Heather Brown: Juicy piece

"You mean the first time you'll read it is when the magazine hits the stands?" I asked, straining to hide my amazement.

"Right on, Madame F," he said. "But just remember, I can afford a month of fucked-up Madame Fellatio, but you can't… See you sometime next week."

His warning sailed harmlessly over my head as he stalked out of my office to his vacation. The instant he was out of sight I turned and opened the drawer in my desk containing the stored letters, terribly anxious to begin my mission to save the readers of Honey Pot for Jesus Christ.

No sooner had I transferred the letters from the drawer to the desk-top and arranged them into a workable pile than a new shipment was rained over me by the careless mail boy, who just dumped the bag over me without looking. After I'd retrieved the letters from the floor and put them on the desk with the others, their enormous pile blocked my view of the door. I was totally sealed off from the sleazy environment of the rest of the offices of Shark's magazines, completely absorbed in the crusade that I was sure was going to turn my life around.

I spent the next three days poring over the letters, searching for ones suitable to answer. I wanted to pick letters that seemed to have been written by people who actually appeared to want to change. I wanted my answers to do some good, for the call to Christ to be genuine. But so far, in my desire to do exactly the right thing, I had only been able to handle one letter in a manner which I thought was acceptable. I had put everything I felt into my answer to the first letter, and now I felt I was drained. Obviously, I was too inexperienced at doing the Lord's work to take on such a big job at once entirely on my own. I needed guidance from someplace, but I was at a loss to ascertain where. Working over the puzzle in my mind I re-read the only letter I'd been able to satisfactorily answer, searching for clues which would point me toward further knowledge.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I'm not a regular reader of your magazine, but I feel like it's the only place where I can tell somebody my problem and maybe they will try and understand it."

"To begin with, part of the reason I'm not a regular reader of your magazine shows up part of my problem. I'd like to be, but I'm afraid if I was, every time I bought a copy, the newsstand attendant would suspect the reason why I was purchasing it. The fact of the matter is, although I try and help it, I'm hopelessly aroused by the pictures of naked women your magazine features."

"You're probably saying: there's nothing the matter with liking pictures of naked girls with their legs spread showing their open pussies, that's what the magazine's for. Well, maybe it is if you're a guy. But I'm a girl, and I know there must be something dreadfully wrong with how my mouth waters whenever I see a picture of another girls open pussy and bare tits. If I'm alone with a copy of your magazine, before a half an hour has passed I'm completely in the nude and spreading my thighs in front of a mirror so I can gaze excitedly at my own cunt, watching myself masturbate as I manipulate the juicy folds of my pussy, comparing my frothing slit the whole time with the glossy cunts I've just been drooling over in the magazine."

"I know it's wrong to be turned on by another woman, but I don't seem to have any control over my feelings. I guess I could use that as an excuse, but it just makes me more disturbed. I've tried and tried to get interested in cocks, but they seem brutal and slimy to me, like huge, spitting snakes that are trying to tear me in two. Truthfully, I can't imagine one of those monsters ripping up my cunt. I'm sure it would shred me to pieces."

"Up until recently I'd managed to keep some of my self-respect by never having actually engaged in a lesbian act despite all my explicit fantasies and the temptation in everyday life. But then I met Margo, and even that last vestige of decency was lost to me through her firm tits, rapidly darting tongue, and sizzlingly pliant pussy. When she propositioned me after we had only been introduced ten minutes before, and then backed up her offer by abruptly unbuttoning her blouse and thrusting her honey-colored tits in my face, there was no way my achingly aroused body would let me resist her. We were quickly at my apartment in bed, totally naked, our tits and cunts squeezing and squishing against each other in sexual frenzy, fucking and sucking like there was no tomorrow."

"But there was a tomorrow, of course. There always is, unless you commit suicide or something (and I'm so depressed I'm thinking about it, Madame Fellatio). After meeting Margo, my 'tomorrow' told me that I'd broken down the last baffler of decency and that I was a hopeless pervert. I didn't know what to do. My body was drawn magnetically to Margo's charms. My mind kept picturing the split lips and ripe gash of Margo's pussy, the glistening thrust of her cunt through the frame of her dark, curly pussy hair resembling a peach in a bucket of meat. But my conscience begged my body to recoil from the thrill of lesbian delights. My cunt, stronger than nay brain, won out. My 'tomorrow' found me a hopeless lesbian."

"To make it worse, Margo turned out to be nothing but a cheap hustler. She used her body to lure me to her cunt, and then when I sucked her juicy gash, programmed me to do her bidding. After two weeks of our mouths constantly being at each other's cunts, tits and asses, I got out of bed long enough to discover that Margo had been robbing me blind. When I openly accused her of taking advantage of me, she gave me the finger, put on her clothes, and split. 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 the door, characteristically wigging her ass in a way that drove me wild."

"After a while, I psyched myself into believing that Margo leaving was all for the best. With temptation out of the way, I could go back to being normal. But, Madame Fellatio, I haven't been able to make it, and that's what's driving me crazy. Am I really queer?"

"Every day I make a vow to go straight. But then I find myself out on the street, knowing that because the weather's warm the women will be dressed in light clothes and I can get a better look at their bodies. I've stopped wearing panties because I've ruined every pair I have creaming in them in the street while I undress with my eyes every woman who passes me by."

"By afternoon I'm crazy, dying for any kind of cunt. I'm not like Margo, I can't proposition anybody. What if they turned out to be a policewoman and arrested me? Or worse, a male officer in drag on a stake-out? Lately, I've been hanging around in residential neighborhoods after school lets out and getting the only kind of pussy that can't say no, young pussy, so desperate am I to have the sweet taste of cunt in my mouth. I'm degenerating by the minute, I'm afraid. Right now I'm sitting here typing this with only one hand; that's because I've got the other one between my legs, finger-fucking my horny cunt into another frenzy, but soothing it at the same time for not having another pussy to rub against."

"If somebody doesn't help me soon, I'm afraid I'd end up with short hair and a tattoo, with a leather jacket, and wearing bus-driver's pants and driving a taxi. And now, if all this isn't enough, effeminate men are starting to be attracted to me. A man wearing a dress leaped out at me from the corridor yesterday and said he'd been watching me in my apartment at night from across the way with high-power binoculars. He begged me to go out with him. He says he knows what I want. How could he? I'm not even sure myself. What should I do about this man? He's waiting for an answer. T.P. California."

"Do not fear," I had answered. "Christ is looking over your shoulder. If you continue to look back at your past sins, you will finally see Him, waiting for you to accept Him. Then your sins will be washed away and you can start afresh."