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Jordi is checking the contents of his briefcase and Jacqueline is putting her designer coat on, both preparing to leave the office for the day. Although I’ll stick around to work overtime, they are spreading their vibe, making me feel like the weekend has already started.

My beloved wraps her red scarf around her neck, then she leans in towards me and hands me an external hard drive.

“Here, so you won’t miss me tonight,” she whispers furtively. “Along with its USB 3 Micro-B cable, in case you don’t have one.”

I know what any external hard drive associated with my girlfriend contains, but I would have figured it out due to the look she’s giving me: that of a pervert sharing naughty stuff with a fellow connoisseur. A sudden heat ripples across my skin.

“And call me tomorrow morning, alright?” Jacqueline adds.

I want to thank her for the gift, but I’m blushing, so I just nod. I grab the hard drive and slide it under my monitor screen to hide it from prying eyes.

As Jacqueline straightens her back, Jordi joins her at her side. An anchor grey, heavy wool coat covers his impeccably ironed white shirt and black pants. In the reflection of his glasses, my shy self looks like a criminal about to crack.

“I hope you manage to rest enough this weekend, Leire,” he says with a warm smile.

I’ve whined repeatedly about the soreness in my muscles, and our intern is the kind of guy that cares about other people’s pains. I shrug and smile like a kid that emptied out the cookie jar.

“I doubt I’m going to let her rest enough,” Jacqueline says proudly, “because we are going on a date. But she’ll be alright.”

“Nothing to worry about, then,” Jordi says.

Our boss exits his den and locks the door behind him. My shoulders tense up. I lower my gaze and pretend that I need to brush dandruff from my keyboard. I must appear insignificant to dissuade him from approaching me and putting a hand on my shoulder, or patting me on the back, or groping me in nastier ways.

As Ramsés passes by our table, he wishes us a good weekend in the monotone voice of someone too busy to care. I’m glad he seems as eager to part ways with his employees as I am that for a couple of days I’ll be free from his enslaving ways. However, he still takes time out of his afternoon to glance at me. I feel naked.

When the last of our boss’ footsteps vanishes, I exhale in relief.

Jacqueline’s gaze turns from the front door to me as if she had expected our boss to return and annoy us again.

“That’s our cue to leave.”

She squeezes my shoulder, then both my coworkers head to the exit. Before the door closes, she shoots me an ardent look through the gap. I smile back at her.

Until tomorrow, my sexy, glamorous queen.

I slouch in the chair and close my eyes, but my mind presents me with a vision of that fiendish boss of ours moving his greasy hand down my back, then daring to fondle my tits. My cheeks burn with shame, and a rage surges up inside my belly. How many times has he forced me to visualize him fucking me into submission? He’d get on top of me, smack his lips and drool on my face. I can almost feel his weight pushing me down. His fat cock would plunge into my womb until he filled it with a messy load of baby batter. Then he would order me to clean him with my tongue. He’d make me relish in the humiliation.

I wish I could punch that bastard in the face hard enough to dislodge his brain, but I’ve never hit anyone in my life. I’m afraid I would get punched in return. Besides, I’m a pitiful shell of a person, ill-equipped for murder. I’m only armed with these skinny arms and legs, and a rabid swarm of depraved thoughts. To the majority of people, I must be almost unrecognizable as a human being, so the most frightening thing I could do is reveal myself to them.

I’m in deep shit, a deep shit in which I’ve sunk my teeth and claws as far as I can. I shouldn’t have to sit at my workstation five days a week and endure this torment. I guess I need to find some other job that doesn’t involve me having sex with the boss. Ramsés would replace me in a matter of weeks; plenty of women out there would love to be manhandled by that dirty pervert.

I’ve begun to sweat. I rub my face with both hands, then I sigh deeply.

“I’m alone,” I say to the empty office.

I listen as the doors to other offices along the hallway open and shut. Streams of footsteps march out eagerly. On the parking lot, a bunch of car engines start up.

I scroll through YouTube idly while the business park closes for the day. Once the world has quieted down, I stand up wearily and leave to get a coffee from the vending machine. Now that I’m pushing my body to walk, its muscles and bones complain of soreness and exhaustion. I feel as if I’ve been dead for a month. Last night instead of sleeping I took two long naps; I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, but when I returned to Jacqueline’s bed, her eyes were glowing like beacons of desire. They seemed to be asking for proof of my devotion. I ended up with my face buried between her thighs, blowing my breath into her hot vagina. The wetness came flooding out of her and spilled down my face and throat. If both of us had fallen asleep then, I wonder whether I would have suffocated or drowned.

Lost in a reverie involving pussy juices, I only notice that a straggler is passing by because the guy clears his throat. He caught me yawning. I cut it short awkwardly, then I lower my gaze to the faded vinyl floor, that reflects the fluorescent bulbs. Over the last few years, this floor has received plenty of my sweat and other bodily fluids. I should apologize to it.

“Have a good weekend,” the guy says.

What business is it of this stranger if I’ll enjoy my weekend?

“Yeah,” I reply hoarsely.

My body shudders as I imagine the stranger’s rough hands groping my naked flesh. He’ll stroke my breasts, my hips, my belly, my inner thighs. He’ll then plunge his swollen cock deep inside me, and I’ll welcome it with all the gratitude of a filthy slut. His frantic panting and my whimpers will be muffled by the sound of my skin smacking against the vinyl floor.

I shake my head to make its demons dizzy, then I suck in air and quicken my pace.

When I make my way back to the office while holding a hot latte, I lock the door behind me. The fluorescent lights are beaming their pale glow on the three computer screens. I stare at the daisy white walls and ceiling, the porcelain white desk that seats three people, the row of three frost white utility cabinets, and the cloud grey worn carpet that some arcane presence vacuums regularly under the cover of darkness.

Regarding the furniture, only the three futuristic office chairs suggest that someone equipped with an ass has ever visited the room. Otherwise, this space was built for robots or monsters, or possibly robotic monsters. You could waste a thousand years here without anything of value happening, and once you disappeared, no recognizable proof of your presence would remain. It’s a lair for the undead, for those who spend their lives with their eyes closed.

I turn the lights off. I’ve never understood why people prefer such brightness at work; I need the environment to be dark enough to promote a mental state where I can concentrate for hours on end. I’d prefer it to look like midnight in the deepest dungeon.

Now that I’ve turned this room into a shrine to solitude and depravity, I saunter over to the window as I hold the hot cup of latte. I take tiny sips while gazing past my reflection in the glass. The coffee tastes as good as it smells, which is to say, like mud. But the caffeine should kick in soon enough, or at least I’ll delude myself into believing it does.

“What a crap latte,” I say to nobody, although part of me hopes that my words will reach some ghost that will possess my body and force me to quit this job.

Above the boxy, three-story high building on the opposite side of a tree-lined path, one that Jordi and Jacqueline traverse during the lunch breaks as they head to their usual restaurant, the indigo sky of this October evening lacks any looming threats, except for a couple of cumulonimbus clouds dyed tiger orange. Such a haunting sight humbles me and risks convincing me that life can be pleasant for brief periods of time.

I close my eyes. I picture myself as a hawk soaring over a field of sunflowers. The leaves are as broad as my wings, the tall stalks as thin as my legs. I’m heading towards some snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance.

I remember that I’m supposed to sit down and keep programming. I’ve tortured myself by working overtime often, so why do I feel different today? I used to stick around at the office in the afternoons partly because I can only focus and relax properly when I’m alone, but I was also reluctant to return to my dreary apartment in Irún, where I would face the heap of garbage bags, as well as the dust that has gathered on the furniture and on the pile of unplayed board games.

Wasting my evenings here I communed with my natural relationship with the world, that the voice and presence of other humans would mask otherwise: under all the noise, I was alone, always and forever alone, inching ever closer to the brink of madness. I was a speck of dust drifting in the breeze. Even those who had noticed me would forget me in minutes. Once I died, I would be gone as if I had never been born; the universe would have corrected the terrible mistake of having contained me in it.

My mother had given birth to me while she was already pregnant with another child. Instead of a gift of life to be kept and treasured for years, I was always a bastard unwanted by everyone, even my own father, who only considered me for a couple of years and then forgot about my existence. He was the kind of guy who got rid of his garbage by throwing it out of the window.

The sight of my frail body sent my mother into despair, as she was cursed with a second mouth to feed. She refused to let me suckle her breast, and she hid me away in a corner of the house like a filthy rag. I spent most days locked away in an old armoire.

When I turned seven years old, my mother gave me up to an orphanage. There I contracted scabies, and my hair quickly transformed into snakes. The boys poked fun at me for lacking a dick. The matron punished me every day, by sending me to scrub the floors with my nails while wearing a black sack over my head. I grew increasingly terrified; I knew that when I turned sixteen, I’d be sent to a whorehouse to become a prostitute for old men.

A month after my sixteenth birthday, the matron informed me that I would have to become a whore to pay for my care. I refused, but she had me drugged with a large dose of valium. I was taken away in the middle of the night and dropped off at a brothel, where I was stripped and given a shower. The doctor that inspected my body declared that my genitals were useless. As the pimp shepherded me to my assigned bedroom, I heard women screaming from the nearby rooms, but the pimp said that it meant they were happy.

I wanted to cry out in rage at this universe that had stolen my life away, but instead of doing so, I injected myself with a lethal dose of horse tranquilizer. As I lay dead in a morgue, my mother visited me and told me that I was dead. After an awkward silence, she put her arms around me and added, “I’m very sorry that all of this had to happen to you, but now you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on what you did wrong to deserve it.”

My mother kept the promise of a small headstone on my grave to mark that I had existed. It read, ‘Leire XXX. She lived only for herself, and died to prove that she didn’t matter.’ I had told them to write instead, ‘Lived like a whore, died a free woman’, but they hadn’t listened.

I was never sad to die; I was never happy to live either. In the vacuum that remained, I became a drifting piece of nonsense floating in an infinite void.

The hard, sharp edges of many memories are carved into the skin of my chest, the rough ridges of a painful wound. Now I’m a miserable whore that has to keep working until death visits her again, but in between all the pain and sorrow and regret, at least someone in that putrid world out there will wait for me to rejoin her, and when I do, she’ll wrap her arms around my rotten old self and suck the marrow from my bones.

Tonight I’ll return to the transitory apartment for which I’m forced to pay, but tomorrow I’ll go out on a date with my woman. Later on I’ll sleep in a place that feels like a home. When my eyes open in the following morning, I will take in the face of the woman that I desired since I first saw her. My heart will beat in joy, my mouth will curl up in a smile. I’ll gaze into those cobalt blues like a prisoner looking up at the sun for the first time after decades of confinement. I’ll be moved, I’ll be shaken, I’ll be amazed. My pussy will get wet; I’ll feel it throb and pulsate inside my panties.

The annoyance and loneliness of having to work overtime has become meaningful: it will free my mind from some of the pending tasks so I can think of Jacqueline that much more. No matter the nonsense that life slings at me, I can open up to my beloved, and she’ll listen.

I wasn’t a monster after all. I wasn’t born from the dirt and the mud, or the darkest recess of a cave where demons live. I didn’t emerge from an egg with a bloodied shell, nor was I formed from the decaying matter of a rotting corpse. It took nine months for a woman’s body to grow my bones and flesh, and my birth wasn’t conducted in the basement of some run-down, crumbling ruin, but in a hospital room. The mother was a human instead of some genetically engineered chimera created through an experiment that combined the cells of various animal species. I was a baby like anyone else: a daughter, a son, a sister, a brother. A human mother must have smiled down at me, kissed me, then fed me a mixture of warm milk and blood. I became a child who wanted to be held in the arms of a woman who would love me, who would cry over my grave.

Author’s Note: as I mentioned in my previous update, I’ve been working on this scene for a good while. It was supposed to be at least twice as long, but when I woke up this morning I got the feeling that I could divide it into at least two chapters, because they would feel independent enough. Getting through the final iteration has proven that point, so here’s the first part.

I’ve been listening to plenty of distinct stuff recently. Last year I listened to PUP’s first five or so songs from their album ‘Morbid Stuff’ like a couple hundred times, and songs like ‘See You At Your Funeral’ are the reason why. Very down-to-earth fellow. I also love this song by Glass Animals. As I have done for literally twenty five years, I’ve returned to the only album in Spanish, my native language, that I have ever listened to repeatedly: Los Rodríguez’s ‘Palabras más, Palabras menos’, due to songs like ‘Diez años después’, ‘La puerta de al lado’ and ‘Todavía una canción de amor’. The whole album is timeless, though. I even dared to listen to Joanna Newsom’s old stuff (whom I’ve long suspected to be autistic as well, not that she’d ever confirm it).

I think I went on enough in the update I’ve linked earlier about the recent nonsense I’ve had to deal with. I hope you enjoyed this one, Jen (namedropped out of nowhere!). No reason why you or anyone else would enjoy this chapter more than others; I just thought it would be fun to freak you out. Anyway, see you all later, bitches.

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The scents of jasmine and rose petals are wafting from the adjoined bathroom. Jacqueline has turned off the light, but candles are burning in crystal bowls at each corner of the bathtub. They are casting flickering shadows on Jacqueline’s body, highlighting her nakedness with a golden hue, accentuating the translucence of her pale skin, as she soaks in steaming bathwater. The upper half of her thick breasts is floating like a pair of fleshy icebergs, and her peachy-pink areolas are two round lollipops.

My beloved is dripping scented gel on her bare chest with one hand as her other one smears the oily substance slowly in circular motions. Her queenly face is relaxed. Her wet hair hangs loose like a waterfall of polished obsidian. Half-lit by the candles, her cobalt blues are sparkling as if painted with stars.

“Hey, baby,” she says mellifluously in her soft French accent. “I hope you are feeling better.”

Jacqueline looks like a living sculpture, an angel descended on Earth just to torment me with lust. My heart is pounding like a crazy drummer, my crotch is aching with need.

“I’m hungrier now,” I answer huskily. “I want to rip your tits out with my teeth. But this doesn’t look like a shower scene.”

Jacqueline, as she continues soaping herself gently, narrows her eyes and smirks.

“I figured that I could splurge on a full bath with my ravenous baby girl. So get in quick. Let me take care of you.”

Her sultry voice makes every nerve ending in my body prickle.

“I-I hope you accounted for Archimedes’ principle…”

Jacqueline’s gaze roams all over my torso as I take off the tank top I grabbed from her spare bedroom. The leggings are sticking to my legs, and refuse to come off easily even as I push them with both hands. Once I’m holding my panties, I give them a good sniff until I remember that I’m not alone, then I toss them aside.

Jacqueline’s bare knees emerge from the water as she spreads her legs apart. I catch a glimpse of the tuft between her thighs.

I climb into the tub, then I lower my ass carefully into Jacqueline’s lap. The warm, silky smooth water feels wonderful against my sore muscles, although I wish it could wash away the shameful mess inside my head.

Jacqueline wraps her arms around me and pulls me tight against her chest, pressing our bare skins against one another. I melt into her embrace. I’m resting on the world’s most comfortable pillows, except for the two hard nubs digging into my back.

My skin tingles all over. The scents of jasmine and rose petals have enveloped me, making me drowsy. I close my eyes and let out a contented sigh.

“I want to eat you like an apple,” Jacqueline whispers, then she nibbles on my left earlobe. “But I also want to eat you like a taco.”

“Eat me however you want, or whenever for that matter.”

Her fingers trace over my ribs and hips.

“You’ve worked hard, you deserve this. Don’t you feel much better now?”

I’m reluctant to admit it. It feels unfair to do so.

“In the same way I would feel relief after someone stopped punching me in the face.”

“Except that exercise will improve your life. Sure, it can bust your knees if you are sloppy with your form. But apart from that, your body will thank you for your effort.”

I consider telling her that such workout sessions will improve my life: by killing me. But the hot water and her warm body have turned the tub into a comfortable womb.

“I’ll have to trust you on that, but I’m so weak that I almost died from drinking a glass of water. It will take me a while to recover from the ordeal.”

Jacqueline chuckles softly. Her nose tickles my neck as she nuzzles into it.

“One of the rewards about exercising with you will be smelling this sweat on your skin. And some other day we’ll just lay towels over the bed and get busy with each other right after the workout. Wouldn’t you want to lick the sweat clean off from all over my body?”

I caress the hot skin of her calves.

“You are telling me about smells… Yours is so good that I risk turning wild, an animal that only wishes to bury itself deep inside your warm cunt. In turn, once you spout your hot load on my face, you’ll be the one to smell the result of my labor.”

Jacqueline’s laughter fills the bathroom while her breasts jiggle against my back. When she responds, her breath has turned heavier and her voice has a dreamy edge.

“Tell me, how would you describe my smell?”

I lean back and take a deep whiff of Jacqueline’s throat.

“It’s summer, green grass and freshly-cut flowers. It makes me imagine myself living in a world of a myriad of colors and eternal sun. You’re an old school rose that has survived a terrible storm, but has kept all its beauty and charm.”

She hugs me tight.

“My my, I thought the workout routine had wrung you dry.”

“I haven’t exercised my mouth except through talking.”

“Also, you were mostly describing the shampoo.” I feel her quickened heartbeats, but her voice sounds sober as she whispers in my ear. “I only intend to make you healthier and stronger. You know that, right?”

“That’s the only thing you intend…?” I ask roguishly.

Jacqueline giggles. Her hands slide down my hips and grope at my thighs.

“Well, I’m going to turn you into an unrecognizable beast, one that will be able to survive in the jungle of our bedroom. I will teach you how to live and thrive in there.”

“Good. I was already thinking of thriving in your jungle.”

“We’re on the same page, then. So please, don’t give up.”

I can’t compute how much Jacqueline must have grown to care about me. Just how many hours does she plan on diverting from her far more valuable self to improve a woman-shaped monster?

“I-I feel like it’s always about my weaknesses,” I complain in a guilty tone. “Let’s talk about you instead, Jacqueline! What do you even do at the office? You have Excel open most of the time, but I have no clue what you put in there.”

Jacqueline sighs.

“If I were to explain my job, you would find me more boring than you could ever imagine. There are no thrills, no dangers involved. My coworkers are nice, though.”

“Alright… Tell me about how you went into sex work.”

Jacqueline freezes.

“It’s not really that much fun to talk about,” she finally says.

I reach back to stroke her cheek with the pad of my thumb.

“It doesn’t have to be fun. And I’m interested in everything about you, Jacqueline. You can just let it flow out.”

I can tell she’s smiling because that side of her mouth has contracted against my hand.

“Well, it’s mostly complicated, and I can’t figure out how to explain myself to you. One day you will understand why. That I can promise.”

I interlace my fingers with hers, then I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.

“When you are ready to open up, I will help you walk through that jungle, just like you do for me.”

Jacqueline relaxes. I hear her gulp down, then take a deep breath.

“Anyway, it’s about time I clean you up,” she says gratefully.

Her breasts push me forward as she reaches for a shampoo bottle at the edge of the tub. She squirts the liquid into my hair, then she slides both hands in to rub the shampoo into my scalp. I close my eyes and concentrate on the tingles that her kneading fingers are providing.

A sudden memory from childhood pops up into my mind. As a kid wracked by nightmares, my mom would wake me up and rub me down with an icy-cold washcloth. I had begged her to stop rubbing me with her fingers, because they felt as rough as the prickly surface of a cactus. Once I calmed down, she told me to go back to sleep. Half an hour or so later, if I dared to open my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom, I could make out the dim contours of my mother as she sat silently in a chair beside my bed. I always woke up with a chill on my skin and a sour taste on my tongue. I knew that if I had let her, she would have rubbed me down every night of my life until I got old. I would have grown accustomed to her cold washcloth and prickly fingers.

Jacqueline’s hands won’t leave any marks on my skin. They won’t leave me cold and trembling. They will instead make me warm all over, dry away every drop of sadness I’ve carried inside me, and burn a trail of flames between my thighs.

My beloved grabs the plastic bottle of shower gel. Once the lather has covered her hands, she begins working them on my neck and shoulders. She massages my facial features with gentle strokes of her fingertips. She slides her hands down my arms, soaping them up. She asks me to bend over, then she starts spreading the gel all over my back. Her fingers slide into my ass crack and massage me there.

I’m getting drowsier. I’d love to slip under into dreamland and let my girlfriend figure out how to carry me to bed from the tub.

Jacqueline’s arms wrap around my sides to cup my breasts. I flinch and let out a surprised gasp.

“What?” she breathes in my ear as her fingers knead my tit-flesh. “Don’t you like me fondling this pair of beauties?”

“Maybe it’s just the opposite…”

She rubs my nipples until they harden to a point that almost hurts. I’m biting my lower lip and shuddering. Jacqueline squeezes my tits together, lifts them with a gentle motion, then focuses on lathering them until they are slick.

I’m breathing deeply through my mouth and remaining still; Jacqueline should play with my body however she sees fit.

Her hands slide down my torso trailing her fingertips along my sunken abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re as thin as a starved pig,” Jacqueline says languidly.

“I admit that my body lacks the layers of fat required to keep warm, but did you need to compare me to a pig? Couldn’t you say that I’m as thin as a ghost?”

“I won’t compare you to dead things.”

I sigh.

“Anyway, it’s because I only ever eat sandwiches at the office. But my taste buds play a game of cat and mouse with the flavors of mayonnaise and ham as I go about devouring the stuff.”

Jacqueline chuckles.

“Aren’t you afraid that you might become as truly emaciated as a starved pig?”

Although I laugh, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the ocean that stretches for miles and miles and miles below me. The only thing that can prevent my plummet into the abyss is the strength of the rope that Jacqueline has tied around my waist.

“Before that happens,” I answer calmly, “I’ll eat you up.”

“You may as well. I can’t have you wasting away from lack of proper nourishment, can I? If you fail to eat properly with your mouth, I’ll have to force feed you with my own.”

After I shiver from head to toe, I squeeze my thighs together.

“You know, I might accept that kind of punishment.”

Jacqueline’s right hand stops at my belly button, and her index finger explores it like a wet, burrowing tongue. While I squirm, a moan escapes my mouth. I get as embarrassed as if I had burped in front of a crowd.

“So you have two sensitive little buttons, huh?” Jacqueline purrs, then she turns my head towards hers and presses her lips to mine.

My waterlogged labia must be oozing with juices. I can’t wait for Jacqueline’s right hand to slide between my thighs, for her fingers to make circles around the entrance of my pussy, pressing ever so lightly onto my clit as she works a digit inside me. I can almost feel my vagina tightening and spasming around the intruder.

When Jacqueline’s tongue leaves my mouth, I want to cry like a baby that has dropped her pacifier.

“You have such a lovely body, little piggy,” Jacqueline whispers as her cobalt blues hold my eyes in place. “But enough eroticism. You need a good scrub.”

My mind’s gone woozy; I can barely tell what’s happening except that my girlfriend is scrubbing my skin with a sponge. The bath has reduced my pain so much that it seems almost inconceivable that twenty minutes ago I was writhing on the floor while moaning in agony.

Jacqueline turns on the shower, and begins washing my hair with the handheld head.

“Aah! You are a goddess!” I mumble against the spray of water.

She giggles as she sluices some of my hair over my shoulder.

“Are you talking to me or to the shower?”

The warm stream cascades down my face like a blessing from the heavens.

“You are the goddess of mercy, for I was dying of boredom until you came along. Also, you smell like the sea, or like the ocean itself.”

“Now you’re losing it, not that I mind. But the ocean is a place filled with sorrow, isn’t it? With the sadness of those who have drowned in it.”

I can see them, as well as the currents that have claimed their lives. Their bodies are sinking to the ocean floor, and all the while their arms are trying to grab on to anything they can. But the ocean’s scent is the reason that at times I can feel at peace. Whenever I step into its waters, my mind gets washed and cleansed from all the grime and muck that the world deposits on it every day. That’s why I always wear my bathing suit on. Meanwhile, other lost souls float on the waves, their corpses rocking against the surface like empty plastic bags.

Thoroughly rinsed, the both of us step out of the bathtub. We get busy drying each other with fluffy towels while the water drains. The pleasant sensation of being so clean has made me all warm and fuzzy.

Jacqueline unhooks a white robe. I thought she would hide her nakedness with it, but she lets the garment hang from her shoulders all the way down to her ankles. The fabric slides off the sides of her jutting breasts. Her twin teats are pointing defiantly at me, as if questioning why I am gawking at them instead of latching on.

I snap out of my trance; Jacqueline has lifted my chin with an index finger. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Jacqueline, you are more beautiful than all the paintings in the world combined.”

“Truly? Don’t I have the barren body of an old lady with sagging tits? Aren’t you sad you fell for a woman of my age?”

“No way! You are Aphrodite incarnate.”

Her long lashes flutter, and a gentle smile adorns her lips.

“She wasn’t the goddess of mercy, was she?” Jacqueline sighs. “I swear, nobody loves breasts more than you do. Let’s go to bed, Leire.”

I want her to pick me up in her arms and carry me, but instead she holds my hand and guides me out of the bathroom into her bedroom, which I’d prefer to consider ours. The space is dimly illuminated by the moonlight that comes through the windows and the balcony door. Jacqueline lets go of my hand and sits down on the mattress. As she shifts further up towards the headboard, the way her breasts bounce sends a wave of warmth through me.

Jacqueline spreads her legs, displaying her pubic hair. It’s dark, thick and silky. A stiff cock juts out from between her thighs. The mushroom head glistens with pre-cum. I blink and the cock is gone.

I imagine a purple butterfly spreading its wings from that smooth bush to make a splash of color against the pale skin of her belly.

Jacqueline pats the mattress next to her.

“Come here and give mommy a big hug,” she beckons me sultrily.

A sigh escapes out of me, and with it, for a brief moment, all the troubles in my life.

I climb onto the bed. The scents of soap and shampoo and Jacqueline’s own womanly musk envelop me. I lower my face to rest it on her belly. It feels hot, familiar; the center of an oven where bread dough rises.

Maybe a couple of minutes later, I shift my body up until I’m lying down beside Jacqueline, who wraps an arm around my shoulder to pull me closer.

My free hand slips down her torso to her pubes, then I venture further until I find the soft mound between her legs. I stroke the length of her silky labia. I tease them open with my fingertips. An intense heat emanates from her folds, so hot that I wish it would burn through my flesh. When I sink two fingers inside her pussy, they get swallowed whole in a velvety sea.

I need to nuzzle against Jacqueline’s wetness and inhale deeply as if savoring a fine wine. I need to lap up the juices that’ll dribble down her inner thighs, down to the last drop.

Jacqueline clenches her thighs together, then she closes a hand around the biceps of my free arm.

“Not now, baby,” she whispers.

Her words paralyze me. My remaining strength leaves my body. Has she finally gotten sick of getting touched by my slimy self?

Jacqueline tugs on my arm gently so my fingers slip out of her insides, then she embraces me tightly and cups my head against her neck. Our bodies are pressed together from chest to belly button.

As I sink into Jacqueline’s arms, I listen to the beat of her heart. Her sweet scent permeates my nose and fills my lungs. My eyes are growing heavy, and I let them flutter shut.

Right now I could use a blinding orgasm, one that would leave me panting, one that would erase everything that’s happened in my life. But this warmth feels real good too.

Author’s note: putting this chapter together has taken me an absurd amount of time in comparison with recent others. Throughout, instead of Japanese shoegaze, I’ve been listening to some of my favorite songs from 20-25 years ago. Songs like:

-Modest Mouse’s ‘Baby Blue Sedan’, that, if I recall correctly, references in part Bukowski’s ‘Ham on Rye’, my favorite book of his.
-Modest Mouse’s ‘3rd Planet’, the song that launches Brock’s best album. That one remains for me one of the best breakup albums ever.
-Modest Mouse’s ‘Edit the Sad Parts’. This song has a special significance for me: it became the main theme song for my beloved previous novel (‘My Own Desert Places’; I guess there’s no harm in some self-promotion). The whole process of pushing that novel out feels now like a strange dream. I retain more vivid memories from the events in that novel than from real-life memories, and some of those moments from the novel still hurt like a bitch (I miss you, A.).
-Weezer’s ‘Across the Sea’. This one is unique, heartfelt, and very near and dear to my heart.
-Weezer’s ‘Only in Dreams’, one of their best songs, particularly the final four minutes.

This last Monday I started a new contract at my usual hospital. They were in the middle of updating tablets for several buildings and virtually every medical department, so I ended up visiting I don’t know how many departments, chatting enough with the local nurses and supervisors so they would cooperate, then configuring the tablets from zero, testing them and returning them back to their departments. As if that nonsense hadn’t been enough, these last three days we’ve also dealt with three big issues that required further hours of nonsense: two lying users that didn’t want to admit they had messed with a core PC in Pharmacy; a busted router in another hospital on the other side of town that the guys from HQ wanted us to go and check, although it was entirely their problem, and had already planned on sending their guy anyway; and a monitoring center in the ICU that stopped working, and that the locals also intended to turn into our problem although we couldn’t do anything about it.

I only tolerate my job there because I’m not employed full-time; for example, this time they’ve only hired me for a couple of weeks. When I’m unemployed, I can’t leave my place for more than an hour before my anxiety requires me to return home immediately, and I simply don’t speak in person with other human beings that aren’t providing a service. But in three days at my job I’ve ended up having to deal with twenty or so new people, interactions that provide me nothing but anxiety and general despair, given that I have to act my way through all of that; incidentally, acting was the only activity I remember fondly from my schooling years. I also do it all the time when I write. But as an autistic person living a non-autistic-oriented life, you either learn how to act or you don’t survive. I can’t simply be myself, because people don’t tolerate when you remain quiet and refuse to look them in the eye.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you haven’t, well, does it truly make any difference to me? Probably not.

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Jacqueline was waiting for me in the living room. She has tied up her smooth, raven black hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing narwhal-themed plush pyjama pants too short for her long legs, and a reinforced sports bra that looks like a chest plate. I disapprove of any choice of attire that conceals those twin miracles of hers, but at least I get to admire the curves of her midriff.

My beloved has detached part of the L-shaped sofa and pushed it towards the back of the room, leaving extra space in front of the QLED television. An HDMI cable leads from the TV to her laptop, that she has placed on the stand. Both screens are displaying the main page of YouTube.

“We need to do something about your tits,” I say without thinking, then I shake my head. “I mean… what’s going on, Jacqueline?”

I doubt that she paid attention to my words; she’s biting her lower lip as she ogles my lower body with rapt eyes.

“Those leggings look so hot on you. Turn around.”

I remain rooted on the spot, so Jacqueline walks around me while her fingertips slide over my right thigh. Once she stands behind me, she fondles a handful of my butt as if she were an older white-collar worker and me an innocent schoolgirl on a train.

“I love this soft ass of yours,” Jacqueline purrs hungrily. Her free arm encircles my neck, pulling us closer. “And I’d like to do all kinds of things to it. Would you let me?”

I’m too dazed to get aroused by her advances.

“I… don’t know what’s happening,” I mumble.

Jacqueline giggles, which makes her breasts jiggle slightly against my left arm. It’s relieving to know that they remain alive and kicking inside their tight prison.

She pinches my ass through the leggings, then she lets go of me and sashays over to her laptop. After she navigates to her search history on YouTube, she plays the most recent video. On the TV screen, a chirpy, lean blonde, whose yoga pants hug her muscular legs, beams with artificially white, American teeth. She welcomes us both back to her videos, claps, and announces that she will guide us through a thirty minutes long, full body workout.

I don’t want to tear my gaze away from the blonde’s camel toe and how part of her muscular glutes show up through her thigh gap, but her words register in my brain, and I let out a cry of alarm.

Jacqueline pushes me gently until we stand on the carpet in front of the TV, then she starts stretching.

“Wh-what is this?” I ask in a shaky voice.

She’s standing on one leg while pulling her other leg back by the ankle.

“What does it look like? We are going to exercise. And you should be stretching already.”

I gape at my lover in astonishment.

“Exercise?! Me?!”

Jacqueline has laced her fingers behind her neck, and as she bends backwards, her tits press against the reinforced bra as if eager to be released from their prison.

“Exercising is something human beings do to stay fit and healthy. It’s necessary for a happy life, even if you don’t plan on becoming a marathon runner or a superhero,” she says with a playful tone that contrasts sharply with what she’s doing to me right now.

“I don’t want to be a human being,” I grumble.

“I can tell, baby.”

“Can’t you just beat me up instead? I wouldn’t mind getting pummelled by an Amazonian goddess.”

Jacqueline’s eyes glitter mischievously.

“Resist all you want. It turns me on, so I won’t disuade you. But in the end you are going to work out with me whether you want to or not. I want to see sweat dripping down your body.”

I shiver from head to toe.

“Well, if you order me around, I guess I can’t refuse.”

“No, you can’t. We don’t get many opportunities to be active as adults, and I want my girlfriend to stay alive.”

On the screen, the blonde is already squatting and twisting her torso as effortlessly as if her body was impervious to the ravages of time.

“This is the opposite of sleeping,” I complain.

Jacqueline strokes my shoulder, then she lowers her body into a squat.

“You just have to copy the woman’s movements, and eventually your body will thank you for it. Turn off that hyperactive brain of yours and let go of everything except your body.”

“I want to turn off my brain, but not like this.”

I can’t restrain my instinct to whine although I’m already pushing my feeble muscles to satisfy the American YouTuber’s instructions.

On the screen, the blonde bends her torso backwards, which makes her abs ripple. She twists around; although she’s nowhere well-endowed enough to compete with Jacqueline in the breasts department, I imagine her tits swinging with each rotation of her waist until they tear from their prison and fly out of control like flesh missiles, and I want to giggle hysterically as I picture those jiggling boobs flapping through the air before smashing against an unsuspecting person’s face. However, I’m suffering too much for laughter. In reality, the YouTuber merely smiles alluringly at me to mock my plight.

I don’t need to read the comments section of the video to know that it must be filled with references to a worldwide community of men of culture.

The squats end, and I already want to die. The blonde straightens her back and takes a deep breath while flexing her glutes. Her abdominal muscles are firm under the taut skin of her belly, and the muscles in her legs bulge making her yoga pants strain against them. Then she claps happily.

“Don’t you feel strong already?” the bitch asks.

I groan loudly.

“Once we get into the groove, it will feel really good,” Jacqueline says as she exhales through her mouth. “You’re going to be sweating so much that you’ll forget what it was to be human.”

I can barely comprehend my girlfriend when she tells me to get on all fours for some plank kickbacks. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the carpet. I’m holding myself up with both hands, pushing off against the floor using whatever passes for muscles in my back.

“I’m a programmer,” I wheeze, “just a mind in a useless body.”

“Your body didn’t seem that useless to me while we were fucking. Keep going. Breathe deeply through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth. It’ll get easier.”

On the screen, the blonde’s butt muscles are flexing like two globular tectonic plates sliding over each other. I suffer my way through glute bridge variations, leg drop crunches, bicycle legs and push ups with the grace of a robot trying to execute a dance routine. While Princess Thundercunt from YouTube has been soaring through the exercises without even breaking a sweat, my body has become a limp rag. My heart is pounding away at my chest, my legs are shaking, my joints hurt, the skin on my ass feels hot and tight, sweat runs down my neck and trickles between my breasts, dark thoughts about mass murder are seizing my mind.

I want to scream for everything to end. I want to return control to my brain, so it can order me to lie down in bed and masturbate. Maybe this time I’d bring over some ice cream.

I glance at Jacqueline. The muscles on her neck are tensed, and those glistening, pouty lips look ready to spit fire.

The next exercise, some weird lunges, requires us to balance ourselves on one leg. I only last a second: I get woozy and collapse forward towards the TV stand. I attempt too late to break the fall with my failing arms, so my forehead hits the furniture, that rattles noisily.

I must have gotten dazed for a few seconds, because I find myself on my knees while I rub the bruise. Jacqueline has paused the video. Crouched next to me, my girlfriend attempts to turn my head towards her as she soothes me with her warm voice, although I can’t process what she’s saying.

I’m mortified. I can’t keep my shoulders from shaking nor my eyes from filling up with tears, so I purse my lips and look away.

Jacqueline throws her arms around me and kisses my temple.

“No, don’t cry!” She wriggles on her knees until she’s facing me. She holds my head to examine the bruise, then she leans in and licks it gently. “It doesn’t look like you hit your head too hard. Ah, why is your face so cute? I want to kiss every inch of your body.”

She’s staring at me with those cobalt blues that sparkle with tenderness. My cheeks flush as if full of fire. I imagine Jacqueline’s fangs digging into my nipples and sucking them dry while I beg for mercy, but instead she presses me into a warm embrace. The reinforced bra prevents me from feeling her tits. However, a warmth radiates from deep inside her, and I can smell a hint of her sweaty pussy.

“I’m just a pathetic human,” I whimper.

Jacqueline pets my hair with gentle strokes and a wet hand.

“Don’t say such silly things, love. You’re not a mere mortal. Besides, mommy is here to help you up when you fall. But you have to keep going.”

Although she grabs me by the arm and raises me to my feet, my knees hurt, so it takes some effort for me to stand upright again. While I sway like an idiot, Jacqueline strides over to the laptop and presses the space bar to resume the video.

I keep crying through the rest of the lunges. My eyes feel like they might burst out of their sockets. My muscles burn as if a herd of angry horses had trampled them. My nipples are tingling madly. Sweat pours from every pore in my body and trickles between my breasts, butt cheeks, thighs, clitoris, and everywhere else.

When the exercise ends, Jacqueline pats me on the shoulder as if I had won a competition, but my lips are quivering, and I fear that I’m going to start blubbering again.

“You have been doing very well today, baby, despite your fears,” she says during the short break. “You are becoming strong little by little!”

My muscles scream through the prolonged nightmare: crunches with the legs spread open, more hellish squats, kickbacks, squats with twist, plank kickbacks. The blonde YouTuber looks so determined to keep torturing me that I want to throw myself off a cliff.

“W-wait, we’ve already gone through these!” I yell through my dry throat. “Am I stuck in a loop?!”

“We need to do each exercise twice,” Jacqueline says casually.

“It hurts so much! Please stop!”

“There’s no pain, baby. It’s just nerves sending signals to your brain.”

“Pain exists, then! It only ends when you’re dead!”

“We are more than halfway through. Too late to quit now. Besides, imagine how much our sex life will improve when we are both in shape!”

I want to yell that we aren’t training our tongues, but I purse my lips, as I will break into sobbing otherwise, and I think about all the lovely orgasms we’ll share.

I keep resisting the urge to vomit. I can barely focus on anything except remaining conscious.

I’m floating above myself, witnessing how the weak body I used to inhabit consumes itself. It looks like a train wreck in motion. Have I finally succeeded in escaping the confines of my reality-bound frame?

Somehow, the video has ended. I’m lying supine on the carpet while white noise sizzles from end to end of my body.

Jacqueline kneels down next to me. The image of her face blurs and swirls like watercolors. She lowers her lips to mine, but I barely feel the touch.

“You did good, Leire,” she says sweetly while wearing a catlike grin. “Let’s take a shower.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out thin and rough.

“I-I feel like an overcooked steak. I need to drink some water. Maybe eat something too.”

“Alright, baby. Do you need help getting up?”

“I’m going to… rest for a few seconds.”

I get a clearer look of Jacqueline’s face over me. Her cobalt blue eyes and her smile are a beacon in the desert, although a sheen of sweat is making her skin shine like a pearl in sunlight.

“When you are ready, meet me in the main bathroom.”

I can’t hear her footsteps over the rhythmic thumping in my eardrums, but I’m left alone with the blurry vision of Jacqueline’s tall silhouette disappearing into the hallway.

I manage to get myself in a sitting position. When I try to stand up, I almost black out from the pain. It feels like everything except my brain got sucked out through an open wound that still bleeds endlessly. I’m drained, empty, hollowed out from the inside. I’ve never felt so exhausted before. Not the most maddening, intense workdays, nor those dark weekends when I rubbed my clit raw for hours to climb out of a pit of depression; nothing prepared me for the nightmare that this American torturer designed for me.

I wobble like a drunk as I stumble to the kitchen. I was reaching for a glass from the dish rack when a wave of shame overwhelms me. I hunch over, rest my elbows on the countertop and bury my face in my arms. My mind replays from different angles how I collapsed forward onto the stand and hit my head against it, almost cracking my skull.

I start shaking uncontrollably. I wish my body would implode from how much I’m cringing.

I tried to act like the kind of human being that Jacqueline requires as a partner, and I gave it my best, but I fuck up everything I attempt. Jacqueline needs a partner with more drive than me, unafraid of taking risks. She deserves better than a loser who can barely manage her own existence.

I’m not strong enough for this life. I’m just waiting around for the next terrible and painful nonsense that will strike me down.

I envision the future moment in which Jacqueline will realize that the person she chose to date is a worthless moron, a complete waste of space, nothing more than a lump of flesh rotting away while thinking only of death. My beloved is too kind to discard me immediately, but the distance will grow wider and wider until the day she will go away forever. I should throw myself off her balcony before the final look of disgust in her face shatters me.

Will she leave without saying goodbye? Would she tell everyone about how horrible an experience dating me was?

“Please don’t leave,” I beg weakly while tears stream down my face. “Just stay with me.”

People say all kinds of nonsense about solitary people, but they are spared the panic of holding on to someone that they know they will eventually lose.

I take a few deep breaths until I’ve calmed down enough. I fill a glass with cold water. The first gulp brings further tears to my eyes. The water tastes so refreshing that I gulp down the rest of it, but I choke out and start coughing violently while sputtering all over the countertop. I’m left gasping for air. I steady myself by leaning against the kitchen table, and I somehow manage to keep myself from vomiting. My throat burns like fire, every muscle in my body feels sore and bruised.

“Fuck,” I say aloud. “Fuck me!”

I drink some more water directly from the spout. I also open the fridge and, although my stomach feels full of worms, I bite off a long piece of salty fuet.

Maybe I don’t deserve to love Jacqueline, but I want to cling to her like a leech, because she’s all that I have left in this world. The only thing keeping me alive is thinking about her every second of the day. When I close my eyes, she appears in front of me wearing an evening gown made of moonbeams, and she smiles down at me.

I slap my cheeks to wake the fuck up, then I drag my feet towards the main bedroom.

Author’s note: the scene hasn’t ended yet. I’m notoriously terrible at estimating how many words implementing my notes for a scene, let alone a novel, will take me, as I keep coming up with nonsense during the process. Ages ago, in a note just like this one, I mentioned that I had about 10,000 words of notes left to implement. Today I have 9,500 words waiting for me to turn them from notes into coherent scenes. I’m not complaining; I’m having a blast writing this novel, and I already know how it’s going to end, which gives me the freedom to play confidently during each scene.

Anyway, I’m leaving for work in a couple of hours. Today I start a new contract at my usual hospital. Although I’ve been living like this for some years, the anxiety leading up to appearing at that office again and having to handle responsibility doesn’t disappear. My intrusive thoughts get worse: I have to hide scissors because I keep picturing myself plunging them into my eyeballs, and as I eat, my brain conjures up daydreams of me discovering a cockroach or a spider or at least a long hair under the next spoonful.

I always think that I won’t be able to tolerate the long workdays due to this unhinged brain of mine, but somehow I always get used to it. If by used to it means surviving through terrible IBS for ten hours, tolerating my fear and disgust of humans while acting like another human, and navigating through all the technical nonsense of the job as an IT guy. And I hope that I won’t end up getting paired with a certain shithead during my afternoon shift, because it would mean me doing the work of two people.

I’m a child at heart, nothing more. I’ve had very little character development. I want no part of this crap. Why can’t I just keep doing childish things until my heart stops?

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When Jacqueline’s Audi enters the roundabout at the end of Lugaritz Avenue, the setting sun shoots its beams through the branches of a nearby clump of trees, forcing me to squint as I doze off in the passenger seat. Jacqueline maneuvers around the center island, and I catch a glimpse above some distant hills of the cosmic fireball as it tinges the view like a golden spotlight. A bone white apartment obstructs the landscape on my left. I lean back, turn my head towards my window and try to stay awake by watching how a multicolored row of parked cars zips past us. It feels like I’m replaying an old movie whose name I’m too tired to recall.

My eyelids feel heavy, my thoughts are fuzzy. Added to the vibrations of the car that Jacqueline is driving safely to its destination, my mind is sinking in a mystical atmosphere that makes me feel detached from the loathsome reality.

I need to stay awake. I could use some coffee, in a mug that would warm my palms and fingers as it slid into my hands. If I had been sitting on a train as it headed to Irún, I would have shut my eyes and hoped that whatever part of my brain remained awake wouldn’t miss my stop, but I don’t want to pass out next to my girlfriend as if I were some elderly woman.

“You must have worked really hard today, huh?” Jacqueline says.

Her raven black hair shines in the light trapped inside the Audi. The glint in her eyes, that look more liquidy blue in the sunset glow, reminds me of those angelic figureheads carved into wooden ships.

I force myself to speak, although it feels like the effort will drain my remaining energy.

“I’ve worked, which is far more than I did yesterday. Gone over plenty of documentation for that Python contract. I’m halway through the implementation already, so I suppose I should feel happy with how things turned out.”

“You are barely able to keep your eyes open.”

I must look like a mummified rat, a tiny furry rodent who can’t move or even blink because it’s wrapped up tight in its own skin. I rub my eyelids, then sigh.

“That’s nothing new. Most workdays, as soon as I reached my apartment and sat down on the sofa, I passed out right away. I usually woke up a couple of hours later, then I ate whatever was left on the fridge and went to bed.”

Jacqueline takes her eyes off the road to glance into mine.

“How do you even manage to get the chores done?”

What chores? Ah, people clean their homes and take out the trash. I don’t know how they make any headway with those tasks without passing out on the floor from exhaustion first.

I give an exaggerated shrug.

“I… don’t. Life’s too full of tasks to complete when I’d need to sleep instead. It’s a good thing you haven’t visited my place.”

“That’s… no way to live, Leire,” Jacqueline says gravely.

I’m tempted to tell her that this is the kind of woman that she decided to date, but a cold fear grips me. Even during the weekends, there are so many days when I can’t face anything; I just want to lock my bedroom door and spend the day in bed. But that’s not the kind of person that would be able to keep an intimate relationship going, so I bite my tongue and hang my head low.

“Oh, I agree,” I say quietly. “However, my body insisted on keeping me alive, often against my will. Funny how nature works.”

Jacqueline’s hands remain firmly placed on the wheel as she turns her head towards me. I’m having trouble adjusting my gaze, so I can’t make out her expression.

“Since I met you, I’ve known you to really push yourself,” Jacqueline says. She pauses and gazes ahead through the windshield. “Your sleep schedule is messed up, and you sacrifice the time that should help you recover from work stress. It must feel like you’ve been living on a treadmill. Besides, you should eat properly so you can give your body the energy and strength it needs.”

I slump in the seat as a new wave of fatigue hits me. I don’t want to let Jacqueline’s words sink in. Why would she take such an interest? Maybe she’s trying to get into character for a role in some movie.

Before I became obsessed with Jacqueline, there was hardly a minute of the week when I wasn’t thinking about programming, even though I produced useless crap that our clients barely cared about. None of my jobs allowed any room for self-improvement, or growth as a person, beyond what they could provide financially. One of my former bosses said that us programmers are just assembly lines: useful only as long as our output keeps flowing and no defects show up. Besides, I wouldn’t have survived long term in any of my previous jobs, as the software was being built by teams of people who worked together seamlessly, while I can’t even work seamlessly with myself.

I never had any lasting interest in life apart from computers and technology; I amassed piles of board games, but I couldn’t be bothered to play most of them. So much work to set things up and deal with the rules. What’s left of me that hasn’t become a part of that black box of software?

I’ve been like this since high school. After my mother died, everything went downhill for me. My father turned to alcoholism. As soon as my older brother graduated, we got kicked out of our home and became homeless. We slept under bridges or inside abandoned buildings. By that time, my brother had become addicted to drugs, and ended up dead by overdose. My wails attracted a gang of junkies that kidnapped me and chained me to a pole in the basement of their hideout. They abused me as their sexual slave until they got bored, then they drowned me in an ice-cold bath and sold my organs on the black market. I still remember how peacefully those ice cubes bobbed on the surface of the water.

Who cares? My mind wants to shut off. Losing consciousness always solved my problems, at least during that respite.

“I should probably do plenty of things,” I mutter hoarsely, “but now I only want to sleep.”

My eyelids feel heavy again, and I let them fall shut. A sense of tranquility sweeps over me, a warm feeling that is rising from my stomach and spreading across my chest. I’m floating in the center of a black sphere that no threat can penetrate. From the outside world, only the pleasant vibrations and droning noise of the car’s engine reach me, and even they seem muffled. I wish I could stay like this for a long time, resting in the passenger seat while Jacqueline drives us home.

My consciousness grows dimmer. I’m sinking deep inside some cosmic womb where there’s nothing but darkness. No monsters lurking behind trees, no bad feelings waiting around each corner. Whether or not this place was created for me, now it’s where I belong.

I am jolted awake; Jacqueline is squeezing my left shoulder. I sit upright. I couldn’t make out what she said, but the Audi has stopped in front of her apartment building, she has turned off the car’s ignition and she’s unbuckling her seat belt, so I get the point.

I climb out of the car. As I step onto the sidewalk, a gust of cold wind whips my hair around and irritates my exposed skin, that the short sleep had anesthetized. Someone has painted the skies with the lightest shade of rose. The afternoon will slide into night soon enough.

Once again I marvel at the quiet neighborhood that Jacqueline was able to afford with her job as a secretary, in addition to whatever amount of money she made with the cam girl stuff. Up in the hills of Donostia, we are surrounded by two or three stories tall, ivory white apartment buildings with gardens hidden from view by fences and hedges. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn shut. Someone is watching television; I recognize the detached cadence of the local dubs, but I can’t tell from which building the noise is coming out. It’s the perfect neighborhood to launch a private porn empire.

Jacqueline digs her keys out of her coat’s pocket. Her next words slung my way catch me yawning; besides, my brain hasn’t snapped out of its daze yet, so I just straighten my back and nod. I follow my beloved into the building, then I drag myself up the stairs. Why didn’t we take the elevator?

As Jacqueline unlocks the front door of her apartment, I’m tempted to rest my forehead on her back. Ah, we’re finally home. Once I shuffle into the hallway, I shake my head and blink a few times to adjust my vision.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up,” Jacqueline says.

I consider struggling to formulate a coherent response, but I end up exhaling and shrugging instead.

We kick off our shoes, then we hang her coat and my corduroy jacket on the rack by the front door. Jacqueline turns towards me, brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and gives me a peck on the lips.

“Go into the spare bedroom and put on sportswear.”

“Huh?”

“Plenty to choose from. Grab something comfortable for yourself. I’ll get changed too.”

Jacqueline pats my ass, which sends me stumbling down the hallway. Why would I need sports clothes? Why not just a pyjamas, if I’m going to crawl into bed?

I shouldn’t think this hard. I’ve already reached my sanctuary, so I have nothing to worry about.

The spare bedroom is located opposite the main one. I open the door as I rub my eyes with the back of my free hand. I find myself staring at a kids’ bed covered with a lemonade pink quilt that features an unhealthy amount of unicorns. The walls are painted sapphire blue. At first I think that three fake clouds mounted on the wall are decorative, but they are camouflaged lamps.

I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me. I feel like I’m intruding on someone’s private playground. Does a child live here? No way, the previous owner of the apartment must have abandoned this stuff. They likely sold their kids into slavery and had to flee in a hurry. Whatever. As it concerns me, this bed is one in which I haven’t had sex with Jacqueline yet.

What am I doing in this room? Ah, Jacqueline told me to put on sportswear. Is that supposed to fuel one of her fetishes?

Two canvas storage bags rest on top of the bed. I unzip the one on the left. It’s filled with neatly folded garments: blouses, tops, shorts, underwear, lingerie. One of the tops catches my attention, so I unfold it and hold it up. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Jacqueline owned skin tight tops that exposed the midriff, and that announced bold intentions with lettering that read ‘cowgirl’ or ‘come here daddy’, but instead this is a short sleeve top with a punk motif. Something that a fifteen-year-old girl would wear to the mall. Besides, if Jacqueline attempted to cram her twin monuments in this, even back in the day, the fabric would explode. I sniff the garment, but it smells like laundry detergent. I fold the top and return it to the bag.

As I browse through the other clothes, I realize that they could also belong to a teenager. Did Jacqueline buy them because they looked cool?

The storage bag on the right is filled with men’s clothes: shirts, polo shirts, sleeveless shirts. Jeans. I slide my hand over some boxer briefs. Jacqueline paid premium for them.

Do these clothes belong to Jacqueline’s lucky victims? Did so many men leave a garment behind as an excuse to return? No, men don’t rely on such strategies; they have more balls than women do, at least a pair. Is Jacqueline cosplaying as a guy? Then again, the matter of her tits remains.

Are these trophies from the men that Jacqueline screwed? I doubt they would have been relinquished willingly, unless Jacqueline asked real nicely. Did I find Jacqueline’s treasure trove of death? Am I dating a serial killer? And why does that thought make me horny?

I shake my head. I’m exhausted enough that I shouldn’t trust my thought patterns. I zip both bags closed.

From the mirrored wardrobe, jam-packed with clothes that I can picture Jacqueline wearing, I choose a tank top and a pair of leggings made of black spandex. I get undressed to obey Jacqueline’s order, but why was I supposed to put on sports clothes?

Author’s note: this is just half of the scene. I’ve already written most of the first draft of what remains, but I felt like uploading this part already. I don’t know what to tell you.

A couple of days ago they called me to tell me that I’ve been hired for another contract. Hooray. It starts next week, lasts two weeks likely including both saturdays, and I’ll be working the afternoon shift. To celebrate this development, I went out for an hour or so and bought a bacon pizza. After I ate half of it, I ended up in the bathroom with virulent diarrhea. But I guess it was celebratory diarrhea.

I’m someone whose anxiety, neurological issues and general inability to tolerate the presence of human beings only allow him to withstand about an hour and a half in that nasty world out there, but I’ll have to return to the routine of working at an office for eight hours. When I’m unemployed, I’m miserable. When I’m employed, I’m far more miserable and barely able to write in my spare time. But working adds money to my bank account, so that’s alright.

Anyway, I had another weird dream of which I rage quit at the end. As usual, I had to run around some odd building complex to solve stressful issues. I shouldn’t be surprised that my troublesome dreams involve such activities, as that’s the most troublesome part of my job. In any case, I walked into a hallway only to find out that there were cat-sized centipedes crawling around. Even worse: they had the faces of human babies. They looked like something out of the ‘Berserk’ manga series (I specify that because the adaptations were garbage for the most part). Somehow I knew that these centipedes acquired the physical features of whatever they ate.

I guess it was my job to prevent random babies from getting eaten. I followed the centipedes, and in a room further down the hallway, I discovered that they were munching on the testicles of a guy strapped to a chair. Somehow I knew that the guy had regenerative powers, so someone must have intended to torture him. And I guess human testicles are related enough to babies as far as the centipedes are concerned.

This is the kind of stuff that my subconscious produces by itself; my own stories are usually much tamer. Anyway, although I’ve forgotten the details, I know that Jinx from ‘Arcane’ was involved in that segment of the dream. Maybe she was the one who strapped the guy to the chair to torture him. I’ve loved that girl since I watched the series, so I welcome her appearing in my dreams. If only there was more quality CGI of her for VR purposes.

I hope you enjoyed this stuff of mine you’ve read. If you haven’t, that’s alright too.