Down from the Summit of the Sky

Down From the Summit of the Sky (m/f, anal, feet, titfuck, angst)

I might get sued for what I’m about to write. I’m anonymous. Not anonymous enough. Any family member or sufficiently smart fan will clock who I am. Search up Billie’s childhood photos; I’m in the background of dozens of them.

But I have to tell someone.

I’m haunted by memories of that day. They swirl through me like deathsmoke through an alembic, too insubstantial to grasp and too real not to choke me. Her face, her lips, her body…the past is an obsidian knifeblade, driven deep and then snapped off. I’m bleeding to death on the blank, undeniable fact of what I did to Billie Eilish…what I had done to me by Billie Eilish…make up your own mind who’s the bad guy in this story. It’s one of us. When two stand at a crime scene, they can’t both be innocent.

I’m doomed. I realize that now, as I watch the setting sun darken the Baja Californian skyline to a bloody amaranth-red. There’s nothing coming tomorrow that I want. The future’s more of the same: broken memories, growing duller with each day. Childhood love. Teenage lust. Adult heartbreak. Eventually, it’s all gone. The past thirsts and hungers for all that we are.

Fuck that. Throw the sun in reverse gear. Bring back yesterday. Bring back the day before. Return me to 21st October, 2020, when the daylight erupted apart, darkness consumed us both, and huge hot breasts flooded my hands.

Sue me, bitch. Here’s a dead man, telling the world about the last day he was alive.

In her teenage years, she became someone else. Moody. Withdrawn. You’ve heard rumors about sexual abuse—who knows if it’s true. That’s her story, when she’s ready to tell it.

She started dressing in oversized, boyish clothes. Plaid shirts and ties. Baggy JNCOs with flares. Thrifted hoodies the size and color of surplus military tents. She seemed to be hiding in plain sight. Burying her own body in shame, like it was the corpse of someone she’d murdered.

In 2016, I discovered what she was hiding under those clothes.

I was at a house party, along with Billie, Finneas, and two kids from our homeschooling group. We decided to play Twister. We were fifteen or sixteen—way too old for a kid’s game—but we were bored, and it was something to do. We laid out the Twister mat—it seemed laughably small—and tried to remember the rules.

It was awful. Threading our huge, pubescent bodies around each other, everyone giggling in embarrassment, everyone trying to avoid contact with an…area. I was praying it would end as soon as it began.

But then Billie’s ass pressed into my side.

My brain broke. Raw lust surged through me like a wrecking ball. Her teenage body felt hot. Thick. Breedable. As she twisted herself around me, an erection swelled in my shorts, throbbing like a rotten tooth. I’d never had feelings like this before for a girl. I did not trust my next movement. I wanted to gorilla-slam her to the ground, rip away her clothes, mount her, fuck her, claim her.

Make her mine. Forever.

“Left hand, blue!” Finneas called.

There was a scramble of limbs. Billie slid off me, flowing with pantheress grace onto her hands and knees. The last blue circle lay underneath her body’s arch. I tried to wriggle underneath her chest to tap the circle…but couldn’t. I was blocked by two huge masses of flesh, dangling unseen under her shirt.

What the fuck? Billie had tits the size of small pumpkins swinging from her chest. Where had those monsters sprouted from?

Her giant teenage breasts shocked me with their size and weight. I felt like a hungry dog, with slabs of raw meat pressed against my face. Billie squeaked—first in shock, then in outrage—as I mindlessly tried to shove my face through her jugs. She tried to push me away, but I slipped, and her hand landed between my legs, on my erect penis. It pulsed under her hand, and she screamed.

Horrified, we canceled the game, apologized, packed the Twister mat away, ripped disposable vape carts, and tried to act like nothing weird had just happened.

And then I said goodbye, ran home, yelled to my parents that I was sick, charged up the stairs to my bedroom, locked the door, and masturbated four times straight. I tore muscles in my wrist.

“Jacking off to Billie Eilish’s slaughtermelons” isn’t the world’s most exclusive club, but I was doing it long before it hit the mainstream.

Plus, I got to touch them.

I made mistakes in the pit of my obsession.

I said and did things I regret. Or would regret, if I was a better man.

After the texts from Billie became fewer and fewer and finally stopped, I sent her two of my own, asking where we stood. Then two more. Then six more. Maybe the last one was a little angry, because she blocked my number. That destroyed me, and sent me spiraling into depression.

I know I was being an obsessive stalker, but when a girl is your entire world, you want to exist in her head the way she does in yours. The worst insult is silence. You reach the point where you’ll say anything to her to trigger a response—even “fuck off” is better than absolutely nothing from the girl you love. If SHE doesn’t think you exist, YOU don’t think you exist.

For a year or two afterward, I worked as a landscaper in LA, trying to forget her. I had no girlfriend. It would have felt like cheating on Billie, even though there was nothing to cheat on.

My co-workers would listen to “Bad Guy” and “You Should See Me in a Crown”. When I told them I’d grown up with that girl, they laughed at me. Said I was full of shit. Soon, I almost didn’t believe it myself. I couldn’t even masturbate to her anymore without feeling sick.

It was like none of our past life together had ever happened, except in my head.

You think the past is over. Then you blink, and it’s not even the past anymore.

Billie Eilish slung a backpack onto the ground in front of the house.

She looked like a succubus of trash, summoned from hell via a burning dumpster fire. Her fierce black mane flashed poison-green at the roots, as though her body was toxic and slowly infecting her hair. Her thick thighs and ass, bulked up by years of dance school, poured out of boy shorts so tight they fitted her like a coat of paint. She far bustier than I remembered. When she moved, cannonball-sized tits swung, jiggled and seesawed inside a black 100 gecs shirt.

She turned, made a peace sign to the driver, and he started to pull away. I saw him leer at her bent-over ass as the UMG bus chugged past us. I wondered if he was laying pipe in her too.

Then Billie turned, and saw me. Her jaw fell. Mine didn’t, but only because it was already on the ground.

“Hi,” I said tonelessly.

“Um, hey,” confusion creased her face. “Wait, aren’t you…?”

Hearing her try to remember my name—pretend to try to remember—tossed me into a fierce spiralling rage.

“You know my name, Billie,” I said tonelessly. “I don’t care if you hate me, but don’t pretend to not know my name.”

Her lip screwed up, and she glared at me. “Fucking creep.”

Instantly, she broke eye contact, seeming ashamed. “Look, sorry. That was out of pocket. Thanks for helping out with the place. I just thought I’d stop by and check it out myself.”

“All good,” I grumbled with all the insincerity I could muster. Oh God, how I was dreading the ride back… “I’m just packing up my stuff. I’ll be ready to leave when you are.”

Her pretty, metallic-painted eyes darted toward the house. “Not a fan of those ferns over the windows. Mind if I cut them back?”

I shrugged. “It’s your AirBnB.”

She bounced toward me, big fat tits slamming under her shirt. “Got a set of garden shears in that truck?”

I rummaged for some, and passed them to her. “Don’t be too long. I want to get back to LA before midnight.”

Fuming pointlessly, I returned to the back of the house, packing up the tools I’d left strewn over the bedroom floor. It took several minutes. Finally, I lugged my gear out to the Land Rover.

I found Billie waiting for me, Doc Martens arrogantly kicked up over onto the front seat. Ever the passenger princess, she had her head down, and earbuds in. She probably wouldn’t look at me or talk as we rode back to the city. Fine.

I turned the key. The Land Rover wouldn’t start.

Billie’s mascara’d eyes flicked up, watching me in naked suspicion. I popped the hood, and checked the terminals with a nine-volt. The battery seemed good. Maybe the alternator was toast? I had no idea, but I’d broken down at the worst place possible.

I gestured for Billie to take the Beats out of her ears.

“Bad news,” I told her. “I can’t start the truck. I’ll have to call a tow company…”

Then I remembered I was in the asscrack of Big Sur and could call precisely two people: Jack and Shit.

“…Ugh, there’s no reception here. Damn it.”

Billie swore, and tried to call her bus driver to pick her up. That annoyed me. What had I just told her? As her phone failed to connect, I realized that I could probably walk a few miles down the road and make a call. That’s always how it is. Dead spots are just that. Spots.

But it was dark. If I walked down the road, I would be blind, and might fall to my death.

And however enticing death might seem during the darker watches of my nights, I don’t plan on doing it for Billie motherfucking Eilish. Once things might have been different. Not now.

“So we’re stuck here…” Billie said, eyeing the cabin.

“…Until the sun’s up and I can hunt for reception. Sorry.”

Billie slung her legs down from the front seat, and got out of the truck.

“Hey, maybe there will be a song in it. Let’s go inside. There’s sandwiches in my backpack.”

She swaggered toward the house; her rump swaying rhythmically, pigtails bouncing like springs. Her boobs wobbled thrillingly around each side of her body.

My dick became hard. One thing hadn’t changed: she was murderously hot.

After that, we fucked all night, in room after room, in position after position. Name an act. We did it, upside down, hanging from the ceiling fixtures. She came. She came. I came. She came. She came. I came. She came. She came. She came. I came. She came. She came.

In the dark we were blind, but our bodies knew what to do. Inside the depraved place we’d fallen down to, you didn’t need eyes to see.

I finished by fucking her in the ass. Like everything that had happened, it was spontaneous and unplanned.

My hard cock found her hot, pulsating asshole, and slid inside. As I plunged my shaft inside her shitter, she let loose a strangled cry. Her butt tightened around my dick. She bucked her hips back, her assflesh and thighs jiggling.

Next I had her bent over, doggy-style, slamming into her dirty bowels. Each pump of my cock triggered a gasp, a grunt, a moan. A miasma of sweat and filth seemed to hang around us.

Down on all fours, Billie’s hair spilled out of her bun, obscuring her screaming, orgasming face. I scooped up that hair, and pulled her head back. She screamed again. Her huge boobs whirled in figure-of-eight patterns underneath her plunging, surging body. I was fucking her to pieces.

Then the sun began to rise, illuminating us with pale blue dawnlight. The details of her body resolved out of black, bucking and pumping and thrashing like a fish. I saw the dimples and contours of her flesh, radiant and glowing. Her thick pale butt pistoning back and forth, her hips slapping back against mine, squirt and sweat caked upon her thick thighs. Under her torso, her boobs swung wildly, like church bells. My brutal fucking caused drops of sweat to fly from those perfect globes.

“FUCK ME! FUCKMEFUCKMEFUCKME!” she gasped, a broken toy. Her overfed ass cheeks billowed obscenely as I tore through her asshole. My bloated ballsack loudly clapped against her drooling pussy.

I buttfucked Billie Eilish into one climax, and then a second. We were working on making it a hat trick when I felt my cock surge and leap inside her bowels. I unleashed torrents of splooge into her butthole, my final ejaculation was as painful as it was pleasurable. As I erupted into her shitter, I collapsed on top of her, feeling my cock spray out desperate pulses of what might have been either cum or my own blood. She collapsed too. Her sweaty legs came apart, and we lay on the floor together.

One minute passed. Two. I stood up, my feet shaky. My cock pulled out of her rectum with a disgusting BLORP sound, going flaccid in the air. Her asshole gaped obscenely as a strand of cum leaked out.

Then she stood, and kissed me. I kissed her back. Unlike the frantic kissing before, this was measured and controlled. Two horses that were well trained and knew the route well.

We embraced. I pulled her forward with the small of her back. God, she was unhealthily fuckable.

As I held her, I actually started to get hard again. It was stupid. I’d fucked her for literally the whole night straight. I’d had six orgasms, and given her well into the double digits. Somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

But I had to stop. I’d probably kill myself if I tried to have sex again.

Without saying a word, I snatched up my phone, and walked naked out the door, letting the mountain air dry the sweat from my body. My dick stung painfully, as though Billie’s asshole had coated it in corrosive acid. Maybe this is why she can’t hold down a boyfriend. The mates of Black Widows don’t last long, either.

I called over and over, seeking contact with the outside world. Sure enough, a dozen paces from the AirBnB, my phone picked up a single bar of signal.

As I navigated the twisting labyrinth that was Geico’s roadside assist helpline, I heard an orgasmic scream ring out from the cottage. Billie had frigged herself to that last climax.

There’s one more detail I forgot to mention. Why didn’t my Land Rover work?

According to the tow-truck driver who saved my ass, my alternator was fine. It wasn’t a battery issue at all. The problem was that the ignition no longer connected to anything.

Using a flathead screwdriver, he prised back the casing of the dashboard. The ends of the severed ignition cable tumbled into view. It looked like someone had cut the wire to the ignition unit.

With gardening shears, perhaps.

THE END