Peter Pumpkin Eater
woman, or alternatively was so poor that he could not support a wife, but either way I am certain
he killed her and stuffed her corpse into the pumpkin shell before he planted it, to fertilize his
circumstance. I do believe it worked, according to rhyme immemorial.
When it comes to Rufus keeping me, that is, if I am actually a wife, it takes a shell to roll me in
for my own safety, as my supportive abilities depend on my being without flaw, free of injury. I
mentioned ferrets and cats. Ferrets can’t retract their claws, and they love to chew. Also, rolling
me up when deflated is nothing as horrid as killing me. I am perennial.
Also I need to say something about Rufus and his love of the flavor of women. He is a confirmed
cunnilinguist, a rug muncher, a snatch licker. He even likes it when they menstruate. I have been
privileged to serve him all sorts of sauces from between my parted thighs, as I have no flavor of
my own. Of course, his own spunk is a big favorite. Perhaps there is some hint of how oral Rufus
is in the way his face is formed. The rest of him is built heavy, though he’s not a large man his
bones could support one, and he is put together with athletic grace. Naturally this has given him
a large and almost Neanderthal jaw line, and his mouth is generous and furnished with teeth
white and blocky. Yet when at rest his lips are sculpted into what I have learned is called a
cupid’s bow. They are very expressive of his moving moods, and let out an amazing vocal range
during Virgen Steel’s performances. The chin they are over has a cleft that would make any poet
swoon. Added to his soulful blue eyes and those lashes, he could be bald and the ladies would
still want to bury that face between their bosoms or other places. And you know he’s not bald!
He has the red mane of a Viking. The tiniest inclination of his lower lip and the audience begins
to shout in response, or at least sway. And then the music comes.
I am so lucky to be the recipient of the attentions of that mouth. No wonder it gave me life to be
laved and kissed by it.
Just now, as I am paying more attention to what I write, from the bed I hear a creaking and a
thumping and so I decide to inhabit my physical shell. There are times even after all our years
together when Rufus brings it out. It is like being awakened from a sound sleep in some ways, to
slip into the sensations of it in the midst of a vigorous swiving. I literally come awake!
Rufus is momentarily still, panting and trembling, still inserted but feeling the difference in me
as I lie in what I can see now as darkness, my abdomen spasming in pleasure and as usual with a
mindless pleased rictus of welcome on my face.
I have a trick I have practiced. I can blow my mouth inside out, so it’s a bit like sticking out a
tongue. It takes rather a lot of concentration and makes me go cross-eyed, however. I’m not sure
if it suits, but I am trying it now. The depression caused by this in the rear of my head is
disguised by my wig and my head remains on the pillow anyway.
Does he like it? I’ve only gotten it out a little ways, like a tiny lifesaver, when I feel his
delectable lower lip running along it, and he begins to lick and suck. Oooh—and nibble!
I am beginning to feel a rhythmic pressure upon my back and shoulders. He presses me to his
chest and wraps my legs around his torso. I feel its furry impact on my breasts and belly; I am
squeezed up against his cliff of face and chin, and he is well content with his sucking at my
mouth. Every now and then his tongue pushes back what he has pulled out, a play of convex and
concave that I can feel all the way to the back of me. It’s a marvel of enjoyment for me to enjoy.
The reddish chestnut curtain of his hair is all around us.
He’s hugging me and rocking me with one arm, his more muscular right, the picking arm, and it
suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea of what is going on below our waists. Something in his
rocking does not promise rest and I manage a squeak sort of like the way his fingertip sometimes
slips on a high string. My belly is filling with a fluttering. He’s working on things we can do
down there, I just know it!
Deliberately I harden my arm so that one of my hands curls down to investigate. I encounter a
flurry of movement and vibration so quick it’s nearly a buzzing. He’s jacking off! Tentatively I
enclose the blur of his hand with mine and it’s as if it’s carving me fingers! I can feel ridges
within the flap of that little mitten thing they manufactured for me to have on the end of the arm.
Steadfastly I wrap around, wrap all of them around until my hand catches up and begins to ride
the broomstick. The speed of the motion travels all the way along my arm and wiggles my whole
body and it’s making Rufy grin from up where he’s got my mouth in his powerful clamping
jaws. He starts giggling with glee!
The force of our combined arousal shoots up me. It nearly unwinds my legs from around him;
fortunately he’s got them tucked under his arms. The motion continues to rock all of me against
him and I know my sparkles are lighting up like a concert special effect and I wonder how much
of it he can see. I slap against him and his magnificent solid hairy wall of meat repeatedly until
he comes, our hands also wound together next to where it splashes the sheets, and he growls
right into my ear, “you witch—“
As the sweat springs out all over him and slides me along his hairs he is pressing his tongue into
where it would go into my ear if I had one. The slurping sound is caught between my head and
the wig and it is so very loud. And he takes mouthfuls of my soft rounded jaw. I wish I could be
a loaf of bread and he could tear off a nice chunk of me.
He looks into my eyes and I do my best to look back. I send pressure into the arm and hand and –
fingers! Around in his splatter he wipes my hand and his, and then brings them up to lick off up
high, where I can enjoy watching. I think a bit of my mouth is still protruding with a wrinkly o
shape. I wonder if it looks anything like lips—not that I will ever have a mouth as gorgeous and
talented as his.
He rubs some of it into my backside as well and lies at his leisure with me over his warm lapping
licker and crags of chin, licking out all my crevices and using me to fluff up the thickets
springing from his chest. My wig is for running like a fly-whisk all along his sturdy thighs. I have
sometimes even caught a glimpse of shapely toe.
mine, I carry with me the precious memory of it up into my body of sparkles. I have learned how
to have hands much nicer than the rubber ones. I wiggle my fingers. I make the sign of horns. I
try to wrinkle my mouth with lips to change it to a smile. Only it doesn’t show in the mirror.
None of me does.
Spunkin’ juice, pumpkin eating. Keeping it in is self defeating.