Bukkakeworld Page 4
The worst day
of your life,
noon.
* * *
A trowel of congealed pubic-hair-sparkling cum lands on your dirty plate in some deserted café round the corner from the vet’s.
This slop, this curdled gloop, this pasty puke is supposed to keep you going through the worst day of your life. Judging from the way it seeps through the fork like that, your stomach is going to be gurgling and twinging in a few short hours.
Kitten laps at its saucer of human breast milk with feline glee. You can see it’s actually smiling at you from across the table, bubbles of mammary mucous on its whiskers. The grimy waitress comes over and coughs some spatter of cum on you and Kitten. Kitten don’t give a fuck. You hear Kitten chuckle like a chicken. Kitten shakes its tortoise-shell ears and a giddy cloud of cum-dust bursts off it like some gay halo.
You change utensils and spoon a good dollop of that lukewarm bile into your mouth. That, and the shit service in this shit hole, is clearly all you deserve. You’re a worthless fucking scum who needs to suffer for his art. Eat it. Eat that cum bucket. Slurp it dry. That’s what your addled brain says to you.
But then a miracle happens. It’s the sort of miracle you were imagining should have happened by now but had lost all hope that it ever would. Another customer finally comes into the café, cursing his cum-drenched state, shaking his rubber long coat and huffing at the waiter who’s trying to help him disrobe to his shrunken grey suit.
Kitten’s ears prick up, its cute little nostrils twitch, its whiskers flutter. Kitten has scented something on the gust of ass-raped wind brought in by that last gooey customer. Good little Kitten.
You finish your gruel as you watch Kitten in its analysis of the stale air before the air conditioning whisks away the foul odour. What on earth is Kitten up to?
On the Tube moments later, you’re again insulted by snarl-spatterings and shout-snaggles of cum. There clearly is no respite from this pasty abuse. But Kitten’s resolve is unshakable, its little nose is like a beacon in the cum mist, ploughing a furrow through the landscape of greasy man fat. You follow Kitten’s nose, getting off at the next stop.
Your work stop.
You realise you’ve retraced your steps back to your own office. It’s a minute after official lunchtime so you’re quite safe. You’ll not meet anyone out in the open, so late, not with The Sharks out prowling for slackers. You stand there, looking up at the enormous, golden, phallic monument to Capitalism.
Kitten paws its soaked ears, shakes its soggy head, sneezes. That cum, when it lands on you like some insipid infestation, is real annoying.
You take a seat there, in the concrete snacking area. Wondering if someone from head office is looking out of a cum-streaked window right now. Maybe they’re calling The Sharks to have your ass removed. Maybe someone in your office will recognise you. Maybe even the Nazi Timelord is looking at CCTV footage of you sat there like that, squinting against the incessant splattering of cum, staring up into the murky sky, a cute little tortoise-shell kitten on your lap.
You wonder not only what’s going on in those thirty floors of board rooms but also what’s going on in the mind of the bitch who runs the place. A woman you’ve never formally been introduced to but whose reputation as The Ice Queen preceded her coronation to her current position. This ruthless tactician had made life unbearable for so many of her colleagues, her peers, her equals at so many other companies that it was only a matter of time before she breezed across corporate borders to her exalted penthouse in yours.
Even from down here, you witness section managers pouring their wrath down on those under them, you see meetings disperse and employees return to their cum-stained cubicles, you see distraught employees standing on open window ledges while sobbing colleagues pull them back to safety. You are about to move off and assume your position at the bottom of the social barrel, ready to accept yet more of the quickly-cooling swill they serve down at the Unemployment Office. You realise you’ll never be going back to that shit hole of a company. You’ll never again have to think of budgets, deadlines or margins.
You’ll probably end up scraping walls of human hair from clogged sewers or some other sundry menial part-time task. You’re resigned to your fate. You take a big deep breath. Then Kitten tenses in your lap. You feel kitten claws penetrating the flesh of your thighs.
Now you are truly awake and you see what’s got Kitten so riled. But it’s a false alarm. Must have borne the smell of someone else. Imagine an ungodly tryst taking place in a board room somewhere up on floor thirteen. They’ve whipped it out, stuck it in, cum and zipped up. That’s the wreckage that walks away from such a car crash of fate, that there, the blonde Velcroing her Day-Glo rubber mac’. Her right hand shoots up, hailing a TaxiKrab.
Some corporate whore acting as an executive tax deductible in bullish years like these. A legitimate business expense, according to the wiser accountants.
You wonder if you’ll make it through this worst day of your life. You wonder how long you can sit here in the drizzle with some living sniff radar waiting, waiting.
“For what?” you scream at Kitten.
Kitten flinches, like it’s grown used to just taking the crack around the back of the head and getting on with its assigned task. Just how old is Kitten? What sort of life has it had? You never get an answer to that question; kittens don’t talk with humans. You sit it out for another hour or so and then you’ve had enough. Despite Kitten’s clawing disapproval, you get up off the concrete seat. Looking back over your shoulder, you see that you’ve left a dry spot.
“Come on, little fella, let’s get going.” You have no idea where you’re gonna get going to, no idea where you’re spending the night. The Authorities are sure to have raided your place. You’re effectively out on the streets. Do your credit cards even work anymore? Or maybe you’ve been lucky—the vet could only give a vague description of you. There are so many like you, average looking Joes with nothing to distinguish them against all the other cum-soaked corporate lackeys. Maybe it’s safe to return home and at least have a soft mattress beneath you as you drown in a sea of cum.
But as you wander off, you see that Kitten has once again stiffened, struggling and twisting in your grasp. There’s more to this Kitten than meets the eye. A sudden tremble. A sneeze. A shake of the head. Kitten is clearly disturbed by something.
You see a woman. Nothing special about her. She’s your common-or-garden office worker. Grey dress suit with a sinister metal sheen. Heels of lethal altitude. Hair licking about in the breeze.
There’s no breeze. The air is calm as the moment after a bomb has gone off.
You look again and you see it is the woman from the train, your Samaritan. She hasn’t spotted you. Surprise is your ally. You see a TaxiKrab scuttling sideways out of traffic. You know this might be the only time you’ll ever see this mysterious woman again. The cum-streaked shell of the TaxiKrab pops open, kerbside, and she clambers in. The door starts to shut. You’re gonna miss her, you dumb fuck.
You stand there in the spattering cum rain as the TaxiKrab moves off, its door nearly all the way closed. Then Kitten does this meow thing you’ve never heard a cat do. It’s like a siren but cat flavoured. It’s so hard to explain. Put it this way—it attracts the woman’s attention.
She leans forward to tell the driver to reopen the Krabdoor on that side. You step up into the glistening innards of the TaxiKrab, that regulation sweet-meat smell you’ll never forget. A woman’s hand reaches out for you.
“Get in!” the woman screams, hauling you in. “What are you doing around here?” The TaxiKrab scuttles away, clambering over the other vehicles as if in a hurry to be away from this zone of the City. Kitten leaps into her arms, and settles down in her familiar lap, purring like a little one-stroke paraffin engine. You look at her, watching the way her hair is always on the move, despite the air-conditioned uniformity of the air.
Before you answer her, a sudden dull e
xplosion goes off high behind you. You look around and see the golden cock office block slowly crumble under the weight of its top ten floors. Floor by floor, the building falls, falls, falls, stirring up a cum quake and resultant cum tsunami that the TaxiKrab barely escapes in one piece.
The worst day
of your life,
afternoon.
* * *
Her apartment, one bedroom, 40th floor overlooking the better part of the city.
Same day.
Something is very wrong here.
You’ve got so used to Bukkakeworld’s pasty abuse, you can’t keep from gaping that way, expecting another deluge of spunk to slap you across the chops, as it’s all you’ve ever known. You’re getting lockjaw just thinking about normality. Your ears begin to hiss. Kitten’s looking up at you, like that, your eyes all wild, your stomach gurgling like crazy, your mouth wide open like a chick. Desperate gagging sounds, hyperventilation.
She comes out of the kitchen carrying a silver salver of real food.
Clean food.
“You can quit that gaping now.” She dispatches a retort in your general direction as she fixes up the table. Knives, forks, spoons, and a little bowl of sugar. You haven’t tasted sugar since... You haven’t really tasted anything in thirteen years. Thirteen years of marriage to that bitch, thirteen years in the corporate rat race.
But that was yesterday. Today, the world starts afresh. Today, you have Kitten. Today, you have a saviour. Today, you have a future.
“Look, I said quit the gaping already, okay?” She looks back at you. “You’re gonna make me puke. And I’m not ready to puke just yet.”
There, see that? Notice what she says and how she says it: I’m not ready to puke just yet. As innocent and benevolent as this Samaritan seems, there is clearly an undercurrent of menace to every syllable of every word of every sentence she utters. It’s like she, herself, is a bomb primed to go off at some unknown time, never totally in control of her destructive immolation.
But you can’t help it. It’s so hard to break the habit of a lifetime. Your jaw just knows that’s what’s supposed to happen. Where is the cum? Why aren’t you getting it across the face in soft cooling dribs and drabs? Where’s the sensation of swallow, regurgitate, swallow you’ve become so accustomed to? The wrought tension in guts ready to accept any filth poured down the worthless little gullet...
She slaps you across the face. Who the fuck cares? You need your cum in the face and no bitch is gonna deny you that luxury. “Come on, bitch,” you snarl at her.
“Aren’t you even going to ask my name?” She seems slightly perplexed by your reaction.
But you’re in a fury of self-loathing. “Give me the full facial. Give it your best fucking shot, whore,” you growl and foam like a rabid dog, which is all you’ve ever attained, the status of a kicked thing, a useless crab shell, a broken toy.
She takes out a device and shoots you dead.
Obviously, that’s not what really happens, but neither is it some sort of Valentine’s Day Massacre wet-dream fantasy. She did shoot you with some weapon, right in the centre of your skull. Kitten leaps onto the clean glass coffee table to watch you flail around on the floor like some mad fish that’s just found itself (via the tasty sharpness of a fishhook) out of the water and on the wooden deck of some fisherman’s boat. You try to leap back, gotta race back into the water of your life. You can’t stay up here in clean air, it’s not where you belong. You need to be back in there, where you grew up. There’s no other place you’re able to be.
When you come around, there’s still a piece of thin wire attached to the barb embedded in the skin of your forehead. Kitten is there, like the dutiful nursemaid, licking your bleeding head wound. You shoo it away and it thinks it’s all part of a game. It comes in again, for another lick, its head low, its tail flicking this way and that in gleeful giddiness. You get angry and think about crushing it under a fist like you’d crush some louse between your fingernails. Then you realise Kitten’s happy to see you.
From the look on her face, she’s happy to see you, too. She’s eating toast. Warm, dry toast. Neat triangles of warm, dry toast topped with caviar. That’s fish eggs, dumbo.
“What. Have. I...?” You try to make words form sentences, you joker.
“My name is Marianne Buckman.” She has Kitten on her lap. Kitten likes Marianne Buckman’s lap. Kitten is happy. Marianne Buckman is happy.
“You shot me?”
“You had made yourself immune to sexual overtures.”
“What?” Did she really just suggest that Brahms and Bach and Beethoven could make the creamy white slather jump out of your body somehow?
“You’d adjusted something about your sexual development. You’d cancelled out the regular functionality of the stuff there,” she points at your still-cum-encrusted zipper, “and we were all suffering your torture.”
“How. Can. You. Suffer... What I...?”
But she hasn’t finished yet. She holds up a hand. You see how delicate it is. Thin and flexible as an Eastern dancer’s hand. It could be an artist’s hand, an office worker’s hand. Not the rough, square hand of a manual labourer. Not the hand of an assassin.
“There are people in the world who control the climate. We all do to some extent. But there are those whose percentage of control is greater than the norm. You are one of those people.” She’s happy with her explanation so far and offers you a sweet, Oriental cake.
The cake is so clean. There’s not a single tendril of cum slung across it. You burp out loud in nervous anticipation. You’ve never seen such a pristine little cake. And it sort of makes you sick. Your sort is not used to such unblemished goods. The delicacy of its design. The sugary alcohol of raisin. The nasal sting of cane sugar. The angelic lightness of dough.
You feel a knot growing in your stomach as the sickly sweetness lifts off the cake and pours like a living spectre into your nose and mouth. You feel yourself beginning to choke. You think you’re about to faint. Your stomach saves you and erupts its meagre cum-spoiled content onto Marianne’s synthe-pine tiled floor.
“That’s the first part of discovering who you are.” She sets Kitten aside and returns to the kitchen to fetch a mop and bucket. Even in Bukkakeworld such simple things exist? This woman clearly has access to a whole other parallel universe of domestic accessories. You know they say there are as few as three people in your entire life who you’ll meet and will become a significant influence in the way your world works? Could this Marianne be one of them? You can only hypothesise in wonder at the things such a delightful creature could teach you.
The floor is covered in puke, and that rosy, sickly, sweet, smelly death lingers and clings and stings the nostrils. Marianne goes about her cleaning duties with military precision. Yes, that’s what’s been bugging you about her. The posture, the general attitude she conveys. She’s definitely, if not military trained herself, in the know about military procedure and methodology. She stinks of the military. There’s an air about her. Was it the way she dealt with the destruction of your damned office? Was it the way she pulled you all from the wreckage of the TaxiKrab? Dealt with the mortally wounded driver as any soldier would.
“You’re wondering what I’d be like in bed, I bet.” She sees you’re thinking about her, pondering her persona.
“Of course, it’s the first thing I thought of when I brought up my lunch,” you reply sarcastically.
She flops beside you, on the couch. What does she care if there are a couple of greasy carrot cubes beside you? She doesn’t even see them.
She’s a bit manic, suddenly. Kitten hops down from its perch and saunters into another room. Maybe it’s seen this sort of thing before and has no taste for it. Maybe Kitten is jealous. Maybe Kitten is just plain hungry and this is as good a time as any to tuck into its waiting supper.
Like a woman possessed, Marianne Buckman starts to peel the spunk-sodden clothing from your scrawny body. She smells funny, up close. Famil
iar, cardboardy. You can’t place the odour but it freaks you out a bit and you clench your teeth together at the back of your jaw. There’s this noise, of grinding teeth, that starts to reverberate through her apartment. You’re not sure what it is until it’s all too late.
The worst day
of your life,
evening.
* * *
Even before you are fully aware of it, she has your cock in her mouth. It doesn’t fully awaken you, this ingesting of your manhood—you are way past such folly. So bleached by years of cum scars.
That first sensation of the back of Marianne’s throat is nothing more than an oblique view through some ripped old curtain, a glimpse of the dust-speckled beam of sunlight. You try to catch your breath, unable to understand the horror.
It’s still early in the seduction. Nothing like the promise of sexual release that this first throating hints at. Regular as clockwork from that point on, her thin long tongue dances about the girth and length of your cock. You suddenly understand what that strange smell coming off her is.
It’s at this point that we have to talk a little about what we mean by cock. You’ve never had a real cock. And what you’ve had between your skinny hairless legs is nothing like you’d understand a human sexual organ to be.
There’s no hole, for example, there’s just a flap of skin that sits atop the cartilaginous underside. The cock itself is long and knobbly, split as it is into three bony sections. To all intents and purposes, your manhood looks like a long fat finger curled up in your pubic bush like an angular pig’s tail.
Marianne takes this strange finger thing into the deepest part of her throat. You can feel the back of her throat there, like there’s something, an obstruction of some type. Are you thinking of a throat lined with gills? Are you thinking of a throat ribbed with eyelids? You dare not think too hard about it.