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.'
CHAPTER TWO
When I finished typing and felt I had miraculously finished another column, I called the copy boy and had him deliver whatever it was I had written so I wouldn't have to face Shark. I had no idea what it said, just being thankful that it was completed.
It was Friday, which meant I was liberated from Shark and his magazine for two days. But it wasn't until I got across town and inside my apartment and had closed the door behind me that I felt I was finally safe.
After, however, I had settled down with the evening paper, I realized that I wasn't much better off on my own than I was under Shark's thumb. The paper was full of stories about people doing things. Many of them terrible things, of course, but doing things nonetheless. But I did nothing. At work I was like Shark's robot, doing exactly what he told me under threat of being fired and having to walk the streets looking for some job even more demeaning than working for him. And on my own time I was like a hermit, going nowhere and doing nothing, so terrified had I become of mankind on the basis of spending eight hours a day wallowing in the perversion those letters to Madame Fellatio represented.
I didn't trust anybody. I'd sooner trust myself alone with a rattlesnake than I would with a man. There was no doubt about it, being Madame Fellatio had distorted my whole view of life, and what's worse, up until now I could see no better alternative on the horizon.
The fact of the matter was that I had come to believe what Shark had said the day he hired me: that our contemporary saints were hookers and pornographers, which meant that the rest of us were following in their footsteps.
In the meantime, I was becoming more and more tense and frustrated, both mentally and physically. I was a young woman in the supposed prime of my life, yet unable to swing with my contemporaries. I was living an existence more suitable for a ninety-year-old woman in an old folks' home.
Even worse, I often gave in to the temptations of the flesh. Despite all my vows of decency, I found myself throbbing between my legs, the mound of my cunt uncontrollably pulsing with desire, becoming sopping wet with sticky fluid from the slightest stimulus. The sight of a slight bulge in an actor's pants in a television program would instantaneously make my pussy abruptly drench my panties with cunt juice, so that I had no choice but to peel them off. Then I would run to the mirror where I could sit in a chair and spread my legs while I watched myself plunge my trembling fingers into the slit of my foaming pussy and violently finger-fuck myself.
In order to satisfy the uncontrollable desires of my cunt, I had secretly collected a shoebox full of sexual paraphernalia, with which I periodically satisfied my screamingly sopping cunt. They were disgusting items that vibrated and plunged inside my pussy, things I had sent away for from ads in Shark's magazines.
As I sat in my chair reading the paper, my mind abruptly turned to the contents of that box when I came to the movie page and felt my cunt instantly start to throb and foam from an advertisement showing Burt Reynolds in a pair of tight pants.
I put down the paper to escape the appetite that had suddenly consumed me and started the sticky juicing in my cunt. But my mind was unable to shake itself free of the image of my nine-inch-long prick-shaped vibrator buzzing its way between the parted lips of my pussy, pushing inside my spasming, sopping fuck-hole and filling me to the brim with tingling ecstasy. I couldn't help myself from loving the way the vibrator shook my pussy into a frenzy, turning loose my cunt juice so that by the time I was finished fucking myself, my cunt was a swamp of musky, sticky fluid over which I had no control as I came and came again.
But not tonight, I told myself, I wouldn't give in to my carnal desires again tonight. I had a weekend to get myself together before I went back to face Shark again. Perhaps if I resisted the temptation calling to me from my pulsing cunt, then I would have the backbone to face Shark on Monday and tell him what I really thought.
I yearned to be free of the trap in which I found myself, the compressing walls of my steaming, convulsing
