This is the beginning of a pornographic apocalyptic novel. There is a lot of sex, but also a lot of narrative and scene setting. The Earth has been 'infected' by organisms that can penetrate space and time and go in and out of dimensions. They work to break down the human race to their primoridial ids, burying the superego. It is a work in progress and will need a lot of work. Any comments are welcome!
Fifty rounds per minute, the A4 held close to his chest, the air five feet in front of him as thick as blood, dark with smoke and fog, debris from a city slowly going back to its primordial roots. Fifty rounds per minute down the alley east to the river, no enemy in sight, but fully aware that they were there, swarming from the river banks, from the sewers, the subway tunnels. Sweat dripped off his body as he tried to control the powerful machine gun and the chain wrapped tightly around his waist, which led to the two naked women at the other end, thick metal collars around their necks, the heavy, two-inch links dragging them practically to all fours on the concrete sidewalk. He continued firing, oblivious that his cock was growing hard as a rock, throbbing with every single round: this happened during the Storms, an uncontrollable lust, it seemed as if sex spread through the atmosphere like a virus, invading everyone. He shuffled backwards, trying to fire in spite of what his throbbing, aching tool was telling him, struggling to pull the two naked women with him to the safety of the steel door and the tenement building where they lived, or hid. His cock was now completely, utterly hard and he could feel the cum pulsating through his loins, gushing through his shaft, and as he pressed his finger down again on the trigger, the hot cum exploded from his cock, erupting three feet horizontally before gravity pulled it down to the sidewalk. He felt his knees buckle, but he knew their safety depended on him, and he remained standing and firing, his cock still hard, despite the violent orgasm. The blonde, her chain leaving sparks on the sidewalk, hurriedly crawled on all fours to where the semen had been spent, bent down and tried to lick it up, before he tugged as hard as he could with his free hand on the chain and jerked her back. She shuffled away and came towards him, grabbing his thighs and collapsing onto his cock, her mouth greedily sucking his spent, yet still hard shaft. The other girl- the brunette- shifted over to the blonde, and bent her neck, burying her face into the blondes crotch, eagerly licking. There was no time for this, and he jerked the blonde away and pulled the brunette up by her collar. They quickly retreated, as quickly as they had dived into each others' bodies and lunged for the heavy, grey metal door to their right. He slammed the door open with his hips and they fell through with an angry thud. He dropped the gun to the ground, pushed the door closed and latched it shut.
The Storms were unpredictable. Sometimes they lasted hours. Sometimes they lasted weeks. The only thing predictable about them was that they were guaranteed to come. There were holes in time, in space; there were dimensions that even the greatest of physicists had no knowledge. These were holes in which all of humankind was turned inside out; where the superego was suppressed and each person's id came raging to the surface like an untamed beast. At first the Storms were mild, and the media attributed them to a slow decay of the societal fabric: mass murders in Houston, gang rapes in Chicago, a massive increase in divorces, drug and alcohol abuse. It was as if the whole world was simply following its innermost pleasures with no thought for anything else. And this was, of course, what was happening. No one, however, knew it was because of an organism that had swept through the entire multiverse, unleashed by beings that were simply incomprehensible, beings that initially took the disguise of single-celled organisms: in the air, the food, the water, turning people inside out. And so society turned on itself. Nothing mattered unless your needs were satisfied. And in a world where the fabric is frayed to nothing, that is what you are left with: chaos.
He leaned against the cold metal door, sweating and breathing heavily. The blonde crawled back over to him and took his cock in her mouth. The brunette reached behind the blonde, positioning herself so she could suck the juice from her pussy. His cock grew hard as rock, pulsing in her mouth, and he held her head tight to his crotch, slowly moving his hips. This was the micro-organism, he knew; this was the Storm. Constantly hard, constantly in need of sex, of fucking, of exploding load after load of cum until he couldn't stand anymore, could barely breath. This was the Storm: two beautiful girls, kept on chains to contain their insatiable, unquenchable appetite for cock, for cum, practically turned into animals. During a Storm, that was it: you were constantly on the quest for whatever turned you on the most. For some this was drugs and alcohol, but those people never lasted much longer than the duration of the Storm. The city was littered with the dead bodies of junkies and drunks. For others it was food, and these became the de facto leaders, the most logical of the group, although they, too, did not last very long, gorging themselves like dogs until they were out. During a Storm, money was useless. Money couldn't suck your cock. Money couldn't stick a needle in your arm. Money couldn't feed your stomach. The Storms reduced people to Stone Age times, bartering for whatever you needed to survive. Sex was money. Drugs were money. Food was money.
For him, these two chained girls, the blonde girl with his spit dripping from her lips and the brunette, whose slurping could be heard over the explosions that littered the city, were money. They were his key to survival, as was he to them.
She was beautiful, the blonde, even in the midst of all of this insanity. Her hair was long and silky, her eyes deep blue, and she looked up at him as his cock disappeared down her throat. She was begging him with her eyes, begging him to cum. She sucked deep and hard, gagging as she deep-throated his thick, eight-inch shaft. He held her head firm and began to fuck her face. He could feel, once again, the cum surge through his shaft, like the ammo coarsing through his M-16. He pulled out of her mouth and with two strokes, exploded onto her face. The cum dripped down her forehead, in between her eyes and into her mouth. She licked what she could. The rest she let drip, reveled in its hot warmth, its sweet stickiness. The brunette came up from the blonde's legs and kissed her friend on the lips, dragging a single finger through a bit of cum that was on her cheek. She sucked the finger greedily and smiled.
He pulled the two girls to their feet and entered the tenement building from the basement level. They would go up to their sixth floor apartment, where he would stand guard at the window, overlooking New York, the East River black with blood and bodies. A whole world being eaten up by its own desires. It would soon be night. They would fuck over and over until they passed out from sheer exhaustion. In the morning, he knew, they would be hungry and it would be time to cross the river to the Island and get food. Until then they would remain at home, where they could safely weather the Storm.
They walked up the five flights of stairs to their apartment, securing the basement door from behind. The other entrances to the building were welded shut, in addition to another level of steel he had managed to seal off. He was working on sealing all of the other apartments as well: scrap metal was easy to get in a world that was falling apart. The stairwell was unbearably hot and by the time the three of them had reached the top, sweat was pouring off their naked bodies. The girls long hair was thin, sticking to their bodies. The cum that covered the blonde's face had now mixed with her sweat and dripped down her neck, in between her large, firm breasts. They were quiet, panting audibly.
He entered the apartment.
He had lived here for almost a dozen years and the place was much like it was before the Storms, which happened over a year ago. He had moved here with his wife at the time, to the big city, to make a new start. She was a writer and he had just graduated from nursing school. He had a desire to work in the emergency room of a big city and New York seemed perfect: the pace, the diversity, the intensity of life. The apartment had changed a lot, of course; however the couch they bought when they moved in, and a framed picture of a New England sunset on the south wall were still there, remnants of a more peaceful past. He collapsed onto the couch, the girls- still chained- next to him on either side. The brunette reached over and began stroking his cock. The blonde slowly and mindlessly began rubbing her pussy with two long-nailed fingers.
Since the invasion, only one thing mattered: the satisfaction of the id. The constant, utter manic feeding of the pleasure center. In this case, without satiation, the host would die. Without constant orgasm, without cumming, he would die. And without fucking, without cock, without bathing, worshipping, eating and licking the sticky, hot cum of men, the girls would die, too. Literally, they lived to fuck. He let the brunette stroke him until he was large and oozing again, and he stared at the gorgeous blonde next to him, rubbing her pink pussy until it was dripping wet, softly moaning as the orgasm built up inside her. He closed his eyes and thought of a time before the darkness, before the Storms. And, unfortunately, it was hard to remember that there were times, for him, that were never dark. His cock grew and grew in the brunettes hand. She teased the head with her finger, rubbing the pre-cum all over the thick, bulbous head. His mind went back to a time years ago, when he was still married.
The blonde's name- the one writhing next to him, moaning in ecstasy as she jammed three fingers in and out of her pussy, rubbing her clit with the other hand- was Johannah. She lived across the hall from he and his wife. She was an attorney for an investment firm on Wall Street. Each morning she would leave the house in power suits and high heels and come home late each evening. He could hear the clip clop of her heels against the marble floors. She was quiet and more prone to mellow evenings at home with a glass of wine, then wild nights out in the clubs and bars of New York City. She didn't seem to date much, either. In fact, he hardly recalled her ever having a man over, although he was sure she did go out once in a while. In the hot summers, he and his wife would leave the front door propped open to let the breeze come through, and so did Johannah. Occasionally, she would stop by and his wife and Jo would sit at the small kitchen table and drink a bottle or two of white wine. He would stand, leaning against the stove or the sink, and soak in every inch of her body he could: the long, silky blonde hair that reflected the light like diamonds, the small beads of sweat that glistened on her bare shoulders and the back of her neck, the way her spaghetti-strap tank top hugged her huge, firm breasts,thin hips, and flat stomach, her thick, strong legs crossed under the table, flip flops dangling from her red-nailed toes. He was obsessed with her, this much was sure. Years later, he could still tell you exactly what she was wearing, the color of her nails, whether her hair was piled loosely on her head, or pulled back in a pony-tail, the shape of her earrings, the smell of her skin. It was this quiet obsession that destroyed his marriage. Johannah never knew how he felt about her, and never would, at least not until the first couple of Storms hit New York.
He was friends with her on a social networking site, as was his wife. It wasn't unusual. But he would peruse her photo collection almost everyday, dragging and editing each photo until he had a collection of forty or fifty photos of her: in a bikini on a Mexican beach; wearing a small black dress at a New Year's Eve party; posing happily and sexily with girlfriends at a summer get together; tight jeans and boots at a California wine-tasting. He would stare at these photos, sometimes two or three times a day, and stroke his cock until he came, shooting semen all over his stomach, moaning her name: Johannah, Johannah, Johannah. It was these photos that his wife found on his hard drive. It was these photos that he couldn't explain to his wife- a woman who was no dummy- and didn't need to explain. She quietly left his life, packed her things and moved uptown with a friend. Since she left, they never talked. It was as if she had never been there. With the exception of the couch and the sunset, there was nothing left.
For months after she left him, he was in a deep funk. He only left the house to go to work. He tried to improve, knew he had a problem, deleted Johannah as a friend and dumped all of his photos of her; however, as much as he tried, each time he heard her come and go, the sound of her heels or boots on those marble floors, his heart would race and his cock would grow. And then he would take his shaft in his hand, moan her name again, and cum, dreaming of being inside of her. Sometimes, in that first summer after his wife left him, he would leave the front door open, hoping to hear the familiar rap on the door and the sing-songy hello. But he never did. That is, not until the first Storm rolled through New York.
His intense lust for Johannah, the undoing of his marriage, came well before the first wave of microorganisms crossed through the wormhole into this solar system, targeting Earth. But as those alien narcotics crept into the ground water of upstate New York, and into the water treatment plants of New York City, his lust seemed to take off into unknown heights. He found himself calling in sick to work to stay at home and jerk off to her pictures. He printed them out and hung them all over his apartment, his walls hanging with photographs of Johannah’s recent life. He would jerk off five, six, seven times a day, moaning her name, imagining fucking her tight asshole, or wet pussy, or her lips wrapped around his shaft. It got to the point where he would stare intensely at a photograph of her- her mouth open in a soft “O”, a tiny t-shirt hugging her breasts- and explode in a sticky, hot eruption, continue stroking himself back to hardness, and erupt again. He was delirious with wonder. As the TV played an endless parade of burning cities, of mobilizing armies, of hazmat suits and mass evacuations, he continued like this for three days, with little rest, until the power grid went down.
New York City in the middle of summer can be unbearably, dangerously hot. The air on the sixth floor was stagnant and still. He lay on the floor of his living room, naked and spent, surrounded by pictures of Johannah and pornstars that looked like her, their bodies filled with cock and covered in cum, when he heard a rap on the door. He lay still for a moment, his heart about to jump out of his chest. The door rapped again.
Hello? Hello? James? Anybody there?
He stood up and looked around him. His breath left him. He began to frantically grab the pictures, when he realized it was simply too late. If they stayed in the kitchen, she probably wouldn’t notice anyway. He could very well act like he wasn’t there, but wanted- no, he needed- to see her. He pulled on a pair of shorts.
He opened the door.
Johannah stood before him, in nothing but a pair of small, blue cotton panties and a tight, baby blue tanktop. Beads of sweat ran down her face and chest. Her hair was piled loosely on top of her head and she had on a pair of big, hoop earrings. Her nails were painted red, to match her toenails. She entered the door, brushing past him, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, just as she had done a hundred times before with his wife, and sat down, wiping her brow.
“My God,” she said. “I am so HOT.”
He stood, mouth agape, in the narrow archway between the kitchen and the living room. There were still dozens of pictures of her hanging on the wall. He didn’t know what to say.
“The power is out,” he managed. “Its probably close to one hundred degrees.” The words felt like they were coming from miles away. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe Johannah was in his house, in her panties, sweating.
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’m fucking HOT.”
And with this, he watched her reach her hand down beneath the fabric of her panties and rub her pussy- the pussy he had dreamed about for so long, the pussy he had erupted to over twenty times in the past three days- as she writhed, her sweaty body sliding on the plastic chair, moving her fingers over her clit.
“Things feel so fucking different now,” she moaned, still rubbing her pussy underneath her panties. “I just want to FUCK all the time. All the time.”
“James,” she said, looking him directly in his eyes. “Will YOU fuck me?”