Bukkakeworld
by Hertzan Chimera

Even before I am fully awake, the first glob of spunk hits my face.

It doesn’t fully awaken me, it usually takes more than that these days – I am 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 40 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 my brow. Regular as clockwork from that point on, the thick warm globs of spunk land on my face, cooling rapidly. I draw a pins and needles tingling claw across my already well-spattered face, long strings of the stuff stick to my hands and I have to flick it across the room. What I need right now is to get it as far away from me as possible. Get some respite.

All too soon...

I am awakened by the gushing ejaculation of the alarm clock 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 semenal onslaught that I dash from my still-warm-cum-covered bed, cursing another day and reaching for the showerhead to douse away my sticky outer coating of protein. In the kitchen for my breakfast, the radio is broken, its mechanism spent, it’s transistors, knobs and circuitry worn down by years of self-abuse. I eat my cornflakes dry, the look of even semi-skimmed milk first thing in the morning has me running to the bathroom like a whore with morning sickness – time to get down to the doctor’s for that very-late-morning after pill.

:)

That’s how I try to take the continuous onslaught of cum, with a smile. It hits my gums, cooling as it does, making me gag on my cornflakes. I sometimes wonder how I have survived so long. I finish off my breakfast and don’t bother to wash up. What’s the point when even the walls of my apartment are seeping with spunk and spitting their venom into my face? My work clothes are already so cum-spattered that I have to change a second time before I make it out the door relatively stain free.

On the Tube though, the pasty abuse begins again. Almost as soon as I step onto the crowded Tube, people reeking of their own abuse, a glob of it lands on my lapel, its tail adhering to my freshly shaven jaw line. I turn to shout at some rudely spunking fool and a string of it lands in my mouth, its tail tickling the back of my throat. I gag on the foul intrusion and there is set in stone the remainder of the day. First few hits of 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 want to 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 breath with an aqualung – odd at first, but you get used to it faster than you’d think.

But it can strike at any time, the swilling bowls 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 starting to ache but you know it’s for the best – hell, it’s probably what you fucking deserve. You have a board meeting and everyone’s in attendance. The presentation for your departmental end of year P&L went well... the boss is very complementary. He has a smugness across his chops you can’t remember ever being so transparent. 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 liter 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. Your stomach leaps into your throat and you’re now gulping acid back with the man paste. You open your eye because you have to – your hands have already been tied behind your back because of the contract you entered into when you agreed to take on this job in this world.

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 and your brain starts to rebel but you know you mustn’t throw up; that just wouldn’t do. Instant dismissal. You try to hold onto your balance 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 BUKKAKEWORLD cum up to spit in your face, stamp it’s rotten boot down upon your face, smother you in its ugly weight. But you don’t die.

There is no easy way out of BUKKAKEWORLD.

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 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 door at 6:00 p.m. with the other sheep 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 of white spunk stings across your gasping face. 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 cum continues unabated.

The entire weight of BUKKAKEWORLD is pressing down upon you.
Outside the thunder of spunk volcanoes is ejaculating great mountain loads of creamy badness into the streets. Here in your bedroom, you lie on your rotten bed covered in the piss and shit of a 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 of your face and chest with liter after liter of human DNA curse your 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 will the gallons of rising cum finally reach up this high, swarming across the mattress and dragging you down into the merciless pit of spunk.

This is always your last thought in BUKKAKEWORLD.