💾 Archived View for tranarchy.fish › ~autumn › break › bathroom.gmi captured on 2023-09-08 at 16:29:30. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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<- Back to break: a hypertext exercise in hyperempathy
you kick back on the couch to the chimes of piss on a porcelain phonograph, and the dull throb of activity dripping from the ceiling.
the ambiance of a spa: trickling koi pond, gentle hubbub, someone else's choice of music.
a fleshy thud interrupts your languid repose. a large, red-white fish lies wet on the tiling, gaping mouth overhanging the pond, a lidless eye staring vacantly to the sky. it squirms only drowsily, half an inch forward, before coming to a stop, delicate membranous fins folded awkwardly under its weight. the fish heaves and begins to retch and spit, groaning with the voice of a human man. it becomes harder to continue the fantasy. fine. whatever. we'll go see how he's doing.
he hadn't managed to lock the door. perhaps on account of the fins -- forgivable, poor guy. the fore of his head rests on that of one arm, draped across the back of the toilet seat, while the other awkwardly props up his shoulder like a tent pole. his hind legs are curled to the side, ankles bound with denim and cotton, his left ham pink from pressing against cold tiles. his raised arm exposes the side of his belly, rumpled up two or three squishy furrows like the nose of a prizewinning hog. yellow drips trail slowly round his haunch, leaking from the testosteronated vulva pressed between the backs of his thighs, plump and enticing at this angle. the boy retches again, abdomen bracing, heaping alcoholic slop into the water bowl. "what a catch" you think to yourself, like a fisherman who has just hoisted a scowling, topless mermaid onto the deck of his ship. he looks exquisite, useless, tousled, distressed, malleable, acutely fuckable-- the bloom of thoughts in your head is almost overwhelming, waves wash over your chest and the hair on your arms bristles at the smell of the sea air; salt and ammonia and bile and rum and the cloying chitin crush of countless crustaceans in carnal consummation.
you lean over and press down the flush, your other hand firmly gripping the nape of his neck. toilet boy bucks hard at the sudden reminder of high school, recoiling onto his elbows and knocking his head against the wall beside the shower. he's uncomfortably conscious, his drowned eyelashes blinking away makeup, hair spilling down his face, dilute spit and vomit on his chin. you take off your belt and slip a cinch around his wrists, slamming the loose end in the high shower window. dropping into a straddle over his thighs you grip his soaked hair and kiss deep, eloquent, each intoxicated in your own senses (put it in your fucking crossword). with your free hand you grope at new-found topography, tearing his flimsy mesh shirt as you scratch across his ribs, folds of fatty skin fit between your fingers and hit their elastic limit when you grip tighter, his flanks, his ass- you pry a knee between his and peel open his surprisingly welcome cunt, pinching his tdick between the thighs of two fingers and pressing the tips into him, poorly lubricated with urine and the night's heat.
he fights hard enough, gutteral crying mixes with the noise of the party above, kicking bluntly with his free knee, desperately wriggling his hands tighter into their noose. he strains to bite your shoulder as you work marks down his neck so that you have to shove him back hard against the wall with a hand under his jaw and a cranial *thock*. you breathe in limbic sweat, thick aromas filling your palate like fresh homemade soup, reviving nerves numbed and forgotten, sipping in and in until your lungs can't hold any more.
his scrabbling finds the shower knob, drenching you both in tepid water. you take heavy breaths beneath a waterfall of hair, watching him suck mechanically through his teeth, the grip on his neck tinting him an unhealthy purple. sticky residue of energy drink washes from the back of your calves, adding a faint orange to the pool around you.
a bubblegum-pink razor sits on the ledge. taking it in your free hand, you test it with the pad of your thumb, pressing lightly on the head, pulling toward you. it seems a little flimsy, but the blades are sharp. good for something, at least. you flip the razor in your hand and press it hard into his inner thigh, slowly dragging it sideways in orbit over hair and chubby skin. the boy hisses and serpentine tongues flicker from his wound in tandem, made quick by the falling water, slithering and writhing below you toward the drain. licking his blood from the back of your fingers is like fresh juice, your heart pulling in your chest as if your own blood is reaching for a taste.
you smear a crimson claw mark down his chest toward his crotch, ending in the mess of hair above his cock - a cowardly hooded figure trembling below a shrubby outcrop. you trace an arc with the back of the razor, starting at his hip bone, down through hair, nearing the base of his shaft, the sudden tender sensation sparks bubbles of fear from the depths of the boy's concussion. he begins to beg and sob, with groaning inclarity- "nhhnononono no pleas-p-no i juss, i onlyj-jussstarted to like bbe-ing tou-ch-ched, i,,, dont. pleasedont. please."
he pukes a frothy white.
"fugk."
with a smooth switchblade motion, you invert the razor in your grip, hanging the head of it between his legs midway down his labia. his tired thighs squirm uselessly against the knee that wedges them apart. you grasp the handle firmly and begin dragging upward, pressing into delicate membranous fins, the rows of blades carving a new set of gills in the fatty meat of your pathetic gasping koi. the razor cuts as deep as it will go, you pull it back -- with seeping shreds of skin popping out from between the blades -- and press in again just above. the harsh pressure cuts between his lips, into the mucosa, across the opening of his urethra. his voice cracks as his lungs trip over his larynx in a rush to escape the pain. again, the razor sticks. you pull it back, this time ligning it up with the tip of his nub of a cock. as you lean your weight into the handle his howling and pleading is almost inaudible in its intensity, straining against his bonds til his hands go numb against the soaked belt and his chest shudders. the blades sink deep into his nerve-ridden flesh, the protrusion helping it slip deeper between the razor's safety guards. the razor sticks again, but this time you press harder, ekeing out millimeters, until finally the neck of the razor snaps - its head still engrossed with the head of his cock. you set down the handle and shimmy the mess of plastic and metal away from his dick, leaving what looks like a log partially passed through a sawmill. impatient for the bleeding to stop, you admire your handywork with your fingers. his cock feels odd, like the frills of a sea anemone. both sets of labia are swollen, fraying in places, and thin ridges of skin run in ladders up the once-smooth vestibule. this time blood provides a marginally better lubricant than piss.
he's no longer conscious. you wash off his wounds, turn off the shower, haul him out onto the bath mat, and open the mirror cupboard. some sudocrem, makeup remover pads, a few panty liners. you uncarefully apply each item in turn and pull his damp underwear back up to hold them in place. that'll be fine, probably.
it's getting light outside the bathroom window. you grab your keys off the hallway shelf and clip them back on your hip next to a stressed belt, slip your shirt and shoes back on, and step out the [door](door.html).