We’re Fucked, Pt. 110 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial

A flicker, like a glitch in a high-res display, crosses the Asian features of my beloved Jacqueline. In a heartbeat, I find myself staring into slate-blue irises encircled by bold rings of black, round eyes that stand out in a heart-shaped face whose skin, pale and luminous as a pearl, is dotted with freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The plumpness of her lower lip stirs a desire to draw close and savor its sweetness. In the glow of the candlelight, her wavy, copper mane comes alive with streaks of tiger-orange, as if the strands were catching fire.

Her mouth stretches into an impish grin. She shifts her body, making her copper waves ripple, to strike a pose: legs slightly apart, fists on her hips. Her bare chest, pushed out, is scattered with freckles like a constellation of brown stars.

“Alive and kicking, as you can tell,” she says in a high-pitched voice and an effervescent lilt.

A vision from the Celtic folklore, a sunburst in the honey-drenched darkness. The way the colors fade from pink to orange to red, she reminds me of a summer sunrise.

“Irish Jacqueline,” I mumble.

Jacqueline-but-Irish sweeps the tumbling tresses away from her freckled shoulders, so she can cup the slight slopes of her breasts, squeezing them gently with her slender fingers, pressing and molding her flesh into rounder mounds. She rubs the areolae with her thumbs, then coaxes her nipples into thickening peaks.

“In my mind, I refer to this body differently, but… Ah, it always makes me feel so naughty.”

As Jacqueline caresses her midriff, her other hand twists and curls a copper lock that resembles a wave of living flame. The candlelight flickers in her eyes, which are blue like glacier ice, their depths shimmering with lust.

A nervous energy ripples through me, triggering tingles throughout my body. I’m getting hungrier.

“Of the many forms I have conjured up,” Jacqueline says, “this is my second favorite. Aren’t most people suckers for redheads? Imagine this colleen, with an appetite for mischief and debauchery, approaching you on the street.”

“O-on a dockside pub or a foggy moor. Stargazing and witchcraft in the moonlight.”

Her eyelids dip halfway.

“Wherever, her black Mary Janes click as she saunters over. She’s wearing a white blouse that shows off her freckled cleavage, a short plaid skirt that hugs her hips, and knee-high socks with frilly edges. Her red hair is tied in two braids that fall over her shoulders. Your senses are overwhelmed by her sweet and woodsy aroma. What wouldn’t this little vixen, this wood nymph from the deepest forests of Éire if you prefer, do to warm your dead, shriveled heart? You might struggle against her allure, but in the end, no fruit tastes sweeter than the forbidden.”

This pagan beauty must have stirred in many people the yearning to bury their faces in her fiery hair, to trace her freckles with their lips, to get drunk on her taste, to quench the firestorm within them by piercing her maidenhead and filling her with creamy seed. Oh, she could burn the world’s eyes out, and lure any hapless soul to drown.

From the base of my spine to my skull, a shockwave-like chill courses through my body, raising goosebumps on my arms and nape. In the aftermath, my skin still crawls with tiny sparks. I lick my lips and swallow past the lump in my throat. My hand has drifted to my inner thigh, seeking the warmth radiating from my core, the moisture gathering between my folds. I’m resisting the urge to rub myself, maybe in part to avoid tainting my fingers with my own filth.

“C-crack a pint and sing a few shanties before you bang the flesh off my bones.”

Jacqueline’s smile deepens, and her eyes, two sapphires set in her freckled face, sparkle as she ogles my exposed crotch. I look down. A rivulet of clear fluid is trickling out of my vulva and dripping onto the cloud-white bedding, staining it with a widening lust-blotch as if the comforter were a canvas and I the artist spilling paint. I smell the scent wafting up from my pussy, a primal musk, along with a metallic tang reminiscent of blood.

“You’d like me to assist you with that,” Jacqueline surmises, “wouldn’t you, darling?”

Jacqueline-but-Irish strides toward me with catlike grace. Her copper waves bounce as she leaps onto my lap, straddling me, gripping my hips with her thighs. She slings her arms around my neck and tugs me into an embrace, squeezing her hardened nubs against my tit-flesh. I feel her warm skin and the way her heart races. A surge of desire crashes against the shore of my libido like a wave, one that seethes with foam and carries the briny aroma of the ocean.

The world shrinks as if a wall of brambles and ferns had sprouted around us. Her hair caresses my cheek and tickles my throat. Her lips brush the lobe of my ear as she whispers words of fire.

“I can hear your thirsty heart, babe. Let it pump those hot and heady juices.”

Jacqueline, thrusting her hips, grinds her slippery mound against mine, her swollen bud against mine. A jolt of electricity arcs through my nervous system, igniting my synapses, causing me to gasp and shudder in her arms. She purrs. Her mouth closes around my earlobe, which she nibbles. My clit throbs with a heartbeat-like rhythm while I bask in the smooth, oily friction of our pussies rubbing together, along with the wet noises and juicy squelches. I grasp Jacqueline’s buttocks and squeeze them, digging my fingertips into the tender flesh. As my arousal rises like a hot-air balloon, the syrupy heat that has replaced the blood in my veins threatens to immolate me.

Her visage, sprinkled with cinnamon-like freckles, fills my field of vision, framed by wavy copper tresses. She’s staring at me with the blushing countenance of a Renaissance painting, her half-lidded gaze like the blue flames of a gas-powered stove. Her glossy, Irish lips pucker as she leans closer, wanting us to merge into a kiss. I’d only have to breathe out an invitation for her mouth to meet mine, our tongues to entwine, our saliva to mingle. She will taste like honey and wine.

I’m breathing air thick with the aroma of melting wax mixed with that of rose, jasmine, and sandalwood. Within the jitterbug of hormones and this lust-laden gloom, my brain has liquefied, and I feel like a puddle of sparks. Yet, I turn my head away.

Her moist lips press against my left cheek, and when she draws back, her warm breath tickles my skin.

“Oh? You don’t want to smooch?”

“That’s cheating. I’m a one-woman-at-a-time gal.”

As she giggles, her stiff tit-tips graze mine, which sends a heatwave through me.

“But grinding our pussies together is fine?”

“S-somehow that’s different.”

Jacqueline-but-Irish cradles my head between her palms as if it were a sacred relic.

“Ma coquine bien-aimée, you think this was a test? You’d be making out with mommy no matter what body I’m wearing.”

“Sorry, Jacqueline. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the display of shapeshifting. I’m blown away but also scared and horny.”

“Je te pardonne, bébé. Let me assure you that you don’t need to be afraid.”

Her arms unwind from the embrace around my neck. She places the palms on my shoulders and, as her copper locks sway like a waterfall of flame, she shifts her weight off me, dismounting from my lap onto the plush comfort of the bedside rug. The sudden absence of her heat leaves me desolate.

Under a strip of fiery copper fuzz, almost scarlet, Jacqueline’s vulva glistens pinkly in the candlelight, slathered with a glaze. Her nectar has trickled down the crease and slickened her inner thighs.

Jacqueline-but-Irish inches her right hand down her stomach, past the navel, and runs those fingers through the patch of copper curls. She strokes herself, sliding her middle finger along the wet groove and over the engorged berry. After she widens her stance, she teases the soaked petals apart, and her ruby-hued insides blossom. She dips a finger into the velveteen depths. When she pulls it out, her digit emerges with a glimmering thread.

“Isn’t it exquisite?” she asks breathily. “The rosy sheen of this soaking honeypot, the juicy scent, the sluttish mess of it all. Don’t you want to find out what a teen’s pussy tastes like?”

My pulse is hammering. My brain still burns with the friction-fed flames of lust. I won’t deny it to myself: I want to fall to my knees before Jacqueline-but-ginger. I want to bury my face in her damp snatch and feast on the clitoris of Ireland. I want to slurp up the salty tang of this druidess’ nectar, to suck out the sweetness of her womb like through a straw plugged into the fountain of youth, until she forgets her Celtic chants and the screams of banshees.

Liquid beads that cling to Jacqueline’s fingers reflect the candlelight in a rainbow shimmer. The air is saturated with a musky-sweet aroma like the fragrance of a ripe peach that has split open in the heat, dripping juice onto the sun-baked grass. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the roiling sea that crashes and foams against jagged rocks. The sparkling spray shoots upward and outward in fan-shaped mists. My palms sweat, the wind whips my hair about my face. I’m afraid of landing on the sharp teeth of the reefs far below, where the waters would boil with a froth of blood.

“Another time,” I whisper. “Right now I need you as you are.”

Author’s note: today’s songs are “Look” by Sébastien Tellier, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A hundred and seventy-six videos so far. Check them out.

Taste this chapter in an audio format through this link.