Basement 729 operates on a strict need-to-know basis. Located beneath an unsuspecting convenience store in Zagreb, it’s as violent as city sprawl. Down here, there’s nothing but noise, unrelenting.
Love is a weapon to be wielded — acceptable form of possession, and that’s exactly how Xavier feels right now. Possessed by love, she kneels in the centre of a dark room, wearing nothing but bird mask with no eyes, and a pair of black wings strapped to her back.
She’s no fallen angel, though. She’s something more. This is a rebirth.
Xavier is no stranger to crowds. Her other self is a performer, a people pleaser. She’s performed for thousands of people, doting fans and curious patrons alike.
But never like this.
A spotlight beams down on her. She’s terrified, excited, and painfully aroused. It’s almost cruel, knowing that she will not be allowed satisfaction tonight. The painful ache between her legs will be her burden to carry.
If the crowd is whispering, she doesn’t hear them — their voices are drowned by the sound of a woman covered in wires, beating herself raw to the pulse of her synthesizers.
It’s been ten minutes, she wagers, since the final glass vase had been emptied. The hand in her hair is large and strong, but familiar. She doesn’t need her sight to know exactly what Gaspard looks like, right now: naked and proud, a beacon of depravity, The Tower, a force to be reckoned with. She’s tall and masculine, with penetrant eyes that betray all.
Gaspard is the first lover she’s ever had who is silent when she’s in control. Maybe that’s why Xavier was so drawn to her in the first place. Gaspard is well-versed in love without the metaphor of language. Her words are in her eyes a brilliant serpentine; hazel infected with gold poison.
The masks offer them privacy, to be their true selves. But that’s not the only reason they chose this. Without her sight, Xavier loses the visible reassurance, the comfort of, “I’ve got you.” The finger tangled in her hair pushes her towards Gaspard’s crotch. Xavier feels sick with longing, from the sweat and musky scent of arousal, so unmistakably Gaspard.
Two tugs.
She opens her mouth, feeling Gaspard’s free hand resting on her chin.
Xavier nods and braces herself.
She’s ready.
A warm stream of piss spills into her mouth. It’s light but steady; nothing Xavier can’t handle. The initial sensation used to feel uncomfortable, despite her curiosity and desire to try it. She used to flinch, but now, she’s used to it. It’s no different to standing beneath a showerhead, or staring up at the clouds on a rainy day.
She’s trained well. The pair have done this many times: at home in the shower, in hotel bathrooms. In their early career, they’d done this in dark alleyways, right outside a club. Now, they prefer a little more comfort and luxury.
Which is why, tonight, they’ve sacrificed their luxuries.
This is a new city for them. They want to celebrate the occasion, to place their mark here.
Xavier is eager to please her lover. Gaspard controls the pace, knowing how much xavier can drink without choking. Gaspard prefers sex to be filthy and messy, but Xavier is a thorn in her side, well-matched. Xavier is a greedy lover, she loves to give as much as she receives.
On her knees, Xavier is giving. She’s allowing Gaspard to take control of her, to feel empowered. Xavier greedily swallows as much piss as she can, trying not to let anything spill out of the corner of her mouth. It’s her way of saying, “I can handle it.”
The stream cuts off abruptly. Gaspard strokes Xavier’s cheek, letting her know she has a moment to breathe, to let her stomach settle. Instinctively, Xavier is drawn to Gaspard’s hairy thighs. She kisses there, running her tongue along soft skin, searching for any stray liquid she can find.
Two tugs, and she resumes her position again.
This time, Gaspard pulls her hair, hard.
The first serve is always a warm-up. The second serve is where it gets fun.
Xavier admires the way her lover exhibits so much patience. She knows the ache burns Gaspard, twice as much as it does her. Gaspard doesn’t like to let go. She loves to restrain herself, until she can no longer hold back.
This time, Gaspard picks up the pace, filling Xavier’s mouth relentlessly. Her mouth is too full, stray droplets splashing to the floor. Gaspard punishes Xavier quickly for such brazen waste. Xavier holds back a smirk as Gaspard tugs her by the hair, changing the angle so the stream of piss coats her face. Xavier hungrily swallows what she can, but the rest splashes onto the floor.
The stream stops again.
Xavier nuzzles Gaspard’s thigh. The scent of arousal, it’s overwhelming now. It’s sick how much she needs it. But this is a performance, an art installation. She can envision them perfectly, two lovers, obscene. Gaspard, so still and regal, like a fine statue with marble wings. Xavier, on her knees, desperate and broken.
Three taps this time. It’s time for the finale, then. Xavier steadies her breathing. She needs to focus on this.
Gaspard lets go.
This time, it’s too much. Xavier knows she won’t be granted a break until Gaspard is finished. She feels like a servant, guzzling as much piss as she can. There’s too much. Her mouth fills faster than she can swallow. She wants to gag and choke and splutter, but she refuses to embarrass her lover.
Xavier’s face is covered in liquid. She’s ruined. Her clit is swollen and throbbing, craving Gaspard’s touch — but she knows that Gaspard won’t allow her that privilege. Not tonight. The cards aren’t in Xavier’s favour.
Four tugs.
Xavier wants to cry. She doesn’t want their performance to end. It’s the perfect display of worship and exchange. Known only to them are hidden moments of affection, small caresses against her cheek, in carefully timed signatures. They are virtuosic partners, synchronization is carnal instict.
Two brushes of her thumb saying, “Good girl.”
Four brushes saying, “You’ve done so well.”
Gaspard’s piss turns to a light drizzle, until there’s nothing left to give. Xavier is left ruined. She’s gasping for air, burning for release. Her knees ache. Gaspard didn’t allow her a cushion or knee pads this time — that’s not what their audience came to see.
There will be bruises in the morning.
If the crowd applauds, Xavier can’t hear them. They’ve performed to perfection, the ultimate rendition of their debut single. This is no mere act — this is a lifetime of collaboration, of trust, of pain and betrayal. This is love and justice. Their debauchery is nothing more than a melody divested of their narrative.
That’s what love is: transgressive, revolting. Noisy.
Xavier wouldn’t change it for the world.