by Salome Wilde
(06/03/09)
I was one of those children that always had something in my mouth. The tit first, of course, though I'd happily chew the nipples of bottles even when they were empty, also fingers, pacifiers, toys, or food. As I grew, so did my repertoire: knuckles, the pad of my thumb, earpieces of eyeglasses, key fobs, pussy, cock. I wouldn't call myself indiscriminate -- I know what I'm sucking, licking, and chewing on when I'm sucking, licking, and chewing on it; but I'm rarely empty-mouthed. And when I am? I'm wishing my mouth was full.
Mood doesn't temper the fixation, though it can alter the objects of choice. Good nervous energy -- the kind that inspires me to take new risks, work harder, explore self or world in fresh directions -- makes me eat. Starting a new piece of writing, for instance, means food. Baby carrots are great: I like to hold them between my back teeth and press down, suck them, then hold the end with my hand and scrape my teeth like a grater over and over and eat them in shredded layers, finally snapping the twig at the end and crunching the little core. Such ornate pleasures, however, do not keep me from wolfing down Dreamsicles (yes, I chew on the wooden stick afterwards until it begins to soften and splinter) and digging into potpies with equal aplomb.
Bad energy is when I most delve into non-food orality. Painful break-ups from relationships I never should have entered in the first place have left me with an apartment full of eraserless pencils and nails chewed down to the nub.
My most recent casualty of the heart wasn't even worthy of the nail biting and stomach aches I devoted to it. Believe me, you don't even want the details. Suffice it to say, I moved him in with me from across the country with no job prospects after only a brief and predictably trite Internet affair, and he spent six months sponging off me and giving me guilt about talking to my mother too much on the phone.
But I cannot loathe him too much because the break-up did give me more than just a room full of crunched up bendy straws. As I busily threw out any evidence whatsoever of his existence around the apartment, I found myself shifting into an unexpected and unfamiliar cleaning frenzy. I'm not the neat-freak type -- that's anal, not oral, right? So, I am throwing out his geeky Inuyasha T-shirt that was left on the closet floor (and ok, I confess it, before I trashed it I put it over my face and smelled it one last time), and I see this shoebox in the back corner I hadn't opened in years. I knew what was in it before I even opened it, and somehow I felt all shivery and excited with anticipation anyway.
I brought it over to the couch, pausing to pet Miss Lemon (my greedy, sofa-hogging equally oral fat cat -- the only one who does not judge me for my messy, foolish life). I sat down with it on my lap and carefully raised the dusty lid. And there she was: Western Fun Barbie, circa 1990. Her hat was missing and the fringe on her pink jacket with enormous padded shoulders was unraveling. Her hair was the precise kind of frizzy mess Barbie hair always is after a week or two, when you've styled and bunched and combed and ignored it. Her boots were gone. But her feet...oh her feet. So perfect, with their pristine insoles and ridiculous arches. I remember viscerally how I longed to bite them off when I'd play with her. Oh, that rubbery plastic of her feet: so juicy and perfect to snap off with hungry childteeth. But I forbore, with this doll alone -- entirely because I had chomped the toes off all the others and my parents swore that I would never get another Barbie if I dared dismember this one. So I satisfied myself with chewing and sucking on all her boots until they were unwearable and let the temptation of her footed perfection drive me deliciously mad.
And now, here she was again. Just as enticing and flawless in her sexist version of beauty and comical pink and purple pseudo-Western style as ever. I laughed as I looked her over, and decided I had nothing better to do than indulge in that wonderful pastime of undress-and-dress. I removed the jacket and skirt, undid the Velcro on the little blouse beneath, and soon she was naked, her pointy breasts hard, her waist twisty, her pink smile absurd, and her legs so long and juicy they made my mouth water. And then, yes, I put them in my mouth and suckled.
I let my tongue lap and flick like I was sucking cock. Licked between the legs like delving between long, thick labia. Fought hard against the desire to let her slip almost out so I could touch then chew those precious feet. Such temptation and now no reason not to give in. But instead I teased myself, and Barbie, by sucking her legs and just enjoying the feel of her phallic length in my mouth.
And then I heard a whimper. My own pleasure, of course, at having something in my mouth to suck. Something inanimate so I did not have to worry about his rejection. Something female so it wouldn't make me think of him. Something cocklike so it would make me think of him. So, of course I would enjoy it, and make little enjoying sounds.
But after a few contented moments, the whimpering grew louder, and it was so entirely clear that it was not mine. I pulled the doll from my mouth and looked around the room in that insane way you do when you think you're suddenly in a horror movie and if you snap your head around fast enough you'll spot the ghost of the class president who killed herself in high school. Or, in this case, the whoever-it-was who was making little high-pitched erotic noises while watching me suck Barbie's legs. When that didn't work, I looked at Miss Lemon, who was curled in a sweet little feline ball with her tail covering her nose, obviously uninterested in either Barbie-sucking or little erotic noises from nowhere.
I gave a mental shrug and thought about doing more cleaning or maybe writing or chatting online or forcing myself to eat something. But then Barbie's legs were just all I wanted in my mouth right then, so back in she went. I really devoted myself this time, thinking about how it would be to have a lover who truly appreciated my devotion to all things oral, who would constantly command me to suck their genitals and nipples and asshole and tongue as well as their fingers and toes and ears and belly and whatever else struck my fancy. Why did I keep ending up with idiot women who only liked penetration (and tongues didn't count) and moronic men who passively accepted blow jobs only until they were hard and ready to fuck?
The whimpering noise started again. This time louder. And damned if the more I sucked the louder it got. I didn't take her out of my mouth this time but still whipped my head around to see what could be making the noise. But when I slipped my tongue up hard between those creamy tender plastic thighs, the pitch raised and I realized, without a doubt, that it was Barbie herself who was moaning.
I pulled her from between my lips, fast, and looked at her absurdly smiling face. It did not move. I expected it to, frankly, because if she could moan I was in the Twilight Zone and she should be blinking and her mouth moving, too. Funny how once you go there, you just go all the way. But she was not moving and the sound stopped. Then, of course, I had to experiment. Into my mouth went her legs again and the whimpers began again. Out of my mouth and silence reigned. Entirely insane, sure, but I wasn't thinking about my break-up at all now.
An idea suddenly came to me: spread those legs and make Barbie come. But damn, Barbie's legs do not spread! I had never realized this -- or perhaps I had, for Western Fun Barbie came with a horse (long ago lost or given to Goodwill) and no way could she ride it, except maybe sorta sidesaddle. Right now, though, I wanted to lick Barbie's pussy, or the flat plastic patch that substituted for it. So I took her out of my mouth again and scissored her into the splits (so limber in some ways, so rigid in others), and licked and lapped at the space between her leg joints. The whimpers became a whine then, inspiring me to lick faster and faster, devoted entirely to my task and feeling like a feminist goddess giving Barbie what she has deserved all along for her suffering in an impossibly-shaped body. It fed me, too, and I grew wet then wetter as I labored, until at last the whine stuttered to a ghostly "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and I knew my doll was coming for me, just me; and I was giving it to her just the way she wanted it.
When her orgasm noise stopped, she was not silent, however. She started making little puppy noises, like there was more she wanted, but I could not understand them. I kept licking, but the sounds did not change in timbre or volume. I put her legs back together and put them in my mouth again, but still the same urgent little sounds. I put her down in my lap for a moment because my pussy was wet and I needed to adjust my panties, and then her vocalizations grew more intense. Barbie wanted me.
Who was I to keep the girl from getting exactly what she wanted? I removed my underwear, spread my legs (excuse me, Miss Lemon, don't mind my splayed thigh in your face), and teased my clit with those lovely feet. Barbie made a high humming noise now, and it brought the delights of battery-powered vibes to mind. My frizzy-haired girl teased and played and danced on my pussy. I pressed her toes down the cleft of inner labia and back up again. Around and over, firm little plastic roaming my slick flesh until we were both whimpering together as she brought me to climax.
Now she's my constant companion, sitting on my desk as I write, on my kitchen counter while I cook, in my bathroom when I go. She sleeps on the pillow where the ex's head rested. She never hogs the covers, she loves the way I suck, and she's always hard for me. Oh, and even when I'm tempted to bite the toes that feed me? Barbie always forgives.
