We’re Fucked, Pt. 107 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial

Naked as I crawled into this broken world, I pad barefoot through the doorway to Jacqueline’s bedroom. The blinds have been rolled down, which would have engulfed the room in darkness if it weren’t for the lit candles arrayed on the nightstand, and on a stool at the foot of the bed. The flames, glowing gold, dance gently as they cast honey-colored light on the cloud-white bedclothes, and tint the walls and ceiling that one day we’ll repaint with the ashes of our enemies. I breathe in an aroma of rose, jasmine, and sandalwood.

Warmth permeates my skin as if I were wrapped in a blanket. Jacqueline has gone out of her way to craft this sanctuary for my sake. I’m reminded again that someone cares for me, chooses to keep me around day after insane day, even though I’m a relentless monster. I swallow hard, pushing back tears, and quietly close the door.

From behind the towering wardrobe that cuts my view, a sultry voice, soothing as a lullaby and with a hint of French accent, wafts over to me.

“Leire, be a doll and lock the door, s’il vous plaît.”

My hand reaches out, my fingers curl around the lock, then twist it into place. The metallic click resonates in the vault of my memories; how many times have I waited for that sound so I could feel safe alone, separated from the outside?

When I step past the wardrobe’s side, Jacqueline captures my attention: she’s standing by the mirrored door, between the wardrobe and the bed, like a medieval queen in her private chamber. My lover’s feminine figure is bathed in the golden hues of candlelight that makes her eyes sparkle. Her form-fitting silk robe glimmers like an oyster-pink oil slick, which accents her dark tresses. The ivory-white skin of her face and neck and chest and bulging cleavage glow. My gaze lingers on her mouth: the Cupid’s bow, the plump lower lip. I ache to feel that moist softness against me again.

“I love your fresh-from-the-shower afterglow,” Jacqueline says.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t find me hideous.”

“Hideous? Darling, you’re as beautiful as the dawn.”

I blush even though I’m disintegrating, even though the blood in my veins must have turned to sludge.

“Th-thank you for preparing this romantic setup, by the way.”

She chuckles, then gestures toward the bed.

“You’re most welcome, ma belle. Now sit on the edge. Get comfortable.”

The plush rug cushions the soles of my bare feet as I approach the bed. When I sit down, facing my beloved, the mattress dips under my weight. The lavender-scented, cottony surface feels cool against my ass and the back of my thighs.

“I’m programmed to loathe surprises, but I’m sure I will enjoy whatever you throw my way.”

“I hope so.”

Something in her voice gives me pause: an alien hesitation. Jacqueline turns away from me, drawn to the mirrored wardrobe. In the reflection, a shadow of doubt replaces the playful mischief that usually sparkles in her cobalt-blues. She presses her full lips together as the corner of her mouth twitches.

Jacqueline straightens her spine, maintaining a rigid posture. Her raven-black locks cascade down to the sash that hugs her hips. From under the strip of fabric, wrinkles in the robe fan out, mounting the swell of her buttocks. Her fingers find their way to the knot at the waistband. With gentle tugs, she draws the fabric out until the knot comes undone. Her hands part the sides of the robe, then she shrugs it off her shoulders. The garment flutters with a silky rustle down her voluptuous curves to the bedside rug, revealing a curvaceous frame clad only in a satin bra and a see-through thong.

The flickering glow of the candles paints Jacqueline’s curves in golden highlights: the elegant slope of her shoulders, the smooth expanse of her ivory-white back, the arch of her spine, the twin dimples above her coccyx, along with the rest of her physical attributes that suggest the abundance of a bygone age, such as her sculpted calves, her thick thighs, her wide hips, and the voluminous breasts that could make a corset explode. At this sight of my beloved, whose presence has rendered the universe irrelevant, a powerful sexual charge has stoked my loins, causing my breath to hitch. I want to bow down and worship her divine splendor.

The lace edging of her thong curves over her pelvis, and the back strip has disappeared in the crevice between the toned globes of that supple, fleshy bum. I lick my lips, then bite down on the bottom one. I should fall to my knees, grab mommy around the waist, and bury my face in those sumptuous globes.

She turns around to face me. Her ivory-white skin is stretched tight across the sinuous curves of muscle in her abdomen, toned abs that flex with each exhalation, whose grooves seem carved in clay. My gaze glides upward. The candlelight dances on the satin cups of her midnight-sky-black bra. Those cups encase snugly the massive mounds of her tits, an eruption of breast tissue that threatens to tear through the mesh that restrains it.

Jacqueline reaches behind her back, and unhooks her bra. As the straps fall down her shoulders and slide down her arms, the titanic breasts spill forth to first bobble then hang like twin moons. Those blessed milk-makers, immaculately-formed melons, the most mouthwatering pair of juggernauts, attract lust like metal fillings drawn to a magnet, and justify the pain of enduring this horrid life. A film of moisture glimmers on the upper slopes of those gravity-defying spheres now bathed in the color of honey, and capped with coral-pink areolas that encircle dusky-rose nipples.

A shiver courses up my back, sending goosebumps along my arms. My heart is thumping, my blood seething with arousal. I feel lifted in slow motion by a blaze that risks incinerating my sanity.

Instead of just feasting my eyes on those buoyant mountains of flesh, I must plant on them the palms of my hands, sinking them slowly. I will squeeze and knead the tender, creamy tissue for milk as the tips of her erect nipples graze against my palms. I will cup her breasts, then draw trails of saliva with my tongue on the bumps and folds of her areolae. I will kiss the stiff nubs, nibble them, tease their pliant peaks. Once I close my mouth around a nipple, the universe will concentrate on my desire to suckle the sweetness of motherhood, a taste and scent that will conjure memories of summers spent lazing about in the garden of Jacqueline’s childhood château.

My head is swimming with hormones. The feverish warmth that pulses within me, radiating outward from my core, melts the tension from my muscles like ice under boiling water. A pair of hands press the naked skin of my shoulders, pushing me back. With a slick and abrupt noise, like a wet kiss breaking, the succulent flesh that had filled my mouth suddenly leaves it. I stumble backwards onto the mattress with an inelegant flop.

Jacqueline’s cobalt-blues are glazed over and half-closed, and her pupils have dilated. Her cheeks are flushed as pink as peonies. She runs her tongue along her lower lip, moistening it. Placing both hands on her bosoms, she lifts them, then smooths and massages them as the engorged nipples poke out like flower buds, begging to be pinched and sucked.

“Of course you want to dive right into my tits,” she purrs. “And don’t get me wrong, mommy loves her baby’s attention.”

My pulse is thudding in my temples, in my throat, in my loins. My brain, fried from the hormonal onslaught, struggles to form coherent thoughts.

“Jacqueline, if you’ll allow me, I shall kneel before you, tear the thong off your body, and devour your steaming box with eager slurps.” My voice echoes within the dark chasm of my mind, my words slip out as if I were dropping them through a keyhole. “A voice is asking me if I understand what I’m seeing, hearing and feeling. It tells me that the red tide has come to consume this world, and soon enough we will be floating face down in cosmic sewage. Death will be cold and wet and lonely, so before we dive into oblivion to join everyone else in the swampy pits of purgatory, I want to squeeze every drop of pleasure from this life.”

Jacqueline chuckles throatily.

“Tu me fais trembler, ma chérie. Don’t worry, I’ll have you kneeling at my feet soon enough, but first there’s something I’d like to show you, something you have the right to know. I want you to become privy to all that makes me who I am.”

She hooks her thumbs under the thin straps of her thong, then bends over to pull the triangular piece of satin and lace down her shapely thighs. The candlelight caresses her mighty globes as they wobble and jiggle to the rhythm of her body. Once Jacqueline slides the thong off her ankles, she tosses the garment, soaked in her moisture, at my face.

Before the thong drops, I hurry to press it against my features, sticking the moist fabric to my nostrils and lips, warming them, smearing them with juices. I inhale deeply, drinking in mommy’s sexual tang. The intoxicating scent, salty and ripe with an earthy muskiness, fills my lungs and soaks into my brain like a firehose spray through the skull. I let the perfume melt my synapses while a sudden dizziness rushes through me as if I were getting high.

When I open my eyes, I find myself looking into a puddle of molten gold. I blink repeatedly until I recognize Jacqueline, whose brows are furrowed in worry as she wrings her hands.

I peel the thong off my face, then put it down beside me on the mattress.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

Jacqueline takes a deep breath. She combs a silken, gleaming lock of hair away from her face.

“I’m not sure, darling,” she says timidly. “What if you reject me?”

Have I heard her right? I grimace in disbelief.

“Well, that’s a silly fear for you to have.”

“Silly?” Jacqueline repeats, eyebrows raised, but the tension is easing from her shoulders.

“Jacqueline, you could reveal that you’re actually a three-eyed alien from Mars, and I’d still follow you to the end of the world.”

Her features brighten as her lips stretch into a grin that deepens her dimples, unveils her pearly teeth, and sends a wave of lust through me. Her eyes are glinting like blue fire.

“Alright. Check this out, Leire: a part of me that I haven’t shown anybody else.”

I blink. Wasn’t I staring Jacqueline in the eye? Instead I find myself looking at inky black hair with bluish reflections and parted in the middle. When I slide my gaze down, my head snaps back, and a shiver runs down my spine. Two monolid, almond-shaped eyes are staring at me from a face as pale as rice paper, that would belong in a medieval drawing of a Japanese courtesan.

Author’s note: today’s songs are “La bohème” by Charles Aznavour, “Engine” by Neutral Milk Hotel, and “Sunshine Superman” by Donovan.

I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout this series. A total of a hundred and seventy-two videos. Check them out.

Hey, I heard you enjoy audiochapters. Got a fresh one right here.

I have been sick since last Thursday, mostly an excess of mucus and feeling out of it. It’s not covid, according to a couple of tests. On top of that, I’m working full-time. Due to my permanent heart issues thanks to a certain biological/technological weapon, I can’t consume caffeine, and I’m taking beta blockers. By four in the afternoon, my head is buzzing with exhaustion. I have changed my schedule to preparing the next writing session in the afternoon, then going to sleep at nine and waking up at four or five in the morning so I can inject the needed meaning into an otherwise pointless day. My job remains as shitty as usual, or even worse, because I’m rarely in the mood to tolerate any bullshit. There’s also, of course, the issue of constant anxiety and my IBS, which keep me locked in the most basic sphere of survival.

Why am I telling you this? Who are you anyway? Whatever. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you didn’t, go read someone else’s stuff.