Bukkakeworld Page 9

  You watch the Glimpsers restructure the minds and torture the souls of others like you. And not once do you think of yourself in a time before the touch of the Glimpsers forever altered your mental and physical dependence on the machine of self loathing and severe personal punishment.

  There’s an LED light on the front of your bike and now it’s on. Now it’s night time. Now you’re fucked right good and proper. For your own sick, adamant reason your quest for the third part of your shadow has been abandoned. You did not play the Glimpsers’ game. You did not comply with their instruction. You were not helped by their guiding hand.

  Do you feel a lot better or just like you’ve betrayed an old friend? What’s life going to be like without your shadow? Or rather, what’s life going to be like having your shadow ruled by the arbitrary reactions of five other people? Can you live with that? Well, you made your bed—time to lie in it.

  You pull over to the kerb, take some refreshment from a roadside dispenser of spattered-on pre-package. You also buy a condom of cum to wash it down with later on. Old habits die hard, and so will you.

  You pay the man with the shirt on your fucking back and drop the rank purchases in your saddle bag. A saddle bag just large enough to carry a kitten in, quite comfortably. You’re about to clip the latch shut on your saddle bag when you hear a soft yawn, then a cute meow.

  Kitten! Came back to protect you. Kitten would not see you live without a shadow. That’s why Kitten’s back, right? What other reason could there be?

  All the way back, the cum-spitting air filters through Kitten’s super-soft fur.

  Screw your

  fucking shadow,

  you idiot.

  * * *

  You dream of being dead. Well, not dead. Immobile. Not moving. You’re in a cum-coma? Disabled by cum. You can’t move. But your swelling belly itches like mad. You want to, oh so very much, you want to reach down and scratch that growing ball of itch with the nails of both your hands. That would ease the itching. That would end the pain. But you can’t. You can’t move. You’re not allowed.

  Kitten awakens you. A tiny red scratch in the hairy stomach. You see a filament of purest chrome sticking up from the redness like an inverse rose stem in a silver pond. Kitten tears its rough little tongue across it and it’s like a woman’s tongue across the tip of your cock.

  That oh so rude awakening sends a jolt of fire through you. This isn’t how you normally awaken. There is nothing here, in the innocence of this scene, to suggest the horror that is about to unfold. But wait. That’s what horror really is. The waiting. The expectation of the unknown.

  Fear not. You will see it all too soon. You will see a man torn apart by his curiosity. You will see a beast born. You will witness true despair and terror. But first, Kitten is hungry. Kitten tears at the chrome frond elegantly curving out of your belly. Kitten licks each revealed inch, digging deeper and deeper with its now blood-sodden paws.

  Kitten doesn’t look up at your face; it’s too engrossed in its work. It digs like a mole, its eyes all but fused over with concentration on the task in paw. It digs, it licks. Maybe its lick is anaesthetic? Feels like it. There is no pain, just this terrible twinge of pleasure with each excavated inch.

  All too soon, you throw up. You just lean over to your right and a large outpouring of yellow bile and orange chunks leaves your gaping mouth. Kitten starts to purr as you continue your facial purging. The retches come in quick succession—a repeated expulsion that seems inexhaustible. Just how many meals of cum would be needed to fuel such a torrent, how many gaping facefuls of bukkake?

  You lie back on the bed, shuddering with exhaustion. You’re on the bed; you didn’t even take a moment to check. What is wrong with you? Don’t you even know where you are?

  Kitten digs and licks until a huge chrome bulb, the root, is revealed, there down deep in your guts. Why aren’t you dead? Is it even possible to expose one’s innards like that to the air and not die of shock or something? Kitten rears back suddenly and buries its thin, curved teeth into the root of your Glimpser tree.

  How come it took you so long to work out what was going on? The Glimpsers left a nugget of themselves within you those times they came to your room like spectral faces. They poured their essence into you, and there they flourished, locked away within your guts, taking nourishment from your pain. The Glimpsers are now, and have always been, a living part of you.

  Why do you think you’ve survived so long gagging on the futility of Bukkakeworld? Why do you think you’ve not drowned every night, like so many in this God-forsaken hell hole? Why? Because of the protective Glimpser root. The very same protective root that Kitten, in her infinite wisdom, has just decided to pop.

  A terrible puslike off-white greasy substance oozes out of the Glimpser root and Kitten laps it up with all the enthusiasm she can muster.

  There, you didn’t miss it, did you? You’re smarter than that. You sensed it, too. Kitten’s femininity. Her femaleness. They say that even if one were to be confronted by a totally alien race one would still be able to ascertain the sex of the alien. It’s an innate human ability.

  And for the first time, Kitten looks up at you. But it’s not Kitten who looks up at you, at least not the purring little tortoise-shell kitten you’ve become so attached to over the last few weeks. This Kitten is different. Well, let’s say she’s becoming different.

  Time stirs like tea and slows like treacle, it pulses like the veins in a forearm, it squirms like a snake in a bag. Out the other end of this time warp extrudes a thing that is part Kitten part some other thing entirely. Your heart stops with an audible thud.

  You try to shuffle away as the panic takes hold of you. Still you are totally clear of any spunkly spattering. This strikes you as the most insidious part of the horror scene. That you remain totally clean, despite your panic. This being clean is the all-time worst part of the whole dreamlike opera.

  Kitten digs in its claws and crawls up your chest. But only the upper part of her body seems to move. Like she is stretching, lengthening, growing. Her claws are no longer claws. Her muzzle is no longer a muzzle. The purr becomes a throaty sigh. The tortoise-shell fur leaks down off her head like tiny mad worms getting longer, losing their liquidity, becoming hair. The mouth shrinks back and the lips fatten, before settling into the recognisable shape of women’s lips.

  Marianne Buckman breathes on you like it’s her first breath in fifteen years. You see life erupt in her amber eyes. Her heavy breasts crush your clawed chest. Her nose twitches as she smells you, smells your fear, revels in its richness. She nuzzles your cheek. Your neck. Her teeth... you can’t see them. Her teeth are down by your carotid artery and you fear the worst. You urinate, right there on the bed, and Marianne starts to laugh.

  You start to cry. Sobs explode from your lungs. But they are not the sobs of sorrow. You catch yourself laughing out loud, your fingercock pressing up against her sex, which has positioned itself cunningly above it. You wait for her to penetrate you, or allow you to penetrate her. You realise only too late that you are the man.

  She laughs again, in your ear, too close to the ear drum so that you’re fair-near deafened by her joy. You try to pull away but she bites down hard on your ear lobe, biting so hard and for so long that she finally draws blood. You let your hands stroke down her spine, no fur, and come to rest on her ass, no tail.

  You are smothered by her kisses and you choose not to move. You’re like a corpse under her. You can even feel the life force evaporating from you, about to leave a cooling shell behind.

  You start to feel faint. The infamous tunnel approaches at speed. You realise you’re going to puke again but you know you mustn’t while Marianne is still attached to your face; that just wouldn’t do. Instant dismay. You try to hold on to the contents of your stomach for one more minute. You feel your lips turning blue.

  But you survive. You have to survive. You feel Marianne take hold of your fingercock and slide it neatly inside her. The mem
ory of her hairynostril cunt surfaces in your memory and it’s all too much. You puke. But Marianne is prepared.

  She takes the whole painful retch into her mouth like a Kitten under a cow udder, gulping deep and cheerfully as you pour your long-secreted bukkake into her. Those years of dread, torture and turmoil expunged from your body into hers in a loving exchange, a sharing of the drama. A renewal of faith in Bukkakeworld. How could you have betrayed her for so long?

  You see, as your puke pours down her gullet, how it shines, how it glows through the skin, how the belly is warmed by this new visitor, how the life spontaneously combusts behind her eyes as her brain undergoes its final transformation and the real, the resurrected Marianne, all her faculties and all her plans intact, is finally delivered into Bukkakeworld.

  You gag one final time, but there is nothing left within. You’ve upchucked your last meal of cum, you’ve coughed up your last pubic hair, you’ve brought back your last strawberry flavoured condom. All of it. Out of you and into her. Mirror imaged.

  Alive again, Marianne rolls off you and you’re surprised when Kitten is no longer in this bedroom you shared with your dead wife for so many years. Marianne lies on her back, drawing a soft white forearm across her cum-spattered mouth. Her long thin tongue jets out and a burping bubble of cum forms at the zenith of her yawn, the nostrils flared, the eyelashes stringy and glistening.

  That is a girl who knows how to make an entrance.

  You think then about your shadow and how, having missed this fourth part, you’re clearly to be damned to a life outside Bukkakeworld. Maybe that’ll be for the best in the end. Maybe you’ll finally get some respite once you’ve been expelled from this world for your lack of depth, of shade, of darkness. Your in-burned ambience will be your final undoing. And there’ll be no way back.

  But Marianne came back just for this reason. Marianne knows exactly how the Glimpsers work. Wasn’t it she who goaded them back to Bukkakeworld after so many years out in space? Wasn’t it Marianne, in her Kittenlike disguise, who truly understood what the Glimpsers were? For, after all, isn’t it always the children who see the ghosts in the machine?

  Never the adults?

  Dr Jekyll

  and

  Sister Hyde.

  * * *

  “Where are you taking us?” you ask Marianne as she strides ahead down the busy pedestrianized centre of town, looking for a ride.

  She looks across at you and gives you a knowing wink. She expects you to understand what’s going on. She thinks you should be aware of your destination.

  You stop her in the street. A WalKar passes by. You look into her eyes. Only now do you see how much taller than you she is. Not much, really, but enough. Your forehead barely comes up to her lips. She looks at you. You can feel her literally boring her essence into you. But it’s like a mind trying to watch the feedback from a broken TV.

  White noise hiss of cum starts to spatter you in the face, a stinging mist of incomprehension. One or two of the faceless pedestrians start to transform as they pass you by, their eggshell soft faces forming into sneers of derision, their fishlike faces forming into mocking masks of mockery, their condomlike faces vacuum sealing around negative emotions so wrong you can taste the battery-acid spite sticking to you like too much cum.

  Suddenly you’re drowning again, here in the centre of town. You’re quickly covered in so much cum, the cum of hatred, the cum of contempt, the cum of ridicule, that you start to hyperventilate. Gulping sour strings of cum back into your lungs, you start coughing. Coughing so that you can breathe again. But the breath won’t come. This is how you will finally die in Bukkakeworld.

  You look up at Marianne, the purest ball of pity. The weakest of creatures. Your vision starts to cloud over. A tunnel rolls over your social interface. You’re witnessing the death of Bukkakeworld. You will not survive the purging.

  You see her mouth moving. Has cum even clogged up your hearing canals? Will you ever hear a human voice again? What is she saying? Overhead, a storm cloud is brewing, black and heavy and loaded with cum. A flash of off-white lightning shatters an ash tree in a nearby park. People start to run away in the slippery downpour, spitting their venom at you for another day covered in cum.

  Marianne reaches down, unzips you and puts her cold hand upon your clenched fingercock. She does something super-special with her hand. A release valve? And the cum spills out of you, onto her hand and up over her forearm in throbbing reverse-gulps. Peristaltic action makes your knees crumble and your bowel fall. You reach out to Marianne for support.

  That’s the moment when you first discover what you really are. There, holding onto Marianne like a frightened child holds onto its mother. Marianne holds your cock while it continues to sluice her with an enormous bollockload of cum. Litre by litre, your vision clears and you start to hear her voice again. Sweat pours out of you suddenly and you finally let go, falling slowly to your left.

  You don’t fall right over. You catch yourself. Look down at your still evacuating cock. How did she know what to do? Is it really true that there are some of you who ‘control the weather’?

  A cum bubble forms at your mouth. Marianne takes your face in her hands. Her mouth opens. A long straight stick-like pinkness darts out of her mouth. The bubble bursts. Air rushes in and you gasp for breath. Suddenly released from death’s suffocating grip.

  Marianne is speaking. “...there was this film. A Hammer House of Horror film. I used to be a big fan of them as a girl. I’d watch these films late at night when I should have been sleeping. I didn’t like the arrival of the Glimpsers every night, so I’d put off the moment of sleep as long as I could. My favourite, and one I’ve watched time and again, is based on a myth about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. You know of it, right?”

  Who didn’t know the split-persona of the good Dr Jekyll and the malevolent Mr Hyde? It was a complimentary gift of the Authorities’ corporate propaganda machine. It’s what made us what we are. It’s the reason why we are like so many compliant lambs to the slaughter. Unpersons, numbers, nothing.

  Marianne is speaking. “It was a film called Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde. I didn’t realise how it meant anything for the longest time. In many ways I was like you, stumbling around in the dark, without my shadow. Yes, I have also been through this trial. I know where you’re about to go. And you will not like what you see. You will find it really difficult to accept what you discover.

  “In the film, Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde, the good doctor turns into this voluptuous female self. A self that projects purest lusty allure. Kitten did the same thing for me, but through me. Of me. Kitten was nothing more than a version of me, memories, storage, backup. Can you see where I’m going with this?”

  You get a flash frame of a malformed foetal unit sticking to your fingercock like a boogie you might pluck out of a cunt nostril. You still don’t get it.

  “You’re saying I’m like you? That I, too, have this crazy Kitten-like backup storage thingy? Is that what you’re saying?” You’re still gasping for breath.

  Marianne is speaking, smiling. There’s something quite sinister coming down the pipe and she chooses her words very carefully. “As Kitten, I exude total cuteness. There’s no human in the world who doesn’t want to stroke me and pet me and protect me. That’s the best way for me to retain—”

  “But it’s a kitten. That’s how folks are, no-one wants to hurt a kitten.” You spit out the last of the cum. Retching a straggler from the back of your throat, hawking it up into the street and crushing it under you corporate shoes. Wait a minute—you’re back in corporate garb. You’ve been redressed like a murder victim.

  Marianne is speaking to the sun that escapes from the clutches of a cloud. “Everybody who’s been touched by the Glimpsers is the same. But in their own unique way. Your backup mechanism is the way you project your inner self to the world. The way you’ll be remembered to others, how you come across to them.”

  You’ve been removed to that nearby park.
You’re both on a rapidly drying pinewood bench. There’s a smell of autumn in the air, decay, moss, mushrooms. It’s a comforting smell, warmed by the indomitable sun. You hear birds twitter. You see trees, their leaves dampened by cum, start to sit up, their backs straighten, their fingers uncurl. You feel the soft breeze upon your drying face.

  You look across at Marianne, next to you on the bench. “I’m the backup unit, aren’t I? And you were sent to kill the real me. Was that one of your Glimpser tasks when they threatened to steal your shadow?”

  Marianne is speaking slowly, and with some restraint, you sense guilt, you feel her pain. “The Glimpsers don’t exist. Not on this plane. You’ve seen them. You’ve seen them all your childhood. They prey on the innocent because society blinkers one from their influence. Though they’re still present in the world, we can no longer see them. We no longer feel their silver fingers in our minds at night, probing through the dark, unclothing who we really are...”

  “Who really are we, Marianne? Who am I?” You can’t believe you’re sat next to your killer. A red squirrel hops about in the evaporating puddles of cum, sniffing for buried treasure.

  “I don’t really know. We’re all connected. In one way or another. Six degrees of separation. Maybe not even that. Put it this way—we’re all part of the same Glimpser stage play, the lucky ones. Puppets to our masters. I have no idea what they want of us or why they’re bothering with this place. There are no answers.” A sob catches in Marianne’s throat.

  You look across to her and see an oily tear (a fake Hollywood tear, you think) rolling slothfully down her face. You’ve never really looked at her face. She’s not pretty. She has a formidable bone structure. Teutonic. Severe. A face only a mother could love. There’s not much meat on her. She doesn’t exude femininity. She’s a battle-hardened soldier more than a compliant member of a well-oiled society. Imagine the horror of having to integrate such an animal into our world. Think of the things she must have to hide, each and every day.