By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 13 - Friday Confessional

I eyed my jailor nervously when he arrived with my breakfast on Friday morning. The usual breakfast fare I'd come to expect was a bowl of cereal and some fresh fruit. But today, when I looked at what was on the tray he'd placed on my desk, all I could see was a tall glass of frothy, yellowish-white stuff and a straw.

"It's a high-protein energy drink," he said.

I wouldn't have argued with him, even if I'd been allowed, because there was also a copy of the latest National Confessor on the tray with a large picture of me on the front page.

"YOU CAN'T JUDGE A BOOK GIRL BY HER COVER" the headline screamed in bold, black letters. Beneath it were two large, glossy pictures of me. The one on the left was an old picture taken some years ago, when I worked as a librarian. In it my hair is neatly bobbed and blonde, and I'm wearing a conservative white jacket over a modest cotton dress made of a blue and white tiny polka-dot fabric. There's a string of pearls around my neck with matching earrings. But what stood out most to me was the expression on my face -- smiling like I didn't have a care in the world. The adjacent picture couldn't have been more stark in contrast. Completely naked and kneeling with my hands behind my back. A woman's hand, leathery and hard looking and with long fake nails painted a nondescript dark color, has my chin pinched between her thumb and forefinger and is clearly forcing me to look into the camera. There's an empty look in my eye. It's an enigmatic look that is sad, fearful, confused and defeated all at once. The captions read simply "FROM THIS ... TO ... THIS"

I absently stirred my thick breakfast drink with its straw and raised it to my lips. I sucked on the straw, but the liquid seemed unusually solid and didn't want to be drawn up the straw. I removed the straw and licked it clean between my lips. It had an unusual flavor which stuck to my lips like lipstick. I had to lick them a number of times before they felt clean again. I tapped the tip of my tongue on my lips again, trying to discern the particular taste it left behind. It was sweet on the surface but there was something else that was familiar, but not instantly recognizable. I hesitantly raised the glass to my lips and sipped. Once the first little bit went into my mouth, I tried to tilt the glass back but not matter how hard I tried to scissor the concoction between my lips and the rip of the glass, it wouldn't allow me to detach my lips from the glass. It was sort of like an eggnog, and I suspected it almost could have been, but it was chilled and more salty -- like anchovies, but then nothing like anchovies either -- and it's consistency was much thicker than eggnog.

I upended the glass again and swallowed a much larger mouthful in the hope I could find a weakness in the almost spaghetti-like flow where I could cut it with my lips. But no luck. It took two more large mouthfuls, after which the glass was more or less empty, before a point was reached where I could get the glass away from my lips. There was a lingering residue that thickly coated the inside of my mouth, and lined my throat all the way down to my stomach. The sensations of it slowly entering my stomach, sliding all the way down like a cool ooze, tingled. The drink had tasted stronger as I got toward the bottom of the glass, and the very last drop I drained from it had a taste I suddenly remembered. It had been mixed with something milky, but it was the unmistakable taste of a man's jism.

My tongue no longer wanted to go anywhere near the stuff, but there was no other way to clean the inside of my mouth or teeth. I flicked it into every corner, sucking and swallowing at the same time to clear the taste. I screwed up my face and felt suddenly sickened to the stomach. My hand slapped the top of my chest, right under my throat, and I coughed a couple of times to shift the sticky slime all the way to my stomach.

The guard laughed at me. Heartily. "I told you it was high-protein," he said. "Do you want to know who made it?"

I really didn't want to know, but there was also a morbid curiosity to head his answer. "Who?" I expected him to say it was his.

"One of the strip bars down the road has a Fellatio Kiosk. Do you know what that is?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"It's a little booth, a lot like your English pay phone boxes, except it has solid sides and numerous holes cut into its sides. A woman sits inside it and men -- strangers -- stand around outside and poke their cocks in through the holes. They get wanked and sucked and even fucked, sometimes all three or four at once, depending how good the Kiosk slut is. I don't know who filled your glass, but I'm tellin' ya, that was a big glass and would have taken a lot of filling!"

His explanation left me feeling thoroughly disgusted and queasy. Every time any saliva formed in my mouth and had to be swallowed, all I could taste was the cum and feel sickened by the knowledge of where it came from.

"Assuming anybody buys you, you'll probably get some experience in a Fellatio Kiosk yourself. And judging by the way you gulped down your breakfast, I'm predicting you're enjoy every second of it!"

I doubted it, but I didn't argue the point.

Breakfast over, the guard put the National Confessor back on the tray with the empty glass and disappeared from my cell for the rest of the morning.

By lunch time, I hadn't had a single visitor -- not even my husband, and no phone calls from him either. I felt edgy and restless. Each time my slaver commercial spot came around on the television, it showed the same bidding figure it had started the week with -- $0.00. A cloud of depression settled on me and remained oppressively there all through the rest of the afternoon. By 5pm there had still been no visit or call from my husband. I glanced over that the freakish double-dildo machine still sitting in my cell and cursed the man who put it there.