths I'm forced to take. I stare down at my small hand, its slim wrist and thin fingers coated in juice. I rub my sore digits to stimulate them lest they grow more numb and fall off.
Am I in a pimp-fucking, pimp-dating situation? Did Jacqueline convince these women, and girls, to come to her apartment and masturbate so she could take a cut of the profits by selling the videos online? With such goods, no wonder she could afford to move to a quiet neighborhood in the hills of Donostia. She can probably afford to buy Luxembourg.
Did Jacqueline share the videos with me because she sought my approval? Does she want an accomplice?
I wipe the juice from my fingers on the backrest of Jordi's chair. I need a break, and a shower. I want to crawl into a large, comfortable bed, but I'm far from any home.
I'll buy a sandwich from the vending machine and leave the building for some cold air. Maybe I'll forget about Californian blondes, haunting Asian beauties, redheaded teens, and monster-sized jelly dildos.
---
Author's note: I've listened to Nine Inch Nails as I wrote part of this chapter, that turned out to be maybe the most sexually explicit of all the chapters I've ever written, which is saying a lot for me.
Yesterday I was forced to remember that I was shat out into this shitshow exactly thirty seven years ago. Naturally I spent the entire day bummed out. I went out to print some dividers for the Marvel Champions card game, then I forgot to take back the pen drive from the store. I tend to forget everything if I don't write it down or attach it to my body somehow; my brain doesn't work very well. Then I sat at a coffee shop and studied for an hour or so, because I have to pass a heavy public examination in a few months that will determine if they'll keep calling me to work. Not that I want to work, but you know how it is.
I'm enjoying Marvel Champions quite a lot. Far less mathsy and punishing than the Lord of the Rings LCG, and less infused with dread and chaos than the Arkham Horror LCG (AH used to be my favorite, but I grew to dislike the way you constantly feel like you're treading water. Besides, if you leave a campaign for a while and then return, you feel lost). Marvel Champions, their third LCG, takes the best parts of both games and streamlines the general experience. They also decided to add plenty of particular cards for each hero, which gives them a lot of personality. I'm not a big fan of superheroes, particularly what Disney is doing to Marvel as part of the overall marxification of Western culture, but it's still about superpowered people punishing bad guys, which is cool.
April 26, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 44 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
A stone with jagged edges has lodged in my throat, but I manage to let some words tumble out.
"Anyway, why am I in the office at this hour...?"
Ah, I was supposed to wrap up a couple of tickets. What a drag!
I swig down the rest of the bitter latte, and as I return to my workstation, I drop the cup into the trash can. I plump down on my chair. I switch from YouTube to Visual Studio Code, then I scroll to the unfinished Angular function I was working on before the regular workday ended.
My monitor's light becomes the only illumination in the office as the night descends on Donostia, and presumably on the rest of the country.
My concentration has gotten increasingly cloudier. I'm stuck in a portion of the code. I arch my back and stretch my arms over my head. When I open my eyes, my gaze rests on the external hard drive that I hid under the screen. Did Jacqueline cram in there all the recordings she took of us having sex?
As I stare at the black, flattened cuboid with rounded corners, my breath thickens and my heart starts pounding harder. Why am I wasting my time programming when I could be watching Jacqueline and I fuck?
I jump in my chair and hurry to connect the hard drive to the computer. Its screen shows that the drive contains two folders: one named 'Us' and the other named 'Misc'. Inside the 'Us' folder I find a dozen MKV files identified by the date and the camera that filmed them, referred to as Camera A and Camera B. I won't tarnish the recordings by playing them on Windows Media Player, so I download VLC.
I take a deep breath, then I double-click on the first video, recorded during our first date. In the center of the frame, the ass that belongs to my past self is sinking into Jacqueline's flamingo pink comforter. I'm wearing the garment I bought for the date: a high-waist, tiered dress with puffed sleeves and a green floral pattern. On the edge of its square neckline, resting against my pale skin, the brass medallion glints in the white ring lights that the cameras were staring through.
I'd like to say that the woman in the video looks like a virginal maiden who spent her whole youth secluded in an attic only to be rescued by a loving, sexy mommy, but my past self seems dazed, almost drugged-out. Those sunken eyes are underlined with puffy circles, the result of a lifetime of stress and terrible sleeping habits. The four puncture wounds from the fork I plunged into my neck stand out as if I were flaunting them.
I cringe. Who could find such a wretch attractive? And why is she licking her wet lips lasciviously? Was I ogling Jacqueline's tits?
I checked out the video to get horny, but this resembles the recording of a therapy session at some psychiatric hospital. It will end with the flesh of my past self bruised and cut up, covered in dirt and semen.
I jump to a position much further ahead in the video. My past, naked self is lying sideways on Jacqueline's lap. She has covered her thighs with a turquoise toss pillow so I would rest on it, but at the moment my beloved is holding the back of my head while I suck on her right breast. The doughy tit-meat, that shines with sweat and saliva, is bulging against my cheeks. With my face buried in the fleshy mass, I couldn't notice back then that Jacqueline's narrowed, alluring eyes observed me lovingly as she massaged my scalp with a slow, circular motion.
"You look so relaxed, Leire," Jacqueline coos. "Like a baby about to fall asleep. But not just any baby, my very own little Leire. You are the best breast-sucker, you know that? I've never seen a woman suck a pair of tits with such dedication. Have your fill until you are satisfied."
My heart is about to burst out of my chest. My past self continues to suck Jacqueline's titty trying to extract every bit of sweetness from it. She slurps with an insistent, urgent sound, like the crackling of a fire.
From that first date of ours, I remember the exertion of my tongue's movement, the hard nipple's protrusion into my mouth, and the little noises that vibrated through Jacqueline's chest as she breathed deeply. After I close my eyes, I can recreate in my mind how it felt to trace the wrinkles and bumps of her hardened areola with the tip of my tongue. I experience the intoxicating contact of her warm hand as she caresses my neck.
"Your mother couldn't protect you from this wicked world, baby," Jacqueline croons in a pitying tone. "But I can, and you will let me. You know why? Because I'm the only person that can save you. I will help you. I will heal your wounds and wash away your tears."
I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweaty scent of her breast.
"I can't stand to be here anymore," I mumble against her hardened nub. "I don't deserve to be alive. My whole life is a lie, it's been a lie from the beginning."
Jacqueline sighs. She slides her left hand up along my thigh, then she squeezes a handful of my butt cheek.
"Oh, baby. You are not sick, you are not weak. You are simply a victim of a world that is not ready for you yet. I will teach you how to become what you want to be."
I'm about to drool, so I swallow the excess saliva. I need to loop my arms and legs around Jacqueline's warm, solid body again, and while I hold on tight, some helpful soul should weld my skin to hers with a blowtorch.
"Leire, I know about your life," Jacqueline says in an ominous tone. "Your parents were clueless, but they did the best they could with someone as rotten as you. And that makes you angry, doesn't it? To know that the couple that gave birth to you were so stupid. You think they should have been able to see what was coming for you. You are angry at them for their incompetence, and at yourself for having been born worthless. I understand. You feel ashamed that you can't blame your parents entirely because your life turned out to be shit, but they are as guilty of their own weakness and ignorance as you are of your endless cowardice. We all have been forced to play the roles that our parents decided for us, but do you intend to hold on to that role for the rest of your life?"
I can't read her face because she's embracing me tight. I've turned squishy in her arms, and she seems to enjoy my trembling: she's swaying with me like we're dancing.
"If you don't want to be the timid, sickly little girl that your parents made of you," Jacqueline adds, "then I'll become your mommy. I will help you get your revenge. You will learn to use your tits and your cunt as weapons that can defeat and even castrate your enemies. I will show you how to seduce your father so that you can destroy him for ever putting his dick into your mother and making you into this pathetic creature. I will show you how to fuck your brother so that he'll feel powerless against you. You can flaunt those beautiful, sexy assets to humiliate your sister in order to drive her away from you forever. You will learn to weaponize your body to cause the suffering that otherwise people would have inflicted upon you."
I groan, then I cough to clear my dry throat.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I wonder out loud.
When I open my eyes, the video version of my beloved has slid a finger down the crease of a pussy that during that first date entirely belonged to me. I need to feel an echo of Jacqueline's fingers plunging in and out of my human frame.
I lift my ass off the chair to pull down my trousers, and as I ease my panties down, I feel the fabric stretch at the top of my ass crack. My pussy breathes free like it has so many times during my self-imposed overtimes. I smile, savoring the sensation. I can almost taste the orgasm that for a few blissful seconds will blind me and wipe out my thoughts.
My past self clenches her thighs around Jacqueline's wet hand as she strokes my clit. Her cobalt blues are glimmering like a pool of dark water. An orgasm builds up in the collection of cells I inhabited back then, and the whole frame quivers and twitches as if in the throes of a seizure.
I'm imitating Jacqueline's caress with my right hand. My free hand moves up and down my chest, mashing my tits together so they spill into a mounding mass. But when the monitor's speaker plays my recorded moans, orgasmic cries like the dying breaths of a wounded beast, a jolt akin to an electric surge shoots up my spine. I hit the space bar to stop the video.
I stare unblinkingly at the frozen picture while a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and my heartbeat dies down. I sit upright and rub my face. For a moment I fear that over the background hum of the computer I'll hear someone else's breath as that person, likely a guy, stands close, watching me.
I can hardly stand these warm pangs of guilt and regret. I'm a disgusting, shameless slut. I've turned into my mother.
A few seconds of reflection would have been enough for me to realize how far I've gone and how low I've sunk. Although I feel Jacqueline's absence like I lost a limb, how did I dare to disrespect her by chasing with my fingers the fleeting heaven to which she sent me effortlessly with hers? I should be saving myself until tomorrow, when I'll get to snuggle in her arms like a doll. Besides, I stuck around at the office to work overtime, not masturbate.
I pull my trousers up, then I shake my head and slap my cheeks to get rid of the warm-blooded stains of my arousal. After I switch to Visual Studio Code, I try to concentrate on the blinking cursor at the end of an instruction. I'll transform my brain into a code-colored jellyfish and save this afternoon from my desperate thoughts.
I type quickly to elicit the fabled flow state from my discombobulated subconscious. When I program, I become the captain of my ship, which I steer away from the rocks of runtime exceptions and from the infinite horizon of the programming sea, where no ship has ever dared to venture. It's been a long voyage, and I've gained plenty of experience along with my shipmates: the compilers and debuggers. The virtual machine also helps, I suppose.
I make the latest unit test pass and move to committing the changes to the repository.
"Commit?" my programming soulmate, Git, prompts me after I type my commit message. "I'm a sea creature that needs a port of call to rest in."
I take a deep breath as I revise the commit message; my pig boss snoops on these. But I delete it and write a new message: 'I'm a sea creature that needs a port of call to rest in'. I like the sound of that. Romantic. If I had come up with that line, I'd have used 'seal' instead of 'sea', due to the sexual connotations, but Git, who's a kind of sea creature himself, knows best in this domain.
"What's a port of call anyway?" I ask.
Git looks at me quizzically, widening his opaque, obsidian black eyes, as if he were contemplating this question for the first time. He laughs and crosses his arms over his belly.
"A port is a place where ships dock, where they can unload the goods they brought from faraway lands. When a ship is docked at a port, it's safe from storms, and the crew can rest until they sail again."
"I've figured out my port of call, then. My current destination is unexpected masturbation." I sigh. "My masturbatory habits have gotten in the way of my work. What should I do about that, Git, old pal? I'm desperate for relief."
Git strokes his scaly chin. I always abhorred the odd texture of his outer covering; it's made out of scales of different colors and sources stacked on top of each other. In truth, his scales must be made from the fabric of the seabed. The ones on his chin are a soft white that jazzes up to a sky blue towards the edges. When he furrows his brow, his scales darken and thicken until they become black as night, making his face look like a hole caulked with teeth. But what can I say? I must accept Git as he is, for as far as I know he lacks any human ancestors, and can't die no matter how many stones I throw at him.
Git holds his claws out.
"I recommend that you turn yourself into a sea creature."
I grimace, then I consider his wisdom. After all, some quality of water makes me feel like it will ease my throbbing clit, and that's exactly what I need right now.
"Alright, what kinds should I consider? Octopuses? Merfolk? Turtles? Sharks?"
"If you turn yourself into a seaman, your masturbation will become the ship's port of call, and your rest will be its destination."
"You make some sense. But can't I become a seawoman instead? Don't they have the most magnificent breasts?"
Git scowls as if he was chewing on grit, making his face look like a puckered orifice.
"I'm afraid that won't work logistically."
Crap. I had already warmed up to such a wild future.
"How about octopuses? They're awesome, they have eight arms. You can combine four of them together, which would give you an octopus with twenty eight arms."
Git smacks his lips disdainfully.
"If you ask me, octopuses are only suitable for scaring young children and arousing people with a fetish for tentacle rape. Besides, octopuses mate with the rhythm of the waves, and the only way to stop them is by shaking a rock into their den. They'll never learn to master their urges like humans."
I should shake a rock against my clit. It's worth a try to relieve myself from my unending horniness.
"That doesn't sound bad at all," I say dreamily.
"Do you want to spend your whole existence trying to eat every other octopus you come across? In the octopus world, that's a law, not a suggestion. I recommend you don't become an octopus, woman."
"Okay, how about octopuses with eight heads instead? That's surely more than enough."
Git furrows his scaly brow.
"Octopuses don't even have two heads. Look, I don't know what you're trying to say, but you aren't making any sense."
I give him a break. Git's claws are made for scratching, not typing. He must harbor some serious resentment after a lifetime of dealing with that disability.
"So it's back to masturbating, then? I have no chance of surviving in the middle of the ocean, that's why my port of call is masturbation. It's all I have to keep me sane."
Git laughs. The mirthful sound echoes around my office like a rainstorm, and the way his body shakes makes his scales sparkle like in the time of the dinosaurs, when life was better and the air clearer.
"I'm afraid that masturbating when you are in a programming state of mind will lead to errors. You need to find a way to program without your brain being flooded with thoughts of pleasure."
"Can you offer any advice unrelated to transforming myself into a sea creature? I'd be grateful."
Git narrows his eyes as he gazes into the faraway horizon.
"You could masturbate on the train while you're commuting home."
"The train?"
"The one that takes you to your apartment in Irún."
"Oh, I can't do that! I hate crowds. People make me nauseous. Besides, I've had enough of being stared at or touched by human beings. The only person for whom I make an exception is Jacqueline."
"Oh well."
"Don't get me wrong, I thank you for your advice, my dear Git! But I'd rather keep masturbating at the office than on the train."
Git shrugs.
"As a sea creature, I'm not qualified to make the decision for you. Besides, the best place for masturbation is the ocean."
I raise an eyebrow.
"The ocean? Are you serious?"
Git nods slowly as his expression turns wistful.
"Masturbation is in truth an oceanic activity. But if you want to explore such depths of pleasure, you first need to learn how to be at peace with the world."
I attempt to picture a landlubber like myself achieving such a feat. Should people masturbate while swimming?
"Who am I kidding," I mutter morosely. "I'll never be at peace with the world anyway. I'll have to figure out some other ways of exploring the depths of pleasure, so I'll know what's like to climax like a creature of the deep."
I doubt Git paid attention to any of my words. His smile suggests he's in a reverie involving underwater masturbation.
"Often you even come across an unexpected friend," he blurts out.
I frown, unsure of what he's implying.
"Are there unexpected friends for unexpected masturbation?"
"Indeed. Whales!"
I envision myself rubbing my clit while sinking in the blue. Suddenly, a whale's gravitational pull makes me flounder about in the churning water. The whale's massive head emerges from the darkness. I struggle to swim away, but a whale doesn't let go of a human it sees as prey. It just keeps laughing at you while you get sucked into its gargantuan maw.
"I don't want whales!" I cry out.
Startled, Git draws his head back.
"Why?"
"I-I don't like their eyes."
Git stares at me for a few seconds, then he nods sagely.
"If you are afraid of cetaceans, I can give you a stick to scare the whales away. It has the ability to shoot waves."
"A stick?" I ask in disbelief. "Is that supposed to be a weapon? Do you mean a gun?"
"It's a wave stick. Anyway, when you're at your most vulnerable in the midst of your usual masturbation routine, close to the moment of release, that's when you'll discover your unforeseen friends."
After I shiver from head to toe, I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I think I'm done with the fucking ocean, thank you very much! But clarify this for me: the world's largest mammal is a whale with a penis, right?"
"A sperm whale, yes."
"Alright, moving on. I was supposed to commit my recent changes and push them to the repository."
"Indeed. This is the moment of release."
My face is flushed as the blood rushes to my cheeks. I imagine a sperm whale leering at my breasts, inching ever closer to licking my nipples. I shake my head to break the spell.
"Will you help me or not, Git?" I ask in quavering voice.
His lips curl into a satisfied smile as the smell of his body oil wafts towards my nose.
"Do you want to commit in the future or do you want to commit in the past?"
I hold my breath, then I let it out in an exasperated breath.
"Past, obviously! Way before I was born."
Git nods, then he stretches his back in a dramatic pose.
"Done! Congratulations!"
My muscles relax. I've survived another nightmare. I want to hug him, but I restrain myself; his serrated scales are covered in a layer of fish-smelling oil.
"Thank you, Git. You're a true lifesaver."
Git beams, flaunting his pointed teeth.
"Glad I could help. A human with so much potential deserves to reach the surface."
"You could help me a lot more, though. Your wisdom is invaluable."
"You're being polite," Git says as he rubs absentmindedly the oil off some scales of his arm. "I'm a sea creature. I know very little about human problems."
"I've long ceased to be a human being," I say somberly. "I'm merely a programmer who often needs to rest after her long and intense voyages. So thank you for being my home port."
Git lowers his head, then he turns on his heels. The scales that cover his back show off a treasure trove of dents and marks. As he shambles away, I step forward and struggle to formulate an apology for the unforeseen hurt I've caused him, but he stops and looks over his scaly shoulder at me. A teary glow emanates from his obsidian black eyeball.
"I've never been to the ocean," he says hoarsely.
I'm shocked by this revelation, and the depth of his trust in me.
"Neither have I. The closest I've come to the ocean is when my mother took me to the beach a few times in my childhood. That place was the end of the universe as far as I was concerned. And the only reason she brought me there was because I had to pee."
Git smiles sadly, then he sighs.
"I hold out hope, though, that one day the two of us will taste that brine."
My friend waves goodbye. As he leaves, his body shimmers with the ever-changing patterns of light on his oily scales.
I lean back in my chair and gaze at the screen, that displays my current commit: thirty or so lines changed in a couple of files. When I take a deep breath, the air tastes salty. An odor of rotting fish stings my nostrils.
I need to think about how to decouple the functions involved in asynchronous user authentication so I can write unit tests for them, but my brain refuses to cooperate. I roll my chair back and stretch my arms.
I should make my way to the bathroom and wash my face with cold water. Maybe I'll splash some on my neck. I feel like a layer of sand is stuck to my feet.
When I open my eyes, my gaze rests on the external hard drive I hid under my monitor's screen. Why am I wasting my time programming when I could be watching Jacqueline and I fuck?
---
Author's note: I've been on a funky mood ever since my last contract ended. Mostly dazed, though. I should start studying for my public examination, but there's too much writing to be done.
I may have been inspired to go on a tangent because I recently discovered Caroline Konstnar and her 'The Jellyfish Song'. I've also enjoyed this unrelated skit as well as this sillier and shorter video.
---
A stone with jagged edges has lodged in my throat, but I manage to let some words tumble out.
"Anyway, why am I in the office at this hour...?"
Ah, I was supposed to wrap up a couple of tickets. What a drag!
I swig down the rest of the bitter latte, and as I return to my workstation, I drop the cup into the trash can. I plump down on my chair. I switch from YouTube to Visual Studio Code, then I scroll to the unfinished Angular function I was working on before the regular workday ended.
My monitor's light becomes the only illumination in the office as the night descends on Donostia, and presumably on the rest of the country.
My concentration has gotten increasingly cloudier. I'm stuck in a portion of the code. I arch my back and stretch my arms over my head. When I open my eyes, my gaze rests on the external hard drive that I hid under the screen. Did Jacqueline cram in there all the recordings she took of us having sex?
As I stare at the black, flattened cuboid with rounded corners, my breath thickens and my heart starts pounding harder. Why am I wasting my time programming when I could be watching Jacqueline and I fuck?
I jump in my chair and hurry to connect the hard drive to the computer. Its screen shows that the drive contains two folders: one named 'Us' and the other named 'Misc'. Inside the 'Us' folder I find a dozen MKV files identified by the date and the camera that filmed them, referred to as Camera A and Camera B. I won't tarnish the recordings by playing them on Windows Media Player, so I download VLC.
I take a deep breath, then I double-click on the first video, recorded during our first date. In the center of the frame, the ass that belongs to my past self is sinking into Jacqueline's flamingo pink comforter. I'm wearing the garment I bought for the date: a high-waist, tiered dress with puffed sleeves and a green floral pattern. On the edge of its square neckline, resting against my pale skin, the brass medallion glints in the white ring lights that the cameras were staring through.
I'd like to say that the woman in the video looks like a virginal maiden who spent her whole youth secluded in an attic only to be rescued by a loving, sexy mommy, but my past self seems dazed, almost drugged-out. Those sunken eyes are underlined with puffy circles, the result of a lifetime of stress and terrible sleeping habits. The four puncture wounds from the fork I plunged into my neck stand out as if I were flaunting them.
I cringe. Who could find such a wretch attractive? And why is she licking her wet lips lasciviously? Was I ogling Jacqueline's tits?
I checked out the video to get horny, but this resembles the recording of a therapy session at some psychiatric hospital. It will end with the flesh of my past self bruised and cut up, covered in dirt and semen.
I jump to a position much further ahead in the video. My past, naked self is lying sideways on Jacqueline's lap. She has covered her thighs with a turquoise toss pillow so I would rest on it, but at the moment my beloved is holding the back of my head while I suck on her right breast. The doughy tit-meat, that shines with sweat and saliva, is bulging against my cheeks. With my face buried in the fleshy mass, I couldn't notice back then that Jacqueline's narrowed, alluring eyes observed me lovingly as she massaged my scalp with a slow, circular motion.
"You look so relaxed, Leire," Jacqueline coos. "Like a baby about to fall asleep. But not just any baby, my very own little Leire. You are the best breast-sucker, you know that? I've never seen a woman suck a pair of tits with such dedication. Have your fill until you are satisfied."
My heart is about to burst out of my chest. My past self continues to suck Jacqueline's titty trying to extract every bit of sweetness from it. She slurps with an insistent, urgent sound, like the crackling of a fire.
From that first date of ours, I remember the exertion of my tongue's movement, the hard nipple's protrusion into my mouth, and the little noises that vibrated through Jacqueline's chest as she breathed deeply. After I close my eyes, I can recreate in my mind how it felt to trace the wrinkles and bumps of her hardened areola with the tip of my tongue. I experience the intoxicating contact of her warm hand as she caresses my neck.
"Your mother couldn't protect you from this wicked world, baby," Jacqueline croons in a pitying tone. "But I can, and you will let me. You know why? Because I'm the only person that can save you. I will help you. I will heal your wounds and wash away your tears."
I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweaty scent of her breast.
"I can't stand to be here anymore," I mumble against her hardened nub. "I don't deserve to be alive. My whole life is a lie, it's been a lie from the beginning."
Jacqueline sighs. She slides her left hand up along my thigh, then she squeezes a handful of my butt cheek.
"Oh, baby. You are not sick, you are not weak. You are simply a victim of a world that is not ready for you yet. I will teach you how to become what you want to be."
I'm about to drool, so I swallow the excess saliva. I need to loop my arms and legs around Jacqueline's warm, solid body again, and while I hold on tight, some helpful soul should weld my skin to hers with a blowtorch.
"Leire, I know about your life," Jacqueline says in an ominous tone. "Your parents were clueless, but they did the best they could with someone as rotten as you. And that makes you angry, doesn't it? To know that the couple that gave birth to you were so stupid. You think they should have been able to see what was coming for you. You are angry at them for their incompetence, and at yourself for having been born worthless. I understand. You feel ashamed that you can't blame your parents entirely because your life turned out to be shit, but they are as guilty of their own weakness and ignorance as you are of your endless cowardice. We all have been forced to play the roles that our parents decided for us, but do you intend to hold on to that role for the rest of your life?"
I can't read her face because she's embracing me tight. I've turned squishy in her arms, and she seems to enjoy my trembling: she's swaying with me like we're dancing.
"If you don't want to be the timid, sickly little girl that your parents made of you," Jacqueline adds, "then I'll become your mommy. I will help you get your revenge. You will learn to use your tits and your cunt as weapons that can defeat and even castrate your enemies. I will show you how to seduce your father so that you can destroy him for ever putting his dick into your mother and making you into this pathetic creature. I will show you how to fuck your brother so that he'll feel powerless against you. You can flaunt those beautiful, sexy assets to humiliate your sister in order to drive her away from you forever. You will learn to weaponize your body to cause the suffering that otherwise people would have inflicted upon you."
I groan, then I cough to clear my dry throat.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I wonder out loud.
When I open my eyes, the video version of my beloved has slid a finger down the crease of a pussy that during that first date entirely belonged to me. I need to feel an echo of Jacqueline's fingers plunging in and out of my human frame.
I lift my ass off the chair to pull down my trousers, and as I ease my panties down, I feel the fabric stretch at the top of my ass crack. My pussy breathes free like it has so many times during my self-imposed overtimes. I smile, savoring the sensation. I can almost taste the orgasm that for a few blissful seconds will blind me and wipe out my thoughts.
My past self clenches her thighs around Jacqueline's wet hand as she strokes my clit. Her cobalt blues are glimmering like a pool of dark water. An orgasm builds up in the collection of cells I inhabited back then, and the whole frame quivers and twitches as if in the throes of a seizure.
I'm imitating Jacqueline's caress with my right hand. My free hand moves up and down my chest, mashing my tits together so they spill into a mounding mass. But when the monitor's speaker plays my recorded moans, orgasmic cries like the dying breaths of a wounded beast, a jolt akin to an electric surge shoots up my spine. I hit the space bar to stop the video.
I stare unblinkingly at the frozen picture while a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and my heartbeat dies down. I sit upright and rub my face. For a moment I fear that over the background hum of the computer I'll hear someone else's breath as that person, likely a guy, stands close, watching me.
I can hardly stand these warm pangs of guilt and regret. I'm a disgusting, shameless slut. I've turned into my mother.
A few seconds of reflection would have been enough for me to realize how far I've gone and how low I've sunk. Although I feel Jacqueline's absence like I lost a limb, how did I dare to disrespect her by chasing with my fingers the fleeting heaven to which she sent me effortlessly with hers? I should be saving myself until tomorrow, when I'll get to snuggle in her arms like a doll. Besides, I stuck around at the office to work overtime, not masturbate.
I pull my trousers up, then I shake my head and slap my cheeks to get rid of the warm-blooded stains of my arousal. After I switch to Visual Studio Code, I try to concentrate on the blinking cursor at the end of an instruction. I'll transform my brain into a code-colored jellyfish and save this afternoon from my desperate thoughts.
I type quickly to elicit the fabled flow state from my discombobulated subconscious. When I program, I become the captain of my ship, which I steer away from the rocks of runtime exceptions and from the infinite horizon of the programming sea, where no ship has ever dared to venture. It's been a long voyage, and I've gained plenty of experience along with my shipmates: the compilers and debuggers. The virtual machine also helps, I suppose.
I make the latest unit test pass and move to committing the changes to the repository.
"Commit?" my programming soulmate, Git, prompts me after I type my commit message. "I'm a sea creature that needs a port of call to rest in."
I take a deep breath as I revise the commit message; my pig boss snoops on these. But I delete it and write a new message: 'I'm a sea creature that needs a port of call to rest in'. I like the sound of that. Romantic. If I had come up with that line, I'd have used 'seal' instead of 'sea', due to the sexual connotations, but Git, who's a kind of sea creature himself, knows best in this domain.
"What's a port of call anyway?" I ask.
Git looks at me quizzically, widening his opaque, obsidian black eyes, as if he were contemplating this question for the first time. He laughs and crosses his arms over his belly.
"A port is a place where ships dock, where they can unload the goods they brought from faraway lands. When a ship is docked at a port, it's safe from storms, and the crew can rest until they sail again."
"I've figured out my port of call, then. My current destination is unexpected masturbation." I sigh. "My masturbatory habits have gotten in the way of my work. What should I do about that, Git, old pal? I'm desperate for relief."
Git strokes his scaly chin. I always abhorred the odd texture of his outer covering; it's made out of scales of different colors and sources stacked on top of each other. In truth, his scales must be made from the fabric of the seabed. The ones on his chin are a soft white that jazzes up to a sky blue towards the edges. When he furrows his brow, his scales darken and thicken until they become black as night, making his face look like a hole caulked with teeth. But what can I say? I must accept Git as he is, for as far as I know he lacks any human ancestors, and can't die no matter how many stones I throw at him.
Git holds his claws out.
"I recommend that you turn yourself into a sea creature."
I grimace, then I consider his wisdom. After all, some quality of water makes me feel like it will ease my throbbing clit, and that's exactly what I need right now.
"Alright, what kinds should I consider? Octopuses? Merfolk? Turtles? Sharks?"
"If you turn yourself into a seaman, your masturbation will become the ship's port of call, and your rest will be its destination."
"You make some sense. But can't I become a seawoman instead? Don't they have the most magnificent breasts?"
Git scowls as if he was chewing on grit, making his face look like a puckered orifice.
"I'm afraid that won't work logistically."
Crap. I had already warmed up to such a wild future.
"How about octopuses? They're awesome, they have eight arms. You can combine four of them together, which would give you an octopus with twenty eight arms."
Git smacks his lips disdainfully.
"If you ask me, octopuses are only suitable for scaring young children and arousing people with a fetish for tentacle rape. Besides, octopuses mate with the rhythm of the waves, and the only way to stop them is by shaking a rock into their den. They'll never learn to master their urges like humans."
I should shake a rock against my clit. It's worth a try to relieve myself from my unending horniness.
"That doesn't sound bad at all," I say dreamily.
"Do you want to spend your whole existence trying to eat every other octopus you come across? In the octopus world, that's a law, not a suggestion. I recommend you don't become an octopus, woman."
"Okay, how about octopuses with eight heads instead? That's surely more than enough."
Git furrows his scaly brow.
"Octopuses don't even have two heads. Look, I don't know what you're trying to say, but you aren't making any sense."
I give him a break. Git's claws are made for scratching, not typing. He must harbor some serious resentment after a lifetime of dealing with that disability.
"So it's back to masturbating, then? I have no chance of surviving in the middle of the ocean, that's why my port of call is masturbation. It's all I have to keep me sane."
Git laughs. The mirthful sound echoes around my office like a rainstorm, and the way his body shakes makes his scales sparkle like in the time of the dinosaurs, when life was better and the air clearer.
"I'm afraid that masturbating when you are in a programming state of mind will lead to errors. You need to find a way to program without your brain being flooded with thoughts of pleasure."
"Can you offer any advice unrelated to transforming myself into a sea creature? I'd be grateful."
Git narrows his eyes as he gazes into the faraway horizon.
"You could masturbate on the train while you're commuting home."
"The train?"
"The one that takes you to your apartment in Irún."
"Oh, I can't do that! I hate crowds. People make me nauseous. Besides, I've had enough of being stared at or touched by human beings. The only person for whom I make an exception is Jacqueline."
"Oh well."
"Don't get me wrong, I thank you for your advice, my dear Git! But I'd rather keep masturbating at the office than on the train."
Git shrugs.
"As a sea creature, I'm not qualified to make the decision for you. Besides, the best place for masturbation is the ocean."
I raise an eyebrow.
"The ocean? Are you serious?"
Git nods slowly as his expression turns wistful.
"Masturbation is in truth an oceanic activity. But if you want to explore such depths of pleasure, you first need to learn how to be at peace with the world."
I attempt to picture a landlubber like myself achieving such a feat. Should people masturbate while swimming?
"Who am I kidding," I mutter morosely. "I'll never be at peace with the world anyway. I'll have to figure out some other ways of exploring the depths of pleasure, so I'll know what's like to climax like a creature of the deep."
I doubt Git paid attention to any of my words. His smile suggests he's in a reverie involving underwater masturbation.
"Often you even come across an unexpected friend," he blurts out.
I frown, unsure of what he's implying.
"Are there unexpected friends for unexpected masturbation?"
"Indeed. Whales!"
I envision myself rubbing my clit while sinking in the blue. Suddenly, a whale's gravitational pull makes me flounder about in the churning water. The whale's massive head emerges from the darkness. I struggle to swim away, but a whale doesn't let go of a human it sees as prey. It just keeps laughing at you while you get sucked into its gargantuan maw.
"I don't want whales!" I cry out.
Startled, Git draws his head back.
"Why?"
"I-I don't like their eyes."
Git stares at me for a few seconds, then he nods sagely.
"If you are afraid of cetaceans, I can give you a stick to scare the whales away. It has the ability to shoot waves."
"A stick?" I ask in disbelief. "Is that supposed to be a weapon? Do you mean a gun?"
"It's a wave stick. Anyway, when you're at your most vulnerable in the midst of your usual masturbation routine, close to the moment of release, that's when you'll discover your unforeseen friends."
After I shiver from head to toe, I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I think I'm done with the fucking ocean, thank you very much! But clarify this for me: the world's largest mammal is a whale with a penis, right?"
"A sperm whale, yes."
"Alright, moving on. I was supposed to commit my recent changes and push them to the repository."
"Indeed. This is the moment of release."
My face is flushed as the blood rushes to my cheeks. I imagine a sperm whale leering at my breasts, inching ever closer to licking my nipples. I shake my head to break the spell.
"Will you help me or not, Git?" I ask in quavering voice.
His lips curl into a satisfied smile as the smell of his body oil wafts towards my nose.
"Do you want to commit in the future or do you want to commit in the past?"
I hold my breath, then I let it out in an exasperated breath.
"Past, obviously! Way before I was born."
Git nods, then he stretches his back in a dramatic pose.
"Done! Congratulations!"
My muscles relax. I've survived another nightmare. I want to hug him, but I restrain myself; his serrated scales are covered in a layer of fish-smelling oil.
"Thank you, Git. You're a true lifesaver."
Git beams, flaunting his pointed teeth.
"Glad I could help. A human with so much potential deserves to reach the surface."
"You could help me a lot more, though. Your wisdom is invaluable."
"You're being polite," Git says as he rubs absentmindedly the oil off some scales of his arm. "I'm a sea creature. I know very little about human problems."
"I've long ceased to be a human being," I say somberly. "I'm merely a programmer who often needs to rest after her long and intense voyages. So thank you for being my home port."
Git lowers his head, then he turns on his heels. The scales that cover his back show off a treasure trove of dents and marks. As he shambles away, I step forward and struggle to formulate an apology for the unforeseen hurt I've caused him, but he stops and looks over his scaly shoulder at me. A teary glow emanates from his obsidian black eyeball.
"I've never been to the ocean," he says hoarsely.
I'm shocked by this revelation, and the depth of his trust in me.
"Neither have I. The closest I've come to the ocean is when my mother took me to the beach a few times in my childhood. That place was the end of the universe as far as I was concerned. And the only reason she brought me there was because I had to pee."
Git smiles sadly, then he sighs.
"I hold out hope, though, that one day the two of us will taste that brine."
My friend waves goodbye. As he leaves, his body shimmers with the ever-changing patterns of light on his oily scales.
I lean back in my chair and gaze at the screen, that displays my current commit: thirty or so lines changed in a couple of files. When I take a deep breath, the air tastes salty. An odor of rotting fish stings my nostrils.
I need to think about how to decouple the functions involved in asynchronous user authentication so I can write unit tests for them, but my brain refuses to cooperate. I roll my chair back and stretch my arms.
I should make my way to the bathroom and wash my face with cold water. Maybe I'll splash some on my neck. I feel like a layer of sand is stuck to my feet.
When I open my eyes, my gaze rests on the external hard drive I hid under my monitor's screen. Why am I wasting my time programming when I could be watching Jacqueline and I fuck?
---
Author's note: I've been on a funky mood ever since my last contract ended. Mostly dazed, though. I should start studying for my public examination, but there's too much writing to be done.
I may have been inspired to go on a tangent because I recently discovered Caroline Konstnar and her 'The Jellyfish Song'. I've also enjoyed this unrelated skit as well as this sillier and shorter video.
April 23, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 43 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Jordi is checking the contents of his briefcase and Jacqueline is putting her designer coat on, both preparing to leave the office for the day. Although I'll stick around to work overtime, they are spreading their vibe, making me feel like the weekend has already started.
My beloved wraps her red scarf around her neck, then she leans in towards me and hands me an external hard drive.
"Here, so you won't miss me tonight," she whispers furtively. "Along with its USB 3 Micro-B cable, in case you don't have one."
I know what any external hard drive associated with my girlfriend contains, but I would have figured it out due to the look she's giving me: that of a pervert sharing naughty stuff with a fellow connoisseur. A sudden heat ripples across my skin.
"And call me tomorrow morning, alright?" Jacqueline adds.
I want to thank her for the gift, but I'm blushing, so I just nod. I grab the hard drive and slide it under my monitor screen to hide it from prying eyes.
As Jacqueline straightens her back, Jordi joins her at her side. An anchor grey, heavy wool coat covers his impeccably ironed white shirt and black pants. In the reflection of his glasses, my shy self looks like a criminal about to crack.
"I hope you manage to rest enough this weekend, Leire," he says with a warm smile.
I've whined repeatedly about the soreness in my muscles, and our intern is the kind of guy that cares about other people's pains. I shrug and smile like a kid that emptied out the cookie jar.
"I doubt I'm going to let her rest enough," Jacqueline says proudly, "because we are going on a date. But she'll be alright."
"Nothing to worry about, then," Jordi says.
Our boss exits his den and locks the door behind him. My shoulders tense up. I lower my gaze and pretend that I need to brush dandruff from my keyboard. I must appear insignificant to dissuade him from approaching me and putting a hand on my shoulder, or patting me on the back, or groping me in nastier ways.
As Ramsés passes by our table, he wishes us a good weekend in the monotone voice of someone too busy to care. I'm glad he seems as eager to part ways with his employees as I am that for a couple of days I'll be free from his enslaving ways. However, he still takes time out of his afternoon to glance at me. I feel naked.
When the last of our boss' footsteps vanishes, I exhale in relief.
Jacqueline's gaze turns from the front door to me as if she had expected our boss to return and annoy us again.
"That's our cue to leave."
She squeezes my shoulder, then both my coworkers head to the exit. Before the door closes, she shoots me an ardent look through the gap. I smile back at her.
Until tomorrow, my sexy, glamorous queen.
I slouch in the chair and close my eyes, but my mind presents me with a vision of that fiendish boss of ours moving his greasy hand down my back, then daring to fondle my tits. My cheeks burn with shame, and a rage surges up inside my belly. How many times has he forced me to visualize him fucking me into submission? He'd get on top of me, smack his lips and drool on my face. I can almost feel his weight pushing me down. His fat cock would plunge into my womb until he filled it with a messy load of baby batter. Then he would order me to clean him with my tongue. He'd make me relish in the humiliation.
I wish I could punch that bastard in the face hard enough to dislodge his brain, but I've never hit anyone in my life. I'm afraid I would get punched in return. Besides, I'm a pitiful shell of a person, ill-equipped for murder. I'm only armed with these skinny arms and legs, and a rabid swarm of depraved thoughts. To the majority of people, I must be almost unrecognizable as a human being, so the most frightening thing I could do is reveal myself to them.
I'm in deep shit, a deep shit in which I've sunk my teeth and claws as far as I can. I shouldn't have to sit at my workstation five days a week and endure this torment. I guess I need to find some other job that doesn't involve me having sex with the boss. Ramsés would replace me in a matter of weeks; plenty of women out there would love to be manhandled by that dirty pervert.
I've begun to sweat. I rub my face with both hands, then I sigh deeply.
"I'm alone," I say to the empty office.
I listen as the doors to other offices along the hallway open and shut. Streams of footsteps march out eagerly. On the parking lot, a bunch of car engines start up.
I scroll through YouTube idly while the business park closes for the day. Once the world has quieted down, I stand up wearily and leave to get a coffee from the vending machine. Now that I'm pushing my body to walk, its muscles and bones complain of soreness and exhaustion. I feel as if I've been dead for a month. Last night instead of sleeping I took two long naps; I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, but when I returned to Jacqueline's bed, her eyes were glowing like beacons of desire. They seemed to be asking for proof of my devotion. I ended up with my face buried between her thighs, blowing my breath into her hot vagina. The wetness came flooding out of her and spilled down my face and throat. If both of us had fallen asleep then, I wonder whether I would have suffocated or drowned.
Lost in a reverie involving pussy juices, I only notice that a straggler is passing by because the guy clears his throat. He caught me yawning. I cut it short awkwardly, then I lower my gaze to the faded vinyl floor, that reflects the fluorescent bulbs. Over the last few years, this floor has received plenty of my sweat and other bodily fluids. I should apologize to it.
"Have a good weekend," the guy says.
What business is it of this stranger if I'll enjoy my weekend?
"Yeah," I reply hoarsely.
My body shudders as I imagine the stranger's rough hands groping my naked flesh. He'll stroke my breasts, my hips, my belly, my inner thighs. He'll then plunge his swollen cock deep inside me, and I'll welcome it with all the gratitude of a filthy slut. His frantic panting and my whimpers will be muffled by the sound of my skin smacking against the vinyl floor.
I shake my head to make its demons dizzy, then I suck in air and quicken my pace.
When I make my way back to the office while holding a hot latte, I lock the door behind me. The fluorescent lights are beaming their pale glow on the three computer screens. I stare at the daisy white walls and ceiling, the porcelain white desk that seats three people, the row of three frost white utility cabinets, and the cloud grey worn carpet that some arcane presence vacuums regularly under the cover of darkness.
Regarding the furniture, only the three futuristic office chairs suggest that someone equipped with an ass has ever visited the room. Otherwise, this space was built for robots or monsters, or possibly robotic monsters. You could waste a thousand years here without anything of value happening, and once you disappeared, no recognizable proof of your presence would remain. It's a lair for the undead, for those who spend their lives with their eyes closed.
I turn the lights off. I've never understood why people prefer such brightness at work; I need the environment to be dark enough to promote a mental state where I can concentrate for hours on end. I'd prefer it to look like midnight in the deepest dungeon.
Now that I've turned this room into a shrine to solitude and depravity, I saunter over to the window as I hold the hot cup of latte. I take tiny sips while gazing past my reflection in the glass. The coffee tastes as good as it smells, which is to say, like mud. But the caffeine should kick in soon enough, or at least I'll delude myself into believing it does.
"What a crap latte," I say to nobody, although part of me hopes that my words will reach some ghost that will possess my body and force me to quit this job.
Above the boxy, three-story high building on the opposite side of a tree-lined path, one that Jordi and Jacqueline traverse during the lunch breaks as they head to their usual restaurant, the indigo sky of this October evening lacks any looming threats, except for a couple of cumulonimbus clouds dyed tiger orange. Such a haunting sight humbles me and risks convincing me that life can be pleasant for brief periods of time.
I close my eyes. I picture myself as a hawk soaring over a field of sunflowers. The leaves are as broad as my wings, the tall stalks as thin as my legs. I'm heading towards some snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance.
I remember that I'm supposed to sit down and keep programming. I've tortured myself by working overtime often, so why do I feel different today? I used to stick around at the office in the afternoons partly because I can only focus and relax properly when I'm alone, but I was also reluctant to return to my dreary apartment in Irún, where I would face the heap of garbage bags, as well as the dust that has gathered on the furniture and on the pile of unplayed board games.
Wasting my evenings here I communed with my natural relationship with the world, that the voice and presence of other humans would mask otherwise: under all the noise, I was alone, always and forever alone, inching ever closer to the brink of madness. I was a speck of dust drifting in the breeze. Even those who had noticed me would forget me in minutes. Once I died, I would be gone as if I had never been born; the universe would have corrected the terrible mistake of having contained me in it.
My mother had given birth to me while she was already pregnant with another child. Instead of a gift of life to be kept and treasured for years, I was always a bastard unwanted by everyone, even my own father, who only considered me for a couple of years and then forgot about my existence. He was the kind of guy who got rid of his garbage by throwing it out of the window.
The sight of my frail body sent my mother into despair, as she was cursed with a second mouth to feed. She refused to let me suckle her breast, and she hid me away in a corner of the house like a filthy rag. I spent most days locked away in an old armoire.
When I turned seven years old, my mother gave me up to an orphanage. There I contracted scabies, and my hair quickly transformed into snakes. The boys poked fun at me for lacking a dick. The matron punished me every day, by sending me to scrub the floors with my nails while wearing a black sack over my head. I grew increasingly terrified; I knew that when I turned sixteen, I'd be sent to a whorehouse to become a prostitute for old men.
A month after my sixteenth birthday, the matron informed me that I would have to become a whore to pay for my care. I refused, but she had me drugged with a large dose of valium. I was taken away in the middle of the night and dropped off at a brothel, where I was stripped and given a shower. The doctor that inspected my body declared that my genitals were useless. As the pimp shepherded me to my assigned bedroom, I heard women screaming from the nearby rooms, but the pimp said that it meant they were happy.
I wanted to cry out in rage at this universe that had stolen my life away, but instead of doing so, I injected myself with a lethal dose of horse tranquilizer. As I lay dead in a morgue, my mother visited me and told me that I was dead. After an awkward silence, she put her arms around me and added, "I'm very sorry that all of this had to happen to you, but now you'll have plenty of time to reflect on what you did wrong to deserve it."
My mother kept the promise of a small headstone on my grave to mark that I had existed. It read, 'Leire XXX. She lived only for herself, and died to prove that she didn't matter.' I had told them to write instead, 'Lived like a whore, died a free woman', but they hadn't listened.
I was never sad to die; I was never happy to live either. In the vacuum that remained, I became a drifting piece of nonsense floating in an infinite void.
The hard, sharp edges of many memories are carved into the skin of my chest, the rough ridges of a painful wound. Now I'm a miserable whore that has to keep working until death visits her again, but in between all the pain and sorrow and regret, at least someone in that putrid world out there will wait for me to rejoin her, and when I do, she'll wrap her arms around my rotten old self and suck the marrow from my bones.
Tonight I'll return to the transitory apartment for which I'm forced to pay, but tomorrow I'll go out on a date with my woman. Later on I'll sleep in a place that feels like a home. When my eyes open in the following morning, I will take in the face of the woman that I desired since I first saw her. My heart will beat in joy, my mouth will curl up in a smile. I'll gaze into those cobalt blues like a prisoner looking up at the sun for the first time after decades of confinement. I'll be moved, I'll be shaken, I'll be amazed. My pussy will get wet; I'll feel it throb and pulsate inside my panties.
The annoyance and loneliness of having to work overtime has become meaningful: it will free my mind from some of the pending tasks so I can think of Jacqueline that much more. No matter the nonsense that life slings at me, I can open up to my beloved, and she'll listen.
I wasn't a monster after all. I wasn't born from the dirt and the mud, or the darkest recess of a cave where demons live. I didn't emerge from an egg with a bloodied shell, nor was I formed from the decaying matter of a rotting corpse. It took nine months for a woman's body to grow my bones and flesh, and my birth wasn't conducted in the basement of some run-down, crumbling ruin, but in a hospital room. The mother was a human instead of some genetically engineered chimera created through an experiment that combined the cells of various animal species. I was a baby like anyone else: a daughter, a son, a sister, a brother. A human mother must have smiled down at me, kissed me, then fed me a mixture of warm milk and blood. I became a child who wanted to be held in the arms of a woman who would love me, who would cry over my grave.
---
Author's Note: as I mentioned in my previous update, I've been working on this scene for a good while. It was supposed to be at least twice as long, but when I woke up this morning I got the feeling that I could divide it into at least two chapters, because they would feel independent enough. Getting through the final iteration has proven that point, so here's the first part.
I've been listening to plenty of distinct stuff recently. Last year I listened to PUP's first five or so songs from their album 'Morbid Stuff' like a couple hundred times, and songs like 'See You At Your Funeral' are the reason why. Very down-to-earth fellow. I also love this song by Glass Animals. As I have done for literally twenty five years, I've returned to the only album in Spanish, my native language, that I have ever listened to repeatedly: Los Rodríguez's 'Palabras más, Palabras menos', due to songs like 'Diez años después', 'La puerta de al lado' and 'Todavía una canción de amor'. The whole album is timeless, though. I even dared to listen to Joanna Newsom's old stuff (whom I've long suspected to be autistic as well, not that she'd ever confirm it).
I think I went on enough in the update I've linked earlier about the recent nonsense I've had to deal with. I hope you enjoyed this one, Jen (namedropped out of nowhere!). No reason why you or anyone else would enjoy this chapter more than others; I just thought it would be fun to freak you out. Anyway, see you all later, bitches.
---
Jordi is checking the contents of his briefcase and Jacqueline is putting her designer coat on, both preparing to leave the office for the day. Although I'll stick around to work overtime, they are spreading their vibe, making me feel like the weekend has already started.
My beloved wraps her red scarf around her neck, then she leans in towards me and hands me an external hard drive.
"Here, so you won't miss me tonight," she whispers furtively. "Along with its USB 3 Micro-B cable, in case you don't have one."
I know what any external hard drive associated with my girlfriend contains, but I would have figured it out due to the look she's giving me: that of a pervert sharing naughty stuff with a fellow connoisseur. A sudden heat ripples across my skin.
"And call me tomorrow morning, alright?" Jacqueline adds.
I want to thank her for the gift, but I'm blushing, so I just nod. I grab the hard drive and slide it under my monitor screen to hide it from prying eyes.
As Jacqueline straightens her back, Jordi joins her at her side. An anchor grey, heavy wool coat covers his impeccably ironed white shirt and black pants. In the reflection of his glasses, my shy self looks like a criminal about to crack.
"I hope you manage to rest enough this weekend, Leire," he says with a warm smile.
I've whined repeatedly about the soreness in my muscles, and our intern is the kind of guy that cares about other people's pains. I shrug and smile like a kid that emptied out the cookie jar.
"I doubt I'm going to let her rest enough," Jacqueline says proudly, "because we are going on a date. But she'll be alright."
"Nothing to worry about, then," Jordi says.
Our boss exits his den and locks the door behind him. My shoulders tense up. I lower my gaze and pretend that I need to brush dandruff from my keyboard. I must appear insignificant to dissuade him from approaching me and putting a hand on my shoulder, or patting me on the back, or groping me in nastier ways.
As Ramsés passes by our table, he wishes us a good weekend in the monotone voice of someone too busy to care. I'm glad he seems as eager to part ways with his employees as I am that for a couple of days I'll be free from his enslaving ways. However, he still takes time out of his afternoon to glance at me. I feel naked.
When the last of our boss' footsteps vanishes, I exhale in relief.
Jacqueline's gaze turns from the front door to me as if she had expected our boss to return and annoy us again.
"That's our cue to leave."
She squeezes my shoulder, then both my coworkers head to the exit. Before the door closes, she shoots me an ardent look through the gap. I smile back at her.
Until tomorrow, my sexy, glamorous queen.
I slouch in the chair and close my eyes, but my mind presents me with a vision of that fiendish boss of ours moving his greasy hand down my back, then daring to fondle my tits. My cheeks burn with shame, and a rage surges up inside my belly. How many times has he forced me to visualize him fucking me into submission? He'd get on top of me, smack his lips and drool on my face. I can almost feel his weight pushing me down. His fat cock would plunge into my womb until he filled it with a messy load of baby batter. Then he would order me to clean him with my tongue. He'd make me relish in the humiliation.
I wish I could punch that bastard in the face hard enough to dislodge his brain, but I've never hit anyone in my life. I'm afraid I would get punched in return. Besides, I'm a pitiful shell of a person, ill-equipped for murder. I'm only armed with these skinny arms and legs, and a rabid swarm of depraved thoughts. To the majority of people, I must be almost unrecognizable as a human being, so the most frightening thing I could do is reveal myself to them.
I'm in deep shit, a deep shit in which I've sunk my teeth and claws as far as I can. I shouldn't have to sit at my workstation five days a week and endure this torment. I guess I need to find some other job that doesn't involve me having sex with the boss. Ramsés would replace me in a matter of weeks; plenty of women out there would love to be manhandled by that dirty pervert.
I've begun to sweat. I rub my face with both hands, then I sigh deeply.
"I'm alone," I say to the empty office.
I listen as the doors to other offices along the hallway open and shut. Streams of footsteps march out eagerly. On the parking lot, a bunch of car engines start up.
I scroll through YouTube idly while the business park closes for the day. Once the world has quieted down, I stand up wearily and leave to get a coffee from the vending machine. Now that I'm pushing my body to walk, its muscles and bones complain of soreness and exhaustion. I feel as if I've been dead for a month. Last night instead of sleeping I took two long naps; I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, but when I returned to Jacqueline's bed, her eyes were glowing like beacons of desire. They seemed to be asking for proof of my devotion. I ended up with my face buried between her thighs, blowing my breath into her hot vagina. The wetness came flooding out of her and spilled down my face and throat. If both of us had fallen asleep then, I wonder whether I would have suffocated or drowned.
Lost in a reverie involving pussy juices, I only notice that a straggler is passing by because the guy clears his throat. He caught me yawning. I cut it short awkwardly, then I lower my gaze to the faded vinyl floor, that reflects the fluorescent bulbs. Over the last few years, this floor has received plenty of my sweat and other bodily fluids. I should apologize to it.
"Have a good weekend," the guy says.
What business is it of this stranger if I'll enjoy my weekend?
"Yeah," I reply hoarsely.
My body shudders as I imagine the stranger's rough hands groping my naked flesh. He'll stroke my breasts, my hips, my belly, my inner thighs. He'll then plunge his swollen cock deep inside me, and I'll welcome it with all the gratitude of a filthy slut. His frantic panting and my whimpers will be muffled by the sound of my skin smacking against the vinyl floor.
I shake my head to make its demons dizzy, then I suck in air and quicken my pace.
When I make my way back to the office while holding a hot latte, I lock the door behind me. The fluorescent lights are beaming their pale glow on the three computer screens. I stare at the daisy white walls and ceiling, the porcelain white desk that seats three people, the row of three frost white utility cabinets, and the cloud grey worn carpet that some arcane presence vacuums regularly under the cover of darkness.
Regarding the furniture, only the three futuristic office chairs suggest that someone equipped with an ass has ever visited the room. Otherwise, this space was built for robots or monsters, or possibly robotic monsters. You could waste a thousand years here without anything of value happening, and once you disappeared, no recognizable proof of your presence would remain. It's a lair for the undead, for those who spend their lives with their eyes closed.
I turn the lights off. I've never understood why people prefer such brightness at work; I need the environment to be dark enough to promote a mental state where I can concentrate for hours on end. I'd prefer it to look like midnight in the deepest dungeon.
Now that I've turned this room into a shrine to solitude and depravity, I saunter over to the window as I hold the hot cup of latte. I take tiny sips while gazing past my reflection in the glass. The coffee tastes as good as it smells, which is to say, like mud. But the caffeine should kick in soon enough, or at least I'll delude myself into believing it does.
"What a crap latte," I say to nobody, although part of me hopes that my words will reach some ghost that will possess my body and force me to quit this job.
Above the boxy, three-story high building on the opposite side of a tree-lined path, one that Jordi and Jacqueline traverse during the lunch breaks as they head to their usual restaurant, the indigo sky of this October evening lacks any looming threats, except for a couple of cumulonimbus clouds dyed tiger orange. Such a haunting sight humbles me and risks convincing me that life can be pleasant for brief periods of time.
I close my eyes. I picture myself as a hawk soaring over a field of sunflowers. The leaves are as broad as my wings, the tall stalks as thin as my legs. I'm heading towards some snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance.
I remember that I'm supposed to sit down and keep programming. I've tortured myself by working overtime often, so why do I feel different today? I used to stick around at the office in the afternoons partly because I can only focus and relax properly when I'm alone, but I was also reluctant to return to my dreary apartment in Irún, where I would face the heap of garbage bags, as well as the dust that has gathered on the furniture and on the pile of unplayed board games.
Wasting my evenings here I communed with my natural relationship with the world, that the voice and presence of other humans would mask otherwise: under all the noise, I was alone, always and forever alone, inching ever closer to the brink of madness. I was a speck of dust drifting in the breeze. Even those who had noticed me would forget me in minutes. Once I died, I would be gone as if I had never been born; the universe would have corrected the terrible mistake of having contained me in it.
My mother had given birth to me while she was already pregnant with another child. Instead of a gift of life to be kept and treasured for years, I was always a bastard unwanted by everyone, even my own father, who only considered me for a couple of years and then forgot about my existence. He was the kind of guy who got rid of his garbage by throwing it out of the window.
The sight of my frail body sent my mother into despair, as she was cursed with a second mouth to feed. She refused to let me suckle her breast, and she hid me away in a corner of the house like a filthy rag. I spent most days locked away in an old armoire.
When I turned seven years old, my mother gave me up to an orphanage. There I contracted scabies, and my hair quickly transformed into snakes. The boys poked fun at me for lacking a dick. The matron punished me every day, by sending me to scrub the floors with my nails while wearing a black sack over my head. I grew increasingly terrified; I knew that when I turned sixteen, I'd be sent to a whorehouse to become a prostitute for old men.
A month after my sixteenth birthday, the matron informed me that I would have to become a whore to pay for my care. I refused, but she had me drugged with a large dose of valium. I was taken away in the middle of the night and dropped off at a brothel, where I was stripped and given a shower. The doctor that inspected my body declared that my genitals were useless. As the pimp shepherded me to my assigned bedroom, I heard women screaming from the nearby rooms, but the pimp said that it meant they were happy.
I wanted to cry out in rage at this universe that had stolen my life away, but instead of doing so, I injected myself with a lethal dose of horse tranquilizer. As I lay dead in a morgue, my mother visited me and told me that I was dead. After an awkward silence, she put her arms around me and added, "I'm very sorry that all of this had to happen to you, but now you'll have plenty of time to reflect on what you did wrong to deserve it."
My mother kept the promise of a small headstone on my grave to mark that I had existed. It read, 'Leire XXX. She lived only for herself, and died to prove that she didn't matter.' I had told them to write instead, 'Lived like a whore, died a free woman', but they hadn't listened.
I was never sad to die; I was never happy to live either. In the vacuum that remained, I became a drifting piece of nonsense floating in an infinite void.
The hard, sharp edges of many memories are carved into the skin of my chest, the rough ridges of a painful wound. Now I'm a miserable whore that has to keep working until death visits her again, but in between all the pain and sorrow and regret, at least someone in that putrid world out there will wait for me to rejoin her, and when I do, she'll wrap her arms around my rotten old self and suck the marrow from my bones.
Tonight I'll return to the transitory apartment for which I'm forced to pay, but tomorrow I'll go out on a date with my woman. Later on I'll sleep in a place that feels like a home. When my eyes open in the following morning, I will take in the face of the woman that I desired since I first saw her. My heart will beat in joy, my mouth will curl up in a smile. I'll gaze into those cobalt blues like a prisoner looking up at the sun for the first time after decades of confinement. I'll be moved, I'll be shaken, I'll be amazed. My pussy will get wet; I'll feel it throb and pulsate inside my panties.
The annoyance and loneliness of having to work overtime has become meaningful: it will free my mind from some of the pending tasks so I can think of Jacqueline that much more. No matter the nonsense that life slings at me, I can open up to my beloved, and she'll listen.
I wasn't a monster after all. I wasn't born from the dirt and the mud, or the darkest recess of a cave where demons live. I didn't emerge from an egg with a bloodied shell, nor was I formed from the decaying matter of a rotting corpse. It took nine months for a woman's body to grow my bones and flesh, and my birth wasn't conducted in the basement of some run-down, crumbling ruin, but in a hospital room. The mother was a human instead of some genetically engineered chimera created through an experiment that combined the cells of various animal species. I was a baby like anyone else: a daughter, a son, a sister, a brother. A human mother must have smiled down at me, kissed me, then fed me a mixture of warm milk and blood. I became a child who wanted to be held in the arms of a woman who would love me, who would cry over my grave.
---
Author's Note: as I mentioned in my previous update, I've been working on this scene for a good while. It was supposed to be at least twice as long, but when I woke up this morning I got the feeling that I could divide it into at least two chapters, because they would feel independent enough. Getting through the final iteration has proven that point, so here's the first part.
I've been listening to plenty of distinct stuff recently. Last year I listened to PUP's first five or so songs from their album 'Morbid Stuff' like a couple hundred times, and songs like 'See You At Your Funeral' are the reason why. Very down-to-earth fellow. I also love this song by Glass Animals. As I have done for literally twenty five years, I've returned to the only album in Spanish, my native language, that I have ever listened to repeatedly: Los Rodríguez's 'Palabras más, Palabras menos', due to songs like 'Diez años después', 'La puerta de al lado' and 'Todavía una canción de amor'. The whole album is timeless, though. I even dared to listen to Joanna Newsom's old stuff (whom I've long suspected to be autistic as well, not that she'd ever confirm it).
I think I went on enough in the update I've linked earlier about the recent nonsense I've had to deal with. I hope you enjoyed this one, Jen (namedropped out of nowhere!). No reason why you or anyone else would enjoy this chapter more than others; I just thought it would be fun to freak you out. Anyway, see you all later, bitches.
April 22, 2022
Life update (04/22/2022)
Link to this post on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I've been working on the latest chapter of my ongoing novel 'We're Fucked' for about a week. Maybe more, but I've also spent most of the last two weeks dazed, so I can't be sure.
Last Saturday I woke up at six in the morning to go to work. As I was traversing my city's dimly lit main street, some guy in his early twenties, with most of his head shaved except for a bun, crossed the road to my sidewalk. He was walking further ahead as he kept shouting to nobody, just to wake everyone up I guess. The only concrete utterance I recall was him yelling, "[This city] is a pile of shit!"
We were the only two people walking down main street at that hour, and when he noticed me, he turned towards me and said in a mocking tone something to the effect of, "hey you, I have a question", as if he was going to blame me for how terrible this city has become. Or maybe he intended to rob me. In any case, I quickened my pace as I ignored him. When that shithead realized that I wasn't going to pay attention to him, he followed me for a bit while calling me all sorts of names except pleasant ones. As I headed towards the train station, I turned a corner and lost him.
I agree that this city has turned into a cesspool, partially due to scum like that guy. I don't even want to get into the two rape attempts near my house (one real bloody), the break-ins (one attempt at my place, in the middle of the day), that time someone nearly broke a bottle on my head as I was reading in front of a coffee shop, etc. I would kill so many people if I could get away with it.
I don't drive; I'm such a maniac that I would likely crash the car deliberately or not in less than a week, so every workday I take a train to Donostia. After that shithead shouted insults at me, I got on my usual train car and tried to distract myself by reading some manga. I was thinking that with my luck, that son of a bitch was likely going to take this train as well. A couple of minutes later, a young guy with a partially shaved head and a bun entered my train car and sat down relatively close. I paid attention to him in case I would need to defend myself, but he was behaving normally, very unlike the hoodlum from before. A couple of stops later, another young guy with a partially shaved head and a bun got on the adjoined train car, so I figured that I must have come across three guys with the same douchey haircut in the same Saturday morning. Maybe that style has become popular for their particular demographic, but I wouldn't have had any reason to notice it until that morning.
Anyway, like last week, I've spent this one running around my hospital and having to talk to some of the doctors and nurses involved with about twenty five departments, because I was ordered to grab a tablet from each at a time, perform a factory reboot, configure it, test the apps that the medical staff use, and then return it. I couldn't browse the internet nor barely think in between each step of those tasks; configuring those tablets is a very involved process.
I had to visit the psychiatric building as part of my quest to fix all the tablets. I dislike walking into that place, because I always get the feeling that one of these days they won't let me leave. Anyway, the current nurse in charge of unlocking each door to let me into the B wing's staff room told me to go ahead on my own, because one of the nurses working inside that room would see me and open the locked door to let me in. The previous nurse left, locking me in the hallway of that wing, but turns out that the staff room was empty.
I ended up trapped in a hallway of that mental hospital during what seemed like rush hour (although I have no clue if they force the patients to stay inside their rooms at other times). I had the usual mumblers and babblers approach me to share their meaningless thoughts that their insanity didn't allow them to keep quiet. A teenage goth girl was sitting at a table near a corner of the hallway; I seem to recall that she was looking around anxiously, but on the table she had an open notebook and a book about vampires. I wish I had dated one of those when I was her age (or a bit older), honestly.
A short, middle-aged woman with grey hair approached me, looked up at my 6'1'' self and asked with a smile, "Are you an actor?" I considered not engaging, the same as with most of the others (I have more than enough dealing with my own craziness), but I answered, "Nope, just the computer guy."
Later on, when I survived the encounter, I reflected on her words and found them quite chilling. Hell, I am an actor with about thirty years of experience! A very proficient method actor, I'd say. Certainly much better as an actor than as an IT guy. But the crazy woman presumably didn't know that.
There was also this guy in his late twenties that they referred to as Hassan, who kept pacing up and down the hallway with a fiery look in his eyes. It wouldn't be the first so-called extremist that I've had the terrible displeasure of meeting, as I've been involved in the local systems of care for people with disabilities as an autistic person.
I don't know for sure if that guy was one or not, but I know that this country treats extreme religious fundamentalists, usually of the Islamic variety because they are the most murderous (overtly at least), as merely mentally ill and at risk of societal exclusion; therefore victims of the environment, their own brains or whatever. In a month-long course I was forced to attend so a center for people with disabilities would hook me up with a job trial (I ended up working for free as a programmer for six months, then they refused to hire me arguing that I wouldn't work well in a team), one of the students was a guy who admitted that he didn't have any disability, but he was as virulently fundamentalist of his particular Abrahamic curse as one can be without blowing himself and others up. He derailed every damn class by going on about how our society was rotten and we needed to convert to his religion. He got real nasty about it too. I would have sued the people who organized the course if I had the resources and/or thought that the effort would change anything for the better.
For me the most telling moment I recall from that course was a discussion in which a guy with some intellectual disability was asked if he would date a girl with a disability. He argued, very meekly, that he would rather not, because he already had serious trouble dealing with his own issues, and would prefer some support himself. A couple of women blasted him for his opinion, tagging him with a couple of -ists that, as intended, shamed and shut the guy up. The Islamist bastard spoke next, about how he went out every night to pursue girls in night clubs. "When women say no, what they really mean is yes." The same two women who had berated the previous guy now giggled at this creature's comments. For me it remains as one of many "we are utterly fucked as a civilization" moments that I've had to experience throughout my life.
How would the pre-Constantine Roman Empire have dealt with this? In a way that would have guaranteed their own survival, for sure. But the Christianized Romans eagerly opened the borders to foreign tribes because they were convinced that Christ would pacify them, and when Rome was sacked, the leading theologian/"thinker" of the time seemingly commented that Romans shouldn't care that Rome fell, because they should only be concerned about the survival of Jerusalem. I get so angry about this shit. Start your own god-fearing societal nightmare in another planet, you bunch of fucking cultists, and leave the rest of us in peace. On second thought, take the marxists with you too.
When that nurse that had locked me in that hallway reappeared and saw me standing there surrounded by crazier people, she apologized and ushered me into the staff room. The young nurse got real nervous; I guess she had fucked up bad, and if I was a tiny IT woman instead of a big guy eager for any excuse to destroy others physically, I could have gotten assaulted or molested or who knows what. Afterwards, this nurse made sure to follow me to another staff room on the opposite side of that floor, and then unlocked the exit so I could abandon that nightmarish place. I returned a couple of hours later, though. One of the babblers repeated, "Here's the computer guy again."
So much shit happens every day at a hospital that I'm well aware that any minor lapse of judgement could cause serious issues or even kill someone. One of the departments that I visit regularly killed a baby by mistake (this is a matter of public record, and there's a lawsuit pending). It seems that a recently graduated nurse injected the baby with a lethal dose of some drug. The following day one of her coworkers called our office partly attempting to blame us because the involuntarily murderous nurse had listed the dosages incorrectly in the program (grouping them by week or something like that), and she was too unexperienced and/or incompetent to realize what she was going to inject into that kid. We don't program that software, nor even have anything to do with explaining how to use it. It's one of the basic programs; it contains the databases of the medication that all patients must take, and they come preloaded in every PC and tablet hooked to the network.
As I've had to do plenty of other days, today I also entered the network closet located in the waiting room of that very department where the dead baby's parents must have received the news that a recently graduated nurse killed their spawn. I don't want to imagine that scene. I don't even want to remember many, many moments from my own life, but my brain bombards me with inopportune flashbacks regularly.
Anyway, my current contract has finally ended, so tomorrow I intend to finish the latest chapter and upload it. I can't wait to get rid of this one, honestly, because I get increasingly antsy when the days pass and I can't conclude one of these segments. Unfortunately, due to work nonsense, I've spent all afternoons so exhausted and dazed that each day I've barely managed to devote an hour and a half or two to write. My own personal standards have grown over the years, so I usually iterate on a piece until it feels memorable enough by itself; some refuse to flow properly for hours, sometimes days.
I'd love to say that now that I'm blissfully unemployed for about a couple of weeks (unless they call me in because one of my coworkers stubbed his toe or something), I'll be able to write from the moment I wake up until I collapse from exhaustion at night, but unfortunately I have to start studying for the next public examination. To keep working in the public sector I have to pass these exams every couple of years or so, until they hire me permanently, which will never happen because I can't speak Basque and I never will because I despise the fucking language (and to get half of the required certification, others have had to give up on reading or watching anything in any language other than Basque for about a year, and that would kill me, quite literally).
I'm also turning thirty seven in a few days, more than twice as old as I ever expected to become. I'm not happy about it, so to placate myself I've bought a few board games that will arrive soon enough. I picked 'Terraforming Mars: Ares Expedition', 'Marvel Champions' and the second edition of 'Pax Pamir', although now I wish I had picked instead the second edition of 'Pax Renaissance', but I had already paid. They seem to have really good solo modes. Leire can't fix her own shit enough to at least play through her pile of board games, but I have a better head on my shoulders than that dreadful wretch.
Why did I write this? Why did you read it? Who cares.
---
I've been working on the latest chapter of my ongoing novel 'We're Fucked' for about a week. Maybe more, but I've also spent most of the last two weeks dazed, so I can't be sure.
Last Saturday I woke up at six in the morning to go to work. As I was traversing my city's dimly lit main street, some guy in his early twenties, with most of his head shaved except for a bun, crossed the road to my sidewalk. He was walking further ahead as he kept shouting to nobody, just to wake everyone up I guess. The only concrete utterance I recall was him yelling, "[This city] is a pile of shit!"
We were the only two people walking down main street at that hour, and when he noticed me, he turned towards me and said in a mocking tone something to the effect of, "hey you, I have a question", as if he was going to blame me for how terrible this city has become. Or maybe he intended to rob me. In any case, I quickened my pace as I ignored him. When that shithead realized that I wasn't going to pay attention to him, he followed me for a bit while calling me all sorts of names except pleasant ones. As I headed towards the train station, I turned a corner and lost him.
I agree that this city has turned into a cesspool, partially due to scum like that guy. I don't even want to get into the two rape attempts near my house (one real bloody), the break-ins (one attempt at my place, in the middle of the day), that time someone nearly broke a bottle on my head as I was reading in front of a coffee shop, etc. I would kill so many people if I could get away with it.
I don't drive; I'm such a maniac that I would likely crash the car deliberately or not in less than a week, so every workday I take a train to Donostia. After that shithead shouted insults at me, I got on my usual train car and tried to distract myself by reading some manga. I was thinking that with my luck, that son of a bitch was likely going to take this train as well. A couple of minutes later, a young guy with a partially shaved head and a bun entered my train car and sat down relatively close. I paid attention to him in case I would need to defend myself, but he was behaving normally, very unlike the hoodlum from before. A couple of stops later, another young guy with a partially shaved head and a bun got on the adjoined train car, so I figured that I must have come across three guys with the same douchey haircut in the same Saturday morning. Maybe that style has become popular for their particular demographic, but I wouldn't have had any reason to notice it until that morning.
Anyway, like last week, I've spent this one running around my hospital and having to talk to some of the doctors and nurses involved with about twenty five departments, because I was ordered to grab a tablet from each at a time, perform a factory reboot, configure it, test the apps that the medical staff use, and then return it. I couldn't browse the internet nor barely think in between each step of those tasks; configuring those tablets is a very involved process.
I had to visit the psychiatric building as part of my quest to fix all the tablets. I dislike walking into that place, because I always get the feeling that one of these days they won't let me leave. Anyway, the current nurse in charge of unlocking each door to let me into the B wing's staff room told me to go ahead on my own, because one of the nurses working inside that room would see me and open the locked door to let me in. The previous nurse left, locking me in the hallway of that wing, but turns out that the staff room was empty.
I ended up trapped in a hallway of that mental hospital during what seemed like rush hour (although I have no clue if they force the patients to stay inside their rooms at other times). I had the usual mumblers and babblers approach me to share their meaningless thoughts that their insanity didn't allow them to keep quiet. A teenage goth girl was sitting at a table near a corner of the hallway; I seem to recall that she was looking around anxiously, but on the table she had an open notebook and a book about vampires. I wish I had dated one of those when I was her age (or a bit older), honestly.
A short, middle-aged woman with grey hair approached me, looked up at my 6'1'' self and asked with a smile, "Are you an actor?" I considered not engaging, the same as with most of the others (I have more than enough dealing with my own craziness), but I answered, "Nope, just the computer guy."
Later on, when I survived the encounter, I reflected on her words and found them quite chilling. Hell, I am an actor with about thirty years of experience! A very proficient method actor, I'd say. Certainly much better as an actor than as an IT guy. But the crazy woman presumably didn't know that.
There was also this guy in his late twenties that they referred to as Hassan, who kept pacing up and down the hallway with a fiery look in his eyes. It wouldn't be the first so-called extremist that I've had the terrible displeasure of meeting, as I've been involved in the local systems of care for people with disabilities as an autistic person.
I don't know for sure if that guy was one or not, but I know that this country treats extreme religious fundamentalists, usually of the Islamic variety because they are the most murderous (overtly at least), as merely mentally ill and at risk of societal exclusion; therefore victims of the environment, their own brains or whatever. In a month-long course I was forced to attend so a center for people with disabilities would hook me up with a job trial (I ended up working for free as a programmer for six months, then they refused to hire me arguing that I wouldn't work well in a team), one of the students was a guy who admitted that he didn't have any disability, but he was as virulently fundamentalist of his particular Abrahamic curse as one can be without blowing himself and others up. He derailed every damn class by going on about how our society was rotten and we needed to convert to his religion. He got real nasty about it too. I would have sued the people who organized the course if I had the resources and/or thought that the effort would change anything for the better.
For me the most telling moment I recall from that course was a discussion in which a guy with some intellectual disability was asked if he would date a girl with a disability. He argued, very meekly, that he would rather not, because he already had serious trouble dealing with his own issues, and would prefer some support himself. A couple of women blasted him for his opinion, tagging him with a couple of -ists that, as intended, shamed and shut the guy up. The Islamist bastard spoke next, about how he went out every night to pursue girls in night clubs. "When women say no, what they really mean is yes." The same two women who had berated the previous guy now giggled at this creature's comments. For me it remains as one of many "we are utterly fucked as a civilization" moments that I've had to experience throughout my life.
How would the pre-Constantine Roman Empire have dealt with this? In a way that would have guaranteed their own survival, for sure. But the Christianized Romans eagerly opened the borders to foreign tribes because they were convinced that Christ would pacify them, and when Rome was sacked, the leading theologian/"thinker" of the time seemingly commented that Romans shouldn't care that Rome fell, because they should only be concerned about the survival of Jerusalem. I get so angry about this shit. Start your own god-fearing societal nightmare in another planet, you bunch of fucking cultists, and leave the rest of us in peace. On second thought, take the marxists with you too.
When that nurse that had locked me in that hallway reappeared and saw me standing there surrounded by crazier people, she apologized and ushered me into the staff room. The young nurse got real nervous; I guess she had fucked up bad, and if I was a tiny IT woman instead of a big guy eager for any excuse to destroy others physically, I could have gotten assaulted or molested or who knows what. Afterwards, this nurse made sure to follow me to another staff room on the opposite side of that floor, and then unlocked the exit so I could abandon that nightmarish place. I returned a couple of hours later, though. One of the babblers repeated, "Here's the computer guy again."
So much shit happens every day at a hospital that I'm well aware that any minor lapse of judgement could cause serious issues or even kill someone. One of the departments that I visit regularly killed a baby by mistake (this is a matter of public record, and there's a lawsuit pending). It seems that a recently graduated nurse injected the baby with a lethal dose of some drug. The following day one of her coworkers called our office partly attempting to blame us because the involuntarily murderous nurse had listed the dosages incorrectly in the program (grouping them by week or something like that), and she was too unexperienced and/or incompetent to realize what she was going to inject into that kid. We don't program that software, nor even have anything to do with explaining how to use it. It's one of the basic programs; it contains the databases of the medication that all patients must take, and they come preloaded in every PC and tablet hooked to the network.
As I've had to do plenty of other days, today I also entered the network closet located in the waiting room of that very department where the dead baby's parents must have received the news that a recently graduated nurse killed their spawn. I don't want to imagine that scene. I don't even want to remember many, many moments from my own life, but my brain bombards me with inopportune flashbacks regularly.
Anyway, my current contract has finally ended, so tomorrow I intend to finish the latest chapter and upload it. I can't wait to get rid of this one, honestly, because I get increasingly antsy when the days pass and I can't conclude one of these segments. Unfortunately, due to work nonsense, I've spent all afternoons so exhausted and dazed that each day I've barely managed to devote an hour and a half or two to write. My own personal standards have grown over the years, so I usually iterate on a piece until it feels memorable enough by itself; some refuse to flow properly for hours, sometimes days.
I'd love to say that now that I'm blissfully unemployed for about a couple of weeks (unless they call me in because one of my coworkers stubbed his toe or something), I'll be able to write from the moment I wake up until I collapse from exhaustion at night, but unfortunately I have to start studying for the next public examination. To keep working in the public sector I have to pass these exams every couple of years or so, until they hire me permanently, which will never happen because I can't speak Basque and I never will because I despise the fucking language (and to get half of the required certification, others have had to give up on reading or watching anything in any language other than Basque for about a year, and that would kill me, quite literally).
I'm also turning thirty seven in a few days, more than twice as old as I ever expected to become. I'm not happy about it, so to placate myself I've bought a few board games that will arrive soon enough. I picked 'Terraforming Mars: Ares Expedition', 'Marvel Champions' and the second edition of 'Pax Pamir', although now I wish I had picked instead the second edition of 'Pax Renaissance', but I had already paid. They seem to have really good solo modes. Leire can't fix her own shit enough to at least play through her pile of board games, but I have a better head on my shoulders than that dreadful wretch.
Why did I write this? Why did you read it? Who cares.
April 19, 2022
A Hedgehog's Advantage (Poetry)
Link to this poem on my personal page, where it looks better
---
---
Throughout these pointless thirty six years of my life,
I've been amused by the strange dance people engage in
When they take a passing interest in shitty old me.
The more they know me, the more they twist their minds
To figure out how their frameworks can wrap around
The prickly, festering spherule that I represent.
Their picture of me is a mirage they conjured up
Of a prisoner who willingly keeps the world outside.
Some believe they can fix me through their efforts,
Some create elaborate fantasies to find me worthy.
So much energy wasted in hopeless endeavours
When they all get sick of me in the end.
Narcissists who want to bring me out of my shell
To gloat in their own virtue towards their inferiors,
Brainwashed social workers for whom I'm a good boy
Because I fit one of their protected categories,
Aging mommy types for whom the world is divided
Into vulnerable kids and threats to kids
(But who won't offer me their tits to suck on),
Dutiful servants of a made-up god
Eager to propagate their Abrahamic curse
(Western civilization died with Rome).
The more they know me, the more they loathe themselves.
The more they know me, the more I despise them.
They wish me to vanish from their lives,
I wish them to be erased from the face of the earth.
I'm chained to this physical frame
That I didn't choose nor identify with
(A living corpse, a lump of organic waste),
And to keep it breathing and moving,
I've had to tether myself to others,
But in my mind I've always been alone.
I've survived on my own until now,
I'll survive on my own until I die.
Through my misguided attempts at love I learned
That nothing could fill this cannonball-sized hole.
I'm a mentally ill junkie
Constantly aching for my next fix.
I'm a suicidal wannabe
Machine-gunning serial killer.
I was born to spread rot
Upon this ruinous world.
To feel okay for a single moment,
I'll betray or abuse whoever needs to fall.
I hate my mother who killed me.
I loathe my father who should have.
There's no point in any of it;
I've seen all the stars
And they're just holes.
No life before my birth,
No life after my death.
In between there's only me
In an endless stream of pain.
If anything I do, say or write
Bothers you enough to care,
Please, do me a huge favor
And go to hell.
April 14, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 42 (Fiction)
Link to this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The scents of jasmine and rose petals are wafting from the adjoined bathroom. Jacqueline has turned off the light, but candles are burning in crystal bowls at each corner of the bathtub. They are casting flickering shadows on Jacqueline's body, highlighting her nakedness with a golden hue, accentuating the translucence of her pale skin, as she soaks in steaming bathwater. The upper half of her thick breasts is floating like a pair of fleshy icebergs, and her peachy-pink areolas are two round lollipops.
My beloved is dripping scented gel on her bare chest with one hand as her other one smears the oily substance slowly in circular motions. Her queenly face is relaxed. Her wet hair hangs loose like a waterfall of polished obsidian. Half-lit by the candles, her cobalt blues are sparkling as if painted with stars.
"Hey, baby," she says mellifluously in her soft French accent. "I hope you are feeling better."
Jacqueline looks like a living sculpture, an angel descended on Earth just to torment me with lust. My heart is pounding like a crazy drummer, my crotch is aching with need.
"I'm hungrier now," I answer huskily. "I want to rip your tits out with my teeth. But this doesn't look like a shower scene."
Jacqueline, as she continues soaping herself gently, narrows her eyes and smirks.
"I figured that I could splurge on a full bath with my ravenous baby girl. So get in quick. Let me take care of you."
Her sultry voice makes every nerve ending in my body prickle.
"I-I hope you accounted for Archimedes' principle..."
Jacqueline's gaze roams all over my torso as I take off the tank top I grabbed from her spare bedroom. The leggings are sticking to my legs, and refuse to come off easily even as I push them with both hands. Once I'm holding my panties, I give them a good sniff until I remember that I'm not alone, then I toss them aside.
Jacqueline's bare knees emerge from the water as she spreads her legs apart. I catch a glimpse of the tuft between her thighs.
I climb into the tub, then I lower my ass carefully into Jacqueline's lap. The warm, silky smooth water feels wonderful against my sore muscles, although I wish it could wash away the shameful mess inside my head.
Jacqueline wraps her arms around me and pulls me tight against her chest, pressing our bare skins against one another. I melt into her embrace. I'm resting on the world's most comfortable pillows, except for the two hard nubs digging into my back.
My skin tingles all over. The scents of jasmine and rose petals have enveloped me, making me drowsy. I close my eyes and let out a contented sigh.
"I want to eat you like an apple," Jacqueline whispers, then she nibbles on my left earlobe. "But I also want to eat you like a taco."
"Eat me however you want, or whenever for that matter."
Her fingers trace over my ribs and hips.
"You've worked hard, you deserve this. Don't you feel much better now?"
I'm reluctant to admit it. It feels unfair to do so.
"In the same way I would feel relief after someone stopped punching me in the face."
"Except that exercise will improve your life. Sure, it can bust your knees if you are sloppy with your form. But apart from that, your body will thank you for your effort."
I consider telling her that such workout sessions will improve my life: by killing me. But the hot water and her warm body have turned the tub into a comfortable womb.
"I'll have to trust you on that, but I'm so weak that I almost died from drinking a glass of water. It will take me a while to recover from the ordeal."
Jacqueline chuckles softly. Her nose tickles my neck as she nuzzles into it.
"One of the rewards about exercising with you will be smelling this sweat on your skin. And some other day we'll just lay towels over the bed and get busy with each other right after the workout. Wouldn't you want to lick the sweat clean off from all over my body?"
I caress the hot skin of her calves.
"You are telling me about smells... Yours is so good that I risk turning wild, an animal that only wishes to bury itself deep inside your warm cunt. In turn, once you spout your hot load on my face, you'll be the one to smell the result of my labor."
Jacqueline's laughter fills the bathroom while her breasts jiggle against my back. When she responds, her breath has turned heavier and her voice has a dreamy edge.
"Tell me, how would you describe my smell?"
I lean back and take a deep whiff of Jacqueline's throat.
"It's summer, green grass and freshly-cut flowers. It makes me imagine myself living in a world of a myriad of colors and eternal sun. You're an old school rose that has survived a terrible storm, but has kept all its beauty and charm."
She hugs me tight.
"My my, I thought the workout routine had wrung you dry."
"I haven't exercised my mouth except through talking."
"Also, you were mostly describing the shampoo." I feel her quickened heartbeats, but her voice sounds sober as she whispers in my ear. "I only intend to make you healthier and stronger. You know that, right?"
"That's the only thing you intend...?" I ask roguishly.
Jacqueline giggles. Her hands slide down my hips and grope at my thighs.
"Well, I'm going to turn you into an unrecognizable beast, one that will be able to survive in the jungle of our bedroom. I will teach you how to live and thrive in there."
"Good. I was already thinking of thriving in your jungle."
"We're on the same page, then. So please, don't give up."
I can't compute how much Jacqueline must have grown to care about me. Just how many hours does she plan on diverting from her far more valuable self to improve a woman-shaped monster?
"I-I feel like it's always about my weaknesses," I complain in a guilty tone. "Let's talk about you instead, Jacqueline! What do you even do at the office? You have Excel open most of the time, but I have no clue what you put in there."
Jacqueline sighs.
"If I were to explain my job, you would find me more boring than you could ever imagine. There are no thrills, no dangers involved. My coworkers are nice, though."
"Alright... Tell me about how you went into sex work."
Jacqueline freezes.
"It's not really that much fun to talk about," she finally says.
I reach back to stroke her cheek with the pad of my thumb.
"It doesn't have to be fun. And I'm interested in everything about you, Jacqueline. You can just let it flow out."
I can tell she's smiling because that side of her mouth has contracted against my hand.
"Well, it's mostly complicated, and I can't figure out how to explain myself to you. One day you will understand why. That I can promise."
I interlace my fingers with hers, then I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
"When you are ready to open up, I will help you walk through that jungle, just like you do for me."
Jacqueline relaxes. I hear her gulp down, then take a deep breath.
"Anyway, it's about time I clean you up," she says gratefully.
Her breasts push me forward as she reaches for a shampoo bottle at the edge of the tub. She squirts the liquid into my hair, then she slides both hands in to rub the shampoo into my scalp. I close my eyes and concentrate on the tingles that her kneading fingers are providing.
A sudden memory from childhood pops up into my mind. As a kid wracked by nightmares, my mom would wake me up and rub me down with an icy-cold washcloth. I had begged her to stop rubbing me with her fingers, because they felt as rough as the prickly surface of a cactus. Once I calmed down, she told me to go back to sleep. Half an hour or so later, if I dared to open my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom, I could make out the dim contours of my mother as she sat silently in a chair beside my bed. I always woke up with a chill on my skin and a sour taste on my tongue. I knew that if I had let her, she would have rubbed me down every night of my life until I got old. I would have grown accustomed to her cold washcloth and prickly fingers.
Jacqueline's hands won't leave any marks on my skin. They won't leave me cold and trembling. They will instead make me warm all over, dry away every drop of sadness I've carried inside me, and burn a trail of flames between my thighs.
My beloved grabs the plastic bottle of shower gel. Once the lather has covered her hands, she begins working them on my neck and shoulders. She massages my facial features with gentle strokes of her fingertips. She slides her hands down my arms, soaping them up. She asks me to bend over, then she starts spreading the gel all over my back. Her fingers slide into my ass crack and massage me there.
I'm getting drowsier. I'd love to slip under into dreamland and let my girlfriend figure out how to carry me to bed from the tub.
Jacqueline's arms wrap around my sides to cup my breasts. I flinch and let out a surprised gasp.
"What?" she breathes in my ear as her fingers knead my tit-flesh. "Don't you like me fondling this pair of beauties?"
"Maybe it's just the opposite..."
She rubs my nipples until they harden to a point that almost hurts. I'm biting my lower lip and shuddering. Jacqueline squeezes my tits together, lifts them with a gentle motion, then focuses on lathering them until they are slick.
I'm breathing deeply through my mouth and remaining still; Jacqueline should play with my body however she sees fit.
Her hands slide down my torso trailing her fingertips along my sunken abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"You're as thin as a starved pig," Jacqueline says languidly.
"I admit that my body lacks the layers of fat required to keep warm, but did you need to compare me to a pig? Couldn't you say that I'm as thin as a ghost?"
"I won't compare you to dead things."
I sigh.
"Anyway, it's because I only ever eat sandwiches at the office. But my taste buds play a game of cat and mouse with the flavors of mayonnaise and ham as I go about devouring the stuff."
Jacqueline chuckles.
"Aren't you afraid that you might become as truly emaciated as a starved pig?"
Although I laugh, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the ocean that stretches for miles and miles and miles below me. The only thing that can prevent my plummet into the abyss is the strength of the rope that Jacqueline has tied around my waist.
"Before that happens," I answer calmly, "I'll eat you up."
"You may as well. I can't have you wasting away from lack of proper nourishment, can I? If you fail to eat properly with your mouth, I'll have to force feed you with my own."
After I shiver from head to toe, I squeeze my thighs together.
"You know, I might accept that kind of punishment."
Jacqueline's right hand stops at my belly button, and her index finger explores it like a wet, burrowing tongue. While I squirm, a moan escapes my mouth. I get as embarrassed as if I had burped in front of a crowd.
"So you have two sensitive little buttons, huh?" Jacqueline purrs, then she turns my head towards hers and presses her lips to mine.
My waterlogged labia must be oozing with juices. I can't wait for Jacqueline's right hand to slide between my thighs, for her fingers to make circles around the entrance of my pussy, pressing ever so lightly onto my clit as she works a digit inside me. I can almost feel my vagina tightening and spasming around the intruder.
When Jacqueline's tongue leaves my mouth, I want to cry like a baby that has dropped her pacifier.
"You have such a lovely body, little piggy," Jacqueline whispers as her cobalt blues hold my eyes in place. "But enough eroticism. You need a good scrub."
My mind's gone woozy; I can barely tell what's happening except that my girlfriend is scrubbing my skin with a sponge. The bath has reduced my pain so much that it seems almost inconceivable that twenty minutes ago I was writhing on the floor while moaning in agony.
Jacqueline turns on the shower, and begins washing my hair with the handheld head.
"Aah! You are a goddess!" I mumble against the spray of water.
She giggles as she sluices some of my hair over my shoulder.
"Are you talking to me or to the shower?"
The warm stream cascades down my face like a blessing from the heavens.
"You are the goddess of mercy, for I was dying of boredom until you came along. Also, you smell like the sea, or like the ocean itself."
"Now you're losing it, not that I mind it. But the ocean is a place filled with sorrow, isn't it? With the sadness of those who have drowned in it."
I can see them, as well as the currents that have claimed their lives. Their bodies are sinking to the ocean floor, and all the while their arms are trying to grab on to anything they can. But the ocean's scent is the reason that at times I can feel at peace. Whenever I step into its waters, my mind gets washed and cleansed from all the grime and muck that the world deposits on it every day. That's why I always wear my bathing suit on. Meanwhile, other lost souls float on the waves, their corpses rocking against the surface like empty plastic bags.
Thoroughly rinsed, the both of us step out of the bathtub. We get busy drying each other with fluffy towels while the water drains. The pleasant sensation of being so clean has made me all warm and fuzzy.
Jacqueline unhooks a white robe. I thought she would hide her nakedness with it, but she lets the garment hang from her shoulders all the way down to her ankles. The fabric slides off the sides of her jutting breasts. Her twin teats are pointing defiantly at me, as if questioning why I am gawking at them instead of latching on.
I snap out of my trance; Jacqueline has lifted my chin with an index finger. I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Jacqueline, you are more beautiful than all the paintings in the world combined."
"Truly? Don't I have the barren body of an old lady with sagging tits? Aren't you sad you fell for a woman of my age?"
"No way! You are Aphrodite incarnate."
Her long lashes flutter, and a gentle smile adorns her lips.
"She wasn't the goddess of mercy, was she?" Jacqueline sighs. "I swear, nobody loves breasts more than you do. Let's go to bed, Leire."
I want her to pick me up in her arms and carry me, but instead she holds my hand and guides me out of the bathroom into her bedroom, which I'd prefer to consider ours. The space is dimly illuminated by the moonlight that comes through the windows and the balcony door. Jacqueline lets go of my hand and sits down on the mattress. As she shifts further up towards the headboard, the way her breasts bounce sends a wave of warmth through me.
Jacqueline spreads her legs, displaying her pubic hair. It's dark, thick and silky. A stiff cock juts out from between her thighs. The mushroom head glistens with pre-cum. I blink and the cock is gone.
I imagine a purple butterfly spreading its wings from that smooth bush to make a splash of color against the pale skin of her belly.
Jacqueline pats the mattress next to her.
"Come here and give mommy a big hug," she beckons me sultrily.
A sigh escapes out of me, and with it, for a brief moment, all the troubles in my life.
I climb onto the bed. The scents of soap and shampoo and Jacqueline's own womanly musk envelop me. I lower my face to rest it on her belly. It feels hot, familiar; the center of an oven where bread dough rises.
Maybe a couple of minutes later, I shift my body up until I'm lying down beside Jacqueline, who wraps an arm around my shoulder to pull me closer.
My free hand slips down her torso to her pubes, then I venture further until I find the soft mound between her legs. I stroke the length of her silky labia. I tease them open with my fingertips. An intense heat emanates from her folds, so hot that I wish it would burn through my flesh. When I sink two fingers inside her pussy, they get swallowed whole in a velvety sea.
I need to nuzzle against Jacqueline's wetness and inhale deeply as if savoring a fine wine. I need to lap up the juices that'll dribble down her inner thighs, down to the last drop.
Jacqueline clenches her thighs together, then she closes a hand around the biceps of my free arm.
"Not now, baby," she whispers.
Her words paralyze me. My remaining strength leaves my body. Has she finally gotten sick of getting touched by my slimy self?
Jacqueline tugs on my arm gently so my fingers slip out of her insides, then she embraces me tightly and cups my head against her neck. Our bodies are pressed together from chest to belly button.
As I sink into Jacqueline's arms, I listen to the beat of her heart. Her sweet scent permeates my nose and fills my lungs. My eyes are growing heavy, and I let them flutter shut.
Right now I could use a blinding orgasm, one that would leave me panting, one that would erase everything that's happened in my life. But this warmth feels real good too.
---
Author's note: putting this chapter together has taken me an absurd amount of time in comparison with recent others. Throughout, instead of Japanese shoegaze, I've been listening to some of my favorite songs from 20-25 years ago. Songs like:
-Modest Mouse's 'Baby Blue Sedan', that, if I recall correctly, references in part Bukowski's 'Ham on Rye', my favorite book of his.
-Modest Mouse's '3rd Planet', the song that launches Brock's best album. That one remains for me one of the best breakup albums ever.
-Modest Mouse's 'Edit the Sad Parts'. This song has a special significance for me: it became the main theme song for my beloved previous novel ('My Own Desert Places'; I guess there's no harm in some self-promotion). The whole process of pushing that novel out feels now like a strange dream. I retain more vivid memories from the events in that novel than from real-life memories, and some of those moments from the novel still hurt like a bitch (I miss you, A.).
-Weezer's 'Across the Sea'. This one is unique, heartfelt, and very near and dear to my heart.
-Weezer's 'Only in Dreams', one of their best songs, particularly the final four minutes.
This last Monday I started a new contract at my usual hospital. They were in the middle of updating tablets for several buildings and virtually every medical department, so I ended up visiting I don't know how many departments, chatting enough with the local nurses and supervisors so they would cooperate, then configuring the tablets from zero, testing them and returning them back to their departments. As if that nonsense hadn't been enough, these last three days we've also dealt with three big issues that required further hours of nonsense: two lying users that didn't want to admit they had messed with a core PC in Pharmacy; a busted router in another hospital on the other side of town that the guys from HQ wanted us to go and check, although it was entirely their problem, and had already planned on sending their guy anyway; and a monitoring center in the ICU that stopped working, and that the locals also intended to turn into our problem although we couldn't do anything about it.
I only tolerate my job there because I'm not employed full-time; for example, this time they've only hired me for a couple of weeks. When I'm unemployed, I can't leave my place for more than an hour before my anxiety requires me to return home immediately, and I simply don't speak in person with other human beings that aren't providing a service. But in three days at my job I've ended up having to deal with twenty or so new people, interactions that provide me nothing but anxiety and general despair, given that I have to act my way through all of that; incidentally, acting was the only activity I remember fondly from my schooling years. I also do it all the time when I write. But as an autistic person living a non-autistic-oriented life, you either learn how to act or you don't survive. I can't simply be myself, because people don't tolerate when you remain quiet and refuse to look them in the eye.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you haven't, well, does it truly make any difference to me? Probably not.
---
The scents of jasmine and rose petals are wafting from the adjoined bathroom. Jacqueline has turned off the light, but candles are burning in crystal bowls at each corner of the bathtub. They are casting flickering shadows on Jacqueline's body, highlighting her nakedness with a golden hue, accentuating the translucence of her pale skin, as she soaks in steaming bathwater. The upper half of her thick breasts is floating like a pair of fleshy icebergs, and her peachy-pink areolas are two round lollipops.
My beloved is dripping scented gel on her bare chest with one hand as her other one smears the oily substance slowly in circular motions. Her queenly face is relaxed. Her wet hair hangs loose like a waterfall of polished obsidian. Half-lit by the candles, her cobalt blues are sparkling as if painted with stars.
"Hey, baby," she says mellifluously in her soft French accent. "I hope you are feeling better."
Jacqueline looks like a living sculpture, an angel descended on Earth just to torment me with lust. My heart is pounding like a crazy drummer, my crotch is aching with need.
"I'm hungrier now," I answer huskily. "I want to rip your tits out with my teeth. But this doesn't look like a shower scene."
Jacqueline, as she continues soaping herself gently, narrows her eyes and smirks.
"I figured that I could splurge on a full bath with my ravenous baby girl. So get in quick. Let me take care of you."
Her sultry voice makes every nerve ending in my body prickle.
"I-I hope you accounted for Archimedes' principle..."
Jacqueline's gaze roams all over my torso as I take off the tank top I grabbed from her spare bedroom. The leggings are sticking to my legs, and refuse to come off easily even as I push them with both hands. Once I'm holding my panties, I give them a good sniff until I remember that I'm not alone, then I toss them aside.
Jacqueline's bare knees emerge from the water as she spreads her legs apart. I catch a glimpse of the tuft between her thighs.
I climb into the tub, then I lower my ass carefully into Jacqueline's lap. The warm, silky smooth water feels wonderful against my sore muscles, although I wish it could wash away the shameful mess inside my head.
Jacqueline wraps her arms around me and pulls me tight against her chest, pressing our bare skins against one another. I melt into her embrace. I'm resting on the world's most comfortable pillows, except for the two hard nubs digging into my back.
My skin tingles all over. The scents of jasmine and rose petals have enveloped me, making me drowsy. I close my eyes and let out a contented sigh.
"I want to eat you like an apple," Jacqueline whispers, then she nibbles on my left earlobe. "But I also want to eat you like a taco."
"Eat me however you want, or whenever for that matter."
Her fingers trace over my ribs and hips.
"You've worked hard, you deserve this. Don't you feel much better now?"
I'm reluctant to admit it. It feels unfair to do so.
"In the same way I would feel relief after someone stopped punching me in the face."
"Except that exercise will improve your life. Sure, it can bust your knees if you are sloppy with your form. But apart from that, your body will thank you for your effort."
I consider telling her that such workout sessions will improve my life: by killing me. But the hot water and her warm body have turned the tub into a comfortable womb.
"I'll have to trust you on that, but I'm so weak that I almost died from drinking a glass of water. It will take me a while to recover from the ordeal."
Jacqueline chuckles softly. Her nose tickles my neck as she nuzzles into it.
"One of the rewards about exercising with you will be smelling this sweat on your skin. And some other day we'll just lay towels over the bed and get busy with each other right after the workout. Wouldn't you want to lick the sweat clean off from all over my body?"
I caress the hot skin of her calves.
"You are telling me about smells... Yours is so good that I risk turning wild, an animal that only wishes to bury itself deep inside your warm cunt. In turn, once you spout your hot load on my face, you'll be the one to smell the result of my labor."
Jacqueline's laughter fills the bathroom while her breasts jiggle against my back. When she responds, her breath has turned heavier and her voice has a dreamy edge.
"Tell me, how would you describe my smell?"
I lean back and take a deep whiff of Jacqueline's throat.
"It's summer, green grass and freshly-cut flowers. It makes me imagine myself living in a world of a myriad of colors and eternal sun. You're an old school rose that has survived a terrible storm, but has kept all its beauty and charm."
She hugs me tight.
"My my, I thought the workout routine had wrung you dry."
"I haven't exercised my mouth except through talking."
"Also, you were mostly describing the shampoo." I feel her quickened heartbeats, but her voice sounds sober as she whispers in my ear. "I only intend to make you healthier and stronger. You know that, right?"
"That's the only thing you intend...?" I ask roguishly.
Jacqueline giggles. Her hands slide down my hips and grope at my thighs.
"Well, I'm going to turn you into an unrecognizable beast, one that will be able to survive in the jungle of our bedroom. I will teach you how to live and thrive in there."
"Good. I was already thinking of thriving in your jungle."
"We're on the same page, then. So please, don't give up."
I can't compute how much Jacqueline must have grown to care about me. Just how many hours does she plan on diverting from her far more valuable self to improve a woman-shaped monster?
"I-I feel like it's always about my weaknesses," I complain in a guilty tone. "Let's talk about you instead, Jacqueline! What do you even do at the office? You have Excel open most of the time, but I have no clue what you put in there."
Jacqueline sighs.
"If I were to explain my job, you would find me more boring than you could ever imagine. There are no thrills, no dangers involved. My coworkers are nice, though."
"Alright... Tell me about how you went into sex work."
Jacqueline freezes.
"It's not really that much fun to talk about," she finally says.
I reach back to stroke her cheek with the pad of my thumb.
"It doesn't have to be fun. And I'm interested in everything about you, Jacqueline. You can just let it flow out."
I can tell she's smiling because that side of her mouth has contracted against my hand.
"Well, it's mostly complicated, and I can't figure out how to explain myself to you. One day you will understand why. That I can promise."
I interlace my fingers with hers, then I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
"When you are ready to open up, I will help you walk through that jungle, just like you do for me."
Jacqueline relaxes. I hear her gulp down, then take a deep breath.
"Anyway, it's about time I clean you up," she says gratefully.
Her breasts push me forward as she reaches for a shampoo bottle at the edge of the tub. She squirts the liquid into my hair, then she slides both hands in to rub the shampoo into my scalp. I close my eyes and concentrate on the tingles that her kneading fingers are providing.
A sudden memory from childhood pops up into my mind. As a kid wracked by nightmares, my mom would wake me up and rub me down with an icy-cold washcloth. I had begged her to stop rubbing me with her fingers, because they felt as rough as the prickly surface of a cactus. Once I calmed down, she told me to go back to sleep. Half an hour or so later, if I dared to open my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom, I could make out the dim contours of my mother as she sat silently in a chair beside my bed. I always woke up with a chill on my skin and a sour taste on my tongue. I knew that if I had let her, she would have rubbed me down every night of my life until I got old. I would have grown accustomed to her cold washcloth and prickly fingers.
Jacqueline's hands won't leave any marks on my skin. They won't leave me cold and trembling. They will instead make me warm all over, dry away every drop of sadness I've carried inside me, and burn a trail of flames between my thighs.
My beloved grabs the plastic bottle of shower gel. Once the lather has covered her hands, she begins working them on my neck and shoulders. She massages my facial features with gentle strokes of her fingertips. She slides her hands down my arms, soaping them up. She asks me to bend over, then she starts spreading the gel all over my back. Her fingers slide into my ass crack and massage me there.
I'm getting drowsier. I'd love to slip under into dreamland and let my girlfriend figure out how to carry me to bed from the tub.
Jacqueline's arms wrap around my sides to cup my breasts. I flinch and let out a surprised gasp.
"What?" she breathes in my ear as her fingers knead my tit-flesh. "Don't you like me fondling this pair of beauties?"
"Maybe it's just the opposite..."
She rubs my nipples until they harden to a point that almost hurts. I'm biting my lower lip and shuddering. Jacqueline squeezes my tits together, lifts them with a gentle motion, then focuses on lathering them until they are slick.
I'm breathing deeply through my mouth and remaining still; Jacqueline should play with my body however she sees fit.
Her hands slide down my torso trailing her fingertips along my sunken abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"You're as thin as a starved pig," Jacqueline says languidly.
"I admit that my body lacks the layers of fat required to keep warm, but did you need to compare me to a pig? Couldn't you say that I'm as thin as a ghost?"
"I won't compare you to dead things."
I sigh.
"Anyway, it's because I only ever eat sandwiches at the office. But my taste buds play a game of cat and mouse with the flavors of mayonnaise and ham as I go about devouring the stuff."
Jacqueline chuckles.
"Aren't you afraid that you might become as truly emaciated as a starved pig?"
Although I laugh, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the ocean that stretches for miles and miles and miles below me. The only thing that can prevent my plummet into the abyss is the strength of the rope that Jacqueline has tied around my waist.
"Before that happens," I answer calmly, "I'll eat you up."
"You may as well. I can't have you wasting away from lack of proper nourishment, can I? If you fail to eat properly with your mouth, I'll have to force feed you with my own."
After I shiver from head to toe, I squeeze my thighs together.
"You know, I might accept that kind of punishment."
Jacqueline's right hand stops at my belly button, and her index finger explores it like a wet, burrowing tongue. While I squirm, a moan escapes my mouth. I get as embarrassed as if I had burped in front of a crowd.
"So you have two sensitive little buttons, huh?" Jacqueline purrs, then she turns my head towards hers and presses her lips to mine.
My waterlogged labia must be oozing with juices. I can't wait for Jacqueline's right hand to slide between my thighs, for her fingers to make circles around the entrance of my pussy, pressing ever so lightly onto my clit as she works a digit inside me. I can almost feel my vagina tightening and spasming around the intruder.
When Jacqueline's tongue leaves my mouth, I want to cry like a baby that has dropped her pacifier.
"You have such a lovely body, little piggy," Jacqueline whispers as her cobalt blues hold my eyes in place. "But enough eroticism. You need a good scrub."
My mind's gone woozy; I can barely tell what's happening except that my girlfriend is scrubbing my skin with a sponge. The bath has reduced my pain so much that it seems almost inconceivable that twenty minutes ago I was writhing on the floor while moaning in agony.
Jacqueline turns on the shower, and begins washing my hair with the handheld head.
"Aah! You are a goddess!" I mumble against the spray of water.
She giggles as she sluices some of my hair over my shoulder.
"Are you talking to me or to the shower?"
The warm stream cascades down my face like a blessing from the heavens.
"You are the goddess of mercy, for I was dying of boredom until you came along. Also, you smell like the sea, or like the ocean itself."
"Now you're losing it, not that I mind it. But the ocean is a place filled with sorrow, isn't it? With the sadness of those who have drowned in it."
I can see them, as well as the currents that have claimed their lives. Their bodies are sinking to the ocean floor, and all the while their arms are trying to grab on to anything they can. But the ocean's scent is the reason that at times I can feel at peace. Whenever I step into its waters, my mind gets washed and cleansed from all the grime and muck that the world deposits on it every day. That's why I always wear my bathing suit on. Meanwhile, other lost souls float on the waves, their corpses rocking against the surface like empty plastic bags.
Thoroughly rinsed, the both of us step out of the bathtub. We get busy drying each other with fluffy towels while the water drains. The pleasant sensation of being so clean has made me all warm and fuzzy.
Jacqueline unhooks a white robe. I thought she would hide her nakedness with it, but she lets the garment hang from her shoulders all the way down to her ankles. The fabric slides off the sides of her jutting breasts. Her twin teats are pointing defiantly at me, as if questioning why I am gawking at them instead of latching on.
I snap out of my trance; Jacqueline has lifted my chin with an index finger. I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Jacqueline, you are more beautiful than all the paintings in the world combined."
"Truly? Don't I have the barren body of an old lady with sagging tits? Aren't you sad you fell for a woman of my age?"
"No way! You are Aphrodite incarnate."
Her long lashes flutter, and a gentle smile adorns her lips.
"She wasn't the goddess of mercy, was she?" Jacqueline sighs. "I swear, nobody loves breasts more than you do. Let's go to bed, Leire."
I want her to pick me up in her arms and carry me, but instead she holds my hand and guides me out of the bathroom into her bedroom, which I'd prefer to consider ours. The space is dimly illuminated by the moonlight that comes through the windows and the balcony door. Jacqueline lets go of my hand and sits down on the mattress. As she shifts further up towards the headboard, the way her breasts bounce sends a wave of warmth through me.
Jacqueline spreads her legs, displaying her pubic hair. It's dark, thick and silky. A stiff cock juts out from between her thighs. The mushroom head glistens with pre-cum. I blink and the cock is gone.
I imagine a purple butterfly spreading its wings from that smooth bush to make a splash of color against the pale skin of her belly.
Jacqueline pats the mattress next to her.
"Come here and give mommy a big hug," she beckons me sultrily.
A sigh escapes out of me, and with it, for a brief moment, all the troubles in my life.
I climb onto the bed. The scents of soap and shampoo and Jacqueline's own womanly musk envelop me. I lower my face to rest it on her belly. It feels hot, familiar; the center of an oven where bread dough rises.
Maybe a couple of minutes later, I shift my body up until I'm lying down beside Jacqueline, who wraps an arm around my shoulder to pull me closer.
My free hand slips down her torso to her pubes, then I venture further until I find the soft mound between her legs. I stroke the length of her silky labia. I tease them open with my fingertips. An intense heat emanates from her folds, so hot that I wish it would burn through my flesh. When I sink two fingers inside her pussy, they get swallowed whole in a velvety sea.
I need to nuzzle against Jacqueline's wetness and inhale deeply as if savoring a fine wine. I need to lap up the juices that'll dribble down her inner thighs, down to the last drop.
Jacqueline clenches her thighs together, then she closes a hand around the biceps of my free arm.
"Not now, baby," she whispers.
Her words paralyze me. My remaining strength leaves my body. Has she finally gotten sick of getting touched by my slimy self?
Jacqueline tugs on my arm gently so my fingers slip out of her insides, then she embraces me tightly and cups my head against her neck. Our bodies are pressed together from chest to belly button.
As I sink into Jacqueline's arms, I listen to the beat of her heart. Her sweet scent permeates my nose and fills my lungs. My eyes are growing heavy, and I let them flutter shut.
Right now I could use a blinding orgasm, one that would leave me panting, one that would erase everything that's happened in my life. But this warmth feels real good too.
---
Author's note: putting this chapter together has taken me an absurd amount of time in comparison with recent others. Throughout, instead of Japanese shoegaze, I've been listening to some of my favorite songs from 20-25 years ago. Songs like:
-Modest Mouse's 'Baby Blue Sedan', that, if I recall correctly, references in part Bukowski's 'Ham on Rye', my favorite book of his.
-Modest Mouse's '3rd Planet', the song that launches Brock's best album. That one remains for me one of the best breakup albums ever.
-Modest Mouse's 'Edit the Sad Parts'. This song has a special significance for me: it became the main theme song for my beloved previous novel ('My Own Desert Places'; I guess there's no harm in some self-promotion). The whole process of pushing that novel out feels now like a strange dream. I retain more vivid memories from the events in that novel than from real-life memories, and some of those moments from the novel still hurt like a bitch (I miss you, A.).
-Weezer's 'Across the Sea'. This one is unique, heartfelt, and very near and dear to my heart.
-Weezer's 'Only in Dreams', one of their best songs, particularly the final four minutes.
This last Monday I started a new contract at my usual hospital. They were in the middle of updating tablets for several buildings and virtually every medical department, so I ended up visiting I don't know how many departments, chatting enough with the local nurses and supervisors so they would cooperate, then configuring the tablets from zero, testing them and returning them back to their departments. As if that nonsense hadn't been enough, these last three days we've also dealt with three big issues that required further hours of nonsense: two lying users that didn't want to admit they had messed with a core PC in Pharmacy; a busted router in another hospital on the other side of town that the guys from HQ wanted us to go and check, although it was entirely their problem, and had already planned on sending their guy anyway; and a monitoring center in the ICU that stopped working, and that the locals also intended to turn into our problem although we couldn't do anything about it.
I only tolerate my job there because I'm not employed full-time; for example, this time they've only hired me for a couple of weeks. When I'm unemployed, I can't leave my place for more than an hour before my anxiety requires me to return home immediately, and I simply don't speak in person with other human beings that aren't providing a service. But in three days at my job I've ended up having to deal with twenty or so new people, interactions that provide me nothing but anxiety and general despair, given that I have to act my way through all of that; incidentally, acting was the only activity I remember fondly from my schooling years. I also do it all the time when I write. But as an autistic person living a non-autistic-oriented life, you either learn how to act or you don't survive. I can't simply be myself, because people don't tolerate when you remain quiet and refuse to look them in the eye.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you haven't, well, does it truly make any difference to me? Probably not.
April 12, 2022
Revised: 'Interspecies Misdemeanours'
A few days ago I thought about this long short story / short novella (9,794 words) that I wrote back in July of last year. I was very fond of it. However, as it happened to all my short stories that I uploaded back then, I had refused to separate the paragraphs, because doing so would hamper the final process of putting together an ebook that contained the short stories. Whether or not the spaces between the paragraphs would have been a significant issue, I was dumb to sacrifice the legibility of my entries on WordPress in favor of the annoying ebook product; after all, I have only managed to sell a single copy of my previous novel in English.
So I started rereading this novella with the intention of formatting it properly. However, I found it in a rather appalling state prose-wise. I think that back then I got such a rush out of uploading an entry before the workday ended that I cut corners to an extent that I now consider disgusting. If you read my stuff a year ago, I apologize for the annoyances this previous mindset of mine may have caused. Anyway, this task to format the novella properly turned into a full-blown revision.
For those who didn’t come across this story back in the day, it’s about a trio of somewhat idiotic teens that see a UFO in their neighborhood. I had a lot of fun writing it, and remains one of the stupidest stories I’ve ever come up with. If you enjoyed it back in the day, I have improved it enough that you may want to revisit it.
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 1
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 2
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 3
So I started rereading this novella with the intention of formatting it properly. However, I found it in a rather appalling state prose-wise. I think that back then I got such a rush out of uploading an entry before the workday ended that I cut corners to an extent that I now consider disgusting. If you read my stuff a year ago, I apologize for the annoyances this previous mindset of mine may have caused. Anyway, this task to format the novella properly turned into a full-blown revision.
For those who didn’t come across this story back in the day, it’s about a trio of somewhat idiotic teens that see a UFO in their neighborhood. I had a lot of fun writing it, and remains one of the stupidest stories I’ve ever come up with. If you enjoyed it back in the day, I have improved it enough that you may want to revisit it.
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 1
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 2
Interspecies Misdemeanours, Pt. 3
April 11, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 41 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Jacqueline was waiting for me in the living room. She has tied up her smooth, raven black hair in a ponytail. She's wearing narwhal-themed plush pyjama pants too short for her long legs, and a reinforced sports bra that looks like a chest plate. I disapprove of any choice of attire that conceals those twin miracles of hers, but at least I get to admire the curves of her midriff.
My beloved has detached part of the L-shaped sofa and pushed it towards the back of the room, leaving extra space in front of the QLED television. An HDMI cable leads from the TV to her laptop, that she has placed on the stand. Both screens are displaying the main page of YouTube.
"We need to do something about your tits," I say without thinking, then I shake my head. "I mean... what's going on, Jacqueline?"
I doubt that she paid attention to my words; she's biting her lower lip as she ogles my lower body with rapt eyes.
"Those leggings look so hot on you. Turn around."
I remain rooted on the spot, so Jacqueline walks around me while her fingertips slide over my right thigh. Once she stands behind me, she fondles a handful of my butt as if she were an older white-collar worker and me an innocent schoolgirl on a train.
"I love this soft ass of yours," Jacqueline purrs hungrily. Her free arm encircles my neck, pulling us closer. "And I'd like to do all kinds of things to it. Would you let me?"
I'm too dazed to get aroused by her advances.
"I... don't know what's happening," I mumble.
Jacqueline giggles, which makes her breasts jiggle slightly against my left arm. It's relieving to know that they remain alive and kicking inside their tight prison.
She pinches my ass through the leggings, then she lets go of me and sashays over to her laptop. After she navigates to her search history on YouTube, she plays the most recent video. On the TV screen, a chirpy, lean blonde, whose yoga pants hug her muscular legs, beams with artificially white, American teeth. She welcomes us both back to her videos, claps, and announces that she will guide us through a thirty minutes long, full body workout.
I don't want to tear my gaze away from the blonde's camel toe and how part of her muscular glutes show up through her thigh gap, but her words register in my brain, and I let out a cry of alarm.
Jacqueline pushes me gently until we stand on the carpet in front of the TV, then she starts stretching.
"Wh-what is this?" I ask in a shaky voice.
She's standing on one leg while pulling her other leg back by the ankle.
"What does it look like? We are going to exercise. And you should be stretching already."
I gape at my lover in astonishment.
"Exercise?! Me?!"
Jacqueline has laced her fingers behind her neck, and as she bends backwards, her tits press against the reinforced bra as if eager to be released from their prison.
"Exercising is something human beings do to stay fit and healthy. It's necessary for a happy life, even if you don't plan on becoming a marathon runner or a superhero," she says with a playful tone that contrasts sharply with what she's doing to me right now.
"I don't want to be a human being," I grumble.
"I can tell, baby."
"Can't you just beat me up instead? I wouldn't mind getting pummelled by an Amazonian goddess."
Jacqueline's eyes glitter mischievously.
"Resist all you want. It turns me on, so I won't disuade you. But in the end you are going to work out with me whether you want to or not. I want to see sweat dripping down your body."
I shiver from head to toe.
"Well, if you order me around, I guess I can't refuse."
"No, you can't. We don't get many opportunities to be active as adults, and I want my girlfriend to stay alive."
On the screen, the blonde is already squatting and twisting her torso as effortlessly as if her body was impervious to the ravages of time.
"This is the opposite of sleeping," I complain.
Jacqueline strokes my shoulder, then she lowers her body into a squat.
"You just have to copy the woman's movements, and eventually your body will thank you for it. Turn off that hyperactive brain of yours and let go of everything except your body."
"I want to turn off my brain, but not like this."
I can't restrain my instinct to whine although I'm already pushing my feeble muscles to satisfy the American YouTuber's instructions.
On the screen, the blonde bends her torso backwards, which makes her abs ripple. She twists around; although she's nowhere well-endowed enough to compete with Jacqueline in the breasts department, I imagine her tits swinging with each rotation of her waist until they tear from their prison and fly out of control like flesh missiles, and I want to giggle hysterically as I picture those jiggling boobs flapping through the air before smashing against an unsuspecting person's face. However, I'm suffering too much for laughter. In reality, the YouTuber merely smiles alluringly at me to mock my plight.
I don't need to read the comments section of the video to know that it must be filled with references to a worldwide community of men of culture.
The squats end, and I already want to die. The blonde straightens her back and takes a deep breath while flexing her glutes. Her abdominal muscles are firm under the taut skin of her belly, and the muscles in her legs bulge making her yoga pants strain against them. Then she claps happily.
"Don't you feel strong already?" the bitch asks.
I groan loudly.
"Once we get into the groove, it will feel really good," Jacqueline says as she exhales through her mouth. "You're going to be sweating so much that you'll forget what it was to be human."
I can barely comprehend my girlfriend when she tells me to get on all fours for some plank kickbacks. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the carpet. I'm holding myself up with both hands, pushing off against the floor using whatever passes for muscles in my back.
"I'm a programmer," I wheeze, "just a mind in a useless body."
"Your body didn't seem that useless to me while we were fucking. Keep going. Breathe deeply through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth. It'll get easier."
On the screen, the blonde's butt muscles are flexing like two globular tectonic plates sliding over each other. I suffer my way through glute bridge variations, leg drop crunches, bicycle legs and push ups with the grace of a robot trying to execute a dance routine. While Princess Thundercunt from YouTube has been soaring through the exercises without even breaking a sweat, my body has become a limp rag. My heart is pounding away at my chest, my legs are shaking, my joints hurt, the skin on my ass feels hot and tight, sweat runs down my neck and trickles between my breasts, dark thoughts about mass murder are seizing my mind.
I want to scream for everything to end. I want to return control to my brain, so it can order me to lie down in bed and masturbate. Maybe this time I'd bring over some ice cream.
I glance at Jacqueline. The muscles on her neck are tensed, and those glistening, pouty lips look ready to spit fire.
The next exercise, some weird lunges, requires us to balance ourselves on one leg. I only last a second: I get woozy and collapse forward towards the TV stand. I attempt too late to break the fall with my failing arms, so my forehead hits the furniture, that rattles noisily.
I must have gotten dazed for a few seconds, because I find myself on my knees while I rub the bruise. Jacqueline has paused the video. Crouched next to me, my girlfriend attempts to turn my head towards her as she soothes me with her warm voice, although I can't process what she's saying.
I'm mortified. I can't keep my shoulders from shaking nor my eyes from filling up with tears, so I purse my lips and look away.
Jacqueline throws her arms around me and kisses my temple.
"No, don't cry!" She wriggles on her knees until she's facing me. She holds my head to examine the bruise, then she leans in and licks it gently. "It doesn't look like you hit your head too hard. Ah, why is your face so cute? I want to kiss every inch of your body."
She's staring at me with those cobalt blues that sparkle with tenderness. My cheeks flush as if full of fire. I imagine Jacqueline's fangs digging into my nipples and sucking them dry while I beg for mercy, but instead she presses me into a warm embrace. The reinforced bra prevents me from feeling her tits. However, a warmth radiates from deep inside her, and I can smell a hint of her sweaty pussy.
"I'm just a pathetic human," I whimper.
Jacqueline pets my hair with gentle strokes and a wet hand.
"Don't say such silly things, love. You're not a mere mortal. Besides, mommy is here to help you up when you fall down. But you have to keep going."
Although she grabs me by the arm and raises me to my feet, my knees hurt, so it takes some effort for me to stand upright again. While I sway like an idiot, Jacqueline strides over to the laptop and presses the space bar to resume the video.
I keep crying through the rest of the lunges. My eyes feel like they might burst out of their sockets. My muscles burn as if a herd of angry horses had trampled them. My nipples are tingling madly. Sweat pours from every pore in my body and trickles between my breasts, butt cheeks, thighs, clitoris, and everywhere else.
When the exercise ends, Jacqueline pats me on the shoulder as if I had won a competition, but my lips are quivering, and I fear that I'm going to start blubbering again.
"You have been doing very well today, baby, despite your fears," she says during the short break. "You are becoming strong little by little!"
My muscles scream through the prolonged nightmare: crunches with the legs spread open, more hellish squats, kickbacks, squats with twist, plank kickbacks. The blonde YouTuber looks so determined to keep torturing me that I want to throw myself off a cliff.
"W-wait, we've already gone through these!" I yell through my dry throat. "Am I stuck in a loop?!"
"We need to do each exercise twice," Jacqueline says casually.
"It hurts so much! Please stop!"
"There's no pain, baby. It's just nerves sending signals to your brain."
"Pain exists, then! It only ends when you're dead!"
"We are more than halfway through. Too late to quit now. Besides, imagine how much our sex life will improve when we are both in shape!"
I want to yell that we aren't training our tongues, but I purse my lips, as I fear that I will break into sobbing otherwise, and I think about all the lovely orgasms we'll share.
I keep resisting the urge to vomit. I can barely focus on anything except remaining conscious.
I'm floating above myself, witnessing how the weak body I used to inhabit consumes itself. It looks like a train wreck in motion. Have I finally succeeded in escaping the confines of my reality-bound frame?
Somehow, the video has ended. I'm lying supine on the carpet while white noise sizzles from end to end of my body.
Jacqueline kneels down next to me. The image of her face blurs and swirls like watercolors. She lowers her lips to mine, but I barely feel the touch.
"You did good, Leire," she says sweetly while wearing a catlike grin. "Let's take a shower."
I swallow a lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out thin and rough.
"I-I feel like an overcooked steak. I need to drink some water. Maybe eat something too."
"Alright, baby. Do you need help getting up?"
"I'm going to... rest for a few seconds."
I get a clearer look of Jacqueline's face over me. Her cobalt blue eyes and her smile are a beacon in the desert, although a sheen of sweat is making her skin shine like a pearl in sunlight.
"When you are ready, meet me in the main bathroom."
I can't hear her footsteps over the rhythmic thumping in my eardrums, but I'm left alone with the blurry vision of Jacqueline's tall silhouette disappearing into the hallway.
I manage to get myself in a sitting position. When I try to stand up, I almost black out from the pain. It feels like everything except my brain got sucked out through an open wound that still bleeds endlessly. I'm drained, empty, hollowed out from the inside. I've never felt so exhausted before. Not the most maddening, intense workdays, nor those dark weekends when I rubbed my clit raw for hours to climb out of a pit of depression; nothing prepared me for the nightmare that this American torturer designed for me.
I wobble like a drunk as I stumble to the kitchen. I was reaching for a glass from the dish rack when a wave of shame overwhelms me. I hunch over, rest my elbows on the countertop and bury my face in my arms. My mind replays from different angles how I collapsed forward onto the stand and hit my head against it, almost cracking my skull.
I start shaking uncontrollably. I wish my body would implode from how much I'm cringing.
I tried to act like the kind of human being that Jacqueline requires as a partner, and I gave it my best, but I fuck up everything I attempt. Jacqueline needs a partner with more drive than me, unafraid of taking risks. She deserves better than a loser who can barely manage her own existence.
I'm not strong enough for this life. I'm just waiting around for the next terrible and painful nonsense that will strike me down.
I envision the future moment in which Jacqueline will realize that the person she chose to date is a worthless moron, a complete waste of space, nothing more than a lump of flesh rotting away while thinking only of death. My beloved is too kind to discard me immediately, but the distance will grow wider and wider until the day she will go away forever. I should throw myself off her balcony before the final look of disgust in her face shatters me.
Will she leave without saying goodbye? Would she tell everyone about how horrible an experience dating me was?
"Please don't leave," I beg weakly while tears stream down my face. "Just stay with me."
People say all kinds of nonsense about solitary people, but they are spared the panic of holding on to someone that they know they will eventually lose.
I take a few deep breaths until I've calmed down enough. I fill a glass with cold water. The first gulp brings further tears to my eyes. The water tastes so refreshing that I gulp down the rest of it, but I choke out and start coughing violently while sputtering all over the countertop. I'm left gasping for air. I steady myself by leaning against the kitchen table, and I somehow manage to keep myself from vomiting. My throat burns like fire, every muscle in my body feels sore and bruised.
"Fuck," I say aloud. "Fuck me!"
I drink some more water directly from the spout. I also open the fridge and, although my stomach feels full of worms, I bite off a long piece of salty fuet.
Maybe I don't deserve to love Jacqueline, but I want to cling to her like a leech, because she's all that I have left in this world. The only thing keeping me alive is thinking about her every second of the day. When I close my eyes, she appears in front of me wearing an evening gown made of moonbeams, and she smiles down at me.
I slap my cheeks to wake the fuck up, then I drag my feet towards the main bedroom.
---
Author's note: the scene hasn't ended yet. I'm notoriously terrible at estimating how many words implementing my notes for a scene, let alone a novel, will take me, as I keep coming up with nonsense during the process. Ages ago, in a note just like this one, I mentioned that I had about 10,000 words of notes left to implement. Today I have 9,500 words waiting for me to turn them from notes into coherent scenes. I'm not complaining; I'm having a blast writing this novel, and I already know how it's going to end, which gives me the freedom to play confidently during each scene.
Anyway, I'm leaving for work in a couple of hours. Today I start a new contract at my usual hospital. Although I've been living like this for some years, the anxiety leading up to appearing at that office again and having to handle responsibility doesn't disappear. My intrusive thoughts get worse: I have to hide scissors because I keep picturing myself plunging them into my eyeballs, and as I eat, my brain conjures up daydreams of me discovering a cockroach or a spider or at least a long hair under the next spoonful.
I always think that I won't be able to tolerate the long workdays due to this unhinged brain of mine, but somehow I always get used to it. If by used to it means surviving through terrible IBS for ten hours, tolerating my fear and disgust of humans while acting like another human, and navigating through all the technical nonsense of the job as an IT guy. And I hope that I won't end up getting paired with a certain shithead during my afternoon shift, because it would mean me doing the work of two people.
I'm a child at heart, nothing more. I've had very little character development. I want no part of this crap. Why can't I just keep doing childish things until my heart stops?
---
Jacqueline was waiting for me in the living room. She has tied up her smooth, raven black hair in a ponytail. She's wearing narwhal-themed plush pyjama pants too short for her long legs, and a reinforced sports bra that looks like a chest plate. I disapprove of any choice of attire that conceals those twin miracles of hers, but at least I get to admire the curves of her midriff.
My beloved has detached part of the L-shaped sofa and pushed it towards the back of the room, leaving extra space in front of the QLED television. An HDMI cable leads from the TV to her laptop, that she has placed on the stand. Both screens are displaying the main page of YouTube.
"We need to do something about your tits," I say without thinking, then I shake my head. "I mean... what's going on, Jacqueline?"
I doubt that she paid attention to my words; she's biting her lower lip as she ogles my lower body with rapt eyes.
"Those leggings look so hot on you. Turn around."
I remain rooted on the spot, so Jacqueline walks around me while her fingertips slide over my right thigh. Once she stands behind me, she fondles a handful of my butt as if she were an older white-collar worker and me an innocent schoolgirl on a train.
"I love this soft ass of yours," Jacqueline purrs hungrily. Her free arm encircles my neck, pulling us closer. "And I'd like to do all kinds of things to it. Would you let me?"
I'm too dazed to get aroused by her advances.
"I... don't know what's happening," I mumble.
Jacqueline giggles, which makes her breasts jiggle slightly against my left arm. It's relieving to know that they remain alive and kicking inside their tight prison.
She pinches my ass through the leggings, then she lets go of me and sashays over to her laptop. After she navigates to her search history on YouTube, she plays the most recent video. On the TV screen, a chirpy, lean blonde, whose yoga pants hug her muscular legs, beams with artificially white, American teeth. She welcomes us both back to her videos, claps, and announces that she will guide us through a thirty minutes long, full body workout.
I don't want to tear my gaze away from the blonde's camel toe and how part of her muscular glutes show up through her thigh gap, but her words register in my brain, and I let out a cry of alarm.
Jacqueline pushes me gently until we stand on the carpet in front of the TV, then she starts stretching.
"Wh-what is this?" I ask in a shaky voice.
She's standing on one leg while pulling her other leg back by the ankle.
"What does it look like? We are going to exercise. And you should be stretching already."
I gape at my lover in astonishment.
"Exercise?! Me?!"
Jacqueline has laced her fingers behind her neck, and as she bends backwards, her tits press against the reinforced bra as if eager to be released from their prison.
"Exercising is something human beings do to stay fit and healthy. It's necessary for a happy life, even if you don't plan on becoming a marathon runner or a superhero," she says with a playful tone that contrasts sharply with what she's doing to me right now.
"I don't want to be a human being," I grumble.
"I can tell, baby."
"Can't you just beat me up instead? I wouldn't mind getting pummelled by an Amazonian goddess."
Jacqueline's eyes glitter mischievously.
"Resist all you want. It turns me on, so I won't disuade you. But in the end you are going to work out with me whether you want to or not. I want to see sweat dripping down your body."
I shiver from head to toe.
"Well, if you order me around, I guess I can't refuse."
"No, you can't. We don't get many opportunities to be active as adults, and I want my girlfriend to stay alive."
On the screen, the blonde is already squatting and twisting her torso as effortlessly as if her body was impervious to the ravages of time.
"This is the opposite of sleeping," I complain.
Jacqueline strokes my shoulder, then she lowers her body into a squat.
"You just have to copy the woman's movements, and eventually your body will thank you for it. Turn off that hyperactive brain of yours and let go of everything except your body."
"I want to turn off my brain, but not like this."
I can't restrain my instinct to whine although I'm already pushing my feeble muscles to satisfy the American YouTuber's instructions.
On the screen, the blonde bends her torso backwards, which makes her abs ripple. She twists around; although she's nowhere well-endowed enough to compete with Jacqueline in the breasts department, I imagine her tits swinging with each rotation of her waist until they tear from their prison and fly out of control like flesh missiles, and I want to giggle hysterically as I picture those jiggling boobs flapping through the air before smashing against an unsuspecting person's face. However, I'm suffering too much for laughter. In reality, the YouTuber merely smiles alluringly at me to mock my plight.
I don't need to read the comments section of the video to know that it must be filled with references to a worldwide community of men of culture.
The squats end, and I already want to die. The blonde straightens her back and takes a deep breath while flexing her glutes. Her abdominal muscles are firm under the taut skin of her belly, and the muscles in her legs bulge making her yoga pants strain against them. Then she claps happily.
"Don't you feel strong already?" the bitch asks.
I groan loudly.
"Once we get into the groove, it will feel really good," Jacqueline says as she exhales through her mouth. "You're going to be sweating so much that you'll forget what it was to be human."
I can barely comprehend my girlfriend when she tells me to get on all fours for some plank kickbacks. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the carpet. I'm holding myself up with both hands, pushing off against the floor using whatever passes for muscles in my back.
"I'm a programmer," I wheeze, "just a mind in a useless body."
"Your body didn't seem that useless to me while we were fucking. Keep going. Breathe deeply through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth. It'll get easier."
On the screen, the blonde's butt muscles are flexing like two globular tectonic plates sliding over each other. I suffer my way through glute bridge variations, leg drop crunches, bicycle legs and push ups with the grace of a robot trying to execute a dance routine. While Princess Thundercunt from YouTube has been soaring through the exercises without even breaking a sweat, my body has become a limp rag. My heart is pounding away at my chest, my legs are shaking, my joints hurt, the skin on my ass feels hot and tight, sweat runs down my neck and trickles between my breasts, dark thoughts about mass murder are seizing my mind.
I want to scream for everything to end. I want to return control to my brain, so it can order me to lie down in bed and masturbate. Maybe this time I'd bring over some ice cream.
I glance at Jacqueline. The muscles on her neck are tensed, and those glistening, pouty lips look ready to spit fire.
The next exercise, some weird lunges, requires us to balance ourselves on one leg. I only last a second: I get woozy and collapse forward towards the TV stand. I attempt too late to break the fall with my failing arms, so my forehead hits the furniture, that rattles noisily.
I must have gotten dazed for a few seconds, because I find myself on my knees while I rub the bruise. Jacqueline has paused the video. Crouched next to me, my girlfriend attempts to turn my head towards her as she soothes me with her warm voice, although I can't process what she's saying.
I'm mortified. I can't keep my shoulders from shaking nor my eyes from filling up with tears, so I purse my lips and look away.
Jacqueline throws her arms around me and kisses my temple.
"No, don't cry!" She wriggles on her knees until she's facing me. She holds my head to examine the bruise, then she leans in and licks it gently. "It doesn't look like you hit your head too hard. Ah, why is your face so cute? I want to kiss every inch of your body."
She's staring at me with those cobalt blues that sparkle with tenderness. My cheeks flush as if full of fire. I imagine Jacqueline's fangs digging into my nipples and sucking them dry while I beg for mercy, but instead she presses me into a warm embrace. The reinforced bra prevents me from feeling her tits. However, a warmth radiates from deep inside her, and I can smell a hint of her sweaty pussy.
"I'm just a pathetic human," I whimper.
Jacqueline pets my hair with gentle strokes and a wet hand.
"Don't say such silly things, love. You're not a mere mortal. Besides, mommy is here to help you up when you fall down. But you have to keep going."
Although she grabs me by the arm and raises me to my feet, my knees hurt, so it takes some effort for me to stand upright again. While I sway like an idiot, Jacqueline strides over to the laptop and presses the space bar to resume the video.
I keep crying through the rest of the lunges. My eyes feel like they might burst out of their sockets. My muscles burn as if a herd of angry horses had trampled them. My nipples are tingling madly. Sweat pours from every pore in my body and trickles between my breasts, butt cheeks, thighs, clitoris, and everywhere else.
When the exercise ends, Jacqueline pats me on the shoulder as if I had won a competition, but my lips are quivering, and I fear that I'm going to start blubbering again.
"You have been doing very well today, baby, despite your fears," she says during the short break. "You are becoming strong little by little!"
My muscles scream through the prolonged nightmare: crunches with the legs spread open, more hellish squats, kickbacks, squats with twist, plank kickbacks. The blonde YouTuber looks so determined to keep torturing me that I want to throw myself off a cliff.
"W-wait, we've already gone through these!" I yell through my dry throat. "Am I stuck in a loop?!"
"We need to do each exercise twice," Jacqueline says casually.
"It hurts so much! Please stop!"
"There's no pain, baby. It's just nerves sending signals to your brain."
"Pain exists, then! It only ends when you're dead!"
"We are more than halfway through. Too late to quit now. Besides, imagine how much our sex life will improve when we are both in shape!"
I want to yell that we aren't training our tongues, but I purse my lips, as I fear that I will break into sobbing otherwise, and I think about all the lovely orgasms we'll share.
I keep resisting the urge to vomit. I can barely focus on anything except remaining conscious.
I'm floating above myself, witnessing how the weak body I used to inhabit consumes itself. It looks like a train wreck in motion. Have I finally succeeded in escaping the confines of my reality-bound frame?
Somehow, the video has ended. I'm lying supine on the carpet while white noise sizzles from end to end of my body.
Jacqueline kneels down next to me. The image of her face blurs and swirls like watercolors. She lowers her lips to mine, but I barely feel the touch.
"You did good, Leire," she says sweetly while wearing a catlike grin. "Let's take a shower."
I swallow a lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out thin and rough.
"I-I feel like an overcooked steak. I need to drink some water. Maybe eat something too."
"Alright, baby. Do you need help getting up?"
"I'm going to... rest for a few seconds."
I get a clearer look of Jacqueline's face over me. Her cobalt blue eyes and her smile are a beacon in the desert, although a sheen of sweat is making her skin shine like a pearl in sunlight.
"When you are ready, meet me in the main bathroom."
I can't hear her footsteps over the rhythmic thumping in my eardrums, but I'm left alone with the blurry vision of Jacqueline's tall silhouette disappearing into the hallway.
I manage to get myself in a sitting position. When I try to stand up, I almost black out from the pain. It feels like everything except my brain got sucked out through an open wound that still bleeds endlessly. I'm drained, empty, hollowed out from the inside. I've never felt so exhausted before. Not the most maddening, intense workdays, nor those dark weekends when I rubbed my clit raw for hours to climb out of a pit of depression; nothing prepared me for the nightmare that this American torturer designed for me.
I wobble like a drunk as I stumble to the kitchen. I was reaching for a glass from the dish rack when a wave of shame overwhelms me. I hunch over, rest my elbows on the countertop and bury my face in my arms. My mind replays from different angles how I collapsed forward onto the stand and hit my head against it, almost cracking my skull.
I start shaking uncontrollably. I wish my body would implode from how much I'm cringing.
I tried to act like the kind of human being that Jacqueline requires as a partner, and I gave it my best, but I fuck up everything I attempt. Jacqueline needs a partner with more drive than me, unafraid of taking risks. She deserves better than a loser who can barely manage her own existence.
I'm not strong enough for this life. I'm just waiting around for the next terrible and painful nonsense that will strike me down.
I envision the future moment in which Jacqueline will realize that the person she chose to date is a worthless moron, a complete waste of space, nothing more than a lump of flesh rotting away while thinking only of death. My beloved is too kind to discard me immediately, but the distance will grow wider and wider until the day she will go away forever. I should throw myself off her balcony before the final look of disgust in her face shatters me.
Will she leave without saying goodbye? Would she tell everyone about how horrible an experience dating me was?
"Please don't leave," I beg weakly while tears stream down my face. "Just stay with me."
People say all kinds of nonsense about solitary people, but they are spared the panic of holding on to someone that they know they will eventually lose.
I take a few deep breaths until I've calmed down enough. I fill a glass with cold water. The first gulp brings further tears to my eyes. The water tastes so refreshing that I gulp down the rest of it, but I choke out and start coughing violently while sputtering all over the countertop. I'm left gasping for air. I steady myself by leaning against the kitchen table, and I somehow manage to keep myself from vomiting. My throat burns like fire, every muscle in my body feels sore and bruised.
"Fuck," I say aloud. "Fuck me!"
I drink some more water directly from the spout. I also open the fridge and, although my stomach feels full of worms, I bite off a long piece of salty fuet.
Maybe I don't deserve to love Jacqueline, but I want to cling to her like a leech, because she's all that I have left in this world. The only thing keeping me alive is thinking about her every second of the day. When I close my eyes, she appears in front of me wearing an evening gown made of moonbeams, and she smiles down at me.
I slap my cheeks to wake the fuck up, then I drag my feet towards the main bedroom.
---
Author's note: the scene hasn't ended yet. I'm notoriously terrible at estimating how many words implementing my notes for a scene, let alone a novel, will take me, as I keep coming up with nonsense during the process. Ages ago, in a note just like this one, I mentioned that I had about 10,000 words of notes left to implement. Today I have 9,500 words waiting for me to turn them from notes into coherent scenes. I'm not complaining; I'm having a blast writing this novel, and I already know how it's going to end, which gives me the freedom to play confidently during each scene.
Anyway, I'm leaving for work in a couple of hours. Today I start a new contract at my usual hospital. Although I've been living like this for some years, the anxiety leading up to appearing at that office again and having to handle responsibility doesn't disappear. My intrusive thoughts get worse: I have to hide scissors because I keep picturing myself plunging them into my eyeballs, and as I eat, my brain conjures up daydreams of me discovering a cockroach or a spider or at least a long hair under the next spoonful.
I always think that I won't be able to tolerate the long workdays due to this unhinged brain of mine, but somehow I always get used to it. If by used to it means surviving through terrible IBS for ten hours, tolerating my fear and disgust of humans while acting like another human, and navigating through all the technical nonsense of the job as an IT guy. And I hope that I won't end up getting paired with a certain shithead during my afternoon shift, because it would mean me doing the work of two people.
I'm a child at heart, nothing more. I've had very little character development. I want no part of this crap. Why can't I just keep doing childish things until my heart stops?
April 8, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 40 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
When Jacqueline's Audi enters the roundabout at the end of Lugaritz Avenue, the setting sun shoots its beams through the branches of a nearby clump of trees, forcing me to squint as I doze off in the passenger seat. Jacqueline maneuvers around the center island, and I catch a glimpse above some distant hills of the cosmic fireball as it tinges the view like a golden spotlight. A bone white apartment obstructs the landscape on my left. I lean back, turn my head towards my window and try to stay awake by watching how a multicolored row of parked cars zips past us. It feels like I'm replaying an old movie whose name I'm too tired to recall.
My eyelids feel heavy, my thoughts are fuzzy. Added to the vibrations of the car that Jacqueline is driving safely to its destination, my mind is sinking in a mystical atmosphere that makes me feel detached from the loathsome reality.
I need to stay awake. I could use some coffee, in a mug that would warm my palms and fingers as it slid into my hands. If I had been sitting on a train as it headed to Irún, I would have shut my eyes and hoped that whatever part of my brain remained awake wouldn't miss my stop, but I don't want to pass out next to my girlfriend as if I were some elderly woman.
"You must have worked really hard today, huh?" Jacqueline says.
Her raven black hair shines in the light trapped inside the Audi. The glint in her eyes, that look more liquidy blue in the sunset glow, reminds me of those angelic figureheads carved into wooden ships.
I force myself to speak, although it feels like the effort will drain my remaining energy.
"I've worked, which is far more than I did yesterday. Gone over plenty of documentation for that Python contract. I'm halway through the implementation already, so I suppose I should feel happy with how things turned out."
"You are barely able to keep your eyes open."
I must look like a mummified rat, a tiny furry rodent who can't move or even blink because it's wrapped up tight in its own skin. I rub my eyelids, then sigh.
"That's nothing new. Most workdays, as soon as I reached my apartment and sat down on the sofa, I passed out right away. I usually woke up a couple of hours later, then I ate whatever was left on the fridge and went to bed."
Jacqueline takes her eyes off the road to glance into mine.
"How do you even manage to get the chores done?"
What chores? Ah, people clean their homes and take out the trash. I don't know how they make any headway with those tasks without passing out on the floor from exhaustion first.
I give an exaggerated shrug.
"I... don't. Life's too full of tasks to complete when I'd need to sleep instead. It's a good thing you haven't visited my place."
"That's... no way to live, Leire," Jacqueline says gravely.
I'm tempted to tell her that this is the kind of woman that she decided to date, but a cold fear grips me. Even during the weekends, there are so many days when I can't face anything; I just want to lock my bedroom door and spend the day in bed. But that's not the kind of person that would be able to keep an intimate relationship going, so I bite my tongue and hang my head low.
"Oh, I agree," I say quietly. "However, my body insisted on keeping me alive, often against my will. Funny how nature works."
Jacqueline's hands remain firmly placed on the wheel as she turns her head towards me. I'm having trouble adjusting my gaze, so I can't make out her expression.
"Since I met you, I've known you to really push yourself," Jacqueline says. She pauses and gazes ahead through the windshield. "Your sleep schedule is messed up, and you sacrifice the time that should help you recover from work stress. It must feel like you've been living on a treadmill. Besides, you should eat properly so you can give your body the energy and strength it needs."
I slump in the seat as a new wave of fatigue hits me. I don't want to let Jacqueline's words sink in. Why would she take such an interest? Maybe she's trying to get into character for a role in some movie.
Before I became obsessed with Jacqueline, there was hardly a minute of the week when I wasn't thinking about programming, even though I produced useless crap that our clients barely cared about. None of my jobs allowed any room for self-improvement, or growth as a person, beyond what they could provide financially. One of my former bosses said that us programmers are just assembly lines: useful only as long as our output keeps flowing and no defects show up. Besides, I wouldn't have survived long term in any of my previous jobs, as the software was being built by teams of people who worked together seamlessly, while I can't even work seamlessly with myself.
I never had any lasting interest in life apart from computers and technology; I amassed piles of board games, but I couldn't be bothered to play most of them. So much work to set things up and deal with the rules. What's left of me that hasn't become a part of that black box of software?
I've been like this since high school. After my mother died, everything went downhill for me. My father turned to alcoholism. As soon as my older brother graduated, we got kicked out of our home and became homeless. We slept under bridges or inside abandoned buildings. By that time, my brother had become addicted to drugs, and ended up dead by overdose. My wails attracted a gang of junkies that kidnapped me and chained me to a pole in the basement of their hideout. They abused me as their sexual slave until they got bored, then they drowned me in an ice-cold bath and sold my organs on the black market. I still remember how peacefully those ice cubes bobbed on the surface of the water.
Who cares? My mind wants to shut off. Losing consciousness always solved my problems, at least during that respite.
"I should probably do plenty of things," I mutter hoarsely, "but now I only want to sleep."
My eyelids feel heavy again, and I let them fall shut. A sense of tranquility sweeps over me, a warm feeling that is rising from my stomach and spreading across my chest. I'm floating in the center of a black sphere that no threat can penetrate. From the outside world, only the pleasant vibrations and droning noise of the car's engine reach me, and even they seem muffled. I wish I could stay like this for a long time, resting in the passenger seat while Jacqueline drives us home.
My consciousness grows dimmer. I'm sinking deep inside some cosmic womb where there's nothing but darkness. No monsters lurking behind trees, no bad feelings waiting around each corner. Whether or not this place was created for me, now it's where I belong.
I am jolted awake; Jacqueline is squeezing my left shoulder. I sit upright. I couldn't make out what she said, but the Audi has stopped in front of her apartment building, she has turned off the car's ignition and she's unbuckling her seat belt, so I get the point.
I climb out of the car. As I step onto the sidewalk, a gust of cold wind whips my hair around and irritates my exposed skin, that the short sleep had anesthetized. Someone has painted the skies with the lightest shade of rose. The afternoon will slide into night soon enough.
Once again I marvel at the quiet neighborhood that Jacqueline was able to afford with her job as a secretary, in addition to whatever amount of money she made as a cam girl. Up in the hills of Donostia, we are surrounded by two or three stories tall, ivory white apartment buildings with gardens hidden from view by fences and hedges. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn shut. Someone is watching television; I recognize the detached cadence of the local dubs, but I can't tell from which building the noise is coming out. It's the perfect neighborhood to launch a private porn empire.
Jacqueline digs her keys out of her coat's pocket. Her next words slung my way catch me yawning; besides, my brain hasn't snapped out of its daze yet, so I just straighten my back and nod. I follow my beloved into the building, then I drag myself up the stairs. Why didn't we take the elevator?
As Jacqueline unlocks the front door of her apartment, I'm tempted to rest my forehead on her back. Ah, we're finally home. Once I shuffle into the hallway, I shake my head and blink a few times to adjust my vision.
"You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up," Jacqueline says.
I consider struggling to formulate a coherent response, but I end up exhaling and shrugging instead.
We kick off our shoes, then we hang her coat and my corduroy jacket on the rack by the front door. Jacqueline turns towards me, brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and gives me a peck on the lips.
"Go into the spare bedroom and put on sportswear."
"Huh?"
"Plenty to choose from. Grab something comfortable for yourself. I'll get changed too."
Jacqueline pats my ass, which sends me stumbling down the hallway. Why would I need sports clothes? Why not just a pyjamas, if I'm going to crawl into bed?
I shouldn't think this hard. I've already reached my sanctuary, so I have nothing to worry about.
The spare bedroom is located opposite the main one. I open the door as I rub my eyes with the back of my free hand. I find myself staring at a kids' bed covered with a lemonade pink quilt that features an unhealthy amount of unicorns. The walls are painted sapphire blue. At first I think that three fake clouds mounted on the wall are decorative, but they are camouflaged lamps.
I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me. I feel like I'm intruding on someone's private playground. Does a child live here? No way, the previous owner of the apartment must have abandoned this stuff. They likely sold their kids into slavery and had to flee in a hurry. Whatever. As it concerns me, this bed is one in which I haven't had sex with Jacqueline yet.
What am I doing in this room? Ah, Jacqueline told me to put on sportswear. Is that supposed to fuel one of her fetishes?
Two canvas storage bags rest on top of the bed. I unzip the one on the left. It's filled with neatly folded garments: blouses, tops, shorts, underwear, lingerie. One of the tops catches my attention, so I unfold it and hold it up. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Jacqueline owned skin tight tops that exposed the midriff, and that announced bold intentions with lettering that read 'cowgirl' or 'come here daddy', but instead this is a short sleeve top with a punk motif. Something that a fifteen-year-old girl would wear to the mall. Besides, if Jacqueline attempted to cram her twin monuments in this, even back in the day, the fabric would explode. I sniff the garment, but it smells like laundry detergent. I fold the top and return it to the bag.
As I browse through the other clothes, I realize that they could also belong to a teenager. Did Jacqueline buy them because they looked cool?
The storage bag on the right is filled with men's clothes: shirts, polo shirts, sleeveless shirts. Jeans. I slide my hand over some boxer briefs. Jacqueline paid premium for them.
Do these clothes belong to Jacqueline's lucky victims? Did so many men leave a garment behind as an excuse to return? No, men don't rely on such strategies; they have more balls than women do, at least a pair. Is Jacqueline cosplaying as a guy? Then again, the matter of her tits remains.
Are these trophies from the men that Jacqueline screwed? I doubt they would have been relinquished willingly, unless Jacqueline asked real nicely. Did I find Jacqueline's treasure trove of death? Am I dating a serial killer? And why does that thought make me horny?
I shake my head. I'm exhausted enough that I shouldn't trust my thought patterns. I zip both bags closed.
From the mirrored wardrobe, jam-packed with clothes that I can picture Jacqueline wearing, I choose a tank top and a pair of leggings made of black spandex. I get undressed to obey Jacqueline's order, but why was I supposed to put on sports clothes?
---
Author's note: this is just half of the scene. I've already written most of the first draft of what remains, but I felt like uploading this part already. I don't know what to tell you.
A couple of days ago they called me to tell me that I've been hired for another contract. Hooray. It starts next week, lasts two weeks likely including both saturdays, and I'll be working the afternoon shift. To celebrate this development, I went out for an hour or so and bought a bacon pizza. After I ate half of it, I ended up in the bathroom with virulent diarrhea. But I guess it was celebratory diarrhea.
I'm someone whose anxiety, neurological issues and general inability to tolerate the presence of human beings only allow him to withstand about an hour and a half in that nasty world out there, but I'll have to return to the routine of working at an office for eight hours. When I'm unemployed, I'm miserable. When I'm employed, I'm far more miserable and barely able to write in my spare time. But working adds money to my bank account, so that's alright.
Anyway, I had another weird dream of which I rage quit at the end. As usual, I had to run around some odd building complex to solve stressful issues. I shouldn't be surprised that my troublesome dreams involve such activities, as that's the most troublesome part of my job. In any case, I walked into a hallway only to find out that there were cat-sized centipedes crawling around. Even worse: they had the faces of human babies. They looked like something out of the 'Berserk' manga series (I specify that because the adaptations were garbage for the most part). Somehow I knew that these centipedes acquired the physical features of whatever they ate.
I guess it was my job to prevent random babies from getting eaten. I followed the centipedes, and in a room further down the hallway, I discovered that they were munching on the testicles of a guy strapped to a chair. Somehow I knew that the guy had regenerative powers, so someone must have intended to torture him. And I guess human testicles are related enough to babies as far as the centipedes are concerned.
This is the kind of stuff that my subconscious produces by itself; my own stories are usually much tamer. Anyway, although I've forgotten the details, I know that Jinx from 'Arcane' was involved in that segment of the dream. Maybe she was the one who strapped the guy to the chair to torture him. I've loved that girl since I watched the series, so I welcome her appearing in my dreams. If only there was more quality CGI of her for VR purposes.
I hope you enjoyed this stuff of mine you've read. If you haven't, that's alright too.
---
When Jacqueline's Audi enters the roundabout at the end of Lugaritz Avenue, the setting sun shoots its beams through the branches of a nearby clump of trees, forcing me to squint as I doze off in the passenger seat. Jacqueline maneuvers around the center island, and I catch a glimpse above some distant hills of the cosmic fireball as it tinges the view like a golden spotlight. A bone white apartment obstructs the landscape on my left. I lean back, turn my head towards my window and try to stay awake by watching how a multicolored row of parked cars zips past us. It feels like I'm replaying an old movie whose name I'm too tired to recall.
My eyelids feel heavy, my thoughts are fuzzy. Added to the vibrations of the car that Jacqueline is driving safely to its destination, my mind is sinking in a mystical atmosphere that makes me feel detached from the loathsome reality.
I need to stay awake. I could use some coffee, in a mug that would warm my palms and fingers as it slid into my hands. If I had been sitting on a train as it headed to Irún, I would have shut my eyes and hoped that whatever part of my brain remained awake wouldn't miss my stop, but I don't want to pass out next to my girlfriend as if I were some elderly woman.
"You must have worked really hard today, huh?" Jacqueline says.
Her raven black hair shines in the light trapped inside the Audi. The glint in her eyes, that look more liquidy blue in the sunset glow, reminds me of those angelic figureheads carved into wooden ships.
I force myself to speak, although it feels like the effort will drain my remaining energy.
"I've worked, which is far more than I did yesterday. Gone over plenty of documentation for that Python contract. I'm halway through the implementation already, so I suppose I should feel happy with how things turned out."
"You are barely able to keep your eyes open."
I must look like a mummified rat, a tiny furry rodent who can't move or even blink because it's wrapped up tight in its own skin. I rub my eyelids, then sigh.
"That's nothing new. Most workdays, as soon as I reached my apartment and sat down on the sofa, I passed out right away. I usually woke up a couple of hours later, then I ate whatever was left on the fridge and went to bed."
Jacqueline takes her eyes off the road to glance into mine.
"How do you even manage to get the chores done?"
What chores? Ah, people clean their homes and take out the trash. I don't know how they make any headway with those tasks without passing out on the floor from exhaustion first.
I give an exaggerated shrug.
"I... don't. Life's too full of tasks to complete when I'd need to sleep instead. It's a good thing you haven't visited my place."
"That's... no way to live, Leire," Jacqueline says gravely.
I'm tempted to tell her that this is the kind of woman that she decided to date, but a cold fear grips me. Even during the weekends, there are so many days when I can't face anything; I just want to lock my bedroom door and spend the day in bed. But that's not the kind of person that would be able to keep an intimate relationship going, so I bite my tongue and hang my head low.
"Oh, I agree," I say quietly. "However, my body insisted on keeping me alive, often against my will. Funny how nature works."
Jacqueline's hands remain firmly placed on the wheel as she turns her head towards me. I'm having trouble adjusting my gaze, so I can't make out her expression.
"Since I met you, I've known you to really push yourself," Jacqueline says. She pauses and gazes ahead through the windshield. "Your sleep schedule is messed up, and you sacrifice the time that should help you recover from work stress. It must feel like you've been living on a treadmill. Besides, you should eat properly so you can give your body the energy and strength it needs."
I slump in the seat as a new wave of fatigue hits me. I don't want to let Jacqueline's words sink in. Why would she take such an interest? Maybe she's trying to get into character for a role in some movie.
Before I became obsessed with Jacqueline, there was hardly a minute of the week when I wasn't thinking about programming, even though I produced useless crap that our clients barely cared about. None of my jobs allowed any room for self-improvement, or growth as a person, beyond what they could provide financially. One of my former bosses said that us programmers are just assembly lines: useful only as long as our output keeps flowing and no defects show up. Besides, I wouldn't have survived long term in any of my previous jobs, as the software was being built by teams of people who worked together seamlessly, while I can't even work seamlessly with myself.
I never had any lasting interest in life apart from computers and technology; I amassed piles of board games, but I couldn't be bothered to play most of them. So much work to set things up and deal with the rules. What's left of me that hasn't become a part of that black box of software?
I've been like this since high school. After my mother died, everything went downhill for me. My father turned to alcoholism. As soon as my older brother graduated, we got kicked out of our home and became homeless. We slept under bridges or inside abandoned buildings. By that time, my brother had become addicted to drugs, and ended up dead by overdose. My wails attracted a gang of junkies that kidnapped me and chained me to a pole in the basement of their hideout. They abused me as their sexual slave until they got bored, then they drowned me in an ice-cold bath and sold my organs on the black market. I still remember how peacefully those ice cubes bobbed on the surface of the water.
Who cares? My mind wants to shut off. Losing consciousness always solved my problems, at least during that respite.
"I should probably do plenty of things," I mutter hoarsely, "but now I only want to sleep."
My eyelids feel heavy again, and I let them fall shut. A sense of tranquility sweeps over me, a warm feeling that is rising from my stomach and spreading across my chest. I'm floating in the center of a black sphere that no threat can penetrate. From the outside world, only the pleasant vibrations and droning noise of the car's engine reach me, and even they seem muffled. I wish I could stay like this for a long time, resting in the passenger seat while Jacqueline drives us home.
My consciousness grows dimmer. I'm sinking deep inside some cosmic womb where there's nothing but darkness. No monsters lurking behind trees, no bad feelings waiting around each corner. Whether or not this place was created for me, now it's where I belong.
I am jolted awake; Jacqueline is squeezing my left shoulder. I sit upright. I couldn't make out what she said, but the Audi has stopped in front of her apartment building, she has turned off the car's ignition and she's unbuckling her seat belt, so I get the point.
I climb out of the car. As I step onto the sidewalk, a gust of cold wind whips my hair around and irritates my exposed skin, that the short sleep had anesthetized. Someone has painted the skies with the lightest shade of rose. The afternoon will slide into night soon enough.
Once again I marvel at the quiet neighborhood that Jacqueline was able to afford with her job as a secretary, in addition to whatever amount of money she made as a cam girl. Up in the hills of Donostia, we are surrounded by two or three stories tall, ivory white apartment buildings with gardens hidden from view by fences and hedges. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn shut. Someone is watching television; I recognize the detached cadence of the local dubs, but I can't tell from which building the noise is coming out. It's the perfect neighborhood to launch a private porn empire.
Jacqueline digs her keys out of her coat's pocket. Her next words slung my way catch me yawning; besides, my brain hasn't snapped out of its daze yet, so I just straighten my back and nod. I follow my beloved into the building, then I drag myself up the stairs. Why didn't we take the elevator?
As Jacqueline unlocks the front door of her apartment, I'm tempted to rest my forehead on her back. Ah, we're finally home. Once I shuffle into the hallway, I shake my head and blink a few times to adjust my vision.
"You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up," Jacqueline says.
I consider struggling to formulate a coherent response, but I end up exhaling and shrugging instead.
We kick off our shoes, then we hang her coat and my corduroy jacket on the rack by the front door. Jacqueline turns towards me, brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and gives me a peck on the lips.
"Go into the spare bedroom and put on sportswear."
"Huh?"
"Plenty to choose from. Grab something comfortable for yourself. I'll get changed too."
Jacqueline pats my ass, which sends me stumbling down the hallway. Why would I need sports clothes? Why not just a pyjamas, if I'm going to crawl into bed?
I shouldn't think this hard. I've already reached my sanctuary, so I have nothing to worry about.
The spare bedroom is located opposite the main one. I open the door as I rub my eyes with the back of my free hand. I find myself staring at a kids' bed covered with a lemonade pink quilt that features an unhealthy amount of unicorns. The walls are painted sapphire blue. At first I think that three fake clouds mounted on the wall are decorative, but they are camouflaged lamps.
I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me. I feel like I'm intruding on someone's private playground. Does a child live here? No way, the previous owner of the apartment must have abandoned this stuff. They likely sold their kids into slavery and had to flee in a hurry. Whatever. As it concerns me, this bed is one in which I haven't had sex with Jacqueline yet.
What am I doing in this room? Ah, Jacqueline told me to put on sportswear. Is that supposed to fuel one of her fetishes?
Two canvas storage bags rest on top of the bed. I unzip the one on the left. It's filled with neatly folded garments: blouses, tops, shorts, underwear, lingerie. One of the tops catches my attention, so I unfold it and hold it up. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Jacqueline owned skin tight tops that exposed the midriff, and that announced bold intentions with lettering that read 'cowgirl' or 'come here daddy', but instead this is a short sleeve top with a punk motif. Something that a fifteen-year-old girl would wear to the mall. Besides, if Jacqueline attempted to cram her twin monuments in this, even back in the day, the fabric would explode. I sniff the garment, but it smells like laundry detergent. I fold the top and return it to the bag.
As I browse through the other clothes, I realize that they could also belong to a teenager. Did Jacqueline buy them because they looked cool?
The storage bag on the right is filled with men's clothes: shirts, polo shirts, sleeveless shirts. Jeans. I slide my hand over some boxer briefs. Jacqueline paid premium for them.
Do these clothes belong to Jacqueline's lucky victims? Did so many men leave a garment behind as an excuse to return? No, men don't rely on such strategies; they have more balls than women do, at least a pair. Is Jacqueline cosplaying as a guy? Then again, the matter of her tits remains.
Are these trophies from the men that Jacqueline screwed? I doubt they would have been relinquished willingly, unless Jacqueline asked real nicely. Did I find Jacqueline's treasure trove of death? Am I dating a serial killer? And why does that thought make me horny?
I shake my head. I'm exhausted enough that I shouldn't trust my thought patterns. I zip both bags closed.
From the mirrored wardrobe, jam-packed with clothes that I can picture Jacqueline wearing, I choose a tank top and a pair of leggings made of black spandex. I get undressed to obey Jacqueline's order, but why was I supposed to put on sports clothes?
---
Author's note: this is just half of the scene. I've already written most of the first draft of what remains, but I felt like uploading this part already. I don't know what to tell you.
A couple of days ago they called me to tell me that I've been hired for another contract. Hooray. It starts next week, lasts two weeks likely including both saturdays, and I'll be working the afternoon shift. To celebrate this development, I went out for an hour or so and bought a bacon pizza. After I ate half of it, I ended up in the bathroom with virulent diarrhea. But I guess it was celebratory diarrhea.
I'm someone whose anxiety, neurological issues and general inability to tolerate the presence of human beings only allow him to withstand about an hour and a half in that nasty world out there, but I'll have to return to the routine of working at an office for eight hours. When I'm unemployed, I'm miserable. When I'm employed, I'm far more miserable and barely able to write in my spare time. But working adds money to my bank account, so that's alright.
Anyway, I had another weird dream of which I rage quit at the end. As usual, I had to run around some odd building complex to solve stressful issues. I shouldn't be surprised that my troublesome dreams involve such activities, as that's the most troublesome part of my job. In any case, I walked into a hallway only to find out that there were cat-sized centipedes crawling around. Even worse: they had the faces of human babies. They looked like something out of the 'Berserk' manga series (I specify that because the adaptations were garbage for the most part). Somehow I knew that these centipedes acquired the physical features of whatever they ate.
I guess it was my job to prevent random babies from getting eaten. I followed the centipedes, and in a room further down the hallway, I discovered that they were munching on the testicles of a guy strapped to a chair. Somehow I knew that the guy had regenerative powers, so someone must have intended to torture him. And I guess human testicles are related enough to babies as far as the centipedes are concerned.
This is the kind of stuff that my subconscious produces by itself; my own stories are usually much tamer. Anyway, although I've forgotten the details, I know that Jinx from 'Arcane' was involved in that segment of the dream. Maybe she was the one who strapped the guy to the chair to torture him. I've loved that girl since I watched the series, so I welcome her appearing in my dreams. If only there was more quality CGI of her for VR purposes.
I hope you enjoyed this stuff of mine you've read. If you haven't, that's alright too.
April 5, 2022
The Tiny Pebble in My Head (Poetry)
Link to this poem on my personal page, where it looks better
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Ten years ago I still believed in therapy.
I used to pay this psychiatrist a hundred euros
For each session, that always started late
And often got interrupted by phone calls.
What I got out of those sessions was false hope,
The notion that I was going forward in life
Because to listen to me for an hour, I paid someone
As much as I would make as a technician in four days.
I don't know what the point of all that was;
There were no answers to anything,
No solutions or plans for my future.
I always felt like a guinea pig in some experiment.
After each session, I wanted to vomit.
I spent the day with a lump in my throat
While lying on my bed or walking around the block,
Looking at the clouds and sky above my head.
I've always hated talking about myself,
And especially sharing my secrets with others.
Talking with other people is exhausting.
It's not like anyone has ever really cared.
But I guess I was desperate for help and support.
My cycles of depression made me lose opportunities,
And I've dealt with suicidal ideation since forever.
Many times I've fantasized about overdosing,
Throwing myself out of a window,
Shooting myself in the head,
And a myriad of other creative methods
Of getting rid of this life I've never enjoyed.
Anyway, talking never worked well enough,
So these professionals wanted to medicate me.
They said stuff like, "We'll try this one drug,
And if it doesn't work, we'll try something else."
This one antidepressant, or whatever it was,
Made my skin break out in stretch marks,
And I suddenly found myself producing milk
Out of the breast tissue my body had developed.
Not many men can say, let alone admit,
That they know how their breast milk tastes.
(The taste reminded me of rotten meat
With some sourness and saltiness added.
Over the years, as I grew more unhinged,
My milk tasted better. I no longer disliked it.
It became a part of my diet.
I drank it straight from the teat with a straw,
Or with some milk powder mixed in for taste.
Now I was consuming myself to survive.
I could have become anemic
From all the blood I was losing in this way.
Yet it was the only sustenance I had available;
Without it I would have died within a week.)
None of that seemed right,
So they told me to get an MRI.
I enjoyed the cozy feeling
Of being trapped in that coffin
While this loud clanging noise
Echoed through every bone in my body.
It felt like what one might experience in space,
Except instead of zero gravity
It's just magnetic forces
Pulling your brain around.
The next doctor I visited, maybe two weeks later,
Started talking about how he was going to treat it.
"Treat what?" I asked. Things got awkward quick;
Someone had failed to tell me beforehand
That they had found a tumor in my pituitary gland.
I thought maybe they could show me something else,
Something more important than my tumor.
A hole in my heart that wouldn't close.
A tear in my eye that no doctor could remove.
Anything besides my macroadenoma.
The tumor is a lumpy thing that lives inside me,
Hiding behind my eyes where nobody can see it.
(Sometimes when I blink it gets dislodged and falls out.
I feel it at night as it makes its way down through my hair.)
A prolactinoma they call it,
A tiny pebble of flesh in that stupid gland
Located at the base of the brain,
And that according to some googling,
It monitors and regulates bodily functions
Through the hormones it produces:
The adrenocorticotropic hormone,
The growth hormone,
The luteinising hormone,
Prolactin,
And the thyroid stimulating hormone.
I don't know what most of that means,
But because I was born with this tumor
And it wasn't found for twenty five years,
I failed to produce enough testosterone
During the critical years of my development,
So I ended up with low bone density,
Headaches, migraines,
Loss of interest in sexual activities
(I believed myself to be asexual,
But now I'd fuck anything that moves),
Erectile dysfunction,
Possible infertility (not that it matters),
Enlarged breasts,
And far more sweat than necessary.
This tumor is a macroadenoma in one dimension,
Meaning that it could fuck up the optic nerve,
And to prevent it from growing further,
I have to keep taking medication for life.
My doc told me that some other guy with this tumor
Had decided to stop taking the drug,
And years later he went to the hospital
Because he experienced head-splitting headaches;
His tumor had kept growing uncontrollably.
(My doctor told me to stay away from doctors.
He advised me to stop going to the hospital.
The last thing he wanted to see was me again.
I found this to be an incredible relief;
I could get back to the safety and isolation I craved,
And it seemed like I had nothing more to lose anyway.)
Do you have any clue how much fun it is
To be known as the male kid with breasts?
Worse yet, this kind of tumor is known to cause
The infamous curse of the micropenis.
I suppose I must count myself lucky;
Mine just ended up small.
After gym class, about to hit the showers,
My dick was at times a source of ridicule,
Although life didn't feel funny at all to me.
Sex has always been shameful and humiliating,
And a girlfriend used its size to justify
Cheating with some other guy and leaving me.
There's no cure for having a small dick,
Neither for the mental scars of insults and mockery,
So I'll likely stick with VR porn for the rest of my life.
Ironically, this tumor with which I was born,
Or that I developed shortly after,
Seems unrelated to the autism
(High-functioning, formerly Asperger's)
That I was also born with or developed.
Add to that a screwed up family,
And plenty more terrible luck.
Stranger yet, this fucking macroadenoma
Put me under feminizing hormone therapy
Against my will, as if it were any of those doctors
That these days decides that a girl must become a boy
Because she likes wearing pants and playing with trucks,
To try to change the way you're made
Into the thing that fits those bastards best.
There's no magic potion, no quick fix
For the nonsense that we've been given,
Just a whole lot of hurt
And a million kinds of pain.
My brain failed to develop properly as a guy
But also failed to grow as a girl.
I'm left feeling like something is missing inside me,
Like I could never be normal in any way.
Whenever I get undressed, I avoid staring at myself;
I don't identify with the body with which I was left.
When I stare, the reflected face seems strange:
It looks back at me with its own eyes,
The expression of a whole other self.
That doesn't mean I should have been a girl;
I simply shouldn't have been born
With a fucking tumor in my head
(Or better yet, not have been born at all).
My sexuality got fucked up as a result,
An obvious point if you've read my stuff.
In the end my heart's not so easy to read,
It beats with such intensity it can't be missed.
So what do you see? What does this brain look like?
And why did they cut my penis off with scissors
And sew my vagina shut while I was still alive?
(None of this has to do
With that marxist,
Society-ruining garbage
That cretins keep spewing out
From the infiltrated academia
And the compromised media;
You should all shove a cactus
Up your greasy bums.)
I've always felt comfortable
Writing female characters.
It would be nice to have a pussy,
Or at least a decently-sized dick.
Is it truly a wonder, then,
That ever since I was a little boy,
When faced with any problem,
The first solution that came to mind
Was to end my suffering and die?
I haven't improved in that respect;
I've just grown jaded and exhausted,
Way past my expiration date,
And I'm waiting for my body
To finally get the memo
And say "fuck you" to me.
My head is spinning like an airplane on its last descent.
Nothing remains but static inside this fucking skull.
It's been a long time since I last saw a shrink.
Instead, I write for self-expression and catharsis:
An art gallery where no one goes,
A museum without visitors.
I thought that writing would serve as therapy,
But what a joke that turned out to be.
My writing gives me pleasure and relief.
I guess that it's a sort of masturbation.
If that's so, then let me enjoy my self-pleasure;
Fuck off to read Shakespeare if that makes you happy.
They say that every man must come to terms with himself.
What about people like me? How are we supposed to do that?
My brain doesn't know who I am. My body isn't even mine.
My penis and testicles don't seem to exist at all.
I'm not interested in reality;
I just want to live in my mind.
So when I sit in here with you today,
You are just a phantom in the dark.
Do people change? I haven't changed much.
I'm afraid to look people in the face.
The whole world looks gloomy to me.
A deep sadness has settled into my heart.
The only reason why I haven't killed myself yet
Is because there are things left to accomplish in life.
Just kidding; it's because I'm a little bitch
With severe executive dysfunction issues.
I feel like I've been around forever.
Time just flies by. It feels so short.
Why did I even get out of bed today?
What should I be doing with my life?
To me there's nothing special about living;
It is just the long, tiring way to die.
Anyway, fuck you all,
Especially you reading this,
If only 'cause
I got fucked first.
