Heather Brown
Juicy piece

CHAPTER ONE

The reflection of Madame Fellatio of Honey Pot magazine (Do-you-need-advice-on-your-sex-life? Are-you-horny? Got-something-kinky-you-want-to-share? Write-to-Madame-Fellatio-and-she-will-help-you) stared at me from the electric coffee pot as I sat at my desk. The shiny metal cylinder beamed Madame Fellatio's perplexed facial expression. I looked at it for almost five minutes before I noticed how severely the anxiety showed on her face.

The lines creasing her face concerned me. A young woman only 25 years old shouldn't carry such an obvious burden in the expression on her face. The problems of her job were glaringly obvious in the troubled mask she wore. The frustration was building day by day, and her normally pretty face was marred by the lines more and more frequently.

Looking at her reflection in the coffee pot, I wondered how long it would take for the lines to become permanent, indelible souvenirs of the frustration of the job, the awesome responsibility of being Madame Fellatio.

Increasingly, when my brain came to a deadening halt and I couldn't coax a word out of my typewriter, I sat and stared at Madame Fellatio's troubled face. I would become so mesmerized with the daily evidence of the frustration of her occupation that her identity seemed to be totally her own, as if she were not a creation of Melville Shark, the money-grubbing publisher and editor of Honey Pot magazine, but a kind of patron saint for all the people in the world who were hung up on sex, her existence fueled by the sex problems of others, a freaky legion who depended on her to ease their guilt and shame.

"Hey, Madame Fellatio," I could hear Shark's crass voice slithering the way it did over my shoulder, the voice I imagined a snake would have if one could talk. "Time to get cracking. We've got a deadline to meet."

I looked at her face for a reaction to Shark's command, but it remained frozen in the shiny metal of the coffee pot, failing to respond to his call for action. I wondered how long she could ignore Shark, who was notorious for his losses of temper and sharp tongue whenever things didn't go his way.

Although my back was to Shark, I knew his face was turning red and the spit was bubbling around the corners of the thin slit of his mouth as he got ready to cut loose with a sarcastic stream of abuse. My eyes remained trained on the reflection of Madame Fellatio, fascinated by what her reaction to Shark would ultimately be. I wondered how long she could take it – the letters, the job, the deadlines, Shark screaming at her.

"You dumb cunt!" he exploded from somewhere behind me. "I can put you back in the unemployment line where I found you!"

Her face showed nothing as he raged. It was only when her reflection was joined by his purple face in the cylindrical mirror of the coffee pot that she showed any reaction. She looked as though she had just smelled something bad.

I could have gone on watching the drama unfolding on the silver screen of the coffee pot indefinitely, I suppose, reacting to it as though I were sitting out in the audience, unseen by either of the players. However, Shark did not permit that to happen, and brought me to my senses by screaming my name.

"MI right, I'm warning you, Eugenia," he bellowed, "unless you've got that column on my desk by 3:00, then you're out on your ass! There was a Madame Fellatio before I hired you, and there're plenty more living on tuna fish sandwiches who'd do anything for a weekly paychecks."

As I heard his footsteps clatter out of the room, the mask of Madame Fellatio dissolved, and for the first time I saw myself, Eugenia Saunders, looking at me from the coffee pot. I realized that I had been watching myself again – spying on myself like I was two separate people – instead of doing my work.

That was the strangest part of it. I would forget Madame Fellatio was actually me. That for eight hours a day, five days a week, I was paid over $200 to sit in front of a typewriter and answer letters from the sex-starved readers of Honey Pot magazine concerning every type of sexual hang-up and activity conceivable. As I sat there and looked at the troubled reflection that belonged to both of us, it didn't seem possible that Madame Fellatio and I were the same person. It didn't seem possible that my brain could send the messages to my fingers to press down the correct keys on the typewriter to create the answers the people who wrote the letters wanted to read. I couldn't believe they were writing those letters to me. And I couldn't believe I was answering them.

Although the deadline was less than an hour away, I was still working on the answer to the first letter I had opened today. I had gotten as far as: "Any type of sexual activity is healthy as long as both parties agree to it…" But I found it impossible to continue. The letters were no longer funny. I could not go on finding the same joke funny thirty times a day for months on end. And on most days I received more than thirty letters, all of them alike, all of them pleading for understanding, all of them begging for answers.

On my desk were piled those I had received this morning, all of them unopened except the one I had been drearily puzzling over all day. I picked another one up and opened it, reading it to search for some inspiration, hoping that this letter would be the exception to the rule and inspire me to write a decent enough column to temporarily get Shark off my back.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I have something on my mind that I've been wondering about and I thought maybe you could tell me whether I've got anything to worry about or not. I'm not supposed to be trading your magazine because it says on the cover in small print just under the price that it's not supposed to be sold to minors, but I go to a drugstore out of my neighborhood where they don't know me and pass as eighteen. I hope this doesn't disqualify me from getting my letter answered."

"I've been doing something that always makes me feel real good, but so far nobody knows about it except me. Although it makes me feel real good, some little voice in the back of my mind tells me sometimes that if my mom or dad or and other adults found out about it, I'd get into trouble. So I guess the only thing I can do is tell you about it and wait for your answer."

"I suppose when I see their panties, I should just keep right on going instead of thinking about their pussies, but my dick won't let me. My balls suddenly seem like they're on fire, and my cock gets so stiff it practically rips my pants. All of a sudden all I can think of is getting one of those girls off by myself so I can pull off her panties and rub my prick against her cunt. I imagine filling her tiny mouth with my cock, jamming it down her throat so far that she can't scream while my fingers press between her legs and massage her cunt."

"It's always easy to get one of the girls to come with me."

"Once I get her alone and pull out my long stiff cock the girl always stays. She's fascinated by my cock and balls and always wants to touch it. Nobody can tell me they don't like it when they're that age. Innocent, hah! They love to feel my cock, and in no time at all have forgotten all about their candy bar and want to taste my sweet prick instead. When I'm with a girl, I love the way my hard cock slides into her sucking mouth, the way her tongue laps at my prick like it was an all-day sucker while my hands are busily pulling her panties down under her dress. I've done this so many times that I know exactly what to do, exactly how to turn her on good, and while she's sucking my prick, my fingers almost immediately find the almost microscopic nubbin of her tiny clit. But it isn't long before I've teased it into maturity, massaging and rubbing her bare pussy until it's inflamed with hot blood and engorged with sticky juice as gooey as maple syrup on the flapjacks my mom makes me every morning."

"While I'm squeezing her clit and finger-fucking her, at least two fingers thrusting deeply into her pussy-hole, I shove harder and harder with my prick in her mouth. It's always unbelievable how much hot cock a girl can take in her mouth. But before I come, I like to pull out and stick my prick between her legs, pressing the swollen cock-head right up against the slit in her cunt so I can rub my throbbing meat against her pussy. I make her lie down and tell her to spread her legs so that the gash of her pussy is wide open and I can see everything. I stick my prick inside just enough so her cunt can swallow my cock-head, and then I make her rub my balls with her fingers."

"I like to come inside her tiny cunt, knowing that I'm the first one to spray her insides with hot sticky sperm and make a woman out of her no matter how young she is. Once they feel my dick stuffed tight inside of them they can't get enough and a lot of them beg for more, pleading with me to stick my cock up all the way inside them, splitting them in two with my big tool."

"It's amazing the way they know how to move their hips and wiggle their little asses without anyone telling them to. They just seem to know how to fuck no matter how young they are. When I come inside of them, they lift their hips to catch it all inside of them, tipping up their pussies so I can pour my thick cream in their cunts like I was shooting it in them with a hose. No matter how young or inexperienced a girl is, the walls of her pussy always grab my cock like she has an extra hand between her legs and jerk me until my balls are bone dry."

"When my prick has finished spurting in her pussy, I always pull out and stuff it into her rosebud mouth so she can lick off the last of the cum… you know, sort of like dessert. I like it when my cum dribbles gut of the corners of their mouths and smears and slicks all over their faces just like when kids eat ice cream or candy. Sometimes the sight of my cream on their faces gets me so excited that my prick stands up as if I hadn't just come, and I have no choice but to fuck the cutie I'm with all over again."

"The thing is, although this is the only kind of sex that turns me on (I even think about girls with their legs spread apart showing their pussies when I'm doing my time in the toilet jerking off), something tells me that I'd have a hard time explaining my desires to anyone… except, of course, somebody as understanding as you, Madame Fellatio. I knew you'd understand after I read your answer to that letter in your column from the man who liked to have sex with insects."

"I'm wondering if I can go on like I have been now that I'm getting older (I'll be eighteen in a couple of months). What's made me start to think about it is that a girl my own age has asked me to go to a school dance (one of those Sadie Hawkins dances where the girls ask the guys). I'm afraid to go because I haven't the faintest idea how to act around a girl my own age. I lock myself in the bathroom and try to get my prick hard by imagining this girl's hairy cunt and big tits, but all it does is make my cock shrivel up even smaller than it was in the first place. But meanwhile the girl is bugging me to go to the dance with her. And, what's worse, her family is friends with mine, and my parents know she asked me and expect me to go with her. If I do go ahead and accept, I'll feel like an idiot the whole evening. What'll I do if she expects me to make out with her and I can't handle it? And if I say no, everyone will think I'm weird because at school everyone thinks she's a fine-looking chick, and she has a reputation for putting out."

"I'm waiting desperately for your answer, Madame Fellatio. Should I go to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance with this girl? P.F., Delaware."

I stopped reading. Suddenly the answer to all of these letters came to me. Christ! Christ was the answer. Only Christ could help these people. But although for the first time since I'd become Madame Fellatio I felt that I had the answer to the problems of my readers, it did not make me happy. In fact, it made me feel more insecure than ever. Because now that I realized clearly what the answer was, I knew even more clearly that I must stay away from it. Everything he stood for was a conscious slap in the face to everything that was decent. Not just Honey Pot, but all of his publishing empire – Man's Guts, Split Beavers, Rosy Rears, Blowhole, and The National Leer – were based on a glorification of sex and the physical. As the masthead of Honey Pot stated in bold type: "This magazine is dedicated to turning you on." Each of his magazines routinely carried an article putting down religion in every issue. When I had first been sent to him by the employment agency to be interviewed for the job, Shark had smiled and said, "The Xaviera Hollanders, the Linda Lovelaces, and the Madame Fellatios are the priestesses of the 1970's."

A copy boy came up to me to tell me that Shark wanted to remind me that he expected the copy on his desk at 3:00 sharp. I felt like I was being held prisoner at my desk, chained to my typewriter, and that the only way I could become free was to give Shark what he wanted. I bent over the typewriter and began pounding the keys, letting my fingers do my thinking for me as I drew a shade over the workings of my mind.

But before I had written a dozen words, Shark leaned over my shoulder. "The same old stuff," Shark said. "Why don't you give them something new?" He picked up the letter from the mother with the eighteen-year-old daughter and niece.

"Do not let things overwhelm you just because they are different," he dictated. "Do not be so quick to criticize something you haven't tried. Much of the generation gap that is so epidemic these days occurs because children and their parents have so little in common. Has it ever occurred to you that this might be your golden opportunity to get really close to your daughter? If you join your daughter instead of blindly criticizing her, you might start a whole new, improved relationship with her."