Blistered Lips

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

The car was parked far back in the lot. As they made their way, Kelly Mae could feel her stiletto sliding in the gravel and before she could catch herself — or before Bradley (if that was his real name) could catch her — her foot had slid sideways, pushing down and twisting, snapping the heel.

“Well, Bradley, what are we going to do about this,” Kelly Mae asked, waving the stiletto in front of his face, the broken heel precariously bobbing back and forth.

“I’m sure you can think of something, darlin’ geerl,” Bradley grinned as he grabbed for her breast.

Kelly Mae shoved his hand away. “What in the hell do you think you are doing? You offered me a ride. A ride home only. Did I say you could touch me? Where was that fucking hand when I tripped in the gravel?”

“Aww, baby geerl, don’t be that way.”

He reached again, and that is when Kelly Mae — tipsy but certainly not stupid — made up her mind. “Well, Bradley,” Kelly Mae cooed as she once again removed his grasping paw, “I just figured out what I am going to do with this broken stiletto. Let’s get to that car so you can drive me home, where I can show you.”

Bradley, even in his drunken state, thought that sounded like one hell of an idea.

And that is how, an hour or so later, Bradley found himself bound on his back across Kelly Mae’s bed. He wasn’t concerned. In fact, he thought he’d hit the jackpot and finally got himself one of those kinky girls he saw and read about on the internet.

“What you doin’ now, hunney,” Bradley asked when Kelly Mae pulled up his left leg and tied his ankle to the bedpost.

“Just never you mind, Sugar. You’ll see in just a minute or so.”

Bradley watched in wonder and as Kelly Mae pulled up his right leg, tying that ankle to the other bedpost.

“Well, Mr. Man, seems you got yerself a big ol’ erection goin’ there,” Kelly Mae smiled has she rubbed her hand up and down his cock.

“I shure do, geerl. But how am I gonna fuck you like this?”

“Oh, Bradley, you ain’t gonna fuck me,” Kelly Mae said, reaching for the broken stiletto and showing it to him.

“I’m gonna fuck you, you son of a bitch.”

And then she was shoving the long, slim heel into Bradley’s ass.

What I remember most is the country music wheedling and yodeling out of his Bose stereo (alpha-male black, of course) as he slid his dick in and out of my snatch.

After that, how could I respect him in the morning?

So, fuck the jag, fuck the cowboy hat and tight jeans I found so appealing in my admittedly tipsy state. The night was a bust and my cowboy ended up being just another frog disguised as a prince.

He did have a huge cock, though. I remember that, too.

Lot of good it did the two of us.

it leaks
it seeps
it drizzles
it twitches
it bewitches

it weeps
it drools
it fucking
runs off at
the mouth

babbling
jabbering
divulging
confessing
evincing

announcing
avowing
admitting
abounding
abiding

it’s bona fide
man meat
all right
and don’t you dare
forget it. not for a moment.

a card-carrying
member,
twenty-four carat
rock hard
see it’s secret handshake?

and it might be
just might be
telling you the truth
or maybe it’s
just a crybaby, after all

She has placed you over a kitchen stool so that your ass sticks up above it’s red vinyl seat, and then tied your wrists to your ankles with leather straps. She was neither gentle or rough, rather matter of fact about it. You are wondering whether you should tell her that you feel you might slide off the smoothness of the leather, looking up through the swatch of bangs over your eyes, when you see her taking a rolled length of leather strapping from the countertop.

She notices and smiles down at you. "Don’t worry," she says as she bends down in front of you and begins winding the thin leather around the length of your legs and arms, "you’re not going anywhere."

After she’s secured the binding at your ankles and top top of your thighs,  she cups your chin, forcing you to look into her eyes. She smiles, running her thumb across your lips. "You’re very vulnerable now, aren’t you?" It’s a rhetorical question, so you just suck in your lips, pulling them between your teeth and slowly nod. No need for words; you both know who is running this show.

Her other hand trails upward over your taut bicep, then along your shoulder blade and down the length of your back until, teetering forward on her heels, she’s clasped your left buttock. She squeezes, the thin edges of her nails digging pressing into the rounded flesh. "I want your ass." The thumb pushes into your pressed lips, breeching the seal you’d made, and into your mouth. Reflexively, you start sucking on it. This seems to please her. She tips her head, pressing her forehead to yours. "Oh, yes," she murmers, "Yes, indeed. I am going to have that ass."

Flipping the top of a container of baby oil, she continues, "What did I catch you doing without permission today, hmmm?

"I touched myself, Dear Mistress.  But I am sorry and won’t do it again.  I promise."

"Try again.  That’s not the correct answer."  She is drizzling the oil into the palm of her hand, looking at you expectantly.

"Ummm …"

"Well?"

"Ummm, I was masturbating?"

"You were spanking your monkey.  That’s what you were doing — spanking your monkey without permission.  So what do you think that means?"

Cradling the palmed oil, she walks back over to you.  "I’m going to enjoy this, you know," she says, and you feel her rubbing the baby oil into the cheeks of your ass.  Her touch is soft and warm, almost a tender caress.  But you know the gentleness will not last.  Again she walks away, as you watch her heels tapping the marble floor.  Suddenly she turns around; the look on her face has changed, is fierce and determined.

"What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys?  Tell me."

"Ummm, I’m not sure, Dear Mistress.  But I said I’d be good from now on.  Could I maybe have another chance?

"No, there are no second chances.  And you know that.  Stop your bargaining and stop playing dumb.  Now I am going to ask you once again, and if you don’t answer properly, then this will be twice as bad for you.  Now, What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys?"

Your cheeks clench in anticipation.  You can how smell the baby oil, its smooth, innocently sweet scent juxtaposed against what you know is about to happen.  Mistress is tapping her foot, her full mauve lips slightly apart, her emerald eyes blazing.  She is eager now.  There will be no reprieve.

"Dear Mistress," you say sheepishly, "bad little boys who spank their monkeys get their bottoms spanked; they get their bottoms spanked very hard by their Dear Mistress.

She smiles, walks towards you and raises her hand.