14 December 2008

Breasts

This short prelude to the iPlant novel gives some background on Ike. It takes place before Ike joins the research team at the clinic, and precedes the all other events in the novel. Some explicit content.

It was the fucking tits. The primeval, all-encompassing, undeniable fullness of them. Smooth and warm and alien like lava. He'd squeezed them, squeezed them and felt them push back against his hands. Again, and again, and again; squeezed and played with the nipples; one, then the other, and with each short breath her chest moved and the breasts hung between his fingers; molten rock merging his hands with her human frame.

She held him, hugged him, whispered to him, pressed her rough patch against his and enveloped him in her intelligence, her ribs, her bones, her firm stripes of muscle. But it was the tits, the breasts, the exotic. He'd squeezed them, moved them like they were part of him now, and they squeezed him; fed him, fed straight into his midbrain and held it as he held them; squeezed it as he squeezed them and he groaned as electrical discharge crashed into his frontal lobes.

She stroked and kissed his forehead, one with the chemical storm in there, but he kept his lips pressed firm against her breasts, rolled his head against them; one, then the other, again and again and again, living every second far beyond himself, living only to express the indescribable lust they were in him.


Two days later he injected 125 milligrams of cocaine into his left cephalic vein. Over a pair of fucking tits. It'd been three years since he last injected, three years since he was thrown out of medical school and had fallen through his own safety net: never ever inject. Never ever ever inject.

He'd been too rough with a first year intern and she'd told the higher-ups about the stolen morphine he kept in his dorm. They had stripped him of his identity with feigned incredulity. That night her brothers had all but smashed his jaw off his head. The black arc of his self-destruction had caught up with him then. Unable to continue his passion for biology and medicine, unable to resist the smoke, the drink, the powder and the acids, and the underworld from whence he got it all, he found himself too strung out to maintain a job. He'd lost it for a time, waking up soaked in wine and sweat and cum and vomit, unable to remember where he was or how he got there. Eventually he travelled to China for a year, hoping to resume his medical studies with a clean record, but never broke the language barrier and soon found himself back in Europe; in Paris this time, living in an attic with a small group of speedball junkies who kept afloat by producing and selling high-quality porn.

And yet somehow he'd kept himself from injecting. Somehow the hope lived on in him that if he kept up with research, stayed in touch with benevolent teachers, kept asking and kept contributing, maybe one day they would let him back into the flock. Not as a doctor perhaps but maybe as research officer or department administrator, anything really, if only he could come back and be where he belonged.

Until now. His body shook but his hand was steady as he penetrated the skin. God damn it! He could avoid the drugs, could avoid drink and bars, even cut himself off from the other users still undiscovered at the school. But women; women, bras, thongs, transparent white linen, tank tops, bright voices, long hair, the thrill of seduction and the primeval dance of sex; the tits were everywhere, calling for his starved midbrain with never-ending streams of pure monoamines, plans and fantasies. Until now. Now that the moment had come and gone even the siren song of tits had silenced and he was alone with his thirst. He had been defeated by the comedown off a pair of fucking tits.
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