“I wish I was loved.”
His fingers hovered close to the keyboard. Tits. His eyes gazed upon two glorious tits. Breasts. Gazongas. Gorgeous ones at that. He moved the cursor over the “size” option, clicked the dropdown menu, and then hovered the little icon over the many, many available options: C, double-C, D-, double-D, E, double-E, F, double-F…
The standard was double-C, and those were already some of the most beautiful breasts he’d ever licked with his eyes. He’d rarely consumed porn. Too fake. Too ugly. «Porn women ain’t real women,» he thought. They were, however, much more real than that, were they not?
He wasn’t so sure. Those breasts, for instance: they looked much more natural—much more real—than the deal he had seen, both in porn and in real life. Only the titillating titties of old film stars could compare to those breasts, those fake breasts he had on-screen; and those titties, like the film stars, the like films themselves, were now legends. Whispers in the wind, gushes in the cock.
For all purposes, those breasts there, on his screen, they were real and gorgeous—and he wondered if they could be even more so.
He clicked on the double-D option. His eyes. They almost left his skull. *Boing!* His legs spread themselves out on their own, his posture on the chair stiffening up, and in his groin he felt a fire, a burn, a truly energizing shot of masculine purpose right in the middle of his dick. «These… tits…!»
Yeah, the tits. Those were truly astounding tits.
«Jesus!» He was amazed by the materialness of the pair: their softness, their roundness, their hazelnut shape, the sheer touchability of their every inch. They seemed too good to be true—and, given his line of work, a pinch of skepticism was always sensible. After all, those were only images; and images, he knew all too well, were very deceiving. «I know it. I make them so.»
«Still… they look good.» He scratched the underside of his chin, where a shallow, unkept beard was forming. «So fucking good!»
Unreally good. Unreasonably good. And still, there was a reason: if any brand could stand to lose from false advertisement, it probably would have been that one; the most expensive one; the most luxurious; the most exclusive; the brand with the realest, humanest dolls on the market, and one of the very, very, very few companies that managed to break past the borders of their country and gain the world.
On the screen, right below the images of the doll, he saw the testament of the company’s worldwide triumph: “global delivery available – 18 countries.”
His heart beat more unsteady, trapped in the limiar of hope and disappointment. «Sure, they deliver all around the world, but they wouldn’t deliver here.» He gave his throughts a silent beat. «Would they?»
Why was he wondering that? It’s not as if he was ever going to buy that doll. Just looking at the price made his mind laugh, and another part of it cry, because he was so fucking poor, and he knew it, he tried to forget it and he couldn’t—every time he looked at the price of something, he was reminded of it. Poor, poor, poor. His dead carcass of a body d’be worth more dead than alive. He was…
«Quiet. Quiet.» He closed his eyes. He shook his head vigorously. «Quiet!»
His eyes returned to the screen. “More real than the real deal.” They read on the top of the page. The company’s tagline. «Ain’t joking, they ain’t.» He whistled very softly, and his penis too, in a state of happy hardness, seemed to concur. «Fucking… hot!» He found himself rubbing one thigh against the other, mesmerized beyond his own self-control. «Fuck. If this is the reaction a mere image of this woman has on me…»
Not a woman; a doll. A mere image of a mere doll. A fake light. A fake woman. «Darn it!»
He moved the mouse again. Next to the delivery information, there was a very small circle with a question mark inside. He clicked on it, his heart racing like horses on a track. A little bubble appeared next to the circle with text in very small font inside. His heart steadied its hooves. «Available in the following countries:» read the text, with a list of the eighteen countries to where delivery was an option.
His was included. «No.» His heart gave a couple of irregular beats, each beat like a laughter, a proper response to the absurdity. «It can’t be.» He moved the mouse away from the text box, which disappeared as he did so, and repeated the action one more time just to be sure—the digital equivalent of him pinching himself on the arm to see whether he was dreaming or not. «It just can’t be right.» He moved the mouse back to the little circle and the question mark, clicked on it, and…
It was. It was right. Or so it seemed. «No. They deliver here?» None of the neighbor nations were listed, and in the whole, wider continent that was scarcely more than a pair of big-shot countries included in that prestigious list. Nah, he seemed to be reading it right; his eyes, after a good couple of vigorous rubs, revealed the exact same text, though with much sharper, undeniable clarity: «they deliver it here. Holy s- smokes!»
What were the odds? Such an obscure company, or rather, such a small company in the greater scheme of things, biggest fish of the tiniest pond, a servicer of such precise industry—niche within a niche—servicing his country, his damned frigid corner of the world, when much bigger, much grander, more essential companies could barely even provide for the confines of their own nations, much less to their neighbors, let alone further beyond… «This… this is a miracle! »
A miracle. A miracle, indeed. A sign from the heavens, he could even say, and as such it would be very uncorteous to ignore. Turning his back to the gods, he’d learned it well, was no good. «No good at all.» Therefore he kept exploring: in the options menu for the breast sizes, he selected the largest on—double-F—in curiosity. «Mama!» Now the breasts, once glorious and gorgeous, were bloated and disproportionaed, two abnormal ballons of unarousing titflesh, enough tit to scare off a bull and put its cows into unemployment; the damned milkers were so grotesquely voluminous and heavy that they went down, down, down to the woman’s navel. «Fukken…!!»
In a haste, having been blemished by the sight of those unsavory mamaries, he clicked aimlessly on the previous options of breast sizes, trying to cleanse his memory from that hideous image. He didn’t judge it, though. There certainly were people in the world for whom those ballons would have been a tantalizing sight; people for whom their enormity was a selling point, not a repellant. «Well. Such are people: there’s always something for everybody.» He reasoned, himself very intimidate to this reality. «People will fuck anything.» He pondered, the weight inside his body, deep in his belly growing, turning very, very uncomfortable. «Anything.»
Except for himself.
The double-D breasts were big—massive, in fact—but still believably so. He liked breasts that huge and shapely, perhaps more than most men. The thought of their fertility aroused him. What’s more, just looking at the doll’s nipples, witnessing the perfection of their craft, made him pucker his lips and gently suck in the air, all without his knowing. He wanted to eat those tits, to suckle on their imaginary milk. Had those globbets of mommy love been real, they would be lush, hot, and delightful to touch, never for a day dry of their creamy content, their life-giving nectar.
He was much closer to the screen now, puckering his lips like he was trying to kiss it. He spent so long looking at that doll, in such a mesmerized state, he completely ignored his room falling into darkness, and the moon rising to the take the sun’s place in the sky. The night had risen, but if not for the burning of the screen light on his eyes, which became intense after a couple of hours of minimal blinking, chances are he would have never noticed it.
With a yawn and short squeaks of discomfort, he pulled himself back on his wheeled chair, only to notice the embarrassing bulge in his sweatpants. His penis, in its erect state, formed a tent with the fabric. A very short tent at that. At the tip of such short, puny tent, he saw a moist, sticky smudge growing on the fabric. «Curses.» Was he really going to have and relieve himself in the bathroom again? Just how many times, really, would a regular man have to do this in a single day? «A regular man?» He wondered. «A real man? Zero.» His stomach felt even heavier, and his heart beat as if it pushed against two heavy walls closing on it. «A real man would never need to this, for he would have women to do it with.» His eyes darted again, irresistibly, back to the screen. «A real woman. A real man with a real woman. Not this… travesty… here in front of me.»
Travesty? Perhaps. A travesty he could not look away from nonetheless. «Knuk mirh, gotten!» He bit his lower lip. «These breasts… fukk! They’ve even got weight on them!» He loved the way the tits arched down gently, forming a teardrop shape with the aid of gravity. Their silicon—or whatever materials they were made of—was so smooth and consistent enough to behave like a real breast of such size; or at least how he imagined a real breast would behave. Those were breasts whose fullness indicated real life and meaning within them; breasts that carried life-giving amounts of milk and healthy fat in them; tanks immaculately designed for the rearing of many children and the conforting of many more lovers. They were firm and meaty; dense and heavy, but not rock-solid; not too perky or pointy like the breasts of women with implants—less “breasts”, in this case, and more like lumps of plastic protruding like cancer on a woman’s chest. «Yuck.» Disgusting. «This fake woman has such real breasts whereas so many real women…!»
He needn’t complete the thought. The irony was just too glaring.
Like so, he spent maybe another half of an hour into the night looking at those knockers, gawking at their shape, rubbing his penis between his thighs, heaving like a starved wolf or a runt who’s just been abandoned by the pack. It was enough staring and gawking and wheezing that he nearly forgot the rest of the woman’s body; that there was way more than just breasts to look at. «Uh…» And so, grunting like a moron, he moved the mouse about on the screen, clicked a couple of buttons here and there, absent mindedly, and after a couple more minutes ended up with the full view of the doll’s naked, raw, uncensored body—and this, this was almost enough for him to lose it in his pants right then, right there. «Urgh! Så…! Jævla…! Hott!»
Beyond arousing, beyond carnal, she was indescribable. To put it simply, she was his type. Exactly his type. «Heaven’s fuck!» Poor man. He was almost drooling on his machine! «What the… gott! Meiner!» It got that on that state where thoughts made no more sense; he just had them for noise, to keep himself still anchored to the real world and not be swept away by the streams of daydreams, the urge to escape and lock himself away, throw away the keys, in more lovely fantasies.
The fake doll had a fake history to match. Just the right amount of cheese to be served with some good wine:
[…] is a tall, muscle-bound Amazon for the fearless soldier who love ‘em rough. A goddess amongst queens, leader of women and lover of men, endowned with mystical powers of the forest spirits, this steadfast, unwearying warrior is a match for any men in both the battlefield and the bed. An avid horse-rider and thirsty cock-rider. Are you strong enough to take on her? Nights of fire and fury await!
She stood at exactly six feet tall, which greatly aided the elegance of her physique, despite its strength. Or perhaps because of it: she had muscles on top of muscles; that is, her muscles seemed to have muscles of their own, and all in all she was stronger than any woman on the planet, and stronger than almost any man he had ever seen. Clearly, that doll belonged to a more risqué, niche selection of the company, and her price tag was an obvious reflection of that.
Still, she wasn’t no monster. She wasn’t no lady either. She was like superheroine, only a little thicker. «Valkyries.» He thought; was the first thing that sprang to his mind, actually: the powerful demiwarriors of the heavens, guiding the souls of the bravest of soldiers to their final rest in Sovengard. But the Greeks also had them—the Amazons, he recollected—and sure every people on the planet must have had a similar concept of such titan women: women stronger than men; women with muscles; women with an hourglass figure; all at once, both in the same. Female and male made whole. The perfect being. «God.»
Her aggressive, expansive, unashamed musculature didn’t detract from her femalehood; to him, well, it only enhanced it. Her height, as noted, only helped her in her distinct femininity; it allowed her abundant muscles to be very well-distributed, and even though her shoulders were wide, her neck thick and veiny, and her arms even more so, she still rocked that thinner waistline, wide hips, long legs, and all sorts of features that made her unmistakenly woman; undeniably feminine. «Jaeven unt haelen!»
Her legs were long as a model’s; her thighs and calves, as big, protruding, and powerful as a horse’s. To power up such heavy limbs, her butt was the stuff of legends: enormous and enormously round, hard in a way wholly opposite to her breasts, this time indeed heavy and rigid as rocks, enough to withstand the direct blow of a sledgehammer, breaking whatever object or projectile was hurled against it. «This is an ass!» Even when she was seen from the front, her gigantic buttocks showed very visibly, abounding to each side, overflowing like meaty cakes of power capable of moving mountains—or just tearing through them with a kick.
Her construction was so perfect he could see the strands, the individual fibers of the muscles if he zoomed in very tightly on the image, witnessing her biceps, her shoulder blades, her abdominals, and her thighs—by the gods! Her thighs!—each as thick and wide as her waist.
She was big. She was buff. She was the true gem in that otherwise samey-looking, predictable roster of plastic babes. Her rareness was accentuated by a glaring red text blinking above her pictures: “Last units remaining!”
Initially, he was dismissed. He had to be. «Nyah! Cheap trick.» Was it, though? Very few of the dolls on sale had that sign. «She’s the most expensive of them all. Surely they’re trying to convince buyers to take her, creating a false sense of scarcity with this… this sign.» He told himself, and the longer he tried to convince himself of this, the less he believed his own words, the greater the urge to just… buy her… have her… love her… became.
All the instinct within him fired up in one direction. «No. No!» He closed his eyes, shook his head, hit it with his closed fists a little. ‘Twas the very direction he wanted them to never go. «No, no, no, I can’t afford it, this is just too stupid, it’s not prac-!»
He couldn’t deny his own long-held desired: he had flirted with that kind of buy for a long time, but the circumstances never seemed to align for him… until then. «No. Please no!»
He had his own apartment. He had his own savings. He had enough disposable income to buy that doll, even throw her away, and still not end up homeless. Most importantly, he now the perfect woman, his exact type of lady flashing so temptingly before him on the screen, no more than a couple of click aways from his very arms and his eager embrace; an opportunity, indeed, made more tempting, perhaps even more agonizing when paired with that untiringly blinking sign—“Last units remaining! Last units remaining!…”—which became more oppressive the longer the refused to consummate the buy.
«A million and a half.» He read it on her price had. «This doll was basically a car. Fuck.»
It felt fair, though. Given her height and musculature, that doll was probably worth two or three other dolls with a more regular physique. «She’s just! So! Big!» The thickness of veins, the shreddedness of her muscles, it all pulled his eyes irresistibly back to her—and his tongue too, very slow and imperceptible, leaving his mouth and drooling on his pants. «She’s just… so… pretty.»
Perfect. She looked perfect for him. More so than perfect: she looked impossible. «It… it shouldn’t exist.» That body-type, that ideal mix of muscles and curves and height, he could swear no real woman could ever look like that, so flawless, so… ideal. «Jaelen!» He enveloped his head with boths hands, holding it tight for a while, afraid that someone had stolen something from it. After all, for all he dreamed about it, it’s not that he ever expected to see her, the woman of his dreams, right there, in the flesh, transposed so immaculately into real life. «This… this is scary.» To think that anyone else would pen down the woman of his dreams. «Like… she looks exactly how I ever wanted her! Straight out of my head!» Indeed: a doll blue-printed from fantasies with unnerving accuracy. It was sort of uncanny, that feeling he got, but also… heartwarming also, in an intimate, affectionate kind of sense: to know that someone else in the world; some engineer or designer on the other side of the planet’d had the exact same fantasy of his, down to the very pores on her skin and fibers in her muscles. «Whoever you are, I congratulate you.» The woman on the screen replaced the one in his dreams; no imagination, after all, could look so definitive; so precise and clear-cut.
He looked deep into her eyes, which carried a heavy, royal air of serenity around them. She wasn’t just sex and appeal; she was also authority. Confidence. Gravitas. She really had that stern, peaceful look in her, the dignity of a queen, calm and smooth, with that subtle grim of someone who’s perfectly confident of her own abilities and secure in her position of power; a leader who knows no one else can dethrone her, and so doesn’t need to flaunt her power or brag about it even in the face of the staunchiest competitors.
She was, in short, the exact opposite of him.
For a moment, the price didn’t seem to matter. Rather, it was the doubt; the nagging insecurity that he wasn’t worthy of buying such a piece in the first place. «What a woman. Fuck.» Even if fake, even if wrapped on silicon instead of skin, that woman felt above him; beyond his reach; too much woman for a boy like him.
He felt bad. Humiliated. He even considered closing the screen and going back to his work—which should’ve have been fnished many, many hours prior.
It was foolish to dream with love. Foolish to even try. «My heart…» He touched his breast. His heart, indeed, had been fed too many false hopes already; better not feed it anymore—lest the hopes became a poison that would undo him in his sleep. «But… but…» Wouldn’t this be a good thing?
His finger pressed the right button of the mouse very lightly. The muse’s stern look, however, kept him from hitting the red ball on upper-right corner of the screen. It was a firm, but caring gaze. Strong and loving. Hard and soft. Her facial features were beyond human—they were almost godly. Though her body was Spartan, her face was cherubic, like a beauty from some exotic Arabian stock. Her skin was so much warmer, leagues more lively than his own palish look. She struck a beautiful balance between the tenderness, frailty of Lady Europa and that strength so well-known (and so desired) from the nordafricans.
«She is, like…»
Perfect. She was ab-so-lut-ely… perfect.
His eyes glided back to the persnickety, pressing red sign: “Last units remaining! Last units remaining…!” Wouldn’t be a surprise if she were the very last woman in stock. He had seen that warning on some other premium offerings before, and every time when he checked back, like clockwork… poof!, They were gone. Someone rich bastard scooped the very last one of them, and he’d have to wait at a full year, usually longer for them to come back to shelf again. «And not all of them.» He noticed, with a heavy heart, and his saliva made a deep, grave sound as he swallowed and gulped. Indeed, some dolls were not even restocked, but instead replaced by newer models, not all of them as appetizing to him as the previous ones. «This can be… the very first and very last time I see this woman.»
His woman. The woman of his dreams.
While he was thinking, the sign was blinking, the clock was ticking. The software and applications of his were still open on the taskbar of his computer, waiting for him to come back and be productive again. They didn’t judge him, though, for they were already so used to the procrastination. It was so common for him to stop mid labor and just… daydream; peruse useless shit on the bad Internet connection while thinking about better, more exciting things to do—things he would never had the money, much less the balls to do.
A trip. A better job. A fresh start. «So many more people have such a worse time that I do.» He thought again, as he always did when he dared dream with better things, with greener pastures, punishing himself for being so ungrateful—or for having a spine. «Such a worse lot in life.» He looked around on his room. Clean. Spotless. Lifeless. «I could be worse off. So much worse off.»
I could be worse off.
I could be worse off.
I could be worse off…
If this line of thinking ever brought him any confort, he’d be the happiest man on earth. Instead, he was him: petty, pitiful, and frail.
The powerful woman kept looking at him, her face both the same and slightly different at every gaze. More compassionate, even. It was like she knew what was going on in his mind; almost as if… she was the one—and only one—who could understand him and comfort him; to help him and nurture him in those times of need.
He couldn’t find the strength to hit the red ball and close the Internet navigator. No. Not when doing so, like the closing of the door on a lover’s face, could risk severing the relationship for good; the very last time he would ever see that beautiful face, that gorgeous body again. «She went for sale yesterday. Yesterday!» He thought, biting off his nails. «This red sign wasn’t there when I first saw her. Now…»
Blinking and blinking: “Last units remaining! Last units remaining! Last units…” «Damn it!» Was she really that on demand or did they make only a handful of hers?
Didn’t matter. The sign kept blinking: “Last units remaining! Last units…”
Her face was so serene it was like a shell: he could hear ocean on it. «She’s begging me to buy her!» She was meant to be his!
Indecision. God-accursed indecision! He couldn’t buy her, he couldn’t send her away, so all he could do was… run away; get up from his seat and walk in circles around his condo—not a very long walk, anyway. His apartment was just a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room doubling as dining room; that, yes, and one decently-sized storeroom opposite to his bedroom, crossing the narrow hallway that linked all these small rooms together. Bedroom and bathroom to one side, storage room and kitchen to the other, and the dining/living room in between them, before them all.
When he was sold that rent, at no point was the word “studio” uttered—and perhaps it wasn’t, if only by a technicality; perhaps the small storage room opposite to his bedroom gave it the extra feet-square to be classified a “condo” proper, or anything not as demeaning as a petty “studio.”
Technicalities, technicalities. What he knew is that «it’s nothing to brag about. Definitely nothing to be proud of.» But, again…
He could’ve had it much worse.
He could’ve had it much worse…
«Doesn’t matter. It’s home.» And the thought this time around was sincere: it was tiny, it was damp… but it was home—and it was so much more than anything he had ever thought he would ever have in life.
He walked around the place like it was his first time. «It’s calm. So peaceful.» He went to the tiny balcony at the end of the living room, opposite to the entrance of his home, and took a deep breath the fresh air from that thirteenth floor. «Not downtown. Not suburb.» He thought, wondering how the location—the location, indeed!—had been the one perfect things about that apartment.
From where he stood, he could hear nothing but the wind, and see little else but the walls of the slightly shorter building complexes surrounding his own and the calm ocean in the distance, shimmering above their roofstops, under the placcid skies of the abandoned north. It was cold there; it was cold anytime, any day of any season, almost bone-chillingly so at every hour, but he loved it that way. It made him fell safe; protected; as if the cold were like walls: walls that shielded him than the unstable, unforgiving hotness of his homeland.
The view of the ocean, as slim as it was, never failed to soothe him. The coolness of the air was perfect for every time his head got heavy and hot. If he could stomach it and look down, past the safe rails of his narrow balcony, he would spot the odd car or two whistling by like tiny lost ants in the asphalt long, long below, and their precise movements, like the rhythmic tics and tocs of a metronome, would bring harmony to his noisy head every time—again, like clockwork. Tick, tock. Tick «okay.» He slapped the concrete baluster with his heads a couple of times. «Time to, uh, sort this out.»
He returned to his bedroom. The Amazon goddess still awaited him. “You are never going to see me again,” she said clearly, told him with every word, and for a brief instant he even looked back, hearing her voice just behind him, those words laid like warm honey upon his nape.
He looked down. His head felt heavy. «A million and a half.» That was no piss money. «But… well… what else would I do with it?»
He had worked so hard, suffered for so long, lived for so little that the pile of cash he ended up sat upon began to lose all meaning. Just blue paper on a stash. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it, for all those efforts to feel like… a waste? An insult? «Who am I to think saving money makes a lick of difference?»
Thinking hard about it, it was quite irrational: his life was proof of it; the world around him was proof of it. No: saving money was not just silly, but insulting to the gods. «Ain’t no need to save shit when, decade in, decade out, like clockword,» again, «like clockwork, all savings’ gon’ be gone.» Dissipated away in a crisis. Stolen by a state. Pillaged on a war. Obliterated on a mushroom cloud.
The world around him was proof enough that no money and no savings could survive any longer than a decade—so why bother? The past was trash, the future was a threat. Only the present could be safe; only the present could be anything at all.
Besides… if there was one purchase his cash would be useful for… just one purchase, nothing else… wouldn’t that one be it? Love?
«Love. I will buy myself some love.»
He sat on the chair, his muse looking softer, more inviting on the screen. Her body! Her tall, strong body! As if her skin itself was an armor; an armor that would protect both her and him in a firm embrace. Wouldn’t that feel heavenly? «A hug. Imagine it! A hug… on this tight, strong body!» How firm amazing that would feel, how strong and lovely her arms would be around him, how tender and confident her lips would be on his neck, or her hands all over his body. Mmm…!
He refreshed the page. The dool still stood there, waiting for him, but the sign… was it blinking faster now? «Fuck.»
He perused through the other sections of that salespage, customizing his doll with careless abandon, selecting the small details he thought he would like the most: the style of hairdo (long, dark, full), the varnish on her nails (blasé beige; nothing too catchy), the shape of her pussy (tight, tight, tight!), the color of her eyes. «Green.» He thought with absolute conviction. «Green. Her eyes shall be green.» Deep green eyes, as stunning as the core of an emerald cracked open. «She looks… absolutely beautiful… with strong Nord eyes!»
And so he chose it, making her in the liking of his fantasy. In the end, he had assembled the perfect woman; the dreamy girl; and all that was left for him to do—all that he battled against all these hours—was to click the big, yellow rectangle at the end of the page, with the single word “BUY” emblazoned in big, bold, red letters in the middle.
He argued against it.
He hesitated. He hesitated…
*Click!* Now, only a credit card payment screen separated him from his one, true love. «Fuck. Fuck it.»
He scrambled to find the little piece of plastic. It wasn’t that often that he had to use it. «Everything’s cash. No one buy’s stuff with plastic anymore.» And so he searched and searched, getting more lost as the seartch went on.
Perhaps he was being clumsy on purpose; perhaps he was finding more elaborate excuses, constructing more convoluted theatric to not purchase the doll, not change his life around, not get to feel any love in his life. «It’s not that I deserve any.»
He didn’t. Did he not? …?
It wasn’t only the cost or his insecurities that hurt the most. No. To him, to buy that doll was to admit something intolerable; a truth—one of the many—he’d spent his whole running away from, but that would face him every day, every time he looked at himself in mirror: «I am undesirable.»
Thankfully, his thoughts were unceremoniously interrupted by the feel of something hard… and cold… in his fingertips. «Hmm. There you are.» He pulled his head from the lowest drawer of his desk. «How did you end up here?»
The card trembled on his fingers as he typed the information on the boxes, very quick and absent-minded. For all his fears, his plentiful paranoias, the possibility of someone stealing his money through that sketchy website didn’t even cross his neurotic little mind. «For that, there should be supply.» Supply of fools; of people who paid for things that way, through the virtual realm. «I think I’ll be the only in this country making this purchase, I swear.»
The digital pointer of his mouse glided over the new rectangular, smaller yellow button in that page. Inside this button, the word “confirm” was emblazoned in big, but not-as-bright red letters. He averted his gaze from the screen right before consummating the deal.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep, deep breath. «Here goes fucking nothing.»
Nay. Not nothing. One million and five hundred kröne. That’s a good deal more expensive than nothing.
He shut his thought. He shut his mind. *Click*
A few seconds passed. The screen flickered. The transaction was complete. «Oh, no.» His love was now ready for shipping.
He stood there, unmoving, not a thought in his head. Whatever was done, was done. No reason to fret, no purpose in crying about it anymore.
Out of curiosity, he went back to the sales page, hitting the “refresh” button of his navigator one last time. The page was reloaded, but there was something off about it. In a blink, he noticed two, and only two things different from before: one, the images of the doll—of his woman—they were grayed out; all color had been drained from them, and the beautiful glow of her green eyes was replaced by a light, fuzzy smudge—and even, devoid of color, therefore of soul, those eyes still looked deep. Serious. Honorable. «Oh.» Two… «Oh, my.»
The red sign next to the doll was no longer blinking, and its text had changed. Now, it simply spelled: “OUT OF STOCK.”
Leaning back on his chair, he allowed himself a rare… smile. «Maybe this wasn’t a bad decision after all.»
Wednesday was groceries’ day.
At some point in the long past, there had been a particular reason for him to pick that day—and only that day—for buying his weekly necessities, though he no longer remembered it. Wednesdays just felt right. There was laxness to them: they were perfectly spaced between the Mondays and the Fridays, that is to say, between the dreariest and the cookiest days. Like all good things, they stood right in the middle, the healthy cornerstone of the workweek, almost balancing on its head, and in this day—Wednesday—the world felt alive, but tame. Unthreatening.
Safe. It just felt safe. Not that he had many reasons to expose himself to the outside every week; once every month would suffice, given that he ate very little, and consumed other frivolities even less often. Somewhen in the past, too, he had changed his schedule for buying groceries from only once every month to once every week. As with his choice of Wednesdays, the exact reason for the change eluded him, but this time it seemed just a little bit clearer: «she is so pretty.»
He stood idle at the entrance to the store. Time slowed down whenever he spotted her. «Pretty.» That wasn’t the best word for her. «Hot!» That was.
It wasn’t a perk he hadn’t considered when moving to that country—not consciously, at least: to his tastes, people there looked much more beautiful compared to those of his homeland, of just to people in general. The women who would be models elsewhere, in that country were usually teachers, drivers… or cashiers. «No. No! Don’t look at her. Don’t think about her. No…»
‘Twas difficult to keep one’s mind tame when in a sea of such good-looking gals. The most average of them looked like models; the better ones, like angels. Competition seemed so stiff even the cutest gals wouldn’t think too highly of themselves, and many of those ladies probably even faced their own load of rejections and self-esteem issues, thus becoming easy (or at least easier) targets for the men with just enough flame within their hearts and weight between their legs.
He wasn’t such man. He had no such weight. None. «Waste.» He might as well’ve been born a girl; when it came to both genitals and courage—to manhood and manhood—, it wouldn’t’ve been much of a change. «Waste. Waste.»
He remembered how long it took him and how painfull it felt to just gather enough grit and look at a woman in the eyes for the first time. The laughter and mockery that came right after didn’t make his future attempts any easier; if anything, they only validated his fears. «Waste. A waste.»
The lesson had been learned: never look at a lady. Never address them. Hell, don’t even think about having them. Ever. «A waste. It’s just a waste.» He lowered his head, averted his gaze, and walked inside. «Don’t bother them. You’re watste. You’re just… waste.»
Even then, he couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty girl at the register as he loaded the bags on his cart. He often stopped between the lanes just to have another glance at her, though making sure he was never noticed, never spent too long doing so. He had become quite the expert at being a lurker without being a creep. He didn’t want to make pretty girls uncomfortable, yes, but he also wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of seeing them. «The sight of a pretty woman is a human right,» he sometimes justified to himself, self-servingly.
At first glance, that girl in the counter was the polar opposite of the one he’d purchased—and not just from the fact that she was real. She was slim and very feminine, hardly weighing nine and a half stones, he would bet, and definitely without a drop of tomboyishness in her whole demeanor. She was an all-‘round princess, yet she still carried that humbled, honest look of someone who didn’t have all things in life handed to her on a silver platter—beauty aside, of course.
She seemed down-to-earth. Real. Just like him. He loved to imagine how much better the world would be from her point of view. Good parents, great country, strong relationships, calm and quiet people. How would it feel to have people always smiling when they looked at you? Treating you like a human? Showing you always the better angels of their nature?
Should feel nice, he sighed. A world less dry, less threatening. A world where he’d be safe anywhere, anyday, not just on Wedsnedays, and definitely not by living in the frozen outskirts of the earth.
He calmly placed his items one by one on his cart. Stopping by the frozen goods, he gave one good look back at all he’d bought and realized his lifestyle wasn’t all that bad. «Maybe I’m not such a loser,» he smiled, if only briefly. There was not a bit of organic food or spice in sight, yes, but at least he was past the point of consuming only ready-made goods or frozen junk. There was pasta and rice and beans with nice sauces and whole pounds of decent, chewable meat coupled even with some bottles of juice imported from his native land, of all places. «Ironic.» He realized, feeling the weight of those bottles in his hand. «Back there, this thing’d be cheaper than water.»
Considering how hard sanitation and plumbling came around on his land, that wasn’t all hyperbole. There is only so much junk, after all, one could have before kissing their heart sweet goodbyes. Mostly, though, it wasn’t health that compelled him to be reasonable with his stomach; it was shame. His hatred for growing fat just happened to be much stronger than his pleasure of eating.
His country. His old, bastard country. «Well, well.» He thought, this time more somberly. «Ironic.» The things people did to him back there did leave some positive side effect on his body—if not on his mind.
*Blam!* He startled himself by throwing a package of meat a little too hard in his cart. *Blam-bang!* The sound of the heavy meat clashing on the metal woke him up from the nasty thoughts, only for him to notice that other people in the venue were staring at him very intently. He immediately lowered his head and rolled himself away between the asiles, hoping to disappear as fast as he could from any gaze.
People could sense the weird and the disease in him. It was obvious for anyone with their minds in the right places: just as beautiful, rich people exhuded the smell of ease and success, he smelled the stench of failure and inadequacy. It wasn’t even that he resented the fact he was made to fail and slumber; it’s just that failure and the shame dragged on for so long! «Nature could end me now and quick.» He thought, moving along the isles without picking anything. «More merciful this way.»
The realization that he could go on for fifty, sixty, maybe seventy years in that life was often suffocating. On the rare occasion, alone in his apartment, his heavenly kingdom, he screamed to himself, banged his head against the walls, never to be heard. Not that he minded, of course, never being heard. He preferred it that way, that nobody knew of his problems. It was much better than someone knowing, but not caring. Or worse: someone knowing… and enjoying it.
He felt the swelling behind his eyes and stopped in the middle between two asles, felling his heart pace and his skin burn, sweat forming on his forehead. There was a slight unease of breath followed by a blurring of his vision. He had to shut his eyes and count to ten, twenty… fifty… but the problem didn’t go away as easily as it used to. The longer he faced it, the worse it got. The last time he had it this bad…
No. No point thinking ‘bout it. ‘Twas back in his old land. In public. It involved slurs and beating. Lots of beating. And blood. His blood.
He felt like losing balance, and the image of those shelves toppling on one another like dominoes, or toppling onto him all because of his carelessness, it burned in his mind as if it wasn’t just imagination, but the terrifying reality he couldn’t run away from. «The manager’ll come. They’ll scream at me.» The swelling and pain behind his eyes got stronger. His hands were trembling, gripping the handrail of the cart like they wanted tear it off.
“You alright, mate?”
A voice came by his side. Almost scared the soul out of his body. “You alright, mate?”
He answered just as promptly without giving the stranger a look: “hmm… yes, yes, I am. Uh, headache.” He tapped on his forehead with his fingers, as if to emphasize the point. “Big one.”
“Huh.” The stranger gave him a good look and, thankfully, left him be. Maybe he saw that he was no good. Maybe he saw that he was a foreigner. Still, it stung a little. Even if that had actually been “just” a headache, it would have been nice for the stranger to have asked if he needed anything, or even go the extra mile and offered him some health assistance—like calling a doctor or something. «Nah,» he forged on between the aisles. «I’m good. ‘Tis better this way. This guy made me a favor.» People like him were better off forgotten.
Maybe looking at the beautiful cashier would make him feel better.
It did. And it was weird. At moments like those, he usually didn’t like thinking about women. Brought back unconfortable memories, you see, and it was useless, anyway, to dream ‘bout something he’d never have.
That girl, however, made him feel special; she made him feel calm and sweet. It was something ‘bout her beauty, both provoking and delicate, like a lover and a sister, or a goddess who’d turned into a mortal just to take care for him.
He didn’t feel too intimidated by her. Was it because she was poor like him? Or at least working class? Was it because she was young and quiet—an uncommon thing for pretty gals like her—, maybe nerdy or a bookworm, someone even closer to him?
«You should go talk to her.»
That voice. That annoying voice in the back of his head. He shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to physically expel it. «No!» He reaffirmed. He was not to do the same fucking mistake he did… so many years ago.
He turned the cart around and strolled aimlessly throught the market, with nothing else to buy. The calm and ease were gone now; he was just fearful, with his head heavy and aching, his heart speeding again, the pressure rising as he realized that, romantic or not, he would have to face that girl up-close.
«Come on. You’ve done that already. Many times, even!» He tried forcing on a smile and being positive, but was bombarded by a tsunami of vicious thoughts at every attempt. Maybe he shouldn’t leave that place. Maybe he couldn’t. He looked around and tried to imagine himself living in that already-too-familiar store—the same spot he’d been shopping for the past two years. Or something like that. «Fuck.» The word exploded in his skull, hurt his bones time and time again: «fuck. Fuck. Fuck.» Like a deathroll inmate, he marched to the counter trying his best to not look at the guard.
Don’t disturb her. Don’t you dare ruin her good day and good mood with your presence. Beauty was something too precious to be tainted by his being. It was, in a way, his only way of caring for her: the farther he got from girls, the more invisible he made himself to them, the better.
T’was a nice relationship: he fed on their beauty silently, covertly, and in turn he left them alone, sparing them from the taint of his being. Though that girl did not know it, she made the world a much better place just by existing and being beautiful—as if her abundance of blessings trickled down into his empty husk of a human being.
«I respect you. I really do.» He thought, growing a hunchback as he put the groceries on the counter. She might have been looking at him. He couldn’t know, of course, not without lifting his head and seeing it for himself. «I could be feeling less stressed by not coming out here so often. But I do. All because of you. Beautiful stranger.»
He raised his head. She wasn’t looking at him. Mechanically, as if the job had become part of her instincts, the girl just grabbed the stuff, passed each product under the barcode reader, and stashed them on the other end of the counter. «Oh.» Was his first thought. «Hot.» Was his second. These two were his only thoughts, basically: «Oh. Hot. She hot. Fuck!»
Her skin was beyond flawless, freckles included. «They’re like whiskers. Her face is so cat-like. So… feminine.» Her eyes too were aggressively green. Like… «wow!» Almost two big emeralds dimming out every other source of light in the store.
She barely looked at him directly, and that was nice. She treated him with the casual disinterest of a tired-ass, bored-out-of-her-mind teenage cashier, one who had to take on those menial jobs just to pay her way through uni or something like that.
«Here,» he pondered, «she doesn’t have to worry about education.» He felt another pinch in his heart. Looking around the place, it was easy for him to forget just how clean and tidy everything in that country was, to the point that even a mundane store like that shone like chrome. «Nobody suffers here. It’s like paradise does exist, but it’s meant only for them.»
He felt hurt and a little bit resentful, leading him to mutter to himself and… oh… catch the girl’s attention.
The way she looked at him, she seemed a bit startled. “Sorry?” She leaned forward. “Did you say something?”
He staggered. Deer-on-the-headlights look in his eyes. “No. Nothing.” He said, stammering his way through the meager words.
“Hmm.” The pretty girl moved the last few itens past the scanner: “four thousand five hundred, seventy-two, twenty-two.”
“Uh-huh.” He muttered, counting up the bills and getting the hell out of there as soon as the changes was handed to him.
Some time later… «I don’t know. I wish she, like, said something.» Perhaps she could have asked whether she’d seen him before; perhaps… perhaps… she could have commented on the fact that he bought groceries regularly there, same time, same day, every week without fail, or… «I don’t know.» Something. Anything.
Stupid. Selfish. He should be glad none of this happened. The best thing was for her to not say anything, of course, he knew it very well.
Still hurt, though.
«Why can’t I do a bloody thing?!» He hit his head with a fist, thrashing the bags he was carrying on his arms. «You stupid little cunt!»
A car almost ran him over as he crossed the streets without looking. Almost. «Fuck.» As he landed on other side he realized, with great sadness… «Fuck!»
He was still alive.
«Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…»
He looked back at the store. Through its dark, blue windows he glimpsed his girl, so faintly visible, and the sight of her brought him peace. «Be happy, you woman. You don’t know how good you’ve got.» With a long, chill sigh, he turned around one last time and walked slowly back to his place. «This doll can’t take long enough to come.»
Boobs. Breasts. Titties. Knockers. Shakers. Milk-makers. Gazongas. He’d spent the entire morning looking at those, and they weren’t even half of all the mommy tanks he’d have to work with ‘til the day was dead.
He stretched long and lazily in his chair, both content and annoyed by the nature of his work. It could get tiresome, you know, working with the same damned thing all day long, day after day in the week, all four weeks of the month, for months and months on end until there were no more months left to waste. «‘Tis what I can do, though,» he reflected, «‘tis what I know to do. I guess it could be worse. So much worse.»
Playing with pictures all day long, building beautiful covers for raunchy and erotic books. Most of his clients used to write speedy-pence romances to be sold online for peanuts a pop, yet sometimes he got the occasional big fish, or had to work with such particularly nasty requests the clients were pretty much willing to pay him whatever he asked («if not me,» he reasoned, «who’d work for these degenerates?»).
Ain’t not enough psychos left in the world.
He looked at his computer and admired the sumptuous cleavages shining on the screen. They were all nubile beauties with overdeveloped, lactating breasts, their dresses stained with their overflowing milk, their naked figures dripping with hot, thick mommy nectar from their nipples.
It was a lactation thing, the niche for that particular client, and his penis couldn’t quite decide whether to be hard or asleep. “I need you to make them all milk.” His client had especifically instructed him: “breasts. All ‘em tits. Big tits, all lactating. The dresses are almost tearing up, you know, ‘cause ‘em tits so big! Really hot. Some them, really nasty tits, huge bonbongas. I want ‘em tits naked, shooting milk. Not all covers. Some covers, nasty tits covered. Some covers naked, big tits free. Y’er go’it? I tell which cover which. You cover tits and you not cover tits when I tell ya, a’kay? Very fine. You can name price. I pay for first cover, just one cover, a’kay, with ‘em tits out, then we see if we continue work, a’kay?”
There were really strange, uncommon types asking for beaks all the time, and he didn’t mind them, quirks and all. As long as they paid, all clients were equal. «T’would be nice, though, to make money without having to work for it.» To be born an heir. That would have been the sweet life. To be born beautiful, from a great family, attending top academies and dating all the girls in there, knowing that all the problems in life would be taken care of because he was a spoiled-as-fuck golden boy, the winning sperm of the lottery of the wombs. «I wish I were spoiled.» He sighed, returning to work after a long sip of bad coffee. «Life sucks when you’re not.»
The cover was partially done. To be added still was all the shine and polish: he added a few effects on the tits, making them gleam like sweat, like dropplets of morning dew on their soft, velvety skins, and then went to work on their pores, their skin tone, adding rosy bits and specks to their most delicate areas, like blushing, but for the tits, making it seem as if the woman was especially nubile and hot and fertile, not unlike a princess about to be deflowered by her gallant knight, or a female baboon shaking her swollen nethers to her prospective groom.
Countless times he sucked in his lips and bit them very lightly, his mouth getting drier as the hours mounted. The skirts of those nubile vixens were just short enough so one could think they saw their panties—a tantalizing window to paradise, more erotic than nudity outright. Their asses, hips, and legs were just as he liked them: wide, thick, and meaty. Those were healthy, strong teenagers brimming with fertility and life, good wombs ready to produce great babies, their thight cunts inviting big, unyielding endowments worthy of their lush, fruitful innards.
His dick got softer still, as tiny and inelegant as a dried out, shriveled shrimp, as he thought of the kinds of men who could have such young beauties on their arms. «Men who are the total opposite of me.» His eyes swelled, and the pressure in his head got distracting, if not painful, to the point that he found himself struggling to focus. As it happened, the combination of six unbroken hours of work, just as many gallons of coffee, and a lifetime of sexual frustration wasn’t too great a recipe for one’s mind state.
He stood. His penis made a tent in his lose shorts. A small tent, a pitiful tent, but a shamefully noticieable tent still. «Some men ain’t even have this luxury,» he sighed, adjusting whateved passed for a cock on his pants, then heading to the bathroom just right next to his desk.
Pants down. Cock up. Hand down. Jerk off.
He hated the mirror in front of him. Always forced him to look at himself, that bastard thing. He could try another position, but that was the absolute best one in the tiny bathroom he had. Everytime he accidently got a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface, he felt he could rip his dick off in anger. In hatred. To mitigate that, he closed his eyes, laid his head very low, and tried to imagine instead of himself the kind of man he would have loved to see in the reflection, and that women would have loved to have in their own arms: that kind of equinely endowned, muscular womb seeders who would have the women just like the ones he edited on his covers, and better.
In the porn flicks of his mind, he imagined not himself, but other men fucking the women. Men he knew he would never be. Men he wished he’d been born as, but had been cursed never to be: big, hulking, hairy muscle-bound stallions teaching those uptight little sluts a lesson. He would imagine their orgasms and their fountains of squirt. Rows of women standing in a line, waiting to be fucked by a single of those tireless bisons. Kings and noblemen in the Middle Ages used to have harems like those, he read about it: dozens, if not hundreds of pussies on the side, ready to always satiate their masters’ needs whenever they required. That’s the perk of wealth and power: all the finest pussy in the world.
He felt the sweat running down his cheeks. His breath was uneven, his head almost exploding. He hated himself for it, but his cock sure felt nice—and it was his cock, not his head, that dictated the rules this time around. “Oh, god!” He would imagine this one glorious, beautiful male, his body sculpted in marble, his face carrying the smile of someone who never had a problem in life, fucking rows and rows (and rows and rows (and more rows upon rows…)) of ladies, who themselves could barely hold their own orgasms at bay, one after another passing out, collapsing with sheer exhaustion and elation with the mere penetration of his giant cock head, his ungodly titanic hammer shattering their squirting, quivering pearls.
“Oh, god, what…” He rolled his eyes and moaned: “what a man!”
He shot his load over the sink onto the mirror. Pitiful threads of transparent white goo, barely a sperm, more like a sneeze from his pee, not an ounce of the virility to be expected from real jizz. He jerked himself harder, trying to coax more of that paltry paste from his cock, but that was all his measly tool could muster. When hardened, his member was only a little bigger than his palm side-to-side; less a penis, more a pencil wrapped in meat, and his ejaculate was, fittingly, just as pathetic.
He watched in disbelief his paste slide down on the mirror, like a slug of frustrated manhood, while the image of that powerful stud fucking his harem of mares was still vivid on his mind, burning as brightly as the bonfire for a pagan god of fertility next to the dead, wet charcoal that was his reality, his wet, dead penis resting on his palm.
He came when he had come; and when he had come, it was not a squirt; it was a fountain. A whole dam breaking loose.
The beastly alpha roared like a lion, thundered like a bull. His load was enough to make a woman full for the rest of her life; both with his massive cock inside her and his massive load now filling her up, she felt full like with no other man—no other band of men—could ever fill her, stretched beyond the limits of even her wildest fantasies, and experiencing more orgasms with a single thrust of that stud than she had with all the partners prior in her love life.
Many partners. All losers. All washed away by the potent torrent of her stallion. *Bluuush…!*
This was the image in his mind when he came with his eyes closed: a giant, ripped, muscular man ejaculating hot and hard in the womb of his conquered lover. The ejaculation of a natural-born consumer of cunts! The sexual apotheosis of a Real Man, not the petty little dribbling of a flabby-dicked boy like him.
When all was said and done and his sack felt like an empty ballon, just a stack of skin with nothing inside, he was left with the sad task of cleaning up the mirror. «Ridiculous. Digusting. Pathetic.» The words bounced around in his skull without his wanting. Though he was aware of them, he wanted to not think. «Ridiculous. Sad. Disgusting. Pathetic.» His hand wiped the mirror, pieces of toilet paper getting damp and sticky on his fingers, the motions circular and waivy, capturing his eyes. «Digusting. Disgusting.» He tried paying attention to them, those meandering, ondulating motions, and leave the words back, back in his mind, deep within it, buried away, pretending even that those words were not there.
But they were. By the gods’ mercy, they were. «Disgusting. Sad. Little. Little man.» His wipes little by little lost harmony. The toilet paper between his fingers piece by piece feel apart, the pressure of that wiping making his movements jarred, unpredictable; long pauses in one place building up to a long, ungrafecul swoosh in a mercilessly straight line. «Fucker. Disgusting. Dis… repulsive. You’re rep-» One would feel the mirror cracing, the skin penetrated by shards of glass as thin as dandaleon petals, but that was all for now just in his mind, where the words were that much sharper. «You repulsive. Disgusting. Loser. Loser. Loser. Pathetic.»
He truly was… «Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.»
As soon as he sat back on his desk, he felt sadly hornier. «Fuck.» Masturbating usually helped clear the mind, but it wasn’t uncommon that this self-love yieled the very opposite effect, and that one session… oh… that one had been particularly innefective. «Fuck me, god.»
He felt like dying. The pressure in the back of his eyes had grown so strong he needed to squint, squeeze, scratch them from time to time just to set his mind straight and his thoughts clear. «Hell. Hell. Hell.» As he pressed his fingers against his eyeballs under their lids, *squish*, it felt like water; high-pressure water, a murky tumor in the back of his eyes being pushed back into the brain. Is it this what his mind produced when in his moments of idleness? When he wasn’t guarding it, just trying for once… to relax? «Poison. Poison. Poison.» A heavy, gulpy slime, dark as sugarcane syrup, oozing from his brains, popping his eyes out if he wasn’t paying attention.
«Hell. Hell. Fuck. Hell. Hell. Kill. Me. Hell. Hell. Kill me now.»
To want to die. To kill oneself. Those are two wholly different things. Different things that stressed just how… «useless. Useless. Useless. Useless. Useless. Useless!! Use… less… usele… ss… usel… use… useless… useless… usel… ess… ess… s…»
To kill oneself. That’s an action. It requires strength. Courage. All the more so depending on the method one choises. Now, to die, simply to die, that was easy. People did it all the time, if against their will, for dying, simply dying, was so natural one needn’t a will to it at all; one just needed to… be alive… yes. Be alive and you will die. That’s for sure. One of the precious few sure things the universe had to offer.
«Die. Die. Die. Useless. Die…»
T’would have been so much better if he’d just… never woke up one day… or never had existed at all in the first place.
Never having been born. Never having to have waddled through all life. «Just… just…»
Precisely: nothing. Just nothing. That’s even better than to simply die—although, in the great scheme of things, in the eyes of a heavenly accountant, t’would be all the same.
He stared at his own reflection in the dark areas of the computer screen, seeing his bonecheeks produding through his pale skin. Though he now made some effort in leaving his cubicle every once in a while, that country knew no sun; its hottest summers would pass for the harshest winters back in his land, and its winters would barely be something to live through. They would have been, without a hint of hyperbole, apocalyptic: give his people a single day of the mildest eve on that country’s winter, and by the twelfth hour they would all. Be. Dead.
«They would all. Be. Dead.» Hmm. This thought brought him some confort.
No, it wasn’t a nice country at all, that one he chose to live in, so close to the endless white, yet thousands of people had risked their lives every day to set their feet on those frosty shores. «Nature kills, but the people don’t.» His mind drifted back, back, back to his old place. «People killed, but nature di’n’t.»
Was there anywhere anyplace where the two would meet? Good people and good nature? He didn’t know; he wasn’t in the business of knowing. What he did know, though, and what anyone with common sense knew in their bones was that the opposite—terrible nature and terrible people—far and wide abounded; and that country, that inhospitable country at the top of earth’s dried-out skull, was living testimony of that, being surrounded by neighbors just this terrible.
Hell is reality whilst paradise a fantasy. Still, he sure tried his best to find paradise: the Midwesterners, long having neglected the astounding fertility of their land, choose instead to splinter into petty, tribalistic squabbles, and never wanted any business with foreigners like himself anyway. He was mediocre and unambitious; definitely not cut from the ruthless cloth of the yankee race.
South of his country, in the heart of the continent, was sure an attractive bet, but whoever could murk through its porous frontiers would be met with a much worse, much more organized and centralized sort of domestic squabble; not as much “squabble” as instead “war”, with deathcamps as big as cities famously littering the country’s once-said-to-be idyllic farmlands. «And Bretannea, by proxy, was ruined by all the desperate peoples and psycho soldiers that inevitably spilled over from this rotten core of a continent.» He thought to himself, typing aimlessly on the keyboard and moving things absent-mindendly on his screen. The urge of spitting almost took over him, but last time he’d surrendered to it, he spat on his computer instead, risking the ruin of a many months’ salary. Nah. He swallowed the spit instead. *Gulp*
Everywhere else in the Oltten Jörden was little more than a mix of much deadlier clusters of internecine struggles and sad, pitiful scrambles for mere survivals; the more peaceful lands in there that still afforded any kind of life—almost all far from the oceans, deep in the east, near the hordelands, and little above the deadly winds that carried the poison from arabia—only knew pace because they offered nothing of value to make war for, and could support no meaningful populations to build one single battalion in the first place.
“La paz es fácil en tiempos de abundancia.” Went the saying from his land, from one of his country’s neighbors: “peace is easy in times of plenty. It is in times of hardship and strife that we see the true face of people.” Correct. He didn’t object to that. However, «the far opposite can be just as right.» It is also easy to make peace when you don’t have the strength in your body to lift a sword; when poverty is so overwhelming and there’s nowhere in sight to escape it, you get peace. A crooked sort of peace, sure, but peace no less.
The peace of starvation. “Pacce Mortum.” The peace of death.
The continent got lucky. In many ways that deathly peace was better than a life of emiscerated slavery, which is what the inhabitants of the fareast got—or so the sayings went, and wherever they went couldn’t be too reliable. People told fantastic stories of things just beyond the mountains, no longer than a handful of dozen miles east, so how could he be any trusting of anything going on in the farthest of fareasts? Hell if he would believe any of that load. However, when your entire region earns the moniker of “Slavelands”, good things shan’t be expected from ya.
«There’s one land that is good.» He thought, a pang of regret tearing his heart. «One land that must be good. Peace. Paradise.» A land so close and so far. «Damn it!»
La Plata. Neighboring his country. So close! Yet… so far! Offering millions safe harbor. Yet he rather not think of it; not any longer. «If I had only tried harder!» He hit his own head, but buried those thoughts deep enough, quick enough that he didn’t need his fists anymore.
Immigration was too tight. The borders, uniquely closed. Not surprising that they were closed, but shocking that they were actually patrolled. «Fuck. Must be booming as a land.»
Those millions it offered safety must have been worth a damn to begin with. «I’m not.» He mulled, the thought hitting his heart like a gavel. «I’m not worth one damn thing.» Therefore, closed. The borders as closed to him by the redtape as any mountain range or frigid outskirts would wall off any country.
Fail. Fail. Fail. Through trial and fial, rejection and capitulation, he drifted up there, one continent away, as close to the white as humans could get without turning mad or feral. He had landed, through sheer luck and outright stubbornness—an adamant, irrational persistence of life, or just a lack of guts to embrace death—he had washed ashore on very edge of the planet, where the scraps of civilization fell like a rapid into the void. «The only place left. The only place where I can live.»
A scrap of humanity suitable for the scrap of a human being that he was.
He took a long, chill sigh. «Could’ve been worse.» Yes. It could have been a lot worse.
Moved by some sudden and strange urge he couldn’t quite explain, he lowered his hands to the bottom hem of his shirt and pulled it up. «Darn it, y’ol.» He could count the ribs on his chest. «Eat more. Needa eat more.» On most days, however, his lips only knew the taste of coffee. «Perhaps… if I eat more…?»
Would he somehow fix that general gracelessness of his form?
Doubtful. He wasn’t particularly tall, and by no means would he ever be considered handsome. Cute? Perhaps, but even for many that would have been a stretch. He had a pathethically oblong face with very flattened, all-too-symmetrical features, like a piece of shit stomped by a boot on the sidewalk: nose too flat and wide, skin too pale and thin, lips so dry his mouth, when shut, looked like a single line cut on rubber with a razor—Saharan shape without Saharan colors; Caucasian blandness without Caucasian smoothness. He often looked like the sketch of a human being—as if the gods, when creating him, were like children trying to draw a person from memory, and he ended up being born by accident (or by a sick joke) instead of being discarded along with the millions upon millions of rejected drafts.
His release had given him no release. Like a castaway who drinks the water from the ocean, that false taste of sex had only rendered him more addicted to it. The heat and the touch of young, virgin beauties; that’s what he needed! Sweet, inexperienced girls who nonetheless rocked the massive boobs and ass and thighs of ravenous succubi; lovely-looking angels with a demeanor from hell, tight pussies swelling under their steamy pink panties, their gazes like those of sex-starved demonesses in heavenly faces, their bright-colored eyes flaring with the blaze of hades.
He leaned ever closer to the screen, wishing to lick the women through the pixels. «No.» The sooner he finished, he reasoned, stopping himself on his horny tracks, the sooner his thirst would be quenched. «Yes. Work. Gotta work.» Rubbing his thin thighs against one another, the heat always encroaching, always threatening to get the better of him, he added extreme amounts of detail to those women on the screen, making them little by little more untouchable, more impossibly erotic compared to their real counterparts. By the end of his shift, the night was high. The cup of bad black juice just kept magically refilling itself as the hours rolled on top of one another, without his noticing, and his stomach grumbled, churned, turned in demand of some good—if not that, of something solid. *Chuuurn!*
«Fuck this… belly!» He cursed his physiognomy as he reviewed each and every one of his finished covers before sending them off for approval by his depraved client. They were all beautiful works of smut that would also sell beautifully. There was a fizzle of pride in his heart; all but a speck of the emotion he used to feel when he’d begun that work, so many years ago, as an act of desperation rather than inspiration, trying to make some shekels—any money!—that would keep himself from death or worse: impoverishment. Homelessness. It’d been by sheer, idiotic luck that he landed his first clients, and it was only by sheer, idiotic luck he learned that, no, he was not entirely useless, no, his future was not all used up, and was allowed to build a whole trade on top of others’ lewdness, other people’s depravities—his entire life, a man’s whole story founded upon mankind’s uncough yearning to screw.
Even at world’s end. Even after they managed to almost make themselves extinct. Even in the eye of apocalypse, all that people cared about, all that people lived for, all that people paid for was screw.
Or perhaps it was because of all this that people cared all the more about screw. «Ain’t much else to hope for, eh? At the end of the word.»
Though he was a loner, and though he was a crooked fuck, a mentally disfigured twat with as much social grace as a bat in daylight, he was not, despite everything everyone had ever told him, an absolute zero. No. He was zero point something. And it was that filthy, smutty something that managed to pay his bills, get him on his feet, and aid him in his flight from his compatriots and captors, finding solitude, if not peace on the farthest edges of humanity’s ash heap.
He both hated and pitied them. His people. No. They were not guilty of the rottenness of their souls, he knew that, he was too clever to not know that, but no amount of cleverness or insight or whatevers-whenevers helped ease the pain of all they had done to him back in the land, way further back in his youth. From the day he was born to the day he would die, he would carry those cumbersome sacks of iron thorns in his mind. His body would grow weary and weak, but the thorns, the heavy pile of psycho-dung stenching in his skull, that would remain the same size, the same weight, if not grow heavier with time, as it usually did, bending his spine and cracking his bones until he was sent, hopefully, to an early, early grave.
*Click!* He pressed the glittering blue icon on the screen and waited for the images to be sent away. It would take a long while. With just as long a sigh, he leaned back on his chair, thinking if maybe he could, should relax a bit. «No.» Another mind within his mind interjected. «I need money.» So he carried on to the next client instead.
Money, yes, money. It was money that’d allowed him to escape his wretched place, to rent that little piece of crooked paradise. The nature of his work—irregular, unpredictable, independent and undependable—was just as unforgiving as it could be occasionally, rarely very fulfilling: some days you made bank, some days the bank made you. He both envied and despised the stability of more formal professions, who never had to worry (too much) about their next paycheck, which was sure to land, as regular as the cold, the week ahead or the month to come, but who also became tame, compliant drones in the process. Evil drones, no less, all too often: golems who, to safeguard their beloved stability, were always willing, even eager to slander, steal, smear, and kill, or to put in charge like-minded golems who would gladly, even merrily slander, steal, smear, and kill.
There’s nothing as sad and pitiful as a man in a cubicle. The anti-habitat of a human: the white walls of an air-conditioned building, the thumping of the fingers on the keyboard, the occasional boorish chat by the kleidam or perfunctory sneeze of a coworker, the mortifying buzz and hum of blindfolded productivity.
He wanted their perks without their leash: a good salary, nice prospects, a sensible dental plan, but not those detestable cubicles to rot away in virtual sheets, moving what little money remained from there to here and here to there, all for the fat profits of his uncaring masters, a mere engine to power the easy, unmerited luxuries of his thieving lords—lords whose blessings their gorgeous sons and beautiful would inherit in full, mind and body, blood and purses, to grow up tall and rich, handsome and lazy, beautiful and spoiled. The boys, the varóns, to end up real studs meant to screw, marry, and mingle with only the best princesses, the vacas of the world, breeding future princes and kings for humanity, who would go on to continue the endless line of injustice, the endless thread inequality that kept poor blokes like him on the mud—or rather, on the cubicle.
Sons of prosperity, heirs to happiness. How detestable was their existence, and how wonderful would be to have it!
He bit his lips, drawing blood, dreaming with better rolls of the dice as he read the assignment from a different client. «Hmm.» This time, thankfully, by the gods’ blessings, he wouldn’t have to suffer (too much) from thirst: it was a regular set of covers, that job he got, for yet another run-of-the-mill series of wishy-washy tales of romance. All very girly, all very quaint, almost innocent, not the type of work that would require rolls upon rolls of luscious lactating tits, not the type of imagery that would have stirred too violent an emotion inside his flailing, wheezling dick.
Or so he thought.
The covers were in the style of primordial yanky romances, one that had become quite the visual cliché in his field: a damsel in the strong arms of a dark, thick, shirtless, muscle-bound, long-maned hero. He, the poor editor, was already tantalized by the women—big-bosomed beauties whose every curve was emphasized by their tight, light dresses, their healthy and fertile bodies exhuding femininity, enough to stir up the eggs of any a male. «Fuck! Not this again!»
Again: more erotic than erotic itself. More pornographic than outright nudity. «Whoever makes these dresses… bravo.» Whether women or gay, they understood the male mind better than the males themselves—and they ended up all the more cursed for this. «Fuck me… gods!»
As tantalizing as the nubes were, ‘twas not them, this time around, that threw his brains off their rails; ‘twas the men. «Fuck…! These…! Men!» He licked his lips, or t’least his brain did. As he laid his eyes on the hard bodies of those studs, his penis resurrected, alive yet again. The image was just as arousing as the not-naked-but-still-very-naked virgins on their arms. And painful. So bloody painful. The aggressive muscles of those man-shaped stallions, whose pants bulged enormously on their crotches, brought down and heavy by the massive meat clubs between their bronzed, thick, hairy legs, all of it reminded him of a virility he would never possess. Their legs were built like Greek columns, their torsos wide and massive and firm as the back of horses, their pectorals so enormous a single halve of them was wider than his whole torso—from loin to neck.
He admired their six, often eight slabs of gorgeous abdominals, the shinny, lustrous hairs that adorned their chests, and the beautiful dark manes flowing like divine waterfalls from their perfectly-shaped heads, or the vast, well-kept beards on their sharp, chiseled jaws. «Fuck…! F-fuuuck…!!» The burning on his loins stopped being just a joke, became something truly… physical. «Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuc……» His balls, tiny within his shriveled sack, vibrated; literally shivered around his pitiful member, whose wooden-solid state made him feel the trembling in his inner thighs, castigating his anus, leading him to weave and heave like a female himself. A female in heat.
“Fu-uh-ck!” He whistled, no, he moaned, the middle syllable going high into the high end of notes, the mating call not of a bull, but of a hen; a hen who’d just found the perfect cock to lay eggs for.
In heat and haste, he picked up the computer and almost knocked the half-empty mug from his desk as he stood and ran, ran again and back to the bathroom. «No… gods… no!» The praying did no good as he shut the door and put the laptop on the sink, lowering his trousers in a serious of fast, unthought motions, and began to ferociously masturbate to the images of those powerful stallions. He closed his eyes and moaned, moaned, moaned under the sultry grace from those portraits of obscene masculinity, in heat and in love with the abundance of meat and muscles and manhood in those larger-than-life, stupendously bred bodies. The images were rarely pornographic, but it wasn’t the prospect of their glorious, naked bodies that got him off; it was the sheer sturdiness of their postures, their gazes, their firm, authoritarian eyes commanding respect without a word.
The perfection of their physiques, living statues out of marble contrasting with the flabby frailty of his own figure. The thought of himself, puny boy, being dominated by those gorgeous studs—chained down to the bed by nothing but their powerful arms and hand-whipped in the legs, the back, the ass by their powerful hands, lock-n-chocked ‘round his neck by their swollen biceps, sinfully sodomized, split apart, and made two by the colossal columns of those wild males in heat. “Aaaaiiin…!! Deusss!!” All of this and so much more brought him over the edge, and then beyond, and then beyond, and then beyond…
“DEUS! DEUS!! AI, CRISTO-OOOH!!” His eyes shot to the heavens of his skull, and the boy’s entire body contorted horrifically, spasmiscally into the mirror. By some cruel play of this same body, one of his eyes descended a little from the high heavens they were cumming on, and the boy was forced to get a glimpse of his own reflection. «No!» He tried to avert the gaze, to send the eye back and quickly onto paradise, but it was too late: the image of his own self got his penis softer and delayed the inevitable explosion. He needed to bathe his mind on more hundreds of those hundreds of powerful, virile bulls to get his cock hard and manly again—washing away with their seed the pathetic nature of his body, his mind, his being.
Many of those males on his work files wore only black or white boxers, leaving little to the imagination about the size and sturdiness of their masculinities. Some clients asked him to make the bulges bigger, but he scarcely needed to be told that before editing them into obscenely well-endowed hunks, looking like they packed an elephant trunk and a pair of mangos in their garments.
As he furiously beat his struggling, slowly hardening meat, he accidently selected some of the folders containing the more pornographic images of his archives. «Jesus!» The naked crotches flaunted cocks so big and beautiful he almost felt them slapping his face through the screen. *Spat!* The collection of turgid, swollen meatstacks, manhoods in their fullest and their fattest, added fire and poison and acid to a torrent that was already too hard to contain mere seconds prior. “Ai, macho…!!”
Taken aback, shocked and surprised, the boy felt a thunderous vibration in his penis and a sudden shrinkage of his little balls, getting littler. “Ooooh…!!!” The bathroom was filled with squishy noises as he prematurely unleashed his load.
“DEUS–!!! DEUS MEU… D-DEUS!! OH, DEUS!!” He almost lost a leg with that nut. “Deus, meu deus, ai, deusinho-oooh!” He leaned on desperately with an arm towards the mirror, where his semen had landed, all two squirts of it, barely visible.
«Merda… merda… fuck.» His mind steadied, his train of thoughts returned to one same frequency, and his eyes, descending once again from their peaks, led him to see himself once again on the smeared surface, causing the anger, that anger that never died, no matter how many times he masturbated and ejaculated, to boil and brew anew.
«Pathetic. Sad. Sad. Disgusting. Pa-… pathetic. Dis-, uh, disgusting.» He almost felt the urge of spitting in his own image; at making a clone of himself and clubbing him to death. «Pathetic. Pathetic. Disgusting. Pathetic…» Was that what they felt when they saw him? Long ago? «The people from my land. My neighbors, my… my mot-… my mother?» The saliva was spilling out from his lips, oozing like a cataract of defeat and shame. «This great disgust and hatred?»
His fist was tight shut. He could almost throw a punch at the glass if the glow of his computer screen hadn’t caught his attention sooner. There on the screen, he noticed he had indeed shot more than two pitiful ropes of semen, as another one had actually hit the upper tab of his screen, prompting him to quickly scramble for some toilet paper to clean it up. «Filhen! Häellen! This is so fucking disgusting!»
As he wiped the cum off his computer, his fingers slid over the model’s hair on the screen, like a cuddle. He gazed upon that massive, muscular body, all culminating on a thick, long, soft penis that dangling magnanimously, intimidantingly between his huge, veiny legs, the absolute pendulum of virility—like an ol’ clock made of manhood.
The man was obscenely packed. His balls were so big and full the boy could see their bloated outline from behind the cock. Was that what a Real Man looked like? He’d never seen any in real life to compare to, and certainly not naked, though even the fake males of cartoon comics or porn actors from the flickies never sported manhoods so fabulously fat and gorgeous as that one on the screen. The fact that the monster was soft only made it more imposing, like a third leg so ungodly thick no hand could grasp its barrel-sized girth in full. The big, salient vein dripping down along the cockard was very turgid, twice as long as the cock itself, thanks to its many zigs and zagas, but thick as a pinky all throughout, with legions of smaller, but still thick veins sprawing from it like branches on a tree, all covering the surface of the gargantuan womb-smasher like a rugged spiderweb of studliness. It was such a big and heavy stick it looked like he needed an extra portion of blood just to keep it up there, dangling on the god’s hips without falling off and rotting away.
His penis grew harder again. He felt like spending whole hours just looking at that model, that god in a man’s flesh. He ran his fingers across the screen, imagining the touch on that firm, rock-hard male, and wished, for a moment, that he was such male. «No. Never. Wasn’t meant to be.» The voice within the voice within his mind came up again, and he dropped the silly thought. Instead, more realistically, he imagined himself instead being dominated, roughened up, beaten and fucked raw in the lowlands by that powerful minotaur, that raging human bull, that tireless and tirelessly fertile stallion. The shallowness of his own cum couldn’t compare to the scortching, heavy broth that bull was sure to cum on his guts, to the massive buckets of load he undeniably, unquestionably gushed on the tight pussies of his hundreds, thousands of lovers. “A man like this…” He muttered to himself, touching his own pecs, pinching and twisting and pulling his own nipples, “must ejaculate like a fucking firehose.”
The minutes went by, countless and uncountable, as he imagined himself being humiliated, subjugated by that mighty male in all manners of sexual depravity, to the point his dick was fully hard again. Still, t’was all dick no juice, for his balls were probably as dry as the cerrado. Nevermind. T’wasn’t a problem that his dick, if anything, was just a cosmetic addon to his body. After all, he was not supposed to be the virile partner there. The man was. He had more pleasure imagining that stud plowing him with brutality or—even better—humiliating and derogating him before his harem of fertile females, than actually being that super stud or having sex with all those women himself.
No matter how hard he tried, he could never push his imagination to such ludicrous highs. An example: he often tried and pictured himself as a better, richer man, a stud of better breeding and brighter prospects in life, trying to get a lay with a beautiful woman on a social gathering whatever. Then that stud, that rival male always appeared, barging into his own thoughts, interrupting his own fantasies, and very easily stole the woman from his arms, laughing at him while heading to his bedroom with his lay, ready to take his prize, to plow his trophy from her gushy womanhood.
He didn’t know what success felt like. His life had been so bereft of things to brag about that any notion of braggadocio was restricted for him to mere dictionary definitions; lexical explanations without any application. «I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be good. What it’s like to be a Man.» Therefore even in his fantasies he came out the loser; even in his dreams he was a virgin.
He could change them, play with them, conconct as many new scenarios as he could, and as fastastical as he could make them, yet the dreams, in their core, remained the same: he had a beautiful girl on his arms, only to second later have her be stolen by a stud. Then, he would be made to watch as the man laid his own fantasy woman, showed him how a real man fucked, mocked him at every opportunity as he took his lay to ever greater heights of pleasure, her body twitching and her eyes rolling as he managed to extract one squirting orgasm after another out of her battered pussy.
It didn’t end there. It never did. After she was laid conquered and wrecked and ruined on the bed, the male would withdraw his gorgeous pipeline from her and proceeded to jerk it off with his two thick, heavy, hairy, ubermasculine hands over her body. As she panted and wailed and slowly recovered her breath, the overmuscular stallion would turn to him and demand: “why don’t you feed your girlfriend a real man’s cock, huh?” And the boy, the measly boy, the disgusting boy, in turn, would just stood there, befundled, barely understading his lord’s words.
“Do you want this cock again?” The huge male asked the submissive princess. “Tell your pussy boyfriend how badly you want this cock.”
She didn’t even make an effort to resist, to feign loyalty to her previous, defeated male, before he looked at him almost pitifully in the eyes and screamed: “yesss. I want this cock! Gimme this cock… NOW!!”
“Then ask your boyfriend to put it inside you.” He laughed, the stud did, clearing from the scene any lingering trace of doubt: “not his pencil dick. My cock.” He grabbed his own manhood fully, ever proud of the many inches long-n-round he had on display. “Tell him to come here and guide my stallion horse cock into yout tight cunt.”
And he, the little boy, almost had tears in his eyes when his girlfriend once again jumped at the opportunity, never a second of doubt and hesitation, the ectasy dripping from her voice as be begged, nay, screamed: “DO IT, YOU LOSER!! PUT THIS MAN’S DICK INTO MY PUSSY NOOOW!!!”
He then crawled towards the couple on his knees, weeping and yelping like a hurt puppy, a lonely tear sliding down his cheeks as grabbed that massive penis as respectifully as he could, like the handling of a divine relic, and felt its hardness, its lusciousness, its liveness, its granite-and-steel texture, as well as the its immense girth, its superiority in every sense of the word imaginable, the immense, throbbing balls massaging his own knuckles with their potent, unstapable thumps and throbs and pounds, like two hearts for testicles, fifty stones each, so full of virile semen you could hear it coursing and sloshing inside.
“Good pup.” The mighty male fondled his cheeks. “Now, put this cock where it belongs.”
He moved the penis gently inside his girlfriend’s quim, seeing it be wholly stretched by the helmet of that monstrous manhood. «Zie… die… götten!» He would think and she would moan, his breath echoing unevenly across the bathroom. «His head alone is bigger than my whole thing.»
“Deeper.” The man commanded, and he silently wept as he pushed the cock deeper into the woman, seeing her groin bulge as the immense serpent penetrated her innermost hoods. “Look how deep I can stretch her, boy, and you’ve got barely a third of me in her.” He could do nothing but to gulp, whimper, and silently oblige, guiding inch after inch (after inch after inch after inch after inch) of that endless manhood inside the woman. “Now…” The male leaned to her and sucked her tits, making her moan and wet herself like a prowled dam, “feel it. I’m deeper in her than any man has ever been, than any man will ever be, and there’s still another half of cock to go.”
In the end, the man could never penetrate her in full. The penis would easily hit her cervix with the many inches (and inches and inches and inches and inches and inches) still left outside. Therefore, with utmost control, his body being both a force of destruction and creation, the stallion proceeded to fuck her pussy, body, mind, and soul senseless for another hour, drawing so many orgasms out of her that the poor little being didn’t know what’d hit her when it was all set and done. She yelped, screamed, moaned, quaked, and fainted more times than anyone could count, and the little man, both within the dream and out in the bathroom, came quick and hard by watching that superior male conquer the ever-living soul of his lover; orgasms so great that even her sisters, her mother, her grandmas, and all the women of her past, alive or dead, would feel it—and get hopelessly addicted to it.
Sex so good it could be felt through generations, across time and space.
Despite his third release, his pecker sang a song without notes. His little, shrived bowls were exhausted—the exact opposite, or course, of the raging stallion in his dreams, who still ejaculated like twenty men inside the woman. Still, the pleasure of that third nut was more sublime, and he, the boy, found himself fumbling his own buttocks, teasing his little asshole with his index as he descended from ecstasy and found himself again, rather anticlimactically, in the same dark, dreary bathroom, in front of the mirror still smeared by his prior load.
The computer still shone on his frail body, its screen slightly dimmed after so many minutes of inactivity. “What a man,” he muttered softly, and then more loudly so: “what a man.” The swelling of his eyes got worse and worse, and he closed the laptop quietly, every motion a testament to his defeat, and returned to his desk like soldiers from a beaten army being paraded, in chains, along the ample streets of the victorious nation—living spoils to the victor. «Fuck,» he thought. «That’s three nuts. Three.»
He didn’t like the habit, he knew it was poisonous to both mind and soul, but what else could he do? In the lack of any healthy options, it was quite literally the only thing that kept he sane, even alive. «Fukken idiote!» He hated himself not only for having failed to remain “chaste”, but also for not getting anything out of it. «Fukken fukken funkkert-hen!!» He had nutted three times in one night and still did not feel sathed. «You fucking rotten piece of shit.»
He opened the laptop and stared at the same erotic image of the stud dominating the busty damsel, his wide shoulders and Greek-column-thick arms enfolding her like the walls of an ancient roman capital. The sight of his exposed, muscular back, not to speak of the protrudent slabs of muscle on his shoulders, literal walls of meat along an impossibly wide frame, got his penis twitchy again, and by the end of that shift, some hours past moonfall, he had jerked off again in his seat, his pants still on, making a mess of his hands, his chair, and his underwear.
«I fucking hate myself.»
Change the clothes. Clean the bathroom. Go to bed and die. That was how he spend the remaining waking moments of his long overstretched day. He was in no mood for anything else. «Fuck me. Fuck me always. Fuck me to hell.»
He jumped into the black, or rather, sank into the bed with his head heavy, his eyes aching and throbbing, his brain begging for release, as if the twisted mass of meat in his skull had morphed into a nest of hornets.
«This doll… this doll…» He though to himself, holding back the flood in his eyes, waiting to die. «She can’t arrive soon enough.»
Thankfully, the sleep did. He was allowed to close the day with some sort of happiness; if not happiness, contentment; if not contentment, finality. No death, but the little death—and this was good enough for him.
As good as he would ever get.
He woke up to a buzzard several days later.
“Uh… hi, hey…” He yawned as he picked up the telecom from the wall on his living room. “Uh, good morning.” It was three waypast sunshoot.
“Uh, hi. This is, uh,” there was the sound of papers shuffling as the porter searched for his name. “One-three, three-nine C, am I right? There’s a package for you.” A weird, unthought pause followed. He knew those silent hiccups all too well: the keeper was looking for words, tripping and trampling on his own tongue; he knew that silence, yes, but it was uncommon to find it on other people. “A big package.” Another piece of silence followed, and this time he didn’t know what to make of it. “Anyone ‘ma pick-a-up?”
He felt a tightening on the chest, almost blocking the words from him: “b-be right down. Er, down t-there in a, err, a minute, a m-minute, in a minute. Or two.”
Phone hanged. He could count his heartbeats on the tip of his fingers; he could count it right up his neck. Asphyxiating. «She…» He didn’t think of much as he grabbed whatever serviceable clothes he had in arms reach and headed to the door; to the door, not through the door, for every step was a moment to pause, every gut reaction gave way to gut protestation, with his legs going nimbler, his belly growing feebler, an uncontrollable desire to unload. «She…» Almost uncontrollable. «She can’t be here.» He felt in his guts the same fear… oh, come on! «No. I can’t… I can’t just…»
The same fear he felt whenever he had to look up to a girl. Imagine going up and… tal… t-t-talking to… «I can’t. This can’t be…»
His hand was frozen on the doorknob, melding into it. He had become a statue of his living room; not much so as a welcoming one, but a harbinger to anyone idiot enough to try and enter his house: there’s no good that can come from here; no positive you can gain from him. Go away and save yourselves. Your lives are worth living. Unlike h-
Buzzard. Buzzard, buzzard, buzzard. He snapped up and back into reality, his eyes as if shattered, made of glass and them smashed by a hammer. Painful thing. He felt ‘em shard in his gray mass up his skull. “Fuck.” His heart, he could feel it in his fingertips, count the beats within his throat; one heart for every finger; one heart squeezed tight where his apple would’ve been. «Fuckfuckfuck……!»
The comms device in his apartment had an alarming sound for its bell; no such sound could be called a mere ringing. It was very clean, very loud, and all-throughout very fake; t’wasn’t a sound made by real things, but computadorized ones. A digital sound. Electronic. A sound, too, like many unpleasant things, he knew all too well. “Uh… yeah?”
On the other side of the line, he could hear the fingers thumping. “Sir, you coming down?”
He looked at the imaginary clock atop his condo’s entrance. Minut-avon-minute, flirting with an hour had passed. “I’m so, so sorry. Uh…” Don’t look for an excuse; don’t try for an explanation; you just gon’ make yourself look and sound and be more ridiculous, you bloody idiot. “I’m going right down.”
Right down. Right now. He didn’t think of it as he slammed the comm into the wall and burst through the door without opening in, being washed clean and void by the overbearing «white! White! White!»
Yes. White. The salt mine under a cloudless sun white of the long, long, long hallway before his home. Several doors, near countless, stood before him and the lifts far, far, far away. He lived at the very edge of the edifice, cornered in a dark, safe, protected rim of that tall haven, and he loved it, yes, he would die for the protection that lone, isolated corner gave him… but the drawback was also there, where he stood, clear and obvious every time he had to leave his cave and face the world. «It’s so far away!»
He counted the two hundred steps it took him to cross the hallway in its entirety, flowing by the midsection, the only point in that long march where there were windows; the only point from which natural light flowed. Everything else was neon, neon, neon. «Argh! This… white!»
White, yes. Overwhelming white, everlasting white, this time wholly manmade: the white walls and white doors and blue-gray doorknobs under the white neons from the white phosphorescent lights. T’looked like the hallway of a deserted, but well-kept hospital; a hospital where everyone was already dead. «The last time…» He pondered, taking the first steps away from his apartment, counting them as the hallway become longer, longer, longer.
The last time he had seen a neighbor there. Never.
He arrived at the elevator antechamber, beads of sweat abounding on his forehead, and lost his balance for a moment as the white seemed to have bounced around on the many walls more electrically in that wider, more disorienting space. There were three elevators for his section of the building, all incredibly fast, all eerily soundless, and he noticed not when he pressed the buttons for one of the lifts, or which buttons he pressed or which lifts he called, or when the descent had started, or when he threw himself into one of the lifts in the first place, or when the lift had arrived, or when his body was hurled aggressively into the walls of the reception floor, everything in and around those elevators being an immense sensorial wasteland, badlands where his ears got lost and his eyes melted into his skull, the feeling like molten metal burning on his nostrils. “I…!”
It was in the midst of this disorienting desert that he was called by a very pleasant, quite lively voice: “ah, so you’re from one-three, three-nine, alright?”
Suddenly he’d been lost, but suddenly he’d been called back by that calming, slightly awkward, but nonetheless inviting and friendly voice. “I…” His own voice flowed out much better as he shook his head, blink hard and slow for a bit, then took a good look around, placing himself on the space, trying to get a read of his surroundings.
He was shaking as he stood in the middle of the entry lobby of his massive, sprawling condominium. If anything, due to the enormity of that foyer, the whites were all the more oppressive, yet burned somehow less aggressively on his eyes: long and wide-apart walls, high and high and high and high ceiling, an equally tall and rather pompous glass door to his left, and an endless row of mail boxes and white nothingess to his right.
And in front of him, what mattered the most, stood a young, jovial face and a nonjudgmental smile to welcome him, and a long, light-gray granite counter separating them both. “One-three, three-nine, am I right?”
The boy couldn’t help but to smile back and nod in sweet avowal. “Huh.” He said, but felt he had to say more than just that. “Yes, yes. I’m from, uh, this unit.”
With movements as fluid as nature, the young porter shuffled some papers under his side of the counter with one hand whilst pointing to the boy’s back with the other. “The big boy’s for ya.”
Startled again by the voice and the movements, the boy looked back, and only then he noticed the giant wooden crate resting on a wall of the foyer—a light-brown, yellow monolith as inconspicuous in that environment as a mountain lion on a baby’s crib.
“Oh, yesh… uh…” He could now barely look the porter in the eyes, as pleasing as they were. “I guess this one’s mine.”
“‘Tis alright, ‘tis all great.” The young worker slid him a clipboard with a list over the counter. “Your name here and here… and here-and-here two. Two copies, okay?”
He ignored it. He was too focused on the box, finding it much, much larger than expected. «Too large.» He gulped, feeling an unexpected (and unexpectedly good) tingling betw’n’is legs. «How big is she?»
He was called back again—again—to reality by an impatient banging of the clipboard on the counter. “Hey-I-need-ya signatures.” The portier waited for him to sign. “Uh, hey, man? Y’all right?”
“Ah, yeah, sorry.” He took a deep breath, focused on not making his hands shake so much as he scribbled four barely-readable signatures on the two sheets o’paper. As he did so, two elderly ladies walked on from the lifts’ area, stopping by the foyer as they two caught sight of the hideous package standing so tall, too tall, so imposingly in the area.
“Hallo, missen Olsen! Gët’middag, missen Svensson!” The doorboy—and he was, indeed, a boy; a young lad not any older than twenty, he would bet—greeted the two still-faced elders.
The last signature on the paper looked even more hideous than the previous ones, as he couldn’t quite concentrated with those two strangers staying there, doing nothing, just looking at the box, then to him, then whispering something on each other’s ears before slowly and cautiously deciding to leave the hall.
The young porter also stared at him deeply, thinking God-knows-what, looking amused as he got the list back, as if witnessing a wild, yet harmless rare animal in its habitat. «I’m sick. This is sick. I’m so fucking si-»
“Sooo…” Once again, it was the voice of that young lad that rescued him from much more unsavory thoughts. “Guess ya gonna need help with this one, eh? I’m feeling charitable today, so let me…”
“No.” He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, relax, relax, don’t lose your shit now. “I mean, uh… no, I’m fine, uh, thank you. Thank you very much.”
“It’s a pretty hefty load, you know.” The doorboy cast a long, silent gaze towards the resident, seizing him from head to toe and then back up, toe to head again, trying his best to hide a smirk. “I really think you’ll need my help.”
“No. No help.”
He looked to the doorboy. The doorboy looked at him. He gulped, and in gulping he feared the tiny blob of saliva would get stuck in his throat, for it alone had more girth than all his throat, legs, arms, and hips combined. “You really sure?” The young porter felt the need to ask again, and his voice snapped the boy off his thoughts one more time:
“Yes. I… uh, am sure.”
“Doesn’t sound too sure to me, to be honest.”
“Well…” He straightened up his posture, tried to look as confident and respectable as a man in charge ‘f his own destiny. “I am. Thank you.”
“Oh, walle.” The young man shrugged, “suit yourself, then. You are gonna need this, though.” He rolled a dolly cart from around the counter.
“Uh, oh…” The boy mumbled out some thanks or whatevers, his lips and tongue making no discernible words; only grunts and grumbles that somewhat conveyed his emotions, like an animal’s. «How… how do I actually use this thing?»
There came the time to actually move the crater, and the boy had to gulp again as the object loomed large before him, not to different from the building itself. «She’s big.» He reiterated, as if pinching himself on the mind, on the brain matter to truly believe what he was seeing. «She. Is. Big!» The size, the dimensions, the… «weight!»
The doorboy watched watched amusedly as the puny resident tried in vein to even just place the lower plane of the box on the cart’s platforms, failing to do so with as little as a single inch. Minutes upon minutes to no end, the sweat grew, then rained from his skin, eventually turning his blue shirt brown and gluing it, along with all his clothes, to his needle-thin, skeletal body, like lycra. “You are sure you don’t want any help?”
“I-I’ve s-said…” He tried to speak, but the air was searing coal in his lungs, themselves turned into a smelter. “N-no… n-no-oow… n-no help… t-t-t-t-thanks.”
“You know you’re not an ant, right?”
He cast the porter a puzzled look. “What?”
“You’re not an ant: you cannot carry objects fifty times your body weight.” He scanned the guy again, head to toe. “Or a hundred times, I guess”
“Fuck y-” He covered his mouth, and what little progress he had made was undone as the crater fell back on the wall—a little motion, but one that, combined with the crater’s indescribable weight, generated no less than catastrophic loudness.
“Häellen fukkert fukken mischt! Oh!” He covered his mouth again “I’m… I’m s-sorry. I’m so sorry, so sorry!”
“Welp, this is getting ridiculous. Just let me lend you a hand, comrade.”
“Holy s-!!” Not even the young porter, though, was prepared for the weight of the huge crater. “The hell is in here? Did you order a bear?”
As the young lad tried (and failed) to assist him, the boy gave him a long, inspecting look. He was a much more robust, healthier-looking male than he was, with a much more pleasant, fresher face, but even all his youth and liveliness seemed to come to naught as the massive box didn’t budge another inch, maybe two, but no more than three up from the ground.
“I’m sorry.” Sorry? Sorry for what? What was he still apologizing f- “Let me lend you a hand.”
“Yeah, man, much appreciated. Shite!” The lively young man cracked his neck, rubbed his own shoulders to disperse a lot of the heat and acid on them. “I need to go back lifting stones. Darne häerrun! And here was I thinking I looked like some dope shit or something.”
“Don’t mind me, though. Come on.” He invited the boy to come closer. To be perfectly frank, that was to him an uncommon sight. Or a very threatening one. «What does he want to do with m-?» “This is more of a collective effort, you know.” The doorboy cut him, rather impatient, wondering what was taking him so long. “I am here to help ya, not do your work for ya.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Uh-huh.” The porter smiled, and once again invited the resident to come closer—which he did, albeit very, very, very-very-very cautiously. “Come on now. On my mark.”
“On three: one, two…”
The two youngsters nearly farted their souls out as they tried now lifting the box in tandem. It would take them several tries and no short deals of backaches later on, but eventually the two lads managed to lay the damned thing onto the cart, making the job of moving the damned thing around somewhat more bearable. “Good, good, not… watch out!” Shouted the porter once the box finally landed, and the boy quickly laid his hands on it, pushing it in the opposite direction, trying to prevent it from falling over them.
“Hang on there!” The worker joined him, both men now supporting the massive weight of the container on their arms, cracking their spines as they tried to prevent the crater’s fall—and their deaths along with it. “Careful now! Fucking floor’s slippery as a fucker!”
“Ugh! I can feel… oh… that!”
The boy slipped, his glutes crashing on the ground. It was funny how his body kicked off on the floor, as if he had a bouncy butt to speak off—which he hadn’t; there were just two protruding bones with skin stretched all over them, that thing he called an “ass.”
“Hmm, yes, no… oof… no problem.”
“Well, it’s secure now.” The worker whipped the sweat off his forehead, then slapped a couple of times on the damned box that had given them such pains. “Damn it, dude, what the hell is in here?”
He gulped. He could have said anything sensible, yes, like “a fridge” or a “new sound system”, anything that would have sounded convincing or belieable, credible and beyond suspicion, yes, or he could have just stayed silent, yes, staying silent would have been much better, confidently implying that the porter should mind his own business. Or something.
Any of these alternatives would have been better. Any of the would have been great, yes, but instead of any of these he answered…
The doorboy tilted his head.
“Yeah. Hmm… sofa.”
He was retarded. There was no disputing this.
“A sofa made of titanium or…?”
“‘Tis just a sofa.”
“Looks a little too heavy, yet a little too short to be a sofa, to be perfectly honest. You know, not wide enough, in my opinion.”
“Look, it’s just… uh… it’s just something to sit on.”
“Okay, okay, hey, ain’t my business, anyway. However…” The doorboy stretched and shut his palms a couple of times, flexing and relaxing his hurt fingers and the sore muscles along his wrists and forearms. “Forgive me the question if it sounds perhaps a little too silly, but… are you new here? Are you moving in with this stuff or…?
Indeed, he found the question amusing. “No. Not moving. I… I live here.”
“You do?” The worker was puzzled. “For how long?”
“Two years now.”
“Two years. Well, darn! I should have known you by now.” He reached out with a hand. “Name’s Jonathan.”
The boy stared at the porter’s hand, bewildered, not sure if he should reach back out to it or recoil from it. “Hmm…”
“You’re supposed to shake it. The hand.”
“Uh, okay, hmm…” He shook the hand, he himself shaking along with it. “Uh, n-nice… nice to… meet you.”
“Likewise.” The two hands remained together in an awkward hug, the shaking having long stopped. “And…?”
The boy looked at him, deer-in-the-headlights kind of gleam in his eyes. “Hmm…”
Jonathan chuckled. “Your name.”
Yes. “Oh!” Of course he wanted to know his name. «My name…» Even that, however, to him wasn’t as easy or reflexive a thing as it was to other people. «To be fair, it’s not that I go talking to other people a lot. Meeting other people. Greeting them.» He would have known how to say his own name much faster if he had to type it, as in the keyboard of a computer, pressing the keys to write a message to his clients on the screen. Even then, wouldn’t have been as natural as it should’ve been. «What was the last time I told someone, talked to someone with my first name?» He generally, no, always used his last name, his business name, which, quite frankly, was the only name that mattered, the only name in him which was worth a d-
“My mate, are you okay?”
Once again, once again, once again… “Oh?”
The young man’s voice brought him back to the crust: “do you have problems with low pressure, or any medical issues as such? I noticed you, uh, sort of ‘space out’ all too often. You ‘blank out’, whatever the technical term is, and I… well, I’m starting to get a little worried.”
“Oh. Oh…” He hugged one arm, shoulders low, head to the ground, apologizing without having to apologize. “No, no, it’s just… it’s nothing, really.”
“‘Nothing,’ huh.” He smiled. He seemed, with every fiber of his being, to be aware of the other’s mistrust, and tried, with every delicate motion, to display trustworthiness to that odd stranger. “Just as ‘nothing’ as when you didn’t want my help with this big ol’ crater, here?”
A sudden, well-warranted silence befell them both. “Excuse me?”
The young man looked up to the porter, a rare, if awkward smile reluctantly budding on his lips. “My name, I guess…”
“Your name. Oh.”
“João.” He said again with greater confidence. “My name is… João.”
“Oh. Alright.” Jonathan tilted his head again, making sure he had heard it correction. “Zhu-anhm?”
The head was tilted again, this time on the opposite direction, like a confused puppy. “Zho-ahn-o.”
“Just call me John.”
“Oh, John, hmm. Alright, this one is easy to remember.” He smiled, and finally their hands parted ways. “John! Hmm. How come I’ve never seen you before?”
“Oh, I guess, uh, you don’t leave the unit very often, do you?”
This Jonathan fellow looked (and acted) like the joyful, extroverted type, so there was (probably) no harm intended on the question. John couldn’t know for sure, though. He’d always been pretty inane in guessing people’s motives, and experience had long thought him to, when in doubt, err for the worst. As such, his posture became defensive; his face, heavy and still; “the face of few friends”, as it was called back in his land. Still, a part in him tried to sound casual, even friendly, even inviting to that stranger: “well, you see… I work remotely.”
An awkward pause.
“I work a lot.”
“Oh, that’s a rare thing! Not the working a lot part; that every body does, it’s the remotely thing that’s sure unusual.” Jonathan was peeved by the disconnect of the boy’s face and his tone of voice. Still, he carried on the talk in good spirits: “and you mean you work with computer, on the digital network, this kind of thing?”
Jonathan’s eyes beamed with endless curiosity. “Is it too expensive? I know for me it is. Can’t get a connection without paying a liver and leg for it.”
“Well…” He sort of shrugged, sort of averted his gaze, “you know how it is. Yes, it is expensive, but for what it is, it’s quite reliable.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard this country does have one of the most reliable, uh, connectivities around, eh? Is that true or is it just us bragging ‘bout nuthin’, beating our chests with no bananas?”
“No, no, it’s, uh, it’s actually true.”
“Super fascinating!” The way this Jonathan guy looked around, it was as if he was trying to process a fact too fantastical to be true, to be an actual fact. “Well, uh, I guess when you live here, I mean, right here, so far away from… anything! I don’t know. Maybe it’s something about magnetic waves, right? It’s easier to transmit information, uh, to sattelites and such from up here, so up north on the planet?”
“I heard its easy for the signals to get to the sattelites. Easier, at least.”
“I… I don’t know. People say many things. Can’t be sure if any is correct.”
“But you don’t work with this, do you?”
“I mean, I… I…” I just draw boobs and ass for a living, he wanted to have said. “I just type stuff and make-a money. I don’t do any of the technical.”
Jonathan gave him a long, humorous whistle. “Niiice! Must-a be a nice life, huh, without dealing with the stresses of… well…” He gestured all around himself. “This?”
“Hmm…” He quite didn’t get what the young worker meant; the place was nice and calm, ample enough for thoughts to get lost and souls to meander. “I mean, this is a nice place.”
“I mean, life in general, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“And you guess correctly.” The young man snapped his fingers, full of authority, and daringly took a bold step towards the stranger—who, peculiarly enough, didn’t step back, not this time around. “Don’t be a-intimidated, though, if y’er feel I’m pressing for too many details. Folks say these things ‘bout me; that I’m too invasing and such.”
The stranger—John—allowed himself a corteous smile. “You’re quite fine. Uh, not a, uh, not a problem.”
“Good-a-know. Anyway, it’s just, ah, quite rare to see ‘em folks still working with ‘em digital things. I couldn’t even get my hands of a cellphie.” Then, as it seemed be quite usual for that fellow, his eyes darted around his face with renewed energy, a shot of adrenaline and other sorts of nice chemicals making him glow, literally beam in front of John, who felt himself, all throughout his body, much more comfortable and warm. “You own a cellphone?”
John kindly shook his head and moved his hands across each other. “No. I’m afraid I am not that loaded.”
“Bummer. Saw one of those execs once, nice suit and all, in the Greenblack quarters using one of those. Cellphones, you see.” He made very emphatic gestures with his hands, illustrating the dimensions of the object from his memory. “Biiig fucking stuff. Don’t even know how they put ‘em on the pockets and such, if you can put it on pockets at all. Thing looked like a dark, gray stuff brick. ‘Twas quite awesome, though. Dude must have been trillion-loaded in the least.”
“Don’t think it’s worth that much.”
“Ooh, I’m just fascinated, you know, with this technology stuff. Heavens know we got so little left.” Then, to John’s surprise, some would even say shock, the young porter—Johna… Johan… Jonathan, Jonathan—gave a light tap on his shoulders, and he was left there, standing, still, and still-faced, not sure of what to do with that gesture. “Still, in this day-n-age, it’s awesome that you find yourself, uh, handsomely employed.” He pointed back, towards the counter and the endless, long, long wall of mailboxes. “Most of e’folks gotta bustle with this fucking shit. Not that a’ay’complanin’, no sir. Just gets hella tedious after a good whole while.”
“Those bloody nips stealing everything from us, ya know. Every bit of land, every piece of tech, every fancy bite of jobs, they always them ‘em, like they always do.”
“Hmm, yeah.” Something in John’s head signalled that «yay; this conversation has gone for all too long and has exhausted its purpose; I shoulda be going know,» and he agreed with that voice, for once; agreed with it without any kind of pain, but there was a problem: in his way stood the box; the box stood in his way, and darn it if he could just… get!… the damn thing!… moving! Even on the cart, the thing was too! Heavy!
“I myself would lika work with ‘em digital things. You know, on the network and such. I was actually looking to get into it, but frankly those computer kinda things sorta fly over my head totally, completely. Heh. You can tak’a fellow from the farm, but ya can’t take the farm from the fellow.” He pointed towards himself, on his own chest. “Born and raised in the glaciers, ya know. Pa and ma like ol’ vikings in the greens. Man, that was the life! T’was just grass, ice, mighty mountains on the back, and cows back mooing all day long, ‘em lazy bastards. That was the life, yes, but still I recon I shoulda moved west much sooner. I always saw those pictures, ya know… I don’t know if ya know, but ya must probably know, or t’least know what e’talken’ about, eh? Those pictures, ad-ver-tis-e-ments, of young people always loaded, ya know; ‘em young jerks always full of shit in ‘em pockets, and I always kind of pictured ‘em of being a-sorta like yourself, eh? Not you you, personally, but your job, your professional. Digital shit and stuff.”
“Man, talk about being a gullible, downright retarded country boy and fuck. Fell for that false adart… adv… advertisamant like a goddamned duckling. But, anyways, serves me y’er fukken right! That’s what you get by getting y’er eyes all full of glitz, seeing ‘em pictures of young, handsome hobos in their fancy Toyotas, ‘em expensive Yamatas, wearing those fine down-district clothes and whatnot, and I go like: ‘huh. That’s a life I could get into.’” He shrugged, not without a great sense of humor cloaking his undisguised resignation. “And the porterboy is the life that I got.”
“It’s… it’s…” What was he supposed to say, even? Was he supposed to say anything? Eh? “It’s a nice life.”
“Yeah-ah, it’a is. Guess, ah, couda be worse, hey-eh, me jolly?”
“Hmm. Yeah.” It was hard for him to not be aghast by the sudden flurry of emotions that Jonathan person so effortlessly displayed. «Is this how normal people are or is him just another sort of crazy?»
“So, you one of those guys?”
“‘Em fancy dudes in theis nice clothes and their plenty chicks in ‘em expensive Toyotas?”
“No. I most definitely am not.”
“Oh, bummer. Okay, no problem.” Jonathan sort of stretched, cracking his knuckles before walking around the fellow. “Sort of was wondering how cool would it be to have a rich friend and all.”
“I mean, I guess I do have rich friends already but…” He shook his head quite fervently. “Nah, nah. She’s well-off, but… is she rich? Hmm…”
“Uh, man, where are you g-… what are you doing?”
“Uh, helping you?” Jonathan firmed his grip on the handles of the cart. “Taking this to ‘em lift?”
John looked to the elevator hall and measured the distance between it and where he was standing. Could’ve been miles, could’ve been a couple of steps. «With a bitch this heavy…» well, they were both in the same.
“Nope. I’m, uh, I’m fine, thanks.”
Jonathan looked slightly irked by his attitude. “Are you sure, me lad?”
“You’re sweating like ‘em tropics a’rainin’.”
“I am not.”
The young porter just rolled his eyes. Somethings couldn’t be helped, he probably reasoned. “Well, your sofa, your troubles. Just make sure y’er bring the cart back when ye done, m’kay? You ain’t believing the amount o’ people who just leave ‘em things up and expect us to all ‘em service for ‘emselves. Lazy bastards. We ain’t servants, you know.”
Thankfully, that Jonathan fellow was just as vibrant in his exit as he was in his speaking, and in a blink, almost an unceremonious pause, he just darted back to his counter and left the strange man be—he alone with his heavy load. “Ye a’sure ye ain’t needing an’a help, a’ya?” Was his only interjection, and John, already heaving and wheezing by merely pulling the cart by its rails and lifting the front of the package few quaint milimeters, turned to him with his head, swollen head, forehead sweating rivers, and nodded in ehxasperation:
The Jonathan guy, though, was a man of his word, a dude of respect, and left poor John to his devices until he said otherwise. He didn’t. «Was already enough talk for a day. Or a whole life.» With his heart racing by exhaustion and other confusing feelings, it took John him an eternity and a couple of minutes to get to the lifts; an eternity, yes, and a couple of minutes, yes, but still… «I did it!» He had done it, and he quite couldn’t believe it himself. «I can’t… oh! I just… fucking…!»
Maybe he wasn’t as measly and as pathetic as he made himself to be. Maybe that Jonathan dude had seen this in him, but not him in himself, and that’s why he so casually left the man be.
“Ye doing fine, my mate?” He heard the worker’s voice from over the counter.
“Y-yeees.” He answered, the sweat getting into his mouth, and the young man’s voice continue to fill him with… confusing emotions all throughout.
“Will it fit?”
John quite wasn’t all sure what he meant until he looked at one of the elevators once its doors were opened and noticed that… «darnhen schutz!» It would be a very, very, incredibly tight fit.
A couple of minutes and an eternity passed until he finally, finally managed to place the cart and its box into the elevator; weren’t he was thin as he was, there probably wouldn’t have been space left in there for him.
“Everything okay back there?”
Again, again, again, that voice… «feels like medicine.»
“Yaaah, it’s fine.”
“E’right. Have fun with your sofa.”
*Plim!* The doors of the elevator slid shut behind him, the poor man squeezed between them and the crater like parmeggiano on a hot press. In silent embarrassment, as he walked back to his apartment, for whatever reason he couldn’t stop replaying that encounter on his head every step of the way. «What… what… what was he…?»
He couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand him. But it was okay; he couldn’t understand most of anything, especially people; oh, he couldn’t understand them all. «So nice. Such smile…» And warmth and gleam and… all around happiness. «Hmm.»
Before he could dissect those feelings, those memories, and try and make sense of the strange young fellow’s utter kindness to him—«Jonahan. Jonathan. Hmm…»—he found himself back in his home. Alone but not alone.
Together, at last, with the love of his life.
Doors closed. He could finally take a peaceful breath. «What am I…?»
He sat on the sofa, looking at the massive package standing before him, hearing his own heart thump on deep in his ears, feeling it beating against his chest.
Resting in that coffin was the answer for all his troubles: low-maintenance, low-cost silicone love. The anti-vampire of affection. Still…
He didn’t want to open it. His feet made a quaky noise as he tapped it repeateadly, painfully on the floor. «What am I what am I what am I what am I what am I what am I what am I…??» was his mind desperately wondering in its state of suffocating anxiety. «What am I to do??»
He tapped his feet quickly with an unpleasant churning in his stomach and a cold sweat in his forehead. «Is this really what I came to??»
The sun was setting when he realized he’d have no peace unless he opened the box. «Maybe I should return it.» He rocked his body and bit his nails, pacing around like a frenetic cat the living room. «I could use the money. This is so ridiculous.» He stood in front of the box, a tower of wood ready to crush him, the sexual Thor to his impotent, measly, envious, petty little resentful Loki. “Open me or I crush you,” said the box unto him.
«Prostitutes are cheaper. Aren’t they?» The thoughts popped and blasted in his mind, colliding brutally, repulsiverly with other thoughts in the opposite direction: «coward.»
The image of the cute cashier in the mini-market flashed in his mind, followed by visions of many other prettier, flesh-and-bones women he’d seen in real life. All those were much better than the solution before him… or were they?
«Lasses a’ so crazy. Well, of course they are: women are people, and people are crazy.» He took a deep breath, walked around the box, and inspected it. Forget opening the box; how he was going to do it was the real question. «They can be cute, even hot, but should I expect them to be good?»
No. No, he should not. «I should not expect anything from women, for I should not expect anything from people.» The thought revulsed him some more. «People!» The syllables dripped with wrath and filth. «Peo-ple!»
If people weren’t pushy, they’d be needy. If not needy, they’d be cruel. If not cruel, they’d be childish. If not childish, they’d be annoying. People would be a thousand different things, none of which pleasant, none of which anywhere remotely good. «At least… at least a doll can be anything.» He smiled. «She can be anything I want her to be.»
It was at this point, reading the crude instructions badly imprinted into the wood itself, that he realized… “heite shite!”
There was no helping it: he would help. Again.
«Huh? You want what?» From the other side of the buzzer, he heard the jerky chuckling of the young porter, that Johan… Johannes… Johnny guy. «A crowbar, heh? Oh, yes, guess you’d need one to open your sofa. Just a speedy minute, will ya?»
One speedy minute later, the box lied on the ground and he stood over it, a sweaty bloody mess, with the crowbar shaking in his hands. “Comrade meine, are you sure you’re not going to need help getting her o-?”
“No.” He replied, perhaps a little too brutishly, maybe a tad too sharp and pithy, and the porter guy took a respectful step back, bowing as he went away.
“Hey, always the resident’s choice. I’ll be downstairs if ya ever needa any help-a.”
“Uh… yes. T-thanks.”
The porter boy—Jonas… John… Jonathan—made a quirky salute with his fingers before turning around and marching away, soldier-style. “Hatten gutten misch, freude mienen!” Just as soon as he had appeared…
«He’s gone.» It took him many long blinks and million-yard stares into the everconsuming whiteness of the hallway for him to understand that «I’m alone again.» This made him feel good. This made him feel awful. «I shouldn’t have been…»
So brutish to him. No. He shouldn’t have, but he always was; always to people who were neither pushy nor needy nor cruel nor childish nor annoying to him, but helpful, kind, solicitous, attentive, generous, and all the good stuff. «Why do I do this? Why do I treat them like that?»
Because he was a piece of shit. He knew it, everybody knew it, you could sniff if in the air not just around him, but miles away; even the dogs and the birds could, and that’s why they flew away, stayed as far away from him as possible, like all good things, material or immaterial, good people and good fortunes, all always as far away from his vile rotten piece of shit core of a soul as pos- «shut up.»
«Shut. Up.» He hit his own he- «shut it! Shut it!! Shut the fuck up… for fucking once, thine heine schmeite!!»
Having never used the tool before, that crowbar thing, he did a splintery mess on his place as he tried to pop its lid open. Frustration grew in him with every failed attempt; it burned in his veins like acid, like molten glass coursing through it, piercing his heart, penetrating his muscles, rupturing his nerves, making the process of trying out new things be a much more physically exerting thing to him as it would be to other people.
Normal people. Healthy people. People who were worth a da- «what the fuck did I just tell ‘bout shutting the fuck up?!!»
The crowbar lied on the floor, like his knees. Looking at that box with more calmwater eyes, he leaned closer to it, inspected it this time physically, tactilely with his hands, sliding his thumb while avoiding the splinters over the juncture where the lid and the rest of the container met, figuring out the best point of attack, finding even enjoyment in that more thoughtful, pensive approach. «Things a’ much better in life when taken slowly.»
He straightened his back up, grabbed the crowbar with redoubled intent, then placed its forked, twisted claw on one of the four edges of the massive, titanic box, reasoning as follows: «this is where ‘em bigger nails are pinning this things shut. If I take these four out first…» He pushed the handle; the tool clawed brutally into the wooden edge, forcing the nail out. “Uurgh!” Like with everything with that doll, it wasn’t an easy process; even with a plastic woman, he would need to work to gain her love. No fair.
«…the other ones might come out easier. Now…» He recounted it with the doorboy’s voice: «three, two…»
“Uuugh, oof! Oof… uuugh!”
*Clank, clank, crack!*
“Fukken mischt! Uuurgh!!”
He did it. The box was opened.
He moved the giant lid out with winged hands, the thing weighing as cottom on his bloating hurt fingers. «She is… she is…» His thoughts circled onto one another, serpent-eating-its-own-tail ‘round his brains, as he only slowly, only slowly, only very, very slowly turned his gaze down unto the box, beholding everything the heavens had to offer: «she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is she is»
After an eternity, he could only stop and stare. And gawk.
She was definitely more beautiful in person than on-screen. «An… an… an an an an an an an…»
Impossibility. His thoughts, rather useless to form any coherent sentence, any coherent anything. He was just too shocked, floored, dumbfounded by that utter, astounding beauty he found before himself. He wanted to worship her. He wanted to love her. But first, he had to get her out of that damned, unworthy box.
Unworthy. Yes, for it felt wrong, an insult, grave offense to have her just laying there on the floor, on cold, dry, splintery coffin like a dead animal. Like spitting in the face of the gods. A face she sure had. «Damn… her… d-!!… … …»
She was so big she seemed to overwhelmed the generous dimensions of her box; so great she made every space she was in tiny and insignificant. She was just this fukken big, and that was not all of it; she was sturdy. Hard. Like a paragon of stability, or a standard for all things harmonious and beautiful; engineers would’ve used her body to measure the solidity of a building’s foundations. Hel geherten, they would use her body as the foundation, for there seemed to be nothing in the universe, no material out there among the stars more hefty, hard, and steady than that which bound together her mountains of curves, flesh, and muscle.
Split an atom and you will end a city. Split her skin and you will end the world.
He stared deeply into her. Her face was strong and wilful, locked in a neutral expression, but with just enough personality to avoid seeming eerie or uncanny. She was beautiful, and her beauty was further exposed by an unshakeable, immaterial aura of confidence, a sense of self-assurance as mountain-hard that impossible body of hers. Looking at her was like looking at an imposing sequoia in the wild—a pillar of power dwarfing all vegetation around it, turning all its neighbors into grass.
He was that grass: shorter, thinner, frailer.
It was said the lions, in the wild, live alone, in isolation, just them and their prides surrounded by hundreds of miles of nothingness, for no one else wants to stand next to a lion, and once you spot them, you run away.
She was that lion: alone and only in the wild. Only she existed, for only she was a needed.
She was taller than him by many inches, and her dark, bulky hair was so long and voluminous, flowing down to her fantastic, wide muscular hips, he felt as if she could use it as a blanket during the harshest of winters.
She was a thick. Thick as the sequoias he’d just compared her to: a steel-sculpted warrior of an Amazon who seemed not just the pinnacle of femininity, but the apotheosis of masculinity too. She looked like she needed no man, for no man could possibly crack her. She needed only herself and her steelhard womb, which was perfectly capable, it seemed, of fecundating itself all on its own. «Alpha and Omega. Ain’t that the stuff the gods are made of?»
Gods. And goddesses.
Just looking at her made him feel smaller, more pitiful, more ashamed of himself, who should (in theory) be stronger and bigger than that fairer sex. The femininity in her face only added to his confusion, as if no such tenderness could exist atop such hard, stone-carved body, or such toughness and fierceness could never work along with an honest, sweet-hearted gaze like hers.
He walked to-and-fro and fro-and-to, carefully inspecting the doll while avoiding her gaze. Even from up-close she could be easily mistaken for a real person, and her uncanny stillness did nothing to damp the effect of such hyperrealism; if anything, it was her realism that made her truly, utterly spooky. «Darne schultz! Those folks wain’t foolin’round.» He gulped long and hard, pacing more nervoursly around the box. «This is one masterpiece of a lass!»
The Pietà of sex dolls.
She had come fully clothed. Thank the gods, for he wasn’t sure he could bear the sight of her nude without fainting and dying. «This is like… what those old folks felt when they first the exposed ankle of a woman? A dancer, fully closed, showing off just a little piece of skin on the stage?» He understood them fully, for the mere neck—the immense, wide, thick, long-yet-muscular neck of that woman—was close enough to making his member gush like an fountain all over pants, soaking his underwear and painting him all white, puddles and lakes of seed all over him.
His entire house, by the mere sight of that woman’s neck, dripping with milk, walls, floor, and ceiling, like a rainfall of virility. «Keep. It. Together.» His fists, tighter. His head, chillier. An icy cold snake, like the blow of the winter wind, crawling up his spine.
He firmed his eyes on her. Fought against his natural urges. «Keep it together. Keep it together.» Goddess or not, she was the doll, he was the owner. «Together. Together. Keep it together!» He would better learn be master of her, not the other way around.
She wore such an amazingly detailed attire that it got him to really admire, even respect the care, attention, and artistry that went into picking, perhaps even making her unique outfit from scratch. «Just her wardrobe’s probably worth tens of thousands of kröne.» It was a truly tasteful, meticulously composed handpicked attire, a package within a package, the perfect bow to the tidy gift that was the woman: there was that large, glossy black leather jacket laid over her miles-long, protruding shoulders, its full sleeves covering and restraining her potent arms all the way down to her wide, thick wrists—“thick” when compared to any average bloak, but perfectly proportional, even delicate for her goliath height.
Underneath the jacket followed a dark-grey, short-sleeved shirt with an economic, unintrusive design; the only eye-catching thing in it, aside from the arousing highlight of her muscles, so tightened and constricted by that fabric—as they would be by any fabric, that is—was the huge imprint at the center, sprawling from just under her magnanimous bosom to down where her abs and bellybutton rested: an outline of the latinamerican continent in full dark-green with one sentence, in huge white font and capital letters divided into two mirroring arcs—one above, one beneath the engraving—blazoned onto the fabric: “Born to be Wild.”
The shirt was just thigh enough to highlight her musculature without looking ill-fitting, and this wanton, cocky display of physical prime, of a woman who knew her assets and saw no cause to hide them, announcing herself to the world like a flower on springtime, sent his mind into many confusing, conflicting thoughts, only brakered, if for a short and uneven while, by his continuous admiration, some would say adulation over her amazing, utterly exquisite design: as enticing fully dressed as she would be when naked.
Her piece continued down and under her powerful hips in the form of long, dark jeans tightly wrapped around her… «god!»
Her… «oh! Oh!»
Her powerful… «damn!»
Legs! Her legs! Legs, legs! Two treetrunks in and winthin themselves. A pair of massive pillars of meat that could only very unkindly be described as merely legs; more appropriately, they were two unbelievably long, impossibly ripped logs of power testing constantly the constraints of that poor jeans, their outrageous musculaturemuch better highlighted by the tight fabric than her torso, such huge tonnage of meat and muscle he wasn’t sure whether there was a woman there or three in front of him: the woman above her hips and the women for each leg.
Those were the legs of a greek god, or perhaps a greek goddess who had beat the gods and all of the Pantheon on their own games; as if Aphrodite, aside from her beauty, had also been an unbeatable beast on the battlefield.
«Long! Long! Long!!!» He thought, paralyzed and hypnotized by the sight of those long, long, looong legs, his tongue almost lolling out of his mouth, the saliva nearly oozing from his lips: long, long, looong legs, thick and mighty and powerful legs, like a woman and a mare, a bit of both, strong as a bull’s bottom, long as a supermodel’s walkers, and thick, thick, thick, impossibly thick, impossibly juicy, wrapping a skull around their meat and turning ‘em brains into mush! «She… s-s-she… she… t-this… t-this woman…»
Shake his head. He had to shake it *shake shake shake!* so as to not get lost in the fumes of the fires slowly rising deep in his breast.
Each of her legs was wider than his torso. Compared to his waist, pff, it just wasn’t fair, not fair at all: a single of those powerful stompers outflanked his waist by almost two-to-one. Her arms alone seemed each as thick as the thickest part of his thighs, and her feet, much like her hands, were just as proportionally gigantic and intimidating, a single toe as massive as his heels, a single thumb as long and girthy as his aroused pecker. Such an emasculating sight!
«By the… gods!» He gulped and kept thinking, his mind racing and raging, the blood burning, and his breath falling apart. If there ever were Valkyries, that woman would be Freyja; beyond mere godhood, really, as she seemed to outstrip and outrank even those legendary of godly warriors: not a Valkyrie, not a goddess, but an elemental force, next to Chaos or the Tree of Life, perhaps, but one endowed with Cock Power, with Big Dick Energy superior to Thor, Baldr, and Týr put together—a Tree of Masculinity. A Tree of Cocks. «This woman… ibn fukkert lass…!» He kept on thinking and gulping as his eyes took in all that the goddess had to offer, a task akin to a lonesome man drinking dry a full spring in a sitting.
Her legs and jeans flowed into long leather boots, their calves reaching upwards to her knees. The heels were short and thick, spreading a protective layer of leather and rubber along her sole instead of enhancing her height, which needed no further enhancing. The toe cap was only long and sharp, giving the general impression of femininity, a passing resemblance to a woman’s shoe, but ultimately, like all else in her attire, it settled for practically over aesthetic, the boots of a true motorbiker, a legit adventurer and outskirt-dweller, a practitioner of survivalism still in touch with urban fashion trends. Were she not a doll, were she an actual living thing, no one would have doubted, for the thinnest of slices of time, that she had indeed ridden through all of the Andes, north to south, Nunavut to Magallaens, all on her own; a woman who did full justice to her motto and went further beyond: born to be wild, born to be wildest.
«Is this… gold??» His eyes swung and swayed drunkenly about her body, stopping always, irresistibly at her hips—her atomic, world-shattering, wide-enough-to-land-a-plane-on hips—and fixed at the wide, thick, jet-black leather belt that tied that whole thing together. The buckle, as big as his hand, shone golden like the sun, the type of shine that made itself unmistakable from the real material, a glimmer that belonged to no fool’s gold. «All that glimmers may not be gold,» the buckle said to him, «but this bitch is.»
It was a distinctly unisex outfit that further proved how she was the best of both sexes: a motorbike-club attire adorning an Amazon powerhouse of a physique. How amazing would it be to take off those clothes… and… «how terrifying!»
His eyes met hers, and his dick became smaller. «Fuck.» He rubbed his eyes under their lids, pressing and pushing them with the tips of his thumbs. «I could swear she was staring at the ceiling just now.» She wasn’t: her eyes stood at a lower angle, staring straight at… him.
His breath quickened. Her muscles kept on defying her clothes, making battle with the fabric, and they seemed to be gaining ground at each passing second. Her arms, especially bulky, tested the sturdiness of the sleeves with her ever swelling, ever bulking hulking biceps, drawing a death sentence to both her shirt and her jacket, bringing them to an unhumble tear.
He stepped closer. He couldn’t avoid it, for his racing heart carried him forward. Past the initial shock, his arousal became greater than his fear, and his dick, for once, honored its duties and grew accordingly. He no longer felt embarrassed by his sex as it tented his shorts and almost bumped against the gruff surface of box when he knelt beside it and… leaned closer. Closer on towards her face.
She smelled like wild berries and hazelnuts and green bushes in the rain. “Wow.” He looked at her. On his knees. Like a servant. “You are… wow.”
His hand landed on her hips. «Oh. OH!» His eyes grew. The shock… «what the fuck??» Indescribable: his fingers drilled into her jeans, trying to sink in her skin, but under the denin of her jeans he realized… «gotten meine scheize mistch!! Untter bitchen hast nnie heissen!» There was no skin in that body; only muscle; and her muscles were «stone! This woman might as well be made of solid concrete, sante meischen scheize!!»
It was like squeezing a soft, warm kind of steel. Those powerful, enormous thighs made his fingers feel just like his dick: minuscule. If she were alive, she would be one of those people who could easily pick a man like him up, lift him over her head, and then… *CRACK!!!* Tear him in half, like paper, and then proceed to drink up all his blood and viscera for sustainance, draining the energy from lesser males so she could add to her own divine power.
«Okay, man, okay, hmm.» He closed his eyes, shook his head. «Focus focus focus focus focus……»
His hands crawled up along her waist, then skidded back quickly, his heart beating so hard he felt his ears shutting off at every beat, *womp* and *womp* and *womp* being all he could hear amidst the survey of her body. “Darn icht hart!” The hardness of her muscles, the realness of her flesh. She was outrageously powerful and uncomfortably warm. If he closed his eyes, he could swear he had a real woman on his hands!
There it was. A woman! Finally, a woman! In his grasp, under his palm, for good and… forever! «My fantasies.» He felt impure even just thinking about it. «They don’t even come close to making justice to you.» The sweat abounded uncomfortably on his forehead, the saliva piling up on the back of his mouth, sliding down his throat without him ever swallowing it. «Santen fukken ircht, you’re perfect.»
Glutes to the ground, sitting on the floor. There, in his living room, he stayed sat down and still until the sun had long kissed the blue and gone to rest. Her green eyes glistened in the dark, reflecting, like a feline, whatever little light managed to reach inside the rooms.
«I don’t want her.»
He retreated into his bedroom, leaving the doll behind. His actions, so abrupt, only made sense when mirroring the chaotic state in his mind. «I gotta work. I got work to do. Work. Work.» Even his foolishness and his typical self-delusions made not the feeblest attempt in being convincing this time around; they didn’t move him, they moved alongside him and his mind, racing, raging, crying, not as much as action as flight; not decision, but protection. Survival. Escape.
He reverted to doing what little work he could through the rest of the night, hunched over his computer on the desk, eyes burned by the brightness of the screen, fingers frenetically typing nonsensical keys, mouse icons and cursors moving within the frame without goal or meaning, drudging for drudgery’s sake, busywork that was cover for cowardice, his mind twice as focused on wasting time, achieving as little in hours what he would get in a second of honest labor.
He worked to flee. Flee, flee, flee! Fly far from the love he should have never bought! «Damn it! Stupid! What in the fucking hell were you thinking?!»
As he fled, there she laid. All the time there she stayed, waiting patiently until the inevitable exhaustion of his energies and his admitting of defeat: it was four past the darkness rein when he gave up on trying to work and went on to sleep; it was an hour later when gave up trying to sleep and returned, finally, to the living room, seeing her still there, in the box, on the ground, so calm and peaceful, staring at the ceiling with her green eyes shimmering with love, patiently waiting for his inevitable return.
His eyes swelled as he beheld her, a thousand nasty thoughts eating his mind by its sides. «I’m sorry!» His vision was blurry as he bent down to pick her, preparing for the Herculean effort it would take to lift her. Every bone of his body cracked as he pulled the doll, every nerve in his brain burned, every joint in his body snapped, but surprisingly, shockingly, impossibly… «oh.»
He lifted her. He lifted her up quite quickly, and spending not nearly as deadly an effort as he’d prepared to face. «I thought I was going to die trying to pick you up.» He thought with the doll on his arms. «That I’d break in two. But…» How was that possible? How could it make any sense? «You’re not nearly as heavy as felt when in the box.»
There was more to those impossibilities, he soon discovered with every step: walkin hard and slow with her along the darkness of his hallway, stopping at every foot or two to try and catch a breath, he was amazed by how much progress he could make while still saving up energy for another bout of steps, a farthest of farcries from the effort he was sure would’ve made him collapse long before the midway point of his journey. «It feels like you are walking with me!» He looked up to his doll’s face, and her eyes were looking straight ahead, past him and over his head.
Her breasts rubbed against his chin, even when he stood many, many feet apart from her. «Hatten! Miscth mie!» He looked at those magnanimous milkers, feeling ashamed and naked in their presence. «I’m not looking at these tits; it’s these tits that are looking back at me!»
They were enormous. Gigantic. Divine. Boobs of impossible volume, girth, and bounciness, the kind of overgrown baby-feeders he’d never thought a woman so tall and muscular could boast. For every inch of her body where she seemed to lack a single gram of fat, replacing it instead with amazingly bulging veins and astoundingly hard, ripped, stacked plaques of steel-hard muscles, her breasts seemed to pick up the slack and concentrate all the fat she should’ve had elsewhere; several stones, nay, hundreds of pounds of fat taken from the legs, waist, belly, sides, calves, arms, and more, all crammed and clogged and choked into those titanic tits that would overwhelm an entire tribe’s worth of babies, let alone a single lonesome child, condemned to drown in everflowing milk from such an endless, gorgeous tittage. «Those tits are meant to feed baby bears, not measly humans!»
Not all fat, though, abounded into her tits. It would have been a slight, or maybe a grave exaggeration to say so; for if her tits certainly picked up the premium real estate of fat tissues from her body, her royal-round, rock-hard, gigantic ripe ass got the seconds dibs and snagged the runner-up trophy. «Hell hell hell!!»
‘Twas the ass to end all asses; a voluminous and ever-expanding backage that defied the balance and order of things everywhere its mighty owner carried it to. ‘Twas a fruitful, colossal sitter, and one that still carried many a trump up its sleeves. That ass had a gravitational field; that woman carried not just two massive, monstrous orbs of power and abundance on her netherspine, but two veritable planets. «Mercury, Venus, Earth…» He tried recounting the planets, his memory too pitiful for even that. «Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars… and her ass!» No matter how unintelligent he was for all things physical or astronomical, one thing he—anyone—could know for sure was… «her asses! Her both buttocks! Each a planet?» Was it perhaps the mammoth gravitational forces of her ass that were aiding him in moving her forward? He didn’t know, he didn’t; all that he knew was that… «this… this ass…!!» All that he knew was that… that… that ass…!
«If I touch them…» His hands gravitated perilously close to her mountainous backstages, his fingers always tempted to fumble and grope that triumph of a thigh crown meater. «I die. If I touch this ass… I die.» He was sure of that, and with ever-weakening resolve he pushed forward, stopping at every couple of steps to catch a breath (many breaths), these intervals becoming all the more frequent as he carried on, his willpower and steadfastness sapped by the draining spells of that bootilicious, breastyummy mommy.
He was attacked at all times by all fronts. It was unfair! Asymetric warfare in its purest extent: her smell made him dizzy, her heat made him quizzy, her meat added an unbearable tonnage of horniness and frustration to a sex that had far too long gone without the real deal, the true release any man desire. ‘Twas maddening. ‘Twas carnage. Psychological carnage aroused from her meat.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. That he had lasted that long was already miracle enough. «I am… beyond… I’m so beyond pathet-»
*Groom!* The pressure behind his sore, sleepy eyes got to a bursting point. His face was swollen, the tumor inside his skull having grown past its limits, ready to blast his bones from inside out, a gory sight to behold. He looked to his beautiful woman with the opposite feeling any man should have in that situation: misery, not ecstasy; hopelessness, not the longing for an eternal life by her side; the side of such astounding beauty. «Why??» Why was he like that? Why couldn’t he even consummate the happiness he had expressely paid for?
Why did he feel as hopeless and loveless as he ever did? «Stupid. Stupid idea! This was nothing but… a mighty, sweidy, tighty studid fukken idea!» Buying that woman. Purchasing an avatar of love. Had he been really this silly, this stupid? Silly and stupid, indeed, to think that he could even fake a shred of love and companionship.
«Welp. We’re here.» He couldn’t believe himself—his thoughts, his words, his senses—as he felt the back of the door hit the wall in the end of the corridor. To his left, the door to his room; to his right, the one to the cramped, tiny, degrading storage room of his house.
The decision couldn’t have been any clearer. «I’m keeping you in here ‘til I decide…» He took a long pause and a deep breath in between his words, incredulous of his own tremendous idiocy. «‘Til I decide what I can fukken do with fukken you!»
He slid the storage room door open and peered inside. “Hmm.” T’d been a long time since he had paid that chamber any attention. He was a tidy and clean type, so it was unusual for him that the space looked so novel, so uncharted and unexplored. «Feels like it’s the first time I’m here… yet I’ve been here so many times before.»
He sure had. As much as the general space was a novelty and a curiosity to him, the items and furniture within it were not. «Look at them, all… all here.» He couldn’t quite put his fingers on the sensations he was feeling, but all of them were quite familiar, even sensations he wasn’t intimidated or humiliated by. «‘Tis easier to feel than to explain. I can see everything here, though.» He guided his eyes around the darkened space, which he illuminated with the turn of a single switch on the wall inside, beside the door.
There was the long steel shelf resting on the left wall of the room, adjacent to the back wall of his apartment hallway, by far the most distinctive feature in the place, as it was the only one that showed signs of life, undeniable proof that somebody not only lived there, but took care of the house with all the assiduousness any self-respecting owner would. The shelf was filled with cleaning products, most of them dusty, but some of them showing signs of frequent use, and empty buckets and bucketloads of dry clothes for extra tidiness.
Before this shelf, there was an ample free space for someone to walk in. It was a clean, almost square area measuring four to five feet in each side, almost free from wall-to-wall if not for a small chair peculiarly places right in front of the sliding door, its back resting on the right wall, looking unlike the other chairs in his apartment. «Maybe it’s meant for one to climb over and reach innacessible parts of the shelf?» He pondered, even though there was a short, foldable stair at the end of the storage room, resting between the shelf and the rightward wall.
He paid it no mind. He continued to inspect the unusual room; the room to which he’d been more time than he could count and had never seen before: lying against the shelf and very close to him, in front of the door and almost touching the leftward wall, there was a long broom with very dark, very rough and thick cone-funnel bristles inside a big and empty bucket. «I remember you two.» He talked to the objects with eerie familiarity; they’d been the only friends he’d had inside that home, and he looked at them as if he’d never seen them before. «Ungrateful type of friend that I am. Well, with friends like me…»
That was pretty much all too see in the room. ‘Twasn’t exceptional in any sense, but perhaps he wondered, maybe, «hmm… are there other rooms in this house I haven’t discovered?» Or rediscovered?
All these questionings and observations were useless, sure, next to the mammoth woman he had in his arms. «Aye, fukk mischt!» He was reminded of her almost suddenly, his arm having grown dormant by holding such heavy, bulking thing so tighly all the time. «You…» He handled the doll with surprising ease, the task of moving her around becoming easier the closer he was to letting her go. «You star here now. Hmm. Somewhere. Somehow.»
She was so big he wondered whether she could fit in such a tiny, cramped place. Besides the indignity of the place—a queen confined between the walls of a catacomb—there seemed to be very few places for her to rest but… «between the shelf and the wall here on my right, or…» His eyes sunk, gravitating towards the only logical place. «This tiny chair.» ‘Twas too small a chair, though, for so large a woman, so planetary an ass. «This chair will have to do.»
And so it did: while placing the woman down on the chair, sitting her in that filthy mock throne leagues beneath the glory of her buttocks, such divine asscheeks, he wondered whether he should have been more surprised by how well the chair withstood the doll’s titanic weight or… «how easy it is to move her.»
Easy, indeed easy, and beyond effortless. «Natural.» It felt natural moving her limbs around, prompting her to sit on the chair, as if it wasn’t him that was moving the doll, but the doll moving herself. «Freaky.» It was rightfully unanny, that fluidity of her motions, and it would have spooked him, indeed, if he didn’t well know that «well, this is what I paid for, and I can be damn sure ‘twas worth the money.»
That construction of that woman was an artistry of industry. When he placed his hands, ever so careful, on the back of her legs, behind her knees, on the joint connecting her calf and her inner thight, all he needed to do was a gentle… *pull*… combined with a more gentle puch of the doll on her ironhard, steelplate-layered abdominals, and then the doll just… *bump!*… she fell sitting on the chair, glided her buttocks gently towards it, bending her knees and sitting down just like a normal person would. A real person. «That… that was just too easy.»
The doll sat still there, ever so patient, and he just stood still next to her, ever so pathetic. “Well…” He twirled his thumbs, not knowing what to say, knowing but pretending to not know that he just didn’t need to say anything, for she was just a doll—just a doll—and he owed her no excuses. «I… uh… I, eh…» So there he stayed, motionless and pathetic, looking for reasons as to why he should leave her. “Good night.”
He looked at her. The doll stared blankly, mercilessly straight at the wall in front of her. Her expression was so compassionate yet lonely. It felt like misery, such a beautiful person relegated to such a tight, graceless space, surrounded not by jewels or crowns, which is the least she deserved, but by dirty cleaning tools and dusty hygiene apparel all around. It would have been more merciful to just have left her in her coffin. «Out from a pan into the other.» From the frying pan into the boiling kettle. «Just one bigger coffin, this one I’m putting you in.» And not that much of a bigger one, insult to the injury.
He beheld her closely, stared into those deep, big eyes of captivating green. «Like hills.» They were: like sprawling wide hills of ample fruit and shiny gold. Hills of infinity, of peace. There was no suffering or pain or struggle in those eyes, no wanting in those hills, for they were prairies of endless bounty, and all animals within it could live in harmony ‘til the dying of the stars.
Paradise, they say. The planting of the first seed before the winter, the people called it. «Nirvana.» Irresistibly attracted to that view of splendor, he didn’t realize as his arm was stretched towards her body, and his palm touched the back of her hand. «Oh. Oh…»
Oh. Silk smooth. And hot. His fingers melted between hers, squeezed her palm a little. She was never at room temperature, that impossible doll, always warm and alive. «This is why you don’t deserve me,» he thought, but got confused with his words, changed them from places to produce the very opposite of what he meant to say: «I mean… I! I don’t deserve you. This is why… I… do not deserve you!» He emphasized it firmly, brutally, feeling the heat of her fingers diminish word by word, second after second. As it happened with all, the chillness of his body overtook hers, sucking out all her warmth through his palm, like… «a vampire.»
The vampire of love.
‘T’would have done well for him, with such realizations, to move away, move away, back and away from that lovely door, whom he didn’t deserve, even admitting as such. Alas, «I’m a hypocrite.» We all are, aren’t we? Especially when next to the object of our desires—and what desires those are! «Love. Wamrth. Hotness. Sexiness.» He looked at the doll, the doll looked past him to the wall. «You are so unrelentingly beautiful.»
He moved closer, holding her waist with his other hand. “Heiße! You are strong.” The courage that had been gathering within him those past couple of minutes was something to fear and tremble. Oh, oh, look at him! If he got any cockier, he would have probably thought of himself some galliant stud or something. «Quiet now. Quiet… please.»
His fingers. His courage. Thanks to this courage, his fingers… kept venturing forth. Venturing warm, hotter into her belly. «Oh…» He surrounded the left side of her belly with his fingers, applying to her meat, to her muscle a gentle squeeze. «Oh!» Nothing in there moved. No piece of flesh caved in; not a milimeter whatever. «Geil Schwein!» As he squeezed her meat, adding his other hand to her right side just to be sure he wasn’t imagining things, he felt no meat, no flesh, but only iron, sheets of stainless steel wrapped around titanium in that rock-hard colossus of a womanly body. “Heiße, you are hot.”
Chaude, chaude, chaude! There was nothing else in that woman but flames in corporeal form. He looked up to her, seeing her staring at the wall behind him, motionless. In any other woman, that face would have been one he couldn’t stare at for too long. «Fölmaakt!» He thought. «Heiße meinen! Gods be praised! You are one fürkhen perfect specimen, ain’t ya?» He felt uncomfortable muttering those thoughts, even as he kept them well enclosed within his tiny skull, for they felt heretic, defiant, able to shatter the natural order and condemn the world to unspeakable things, like… opening a rift into the Eternal Ice and… send him hurling down to crash and freeze, trapped in its eversprawling ice crystals for all eternity.
Such was to happen, it was said, to men who didn’t know their places. «What are you looking at, creep? Oh, my god! Are you autistic or what?? Get lost, you fucking loser!»
The burning behind his eyes… “aargh!” Too intense, too intense! The tightening on his chest got more extreme and his panting hastier as he choked on his own breath, the air in his lungs as heavy as stone. He gulped and coughed, gagging on his own saliva, locked in there with his doll, not wanting to leave, not daring to take the first step, too coward to act, too horny to flee. «Stupid. You’re so… friehen… stupid! Why can’t you do anything, you fucking useless piece of dump??»
He looked up again. His eyes on her face, her eyes still staring at the wall, but… her expression… it was somewhat different. She was still the same, but her calm, her coolness, they were replaced instead by a very subtle, very tender concern, as if she… she…
As if she worried about him.
“Hmm. I guess… this is it. Okay?” He shook his head, stood up with mourning. “Stay put while I… I think what to do, hmm… what to do to you.”
He knew what he had to do; the only thing a man can to do its sex doll. He knew it, of course, and knew it quite well, but was too much of a coward and sissy to ever consider doing it. «Maybe I’m not a man, after all.»
He shut the lights and slid the doll shut very slowly, glancing at his woman one last time before darkness enclosed her for good. Her expression… «her face!»… Somewhat more changed now. More somber. More concerned. «Yeah, right.» He shut the door completely and moved away, diving in his bedsheets with the abandon of someone who wanted to leave everything behind, hopefully to never return again.
To sleep and never wake up. That would be heavenly thing!
The doll stood away, locked up in her scanty throne. Both lovers slept apart, loneliness being the only thing they had in common. «She can’t be… she can’t be… she… you’re never… you are… never…»
The doll. Silent. Peaceful. Lonely.
The boy. Lonely. Just lonely.
The night was colder than usual.
On the good nights, he used to lay belly up, staring at the blank, white ceiling as he fell asleep. Good nights didn’t come around very often. Instead, for most of his life, his posture on the bed was wholly different, and the sleep, if it ever came, was slow and persnickety to arrive: shoulders to the mattress, one side, then another, then back to one side again, changing positions like a top, minute to minute, second to second, his knees on his stomach, his feet trying to touch his hips, him crying and wailing and hiccupping as he turned back into a baby, but was never able to turn further back into nothing.
From where he laid that night on his left shoulder, feet towards where his living room would be, and his back to the sole window of his bedroom, he could see, through the partially opened door of his room, across the dark, dreary hallway, the door of the storage room where he had locked his love away.
Dark. And silence.
He used to fear the dark and the silence. A recurring nightmare as early as his childhood’s budding years: a shadow. Standing behind or just beyond his bedroom door. A shadow just barely, but never fully out of sight, spying on him, prying on him, peeking inside.
The shadow was not evil. It was not good either. It was unknown, unmoving, just… standing. And standing. Standing all the time… until it wasn’t. In the blink of an eye, the shadow would have disappeared, not to be seen again for nights on end.
He always feared the night when he would blink and the shadow would be back. Inside his room. Closer. *Blink* And closer. *Blink* And closer… *Blink* Until it stood beside his bed. Beside him.
Him. Helpless. Defenseless. Dead.
In his freshest years, the shadow terrified him. The neighbors knew painfully well the degree to which his fears would fester, for his scandals traveled easily across the block, like winds of torment leaving no one a good night sleep, screams of agony to last until the break of dawn—or until the break of his jaw by his momma’s sandals.
His momma. She enjoyed those scandals all the less. Oh, she really did not, and, unlike the neighbors, who had the desire but not the opportunity, she had the desire and all the opportunity, which she laid upon him with repeated, merciless prejudice, every cry of fear begetting every cry of pain ‘til there was no more crying, no more nuthin’ no more.
There is a certain logic to child beating. Those who say it doesn’t work have either never raised a child or faced any sort of deprivation in doing so. A caring, attentive childbearing is a luxury: it demands time, money, ample resources, and people had always had very little of these to go around. It was true then, it is truer now: love is expensive, and everyone is dirt poor. Folks cannot afford the luxury of raising their kids well, so they settle for the next best thing: raising them rough, raising them decisively. Like civilians in times of rationing, generals and soldiers in the heat of the battle, sometimes some ears must be pulled, a couple of wrists twisted, a bundle of skulls banged against the walls in the name of victory—or, if not victory, t’least survival.
Anyway. There is a certain logic to child beating, he reasoned, and he was living proof of it. In ol’ times long past, he used to cry so hard it was his throat, not the blows, that hurt the most. Eventually, with a lot of attention and intense focus, his momma taught him it would be much easier, less painful, less bloody all in all if he’d just… stopped.
And stop he did.
Not to say that the logic was perfect. No logic, plan, or strategy ever is. For instance, though the screams had stopped, a strong pissing followed, and by the sight (and scent) of his wettened bed his mother grew even more irate—and so did the beatings.
He still cried in those lonely lights, under the gaze of the shadow by the door, and his mother still punished him with redoubled effort, frustrated for having to teach the little man that same lesson over and over again, fist after fist against his back, arms, belly, head. As she pummeled him, he learned to shut up quicker, to cry lower, even to control his bladder somewhat. The yelling and screaming, even the crying eventually faded, if not went away completely.
The pissing remained, though. Even to this day, in his young adulthood, living alone with himself and his terrors, without even the shadows to scare him so often as they once did, he still woke up, a couple shameful nights, with the warm rash all over his legs, and the day was therefore lost on embarrassing hours trying to clean the sheets and tidy up his sleeper.
He didn’t like to think much about this. He didn’t like to think much about anything at all, but restless minds seldom know peace.
Sometimes, well, he felt it was laziness: the «I can clean it all up in the morning, anyway» kind of laziness, so just… piss away. But sometimes he felt it was an urgent, life-threatening fear, like a monkey in the jungle sighting a jaguar. It was just the deep desire to unload it all and run away—flee, fly, maybe jump through the window and escape, once and for all, from all his troubles. For good. Forever.
It was dark, that bedroom of his, and an even darker the hallway beside it. He rarely opened his eyes, and when he did it was very little, always looking through some obstruction like his fingers, his hands, or the tiniest crack between the bedsheets. He curled up on his cradle like a fetus, safe and sound within his imaginary womb, and spied on the hall very carefully, one tiny blink at a time, making sure that the shadow was gone for good; that it, like the beatings, had been banished once and for all to the confines of his childhood.
From said confines he hadn’t seen it since. It had left him just like he did his momma, exorcised by the need to survive. Still, he doubted it was truly gone. No: just a matter of days, he told himself, time and time again, just a matter of months, maybe even years, until some great fear or happiness brought it back, unearthed it for his well-deserved terror, and once it did, the shadow wouldn’t be just standing, no, standing there by his door. No, it wouldn’t. Instead, the shadow would be there. There. By his face. Just inches away from his flesh. Ready to tear it out. And snap his neck like his momma did.
In the meantime, in the absence of that ole, familiar horror, he found greater fears to fear and worry about. Compared to the horrors and the struggles and the sheer anxiety and insecurities of single-living, of urban-foraging, of paycheck-to-paycheck-subsisting, the shadow of his infancy wasn’t such an evil sighting. It was quaint, pitiful, silly, an amusing night tale next to the real monster that was being an adult.
Still, still… he worried about it. Guarded himself against it. Dreaded the night it would come back, no warning, as sudden and unpredictable as his pissing, and as surely and unavoidable as the hands of his momma tearing up his flesh.
Any night now. He felt it: any night now…
The hallway stood dark and empty, and the silence felt discomforting. He dreaded any noise during the day, buzz and bluster of any kind, and walking outside was an often unbearable, saint-being-nailed-to-a-cross kind o’ pain, so he had to wear earplugs, earphones, headsets, anything, anything that helped him tune down the noise and the chaos. Even tolerable levels of sound, if they went for too long, could break him into tears, screams, and piss.
What a dastardly issue to have in the country he was born. His land, ‘fter all, was the land of noise. Of sound. Of shout and scream and crocodile tears and beatings. Many beatings. Beatings aplenty, beatings everlasting, the only thing that was truly abundant in that land of slaves: rich people beating cops. Cops beating poors. Poors beating poorers. Poorers beating themselves and their festering vermin of children. Beatings and poundings, floggings and screamings, all a whole nation making implode and collapse into itself, a castastrophe once or twice (or thrice or more) every generation, generating yet more noise, yet more screams, and more beating, beating, beating!
Though his was country that managed to destroy itself every generation or two, it also somehow managed to rebuild itself every time in an even uglier shape. As to be expected, this country didn’t offer a poor bloke like him much of anything in terms of healthcare. Or education. Or employment. Or decency. It didn’t really offer him or anyone (that is, anyone without a thousand acres of land under their name) anything except for bills to pay and frogs to swallow. The fact that it also was a dump of a place, literally and metaphorically, and everyone, everywhere, all the time was expected to shout and scream and screech like a baby bird to his momma to get the slightest sliver of attention or scrap of food, well, this didn’t do him or his mind (or his bladders) many favors, and so he emptied them out.
Empty, empty, all o’them empty. A husk, a hollow, a corpse others forgot to bury. Hadn’t he left that land as soon as he did, he’d have been this: a hollow. A creature worse than dead, you see: still alive, but broken, nothing but the poorest of bums roaming on the streets, beaten, spat upon, thrown around, ragdolled by one and all, and eventually cleansed off from society by the merciful bullet from some death squadron or some off-duty cop wanting to have some laughs with his peers.
So he left. Yes, he left the place, but the place didn’t leave him, not immediately, and certainly not all completely or quickly, the positive effects on his sanity slow to take hold. For a good while, he felt worse: to live on borrowed time, in the shadow of bankruptcy, of police, of deportation, of hatred, of low-paying quams, of expensive living, of no health coverage, of the memory of his mother, the memory of her hands, the pain… the pain…
Of the shadow. The shadow that one night might come back, one night to haunt him, sooner than later, and then… take him back, back, back to his land, back to the piss, like a child, like a nobody, just like his country: undoing himself time and time again, and coming out of its undoing worse than he was before.
If you fight, they will beat you. If you flee, they will catch you. If you stay, they will kill you.
«Kill. Me.» He turned around, facing the wall. «Kill me. Gods have mercy. Kill… me.» He turned around again, facing the door and the hallway. He dreaded noise during the day, he dreaded silence during the night. His window, always open, let both the cold and the gentle sounds of the night enter his sanctuary. If not the wind, t’would be his head, ever restless, to create sounds where there were none. In the absolute coolness of the night, he imagined dangers were none abounded, the silence to compound his paranoia.
Not for a second in his life, he felt it, could he get any rest. Everything needed to be tightly controlled, carefully managed, obsessively regulated for him to just carry on through the days alive, in one piece: one misstep here, the fangs of monsters would close on his throat; one mishap there, the claws of enemies would rip his eyes out, lift him by the skull off the bed to throw him out, out, out through the window, defenestrating him dead.
He had never slept on any floor lower than a tenth. It was a cardinal rule. Ever since he got the chance to decide where he could live and sleep, he made this rule a golden one to live by: the higher the building, the surer the death. It was his insurance against life, his hedge against the inland monsters of his memory. «Gringos have guns. I have the sky.» He pondered, becoming calm all of the sudden.
The thought of sleep comforted him. The good, long sleep beyond the window: the nuzzling slumber under the restless nights. Under, under. Through the window and under the asphalt: a life without troubles or traumas. No life at all.
The darkness beyond the night. Serene silence, unconscious peace. The only instance, indeed, when he believed he had any sort of control over anything: not over his life, but over how he could end it.
«No one can control their own lives.» He thought. He was wrong. That stupid vermin of a slave country child. Stupid! Stupid! Correct yourself, you bloody fool: «I cannot control my life. Other people can. Everyone else can. I cannot.» He closed his eyes and smiled. «I can’t control life, but I can control… the other end of it. Not the flame, but the smoke. And I… I… I prefer the smoke. Everything is quieter in the dark.»
It made him calm. Slow. And sweet. These thoughts, they gave him hope: hope that one day the suffering was to end, and he would be the one to pick the day, the time, any date he wanted, anyway he saw fit.
Control. Yes, yes: he had control. It wasn’t a great deal of control, but it was control still. The day he would stop hurting. The day he would stop living. Such a great feeling, this was: to have control! Great enough to stop his eyes from aching and turn his body soft. A little sleep before the slumber. He had to be prepared for it, after all.
He stared towards the hallway as he slowly embraced the calm. No shadow stood by the door. He blinked, and still no shadow stood by the door. He blinked again, more slowly, more softly, and still no shadow stood by the door.
He blinked again. And blinked. And blinked. Slowly he felt himself steering away from life, cradled in the wings of the crows of sand.
It felt good. Felt comfy. Happy.
He hoped this happiness would never end.
He sprang out on the bed. There’d been a noise in the hallway. For the briefest of moments, he imagined something besides his cushion. He knew it was pure imagination, but still it scared him enough to weld his eyes shut, not dare a little to open them. Felt even he was trying to scare himself, to conjure up those demons and monsters out of his mind, into his haven.
Blindly, he tapped around on the mattress, trying to find the switch to the little lamp on his bed table. His fingers felt the coldness and rigidness of the little plastic cube, tip-tapping around it to be sure, no mistakes of what they were holding. *Click* The light inundated his room in soothing yellow, that small, potent lamplight shining away the demons with its rays of gold, and its subtle, but unmistakable warmth on his face made him confident enough to… oh… try and… oh, oh… so… slowly…
Open his eyes. A fraction of a sliver of a figment of a strand, a snip of snippets, and then a little wider still, and then, come on, just a little wider, wider more until…
… … …
Nothing. He saw nothing. No monsters beside his bed. No shadow by the door. Nothing. Whatever had laid there, produced any sound, ‘twas like the slivers of his barely opened eyes: a figment of a snipper of a piece of his imagination, his desire to scare himself and suffer, afford not the meekest slices of peace.
Nothing. There was nothing, so he should’ve felt safe. Should’ve; wouldn’t’ve. The peaceful, elating nothing did not dissuaded him from the memory that, no, the certainty, he could swear, that he had heard… something. «I swear there was a bump. A sound coming from… just there.» He looked past his bedroom door, across the hallway, to the darkness blanketing the walls. «There. The… door.» His eyes looked like glass. A shimmering fear, crystalline as the snow under the moon: «the storeroom.»
Back to sleep. There was nothing to fear from there. T’was all in his silly imagination. Now, please, back to sleep.
Back to sleep.
He got up. The act took him a good half of the night, he felt it: every swing of his arms a fight, every pull of his spine a battle; hard and weary, blood and sweat, sang und toil, steaming and panting breaths burning through his throat, flaring through his nostrils, the pitiest of dragons, until he managed to lunge himself upward, forward, and sit at the edge of his mattress.
Eyes in the dark. ‘Cross the room. Into the dark. Long and deep was his stare cutting his bedroom past the door, facing the phantasmagoria that danced and feasted in his hallway.
…! “Urgh!” …!! …!
He got up. He felt every fiber of his legs rebelling against his will, but…
He got up. The muscles conceded, the fibers aquiesced, and his feeble legs, trembling like sugarcanes after a good whipping, obeyed him. It amazed him that he had the strength to do it, nay, that he had the guts, the cajones to pull it off. «I… can even…»
Walk. He could not only stand up, but even—oh, goodness!—straddle across his room, beyond the veil, towards the hallway!
Gods and spirits bear witness! What a mighty warrior was about spring! «It’s just in my head.» He told himself at every step, believing it less and less the further he walked. «These things, they’re… they are just in my head.» *Step, step…* «Just in my head. They’re just in my head.»
The hallway ahead, a realm of possibilities: a tall and pale, sluggish and slender vampire to jump from the dark to seize him by the throat; a canine-looking ghoul leaping from a corner to bite his legs clean, feast on his genitals, slurp on his guts like macaroni whilst leaving his skin untouched, consuming him hollow like the yolk sucked off a soft-boiled egg, the juices drained from under the apple’s peel; an eight-feet-tall, long-armed, short-legged ape demon, its head touching the ceiling, its jaw hanging long and low with its chin the floor, all skin and teeth along its serpentine mouth, the tongue snaking out for miles, snatching and dragging him by the waist before the beast’s long, skeletal arms did, crushing his spine, splitting him fresh.
His mind created monsters where none existed, out of the dark and real people. The monsters of the dark, the less terrifying sort: phantasmagorical devils, japery ghouls, malignant souls, mythical fiends, soul-stealing imps… *yawn* These figures, if he were to be honest to his heart, swayed closer to the amusing side of scary. They were creative. Puzzling. Enticing to the curious brain and the restless mind.
They had mythos, stories, and folkore behind them. And real people? What had them? What stories could they tell, what curiosities entice? None. Nothing. No creativity. No spark. No deep desire to corrupt the soul or spoil the virgin. Nothing. Just sheer, shallow, self-serving pettiness; the casual, uneventful evil of a monkey who wants bananas, and therefore smashes the skulls of other monkeys who stand in its way. The everyday villainy of normal people. The casual monstrousness of average folks.
What demon, then, wouldn’t appear more honorable, what devil more alluring? «I take the demons over folks.» He gulped. «Satan is kinder than people.»
Tiptoing on a razor’s edge, wearing his heart on his wrists. He hated it: living on the edge, walking on the blades, but he couldn’t help but to keep himself threading upon the sandy line of silvery glass. He was like a cat, automatic, by instinct, always maintaining his senses sharp in case some predator would leap from the nearest branch, from the suspicious bush, leap from the dark and pick his bones clean.
*Tip. Toe. Tip. Toe. Tap.*
He turned the lights of his bedroom, and all those imaginary, amusing fears disappeared in a blink of the mind. The remainder of his house, though, remained a terrible, treacherous place, feeding his twisted imagination all the pains and the horrors it so ardently desired. He could peek at it, the darkness at his hallway’s end, the living room drenched in it, very briefly from the luminous safety of his sanctuary, getting a prood, any confirmation that there was, after all, a shadowy tall beast standing still, ominously at the tail of his passageway.
No. There wasn’t. Not that his mind wouldn’t insist on making strange shapes out of the nether—such as an evil, demonic doppelgänger out of the tall melting-leaf plant in his living room. The forced, artificial fears entranced him, left him frozen, almost paralyzed in the middle of the hallway—an easy prey for whatever monster that might there lie.
It was almost by chance, then, and after a lot of blind, shaky tapping of his hands on the wall, that his fingers landed on the light switch for the hallway. What remained of his fears, of his creativity, *poof* all disappeared with the dying of the dark, along with the weight lifted out of his lungs. “Ooh…”
He reached out to the storage room door and slid it open. *Vroosh!* The first thing he saw—and it was pretty impossible not to see it—was the massive body of a woman fallen across the tiny space. She remained stiff, her posture stark, but for some reason she had leaned over and fallen forward, off the chair, and her forehead, judging by her position, had banged against the wall in front, with her right shoulder knocking a product or two off the cleaning shelf next to her.
He sighed with relief. «How on heavens did you knock over?» He sighed again, a little more concerned. «Guess this stupid chair ain’t got legs that strong. Well, certainly not strong as yours. Hmm.» Upon closer inspection of the chair, however… «no. Seems fine.» He looked again to the doll, looked back to the chair, and stayed there, still and stiff, not knowing what to make of that whole situation. «You do, you idiot. You know very well what you need to do to this doll.» What sex dolls were meant to be used for. It was only natural. Even duckings in the wild would copulate with whatever rubber doll even in passing resembled anything remotely close to another duck. Was he not, after all, an animal like any other? A hot-blooded male surely more puissant and packing greater vigor than a measly, miserable d- «shut up.» He shook his head aggressively, moving the entire world around his body, a stiff, absolute point in the fabric of the universe. «Shut up. Shut up! Shut. The fuck. Up!» His eyes, reddened by the sweat from his forehead, landed again, back again on the fallen doll—his doll—so stiff, so straight, standing across that tiny space like an old and frail woman with no one to help her get up. «This is so rude. To anyone, let alone… to you.» Not a lady, but a… «woman… such a woman… like this, all alone, by herself, sitting on such a tiny, filthy fucking uncomfortable…»
Quiet, quiet now. He wouldn’t want to end the universe with the stir of his mind, would he?
He looked at her. Her body, her… everything… made it impossible to look elsewhere, anywher’elsewhere. «This is so bloody silly.» He thought to himself, convincing himself not a bit.
She was a doll. She was nothing but a doll. A perfectly constructed, masterfully manufactured doll, yes, but still «a doll. A doll. A bloody doll! This is just a bloody doll!» A collection of silicon sheets wrapped around a titanium frame. A plaything. Not a real thing. «People are just meat wrapped around a calcium frame, though.» He thought, for no reason at all, just how he did with the monsters in the dark: if they didn’t exist, he had to invent them. He just couldn’t help himself but to craft souls out of lifeless things, if only to give himself, the loneliest of souls, something to get attached too. «Like a little monkey to a hollow doll of its momma.»
Setting out to the living room, he looked for a chair both comfortable and wide enough for that fat, silicone ass of the doll, yet also small enough to fit the cramped space of the storage room. Not for a second, as he performed these actions, did he think or made an attempt at thought of anything different, perhaps any other solution that wasn’t so ridiculous. Or cowardly.
His thoughts were all like this: «…» «…» «…» Dots of light in the void.
He liked them like this. Those moments, albeit rare—rare?—carried him on through life: not thinking. Just acting. Just carrying on, like a river through the desert, unthinking, unfeeling, just matter across the rough. Spear, spear! An arrow through the mountaintop.
He wanted to be like this: an unthinking, unfeeling machine. Like his computer. Like the keyboards. Or… «the doll.»
Once this glimmer of thought shimmered on his mind, he found himself back again on the tiny, narrow space of that room. The doll waited for him, still collapsed in that undignifying position, and he was faced yet again with the new unpleasant challenge of trying to make that huge, massive woman sit tight on the still tiny, still weak-legged chair—there was no chair, be it in his home or in the world, that could confortably house the continent-sized mass of a backend such as that which his doll donned.
«Fukken mirh.» Sore and sour, he grumbled, and readied his body for another battle with that doll.
The groand and moans multiplied in the dark. Amidst all the panting and shivering, all that wheezing and wailing and whining, and all the sweat that was now raining from his face, gluing the fabric of his clothes to his body, the stupid little boy still wrestled with the desire of returning the doll back to yankyland and getting his own life back to normal—the depressive, miserable normal, yes, that nonetheless he was very used to. «Stupid. Stupid. Stupid idea!» He kept repeating to himself, always looking for a way, for some magic that would allow him to move the doll without touching her. «What a stupid, silly idea. And how pathetic!» Fake woman for real love. Even men who did prostitutes were much more men than that! «Stupid! Stupid! Stupid fucking cunt of an id-!»
*Broom* He stopped what he was doing. The pain, the sore, the tiredness of his muscles, even those went away as his ears, like a prey’s, spiked up and stiffened, scanning for danger. «What did I just…»
His spine tingled with icycles as a breath of cold air hit his shoulder, right under where the mouth and the nose of the doll were resting.
He looked to his right. Across the hallway, he could see the windows of his bedroom opened, the soft curtains shyly with the timid winds of the dying summer. «Uh.» He whisked his fears and suspicions away and returned to the task of getting the mountain off the ground.
Her size and weight! «The gods be damned!» Her massiveness rendered any soft touch or meek pull futile. «Guess there’s… no other way…» He huffed and puffed in between sentences, «…no other way… to handle you, eh?» He needed to be firm. He needed to be rough. Closing his eyes, he lassoed the doll’s waist with both arms, perhaps not hugging her but crushing her, and drew his nose close to her neck, smelling her incredible… «Fuck! Senhor dos céus, que cheiro é esse?» He took a few extra sniffs. *Sniff* *Sniff* *Sniff* «Darn me in hell! I didn’t know dolls could smell like… wow!»
It was so nice. So… princessly. Like the virgin smell of a fresh dame. It invited him irresistibly to a couple more sniff, his nose drawn closer and closer to that fake flesh realer than any meat.
He shut his eyes harder, allowed them to fly off to the heavens of his skull. *Sniff…* *Sniff…*
He pulled back. Eyes wide open. «What did I just…?»
For the briefest of moments, he’d felt something on his neck. A sniff, but not his own. A whiff of air. A blow on his nape. Shivers down his spine.
*Broom!* He dropped the doll again, her forehead sillily banging against the wall. *Bump!* All of his work undone, all of her dignity further spoiled, but he couldn’t care about any of that, not anymore. «I’m sure I felt something. This time.»
He looked back. Out and past the door. Along the hallway. Had… something snuck upon him and… took a sniff of his flesh?
He scratched his neck, the memory of that blow still kindling lively on his flesh, like a kiss on a wound, and looked around, trying to make sense of that sudden gush of air. «Maybe it was the wind.» His bedroom window was open, after all, and the curtain sheets were swinging and swaying more brightly with the cold breeze.
He looked down and back to the doll again. «This breeze…» He felt it, touching his nape with the tip of two fingers, feeling the mark in there still unmistakable, as real as the weapon of the murder on the detectives hands, stenched in blood. «This was not just any gush of wind.» He reasoned, quite decisively, and stayed there, standing, still, looking down upon a woman who waited for his rescue.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and laced the doll again with his arms, one around her trunk-wide waist, another supporting her head and back, cradling her like an overgrown baby mammoth, pulling her up with more effort than a god rolling a boulder up and down a mountain.
She was just! So! Heavy! A real woman would never be anywhere near that weight, even a physique-obsessed chick of similar bulk. The doll’s muscles, instead of meat, felt like a weird type of malleable metal: unmistakably fleshly, but still harder than the core of the Earth. It took him close to two minutes of pushing and pulling and wailing and heaving and panting to lift that doll out of her uncomfortable position—yet, just as tremendous had been had been his effort in pulling her up, smooth as a cotton kiss it’d been to sit her down. «Again, this woman’s mobility is amazing!»
Shouldn’t surprise him. It was one of the promised features of the product itself. The company even had a fanciful term for it—“4D joints”—or something in the like.
He crouched and touched her swollen tights. No amount of denim would ever be enough to hide the sheer tone of those muscles: the swole, the shreddness, the thickness, hardness, and robustness of her mare-like hips and her Greek-column-strong legs…!
Fukken haellish! Her lower muscles belonged to a bull!
«Heavens, woman, you packing!» He couldn’t hide his sneaky smile. As he touched her thunder legs, trying to support her as he picked her up, he felt an intense, volcanic brust on his pants, and his heartbeat ran apace. His lungs weighed with a different kind of heat, as if holding a blazing cannonball coated with ice-cream, for the muscles of his woman teased his touch, challenged his preconceptions of what a woman should look and feel like, and forced him to face the detestable, deeply shameful reality of his own body—«I’m weaker as a whole than a single leg of this woman!»—and his own libido: «gods fuck me! This is my type!»
It felt like being gay without going all the way. «No need to think like this.» He shook his head, hopelly shaking those nasty thoughts off his skull too. «There’s more to women than crytal-like tenderness. And…» By extension… «more to men than… than…»
His fingers. They were just beneath her powerful ass. «Höllen macht!» Those buttocks both felt and looked like two wrecking balls under his tender touch. Merely squeezing, or trying to squeeze those two gargantuan planet-sized warheads of power made his own glutes hurt and his legs wobble and weaken, as if drained, perhaps not out of blood, but every fiber out of its will and soul—something much deeper than the mere energy coursing in cells, in his veins. «Darne schültz!» He couldn’t even conceive of a type of exercise or health routine that would have been needed to craft a bottom so splendid. Hïerllen! Even the grecs of Lacon would’ve tapped out after a month of such back-breaking, femur-splitting routine. That was a kind of physique that would have easily left the common man paraplegic—and he should have felt proud of himself, perhaps, don’t know, maybe, for he, if not capable of sporting that physique himself, was at least able to hold it on his arms and even handle it like a man, the minutes piling on one another just like he felt bodies or balls of steel were piling on his arms, that woman’s musculare becoming heavier at his every breath.
Yet he couldn’t stop holding her nor staring at her either. He didn’t want to. His penis was now fully hard, trying to escape the confines of his pajamas, tenting his undies, rubbing against the bone of his thighs to peek through the fabric and poke her on the knees. He panted audibly as one of his hands fell on her upper, outer thighs, and the other hand followed with a slow glide towards her patellars, unconsciously and purposefully forcing each leg on opposite directions, bend them their knees and making the doll finally…
His heart beat at a ridiculous pace. For all the struggle and pain and wailing and panting and heaving that had come before, he did not really expect the greater ease and smoothness of her motions. «Damn it, I swear!» He pulled back, his mind and his eyes in severe disagreement of what had just happened. «I swear this woman’s alive!»
Not only did the doll’s thunderous legs bend, they did so with a remarkable, lifelike ease, her boulder-hard ass landing as smooth, graceful, and effortless on the chair like a thin ballerina from the east. In no more than a fistful of seconds, the doll had sat. Had motions, so fluid, conveyed a sense of action and decision of her own, so natural and lifelike they prompted the boy stand up and back off, rubbing his eyes while scratching his head, waiting for them both to come to an agreement.
«Häellen…!» She was so incredibly real! «Gods be damned! What amazing work! I didn’t know dolls could be… this… real.» In between rubs of his eyes, some part of him really expected the doll to just… stand up and… greet him… moving on her own, speaking her own mind, truly alive and well.
Alas, the woman stayed there, still and stiff, reminding him that, yes, «she’s just a doll. Like monsters in the dark: she’s not real. She’s ain’t alive.» Indeed. She was just a doll and nothing but a doll.
Still… “hell if there’s some realness in her touch, in this beautiful skin of hers!” He admired her, looking at his own fingers, feeling a human heat in them which wasn’t his own. «Some unbelievable engineering went on this stupid toy.»
He silenced his mind, shivered at the thought of what the doll would do to him if she heard those words, if she were real enough to hear them. His eyes went down to hers. A sigh of relief was heard as he saw nothing different, nothing aggrieved or hurt in that doll’s face because of his insults. Still… «I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re… much more than just a toy. At least to some men.»
Men that sure were not him. Would never be him. «Hmm.»
He shook those annoying thoughts off his skull again, slapping his hands on his sides to shake off the thin veil of dust he felt he had accumulated throughout that whole ordeal, only to realize his hands were soaking wet, just like the rest of his body, and in the place of dust he was covered instead with the stinky grease of a warrior after the battle, or a runner after the marathon. «Feels good.» In the brief moment of peace he had bought to himself after expelling those previous thoughts, these were the only two, three words that kicked around the walls of his skull, timid and temporary like flickers of a dying fame: «feels really, really good.»
The doll was set. With that new, robust chair he had found for her, nothing would make her fall again. «Work is done.» The wind called his attention back to his bedroom, invinting him back to bed. «Should be going now. Long work tomorrow.»
He stepped forward. The door was to his right; the doll, to his front. He took the step forward and, instead of leaving her, moved closer to her, crouched by her side.
Her breasts were outrageous. Almost stole his breath as he stared at them, facing him tits-to-eyes. So full. So lush. So ripe. Those were the breasts of a Mother with capital M! Breasts any man (or boy) would drool for! «Gostosa.» He catcalled her in his mind, a wolf howling in his loins, unable to control his raw emotions as they were stirred, shaken, boiled in and around his guts by that formidable pair of titflesh. Her somewhat punk, somewhat casual attire only made her hotter; the elegance of her style, the tightness of her clothing making for a combination that just screamed…
Rip! Us! Off! The clothes. The undergarments. Everything she wore, all the fabric, it begged… rip us now!! Shred us and devour her! Now. Now! NOW!
«Heavens! Birth me strength!» How could a woman, fully clothed, be more erotic than when she was naked?? «Lords of Chaos, strike me down! Strike me before I…! I…!!»
He shook his head, shook it hard, but this time the thoughts were not so easy to rid himself from. They were not just thoughts, they were instinct. The thoughts themselves were just a sheen: something much deeper, much more primal moved him, and he was unsure whether he would be able to control himself, fears and all. «Look at her.» He was shivering, averting her gaze by keeping his eyes franctically frozen on her tits. «Just… look at her! You think a man like you deserves a woman like her? L-look at her and you’ll shed away all these silly pretenses! J-just… look at her… and you will remember what a vermin you are!»
So he did: he shut his eyes, rubbed them harder with his fingers, and opened them up again after having forced his head backwards, his chin up to meet her in her own gaze. Lords would know he would’ve never had the strength to do so without first breaking eye-contact with her wonderful, luscious tits, which would’ve kept him locked there, frozen in that cage along with her for all eternity—a fitting end, if anything, for a man who had dared insult a queen as such.
The doll stared stonily, stoically at the wall behind him, too good to look at him, to dead to do anything at all. Even this blank, careless stare was enough to add heat to the bubbling pire that was now busting, gusting in the stressed confines of his innards, like a pressure pot ‘bout to burst, and now he could do nothing less but… lower one hand… let one hand fall heavily, weightily down to his pants and… and…
A moan startled him. It was his own. «Merda!»
He shook his head. Again. Again and again and again, as many times as it would’ve been necessary. Why was he jerking off to a woman whom he could have at any moment, at any time he liked, and in any way he fancied? Why jerking off to a lady that he outright owned??
«No.» He simply repeated in his head. «No, no, no, no! No!» He wanted to bang it against the walls, but the presence of that woman, aside from its soothing allure, had also a very surveillant, disciplinarian mana to her.
It was her face. Something in her beautiful, regal semblance, and also her poise, her stance, her halo of coolness, her aloof authority. To stand next to her was to feel like a kitten protected in the paws of a big, but friendly dog. He felt shielded and nurtured, her presence so calming that his anger, usually hard, nay, impossible to control, it just… poof! Just like that, it… poof! It wasn’t anymore.
Still, there was something off in that otherwise masterpiece of a ma’am. The way her hands stood beside her body, for instance, so straight and rigid, it was a little awkward to look at. “Here. Let me… mm.”
He touched her arms—her long, hard, muscular arms—and bent their joints just as effortlessly as he had done knees, laying them crossed on her lap like an upper-class lady in a very fancy dinner. He was staggered by their gentleness. Their hardness. Their power! The ripple of her muscles, the swell of her veins, he almost wanted to… press his fingers on the visible bulges of her veins through the jacket and… run ‘em fingers along those thick corridors of blood and power.
Imagine. Just imagine: folding those sleeves… undressing those arms and… sticking the tongue out and… running its tip… along ‘em veins…!!
Again, something. He felt something. A whiff of air. A breath on his neck. He looked up to see the majestic, perfect face of his woman, and her presence nullified all these fears, made him forget these and all silly ideas.
Only she mattered. Her beauty, her heat. Not his fears, not his mind, not the monsters in the dark. Just her. «Perfect.» Her and the perfection her being conveyed: he was in her arms. Nothing would come to harm him. «Simple.» Like two and two put together: he was with her, he was safe.
All was well, all was right. Two and two.
He raised his head and looked around, shapes and shadows floating into the place. He had fallen asleep on her lap, gods know for how long, but the uncomfortableness of his position—or a sudden, stronger blow of the wind through his bedroom window, who knows—awoke him from that heavenly cradle. «Ai, saco…»
He raised his head. Just a little. His beautiful woman was still looking past him, straight towards the wall. He felt he needed to say something, but a lot of nasty thoughts kept his mouth shut. The power of her face, still, spoke louder than his thoughts. She was beautiful, staggeringly so, and her beauty made him feel beautiful too. Safe. Warm. Confident like he never felt before. Like the sunlight on the planets, giving them life, filling them with soul.
“Well,” he uttered. “G’night.” He moved to her and… gave her cheek a little peck. Then turned around with haste, smiling like the fool he was, shutting the light and shutting the door behind in his little room of secrets.
~ Morning ~
Sunbeams that day would not smile through.
He didn’t feel like working. Honestly, he didn’t feel like waking up at all. «Hell.» Was his first thought of the day. «Fuck.» Was his second, and from then on these were pretty much the only thoughts he had—or variations of these.
The sun felt detestable. He scrambled to shut the curtains while really not trying to wake up. He stood still on the bed, laying on it like a deadwood plank, hoping for sleep to carry him back again into the netherlands, and there he should stay forever. «I need to work.» Said half of his mind. «I fucking hate work.» Replied the other.
Rolling and twirling, twisting and turning on the mattress, he “slept” for thirty minutes more until he just… *woosh!* Stood up quickly, startled by nothing, and, feeling suffocated, jumped out of the bed and straight into his desk, *woosh!* *woosh!* where he stared at angrily, almost hatefully at his machine.
«Stupid piece of shit.» He banged his fists on the device. «Fucking move. Move!» The constant, frenzied tapping of his fingers on his desk reminded him that, «fucking hell!!», there was no coffee there to make him company. The world could end and there would still be no greater tragedy than that: a morning without coffee. Or was it evening already? No, it was morning, and he had no coffee at hand, only a sorry peace of cheap cup on his desks, feeling cold and rough between his fingers. «Curses! Fleimen hursen!» He cursed at the mug, standing angrily again and stomping his way loudly towards the kitchen, puffing steam through his wide, flat nostrils.
Just as he was about to leave the room, however… *duuum!* His computing machine hummed its own wake-up noise, demanding his attention. “Fuck.” He said, then screamed: “FUCK!!” And covered his mouth, always afraid, yet always forgetting that a neighbor could hear him, anytime, anyday, and demand his eviction. “God fucking damn it. This worthless piece of shit.”
He pressed his fingers on the keyboard, typed the series of passwords to unlock the petty machine. *Tween!* There ya go: safety was through, and the work was ready to be made. “Fuck you. And fuck off.” He could finally part to the kitchen and… «oh, fucking damn it!» As he left the room again, he realized he’d forgot the cup behind, back again on the desk. “Fuck! Fuck!! FUCK!!” Angrily he grabbed the cup, but on his way out he almost tripped on his own feet, banged his face against the edge of the door. Almost.
“Fucking…!! Fucking… Furhen…!!”
The sight of the storage room ahead, with its own door slid shut, restrained his bad spirits for a minute. A lady was resting inside. A lady whom he would not dare disturb. «Fucking… shit!» He completed his curses in his skull, and then he arrived at the kitchen.
Shock of shocks: there was no coffee on the cheap machine. He would have to make it from scratch, powder to black piss. “God… damn it!” Feeling his head swollen and burning, not enough skull for that load of bullshit, he grabbed the coffee bag and fed what little remained in it into the machine, walking to-and-fro impatiently as the machine took for-e-ver to be done with it.
All the time he felt his eyes popping, his iris melting, the heat and pressure in his skull almost cracking it open like an egg. *Click!*
Coffee was ready. As he grabbed the pot from the coffee maker, disaster struck: inattentive, he’d poured the liquid onto the cup way too quickly, and the dense, boiling steam that rose from the mouth ended up burning his hand, making him in turn, in a reflexive jolt of his fingers, drop the cup on his feet. “No!!”
His brain short-circuited as he tried to avoid the disaster one second after the disaster had become unavoidable: the cup falling, the pot dropped, the hot coffee pouring all over his hand and pajamas, the loud and steamy splash of the liquid on the floor, on his feet, all over the counter, sink, oven, everything, everywhere. “No, no… no-no-no-no!!”
There were hours where seconds happened, seconds where hours happened: everything, everywhere, all at once, so intensely that he could neither retell nor process the sequence of events even as they had unfolded. All he could do was take a deep, defeated breath and… resign himself to his fate, accept the consequences of said sequence.
“God… fucking…” He looked down to the mess with rage, wanting to stomp on the ground, to scream: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!…………………” And screams there were, but no stomping. Good boy. Even in the throes of rage, he hadn’t fallen so completely ill to insanity as to ignore the heaps of broken ceramics on the ground, and what little sane part of his brain remained advised him to not risk hurting himself further with yet another episode of infantile rage.
«Ya got too many problems, ma boi,» said the brain to him in a fatherly voice he wished he’d ever known: «Broken mugs? Spilled coffee? That’s bad enough. Sliced feet ain’t be so fun.»
“Fuck you!!” He answered by punching the wall. *Bang!* Then punching some more. *Bang! Bang!* Then screaming: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” And screaming as he punched the walls, barely realizing the punches harmed his fists more than they did the walls. Shocking.
After all, when you are too thin, you don’t punch the wall; the wall punches you.
“FUCK IT… oow!! Ouch!!”
Broken fingers. Not so much, of course, for even him wasn’t able to hurt himself so seriously; not for the lack of desire, sure, but for lack of strength. Of vigor. Of nutrients in his short, pitiful body.
Anyway. As anger begets anger, he air-kicked his slippers onto the fridge, screaming profanities at every opportunity, getting more and more irate the less goal and sense had his ire, and making a much bigger fuss of the kitchen out of that single broken mug.
The thought of having to clean it up, his own mess, it filled him with endless hatred. As he left the kitchen with the new batch of coffee in his new coffee mug—one of dozens of spare ones he had the foresight of accumulating—he just left things as they were, mess and coffee and steam and broken ceramics and all, hoping that they would have fixed themselves before he returned to them.
And all the way back to his bedroom, of course, he’s just… «fucking! Fucking shit!! Fucking fucking shit, you fucker!! Fucker!! Shit! Fucking! Shit, shit, shit, fucker!! FUCKING SHIT, SHITTING FUCKING FUCKER… FUCK!!!»
Sitting down on his desk. The goddamned machine facing him. Maybe a sip of coffee would calm him down. Yes. He’d battled through hell and heavens to get it, after all; might as well taste the victory, for once. He was always a less-than-pleasant individual before some drugs on his tongue. “Not a morning person,” as the folks said. Or just not a good person at all. That worthless shit.
«Shut up.» He felt his eyes burning wet as he turned the mug on his mouth. «Shut up.» The vision blurring. Too much water grating his eyes, like razors peeling grapes. «Shut… up…»
*Tzzz!* Tongue burned. Coffee spilled. *Spit!* Oh, no: he’d hit his own computer. “NO!!”
Taking the little machine and turning it upside down, he avoided the worst by having the few spoons of coffee drip down from the under the keyboard and into the desk. Thankfully, the liquid never had the time and chance to spill into the organs of his infernal gearbox. The death of his work tool had been averted; the death of his tongue, not so much. “You fucking…!!
Also, it turned out that, in all that mess, he’d forgotten to put on sugar on it.
“You fucking…!! Piece of shit…!!” He spoke through gritted teeth, angrily grabbing his head with both fists and… hurling it against the desk.
*Blaam!* He hit it. *Blaam!* He hit it again.
He hit his head until it hurt, in which case he proceeded to punch the desk instead, imagining it being undone into splinters under his fists: he, yes, a powerful man, *blam! Blam! Blam!*, undoing his enemies with his mighty fists, yeah!
*Blam! Blam! Blam…!*
All while being very careful with his machine. Yes: even in the depths of his rage, he knew it, he wasn’t crazy enough to jeopardize his only source of coin.
He stood up and punched the walls instead, hard enough for them to tremble even down the end of the hallway, near the kitchen—not a testament to his strength, no, that didn’t exist, but perhaps to the shoddy construction of his building.
He punched and punched until his eyes were nearly exploding. That sensation, so familiar, he couldn’t imagine feeling any other way: the pressure, the hurt, the endless screaming and crying inside his head, like voices of the dead trapped in the folds of his brain. Oh, well, that’s just how heads naturally felt,he reasoned. The burning, the pain, they got just a little stronger some days. A little too strong sometimes.
He could barely see as he looked around, the pain in his fists adding to the blurriness of his vision. Every time his heart beat, his eyes blurred and blanked. It looked as if the whole apartment was shaking and, with the steady beat of his eardrums, that a shadow was slowly consuming all there was, eating him up from the edges of his eyes and into the marrow of his brain.
«Y-you… stupid… filthy!… piece of shit!!» He grabbed his head again and paced furiously around, drunkard, only to circle back to his bed and fall flat on it, like a Goliath shot down by an imaginary David.
The desk, however, it screamed back at him: you gotta work, you gotta work! You gotta no time a’ lose, ye loser! Sewerwater pauper, worthless beggar! Y’er ain’t gonna work? Well, that’s too bad. Ye gonna starve, and then you gonna see what’s good for ya, yeah! Might as well just leap off that fucking w-
Silence. He got a moment of it.
That’s it, one moment. Now, back to life.
He couldn’t waste a precious second of his day. «I’ve gotta…!!» His head was so close to exploding, he could swear! «I’ve gotta… fucking work!»
Make money. Survive. If his life wasn’t perfect, at least it wasn’t hell. It was still… life. Worth living, for many. If things ever have got better, it was only because of his work, and if he ever dared to stop…
… if he ever dared to take a day off…
… if he ever even contemplated being… just a little less stressed… just a little less pressured for work, work, work… and work… and work… and work…
…he would die. He would starve. That was just a fact of life, especially for poor, worthless gutterscums like him: one second of laxness, no more, and everything he’d ever achieved would just… rotten… rotten away just as quickly as the burn of the hope that he could one day have escaped that fate.
You spend an entire life hustling your way into decency, into the barebones basics of life, and then… one slip… one long tap… and all is lost. And there ain’t never coming back.
One shot at living decently. Not luxuriously; not confortably; decently. One shot to being one step above a bun. And that’s it. That’s all you got. That is the way of life. That is his way of living.
So he labored. Not that the next few hours of work were any kinder to him or his mind than his first few minutes of waking up, but at least they were distracting—distracting of his pain, distracting of his headache, taking his energy and his attention away from his self-hatred and putting into the hatred of his own work. It wasn’t much, but this much was the most he could hope for.
The illustrations were especially spicy that day. Bad news. He always had this terrible boiling in his balls as he was forced to stare down at those beautiful, nubile vixens and their tall, hard, buit, and bulging stallions, their angelic faces barely concealing their Satanic intent towards their potent partners, and having sometimes to meticulously edit their images, cover up their indecencies, flourish and highlight their curves, their muscles, their best erogenous features… oh.
One would understand the pain, the agony that would come from it: working with absolute sexual abundance, yet being unable to do anything with it. Retouching them without touching them. A starving beggar seeing a playboy splurge. Even eunuchs had a better time in their masters’ harem than he did with his labors; t’least the eunuchs didn’t have a cock to suffer.
Such exposure made him masturbate once or twice or seven times every morning, before lunch, even with the tamest of works. That day, though, the pictures were on the “extra naughty” side of things: bulging bosoms, protruding genitals, horse-like appendices, flood-type levels of seminal releases. Things were hard and hot that day, two notches up beyond forbidden, so it was obvious he felt his head would crack-n-explode before he had finished off even the first (of many) of those requests.
Before noon, he’d jerked off. Jerked off time and times enough. Jerked off so many times not only his dick, but his arm felt numb. And then went back on to jerking again. Like pouring gasoline on the fire; he just wanted those flames to burn stronger. «Piece… of shit!!» By the enenventh time he came, he felt blood had come out. Not quite. Still, his penis was nothing but a stillborn worm in his dried-out hands. Few more jerks and it’d fall off. Nasty stuff. He had to spend the rest of the day walking ‘round like a cowboy as he did his trips between his desk and his bathroom, his whole crotch burning almost as bad as if it’d been ground against glass fresh out of the smelter.
He jerked and jiggled his way back to his chair, adding the finishing touches to that first batch of books. «I hate my life.»
Yeah, yeah. How many times had he complained about it? Lost track of it. What did he expect to accomplish by saying it yet again? Was he hoping to elicit pity from someone? Was someone ever seeing him, following his actions, keeping tabs of his childish behavior, taking any pity off his wrong-footed mornings? If not from someone, then, perhaps he wanted pity just from himself?
Whatever it was, he was getting none of it. And he knew it. «I fucking hate my life.» And he deserved it.
He stood idly before the computer. There was still another half day of work ahead of him, and he dreaded it. He wanted the day to just be over; to go to bed and hope that this time, this time he wouldn’t have to wake up. «Why? Why the fuck does this keep happening?»
He knew why, as well as why he was asking why, knowing full well, deep inside, it was all «useless. Useless! USELESS!! Fucking useless brainrot of a retard!!»
He sprung up, so suddenly, almost as if his muscles had rejected his body and tried to escape him through his skin. One blink and he was in the hallway. Another, and he was back at the kitchen.
Kitchen, kitchen. Ah, yes, kitchen. Still a mess. «Fucking hell!» How come hadn’t the kitchen fixed itself in his absence? He wondered it, but he knew the answer, and he kept this answer deep, deep inside his brain, beneath his ego, just so that he could have something to complain and whine about, just so he could feel like the victim in that tragic play that was his life.
«Please… please…» He held up his head, in shambles, shaking like a motherfucker, and whined: “please… shut up. Shut… up!”
As the tears glimmered, falling on the ground, they mixed seamlessly with the spilled coffee.
Coffee. Coffee. Ah, yes, coffee. That’s why he was there. That’s why he even bothered leaving his room one more time. If not for the coffee, he’d just abandon the kitchen; let the mold take over, a whole jungle grow on it, he didn’t care, for he needed nothing but coffee to survive, and he deserved nothing better.
Just unsugared, bitter coffee. A diet fitting of his soul. «Häellen… krast kraft herfukker!»
As he frantically searched for another bag of powdered coffee, and his hands met only plates and cups, empty jars, vases, and bowls in the boards, cabinets, and drawers, his mind slowly grew to the terrible realization that he maybe… maybe… «HÄEVENS FIKK!!» He slammed the cabinet shut. “Oh, for FUCK’S SAKE!!” He grabbed his head and banged it against the walls. “DID I SERIOUSLY FORGET TO BUY HÄEFFEN CAFFE??!”
Yes, he had, and there was nothing… «shut up!!» He could do… «SHUT UP!!»
A cold and sticky wet sensation on his feet distracted him for further anger. There was a limit, after all, for how much and how long one can rage against the void, and he had already spent all his wrathful energy that morning. As he looked down to the floor, seeing the cold, syrupy mix of spilled coffee and hopeless tears sticking to the sole of his thin, long feet, he sighed, and then decided… for once… miraculously… oh…
To do something useful about that whole situation.
«Fine.» He dusted off his shoulders. «I’ll clean this fucking chicken… I mean kitchen!» He hit his head and banged it lightly against the walls some more. «Kitchen, kitchen, you stupid dungbeetle of a brain, kitchen!!»
Cleaning stuff. Not something he often did. Truth be told, t’wasn’t something he often needed to do, for he didn’t really use the apartment for anything but solitary, lonely work, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been to its living room just to chill, to enjoy his time, to read something or just… «how do they say it?»
Yes. Slack off.
Two years. Perhaps a bit more. He didn’t know, he didn’t count, he didn’t bother. After two or so years of living, if one entered his place, one would still think it was newly built, never inhabited. The fact that he also didn’t lapse on personal hygiene, more than just a surprise, was a big help to the livability of the place: his sharp senses, finicky habits, and overall pussy sensitivities made him not only avert to unplanned noises, but (maybe even more so) to bodily smells as well.
Say what anyone will about him, he wasn’t a hoarder, and he wasn’t some fat, dirty, decaying pig either. To the standards of a loser, hell, he wasn’t all that too terrible. He had no future and he had no wealth and he had no lovers and he had no happiness and he had no friends and he had no childhood and he had no incentives and he had no encouragement and he had no education and he had no courage and he had no metaphorical balls and he had no literal balls either… but! He did have a basic sense of hygiene. And cleanliness. If not a love for hygiene, t’least for the aversion to filth, and all the problems filth entailed. Great as his problems were, there was no trash to be sniffed on in his apartment.
No trash, of course, except for himself.
In the middle of the hallway, he stopped. At the end of it, he reasoned, he would find the materials to clean his bloody mess.
In the storage room. The room where his woman laid. «Oh, fuck.»
The door had been closed for… how long now? A week? Two? A whole year during when he didn’t bother giving her another look. He was just too afraid: afraid of what she represented, afraid of what she meant to him. He had crossed too many thresholds, leaped over one border too many, but still believed (or hoped) that he hadn’t crossed his own personal river.
That he didn’t need that doll. That he could yet live without her, just as he had done all this time without anyone.
Like in everything and in everywhere else in life, he was wrong. Extremely so. Supremely so. The doll was it. Her skin. Her lips. There was something about her that irked him the wrong way. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was something about her realism—the fact that not even her blank, stern expression seemed itself fake, but indeed seemed to change depending on how one looked at her, or what type of mood you were having that day.
It was always the same face, and every time a different expression. It really made his spine tingle—and not in the good way, not in the pleasant, if conflicted ways his penis tindled. Like a masterpiece portrait of sex dolls: you walk to the left, she follows you with her eyes, you walk to the right, and still her eyes are following you, just like the eyes of great portraits should, focused on you everywhere you go, changeling and elusive, just as great a paragon of beauty as she was a shapeshifting demon ready to devour you.
Decipher me or I’ll swallow you, she seemed to say. I’ll swallow you and all you c-
*Sniff!* He took a deep breath as he slid open the door. His neck, stiff. His head, forward. The doll, to his right, nestled on her chair, remained in the exact same position as he’d left. He ignored her, yes, he did, looking forward, pretending there was nothing there, nothing out of the ordinary, just cleaning materials and dry buckets and unseeded wombs, nothing to be concerned about.
He went on to grab a bucket, a broom, and a bottle of sunflower clorox before turning back and…
*Broom!* He dropped everything. *Broom!* The bottle rolled over to the doll’s feet, distracting him for a while, and then, when he blinked, the source of his shock had apparently gone away.
He rubbed his eyes. «Was she…?» In his head burned vividly the image of two green dots facing him. Two big, predatorial eyes. Eyes of a tigress, ready to ambush. Her big, bright green eyes facing him, her head unmoved, spying on him from the corner of their lids. One blink, however, and she was normal again, facing forward, staring at that wall.
Slowly, and without taking his eyes off her, he grabbed the materials from the floor and stood back upright. Dust was starting to gather on her. She remained like that, in such an innocent pose, her hands carefully crossed over her powerful thighs, like a little child waiting for playtime.
There was no impatience in her face, no distress in her posture, no reprimand in her demeanor. She was calm and magnanimous as one could be, a true queen of the Amazons, and seeing her like that had both a soothing and pitying effect on him. «Even condemned to watch paint dry, to have dust gather on her beautiful skin, to sit still and idle in this cramped space with no expectation of ever leaving… even with all of this… she’s still here for me.» Tears formed on his eyes. Happy tears. Hopeful ones. «She isn’t angry or even bothered by this at all!» The waters slowly receded, giving way to a dryness that mirrored his next thoughts: «that’s… that’s…»
He sighed. He felt cold gel being injected in his veins, replacing blood for ice, turning cool and calming what was once so acid and hurtful. He lowered his head and blushed a little, muttering a half-hearted apology, almost excusing himself in a self-serving timbre.
He couldn’t just leave her there and walk away. He couldn’t just pretend that she didn’t exist. No. That was no way to treat a lady. Doll or not. That was just no way to treat a woman. Any woman. Ever.
“So… how you doing?”
The doll stood silent. The doll stood still.
“I… uh… hope I haven’t disturbed you with… all the noise.”
The doll stood silent. The doll stood still. He smiled, though. Rolled his eyes. «I’m talking to a doll.» Could his shame have been any greater? His humiliation any more complete?
The doll was ever calming. To look at her was to fill one’s stomach with roses and butterflies. «I can’t…» He thought, or rather tried to think, yet he couldn’t complete it. «Think… I can’t think…»
He couldn’t think bad things about himself when she was around. Her beauty was just… too… overwhelming. And her smell! «Hmm. Hazelnuts. In the virgin bush. She still smells nice.» An eyebrow shot up, him staring at her for what felt like the rest of the day, ‘til night come.
For some reason, he felt compelled to talk. He couldn’t put it into words; it was just a very natural, guttural reaction, like responding to a person who really kindly approaches you and treats you well, without any ulterior motives in their mind—not that he knew the experience, of course, but still… instinctively… as a human, as a person… he knew how it should feel, how it was supposed to.
“Having a bad day.”
He felt his eyes popping out. Again and again and again and again, that same crushing pressure. Almost out of nowhere, he felt short of breath, and he was soon panting loud and coarsely, trying to tame his lungs.
“It’s, uh… no reason. Nothing in particular.”
He looked to the doll. The doll looked at him. Her face was somewhat lighter, her eyes open to his heart.
His lips trembled. He mumbled through the rest of his words. “It just… happens… somedays, you know. I… wake up the wrong way. With the wrong… soul.” He shook his head. “I know I don’t make much sense. I’m stupid that way, I know.”
There was a slight, but perceptible change in the air. He felt threatened by someone, something—something that stood really close to him, just right there, in the chair where the doll also stood.
He looked at her with different eyes. It was almost as if… something… some little thing he really couldn’t quite grasp… had just happened between them both.
She had the most intense green eyes he’d ever seen. Even a tiger’s gaze would look tame in comparison. He feared those eyes. He admired them. Those were the eyes of a woman whose power would only be used against her lover’s enemies, never against the lover themselves.
Those eyes alone cleared him of any trouble. He felt aloof and serene, almost forgetting all the bad stuff that had happened just a while ago. «Why am I even here?» He asked himself, then the bucket on the floor caught his eyes, then the bottle of clorox, then the broom he had just dropped. «Ah, yes. The chicke- I mean, kitchen. The kitchen, yeah. Gotta, uh, gotta clean up the chic- kitchen, I guess.»
He looked at the doll. “I made a mess in the… kitchen. Something just clumsy, you know.” He stared for a while longer. He smiled. “I guess you wouldn’t be much of a help, right?” He swung the bucket in his hand. “Though I guess you’d like to, huh? The kitchen is, like, your natural habitat, right? ‘Cause you’re a woman and such.”
She stood there, silent, still. The energy felt sucked out of the room. From the window of his bedroom, he could see that clouds had probably blocked out the sun, and so the apartment had gone darker all of the sudden.
Still, he kept feeling that unexplainable uneasiness near the doll. “Sorry.” He was compelled to say. “Bad joke. Really bad things happen when I… I… attempt a joke.” He sighed. “Not much of a rouser. I’m not much of anything, really.”
The air remained dense and dark. He felt best just leaving the doll be. “Yeah. I… I…” He stood up, terrified of looking back. “Gotta go.” He stopped by the door, though, and looked back into the tiny, cramped room.
Cruel. Too cruel. Just too much cruelty to leave her there. Her. A woman so patient, so kind, so… understanding. Such a good listener who gave his lips ears no other woman (or person) would sacrifice a second of their time to.
«She’s a doll!» He tapped his forehead with his knuckles repeatedly, half-assedly sliding the door back shut. «She’s a freaking bloody doll, you… disturbed little person!»
Cleaning the kitchen. Fuck. This thing usually felt like such a bore, such a pain, but to him, that day… uh. It felt different. «Why does this feel so fun now?»
Through the drudgery of mopping, of scrubbing, of disinfecting; through the annoyance of checking for tiny shards of ceramics in every little corner under the drawers, then applying the clorox, the detergent, scrub and scrub and scrub until it was all shinny, realizing that it wasn’t shiny at all, then scrub and scrub and scrub again, then picking up the wet and coffee-drenched paper towels and throw them in the bin, wash his hands, notice he’d missed a spot, bend over again to clean it and throw yet again the new loads of paper towel on the bin, then go on to wash his hands again… the daunting grind of all those chores felt, if not satisfying, at least quite bearable. He wouldn’t call it “happiness,” but… it was a pretty darn similar.
One would wonder, yes, what made that task so much more rewarding this time around; what made that day so much less hateful all of the sudden, even when compared not just to days prior, but to mere minutes before. «Oh, who am I kidding.» He knew it very well. There was no needa wonder: «T’was her.»
If just talking to that doll made him feel that way… «No.»
Then what would touching her, kissing her…? «No!»
He shook his head, accidentally kicking the bottle of clorox on the floor. He picked it up quietly and carried on with his cleaning duties. «Shite und schmeite! I’m not this much of a loser.» His eyes, again… the unbearable swelling… «Am I?» He scratched them. «I’m not going to romance a doll.»
Then why the hell did he buy it?
God knows. He did things even he didn’t understand.
It was only when the kitchen was clean and white, shiny and sweet-scented, that he faced the facts: «need to put all this shit back.» He grabbed the mop, the sponges, the cloths, everything, and stopped himself by the door, looking back at the kitchen to nod approvingly at his own work: “this is nice.” He spelled it out, aloud, nodding more gently as he felt a strange warmth spread all over his breast. “This both looks and feels nice. Real nice.”
Maybe the entire house would benefit from a make-over like that. Maybe… «No. I’m done.» And returned to the little storage room to stow back all those belongings.
*Tap* Hand on the knob. *Pull* Sliding the door. *Swoosh!*
The doll was still there: sat on her chair, hands laying beside her hips, arms almost straight besides her torso, with only a slight angle on the elbows, her face gazing firmly straight at the wall. The sight of her made him smile, and calmed whatever storms were now just building up again in his breast. “Hey, there.” He greeted her, putting the apparel back in place. “Need to buy… uh, coffee.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. As he looked at her again, he just found it impossible not to say something. “Forgot to buy last week. You know, Wednesday.” Was he really going to tell her…? “Wednesday is, uh, grocery day. I… I… I like Wednesday for that.” He sighed. Regardless of how stupid he sounded, the doll just stood there, listening to him, very attentive, accepting, as if his words actually meant something. “There’s, uh… there’s a person…” He started saying, but didn’t finish it.
Could he really finish it?
«A pretty blonde. There’s a pretty blond girl working there. Cashier. I know, I know. It’s… quite a creepy thing to fix on, but… oh, she’s cute. You should’ve seen her. I’ve always imagined… you know…» Even in his thoughts it was hard for him to admit. «Always though ‘bout… ‘making a move.’ But… well…»
He shook his head. Shook his limbs also. Fruitless, fruitless! Even if he was saying something important, even if the bloody topics that came out of his mouth actually meant anything to the world around him, his doll, much like every single person and every single thing in his life, would not give one d-
«Shut up.» He shook his head. «Please… shut up… for one fucking second.»
He looked at her. Again. Once more. Upon looking, he blamed himself again, yes, but this time in a good way; as in “how-could-I-ever-doubt-her-sincerity” kind of way.
“I’m sorry.” He nodded again, so apologetic. “Thinking shit.” Was he afraid that maybe the doll would feel jealous towards that woman—that real-life, meat-and-bones, soul-and-blood actual woman? “You’re much more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen.” He said, and then he realized what he had just said and felt supremely embarrassed by it. “Okay, that’s… that’s about it. Huh…” He shook his head, kind of giggling, kind of not, and left the room.
The door was left open as he headed out to buy some coffee.
~ Afternoon ~
Midway towards the market, he met a couple of dark-skinned individuals on the walk. His head, already heavy, and growing hotter the farther he got from his apartment, sank as an anchor in a dark, dense ocean even he tried to pretend didn’t exist; a squall of dark emotions even his other dark emotions were scared of.
Giving those people a very quick, cool glance as they passed, his head was cleared, his mind emptied, and the world around him waned into white, an echoeless nothing as a single strand of thought flickered in and out of existence, as painless and momentous as the gliding of the guillotine’s blade through the convict’s neck: «malditos pretos.»
Time to count. Count down to cool down. Three, two…
«What have they ever done to me?»
Those who perpetrated nasty things to him in the past were pretos, said one side of his head. That’s what. But… they were also whites, yellows, reds, and all sorts of races the gods had put on that Earth to hate him. In his great Tome of Miseries, that pedestal of his Memories of Wrath, moorish folks should have no special place. Should they? ‘Fter all, when it came to hating him, despising him, wishing him dead, life was a democracy: every race hated him equally, and everyone equally wanted him gone.
There was the matter of basic statistics, of course: pretos were the most people in his motherland, and if most of the people hated him, despised him, tortured him and whatever, well, it was only fair that, proportionally speaking, most of his tormentors would have been moorish in their complexions.
Not a matter of nature. Just a matter of data. Sheer disgrace and bad luck.
«They were also poor.» He reminded himself of this basic fact. «Dreadfully so. Poor like no one else can be on this planet. The kind of poverty that to people is like gravity to a pebble: inescapable.»
Poverty breeds no kindness. How could he, then, expect anything but unkindness from people bred out of nothing but utmost poverty?
He should know it. He was one of these people, after all. Somewhat. He did have one extra luck, yes, embroiled so lightly in his skin; a luck which, if it didn’t make his life much less terrible, t’least made it a twinge more bearable, a bit more… escapable.
«It’s not what the mind reasons, but what the heart feels,» he told himself, sneering as he looked back to the couple who’d just passed him by. «Malditos pretos de m-!!!» He immediately stiffened his face, trying his best to look decent, making his darnest hardest effort to not act and sound like an animal on two legs. «Just as I got here, so do they?!» The anger… it could often be unquantifiable. « Why do they have to follow me here?! Huh?! Why?! It’s like I can’t have a fucking… second… of peace!! Don’t they have their own lands to keep shitting on?! Do they really have to cross a whole fucking ocean… just to torment me so… just to… to…» The pressure. It could gauge one’s eyes out! «RAÇA MALDITA DO CARALHO DE ESCRAVOS, MERDA!»
He continued in that infuriated state until the market appeared in the horizon. It wasn’t that much of a short walk from his apartment, and often he dreaded having to make it for the sheer distance and effort alone, but anger, oh, she was often the best of fuels, and it shortened space like no space travel or fanciful futuristic technology ever would. «They’re gonna ruin everything again. All over again. All over again! They’re gonna turn this country into the very same shithole I spent so long trying to escape. All over again!! All over again!! Why is it so difficult for us… for them… for us to behave…?! Por que esses macac-?!»
He got into the market. *Ding!* The doors made a pleasant ring as they slid open for him. The warm air of the heating inside washed him like a dragon’s breath. If not for the quaint ringing bell, he would think he was walking in and over hell—and god knows his mind was already there.
«Malditos. Malditos… macacos!»
Usually, when he arrived at his destination, his angry thoughts quickly subsided, his fury brought to a sudden, unceremonious end, but that day…
Oh. That day was different.
That day he felt like just killing someone.
He walked through the deserted isles of the minimarket trying to envision weapons everywhere he looked: a rifle here, an handgun there, a quick-shot spitfire right in front of him, between the packs of coffee. Everyday materials turned into deadly tools, which he pictured himself yielding to purge the good lands from all unwanted, unwelcome intruders.
Much like his dreams. Much like his fears. But even better! The visitors in his room—the dark, tall shadows by his bed—were mysterious, impossible to touch; the intruders of his land, though, all equally tall and so much darker, they were very much material.
And material things could be unwound. Material invaders could be hurt. Those fleshly shadows could be vanquished. If he’d just had the balls to…
«No.» At one moment, he stopped. He stopped and… tried to tame his head. «No.» He told himself. «No.» He shook his head.
Oh, was he so brave and firm with his own head, wasn’t he? What a big, boldie boy. A big, bold, beautiful boy who believed himself so righteous and so honest, trying to tame the demons of his soul without realizing (or just refusing the face the fact) that these demons were no demons, but him and himself alone. «Please. Shut… shut up…!!» The tears gleamed as they fell. Little crystals on the ground.
Balls. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Balls. If he had them, he could purge the world. He could make himself a real man and achieve the success he so resented on pretty much everyone else.
Balls. Balls. If he only had them, life would be better, no, it would’ve been best, but that’s the whole crux of his journey, wasn’t it? He had no balls. Never had them. Never would have. That’s why he couldn’t purge anything—neither the country nor himself. That’s why he wouldn’t ever sleep with a woman. Hell! That’s why he couldn’t even sleep with a fucking d-
«CAN YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP?!»
A voice came from his side. He didn’t immediately react to it: “ya, camradie? Arre you awwrite? You look not so gut, mai brata.”
He thought it was just another of the many voices in his head. It was only when it repeated itself, this time even slower, in a more measured pace, that he noticed… no: the voices in his head never sounded so concerned with him: “camradie maia, err’yu awwrite? Du you need ambulanssa? Yoy, mai brata. Yu don luk reah-lly soon prishka.”
He looked at whom spoke: a dark man towering as a mountain. At first, his size and tone were off-putting, truly startling. If he were suffering from an abscess of hiccups, there mere sight of that man would have cured him, for he was, truly, spectacularly tall, if not very bulky an individual, and one whose tone of skin was outstanding in its purity even amongst the most isolated, unmiscegenated tribes in the heart of unyesahara: a skin as dark as the void of the universe; a black as complete as the starless sky under which the earth had been replaced with pure slabs of fine-cut obsidian.
“Mi… migraines.” He told the stranger with a smile. “Fuc… freaking migraines, man.”
“Migr-ahi-nes, migr-ahee-nes.” He repeated, his command of the country’s tongue still not as firm as he would’ve liked. “Ah, headache.” Then immediately he pointed to his right, to the corner on the far opposite side of the store’s entrance. “Derr und pharma jus close. Zem proly‘ave sumthin for y’er… migraynes. Ve unterstaant misch gut, brata?”
Damn. He wasn’t supposed to talk. He wasn’t supposed to help him. Why did he have to be so solicitous, just like this, so out of the blue? “Yes, I, uh, I do understand, no… hmm, no problem.” He paid close attention to the man, to see if they both understood each other nicely: “and, no, there’s no problem with me. Uh, it’s nothing, hmm, nothing bad.”
An outstanding liar he could be, sometimes. Regardless of how modest and harmless he tried to act, though, the stranger kept staring at him. The boy’s eyes were probably swollen, just like his entire, hideous face, and he knew his own skin, much like his eyes, was red and moist, as if suffering from the most severe of rashes.
The man kept staring at him, in silence. «Oh, no.» Deep within his mind, he began to make his obituary. Did the guy sniff it out? His soul? Did the stranger smell the rottenness sipping through his pores, the thick, fetid leachate he let out, like the slime of a snail, everywhere he went, making his trails on the ground so that no one with a soul dared step where he once smeared?
“Is it money problem?”
At first, he didn’t understand the question. When he did, he was taken aback. Slightly.
The stranger, looking deeply into his eyes, wondered whether the boy understood him or not, so he repeated the question in an even more calming, pedagogical way: “are ve having some, uh… issues wiz shekhen, mein fraer? Wiz money? I can lend some shekhen, sum moneys, buy mediceen for’yer needs.”
The question should have offended him. Should have, but really couldn’t, for at the very moment he understood it, he looked down towards himself, towards his own body, and realized he was wearing wearing nothing more but his grey sweatpants and a long, black kerchiefed jack that was quite indintinguishable, at a distance, from a trash bag. «For heaven’s sake! I forgot to change my pajamas?» That, combined with the sorry state of his face—his messy hair, stoned-dead red-eyes, washed-out pale face, sickly thin skin, and bulimic thinness all throughout—sure made him look quite close to a medhead escaped from the gutters.
«Is this… how I usually look?»
He wore his best smile on his face, however, when he provided that stranger with an answer: “nah. It’s just… a head problem, really.”
Just as he thought the stranger would make himself more inconvenient, stick to his ass and continue to bother him with further-denied aid, no, the boy was rather surprised to see the big man just shrug his shoulders and turn around. “Okay. If need’elp…” He gestured politely, walking away and back to minding his own businesses, probably not even thinking about the disturbed-looking individual anymore.
«Did he… did… he…» The thoughts richocheted wildly and confusedly inside the young man’s head. «Did he just listen to me?»
Why, if that sounded like dream. It was unusual to find people who just offered help without using it as kind means to some wicked ends. No. That guy was the opposite: he came, he was told ‘no,’ he went away. Such surprise, even shock were enough to dispel most of the youth’s anger and hatred for a while, carrying him to the counter with his bags filled with coffee packs and milk bottles and jugs of juice with an almost airy, dreamy demeanor. ‘Twas almost like a good night’s sleep, and all the better as he blinked twice, woke up and back to reality, and saw the cute, blond woman at the register, staring at him and tapping her fingers on the counter.
“That’s two ninety, fifty-fifty eight, sir.” She tapped them faster, her body language pointing to all the groceries on the pick-up side of the counter, begging for bagging.
“Uh, mmm…” The words fought to leave his mouth, a pile-up in the middle of his throat. “A m-minute, please.”
He did the mistake of looking at her. Why, god, oh, had he looked at her?! Unlike the stranger, she wasn’t at all understanding of his state; she looked irked and repelled, as all ladies would when confronted by such a walking trash bag of an individual—barely a “man”, no, just “individual” indeed. In a desperate attempt to save whatever face he could, he looked away, made sure to not disturb her further, quickly averting his gaze and vowing to not disgrace a person like her… a beautiful… cute… adorable, hard-working woman like her… with the dirtiness of his semblance. Or his being.
«Of course she’s looking me like that. Of course this fucking bitch hates me.» He thought. «Look at me. Look at my fucking state. Filthy piece of s…!»
The notes were counted and the register’s computer beeped a few times.
“Oh, my, uh…” He was surprised by her now tender voice. “I’m sorry, sir, but I forgot to ask you if you’d buy a bag for that” She pointed to the recyclables beside the counter. “You don’t happen to have a bag with you, do you?”
He shrugged, mumbling without raising his eyes, giving her a couple more notes for the extra purchase. “Nay. I’ll, uh… give me two, t-than- uh, thank you.” The girl was sure thinking him some kind of weirdo. «Don’t look at her, don’t look at her. Don’t act like a fucking creep, please.»
As soon as he had crammed all his petty foods into the big, green-colored, rough-textured bags, he was out of the place, and the rush of emotions and strong chemicals in his body caused him to think no ill of anybody for the most part of his walk back home. Pretos, intruders, foreigners, people in general, they could all walk at ease now; they were all safe from his impotent rage.
Easy hatred, flash-in-the-pan wrath. Those were obstacles he had long tripped over, waters long past by his mills. People had no fault for his own ills, no one but himself to blame for his guilt. «Shut up.» He grabbed his head and shook it, almost dropping the groceries on his way. «Shut… up… please!» But the voices weren’t going to shut up quite as easily this time, no, they weren’t.
This time, after all, they were right.
It was not her fault she despised him, that cute cashier. It was not anyone’s fault they treated him like trash. After all, well… look at him. He was despicable on his own, dressing and walking and speaking like only trash would. What a shocker, indeed, to expect garbage to be treated like anything else but garbage. Just look at yourself, y’er worthless wasted of semen: even without saying a word, your very existence by itself is repulsive. Repulsive!
His head bobbed heavily as he walked, a grotesque hunchback protruding as he straddled along the sidewalk. Passerbys, if there were any, could’ve seen the bones of his spine sprouting so clearly on his back, almost as if his skeleton struggled to get out of that sad sack of meat, even it too fed up by that lame excuse of a human being. «I have to spend all my calcium carrying your worthless meatbag around?» Said the skelly, surely. «No! No good for me! Adieu!»
*Blam!* He burst so aggressively through the doors of his apartment block, whisking by so fast, like an arrow across the main hall of the building, that he barely heard the words that were shot back at his direction:
“Uh, good… oh, hey, man. How are y-?”
The porter. That nice, young doorman he’d met days (months?) ago. He saw him move like a ghost into the elevators hall, the bags of groceries making a stupid rattling noise as he did, like impotent spooky bells and heavy chains on the world’s most pathetic ghost, and then disappear into the building, as nonexistent then as he had been before.
“Uh, okay.” The porter appeared to say as the elevator’s doors slid shut.
Poor man. He didn’t deserve that. The boy had heard him, but also hadn’t. There were so many things going on in his head that the warm words were only meaningless noise among them, so his brain just threw them all in the back of his mind, canceling them out as he was heading to the lift. He didn’t even bother remembering the young worker’s name, if there was or had ever been a name at all. «John? Johan?»
He often didn’t remember his own name. How would he, then, remember the names of absolute strangers, people whose employs were so beneath him. Why would he? Why even bother?
Still, he felt bad. «He didn’t deserve it. He was… nice.» A nice man, indeed. Talkative fellow, sure, but one who had been nice to him. And respectful. Just like that tall, dark fellow on the store just now. He deserved—they both did—some niceness back, and he very rudely denied it to them both. «Of course I did. I’m an ass.» He, or one of the many voices inside him, or all the voices at once, said: «I hope they’re rude to me next time. I hope everyone is rude. All the time. Forever. Saves me the time of trying to be nice. And it’s fair. It’s how the universe should be: everybody rude to me, everything trying to kill me, just like my countrymen, just like the goddamned pretos, just… just like…»
He laid his forehead on the elevator’s wall, hard enough that he could feel some pain in the action, yet weak enough not to attract any suspicion from anyone else outside. «Fuck.» He hit his forehead again. «Fuck.» And again. «FUCK!!»
*Ding!* The doors opened.
He ran—not walked, ran—to his apartment with oceans in his eyes, blast through his house’s door like a bomb, dropped the groceries on the ground as if the handles were made of thorns, not even checking if he’d closed the door behind him, and sat, yes, collapsed his buttocks by his desk, in front of his infernal workstation, and then proceeded to work in it frenetically, furiously until long past the pearl of the moon—he couldn’t, he wouldn’t ever know the times for sure, never exactly; he never bothered with the clockarms, never saw a reason to. «Fucker like me needs to time.» He had no meetings to attend to, no mornings to wake up from. Nothing. When you are too much of a nothing, time itself means as much as you: nothing.
So he worked away just like he lived: like an animal. He rose and fell not with the cycles of the sun, but with the unstable churning and aching of his gusts, his perception of time regulated entirely by his unregulated body—so unregulated that he woke up at times as disparate as the yawning of the sun or the darkest reign of the high moon. He could never know when a day would start, just as he couldn’t know if that day would have an end again—that he would still be there to see it.
That day… yes. That was a bad day. A bad day, he figured, because he had probably slept so very little the nights prior, slowly compounding his miseries until, *blam*, they just exploded on him on day, that very day. «Yeah. Yeah. That’s likely it.» He thought while masturbating frantically in the bathroom—the supelvelth time that day, upteenventh just in that evening. «Bad sleep. Much work.» He couldn’t even form long sentences by that point: «Sleep unt four. Wake seven. Little sleep, bad sleep.»
And too much work all over again.
He didn’t even think about anything sexy as he masturbated. He did so mechanically, just to let off some milky steam. «Semen piles in the body like poison.» His thoughts wandered. «I get charged. Packed in the crotch. Loins hot and heavy. Unpleasant to sit.»
When he came, no milk came. His jerking was usually jizz-less after the fourth or eighth round, especially if he didn’t let enough time in between blasts—and even if he did, well, sometimes he still couldn’t shoot shit, for he was «impotent, weak, and limp,» by his own words, among so many others, on his way back to work, back to admire those beautiful people in the books: the virile studs and their fertile maidens; the massive, thick man-rods and the tight, lube-ridden, juice-dripping moisty butterflies, all the juices in the universe, all the nectar for the gods.
Joy and pain. Looking at those people brought him these two dissonant feelings. It was inspiring to see how great human bodies could be, agonizing to realize how far from these bodies he was by virtue of birth. «Mine are bad numbers of a lottery I should have never played.» He cut the images and spliced them in the covers, feeling the cock, I mean, the clock strike eleven past twelve. His hand moved with greater difficulty and jank, his muscles hardening like drying clay.
He scratched his eyes, stood up, jerked off for the twvelveth time. This round around, though, he couldn’t even achieve relief. His penis was sore, his helmet like a purple grape about to be squashed into wine. He hit his head on the mirror, but realized even this act was without anger, wholly unintentional; he was just so sleepy he couldn’t keep himself straight any longer.
«I need to die.» He thought, shaking his head immediately after. «I mean, I need to… sleep.»
He walked not to the bed, but to the kitchen, where he prepared some warm milk to maybe, perhaps, hopefully, soothe his nerves, make his body relaxed enough to slumber through a temporary peace. Though he was as sleepy as a cat near a fireplace during winter, but without any of the cozy feelings that would usually entail, his veins still coursed about two gallons of cheap black colombine drug, depriving him of sleep without given him energy in return, not any longer.
He felt cranky, jaded, dead but still living, and work felt like a more terrible grind, even more excruciating than usual. Still, knowing that the coffee was inefficient, knowing that he could buy better brands, he persisted in filling his body with that cheap junk for years. It was simply the kind of coffee he got used to, years and years ago, and change to people like him did not come lightly; between choosing an unknown good and a known evil, he’d stick to the evil always.
Repetition felt like home. A good home. Not like his old home, his old neighborhood, his old acquaintances, which were hot, chaotic, and savage, no, no, but much more like his new city, new his country, his new empty apartment in his sprawling, vast, ever-expanding white apartment blocks: cold, bland, quiet, and predictable. Safe.
Safety. He prized it above anything else. To invite a new kind of coffee, a new kind of brand, a new kind of experience into his house, into his mouth was akin to letting a hollow horse roll past the door to his safe haven: just giving way to the enemy!
In the kitchen, he hit his head a few more times against the wall. He walked to the living room, which was cold thanks to the opened glass doors of the balcony, and through these doors he stared into the night, approving of the uniformity of the void, its few stars dimmed even by even the dimmer lights of the lifeless city underneath.
He stepped forward, feeling the cold wind on his body. He looked down. It was a nice, merciful fall from there. The handrails were low enough for one to fall through with a slight distraction; a simple, careless lean, and that’s all there was to it. For the standards of that country, it was a really badly built place. «They forbid these kinds of hazards, try to protect their people at all costs.» He raised his head and sniffed out the air. The northern winds had such dry bitterness to them. «They care that their people don’t kill themselves.» He choked on his own saliva. «They won’t care for me.»
He stepped on the lower rail of the baluster. He looked down. If one just ignored the white dots on the streets, one would be staring into almost a perfect void. The full moon shone much brighter on those latitudes, whenever she appeared, yet at the feet of his building lied only shadows, like the mouth of a leviathan agape, ready to swallow him and give him peace.
All it would need was a step, just one step, and a tiny jolt into the darkness, maybe—the darkness he knew so well. The darkness he still struggled to love.
There would be no more surprises in the void. No more changes, no more novelties, no more frustrations. No more aggression. Provided that the religious folks were wrong, there would be nothing beyond the dark, and this nothing was so much better than the everything he’d had before it. «Zero is better than negative.» He looked up, staring at the different, hideous darkness of the sky with a mathematical mind to give him peace. Or the illusion of it.
He put his other foot on the lower rail, and his body rose against the baluster, past which he looked again, neck bent, head lowered, eyes down, down, down. «But the pain…»
The pain was his only enemy.
He’d seen pictures of people who’d fallen from those heights, yet survived. Only a demon or a very nasty brand of god could curse a person to such end: to deny them the release of death, yet also invalidate them through a long remainder of their lives. In that country, sure, people like these used to be put to sleep—which was some solace, but not enough. Not nearly enough, in fact, for him to ignore the fact that the pain of survival would be extreme.
Not to mention the fall. The falling itself. The yankeedoodles had it easy, for their lands abounded guns, it was said, and every discussion, every torment, every slight grievance was solved with a bullet to the brain. Easy, quick, simple, efficient. Everyone else in the world, though, when lucky enough, only had tall buildings at their disposal, which, though usually efficient, still left them with one too many seconds to horror and despair, even repentance as they were fell.
There was no kind dying for those who jumped: their last seconds on Earth—the longest of their lives—would be filled with horror and second thoughts. Ah, the second thoughts! The windows of opportunities they’ve been denied in the heights, the brilliant plans of salvation that only came when salvation was impossible, all hope lost, a little too hard, a little too late—but that was the point, wasn’t it? To torment the tormenter one last time, giving them a little taste of Hel before they went on to freeze in it forever.
It was his stupid body trying to survive. «I want to die. I do, but my body doesn’t.» In a last, ditch effort of survival, the mind went berserk, filling the person with all sorts of foolishnesses and stupidities. «Hope.» He realized. «It gives us hope when there’s none. It’s always like that, ain’t it?» He smiled, barely realizing he was still staring into the void, leaning further and further, without notice, into the dark. «We only feel hope when we shouldn’t; we persist when we should give up; endure when ending it all would be better. For everyone.»
He knew what it was—survival instinct—but he preferred to always think of it as «torture. Sadism.» Life wanting to keep him in suffering for as long as possible.
His feet stepped blindly in the air, climbing a set of stairs that wasn’t there. Maybe, if he got a chair, he could just… hop out easily and fly. He wouldn’t even notice when his feet left the support. It’d just be… *bluum!*
He turned around. He was sure he’d heard a noise in his home. “Mm.” Much too quickly, he left the balcony and went inside to see what might have happened. His thoughts, as if freed from the void, sprang back and down to more earthly concerns.
There was still hope. Not the hope he desired, but the hope he could afford: «the doll.»
Yes, his doll. The love he could purchase for a million and a half a unit. It wasn’t the perfect hope, but it was still hope—and, better yet, a very tangible one.
He slid the storeroom’s door open, peeking into the place to check what was going on. A bottle of clorox, as it turned out, the same bottle he had used that afternoon, it had fallen from the shelf, rolling by the door as he slid it open. The broom too had apparently fallen across the tiny space, almost hitting the head of the doll, who, as always, still sat there, patient and compliant, with dust piling on her beautiful skin.
“Hmm.” He muttered, putting the things back into place. His eyes met the doll’s, and hers looked lonely. “Hey.”
She didn’t answer. She seemed mad at him. Of course she did, what did he expect? After a whole week locked in that place—she, a queen! Queen of the Amazons!—, she probably felt really fed up. It wasn’t even the imprisonment that enraged her, but the imprisonment at the hands of… such a man! Such a boy!
“I’m sorry.” He knelt before her. The words weren’t easy to flow. He avoided her angry gaze, instead staring at her strong, ripped legs, whose muscles tested her jeans and highlighted her power, her nobility, as much so as the indignity of her confinement. “You’re dusty.” He touched her thighs, trying to wipe the dust off her jeans, and immediately felt a wave of power ripple through his body.
She was warm. Hot. Like real skin beneath! The doll stared beyond his head, into to the wall, yet still her face again appeared slightly changed—angry at him, and irate for his gesture. “I don’t… I can’t…” The words, the damned words. He knew them, but didn’t want to say them.
The shame. The mighty shame of admitting it. His eyes, nearly exploding. He rubbed them along with his whole face with both hands, covering himself, hiding his gaze as he finally managed to utter those words out, costing his soul: “I’m a really bad person.” And he kept saying, very slowly, with far too many pauses, but still saying no less: “I’m… such a fucking piece of garbage.” He looked up to the doll. “If you were smaller, I think… maybe I’d touch you. You’re just too fucking big, you know. Too fucking strong.” His foot grazed hers, his toes tip-tapping along her calves. “I don’t deserve a strong woman like you. What would I do to you in bed? I can’t give you pleasure. I can’t… do anything. I’d just be there, like a dead stick, flabby and pathetic, whilst you waited, frustrated, and probably quite disgusted too.” He pulled back his legs and hugged them, a fetus sitting in front of his plastic mother. “It happened once, you know. Not sex. I never got close to sex. But… a girl, once. A kiss. I couldn’t even kiss right. I almost puked in her face, and she was already trying her damned best to ease me up. I knew she was trying, oh, and I liked her so much for that, but… it’s just not right for a man.” He looked down to his own body and detested everything he saw—the very little, yes, and very frail, very weak, very pathetic that he saw: “look at me. I’m not a man. Jesus, your legs… just one of them is larger than my whole hip. I’m… how can I be a man to you if I can’t even be it to a regular girl? I… to be with you, it’s… just gonna… show… how much not of a man I am. It’s awkward. I’ll only be thinking nasty things, and… I just don’t wanna… you know…” He scratched his whole face forcefully, almost aggressively, as if trying to pull his skin off and gauge his eyes out. “I just don’t see myself ever getting anything nice in life. Ever being loved.” The doll just stood there, ever so royal, looking so mightily down upon him. “You are a very beautiful woman. I just… I mean, I know you know it, but… I guess… I just want to take this out of my chest: it’s not you, it’s me. Obviously, I’d love to sleep with you, but… even though you’re fake… even though you clearly can’t hear what I’m saying… even with all that, it’s just not right. You’d hate it.” He chuckled. “You’d hate it so much you’d… create life… you would, uh, become alive just so you can jump out of the window and, uh, rid yourself of me. I’m… really fucking… bad. At everything. The only fucking thing I can ‘do,’ if you take that to be something, is porn. Not even good porn at that, just… soft, petty porn. Covers for romance books, you know.” He gave her a longer look and smiled. “You look like a woman who’d hate romance books. You’re more like… not reading books at all. You’re like a biker, a cool girl.” He leaned on to his legs, hugging them tighter, looking at her longer and deeper. “Heavens, the kind of man who would have you. He’d must be, like… six and a half feet tall? A mountain of muscles, of… testosterone.” He sighed. “I have the same amount of testosterone as a mouse. This is why I look for women like you: very strong, buffy girls. I’m so weak that I need a strong woman to protect me. Both physically and mentally. That doesn’t mean that you’re wrong, no, but that… well… you probably attract a lot of losers like me in your life, huh? Not that you would want to, but… anyway… you must be used to it. Just that.” For a moment, he realized the ridiculousness of it all, or made out the ridiculous where none was, just like his monsters, just like his hatreds, just like himself. “You don’t attract anybody. You’re just a fu-… a doll. Just a doll.” The light flickered. The same peculiar sensation from a week earlier—the tightening of the space, the heating of the air—returned. He looked at the doll and tried to read her, but again, before he could get any answer, he was hopelessly lost in her beauty. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. You are a… woman. Or a representation of one. Doesn’t excuse me from treating you bad.” So many bad things invaded his mind that he felt compelled to just leave without one more word. The reason, he thought, boiled down to «I’m so fucking bad, so fucking useless that just talking to you feels insulting. I know you d-» He shut his eyes hard and inhaled deeply. “I know you don’t want me. No woman does. If one ever does, well, she’s crazy. Or psycho. Or evil. I might wake up the day after in a bathtub and find out my organs have all been harvested. Not that this is the woman’s fault, of course. This is actually a good thing to do. My organs are worth more outside of me than inside, giving life to any other person but me, and this woman, you know, this crazy, psycho bitch, she’s…” Inhale. Hold. Hold. Exhale. *Sigh* “She’s good for… taking them out and… selling to people much more deserving.” He looked up. Her face was enigmatic, indecipherable. “I’m not looking for pity. I’m even feeling calm right now. I spent my whole day hating, my whole day shouting, my whole day… thinking… about killing myself.” The light flickered again. He shrugged it off. “I spent the day really fucking bad. You must have heard it, right? With all my… screams, my… head bangings and my… you know. So…” He shrugged. “I don’t feel that bad right now. Not even that… tired.” He rubbed his eyes. “I mean… fuck. I am tired, but… I don’t feel like… I need to die… to… cure myself of this tiredness. I’m more calm and… level-headed, I guess you’d say.” He looked at her. And just looked at her. Her massiveness and beauty shook him in a most brutal, primal of ways. He found it honest to just say it out loud, without keeping everything to himself: “I am… I am… getting so turned on by you right now. No reason in specific. You’re just… that fucking hot.”
Her knees faced his way. So close. One arm-stretch away. He raised his hand and brought it closer, so much closer to her body, but stopped short of touching her.
He looked up to his woman again, always vying for her reaction.
“Please…” He said, simply, and then…
He touched her. He touched her in the knees.
Power. It was an indescribable rush of power that he felt from that incredible woman. The bone structure was so firm, and her skin so smooth, so perfect, her muscles so tender, yet also thick and unyielding, like a fortress made out of love, its iron walls raised with kindness, its stainless steel plates bound by benevolence.
With one hand he rubbed her knee, squeezing it, pinching it lightly, them venturing slowly up in her thigh, the touch causing him an instantaneous, full-blown hard-on, the aggressive rush, near eruption of blood tenting his penis upwards like a pole, wilful to break through his boxers, tear up the lycra of his shorts, a protuberant and aggressive mound rising, so noticeable, between his legs, a tumorous hill of horniness bloating up in his crotch.
He was breathing heavily, noisily as the hand was laid down fully on that mighty thigh and… and…
He squeezed it!
His heart jolted. His breath was abruptly cut short. His body shook along with his heartbeat as he felt the absolute strength, the boundless hardness and hotness of that muscular, bronze-cast thigh, that mountainous leg where all the thunders resided.
The darker skin of her face, a symbol of lusciousness and fertility; the light mahogany, dark-golden glimmer of her countenance, of youth, health, and endless child-rearing capabilities.
Her body was one that screamed health. Really: with that size and bounty, that fullness of booty, such a splendid body would need a whole village to be properly fed. Entire fields and crops razed just for breakfast; in a single meal, more nutrients to fill a breeding bull to a bursting point—and then on to the next plate! «By… the… gods…» His mind was anesthetized. «Even her teeth must be white and perfect.»
A woman such as her… no, a mare; a human bull in female shape, such superb titan, she was meant to fight, she was meant to protect, and she was meant to birth as many kids as all humanity would need, litters, as plentiful and ripe as rabbits, as big and strong as horses.
The richness of her being was almost magnetic. It pulled his face closer, closer, forcing him to pucker his lips, move his head forward, bring his mouth closer, and…
Lay on her knee a gentle, worshipful kiss.
He looked up, witnessed her high and mighty face, and laid his other hand on her thigh, spreading his palm all over it so as to measure its insane girth. “Fucking… massive!” He muttered. His two hands, stretched as wide as his long, skeletal fingers could reach, the tip of each thumb separated by what still felt as the radius of a whole planet, both hands barely covering half the girth of her thigh, which was all pure muscle.
He continued to dust off the lap of his goddess until the glimmer of the belt trapping her immense hips caught his attention. Only that feeble, stupid lasso separated his lips from the deliciousness of her being. «By the heavens…» He gulped, raising his eyebrows as he noticed how the belt, oh, was not nearly so ‘feeble.’ It was a thick leather constraint nearly as wide his hand, its girth almost as large as his fifth digit, literally more leather used there than in a whole jacket—such as the one she wore.
«If I… only could…»
His hands reached out painfully to that impregnable boundary, his fingers trying to worm their way between the golden, titanium-laden buckle and her impossible… “aah!!”
Her impossible… her massive… “oh, fuck!” He withdrew his hand quickly, licking and sucking his fingers as if they’d been burned.
No: they had been burnt. As he tried to violate his queen, little spider trying to court his gigantic black widow, not exactly fearless, but just too drunk by her power and beauty—if there were, in any case, any difference between these—he felt the sting of her muscles; perhaps more precisely, he felt the violent rejection of his body by her warrior-like, battle-tested abdominals, who were having none of that heathen touch, tolerating not an inch of contact with his worthless skin. «Heavens… fuck!» He looked at his fingers and saw their tips flush, like rash, the tingling, spiky sensation a child gets after messing around with a power socket. «What… muscles… must this woman have!»
At this point, the petty male could do nothing but to look up again to his deity and behold her so royal, so haughty, almost mocking of his failure. «These muscles are not for you.» She said, very clearly, every word imprinted on her lofty countenance. «My abs are above you—or any man.»
His pathetic burnt hand had nowhere else to go, then, but to the only place it went every time he felt defeated and humiliated: down and down, into his pants.
After no shortage of defeat and humiliation that day, however, the boy found that scrubbing his rigid, turgid worm only caused it to twitch painfully and burn as if his urethra spat and spewed pebbles on fire.
“Aargh!” Awash with pain, the ridiculous male was forced to lean back and spread out his legs, giving his sorry member a bit of air—a position that forced him to witness the pathetic state he’d brought his sex to.
His cock was so hurt that even having naughty thoughts, even just thinking them elicited painful jolts of thorny ejections in his tool. “Ouch, ouch, fikken… oooh…” The fire… it rose! “ARGH!!” It was like having a toothed thorn of spikes rooted into his member, its surface peppered with shards of glass, its spiked teeth facing south and inward, towards his loins, and then having every pump, every throb of his battered member slowly eject said thorn, causing the penis to only flail itself fresh. “DEUSES, QUE MERDA!!”
The poor, disgusting male left his legs spread out and wide, like a woman about to receive a breeder into her garden, and his shorts lowered, his boxers loose until his penis could get some semblance of cold or fresh air. «Merdamerdamerda!! Caralho, eu não consigo sequer manter… essa porra de pênis!»
Daringly, though, and in spite of all his pain, he managed a glance towards his woman; just a glance, nothing longer than that, his bile not so great as to allow him more than a couple of seconds of peeking at a time. «To waste my cock… jerking off to nothing… when I could be… I could have been…» He struggled with his last words. The thought reeked of blasphemy. «I could be jerking off to her!»
He could do more than just jerk off. He could do it, he knew he could do it, but he pathetically ran away. Again. Once more. As he always did.
“Argh! Fuck me, häellen, it hurts!” He closed his eyes and rocked himself back and forth as the burn consumed his crotch. He tried to touch his penis carefully, very gently, maybe to massage it back to health, but the omnipresent figure of his woman, whose lushness and fertility overflowed from her body like the waters of a fall would a lowball glass, enmeshed its way again surreptitiously into his eyes, the accidental glimmer of that omnipotent symbol of womanhood enraging his loins to an erupting state, his legs and his penis ending up in far and distant places of the house after they exploded with so much lust. “AAAH!!!”
His legs failed him, his crotch gone numb, fireballs blasting from his pecker, piss of lava drenching and burning his shorts. “Fucking…!” He hit the back of the head hard on the shelf. *Bang!* Several useless trinkets fell around him, painting a sad, sad picture of him, alone and desolate in the junkyard. “Heavens! Fucking… hell!” He grabbed his head, one hand on each side, and shook it a little. Water, water, salt on his eyes. Pain. “Fucking…!” Hiccups were heard. Whines like those of an abandoned dog. He looked to his woman, to his goddess again and… sucked his tears dry, back into the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… so very sorry.” His legs laid widespread on the ground, his hurting, burning, throbbing cock—or whatever worm in there he dared call a ‘cock’—unleashing steam from all the hurt. “I’m so… so…”
Imagine: touching that doll. Undressing her naked. Imagine. Imagine, you stupid virgin boy! «Please!» He told the voices. «Shut up.»
Touching that buckle. Undoing it. Pulling her jeans down. Oh! The legs! The phenomenal, mighty mare legs of that superhuman woman, ready to protect him, to warm him, to wrap themselves around his neck and crush…
“Fucking shit, stop!” He shook his head. “It hurts!”
His penis shook and shivered inside his shorts. He dropped his shorts lower with his finger and spread his legs even wider, always searching for a position or a state of undress that would grant his penis something, anything of a less agonizing state. He was short of being naked now, and knew that only his birthday suit would give him any peace and chill downstairs.
He couldn’t do it, though, for his sex doll was still there, always there, staring at him, or rather, at some point on the wall just above him, lording over him with her grand, courtly presence, and he couldn’t dare, no, he would never dare to get naked in front of her. So disgusting! So lowly! So… him!
Because he was a moron, and because he knew not what he wanted, or perhaps because he couldn’t set limits to his desires, which were now finally taking over his muscles, the boy stood painfully slowly on his knees and leaned on and over the doll’s mighty lap. The combined girth of her legs was far wider than his shoulders; they looked almost like a single’s bed where he could lay and rest upon forever—a baby back in his mother’s fold, his head resting on the soft pillows of her generous bosom, his legs spread all over her wide, fertile hips; a little calf in the open, besieged with fertility and abundance everywhere it roamed. “Oh, deuses…”
He advanced farther atop that woman’s legs, his sweat burning in his brows, his heart pounding, his breast turning into a *drum-drum! * *Drum-drum!* *Drum-drum!*
He stopped by the woman’s hips, his nostrils… oh… his nose… hovering mere inches above where her massive, magnanimous pussy would be. The wild scent of a lioness in heat invaded his cavities, burned the entirety of his throat, as well as the nerves under his eyes, and so intense was his pain that he felt the urge of puking, of throwing up, and coughed up greatly as he tried to stand and raise his head to a tolerable, respectful distance from her pussy. “For fuck’s sake, woman… what the fuck is this smell?!” He looked down to the sunken delta of her jeans, into the crown of her thighs, the central valley of her hips, all meat and mound and muscle coalescing into the oblong shape of her glorious…
Nay. That was nay common pussy. No simple, earthly vagina. That was Pussy with its initials capitalized; the Vaj to end all Vajs, the Queen of the Cunts, Ruler of Sissies, and Sovereign of Snatches; the Tyrant of Twats, Rajah of Vajayjays, Commandant of Coochies, and Empress of Vulvas.
That… supreme… cunt…!
“Av götten en’alle dæmonen ze hebben gemaakt!” He could feel, nay, he could see his sweat raining on her lap, staining her jeans, highlighting her… powerful… amazing… “cunt!”
His tongue collapsed from his mouth, lolled out through his lips as he muttered, and his head soon quickly followed. *Flomp!* Without the physical strength or the mental focus to undress her, dead below his hips and exasperated above them, the poor neophyte just collapsed undignifiyingly on the thighs of his Momma Goddess, and lapped on them like a dog on a meatdry bone until his saliva was dripping, raining from her jeans and from all sides of her seat.
He cared not for the roughness of the fabric, the rash of his tongue against its wet, sandy texture, or ooze of his spit as he feasted on the clothed thighs of his woman. He cared not for anything in particular; not for dignity and certainly not for his own, for in order to care or have dignity one should first be human, and he was not even that, not even a dog, barely even a pig anymore. He was something else entirely; a new species, a new form of life, and one moved not by survival or desire for procreation, but by the power of the thirst and the horny alone.
Under the scent of her cooch and the girth of her thighs, he devolved into a braindead slime of lewdness, munching on her legs like a pig would on its bowl of ration, but… well, how else could he have reacted? How on heavens could he have ever resisted her?
He licked her slabs of meat and spread apart her Greco-column-sized legs with as much strength as he could muster, nesting his head, that tiny, insignificant, grape-sized head of his in the middle of her thunderous thighs. «Fuck me, gods, this good!» He panted and grunted and kissed and kicked in the air like a newborn calf, his crotch burning, hurting, yet loving all the hurt, adoring every second of pain with every fiber of his penis rupturing, splitting apart, and being undone—the pain and the pleasure battling to see who was the most dominant force in that horny boy’s body.
“Bir de götten!” He muttered. “You’re so… fucking hot!” His lips made mushy noises on the doll’s thighs, her jeans soaked with warm saliva as he ate her legs up like a starving calf munching on some hot, wet fodder. “Fucking hard. So fucking hard! Götten mirsch!” Slowly, his hips twirled and gyrated with hypersonic sexual aggression, dry-humping the air and the chair’s leg in a way so shameless even very old, very horny street dog would scoff at.
Dogs had decency. He had none. Granted, how could anyone—especially one so sex-starved as he—keep their decency or any semblance of composture next to such thighs that would bring down the gods from their heavens? The thicker and most delicious part of her legs, just beneath her fire-spitting pussy, was so firm, meaty, juicy, and voluminous that it conjured images not of any woman or human at all, but of animals: big, heavy bulls; massive, endowed minotaurs; fertile, fierce mares; hungry and ferocious lionesses ready to gnarls on their prey’s neck.
Those legs contained all of mankind—or, at the very least, it sure felt like she could squeeze mankind dry between them, drain all the juice out of the planet between her thighs.
Thighs, thighs, thighs! The terrifying glory of thighs so fat and hard and ripe with muscles you could literally make a whole human being out of each. Her thighs were heavier and weightier each than a full-grown woman—and her calves than a whole child. He couldn’t get enough of them, no one could, and even if he had the whole night, nay, the whole weekend, fuck it, a whole year to explore that daunting continent of walkers he would still come short of a full map of its territory.
«This… this is…» He gulped, his brain short-circuited at every letter of every word. «This is to much!!»
His endless kissing was ended with him sucking back his own saliva from the soaked jeans. His spit came with a flavor: meat and beef, a finely cut steak, the taste of true muscle, as well as, perhaps, hopefully, the salty nectar of her pussy as spice.
That fact that her legs constantly defied the restraints of her clothing just breathed life and personality into them. To touch it, even at one’s gentlest, was to caress a log made of interwoven iron bars, oceanliner chains intertwined and compressed into two magnanimous, god-ordenained legs; just above them, the pure fertility and femininity those ample hips communicated, combined with the sheer might of the physique they carried, sent the little, horny dog moaning aloud, occasionally kicking the walls as his crotch fired up his legs with sharp jolts of electricity, not unlike a prisoner jolting under the electric baton of their sadistic guard—a half-abuse, half-delight torture that quickly made him soft and desensitized everywhere south of his bellybutton.
Pain can only be ignored to such a point, though, before it breaks the body, yet he seemed willing to keep ignoring it, poking the beast so he could see when it was finally going to tear him apart. «What’s the price of this hornineess? My legs and my arms?» He posited the question, and gave it a mere second for the answ- «Deal. Just let me… just… stick it… in and out… in and out… in… and out… and there you go, you can take my limbs now. I’m satisfied.»
He had wasted them, though. All his precious ins-and-outs wasted in that day, that whole morning and evening on the holes made by his fingers, by his hands, so many fruitless, lonely handscapades that evening that he was left not with a penis, but only with his mouth and fingers to keep on kissing. And kissing! And kissing! Kissing and licking and fumbling those denim-strained muscles until he could get some, any release out them.
His arousal grew so strong that, from his awkward position, as the grip of his knees faltered, he lost his balance, thereupon banging his head on the edge of the chair, then collapsing loud and violently on the floor. *Braam!* As he slumped, the grip of his hands on his dick moved past torture and into execution, and like a French noble’s neck on the lunette of a guillotine he felt a cold, sharp blade slicing through his urethra, carving his dick up like a good knife on a sausage, and this was enough pain to finally, finally make him call it quits—and announce his desistance by howling like a brain-damaged wolf. “AAAAUUUURGH…!!!”
In between the senseless explosions of colors and sounds of his banged-up head, just as the pitch of his howls kept rising into the squeals of a piglet being eviscerated by a vulture, loud bangs of two heavy feet were heard from the ceiling above, and anyone present, with a sounder state of mind, would have heard the angry, impatient shouting of the upstairs neighbor: “WAT THE FECK IZ GOING ON DOWN ZERE?!” *Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!!* “AIN TRYEING TO FOOCKING SLEEP!!”
*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!!*
*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!!*
He laid there, on the ground, kicking a bunch of tools out of the shelves as he bit his tongue and tried to make quiet, writhing for a few seconds as the pain only slowly, very slowly subsided. Alas, the razor-slicing agony of his netherpricker refused to go away so quickly. «Is this what a kidney stone feels like?!» He wondered, his mind going through the nerve-wracking symptoms he’d read on his computer.
He stayed down and defeated for about ten thousand minutes, the footsteps of his neighbor going away rather quickly after he’d made quiet, and only then his body returned to “normal.” Like the prick of a needle of a water balloon, the blow on his head, right there, so fatally close to his left temple, ushered all the consequences of his misbehavior and long lack of care towards his own body at once: his sight went blurry and refused to sharpen back, no matter how hard or how many times he blinked, his skull and his brain both hurting like there was a blanket of rusty nails stuffed in between them, and the nerves behind his eyes—or whatever space lied there in the dark emptiness of his sockets—seemed to swell so much they’d pop ‘em eyes like two fingers would a blister.
His muscles turned to jelly, his many sleepless and badly-slept nights charging his body now with heavy interest rates. As he lied there, squirming in near-death agony, he felt how so many of his limbs didn’t obey him at all; how all the electricity that poured from his brains and through the highways of his nervous system just… withered away… or were cut abruptly and short of their destinations; the entire sponge of his worthless being behaving like a canal after too many holes had been drilled on it: the water spewed and splashed from anywhere into everywhere, from every bloodied pore and all over the fields, except in the vital tanks they were meant to fill—his muscles, lungs, bladder, heart…
«What the fuck have I done to myself??»
He stood there, petty and feeble, feeling like dying, but never quite getting there, and hoped that the worst did not come to pass.
He tried getting up, but failed. «Gods help me!» His heart went hysterical, and he felt his eyesight further blurring into darkness. «Am I going blind?» He tried getting up again. And failed. «Am I gonna be a cripple??»
No. Not quite yet. Though he felt he deserved many miseries, that was still not be the day he would have such a comeuppance: after a handful more of minutes, he managed to keep his eyes open for longer tiks and toks at a time, and the blurring of his sight appeared to stop, if not immediately to reverse. One, two, three, one, two, three, his persistent attempts to get up yielded (some) results, and though he failed, after ten or twenty more minutes, to put himself at his own feet, at least he managed, with great effort, to stand on his own knees, one hand holding onto the woman’s thigh for dear salvation, like a safe mountain a little lamb like him could lean on.
He retrieved his hand quickly. To simply look upon that woman was to invite all that chaos all over back again to his body. “Fekken fleschken!” He grabbed his crotch and felt a pasty, gooey broth ooze down, slow and sticky, through his urethra. In his mind, he imagined blood coming out of his member, or pus. “Häellen fekken mischt!”
The jeans of his woman were darker with all the saliva-worshiping he’d bathed her on. “I’m sor… I’m so sorry.” Pain invited him crawl out of the space like a vermin, yet his arousal kept him in place. “I… I… I will return you. I… honestly don’t know… why I ever thought… you could be any… any help.” He shook her head, rubbing his face with anger. “Not your fault. It’s not… your… fault. It’s… just me. Ain’t no doll or woman who can ever fix… me!”
The light flickered. He barely noticed it, though, as he made his way painfully to the door and switched it off, half-crawling, half-limping his way back to his bedroom. His worm-like, worn-out sex, though badly bruised and badly beaten, was not bloodied. It burned like a whore peppersprayed in her parts, yeah, and it looked like a limp little baby arm that’d been grated too many times, enough that all its skin’d been peeled, or like a newborn snake covered in blood, or a very long worm extracted alive from a swollen belly, and it pissed urine like it was some type of unhealthy-looking sexual lubricant—not quite pus, not quite blood, but not quite lube either. Some thick, semi-transparent, quasi-beige liquid that smelled funny, like pissing vinegar.
«This… is disgusting.» He told himself, leaning pathetically on the wall of his bathroom, the thick piss and pus taking forever to leave his bladder.
The final droplets dissipated on the toilet water when felt a cold wind on his neck. Slowly tilting his head to the mirror beside him, he saw his bedroom on the reflection, as well as the door closing on its own by the gush of wind. As he got a hold of his thoughts, he noticed the lights of the storeroom still on. «Häellen fërhen.» He closed his eyes, and it hurt him. He shook both his head and his penis, and both hurt just as bad. His sight went back and forth, getting darker and shaper like the peaks and valleys of a wave, not exactly sure where it would settle. «It hurts… so fucking much.»
He returned to the storage to make sure that this time he’d left the lights off and the door sealed. His heart skipped some beats as the green glow of his doll’s eyes caught his gaze. He felt goosebumps all over, but soon they were replaced by a strange, warm feeling of comfort, like all his muscles, just one second ago hurting like wrapped on spiky vines, were coddled lovingly on a fluffy, cozy blanket.
He smiled. His doll was still there for him. “You… you…”
What was he going to say? What could he say that wasn’t absolutely embarrass- «Just now… a little ago… despite everything I did… despite… everything I felt…» He squeezed his breast and felt his heart on his palm. «When I talked to you… when I told you… well, not everything, but… a bunch… when I talked to you, I…» Half of his lips smiled. The other half melted and left his mouth. «I felt… kinda good… kinda… not so bad.»
Moron. Bloody, fucking moron. He would do better by shutting up, not saying one other goddamned word. Zeet! Nyat! Every word, like every beating of his heart, detestable! Utterly, utterly detestable! To be perfectly honest, he didn’t know why he cared to remain aliv-
“Thank you.” He said it, or his mouth said on its own. “T-thanks. Thank you… so much.” He looked at the doll. The doll just stayed there, staring down at her own stained, saliva-drenched jeans. “It, uh… it helped a lot.”
He looked at her. And then looked at her some longer. He always felt as if he needed to say one more thing, just one more word, and that would be it. No matter how many words he said, they never felt enough, this feeling was never gone.
She was a queen, and the queen demanded worship—but what worth was there, after all, in being worshiped by the likes of him? The worship of a vermin to a god. Or an ant to a boot. Insolence.
“Thank you. I don’t care. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He turned around. He stopped. He dared give one fleeting look over his shoulder, seeing the doll still there, still there, patient, warm, and wet. “Good night.”
He shut the lights, shut the door, and that was the end of it.
~ Night ~
He couldn’t sleep.
It was one, maybe one-thirty-cent past the Highrise Moon when he laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his hands over his chest, at first patiently, them nervously waiting for sleep to knock him out, but… nothing. «Come on, come on. Just… come on, please!»
It should have been an instantaneous thing, the blow of the sandman ‘gainst his head. He had banged his body time and time again, and left his self a trodden, demolished brute. His muscles all ached, the exhaustion overtaking their every fiver, and his skull cracked along with the heartthrobs of his brain, his eyes pulsating like at any moment they would pop, resulting in two squishy balls dangling from the sockets by their twitchy nerves.
It was the piss. The black piss he couldn’t for the sake of him get rid off! The devil’s herb. By all accounts, his body should have been gone, but the piss, the coffee, it still burned in his veins, it lingered on his blood like poison and kept him unnaturally alive, repulsively awake. No matter how painful he felt, how depleted his body got, the poison would not. Let. Him. Go!
It was the hatred. Yes, it was hatred still; the lingering thoughts of his white rage directed both against others and himself; against the whole world and his heart alone, making him feel like acid just under his skin, or countless long chains of nails churning inside his bones.
He itched and scratched himself, lightly at first, then furiously, and after about thirty painful minutes he was wrestling with himself on the bed, turning to all sides, accidentally (and then on purpose) banging his head against the headpiece and the walls, feeling increasingly desperate as the spirits of slumber just skipped over and past him, going on to grace some other fucker with the release of the little death.
«Goddamn it!!» All his actions during the day came back to haunt him, amplified in his head. When he closed his eyes and stuffed his head on a pillow, he heard the loud static of a TV in his skull.
Then, the voices. Only his voice at first, and a single one at that, but then it copied itself, gave birth to other voices, and multiplied: several clones of him talking about anything; screaming, screeching, yelling at the clouds, banging their fists on imaginary walls, turning his brain into a ball pit for tantrum-ridden children. A clatter of hatred so powerful he felt the house itself shaking, his body, his insides throbbing like rails as the train slowly approaches.
«Negros de merda! Macacos! Macacos e vadias!! Women so fucking… vadias! S’if they know what’s bad in’e world! Bunch ye’ crybabies!» He wanted to nail his fingers into his skin, tear his face off. «Fucking spoiled rats’ asses! They keep complaining and complaining, these people of the rich world, like the know better! Fucking worthless spoiled… vagabonds! What do they know about having it any bad?! Huh?! Fucking suffering! And I am the one whom they blame! I! Can’t have a second of peace and they blame me for everything! Fucking… useless goddarned hypocrites!!» His tirade of hatred spared few targets. «Fucking shit! Fucking gypsy vagrants stealing, fucking bitches complaining ‘bout everything, everything!» Few targets indeed: «I… I can’t stop… I can’t do shit! No. I… I wasn’t born so fucked up! I had many opportunities in my life, yet still I can’t do shit with any of them! My fucking… job, it’s… so fucking worthless!! There are people half my age making billions, and they… no! They had it better! They had mommy and daddy! They had love and a good country, a good… fucking… society!!» He gritted his teeth, screaming on the pillow as his country became yet again the target of his wrath: “fucking… piece of shit nation I had to be born into!! Fucking shite filled with… monkeys! And pigs!!” He started tearing up the pillow. The feathers glided softly by the side of his bed. «That fucking land of useless mediocre pieces of shit!! I could have been so much greater if I were born elsewhere!! In Nipon!! Even in the yankee swamps, I…!!!» He bit the pillow. He tore it piece by piece. Soon, he was eating the cloth and the feathers. “I’d been a fucking trillionaire by now!!”
Other voices joined in—different voices this time, and much less merciful than his older ones. These newcomers, real voices, not just invented; the voices of his past, stored deep in his mind, programmed to play on repeat for pretty much as long as he lived and on the worst moments of his life—and the tune they had to play, oh, it was meant to drag ‘im deeper, so much deeper; if possible, the deepest he could be dragged: “parasite! Have some common sense, you fucking crazy! Who do you think you are? A nib?!” Those were the responses every time he was foolish, stupid, asinine enough to tell someone, anyone of his dreams and aspirations: “but I wanna be an artist! A designer! A bloody painter, for old blood’s sport!” Sometimes, in his hatred and despair, he got too carried on his own ego: “I’m gonna be the best fucking designer in the whole fucking world!! I’m gonna make billions on the Internet!!”
Oh, boy, the laughter. The laughter and the hatred. Indeed, he didn’t want to design erotic covers his whole life. He never once saw himself designing covers in the first place; he only got to that point because… he needed to survive, to make money and get by until the day after—and the day after that, oh, and the day after, the day after the day after, the day…
The fact that those cheap, knock-off covers were the only time in his whole damned life he’d ever made any money was source of both immense solace and desolation: his art—his genuine, effortful art—was worse than worthless. It was negative: he lost money, he lost time, he lost friendships, he lost every damn thing a human being would consider to be basic not even for a good life, but really just life in general, decent living at all—if even that!
His dreams cost him everything, yet his shit made him money. Not that any of this elicited any pity from the voices. In his failure and his “successes,” they all agreed on the same thing, and screamed it, top-of-their-lungs, in his brain, directly into the ears of his soul: «useless! Useless! Y’er so fucking useless!»
Their words weren’t the worst of it, though. It was the laughter! The laughter, the jest, the ridicule, like hyenas and demons, eyeballing as they just scoffed and scoffed and scoffed at him, endlessly. In time, the static noise became only one long, uninterrupted chant of mockery. The whole world scoffing at him. Enough to make one blow their brains out.
He screamed: “AAAAHH…!!!” His eyes popping. He could see the blood coming out like some low-grade yank relic, a flickie. He wanted to stick his hand in his sockets and pull his eyes out clean, and then crush his fucking brain inside his skull, breaking his bones, tearing his head from inside out.
The room shook as he hit it repeatedly on the wall. Then, there was screaming. He screamed so he could let all his pain out, and the more he screamed, the greater the pain grew, for the voices all grew louder, always one step ahead of him, always more powerful, ever unrelenting: «there are slaves toiling their bones out in sahelfrica! Their paltry little children being sold off for barley! What do you know of pain and misery, you fucking imbecile?!»
«Useless! Parasite! Fucking waste of sperm!» Then, the look of disgust from his aunts as they looked to his mother, who too was deeply disgusted by him. «Twenty fucking years of a child for nothing!»
«I don’t fucking care about the children in the goddamned deserts!!» He screamed, yet he didn’t know if it was really him who was screaming. «Fuck you!! I hope you fucking die and rot!!»
And the laughter—oh! The fucking mockery, all the more intense when it mocked his dreams and his ambitions. It was always the background of some admonishment, yet it was not all that he could hear: «you think we have money for this sort of thing?! You think you some kinda wageen or what?»
«You fucking ass!! Look at yo’ country!! You think this a place for this type of fagot-y shit?!» Then the blows! So many blows in the back of his head. «You are piece of shit, okay? Everybody here is! If it were not for you to be a piece of shit, you’d be born in Taipei or some good country or shit! But you weren’t! You fucking weren’t, e’right? When is it going to get in your fucking head that you’re not made for this shit?! Crist’amado, seu merda!!»
When he expressed the desire to go to a nihonese university. «If I go to Busan,» screamed his guts, «everything will fall into place.» In Busan—or Edo, or Taipei, or Cinh’a’phur, or whatever fancy place he happened to read or hear about, his talents would be recognized; his mind, sharpened.
These dreams, for the most part, never warranted a proper response; only laughter, yes, only laughter, jest, and ridicule: «hahaha!! Hey, nippie boy!! Komo-komo! How’s the study for Edo going, huh? Ooooo, I’ve heard they’re hiring sweepers in their country! Good westie sweeper to take care of their fancy nippie shit! Maybe you can get there like this, hahahahahahahahaha…!!!»
Laughter, laughter! Louder and more numerous—eternal, unrelenting sneer! Sometimes, though, there was silence. Silence, silence, the worst of silences; a silence so contemptuous that no word could better convey its message: «this is so fucking stupid I ain’t even addressing it!» But sometimes they did, oh, and the response was worse than any laughter or even silence: “YOU FUCKING MORON!!” Hit. They hit and hit and hit him. And hit him some more. And offered him to the neighbors so that the neighbors could hit him too and laugh at him along with the whole block. “This guy thinks he’s some Edo boy!! What a fucking donkey!!” And laughter. And more hits. Heavy blows on the back of his head. Strong enough to make his eyes pop—but they didn’t, they sadly didn’t, and he sadly didn’t die from the hits, remaining alive just to hear, yes, hear some bit more of the laughter, more of the sneer, and receive even more, heavier blows.
There is a method to torture, you see: the secret is to cause just enough pain without damaging the body. Maximize the pain whilst minimizing the damages. That’s the way you get the best net suffering; the best return on your blows. «Who do you think you fuking are? Some kinda genius?!» Sneer, laughter, and blows. Every. Fucking. Time. «Hey, y’all! He thinks he nippie brain!!» Laughter. Just laughs and laughs and laughs. And blows. So many blows to his head! «Fucking stupid piece of shit! Thinks he’s better than all of us and such!!»
But he was, oh, he was: he studied, he read, he made art. He stayed silent when no word was needed and spoke then truth when he was prompted, but the nation, the accursed, piece-of-shit nation he was shat on needed no truth nor peace nor silence. On the contrary: t’was a nation of babble and jeer, and whenever any discussion turned somewhat serious, everything that was spoken was just… lies.
Lies. Lies! Big fat lies! Lies and lies and lies!! A nation so enamored with lies that the worst of liars saw themselves righteous. The only “good, upstanding citizens” in the public’s eyes were those who lied the most. Truth and decency, humility and honesty… oh, by the lods in heaven, what ludicrous ideas! Those who spouted them would get ‘emselves whooped! No mercy or love for ‘em truthtellers.
In a land of liars, he who tells the truth is first to die. «In the land of the blind,» one of the many voices screamed, «the one-eyed man is king.» It was a famous saying from somewhere ‘round his continent. Another lie. «Yeah, right! Fucking shit!!» He banged his head harder, but more slowly. «In the land of the blind, anyone who’s got an eye will be arrested and blinded! As soon as the piece-of-shit people discover that a person has an eye, they will jump on him like animals and gauge his eye out!» His, after all, was a land so compelled to mediocrity and indecency that the biggest crime—the only serious crime—one could commit was to try and rise above their station. It was a country where everyone—and he meant everyone—spent all their effort and energy trying to bring everybody else down to their level, to the mud and the shitter where pigs so love to linger; where good, compassionate leaders where unheard of and where only the biggest trash bags of Earth ever became any successful at all.
He wasn’t a piece of shit. Well, he was, but not at first, and not by disposition. A long time ago, he swore, he knew it, he could rememver it vividly, there had been a good man where his shallow husk now stood, but the people of his nation made sure to correct that. Oh, they did! Hence the laughter, the insults, and the blows. So. Many. Blows!
«Piece of shit!!» He hit his head. «Fucking useless piece of SHIT!!!» And he hit his head again. *Bang!* *Bang*
The worst thing was… he didn’t disagree with the voices. He fought them just for the sake of fighting, for the stress and the pain of it, but never, not in the slimmest of slivers of time, had he had the slightest hope of actually winning. In reality, before he even uttered the first word, he knew he’d already lost. He never believed anything good ‘bout himself, and whatever defense he made for him was just to see it be shattered and stomped so mightly, so brutally, so completely by the evil forces in his head.
In a way, the act of thinking was just another self-flagellation: to ram his head against a wall, see all his hopes and dreams shattered’s soon as the words left his tongue. *Bang! Bang!* Whatever argument he imagined, no matter how fair and just, was shredded immediately by the sharper, cleverer thoughts—who might’ve been unreasonable, yes, even irrational, but were always cleverer, stuff from a much keener wit than anything he himself could ever muster.
A great humiliation, that of never being able to rise above your opponent’s guile. The greatest humiliation, then, when this very opponent lived inside your head, following you forever, and never, ever, not for a single second ever shut up.
To think was to be continuously humiliated. When it wasn’t his “family,” it was his teachers; when not the teachers, his bosses; when not his bosses, the strangers; when not the strangers, his acquaintances—and only “acquaintances,” yes, for he’d never had friends. Whoever it was, whomever he knew or had ever known, they were all enemies, and the enemies never slept—nor ever let him sleep.
“Fuck!! Fucking!! Shit!!” And his head yelled back at him: *bang! Bang! Bang, bang, bang…!*
He heard something splinter. Maybe his skull finally cracking. Maybe, just maybe… “I die.”
The window was right there. *Bang!* Death would probably be more merciful through it. *Bang!* Still, despite all his pain… *bang!* He didn’t really want to die. *Bang! Bang!* He just wanted to sleep!
At one point, his body got stiff. *Bang!* The combination of mental and physical exhaustion had burned him four times as harshly as anything he’d felt that day. *Bang! Bang!* When he hit his head on the wall, he looked like a human hammer. *Bang!* None of that stopped him, however, from bashing his skull hard enough for the foamy surface of the wall to be bent under the impact.
*Bang! Bang!* He felt a wetness in his skin. Blood, probably. Hopefully.
*Bang! Bang!* Despite all this, he still hit it. God knows what could happen if he truly hurt himself, ending up on a hospital bed, damaging his brain so bad that he’d have some freaky issues for the rest of his life, unable to work, to feed, to… anything.
Still, he couldn’t stop. He… *bang!* He didn’t want to stop it. *Bang! Bang!* The act wasn’t all torture: he preferred the pain on his skull than the voices inside of it; the attack from the outside, rather than the abuse erupting from the inside.
*Bang!* Whenever he hit it… *bang!* The voices got a little quieter. *Bang! Bang!* Almost as if they were hurt… or… *bang!*… satiated. *Bang!* Like he was doing exactly what they wanted him to do.
It was three past the seventh churn of the lowsea moon when he felt he couldn’t take it any more. The window was open, and the wind, through whispers, invited him to sleep. His head met the wall more slowly and with greater rhythm. Maybe that was, indeed, the day he would just… give up.
*Bang!* He hit it. *Bang!* He hit it again. *Bump!*
In between the many hits, there was a different kind of noise. *Bump!* How weird. That was not… *bump!* how a skull being cracked… *buuump…* should sound like.
«What the…?!» At such heights of head-banging action, it was rather a miracle that he was still able to think, but indeed he was, and from his thoughts he tried to locate the source of that weird noise, which seemed to be «the hallway?» He turned to his side and looked at the deep, long darkness beyond his bedroom door. «The…» He gulped. It was unknown whether the sound had happened many times or whether his head repeated it on its own, like the echo of a ghost. «The storage room?»
*Bump* He froze, staring at the door, startled and chilly. The sound once again came, this time undeniably from the storeroom across the hallway.
The incredible pain in his head, however, caught up to him in a banger. “Ahh!” Like the waters of a dam finally collapsing after years of neglect and disrepair, the pain burst through his orifices like lava, sipped and spat from every ridge and fold of his brain, and soon, quite very soon, his writhing on the bed, his extreme agony, they felt as if the blood itself was incandescent, burning along every vein, squirting in flames through his every orifice.
He squirmed in pain for about half an hour, hearing the strange noises as they repeated from the hallway, *bump! Bump! Bump!*, faster, louder, scarier, as if someone was trying to get out.
In time, the thuds diminished, and so did pain of his head. «Screw this.» By the time the moon herself became sleepy, he tossed aside whatever pride he still felt and, with great difficulty, feeling his skull threatening to explode at every moment, his brain so heavy and hot it it felt like a piece of meat on a fire pit, he left his bed, stumbled his away across his bedroom and towards the hallway, seeing shapes and color flicker everythwere, sources of light all around him, like stars emanating from his pain. «Fikk nischt!»
He stood before the door across the bathroom, separating him from the sources of those imaginary blows. His bravery was such that he didn’t even bother turning on the lights anywhere in his house—or perhaps it was just his confusion, or his willingness to die. “Are you there?” He asked no one in particular, turning his head gently, spying on his surroundings with the corner of his eyes.
*Bak! Bak! Bak!* “Are you there, ghost?” He knocked on the door three times before waiting for the response.
And then there was silence. Just silence. He waited enough until he could hear his own breath deep in his ears, close his eyes and feel his own organs beating, churning, doing what organs do and keeping him alive whilst his body returned to normal—a somewhat painless, greatly bored normal. “Fuck this.” He muttered, quite gently, and then he opened the door.
*Woosh* The barrier was slid away, and there he saw her. Yes, there he saw his love again: ever so patient, ever so calm, and so… loyal. Still waiting. Still praying for him to come, locked in that same position, as always, without a complaint to be heard or a whiff of anger to be felt. “Y-you…!”
It felt like villainy, treating her that way. It wasn’t decent. “Y-you… woman!” His fists were clutched shut, like balls of iron, and his whole being was put shivering, like a languid steel bar hit by a long bat, as he tried not to cry, fought the tears back with as great as might as he could muster, and the words rolled out of his tongue, unprompted, unseen, and uncontrolled, let escape by his focusing so hard on his own tears:
“P-p-please. Help me!”
He knelt before her. Her lap was a soft pillow; her muscles, gentle and kind, something that would never be assumed by just looking at her sturdy, titanic demeanor. Once he made contact with her heavenly thighs, he was at peace. Even his battered head hurt much less when in contact with her strong, loving body. He even felt a hand on his nape, cuddling his hair, prompting him to raise his head and look up, only to see nothing, just the same doll standing at the same position, looking down upon him with her gorgeous green eyes.
“Can you sleep with me?”
Took him fifty lifetimes to ask that question, but there it was, finally asked. As the wind of his words passed through his lips, burning them with shame, he felt his old self speaking louder, covering his mouth so he could avoid any further embarrassment. «Caralho! Mas que… mas que merda eu acabei de fazer??»
He’d crossed the uncrossable thread. Now, he was less than a boy; he was basically an insec…
He heard a voice. In his head. A different voice. A new voice. A kind one. Definitely not a voice he had heard before. Just like… the touch of the invisible hand on his neck. Such sudden voice startled him, made him turn his gaze to all sides instinctively, wondering «what was this? I know I heard it, for sure!»
Had that voice really come from his head alone?
“You didn’t happen to talk just now, did you?” He asked the doll, a rare smile drawn on his face. «A smile.» So rare he’d noticed it, and then noticed it again as it grew and repeated itself: another smile! Oh, and yet another! And bigger, and brighter, a smile with all his teeth, brightening his heart, casting a gentle light upon the dark rooms themselves! «Why do I feel… so… so…?»
That doll. Only in her presence he felt compeled to smile so much and so ofter. Or at all.
He kept his eyes firmly laid upon his goddess, enamored by her perfection in every inch of herself. “Can I… please… take you to bed?” He left a gentle pause hand on the air, glide down to his hands on her lap until he could speak again, now with a puppy whine in his vocals and a beggard’s gleam in his eyes: “please?”
The doll’s face got closer, his own eyes inviting her embrace. In his head, then, he heard her answer: «yes.»
It was that same voice he’d heard before.
“Thank you.” He kissed his goddess’s thighs, and with great effort led her to bed.
~ Morning ~
Sweat. There was so much of it. He wasn’t expecting that much, to be honest, but perhaps that was just his sleepy mind making him drunk to all reality—after all, by that point, he should well have been used to it. «By the gods, woman!» He heaved and wailed as he pulled his giantess another inch across his bedroom, painful inch after painful foot bringing her ever closer to his bed. «You. Are. Heavy!»
But not quite as he remembered. As they walked together, he often felt she was half the weight as when he’d plucked her from her crater. It was like someone else was helping him carry the doll across his place—someone invisible—and at points, for instance, whenever he looked down to both their feet, he had the impression that hers were also moving along his, even if only to mimic his steps. “You lost some weight, huh?” He cracked a joke, hoping to avert some of pain of carrying her around for so long. “Being locked in there was, uh… a real harsh diet, wasn’t it?”
There would have been dead silence in the room if not for his panting and gasping, as well as the deep, thick noises of moving such a heavy being across thick-sweated airs. He was lousy at jokes. Everyone told him so, everyone made sure to never let him forget this, yes, yet still he cracked them, silly little jokes, always hopeful that one day some of them, just one of them would finally land. “Sorry. Hmm, it’s no problem, though.” He smiled. “I will feed you. I will feed you well now.” He started to giggle before the punchline: “do you like chicken? Good. ‘Cause I will feed you some good cock from now on.”
He almost dropped her as he tired to hide his silly smile. Though the chuckles made his head hurt, the pain felt negligible, and all the more insignificant now that she was by his side. Maybe he hadn’t hit himself so hard, after all. Maybe most of his pain had been imaginary. Like most of his problems, perhaps.
“There we have it.” He was a puddle of salt and nectar by the time he’d managed to lay the doll beside him on the mattress. “Bem-vinda à casa. Lar, hmm, doce lar.”
The flexibility of that doll yet again amazed him: as he tried to lay her on the mattress without any noise, at first thinking it would be too harsh of a task to his poor, noodly arms, he was shocked as the doll seemed instead to lay down on her own, her movements again so fluid and natural as to feel lifelike. “Wow.” He couldn’t stop being aghast by the skillfulness of her craft, all the talented work and mindboggling precision that had gone into manufacturing her joints, her skeleton, her whole incredible being. “Caralho. You are, uh… really real.”
So there he stayed, silly and still, sitting on the edge of his bed while his woman took all of it for herself, her massive body too massive even for the full length of that narrow bunk, her legs having to be bent a little just so that she could fit. «You really are gigantic.» He gawked at her some more, and then wondered what to do next.
Lay. Lay down. Next to her. By her side. Even face by face, if you’re so brave. Yes: that’s what he knew he should do. That’s what he’d always know he should’ve done, from the very goddarned moment he popped her out of her coffin. “I’m… uh…”
He didn’t know how to, though. It was just too… scary. That woman. That goddess. Too much woman for a virgin boy who’d barely kissed another woman in his life, and not even a pretty woman at that. To just lay with that woman, just like that, out of the blue, himself being who he was, it was as if a man who had spent all his life bedridden, unable to walk or to even crawl, paraplegic and wheelchair-bound, was now suddenly expected to run several marathons back-to-back in quick succession—and win every single one of them. “I can’t…”
He was caught, trapped in a moment between times, her hypnotic eyes working their magic on him, stirring his soul like sweet stew on the low fire, and then he heard it, his heart, and something else along with its kindred beating: «you can.»
That voice. Her voice. «I…» Caught him offguard, threw him off his balance, that tender voice within his mind, and moved him in such a way as if another body inhabited his skin, sharking his soul as in a tight confinement. «It… it can’t…»
Still he kept on looking, her green eyes inviting him. That voice… «it’s…» Hard to explain. Impossible to distill. Generally he could rationalize anything that was thrown his way; generally he had to, for he just could leave any magic or wonder up to the universe; everything had to be exact, precise, rational, cold, and bland. Everything needed to be empyrical: no fantasy to one’s heart, no hope to one’s future. Everything. And yet, tried as he did, he couldn’t put any finger on that… peculiar, eerie kind of loving voice that uttered now in his head, to the ears of his soul: «you can.»
The voices were all his. Always were. He knew it. But that voice… that incongrous, incredible voice… «it is. It is my voice. I know it is mine. And yet…»
Slowly, always trying to not disturb her, apologetic in his every movement, he relented and laid besides his woman.
Quiet. Quiet. Only the quiet to warm them up, break the ice between them both, join them together, arms ‘round an iceberg, an embrace of cold turning warm, soft, and close, close, their bodies slowly, slowly… slowly… closer… close together… slowly. And slowly.
Still. Still. He stood still, his eyes on her, getting used to her beautiful face, her soft air, her bewitching green eyes. They glowed so brightly by the full moon’s light, casting emeralds on his face, lighting his skin green—a cool contrast with the red smudge and purple bruises on his forehead.
There was a noticeable nervousness in his breast, predictably. His chest moved heavily, up and down with the weight of mountains, and his breath could be heard coarsely from the other side of the room, perhaps even the house. He cleared his throat, swallowing his nasty saliva, and avoided his woman’s gaze in shame, protecting his genitals with both hands like she was going to knee him on the crotch.
Her eyes demanded worship. He had a lot of worship to give, yet still… still…
He said nothing. Did nothing. He wanted it that way. «Just a moment between us two. Hmm.» The light of darkness enveloped them tightly, protected them—him—from all the monsters that preyed about. «I need to get used to you. To this face. To all… that you mean to me.»
Sunlight began to pour into his room. The cockerel would have sang, but there were not roosters in the ice. Upon seeing the golden threads on her face, he was struck, as lover’s do, by her morning beauty, and then ashamed, pissed, irate by his waste of a day. «What did I do except to hate? What am I except of… waste?» He grabbed his own hair tightly, though refrained from pulling it and injuring himself further this time around.
Because of her. Only because of her. He wouldn’t behave like that in front of woman, would he?
«I need help.» He wanted to say to her, beg to her, pray for her. After all, a woman deserving of worship is also a woman yearning to grant miracles. He who is worshiped is divine, and what else were the divines for if not to also… grant miracles? Hear their worshiper’s prayers? “P- p… p-please.”
A gush of wind instilled coolness in his warming heart; stirred back all the worst sensations of his inner self, if only very subdued now, very gentle, sweet, and unremarkable, like a child’s irritation with an unwanted brush. “I…” His tongue was held still by his brain, as if often was, yet the latter’s grip on the former was greatly diminished, and diminishing further still as he recitated that impotent litany, growing more and more impotent the more and more he felt the warm touch of a loving, beautiful woman on his hands. «She ain’t alive.» He reminded himself. «Despite all that…» His eyes wandered on and over her body, «she… is not… real.»
“She is not real.”
“She is not.”
“She is real.”
“She is real and… she loves me.”
His face probably looked very ugly, he would bet, after all the beating and insomnia. He would be tempted to say that the previous day had been the worst of his life, but this title, alas, had too many contenders. «Wouldn’t make into the twenty atop my list.» He told himself, not failing to crack a small, self-pitying smile.
Her face stood before him. Calm, placid, waiting. She didn’t look impatient, but she did look… disappointed? «To the gods in heaven, the guardians in Hel, I swear… your face changes every time I look at it.» He was amazed, always amazed, but not a little bit with himself too. Though it was about one three-fourths past the sunrise kiss, and the early birds were chirping, and the late sleeper were yawning, their arms, legs, bodies stretching, and the early workers were out driving in their cars, sizzling by the streets towards their faraway offices, he wasn’t angry anymore. «I lost sleep. I lost a whole day. Missed a whole night of dreams.» He repeated, trying to gauge his inner reaction, and noted how no angry demons were to be found.
He didn’t want to explode anymore. The window remained open, but he no longer wanted to fly through it towards the moon anymore.
He was at peace.
“I’m sorry.” He mustered the courage to touch his damsel’s hands, knowing it was her he should thank for all his calmness. “I’m just…”
Nay. No more.
No more. There needs… no more.
Words. None of them. No more words for many minutes. Time passes. Still no sleep to knock him down, yet also no anger. The eyes of his doll now glittered with gold, reflecting the sunlight that illuminated his bedroom, the whole place fresher with the gentle breeze of summer, the airy chants of the larks.
Her voice. That voice. It told him very clearly that he would know no sleep until he let his words out. He heard that voice in his head—the voice he had made up for his woman:
«You need to let it out.»
He squeezed her palm, and in his head he imagined her squeezing it back. Her voice was… her voice… «this voice I am making for her.» Was he? He didn’t… he… couldn’t… the voice had just appeared in his mind, spoke to him in a tone he’d never… heard… «I never heard such a voice before.»
It was strong, but feminine. A singer’s voice, full of harmony and softness even when not singing; powerful and clear in the subtlest of whispers, yet sharp as a blade, piercing as a spear when she directed it aloud to her listener. To him.
It was the voice of a warrior goddess, befitting of the ferocious Amazon beast that she was. As he moved his hand nearer to her hair, his palm hovering so close to her heavenly locks, he wondered, antecipated eagerly the wonder feel of that lush, smooth mane on his touch. Predicably, though, and so sadly, he kept his hand a few inches away, not daring to venture any closer, not without greater knowledge and intimacy with that powerful woman he knew stood so much, so far away and above him. «You wouldn’t mind. Would you?»
The fact that he could stare at her, still, such incredible beauty so upclose, to witness such a dreamy woman, such a lady far better and leagues hotter than his best fantasies, and do so without having his heart fail him or his mind rebel against him, oh, that was far and away enough reason for pride and commendation.
“You… are… so fucking hot.” His eyes didn’t waver. “And… you know it. Of course you do. You know you’re beautiful, as any woman who looks like you… does.” He allowed himself a couple of hours to crack open the realest recesses of his soul; to say, confess, to tell her what he really wanted to since the day he’d lay eyes on her across the ocean, across the screen: “I don’t… talk… to beautiful girls. I don’t talk to girls at all. Not saying that you’re a ‘girl,’ of course.” He moved his gaze lower, lower down onto her body—her massive, muscular body sinking on the soft mattress of his bed, as heavily as a boulder would on a long, thin mat of a trampoline. “You’re a woman.” He blinked. “You’re the most woman there is.”
He slid his hand up along her arm, feeling the tightness, ripeness of her muscles. Like all other parts of her stupendous physique, her arms were amazingly well-defined; her biceps, true testaments of peak human physicality, were swollen and hard, bulging and solidly constructed, and it was a wonder to anyone who beheld those guns how they could possibly be contained in such tight, strained sleeves—the strongest sleeves in all of fashion, surely.
She had just these amazingly ripped, ironclad muscles; clearly not as delicate and tender a woman one would envision, but still, oh, still a woman, undeniably woman—an hourglass sculpture of power and love, countless stones of muscles cloaked under miles of the tenderest skin. Her body begged a palm to touch it, a tongue to worship it, yet that tiny man didn’t feel worthy of being even her beneath her feet, let alone laying side-by-side with her, almost like—oh, the audacity!—a husband. «I am, at best, an offering.» A sacrificial lamb to be gutted on the altar of her awesomeness.
As he went on thinking, the sun stretched out in full. Five past seven of the clear day sky. Her unflinching gaze kept the lover’s back against the wall, as if, in the lack of his action, she was the one to take the first step. And the second too. And the third, and the fourth…
She was to do all the walking. He knew it and, predictably, felt so ashamed by it. “I’m so s-”
Her voice. Her voice…
He heard her voice again, this time without a script. «Shut up and kiss me.»
His heart jolted, happy as a piglet in the mud, a labrador pup next to its wholesome momma. She was a woman, and she desired his lips! Even the fact that she was a doll and that her voice, yes, was probably a concoction of his mind, none of this did anything to dissuade him from his happiness. «Heavens!» His heart now beat so full of joy. «Is this what it feels… to be… a-… attractive?» His eyes doubled in size. «Is this what it feels to be… desired?» Though only the tiniest fraction of the thinnest sliver of the real thing… «it fills me with… with… more energy… than a thousand cups of expensive coffee!»
He squeezed her triceps, thick and powerful, and attempted to move his head just a half-inch closer… «No.» He moved it back, shaking it. “No.”
He looked down. «It’s okay.» She said. «On the cheek?»
He looked up. Her beauty was just… so… aggressive. Made his eyes hurt—they didn’t stop hurting! “N-no.” His lips trembled as he answered, and his eyes almost… popped? Melted? He couldn’t describe it, nor wanted to feel it for much too longer.
Before he could escape from her grasp again, her gentle voice melted like butter into his ears: «then hug me. Just hug me. I need no more than that.»
She was asking. Not begging, not demanding, just asking. Her tone was such that it would make rejection feel like villainy. Like a snake charmer and master of her craft, she could strike that perfect balance between kindness and authority, both little sister and mighty queen, all but stealing all will and agency from her subjects as she commanded them, no matter how angry, no matter how destitute, or how rebellious. «Pretty please? Prettiest of pleases? Hmm?»
As far as he was concerned, he didn’t nod on his own, and his lips didn’t move on their own volition, but still he did it all so surely, so quickly, so unavoidably innevitable, as if any other action was imp-… unthin-… desc-… indescrib-… -ble…
“Okay.” Said his lips, and his arms snaked around her waist, bringing him closer to her, pulling them both into a hug.
In his chest, he felt something like piercing. «Cristo! Meu cristo amado!» Breasts. The breasts. The astonishing breasts of his woman pressed against his torso. Felt like lances, each on one end of his chest.
Their faces were separated still by many inches. He could feel his heartbeat making ripples on her sturdy tits, and those tits felt like she too had a heart beating deep, deep inside of them, underneath all those mountains of titflesh. He tried pulling her closer, hugging her tighter, but then discovered no energy was there, anywhere in his arms or his body to pull off that feat: past the smooth, initial softness of her skin, she was pure muscle. Pure concrete. No in-betweens: a titanium core under a pinthin layer of smoothness.
An Amazon beauty carved out of the earth’s heart, unalloyed and absolute, untainted by the elements and indifferent to the universe, one and indivisible, supreme and unquestionable, like only gods—and goddesses—could be.
Trying to honor this hardness, his dick grew hard too. Her body like granite, his member like chalk, the unwelcomed and blasphemous turgidity causing the boy yet more unwelcomed pain. The slicing feel of a razor inside his urethra only got sharper as the hours of unsleep piled onto one another, building a mountain of their own, unheavenly in its nature, and the pain, though extraordinarty, was no longer soitary either: every fiber in his body began to hurt, as if the buck had small spiky tendrils grinding their ligaments or countless parasites slowly eating him up from the bone marrows, rotting him away before even granting him the chance to die. He was, in fact, feeling more physical pain at that moment than he had all previous night or day long, yet… yet still…
He was cool. He was chill. There was bliss beneath the blisters. “You’re so beautiful.” He said, finally, feeling a little ashamed that he did, and feeling a whole lot better after he did it. The words moved some of his pains away, like pressure out of the cooking pot, and her hair, so close to his eyes, with her scent so aggressive through his nostrils, kept inviting his touch, every strand of her begging for caress. It was a vast, magnificent mane no woman could pull off even after exhaustive work; you either had it or you cried for it: such a sumptuous, vast, dense crown that could only be worn by its rightful ruler, a mattter of birth instead of merit—or rather, birth that made the merit—and only she, the most woman of all women, had in her blood that superior royalty no commoner could fake. “Fuck. You are, like… really, really beautiful.”
The doll smiled. Not really, not for sure, but she did. Her face changed according to his mood, her demeanor matching his desires, and to him, in that moment, she was smiling.
He tried moving his face closer, yet her tits blocked him. Her chest was so endowed, her bosom so big and firm, that even with his tightest hugging he couldn’t bring his nose much closer to hers, not any closer than a couple of three feet apart. This caused him to smile, and then he feelt a breath of warm air on his neck.
He kept his eyes firm and still on his doll, a twinge of tenseness now coloring their adoration. «Feels like she just breathed on me.» Even the scent of that breath was distinct and lifelike. No wind was coming from the window, he was sure. For a moment, even her eyes seemed to have changed direction, twitched to-and-fro before stopping back, irresistibly back at his own.
He took a breath. In. Out. Deep inside, then deep away. As he did so, he paid attention to his every motion, his eyes unwaveringly open, drying under the chill morning, and then he felt his breath hit her skin and kick back onto his own neck. “Oh.” He smiled, both relieved and sorrowed as he realized that «well, you ain’t real, aren’t ya?» He moved his hand closer to her hair. «I… I kind of wish you are.» No. How could he? What a silly thing to- «If you were real, I guess… you wouldn’t be with me.»
Her eyes enchanted him. They reassured him. «…»
He lowered his head. Blushed a little. «Thanks. Thanks for… being with me.»
There was silence. It tasted sweet. Her eyes, like the skin of her cleavage, had a softness to them, and power too; a gaze like her chest stretching her shirt, straining its cloths to the limit, but doing so to the boy’s mind, his soul, deconstructing him ether by ether.
He let his head roll down, down onto that powerful bosom, his skin coming into contact with those two mighty planets, gravity too strong for his alien’s flimsy feet, those boobs like two giant, flexed muscles, but also soft and tender, full of life, full of nature, greenery everywhere; two planets a lonely species could make a home, away and safe from any threat so it could thrive on them… forever.
He moved his nose just a few inches above her bosom, smelling the wild, almost sweaty odor from that primordial creature. She was savage down there; had the smell of a virgin battle princess, one who had just killed a beast to feed her entire tribe. The thought of her as a young, independent, mighty warrior, an Amazon who able to so fearless, perhaps effortlessly fend for herself… it aroused him immensely.
His dick throbbed on his crotch, its bruised helmet rubbing hard and painfully against the roughness that had become his legs, crushed under the tight, unconfortable fabric of his cheap garment. «My.» As he palm landed on the sturdy side of her waist, that sunker valley just undernath her latissimus dorsal muscle, he felt and noted, almost as if shaken away from a catatonic state, how perfectly decent and boring they both locked. «Your clothes…» Despite their closeness (and his woman’s deepest wishes), the two birds were still both fully clothed, their plumage very chastley unpluched—and so would remain, he would make sure of it. «I just… wouldn’t dare undress this beast!» Heavens knew if he would have a heart attack if he tried. Just the feel of her laterals, the tease of her glutes near his fingertips, this alone was enough to send perilous shivers into his heart, not to mention his sorry, dilapidated d- “damn, woman!” He smiled. “You are built.”
Before he could even realize it, his lips were puckering, stretching forth, planting a kiss on… her cleavage!
…all of… the… sound…
… seemed to disappear… for a minute…
… an hour…
His dick tremble, his crotch firing up like a sun, and in his mouth he felt, powerful as the gallop of a wild mare up a windy hill, the taste, the texture, and the firmness of… of… her mighty bosom! «Damnedmedamnedmedamnedmedamnedmedamnedme damned me all the way down to hell!!» He could taste her muscle in his tongue, in the very recess of his mouth! It was… «hard. So hard! Pure fiber of flesh. Like… the taste of power.»
He laid his nose back again on her breasts, smelling the primal scent that could only be gestated, nurtured, and birthed from such a boobful abundance. “Ahoy-ah-häevla!”
Firestorms and thunderbolts reacted on his arms, forcing him into a hug so tight as to tear them from his shoulders. “You fucking…!!!” His hips buckled forth, aggressively, the tip of his minuscule crown breeder squeezed bloody and puple against the rough fabric of his unders, like a thumb on a moulding, the door hastily blammed shut. *Crush!* “You fucking goddaned w-…!!!
He almost did it. Almost. As soon as he laid his face on her cleavage on more time, though, her breasts dwarfing his head and conforting his frame, a sudden, much swifter, stronger wave of coolers sensations washed over him—like fire, yes, but made of water and flowers, not the coarse and untamed flames of teenage arousal he’d just felt, and instead of taking her, deflowering her, raping her, he just…
«What…? What is that…?» He could not process the power of those heavy walls that were closing onto him, weighting over his body from every direction, and nudging his eyelids shut. «Sleep…?»
He wrestled it, he resisted it, and then…
Just like that, swift’s as the fairy’s wing, his head reposed on her cleavage, his muscles cooled, his soul surrendered, and his body lost touch with all its senses, the sleep hitting him like a baby drunk on his mother’s milk.