Blistered Lips

Taste it,” she tells you, “it’s sweet; you’ll like it. It’s from the orchard we walked through late last night.”

And so you take the apple from her slender fingers. You wonder at how it can be so shiny, so smoothly and deeply crimson. It is the most perfect apple you’ve ever seen. You want to taste it. You want to taste its lush and sugary juices across your tongue. You want to swallow and feel the cool liquid coat your throat.

“Yes, darling, I know you want to,” she whispers at your ear, “I know you need to. You need to bite it. You’re so hungry, and I’m going to feed you. You need to sink your teeth into it. You need to puncture the peel with your teeth. You have to. You have to do it now.”

And so you do. You eagerly open your mouth and even as your teeth pierce its flesh, you smell the aroma of her cunt. She has coated the apple with her malicious juices and you are damned. She is dark, she is evil, she is the greedy, wicked, demanding Femme Phantasm haunting every Grimm’s Fairytale. She wants to possess you, debase you, drive your very soul into the dirt, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

And you don’t want her to stop. You have to swallow her poison. Her poison that will finally conquer you, debilitate you, enslave you.

As you begin rabidly gnawing at the apple, you feel your balls — icy and hot at the same time — seize up. Your cock is PDQ hard: rock hard, petrified rock hard, boner than bone hard, steel rod hard. Your ass sphincter is rapidly opening and closing, and you can’t make it stop. She’s in control — not you. Not you, not ever again you. Never ever again.

Your orgasm rises up like a fist pummeling through your body and you are cumming, preternaturally spewing. It weeps from your eyes, gushes from your nose, your throat. It leaks from your ass. You can smell it, your own spunk oozing from your pores, rising up in the back of your throat.

You fall to your knees and you know it is done: She has fucked you.

Tomorrow you will eat her apple. And every day after that.

What matters, what I’m trying to tell you, what I’ve been trying to tell you all night, is that you’re busted.  We can’t go back now.  There is no turning back.  I liked watching you much more than I like fucking you.  Can’t you understand that?  Don’t you get it?

But I thought you liked sex with me.

I do, or I should say that I did.  It’s been changing for a while now.  What, probably for a year?  Yes, at least a year.  It hasn’t been the same and you know it.  I know that you know it.  I mean look what you’ve been doing behind my back.

I … I …

Sush!

But …

I said to shush and I mean it.  There’s no sense in being embarrassed and I really don’t have the patience for any of your silly posing.

No fucking?

No fucking.  Besides the fact that you really have never been that good at it, and besides the fact that I’ve been rather bored with your “breast-grab, spread my legs and mount me” tactics, well, like I said, I’ve rather enjoyed watching you this past month.

You’ve been watching for an entire month?  What the fuck?

Hmph.  Like you have any room to judge me!  Let’s just remember who’s been sitting on a rickety stool in the back of the basement with his pants down around his knees any chance he gets.  Lets not forget who does it in the shower, on the toilet or even off the back deck, when he thinks he can get away with it.

You saw me on the deck?  Jesus!

I sure did.  In fact, tomorrow you are going to go down below the deck and clean off that bird feeder.  Absolutely disgusting.  And if you do something like that again, I’ll make you clean it off with your tongue.  Do you hear me?

Yeah.

Don’t you dare roll your eyes.  Come here; I want to show you something.  I said come here.  Come here right now!

Jesus!  Okay, what?

See this website?

Yeah, what about it.

I built it.  Don’t look so surprised.  I’m not as technically challenged as you think.

Oh fuck!  No, no no.  What the fuck?  What are those?  Oh, honey, you didn’t.

Oh yes I did!  Once I figured out how much you were “going at it,” I started taking pictures.  So let’s see.  Each page holds twelve pictures and so far I’ve got almost six pages.

Honey, baby.  This isn’t right.  What if somebody sees them for Christ’s sake?  You’ve got to get these down.  You’ve got to take this website down.

No.  Look closely.  See how I’ve blurred your face?  Nobody’s going to recognize you.  And, take it from me, even if you’ve cheated on me with hundreds of women?  Your dick just isn’t that memorable.

You bitch!

You have no idea.  Now get your pants down and start jerking that dick of yours.  This time your going to do it right in front of me.  No sneaking off like a dirty pervert.  Come on, get them down.

This is crazy.  You’ve gone off the deep end.

Here, let me show you something else.  With a click … here, here and then there.  Do you see that?  That picture is NOT blurred.  And I can do that to every last one of them.  And then, my love?  I can just pop a link to this website and email it to all your business associates, your friends, even your family.  Like you just said — I’m a bitch.  But guess what?  You’re MY bitch.   Your my masturbating bitch boy from now on.  Whenever, wherever, however –  I tell you to drop your drawers and start pumping, you will do just that.  Do you understand?  Do you get it now?

I, but …

Let’s see, where is that email address to your secretary.  Or, better yet, your sister-in-law.  There they are.  I think I’ll just send it to both of them.

No. Please.

Then get busy.  Get busy now.  That’s a good boy.  Drop them lower.  Drop them down around your knees, you dirty little masturbator.  That’s right.  Now get jerking.  Wrap your grubby paw around that thick, useless cock and start stroking.  Look.  Look how hard your prick is.  You know what you are.  Stroke it.  Stroke it and repeat after me:  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch.  Go ahead.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Go ahead.

I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a –

Don’t stop.  I’m just getting the camera.  Got to have fresh content for the website, after all.

beyond that door
you are the brick-boy
the silver-tongued hero
you’re the whole shebang, motherfucker!

the hero, the big dick, the maaaan
the big man on campus
the man in the moon
the man to see
the man with a plan

you’re the taker
you’re the shaker
you’re the breaker
you’re the goddamn
candlestick maker

beyond that door
the world is your oyster
beyond that door
your kingdom come
beyond that door
women swoon and flirt and flatter

beyond that door
you are the candy man
the master of your own domain
you kick ass and take names
you are a player, a six-pack punk
every woman knows your name

but that door is closed
closed down, boarded shut, bang-bang
no way out, no where to hide
no where to go
but down down down

you’re on this side now
my side, mendicant man
my turf, toy wonder
you’re in the bosom of the bitch

you’re on this side:
you’re overpriced
and undervalued
and nobody gives two cents
suck it up

mendicant man
you’ve cashed your frequent flyers
mediocre man
you’ve burnt your neon bridges
nowhere man
you’ve spent your sorry wad

you’ll cease that fast-talking spinnity jive
right now (nobody cares)
and shuck that grandiose i-wish-it-were-my-dick tie
(nobody cares)
and lose those boot-cut Calvin Kleins
(not impressed)

get on the floor,
the stone cold floor
on this side of the door
where you belong

In the corner he stands.  Facing the wall, his hands to his sides.  Naked and appearing so vulnerable, so alone.  And you might, indeed, think him a lonely man.  A sad man.  Even maybe a pathetic man.  But let’s take a closer look before we go away with our own first impressions, shall we?

Look, when we try to peer into his eyes (because really, when it’s all said and done, that’s where one can quickly ascertain the truth of a person, isn’t it?), there’s something covering his face.  My, oh, my, is that what I think it is?  Yes, it is.  Panties!  Panties covering the dear boy’s face.  Now what did he do to merit that?

But, wait!  Look at how the crotch of those panties are placed strategically over his nose.   We must get in a little closer.  Let’s just cozy up next to him and see exactly what is going on here.   Goodness!  Looked at how soiled the panties are!  Even from here the scent is quite robust.  The scent of sex, I dare say.  The pungent scent of man-woman sex.  Intriguing.  Quite intriguing.

Now that we are so close, do you see what I see?  Look at that penis sticking out so straight and stiff from his groin.  Hmmm.  A rather small one, isn’t it?  Nonetheless, it’s quivering and bobbing just a bit.  Pity to the poor woman he might try to mount with that silly little thing.  How tedious and utterly boring it would be for her, don’t you think?

Do you hear that?  Coming from the wall of the corner our little mini-meat-man stands against?  It’s muffled, but still exuberant and loud.  What could it be?  Did you see that?  I do believe that puny appendage of his just twitched.  Why, he’s reacting to the moans and groan, the creak of bed springs, the slapping of flesh we are hearing from the other side of that eggshell white wall!  And look at that!  He just took a deep sniff of those panties.  Oh, he did it again.  And again.  Look at that tiny stone pencil of his actually quivering.

Wait.  Someone is saying something from behind the wall.  Let’s listen.

This is what you deserve, you sad excuse for a husband.  Do you hear me, Henry?  Are you smelling the fuck on my panties while I’m getting my next dose of real man cock?  You’re a loser, Henry.  And you’ll stand there in the corner like the sorry dick-wad you are while I fuck this stud.

Oh my!  I think we have our answers.  And, at this point, I do believe we should leave Henry to his moment of bliss.

you’re a fucked up fraulein:
a plain-jane low-rent coward
bending over for cake crumbs
whispering and pointing and snarling
it sucks to be you

you’re a flimflam malingerer:
a hardscrabble box-of-bitch
kissing ass for nickles
sniffing and scratching and digging
it sucks to be you

you’re a wannabe who never was:
weightless and incidental
polishing apples for illegal tender
creeping and bowing and scraping
it sucks to be you

you’re a prayer-less maobite:
always outside looking in
falling all over your sorry self
crawling and grasping and whining
it sucks to be you

you’re a masticating pit bull:
ugly as sin and three times stupid
humping for your kibble and bits
snarling and chawing and slobbering
it sucks to be you

you’re an emaciated vampiress:
starving on the rancid bloat of envy
selling your abscessed flesh for scraps
mewling and whimpering and cringing
it sucks to be you

you’re a cheap trick in a shabby dress:
a bumbling beatitude of bad taste
licking boots for pennies on the dollar
fawning and kowtowing and abjuring
it sucks to be you

you’re a mercenary seductress:
salad-tossing your exiguous integrity
spreading your legs for niggardly churls
anguishing and bewailing and deprecating
it sucks to be you

you’re a counterfeit salome:
crossing your fingers behind your heart
putting out for the price of a song
sneaking and rooking and shafting
it sucks to be you

you’re the monkey on your own back:
the motherfucker of bad intention
fucking and sucking for peanuts
again and again and again
it sucks to be you

you’re a vagabond floozy:
a facsimile behind dime store lipstick
on your knees with your squalid mouth
swallowing and swallowing and swallowing
it sucks to be you

you’re a sideshow roustabout:
a blow-up doll for the midway rubes
flexing and opening at the drop of a hat
shifting and crooking and undulating
it sucks to be you

you’re a pink-collared hireling
nothing more and much more less
faking bastard orgasms on the bum
feigning and spoofing and dissembling
it sucks to be you

you’re an off-the-shelf goddess:
an unkempt tragedy of vassal-hood
giving it up for swill and slop
ravening and itching and craving
it sucks to be you

but most of all
you are what you aren’t:
and you will never be me

The lights are hotter than you’d imagined.  The makeup she’s applied feels shinier, brighter somehow under the glare.  You blink — your eyelashes like giant spider legs against your cheeks.  Your rose-rouged cheeks, you remember.  To match your whore lips, she’d said just moments ago.  You wonder what you look like in the camera’s lens, because it is pointed right at you.  You feel it like the hot point of a laser.

But it is your mouth you feel the most.  She’s outlined it — a brick smear all around the outside curve of your lips.   It makes your mouth the perfect bulls-eye for cock, she’d said, and you heard the girl giggles from beyond the light.  She never told you her friends would be here today, but they are.  You can’t see them but they can see you, and they are — have been and will be — watching everything.

She filled in the outline — the “bulls-eye” — with glossy red lipstick; showing it to you before applying it.  You’re just going to be the perfect little Candy Mouth with this on, she’d said, the perfect Cock Sucking Candy Mouth.  You couldn’t help yourself then and you whimpered.  And she slapped your face hard.  Of course, the girls laughed, one of them telling her, “That’s it.  Smack the fuck out of that sniveling, Candy Mouth Faggot.”

And now you are waiting.  Waiting on your knees in the glaring spot light, naked except for your make up and the large, red bow she’s tied around your penis.   Waiting in this cavernous, high-ceilinged and dull grey chamber.  Ignored for the moment as beyond the light last minute preparations are made.   And you are going to do this.  You know there is no going back now.

You are going to suck cock.  You are going to do it in front of the camera and Mistress will do as she pleases with the film.

A door opens and closes.  You hear the heavy footsteps.

“Wait.  One more thing.”

She kneels in front of you with the red lipstick.  She begins writing on your chest.  “Make sure you get this on film, too, ” she says to the person behind the camera.  To you she says, “You deserve this.  You deserve everything you’re getting.”

When she is done writing she tells you what she wrote on your chest, the asks, “Who are you?”  You’re not sure what she wants and don’t answer fast enough.  “I just wrote it on your chest, DumbFuck.”  She slaps you hard again.  “Figure it out.”

“I am Candy Mouth.”

“Now let’s get this right the first time,” she says as she gets up and walk beyond the light.  We are going to start filming and we’re going to start with you answering a few questions.  Got it?”

“Yes, Maam.”

“Okay, are we ready.”  She is talking to them, not you, and you are silent.

You here the low whir and see the blinking light that tells you filming has started.

Who are you?

“I am Candy Mouth.”

Does Candy Mouth fuck girls?

No Maam.

Why doesn’t Candy Mouth fuck girls?

Because I am a faggot cocksucker, Maam.

Then the shuffle of feet as a man steps into the light.  He is shirtless; you can see the muscles of his arms and chest pumping even as he steps forward.  The black leather hood covering his head matches his tight pants.  You can see his bulge, large and heavy riding up the right side of his crotch.

In spite of yourself — your embarrassment, your complete humiliation — you are getting excited.  You feel the red bow move against your upper thigh as you become erect.  The man is standing right in front of you when you hear Mistress speak again.

Why is your penis getting erect, Candy Mouth?

“Because I’m going to suck this big man’s cock, Maam.  I’m a faggot cocksucker.”

Don’t you think you better ask permission, Candy Mouth?

Your hands at your sides, you look up at this man you do not know, you cannot see.  You lick your lips, feeling your heart hammer against your ribcage.  You feel so small, so weak.

“Sir, may I please suck your man cock.  Can I put my sissy lips around your fat prick and take the load from your balls.  Please,  Sir?”

The girls giggle again, but this time Mistress is quick to shush them.  The man grabs his crotch and grunts; he teases you, running the tips of his sausage fingers over the shiny leather covering his bulge.  Finally, he unzips his fly, but then puts both hands on his hips.  He wants you to come after it.

And so, fingers trembling, you reach inside and pull out his cock.  It is thick and dense with veins; the head is the size of a small fist.  Although you want to swallow it whole, you move slowly.  Although you wish he would just grab your head and throat fuck you, you know better.  You move your head forward, opening your mouth and place the heavy bulk of his meat onto your tongue.

As you begin working your mouth up and down on his cock you hear him grunt from behind the hood:  “That’s it, Faggot; that’s a good, little Dick Bitch.”  Your own little penis thrills to hear the contempt in his deep baritone, causing its red ribbon to bob up and down.  Splaying his large fingers across your scalp he begins pushing his cock into your mouth, stroke by stroke, deeper and deeper.

As his movements become quicker, his breath raspier, you fumble to pull his balls from the open zipper.  Feeling their swollen fullness, thinking about taking all of that down your throat, you believe you might actually swoon.  But suddenly he stops and pulls his cock from your mouth.

“You want that,” he says as he smacks his cock back and forth across your face, strands of pre-cum streaming across your nose, your eyebrows, your painted cheeks.  “You want what’s in those balls?”

You moan.  “Yes, Sir.  Yes, Sir, please.  I want it.  I want your cum.  I want to eat your cum.”

Then Mistress speaks from the dark, from behind the camera:  Tell us who you are.  Tell everybody on the Internet who is going to watch this who you are, and then we’ll let you have your Cock Juice.

And you do.  You tell the world:

“I am Candy Mouth.  I’m a Faggot Bitch Dick Eater.  I suck man cum out of Real Men’s Balls.”

Then he is leaning over you, pushing his cock so far back into your throat that your are gagging.  His bloated balls are like rocks against your chin.  And you don’t care that everyone and anyone will be able to see this, see you humiliated and used like this.  Because you want that cum.

Because you are Candy Mouth.

we are walking
and our cadence is elegant
our drumsong is the a cappella
of brethren heartsong

we are strong
and we are beautiful
and we know it now
we hold it close and breathe freely
listening to our music soar

we are observed
our jubilation envied,
even feared by some
still they sway and tap their feet
they do not understand
yet not one dares shun us

this is the flux, the flow, the future
hear our heartsong
for it will not be silenced
nor our footsteps halted

tomorrow was always here:
abiding, foreseeing
never forsaken
never uninterested
never belated nor sedated
just silent
just canny and brilliant and wise

we are walking
we are a symphony
we are a chorus
we are us:
venerably new
untried, yet unrestrained
we are us:
strong and beautiful
and you
yes, we are you

… well, a lot of things.

maybe that you fear me
that my erotic sway brings you to your knees
or my voice is all you hear
above the din, beyond the clamor
of what you once mistook for life

that you despair, yet crave all that i am
(you know that i am)
my sharp words
exigent carriage
cavalier inclinations
callous requisitions

that you love me with desperation
(your senseless desperation)
… despite
my cold disdain
contemptuous breadth
my reserved contempt

that you would kneel before me
give to me
sacrifice for me
venerate, cherish, celeberate me
suffer for me
cry, beg, whine, snivel, squirm
humble your undistinguished self
at my feet

or whatever

because i will say
that you are irrelevant
and i am disinterested
that i disdain
your impotent efforts and puny ambitions
that you are
inconsequential, even despicable
that you are …
a paltry wretch
a lacking vassal
a lamed fuck
a stumbling picador
a shadow man

or whatever

If she could whisper her secrets inside your heart and and your heart were strong enough to contain the echo, she would call out, “Hello … hello?  Is there anybody home?  Because I have something to say, something to tell you.”

Because you would be silent, wouldn’t you?  Perhaps there hiding in your chambers, perhaps not; but silent either way.

(Oh, and by the way, this is a fairy tale after all, so don’t later recall it as fact, nor even fancy.  Entertaining the impossible is always a dangerous pursuit, and don’t you forget it.)

She would listen intently then, because she knows your reticence, that vellum skin you wear so smartly.  And when she was finally satisfied that she had your heart all to herself she would whisper. She would whisper to your heart what she dare not say out loud:

That you are loved more deeply than you can possibly fathom. That she sees your battles and fights beside you. That she knows your strength and feeds from it like wanton, bledout barrack. That she witnesses your joy, feels it, savors it, drinks her belly full of it and knows God. That you are her wellspring, her warranty, her covenant.  You are the man who who almost didn’t show up.

And you would hear the wonder, sweet on lips, when she whispers:  “But you did, didn’t you? You showed up just for me.”

She then whispers her love.

merely a pet
nothing more, quite easily much less
a whispered white lie
between lily white sheets
stained now and then
here, there
because it’s a crying shame
that’s all there is, don’t you know?

no no no
don’t mete your pity
it’s all his fault
after all
he wouldn’t be anywhere but here

he knows the shame
he owns the blame