We’re Fucked, Pt. 36 (Fiction)


Both Jacqueline and Jordi return from their lunch break. Jacqueline’s footsteps approach me until she puts her hands on top of the backrest of my chair. When she leans in close enough for me to breath in her scent, stars dance behind my eyelids, and all I want is less oxygen and more of this air. I attempt to fill my lungs with it, but I can only inhale so much, because my heart is throbbing with the rush of blood that runs through it. I wish Jacqueline would embrace me from behind then kiss me on the cheek, or on the corner of my lips. She could freely squeeze my breasts if she pleased.

“So, have you been working hard?” Jacqueline asks.

“As hard as a particularly flaccid dick. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“You’re looking pretty pale,” Jordi says.

“I’ve always looked like this. My parents were sickly too, so I guess they passed down their cursed genes to me.”

Jacqueline places both palms onto my forehead, and leaves them there as they get warmer. I suddenly become conscious of how tired I am. Beyond physical exhaustion, my mind feels weighed down by a terrible anxiety, maybe one of the first symptoms of an impending mental breakdown.

“Are you okay?” Jacqueline asks from my right side.

I must have spaced out, because both of my coworkers have sat down and are eyeing me as if I were a tottering toddler heading towards a flight of stairs. My muscles are sluggish. I’m having trouble thinking. I can hardly gather the energy to tell Jacqueline and Jordi that I’m just exhausted. I picture myself holding a bottle of water in a hot desert when all of a sudden the cap comes off, the liquid splashes on the sand and evaporates in the sun. The warm ghost of Jacqueline’s touch has faded quickly, abandoning me.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “But I feel like I’ve been working for years straight.”

“Did you eat anything? Or take a break at least?”

“I might have bought a candy bar, I’m not sure.”

Jacqueline sighs.

“Well, take it easy. It will be alright.”

The voice of my beloved sounded like a soothing lullaby, but she’s wrong. Nothing will improve anytime soon. As I attempted to recall what alright feels like, our boss enters our enclosed space. He quickly heads into his private office on the opposite side of the room and leaves the door ajar. The nearby presence of this tyrant ruins the mood. Jacqueline and Jordi get busy sliding the mouse to bring up programs, and I have no choice but to concentrate on Visual Studio Code again.

I manage to put in fifteen minutes of work making a unit test pass, but my dread grows as I type away. My stomach has tightened up with anxiety. Why am I exerting myself except to avoid disappointing the prick who pays my salary? Why do I have to be the one who fulfills the contracts? How does my boss find it acceptable to use other people’s talents to achieve the things he desires? After all, that sadistic rapist only wants power and wealth so he can manipulate others into satisfying his own depraved lusts. It makes me feel sick to think about how much energy that pig must burn each day just to keep walking on this planet. If there was any justice, he should be arrested for crimes against humanity, then beheaded by an angry mob. Can’t he at least exploit some foreign programmers that would be desperate for the opportunity? In any case, my boss should just leave me the fuck alone already.

My head feels heavy as if it were filled with rocks instead of a brain. So many hours trying to fix bugs, chasing down elusive solutions, far beyond when it ceased to feel rewarding, let alone fun. All I want is to spend time doing something else than writing code that nobody will ever care about. What a waste of life. I haven’t gone on a vacation ever since I was a child. Maybe worse, I don’t recall having had any decent excuse to take a day off from this incubator of deceit and evil. And when was the last time I ate anything substantial? Maybe never in my whole adult life. I’m so fucking hungry.

I’ve become a shell, and the empty space inside me, that smells like death, keeps expanding. How much longer can I continue wasting my time doing something I despise? But haven’t we been conditioned to spend five days a week at an office for such long stretches of time, so none of our lives ever move forward beyond what a company demands of its employees? We’re just being used, and eventually we’ll get thrown out into the street after years, maybe decades, of abuse and neglect. Maybe I’d make some money if I sold my unplayed board games online, but still, I lack an alternative option to earn a living other than spending my entire day typing away with fingers that are sore and tired. I guess that either I’m exploited as cheap labor until retirement, or I resign myself to becoming one more lost soul wandering the streets and begging for spare change while she fucks her way through half-drunk strangers in the night. No, I’m not allowed to just quit. I can’t just run away.

My entire life has been about playing along, with no one to turn to but the walls and my mind. I’m not sure how much more of this nonsense I can handle without screaming. I want to become the embodiment of every person who’s ever wronged me. I should start by throwing my computer onto the floor, then breaking every monitor in sight and stomping on their shards until they turn into powdery dust. I need to stain the ground with blood and broken bones and skull fragments. I can almost hear the pandemonium of the office clowns as their buildings fill up with smoke and ash and screams of pain. My pig boss will soon realize he made a huge mistake trying to keep such an angry woman at his mercy. He’d better pray that some god takes him out of existence before I reach the top.

The muscles of my neck and back have stiffened. I was glaring at my screen like it were my worst enemy, when a notification pops up: I’ve received an email. Nobody would contact me except for my boss, which means that he intends to berate me for slacking off. Or maybe he has secured another contract that I will be supposed to finish yesterday. Either way, this is going to piss me off even more.

However, the new email in my inbox came from Jacqueline, and it reads, My nipples miss your hungry mouth, followed by an emoticon of a yellow lady holding what might be a baby or an oversized burrito against her naked breast.

A hot flash makes me shiver as my heart beats faster. I glance sideways at Jacqueline. I can’t make out her expression, but she has brought her left thumb to her lower lip to caress it as if absentmindedly.

I make the mistake of closing my eyes for a couple of seconds to take a deep breath, and I slide down the daydream that my brain has concocted: a close up of Jacqueline standing before a plain white background, wearing nothing more than a lacy black bra. Her large breasts bulge out of the top like ripe fruits ready to fall onto the ground. She sits on an invisible mattress, then she beckons me to lie down in her lap.

“You’re not real,” I say to the phantom.

“I am your dream,” she answers with her French accent, “and I can do anything I want. You will enjoy every second of it, so come over here, you ridiculous girl.”

My imagined self obeys like a cat eager to settle in the warmth of her thighs. The back of my head sinks in the supple flesh while above me, against a white sky, the enormous twin masses dangle from Jacqueline’s chest and spill over the sides of the cups. My beloved narrows her eyes down at me as she reaches back to unclasp her bra. Freed, her huge, creamy breasts droop then sway like watermelons caught in the grip of an earthquake.

Jacqueline cups my nape with her left hand while with her other hand she takes her right breast and squeezes the pink areola. A few drops of her thick nectar fall into my open mouth, then its sweetness flows down my overworked throat. Her erect nipple becomes a hard lump pressed against my upper lip as if teasing me, but I hungrily house it within the hotness of my oral cavity. My tongue wraps around it like a slithery snake.

Jacqueline hums as she kneads her right breast while her other hand supports the weight of my worthless skull.

“You’re like a vacuum,” Jacqueline says with a sloppy voice. “I feel you sucking out my soul.”

You got that right, I think to myself.

“Yes, it feels so good, like I’m being cleansed,” she adds dreamily. “It’s strange how we can’t escape ourselves even when we try so hard.”

For countless hours I suck out all her excess lifeforce as the tit-cum streams from her nipple to my tongue. It’s all I can think of, the only thing I can do to forget my own life. My head is empty, my mind is empty. Nothing to hold onto but Jacqueline’s body and her tits.

A long strand of her jizz clings onto my eyelid, and white froth cascades through the gaps in my desk lamp. Although I yearn to choke on her breast meat, when Jacqueline finally wrenches it out of my devouring mouth, her nipple spurts a jet of thick milk that covers my face. The stuff sticks in my hair, gets inside my nostrils and ears. Fleshy globules adorn my cheeks while the rest drips down my chest into my belly button. Its warmth permeates me like a summer sunbeam.

When I open my eyes, my cheeks burn red hot. My heart is beating wildly, and my palms have become moist with sweat. I catch myself drooling, but I retrieve it quickly with the tip of my tongue before my male coworker notices it. I want to rush home, to Jacqueline’s apartment, so I can fill my mouth with her fleshy monuments of love once more. Yeah, fuck worrying about work, fuck society, fuck everything!

I hunch over to type a reply to Jacqueline’s message: Sucking on your tits would mean the end of the nightmare I’m living at this job that feels like a prison sentence for an unwarranted crime.

A few clicks later, Jacqueline stiffles a giggle. She leans back into her chair and crosses one leg over the other, then she raises her arms above her head. As she massages her forearms thoughtfully, I dare to glance at her raven black hair that looks like a cloud of ink, and at her face that’s an emblem of the divine. She has closed her eyes and seems lost in a dreamy state. Although I’m not sure what’s running through her mind, I think it’s something erotic. She might be imagining me naked and begging for her attention.

Jacqueline’s nipples have become hard points beneath her blouse and bra. When I lift my gaze, our eyes meet. I shiver. She must have noticed that my eyeballs are filled with lust. My mind is floating in a sea of desire, and I hope to never reach a shore again.

I must have lost it for a moment, because a notification has popped up on my screen: Jacqueline has gifted me another email. My beloved has scooted closer to the desk as if to hide an erection.

Her email says, I bet you wish you could kneel right now in front of my naked, spread legs. I imagine your big, round eyes going wider as I rub my throbbing clit.

I’m so fucking horny that it’s killing me that I can’t masturbate at the moment. I can almost taste Jacqueline as I imagine my tongue lapping over her clit while my hands fondle her ass. If only we could fuck like animals on this table, then leave our sex toys lying about the office. Unfortunately we are stuck being human with our limitations.

Fuck yes mommy, I write back. Squirt your pussy juices right in my face. I hope I drown in them.

Jacqueline takes a deep breath, then she gets busy replying.

Would you love my thick cum so much that you would eat it out of my hairy cunt as if it were your last meal?

Her breasts are swelling under her blouse, trying to escape its confinement. My hips twitch, my toes curl inside my sneakers. My breaths have become short puffs as my chest muscles tighten around my lungs.

It will be my pleasure, Jacqueline. I would eat out of your hairy cunt any time, any place, even on this table, I reply while I ache to rub my palm against my bare pussy and slide two fingers into the wet hole. I’ll gulp down all of your nectars like some starving beast. I could never believe I was born such an ugly creature as me. Piss down my throat if you want.

I glance at Jacqueline. Her nostrils are dilated and she’s smiling lecherously at me through her computer monitor, which is glowing with heat. She slides a hand slowly along her inner thigh. She looked a moment away from openly stroking her cunt, but she bites her lower lip and lifts her right hand back to the keyboard to type another message.

Your mommy can’t wait until she gets to feed her loving girl again. I’ve thought of little else throughout this morning. I can still smell you on my body. I want to tear off your clothes and fuck you into next week.

I gasp. My body is ready to burst.

Jacqueline, you can fuck me in the ass if you want, I write back. I don’t care.

My tongue has swollen inside my parched throat. My mouth has dried out because all my fluids seem to be cascading from my crotch. A light pinkish-white mist is beginning to fill the office. I dread to consider Jordi at all. I’m sure he can smell the steam that’s coming out of me.

I was about to type something horny, but a new email surprises me.

Did you leave your pendant at my place deliberately, so you would have an excuse to return soon?

I glance down at the dangerously exposed skin of my upper chest in this dress I ended up wearing to the office. When did I take my pendant off?

I write back: To be honest, I forgot that thing even existed. I bought the medallion for our date. But let’s say I did leave it at your place deliberately. What then?

Jacqueline doesn’t waste any time to reply.

You won’t stick around at the office after hours today. I don’t care how much work that guy is piling up for you. You’re going home with me, and you’ll spend the rest of the day naked in my bed. What do you say? Do you want to come home with mommy so you can prove how desperate you are?


Author’s note: I woke up at five in the morning, and instead of jumping straight into Cyberpunk 2077 in VR, I decided it was time to work through the rest of this chapter that started like a week ago, while I listened to melancholic music from far away. I think the chapter came out quite well, or as well as this nonsense could be expected.

2 thoughts on “We’re Fucked, Pt. 36 (Fiction)

  1. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 35 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

  2. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 37 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

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