Burn a hole in my brain. This audiochapter covers chapter 115 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 get dick-speared through the orbital socket. A total of four hours, five minutes and forty-seven seconds. Check them out.
As the plush fabric of the rug yields under my kneecaps, even if I had lost my sense of sight, I would feel the heat radiating from the beast that Jacqueline is pointing at my face. I would feel the tension in its shaft, the thrumming of blood in its veins. I would smell its sharp tang that tugs at my ovaries and sends a tremor through my bones, an iron musk that triggers the urge to inhale a lungful as if I were a cokehead seeking her fix. But my eyes present me with the sight of the crimson crown: it hovers near my nose, so close that, through the slit gaping like a toothless mouth, I can peer down the bore of that flesh barrel.
I imagine the moment of release akin to a dam breaking or a volcano erupting: as the pressure within the shaft builds to a boil, a torrent of scorching, frothy white would gush forth from Jacqueline’s towering meat-mast. The first surge, like fired from a firehose, would imprint a goopy starburst onto my chest, smearing my skin from sternum to chin. The next volley would whack me square in the face and splatter my hair, coating my eyelids and nose and mouth with its gummy texture as if it were sunscreen. The thick seed would cling to my features like a layer of rubber: a demon’s mask melted onto my skull. The cock, with its remaining load, would spurt and pulse, spurt and pulse. My goddess of debauchery has become a fireman in a world ablaze; if left to her whims, she would keep spraying, spurting, and spewing until the global sea level swelled to new highs, surpassing the hundred and twenty meter increase observed since the last ice age, flooding cities to the rooftops, drowning whole species in her sticky deluge.
Jacqueline is stroking my scalp, but I wish she would clasp my head and yank me so that her engorged cockhead kissed one of my corneas. The hot, solid pole, throbbing and vein-crisscrossed, would push against the yielding jelly, whose vision would spiral into a chaos of flashing colors and pinprick spots. An icy jab of pain would escalate into a maelström of agony, causing me to thrash and shriek, as the flesh-spike squashed the eyeball with a sickening squelch against its orbital socket: the blood vessels would rupture, the nerves sever, the vitreous humor discharge. Once her cockhead nestled against the orbital rim, Jacqueline, rocking her pelvis with stabbing thrusts, would drive her meat-truncheon like a chisel until the wall cracked. Prying apart the bone shards with wet crunches, she would plunge into the sinus cavity. From there she’d breach into the cranial vault. Her member would shred through the fibrous meninges amidst which cerebrospinal fluid ebbs and flows, to reach the frontal lobe. As an alien warmth rent my brain tissue like pizza dough, seizing my synapses and firing off sparks of ecstasy, the world would shatter into disjointed fragments. A black void would expand within my self, swallowing chunks of who I was and could have become. Jacqueline’s cock, lodged snugly between the convolutions of my gray matter, would unleash a viral payload that would rewire my neural pathways. Who’s to say what sort of madness would bloom?
Her corona, a bulb of pulsing meat, prods my cheek as if vying for my attention. I’m breathing shallowly, my vagina is clenching with the urge to be filled. I tilt my chin upwards and behold my beloved past the meaty obelisk. Trails of sweat like rivers on a map are shimmering white upon the sculpted landscape of Jacqueline’s abdomen, its peaks and dips highlighted by the honey-golden glare of the candle flames. High on her torso, the plunging lace bralette encases her pair of bronze-tinged flesh-boulders, whose nipples are pushing the intricate, wavelike patterns. Nestled in the valley between her breasts, mommy’s glorious visage gazes down at me with a look that would enchant anyone into a willing slave. Her hooded cobalt-blues are swimming in lust, and her cheeks blushing with a powder-pink aphrodisiac glow. I wish this giantess would scoop up my unworthy form like a doll, then pop my head into her mouth and suck me dry.
“Balls first, mon coeur,” Jacqueline purrs.
Her sac, bloated with a seething, sloshing broth, hangs heavy as a ripe peach. If I were to prick that taut skin with a needle, her salty seed would erupt with the strength of an industrial-grade waterjet cutter, carving through my face like the jet slices through centimeters of steel. Down the corners of my lips dribble rivulets of drool.
“Leire,” Jacqueline says in a husky voice, “tilt your head back and open that sweet little mouth, like a good girl.”
My head falls back and my jaws part as if I were a newborn chick waiting for a worm to fall out of the sky. Jacqueline steps closer and lowers her hips until the hot, leathery pouch lands on my tongue. As its weighty load presses down, a shiver jolts through mommy and escapes her throat in a groan.
“You’re salivating so much, my delight, it’s like dipping them in a hot bath.”
I close my eyes. With the adoration and reverence that a priestess would bestow upon a sacred artifact, and with her throbbing shaft draped over my forehead, I lick my goddess’ scrotum in languorous, rolling sweeps, kneading its fatty bulk. The wrinkles and ridges come alive, quivering and tensing.
Jacqueline’s fingernails are scratching my scalp. I grab onto her thighs with both hands, some of my fingers digging into the firm, tensed-up muscle, the rest into the lace band of her stockings.
I engulf her swollen ballsack in my mouth, and trace the shifting, squirming nuts inside. One of my hands has drifted to my vulva. The middle finger runs up and down the slick divide before diving into the sopping depths. I need to sink my teeth into the flesh-rind of these balls, peel the scrotum open like a ripe fig, and munch on her spongy orbs as I savor their juices.
I pull back, allowing mommy’s scrotum to slide off my tongue and sway freely. My saliva is accentuating the wrinkles and folds with a glossy sheen. Along its bottom, beads of fluid morph into shimmering threads.
“Jacqueline…” I murmur.
Honey-golden specks dance in mommy’s cobalt-blues as a coy smirk crawls over her lust-drunk face.
“What is it, my love?”
“Me laisserez-vous mordre vos couilles?”
Jacqueline gasps, her eyes widen. The predator inside her recoils as if realizing it risked snagging its ballsack on barbwire.
“Tu veux les mordre?”
“Oui, maman,” I whimper.
“So, once again, I miscalculated the depths of your appetite. Détendez-vous, ma petite chasseuse. You can’t bite mommy’s balls. Think about how painful and messy it would be.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, and I lower my gaze. My fingertips disappear in the fuzzy rug. This heat and humidity are smothering me like a wool blanket in summer.
Jacqueline’s bare feet step forward. She grabs her dick and presses its weeping crown against my forehead, branding me with a fiery imprint, before she starts rubbing her glans over my skin, spreading a wet and warm layer of slime in vertical, diagonal, and horizontal streaks. She steps back as if to admire her work.
“Do you know what I’ve written on that pretty forehead of yours, ma chérie?”
“N-no.”
“I have etched in ‘MINE.’ Do you know why?”
A bonfire flares up in my loins, one that could melt steel and rock alike.
“Yes.”
“Please share.”
“Because I’m yours.”
Jacqueline crouches before me, and cradles my face in her hands as if it were a cracked teacup that she wished she could repair.
“That’s right. My little doll now and till the end of time, are you not? And I will take care of what belongs to me.”
Author’s note: today’s songs are “Debaser” by Pixies, and “Flame” by Sebadoh.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and eighty-four videos. Check them out.
Do you want to relive this chapter but in an audio format? No? Well, here’s the link anyway.
Only slightly related to this chapter, and for those of us who have been interested for years in the demise of the Ice Age, I recently came across this small article: Comet impacted Earth 12,800 years ago and changed human history. Similar articles have been showing up this past week on my Google Alerts feed.
An insult to the reproductive organs of mankind. This audiochapter covers chapter 114 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 drown in a sea of cum. A total of three hours, fifty-seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds. Check them out.
Jacqueline’s grip slides in an upwards motion along the length of her cock. She twists her wrist gently at the apex, then she thrusts her hand back down to the base, flexing and curling the ropy veins that bulge beneath the skin. Her shaft pulsates in the rhythm of a serpent struggling to ingest a mouse.
While she strokes herself faster, the column of blood-engorged tissue swells as if inflated by a bellows, acquiring the consistency of a wooden beam, and a thickness that could choke a horse. From the slit of the bulbous, waxy dome oozes a pearl of pre-cum. Rubbing her thumb, Jacqueline smears the slimy fluid around, making the glans gleam in the candlelight like a fresh bruise.
Mommy’s breaths become rapid and shallow. Wet squelches fill the bedroom as her right hand, its fingers fighting to encase even half of the girth, pumps up and down the tumescent meat-tower, from the leaking tip to the root and back, over and over. Her firm grip must feel like she’s holding onto a pillar of lava, whose throbs and twitches bespeak of a hidden engine roaring and revving, that risks spilling its white-hot fuel. The glans has blossomed to an eggplant shade of purple. Those bulky balls clench, about to cough up a glittering stream. I’m gawking at a pole that would support a flag. At a missile poised to launch. At a war club forged by the gods to break down the gates of Olympus. This abomination of a dick, an insult to the reproductive organs of mankind, could breed the planet to overflowing, turning the solar system into a generational cradle for its progeny.
A sheen of perspiration has sprouted over Jacqueline’s body. Beads of sweat gather at her hairline and dribble down her forehead; some drip onto the ruffles of her choker, where they twinkle like crystals, and others fall onto her tits, where they streak over those twin hills of bouncy flesh and cling to the lace of her bralette like dew on spiderwebs. The physical exertion has etched a grimace onto her flushed face: her eyebrows are furrowed, her jaw clenched, her nostrils flared. The light in her cobalt-blues is dimming like a dying star.
I picture a crimson-tinted niche in which a heart struggles to beat as its muscle fibers strain, until the organ pops like a water balloon, spraying out gobs of flesh, blood and gore. A cold jolt of fear shoots down my spine.
“Jacqueline, stop!”
The shout that has shattered the midnight silence ricochets off the walls. My hand rockets to my mouth. I’m shown a close-up of Nairu startled awake, her chestnut hair mussed. As she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, she climbs down from her unicorn-themed bed, leaves her bedroom, and bursts through our locked door like a cannonball, to find me as naked as when we first met.
“What sort of maniac has desecrated my slumber?” demands Nairu.
The antediluvian waif stands with her face contorted into a scowl, and her tiny fists balled. My gaze travels from her wild hair to her sleepwear: a fuzzy, mint-green onesie sprinkled with stars and moons.
Jacqueline, the goddess whose radiance elevates us from the squalor and strife of this planet, and who has tucked her still-raging penis away, steps forward and bows in supplication before our adopted child.
“Je suis désolée, mademoiselle. Mommy and mommy were enjoying some adult time.”
“You people make such a racket, I cannot rest in peace!”
“Th-this is merely a misunderstanding,” I say. “It must have been a rat.”
My heart shrivels with remorse and shame as the child squints at me, perhaps expecting me to strip off my skin and reveal the hideous gargoyle underneath. I’m reminded of her Paleolithic upbringing: those cavernous dens crammed with stalactites, reeking of offal and guano. Every night she must have slept with a knife in her hand.
“Why would a rat scream like a lunatic?”
“S-some vermin are nocturnal.”
Nairu arches her eyebrows, then a yawn ripples through her mouth. She shrugs.
“That’s a fact, so I consider the matter settled. But please put a cork in it, oui? Otherwise I’ll have to search for a new dwelling free of rats and nutcases.”
She turns towards the exit and navigates her way over the jagged fragments and splintered shards of the door, heading back to bed.
Jacqueline’s chest heaves with ragged pants. Her gaze has locked on me, and the grimace of exertion has given way to bewilderment. My brain sizzles and crackles as my neurons reconnect. I had forgotten to breathe while mommy flirted with the edge.
“Are you enlarging your heart as well?” I ask in a controlled tone. “The same way big wings require strong back muscles, such a gargantuan dick must demand an elephant’s heart to pump it full of blood. Hell, maybe even a whale’s, with arteries wide enough to slide through. Your shapeshifting power may let you stay forever young and fit, but I’m quite sure that if your heart were to explode, you’d drop dead like any random pleb.”
Jacqueline pales. She presses her index and middle fingers against her carotid to check her heart rate. The mammoth dick, as it flops about, deflates in fast motion to a flaccid state and the girth of a beef sausage: its veins recede into the flesh, its crown shrinks and retreats into its sheath. Her engine must be cooling off, because her shoulders sag, and she lets out a long sigh.
“Even in the best of times,” I say, “men’s cocks exert an undue influence upon their minds, so a dick that size must operate like those zombie-raising parasitic fungi.”
Jacqueline wipes a lock of sweat-tangled hair away from her forehead.
“It’s not just the dick’s fault, ma chérie, it’s yours. You have hypnotized me with those enchanting eyes and that sweet little mouth. Your aura, your presence, it all makes me want to spend my seed in a deluge, to impregnate you with a hundred babies.”
A flush crawls up my face.
“S-see, that’s the cock talking.”
She hefts her flaccid, wrinkled member and waggles it back and forth.
“I did go above and beyond. I wanted to impress you, darling.”
Jacqueline slumps next to me on the edge of her bed, causing the mattress to sink under her weight. She examines the palm of her right hand, whose pads and creases glisten with moisture. Mommy, adorned with a choker, a plunging lace bralette, a garter belt, and sheer stockings, looks like a high-class escort who’s reconsidering her life choices. Even a goddess with a magical penis may harbor the shadows of our frail and ephemeral existence.
I wrap my left arm around her back, then nuzzle against her temple. She smells of fresh sweat, musky and salty.
“You may have a cock,” I whisper, “but you’re all pussy.”
Jacqueline chuckles.
“That feels good to hear, mon chouette.”
“And I was beyond impressed with you even before you grew a penis that would make the rest cry in shame.”
Jacqueline’s warmth seeps into me like the heat of a hearth; it penetrates my bones and dissolves my aches. She’s the tether that keeps me from falling into the abyss, from drifting off into my inner wilderness and never returning. As the fingers of my left hand drift over the bumps and ridges of her vertebrae, as my mouth kisses and nips the delicate flesh of her ear, I reach down to caress her belly. The abdominal muscles tense up. I slide that hand to her lap and take hold of her flaccid member. Jacqueline’s breath hitches. With my touch and a surge of blood, the organ twitches, swells, and lengthens, pushing against the confines of my fist: the shaft stiffens, the veins bulge, the crown emerges.
The flickering flames, like a fading sunset, are casting dancing shadows over my right hand as it glides up and down the silken skin of the meat-rod. A vulture of desire settles in my gut, stirring my insides with its fluttering wings, aching for me to satisfy its craving for flesh and blood.
My nipples grow hard, my nethers wet. I lick my lips. I’m tempted to lean down and swirl my tongue around that slit to lap up the salty liquid, like licking the tears of a weeping god. I imagine myself closing my mouth around the glans, slathering it with saliva, then gulping down the shaft centimeter by throbbing centimeter, swallowing her in a wet, tight sheath of velvet. I’d let her use my mouth as a cocksleeve until she detonated in a steaming jet that could fill a trough.
Jacqueline swivels her face towards me, pressing our cheeks together. Her warm breath puffs into my mouth.
“You’re drooling like a hungry puppy, my naughty little slut,” mommy purrs, her voice thick with lust.
She’s sporting a predatory grin that exposes the razor edges of her pearly teeth. Those eyes, pools of cobalt-blue fire, sting me, sear my flesh and soul as if she were scorching a hole in my psyche, implanting her mother-shaped presence in the dark, fathomless abyss of my mind, where I keep my demons locked away.
The heat emanating from her mouth reaches out for mine in tendril-thin, invisible tentacles. A shiver races down my spine. She engulfs me in the fiery warmth, the velvety interior of her cheeks, the rough edges of her taste buds, the lubricating essence seeping from her glands.
Mommy releases my mouth with an audible pop. A strand of saliva stretches between our tongues, glimmering in the candlelight, before breaking.
“Oh, ma petite puce,” she breathes out, “the same person who used to hunch over her computer and rarely spoke. Look at you playing with my dick like it’s your favorite toy. I want to awaken you to the delights of licking balls, sucking cock, and swallowing a rich and creamy load. That’s what a horny little slut deserves, n’est-ce pas? So now I’ll stand up, and you’ll kneel before mommy like a servant before her queen.”
Author’s note: today’s songs are “Gold on the Ceiling” by The Black Keys, and “You Just Want” by King Creosote.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and eighty-two videos. Check them out.
Wanna feel this uncomfortable again but in an audio format? Check out the corresponding audiochapter!
Send your madness, O Pan, to the ends of the earth. This audiochapter covers chapter 113 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 get my skull cracked open by a dumbell-heavy cock. A total of three hours, forty-seven minutes and seventeen seconds of insanity. Check them out.
Jacqueline’s right hand glides smoothly up and down the length of her manhood, caressing with long and slow pumps that fearsome column, its skin flush and taut and gleaming, whose bulging veins bristle against her fingers. The foreskin slips back and forth with every stroke, revealing the ruddy, helmet-shaped bulb, a raw and pulsing crown ready to enthrall and slather in cream any feminine crease.
A tingling sensation spreads across my scalp while I ogle that monstrosity, a dumbell-heavy weapon designed to rupture flesh, an obscene member that would make a stallion envious, and weighed down by a pair of balls that would fill my palms. A wave of dizziness crashes over me as my heart drums like a bongo. To witness such a transgression against nature should perhaps make me gag with horror, and yet a pool of molten heat stirs in my loins.
“M-mon dieu,” I mumble.
A smirk blooms on Jacqueline’s lips.
“Like what you’re seeing, my little kitten?”
“So now you have a dick to whip around? A big, veiny, throbbing monster-cock?”
She slaps the rigid flesh against her abdomen, sending her tits wobbling and quivering in their black lace cages.
“Uh-huh. Quite dashing, wouldn’t you say?”
“Y-your pussy is gone.”
“Don’t worry, ma chouchoute. It will come back, eager to please and be pleased. No need to mourn its absence.”
I squint and rub my chin. That battering ram could shatter a castle gate.
“A shapeshifting dick puts you at an evolutionary edge. And somehow it suits you to wield that fleshy behemoth, despite your gorgeous face and luscious tits.”
Jacqueline cocks her hip, making one of her stockings rise like a piston.
“Can’t say I disagree. I’m a huntress. A predator, if you will. I relish in the pleasure of the chase, the thrill of the kill. However, what owner of a penis doesn’t desire to impale and empty themselves inside any pussy that struts by? The instinct to breed, to fill, to claim, is always there, simmering beneath the surface. Ever since I became the recipient of such a strange miracle, some of my most exciting times have involved seducing some innocent thing then tearing her in half with this beast.”
I swallow hard. My eyes dart over the length and girth of mommy’s weapon of mass destruction, whose sight causes my core to tighten with a throbbing ache. My gaze drops to the pair of balls suspended low and heavy: that scrotal sac stretched and swollen with seed like a ripening apricot, its urgent load waiting to erupt and paint the world in sticky white ribbons.
Jacqueline releases her cock, and the organ springs back bouncing and wagging. Instead she gropes her dense flesh-fruits as if weighing them. She rolls them, massages them, squeezes them gently. A shiver tiptoes up my spine.
“When was the last time you touched a cock, my dear?” Jacqueline asks playfully.
I recall that random, spiky-haired guy at a party. I had been huddled in a corner, nursing a bottle of vodka and wishing I were dead. Rock music thumped through me, vibrating my organs, while the alcohol buzzed in my brain. Spiky-hair swaggered over. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes. His lips parted, and it took me a second to realize he was talking to me.
“What’s a hot thing like you doing alone, eh?”
“I don’t have a penis,” I answered.
Spiky-hair, with his mud-brown eyes and patchy stubble, grinned.
“I’m not asking for your dick size, babe. I want to know why a hot piece of ass like you is sulking in a corner when you could be getting piped.”
A cocktail of vodka, acid reflux and nervous energy churned in my stomach. I should have stayed in bed with my laptop, scrolling through Pornhub, but I didn’t want to be the recluse that nobody missed. Why did I even bother? My attempts at interacting with humans only made me feel alone.
“Maybe I hate this world and everything in it.”
Although my vision kept blurring, I caught Spiky-hair’s gaze sweeping over my cleavage like a hawk eyeing a mouse, his fingers twitching to fondle, grope, squeeze. He slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close, prodding at my hip with a hard-on. His sour breath singed my nostrils. That mouth, a crooked slash, its foam-flecked lips cracked, resembled a scabbed wound. Rather than let his slimy tongue slide into my mouth, I’d have my teeth yanked out with pliers.
“You’re a babe that’s wasting away. Women are like the ocean: mysterious and deep. But they don’t come close to men, who are like raging fires, a furnace that can’t be tamed. You might as well try to contain a star.”
As his stubbled jaw brushed against my cheek, his hand slid down to my butt and cupped it with a possessive pressure. I wished my bottle of vodka were a knife that I could sink into my heart so I wouldn’t have to endure this nightmare for a second longer.
“Oh, please drown yourself in a puddle.”
I intended to shove Spiky-hair off me and drain him away with a flood of vitriol. However, in the heat and roar of the party, I must have crumbled like a rotted tree, because he led me down a dim and reeking corridor to a stinkier bathroom, a windowless box with a broken toilet seat and a shower curtain streaked with mildew. He spun me around and pressed me face-first against the grimy tiles while tugging my panties down. I heard a zipper unzip. He hawked up a glob of phlegm, spat it into his palm, and slathered the goop on his lead pipe. He pried apart the halves of my ass-flesh. The tip tickled my hole before he plunged into me with a squelch, splitting me open. I grunted like a hurt horse. I shut my eyes and clenched my fists while my colon filled with his oafish thrusts, which I pictured as the blows of a hammer driving a nail into a coffin. My sphincter burned and stung. I wished I had shaved, trimmed, shoved in a plug or whatever to lessen the discomfort of a puffy cock spearing the depths of my bowels. The vodka along with his sweat made me feel like I was drowning in a bog of putrid slime. Would my stomach sputter up the foul mixture of alcohol and acid-drenched junk food that sloshed within? Why had I left the safety of my room, the comfort of my headphones and keyboard and screen? What did I expect from a bunch of humans? They’d sooner tear out my eyes than make me feel welcome. Why did I keep trying to fit in when I’d rather be dead?
Spiky-hair grabbed my breast as if to imprint its meaty contours on his brain. With his free hand, he clutched a fistful of my hair and yanked it, forcing me to arch my back. Saliva bubbled out of my mouth and dribbled onto the piss-stained floor. His nuts whacked against my vulva with wet claps that echoed in the stuffy bathroom. His stubble rasped and raked: a swarm of cockroaches crawling over my skin, their antennae probing my pores, their legs scritch-scratching my flesh. I prayed for his dick to burst, for his balls to shrivel and fall off, but instead his sweaty body bore down on me, he let out a shuddering groan, and his penis swelled and throbbed inside me like a tumor as it spurted a load of grime. In the aftermath, that essence, viscous and hot, had oozed out of my gaping, battered hole to crust between my thighs like dried sap, mingling with the dust bunnies and fungal growths. For days afterward, his stench, the odors of his hair grease and smoker’s breath, of his sweat and cum, had clung to me like a blanket of mold. The phantom of his phallus haunted my rectum whenever I went for a shit. I wanted to scrub myself clean in boiling water, to peel off my skin, to replace every atom of my body with ones that weren’t tainted.
Back in the present, as the warmth of a candle-fueled mood washes over me, I stop rubbing my eyelids and look up at mommy, who’s waiting for me to reply.
“Some random dude’s dick, far from your meat-log of a schlong. During my early twenties, if I recall correctly. So it’s been a while. In the meantime, though, I have messed around with plastic, rubber, and metal imitations.”
“Leire, you’re too precious to be a casual fuck. And your tone tells me that the guy didn’t treat you with the tenderness you deserve.”
“How can I put it? I was tempted to say that I couldn’t remember, because I didn’t want to. That inflamed wound took me months to heal. I doubt even a sexbot would have liked it.”
“My poor chérie.”
I nod in a continuous loop, as if my head were spring-loaded with disappointment. My walls had been breached, my treasures pillaged, my virtue trampled into the dirt.
“In general, dicks are fine. Unfortunately, they tend to be attached to dudes.”
“A real shame, bien sûr.”
“My one epiphany is that I need to hold on to tits for dear life. The more massive the better.”
“You’re in mommy’s loving arms now, ma petite étoile.” She strokes the velvety skin of her colossus, causing its pink crown to twitch. “But what do you think I should do with this novel appendage of mine, huh?”
“Well… Every time you leave the apartment, you could turn your trip into one of those shooter arcade games from the nineties. Pump that sperm launcher and fire at anything that moves and breathes. Leave a trail of hundreds of splattered faces.”
Jacqueline giggles, making her breasts jiggle like gelatin mounds. Her cobalt-blues sparkle with mirth.
“Vraiment, a project worth pursuing, but I’m more interested in how to use my jizz cannon in regards to you, ma coquine, ma douce petite fille. Don’t you want to play with mommy’s special toy?”
I sense myself liquefying at this gift from the god Pan to worship and adorn with garlands.
“It would punch apart and pulverize my guts.”
“Oh, don’t look so disturbed. I was employing a little hyperbole, darling. I can control its basic size and girth, so you’ll just need to lie back, spread your legs, and let me stuff that dripping hole like a blossom fitting snugly within a bud. You know what? Let me show you.”
Author’s note: today’s song is “Ball and Biscuit” by The White Stripes.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A hundred and eighty videos. Check them out.
Do you wanna hear this nonsense acted out by AI voice actors? Check out the audiochapter.
Some of you that normally follow this story may have missed the previous chapter, because I forgot to attach tags to the WordPress post. Oops.
This chapter reminded me, for some reason, of my obscure free verse poem titled “The Well-Hung Duchess of Cosmographica” (that requires a couple of revisions).
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.
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.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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