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 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 Billie Eilish...what I had done to me by Billie Eilish...make up your own mind who's the bad guy in this story. It's one of us. When two stand at a crime scene, they can't both be innocent.

I'm doomed. I realize that now, as I 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 more of the same: broken memories, growing duller with each day. Childhood love. Teenage lust. Adult heartbreak. Eventually, it's all gone. The past thirsts and hungers for all that we are.

Fuck that. Throw the sun in reverse gear. Bring back yesterday. Bring back the day before. Return me to 21st October, 2020, when the daylight erupted apart, darkness consumed us both, and huge hot breasts flooded my hands.

Sue me, bitch. Here's 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 a married couple. These didn't seem like jokes to me; they seemed like auguries. Prophecies. A future on collision course with the present.

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. Yet 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 the headstrong 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 became someone else. 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 surplus military tents. She seemed to be hiding in plain sight. Burying her own body in shame, like it was the corpse of someone she'd murdered.

In 2016, I discovered what she was hiding under those clothes.

I was at a house party, along with Billie, Finneas, and two kids from our homeschooling group. We decided to play Twister. We were fifteen or sixteen—*way* too old for a kid's game—but we were bored, and it was something to do. We laid out the Twister mat—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. I was praying it would end as soon as it began.

But then Billie's ass pressed into my side.

My brain broke. Raw lust surged 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'd never had feelings like this before for a girl. 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 pantheress grace onto her hands and knees. The last blue circle lay underneath her body's arch. I tried to wriggle underneath her chest to tap the circle...but couldn't. I was blocked by two huge masses of flesh, dangling unseen under her shirt.

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

Her giant teenage breasts shocked me with their size and weight. I felt like a hungry dog, with slabs of raw meat pressed against my face. Billie squeaked—first in shock, then in outrage—as I mindlessly tried to shove my face through her 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 mat 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 straight. 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 long before it hit the mainstream.

Plus, I got to touch them.

---

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

It was unbelievable to watch. I can't even imagine what it was like to live. From my laptop computer I watched her conquer the world, feeling like Oppenheimer in the Trinity bunker, watching a primordial force unleashed that I could not control. Suddenly, she a heart-consuming fire that did not belong to me, and maybe 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.

She was never around. She was constantly on tour, constantly recording, never stopping. The music industry assumes you'll be a nine day wonder and works you into an early 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 raging hormonal lust 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 could feel.

Billie Eilish. The queen who'd forsaken her king. Was I unworthy of her, or she unworthy of me? I still don't know.

In my loneliest 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.

Occasionally, we caught up when she returned to 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 was now just one more fan among millions. 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 dripped with a palpable disinterest.

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. Like I 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 hearing this ruins your magical fairytale world, but 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 eightfold 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
*~can you use the same condom twice? me and these 2 college kids ran out lol.*

Slut. Whore. Letting countless men dump cum into her, night after night. 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 pit of my obsession.

I said and did things I regret. Or would regret, if I was a better man.

After the texts from Billie became fewer and fewer and finally stopped, I sent her two of my own, asking where we stood. Then two more. Then six more. Maybe the last one was a little angry, 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, even though there was nothing 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. Said I was full of shit. Soon, I almost didn't believe it myself. I couldn't even masturbate to her anymore without feeling sick.

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

---

In late 2020, my landscaping company got a call.

An event management company needed a handyman, and they'd asked for me by name. A rising star was throwing a house party at an AirBnB in Big Sur, where they wouldn't be mobbed by fans. Urgent repairs were needed before insurance would approve coverage.

The star would also be there to inspect the AirBnB, and had requested I give them a ride back to the greater LA area. *Fine*, I thought. I like hanging with celebs. 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 out to Big Sur. I threaded my way along switchbacking mountain roads for several hours: 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 sharply into a canyon's dark throat. I got lost twice—there was no phone coverage or GPS in that area—and finally found the AirBnB in the late afternoon.

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

Parking my truck, I explored the house. It had a bedroom, a bathroom connected to a well and a sump pump, and a wide central space decked out with a hot leather couch and an LCD TV on the wall. All the usual tacky AirBnB shit. There was a power hookup for a generator. 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) Big. Loose 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 wasn't in bad shape. I've seen better AirBnBs, but many more worse ones.

The sun was almost gone when I finished. Just as I was packing up, a monolithic tour bus pulled up in front of the property, parking alongside behind my Land Rover. On the side was a globe logo, with UNIVERSAL MUSIC GROUP printed underneath.

Wasn't Billie signed to UMG?

It's not her. It's not her. I chanted this thought like a catechism, even after the bus doors had opened, steps had unspooled to the ground, black combat Doc Martens were stomping down those steps, and my words had become lies.

Fuck.

Just...fucking *fuck*!

---

You think the past is over. Then you blink, and it's not even the past anymore.

Billie Eilish slung a backpack onto the ground in front of the house.

She looked like a succubus of trash, summoned from hell 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 far 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 turned, and saw me. Her jaw fell. Mine didn't, but only because it was already on the ground.

"Hi," I said tonelessly.

"Um, hey," confusion creased her face. "Wait, aren't you...?"

Hearing her try to remember my name—*pretend* to try to remember—tossed me into a fierce spiralling rage.

"You know my name, Billie," I said tonelessly. "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 with all the insincerity I could muster. Oh God, how I was dreading the ride back... "I'm just packing up my stuff. I'll be ready to leave when you are."

Her pretty, metallic-painted eyes darted toward the house. "Not a fan of those ferns over the windows. Mind if I cut them back?"

I shrugged. "It's your AirBnB."

She bounced toward me, big fat tits slamming under her shirt. "Got a set of garden shears in that truck?"

I rummaged for some, and passed them to her. "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, Doc Martens arrogantly kicked 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.

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 I'd 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 remembered I was in the asscrack of Big Sur and could call precisely 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 how it is. 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. Once things might have been different. Not now.

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

"...Until the sun's up and I can hunt for reception. Sorry."

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

"Hey, maybe there will be a song in it. Let's go inside. I've got sandwiches in my backpack"

She swaggered toward the house; her rump swaying rhythmically, pigtails bouncing like springs. Her boobs wobbled thrillingly around each side of her body.

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

---

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 kind that promises fun, alcohol poisoning, date rape, or all three.

We didn't talk. We didn't have anything to say. The night wore on endlessly, grinding upon us like ocean stones. The couch seemed like a prison cell we were confined to.

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.

"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. Pick your poison.

"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. Is this what a heart attack feels like?

My emotions—a wild marbled mix of lust and sadness and inchoate fury—raged through me like lightning. 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 across 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... like... 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 many things. Thrilling, ambiguous sounds gathered like smoke at the limits of my senses. I guessed 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 seemed full her marmoreal naked flesh. I heard shifts of flesh, heard skin touching skin. In this cabin filled with nothing but night, I suddenly smelled alien scents that didn't belong: deodorant and bodywash and hairspray and sweat. An overpowering, earthy, feminine scent.

Then her hands reached across to my lap.

Kill me now...!

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. Waves of desperate pleasure cramped my stomach, surging from my crotch like winds before a monsoon.

It had been two days since I'd jerked off. My balls felt bloated. Overfull. Freighted with molten pig iron. My orgasm, when it came, was going to be a massive one.

"Gonna bust..." I moaned, my testicles drawing up against my shaft.

Then Billie's hand was gone, leaving me writhing on the precipice. It was agony. I fought the urge to finish myself off. I didn't exactly how to win this strange, twisted game we were playing...but I knew that if I jerked off, I lost.

When I heard Billie move again, I was no longer sure where she was. My unfinished orgasm seemed to distort time and space.

"Where are you?" I whimpered helplessly, cock jerking and spasming in the air.

"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 inches from mine.

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

And then she started 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 my head. "...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 kicked out left and right, then wrapped around my waist. She was shockingly strong. I was just a marionette 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, Billie?

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 of hot, half-liquid wax. I was trapped and suspended between two white, perfect, utterly titanic breasts, a cleavage-abyss that encircled my neck 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 far 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 in a grave of living flesh that no male could abjure.

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 it feel, being someone's prisoner?” 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.

With no warning, I started cumming.

The world ended. I screamed and screamed. The sound must have pierced the walls like a fireball, scouring the blank moonsodden face of the mountain. Intensity. Pure intensity. Sensation dialed dialed up to eleven, then the knob snapped away. Cumming.

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 distend to give birth to those loads, stretching 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. They pounded 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 fifteen seconds.

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

My cock went 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.

Billie had only begun.

She began climbing all over me, gripping like a spider-monkey. "You're about to fuck me," she hissed jaggedly in my ear. Dementedly. "Fuck me and fuck me and fuck me!"

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, a conduit for lightning. Heat clashed against heat. I felt wild shudders grip my body.

My dick exploded back to life, jutting and wagging furiously, seeking 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, by order of the Queen, caring—about anything—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.

I buried my face in the hot concavity of her neck, whimpering into her popping tendons and muscles. Her pussy walls seemed to cling and drag at me as I slammed my hips up into her.

Billie was sobbing. Or laughing. Or screaming. Her huge, hefty breasts were squished against my chest like gallons of soft dough. Each upthrust sent them jolting up into my chin, over and over. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

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 grinding, moist, rhythms of our fucking tumbled out into the cool air like the babbling of a brook. An endless, primal sound of desperate animals doing what desperate animals do.

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 off the couch, into black space, landing on 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.

As I felt sperm rising up from my balls, I lunged forward with my hips, impaling her eight inches deep. Then again, and again. Her big ass wobbled and clapped with the force of my thrusts. I felt drops of her sweat shake loose, and splatter over me. My lunging drives into her moist core her were apocalyptic. The most shocking part of each one was that I came back.

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 grimly clung onto the edge of consciousness—every muscle in my lower body burning, my reproductive tract feeling like it had been flayed inside out—all I could hear was a heartbeat.

Beat, beat, beat...

...whether hers or mine, I could not say.

---

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. I 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.

I finished by fucking her in the ass. Like everything that had happened, it was spontaneous and unplanned.

My hard cock found her hot, pulsating asshole, and slid inside. As I plunged my shaft inside her shitter, she let loose a strangled cry. Her butt tightened around my dick. She bucked her hips back, her assflesh and thighs jiggling.

Next I had her bent over, doggy-style, slamming into her dirty bowels. Each pump of my cock triggered a gasp, a grunt, a moan. A miasma of sweat and filth seemed to hang around us.

Down on all fours, Billie's hair spilled out of her bun, obscuring her screaming, orgasming face. I scooped up that hair, and pulled her head back. She screamed again. Her huge boobs whirled in figure-of-eight patterns underneath her plunging, surging body. I was fucking her to pieces.

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

"FUCK ME! FUCKMEFUCKMEFUCKME!" she gasped, a broken toy. Her overfed ass cheeks billowed obscenely as I tore through her asshole. My bloated ballsack loudly clapped against her drooling pussy.

I buttfucked Billie Eilish into one climax, and then a second. We were working on making it a hat trick when I felt my cock surge and leap inside her bowels. I unleashed torrents of splooge into her butthole, my 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 together.

One minute passed. Two. I stood up, my feet shaky. My cock pulled out of her rectum with a disgusting BLORP sound, going flaccid in the air. Her asshole gaped obscenely 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. I'd had six orgasms, and given her well into the double digits. Somehow, 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 Billie's asshole 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.

As I navigated the twisting labyrinth that was Geico's roadside assist helpline, I heard an orgasmic scream ring out from the cottage. Billie had frigged herself to that last climax.

---

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 orgy 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. Countless dried splatters from all the places Billie's pussy 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 my ass, my alternator was 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