Bukkakeworld Page 5

  After a few minutes of this insane-throating, you start to boil inside. You were already very uncomfortable and you’re about to get a whole lot more uncomfortable. You gasp for breath and your cock-finger-thing, call it what you will, ignites like acid is pouring over it. You even smell the stubborn flesh oxidising.

  You jam your eyes shut and try to forget who you are. Your brain just goes, “Forget the fear, listen to the sound of the wind, taste the lake, look deep into the forest, engulf your soul in the furnace.”

  You didn’t mean to say that last bit out loud, but you did. “...engulf your soul in the furnace.” Those were the exact six words that came out of your mouth. Marianne looks up from her throating. There’s some weird-coloured discharge pouring over her chin and you want to throw up.

  You reach for a piece of cake. Anything to take your mind off what’s happening down there. Marianne smiles and puts her mouth around your cock again. You feel the enamel of her teeth on the keratin of your cocknail. You sense these two surfaces scraping together and the cake crumbles in your fingertips. A sigh explodes from you like soft Hiroshima in jaded monochrome. You gasp for breath again, like you’re dying.

  Kitten pads from the kitchen to another room in no particular hurry, licking its lips. You can see sparkles of cat meal glistening on its whiskers. And you cry.

  First few tears, you realise that thing you are burdened with, your manhood, has started to straighten out. But it will only go so far.

  Then her teeth clench around the strange thing. You implode softly, unable to breathe for fear that she’ll bite the entire fucking thing right off. Would she do that? Is that where all this seduction is leading? A meal of cock and a useless bastard of a character tossed out onto the street again to deal with the fallout?

  The cock breaks. Well, it’d be better described as: the cock unhinges. Like there’s a universal joint in there somewhere that you never knew about all this time. The first phalange, the one nearest the pubic bone, uncorks like some bottle of mad spirit and that sets off a chain reaction of unhinging, right to the useless end. An arthritic finger unclenches.

  She takes your hand and guides it down her soft, white belly, down into her jeans, which feel like lamb leather. Inside her. You can’t work it out. This is not what you imagined a cunt to be like. You never, after all, consummated your redundant marriage.

  As the seduction progresses and your hand starts to make sense of this weird genital geometry, you realise you’ve been here before. Everyone’s stuck their finger into their own nose and rooted around for some snuffling irritation to exhume. We’ve all dug our nail into the juncture of hardened mucous and cartilage and delighted at the release, even if a little blood came with it.

  “Get in me now.” She spits her brown saliva into your face. You see her tongue undergoing some fluttering transformation. You can’t look at the tongue. It’s too strange. Too wrong.

  You flip her over, because that’s what she’s wanted for the latter part of the worst day of your life. She’s maybe been waiting for just this notoriously fucked up moment all her life. Such a pity you can’t enjoy it with her. You’re not allowed that luxury.

  You’re a tool for her sexual gratification and you’re gonna get only what leftovers she thinks you’ve earned. Her calves are either side of your ears. You look down and see it. A nostril. That’s what her slavering cunt looks like. A nostril. Cartilaginous on the outside. Hairy on the inside. Big thick black hairs that you fear will pierce under your cock nail.

  You start to feel faint from the realisation that you’re gonna slam your cock into that at some point in this dark night. You try to hold on to your sanity as you allow your now fully unfurled fingercock to slowly enter into her nasty-looking nostrilcunt.

  You imagine your lips turning blue. But you survive. You have to survive. Your legs give under you and you slide on top of her as your cock slides in to the hilt. More tears pour down your face as you are caressed by the softness of her internal cunt hairs.

  Your cock finger nail catches on some deep blood clot and starts to pick—fingers can’t resist picking at the sharp edge of discomfort. Why do you think it’s such a joy to scratch piles? It’s that cultural by-pass of the pain-for-pleasure membrane. You thank her for allowing you into her being and promise good gifts from her labyrinth.

  It’s an hour later. And you’re exhausted. But still your fingercock is working away on the hard-edged mucous membrane. Her thighs are tight as fuck around your waist. Her head’s right back off the couch, her face a violet blood bag ready to burst. She stinks of sweat and pheromones and something else you STILL can’t put your finger on.

  You still can’t put your finger on—was that it? Pull. And you do. And your fingercock pulls out with some gruesome looking thing attached to it.

  A hairless kitten screams in her face as she lowers her choppers down onto it and detaches it from the tip of your cock with her teeth. You can hear the foetal kitten shape crunching to gristle and gore inside her mouth as she chews and chomps on it.

  You don’t die. You don’t get de-cocked. You don’t even pass out. But something a whole lot weirder then starts to happen.

  And you feel like your blood is transforming. Transforming to cum. Your whole body is admitting that you are nothing but cum and turning you into that sheet-rotting substance. You are nothing more than a living, breathing cum factory.

  But that’s not all—Bukkakeworld still has a trick up its sleeve. You body starts to sweat. Sweat cum. Cum bubbles up out of your pores, a pungent man oil. Gushes down your face and back. Marianne pushes your fingercock back inside her, the surface of it slick with sweated cum, and really starts to ride it.

  You don’t cum as such. Nobody cums in Bukkakeworld. There’s no petit mort climax of a few liquid ounces of man fat. Instead, you drown Marianne with your own suppurating essence.

  Kitten watches everything, inquisitive as ever.

  Butterflies

  in the sunlight.

  * * *

  You wake up the next day with a cat hair lodged in the back of your throat. You spend the first few waking minutes hacking and gagging trying to loosen it.

  That first gag attack of the morning is nothing more than a throaty distraction compared to the sight that all too soon’s gonna present itself to you. Ready? Now this is gonna scare you the fuck half to death, but Marianne Buckman is dead.

  Kitten’s licking its whiskers like a cat who got the cream. Perched up there like that. Looking strangely regal. And you know there’s something weird about the sudden dampness of the atmosphere. You’re awake now but you’ve yet to lay eyes upon the cold clammy blueness of your saviour, the woman you’d hoped would be able to teach you how to escape Bukkakeworld.

  Damned kittens. You pick yourself up and see that you’re still completely naked. A dried-on film of cum crumbles off of you as you struggle to get up off the marble-tiled bathroom floor. The entire right side of your body is tingling like electric.

  Soon enough, you are in the living room. No one’s home. You shout out her name, “Marianne!” and there’s no reply.

  Kitten pads through to the living room, its delicate little paws barely making a sound. Then you hear the soft, low moan. A cat moan. You stagger to the single bedroom. There.

  The blue corpse of Marianne Bckman laid out on the bed in ritualistic fashion. She has the air of a standing-to-attention soldier who didn’t even realise she’d been tipped over. Even in death she had a military axis running through her, a bayonet launched through the spinal cord of her mortality.

  Of course yesterday was the worst day of your life, you understand it now. Yesterday was the day you killed any hope of ever escaping Bukkakeworld. Here you are, in the wreckage of another in life’s long line of fuck ups, abandoned to the rough treatment of the cum ocean, dashed this way and that by the cock-infested morass.

  What are you supposed to do with a dead (and decaying) body? You don’t realise yet but with the death of the owner,
actually getting out of the DNA-sealed bomb-proof apartment is going to be more than a little tricky.

  Kitten leaps up onto the bed and nuzzles the cold, blue toes of Marianne, last night’s one-night-stand lesson in mortality versus the passions of the flesh. As trained in the black arts of terrorism as she was, she paid for her human frailty with her life.

  Kitten looks at its ex-mistress. Motionless like an Egyptian sculpture. A smile grows on Kitten’s face. How does a pre-cat do that? Think back; don’t yet forget the surrealistic happenstance of last night’s fatal rendezvous in the land of genital pleasure. Don’t lose sight of the thing you plucked from the inverted-hairy grotto of Marianne’s crass insouciance. The pre-cat. The foetal purrer. The never to be Kitten.

  You look down at the only remaining offspring of Marianne, the only woman in the whole of Bukkakeworld capable of training you in her dark arts of toothly cleanliness. Imagine such a dream, to never again have cum on your face, cum across your open eye, cum cooling inside your cheek.

  Your brief daydream of a world not covered in cum came crashing to a halt last night, and you can’t even remember what the fuck it was that finally killed her. You are guilty, that’s for sure. Even if you weren’t the only culprit, you know you had a deep greasy hand in her demise.

  You look down at Kitten with profound regret, hoping against hope that this tiny little tortoise-shell life can somehow find within its heart the power of forgiveness. But what you don’t realise is:

  While you consider what you’ve done is an unforgivable effrontery to female decency, Kitten is thinking, “I know the way to free us both from this cell, but just a little fun and we’ll all get our rocks off chuckling about it later.”

  While you think about ways to kill yourself, Kitten is thinking, “I’d love to see what happens when I show this sour-faced person the best ways to murder the world of cum. Never would they believe it could have been so easy.”

  While you’re thinking that all your pitiful life has been leading to this moment of ultimate despair and failure, that what you have done to this woman would make God itself pale into insignificance, Kitten is thinking, “We could dine on mince and slices of quince, just like that story Miss Marianne used to sing to me. How did that tune go?”

  While you take a whip to your own back, opening the dreadful flesh deeper and deeper with each savage stroke, Kitten is thinking, “Should I mention that I am not a real kitten? Has he understood what I am yet?”

  While you race around the room, your pitiful finger-cock in your hand, the finger in your hand, tourniqueting that newborn sexual organ so that it will choke and fall off, so that the three bones within its worthless girth and sorrowful length will shatter and splinter like crystal glass, so that you can regain some form of dignity in your punishment, Kitten is thinking, “Butterflies in the sunlight, that’s what pre-persons like us Kittens always dream of—butterflies in the sunlight.”

  While you think what you’ve done is a crime, Kitten is thinking, “My birthday arrives soon and I demand some wicked present. It will be a present of my own choosing and I will make known in great detail how it should be presented. This person needs to know who’s the real boss around here. I’ll help him, but only on my own terms. And I’m a strict negotiator.”

  While you think what you’ve done is a heinous crime against humility, Kitten is thinking, “Has he not even thought about what my mistress told him, how we are all culpable for the climate of Bukkakeworld? We will all shine like cum and glow like the tips of dragged-on cigarettes, in memory of Marianne. But first...”

  You look down at Kitten and see that silly grin on its face, the right side of the tongue trapped by the teeth. How is it doing that?

  And suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you see a damp patch start to gather like blood in a rose. You look at the clock, but what will that prove? You have no idea where you are or why you are still alive while those around you who deserve better lie naked and cooling and decaying in a bed you don’t even remember.

  The first blog of spunk of this day when the sun refuses to shine swells on the far wall like Daddy’s Xmas promise. You almost will it to form a drooping hemisphere of self-loathing and virtually guide it across the millennia of space/time that separates all living things. You make sure it slaps you right in the face. Then you turn the other cheek and mail-order another to land on that freshly-scrubbed side of the face.

  See what you’ve done? You’ve taken control of your destiny. You don’t see it yet, of course. You’re too pre-occupied by the narrative that will yet unfold to realise that this day all the world is covered in cum for a fucking good reason.

  You are the reason, and only you can discover this, in your own special way, in time, and with healing of the aching soul, with tending to the wounds of your guilt and with total sexual abandon. You are the sole inheritor of this mad, crazy gift. And for that reason Marianne had to die.

  You know nothing of this, downed as you are by the fist punches of sorrow. Choked as you are by the ball-ache of disgust. Enflamed as you are by the horror lying there below your solemn masturbation. Here in your bedroom, you stroke the broken remnant of your finger cock on her once-pristine bed now covered in the piss and shit of a nation of cum eaters.

  Fungal excitations cause your naked cum-spattered skin to itch like a bitch, but you don’t mind. You’ve taken control. You look around with your clear eye and you see that once again your room is filling up with this choking paste, this seething off-white morass.

  You can’t bear to think how long it’ll be before this stolen apartment fills with cum. You wonder how long it will be before gallons of cum finally swarm across the mattress like a greying legion and drag you down into the merciless pit of retribution.

  This will not be your last thought in Bukkakeworld.

  The Glimpsers

  are back in town.

  * * *

  Even before you are fully awake, the first glob of spunk hits your face and you realise you are in Heaven. You lie there in total rapture as the salty irritant dries on your face. You can’t see this morning, such is the clotted cum gluing your eyelids together.

  After you’ve pried open your eyelids with your fingers, you gaze down at your broken-finger cock. You peel the limp nail back. Blood pours out like petrol, fuming in the stream of reluctant daybreak. Pain shoots through your spine like lightning carving an oak in twain. Your day breaks, pulled back like the stunting nail, revealing a new opening where a dull bead of cum germinates. A poison germ of cum, a murderous worm of cum, a cum bomb with which you will level this ridiculous city.

  Kitten awakens, that stupid Cheshire grin on its face. Stretches. Yawns. Bumps up next to you on the bed. Sees your engulfed cock throbbing like a 9mm semi-automatic. Gaggin’ to be unleashed upon a shameless world. It nuzzles it with its whiskery nose and the bulbous bead of cum sticks to it like a poisonous toadstool might. Kitten runs away, pawing and shaking its little nose, sneezing now and then. Not happy with the way it went, wanting to get that awful thing off it. Happy, though, inside with the knowledge that it hadn’t misclassified you, killer.

  You draw a pins-n-needles tingling claw across your poisonous cock. You like the way it feels. To be able to kill with one sly jolt of the peristaltic reaction. Beside you on the bed lies Marianne, and she’s really beginning to stink. But you don’t notice.

  All too soon, there’s a knock at the door. You’ve no idea who it could be but you scramble over to the door and try the handle. Today, you’re feeling brave. But the handle doesn’t work, feels wrong, refuses to open. Like it knows you’re not the owner of this apartment. Is the door even now relaying the message of you as intruder to the Authorities? Has the bed already done this? Noted the dead presence of its owner and reported the exact coordinates of her lingering rigor mortis to the Authorities?

  But nothing happens. You stand there with your ear against the door. Listening to the cum seep through the cheap wood that will not yield to even
the most frenzied knuckle attack—electromagnetic wood chip. Was something deposited on the door step before the visitor departed?

  Cursing another day in Bukkakeworld, you reach for the shower head to douse away your sticky outer coating of protein. But there’s no water this morning. Into the kitchen and the fridge and all the cupboards are bare. Clearly, Marianne was more of a restaurant and café person than a self-caterer.

  Kitten meows at you like it’s hungry. You discover a lower cupboard contains a big bag of a) cat litter and b) cat nibbles. You fill a bowl with cat nibbles but can’t find a cat tray to change the cat litter... Maybe another mysterious door to another mysterious universe of cat doings.

  Inside your empty stomach, something sinister is gestating.

  It doesn’t take you long, ’cos you’re a clever mother fucker, to suss out that if the door was attuned to the DNA of the owner, namely Marianne Buckman, then maybe her Kitten... You get a trippy flashback of a part-formed kitten foetus scraped from the hair-lined mucous membrane of a dead woman’s cunt-nostril some seeming years ago. How time flies when you’re having fun. You still can’t recall your peristaltic movements on the night in question, and you have no legal alibi. You are, and you were, completely and irrevocably fucked.

  Maybe that’s the thing that grows in your belly. Maybe it’s not just gnawing trepidation or irritating exasperation at life’s injustice. It’s a real physical actual something, a thing. A parasite that will live off your vital fluids until you are snuffed out—after which time it will erupt from your decaying corpse like a zombie baby ripping and chewing its way out of your bloated stomach.

  Kitten trots over cheerily to your psscht psscht sound. You pick it up and, feeling more than a little ridiculous, place its soft little paw on the blurry door mechanism.