The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He’s standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man’s face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night’s campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.
As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.
The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.
I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.
Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.
“Good morning, ma chérie,” says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.
My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I’m trapped in this person’s grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!
As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline’s embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.
“And what a beautiful morning it is,” she purrs.
“D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?” I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.
My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.
“More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right.”
She’s rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.
“Ah, ça c’est bon…” she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.
“Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast.”
“Don’t you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy’s cock plowing your insides?”
“Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact.”
“You’re right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do.”
As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.
Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.
Jacqueline’s hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.
I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline’s other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can’t help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.
“Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can’t wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child.”
Our child? We can’t have a child of our own. It’s not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu’s room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child’s individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I’d pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I’ve looked forward to removing myself.
One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn’t wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.
Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy’s ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I’m a slut-lady who serves mommy’s mammoth member, and I can’t wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.
Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I’m drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.
“You’ve been loving the daily doses of mommy milk,” Jacqueline whispers, “haven’t you, mon ange?”
I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.
“More than you know.”
“Then beg me to breed you.”
“P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode.”
Her breath catches in her throat.
“My love,” she pants, “you make it difficult to control myself. Don’t worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies.”
The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline’s hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I’m writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline’s cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.
When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.
Jacqueline’s fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.
“Do you think I’m greedy, mon coeur?” she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. “You’ve given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both.”
“That’s fine. Just don’t leave me to fend off for myself in the streets.”
“How could I ever abandon my darling? You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.” Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. “What do you think it’s going to be? A boy or a girl?”
“That’s assuming that the kid can’t turn into one or the other at will.”
“Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise.”
“We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding.”
Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.
“Seriously though,” I say, “I do hope it’s a girl. I wouldn’t know how to handle a boy.”
“Oh, I know it already, Leire. It’s a girl.”
“Well, if it isn’t, let’s not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn’t want to do the same to another being.”
Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren’t pissing and shitting themselves, but they don’t intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.
Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone’s screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I’ll change my alarm melody; it’s unfair to associate Chopin’s Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.
“Merde…” Jacqueline grumbles. “Time to get up, mon lapin.”
She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.
I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline’s embrace.
“Let’s pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died.”
Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.
“Believe me, I’d rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work.”
I sigh.
“I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time.”
Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won’t linger long.
I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.
As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.
Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.
Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.
“Go take a shower, ma lumière. I’ll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast.”
Author’s note: today’s songs are “VCR” by The xx, “Bodys” by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and “Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2” by Chopin.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.
Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.
This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled “The Great Pretender.”
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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