Sudden dick. This audiochapter covers chapter 112 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire previous sequence, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I float away to a sheets-based tropical paradise. A total of three hours, thirty-six minutes and forty seconds of mostly fucking nonsense. Check them out.
Jacqueline’s palms, capable of untold erotic sorcery, cup my nape as she presses her pillowy lips against my forehead like stamping a wax seal on parchment, letting the kiss linger. A warm tingling spreads throughout my core.
“Let’s focus on the here and now, shall we?” she whispers.
With a finger, Jacqueline tilts my chin upwards. Her teeth are sparkling in the candlelight, her cobalt-blues claiming my eyes as if staking a territory. The breath that puffs out between her lips ghosts over my face.
“From now on, ma chérie, no more secrets. We are a family, we owe each other that much. And before the candle-fueled mood starts to stale, I’m going to prepare you a feast of flesh fit for royalty. Afterwards, once we’re done and you can move again, I’ll heat up dinner. How does that sound, baby doll?”
An image flashes in my mind: a family-size round table covered in plates of sticky ribs, crispy fried chicken, roast lamb garnished with rosemary and garlic, an array of grilled sausages, and seared steaks. My mouth waters, my stomach rumbles. Oh, how I would love to sink my teeth into a succulent drumstick and tear the meat off the bone. Or bite into a thick cut of rare beef. I want to feel its fatty, iron-flavored juices seeping into my mouth and dribbling down my chin.
“I-I am starving.”
She winks at me mischievously.
“Let’s get on to it, then.”
Jacqueline spins on her heels, and when she reaches to slide the mirrored wardrobe door open, her buttocks stick out like two firm and rosy moons, the globes touching above the tight dimpled knot that shields the portal of her soul. She closes the wardrobe and turns back. She’s holding a forehead-wide, shiny strip of black silk embroidered with the words “Fleur du mal.” A slice of a starless midnight sky.
She steps closer and raises the strip to my eyes. The silk, with its soft fibers and feather-light touch, feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat flooding my veins. I catch a last glimpse of mommy’s silhouette against the honey-colored candlelight before I go blind. Jacqueline leans in, sharing her warmth, as she knots the fabric tight around the back of my head.
“Lie back, ma petite chouette, and wait for mommy to be ready.”
I obey like a child: I stretch out my naked body, with my limbs splayed, atop Jacqueline’s freshly-washed bedclothes, an island of fabric, a pristine snowscape of a bed. My nostrils are filled with the scents of jasmine, sandalwood, rose, and candle wax, combined with the salty tang of sex. As the cloud-like comforter caresses me, a surge of bliss spreads throughout my being as if I were sinking into a warm bath. I’m submerged in blackness.
I hear Jacqueline rummage through the wardrobe: the rustle of fabric, the click of coat hangers. She’s humming a tune to herself.
I’m feeling lighter. In my mind’s eye, shadows twist and writhe, shapes shift like snakes coiling, colors melt into a swirling and spiraling haze. I see a tree with its bark clawed off. A cold breeze carries the scent of pine needles as it bites at my exposed skin. The pebbles of a riverbed grind into the soles of my bare feet. A dirty child with chestnut hair and dressed in a crude leather tunic, a waif of the wilderness, is peeking at me from behind the trunk. I once visited a forest that died thousands and thousands of years before I was born.
“What about Nairu?” I blurt out.
The rustle of fabric stops.
“You heard her wake up?” Jacqueline asks with concern.
I’d dread for our adopted daughter to make a sudden and violent appearance during this session. I hope she’s dreaming of ground sloths.
“No, I mean… Have you shown your power to her?”
“Oh, I’d love to, darling. I want to open up to her as well, but first we must figure out if she’s even capable of learning our language.”
“You insist on taking in the weird and the broken.”
Jacqueline’s chuckle echoes in my ears.
“You think I’m collecting broken things? Maybe it is so. But even the freaky and the fringe have a beauty of their own. I’m glad that the universe has thrown them my way; who else would love and cherish them how they deserve?”
I picture my goddess, Jacqueline-but-mother, draped in a flowing white gown that billows in the breeze, standing in a sun-kissed meadow, surrounded by lilies, tulips, marigolds, and roses that sway and nod their heads like worshippers gathered at her feet. She’s cradling the sleeping form of our antediluvian foundling, Nairu, whose serene face makes her resemble an infant Buddha.
“She grew up in the Paleolithic era, and I’m the first person she met from our present, so she’s already well-acquainted with the grotesque. To her, we’re two freaks with a kinky streak and powers beyond comprehension. If I were in her shoes, whisked away into a future world where ground sloths are extinct, I’d be running in circles while crying my eyes out. She may take your shapeshifting in stride.”
“Maybe. One day, when she’s ready, we’ll show her the truth and see what happens.”
My muscles have relaxed. A sweet stupor washes over me. I’m floating, floating towards the ceiling, but before I reach it, I turn myself around. Below, the candles’ amber-golden glow is tinting with a patina of oranges and yellows, like the sunset in a tropical paradise, an ocean of sheets adorned with embroidered swans and fleur-de-lis lacework.
The wardrobe door slides shut. I feel Jacqueline’s gaze on my blindfolded face.
“Take it off and have a look,” she says eagerly.
My limbs, heavy as if cast in lead, resist my mental nudges. I start by wriggling my toes, which sends ripples of sensation up my ankles. Life floods back into my fingers in a rush of pins and needles. With effort, I haul myself upright. I fumble with the blindfold’s knot behind my head, but my tingling fingers betray me, so I yank the strip of silk from my eyes and blink against the candlelight.
Jacqueline, my miracle worker with the power to shape her form, stands before me, her face framed by tresses the color and texture of raven wings. Her lower lip is caught between her pearly teeth, and her cheeks are flushed. A lacy, black choker encircles her throat. Her majestic breasts sit in the cupping of a plunging lace bralette, their creamy curves embraced by its intricate patterns, the pink buds of her nipples poking out, while a garter belt that hugs her hips holds up thigh-high, translucent stockings.
From between Jacqueline’s spaced-apart legs dangles a pair of solid, smooth testicles, and her right hand is grasping a cock as thick as a boneless limb.
Author’s note: today’s songs are “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals, and “Moonage Daydream” by David Bowie.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-nine videos so far. Check them out.
Want to continue hearing this tale as it gets steamier (and freakier)? Check out the audiochapter.
Five stars. The title translates to “Delicious in Dungeon.”
Two long-running manga series that I had been following for a long time ended this month: the first one, Oshimi’s Chi no Wadachi, and the second one is Kui’s wonderful Dungeon Meshi. More often than not, when I finish a manga series and I’m starving for more of the peculiar joys that this format provides (far higher joys than what most of Western fiction produces these days), I check out lists of recommendations, plenty of which mentioned Dungeon Meshi. However, I always passed on it. You see, a fiction genre somewhat popular in Japan focuses on weird food-related tournaments that mostly seem like excuses to draw mouth-watering food, and print recipes. I never saw the appeal, and I wasn’t interested in a variation of that formula even with a fantasy dressing.
Big mistake. Dungeon Meshi is an exceptional story with fantastic characters, and the food-making part works as a straight-faced satire, because the vast majority of the recipes involve cooking D&D-like monsters into something resembling edible food. The whole deal about making elaborate food out of monsters could have been a gimmick, but the plot turns it into a necessary element to survive.
The tale introduces a group of adventures who don’t get along with each other very well. The leader, the fighter of the group, is an obsessive, socially oblivious maniac (could easily pass for autistic) who dreams of tasting every monster in the world, and who possibly also wants to become a monster. He’s accompanied by his sister, a laid-back, eccentric sorcerer. Apart from the siblings we have an uptight elven wizard, a pragmatic halfling rogue, and a barbarian dwarf merc.
Regarding the wizard of the group, named Marcille, I must say that I’m a big fan of that whole cute face, blonde hair, braids, and choker business. Love ya Marci.
The world of this story features dungeons as prominent landmarks. At some point in history, otherworldly creatures entered the main reality and settled in underground pockets. Their wild magic created such ecosystems, filled with strange creatures and ingredients, that farming and raiding those dungeons became the backbone of entire societies. Towns have grown around them, and the first levels of those dungeons are frequented by traders and adventurers. The careful lore involving the existence and development of dungeons, as well as the political issues they caused, is one of my favorite parts of the tale (which may not be saying much, as I love most of it).
Anyway, our main group delved into the dungeon for some important reason I forgot about, and in the process, the protagonist’s sister, that laid-back sorcerer, gets eaten by a goddamn dragon. Due to the abundance of strange magic, dungeons are the only places in the world where people don’t fully die (most of the time), and some adventurers have made their trade out of following some other group and then reviving them for a reward. More ruthless groups murder other groups, then revive them for a reward. In any case, our main characters, minus the sorcerer, leave the dungeon defeated.
The barbarian leaves the group for a better paying gig. The main dude, that fighter whose sister is being digested, broke and desperate, decides to delve again into the depths of the dungeon to save his sibling. The uptight wizard will accompany him, because she was friends with the sister, and the rogue decides to follow them as well (I don’t recall why, but likely the promise of profit). They’re broke and can’t afford provisions, so they must survive increasingly dangerous levels by foraging and hunting the local monstrous flora and fauna, which nobody does because it’s a disgusting, horrifying prospect.
I love the concept, but this story mainly triumphs in the execution, thanks to the devoted, meticulous work of the author, a bonafide craftswoman. Lesser stories would have the protagonists win by unleashing vague, convenient powers that would overcome the obstacles, but in this tale, the author puts us right then and there with her characters as they come up with clever ways to succeed. I recall now two instances in particular: they couldn’t pass through an area plagued with carnivorous, urticant vines, so they hunted some nasty frog-like creatures whose skins made them immune to the vines, and then they skinned and wore their hides as uniforms. Dealing with untouchable ghosts, they came up with the notion of making holy water sorbet and turning it into a bludgeoning weapon. The whole story is filled with shit like this; you don’t get many tales in which the protagonists truly earn what they get.
What set out to be a relatively simple tale of a group of people who don’t really get along but who end up liking each other more while trying to achieve something important, turns into a world-endangering quest in which the main characters are bound to save or ruin everything. As things got darker and darker, some of the stuff that happened, particularly the monster designs, reminded me of Berserk (which, for those who don’t know, was, for about three fifths of its run, as “peer into the abyss” as it gets).
The main group gains two new members along the way (a survivalist dwarf and a selfish cat-girl), but they also interact with other organized groups that mainly intend to hinder them. In a story with such a large cast, you could expect some significant development maybe out of the protagonist and someone else, but in this story, every main character gets a satisfying character arc, as well as some of the secondary ones. Even those who could be generally categorized as villains, and would be killed and forgotten in other stories, are treated with care and compassion by the author, who at least makes the readers understand why they’re right from their point of view in pursuing what they want.
After many wild moments and many trials and tribulations, some of which involved the main characters’ deepest pains, the story could have collapsed at the end, but it didn’t. As far as I’m concerned, the climax was brilliantly clever, and the remaining threads are tied up enough, leaving things open-ended in regards to how most of the secondary characters would progress from that point on.
I found the whole thing impeccable, a joy from start to finish. One of the best fantasy stories that I have ever experienced. If you enjoy such a setting at all, particularly if you are into D&D-like stuff, you owe it to yourself to give this a try.
The anime adaptation is in production, and will be released on Netflix. Here’s the latest trailer:
The title translates to either “Blood on the Tracks” or “A Trail of Blood.” Despite the mystery or thriller-like title, this haunting story is about heredity, and how a fucked-up childhood could poison you for the rest of your life. I caught this series maybe three years ago, and read it up to the then latest chapter. This morning I have read the chapter that concluded the tale. I don’t know how to rate the whole.
I hate to review stories that I have read in a chapter-by-chapter release, because my impressions have been muddled and spread thin over time. I will make the effort, though, because I want to think about what this series left in me.
We follow a shy, withdrawn middle schooler who lives with his outwardly normal parents. His dangerously beautiful (and dangerous in general) mother overprotects him, particularly regarding the cousin that visits their home and pesters the protagonist. Although the mother doesn’t want the cousin around, it’s a family member of her husband, so she needs to keep the peace. Growing up, I used to suffer a similar cousin, someone who pushed his way into our home and demanded to be entertained, stealing my time and peace. I had no choice but to deal with the guy because my brother wanted to get along with him.
Anyway, during a mountain trip, the cousin leads our hapless protagonist to the edge of a cliff. His mother, fearing that this clown would end up causing her only son’s demise, finds them both in time to witness how the cousin trips and is about to fall. What follows is a spoiler for the inciting incident of this story, so read it at your peril. The mother hurries to save him, but in the last moment, she allows her intrusive thoughts to win, and pushes the cousin off the cliff.
The cousin survives with severe brain damage that prevents him from pointing an accusatory finger at his aunt, and the protagonist is gaslit into believing that maybe he just imagined the whole thing up, other than the fact that his cousin fell off. The protagonist’s mother unravels, not because she fears the consequences of her murder attempt, but because she may not be punished. She wants it all to break. It seems that she has been miserable forever; she had convinced herself that she ought to get married and a have a child, only to realize that she made a terrible mistake she can’t amend (other than divorcing and moving away, I guess, but she wouldn’t dare). On top of that, she’s the kind of crazy bound to drag everyone around her into ruin.
She despises her husband, whom she resents because he tied her to this miserable life, and instead she searches for intimacy in her son. She entangles him in a somewhat-chaste incestual relationship.
The kid is at times happy that this beautiful mother whose love he yearns for is treating him so warmly, but the rest of the time he feels smothered and creeped out, and wishes to escape. Most of the memorable moments of this tale involve a childhood love of the protagonist, a girl with a differently fucked-up home life, who could end up saving him from a mother that won’t allow any competitors.
As the story progressed, I wanted the protagonist to break free from his mother’s clutches and build a better life with this sweet girl who somewhat inexplicably wished to share her life with him. However, as I thought that the story was approaching its end, the author executed a turning point that sealed the fate of all the characters involved. I won’t go into details, because they would be massive spoilers, but the author forced an unlikely encounter and undid most of the protagonist’s character development. Shortly after, the story moves into a timeskip and makes you realize that the lack of mobile phones and the internet during the story up to that point wasn’t a stylistic choice.
The protagonist, now an adult in his mid-to-late thirties, deals with what remains, both physically and mentally, of his aging, miserable parents, partly hoping that before those two candles are spent, he’ll get enough of those relationships to either assuage his despair about how life treated him, or push him over the edge so he finally dares to kill himself. What I got out of that final block of the story is that some people end up so broken by nature and/or nurture that the most they can aspire for is a quiet place in which to be themselves. I had already realized that before I read this series, though.
(That reminds me of Nick Drake’s lovely song Place to Be, quite apropos:
When I was young, younger than before
I never saw the truth hanging from the door
And now I’m older, see it face to face
And now I’m older, gotta get up, clean the place
And I was green, greener than the hill
Where flowers grow and the sun shone still
Now I’m darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be)
Oshimi has created some of the most psychologically twisted mangas I’ve ever read: The Flowers of Evil, Inside Mari, Happiness, as well as this story I’m reviewing. He has also pushed out a couple of duds like Drifting Net Café and Welcome Back, Alice, with which I likely shouldn’t have bothered. In Chi no Wadachi he went further by distorting the world according to the protagonist’s disturbed mental states; for example, when he ends up hollowed out and hopeless, we experience his world as sparse sketches. Plenty of compelling drawings.
Did Oshimi succeed in writing a satisfying ending to this troublesome tale? I’m not sure. The first half was far more compelling, and I would have been more comfortable with the remainder if he hadn’t undone his protagonist’s development to twist the plot into a turning point. Still, I’m not going to forget this story, nor the protagonist’s hauntingly nuts mother, any time soon.
Mistress of catfishing. This audiochapter covers chapter 111 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire previous sequence, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I die of a bioweapon developed in China and financed by Americans. A total of three hours, twenty-nine minutes and twenty-four seconds. Check them out.
Sources of endless wonder, of worshipful awe, to my eyes and lips and tongue, the thought of their satiny and succulent surfaces, their elasticity and heft in my grasp, has haunted me from the moment I first caught a glimpse of them at the office, and ever since I kneaded and caressed their velvet texture, inhaled their intoxicating fragrance, and savored their creamy taste, I have yearned to be swallowed up by that warmth again, like a woman stranded in a blizzard seeking the hearth and blankets of home. Oh, my blessed Jacqueline, mommy dearest, may Arachne’s silken threads weave me a cradle within your heaving milk-tanks!
As the flames of the candles flicker and dance, they splash their honey-golden glow upon the ivory statue that stands before me proud and nude. A demigoddess. Jacqueline-but-French.
My skin crawls with an icy sensation. In those shimmering eyes that have always seen through me, the collarettes, crypts and striations that paint the irises cobalt blue, do they belong to yet another character in a shapeshifting play?
“Is this… you?” I ask.
Jacqueline’s shoulders droop, and she glances down at the rug.
“Ah, je savais que ça viendrait. I can transform into different people, so what are the odds that the way I present myself in my everyday life can be considered ‘me’?”
“I suppose that’s what I meant.”
She combs a hand through her raven-black tresses, then fans them out to cascade over her shoulder in a lustrous curtain.
“The body you’re looking at, and that you adore, is the closest to the one that my parents’ genes crafted, and with which I identified growing up. Not the original, though, because I enhanced it, with my own spicy seasoning added in, to match the woman that presented herself in that darkness: my mental self-image. You could call it mon vrai moi, one free from the ravages of time, other than minor imperfections that would be hard to justify lacking at my age.” She raises her hands to her eyes and touches the hints of crow’s feet.
So Jacqueline also hated her body, although likely not to the extent that I do of wanting to vomit every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. Yet another evidence that our fates were following parallel paths of angst and neuroses that would end up with us entangled and sweaty in her queen-size bed.
“Even before we met each other,” I say wistfully, “you and I were both misfits that society disdained. Lonely wolves prowling on a frozen continent of their own to keep sane.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But I’m forty-four years old, darling. Forty-goddamn-four. No idea how that happened. Anyway, even far richer women, with millions to spare, couldn’t afford the kind of upgrade I’ve given myself. You’ve known my age; how did you rationalize that I looked this fresh?”
“Privileged genetics? I mean, that’s what you told me.”
Jacqueline’s cobalt-blues frost over as if clouded by turmoil. Her statuesque posture deflates.
“Oh, mon petit chou, forgive me for the little masquerade. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was scared whether you’d still adore me.”
“I’m not running out of adoration any time soon. I do wonder how you used to look like, though.”
She grimaces, then sighs.
“Darling, I’ve consigned that version of me to history. Even your charms cannot resurrect it. Let me put it this way: if you had suffered through your teenage years with a face ravaged by acne, you wouldn’t want to go back, would you?”
“My goodness, that bad?”
“Heureusement non; those poor kids end up traumatized. I was lucky as far as adolescent skin goes, just a little zit here and there. I’m talking about the ‘growing old’ version of that: wrinkles, gray hairs, a flabby stomach, sagging boobs, cellulite. Yuck, I’d rather keep my mind clean. You wouldn’t have swooned and drooled over me, I promise.”
I picture Jacqueline’s hair thinning as the blackness gives way to strands of cottony white. Her cheeks and chin sag into a jowly, hound-like shape, dissolving the jawline. Her ivory-white skin turns leathery and splotchy. Her mighty breasts, their once-full contours collapsed, wilt into two droopy pendulums. Her ass becomes a bulging, cottage-cheese-like mass. Maybe my shoulders should shudder at the image of Jacqueline, the voluptuous goddess that has rocked my world and inflamed my lust, transformed into a crone with withered teats, wreathed by a halo of spiderwebs.
“But I’m into mommies.”
“I wouldn’t want you to associate this mommy with that whole getup, mon trésor. Still, it isn’t just about wrinkles and cellulite. It’s also about the diminishing sands in the hourglass, the knowledge that the world is erasing us petit à petit. Our health and youth are crumbling away with every breath. We are aware that this road ends in pain, and yet we keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
I rub the back of my neck, where a patch of prickling heat has erupted under my skin.
“Sure, people are good at believing two opposite things at once, even when neither of them makes sense. We’re wired to fool others as well as ourselves; otherwise we wouldn’t have made it far as a species.”
“Nobody should have to grow old, Leire.”
“The stars also burn out,” I say in sympathy. “Perhaps I find comfort in the inevitability of it all.”
Jacqueline pauses, her fingers lingering over her eyelids. When she speaks again, her voice carries a weight.
“That’s the thing: I may be the first person in history who can remain forever young, at least on the outside.”
My right hand clenches and unclenches the bedclothes. So mommy can dodge the ceaseless march of time and stay ever-delectable. I’m in love with an evergreen blossom amid the dust and ruin.
“As long as maintaining these forms doesn’t exhaust you more than reverting to your original self, then great.”
“I don’t need to concentrate, ma chérie. It’s like flipping a switch.”
“And the celestial vision with which you brighten my life is a testament to your healthy self-esteem. If I could shapeshift into my mental self-image, you’d never stop screaming.”
Jacqueline chuckles through a pained grin as she brushes a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, choupette. You have become more confident and composed than the withdrawn mouse you were before we started dating.”
“Even so, it’s due to your motherly influence, your encouragement, and your relentless pursuit of pleasure. I have done nothing to deserve an improvement.”
For years, my mind has felt like an outdated computer: slower over time, lagging in memory retrieval, prone to glitching out and needing to restart. One day, a silhouette will stand shin-deep in a shapeless pile of bones and rotting flesh that once gave shape to a human being. Watch me grow old and die.
Author’s note: today’s song is “Broken Chairs” by Built to Spill.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and seventy-seven videos. Check them out.
Want to listen to this lovely couple’s philosophical discussion? Check out the audiochapter.
I forget just why I taste. This audiochapter covers chapter 110 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire previous sequence, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I end up in jail. A total of three hours, twenty-two minutes and eight seconds. Check them out.
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.
A tale for the ages. This audiochapter covers chapter 109 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire previous sequence, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or the Netherese orb lodged in my chest explodes, obliterating a city-sized area around me. A total of three hours, eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. Check them out.
Jacqueline’s Asian mouth, a blush of cherry blossoms in spring, twists into a teasing smile. With her chin raised slightly, she sticks the tip of her ruddy tongue out then slides its moist surface over her upper lip, coating it in a saliva-film that glistens in the honey-golden candlelight.
“Well, does my sweet chérie find this version of mommy exotic and enticing? Have you ever wanted to indulge in the pleasures of the Orient?”
My mind floods with steam-engulfed images of Oriental delights. I’m admiring the neon-lit cityscape that glitters through the windows of a Tokyo penthouse. I’m living it up at a karaoke room, belting out Japanese punk anthems. I’m riding a bullet train, watching the countryside flash past: verdant rice paddies and mist-wreathed mountains. I’m wandering the bustling back alleys of Shanghai, gaping at kaleidoscopic lights and technicolor billboards, passing by women whose faces are powdered white, their lips lacquered blood-red, their bodies swaddled in ornate brocade. I’m gorging on rivers of noodle soup, mountains of stir-fried veggies, steaming hotpots of seafood, and pyramids of deep-fried dumplings stuffed with pork and ginger. I’m lounging in a geisha house, smoking opium, lying with a silk-wrapped, perfume-drenched, slender hostess who can ease the weight of a thousand centuries by fulfilling my darkest, filthiest desires. I’m witnessing the display of a master karateka, her lean and muscular limbs flashing as she lays waste to an entire class of her rivals in a tournament, breaking backs, snapping necks, and ripping off faces with clawed fingers. I’m meditating in a zen garden, bowing before the Buddha, then fucking a monk until his cock spits holy seed into my womb. Maybe the siren song of the Far East does beckon me.
I’m foggy from the heavy fragrances that cling to my brain, from the Asian figure that emerged effortlessly and stands in my mind-murk like an orchid thriving in the humidity of a deep jungle. Jacqueline-but-Asian runs a hand down her form, trailing those sensuous fingers from her collarbones to her belly button, inviting me to stare starstruck at the Oriental splendor. Her inky locks, sleek as polished ebony and gleaming with a blue sheen, spill over her rounded shoulders, flowing down to her curving hips. Where mommy was hipped with a wide pelvis that matched the proportions of her mammoth bosoms, this lady in her prime has the svelte torso and lissome limbs of a ballerina, no stranger to gliding on tippy toes, to spinning and leaping in graceful pirouettes across the hardwood boards of a stage, her spine arched, her arms outstretched, her swanlike neck exposed, all to thunderous applause.
The candles, as they dance their golden light across the bedroom, burning on and on like they’ll outlast this fucked-up reality and whatever lies beyond, give a pearly radiance to Jacqueline’s skin, highlighting in honey her lithe features: below a neck like alabaster, those jutting collarbones; twin firm orbs capped with caramel-pink nipples; the valley carved into the abdomen between the promontory of her ribcage and the arch of her hip, that in the old days could have shielded her womb from marauders seeking a spawn of godhood. I wish to reach out and stroke her delicate skin; I could run my fingertips through it like water.
Jacqueline plants her splayed fingers low on her abdomen, drawing attention to the patch of onyx fuzz, an ancient garden that guards her hidden petals as it glistens in the honey-tinted gloom.
“You’re holding out on me, baby doll,” Jacqueline purrs playfully. “Afraid I won’t like your opinion? Come on now, love, surely you have something to share about this form.”
I swallow the excess saliva, then face her exotic visage.
“You’ve gone and given yourself Oriental features, the fuck-off-you-Western-scum kind, but you look ravishing. I want to drown in soy sauce. Your current tits are smaller than mine, though…”
She grins. In her eyes, fringed with jet-black lashes, the pupils are dilated, and the coal-gray irises shimmer like two starlit pools of silver.
“Oh, darling. You miss mommy’s huge, juicy milkers?”
My head nods without consulting me.
“Always, as long as I don’t have access to them.”
Jacqueline chuckles, which causes her creamy tummy to ripple like a sheet of water.
“I crafted this form to fill the niche of yoga that could be monetized. It’s like the ultimate yoga master. My main body? If I tried with it half of the moves I can pull now, I’d end up in a cast. In fact, let me give you a little demo.”
As she lowers her snowy behind onto the fluffy rug, her hair sways in a long cascade with each motion of the frame, and coils on the fabric like a sleeping serpent. She positions herself lengthwise, showcasing her profile as well as her lean dancer’s legs. Those pale thighs resemble canvases on which to fingerpaint. When I seek her gaze, I meet the seductive glance she’s casting over her shoulder. A warm chill courses down my spine. Knowing me snared, she smirks, then reclines until her head sinks into the rug.
She grasps her right ankle and draws that leg further and further back. With both arms, she embraces its calf as if hugging a lover. She plants her left hand on the sole of that foot, then pushes the leg down until its knee rests on the rug alongside her torso, making her inky locks billow over that calf, bending the limb in a submission hold that would make most of humanity cry out in pain.
“It helps that my usual tits aren’t in the way,” Jacqueline says.
She twists to reach her left leg, then folds it until her toes come close to grazing her vulva. Although she’s torturing herself further, her face remains calm, a picture of peace. Jacqueline must have learned from the fox spirits how to harness the erotic charge of her Asian limbs.
A familiar tingle stirs inside me. I lean back to place my palms flat against the surface of the bed, bracing my weight, my right hand centimeters from the discarded thong. The shock has melted into a trance-like state. My mind is a page scrawled on with the vision of an Oriental goddess, the embodiment of Japanesque perfection, stretching her limbs in the flickering candlelight.
With her face buried in the rug, and her ebony mane pooled around her head and chest, Jacqueline assumes the downward-facing dog posture, thrusting out the white swell of her ass, making her buttocks wobble gently. I’d bite into those cheeks until they oozed pink.
Beginning in a supine position, she lifts her pelvis off the floor, arching her flexible spine like a bow. As her body curves upward, her abdomen stretches taut, and her ass tightens into two plump mounds. After she finds balance on her shoulders and the crown of her head, she appears suspended in mid-air.
In her upside-down face, from beneath her dark lashes, her eyes dart to the corners so they can meet my gaze. The pinkish-orange glow traces the flat bridge of her nose, and plays upon the contour of her lips.
“See?” Jacqueline asks. “I can do all sorts of crazy poses now.”
“That’s cool.”
A glossy mass of darkness, a waterfall of night that contrasts with her ghostly skin, falls down her back in a shining curtain. As it shifts, the inky tresses sway gracefully, nuzzling the curves of her feminine figure.
Jacqueline has levered herself upright.
“Love, do you recall that external hard drive I lent you, filled with naughty videos I wanted you to watch? Now, which of my girls was your favorite?”
My heart, set aflutter by Asian magic, skips a beat. I’m assailed once again by the image that has haunted my daydreams ever since I peeked into the abyss: wavy locks of copper hair floating in a pool of bubbling cum.
Author’s note: today’s song is “Heartbeats” by José González.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-four videos so far. Check them out.
Leire peeked into the abyss back in chapter 45.
I produced an audiochapter for this part. Check it out.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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