Jump [from PROWL] – Sean Kilpatrick
September 20, 2020
Jump spun at once, peering under blood-red bangs. Rearing into a hunch, she recoiled in the desk for emphasis, and spoke as if addressing her extremely petite hands with a crucial piece of news: I heard you’re an anal vampire, she declared, zero inflection. I can feel your AIDS on the back of my neck. Which strain is that?
The strain with your name on it, because I’m giving it to you tonight.
Why wait? Jump, preserving vicious eye contact, spat in her palm and smeared it across the surface of my desk. Jump’s crimson, bobbed hair and sardonic vamping, her freckled face slurring ironic anger, a hint of light neon pink nipples, no bra – instigations you used your dick to settle. She had a two-hundred IQ and vodka in her water bottle, glassy greyish red eyes, the ultimate empress of every scene, fucking busloads of guys and girls out of boredom. She told me what my thoughts about her were, then had the nerve to interrupt them, which ended up making her a specialty of mine.
Go conference with your buttplug about me. Religious kids use them to stand up straight. She knew I would devote myself to nibbling her. According to competing gossip mills, Jump was either thirteen, skipped ahead for belittling too many grade school teachers, perhaps making them commit suicide over her report card, or nineteen, sitting in on high school classes for a lark. I snatched the paw she’d extended, a difficult acquisition – she ingested numerous stimulants – and combed my thumb over the rest of her spittle. Droopy-lidded, smirking to a coterie of cool girls who worshipped her nearly as much as I did, Jump tilted, askew, passing me through a rather intimidating processor.
Looks like your plastic surgeon hired a repo man. Pippi Longstocking shoved both rollerskates up her cunt.
Stop trying to install a diving board in my shit-cutter. Rape…
I released her wrist. Each iris was a black chasm, submersed pupils, haunted genetics. She swerved the chair, itching her back with a middle finger. Lucky guess, I jabbed a pincer into her side. She was almost unseated, atomically tickled, spilling booze on herself. Seen as uptight for the first time, she dangled an arm behind the desk to block and strike when tickled again, if the teacher wasn’t near. She threw a few quite serious punches that felt nice.
Guess you showed me, faggot. She was red beneath the freckles.
You’re gonna wet your desk, I whispered. She squeezed her knees, wrenching pelvic, thighs working cinched, groaning in fury, an eruptive cough.
Someone shot your stork out of the sky. His Maxipad wings stunk too much.
I’ve swallowed periods the size of you. Curious about having your egg ate? We formed a truce on the topic, her denying I had a chance. Another day in class, cutely bullying, she leaned back, let the skirt ride up, and played her tampon string like a harpsichord. There was a full firing mechanism to her meanness because she knew how good she tasted. I began reciting loud, courteous inanities to cut her psychoanalysis in half. If she doubled down, I opened some sublime chance to subvert the vulgar display of IQ, alerting her to the contrast between her big attitude and diminutive frame with enough malevolence that she might feel attention meet contention in her clit. Everyone she provoked could toss her a couple yards. The vehement ugliness she harbored met mine well. Existing on this low of a level amused her. The debarment she faced jousting this epically in public enabled her to eschew the social rewards she’d grown bored with anyway. She lost impunity with her crowd, for a moment, liberating me to present the threat of something far beyond the previous limitations she’d never taken complete advantage of in the field of hot girl cruelty, an ambient frontier between us, carrying her further sopping and insatiable – the possibility of who and how to maim. One of us was going to hurt the other before we came, by innovative means. The trick was to assault ourselves with reciprocal vitriol, a rebel duet. The idea that someone else besides you got it, that both parties truly understood the depths of a fucked endeavor, was dangerous. She seemed like she’d benefit somehow from being kicked down many flights of stairs, landing aroused. We had a matched afflatus, a chemical animus hate-fucked into quality riffing. Her bookmark was a pissed on pregnancy test. She became my only thought: besting her in battle, winning our long drawn fuck, no matter the wait.
After one month of this, Jump strutted by, tonguing a hall pass, reaching into her khakis, flicking period blood at me. I tried to catch it in my mouth. We both froze. I smelled the hemorrhaging air, lithe copper riptide. She’d finally made the mating spray. The incoming violence of a response shivered through us. The entire building went silent. I elbowed open the boy’s bathroom door. Her stance broke, capering to escape. I shoved her in. We couldn’t break eye contact. I set her on the sink, knocking the faucet on, spraying us. She slapped me, split my lip in her mouth. I strangled her against the mirror, so she could see her breath leave. Legs anchored, humping upward, panicky, we stepped into a stall. I jumbled her soaked clothes off, Jump mumbling not to tear them, and held her torso levitated. Adjusted parallel, she seized my cock, stated drolly, jackpot, and set us entombed beyond any tempo I knew, like being petted with a balloon as it saturated itself, filled and emptied, along your nerve endings, like the interiors of all our cells were entering a controlled burst together. It was a psychic dialogue of fluids, conducted into a connection that was meant to stay. We fucked, an onomatopoeic diction, clanging the toilet lid. A dick puppet that moans via the ventriloquism of my thrust, girl instrument pinching her innards sonic on me, waving regulated and relegating, she issued come shudders, mousey groans, ramping her G-spot, a hand on either stall wall. I tried clutching her throat from behind to regain myself, nearing several trigger points, leagues behind, shocked the rattling from her center hadn’t forced me to come yet. Somewhere in the effluvium of space time, she grunted and leaned, shoulders to my chin, so I could strangle her better, and tasted my blood in a kiss. Some dolphin noise began, up from the sinewy grip, her syringe plunger pussy throttling into its own separate fuck motion, a suction stroked as she came, sponging me forth, simultaneously, gasoline bounced against coral, a rift of fugue so monumental to our blood pressure that I didn’t register her juts of: kill me, rip my uterus in half like a phonebook!, bricking off her backboard guts, sprung propulsive, our engine giving in, corked by the billions, knotting in her curve, wobbling slickly, a bungeed wharf, alveolpalatal waver, an underwater heartbeat. She curtsied onto me, spouted in a pout between her labial port and cervical puckering. The last absent grind downward left me unable to lose the erection. Peeling us apart with an audible pop, quivering, but hiding it well, she loped into her destroyed clothes, whispering: shut the fuck up, though I couldn’t speak. The stall slammed. Faucets, turned high as they could go, sounded deafening. It took me a minute to notice she’d draped several lipstick covered napkins over my dick. I was upsettingly hard, despite having exploded more material than ever before. Each rope had escalated higher in her than was healthy. She had been a challenge to breech and enjoyed pain more than usual. The sensation of her tightness remained around my cock-base for days. I couldn’t jerk her off of me.
She ignored me in class. I began speaking French at her. She did one of her lethal spins, pouty, mock crying: aw, you thought we were going to rewire the stars together. If you impress me, it’s by sheer happenstance, including getting me to come, which rarely happens. Bravo, but luck runs out, and so does my patience.
Can’t hurt a reputation that doesn’t exist. That’s why I can fuck you right forever. No worries who you might tell if I fail, and I won’t. Plus, we’re meant to be together, mon chéri. J’taime!
Dude, she intoned, placing her hand on my chest and shoving. It was funny because I was sitting and had no direction to be shoved in. Cursed to stay hard in her honor, I fidgeted with priapism through study hall. Jump appeared, unquestioned by the sleepy monitor. With an evasive shimmy, she unzipped me and coordinated the sleeve of her jacket around my erection, stroking through the polyester. I ruined the interior, kindly capable of going limp again. She pinched the load in at both openings, wrist and shoulder, and scampered away, murmuring: I’m going to make a clone of you that doesn’t speak. In a window outside the classroom, Jump tilted back, sleeve at an incline, and drank a Jager shot of my contents. Against the glass she pressed her cum-smeared lips, squeaking an X over where I sat – to erase me with my own seed.
Fill me like a balloon till my insides pop, chief.
You mean bust the condom, I managed, letting her breathe, checking for passersby outside an empty classroom. Don’t ever use a condom in my presence. She fought free, stripping, sticking her tongue in the plastic ear of an anatomical model. By some necrophilic impulse this made me jealous. I’m not calling you daddy. I want someone scarier than any disciplinarian. All your bygone liaisons were about an insane need the girl felt, appreciated, and relented to – triflingly consensual, if disassociated, and filled with tandem inertia, she droned, spitting an alcohol-laced wad into the model’s eye cavity. They felt themselves through you, which isn’t enough. Now I need you to be about power in the worst permutation of the word, so I’m wronged in the act of making more wrong. She spoke my name to me, sounding genuinely bellicose, and was taken regardless of resistance, according to orders. She landed several strikes and was slapped almost unconscious, fucked against the lab table with such force she had to grip the sink to keep level. Swatting at herself as our propulsion inflated into an inwardly hammered constriction, feral muscular barrage, wrung out by the abdomen, head of my cock trapped, she cried out, coming: fucking murder me! Teeth raked the cheek I smashed. A series of convulsions stumped us. Collapsed partway off the table, dazed and bruising, she tried calling me a pussy, jaw swelling shut, and instead hocked red bile onto my shirt. I stood her by the hair and manipulated the model, its ribcage nudging ridges into the meat of her breasts, ass kneaded against plastic. She straddled a floppy femur, shoes and knee socks spattered with piss. I mashed the decapitated skull into hers while she sucked me hard again. Scraping the hollow face clean with her tongue, she gathered my shirt and blew another stain into it. You’re still just about love, she honked. Seeing Melissa strut by the darkened room, Jump removed a wet shoe and exited nude, intercepting her. Melissa, possibly high, screamed and ran down the hall. I pinned Jump in the corner of the doorway, scooting her ass up, brick by brick, and set her on me. The other shoe dropped off. We pumped, twisting into a gallop, diaphanous marionette digging her heels in. Sharp steps rounded the corner as we shuddered. I waddled back in the lab with her on me, final pulses completing. She dressed and we adjusted ourselves, walking in different directions. I couldn’t get her off my shirt. Questions were trotted out. No one believed she would speak to me. There was never an explanation for why the skeleton wetted itself.
You love elevating a pheromone into an idea. I’m your private icon. But people only go to church once a week. Mister, I will make you hate me, because I want to be your whole fucking day, for eternity. I will deem myself your worst behavior. She unstrapped a spiked collar and put it on backwards, riding harder. I’m willing to go deeper than your beauty can take you, I tried. For whom, she guffawed. Me, stupid. I tightened the collar. Lines of blood ran down her torso, sticky patterns fucked between us. She was like a butterfly perched on the tip of my dick, trying to beat the wings off its body, battering her own daintiness. How vain to suggest anything can be established between people. You are not permitted to think we count. Each syllable bounced out of her joined into another word. You fuck me like there’s no one else. But there’s tons of others. She drawled my name at me. I yanked her close by the hair. A fistful came free. She yelled: fuck that smarts. I took her by another. Her bruises and hickies and scars and cuts shone in the light of my room. I put every light I had on her body. She was pink from the nipples, asshole, and slit, to every mark on the milk of her skin. I’ll fuck you till we end the species. I decimated my tip into the cunicular tininess of her asshole, lubed with blood and spit, and tapped food, snagging soft blockage, spraying against tissues forcing shut. Froth winked to the surface, whitening the torn spokes of her asshole. I slammed my chest with her collar’s spikes. She seemed intrigued. Blood siblings, I said, mashing our wounds together. Cute, she sighed, weaponizing her boredom. In public places, we’d inform strangers that we were brother and sister, then commence a sloppy make out session.
I needed to know where she was, twenty-four seven. I wanted elaborate stories about how she put her socks on – security cam footage of her life, past and present. I felt nauseous if I couldn’t see and feel her. I planned to mutilate the families of whoever she expressed a passing interest in. Every day was about what I could do to her.
I see the center of entropy in reverse when you hit me. The universe wound back inside its can. A type of constellation god has to fuck born, not coming to conceive, shooting just to lube a path carved deeper while humping, and that red image fills my sight. Satan’s geometry redesigns the sky. To live without having been conceived. I come myself lost from the room I’m in. Pinched free of objects, invalidated by the source that caused me to reach too high. You’re just an impetus. I only become royalty when I’m numb.
The most affectionate thing you’ve said, I tickled.
You’re not hearing me. A relationship will never compete. It’s like taking your treadmill to bed. That’s why retards excel at it.
I knew she was right, but being right couldn’t curry a feeling.
Shush, scat dad. When I was six, seven, eight, nine I understood sex, masturbated constantly, provoked my friends to participate: sleepover frottage, lesbian oral, penetration with boys my age that didn’t quite work right yet. Then I saw him, the man I would make molest me. He ran a funeral home. I paraded by, underdressed, in what, at first, must have appeared to him a parody of feminine wiles. But as you can assume, I was already approaching this good of a butt, and my strut was always top shelf. There was enough there to project potential sex, a suggestion of tits, which I implored him with, continually, sneaking in and asking about the bodies, speaking boldly, like an adult, unafraid of death, curious and aroused by it, in search of daddy’s guidance on the topic. One day I asked him to lift me up to peer in at an embalmed maiden, grinding my ass on his pants. He got hard, an elephant phallus. I knew exactly how to handle it, leaning back to aid with friction as he pressed me against the coffin’s wood. I sensed, or hoped, he’d violated the cute bitch on display, like he would me, and gathered a nice loogie that made her glued eyes unpin. His cum eked out on my wittle arborescent tights. He put me down, all awkward, and became taciturn, deodorizing our spills. But I addressed the matter, emphasizing my advanced awareness and, beyond that, enjoyment. He showed me the crematorium. Cadavers get funny in flame. They sit up. They do a kind of Claymation waltz. He eased that tree trunk in me while we watched them burn. Set me on a slab, fucked my organs up bad, a suspended puberty. He measured my static. I stayed small for him. We were in love. I needed so many stitches. They kept sewing me back up too tight. I was running out of bicycles to blame. My organs blinked like bulbs snapped in the middle of their glass by his dick. It must have looked like he was performing the Heimlich maneuver on a doll. After I vomited myself into a permanent runt, he decided to crawl in the furnace, asking me to turn the knob. I obliged, but cried for days. What a classic. Who else but a suicide is worthy of respect? I still belong to him. We were too beautiful to continue. Later, I’d hide inside the coffins, taunting bereft men to unload, but all that got me was an incompetent therapist with no grace in bed. How can you, a mere classmate, compete with my rapist? It’s not fair to you. I was the first faggot before genitals were invented. And there ain’t enough of you to rub ashes on my clit. You’re my panegyrist. He was my cause of death. I’ll never feel your icicle intrude in stages, inserting itself up me till I turn sterile. The memory of you hasn’t left me barren. That’s all a girl asks. Penetrate me till a chalk outline would be superfluous. I shouldn’t exist when you can’t see me. If I exist to you when I’m away, I own you. If I don’t, you own me. Own me more. Become a client of the individual. Kay?
I set Jump’s landing strip pubic hair on fire with a lighter and licked the smoke. She helped me cram a hunting knife between her opened labia, hips twisting on flat metal, gentle slices as it went diagonal, stabbed intact to the hilt. We took turns snorting glue in class, rubbing each other over our uniforms. I vaulted my arm around her desk. A stapler broke open at the handle shoved in past panties bunched sidelong, mouth of the carrier crowding deep, gripped slick. She bucked back and forth, kicking reflexively, till the clack came, and sat wincing another ten minutes, waving off concern, scream bit into her palm. The stapler finally dropped, disrupting class. Helping her hobble to the restroom, I reached in and dug the bloody staple free, nail of my finger latching into suctioning punctures. Flakes of cunt wall dried on the teeth. We savored our teeny relic. Now she could absorb more through her pinholes. You insist on caring, she whimpered. Nothing is mutual. Come to my house.
Jump’s house was destroyed, a barely standing squat, no discernible family. Broken dishes and bloodstained walls, burn-marked carpets and fast food bags, toys in obscene positions from some sibling no longer alive. It smelled like she’d pissed in every closet for a year. Rain drizzled from the cratered roof, forming pink and black molds I mistook for shadows and people standing in them. Her room was padlocked and had a waterbed that looked new, clean and canopied, worth thousands. Mirrors with white lines covered the comforter. I never fuck sober. I’d fall asleep, Jump hummed, wiping her powdered, bloody nose with a snort. I leashed her, bent over, high off resinated mucus. She raised up inside like a single large goosebump. Nylon cushioning propelled me lengthwise, accepting, then giving the more I shoved. She sprang, nimble bounds twerked erratically, rolling my content sunk. Hair and nipples redder against enveloping shades of ruin, rosacea overtook her freckles and we came, homologizing as one, slapped buoyant in a prolonged finish, leaking with the platform, blending into mold together. Even her whisper echoed: no one has lived here for a thousand years. I chiseled her into an amniotic drown bubble, swallowed alive from behind, and barged through, pruning the rind, fist between her shoulder blades, collapsing us into split rubber, a blood-colored splash from the bed’s center, a tide gulfing by the gallon. Striking sopped padding where she disappeared, cartilage in my knuckles cleft against the deflated frame. The lacerated mattress sloshed open around me, dahlia broth saturating the bones in her pelvis where I could see myself swell. Sections of ceiling caved and sagged, splintering wet splinters, like the house had orgasmed with us and could no longer stand. I walked about with her on me, just a stain, hearing only that sarcastic purr because the body would never be found.