We’re Fucked, Pt. 18 (Fiction)

I shuffle back to my chair, but as I reach it, I fall to my knees, cross my forearms on the seat and hide my face. I’m as defenseless as a baby bird. Any ravenous predator could ambush me without warning, and I even lack a mother who would watch helplessly as her chick got devoured alive. Nobody would help, except maybe the birds nesting in my computer tower, that could peck at my eyes or suck my brains out with their sharp beaks. Alone, I have to feed myself with my own blood.

Although I already understood the extent of my curses, my mind continuously grapples against that horrifying knowledge lest I hang myself at the first opportunity in a Japanese forest, to end up as a heap of bones and decomposing organs that would get mistaken by some passerby for a pile of trash. I was only lucky that I confused Ramsés enough that he desisted for now, but this bastard will surely fire me because I refused to fill my womb with his foul offspring. In his mind, why the fuck would he want to retain the burned-out prude that’s hogging the workload like a parasite on the carcass of a dead deer, when he can easily replace her with an eager slut?

The ambush has rattled my brain to the core. Still, I must concentrate on programming. Slowly and steadily, my fingers stop trembling as they rest on the keyboard or press the keys down firmly. Each letter and punctuation mark illuminates the darkness with its fading light, and its clicking prevents me from being devoured by the hungry silence of the office and this cursed land infested by monsters.

My tar-like loneliness has flooded the world as far as my mind can see. I close my eyes tight and I clench my fists to dissipate the anxiety, until a fire like that of an ancient lighthouse brightens the blackness inside my throbbing skull and burns away the shadows with flames, which lick every crevice while steam rises and sweat drips from my skin, making trails through the grime that has coated me for decades. I’m back at that break in the bathroom when I broke down crying due to my self-hatred and despair, when I would have remained lost except for Jacqueline. I picture the wet heat of that woman’s lips pressed against my ear as she runs her fingers through my hair. When had I felt so cherished, and loved? While she held me in her arms and squeezed her motherly breasts against mine, nipple to nipple, she convinced me that as long as I disappeared in her embrace, none of the horrors that this world has birthed could infect me ever again.

I squeeze my thighs together. In my mind’s eye, the juices rushing to my crotch flow like a torrent on a dry riverbed. Hasn’t Jacqueline marked her territory on her side of this long table we were ordered to share? She embellished it with a framed photo collage of European capitals, a plastic rose bouquet in a bone white pot, a silver pen holder with a reticulated overlay, a red suede leather blotter with intricate patterns of golden fleur-de-lis embossing, and three different pens: a fountain, a rollerball, and one made from unicorn horn.

I roll over to Jacqueline’s domain and I run my greasy fingertips over the half-empty water bottle from which she drank this morning. And what about that pineapple yellow tube of lip balm, with a rounded cap red like a poisonous berry, whose scent reminds me of summer rain on blossoming cherry trees? That’s the kind of item a girlfriend would carry in her purse so her lips would always remain moist and kissable.

My breath is ragged as I fiddle with the lip balm. I lift it to my lips and I plant kisses on the plastic surface. I slide it cap-first into my wet mouth then I suck the tube off, while rubbing my tongue around the cap in a circular motion, as if I were licking the leftover stickiness from the hardened nub of any of Jacqueline’s nipples after she nursed our baby daughter.

The nerve endings in my pussy are sizzling with tingles like an unscratchable itch deep within; yet another reason to keep nursing mommy’s milk that flows to nourish you, little girlie. All that remains of my sanity is trapped between my legs. I unbuckle my belt and pull down my pants. While my fingers brush the damp fabric of my panties, caressing my eager labia, I briefly check over my shoulder that no one has unlocked the door and sneaked up to me. Nobody is there, not even the birds that inhabit my computer tower, or the rats nibbling at the garbage bags stacked in the corners of my apartment, or the stray cats seeking shelter in my abandoned car. I just need five minutes for this rotten world to feel like a beautiful dream as my insides writhe and throb.

I daub the rounded cap of the lip balm with my mucoid saliva, then I rub the waxy plastic up and down along every inch from my labia to my clit. I shudder, and shift my weight from foot to foot, while the tube sinks between my folds as if it were trying to crawl back to its home beneath my skin. Jacqueline has blessed this lip balm, which transforms my womanhood from a wastebasket filled to overflowing with filth due to the rot from within, an ugly reminder of a whole life when nothing could please me but ugliness itself, to a fresh flower bed of petals waiting for that Frenchie to nibble on them at her whimsy. A place for her sweet honey to drip out whenever my fertile cunt is ready for breeding.

The sudden stench that engulfs me makes me think that I’ve sharted in the midst of my heavenly trance, a bad omen sent by whatever evil lurks behind this curse. But when I open my eyes and my sight clears up, Spike the horse is standing on his hind legs a few feet away from my spread, bare legs, his nostrils flared wide at me and his head jerked back due to my own scent. His bulging, black eyes seem about to pop out of his deformed head, and his lips have curled back revealing his rotten gums. He must have realized the awkward position in which he has put himself. His atrophied, retracted forelegs tremble while the horsey abomination struggles to balance his body as if he were a newborn colt. Spike remains castrated, and his frenulum hangs in a frayed web of flesh around the void of his mutilated genitalia.

At first, my throat is too parched to make any sound other than a low groan.

“My friend, I believe you caught me at an inopportune time,” I say hoarsely.

Spike’s eyes twitch. They gleam with madness. I could swear that his ropy threads of drool are thickening as they drip onto the worn carpet.

“L-Leire, the situation is getting more dire by the day, and I feel myself deteriorating the longer I spend in this dimension.”

I consider stroking Spike’s matted mane with my clean hand, to comfort him, but I remember that his fetid hide could infect me with insanity as well as disease. Thankfully, Jacqueline can still reach me at the end of my long tunnel of despair. Blood keeps rushing to my clit as the pleasure grows. If only we were able to breed together. No matter how much horror and pain may surround us, both of our bodies would be bloated with milk, and the litter of pups would brighten the darkness of this despairing world with their innocent laughter.

“My mind is unraveling,” I whisper. “I’m so close.”

Spike’s hind legs sway like a drunkard’s during a delirious binge, but the horse’s eyes are now fixed on mine as if hypnotized. Maybe his will to live has been broken because of his rotting glandular system, or maybe his brain has gone numb from spending too many years locked inside his skull. The horse’s drool has become a gluey stream that sticks between his lips as they curl into a permanent grimace of agony.

“Y-you truly need to listen,” Spike whines. “Sorry to bother you while you are busy, but I can’t stick around for–“

“Spike, whatever nonsense you think is going on can wait until I come. And… here it is!”

My trembling voice cracks as my legs shake uncontrollably. My clit has swollen to its limit, like a mushroom sprouting purple spores to spawn new life after soaking up nourishment from rotting leaves and manure. My knees have bent at an angle to accommodate such a contorted posture: my back has arched, my butt has lifted and clenched tight, allowing my sex to spasm and pulse. The pleasure reaches a crescendo that threatens to send me over a cliff into insanity. My whole body is screeching silently for release like a beached whale desperate for salvation. I go cross-eyed as my vision whitens and tears roll down my cheeks to mix with my sweat and spit as if to lubricate my passage to heaven. A membranous ball of energy squirms inside my uterus and bursts out through my vaginal walls, then an intense stream of liquid erupts from my pussy to splash against my thighs and whatever happens to be near my gushing slit. Oh fuck yes I can’t stop cumming and cumming and all I want is to fall to my hands and knees and bow down before Jacqueline like a slave girl begging forgiveness. Fuck me! Please don’t let me lose my mind, feed me your warm milk, fill me with baby chicks who’ll grow wings made of silver glitter, and stay with me forever in this domain full of flowers that bloom with your scent.

An ecstatic explosion has blown my brain apart and scattered my thoughts across a darkened theatre cluttered with junk and trash, but I am not afraid of this gloomy place since I know that the audience is there watching my performance in silence, except for the occasional muffled snicker when I fail miserably in front of them with every word that comes out of this dumb slut mouth of mine.

Once I regain my proprioception, I’m breathing hard, I’m covered in sweat, and I’m staring at a full-screen video on my monitor. No, not on my monitor. A paper-thick screen is hovering a couple of feet away from my spread legs. The video shows a woman slumped in a chair with her back against the camera, but angled so the image features a bare thigh covered in downy hair. I get a glimpse of lush pubes above her labia, which are wet from the juices oozing out of her vagina. I regret looking up again. That’s the back of my fucking head.

I gasp. My spinal column has frozen. The slumped body on screen trembles. When I dare to lift from my thigh my wet hand, the filmed person imitates me. Her pale fingers glisten in the fluorescent light as if covered with a layer of oil.

Either I missed a mounted CCTV camera aimed at my workstation, or someone is standing behind me while holding a camera. But what the hell is this hovering screen unattached to anything?!

The hairs on my neck stand straight up as tears well up in the corners of my eyes. I clench my hands over my crotch, then I swivel my chair slowly to face the intruder. I find myself staring at Jordi’s empty chair, its seat pushed under the table. I only hear my ragged breathing and the buzzing of electricity inside the walls. When I turn around, the hovering screen is gone.

4 thoughts on “We’re Fucked, Pt. 18 (Fiction)

  1. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 17 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

  2. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 19 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

  3. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 34 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

  4. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 91 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

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