blistered lips

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.

She never knew. You wanted her to. At least sometimes you thought you did.

You were her friend, her buddy, her “best buddy,” she always said. And you always agreed. Grinned your simple grin and kept your secrets.

You liked it when she called you that. Best buddy, bosom buddy. The buddy left alone when she was out with Karl or Jacob or Michael, or one of so many others. It’s not that you ever loved her; she never broke your heart after all. You knew even then that you can’t break a heart that doesn’t love. It was always that simple and that fucked up.

You never fooled yourself, not even at first. Because it was never love–not even lust or reverence. It was deification. Yes, you fantasized about her, masturbated thinking about her. Thinking about her with them–all of them. You thought about her face, her dewy flesh, her gray-green eyes, her auburn hair–long and always freshly shampooed. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught you’re imagination. It was her cunt. It was the thought of her cunt that got you crazy-hot. You wanted to worship the cunt that all of that beauty implied. To be the rutting pig, the filthy whore-boy, the degenerate cunt-slut. To be a slave to the magnificent snatch that the Karls and Jacobs and Michaels–loved and ate and fingered and fucked.

Even now you don’t remember the first time. The first time you had to have more. The first time you stole her panties, sniffed them, jerked off in them. And finally wore them: Her cum and their cum, all those men’s cum, wet against your cock, spunk-soaked satin and lace. A dirty betrayal. A profane gesture. You knew it, but you did it anyway, time and again–even your guilt a twisted aphrodisiac that you fed upon.

That was long ago, back then, back there. You both moved on. She–to three states, two marriages and, now, two divorces. You–just to a different apartment, one town over. Always single, always remembering.

But she’s found you in the here and now.

Sitting on your sofa, drinking single malt whiskey instead of iced tea, wearing stilettos instead of sandals, smoking a cigarette instead of chewing gum–she is staring at you. Silence. Taking a drag off of her cigarette, exhaling slowly, never losing eye contact. Finally she butts the cigarette on the dish you’ve brought her in lieu of an ashtray.

“It’s going to be different this time.”

“What?”

“You know what. You know exactly what I mean. And this time you’re going to do it my way.”

She slowly uncrosses her long, silky legs and lights another cigarette. You attempt the silly grin, your old standby. But you’re out of practice. Nervous. Your lips tremble. And you don’t quite pull it off; know you look timid, stupid, probably even frightened. Because that is exactly how you feel.

She takes another drag of the cigarette, this time a long, deep one. Stands up. Begins walking toward you, her heels digging into the drab, grey linoleum. Standing in front of you she lets the cigarette hang from the corner of her over-glossed lips and starts slowly pulling up the sides of her dress.

“I was a busy girl before I got here tonight. You remember those days, the old days?  When I was a busy girl? A very busy girl all the time?” Her dress is sliding over the tops of her stockings. You push your back into your chair, gripping its arms.

“Funny thing is…I never had to clean a pair of panties. No matter how many men, how many cocks, how many fucks. No panties to wash. In fact, no panties–period. No panties at all. All of those nasty, dirty panties–gone, poof, nowhere to be found.”

Her dress is at her waist now, and she is reaching out with one hand, pulling you by the neck, pulling your face between her legs. With her other hand she runs her fingers through your hair, enamel nails lightly scratching your scalp.

“We’re going to get it right this time,” she says, pushing your cheeks against the inside of her thighs. The hem of her skirt catches at your brow as she presses your face against her crotch. Inhaling the scent, remembering the scent, you open your mouth and press your tongue into the soaked, pungent, satiny crevices. As she starts to grind her pelvis, you hear her murmuring above you.

“I knew. I always knew.”

“From now on,” she is saying, “you will wear panties. No arguing. No protesting. I’ve disposed of your boxers; every last pair. Come, Andy, let me show you.”

She’s always called you Anderson before. Your given name. The one you prefer.

But this is the beginning you’ve known was coming for a while now. Since the night she came home and caught you.

She’d been so quiet and demure when you’d married. When you look back, you think those qualities were what drew you to her. That somewhere deep inside you knew; that you knew even then that your fetishes and desires needed some kind of cap. That her softness, her goodness would keep you safe from your own demons.

But she’d caught you. One of those rare occasions you’d indulged your desires. Alone, your beloved out for the night. That’s what she’d told you. No reason to expect her until late. And you couldn’t resist. Found the pink lace thong you’d bought her for Valentine’s Day, slipped it up over your thighs, your stiff prick.

You were so devastated when she’d walked in finding you masturbating into the crotch of those panties, a pair of her soiled ones across your face. Now she knew. Knew your naughty, dirty secret. But the shock, the revulsion was quickly replaced with a smile. She giggled; told you how ridiculous you looked. And there was a look in her eye that you didn’t understand. Though, now you do.

Because she took over from that point on. Making you wear panties sometimes when you fucked her. Then making you lick her cunt while wearing panties and humping the mattress. Sometimes right before you were going out with the guys she would insist you wear panties. She even bought you a few pair of your own, very feminine, satin and lace. You were at her mercy because the panties felt so good and dirty at the same time.

And you couldn’t say no. There was a power exchange the night she caught you. You realize it now. And, as you follow her to the bedroom, you realize that things are never going to be the same, will never go back to the way they were. Maybe you like this. Maybe you’re glad to finally be the panty slut you’ve always secretly wanted to be.

The top dresser drawer is open. You see satin, nylon, ribbons, bows. It’s not a man’s drawer anymore. You look at her.

“What about when I go to the gym?”

She ignores your question, reaching for a pair of the panties–white with little pink and yellow hearts. She holds them up in front of you.

“Put these on, Panty Andy. Be the little Panty Slut you know you want to be for me.”

She’s never called you anything like that before. You blush. But you also feel your prick responding to the calm authority of her words, the intuitive power in her demeanor. You slowly begin removing your jeans. Her words have hypnotized you. You only need to do what your Goddess Wife says. That is all that matters.

When the jeans are lying next to you on the floor, she hands you the panties, then reaches for a tube of lipstick. “What’s that for, honey,” you say as you pull the panties up over your pelvis, feeling the rush of pleasure as your prick drags along the soft fabric.

She looks at the panty tent your erection has caused and snickers. Again, she ignores your question. “Here, stand in front of the mirror.” You move to her side as she takes the lid off of the lipstick tube. “Close your eyes, Panty Slut.” Because it is all you can do, you close your eyes. You feel the lipstick, guided by her firm hand, moving across your torso. All the while she is laughing. You get the weird sensation that you are hearing her in stereo, but chalk it up to the surreal-ness of what is happening.

Finally: “Okay, open your eyes.”

You slowly open your eyes to see your chest, your ribs, your belly smeared with pink lipstick, spelling out the truth. Even backwards you can read it, because you’ve always known it. And you see Jessica standing at the bedroom door. Jessica, your wife’s best friend. Jessica’s lips are twisted into a lewd grin. She is shaking her head, like she is disgusted with you, perhaps even finds you pitiful. She mouths the words, “You are so fucked.”

“Read it out loud for me and Jessica.”

And you do.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a panty slut. I am not a real man. I am panty slut Andy.”

As humiliating, as embarrassing as your dilemma is, you are more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. Your prick is leaking into the panties, a gray bloom spreading across and down the front of them.

“Now, Andy Panties, show Jessica how hot you are. Rub the front of those wet panties. Yes, you’ve leaked all over them, haven’t you? Now rub them and read your little mantra again and again until you cum in those panties in front of us.”

You know you should stop this. But you can’t, because you want this, you need this. And so you begin rubbing.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a….”

But it’s too late. Because you are coming so hard that your knees are buckling, your asshole and balls are twitching.

“I told you that would happen,” Jessica tells your wife.

“Now you’ve got him by the balls. Forever.”

I thought you wanted me. Show me you love me and put these on.

I have my reasons. Now put on the panties like you were told.

Because that was before and this is now.

Here, I am just going to run my nail under and around your balls while I tell you, honey. Does that feel good, baby?

Ewe…you’re dripping onto my wrist. Here, lick it off, you nasty boy.

Christ, Sabrina.

Thursday night was before you flirted with Callie. Now, lick it off or I’ll dig these French nails into your balls. DO IT!

Don’t worry about that right now. Would you like me to play with your cock? Rub it and make it feel good?

Then put on these panties, and I’ll give you a nice treat. You want a treat don’t you?

You heard me. If that cock wants my attention, you better do what you’re told.

Almost. Awe! Your cock looks so pretty, pressed against that satin. How do they feel?

They’re kind of tight.

I guess I will have to buy some in your size. Now sit in this chair and close your eyes.

You want your treat or not?

Shhhhh… Be a good boy. There we go. These handcuffs aren’t too tight, are they?

This is crazy, let me go. Aghhh…

See, baby, I love you sooo much! Doesn’t my hand feel good, stroking that fatty of yours through the panties? Oooh… You are so hard, honey. And you’re leaking!

Damn it! Unlock these handcuffs! My balls are aching! I need to cum!

Here, I am just going to lift up my skirt and straddle your lap. Mmmm… That big dick feels so good rubbing up against my pussy. Maybe I should take off my panties so we can get it inside. Oh, you are the one in panties, not me. Tee Hee.

No, darling, there won’t be any cumming for that hard dick of yours today! Maybe not for a long time. But it’s what’s best. I promise.

You need to learn to behave and not flirt. We know it’s not your fault. Of course it isn’t. You love me, after all. So we need to train that nasty little pecker of yours. Then everything will be fine.

Why, me and Callie, of course! She should be here any minute. She’s offered to help me with the training. She’s such a good friend.

Just get comfortable, honey. You are going to be eating a lot of pussy tonight.