Heather Brown - Juicy piece

Slowly it dawned on me. Melanie had ripped me off! I started to say out loud, "The little bitch," but was quickly seized by regret and a longing to have her back immediately, under any circumstances.

I started for the phone to call the agency to tell them that Melanie was gone, but on the way I stopped short as something occurred to me in a blinding, sobering flash. I was acting like one of the people who wrote to Madame Fellatio. Like the one who'd gotten mixed up with the lesbian named Margo and then had been taken advantage of by her. Yes, I could clearly remember the plaintive words of her desperate letter: "Logically, I should have been happy to get rid of such a leech, but all I could feel was a dead sensation in my breasts, and a throbbing in my cunt as she walked out…"

Yes, there was no doubt about it, I was acting just like that over Melanie. It depressed me for a moment, but then I suddenly realized my actions must have been inspired, a calculated ploy by God to force me to have the same experiences as my correspondents so I could have genuine empathy and really reach them!

Immediately I knew why God had put me through this experience and what my mission was. Instead of just writing an answer, I would reply in person to the most wretched letter I could find. I would bring Christ personally to the poorest soul I could find. My heart sang as I dashed in to take a quick bath before I put on my clothes and raced to the office to find the letter.

I didn't even notice what time of day it was as the cab sped me towards the office. The sky was gray and murky, but I assumed that was because it was about to rain as I ignored what was going on outside and concentrated on the good I was going to do once I found the letter I was looking for.

The cab dropped me off in front of the building and for the first time I noticed that there was nobody on the street. I walked to the entrance of the building and tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. I turned around in frustration and noticed the sky again. Now I realized that it wasn't going to rain at all, it was just very early morning. I decided not to let it bother me, figuring that the solitude would give me a better chance to discover the one letter I was looking for. The only problem was how to get into the building.

I remembered an emergency exit in the back. Shark had fixed it up without telling the landlord so it would open from the outside and he could get in and out of the building whenever somebody came around to serve him with a summons in an obscenity or a libel case. I went around to it and let myself in, trying to focus my eyes in the darkness after I closed the door behind me. I was disoriented at first, but by the time I was in the lobby I knew where I was and headed towards the elevator. As I fumbled for the up-button, I suddenly felt as thought I was sure I'd heard something. Not anything loud, just a soft padding.

"Probably rats," I distastefully concluded aloud. "And probably all from Shark's office since he never has them cleaned."

My office was just like I'd left it, embalmed in time because of Shark's stinginess about hiring a regular janitor. (I suspected that the old woman who came in to supposedly clean the place once in a blue moon was probably some relative of Shark's… perhaps his mother.) The roaches had started a regular colony by now on my blotter, and didn't bother to move when I walked in and interrupted them.

Thinking kindly of the roaches as just some more of God's wondrous creatures, I let them be and turned my attention toward the reason why I had come up here – finding the perfect letter to answer in person. Only then would Madame Fellatio be sanctified.

It was funny, but the closer I came to realizing the potential of her ability to spread the word of Christ, the more I identified with that fictional character, coming to think of myself more and more as Madame Fellatio instead of Eugenia Saunders. I was certain God intended for me to truly become Madame Fellatio.

I riffled through a stack of letters, glancing at one and then another in my quest to find exactly the right one. Finally, after over an hour's reading, I found the one I wanted, and read and re-read it with glee.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I don't know where to begin, but for my own good I'd better start someplace quickly because due to a childhood accident I haven't any arms or legs and am writing this with a Bic pen clenched between my teeth."

"Oh, don't think I'm complaining about my handicap. At the special school I went to before I dropped out after the eighth grade, they always used to tell us kids not to think of ourselves as handicapped, but as exceptional. And I guess that's true, because how many people do you know who have no arms and legs? No, what I'm writing you about is my father. He's the reason I'm not in that special school anymore, because he pulled me out and took me on the road with his carnival where they show me off like a freak, but Daddy keeps all the money. My mother never would've let him do it, but he waited until she was sick and had her put in a mental asylum before he did this to me."

"The thing about it is, I guess I wouldn't mind the carnival so much, even though I know the people pay fifty cents to see me because I'm supposed to be a freak, if all I had to do was sit up there on the pedestal my daddy made for me to rest on. But that's not the half of what I have to do. Because it wasn't more than a week after we joined the carnival that Daddy discovered there were people who would pay more than fifty cents to do more than just look at me."

"The reason I wrote to you, Madame Fellatio, is that my daddy reads your magazine, and I've looked at it when it's lying around and noticed that people write you about a lot of, well, different things having to do with sex. Madame Fellatio, the reason these men are willing to pay my daddy sometimes over ten dollars is that they think it would be a big thrill to fuck someone with no arms or legs."

"Now, I'm eighteen, and although my arms and legs might be missing, I'm plenty normal inside, and I've got special yearnings just like everyone else. The accident that cost my limbs certainly didn't do anything to my pussy, and I've got a great big juicy one, with big, full red lips and a lot of brown curly hair around it and everything. (In fact, the tailor has to make the crotches on my costumes special so the kids brought into the carnival by their parents won't see any of my spreading pussy hair.) What I'm trying to say is that I've got urges just like anyone else my age, and a lot of times I'm off in outer space daydreaming about a hot, throbbing cock stabbing up my cunt and my pussy starts sopping as normal as you'd want to see. But, Madame Fellatio, I'd like to choose who fucks me, not just have it be a bunch of strangers who don't give a hoot about my feelings. If you want to get right down to it, I guess I want the man who fucks me to be in love with me. The way it's been, sometimes I think these men are only willing to stick their stiff cocks in my pussy because I don't have any arms or legs. I wonder if they'd like me so much if I had arms and legs just like everybody else."

"Lately things have been getting worse because there's this one man that money's no object to and he's been making my father rich buying up all my favors. There've been a lot of complaints lately from the carnival management because I've been off fucking with this man when I should have been on display. I'm worried about it, but Daddy says he doesn't care because if it comes down to it he says he can make more money off selling my body."

"This one man I'm telling you about isn't a regular customer, but a member of the carnival. He's the tattooed man, and he's so covered with tattoos of fire-breathing dragons, snarling mountain lions, Marine Corps insignias, serpents, naked women, and American flags that his cock and balls are even covered with them. When his prick is limp, it's impossible to make out what he has tattooed on it, but when it's standing out stiff, like it always is thirty seconds after he's got my costume off and is slobbering over my defenseless cunt, you can see what's on there is a perfect drawing of a striking snake. There are blue and green scales starting at the root of his prick in his balls that go all the way along his shaft until they change into the fiery knot at the end of his cock that's fixed up like a snake's head. When he moves that monster toward me, I feel like a rattlesnake is going to burrow inside my cunt, wounding my pussy with its poison fangs until I'm full of venom."