The Muffin Man - Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Aunt Jemima groaned like a happy heifer in a pasture of green tasty grass on a balmy Kentucky afternoon. Her heaving 350-pound mass seemed to move independently of itself, like a giant ball of seaweed at the beach. She felt her body start to tighten up.
“Are you ‘bout ready Miss Nancy?”
Jemima smacked the back of Carlene’s skull and snapped “I told you not to use that name, bitch!”
Carlene’s head hurt but she knew when to keep quiet. Living in the house as one of Jemima’s slaves, Carlene sometimes became bored, especially if she hadn’t had her fix yet. A few weeks back, she’d gone poking around in some of the back rooms where she wasn’t allowed. Jemima wasn’t happy when she found out. There were cameras all over the place, and Jemima was paranoid, albeit with good reason. She’d made lots of enemies over the years. And not just the Feds and the local popo. Much more dangerous were her competitors, folks like Ray Lee and that self-righteous long hair Quaker bitch Bill Penn, wearing that dumbass hat like he was somebody. Bill Penn was Pepsi’s bitch, though. The fact that he wasn’t even his own man made her dislike him even more. Always smiling like he knew some kind of secret. Boy would she love to wipe that smug little grin off his pasty English face, real close up and personal like. She fantasized about snipping off each of his fingers with her cigar cutter, all except for the middle ones. She laughed and felt a light stirring below her belly. Thinking about the Quaker man screaming because of her made her so wet she had to change her panties.
In the end, Jemima decided to keep Carlene. It wasn’t out of any sense of mercy. That wasn’t her style. She’d paid good money for that bitch. And, the girl could lick pussy like nobody’s business. It was her God given talent, and It would be a crime to part with such a gifted asset. So instead, Jemima hurt Carlene in a way she hadn’t ever been hurt before. Then she killed one of the other girls while Carlene watched, just so she’d feel better, and to throw the fear of God into Carlene, too. None of which stopped Mamie from enjoying the whole thing. Nothing like watching the big cats tear apart a terrified young thing while installing guilt and fear into one of her disobedient dogs. Took care of three things at once. It was almost as much fun as giving a whippin’ she gathered, but only cuz a whippin’ was more intimate. Jemima was nothing if not sentimental.
The tightening had subsided with Jemima’s temper flare, and she tried to relax. “Do your job, baby”, she told the girl. “You know what Mamie likes. Be a good girl and pay for yourself. Gluten ain’t free. And Mamie’s a busy girl. I ain’t got no time to replace your ugly cracker ass. It ain’t gonna lick itself now is it?” She laughed at her own joke and sent waves of glee across her suety thighs.
Carlene knew what Nancy “Aunt Jemima” Green liked. She’d been doing it for a little over three years and she just kept getting better at it. It was like sucking cock with just a few feminine variations. And much better benefits, even if she was a slave. Hell, she was off the street, had her own room in a magnificent mansion, and most of her time was her own. The food was amazing and she and the other slaves got to enjoy each other whenever they liked. She was confined to the manor but that was no big thing considering the place had every luxury she or anyone could want. A beautiful beach. Tennis or golf if you liked that kind of thing. Four bars with anything you wanted. First run movies in two full sized theatres. Of course, you still couldn’t leave but where was she going to go? Back to Oak Cliff? Life wasn’t so bad, except for when Auntie was at home. And then there was the drug. After about a day without it, the pain would start. After a couple of days, she’d be looking for a gun because withdrawal was no way to die.
Carlene’s face was haggard from all the gluten and three years of taking the shots every day, but she was still pretty, which was another reason Jemima still kept her around. With pale Irish skin on a thin but muscular frame, she had blond hair, blue eyes and dimples in just the right spots, making her “little girl pretty” and grown woman sexy all at the same time. A light smattering of freckles accented the dimples, giving her a sensual glow. Her lips were full and pouty, and her tongue was a skilled almost perfect triangle. She tugged gently at Jemima’s privates, teasing her with an occasional fast wide lick, like a skilled toad catching a nearby fly. Jemima grunted from deep in her chest and Carlene felt the muscles under Jemima’s oleaginous brown coat start to stiffen again. Jemima gasped and pulled Carlene’s head closer to her inflamed waffles, clutching the back of her head with her other hand and pulling off her trademark bandana. She wore the thing as one of her affectations, like her apron and the iron skillet she carried around like a disciplinary breakfast machete. She normally hated taking the kerchief off her head. Superstitious, she felt that letting go of any of the symbols she carried would make her weak, turning her back into Nancy Green again. Sort of like Kryptonite but worse because it wasn’t happening to someone else. Sometimes though, for special occasions, she would remove that red and white checkered bandana and let her beautiful mane of thick black African hair free to tickle the back of her neck and pudgy naked shoulders. Jemima classified Carlene’s magical tongue as one of those special occasions. The soaking wet bandana lay next to her head as her breathing started to change. Her skin’s wide-open pores soaked the fluffy vanilla and maple scented pillows with a tidal wave of sweat that spread across the mattress like spilled soda can, casually engulfing the two women and making their skin both sticky and moist at the same time.
Jemima arched her back so that Carlene’s tongue could explore her clinically and lovingly.
“That’s it my little white monkey”, she breathed, flopping a giant thick thigh over Carlene’s pale shoulder. “Go into them woods for to drill me some crows!”
Carlene moved her tongue faster, feeling a little queasy from the gluten but sure she could hold It down. She stroked the outside of Jemima’s swollen lips, what Jemima sometimes jokingly called her flapjacks, with thin, delicate fingers. Jemima thrust herself, muttering “Go deep baby. Go deep as you can an Ima set you free one day. My pussy gonna set you free.” Jemima raised her hips, her muscles tightening and embracing the magical feeling growing in intensity, spreading like an infectious moss into her belly and up through the back of her hips and into her spine. Carlene was ready for Jemima’s rattling pushes but wasn’t fast enough to get that one deep breath she needed before the long, deep dive to the bottom of the Estrogen Sea. Jemima was yelling now, twitching uncontrollably while Carlene’s head was fixed in a sexual padlock, Jemima’s soft steel thighs two mahogany handles of a morbidly obese 350-pound nut cracker around Carlene’s struggling walnut shell skull. The slave girl could no longer hear the outside world, only the muffled screams of Aunt Jemima made it through. “Ima set you free! Ya hear me baby? Ima set you free!” At which point Carlene, her breath barely gone and her stomach a rolling boil of the things the gluten had put inside of her, heaved a warm steady flow of tapioca-like things into Jemima’s spasming womb. They climbed up into her and staked their claims, giving Jemima an endorphin rush such as she’d never had before. Jemima arched her back and pointed her globby abdomen straight towards heaven, her mouth wide open in a silent happy scream, her eyes pressed shut and her body quivering while warm tapioca like balls in a semeny batter ran down her tightly twitching groin.
Jemima collapsed into a blissful endorphin coma. Her bloodstream screamed quietly with some very new feel-good hormones, lulling her into a new-found happy place, unaware of the outside world, while tiny new things attached themselves to her secret unseen places and began learning to thrive.
Two hundred miles away, the Muffin Man felt much of his tension drain away if only for a brief moment. He sighed and smiled to himself, his large head looking a bit like a puffed-out Jack in The Box clown in a big floppy chef’s hat. He was pudgy, with thick eyebrows, heavy lidded dead blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Reddish-brown hair that matched his wide hurdy gurdy mustache pushed out from under his toque blanche. Deep down inside him, in a warm chemical brew which was very much like the sea, there was a celebration. He began whistling a song and returned to baking.