We’re Fucked, Pt. 23 (Fiction)

Thick raindrops keep racing each other on the windowpanes, forming tiny rivers that run down the glass surface and reflect the living room lights with kaleidoscopic patterns. Beyond the window, the visual noise caused by slanted lines of rain blurs the facade of the opposite apartment building, although grey shapes appear briefly every now and then; possibly pigeons looking for shelter from the driving wind. I picture them getting struck by lightning, which would cause my window to crackle as if filled with static electricity, making the glass vibrate with white sparks of energy. The wings of those birds would catch fire, and then, unable to escape from the electrical discharges zapping their bodies, they would die screaming even before they shattered some bones by crashing into trees.

Any other day, I would have welcomed the patter of rain hitting my window, as well as the distant thunderclaps, but in a couple of hours I must abandon the safety of my dry apartment and venture through the drenched cold of the outside world so I can meet my French queen. I have paced my apartment frantically for the last thirty minutes, as my stomach acid breaks down whatever remains of the spaghetti, but the weather remains indifferent to my plight. Or maybe it’s punishing me for daring to pursue Jacqueline as my lover.

I plonk down on the sofa and I wipe my eyes with my palms. Where is that stupid horse hiding? That abomination had scarred himself mentally by interrupting me at work as I masturbated, but when I need someone to calm me down, he’s nowhere to be found. I can’t rely on anybody but myself. Although I’ve always known it, every time I relive the same realization, it takes a chunk out of my sanity.

I need to empty my mind until it becomes an open vacuum waiting for a spark to kindle and set off an explosion that wipes everything out, me included. It’s better to spend one’s life in loneliness rather than embrace love blindly and end up crushed and mutilated beyond recognition, like a piece of candy broken between somebody’s teeth.

Jacqueline must be standing by her window. I picture her sighing as she caresses her large breasts and twiddles her nipples. The deluge has procured the excuse my coworker needed to cancel our date, but she’s reluctant to call me in case she has to hear me stabbing myself on the other end of the line. I should contact her instead, and bow out gracefully from this mess.

I blow my nose quickly as I wait for the call to connect.

“I’d figured you would call,” Jacqueline says warmly into my ear.

“Yeah, I…” I clear my throat. “I guess you want to cancel.”

The rain sounds like thousands of water drops bouncing off metal foil. Jacqueline sighs.

“Is that how little you want us to meet, that regular old rain should cancel the opportunity?”

My heart pounds fast. I sit upright and wave my hand at the emptiness above my coffee table.

“No, not at all! Rain is wonderful! But I feared you would want to.”

Jacqueline laughs lightly. I picture her twisting a lock of hair around her finger and tilting her head to stare at herself in a full-length mirror. She’s wearing nothing but stockings, panties, a garter belt, a bra, and lace gloves that reach up to her elbows. Her body radiates warmth. I need her to wrap her arms around me and hold on tightly for the rest of my life, so I won’t feel again the coldness of even a single raindrop splashing against me. If only we could be together tonight, inside, on a bed or floor with a blanket spread over us, away from all dangers and monsters. Otherwise there’s no point in continuing with this charade of being alive.

“You have a low estimation of your ability to adapt and overcome, as usual,” Jacqueline teases gently as if she was talking to a toddler, which makes me wet all by itself. This must be a trivial topic for everybody except me. “Leire, just make sure you don’t drown on your way to the Buen Pastor cathedral. We’ll see each other in a few hours.”

“At s-six o’clock, right?”

“Still six o’clock,” she says melodiously.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“I can tell, sweetie.”

Jacqueline hangs up. I slump on the cushions and listen to the pelting rain as my heart settles down.

After I take a deep breath, I close my eyes and fill the theatre of my mind with Jacqueline’s tits. Her hands knead them, and with each upward motion she caresses her flesh buttons to expand those soft globes. I suckle gently on one of her hard nipples as she squirms and lets out throaty hums. I feel the heat rising from her breast, I inhale the musky scent of her sweat. Jacqueline observes me from above with pleading eyes as her mouth quivers. I take her nipple deeper within my mouth and massage it with a firm suction as my tongue swirls about its length, savoring every curve while my lips slide across the silken skin. When I pull back from her breast, a drop of honey seeps from its puckered center as if following my tongue. Once I’m done with her breasts, I lap up Jacqueline’s pussy with my snake-shaped tongue until she cums blissfully.

* * *

The cold air rushes to my lungs as I exit the Amara Euskotren station along with a throng of travellers, some of whom are holding briefcases or bags, or have glued their cell phones to their ears. I’m held up in a jam behind a wall of people who are either opening their umbrellas or huddling under the awning. Those who dared to continue on their way are rushing over the zebra crossing, although they can’t avoid stepping on puddles. Heavy clouds hang overhead like bloated balloons made of lead and filled up by hundreds upon thousands of gallons of water droplets.

I shudder. I chose to wear my thick corduroy jacket over the dress I bought yesterday, and by the time I realized that the combination looks silly, I had to hurry to the train station. My bare legs, that I went through the trouble of shaving for Jacqueline’s sake, are wet and covered with goosebumps. I want to rub my thighs together to warm up, because even my pussy has gone numb.

Once the mass of bodies has thinned down, I cross the zebra crossing as I hide my shame behind the inner canopy of my umbrella, but I realize that the downpour was muffling some chanting along with irate shouts. A crowd has packed the adjoined Easo square. Half of the people are facing the train station as they awkwardly hold banners along with their umbrellas. The banners feature the portraits, many upscaled to pixelation, some mugshots, of men that belong to a mixture of races. These demonstrators demand justice, and for some people, presumably the men featured on the banners, to be brought back. The other half of the crowd is counterdemonstrating. As I walk by the low wall that delimits the square, a big guy who looks like a construction worker makes a bullhorn with his hands and shouts angrily, “Good fucking riddance to those rotten bums and thieves!” The rain has plastered his wet hair across his forehead as the thick raindrops keep slapping him upside his face.

I follow other pedestrians, nearly bumping into their umbrellas with mine, to bypass two police vans parked on the pavement. Pairs of Ertzaintza officers, covered as best they could with black raincoats that hang loosely down their backs, stand around like they’d rather pull out their fingernails than stand out here in the rain to handle this mob.

As I trudge towards the nearby Buen Pastor plaza, I only peek out from under my umbrella to make sure I’m heading the right way. Millions of raindrops strike randomly against stone, metal and glass like tiny artillery shells fired by angry angels trying to find out where heaven hides. I must be walking awkwardly as if I feared pissing myself. My legs have gone numb, but thankfully I brought tissues, because I keep sniffling.

When I spot the tortilla brown, palatial public library, I cut through the smooth pavement of the plaza. Some trees obscure the view of the cathedral, a gothic marvel of architecture from likely centuries ago, and that looms over the nearby buildings. Those spiky spires look like they’d hurt if I shoved them up my ass.

A couple of minutes later I’m standing on the raised platform where the cathedral was built, and that overlooks three square gardens marred by slippery patches, where pools of mud have accumulated thickly like sludge oozing from somebody’s rectum after a rough bowel movement. More importantly, the platform overlooks the nearby street from which Jacqueline should appear in about ten minutes.

I only feel giddy and tingly for a minute, until the wet cold wins out. I’m clenching my teeth and shivering. My anxiety is building up like rainwater in a glass placed on the pavement, and my hands tremble as if I were possessed by the restless souls of the recently deceased. My thoughts are stuck in the mud of my mind like worms that can’t find their way out.

As I scan the view hoping that any of the umbrellas that bob through the plaza hides Jacqueline’s face, a few of the passersby glance up at my solitary self, instead of to ogle my bare, pale, soaked legs, to wonder what kind of moron would wait for someone under this barrage of falling water. I avoid their gazes; any quick peek informs them of the hideousness that lurks inside me, a beast so malformed and unsightly that it would frighten even street-tough orphans.

My hair is matted, has fallen out at random, or is congealed with the blood of others; my face is too thin because I survive on a diet of spoiled roadkill; my eyes are sunk deep into their sockets; blood oozes out from fissures and cankers in my rotting gums; my teeth point inward and to the sides due to terrible genes, are clogged with bits and pieces of my dead friends and relatives, and whenever I eat I need to keep my gnashers from rattling loose from their sockets; my mouth is dripping with spittle, drool and vomit. Also, due to excessive use of my vibrator, the edges of my mouth have become permanently numb, which hinders my ability to smile properly, and those I force come out creepy.

I snap out of a trance, because a luminous figure is strolling towards me between the rows of elm trees. She tilts back her umbrella, which is black with a white and tiger orange butterfly motif, to reveal a red smile that would make most women put aside their love of cock for a while. Jacqueline walks with her back straight and her shoulders squared. Her raven black locks are bouncing with her rhythmic strides, while a long red scarf hangs loosely off the shoulder of her designer coat, trailing its crimson hem along her body and emphasizing her tall figure. Her long, stockinged legs lead to the box pleated skirt of her coat, that barely conceals her curvy hips. She attracts the attention of a couple of passersby’s like a lodestone sucking in the ferrous metals around it.

I can’t tell if I’m shivering or shuddering with lust as Jacqueline ascends the steps to my level. Earrings of gleaming sapphires dangle at her ears. As she greets me with a wider smile, her dimples deepen, and the skin at the corners of her cobalt blue eyes creases as she squints like a cat.

I want to tear off Jacqueline’s clothes and shove my tongue deep inside her pussy until she begs for mercy.

I shake my head slightly to wake the fuck up and pretend to be sane enough, but I’ve barely stammered a greeting when Jacqueline steps closer, places her free arm around my shoulders and presses her warm cheek against mine. Although the contact lasts two seconds at best, it sets my face on fire and makes me achingly aware of how hungry I am for Jacqueline’s blood and meaty innards. I swallow deeply a breath filled with longing and despair.

“I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” Jacqueline says.

“Huh? Ah, you wondered why a wet homeless woman was staring at you.”

I fear that Jacqueline will confirm my suspicion, but she closes her eyes and lifts her free hand to her mouth as she chuckles.

“I meant the dress, idiot. You bought it so you could wear it for me, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes. It’s not like I would wear this of my own volition. I mean, I usually wear hoodies and stuff.”

Jacqueline checks me out brazenly from head to sneakers and back again. I gulp. She seemed about to point something out when she blinks twice and leans in to inspect my neck.

“Are those perforation wounds?”

I clench my teeth. I had forgotten about the consequences of that time I thrust a fork into my flesh to see if anything lived there. Just how long do wounds take to heal?!

“I might have done something nasty to myself,” I admit sheepishly as I avoid Jacqueline’s concerned gaze, but I’m eager to change the topic. “What about you, though? Both of your chosen mascara and lipstick are bolder than usual, and I’ve never seen you wear this expensive, comfy-looking coat. Did you want to look that good for me?”

Jacqueline lifts the left side of her upper lip in a flirtatious smirk. She steps back, and as she holds up her umbrella elegantly, she twirls like a schoolgirl. White noise rushes to my crotch. I press my thighs together, mostly because I can’t shove my hand down there now.

“You know it,” Jacqueline says. “Anyway, let’s get going, shall we? Aren’t your poor legs wet enough?”

As she strokes my cheek, worry creeps into her blue eyes.

“Sweetie, you are shivering. It’s too cold to bare your legs like that!”

“Y-you’ll have to warm me up then, won’t you,” I whisper hoarsely.

Jacqueline’s eyes widen and narrow rapidly, then she giggles. She pushes the bottom spring of my umbrella and slides it closed as she covers my head with her own umbrella. She nods towards the nearby street.

“Grab my arm. This pub I like is dark and warm, so it will suit us well.”

2 thoughts on “We’re Fucked, Pt. 23 (Fiction)

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

  2. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 24 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

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