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Four days until
the worst day
of your life.
Even before you are fully awake, the
first glob of spunk hits your face. It doesn't fully awaken
you. It usually takes more than that these days, you are so
tired all the time.
That first money-shot of the morning
is nothing more than a light irritant, like a head louse that
is merely scouting about for a suitable place to lay some
eggs. You can catch it early and get another forty winks,
no problem, crushing it between thumb and forefinger.
It's still early in the day. Nothing
like the expected deluge that is yet to weigh heavy upon your
brow. Regular as clockwork from that point on, the thick warm
globs of spunk land on your face, cooling rapidly.
You draw a pins-n-needles tingling
claw across your already well spattered face. Long strings
of the stuff stick to your hands and you have to flick it
across the room. What you need right now is to get it as far
away from you as possible. Get some respite.
All too soon, you are awakened by an
alarming ejaculation at precisely 7 a.m. It comes in quick
successiona repeated assault that seems inexhaustible.
Just how many cocks would it need to unleash such a torrent?
Such is the force of the spunky wake-up
call that you dash from your still-warm-cum-covered bed, cursing
another day and reaching for the shower head to douse away
your sticky outer coating of protein. Into the kitchen and
the refuge of breakfast. The radio is broken, its mechanism
spent, its transistors, knobs and circuitry worn down by years
You eat your cornflakes dry. The look
of even semi-skimmed milk first thing in the morning has you
running to the bathroom like a whore with morning sicknesstime
to get down the doctor's for that very-late-morning-after
That's how you try to take the continuous onslaught of cum,
with a stupid smile. You can feel it hitting your gormless
gums, cooling as it does, making you gag on your cornflakes.
How have you survived so long in the corporate arena?
You finish off your breakfast and don't bother to wash up.
What's the point when even the walls of your apartment are
seeping with spunk and spitting their venom into your face?
Your work clothes are already so cum-spattered that you have
to change a second time before you finally make it out the
door relatively stain free.
On the Tube, though, the pasty abuse
begins afresh. Almost as soon as you step onto the crowded
Tube carriage, people reeking of corporate abuse, a glob of
it lands on your lapel, its tail adhering to your freshly
shaven jaw line. Those who can protect themselves in rubber,
a fashion accessory as prevalent today as the hoody, parka
or Doc Marten boot was in its day.
You turn to shout at some rudely spunking
fool and a string of it lands in your mouth, its tail tickling
the back of your throat. You gag on the foul intrusion, coughing
and coughing until your chest aches, and there is set in stone
the remainder of the day.
First few hits of corporate spunk,
you learn to keep your mouth open (you really don't want that
shit up your nose, and if it gets in by cruel fate, you certainly
don't wanna inhale that filth into a lung), poised but not
gaping. It's a heady balancing act. In many ways it's a bit
like how you learn to breathe with an aqualungodd at
first, but you get used to it faster than you'd think.
At the office, you settle into another
day of taking it in the face. For now it's relatively quiet,
but it can strike at any time. The swilling bowl of eastern
promise. The spunk bucket. You're there. You're expecting
a boiling gush of it to sear across your face all day long.
Remember to keep your mouth open, in
case, like a look of constant astonishment. Your jaw's startin'
to ache, but you know it's for the besthell, it's probably
what you fuckin' deserve.
You have a board meeting late in the
afternoon and everyone's in attendance. The presentation for
your departmental end-of-year P&L goes well... The boss
is very complimentary. He has a smugness across his chops
you can't remember ever being so transparent, so ugly.
As the meeting disperses and employees
return to their cum-stained cubicles, the boss pours his wrath
down on you from high. You are just packing away your charts
and your financial reports and you don't understand what's
happening until the first litre of spunk has cooled on your
You gasp for breath, but it's no good.
Spunk spatters your teeth, wet footsteps trot down your gullet.
You close your mouth momentarily and a spiteful strand of
it flits across your eye. Involuntary reflex is to slam your
eyelid shut but that just makes it worse as more of the salty
spew lands on your face. You know at some point you're gonna
have to open up your eye, and there's nothing worse than the
reality refracting property of human stain.
We are talking a gut-wrenching kaleidoscope
of nauseating perspective as the bukkake sears across your
eye, layer by layer. Your stomach leaps into your throat and
you're now gulping back acid with the man paste. Your eyes
are open because of the contract you entered into when you
agreed to take on this job in this corporate world. You daren't
shut them for fear of being in breach.
You are smothered in spunk yet you
know you cannot move. Inch after inch builds up on your face
and all the head-shaking in the world is not gonna shake it
loose if it continues.
You start to feel faint from whipping
your neck from side. Your brain starts to rebel but you know
you mustn't throw up. That just wouldn't do. Instant dismissal.
You try to hold on to your balance, your position and your
You feel your lips turning blue. But
you survive. You have to survive. Your legs give under you
and you feel the entire cum-weight land on your face, stamping
its sour soul down upon your face, smothering you in its battering
volume. But you don't die.
You just take it all like the dog you
are. You pick yourself up off the boss's floor and crawl out
of his office, with his begrudging permission. You thank him
for his courtesy and you promise yourself that next time you
won't be such a fucking take-it-all.
But even as you step out of the office
at 6:00 p.m. with the other sheeple racing for the car park,
while you race through the drenching shower of cum gauntlet
to the grease-stinking cafés and fast-food outlets,
a scowling crowd of cocks appraise your choice of meal in
their preferred format.
You eat your spunk-strewn food and
you don't really mind the salty wetness. A snob would call
it an 'acquired taste'and this light relief brings a
spunky burp of cheer to your otherwise exhausted frame.
You make it through the meal by some
amazing set of miracles and when you arrive at your apartment
the hail of spunk continues unabated. Outside, the thunder
of spunk clouds showers creamy cascades of badness onto the
Here in your spiteful bedroom, you
lie on your rotten bed covered in the piss and shit of a broken
nation. Fungal growths cause your naked cum-spattered skin
irritation, but you don't mind. Your mouth will forever gape
like a chick if you don't take control.
For hours you endure the spitting and
spattering on your face and chest. Litre after litre of human
DNA curse your ridiculous mortality. You look around with
your clear eye and you see that once again your room is filling
up with this choking paste, this seething off-white morass.
You can't bear to think how long it'll
be before you finally con yourself into slumber, if you'll
wake up tomorrow, or if the gallons of rising cum will finally
reach up this high, swarming across the mattress and dragging
you down into the merciless pit of spunk.
Is this how life will be forever in