[SS-191] Muscular Boss

written by: hitowski

follow him on twitter: https://twitter.com/jingyu52Hz

[MUSCULAR BOSS]

There's nothing but the gently drip of sweat forming down, making it utterly noticeable how his pecs was developed into something more of an artwork. He was like Michelangelo's David, well something like him in my eyes. How he built his system about making sure he was as desirable as I did, and how he practically makes people beg to be bed by him is something I would only fathom.

And to all that machismo and inordinate humility? Fuck him. He was admittedly perfect.

I sat across him, me in my camisa de chino, cargo pants and ninja-esque face mask. And he was there wiping his unnecessarily naked body in front of me, knowing fully well how it would make me feel. He knows my hunger, like he knows how hard I wanted to submit to him.

"Tagatagak pawis mo ah?" He put his hands in front of him and haphazardly let the face towel rest in his hair, maybe a sign of resignation.

"Kasalanan ko ba na mahirap tong ginawa nating furniture? Pa-arte arte pa kasi yung kliyente natin." His hands were calloused as hell. The perks of being a carpenter, I guess. But his hands are one of his strongest points, as I remember.

"Que arte nga." I gulped. He smiled, looking at me involuntarily swallowing.

"Uhaw ka na ba?"

He stood up and flexed. My eyebrows rose, him clearly misunderstanding that notion quite a bit.

"Gago. Hindi yan iniisip ko." I adjusted myself. He smirked. I was in deep trouble.

"Pero ito din iniisip ko, eh. Tagal na din diba?"

"Oo, punyeta. Isang buwan na din." He slowly approached me. He continued flexing. I continued swallowing my saliva. This was not good, at any means.

"Boss, lika na." He held my wrist and aggressively dragged me to our warehouse.

"Fuck you."

I felt him grind himself on my ass. His moans were evocatively erotic, as much as his body was. Deep, guttural and striking down on my groin with a thirst. My hands gripped the workbench a bit harder. His hands moved to my waist to press my ass deeper into him.

"Tanggalin na natin damit mo Boss." He said, while whispering into my ear and licking it as it was his own personal lollipop. My cargos fall. My sanity and thirst fell with it.

I turned around as I noticed him shimmying off his blue boxers off. He then approached me with that fucking wide sexy ass grin and used his hands to manhandle my legs to wrap around his waist.

"Kapit ka lang Boss."

"Walang Boss-Boss dito." He stopped me, with his mouth. His tongue, our kisses. This familiar and erotic rhythm we had. Something regular and occupational at the same time.

I could feel him lick my neck as he pushed himself deep, into me.

"Putangina, ikaw favorite kong pinsan gago."

#RP69fanfic by @saekkinamja04 Part 2

Paramour Act 3

Act III: Expresso Shots

He was seriously gorgeous. That was my first thought when I saw him. Gorgeous and mysterious akward. Like he was some kind of brooding Bruce Wayne loner caught in one of the Joker's clown parade. Which we actually are in: a stupid class A clowning party for a three year old child's birthday.

He was just sitting there, silently observing and looking around. As if he contemplated on nothing and everything at the same time. He was also sipping a Starbucks coffee, maybe some kind of caramel frappe concotion, while wearing a business suit which looked funny considering the clown party we are in.

"Hey Daniel, what are you looking at?" Jennah says, while she lugs her big plate of spaghetti towards me. "You looking at him? He's gorgeous you know?"

"Jen, you know how he fits my bill perfectly." I say as I spin my fork around a handful of spaghetti to eat. "He looks...brooding."

"He's Kris. My hubby's boss. He's always like that, he says. Smart, charming yet brooding and very silent. No bullshit man." She elbows me, making me almost spill my spaghetti. "Want me to introduce him to you?"

"Kinda. Let's see how it goes though first." I stood up and got my plate.

I saw him looking forlorn, looking at the children frolicking and playing around with flimsy colored balloons. He smirked. He sipped, and looked again.

"Hey, mind sharing a table?" I say as I set down my plate. He doesn't seem to notice me, and just mutters a simple hum which I thought was agreement. I proceeded to finish my plate of spaghetti while looking at the sight of a green yard filled of children.

"You know, there this solace about children having fun while we adults think about deeper issues, responsibilities and purposes not fathomable by our child's brains." He says, as he shakes his coffee.

"So you have a child down there, I bet?" 

He laughed. He set down his coffee and pulled out his cellphone to look at the time. "No, I'm not the kind to have a child."

"Then, you're with your girlfriend?"

"Are you fishing for information on my status?" He chuckled, beaming his perfectly white teeth. "Because if you are, I'm single and available."

"So that means, yes I can date you?" I smiled back, and he seemed suprised. His quiet demeanor was broken, and he kinda got lost on this.

"Too forward eh? Didn't even ask if I'm gay or straight."

"Well it's worth a shot. People don't exactly figure me as gay material either."

"Oh come on, you're probably laying with a lot of women and men with that cute face and built body that you have."

"Wow, already checked me out huh? Flattered, and yes I would like to take you out to coffee."

"Haha. Let's see." He offered his hands. "Kris. Kris Magdantay." I shake his hands.

"Daniel. Daniel Lumbrero."

From then on, we started to hang out more. Running, hanging out at his local coffeeshop, talking about books and philosophy and whatnots. He matched my intellect well, and he made me think more.

He made me read books I never read, and made me write more. I had made him run and exercise more too, in return. But then, he made me understand what his situation is. How underrated he really is. How unlovable he feels like. Who Basil is.

Which now is standing in front of me.

“I can’t choose between you two. I love you both.” He said, with his eyes full of confusion. 

“But you can’t choose us both. It’s either me or him.” I said, looking at Basil with seething eyes. And then, looking at a defeated Kris.

“Obviously, it will be me he’ll choose.” Basil retorted, with him gleaming his teeth to me.

“Please say it’s me… you know how much I love you more than this bastard.” I held his hands. He looked at me, and withdrew his.

“I can’t.” Tears suddenly burst his eyes, and I forgot his face right then. I got the ring in my hand, and put it on the table next to his coffee.

“If you can’t choose now, then I’ll never be yours.” Basil put his ring that was hanging on his neck beside mine. We looked at him.

“Choose me now. Or else.” Basil said.

Only but silence. His tears fell, and he couldn't look at us. I picked up my ring and threw it in his face. I walked out. He was nothing.

He wasn’t able to choose. Because he wouldn’t want to hurt another person like that? Because of the fear of hurting? So the recourse was to let us both go even if it hurts like hell? So that the only heart that was to be broken was his?

----------------------------

He was walking the street, holding his hand. He thought this wouldn't be possible, but it did.

Basil was holding his hand too. And he smiled as his smile shone through the sunlight blazing behind him. He was happy, Basil was happy.

"This marks around the fifth year of our meeting each other." He said, caressing the back of my hand with his fingers which were interlocked in mine. "Do you ever regret it?"

"In some way, yes. I lost someone I loved, and I gained someone who I would love." I let go of his hand and pinched his right cheek. "And that gave me you."

"But we lost him, and god knows how he is right now."

"Well, it was kinda his fault too." He sighed, and nodded in agreement.

"I guess he was an asshole too. But I never thought..."

"That what Basil? That you would end of loving me of all people?"

"Yes, Dan. You. That fucking asswipe who stole my ex." He laughed.

"Speaking of which, do you know what happened to him? To Kris?" 

"I don't. Everyone lost him too that day. He left without word and haven't even been seen ever since."

He began to pull me away, towards that giant ferris wheel over the bay. "We might miss the fireworks, babe." 

I laughed, got dragged and knocked an innocent bystander in the process. "Hey, not too fast."

"Haha, let's go!"

------------------------

I've seen them, holding hands. Like the way I've seen them everyday on my mind. The way I got hanged up on having them. Of loving them and losing them. Of both people regretting to know the real me and having the persons who knew who I am leave me. 

And unnecessarily them being in love.

I look at the mirror. My hands grasps them, albeit crushing them a bit.

"This is what you wanted right? This is your dream? This is what you need." I look at myself in the mirror. All I see is something devoid of hope, of purpose.

I take them, one by one.

My visions cloud my eyes. Of bright pulsating colors and the smell of acid burning. Of splotches of white and black, paint spills and frenetic colors.

I feel myself falling, slowly. Seconds drawling in the silence. I feel like floating, behing the throbbing in my head. I feel happy.

I raise my hand towards the sun, and look at the splashes of red in my eyes. Dripping. The sun is crying red tears between my fingers.

I close my eyes. I loved them.

Paramour Act 2

follow the author @soujiroshinta on twitter

Act II: Macchiatos and Frappuccinos

I watched him every day. Is it mere coincidence? In the years I’ve seen him, in college and in high school, he didn’t change. We were batch mates, yet we were never friends. I didn’t have the courage to even talk to him, or even look at him. But I have always liked him.

I have always looked as his aquiline nose, his deep eyes, his whitish skin, and his downcast mouth. I have always seen him be the best he was, as he was one of the most accomplished person I’d ever met – running the school’s publication and being a scholar while being the student council president.

After graduation, I hoped to talk to him. But I hadn’t got the courage to. He was as silent as a tree that day too. I guess, him having no one there to see him accept his magna cum laude medal or hearing him speak eloquently on the podium was driving him into a weird sense of loneliness.

I didn’t even think I would ever meet him again. I was hired as a CSR – Outgoing, sales. I wasn’t anything like him – I wasn’t a high achiever. But when I looked at his Facebook page lately, he was still unemployed. That struck me as odd. He was usually as busy and as scattered as a bee. He wouldn’t want any dull moment.

Imagine the surprise when I saw him walking across the street, walking towards my office. I quickly checked with the people in HR (one of which was my buddy-buddy) and asked if there was someone named Kris Magdantay on the hiring pool today. There was, my buddy said, and told me people were quite impressed by him. I’d asked if he was scheduled to have an interview today too, since it’s past the dayshift were the bigwigs usually work at, and my buddy said an affirmative. He’d have a meeting today. And the meeting will end exactly when my “lunch” break starts.

He was hired. I knew that from the smiles the HR officer had leaving their meeting. And I’d seen his scowling face turn into a somewhat smirk after that meeting.

I followed him, discretely, to see him go into a dainty coffee shop - the same coffee shop where I chanced seeing him after work last week. I guess he was a regular there now.

I should be eating. But instead I followed him to that café, deciding that I should talk to him, just once. I ordered a Venti brewed coffee, just enough for a quick long chat. I tried to think for a lame excuse to sit with him, and good enough there were less than few open seats around the coffee shop.

I was tense and my hands were shaking as I walked towards his table. He was in his usual gloominess, staring outside the window as I stood opposite him and sat. I was thinking: Will he recognize me?

“Excuse me, can I sit here? Apparently, there are no seats available.”

“Hm.” He grunted.

“By the way, I’m Basil Arrieta. Nice to meet you.” He didn’t recognize me one bit. Perhaps, because I had always tried to distance myself from him, he didn’t even remember me. But I saw the faint glimpse of recognition/ pass through his eyes.

“Yeah, you too...”

I think he gave up trying to place me in the numerous people he knew, as he looked towards the streets again. Maybe he was oblivious to the fact that I was here, or that maybe he recognized me as he continued to ogle at the window to look at empty spaces.

Was he always this gloomy?

“Do you regularly go here? I think I’ve seen you a number of times here already.” I took a quick sip of my Venti brewed coffee.

“Yeah.” He averted his eyes back to the street.

“Uhm, so a CSR of a BPO? Night shift?” He looked across the street just as I had.

“Yeah, Sykes. Just two blocks away from here. Just relaxing before going home.” I said. I took another sip. And another. And another.

“What department are you in exactly? I’m at Outgoing, Sales.” Oh, so he works there too. Figures, he seemed so familiar to me.

“Oh, I’m in HR.” I said as I put down my coffee, now emptied.

Yes, I confirmed that I still had feelings for him. The crush I had that I thought I had forgotten was still there. I waited for an opportunity to say what I wanted: a chance to say that I had this inane crush on him. But as I opened my mouth to speak, he put down his cup and started to gather his things.

“Thanks for the time. Are you here the same time tomorrow?” I said, with him still putting his books inside his leather messenger bag.

“Yeah.” He stood up, apparently looking at his watch.

“Ok.”

I spent the entire night thinking about him - about how he changed and how I still had this admiration of him. I could still remember the times I watched (or rather stalked) him – how I knew his favorite food, his perfume, his usual garb – and how it killed me that I couldn’t be with him. The usual face he has, the frown that certainly cannot be wiped from his face and how his body reacts to everything. Ah, I can’t forget him. Ever.

And then we started to talk and drink regularly together. One time, he said he’d rather date men that date cynical women. And he said to me with subtlety that if I were a woman, I had a big chance. I was shocked; he admitted he could like me. That was enough for me. I admitted I loved him, and he said I’ll try to like you back. I could see the sincerity in his eyes.

But I could also see the anxiety in him. Maybe he knows I was too obvious in liking him. Or maybe he knows the real me – the me who had loved him for over years. But I dunno, we gave it a chance.

A year passed by without event. No big fights, no squabbles, no jealousy or something. We were just a happy couple. We dated regularly, watching movies or hanging out in his flat.

Toot. Toot. Toot. Texts here and there, no answers, no replies. Calls. Out of signal or cannot be reached. I was fuming. How can he not remember? And the trouble I put setting up my surprise in his flat.

He came home in his flat, dead drunk. As soon as he saw everything, I started to leave.

“Wwait, please no.”

“You don’t even remember what this day means to us.”

“Wait, sorry. I’ll get you… uhm.”

“An anniversary gift? For what? For me loving you?”

“It’s not like I had a fucking say on this!”

“Yeah. Okay, I give up. Take all this shit and dump them in the trash ok? I’m done.”

“Done with what? You think I don’t regret this?”

“Yeah, that’s the point. You regret. What do you think I would feel when the guy I liked for so many years can’t even like me back?”

“What? I like you.”

“Yeah, enough to forget that on this day, you finally gave me a chance. A chance I was so desperate to get. A chance you gave me, not because you liked me, but because you were trying out other things.”

“I give up.”

“Fine then.”

I left him alone, and I was cold. But I still know that it wasn’t the right thing to do. I conflicted with myself. He was drunk. I was fuming. That doesn’t add up to a nice celebration. By the time I decided to concede and go back to him, I saw a bag full of everything I prepared for today outside his flat, and his door was closed shut. He left, the neighbor said, a few minutes after I left.

We had never talked since. I saw him in and out of office, but I had no courage to talk to him. I wanted him back, I was sorry. I was content somehow in me loving him and him liking my company, but I had a point. Why can’t he love me? I mean real, full blown love that can take your breath away. But I had forgone my feelings now.

Paramour Act 1

follow the author @soujiroshinta on twitter

Act I: Distressed

Fuck. No word can describe the scene I am in. Two guys, fighting for one person - me. 

I told each of them that I loved them both, that I’ll never love another man as long as we’re together. Stupid promise. I loved the way each of them paid special attention to me, and my every need and want. Yet, I love them both equally and unconditionally. And there’s no need to fight this way.

They punched, and groaned, and bit, and slapped each other to hell. Even trying to interfere was a waste of energy. They claim it would be a waste of time for me to join in, and they shouted for me to back away so I wouldn’t get hurt.

I felt sorry. For the way I mistreated them both, for falling in love twice and simultaneously at that. They say “love is unstoppable. Once it pierces, it will never heal.”

At last, after an hour of bickering and menagerie, the fight was over. No one won. They looked at me, though, and insisted me to choose. But I know I can’t. And I won’t. I love them, and they both are a part of my life that I wouldn’t want to let go of.

“I can’t choose between you two. I love you both.”

“But you can’t choose us both. It’s either me or him.”

“Obviously, it will be me he’ll choose.”

“Please say it’s me… you know how much I love you more than this bastard.”

“I can’t.”

Tears suddenly burst into my eyes. I regretted this, deeply. I loved him. And him too. And I can’t choose. If I choose one of them, the other will surely hate me or despise me so much, he’ll think of a way to send me to hell.

“If you can’t choose now, then I’ll never be yours.”

“Choose me now. Or else.”

They waited for their name to be uttered by my shaking lips and my rash, sullen voice. But now, my voice is inaudible. They removed the rings I gave them, the promise rings, and threw it to my face as they left me with the aftermath of their temper. Things scattered around the floor. Tears running down my eyes. And two fucking rings, dirtied by the sin of its giver. I am numb. Sorrow swelled deep and robbed me of all other emotions. 

I wasn’t able to choose. I can’t. Because I wouldn’t want to hurt another person like that. So the recourse was to let them both go even if it hurts like hell. So that the only heart that was to be broken was mine. Rather than them leaving with tears, I’d rather let them leave with high proud faces. At least they will remember that somehow I still loved them. Gods, heaven could attest this fact.

------------------------

Going home was a big ordeal. 12 o’clock midnight, full moon looming over star-filled skies. A perfect setting for a quick caramel macchiato in an old school alley-like type of coffee shop. I stared at the busy street and the pedestrians that seem to wander off to some other place than this.

Anyways, as alone as I had been before, I drunk the macchiato while people watching: a great pastime of mine. And as usual, in my two-seater table beside the stained glass windows, I am placid. No one bothers me.

However, this 29th day of August, something was different. Sipping my usual caramel macchiato, he appeared suddenly. He tapped my table, sighed, and smiled.

“Can I sit here? Apparently no other tables were available.” This was of course, a lie. There were about 14 people in the café. This includes the service personnel, who now looked at us, as if something is incredibly wrong.

“By the way, I’m Basil. Nice to meet you.” He was familiar. But I couldn’t quite place him.

“Yeah, you too…” and I sipped my coffee as though nothing happened. I looked away, to the streets. But in the corners of my eyes, I could see he was looking at me.

“Do you regularly go here? I think I’ve seen you a number of times here already.” He said this with him ending the sentence with a quick sip of his Venti brewed coffee.

“Yeah.” I tried to look interested. I averted my eyes back to the street.

“Uhm, so a CSR of a BPO? Night shift?” He asked, with him looking across the street just as I had.

“Yeah, Sykes. Just two blocks away from here. Just relaxing before going home.” I said. I took another sip. And another. And another.

“What department are you in exactly? I’m at Outgoing, Sales.” Oh, so he works there too. Figures, he seemed so familiar to me.

“Oh, I’m in HR.” I said as I put down my coffee, now emptied.

Silence enveloped us. No one said anything, as we continued to stare and people watch. After a few minutes, he was also finished.

“Thanks for the time. Are you here the same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

From that moment, we continued to put up with that charade. Drinking our coffees (sometimes hot, sometimes cold; like macchiatos and frappes and brewed coffee) on my and now our special table near the stained glass window, as we watch people walking about minding their own shit.

I began to like him, and his effort. He always talked about himself, and I was always silent as a rock. I love the way he smiled and looked at me with such longing. I love the way his eyes seemed to pierce my soul with its hues that constantly changes every day. He was beginning to be perfect in my eyes, and even if he was just as nerdy as me, he was as attractive as a model in those shitty underwear billboards they keep posting at EDSA. We began to see ourselves more outside the coffee shop, and even in our workplaces and cubicles.

But I wasn’t really on a going home at that first meeting. I was in fact, just hired that night. I just went home later than I should be, and like now, I waited for the people to lessen. But I think he knew this fact too, as he never asked nor confirmed my schedule. It was always 12 o’clock midnight, coffee shop.

------------------------

We lasted for a year. We didn’t really fight that much. But we broke up over a petty little thing, with me not answering his texts. We both had a shouting match, in the middle of the street, where people mockingly looked at us with such indignation and scandal. And at that time, I met him.

Daniel was a different person altogether. He was more attractive than Basil because he was fit like those local celebrity hunks whose muscles popped in all too many places, but he was also more intelligent than I was. We talked constantly about things like the stock market, or the economical distress of the Philippines, or some other shit under the umbrella that was popped up in that day. He was the best friend of my colleague/officemate, and he was a person I liked since the day we both were coupled up at a silly children’s party game of said colleague/officemate.

We would often talk, and he would always have an opinion about anything. Like there was one time we talked about the global climate change, and he constantly rattled on conservationism and segregation. He was also a good talker, a soothsayer if you must, able to take you into topics that are as intellectually perverse as we make them out to be.

I fell in love with him, just two weeks after my public fight with Basil. As usual, I waited for Daniel again in front of the intersection. He stopped his car, opened his door and went to open the door for me, just as he had always done.

He held my hand suddenly. I looked up at him. And by then I gathered all the courage I had left in my body to ask him out.

“Can we, like, go out?” I said, blushing. He was smiling.

“Go out, means a date right?” He snickered.

He continued, “I hate dates, as they are as superficial as romance would allow, but I might make an exception for you,” Then he really smiled wide and winked.

“So does this mean you like me?” I asked.

“Don’t you want me to?”

“I do.”

“Why? Why me all of a sudden?”

“Because your brain is as sexy as those washboard abs you’re constantly hiding inside your shirt.”

He laughed. He thinks I was joking, or whatever. He just smiled.

“Meet me at 7pm. On the same place I fetched you earlier.”

We agreed to date. In a black and white post modern restaurant that was serving Asian-fusion cuisine. We dated, and went to several places and several malls every once in a while.

And that we did until Basil caught us dating. 

Silence. Uttering no words, I looked away. Away from the smart Daniel and away from the sweet Basil. Daniel was extraordinarily handsome that day, wearing a business casual set that seemed to lift out from the pages of a magazine. I dropped my fork, and looked up to each of them.

Daniel held my hand, seemingly unknown to the fact that Basil was there, and asked me if I loved him as he did.

“I love you, Daniel.” I answered.

“Really?”

“Yes. But…”

“But what?”

“Because he also loves me.” Basil enters, as he gets a chair and sits across us.

“Could we talk this through in another venue?” I said, fearing them, because the last time we had a fight, Basil was basically shouting my sex life for all to hear.

We drove to my condo in Makati, and we entered my room, where countless dates and memories were shared by me and them.

“What are we going to talk about?”

“I broke up with you, but I’m sorry. It’s been a fortnight, but you already replaced me with someone else? Do I need to beg you to take me back again?” Basil said.

“Please, we’ve been through this already.” I said, holding the door to a close.

“I take it back. I’m sorry.”

Take it back? My face seemed like it was under some mix of confusion and incredulously, Daniel sensed the story now.

“But he likes me now. He already told me that he likes me. So back off, you’re now only an ex.” Daniel said, while putting his arms around me and looking at Basil as hard as he can. He put his lips around mine, and I gasped.

“You fucking piece of shit!” Basil said as he shook with anger turning his fists and cheeks to a reddish hue.

WCOST Chapter 8

Follow the author @hitowski on twitter.

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7


CHAPTER 8

He saw the pulsing white fluorescent lamp beaming down on his face.  He wasn't drugged this time. He couldn't trust anything anymore.

To his left, was a plethora of machines hooked up to pads measuring his heart rate, brain activity, oxygen levels, and his I.V. To his right was a bedside table, a pot of daffodils, and a copy of Gaardner's Sophie's World.

He could only see beyond the walls and mirrors - everything was blindingly white. Confused, he started to sit up.

"Where is she?" He screamed.

A door opened quickly, bringing in a girl whom he didn't recognize in. She was slowly walking towards him, indifferent to his abrupt tone.

"She's gone." She said, whilst looking at the machine to his left.

"What do you mean gone? I held her beating hand a little earlier!" He started to shake, uncontrollably.

"She died." She sighed loudly, as if burdened by the weight of imparting that news. "She was crossing the street while in a daze, and a car ran over her as you yelled her name, as eyewitnesses put it. So it was all your fault." She scoffed and wrote something on her notepad.

He couldn't believe this. He hadn't remembered anything like that.

"And where is she now?"

"As I said, dead. Probably at the morgue."

"Take me to her."

"Don't be stupid. You're still seriously injured. You'd been traumatized, and now you're hysterical besides the fact that you know you can't do anything about it."

"I want to see her."

"You will, in time."

"Go away."

"Fine." She sighed. "You really want this?"

"I do. Get the fuck of my fucking sight." He screamed at her, his voice almost echoing throughout the white corridors.

"What should I do with you?" She exasperated. "All this fuckery for this?"

"Go the fuck away!"

"You're making it hard for me to remember you’re my brother." She said, turning.

**********************************************************************

She lost control. All she saw was white. White corridors and white walls and white sheets. The only color was red, his blood on him. His cheeks mired by it, flowing beneath his skin.

His breath was steady. She feels he would not sense her. At least know her touch, her itself, was there. He would never know, and would dismiss this as a dream.

"Hey, you." She said, leaning down his ears. "Wake up, dear."

He moved his face away from her voice, face tightening. She laughed. As always, she couldn't wake him up from any sleep. As he would be.

"You better get awake. I'd rather fuck myself out of this and see you rather than make you be like that fucking ass of shit you are right now." She said. He smiled, a bit. Maybe he could hear her. Or maybe the anesthetic was so goddamn high dose.

"This is how I see you then? This lanky piece of ass?" She cried, her tears flowing down her cheeks. She looked back, towards the mirrors. She sighed.

"Look, I love you too much. Even if all I am was that goddamn amazing fuck." She sat down at this, him slowly turning to her. He smiled, letting his teeth gleam. She would never know how bright that would be, unlike now.

Wake up, okay? I'll check up on you soon." She said, standing up to leave. She went to him and placed a fine, soft kiss to his lips. "I'll see you soon, awake."

**********************************************************************

She sat down. She wasn't expecting that. He was saner than she thought. All those false memories they gave him? What effect did they have? Because now she thought that altering they did made him a bit better. But why did he make it that he remembered her? When he wasn't supposed to? When he should be looking for him. Or her.

**********************************************************************

6:57 AM. All I could see is the way he cried in my arms. The day I said that I wanted this over and done with. He never knew that I would be like this. That I would succumb to a pain like this, even if I had made fucking walls to prevent this. I made him go deeper, than anyone have been.

"You fucking asshole." He said, his tears flowing down.

"What now?"

"I'm never letting you go. I know you want this as much as I do."

His usual commercial worthy grin was gone. All he had now was something akin to a distaste, a disgust. All we had now was broken. Because I had to decide this foolishness was enough.

"I would still contact you."

"Not in the way I want. Why the fuck would you want this shit? I thought we were happy."

"I did too. I wanted it too." I sat down. I realized I was so tense, I was eager to run and flee. He could sense it too, by the way he guarded me against leaving.

**********************************************************************

He never forgave me for anything but ruining his life. I never forgot about him, as much as I did try to. That’s why this is a more fucked up life, sitting here empty and emotionlessly numb to anything real. That’s why I wanted to change people who haven’t got the thought of anything, of breaking down their walls and trying to fix them. Trying, in a way of fixing them, so I could pseudo-fix myself.

He never as much as gave me another chance. That was his choice, and that was my choice. He chose to become a memory to me, and I chose to become something I rather hated. Someone who succumb to a life of meaningless routines and norms, one who abandoned his ideals and love to become a robotic asshole.

I gripped my coffee mug harder, not realizing the pain of the heat. I looked at my hands and remember how frail my hands were in his. He never had any real thing to anchor my thoughts into – just a smile, and his overtly suggestive touches.

Sighing, I stood to look at the windows of my office, looking down to the ordinary people walking around Makati. They never know, they just hustle and bustle. Their singular idea is closed to change and it’s an ideal that all people fall: I need this. Badly.

**********************************************************************

We purge ourselves.

Into thinking that somehow, what we had was something tangible, something we might hold in our hands. But our own fears have put our thoughts in disarray. We are only memories encapsuled in a singular name. All we remember when we think of what is the truth is that there exists a certain portion of universal acceptance that this is the truth and this is what is fundamental to our systems. But it is not.

**********************************************************************

She left me, her tattoos drawling accents into the lamp lights. I saw her move, thinking I was asleep, and picking up her things. She was this momentary lapse of judgment. She wanted me, I wanted her, and we wanted this.

She had her back at me while I pretended to sleep, her hips accentuated by the shadows of the dingy motel room lamp. She was putting on her clothes, in a hurried manner. Maybe she thought I was still asleep in her mind.

“I guess, thanks. You won’t hear this, but, yeah.” She said, kneeling down and looking at my face, scrunched up in an uncertain emotion. I kept my face still and breathing normal.

“I know you’re not sleeping.” She finally said, as she closed the door, leaving me to bask in the darkness of the room. I guess, I never had any inkling that she had said her final words to me. And as I remember her, her words had certain finality to it, as was saying goodbye to a long time friend would sound like.

The very next day as I was sitting back at work, I learned she was in an accident. Apparently she was crossing the street and a sedan ran over her speeding. She wasn’t rushed to the hospital, she wasn’t found until an hour later, where her blood ran over the pavements. All I had to tie her existence to mine was her tattoos, her smell, and a false name. Who was she in my life, a momentary singular memory: a name that spelt out memories? A flicker of recognition that a word could evoke a myriad of thoughts, sights, smells and words, spoken softly on my eardrums and reverberating.

She was that. And less. And I know I will forget her once I forgot her name, that she would cease to exist in me as I forgot her.

**********************************************************************

She left, her notes sprawled against the recesses of her table. She wasn’t going back anymore. Not after that.

He could go to hell. He could, really. But he really was as pitiful as he was, her brother. She closed the doors to her office, leaving the unidentified notes of the mindfuckery they did to salvage his rational thought.

She decided that she was no longer privy to his existence, that she wasn’t needed anymore. And he made it certainly clear that what they had in that room was final: He was nothing but Pinocchio. And she was Gepetto.

[SS-060] Germophobe

Guest entry penned by @hitowski

[GERMOPHOBE]

I was already tired. And sweaty. And fucking irritated of his mess. Every single day I needs to clean up his mess. It wasn't his fault though, he was too damn busy to clean up. And he wasn't like I am, a neat obsessive-compulsive germophobe who wants everything in that same precise order.

I grasp the vacuum's handle that much tighter. It reminds me of him, of his girth and his longing tongue. Of his sweet nothings while pounding into me, gently, passionately and hard like what I wanted. I bit into this piece of toast, hard and crunchy. Reminding me of how his lips taste: sugary and buttery, like the aftertaste of some spring time picnic affair.

All I do is to remind me of him. And I'm getting harder in anticipation of him coming home. Coming, to me. Him, in me and on me. Me and him, our souls intertwining.

A doorbell rings, and I hear a bunch of keys clanging in the silence. He enters, him wearing that fine black suit accentuating his deep robust chest and fit torso. That thinly veiled sheen on him, that caress his clothes carry while he was standing in front of me.

"I'm home, babe. Well, aren't you glad to see me?"

"I am. You know I am."

"And you wanted me to tell you how fucking hard it is to prevent myself from taking you here right now?"

"That's why I wore this. To get you distracted." He leans in, kissing my neck and etching his lips on me. He scarrs me, claims me as his. 

"You look fucking sexy, babe." I kiss him, deeply and search for his tongue. He responds with an equally fervent kiss and a much needed grind. He pins me to the door and lets me know how fucking happy he was.

"I know suits turn you on so much, babe. Just as much as I love you wearing nothing but your briefs." His hands travel from my face to my nipples to my abs. He grins.

"Want me to seduce you, babe?" He puts his hands slowly inside my briefs, grasping my hardness tightly. I moan, he growls. I grasp his coat and push them off him, his collared shirt now screaming from the violence. He helps me remove his coat and his shirt, making me watch his arms bulge under the stress and pressure, while I grind onto him and make him feel that much appreciated.

"Fucking suck me already." He beckons, pushing me down. His slacks bulge vehemently against me, making me moan with a hunger he had seen in me before. I want him, now. Deep and guttural, in me.

He unbuckled his belt as I start licking hin down, him and his clothed glory hard enough for me to break concrete in. He reaches in and get himself out of his slacks, dripping.

"Here's your prize for being such a great neatfreak." Slapping me with his thickness, I groan and lick him, from his balls to his shaft and his large bulbous head. He purrs, and grasps my hair in a bunchful. "Suck me now, babe."

I take him deep, and he pushes me down further. Nearly gagging me, he growls. "Deeper, babe. Yeah how we like it."

I suck him hard, wet and slick deep. My head bobbing up and down on him. I could taste his precum on my tongue as he counters with a gentle thrust.

"Hmm tasty." I stop sucking him and looked up to his deep brown set eyes.

"Fuck yeah, want me to fuck you now?" He says, while pulling me up and hugging me. I can feel his hands roaming my bubble butt, asking permission.

"On the bed, babe."

WCOST Chapter 7

Follow the author @hitowski on twitter.

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6


CHAPTER 7

She dragged me to bed, her hands small and wiry but pulling me forcefully. She wants it as much as I do. We are chemical reactions burning: an enormous burst of endorphins bubbling over our libido thresholds.

She began holding me down there, and I gasped.

"Fuck, you always put me on the edge." I looked down at her, trying to take me in.

"You're nearing so fast?" She said, slowly drawing me.

"You do realize that we haven't seen each other in about a week right?" I said, as she stopped. I laid down on the bed, her straddling my waist as she leaned down to whisper.

"Precisely."

**********************************************************************

6:37 PM. She was sitting down, looking forlorn. Blankly looking across the table, to his chair. The soup in the kitchen boiled over. The pasta's burning. Everything's out of time. Like her hopes, they ran out and were totally out of her control. Utter hopelessness isn't the exact term to describe the enormity of pain she was experiencing. Maybe she shouldn't have accepted this. Maybe she was foolish to try to change things. He was not hers anymore.

When they said they would treat him, she thought he would become better. That he would recall everything. He was so lost in this dream world he created, losing focus of what was real.

She was distraught at this, and sought any and every kind of traumatic psychological cure. Even a false panacea. Nothing. Nothing would work, even after all these years. She had almost quit. Like now, like how she felt when they said it's not working. There was this brooding sense of loss, all over again.

**********************************************************************

Her tattoo is etched in his memory. This memory of her cuddling him, taking his heat, under the covers, wrapping her body in his. Him, thoughtlessly sketching with his fingers the complexity of her tattoo. Line by line, curve, color and hue. Everything was his. And hers. And ours.

She giggled.

"Stop tracing me."

"So, you're ticklish here?" I said, repeating what I did earlier. She giggled.

"F-fuck stop." And then she laughed, hard.

"What's so funny?" I asked, deliberately tickling her until she gave up. She then stopped giggling and laughing like crazy. She turned, looking at me with deadpan eyes.

"The fact that I let myself see all of my faults in a short amount of time. That's what's funny."

"What's hilarious is that I fell for you."

**********************************************************************

He grinned. He would not take that statement  lightly. In fact I think he would revel in that. He would hang it on his walls, proudly like a diploma.

"And you finally admitted it."

"That I've let my walls down? Yes. I did, you are my most blatant mistake."

He yawned. He pulled me closer to him, his chest pressing towards my face. Damn his adonis body. He then proceeded to caress my hair and face with his fingers, which scored as many commercials as his grin.

"At least I topped one of your lists." He chuckled. I looked at him confused.

"You like that?"

"As long as I'm here. By your side, I don't care if you see me as the worst mistake."

How does he find the perfect words? I don't know.

"Fuck your words." I sighed, crawling deeper into his embrace.

**********************************************************************

Project is now complete. Altered memories now implanted.

**********************************************************************

"Dr. Jung, the tests are now cleared. There are no spikes. Test subject now neutral." She said, writing ineligible words on her notepad.

Dr. Jung sighed in relief. He sat himself down to the nearest chair, where he pondered the gravemen of his unethical treatment. Poison and electrical short-circuiting the brain to his liking, and implanting memories to replace traumatic ones: this is an exercise of science that the world has considered dangerous and unethical.

But who could stop him, really? The scientist who refused his treatment methods? Those who branded him a murderer for trying to experiment on humans, whereas those people foolishly hid themselves from doing the same thing?

He stared at his office, with those random thingamajibs running across him: a Rube Goldberg machine. He stares at it, balls falling and climbing and sliding. Thinking that in some way, everything is now done and complete.

He has successfully did and proven his experiments are now possible. That we could alter human memory and thinking and inhibit and exhibit the powers of the human brain. But somehow, Dr. Jung feels empty.

**********************************************************************

6:47 PM. She walks across the street to look at the skies. As though all thought has left her, she walks mindlessly, bumping a large number of people towards moving towards that park across the street.

She waits for rain, beseeching the skies. The forecasts told her the rain would come today, a large downpour at around nighttime.

**********************************************************************

She walks towards Room 637. She hasn't still got quite used to seeing him. To him, he was just a lab rat. To her, he was human. A broken man, faced with trauma. A human who'd been injected and opened and re-broken numeral times to figure out how his pseudo-Alzheimer's worked. A human who has been tested too far by any and all pharmaceutical companies.

Who loved too much. Who broke out of his own mind. He was her brother. And she was a willing participant to his brokenness.

She gazed at him, somehow she hoped this cure saved him. That the mild disconnect between his reality and this reality, where he lies drugged and mentally mapped, could be merged into one. She gave up enough of her pride and stomach for this.

He laughed hard. She heard him across the glass observation pane, somehow breaking the monotony of thoughtful silence she had while observing him. They didn't know, Dr. Jung and the other psychs. They didn't know how deep she was in this subject.

When Dr. Jung started treating him of his false memories, of his breaking his mind with drugs and surgeries, she was kind of elated. This was a medical breakthrough: a patient in his 20s severely traumatized enough to shut his senses to a reality, enough to break his memories to the point of not acknowledging his present stimuli and be stuck at the past like some pseudo-Alzheimer's while alternatingly changing his memories at a quick emotionless pace - they had a number of these patient cases but what he had was something else. He had this predilection to change his memories to fit his reality: changing he to she to he, talking about his love dying in a car crash while that wasn't really the case, him stating a differing number of odd details about his life that didn't come true. It was as if he was implanted memories of a life that was not his. A  life of a fiction.

**********************************************************************

6:57 PM. All she saw was light. White, blinding light surrounding her whole being. She gasped, her breath losing quickly.

**********************************************************************

"So great, huh?"

"What is great? This feeling of complete oblivion?"

"Yes and no. The feeling of forgetting all your woes away."

"With sex?"

"No, with fucking love out of our systems."

WCOST Chapter 6

Follow the author @hitowski on twitter.

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

CHAPTER 6

Crazily all I could see was white. White walls. White sheets. White ceilings. White tiled floors. White desks and lamps and tables and syringes and iv drips and cables and buttons.

Everything is white.

It was all I can remember, after that nothing else. On how I recovered? i do not know. I just know after what happened, all I could remember is you dying in my arms.

Of you going away, far away from me.  All I could see is you creeping your fingers towards me and waking me up.

"Don't sleep. Stay awake."

"-Awake."

Awake.

Awake.

Awake? A term I didn't know matters much. But to you, me being awake is what mattered most, even before struggling to survive. All we talked about, all we said during your last few minutes: they weren't a dream aren't they?

**********************************************************************

I feel you pulsing in me. I feel every bit of you in me. Like liquid, you begin to flood my every inch, there is nothing but the feeling of you, making me whole.

But that's all I am now, right? Something a fraction of a whole, something lesser than me. Because you are gone. Part of me has gone where you took it as you breathed your last breath. And I have to depend on these to become whole again. That somehow, you in liquid form, could mend me in moments.

That is a wish. And an ineffective medicine.

**********************************************************************

"He should be taking this in stride." He said. He clasped his hands together, resting them on the olden oak table.

"Yes he should have been 'cured' now. But he has a weird side effect to his trauma that we did not expect." She sighed. This was getting nowhere. At the very start, she was against this. Against using him, as he was going to be unstable.

"He must've been easy to bend. There are no tricks to him. He's very clear cut about what is black and white."  He said. He knew he was the one who pushed them to infiltrate his mind. And he guessed it would work well. But it didn't, and they're getting pretty impatient.

"Then we should try to upgrade. I think it's time for Phase Circe to start on him." She said, without any emotion on her voice.

**********************************************************************

He held my hand. It was invigorating,  his fingers lay between mine. Interlaced. As though we were shoelaces on the sneakers of that shitty punk rock hipster across the street.

He smiled. Goddamn toothy, commercial worthy smile of his.

"So you reckon it's better for me to accept this, do you?" He said. He let that sentence dwell on me, looking and searching my eyes for a hint of aversion. Of course not. I wanted him to stay.

"What else am I going to do, when you must've ended your lease and brought out all your fucking clothes and things here?" I said. He knows he will win this time around. I opened the door wider, not minding that I was only in my boxer briefs that time.

He then dropped his bags and held my face in between his palms, inching closer at a speed faster than airplane should be. I closed my eyes, waiting for his lips in mine.

And then I waited. And waited. Until I opened my eyes in irritation. Fuck him.

"I'm fucking happy, babe."

"I know, so fucking kiss me already."

"And what, do that here, in front of your house? Announcing to your neighbors that that popular commercial ad hunk from the tv is your boyfriend?" He smirked. Fuck him, twice.

"I don't care."

"You really don't." He said, laughing as he pushed me aside and dragged all his bags inside. I could only roll my eyes at this. I began to help him put his assorted random things inside my flat. Clothes, a few choice small furniture, and a big box filled with whatever crazy stuff he has.

"Why the hell have you so many fucking things?" I said as he put inside that last box filled with books. Homer's Illiad, Milton's Paradise Lost, Alighieri, Rowling, Martin, Tolkien, Kiirkegaard, Foucault. Hmm, never knew he was a reader.

I lean on the kitchen counter, pushing the button of my coffee machine on. He sits in front of me, sitting on my dining chair as though he was in a commercial, crossing his legs and leaning towards me.

"Cause I usually travel a lot when working, I had to live of essentials that you could simply haul away. But I'm finding it hard to leave Manila right now."

"Why? There are more opportunities for your cheesy ass work, not to mention you're the type that could go anywhere."

"You're here."

"And what's that got to do with your work?" I sneered. I wouldn't admit it to myself at that time, but I was inexplicably happy at that statement.

"My life now revolves around you and this shitty relationship we have. Deal with it." He hunches forward, grinning. Damn, he's hungry.

I pour the dark brewed Ceylon coffee on two equal porcelain mugs. He looks at me interestingly, like I was something to eat. Uh-oh.

"What shitty relationship?" I said as I approach him, giving him one cup. He pats the seat near him for me to sit on, and turns towards me. He took a short sip and smiles.

"This shitty relationship." He leans in and kisses me. I can feel his moist damp lips on mine, and feel his perfect white teeth on my tongue. I can feel him probing mine with vigor I returned.

I groaned. He laughed. His hands were on my waist, stroking every inch of skin. "You're too cute."

"You're too hot." He smirked. He hugged me tighter at this.

"Stop complimenting me."

"I'm not. You're literally, hot." His hands were now on the crevices of my back, touching every bit of skin.

"Then let's take this to the bath so you could cool down?" He smiled.

Fuck him. Literally.

"You just want to see me naked."

"Touche, my dear, touche."