Bukkakeworld Page 3
In your cum-soaked embrace, your brand new friend. It’s a small tortoise-shell kitten. And it loves you more than anything on this entire planet has ever loved you. Its cute little nose twitches like it’s going to sneeze. Who ever heard of a kitten that was allergic to a human? Sure enough, the sneezy little blighter confirms your most confused irritation.
“Atchoo!” sneezes the tortoise-shell kitten. It doesn’t actually say, “Atchoo!” Kittens can’t speak. But they can sneeze. You forget, momentarily, that you used to be allergic to cats. But now the tables have been turned. Soon, you will understand how totally unique this little tortoise-shell kitten is, but for now you smile in silent wonder.
Later, we will discover the ironic joys of Bukkakeworld together.
The worst day
of your life,
morning.
* * *
The first glob of spunk hits your face. Just like any other morning. It doesn’t fully awaken you. Why should it? You feel, somehow, less tired today and lie there for a moment, pondering Bukkakeworld’s queer workings.
The first money-shot of the day.
It brings the merest flinch from you most mornings and today even less so... Only the soft purring of the little tortoise-shell kitten with whom you share your cum-drenched bed makes you realise that you’re not totally dead. That little tortoise-shell kitten reminds you there’s not six feet of worm-riddled soil over your ashen face. Kitten is suddenly, and inexplicably, your link to reality. The dream on the other side of the milky-white veil. The silence that exists just out of reach, just beyond your slimy grasp.
Regular as clockwork, 7 a.m. arrives like a howling wind urging on a nasty storm.
You suddenly remember yesterday’s cum tsunami but you haven’t yet seen that your answer phone has an abusive message primed and ready to target a good gallon or so of arse-stinking cock cream into your face, that blinking message light like a dentist drill coring out a deep, festering root. For now, you lie there in bed, arms out, as if in the aftermath of a savage sexual climax. You’re spattered with cum on a regular basis from ragged vectors of irritating dampness. You notice the soft little tortoise-shell kitten beside you, purring with obvious contentment as it chases baby butterflies in a garden of dreams. Ears and paws twitching. Do kittens always smirk like that? One long, curved canine revealed.
That little tortoise-shell kitten stirs in its sleep; remember, you haven’t worked out whether it’s a he or a she yet. It rubs its whiskers in your cum-strewn face. You need a shave. Kittens don’t like rough chins. It flinches then sneezes, all over your face. It awakens and starts to lick the cum from your face with innocent enthusiasm. You know this is wrong. You know the kitten has no idea what it’s doing. But you get hard all the same. Hungry little scamp.
You wonder how far that gulping little cum kitten will go. Will you ejaculate on your own belly and have that rough kitten tongue scour out your navel? You stroke its fur with a lazy hand. And an electric jolt scampers down your arm, embedding itself in a lost and lonely part of your brain. A thunderous pain bores into your scalp. You flip over into a foetal shape. Hands holding your still-reverberating skull. Lips pulled back. Eyes screwed shut. Anger growling out through your clenched teeth. Cum spattering the enamel.
The kitten clambers over the skin of your shoulder, its razor-sharp claws extended, and starts to clean your teeth with its rough pink tongue.
You black out with rage, grab the little annoying ball of fur and throw it against the wardrobe. It hits the thin wood door like so much bony dead cuteness. For the first time in God knows how many years, you are enveloped in an absolute bliss of tranquillity. You can’t believe what’s happened and how easily bliss is accessed. How you came to be so mean to a soft little kitten whose fur makes you cry, whose smirk makes you cry, whose current position, dead like that over by the wardrobe, makes you weep out your entire soul.
You lie there, unable to get off the bed. Not wanting to see the callous destruction of a soft little creature. You know, sooner or later, you’ll have to dispose of something so cute it makes your whole body shudder with shame. But you also know that you cannot face it. Not now. Maybe later, after a shower and some dry goods others call breakfast. Maybe after the morning’s second shower. As you leave for work, you can check up on the soft little tortoise-shell kitten. By then it might have recovered from its fatal impact with the wardrobe door. You’re a truly spineless bastard.
You raise your head and see the small vertical crack in the wardrobe door where orange and brown cat fur meshes with the splinters. You realise you might be a murderer. You realise you’re a total cunt who needs murdering. Then you hear a plaintive meow and your heart leaps. You haven’t killed the kitten. There may yet be a way to save yourself, unburden yourself of the guilt. Salvage your life from the seven hells of the hell licker.
You race off the bed and reach for the fallen kitten. Your foot slides on a patch of freshly dealt cum and you crash into the bedside table. There, on its side, is the telephone, the receiver hanging limply to one side. The angry red LED message light a grand-mal seizure of accusation. And then you remember why you weren’t at work yesterday afternoon.
You know you wanna help that poor little kitten but you’re trapped in a dilemma ensnared by a corporate quandary. Kitten. Message. Kitten. Message. It might be important.
You hit the PLAY button and crawl over to the kitten, who’s weakly floundering around in the ankle-depth of sickly-cold-death cum. But you never make it. A vile explosion erupts from the tiny speaker of your message machine. An eruption so hideous, you collapse flat on the floor, quacking like a duck, fingertips away from the kitten. Your whole body has been immobilised by the sheer weight of cum, like a giant off-grey turd that lands upon you again and again and again, crushing your ribs and spine to a pinkish pulp. You hear the life crushing out of you. You taste the tunnel closing in on you. You smell the eyes of the brave little tortoise-shell kitten flutter open as the walls close in. Compression waves batter your flattened out body.
This morning you will die, roars the machine.
You are incapable of movement. Nothing works now. The corporation has knocked on your door and you (like the idiot you are) have invited them in. And they have crushed the very soul from you. They’re citing lawyers and breach of confidentiality clauses and remuneration of salary and deferment of health benefits and all the usual cynical shit that makes employees quake in their under-crackers.
This is the corporate equivalent of the third degree. The grilling, if you will.
Today, they’re gonna roast your nuts on their corporate barbie and make you eat them—crispy cancered on the outside, viral raw on the inside. When they fold you up into a delicate little origami, you’ll know what it tastes like to eat your own cum-growers. Your ball sack will be stuffed so far down your throat that you’ll suffocate as time dilates the moment of death off into infinity.
Message ends abruptly:
There, having swum through the mitochondrial mire of cum, the brave little tortoise-shell kitten. Your life saver. It collapses from the terror of its own exertions. Its paw sliding off the PLAY button.
You unfurl from your crumple as a great guilty weight is lifted from you. You realise now that you took a sickie yesterday afternoon after the cum tsunami. You had the audacity to take time off work without a minimum of one week’s agreed approval. You didn’t even phone in ill. You just neglected to return after lunch. You slimy fuck. You’re worse than some thieving scum that runs round villages late at night raping near-crippled old ladies taking their rotting old anger terriers for a midnight stroll. You’re the monster who violates these same old women with the Zimmer frame you’ve just used to pummel the skull of their pet Labrador. Grey goo pouring out of a dog fur shape.
But, if the Nazi Timelord ordered the cum tsunami... they expect you to be dead. They know you are dead. They are just covering their tracks so that when the Authorities arrive to check on your M.I.A. status,
they can all have a deep resonant belly laugh at your reprimand as they scrape their shit-lined jack boots through the grime and detritus of your worthless life.
Those fuckers are nothing more than pack dogs sent on errands by their evil master.
In a mad panic, horror fluttering through your resurrection, you find the kitten and cradle the limp form in your sticky hands. All emotion is swaddled in cum.
You feel your lips turning blue. You feel your eyes roll about on greased bearings. You wonder if the corpse of reality is about to sit up in its own puke and kiss you to death. But you survive. You know you have to survive for the sake of that kitten. You have discovered your destiny in Bukkakeworld.
The worst day
of your life,
mid morning.
* * *
This has never happened to you before. Usually a whole day of filthy shit happens to you before you’re too shattered to go on. You slump down onto your cum-spattered bed in total exhaustion. You don’t awaken the next morning under some sinister shower of cum.
It’s still the same day.
You’re locked there in space and time, still in your bedroom, the soft little tortoise-shell kitten in your humane embrace. You bring the brave little tyke to your nose and inhale its needle-sharp scent. You see the puny ribs rising and falling. A feeble sneeze escapes from it like it’s got a chesty cold or something. You detect a wheeze.
“I’ll save you,” you purr at Kitten.
Yes, you’ve named it Kitten. But Kitten doesn’t seem to hear you. You wonder if Kitten’s brain damaged, if taking it to a vet will just result in that vet telling you ‘the bad news’ of said hero’s swift dispatch with needle, gas or pipette. The vet will look at you in his practised way, nod in a consoling fashion and draw the sympathy out of you like some curdling pus. At which juncture you’ll blurt your pint of cum and your anger will pour out in solemn reverence. You’ll feel more worthless than ever and you’ll return to your pathetic accommodation alone to dream of razor bladed veins, handgun muzzle flashes or deathly drops onto the concrete shopping arcade’s main thoroughfare.
This weary realisation is your second money-shot of that day. You’re so lucky to have awoken twice in one day. Maybe your luck is about to turn. How more fucked up can this worst day of your life get?
You phone for a TaxiKrab and when it arrives (fifteen minutes later than projected) you let the vaguely Pakistani looking driver take a piss all over you and Kitten. You zip up his fly with your teeth and promise never again to question his judgement. He asks you where you want dropping off like he’s not gonna stop, like he’s gonna drive past your destination at full speed and kick you the fuck out.
You thank him for his honestly brutal cum benediction and hope that when he has kicked you out of his TaxiKrab at speed at your destination that he’ll back up and run over your bruised and battered skull a couple of times until all the cum-maggots have shat from your splattered cranium.
You come round in the back of a TaxiKrab as if from a trance, the Pakistani cab driver shrinking back from you, his cat-clawed cock in his hands. You feel a dribble of fresh cum on your face. Some things never change. You step down from the living innards of the TaxiKrab and find that you’ve asked to be brought to the local Cat Hospital. You didn’t even know there was such a thing. You sense that Kitten made you do it. This cute little tortoise-shell thing, this work of the devil still snickering at you despite its maltreatment that has, thus far, brought you here.
Without being able to tell you, without being able to show you, Kitten has chosen this place. This shrine of cat saving. You know you’re allergic to cats and you hesitate on the threshold. Old ladies cram past you in the foyer, snarling sperm and other evil unctions of the soul. Some of them spit on you, purple rinse of cum dribble depending from their hairy chins. Kitten twitches, as if its life is about to expire. A miniscule cough of blood? It’s your fault, you evil fuck.
You sit there in reception, cradling that pathetic-looking ball of damp fur. Awaiting your turn with the vet. The back of your throat, your nose, your ears even, are itching like mad and you rub your tongue across the roof of your mouth as if that’ll ease the itching. Nothing helps. You’re still allergic to cats despite your esoteric acceptance of Kitten’s catness. You see Kitten looking up at you from time to time. You wonder if it’s taking the piss, faking its injury, prolonging your agony, increasing your mental trauma.
A flash frame from some other dark place scurries past at the periphery of your occluded vision. That hair, alive like snakes or solemn temptation. You look up and see her entering her surgery just a moment too late.
You look down at Kitten as your heart takes flight. It’s her. You knew it. Well, at least suspected it all morning. This kitten, like the cum tsunami, had been sent by higher powers. Clearly Kitten is a physical manifestation of the benevolent side of Bukkakeworld. And now you’ve been led back to its master. When you enter the vet’s surgery you more than half expect it to be the pristine-faced woman from the train. She whose only stain was donated by your ugly ebullience in the face of untainted beauty.
You see yourself entering the vet’s surgery. She’ll say something like, “Return my messenger to its tiny cat box, there in the corner. We have much to discuss about getting you out of Bukkakeworld. I have such a scheme. There are those within the corporation who’d rather you were assassinated like a dog in a piss-stinking back alley.” She’ll take you under her enormous wings of love and cradle the pain and hurt from your sodden soul.
You’ll cry. You’ll tell her all the things you thought you’d forgotten about your short and pointless life. You’ll expunge yourself of the hurt, and you’ll be healed. Like some great catharsis, your distress will dissipate and you’ll emerge from the cocoon of her empathy a new man.
But that isn’t what happens. The bull dyke who turns around may have an inkling of the hair of your saviour from the tube train, but she’s easily thirty stones heavier. She’s putting the phone down. Sirens blare in the distance like some wan soundtrack.
“I’ve called the Authorities on you, you sick fucker.” She’s like a hot iron bar being driven into your face by a mechanical press. She has that level of industrial brutality. You reel about, Kitten tumbling from your grasp. Your whole world starts to vomit you up again and again. You’ve become totally displaced from the concrete chill of Bukkakeworld, totally adrift on some lost sea, miles away from salvation.
You tear about in the salty undertow, unable to gain purchase on the slippery rocks underfoot, about to go under one last time. You hear Kitten, meowing in slow motion. You see it falling to its death on the terracotta-tiles floor of the vet’s surgery, see its little skull exploding on impact, see its little tortoise-shell paw pointing up at you across the aeons as the Authorities arrive to frog-march you to a future filled with only ass-rape and knees to the teeth.
Mustering all the strength left in you, you reach down and pluck Kitten from its fatal descent. All four claws of its outstretched paw penetrate the flesh of your hand. You stagger to one side as the vet comes at you with a scalpel. Blood spills, but steel misses. What the fuck’s happening to this mad world? You see a fire exit sign. Always the fire exit sign.
You reach for the bar, and push down. Nothing happens. The wailing sirens get closer. Insanely close. Time dilating around your terror. There’s a siren screaming inside your head suddenly like some maniac fire alarm has gone off. You press down on the bar. You hear the vet’s butch falsetto laugh approaching you from behind. You can now taste her mouth on the back of your neck, slavering her caustic evil down the back of your shirt. You feel her poison seeping into your pores.
You gasp for breath and push one final time.
The fire exit door pops open and you’re assaulted by the creamy white slaughter of the cum-drenched sky. You slide and stagger about in your revolting mire. You hear the Authorities arrive via reception. You see a small stone wall you’ll have to scale to get away scot-free
. You know the vet won’t venture out into this.
You have in your mind’s eye an image of the vet making her way home. See her clothed in her rubber wear. Rubber is no longer just a fetish thing, but a necessary protection from the ills of Bukkakeworld. Yet, as with every necessity, the fashion designers of a condom-world-long-dead have emerged like moth from chrysalis to show how rubber’s meant to be worn.
A street of rubber wearers. Some covered in clinging ribbed-n-lubed, demanding respite from the soul-murdering grease. Some skins are clearly thicker than others. Some more garishly tinted. Some simulating a knife cut down the length of a cock, some a fist pounding a cunt forever.
Some revealing tiny keyholes of human flesh, clearly others are enjoying this purge more than you. You watch them in mini-orgasmic rapture each time a glob of it lands on their exposed flesh. A midriff quivers, a forearm shivers, breasts, yes, some of those freaks have their breasts exposed to the cold shock of Bukkakeworld, which unleashes onto the soft mammary mounds in quaint deposit.
It’s street life for the safety conscious. Wait until they can no longer afford their protective sheaths. It comes to us all eventually, degradation of the sheath. It’s a truth we’ll all have to face.
In your mind’s eye, the vet is on her side in the street licking at the lubricated combination lock to her cum-tax-deductible WalKar. You see the airtight hinge of the front cunt flap greasily slide open and the hydraulic thighs part. In she slides like a soapy ferret and up on two chrome legs like some Transformer. Away at a Cuban-heeled gallop goes your nemesis, leaving you face to face with the gloating slickness of that anti-climb-treated brick wall at the back of her surgery.
You’ll get over that damned wall if it’s the last thing you do in Bukkakeworld.