So, you’re me.
You have to be because what’s happening cannot be happening to ME.
This sort of thing only transpires with people on the internet. I see them all the time, daring themselves to share their secrets, their stories. And sometimes those people are believed. Sometimes they’re helped out. Given answers.
So last night you’re eyeballing an open laptop on the adjacent sofa cushion. You’re alone in the house, because you live alone. It’s just after one in the morning and the glow from the screen spotlights the erection nosing out of your jeans. You’re dead-faced. Jaw slackened just so. Your fingers are ready to coil and start pumping away. There’s a menthol burning in between them you’re about to stub. The fantasy is taking a well-enough hold. It’s not particularly compelling, but enough to get the job done.
The woman on the screen has purple hair hanging over ludicrous, round tits. Liquid mascara is leaked into the corner of her eye and the speck holds there like a feeding tick. She circles her nipple with a wet fingertip as a man in a jockstrap enters camera left.
You can see yourself as this man. He’s taller. Less skinny and more muscled. But that could be you. In this moment it IS you. That’s what she wants, isn’t it? She wants well-endowed, beefy YOU. She’s saying it with her blackened eyes and her pelvis that just keeps rocking forward, her knees buried in a soft mattress. She’s begging to be taken, filled.
Now you’re taking off at full speed, your fist a blur at your crotch. The man in the video (you) drops the jockstrap to his ankles and boasts a dick shaped like an ear of corn. You find yourself almost laughing as it bobs toward the purple-headed woman’s backside.
You extend your legs as you find your rhythm, curls of smoke crawling from the ashtray, over light of the macbook, and into your eyes. You blink and wag your head but you stay in the game. The story of you and the woman with orb-like tits is becoming more intense. The sharp pleasure in your groin signals a forthcoming release you have no intention of letting go.
A police siren crescendoes up the street like a soundtrack to the insides of your body, and a third person enters the room on your screen.
She’s not like the other one, the young-fleshed and pale thing now taking it up the ass. Her skin is looser and freckled. Old.
She climbs naked onto the bed, breasts swaying from the lowest of her ribs, and you observe her only in unfocused glances. Her scalp is currently out of frame but a second ago…why was she bald?
The man extends a hand to this new woman’s waist and then runs it through the wispy grey triangle of hair below. She moans and it’s a voice you know.
A river of liquid ice snakes up your back. Your fist slows and then quakes.
You know who she is. You don’t need to keep looking, but you are. You’re steeling your line of sight directly to the screen.
An IV pole rolls into the shot, dragged by the tubing connected to the top of the old woman’s hand. That hand that’s too thin, too liver-spotted.
A hand that isn’t your mom’s. But goddamnit it is.
Your mom isn’t sick. She’s been talking about a stomach ache but she’s not sick. You just saw her days ago. She was chubby like she’s always been chubby. That’s how you know her. That’s how you love her.
The beefy man removes himself from the purple-haired female and pulls not-your-mother to him by the neck.
He asks her if she’s weak. She says she is. Very weak. She doesn’t have much time.
The young woman grabs at something from out of shot and places it on her head. A white nurse’s cap, like snow on a violet mountaintop. “Why is this patient out of her room?” she says, her tone demanding.
And you’re trying to grasp too many ideas at once, so the only one that comes is the notion that this is what they want. This is what the people watching from home and jerking their dicks are after. This is a video for people who crave a certain brand of helplessness.
But you’re mom isn’t helpless. She’s chubby and joyous. You just saw her days ago.
Maybe you should close the laptop and call her? She’ll wonder why you woke her and be dismayed, but she’ll definitely still be chubby and happy to hear your voice.
Now another siren calls from down the road. Your hearing cuts through it and picks up little but the rustling of sheets from the macbook’s speakers, your mother’s slackened skin spanked with an open hand.
You feel your teeth ticking together, faster and faster. Warm sweat clings the front of your t-shirt to your chest.
And then it stops.
The video stream freezes and then the browser crashes. Would you like to send an error report to Safari?
The hum of the refrigerator has ceased. The lights on the face of the cable box are dead. Your computer is now running on its battery.
You eventually zip your fly and stumble to the nearby window, faint blue and red washes of color strobing the walls of the living room. The utility pole outside is leaning toward your home. Firetrucks surround power lines that lay like dead snakes on the lawn.
You study the situation only faintly, your hands needing your cellphone. That beautiful chubby woman wants to tell you she’s okay. She’s at home right now with your dad and her stomach is feeling fine and she wants you to come to dinner tomorrow night because you and your dad both love her standing rib roasts— which the family only has on special occasions, but, why not? She never tires of the cliche, “you only live once”.
So why is it that you won’t pick up the phone and do it? You saw her DAYS ago. That video? It’s nonsense. It’s not real because fact won’t allow it.
So, you’re here. Because you’re helpless. And—no offense to anyone on this forum—a lot of people here seem to get off on that kinda thing.
Submitted June 30, 2017 at 09:30AM by Otis_Mari http://ift.tt/2s7Kmp1 nosleep
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