We’re Fucked, Pt. 21 (Fiction)

At midday, I pull down my pajama trousers, lie down on my wrinkled sheets and wet my fingers with saliva to combat my despair, which worsens when exposed to bright light and sounds of life and civilization, and that by now it feels like a spreading rot from a necrotic limb. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. With my damp fingers, I stroke myself gently around my clit as I paint a portrait of Jacqueline on the dark canvas of my mind. Those cobalt blue irises acknowledge me from her narrowed eyes. She brandishes a pink smile that deepens her dimples, displays the slight gap between her lateral incisors and her canines, tightens the skin around her prominent chin, and wrinkles the bridge of her nose. I yearn to induce thousands of such smiles, if only because they may lead to Jacqueline wanting to embrace me and keep me pressed against her motherly breasts.

My vagina has discharged enough gooey lubrication, and I spread it over my labia. My body temperature is rising rapidly, my heart is jumping on my chest, I’m breathing faster, and I feel the warm flow of blood rallying round to enlarge my clit, that I keep massaging with circular movements while I gaze into the void.

Ever since Jacqueline wrapped me in her arms and convinced me that a home awaits me in this world, I’ve hoped to strengthen the lingering echo that my bones have preserved, but I can’t synthetize at will how safe and loved that Frenchie made me feel. Such inability might be a built-in defense mechanism; if I could spark that feeling the same way I can make myself cum, I likely would never leave my bed. In any case, I ache to touch Jacqueline’s warm skin again. As long as she remains close by, she will ease away the darkness that threatens to swallow whole the hopeless human wreck that I’ve become.

As I caress myself, I reach towards the nightstand to grab my phone, but I nearly push the vibrator to the floor, which would have made me stop abusing my genitals to pick it up if I end up requiring its services. I thumb the phone’s screen until I pull up the entry for Jacqueline on the contacts list. I would only have to press the green button and wait a few seconds for her mellifluous voice to flow down my ear hole. I’m assuming that she’d like to hear from me, but… why wouldn’t she? While I’m fondling my genitals, Jacqueline goes as far as staring at me so intimately and whispering consoling words that echo throughout the theatre of my mind, just so she can help bring me to a climax. Surely she’ll welcome my call.

While I hold the phone to my left ear and wait for the call to connect, I close my eyes and I stare at Jacqueline’s rosy, moist lips as they part, inviting me to dive headfirst into her darkened, warm pool of saliva.

“Hey, Leire,” says the voice on the other end. “So nice to hear from you.”

I hesitate to answer. That voice belonged to a much younger woman. I picture a college student with twinkling eyes and who holds against her chest the unjustifiably expensive textbooks she was forced to buy. Did Jacqueline give me a wrong number originally, maybe to avoid a confrontation? That doesn’t make sense, because we sent a few messages back and forth, and this young voice has called me by my name. Whatever. I guess we all sound different over the phone. I suspect that if I heard my voice back, I’d sound like a madwoman who should be locked in an attic.

I ease the abuse upon my throbbing clit so I can speak without panting.

“I think you told me,” I mumble, then I swallow to clear my voice, “unless I have made it up, that you’d be there for me, that I could rely on you.”

Jacqueline remains silent. I make out a faint conversation in the background. I press on.

“M-maybe you just blurted that out because seeing me cry made your maternal instincts kick in, but if you were serious, I’d… I’d like for us to meet and hang out, if that’s fine with you.”

After a silence long enough to make me want to kill myself, Jacqueline smacks her lips, but a man’s voice approaches her. Jacqueline muffles the mic. When she uncovers it, I understand the words ‘from the office’. A door closes.

A cold feeling spreads in my chest, and my heart would have sunk to my feet if I wasn’t lying on my back. I have interrupted Jacqueline either before or after one of her tennis players fucked her. Now, even receiving a call from her relatives would have annoyed her. Why did I ever think that such a divine woman would want to bother interacting with a loser like me, especially one with such terrible social skills and a taste for masochism?

“You are this naughty, huh?” Jacqueline’s giggly voice first disarms me, then it seeps down my ear canal like honey dripping from between her warm thighs.

“W-what do you mean?” I croak. My throat is dry, and my body is taut as the wires of a harp.

“You are lying in bed and touching yourself, aren’t you, sweetie?”

I shudder from head to toe, but I must have developed an alien hand syndrome, because listening to Jacqueline’s voice has convinced my right hand to polish my clit harder while the available fingers dig deeper into my cunt’s fleshy folds. I feel that if I were to look over my shoulder, instead of staring at my headboard, I would hold Jacqueline’s mischievous gaze.

I gasp at a sudden realization.

“Were you the one filming me all along?” I ask, flabbergasted.

Jacqueline chuckles.

“Filming you? Strange of you to say that. But no, I haven’t filmed you so far. What I meant was, don’t you understand who you are talking to?” she asks in her melodious French accent. “I recognize that labored breathing and the tiny breaks in your voice, which you distort with the effort to avoid gargling your saliva.”

Sweat beads on my forehead and temples, my clit throbs against my soaked fingers, the muscles around my vaginal opening contract violently. Jacqueline is lying beside me. Her moist lips are brushing my left ear as her honeyed voice reverberates in the concha.

“W-what kind of depraved fiend would call a coworker while she masturbates?” I ask in a panic. “No way I–“

As I scramble for any excuse, I picture myself dressed in a hoodie and running leggings as I fly through my city’s moldering streets, trying perhaps to escape the demons that haunt my thoughts and memories, but even that healthy version of myself would stop to make a call. Besides, any excuse that involves exercising feels more demeaning that the truth.

I suck in a deep breath to quell my growing terror.

“Alright, I’m masturbating. B-but that’s unrelated to my sudden urge to call you!”

Once the words I chose hastily escape my mouth, I clench my teeth and hold my breath. The blood is pulsing sluggishly inside my head.

I was about to apologize when a muffled giggle makes me imagine Jacqueline covering her mouth with her hand as her shoulders tremble.

“You want us to get together, huh? Alright, it’ll be fun. Today I’m a bit busy, but how about tomorrow afternoon, around six?”

I want to cheer and scream with joy, but I fear that Jacqueline will find my enthusiasm repulsive, so I clear my throat. Am I truly going to hang out with Jacqueline, just the two of us? The thought alone keeps my sanity intact.

“That sounds great. I have nothing going on.”

“Can we meet in Donostia? I’d rather not visit Irún if I can avoid it.”

“Of course. I want to spend as little time in this cesspit as possible!”

“Great.” I can picture her smile by how it distorts her voice. “Let’s meet in front of the Buen Pastor cathedral. From there we’ll walk to this pub I like. How about that?”

“I wish I was there already,” I say hoarsely, but there’s a slight tremor in my hands, and tears are starting to stream down my temples at the notion of being close to her again.

“Don’t play with yourself too hard, huh?” Jacqueline suggests, then hangs up.

My heart is trying to dig its way out of my chest, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the next moment a torrent of hot vomit came spewing forth from my esophagus. The air remains still, permeated with my musky, sweaty scent. My stomach calms down as my wet fingers continue to stroke my aching clit.

Did Jacqueline agree to a date, or does she just want to spend some free time with a coworker that amuses her? Maybe she feared that if she rebuffed me, I would have leaped from the nearest window to my demise. I may have. But who cares? Tomorrow at six in the afternoon I’ll stand in front of the Buen Pastor cathedral and gaze upon my goddess. Maybe she wants to cum all over my face while making sure I keep gazing directly into her sparkling eyes until they burn my soul, leaving permanent scarring with their luminous blue hue.

I would have never dared to call Jacqueline and propose that we meet if my pleasure-induced delirium hadn’t convinced me. I only have masturbation to thank for the few blessings in my life.

Sorry, Jacqueline, but this warrants a more diligent self-diddling. As I knead my breasts with a needy intensity, I reach towards my nightstand with my left arm and close that hand around the sticky plastic of my vibrator. I turn it on, then I ram it into my pussy. The plastic shaft vibrates wildly as its buzzing song reverberates throughout my body like a swarm of bees trapped in a jar and banging violently against the glass enclosure, trying desperately to fly unfettered to pollinate flowers and plants and shrubs and trees so they may bloom and flourish in abundance, becoming a source of sustenance for any creature too lazy to suck nectar directly from flowers, slurping sweet dew off blooming rose petals with the tongues of hummingbirds. Sorry, birdies, but my fantasy doesn’t include the need to feed you with my fluids. Sorry sweet insects of the forest that I’ll only explode in an orgasm if your tiny mandibles dig deep into my clit’s hooded entrance so my blood starts pumping rapidly through my throbbing cunt and lubricating your hungry mouths.

My body twitches as waves of bliss radiate from between my spread thighs and up my spine. I’m panting like an excited dog, drooling profusely and emitting moans of relief mixed with animalistic noises. My eyes roll back, my mouth gapes open. As the spasms in my loins continue to shake my frame, a warm gush flows from my vagina, leaving a damp stain on the sheets and the air with a sickening odor of discharge, a stink of putrefaction mixed with excrement, as if my entire nether half had voided itself and marred my home’s decor with its vile output. I am a disgusting mess and will remain as such until my body can rid itself of the revolting stench that suffocates every one of its cells.

2 thoughts on “We’re Fucked, Pt. 21 (Fiction)

  1. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 20 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

  2. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 22 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

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