Jon Ureña's Blog, page 53
October 30, 2021
Revised: 'I Was Born a Unicorn'
After the long struggle to revise my beloved first novel in English, ‘My Own Desert Places’, I formatted it into an ebook and got it uploaded to Amazon and other online retailers. So far is has sold a total of one copies, which gives me such a warm feeling.
As I was revising that novel, I also got busy rearranging all the poetry I have written into three distinct books. I have been going through the poems contained in the first of those books to revise them and update their punctuation. In some cases I’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to expand them significantly, whether because I’ve grown enough as a writer, or because I was too hasty in considering them done back then.
Anyway, this time I revised my poem ‘I Was Born a Unicorn’, about how I ended up getting diagnosed with high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s). I just added a few lines on top of the routine revision. It didn’t suffer any major issues.
Link to the updated poem: I Was Born a Unicorn
As I was revising that novel, I also got busy rearranging all the poetry I have written into three distinct books. I have been going through the poems contained in the first of those books to revise them and update their punctuation. In some cases I’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to expand them significantly, whether because I’ve grown enough as a writer, or because I was too hasty in considering them done back then.
Anyway, this time I revised my poem ‘I Was Born a Unicorn’, about how I ended up getting diagnosed with high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s). I just added a few lines on top of the routine revision. It didn’t suffer any major issues.
Link to the updated poem: I Was Born a Unicorn
October 29, 2021
We're Fucked, Pt. 9 (Fiction)
Link for this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I dream of a white horse that's trotting around in circles. Its hooves kick at the ground while its lace white mane flaps wildly about. Its eyes are large and round, and sad as if they often overflowed with tears that had been trapped within since birth.
The images disturb me enough that I wake up. I find myself staring back at a wide set pair of black, bulging eyes that belong to a horse's face. Its ears are unnaturally long and drooping, and its lips are curled back as if sniffing something foul, revealing black gums, sharp, pointed incisors and jagged rows of gray enamel. A thick thread of saliva drips down its chin as if this beast couldn't wait to swallow me whole.
I scream, but I cut it short when I realize that I know this horse. The silence returns to my bedroom, and I hear the muffled sound of my neighbor snoring away. I switch on my bedside lamp, which illuminates Spike's unsteady body as he balances himself on his hind legs, swaying slightly like an old drunk trying to stay upright. The hooves of his atrophied front legs gleam dully. The horse's stench is overpowering and almost makes me gag. Maybe he shat himself while he waited for me to wake up.
I grunt as I prop myself on my elbows. My lower back aches as if a giant was gripping onto my spine, and I'm coated in stale sweat. Why do I always wake up more exhausted than when I went to sleep? How does that make any fucking sense?
After I rub the rheum from my eyes and I take a deep breath, I complain loudly to Spike.
"What, now you are watching me sleep, like some unimaginative pervert? You ugly pile of shit! I would call the cops if I could figure out how to explain your existence."
Spike's eyelids twitch slightly. His head draws back, making his elongating thread of drool swing. He looks bewildered.
"You were sleeping...?"
Is this bastard mocking me? No, he seems genuinely confused. A sudden urge to laugh bubbles inside my chest, making my throat quiver and my mouth twitch uncontrollably. When my laughter subsides, it leaves behind a feeling of emptiness, as if my soul had fled somewhere far away.
I wipe a tear with the sleeve of my pajama top. As I toss aside my blanket to swing my feet off the edge of the mattress, the alarm goes off on my phone. It's six in the morning. Nobody should be awake at this hour, but I do it five days a week. I have to get ready and head to my garbage job that stresses me out so much that I fantasize about blowing my head off. As if the mundane routine of struggling to survive wasn't enough, I have to deal with a horse that insists on stalking me.
"Are you doing drugs now on top of being a hideous horse?" I lash out. "You malignant spawn! You better not be messing with my mind, because if you infect me with your creepy thoughts, whenever I find myself with a hammer, you are going to be the first on my list of victims, got it?! Fucking horse-faced freak!"
I stand up. Spike's atrophied front hooves click together as he struggles to retreat on his hind legs towards my wardrobe. His mouth is agape with a silent gasp. The grotesque sight of that stitched wound where his horse dick ought to be makes me cringe. Such an image will get burned into my retinas, seared into the deepest recesses of my brain cells. Life is an endless stream of horrors that never end as my mind is slowly eroded by the accumulation of stress and anxiety until it will be obliterated and replaced with the collective consciousness of the dead.
I intend to leave my bedroom and prepare a cup of coffee in the kitchen, but this goddamn horse is blocking my way out as if trying to prevent me from moving forward with the rest of my shitty little life. If it were possible for this abomination to follow me into my dreams as well, then I wouldn't hesitate at all about killing myself, because I wouldn't be able to handle that crap.
I gesture wildly for Spike to move aside.
"Get out of here and never come near me ever again, you filthy, repulsive creature! You are nothing but a piece of shit that should have died millions of years ago. I hate you for existing, and for ruining everything that is beautiful on this planet."
I'm on the verge of crying already. My heart is racing as if someone was squeezing it tightly. I can't stop seeing those horrid, bulging eyes and that malformed face. I smell his rancid, nauseating odor, and I can almost taste that foul, toxic saliva dribbling down his chin.
Spike's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, as if filling his lungs with fresh, sweet oxygen to fuel his hunger for human flesh.
"You are really mean, Leire," he says, sounding hurt by my words and tone. "Why are you so hateful when we are just two lonely creatures who are forced to endure our own personal nightmare?"
My voice trembles as I reply, "Because you are a horse, a disgusting horse, and a horse is a horse whether you are a horse or a rat or a cockroach or a fucking monkey! This is reality, asshole!"
"I am sorry for you, and for everything that you are going through right now, but please don't blame me for your problems."
Spike lumbers away from the wardrobe towards the wall beside my bed. He climbs awkwardly onto the mattress as he places his weight on his front legs. This damn horse rests his head against my pillow, then he holds his long neck at an angle to look at me with his dark eyes full of sadness, which remind me of an open wound oozing pus and blood, even though that is impossible since horses are incapable of bleeding at all due to their lack of a circulatory system.
I shake my head as I stomp to the doorway, but when I stop and turn around to insult Spike some more, he's gone. I feel bad for a moment. Perhaps that horse has no other choice than to eat human brains to stay alive. In any case, there's no point in caring about the feelings of a hallucination.
In the kitchen, as I wait for my coffee maker to finish spitting my coffee, I keep smelling my unwashed body and the lingering stink of the garbage sitting in my trashcan. I hear the engines of a couple of cars as their owners head to work. While I lean against the counter to drink my warm coffee, I feel like a castaway left upon a barren island to rot away and die alone.
Once I take off my pyjamas as I stand on the cold tiles of my small bathroom, I avoid facing in the mirror the dark circles under my eyes and the stress carved in my face, but I check out my pale, skinny body. Despite my sunken abdomen because of poor eating habits, my tits remain nice and big. They're my only pride, especially for someone who often fantasizes about breasts being crushed by powerful hands and mouths devouring them while they are still soft and pliant and hot and sticky with milk and cum. I fondle my tits for a bit until I remember that I must wash off the stale smell of my body, then head to work.
No matter how hard I scrub my skin clean with soap and hot water, nothing can erase what is engraved into me by that horse's weird gaze or his stench. But while I shampoo my hair, I make the mistake of closing my eyes. The dark theatre of my mind was playing, without my knowledge or consent, a vivid picture of Jacqueline wearing that apple red, wrap dress that she comes to our office in from time to time, the neckline so deep that it exposes the black center gore of her bra underneath. Her raven black hair cascades over her shoulders and caresses her large breasts that the dress barely contains. She is also wearing pantyhose that are pulling and stretching around her shapely calves and thighs. My breath thickens in my throat as I stare at the mental reproduction of that mystery wrapped in a sexy package like a chocolate cake with whipped cum on top.
Jacqueline's cobalt blue gaze pierces mine, and it sparkles with a maternal love and compassion that also radiates out of her soft, pink lips, so moist and inviting to kiss and suck on for hours. She must be a goddess sent from heaven to rescue a lost lamb like me from this awful world where everything is ugly and evil.
Jacqueline approaches me, filling most of the darkness, then she strokes my neck and smooths down my hair while she whispers sweet words to soothe my troubled mind. My soapy hands belong to her as she massages my sides, then wraps me in a warm embrace. Her tongue licks my right earlobe, then its slides down along the side of my neck until she reaches my collarbone, where she sucks at the tender flesh while her hand moves lower over the curve of my hips to stroke the skin between my thighs.
As I rub my burning hot pussy, I remind myself that I'm not masturbating about Jacqueline: I'm masturbating and Jacqueline just happened to come across my mind.
It's always the same routine: my fingers slide between the folds of my labia while I imagine that they are the tongue of an animal licking the juices of another female mammal, until I cry like an infant when the tension finally dissolves inside the warmth of my cunt. This orgasm makes me fall into an exhausted stupor. Jacqueline's phantom touch has been imprinted into every inch of my being and is still seeping into my bones and muscles. How I needed yesterday to undo the buttons of her blouse and cup those large orbs of hers for a quick squeeze or two! Now I would have gladly returned to bed, but I snap out of it to face the horrible suspicion that I should have left the house already.
As the water running off my body drips all over the tiles, I check my phone that I put on the sink's edge. I should have left five minutes ago. Although I often masturbate in the shower, I had never wasted time in the morning arguing with a horse.
When I run down the stairs of my apartment building and I exit into the cold October air, my hair is still moist, but more importantly, my Renault Laguna isn't parked next to the garbage container as usual. A neighbor has raised the lid of the container to throw away a bulging bag, likely filled with human excrement and rotting food scraps mixed with cigarette butts and used condoms. I look around frantically, but most of the parking slots are empty, my car is gone, and the only other sign of human activity is a young guy rolling up the rusted blinds of his garage.
I bend my trembling knees as I nearly tear my hair out.
"Where the fuck is my car?!" I shout aloud, since nobody can hear me anyway in the fog of this nightmare. "I will fucking slaughter whoever stole it! Fuck this shit! Fuck this shitfuckthisshitfuck this shitfuck this shit..."
Oh yeah, my car is gone because Spike ate it and turned it to mush! That goddamn horse has to go to the dumpster and eat half a dozen tires and rusty mufflers and broken windshields and a couple of hubcaps and a whole bunch of other shit to stay alive. Then I remember. Yesterday I abandoned my Renault Laguna after I nearly crashed while driving back home, because I was too busy thinking about Jacqueline and how good her nipples tasted. No! The car nearly killed me by swerving by itself into another lane, and cars don't do that unless they're drugged or possessed by an evil entity from outer space or something equally ridiculous like that.
I bet Spike ate my thoughts and memories to turn them into sickening hallucinations without asking me first and without giving me any warning whatsoever. He's a monster! If there's such thing as a horse god of the underworld, then that's him for sure. Even though I was getting used to him and started accepting his presence, he goes and fucks me raw like a wild stallion.
What can I do now? I'll take the train. That's how I intended to travel around from now on, I think. But how do I reach the closest train station from here?
---
I dream of a white horse that's trotting around in circles. Its hooves kick at the ground while its lace white mane flaps wildly about. Its eyes are large and round, and sad as if they often overflowed with tears that had been trapped within since birth.
The images disturb me enough that I wake up. I find myself staring back at a wide set pair of black, bulging eyes that belong to a horse's face. Its ears are unnaturally long and drooping, and its lips are curled back as if sniffing something foul, revealing black gums, sharp, pointed incisors and jagged rows of gray enamel. A thick thread of saliva drips down its chin as if this beast couldn't wait to swallow me whole.
I scream, but I cut it short when I realize that I know this horse. The silence returns to my bedroom, and I hear the muffled sound of my neighbor snoring away. I switch on my bedside lamp, which illuminates Spike's unsteady body as he balances himself on his hind legs, swaying slightly like an old drunk trying to stay upright. The hooves of his atrophied front legs gleam dully. The horse's stench is overpowering and almost makes me gag. Maybe he shat himself while he waited for me to wake up.
I grunt as I prop myself on my elbows. My lower back aches as if a giant was gripping onto my spine, and I'm coated in stale sweat. Why do I always wake up more exhausted than when I went to sleep? How does that make any fucking sense?
After I rub the rheum from my eyes and I take a deep breath, I complain loudly to Spike.
"What, now you are watching me sleep, like some unimaginative pervert? You ugly pile of shit! I would call the cops if I could figure out how to explain your existence."
Spike's eyelids twitch slightly. His head draws back, making his elongating thread of drool swing. He looks bewildered.
"You were sleeping...?"
Is this bastard mocking me? No, he seems genuinely confused. A sudden urge to laugh bubbles inside my chest, making my throat quiver and my mouth twitch uncontrollably. When my laughter subsides, it leaves behind a feeling of emptiness, as if my soul had fled somewhere far away.
I wipe a tear with the sleeve of my pajama top. As I toss aside my blanket to swing my feet off the edge of the mattress, the alarm goes off on my phone. It's six in the morning. Nobody should be awake at this hour, but I do it five days a week. I have to get ready and head to my garbage job that stresses me out so much that I fantasize about blowing my head off. As if the mundane routine of struggling to survive wasn't enough, I have to deal with a horse that insists on stalking me.
"Are you doing drugs now on top of being a hideous horse?" I lash out. "You malignant spawn! You better not be messing with my mind, because if you infect me with your creepy thoughts, whenever I find myself with a hammer, you are going to be the first on my list of victims, got it?! Fucking horse-faced freak!"
I stand up. Spike's atrophied front hooves click together as he struggles to retreat on his hind legs towards my wardrobe. His mouth is agape with a silent gasp. The grotesque sight of that stitched wound where his horse dick ought to be makes me cringe. Such an image will get burned into my retinas, seared into the deepest recesses of my brain cells. Life is an endless stream of horrors that never end as my mind is slowly eroded by the accumulation of stress and anxiety until it will be obliterated and replaced with the collective consciousness of the dead.
I intend to leave my bedroom and prepare a cup of coffee in the kitchen, but this goddamn horse is blocking my way out as if trying to prevent me from moving forward with the rest of my shitty little life. If it were possible for this abomination to follow me into my dreams as well, then I wouldn't hesitate at all about killing myself, because I wouldn't be able to handle that crap.
I gesture wildly for Spike to move aside.
"Get out of here and never come near me ever again, you filthy, repulsive creature! You are nothing but a piece of shit that should have died millions of years ago. I hate you for existing, and for ruining everything that is beautiful on this planet."
I'm on the verge of crying already. My heart is racing as if someone was squeezing it tightly. I can't stop seeing those horrid, bulging eyes and that malformed face. I smell his rancid, nauseating odor, and I can almost taste that foul, toxic saliva dribbling down his chin.
Spike's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, as if filling his lungs with fresh, sweet oxygen to fuel his hunger for human flesh.
"You are really mean, Leire," he says, sounding hurt by my words and tone. "Why are you so hateful when we are just two lonely creatures who are forced to endure our own personal nightmare?"
My voice trembles as I reply, "Because you are a horse, a disgusting horse, and a horse is a horse whether you are a horse or a rat or a cockroach or a fucking monkey! This is reality, asshole!"
"I am sorry for you, and for everything that you are going through right now, but please don't blame me for your problems."
Spike lumbers away from the wardrobe towards the wall beside my bed. He climbs awkwardly onto the mattress as he places his weight on his front legs. This damn horse rests his head against my pillow, then he holds his long neck at an angle to look at me with his dark eyes full of sadness, which remind me of an open wound oozing pus and blood, even though that is impossible since horses are incapable of bleeding at all due to their lack of a circulatory system.
I shake my head as I stomp to the doorway, but when I stop and turn around to insult Spike some more, he's gone. I feel bad for a moment. Perhaps that horse has no other choice than to eat human brains to stay alive. In any case, there's no point in caring about the feelings of a hallucination.
In the kitchen, as I wait for my coffee maker to finish spitting my coffee, I keep smelling my unwashed body and the lingering stink of the garbage sitting in my trashcan. I hear the engines of a couple of cars as their owners head to work. While I lean against the counter to drink my warm coffee, I feel like a castaway left upon a barren island to rot away and die alone.
Once I take off my pyjamas as I stand on the cold tiles of my small bathroom, I avoid facing in the mirror the dark circles under my eyes and the stress carved in my face, but I check out my pale, skinny body. Despite my sunken abdomen because of poor eating habits, my tits remain nice and big. They're my only pride, especially for someone who often fantasizes about breasts being crushed by powerful hands and mouths devouring them while they are still soft and pliant and hot and sticky with milk and cum. I fondle my tits for a bit until I remember that I must wash off the stale smell of my body, then head to work.
No matter how hard I scrub my skin clean with soap and hot water, nothing can erase what is engraved into me by that horse's weird gaze or his stench. But while I shampoo my hair, I make the mistake of closing my eyes. The dark theatre of my mind was playing, without my knowledge or consent, a vivid picture of Jacqueline wearing that apple red, wrap dress that she comes to our office in from time to time, the neckline so deep that it exposes the black center gore of her bra underneath. Her raven black hair cascades over her shoulders and caresses her large breasts that the dress barely contains. She is also wearing pantyhose that are pulling and stretching around her shapely calves and thighs. My breath thickens in my throat as I stare at the mental reproduction of that mystery wrapped in a sexy package like a chocolate cake with whipped cum on top.
Jacqueline's cobalt blue gaze pierces mine, and it sparkles with a maternal love and compassion that also radiates out of her soft, pink lips, so moist and inviting to kiss and suck on for hours. She must be a goddess sent from heaven to rescue a lost lamb like me from this awful world where everything is ugly and evil.
Jacqueline approaches me, filling most of the darkness, then she strokes my neck and smooths down my hair while she whispers sweet words to soothe my troubled mind. My soapy hands belong to her as she massages my sides, then wraps me in a warm embrace. Her tongue licks my right earlobe, then its slides down along the side of my neck until she reaches my collarbone, where she sucks at the tender flesh while her hand moves lower over the curve of my hips to stroke the skin between my thighs.
As I rub my burning hot pussy, I remind myself that I'm not masturbating about Jacqueline: I'm masturbating and Jacqueline just happened to come across my mind.
It's always the same routine: my fingers slide between the folds of my labia while I imagine that they are the tongue of an animal licking the juices of another female mammal, until I cry like an infant when the tension finally dissolves inside the warmth of my cunt. This orgasm makes me fall into an exhausted stupor. Jacqueline's phantom touch has been imprinted into every inch of my being and is still seeping into my bones and muscles. How I needed yesterday to undo the buttons of her blouse and cup those large orbs of hers for a quick squeeze or two! Now I would have gladly returned to bed, but I snap out of it to face the horrible suspicion that I should have left the house already.
As the water running off my body drips all over the tiles, I check my phone that I put on the sink's edge. I should have left five minutes ago. Although I often masturbate in the shower, I had never wasted time in the morning arguing with a horse.
When I run down the stairs of my apartment building and I exit into the cold October air, my hair is still moist, but more importantly, my Renault Laguna isn't parked next to the garbage container as usual. A neighbor has raised the lid of the container to throw away a bulging bag, likely filled with human excrement and rotting food scraps mixed with cigarette butts and used condoms. I look around frantically, but most of the parking slots are empty, my car is gone, and the only other sign of human activity is a young guy rolling up the rusted blinds of his garage.
I bend my trembling knees as I nearly tear my hair out.
"Where the fuck is my car?!" I shout aloud, since nobody can hear me anyway in the fog of this nightmare. "I will fucking slaughter whoever stole it! Fuck this shit! Fuck this shitfuckthisshitfuck this shitfuck this shit..."
Oh yeah, my car is gone because Spike ate it and turned it to mush! That goddamn horse has to go to the dumpster and eat half a dozen tires and rusty mufflers and broken windshields and a couple of hubcaps and a whole bunch of other shit to stay alive. Then I remember. Yesterday I abandoned my Renault Laguna after I nearly crashed while driving back home, because I was too busy thinking about Jacqueline and how good her nipples tasted. No! The car nearly killed me by swerving by itself into another lane, and cars don't do that unless they're drugged or possessed by an evil entity from outer space or something equally ridiculous like that.
I bet Spike ate my thoughts and memories to turn them into sickening hallucinations without asking me first and without giving me any warning whatsoever. He's a monster! If there's such thing as a horse god of the underworld, then that's him for sure. Even though I was getting used to him and started accepting his presence, he goes and fucks me raw like a wild stallion.
What can I do now? I'll take the train. That's how I intended to travel around from now on, I think. But how do I reach the closest train station from here?
October 27, 2021
xVASynth recites 'We're Fucked, Pt. 8'
I forced xVASynth to recite two minutes and a half of my ongoing thing 'We're Fucked', a story about a programmer who is stalked by a castrated horse.
Link to the audio on YouTube
The rest of this part is located in this link to my site.
The first part of this ongoing story is located in this link.
Link to the audio on YouTube
The rest of this part is located in this link to my site.
The first part of this ongoing story is located in this link.
We're Fucked, Pt. 8 (Fiction)
Link for this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I walk down the hallway like a zombie while my mind feels numb and heavy as a lead blanket. I'm still trying to work out ways to delay Jacqueline from entering our office when I raise my gaze and find her waiting in the doorway, holding the door open for me to pass through first. I give up. I'll resume my duties, and squeeze as much work as I can out of this remaining hour just to deduct that much stress from tomorrow's workday.
To my surprise, as I type away at my dirty keyboard, my fingers move more fluidly than usual, although I feel as detached as if I had swallowed a couple of anxiolytic pills, able to concentrate on what needs to get done but uncaring of the sacrifices it demands of my fragile mind. But warm shudders make me tremble from time to time, and I have to restrain my gaze from wandering to my right, to ascertain if Jacqueline is glancing at me. I need those piercing blue eyes to stare back at mine with motherly compassion, to let me know that everything is going to be alright, that she can fix my numerous issues with her healing hands that caress away every pain.
Our boss leaves his office at a quarter to six and says goodbye energetically while he walks past our table. As usual, I pretend that I can't distract myself from the lines of code I'm programming; acknowledging Ramsés' presence might mean offering him the opportunity to assign me more work or to manipulate me into working overtime or accepting some of his sexual advances.
The workday ends, but I only realize it because my coworkers Jordi and Jacqueline are quick to get up to leave. I remain paralyzed, halfway through refactoring a small function, when I feel Jacqueline's warm presence as she stands beside me. She puts her hand on my shoulder, which sends a tingle all over my body.
"No way, you aren't working overtime today," she says gently. "C'mon, get up."
I nod and obey, although my body wants to collapse. Jacqueline rubs the back of my neck as she addresses Jordi, who is standing nearby. The intern eyes us with curiosity while he puts on his leather jacket. Does he know that Jacqueline had held me in her arms, and how wet it had made me?
"Don't you think it's time this girl gets some rest?" Jacqueline asks to our male coworker.
"Sure. I keep suggesting that Ramsés is working you to the bone. You should take a break now and then."
"That's right. Go straight home, Leire. Prepare yourself a bath and relax for an hour, and then cook a proper dinner. You need to put some meat in you."
I only own a tiny shower, and Jacqueline's suggestion filled my mind with images of dicks.
"Hey, if you give me permission, I'll gladly leave for the day," I say wearily.
I grab my work bag and I accompany my coworkers to the parking lot. The sun is already setting, and I narrow my shoulders against the chill of autumn. Workers from nearby office buildings are maneuvering out of their parking spaces. I glance at my Renault Laguna, parked in front of the row of garbage bins, and I recall that I'll have to deal with my old car's supernatural abilities.
When I look back, Jacqueline is contemplating me as she wears a smile with a hint of mischief. I feel that she can see everything, and that she is reading every thought that crosses my mind, every feeling that stirs within me, every desire that burns my throat with its intensity. This woman always seems so confident and sure of herself, as if she could do whatever she pleased with anyone, that it used to annoy me. I considered her a vapid bitch. But now that I've felt her touch, I guess I find her as irresistible as those twenty something year olds she seduces on any given weekend night.
"See you tomorrow, Leire," she says in a confidential tone.
As Jacqueline turns towards her fog grey Audi, that is gleaming like it had been coated recently with wax, I realize that this woman had never bothered to interact with me outside working hours; the same way I was wary of her, I imagined that I irritated her in turn, and she couldn't wait to lose sight of me. Apart from my hallucinations, anyone going out of their way to talk to me is a novelty, unless they intend to demand my expertise.
I step forward and raise my nervous voice.
"Thank you for helping me."
My eyes dart around as I try to figure out what else to say, but Jacqueline smiles warmly. She opens the door of her car.
"I'm glad that I could. And I meant what I said. You have my number."
I stand on the asphalt with my arms crossed as I watch Jacqueline climb inside her Audi, start her engine and drive off. After both my coworkers have disappeared, I realize that I had hoped for Jacqueline to offer me a ride, and for her to drive me to her home instead of mine. But I will end up having to face another night alone.
What is happening to me? I blacked out as I was driving home, a talking horse started stalking me, and strange black shapes appeared and faded away wildly as if someone was performing a shadow play from inside my eyeballs. On top of the nightmare that my life has steadily become, now I feel like a teenager with a crush, who can't wait to find out how the object of her affections looks like beneath her business attire and makeup. But Jacqueline is right, I need a break. My mind is too fragile to tolerate a full-time job, let alone one in which I often have to work overtime. I should move to a tropical island and spend my days lying in the sun. I want to hold a big, round coconut in each hand and sip happily on their milk.
***
The night has already set in as I drive past Beraun. The only sounds are the popular songs coming from the radio in my car, as well as some traffic noise due to cars passing nearby at high speeds. Beraun's apartment buildings peek out from behind canopies that resemble shaggy hair.
My mind is hazy, confused, and I've been tempted to swerve twice because cow-sized, quadruped shadows had crossed the highway in front of me without warning or sound. I feel, more than see, smaller black shapes floating in the air like fish in a tank. My heart is pounding, and a constant buzzing is rising in my ears as if an electric saw was cutting into them with every beat of my heart.
As I approach the tall, blue signs hanged over the road, which announce that I'm heading towards Irún, Hondarribia and Bayonne, in the blink of an eye my Renault Laguna has left the signs behind as if time had sped up. Although I take deep breaths and grip the steering wheel tightly, at random, the wild vegetation that lines the highway, as well as the cars whose positions I need to follow constantly, get accelerated as if someone was pressing forward on a video. My reaction time remains the same.
This dreamlike state of confusion, all these weird visions that are invading my consciousness without warning or rhyme or reason... Either the growing stress has triggered them, or maybe these are the symptoms of a brain tumor that will eventually kill me, if I don't crash my car first.
I'm covered in cold sweat. I'm surrounded by cars that are rushing home from work. I want to take an exit ramp onto any secondary road that would allow me to park for a moment and take a breather. Behind the noise barriers to my left, and over the tortilla brown roofs of houses, the Jaizkibel mountain signals that it'll take me about fifteen minutes to reach my rotting city.
My car suddenly accelerates, but I quickly press the brake pedal down. Did I push the accelerator pedal by mistake? I can't tell. Although I can still make out the outlines of the landscape and the buildings, and the white lines painted on the asphalt, no matter how hard I try to avoid it, the distinction between reality and illusion is fading fast.
The steering wheel turns to the left under my firm grip, like a wild animal that's resisting capture. As I try to correct the trajectory of my Renault Laguna, an enormous truck starts passing me by, hiding the view of the Jaizkibel mountain. I brake sharply to avoid colliding with its cargo trailer, which would have crushed the hood of my car, made it flip, and possibly caused the pursuing cars to slam into me. My body is thrown against my seatbelt with a sickening jolt. As I swerve back into my lane, I nearly crash against the guardrail that prevents us from driving off the bridge onto the woods below. The driver of the car following me leans on the horn, and through the rearview mirror I see him gesticulating towards me as he complains.
My hands are shaking, and I'm beginning to hyperventilate. I often fantasized about crashing my car against a pillar and finally putting an end to this nightmare of a life, but now I've become a public menace. If I continue driving, I'll end up ruining someone else's car, maybe injuring the occupants gravely, or I might run someone over. I picture myself realizing that my windshield has cracked and has been dyed red. I'd get out of my Renault Laguna and look back towards the corpse splayed on the asphalt, twisted into an unnatural shape, and I'd fall on my knees and bury my face, knowing that for as long as I lived I'd have to bear the consequences.
I open the window, and my eyes start watering when the wind hits my face. I have to leave my car. I slow down as much as the pursuing vehicles allow me, and I barely blink as I follow the road towards the next exit ramp. A few tears of panic run down my cheeks. While I ignore the shadows that pop in and out of existence, an eternity passes until I recognize an exit ramp that, past a toll barrier, progresses onto a two-lane road that nears the Txingudi mall. Soon enough I find myself back in the outskirts of my hometown. My entire body tingles uncomfortably as I maneuver onto a strip of parking spaces next to the graphite grey, modern building that houses the Café Irún restaurant.
As soon as I pull up and turn off the engine, it feels like a miracle that I have survived the journey. I can't drive anymore. Hell, someone as deranged as me should have never considered getting behind a steering wheel.
I rub my eyes with my sweaty palms. When I open them again, a sentence in bold letters has appeared across the dashboard as if it were a sticker, and it reads YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
I'm unsure how many seconds pass as my heart keeps pounding. My mouth is dry.
"I-is that you, Spike, you hideous horse? Or what part of my deranged psyche is talking to me now?"
The sentence disappears. I find myself staring intently at the plasticky dashboard of my Renault Laguna. I clench my teeth together to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. I look in the rearview mirror expecting to see Spike's horse face as he sat on the backseat, but those two seats remain empty like they've always been.
"If one of my stalkers is brave enough to show itself as a castrated horse," I croak, "you fucker with the car messages should just pop up and talk to me face to face, pussy!"
Nobody takes responsibility for the message. A group of middle-aged men leaves the restaurant and part from each other to get into their cars. An amorous couple is enjoying the evening under the awning, sitting at one of the outside tables. Nobody pays any heed to the crazy woman, with possibly a bad case of schizophrenia, who is decaying inside her shitty car.
I shake my head. I reach for the handle of the door, but it has reverted back into a two-dimensional object, so my fingers slide over the surface. I've had enough of this car and its supernatural abilities. I go through the trouble of starting its engine, opening the door, then reaching inside to turn off the engine again. I don't bother pulling out the key card from its slot in the dashboard. I'll never get into this car again. Whoever ends up stealing it, and I doubt it'll take long in this city, will get to enjoy rotating random objects with the car's steering wheel, assuming I didn't imagine the whole thing in the first place.
As I stand in the cold October air of this dark evening, my legs tremble, my chest is heavy. The nearby supermarket and car dealers look blurry, likely because I'm dizzy and I want to cry. I better start moving. I'll either walk the entire way back to my apartment, or I'll get annoyed enough that I'll take a bus. Either way, tomorrow I'll have to wake up before dawn and repeat this nightmare all over again.
---
I walk down the hallway like a zombie while my mind feels numb and heavy as a lead blanket. I'm still trying to work out ways to delay Jacqueline from entering our office when I raise my gaze and find her waiting in the doorway, holding the door open for me to pass through first. I give up. I'll resume my duties, and squeeze as much work as I can out of this remaining hour just to deduct that much stress from tomorrow's workday.
To my surprise, as I type away at my dirty keyboard, my fingers move more fluidly than usual, although I feel as detached as if I had swallowed a couple of anxiolytic pills, able to concentrate on what needs to get done but uncaring of the sacrifices it demands of my fragile mind. But warm shudders make me tremble from time to time, and I have to restrain my gaze from wandering to my right, to ascertain if Jacqueline is glancing at me. I need those piercing blue eyes to stare back at mine with motherly compassion, to let me know that everything is going to be alright, that she can fix my numerous issues with her healing hands that caress away every pain.
Our boss leaves his office at a quarter to six and says goodbye energetically while he walks past our table. As usual, I pretend that I can't distract myself from the lines of code I'm programming; acknowledging Ramsés' presence might mean offering him the opportunity to assign me more work or to manipulate me into working overtime or accepting some of his sexual advances.
The workday ends, but I only realize it because my coworkers Jordi and Jacqueline are quick to get up to leave. I remain paralyzed, halfway through refactoring a small function, when I feel Jacqueline's warm presence as she stands beside me. She puts her hand on my shoulder, which sends a tingle all over my body.
"No way, you aren't working overtime today," she says gently. "C'mon, get up."
I nod and obey, although my body wants to collapse. Jacqueline rubs the back of my neck as she addresses Jordi, who is standing nearby. The intern eyes us with curiosity while he puts on his leather jacket. Does he know that Jacqueline had held me in her arms, and how wet it had made me?
"Don't you think it's time this girl gets some rest?" Jacqueline asks to our male coworker.
"Sure. I keep suggesting that Ramsés is working you to the bone. You should take a break now and then."
"That's right. Go straight home, Leire. Prepare yourself a bath and relax for an hour, and then cook a proper dinner. You need to put some meat in you."
I only own a tiny shower, and Jacqueline's suggestion filled my mind with images of dicks.
"Hey, if you give me permission, I'll gladly leave for the day," I say wearily.
I grab my work bag and I accompany my coworkers to the parking lot. The sun is already setting, and I narrow my shoulders against the chill of autumn. Workers from nearby office buildings are maneuvering out of their parking spaces. I glance at my Renault Laguna, parked in front of the row of garbage bins, and I recall that I'll have to deal with my old car's supernatural abilities.
When I look back, Jacqueline is contemplating me as she wears a smile with a hint of mischief. I feel that she can see everything, and that she is reading every thought that crosses my mind, every feeling that stirs within me, every desire that burns my throat with its intensity. This woman always seems so confident and sure of herself, as if she could do whatever she pleased with anyone, that it used to annoy me. I considered her a vapid bitch. But now that I've felt her touch, I guess I find her as irresistible as those twenty something year olds she seduces on any given weekend night.
"See you tomorrow, Leire," she says in a confidential tone.
As Jacqueline turns towards her fog grey Audi, that is gleaming like it had been coated recently with wax, I realize that this woman had never bothered to interact with me outside working hours; the same way I was wary of her, I imagined that I irritated her in turn, and she couldn't wait to lose sight of me. Apart from my hallucinations, anyone going out of their way to talk to me is a novelty, unless they intend to demand my expertise.
I step forward and raise my nervous voice.
"Thank you for helping me."
My eyes dart around as I try to figure out what else to say, but Jacqueline smiles warmly. She opens the door of her car.
"I'm glad that I could. And I meant what I said. You have my number."
I stand on the asphalt with my arms crossed as I watch Jacqueline climb inside her Audi, start her engine and drive off. After both my coworkers have disappeared, I realize that I had hoped for Jacqueline to offer me a ride, and for her to drive me to her home instead of mine. But I will end up having to face another night alone.
What is happening to me? I blacked out as I was driving home, a talking horse started stalking me, and strange black shapes appeared and faded away wildly as if someone was performing a shadow play from inside my eyeballs. On top of the nightmare that my life has steadily become, now I feel like a teenager with a crush, who can't wait to find out how the object of her affections looks like beneath her business attire and makeup. But Jacqueline is right, I need a break. My mind is too fragile to tolerate a full-time job, let alone one in which I often have to work overtime. I should move to a tropical island and spend my days lying in the sun. I want to hold a big, round coconut in each hand and sip happily on their milk.
***
The night has already set in as I drive past Beraun. The only sounds are the popular songs coming from the radio in my car, as well as some traffic noise due to cars passing nearby at high speeds. Beraun's apartment buildings peek out from behind canopies that resemble shaggy hair.
My mind is hazy, confused, and I've been tempted to swerve twice because cow-sized, quadruped shadows had crossed the highway in front of me without warning or sound. I feel, more than see, smaller black shapes floating in the air like fish in a tank. My heart is pounding, and a constant buzzing is rising in my ears as if an electric saw was cutting into them with every beat of my heart.
As I approach the tall, blue signs hanged over the road, which announce that I'm heading towards Irún, Hondarribia and Bayonne, in the blink of an eye my Renault Laguna has left the signs behind as if time had sped up. Although I take deep breaths and grip the steering wheel tightly, at random, the wild vegetation that lines the highway, as well as the cars whose positions I need to follow constantly, get accelerated as if someone was pressing forward on a video. My reaction time remains the same.
This dreamlike state of confusion, all these weird visions that are invading my consciousness without warning or rhyme or reason... Either the growing stress has triggered them, or maybe these are the symptoms of a brain tumor that will eventually kill me, if I don't crash my car first.
I'm covered in cold sweat. I'm surrounded by cars that are rushing home from work. I want to take an exit ramp onto any secondary road that would allow me to park for a moment and take a breather. Behind the noise barriers to my left, and over the tortilla brown roofs of houses, the Jaizkibel mountain signals that it'll take me about fifteen minutes to reach my rotting city.
My car suddenly accelerates, but I quickly press the brake pedal down. Did I push the accelerator pedal by mistake? I can't tell. Although I can still make out the outlines of the landscape and the buildings, and the white lines painted on the asphalt, no matter how hard I try to avoid it, the distinction between reality and illusion is fading fast.
The steering wheel turns to the left under my firm grip, like a wild animal that's resisting capture. As I try to correct the trajectory of my Renault Laguna, an enormous truck starts passing me by, hiding the view of the Jaizkibel mountain. I brake sharply to avoid colliding with its cargo trailer, which would have crushed the hood of my car, made it flip, and possibly caused the pursuing cars to slam into me. My body is thrown against my seatbelt with a sickening jolt. As I swerve back into my lane, I nearly crash against the guardrail that prevents us from driving off the bridge onto the woods below. The driver of the car following me leans on the horn, and through the rearview mirror I see him gesticulating towards me as he complains.
My hands are shaking, and I'm beginning to hyperventilate. I often fantasized about crashing my car against a pillar and finally putting an end to this nightmare of a life, but now I've become a public menace. If I continue driving, I'll end up ruining someone else's car, maybe injuring the occupants gravely, or I might run someone over. I picture myself realizing that my windshield has cracked and has been dyed red. I'd get out of my Renault Laguna and look back towards the corpse splayed on the asphalt, twisted into an unnatural shape, and I'd fall on my knees and bury my face, knowing that for as long as I lived I'd have to bear the consequences.
I open the window, and my eyes start watering when the wind hits my face. I have to leave my car. I slow down as much as the pursuing vehicles allow me, and I barely blink as I follow the road towards the next exit ramp. A few tears of panic run down my cheeks. While I ignore the shadows that pop in and out of existence, an eternity passes until I recognize an exit ramp that, past a toll barrier, progresses onto a two-lane road that nears the Txingudi mall. Soon enough I find myself back in the outskirts of my hometown. My entire body tingles uncomfortably as I maneuver onto a strip of parking spaces next to the graphite grey, modern building that houses the Café Irún restaurant.
As soon as I pull up and turn off the engine, it feels like a miracle that I have survived the journey. I can't drive anymore. Hell, someone as deranged as me should have never considered getting behind a steering wheel.
I rub my eyes with my sweaty palms. When I open them again, a sentence in bold letters has appeared across the dashboard as if it were a sticker, and it reads YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
I'm unsure how many seconds pass as my heart keeps pounding. My mouth is dry.
"I-is that you, Spike, you hideous horse? Or what part of my deranged psyche is talking to me now?"
The sentence disappears. I find myself staring intently at the plasticky dashboard of my Renault Laguna. I clench my teeth together to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. I look in the rearview mirror expecting to see Spike's horse face as he sat on the backseat, but those two seats remain empty like they've always been.
"If one of my stalkers is brave enough to show itself as a castrated horse," I croak, "you fucker with the car messages should just pop up and talk to me face to face, pussy!"
Nobody takes responsibility for the message. A group of middle-aged men leaves the restaurant and part from each other to get into their cars. An amorous couple is enjoying the evening under the awning, sitting at one of the outside tables. Nobody pays any heed to the crazy woman, with possibly a bad case of schizophrenia, who is decaying inside her shitty car.
I shake my head. I reach for the handle of the door, but it has reverted back into a two-dimensional object, so my fingers slide over the surface. I've had enough of this car and its supernatural abilities. I go through the trouble of starting its engine, opening the door, then reaching inside to turn off the engine again. I don't bother pulling out the key card from its slot in the dashboard. I'll never get into this car again. Whoever ends up stealing it, and I doubt it'll take long in this city, will get to enjoy rotating random objects with the car's steering wheel, assuming I didn't imagine the whole thing in the first place.
As I stand in the cold October air of this dark evening, my legs tremble, my chest is heavy. The nearby supermarket and car dealers look blurry, likely because I'm dizzy and I want to cry. I better start moving. I'll either walk the entire way back to my apartment, or I'll get annoyed enough that I'll take a bus. Either way, tomorrow I'll have to wake up before dawn and repeat this nightmare all over again.
October 25, 2021
xVASynth recites my poem 'A Spider's Song'
I used the fantastic, AI-based program xVASynth to recite the entirety of my minor poem 'A Spider's Song'. I think it came out real good.
The audio is on YouTube. Listen to it through this link.
You can find the original poem through this link to my website.
The audio is on YouTube. Listen to it through this link.
You can find the original poem through this link to my website.
October 24, 2021
xVASynth recites my poem 'Happiness Is a Warm Cat Girl'
I used the fantastic, AI-based program xVASynth to generate the first six minutes of my poem 'Happiness Is a Warm Cat Girl'. The YouTube video is in this link.
You can read the rest of this poem through this link to my site.
You can read the rest of this poem through this link to my site.
xVASynth recites my poem 'Dinosaur Apocalypse'
I used the fantastic, AI-based program xVASynth to generate five minutes of my poem 'Dinosaur Apocalypse', and I uploaded it to YouTube.
YouTube link
You can find the rest of this poem through this link.
YouTube link
You can find the rest of this poem through this link.
October 23, 2021
xVASynth recites my poem 'Sasquatch Goddess'
A new version of xVASynth got released, and I figured, why not force one of those voices to recite my poem 'Sasquatch Goddess'?
The process turned out to be more annoying that I expected, so I just generated two minutes of it. Follow this link for the YouTube video.
You can read the rest of the poem on my website.
The process turned out to be more annoying that I expected, so I just generated two minutes of it. Follow this link for the YouTube video.
You can read the rest of the poem on my website.
October 22, 2021
We're Fucked, Pt. 7 (Fiction)
I can't escape, I can't refuse to shoulder this unfair workload as the leading programmer of the only company that hasn't discarded me because I'm a lunatic. Now that my mind has surrendered for a while to the nightmare that my life has become, it has ceased to struggle every time I stop adding new lines of code, so in what little remains of the workday I'm accomplishing more work than I had since it started. But my brain aches and burns from overexertion. Sweat is dripping down my forehead onto a keyboard covered in smudged fingerprints. My breasts and nipples are itching under my hoodie. My pussy is also on fire and needs relief desperately. I want to cry as I curse myself for having failed to masturbate before coming to work today.
As if inhabiting my festering body wasn't enough of a punishment, I keep typing while I ignore the black shapes that dart in my peripheral vision. They are shadowy, indistinct blobs, the negative images of living beings whose absence has punched holes in reality, leaving behind pitch-black voids. Sometimes they approach me slowly like marauders stalking prey, but most often they appear suddenly, and shortly after they fade away. They must be phantoms created by my mind to torment me.
I hear shadowy whispers inside my head, I feel them draining more and more of my energy with every passing minute as if I were covered in leeches. This is a hellish world of shadows and nightmares, and it's slowly killing me because that's all I deserve. Nobody cares for me, nobody loves me, nobody wants to help me out of this hole of despair that is eating away at my sanity.
During a pause to wipe the sweat off my face, I look over my shoulder expecting to stare back at a deformed horse's eyes, but that equine stalker has disappeared. Now that I think about it, I haven't caught a glimpse of him since I exited my supervisor's office in defeat. Maybe Spike was a manifestation of my growing urges to kick someone's skull in, and now that I've capitulated, that horse has abandoned me without saying goodbye. I had complained so much about him and insulted him as creatively as I could muster, but that horse was willing to talk to me instead of treating me like a wage slave whose duties unfortunately can't be automated. He treated me like a person worthy of respect, and now I might never see his ugly mug again.
My fingers are numb and trembling from stress. The keys are sticky and wet with perspiration and tears and snot and semen and blood. About an hour from the end of the workday, my mind is so worn down that it refuses to understand the lines of code I force it to read. I can't think of anything besides how badly I need some release for this unbearable tension building inside of me. I need something real, tangible, and palpable. I need a dick deep inside of me, one thick meaty pole full to bursting with cum to fill up the empty spaces left behind when my thoughts are depleted.
I slip away to the bathroom, which is thankfully empty, and I lock myself in a stall. As soon as I have collapsed onto the toilet seat, I start shaking uncontrollably. A few tears trickle down my cheeks. The pressure from the built up tension causes it to force its way out of the small openings in my eyes.
I squat over the toilet bowl as if trying to dig out an impure substance that has seeped through the cracks of reality to infect my insides, and then I release a stream of piss as if a floodgate had opened somewhere in my lower abdomen. I hunch over while my piss hits the water, and the tears that run down my face drip onto the cold porcelain of the bathroom tiles. My body shakes and shudders with each sob, and my stomach knots up into painful cramps.
After I empty my bladder, I rest my elbows on my knees and I take deep breaths as I sniffle. The knot in my abdomen loosens somewhat. Once the last tear drops away, I grab toilet paper to blow my nose. I open the stall door.
I find myself staring at a pair of white, thigh-high stockings that are hugging two shapely legs. A fleshy bit of thigh is showing between the welt of the stockings and the dark grey skirt. Wait, I recognize these appetizing legs, and also the cream white blouse tucked into that skirt. The gilded buttons shine in the bathroom lights, as well as the pearly pendant that draws my attention to a large pair of breasts that I want to sink my face in.
I wasn't ready to face Jacqueline's concern as she observes my red eyes, my swollen eyelids, my tear soaked cheeks. My hands are trembling. I squeeze the tissue soggy with snot to control my pulse rate. As I walk up to the sink, I open my mouth to brush away my pain, but Jacqueline has brought a hand to her chest, and I see myself through her glistening eyes: a broken woman who's barely hanging by a thread.
"I-it's nothing," I say under my breath. "It all felt like too much for a moment."
Jacqueline smacks her lips. I turn the sink tap on to wash my face, but my coworker steps forward and runs her soft, warm hand across my cheek to comfort me. Despite her beautiful face and those pearly white teeth, she can't hide her crow's feet and the marked nasolabial folds that betray a lifetime spent smiling. I find myself leaning into her hand as Jacqueline strokes my damp cheek.
"Oh, baby," Jacqueline coos. "It's okay to cry to release your feelings, and there's no shame in needing someone to talk to when things get rough and tough."
I wasn't ready for her touch nor for that soft tone meant to comfort me. A warm tear slips past my shivering bottom lip. I turn my head away, but Jacqueline cups my chin and turns it back. With her other hand she wipes the wetness from my cheeks. After she steps closer, she wraps both arms around me as if she was embracing a frightened child. When I return to my senses, Jacqueline is running the fingers of her right hand over my scalp while she whispers in French into my ear.
I'm overwhelmed by the snuggly feeling of Jacqueline's embrace and her large breasts pressed against mine. Our nipples would touch if it weren't for the fabrics that separate them. I bask in the warmth that radiates from her tits, those two soothing cushions in which I want to sink. They are breasts with a soul. I wish they would crush me into submission, that she would hold me tight enough that my ribs would break and my lungs would get punctured from the pressure of her breasts crushing inwards against my ribcage.
I raise my hands to hug Jacqueline back. My breathing has become shallow and rapid, and a shuddering sensation ripples throughout my trembling frame as my coworker's fingers play with the hair at the nape of my neck. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself down, but it doesn't work because Jacqueline's scent is overwhelming, a mix of her perfume, shampoo, deodorant, sweat, and other bodily fluids, a strong aroma that makes my legs weak with a desire to slide down to her crotch and bury myself between those plush mounds until my eyes roll up into their sockets.
Jacqueline is so close to my skin that her bacteria must be jumping ship. I picture the millions of microorganisms that inhabit her vagina as tiny, pink cells squirming in a thick mucus soup inside of a gelatinous, fleshy pouch. Her vaginal secretions are a rich source of nourishment for those microscopic creatures, which multiply rapidly in a moist environment such as hers. My imagination takes flight; I can feel each individual cell moving within its own bubble of fluid, and I am seized by an intense urge to taste some of that delicious liquid.
As Jacqueline strokes my back gently with both hands and presses her breasts more firmly into me, I imagine her vagina opening up like a flower with petals of slippery jelly stretching wide and welcoming me into a hot steam bath of gooey juice. A tingle starts at the tips of my nipples, and it spreads quickly throughout my breasts and down my stomach towards the waistband of my pants. Then I feel a gush of wetness between my legs that threatens to soak through my panties onto my thighs.
Jacqueline coos, "It's alright, honey. I know you'll make it out of this alive because you have such an amazing brain in your pretty skull. It's going to be fine..."
I sigh. I close my eyes and bury my face in her neck. Does Jacqueline notice how hard my nipples are getting? Are they digging into her flesh through our bras, my hoodie and her blouse?
I'm so cozy, like a baby in its womb. When was the last time someone offered me such a caring gesture? No one is interested in talking to a person whose head is a mess of strange thoughts and feelings they can't understand, especially someone who is clearly suffering like a zombie trapped within a cage of its own making.
I'm feelizing woozy as if drugged, and the troubles that had threatened to crush me seem lighter and bearable. I wish I could stay forever with this woman's arms around me, with her breasts pressed against mine, with her warm breath on my face and her fingers massaging away my discomfort.
When Jacqueline pulls back slightly, signalling that the embrace has ended, my heart skips a beat, and I want to beg her to continue consoling me. Her blue eyes stare into mine with genuine concern.
"It's true you work too much," Jacqueline whispers. "I wish I could tell you I would convince our boss to hire someone else to help with the workload, even an intern, but he won't. Most of it goes to pay the bills of this place so he can keep the miracle going. That's just how it is. But you can rely on me, Leire, for everything. I'll keep you strong, alright?"
I nod weakly. My mouth has filled with saliva. Jacqueline smells so good, she's so warm. She's a beautiful angel with a kind smile on her lips, ready to give me a shoulder to lean upon. A beacon of light amidst my dark days.
Jacqueline accepts my silence for a few seconds as I look deeply into her eyes. Then she tickles me gently on my chin, and leans in to kiss me on the forehead. Her lips linger on that spot just above my brow line, a kiss that sends a jolt straight to the base of my spine and a warm glow to my cheeks.
"You're a good girl, aren't you, sweetheart?" Jacquelines asks softly. "You just need a break, a vacation, or a boyfriend, and everything will be fine, won't it?"
She must notice that I'm breathless, and how much I've blushed. I'm holding back the urge to shove my tongue into her mouth. If we were alone in this building, with no one to interrupt, I may do something drastic.
Jacqueline's blue gaze dances over my countenance. The tip of her tongue pokes out for a moment before disappearing again behind those lovely white teeth.
"Ah, you are so cute," Jacqueline says, then she brushes a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Listen, just do the most you can during your regular workdays, and then head home for your well deserved rest. If Ramsés can't organize himself better, you shouldn't have to suffer for it. You will do that today, right, head home along with us?"
Jacqueline's gentle voice struck me with an unexpected wave of melancholy. I feel like a child I had never been, one that could rely on someone who would lend her a hand when she was helpless, without asking anything in return except for a little bit of love. I lower my head and narrow my shoulders. I have been forced to play a cruel game for too many years, pretending to be someone else than the child who once fell by the side of the road and never managed to stand up again.
My thoughts are muddled. Jacqueline reaches to turn the sink tap off, then she guides me out of the bathroom as she rubs my neck.
"Let's go back to our desks now. You already have my number, right? You can call me when you feel like this and you want someone to comfort you."
A warm sensation flows through the pit of my stomach while I rack my brain for any excuse that would keep Jacqueline by my side.
As if inhabiting my festering body wasn't enough of a punishment, I keep typing while I ignore the black shapes that dart in my peripheral vision. They are shadowy, indistinct blobs, the negative images of living beings whose absence has punched holes in reality, leaving behind pitch-black voids. Sometimes they approach me slowly like marauders stalking prey, but most often they appear suddenly, and shortly after they fade away. They must be phantoms created by my mind to torment me.
I hear shadowy whispers inside my head, I feel them draining more and more of my energy with every passing minute as if I were covered in leeches. This is a hellish world of shadows and nightmares, and it's slowly killing me because that's all I deserve. Nobody cares for me, nobody loves me, nobody wants to help me out of this hole of despair that is eating away at my sanity.
During a pause to wipe the sweat off my face, I look over my shoulder expecting to stare back at a deformed horse's eyes, but that equine stalker has disappeared. Now that I think about it, I haven't caught a glimpse of him since I exited my supervisor's office in defeat. Maybe Spike was a manifestation of my growing urges to kick someone's skull in, and now that I've capitulated, that horse has abandoned me without saying goodbye. I had complained so much about him and insulted him as creatively as I could muster, but that horse was willing to talk to me instead of treating me like a wage slave whose duties unfortunately can't be automated. He treated me like a person worthy of respect, and now I might never see his ugly mug again.
My fingers are numb and trembling from stress. The keys are sticky and wet with perspiration and tears and snot and semen and blood. About an hour from the end of the workday, my mind is so worn down that it refuses to understand the lines of code I force it to read. I can't think of anything besides how badly I need some release for this unbearable tension building inside of me. I need something real, tangible, and palpable. I need a dick deep inside of me, one thick meaty pole full to bursting with cum to fill up the empty spaces left behind when my thoughts are depleted.
I slip away to the bathroom, which is thankfully empty, and I lock myself in a stall. As soon as I have collapsed onto the toilet seat, I start shaking uncontrollably. A few tears trickle down my cheeks. The pressure from the built up tension causes it to force its way out of the small openings in my eyes.
I squat over the toilet bowl as if trying to dig out an impure substance that has seeped through the cracks of reality to infect my insides, and then I release a stream of piss as if a floodgate had opened somewhere in my lower abdomen. I hunch over while my piss hits the water, and the tears that run down my face drip onto the cold porcelain of the bathroom tiles. My body shakes and shudders with each sob, and my stomach knots up into painful cramps.
After I empty my bladder, I rest my elbows on my knees and I take deep breaths as I sniffle. The knot in my abdomen loosens somewhat. Once the last tear drops away, I grab toilet paper to blow my nose. I open the stall door.
I find myself staring at a pair of white, thigh-high stockings that are hugging two shapely legs. A fleshy bit of thigh is showing between the welt of the stockings and the dark grey skirt. Wait, I recognize these appetizing legs, and also the cream white blouse tucked into that skirt. The gilded buttons shine in the bathroom lights, as well as the pearly pendant that draws my attention to a large pair of breasts that I want to sink my face in.
I wasn't ready to face Jacqueline's concern as she observes my red eyes, my swollen eyelids, my tear soaked cheeks. My hands are trembling. I squeeze the tissue soggy with snot to control my pulse rate. As I walk up to the sink, I open my mouth to brush away my pain, but Jacqueline has brought a hand to her chest, and I see myself through her glistening eyes: a broken woman who's barely hanging by a thread.
"I-it's nothing," I say under my breath. "It all felt like too much for a moment."
Jacqueline smacks her lips. I turn the sink tap on to wash my face, but my coworker steps forward and runs her soft, warm hand across my cheek to comfort me. Despite her beautiful face and those pearly white teeth, she can't hide her crow's feet and the marked nasolabial folds that betray a lifetime spent smiling. I find myself leaning into her hand as Jacqueline strokes my damp cheek.
"Oh, baby," Jacqueline coos. "It's okay to cry to release your feelings, and there's no shame in needing someone to talk to when things get rough and tough."
I wasn't ready for her touch nor for that soft tone meant to comfort me. A warm tear slips past my shivering bottom lip. I turn my head away, but Jacqueline cups my chin and turns it back. With her other hand she wipes the wetness from my cheeks. After she steps closer, she wraps both arms around me as if she was embracing a frightened child. When I return to my senses, Jacqueline is running the fingers of her right hand over my scalp while she whispers in French into my ear.
I'm overwhelmed by the snuggly feeling of Jacqueline's embrace and her large breasts pressed against mine. Our nipples would touch if it weren't for the fabrics that separate them. I bask in the warmth that radiates from her tits, those two soothing cushions in which I want to sink. They are breasts with a soul. I wish they would crush me into submission, that she would hold me tight enough that my ribs would break and my lungs would get punctured from the pressure of her breasts crushing inwards against my ribcage.
I raise my hands to hug Jacqueline back. My breathing has become shallow and rapid, and a shuddering sensation ripples throughout my trembling frame as my coworker's fingers play with the hair at the nape of my neck. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself down, but it doesn't work because Jacqueline's scent is overwhelming, a mix of her perfume, shampoo, deodorant, sweat, and other bodily fluids, a strong aroma that makes my legs weak with a desire to slide down to her crotch and bury myself between those plush mounds until my eyes roll up into their sockets.
Jacqueline is so close to my skin that her bacteria must be jumping ship. I picture the millions of microorganisms that inhabit her vagina as tiny, pink cells squirming in a thick mucus soup inside of a gelatinous, fleshy pouch. Her vaginal secretions are a rich source of nourishment for those microscopic creatures, which multiply rapidly in a moist environment such as hers. My imagination takes flight; I can feel each individual cell moving within its own bubble of fluid, and I am seized by an intense urge to taste some of that delicious liquid.
As Jacqueline strokes my back gently with both hands and presses her breasts more firmly into me, I imagine her vagina opening up like a flower with petals of slippery jelly stretching wide and welcoming me into a hot steam bath of gooey juice. A tingle starts at the tips of my nipples, and it spreads quickly throughout my breasts and down my stomach towards the waistband of my pants. Then I feel a gush of wetness between my legs that threatens to soak through my panties onto my thighs.
Jacqueline coos, "It's alright, honey. I know you'll make it out of this alive because you have such an amazing brain in your pretty skull. It's going to be fine..."
I sigh. I close my eyes and bury my face in her neck. Does Jacqueline notice how hard my nipples are getting? Are they digging into her flesh through our bras, my hoodie and her blouse?
I'm so cozy, like a baby in its womb. When was the last time someone offered me such a caring gesture? No one is interested in talking to a person whose head is a mess of strange thoughts and feelings they can't understand, especially someone who is clearly suffering like a zombie trapped within a cage of its own making.
I'm feelizing woozy as if drugged, and the troubles that had threatened to crush me seem lighter and bearable. I wish I could stay forever with this woman's arms around me, with her breasts pressed against mine, with her warm breath on my face and her fingers massaging away my discomfort.
When Jacqueline pulls back slightly, signalling that the embrace has ended, my heart skips a beat, and I want to beg her to continue consoling me. Her blue eyes stare into mine with genuine concern.
"It's true you work too much," Jacqueline whispers. "I wish I could tell you I would convince our boss to hire someone else to help with the workload, even an intern, but he won't. Most of it goes to pay the bills of this place so he can keep the miracle going. That's just how it is. But you can rely on me, Leire, for everything. I'll keep you strong, alright?"
I nod weakly. My mouth has filled with saliva. Jacqueline smells so good, she's so warm. She's a beautiful angel with a kind smile on her lips, ready to give me a shoulder to lean upon. A beacon of light amidst my dark days.
Jacqueline accepts my silence for a few seconds as I look deeply into her eyes. Then she tickles me gently on my chin, and leans in to kiss me on the forehead. Her lips linger on that spot just above my brow line, a kiss that sends a jolt straight to the base of my spine and a warm glow to my cheeks.
"You're a good girl, aren't you, sweetheart?" Jacquelines asks softly. "You just need a break, a vacation, or a boyfriend, and everything will be fine, won't it?"
She must notice that I'm breathless, and how much I've blushed. I'm holding back the urge to shove my tongue into her mouth. If we were alone in this building, with no one to interrupt, I may do something drastic.
Jacqueline's blue gaze dances over my countenance. The tip of her tongue pokes out for a moment before disappearing again behind those lovely white teeth.
"Ah, you are so cute," Jacqueline says, then she brushes a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Listen, just do the most you can during your regular workdays, and then head home for your well deserved rest. If Ramsés can't organize himself better, you shouldn't have to suffer for it. You will do that today, right, head home along with us?"
Jacqueline's gentle voice struck me with an unexpected wave of melancholy. I feel like a child I had never been, one that could rely on someone who would lend her a hand when she was helpless, without asking anything in return except for a little bit of love. I lower my head and narrow my shoulders. I have been forced to play a cruel game for too many years, pretending to be someone else than the child who once fell by the side of the road and never managed to stand up again.
My thoughts are muddled. Jacqueline reaches to turn the sink tap off, then she guides me out of the bathroom as she rubs my neck.
"Let's go back to our desks now. You already have my number, right? You can call me when you feel like this and you want someone to comfort you."
A warm sensation flows through the pit of my stomach while I rack my brain for any excuse that would keep Jacqueline by my side.
October 18, 2021
We're Fucked, Pt. 6 (Fiction)
As soon as I enter my supervisor's office and I close the door behind me, I'm struck with the usual envy that arises in me when I see this bastard's workspace. I wish I didn't have to work, but because I'm forced to, I'd prefer if I owned my own office in which I could sit with the back of the monitor facing the door, so I wouldn't spend my workdays suspecting that my coworkers are spying on my browsing habits.
Behind the expensive desk made of dark wood, Ramsés, sitting on his leather executive chair dyed blue, was shoving a potato chip into his mustached mouth when he noticed I had entered his office without knocking. He calmly wipes his fingers with a tissue and closes the drawer of his desk that likely contains his stack of vending machine snacks. The early afternoon October sun is pouring through the tall windows and lighting Ramsés from behind, thinning further the already sparse hair growing out of the top of his head, making the graying strands look like the remnants of moldering straws. An enormous picture on the wall depicts the Pyramids of Giza, I guess partly because my boss' parents knew in advance how big of a dickhead the guy was going to become.
Ramsés swivels his chair towards me and deploys a cordial smile with his lips and his thick mustache. I despise how this man stares at me, with a conspiratorial glint in his eye as if we shared some private joke, or sin. It makes my skin crawl.
"Leire," Ramsés says. "Is this about your new ticket?"
I'm controlling my breathing, and hiding my rage behind a mask of professionality. Shouting at this prick as soon as I open my mouth would hurt my point. You can't let them know you're angry and afraid, they will use it against you and exploit you for what little value is left in your soul.
"Yes," I say in a raspy voice. "I have to shoulder a whole new contract when I haven't had the time to finish the previous ones."
Ramsés runs one hand across his mustache. His nostrils flare slightly as if sniffing something unpleasant, then he purses his lips and nods a few times. He stretches his arm towards the stylized chair, made of matching dark wood and leather dyed blue, that is facing the front of his desk.
"Please, sit down. Let's talk about this."
He won't agree to argue unless my ass is occupying his chair. When I sink into the leather, I have to look up at Ramsés, whose executive chair is raised partly for this purpose. His eyes are boring into me as he leans forward and places both hands atop his desk.
I wonder if the desk is hiding that my boss' erection is protruding menacingly, and if he has coated the underside of his desk in years of dried cum. This guy keeps his suit jacket buttoned even when he's sitting, and the buttons are struggling to contain his bloated belly. That body must be so hairy and sweaty.
I shift my weight uncomfortably in the chair as I force myself to keep holding my boss' gaze.
"I'll get right to the point: you are sending me way too much work. It's stressing me the fuck out. I'm always anxious, but these past days I've been feeling particularly vulnerable, so I can't handle this workload any longer."
I had looked away to figure out how to word my point properly, and when my gaze returns to Ramsés' face, I catch him ogling my breasts although my hoodie should be disguising most of the curves and bumps of my body. The sight of him, or any living creature for that matter, looking lasciviously at my boobs triggers a wave of anger that threatens to overwhelm my rational mind and cause my body to respond to it with uncontrollable arousal. This is the last thing I need; now my body is screaming that it needs to be fucked and filled with cum by a man, and because of that, my mind is urging me to spread my legs and accept a cock inside me. I frown and grimace, but Ramsés offers me what he likely believes to be a pleasant smile.
"I noticed that today you weren't resolving your tickets at your usual pace. You are feeling vulnerable, you said? Is it just stress? Maybe you've caught a cold? It's October, after all."
My immune system has struggled for years; I survive on a diet of cold sandwiches and I suffer from chronic insomnia. However, unless the Chinese have fabricated a virus that can make people hallucinate horses, I'm merely losing my mind. In addition, my boss' foul-smelling breath has reached over his desk and invaded my nostrils with the stink of cigarettes. I wonder how many cigs a human being has to smoke a day that his breath always smells foul. Maybe he smokes to hide that his normal breath smells like a sewer rat's anus.
"No, I'm not sick," I assure him, controlling my tone. "I'm stressed out because I've been sent too much work lately, and I'm frustrated because I can't complete any of it on schedule. Ramsés, you know I'm even working overtime because I can't get enough done during the regular workday! This stuff is too much for my brain to process anymore."
I hate how whiny I sound, but if my boss didn't want me to bitch about this shit, he shouldn't send me so much work.
Ramsés rests his hands on the desk and he shoots me an aloof look. He's probably thinking what a fool I am for having allowed myself to be trapped in a workplace where a stinky horse keeps talking in my ears for hours on end and fills my mind with worthless thoughts.
"Leire, you know I prefer that my employees refer to me as 'sir'," he says condescendingly.
My stomach clenches as I feel bile rising in my throat. This guy thinks that since his dick is bigger than mine, he's entitled to treat me like a servant. He's got no idea how hard and fast I could ride his cock if my pussy wasn't currently stuffed full of a vibrator. He's a piece of shit and deserves a punch in the nose.
"There's a clear division of labor," Ramsés adds, "and I'm the one who will suffer the most if this venture fails, not to mention that I'm paying your wages at the end of every month."
As I stare through the shiny floor, I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth and try to regain control over my accelerated heartbeat. The murderous confidence with which I had burst into my boss' office has fizzled out as if it had been a mirage in a desert. All that remains is my empty shell, into which I wish I could sink and disappear forever.
"You're right, sir," I answer reluctantly. "Sorry for calling you by your name when speaking about work issues. That's inappropriate conduct for an employee."
My voice had grown hoarse as I spoke, and the heat in my cheeks had spread to cover my entire face. Ramsés watches me intently with those creepy eyes of his as a shudder runs down my spine. He takes pleasure from making me squirm under his power, he enjoys watching me cower beneath his gaze and strain against my chains. He is going to take advantage and fuck me until he leaves me gasping for air with cum dripping between my thighs.
When did I cease to be a human being? My integrity had been chipped away concession by concession: by submitting to an inferior position within an organization; by agreeing to do things outside of my job description; by choosing to shut up when I should have complained; by staying around to work overtime when I should have refused to handle such workloads; by becoming obsessed with an unhealthy addiction—masturbation. Every time I woke up before the sunrise and got into my Renault Laguna to drive to the office, I should have stripped naked and run into the woods while shouting incoherently. Instead, whenever these days anyone touches me or talks to me, I have to fight the urge to fall to my knees in front of them like a submissive slut. I don't know why I exist anymore.
Ramsés wants me to submit again by consenting to have sex with him, but he doesn't realize that his cock is already inside me. His cum marks his territory. His will holds me captive like some kind of demonic possession. How far does this submission go? Will Ramsés fuck me so badly that I will be reduced to nothing more than an object of desire and lust for him? Is this submission an expression of gratitude towards him for having hired me at all, an admission of defeat, or a surrendering acceptance that Ramsés owns me completely?
My boss is smiling at something dark that's inside my skull, a foul thing that's eating at my soul like an infection. He's the one who created this abomination, an eternal nightmare where nothing is real except for tormenting visions of pain and death. He's a master at using his cock like an ice pick to stab deep into my brain. But I still need his greasy self, because he provides the money that allows me to live in this world.
When I dare to look back up again, Ramsés seemed to have been waiting patiently for me to engage him again, because he raises his eyebrows and sighs like a father who needs to placate his unruly daughter.
"Leire, I can't blame you for feeling stressed. Everyone except the very rich have every reason to be worried these days, and most of the income I get from the contracts I secure goes to paying the bills of this office along with your wages."
"What? But this place is tiny, and you only have two programmers, one of them an intern!"
Ramsés shrugs.
"Yes, that's how bad it's gotten," he replies dryly. "The economy has turned sour due to the recession, and there are also too many competitors. Clients can easily hire a team from Eastern Europe that'll give them a product for a fifth of what we can afford to charge. These are dark days, Leire. We can either accept the reality of our situation and help turn things around, or give up."
I run a hand over my face as I take a deep breath. I'm getting dizzier, weaker.
"Sir, this new contract will involve me programming in Python," I say in a voice drained of energy. "I haven't touched that language in months, so I'll need to read up on it on my spare time, but I lack any. I'm working overtime because I can't progress in my tasks fast enough otherwise, and my weekends pass in a blur because I'm so exhausted I can barely do anything but sleep. This is just no way to live."
Ramsés looks towards his framed diploma hanged on the wall, as if he's considering my words, but when his dark eyes stare back into mine, they seem indifferent.
"You are my best employee, Leire," Ramsés says in a calm but firm tone, "a great programmer, and I'm very grateful for your dedication, but life isn't supposed to be easy. Achieving important stuff has always been a struggle. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised that you are having such problems coping with the workload, given your talent. That suggests to me that your personal life might be hindering your productivity. I know you return to an empty apartment. Do you socialize enough in your free time? You aren't seeing someone, right?"
I let out a desperate chuckle. Even if I had a boyfriend, which is none of this bastard's business, how would I maintain a domestic life when I work overtime most weeks, and by the time I get home I only want to sleep?
"In my free time? Did you hear what I said?"
Ramsés interlocks his fingers over the desk and leans forward with an intense look.
"When you don't socialize with your colleagues or with friends, soon enough you get burned out, unhealthy, and emotionally unstable. Is that not the case?"
"N-no! Of course not!" I protest as I try to regain control of myself.
"What you need is some excitement and fun in your life, someone who waits for you to return home exhausted after a long, hard day at work, and makes you feel alive again. Isn't that what everybody should strive for?"
I'm sinking into the chair as I struggle to prevent my hands from trembling. Ramsés must be convinced that people can put up with whatever bullshit life throws at them, and perform at high level most of the time. Maybe I'm the exception and most human beings just breeze through life although they complain and joke about retiring, while I feel like I have to wade through mud at every step. I'm so exhausted and sick of it all that I fear I may cry.
My boss is observing me silently, trying to figure out if I'll break down under his gaze and become a quivering mess of emotions.
"Leire, you are clamming up again, waiting for me to just agree with you," Ramsés says with a hint of amusement. "I think that you need to learn how to be more flexible and open to suggestions, and to face that most of the time things aren't going to be easy. There's no point being bitter because life is harsh and cruel sometimes. Just try to relax, loosen up a little bit. If you make the effort and keep fighting until you reach an objective, then eventually things will change. You are a good programmer, as I keep telling you, and you should feel lucky, even privileged, to be a part of this company. We are special in ways that I bet no other company in the world is. And you can rest assured that I will take care of you."
My stomach hurts, partly because this guy keeps me on a steady diet of his shit and his poison. I'm forced to tolerate his foul-smelling breath as he dismisses my valid complaints that cause me weekly to consider throwing myself off a cliff. Ramsés must realize how miserable I am, and yet he placates me with that condescension. He's verminous and vile, he is scum and filth and trash like me and everybody else on Earth, a sadist who uses and abuses everyone under him for profit. He's likely also a rapist.
I want Ramsés out of my life forever, and preferably dead too. He will continue fucking with us because nobody will shove a steaming hot iron between his ribs until he screams so loud that the whole industrial park would hear him begging for help. How I wish I could get away with murdering him, or anyone I dislike for that matter. But alas, this is reality and nothing will ever be simple and nice except maybe for Ramsés himself and his ilk.
It feels like my skull is caving in, and everything inside is melting away like ice cream left in the sun. Soon enough there won't be anything left of me but an empty husk of flesh and bones cradled by an endless void of nothingness. I picture myself leaping at my boss and pushing a knife into his heart while whispering to him in French, "tu n'es pas réel". I envision him lying dead on a pool of blood, my knife sticking out of his chest, gaping holes where his eyes once were, and his eyeballs stuffed up his asshole.
I stare at my boss as I sustain a pasted smile. I loathe every aspect of the man I'm facing. I despise his entire species. I wish with all my might that the ground would swallow him up in a sinkhole of mud and vomit. I hope that the planet erupts in a fiery explosion as a result of the sheer magnitude of the anger built up inside me.
I struggle to speak due to how heavy and thick my tongue feels.
"Sir, maybe you could consider hiring a new programmer."
Ramsés eyebrows twitch, and he shifts his weight in his executive chair as he studies my expression.
"You mean you want to quit? You're quitting?"
"No, I need the money. What I meant was that you could hire another programmer, not just an intern like Jordi."
A look of annoyance overcomes Ramsés' clear intent to remain calm and in control. His lips curl upward slightly, revealing a glimpse of teeth, as he replies.
"I'd hate to lose someone as talented as you, Leire, so I'm glad I misunderstood you. Regarding your suggestion, I'd love to hire a second programmer, and a third, and a fourth. I'd hire a legion of them if I could! But I can barely afford the three of you with the contracts I can secure, so we'll have to soldier on for now."
I nod stiffly as I raise myself to my feet as if my legs had aged decades. I'm already turning away when I speak, but I regret it; now that I've exposed the curves of my ass, I suspect I'll catch that look in my boss' eyes, like a rapist who just caught a glimpse of a woman walking alone at night in a park.
"Well then, I'll keep at it heroically."
Ramsés leans back and smiles smugly.
"You meant it sarcastically, but that's the spirit. We are in this together, Leire. Don't hesitate to come talk to me whenever you want, alright? I'll always have time for you."
I can feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes as I walk out of my boss' office and close the door behind me. I stand there unsteadily while my shoulders droop and a lump forms in my throat. My gaze falls upon the table where my coworkers sit facing my way, partly hidden behind their monitors. Jacqueline stares at me with curiosity, her pale face framed by smooth, raven black hair.
Once again, my rage had fizzled out as I faced my beastly boss, and now I need to restrain an intense sadness. I was born defeated. I'm struggling pointlessly through a life that only serves as a punishment for crimes I have forgotten committing.
Behind the expensive desk made of dark wood, Ramsés, sitting on his leather executive chair dyed blue, was shoving a potato chip into his mustached mouth when he noticed I had entered his office without knocking. He calmly wipes his fingers with a tissue and closes the drawer of his desk that likely contains his stack of vending machine snacks. The early afternoon October sun is pouring through the tall windows and lighting Ramsés from behind, thinning further the already sparse hair growing out of the top of his head, making the graying strands look like the remnants of moldering straws. An enormous picture on the wall depicts the Pyramids of Giza, I guess partly because my boss' parents knew in advance how big of a dickhead the guy was going to become.
Ramsés swivels his chair towards me and deploys a cordial smile with his lips and his thick mustache. I despise how this man stares at me, with a conspiratorial glint in his eye as if we shared some private joke, or sin. It makes my skin crawl.
"Leire," Ramsés says. "Is this about your new ticket?"
I'm controlling my breathing, and hiding my rage behind a mask of professionality. Shouting at this prick as soon as I open my mouth would hurt my point. You can't let them know you're angry and afraid, they will use it against you and exploit you for what little value is left in your soul.
"Yes," I say in a raspy voice. "I have to shoulder a whole new contract when I haven't had the time to finish the previous ones."
Ramsés runs one hand across his mustache. His nostrils flare slightly as if sniffing something unpleasant, then he purses his lips and nods a few times. He stretches his arm towards the stylized chair, made of matching dark wood and leather dyed blue, that is facing the front of his desk.
"Please, sit down. Let's talk about this."
He won't agree to argue unless my ass is occupying his chair. When I sink into the leather, I have to look up at Ramsés, whose executive chair is raised partly for this purpose. His eyes are boring into me as he leans forward and places both hands atop his desk.
I wonder if the desk is hiding that my boss' erection is protruding menacingly, and if he has coated the underside of his desk in years of dried cum. This guy keeps his suit jacket buttoned even when he's sitting, and the buttons are struggling to contain his bloated belly. That body must be so hairy and sweaty.
I shift my weight uncomfortably in the chair as I force myself to keep holding my boss' gaze.
"I'll get right to the point: you are sending me way too much work. It's stressing me the fuck out. I'm always anxious, but these past days I've been feeling particularly vulnerable, so I can't handle this workload any longer."
I had looked away to figure out how to word my point properly, and when my gaze returns to Ramsés' face, I catch him ogling my breasts although my hoodie should be disguising most of the curves and bumps of my body. The sight of him, or any living creature for that matter, looking lasciviously at my boobs triggers a wave of anger that threatens to overwhelm my rational mind and cause my body to respond to it with uncontrollable arousal. This is the last thing I need; now my body is screaming that it needs to be fucked and filled with cum by a man, and because of that, my mind is urging me to spread my legs and accept a cock inside me. I frown and grimace, but Ramsés offers me what he likely believes to be a pleasant smile.
"I noticed that today you weren't resolving your tickets at your usual pace. You are feeling vulnerable, you said? Is it just stress? Maybe you've caught a cold? It's October, after all."
My immune system has struggled for years; I survive on a diet of cold sandwiches and I suffer from chronic insomnia. However, unless the Chinese have fabricated a virus that can make people hallucinate horses, I'm merely losing my mind. In addition, my boss' foul-smelling breath has reached over his desk and invaded my nostrils with the stink of cigarettes. I wonder how many cigs a human being has to smoke a day that his breath always smells foul. Maybe he smokes to hide that his normal breath smells like a sewer rat's anus.
"No, I'm not sick," I assure him, controlling my tone. "I'm stressed out because I've been sent too much work lately, and I'm frustrated because I can't complete any of it on schedule. Ramsés, you know I'm even working overtime because I can't get enough done during the regular workday! This stuff is too much for my brain to process anymore."
I hate how whiny I sound, but if my boss didn't want me to bitch about this shit, he shouldn't send me so much work.
Ramsés rests his hands on the desk and he shoots me an aloof look. He's probably thinking what a fool I am for having allowed myself to be trapped in a workplace where a stinky horse keeps talking in my ears for hours on end and fills my mind with worthless thoughts.
"Leire, you know I prefer that my employees refer to me as 'sir'," he says condescendingly.
My stomach clenches as I feel bile rising in my throat. This guy thinks that since his dick is bigger than mine, he's entitled to treat me like a servant. He's got no idea how hard and fast I could ride his cock if my pussy wasn't currently stuffed full of a vibrator. He's a piece of shit and deserves a punch in the nose.
"There's a clear division of labor," Ramsés adds, "and I'm the one who will suffer the most if this venture fails, not to mention that I'm paying your wages at the end of every month."
As I stare through the shiny floor, I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth and try to regain control over my accelerated heartbeat. The murderous confidence with which I had burst into my boss' office has fizzled out as if it had been a mirage in a desert. All that remains is my empty shell, into which I wish I could sink and disappear forever.
"You're right, sir," I answer reluctantly. "Sorry for calling you by your name when speaking about work issues. That's inappropriate conduct for an employee."
My voice had grown hoarse as I spoke, and the heat in my cheeks had spread to cover my entire face. Ramsés watches me intently with those creepy eyes of his as a shudder runs down my spine. He takes pleasure from making me squirm under his power, he enjoys watching me cower beneath his gaze and strain against my chains. He is going to take advantage and fuck me until he leaves me gasping for air with cum dripping between my thighs.
When did I cease to be a human being? My integrity had been chipped away concession by concession: by submitting to an inferior position within an organization; by agreeing to do things outside of my job description; by choosing to shut up when I should have complained; by staying around to work overtime when I should have refused to handle such workloads; by becoming obsessed with an unhealthy addiction—masturbation. Every time I woke up before the sunrise and got into my Renault Laguna to drive to the office, I should have stripped naked and run into the woods while shouting incoherently. Instead, whenever these days anyone touches me or talks to me, I have to fight the urge to fall to my knees in front of them like a submissive slut. I don't know why I exist anymore.
Ramsés wants me to submit again by consenting to have sex with him, but he doesn't realize that his cock is already inside me. His cum marks his territory. His will holds me captive like some kind of demonic possession. How far does this submission go? Will Ramsés fuck me so badly that I will be reduced to nothing more than an object of desire and lust for him? Is this submission an expression of gratitude towards him for having hired me at all, an admission of defeat, or a surrendering acceptance that Ramsés owns me completely?
My boss is smiling at something dark that's inside my skull, a foul thing that's eating at my soul like an infection. He's the one who created this abomination, an eternal nightmare where nothing is real except for tormenting visions of pain and death. He's a master at using his cock like an ice pick to stab deep into my brain. But I still need his greasy self, because he provides the money that allows me to live in this world.
When I dare to look back up again, Ramsés seemed to have been waiting patiently for me to engage him again, because he raises his eyebrows and sighs like a father who needs to placate his unruly daughter.
"Leire, I can't blame you for feeling stressed. Everyone except the very rich have every reason to be worried these days, and most of the income I get from the contracts I secure goes to paying the bills of this office along with your wages."
"What? But this place is tiny, and you only have two programmers, one of them an intern!"
Ramsés shrugs.
"Yes, that's how bad it's gotten," he replies dryly. "The economy has turned sour due to the recession, and there are also too many competitors. Clients can easily hire a team from Eastern Europe that'll give them a product for a fifth of what we can afford to charge. These are dark days, Leire. We can either accept the reality of our situation and help turn things around, or give up."
I run a hand over my face as I take a deep breath. I'm getting dizzier, weaker.
"Sir, this new contract will involve me programming in Python," I say in a voice drained of energy. "I haven't touched that language in months, so I'll need to read up on it on my spare time, but I lack any. I'm working overtime because I can't progress in my tasks fast enough otherwise, and my weekends pass in a blur because I'm so exhausted I can barely do anything but sleep. This is just no way to live."
Ramsés looks towards his framed diploma hanged on the wall, as if he's considering my words, but when his dark eyes stare back into mine, they seem indifferent.
"You are my best employee, Leire," Ramsés says in a calm but firm tone, "a great programmer, and I'm very grateful for your dedication, but life isn't supposed to be easy. Achieving important stuff has always been a struggle. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised that you are having such problems coping with the workload, given your talent. That suggests to me that your personal life might be hindering your productivity. I know you return to an empty apartment. Do you socialize enough in your free time? You aren't seeing someone, right?"
I let out a desperate chuckle. Even if I had a boyfriend, which is none of this bastard's business, how would I maintain a domestic life when I work overtime most weeks, and by the time I get home I only want to sleep?
"In my free time? Did you hear what I said?"
Ramsés interlocks his fingers over the desk and leans forward with an intense look.
"When you don't socialize with your colleagues or with friends, soon enough you get burned out, unhealthy, and emotionally unstable. Is that not the case?"
"N-no! Of course not!" I protest as I try to regain control of myself.
"What you need is some excitement and fun in your life, someone who waits for you to return home exhausted after a long, hard day at work, and makes you feel alive again. Isn't that what everybody should strive for?"
I'm sinking into the chair as I struggle to prevent my hands from trembling. Ramsés must be convinced that people can put up with whatever bullshit life throws at them, and perform at high level most of the time. Maybe I'm the exception and most human beings just breeze through life although they complain and joke about retiring, while I feel like I have to wade through mud at every step. I'm so exhausted and sick of it all that I fear I may cry.
My boss is observing me silently, trying to figure out if I'll break down under his gaze and become a quivering mess of emotions.
"Leire, you are clamming up again, waiting for me to just agree with you," Ramsés says with a hint of amusement. "I think that you need to learn how to be more flexible and open to suggestions, and to face that most of the time things aren't going to be easy. There's no point being bitter because life is harsh and cruel sometimes. Just try to relax, loosen up a little bit. If you make the effort and keep fighting until you reach an objective, then eventually things will change. You are a good programmer, as I keep telling you, and you should feel lucky, even privileged, to be a part of this company. We are special in ways that I bet no other company in the world is. And you can rest assured that I will take care of you."
My stomach hurts, partly because this guy keeps me on a steady diet of his shit and his poison. I'm forced to tolerate his foul-smelling breath as he dismisses my valid complaints that cause me weekly to consider throwing myself off a cliff. Ramsés must realize how miserable I am, and yet he placates me with that condescension. He's verminous and vile, he is scum and filth and trash like me and everybody else on Earth, a sadist who uses and abuses everyone under him for profit. He's likely also a rapist.
I want Ramsés out of my life forever, and preferably dead too. He will continue fucking with us because nobody will shove a steaming hot iron between his ribs until he screams so loud that the whole industrial park would hear him begging for help. How I wish I could get away with murdering him, or anyone I dislike for that matter. But alas, this is reality and nothing will ever be simple and nice except maybe for Ramsés himself and his ilk.
It feels like my skull is caving in, and everything inside is melting away like ice cream left in the sun. Soon enough there won't be anything left of me but an empty husk of flesh and bones cradled by an endless void of nothingness. I picture myself leaping at my boss and pushing a knife into his heart while whispering to him in French, "tu n'es pas réel". I envision him lying dead on a pool of blood, my knife sticking out of his chest, gaping holes where his eyes once were, and his eyeballs stuffed up his asshole.
I stare at my boss as I sustain a pasted smile. I loathe every aspect of the man I'm facing. I despise his entire species. I wish with all my might that the ground would swallow him up in a sinkhole of mud and vomit. I hope that the planet erupts in a fiery explosion as a result of the sheer magnitude of the anger built up inside me.
I struggle to speak due to how heavy and thick my tongue feels.
"Sir, maybe you could consider hiring a new programmer."
Ramsés eyebrows twitch, and he shifts his weight in his executive chair as he studies my expression.
"You mean you want to quit? You're quitting?"
"No, I need the money. What I meant was that you could hire another programmer, not just an intern like Jordi."
A look of annoyance overcomes Ramsés' clear intent to remain calm and in control. His lips curl upward slightly, revealing a glimpse of teeth, as he replies.
"I'd hate to lose someone as talented as you, Leire, so I'm glad I misunderstood you. Regarding your suggestion, I'd love to hire a second programmer, and a third, and a fourth. I'd hire a legion of them if I could! But I can barely afford the three of you with the contracts I can secure, so we'll have to soldier on for now."
I nod stiffly as I raise myself to my feet as if my legs had aged decades. I'm already turning away when I speak, but I regret it; now that I've exposed the curves of my ass, I suspect I'll catch that look in my boss' eyes, like a rapist who just caught a glimpse of a woman walking alone at night in a park.
"Well then, I'll keep at it heroically."
Ramsés leans back and smiles smugly.
"You meant it sarcastically, but that's the spirit. We are in this together, Leire. Don't hesitate to come talk to me whenever you want, alright? I'll always have time for you."
I can feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes as I walk out of my boss' office and close the door behind me. I stand there unsteadily while my shoulders droop and a lump forms in my throat. My gaze falls upon the table where my coworkers sit facing my way, partly hidden behind their monitors. Jacqueline stares at me with curiosity, her pale face framed by smooth, raven black hair.
Once again, my rage had fizzled out as I faced my beastly boss, and now I need to restrain an intense sadness. I was born defeated. I'm struggling pointlessly through a life that only serves as a punishment for crimes I have forgotten committing.
