Down From the Summit of the Sky (Billie Eilish)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Down From the Summit of the Sky (m/f, anal, feet, titfuck, angst)



I might get sued for what I'm about to write. I'm anonymous. Not anonymous enough. Any family member or sufficiently smart fan will clock who I am. Search up Billie's childhood photos; I'm in the background of dozens of them.

But I have to tell someone.

I'm haunted by black memories of that day. They swirl through me like deathsmoke through an alembic, too insubstantial to grasp and too real not to choke me. Her face, her lips, her body...the past is an obsidian knifeblade, driven deep and then snapped off. I'm bleeding to death on the blank, undeniable fact of what I did to Bilie Eilish...what I had done to me by Billie Eilish...make up your own mind who's the bad guy in this story. All I know is that it's one of us. Two people at a crime scene can't both be innocent.

I'm doomed. I realize that now, as I sit and watch the setting sun darken the Baja Californian skyline to a bloody amaranth-red...there's nothing coming tomorrow that I  want. The future's just more of the same broken memories, edges dulled by time. Childhood love. Teenage lust. Adult heartbreak. Eventually, it all falls into the same pit. Soon it'll be like it never happened.

Fuck that.

Throw the sun in reverse gear. I want yesterday. I want the day before. I want the 21st of October 2020, when the daylight shuddered apart, darkness consumed us both, and her vast, hot breasts overflooded my hands.

Sue me, bitch. I'm a dead man, telling the world about the last day he was alive.

* * *

I grew up with Billie.

Our parents were in the same Highland Park homeschooling group, and we became friends, pairing off for everything. We went dune-buggying on Pismo Beach, snorkeling at Malibu Lagoon. Two kids, one life. Our friends joked that we were already basically a married couple. To me, these didn't seem like jokes. They seemed like auguries. Promises of a future whose day would soon come.

She was my first kiss. We were playing spin the bottle at a party, so maybe that doesn't count...but when the party ended, the second, third, and fourth kisses belonged to us alone. The third was my favorite. It had some tongue.

We were young. There was nothing sexual in those kisses. Even so, her lips were blades, engraving memories so deep they seem to bleed. Her smile tore me to pieces, reduced me to a living mass of scar tissue. Her scar tissue.

And do you want to know what this headstrong, ambitious girl with a dancer's body told me that night? She wanted the world. And in my eyes, she'd seen it.

I'll never forget those words, even though she has.

* * *

In her teenage years, she changed. She became moody. Withdrawn. You've heard rumors about sexual abuse—who knows if it's true. That's her story, when she's ready to tell it.

She started dressing in oversized, boyish clothes. Plaid shirts and ties. Baggy JNCOs with flares. Thrifted hoodies the size and color of emergency FEMA tents. She seemed to be hiding in plain sight. Hiding her body. In 2016, I discovered that she had quite a lot to hide.

I was at a house party, along with Billie, Finneas, and two kids from our homeschooling group. Bored, we decided to play Twister. We were fifteen or sixteen - WAY too old for a kid's game—but whatever, it was something to do. We laid out the board—it seemed laughably small—and tried to remember the rules. It was awful. Threading our huge, pubescent bodies around each other, everyone giggling in embarrassment, everyone trying to avoid contact with an...area.

Then Billie's ass pressed into my side, and my brain broke.

Raw, sudden lust swung through me like a wrecking ball. Her teenage body felt hot. Thick. Breedable. As she twisted herself around me, an erection swelled in my shorts, throbbing like a rotten tooth. I did not trust my next movement. I wanted to gorilla-slam her to the ground, rip away her clothes, mount her, fuck her, claim her.

Make her mine. Forever.

"Left hand, blue!" Finneas called.

There was a scramble of limbs. Billie slid off me, flowing with a siren's grace onto her hands and knees. The only remaining blue tile lay underneath the arch of her body. I tried to wriggle underneath her chest to take it...but couldn't. My face collided with two heavy masses of flesh under her shirt.

What the fuck? Billie had tits the size of small pumpkins dangling off her chest. Where had those monsters sprouted from?

Her teenage breasts shocked me with their size and weight. They were slabs of meat pressed against my face, and I was a hungry dog. Billie squeaked—first in shock, then in outrage—as I witlessly tried to shove my face through her big jugs. She tried to push me away, but I slipped, and her hand landed between my legs, on my erect penis. It pulsed under her hand, and she screamed.

Horrified, we canceled the game, apologized, packed the Twister board away, ripped disposable vape carts, and tried to act like nothing weird had just happened.

And then I said goodbye, ran home, yelled to my parents that I was sick, charged up the stairs to my bedroom, locked the door, and masturbated four times without stopping. I tore muscles in my wrist.

"Jacking off to Billie Eilish's slaughtermelons" isn't the world's most exclusive club, but I was doing it before it was cool.

Plus, I got to touch them.

***

That year, her career exploded. From bedroom musician to the most famous star on the planet within ten months.

It was unbelievable to watch. I can't imagine what it was like to live. I watched her conquer the world, feeling like Oppenheimer in the Trinity bunker, a man witnessing a primordial force unleashed. I could not control this. It was a soul-consuming fire that did not belong to me, and perhaps never had. All I could do was strap on antiflash glasses and watch heaven burn. My heaven.

If it's not obvious, I despise her brother and his music. It's the soundtrack to Billie leaving my life.

Suddenly, she was never around. She was constantly on tour, constantly recording, never stopping for a moment. The music industry assumes you'll be a nine day wonder and works you into the grave. I spent the next three months on Tiktok and Instagram, watching her meteoric rise through a computer screen, blowing hundreds of loads into tissues. My rampant lust for her coiled and mestasized into loathing, like a chemical reagent. I couldn't tell if I hated myself or hated her, just that hate was now all I felt.

Bilie Eilish. The queen who had abandoned her king. Was I unworthy of her, or she unworthy of me? I still don't know.

In my lonely nights, I prayed that her career would fail, prayed she'd fall back to Earth. Back into my arms. Instead, she soared from height to height. Maybe this was the way it had to be. Maybe I only would have held her back.

Sometimes we caught up when she was in Highland Park. Things weren't the same anymore; fame had changed her. She spoke to me like I was a dumb kid, someone couldn't possibly understand her new, adult, jet-setting life. Soon after that, she was impossible to reach at all. Stage managers, bodyguards, and sleazeballs surrounded her, six-deep. I'd become just one of her millions of fans. Another giddy screaming moron to be shoved aside by her entourage.

I still had her number, and we texted sometimes. But her texts always took so long to come back, and they dripped with a disinterest that was palpable.

lol. k. cool. yeah.

Sometimes she asked for my opinion on stuff. Like whether Urban Slow Decay would click with her Versace 4377's. Yeah, fashion advice. I was now was her gay best friend or something.

It got even worse: lots of the texts were about whether she should fuck someone.

She's Hollywood's bicycle. Sorry if that ruins anyone's magical fairytale world, but it's true: right now she's fucking men, women, fans, producers, celebrities, and probably her goddamn brother for all I know. Whatever you think her body count is, multiply it by about eight and substantially increase the melanin level. I know because of all the texts she sent me.

*~ hey. there's this ghetto looking freak who wants to piitb. should i let him?? he has bc kush haha
~ yo, can you use the same condom twice? me and these 2 college kids ran out lol.
*
Slut. Whore. Letting all those men dump cum into her. Why would you send texts like that to a boy who loves you? Don't you know what that will do to him?

I still can't banish the thought that right now, a black man whose name she probably doesn't even know is rowing himself into her guts. Him instead of me, the one she promised herself to, because he has drugs and a nine inch dick and I have neither, and to hell with what we had.

We were supposed to be together forever, Billie. You said I was your world.

How can I not hate you?

* * *

I made mistakes in the depths of obsession.

Said and did things I now regret.

The texts from Billie became fewer and fewer, and finally stopped. I sent two texts, asking where we stood. Then two more. Then six more. Maybe the last one was a little weird, because she blocked my number. That destroyed me, and sent me spiraling into depression.

I know I was being an obsessive stalker, but when a girl is your entire world, you want to exist in her head the way she does in yours. The worst insult is silence. You reach the point where you'll say ANYTHING to her to trigger a response—even "fuck off" is better than ABSOLUTELY NOTHING from the girl you love. If SHE doesn't think you exist, YOU don't think you exist.

For a year or two afterward, I worked as a landscaper in LA, trying to forget her. I had no girlfriend. It would have felt like cheating on Billie, despite there not being anything to cheat on.

My co-workers would listen to "Bad Guy" and "You Should See Me in a Crown". When I told them I'd grown up with that girl, they laughed at me, and didn't believe it. Soon, I almost didn't believe it. I couldn't even masturbate to her anymore without feeling sick.

It was like none of our past life had ever happened, except in my head.

* * *

One day, my landscaping company got a call. An event management company needed a handyman, and someone had asked for me by name. A rising star was throwing a house party at a remote AirBnB where they wouldn't be mobbed by fans. Urgent repairs were required before insurance would approve coverage.

The star had also requested a ride back to the city. I said "sure" to this. I still didn't know who they were, but I'll always hang with a celeb. Most are cool: it's the dipshits hanging off their coattails that have the egos.

I packed my gear into my Land Rover, and drove to the site at Big Sur. For hours, I threaded my way along narrow mountain roads. On one side, an encroaching army of redwoods and golden oak threatened to push me off the road. On the other, a cliff's edge plunged down into a dark moist canyon. I got lost twice—there was no phone coverage or GPS in that area—and finally found the AirBnB at noon.

I rounded a corner and saw it: a huge cabin the size of a house, built on a raised concrete pad. It was a three-room, double-gabled structure made of crosscut logs, each of which bore marks of scribe, saw, axe, adze and chisel. I wonder who had built it - it felt like their life was captured in the wood. Large ferns grew up over the windows.

I parked my truck, and explored the house. One room was a bedroom, another was a bathroom connected to a well and a sump pump, and the third had a had a leather couch, and an LCD TV mounted on the wall. All the usual tacky AirBnB shit. There was a power hookup for a generator. I whistled in appreciation. Add some lights and a smoke machine, and this party would kick like a sensei.

I set to work, making sure it was safe for Mr (or Mrs) VIP. Some floorboards needed to be pulled and re-caulked. I tapped out some rusted nails and replaced them with screws, and rehung a loose door. Otherwise, it was in good shape. I've seen better houses, but many more worse ones.

The sun was setting as my work finished. I was packing up to go when a gigantic tour bus pulled up in front of the property, parking alongside behind my Land Rover. It had a logo of a globe, and the words UNIVERSAL MUSIC GROUP printed underneath.

Wasn't Billie Eilish signed to UMG?

It's not going to be her. It's not going to be her. I chanted this thought like a catechism, even after the bus doors had opened, steps had unspooled to the ground, and she'd stepped down.

Fuck.

Just...fucking fuck.

* * *

I'd never thought I'd see her again.

Billie slung a backpack onto the ground in front of the house. She looked like a succubus of trash, summoned from the netherworld via a burning dumpster fire.

Her fierce black mane flashed poison-green at the roots, as though her body was toxic and slowly infecting her hair. Her thick thighs and ass, bulked up by years of dance school, poured out of boy shorts so tight they fitted her like a coat of paint. She bustier than I remembered. When she moved, cannonball-sized tits swung, jiggled and seesawed inside a black 100 gecs shirt.

She turned, made a peace sign to the driver, and he started to pull away. I saw him leer at her bent-over ass as the UMG bus chugged past us. I wondered if he was laying pipe in her too.

Then Billie stood up, and saw me. Her jaw fell. Mine didn't, principally because it was already on the ground.

"Hi," I said tonelessly.

"Um, hey," she seemed confused. "Wait, aren't you...?"

Hearing her try to remember my name—PRETEND to try to remember my name—sent me spiralling back into rage.

"You know my name, Billie," I snarled. "I don't care if you hate me, but don't pretend to not know my name."

Her lip screwed up, and she glared at me. "Fucking creep."

Instantly, she broke eye contact, seeming ashamed. "Look, sorry. That was out of pocket. Thanks for helping out with the place. I just thought I'd stop by and check it out myself."

"All good," I grumbled insincerely. Already, I was dreading the ride back. "I'm just packing up my stuff, and then I'll be ready when you are."

Her pretty, metallic-painted eyes darted toward the house. "I hate those ferns. Mind if I cut them back?"

I shrugged. "It's your AirBnB."

"Got a set of garden shears in that truck?"

I rummaged for some. "Cut them off yourself. Don't be too long. I want to get back to LA before midnight."

Fuming pointlessly, I returned to the back of the house, packing up the tools I'd left strewn over the bedroom floor. It took several minutes. Finally, I lugged my gear out to the Land Rover.

I found Billie waiting for me, sneakers kicked insouciantly up over onto the front seat. Ever the passenger princess, she had her head down, and earbuds in. She probably wouldn't look at me or talk as we rode back to the city. Fine by me.

I turned the key. The Land Rover wouldn't start.

Billie's mascara'd eyes flicked up, watching me in naked suspicion. I popped the hood, and checked the terminals with a nine-volt.  The battery seemed good. Maybe the alternator was toast? I had no idea, but my truck had broken down at the worst place possible.

I gestured for Billie to take the Beats out of her ears.

"Bad news," I told her. "I can't start the truck. I'll have to call a tow company..."

Then I realized I could call two people: Jack and Shit.

"...Ugh, there's no reception here. Damn it."

Billie swore, and tried to call her bus driver to pick her up. That annoyed me. What had I just told her? As her phone failed to connect, I realized that I could probably walk a few miles down the road and make a call. That's always the way. Dead spots are just that. Spots.

But it was dark. If I walked down the road, I would be blind, and might fall to my death.

And however enticing death might seem during the darker watches of my nights, I don't plan on doing it for Billie motherfucking Eilish. You can take that to the bank.

"...So we're stuck here," Billie said, eyeing the cabin.

"Until the sun's up. Yeah. Sorry."

"Should be fun. Maybe there will be a song in it."

Billie slung her legs down from the front seat, and got out of the truck.

She swaggered toward the house; her rump swaying rhythmically, pigtails bouncing like springs.

My dick got hard. One thing hadn't changed: she was still murderously hot.

"Might as well make the most of it," she said. "Let's go inside. I've got sandwiches in my backpack."

* * *

Night landed on us like a coffin lid, leaving us trapped in Billie's remote AirBnB. With no generator, we used our phones as lights until our batteries ran low. Then we sat on the couch in the living room, submerged in pelagic dark.

I couldn't see her. She couldn't see me.

She had a CamelBak, and let me take a pull off it from time to time. A foul liquor of unclear provenance swilled inside—the sort that promises fun, alcohol poisoning, date rape, or all three.

We didn't talk. What was there to say? The night wore on endlessly, grinding upon us like ocean stones. The couch we were sitting on seemed like a prison cell we were confined to together.

How can I be so close to another person...and yet still so alone?

I heard a silken rustle. Movement, at my side.

"Can I ask something?" Billie's voice came out of darkness like a velvet-sheathed blade.

"Yeah."

"Did you ever have a crush on me? Back when we were kids?"

The question seemed absurd. She was either the dumbest person alive, or a sick bitch pretending to be the dumbest person alive just to fuck with my head. I wasn't sure which was worse.

"Yes," I said. The truth seemed permissable now that she couldn't see the hatred on my face. "I thought...things would turn out differently. That's all."

"What went wrong?"

I barked a harsh laugh.

"You got famous."

"I'm sorry," she said in the dark. "It is what it is."

She slid even closer to me in the dark.

"I don't think I'm capable of love," she said. "And I'm never going to marry anyone. I want life. I want pleasure. I want it all, without limitations. Giving myself over to someone means the handcuffs go on. And I don't want handcuffs. I don't want to die, wondering what I gave up to make someone else happy."

Her nearness caused my breath to drag in my chest, as though it had physical weight. I wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like.

My emotions—lust and sadness and inchoate fury—were wild, raging animals on a stampede. My pulse hammered a miserable cantata from the lowest Malebolge of hell. I couldn't control any of my feelings. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be elsewhere. I hated her, yet as I heard her slide closer on the couch, I strangely wanted her even closer.

"Can I tell you something?" Her voice was a husky whisper from the abyss.

"Yes."

Still getting closer.

"It's a secret."

"I'll take it to my grave," I said.

She was so close. Heat from her skin glowed against mine. It was a cold heat. In that moment, she was Alnitak, illumating my cold night sky with an arctic blue.

What's happening?

"I don't like it when men see what I look like naked," she said. "When I fuck...I have to do it exactly this..."

Shivers began spilling down my spine, one after another.

"...In the dark."

Chain-lightning coruscated across my dead flesh. I didn't know what was happening, or what I wanted to happen. I felt like I was standing on a precipice. One leading straight into oblivion and death.

I couldn't see her, but I heard her do things. Thrilling, ambiguous sounds gathered like smoke at the limits of my senses. I had to guess what they were.

Zippers unzipping.

Items of clothing falling to the floor.

Sneakers and socks coming off.

Bra hooks unclasping.

Suddenly, the black night air was full her naked body. I heard shifts of flesh, heard skin touching skin.  I could see nothing but night, but I smelled deodorant and bodywash and hairspray and sweat. An overpowering, earthy, feminine scent.

Then her hands reached across to my lap.

Oh no...

She unzipped my pants. My raging cock exploded out, slapping against my belly. A wet strand of pre-cum flew into my navel, sliding back down glassily.

"Billie...no..." There was no force or volume behind that *no*. No heart.

She coiled a hand around my shaft, and began jerking me off.

She was awkward as hell. Life has certain facts—death, taxes, and the fact that girls suck at handjobs. But the fact that it was Billie doing it pulled me toward orgasm like a tractor beam.

Her hand flew up and down my eight inch shaft. Pre-cum pulsed out in a steady river, lubricating her fingers. Desperate pleasure exploded from my crotch like winds before a monsoon.

It had been three days since I'd last masturbated. My balls felt bloated. Overfull. Freighted with molten pig iron. My orgasm was going to be a massive one.

"I'm gonna bust..." I moaned, my testicles drawing up against my shaft.

Then her hand was gone, leaving me on the precipice, in agony. I heard Billie move again, but I was no longer sure where she was.

"Where are you?" I whimpered helplessly.

"Still here," I heard the smile in that voice. She was so close I felt the breath that carried those soft words. Her head was likely inches from mine.

"I am so fucking horny," Billie whispered throatily. "And when I'm horny, I make mistakes..."

And then she began sliding behind me on the couch. Worming her way between my back the couch's back, squeezing into the narrow space like a boneless octopus.

Now the voice came from behind me. "...And this is one of them."

Billie was a dancer before she was a singer. She had an intuitive grasp of what her body could do.

A pair of muscular crossfitter thighs wrapped around my waist. She was shockingly strong. I felt like a marrionette under her control.

Black-nailed hands skipped and danced on my shoulders, gripping and releasing folds of muscle, riving my skin into pins and needles. Voltage seemed to spike out from her touches. I did not have a chance of resisting her.

With her legs wrapped around my waist, her feet pushing into my lap like attacking cobras, she began to stroke my shaft again.

Not with her hand. With her feet.

Both of them.

As she footjobbed me, I shivered as her breath poured against the nape of my neck. The heat of her body was overwhelming. Her erect nipples traced a path on my upper trapezius muscles. She mashed her hot, moist genitals against the small of my back.

Where are your hands?

Then I felt two soft, heavy masses of flesh go PLOP onto my right and neck shoulder. She squeezed her breasts together against my neck, two soft oily masses that each weighed several pounds. I gasped, feeling the spongy flesh of two huge slippery tits wobbling on my shoulders.

"Ready for this?" I sensed her lips curl back into a smile.

"Yes."

"Liar," she teased. "Boys never are."

And then Billie’s breasts slid forward over my shoulders until they rolled down over my chest. They had the soft, squishy weight and heat of half-molten wax. I was trapped and suspended between two white, perfect, utterly titanic breasts, a cleavage-chasm that caught me like a crushing hand.

"Ugh! Billie! What the fuck?!"

She hugged me tighter with her boobs, still furiously masturbating me with her grimy, sweaty feet. The creamy slopes of her monstrous tits surged still further, impossibly far. I could hardly breathe through her smelly underboob. They had way more odor than he'd expected. The twin orbs were vast, heavy, and hot; white skin cascading forward endlessly, as if to drown me. She titfucked by entire head, burying me. A grave anyone would want to be buried in.

I could feel Billie's heartbeat on the underside of her moist boobs. Beat...beat...beat...

My cock leaped and surged under her stroking feet. I let out a moan that subsided into a pathetic doglike bark.

“And how does that feel?” she asked, pressing herself even closer against my back.

I couldn't talk. My body trembled with excitement as her breasts slid down across my shoulders, smothering me in a landslide made of flesh.

As Billie's dirty feet ground my cock to oblivion, I realized I'd lost track of how close to orgasm I was.

In fact, I wasn't close. I was already there.

Thre was no warning. I just started cumming, and the world ended.

I screamed and screamed. The sound ricochet'd off the walls, and echoed off the mountain outside. Intensity. Pure intensity. Sensation dialed dialed up to eleven and then the knob snapped away.

My cock bucked like a shotgun, blasting wildly. I heard long streams of cum flying away into the darkness. Liquid white, fucking the black.

The first rope pulsed a thick, aborted arc over my shoes and socks. The next rope shot three feet, splattering a white cord of sperm over the floorboards.

The next three ropes were absurd. Cartoonish. I felt my dickhole stretch from how much splooge was rushing out. A trilogy of white ropes fired out in a huge arc, hitting the TV on the other side of the room, pounding it with rifle-like precision. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! I'd never imagined cumshots could be so loud.

Billie's toes gripped the glans of my cum-spraying dick. Four more high-pressure jets gushed out, then three more, at lesser volume, then two more weak jets after that.

My massive orgasm concluded with a long, bubbling dribble of sperm that lasted for nearly fifteen seconds.

I gasped, stars whirling brokenly across my vision. She still had her legs locked across my body, and her quivering tits lying across my shoulders. I felt like I was in the grip of a predatory spider. Swallowed. Digested. Husked.

My cock lay soft against the curves of her cum-wet feet. I heard sperm dripping from the Peter North sized cumshots I'd ejaculated over the TV.

drip...drip...drip...

"Uhhhhh..." I moaned, on the verge of passing out.

I thought I was finished, but Billie had only begun.

"You're about to fuck me," she hissed jaggedly in my ear. Dementedly. "Fuck me and fuck me and never stop."

It was a command, a warning, a curse. She spoke it like a witch-priestess rolling the bones for my soul.

I was going to fuck her. I was going to do it if it killed me. Until it killed me.

With a wrenching twist of her body, she swung herself around me. I have no idea how she did it. Pole dancers in Atlantic City aren't that athletic. One moment she was behind me, the next she was in front of me.

And then she plunged her mouth against mine.

We kissed furiously, aggressively, as if all those kisses we hadn't had since that long ago spin-the-bottle-game were arriving at once.

Her tongue spun and swirled against mine. Heat clashing against heat.

My dick exploded back to life, jutting and wagging furiously, as if searching for her pussy. She noticed it slapping against her thigh, and guided it to her slick, hairless snatch.

With one smooth lunge of her hips, she swallowed me to my balls.

I cried out as I ploughed into the tightly gripping veldt of her pussy. My cock was still sensitive from cumming mere seconds ago. She didn't care, which meant I didn't care. On this night, caring wasn't allowed.

She began humping me, face to face, chest to chest, crotch to crotch. Our genitals collided with liquid squelches. I felt afraid of her then. I had never imagine that such fear could run cheek-in-jowl with such unalloyed desire.

She was in total control of me. She seemed to have a psychic link to my brain stem. I sped up when I sensed she wanted it, slowed down when I was going too fast. The grnding, moist, rhythms of our fucking tumbled out into the cool air like the babbling of a brook. An endless, primal sound of desperate animals mating.

She climaxed hard, her slick twat contracting around me in rhythmic seizures. I fucked her through it, having no idea how close I was. My cock had gone rubbery, losing all sensation. She had turned me into a metal automaton, built purely to service her.

At some point, we fell over, landing sideways on the couch. We screwed wildly, tumbling around and around, sometimes kissing, sometimes clawing at each other's back, the only constant our hips driving into each other. Then we fell to the wooden floor with a thud. Splinters drove into my shoulder - when had I taken my shirt off? I couldn't remember - and the pain was like a go signal for my orgasm.

I lunged forward with my hips, impaling her eight inches deep. Then again, and again. Her big ass wobbled with the force of my thrusts. I felt her sweat spatter and mist onto me. My lunging drives into her moist core her were apocalyptic.

Seconds later, my consciousness came apart like a Semtex'd wall, and I was spraying cum into her. Jet after jet torrented into her molten depths.

She orgasmed a second time as I creampied her. We wildly slammed and ground our pulsating genitals against each other, until we were lying in a puddle of cum and squirt.

As I hung on the edge of consciousness, all I could hear was a heartbeat.

Beat, beat, beat...

I had no idea whether it was her heartbeat, or my own.


* * *

After that, we fucked all night, in room after room, in position after position. Name an act. We did it, upside down, hanging from the ceiling fixtures.

She came. She came. I came. She came. She came. I came. She came. She came. She came.

In the dark we were blind, but our bodies knew what to do. Inside the depraved place we'd fallen down to, you didn't need eyes to see.

We finished with anal sex. I had her bent over, doggy-style, rutting into her dirty bowels. I pumped my cock into her, hearing her gasp and moan. A miasma of sweat and filth seemed to hang around us.

Then the sun began to rise, illuminating us with pale blue dawnlight.

The outline of her body resolved out of black, bucking and pumping and thrashing like a fish. I saw the dimples and contours of her flesh, radiant and glowing. Her thick pale butt pistoning back and forth, her hips slapping back against mine, residue of dried squirt and sweat caked upon her thick thighs.

Under her torso, her boobs swung wildly, like church bells. My brutal fucking caused drops of sweat to fly from those perfect tits.

"FUCK ME! FUCKMEFUCKMEFUCKME!" she gasped, a broken toy. Her overfed ass cheeks billowed obscenely as I tore through her asshole. She had one climax as I buttfucked her, then a second. We were working toward a third when I felt my cock surge, and began unleash splooge into her butthole.

This final ejaculation was as painful as it was pleasurable. As I erupted into her shitter, I collapsed on top of her, feeling my cock spray out desperate pulses of what might have been either cum or my own blood. She collapsed too. Her sweaty legs came apart, and we lay on the floor.

One minute passed. Then two. I stood up, my feet shaky. My cock pulled out of her bowels with a disgusting BLORP, going flaccid in the air. Her asshole gaped as a strand of cum leaked out.

Then she stood, and kissed me. I kissed her back. Unlike the frantic kissing before, this was measured and controlled. Two horses that were well trained and knew the route well.

We embraced. I pulled her forward with the small of her back. God, she was unhealthily fuckable.

As I held her, I actually started to get hard again. It was stupid. I'd fucked her for literally the whole night straight, and orgasmed five times, and it still wasn't enough.

But I had to stop. I'd probably kill myself if I tried to have sex again.

Without saying a word, I snatched up my phone, and walked naked out the door, letting the mountain air dry the sweat from my body. My dick stung painfully, as though her depths had coated it in corrosive acid. Maybe this is why she can't hold down a boyfriend. The mates of Black Widows don't last long, either.

I called over and over, seeking contact with the outside world. Sure enough, a dozen paces from the AirBnB, my phone picked up a single bar of signal.

* * *

Billie and I waited for rescue in silence, we did not speak. We did not discuss what the last night had meant. Neither of us could process it.

Already, our two-person gangbang was gaining a dreamlike unreality. As though it had been a fantasy that the sun was burning through like the early morning mist.

A golden wash of dawn illuminated the AirBnB, piercing through the windows, stencilling squares of light on the walls. We saw the devastation. Dried splatters from all the places Billie had squirted. My ropes of cum drying over the TV. We'd conceivably left the AirBnB in a worse place than it had been in when I'd first arrived to fix it.

A tour promoter showed up at eight to pick her up. She just walked out of the AirBnB and into his car without a word of goodbye. The guy yelled that he'd call a tow truck for me, and was as good as his word.

And that was that. I'd fallen into a dream, and had awoken. Life goes on, even when it can't.

Sometimes I feel that those few hours in Big Sur were my entire life, and everything since is me just slowly rotting. As I pass my time on this Earth, I feel like a corpse floating in the ancient, dark waters of my long-ago drowning. Blue, swollen, stinking. Not even worth the paper of a death certificate. Yet here I am. And here you are, reading my confession.

I will likely never see Billie Eilish again. That night of fucking was many things, some of them complicated, but I think the simplest way to look at it was her saying goodbye.

This was not a start, but an end. The termination of a future that I'd been promised and which would never come, because promises aren't shit. All good things have to end, even if there's no possible life after them.

Are memories enough? As midnight enfolds around me—an empty midnight this time, with nothing but thought to fill it—I try to believe so.

Sometimes I succeed.

***

There's one more detail I forgot to mention. Why didn't my Land Rover work?

According to the tow-truck driver who saved me ass, my alternator was actually fine. It wasn't a battery issue at all. The problem was that the ignition no longer connected to anything.

Using a flathead screwdriver, he prised back the casing of the dashboard. The ends of the severed ignition cable tumbled into view. It looked like someone had cut the wire to the ignition unit.

With gardening shears, perhaps.

THE END