by Mike Philbin

an excerpt from the new novel

D I S C U S S I O N  F O R U M  |  R E T U R N  T O  S T  O N L I N E



by Mike Philbin
Publisher: Silverthought Press

ISBN-10: 0-9815191-3-X
ISBN-13: 978-0-9815191-3-5

172 pages

paperback: $13.99 $14.99 + S/H

[click for details]


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 succession—a 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 of self-abuse.

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 sickness—time to get down the doctor's for that very-late-morning-after pill.
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 aqualung—odd 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 best—hell, 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 face.

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 life.

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 streets.

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 Bukkakeworld?






Copyright © 2008 Mike Philbin

A B O U T   T H E   A U T H O R:

Mike Philbin (born 1966 in St Helens, Merseyside) is an artist, editor and author residing in Oxford in the United Kingdom. He spent the late 1980s and early 1990s exhibiting his brand of psycho-realist paintings in one-man shows in St Helens, Liverpool and London.

Philbin's 'genreclectic' novel-writing career began in 1989 when Creation Books published his psycho-erotic novel Red Hedz (under the pseudonym Michael Paul Peter). Since then he has had five novels published in the independent press and has worked with many other collaboration-friendly writers.

According to a Philbin-penned spoof science article in issue 14 of Dementia 13 Magazine, the Hertzan Chimera Unit is a fundamental particle (equivalent to a free neutron) that predicts that gravity is the driving force in the universe via something called Universal Equilibrium. Light travels backwards towards the source as U.E. fills in, and matter is the true repulsive force. For the last fifteen years since the Dementia 13 article, most of Philbin's writing has been published as Hertzan Chimera.

Philbin is the editor of the Chimeraworld anthology, an advocate of collaborative fiction and the death of genre.

For more information, please visit: http://www.mikephilbin.com

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