"Rixa" is an OC, just some girl. Just some life. Just getting it on while Hoarders is on. This story is gross. Enjoy?
Wiimote button pressed. Netflix loaded. Axel's thumb hovered on the select button. "Pick something."
Rixa rolled onto her naked stomach, jamming her fists under her chin, glazed eyes watching Parks and Recreation, The Office, Always Sunny in Philadelphia, all blink by on the menu.
She made a sucking noise with her lips. "Hoarders."
Axel snorted. "No."
Rixa swiveled her eyes to him, prepared to stare him down for submission.
Axel threw the Wiimote onto the mattress after pressing "A." Wasn't worth fighting her over it. His penis was already twitching in his pants. "Hoarders it is."
Hoarders: Buried Alive. Editing music drummed on between cuts of boxed clothes and cockroach armies as Axel shed his pants.
Rixa shoved herself onto her back, assuming the position, the storyboard they'd slip into every night, Monday, Friday, Tuesday. Weekends. 5:44 am. Lunch.
Axel's thick hands starting yanking her jeans off, staring unreservedly at her bare chest, hearing the familiar sound of denim sticking to her sweaty skin as it slid down, another yank, over her ankles, off her feet, and she lay there like a seal, dead eyes staring at the old woman with rotting teeth describe fifteen cats pissing on newspapers.
"Rix," Axel's voice came thick and scratchy, "why do you make me fuck you," he had her panties off now, "to this trash?"
"I don't make you," the girl sucked in breath, feeling Axel's erection probe around her pubic stubble.
Axel's green eyes honed in on her face, her pink mouth slightly parting, her eyes, blinkless, reflecting a blue light from the television. "Won't even look at me," he thought, not as dejected as he was jaded.
Their love life had degraded like a pomegranate, redder and fleshier and blacker, decaying into moldy seed pits, and as he felt her cum lubricate his own cock and her thighs relax up into that impressive squat on her back, flexible only from repeated use, all her body responsive and prescient as ever, he couldn't help but notice those goddamn brown eyes, deader than a lab rat.
The TV droned with the snaggle-toothed mother naming Fluffy, Bandit, and this cat's gonna die because I can't clean a litter box.
Rixa's slick cunt opened so easily and squeezed around the throb of his dick, and Axel lowed as he felt that tubed pusle, palming her right shoulder, thrusting into her now, a big hulking mass of sweat. Pissed off, grunting."Just lay there, then," he really didn't care at this point.
The slap of their skin interrupted psychologist diagnoses and animal cruelty sobs, and Rixa would not look him in the eye, and her inner walls squeezed him and squeezed him and he was going to fire off soon at this rate.
He tried to give her something she usually liked, used to beg him for, a thousand years ago, and his other hand went to her throat, encapsulating it in long fingers, a skin-wrapped present, and she didn't even gasp for her gift, like a rag doll bouncing underneath him, in and out, and there was his release point, some veiny pop, and he shoved his face into her pillow, graoning next to her ear, his hips bucking like a horse, and she didn't move, didn't tense up, just let hot semen pump into her like a valve.
Axel's back started to heave, and relax, and "Fuck it, lie like a rug, I'll fall on you like a rug."
Rixa felt his cock shrink in her, and a puddle formed under her crotch in the mattress, and "Why wont he pull out of me?" But Hoarders phased into paper cup mountains, and Rixa checked out, and the nice white lady shoved the cat's ass in a cage.
"Axel, get off!" She shrieked. His whole body crushed her squishy skin, and she screamed and kicked her legs out, and some guttural chuckle escaped his lips.
"She's alive," he sloughed out, rolling off her to prop up on his bony elbow, pleased at his own jab, watching her catch her breath.
He glanced at the TV, at the cat shit fuming ammonia, and then at that white angel with black eyes, lids closing, her throat beet red from his death grip.
She coughed, and stared at the ceiling where the plaster lines formed pot leaves and giraffes.
She uttered three words for him:
"I hate cats."
Axel bent his arm and slapped her wet pussy, and she jumped a bit, his hand cold from all the blood rushing to only one part of his body.
"Bitch," he smirked, waiting for grievances. For a snarl. Anything. Silence. Nothing.
Rixa put a forefinger to her neck, tracing herself, eyes closed to him, closed to the world.
He wanted that angry reaction, that coy smile she used to flash him, used to touch his chest, used to leave scars all over his back from the nails she forgot to clip.
But Rixa looked more like a corpse than the mental patients.
He wiped the cum off his hand with the cotton sheets, and grabbed the Wii remote to shut off the reality show. Their reality show.
"Can I choke you?" he asked, whipping his red head of hair around, but Rixa was so still, so quiet, frozen in that dead man's yoga pose.
Her knee touched his leg, and he glanced at the shine in her dripping crotch, and he wondered what killed her. What sucked the life out of these people. Out of his baby.
"Rixa." Like he used a voice-changer, from asshole to gentle father, let me take care of you, I see you lying there, spent and sick.
"What?" She said. A little breath there on the "Wh," a little spark there.
Axel shook his head, curbing all the shit he wanted to say to her right now, trying to be some kind of supportive boyfriend, whatever that was.
He fell on his back next to her, his dick limp on his leg, his chest damp, hands behind his head, and "Oh my god," her hand went to his bicep, he practically flinched at her touch, snapping his head over to look at her, his lip curled up in confusion, eyebrows wild.
Rixa tried looking at him, keeping her gaze distanced on his forest eyes, pointy harlequin eyes, like he was waiting to win the lottery, to hear her come back to the room with him.
"Amazing," she crooned, air coming out of her mouth, dry tears crusted on her eyes, and he wanted to scratch that off for her, but he knew better.
He moved the mattress with his weight, scooting over to get a little closer, propping up his head, and oh, if only that free arm could just reach around her waist.
"What's amazing, baby?" He hated how he gave a shit. This was just bait. That little mirage of intimacy. Maybe she'd open up, maybe she'd crawl to the other side of the bed, slinking away to her own deserted island. Maybe.
Light came into her eyes. She licked her lips with a pause, shifted her shoulders, little preparation here. "What the human body can get used to."
Axel's eyes went from shock to some kind of joy, and he laughed so heartily, and bravely snaked that arm around her belly, "Finally," and he didn't care if she didn't want it, he'd drag her right into his dirty chest, and he pressed his palm in between her protruding shoulder blades, and his gut dropped a little, he couldn't remember feeling her spine like that before. Some bony demarcation, because "When did she lose so much weight?
"Don't. Fucking," his grin grew, laughing at himself, laughing at her, at this garbage bed, at their putrid sex, their monotonous Netflix agenda, they may as well have been drug addicts fighting withdrawal, "talk to me about Hoarders."
She didn't say anything, but he felt her hands on his nipples, pushing, hard, thinking he'd listen to this signal, that he'd release her from his python arms.
All he knew was that she needed this fucking hug, so "For once in your life," his brain just pleaded, prayed to deities he didn't believe in that she'd take some of his affection.
He knew she wouldn't give, but then god smiled on them and by some addict's miracle the body he kept squeezing started to soften, and little hands brushed along his neck, reaching for him, and he had his big calves thrown over her now, sucking her into him like an unwashed stuffed animal, and they probably both just cried, like toddlers who spilled juice, faces scrunched and pruney, but Axel did not give a shit anymore, he had seen Rixa come back.
Maybe, just for a second.