Author’s note
I wrote something as a study (felt pretentious, loved it) in desire. I think I may have been listening to Suzanne Vega at the time. Let’s face it, I was. There is no cum here, but there’s a lot of butter.
Listening Notes
Pornographer’s Dream by Suzanne Vega
The Story
Clarissa turned the key in the lock and walked into her apartment. She lifted her hand, weighed down by the heavy M&S bag, and flicked on the light.
The hallway leading to her living room echoed her high-heeled footsteps as she walked towards the living room door. She deposited her handbag and the shopping on the kitchen table and about-faced back to the hallway and into the bathroom. She bent over the edge of the bath and, placing the plug in the hole, turned on the hot water. She turned to the shelves to choose a bubble bath and opted instead for the best remaining of the ‘bath bombs’ of which she was sure she still disapproved.
She threw it over her shoulder into the bath and heard it fizzing. She removed her coat, hanging it on the hook beside the towel rack and looked at herself in the mirror for one last time before it steamed over. Brushing her blonde hair to the side, she revealed her face – the cold of the outside air had her nose and cheeks very slightly rosy, but she allowed herself a smile as she checked her eyes and she slightly faded lipstick – now where did that go? She grinned a little at the recollection of the afternoon. She unhooked the back of her blouse and her skirt and walked back to the hallway, smiling again as she felt the skirt drop from her hips to the floor.
Into the living room, she reached around and unzipped her blouse as she drew the curtains – this was no time to be entertaining the neighbours – this was her time. She approached the kitchen table and plucked the punnet of cherries and the packet of crumpets from the bag, shuffling herself from the semi-sheer fabric of the blouse as she tore the cellophane apart, all the while enroute to the corner with the toaster. Two dropped in. Lever pressed down; the yielding orange light of the elements in the appliance gave her a little tremor of pleasure.
She threw off the blouse, flinging it across the room and turned to the punnet of cherries; she tore off the top and rinsed the whole punnet in the sink; each dark red globe glistening now with the droplets of water. She paused,, now only in her heels and underwear at the counter and raised the first two cherries to her red lips.
She took them into her mouth and sucked on them gently, enveloping them with her tongue and plucking them from the stalks. She watched the toaster with intensity as, finally, she bit into the fruit and felt the sweet, sour juice flood her mouth. This was, in its own way, glorious. She caught sight of herself in the screen of the television set and swallowed some of the juice with great satisfaction – it felt smooth and pungent as it ran down her tongue into her throat, and tasted powerfully sweet. She needed more – and nothing and nobody would stop her here. She took her hand to her mouth and deposited the stones, perfectly cleaned of their flesh, into the palm.
She popped two more cherries into her mouth; the shiny stretch of the skin against her tongue yielded as she pressed hard against it with the tip; they yielded with some force, gushing the sweet syrupy liquor joyfully; some escaping her lips momentarily; she wasn’t going to let that happen; she licked her lips and pounced on the toaster as it popped.
She licked her fingers and gripped the pastries, dropping them onto the countertop chopping board. She flipped open the butter dish with her knife and scooped a pat of butter for both crumpets onto the blade. Clarissa was so close to the thing she had fantasized about on the commute home; she slathered the butter on the crumpets and watched as she slid the knife over them; the soft butter becoming softer and then to liquid as it merged with the pastry; she was smothering the steaming hot crumpet in pure, rich butter; she was possessed with the need to do this properly; she utterly needed it to be perfect; it very soon was. She looked around the counter for anything to make it more perfect; there was nothing. She took the first crumpet into her right hand and tore it with her left; the butter had saturated the pastry and delightfully glazed her fingertips as she raised the first half to her mouth. Her lips were soon glazed too by the butter; she opened her mouth and popped it in; the flood of satisfaction came over her like a wave of joy; half self-conscious as she enjoyed the morsel, she turned now to the television to see the slightly fuzzy reflection of herself; her legs elongated by the heels, the reflection of her curves, her underwear and her blonde hair in the screen. She watched herself, and it was, yet again, glorious.
She watched herself raise the other half to her mouth and saw the look of satisfaction on her face as she took it onto her tongue. The richness of the butter, the softness of the warmth in her mouth, and then the trickle of butter, just glancing off her chin and landing, delightfully, on her chest. She continued to eat the crumpet and felt the rich warm fluid against her skin. Not something she’d ever experienced before; she felt self-conscious about it, then caught her reflection again and simply watched; she realised, suddenly, that she was a voyeur; she was watching Clarissa be satisfied. She turned back to the counter and lifted the second crumpet, and walked to the bathroom to turn off the water.