Bukkakeworld Read online

  What was the point of Jesus Christ’s rebellion when, two thousand years later, Christianity is on its last breath, Islam on its tail like a pack of blood-hounds? You have one tiny victory over adversity, like the tacit dismissal of your ex-wife’s lawyer’s errand boy, and you’re the new Messiah here to liberate the human chore from his brainless duty? Think again, fool.

  They wheeled it in on a huge wooden rack. The snorting, carpet-scraping stud bull...

  You were hunched over the cum-crusted toilet seat all night long, tearing at your stomach like someone who’d just swallowed six bottles of bleach. You puked up gallons of that crazy bull cum, a monochromatic marbling of over-cooked porridge, thick and greasy. All night long. So that this morning you can’t even croak your name. What is your name? You don’t even remember. Do you, you worthless eunuch? You fucked mule.

  Your eyes are all caked together from the unsanitary splash back, and it takes you more than a few delicate minutes under the hot shower to pry those eyelids apart without tearing away some surface cornea in the process. Gotta love that eye bukkake, it’s the big seller, but you know that, having those little wriggling fellas looping around in a kaleidoscopic frenzy right on the mucus-lubricated surface of the eye. Yes, that’s the big cum-shot seller.

  You don’t feel too hungry this morning, do you? Your jaw’s a little tender, the teeth ringing like cymbals, your tonguely taste buds a little raped from the bile and acid and milk of human kindness, as your superiors put it, as they ram-raided your face with their animalistic insertion. You will comply. You will toe the line. You will listen to your superiors. Oh, yeah, you had that bull cock rammed so far down your frigid gullet yesterday—it was a meeting that went on and on as you were ‘re-educated’ in the ways of the corporation. Clearly you had a really disturbing idea about what the corporate ideal was. You’d clearly forgotten about the need to please the share holders at all costs, robbing from the poor to give to the rich. You’d be held up as a glowing example of how the machine can grind down any vestige of individuality from any of its component parts.

  No one existed in Bukkakeworld yesterday, no individual. No human.

  You wonder how long you can take it, stood under the blistering heat of the shower head—the only thing that has the power to deflect the near-constant cum-assault. It’s better if you can boil your own ear drums out one by one, but even that’s not enough, two shower heads would be needed. Should one wear ear plugs in the shower? Is that dangerous? Either that or choke to death under the slime, the filth. A power cut, that’d be the worst thing... and ironically the best thing.

  Suddenly brightened by this revelation, you eat your cum-spattered toast with a pinch of sobriety this morning, having learned what is hopefully the first in a long line of lessons. Today, you took your first step to becoming. Becoming what? Something new. Something other.

  And why is it important to become something other? You let the implications dance haphazardly across the spine-tingled surface of your soul as the cum dribbles from the ceiling like there’s been a murder of a massive cock-n-scrotum in the room above. You imagine this big wet death, up there where the spiders used to play, now sticky with the wretched memory of decaying cock. In your mind, a whale rots on a beach. In another sicker part of your mind, that whale is blown apart into a million biting mammals thanks to the power of explosive anarchy. And you smile.

  A clod of off-white nastiness comes to rest on your smile and, possibly for the first time in your life, you decide not to wipe that bitter crud off your mouth with a disgusted back hand. Instead, you accept that, obviously, this is the way of Bukkakeworld.

  You continue to learn.

  On the Tube that morning, other realities lift to the surface like ogres or faeries swaggering out of a cum-fog thick as London’s old pea-soupers. You start to see through the ever-dancing metal-stench of the cum-dampened air. You start to see what’s going on in the real world out there beyond Bukkakeworld, like a man staring for the first time out of a newly cleaned window. It took you this long to realise that Bukkakeworld was nothing more than a sick delusion that still had the power to choke you to death in your sleep—except that it hadn’t.

  You had never really died in your sleep, not yet, no matter how many gallons of cum had risen up the side of the bed post-REM.

  You see monsters, ripped in three by some benevolent wind.

  You see gushing geysers of porno-spatter dry up as if the biggest vacuum had just been switched on.

  There on the usually-morose subway train that delivers you to your slow death behind a six-per-week P&L account, you see light beaming forth from the condom littered floor, rank with the remnants of some horse disembowelment. You can actually see the slithering innards shirking away from this living light. A puddle of it is all that’s needed for the cum-evil to recede. Wonder what it’s like to be touched by such a glorious manifestation? You reach out a still-cum-covered white sleeve... The cum pulls back from the brightness like a gossamer sheath shying from the touch of a flame.

  You hear a whisper to your right, your first whisper. Ever.

  In the ensuing vision, your mind literally falls off the edge of some cliff top. You’re tumbling down toward it like a steel car towards the rocks. It’s a beautiful girl. Is it? Is it a girl or a boy? You see two of these lovely creatures. They’re nowhere near pubescent. They’re naked and they’re playing some kiss-catch game. They’re on the floor, fighting for possession of some golden leaf that dances away from every attempt to clutch it.

  You look until your head is close to exploding. Your heart is thumping like mad, big BOOMboom BOOMboom BOOMbooms as this innocent circus of temptation flips a generational page and you’re watching a man slip that golden leaf onto his strapping manhood and it’s like a disease that spread across his lower torso, covering the acreage from his bristling thighs to his handsome chest. You see the woman, for that’s the page number she’s currently on, page 23 or 24, she’s seen lots of this sort of foreplay, her eyes are like insane ruttings from the pages of a madman’s diary, her hair is electric gaiety drowning in sorrow, she has on this syringe-veined dress suit of most sombre cashmere, she is probably the most alluring beast you’ve ever witnessed.

  You feel a hardening in your pants. A long-lost loin ache that almost brings you to your knees.

  You just can’t believe you’re seeing these two love birds peck lengthening ribbons of ruby love from each other with beaks hewn from the smoked crystal of their mutual desire. Long strips of flesh flap like hapless wings, interweaving and intermingling the way tongues penetrate assholes so deep and warm, the way fingers pull out eyes in the height of the love rush, the way total annihilation is the only dish you feel like eating this morning, here on this train to the terminus of creative death.

  You see, for almost the first time in your whole life, the reason you are trapped in this world of disgusting horror. But you only see it briefly. And then the heavy grey volume of cum falls back on you like a concrete wall.

  You’ll dream about her tonight, that vision of your saviour. You’ll see your salvation slicing through walls of face-scorching cum and you’ll wish that what you’d seen hadn’t been merely another of Bukkakeworld’s sick games.

  Stepping off the train, a gang of football hooligans brings you crashing to earth with their face-slaps of cum. How can liquid hatred hold such momentum? You are knocked to the floor and stamped on by the collective soccer monster. He lifts you into the air and pulls your underpants down, showing you to all the other passengers on the platform. But this isn’t your usual dream. These passengers are all in tears. They can see that for you there is no hope, only constant abuse at the hands of fate.

  Remembering to keep your mouth open, you take the face filling, taste all that lovely saltiness pouring down your gullet. You know it’s all you deserve, you little pig in a woods snuffling for truffles that went bad six, seven years hence.

  You feel a feather-light hand upon yours.

 
And see a smile. It’s the woman from the train, the whisperer. Her face is so clean, not one string of spunk disfigures her sparkling sheen. Is cleanliness the only godliness that remains? She’s like you, attired for the office. Her suit has an odd, metallic sheen. A city worker, just like you. But she’s not steeped in corporate bullshit. She’s somehow freed herself from the scourge. You can’t let her go. She has the key to your future contentment.

  But you freak out, not able to hold back your excitement.

  You cum on her. You don’t even know where such a stupid thing came from. You just splat one out on her. Your zipper is still fastened—how the unholy fuck of Jesus can you ejaculate a meagre five mil’ onto someone when there’s no rigid cock of ball-tingling angst primed ready and willing to offload a shot? You know it’s you, there’s no need to check over your shoulder to see if some other wank boy had fired a shot across your bows. It was you and you’re none the wiser.

  You see how she takes it, too. See how her tongue snakes out of her mouth at least one foot long, thin, pink; scarily thin, shockingly pink. You see this abomination of a human appendage lick the cum off her eyelid and draw the wriggling nastiness back into her self. Her tongue glows with white hot heat as her inner brightness incinerates the cum. You can even smell the burning of forlorn DNA. It’s like when the dentist burns your root out with the spinning diamond-encrusted tip of his drill. She’s got you up onto your feet and she’s away, dissolving into the crowd the way encrusted cum dissolves on the tongue of an angel.

  All your world is described by the mechanics and the properties of cum, and only she holds the key to your salvation. How can you dare to forget her and let work betray your desire, your very hope for a life after Bukkakeworld?

  One day until

  the worst day

  of your life.

  * * *

  This morning, a seismic jolt of spunk blasts through your bedroom like a car bomb. You’re fully awake now, despite your terminal exhaustion.

  That first thunderous money-shot of the morning was so unexpected, your heartbeat takes minutes to return to its normal rhythm. Then it’s time to take it in the face again. Spurt by spurt, rapidly-cooling aftershocks follow. Corporate normality resumes.

  Such a severe spunk sluicing so early in the day cannot be a good omen. The walls look shaky, squirting and oozing pathetically in comparison. The big off-white gusher from the alarm clock suddenly explodes in your general direction. Some things should never change.

  You’re greasy to your core. Why should today be any different? But today is different. And to test the waters of today’s special atmosphere, you decide not to take a shower. What’s the point, anyway? By the time you’re out the front door and onto the street with the other cum-monsters, you’re covered in the fuck-stuff. From head to toe. Slaking in it ’cos that’s all your sort deserves.

  There’s something new about the kitchen, a certain ambience you can’t quite place. It’s not ‘ambience’ that would imply calm and stress free, but the random skitterings and spatterings of cum don’t have their usual vigour. There’s an atmosphere, yeah, but it’s a foreboding like you get before a big storm. A tension in the cum-soaked air, a premonition of a future world choking to death on cum—like that vision you’ve had before but suddenly, and inexplicably, more likely now than it’s ever felt.

  You eat your rancid, damp toast in total dread. Outside, you can just see through the clogged up window pane. And what you see isn’t good. A storm is brewing. A big one. A gusher.

  That’s how you arrive at the Tube station, where the knackered old trains will transport you to the office like sea sickness. You have the look of a haunted man awaiting the apocalypse. You didn’t even notice as you trudged through the remnants of a night’s intense spunking that the depth and consistency of it was far less oppressive than it normally is. Could it be your perception that’s altered overnight? Could you actually be getting used to living in this crazy fucking place?

  You arrive at work in excellent time, no delays, no more shat on than usual, no more raped in the face by cabbies, fellow passengers, street sleepers, stupid old men and women pulling cum-smeared cadavers out of skips. You’re there at work; you don’t have to grovel through reception like some whore who doesn’t have enough money to pay her pimp. You’re not gonna get a beating today. Not today. Today, you waltz through reception, nearly smiling, nearly cheery, nearly willing to engage those lizard-headed fucks you are condemned to work alongside.

  But every cloud, especially a storm cloud... can strike at any time, the swilling bowl of eastern promise—the spunk bucket can be launched at you from all sides at once and leave you with no means of escape. And that’s how you first discovered that management, in their infinite wisdom, had that morning installed a new Nazi Timelord in your branch.

  Your stomach starts to ache very early in the working day as files are returned to you with ‘suggestions for improvement’ and ‘requests to return’ missing case files, software manuals, telephone directories and other sundry items you might have lying around on your sticky little desk there by the fire exit door. You know you’re on your way out—this is always the start of an end game. The cunning combination of the fire exit door desk and the Nazi Timelord.

  They’re seeing how much you can take. Soon, maybe this afternoon, she’ll bring in the ‘yard of cum’. It’s a special incentive to cajole unwanted employees out the door. That door, right there, with the subtly illuminated FIRE EXIT message on it.

  And you know what? The yard of cum came early and you gulped it down, leaving the Nazi Timelord nothing else to do but stamp those little jackboot heels on the floor and goose step in the direction of her line manager to maybe kick him in the balls a few times over a naked liquid lunch of yours truly followed by a cat vomit enema. That’s what upper management’s really like. We all know about it, we just don’t like to be seen sharing the knowledge with those outside our shitty little hutch. All’s you have to do is lick your lips with a certain amount of pride... Yeah, pride before a fall, surely. But for now, nothing tastes better than a yard of gulped down pride.

  Lunchtime starts out weirdly. You weren’t even asked to work through like always. You sit in your usual haunt, the concrete-stepped snacking area directly outside your gleaming multi-story office, which stretches up into the grey murk like a golden phallus, twisting, ever rising. There are no accompanying sounds of sirens pestering the horizon. There are no territorial squabbles between bird factions feeding off spunk-damp sandwich crumbs either. You notice a few of the regular office nobodies, geeky losers and social exiles, freaks like you, huddled together in agitated union, their communal rubber fishing umbrella offering little protection from the constant cum drizzle.

  This, in itself, is atrocious bad juju—anyone knows when that coven of witches ’n bitches get together no good can come of it. A rip had clearly happened somewhere in the grand scheme of things and these spineless inner-ugly fucks had wriggled their fetid way through to wreak havoc. But maybe it’s a good omen to someone, somewhere. For directly at that moment comes a rumbling and a chuntering from far off in the gurgling testicles of the horizon.

  Suddenly, exploding round the corner, burned-out cars, window-smashed buses, old dustbins left out after the bi-monthly refuse collection, dead pigeons, drowning prostitutes, trainee Santa Clauses, a tortoise-shell kitten, a barge house kicked up from the harbour of someone’s late night fuck-wittery, smash through the snacking area, dragging you and those other reprobates off into the distance. You watch your fellow hate mates (you should call them colleagues, you bastard) drilled to death by the scabby little animals who writhe about like bitter and twisted flotsam and jetsam hurled about in the...

  It’s so obvious.

  The Nazi Timelord has only gone and ordered a cum tsunami to slam-dunk the otherwise pleasant snacking area, where illicit office gossip too slanderous for cubicle time gets taped by a parabolic microphone up on floor five for use in later quarte
rly appraisals.

  You gasp for breath, but it’s no good. Spunk enters your mouth like some gruesome tentacle. Your wet feet skid about on the tiled surface of the pedestrian district just down the road from your office. You close your mouth momentarily and go under. Fists of cum punch into your eyes. Teeth of living cum drill into your ears. A huge cum whale rolls over onto you, crushing you against the tarmac of the road. You hit something hard and your life flickers on/off on/off like a knackered neon tube light. A gallon or ten of industrial cum pours down your throat and you actually feel your belly swelling up like a pregnancy that’s only gonna take one day instead of nine months. You’re now a bloated tick, lodged in deep under the bustling torrent of cum by where the old laundrette used to be, before it became another Korean convenience store.

  You see the tortoise-shell kitten, dead now, float by, buffeted this way and that by the gurgling morass. You realise you’re gonna die in this cum tsunami. You’re gonna remain trapped under the gush, wedged in by the sheer weight of cum. You can already feel the tunnel pouring in on you like so much liquid manure. You’re losing consciousness and will soon, like that wretched little kitten, be dead too.

  You surface, gasping for breath, right arm flailing about, in your left hand the damply limp tortoise-shell kitten. You’re puked up, like Jonah from his whale. Clearly someone is looking down on you today. Someone really special, someone really vindictive.

  Whoever it is has spared your pathetic life in the name of future torture. They have coughed you back into the land of the living—well, the land of the creative whirlpool of destruction. You’re alive, anyway. And you love how your life has just turned around. You can’t see it? Well, open your eyes, dimwit. Look around you for just a brief moment.

  Assess where you are, and where you won’t be expected back this afternoon. You’ve been partially liberated by the heavy-handed actions of the Nazi Timelord. Hell, even the sun has got his hat on, for a few minutes at least.