Cocoa

Content Warning: Very dark use of fetishism. Scenarios of stalking others. Do not read if you are waking up, instead: drink coffee, do some yoga, say good morning to your loved ones, and take some you-time.

There is no other way, it’s dark rich sugar melts fingertips and hearts. Everything encapsulates that ecstasy of passion and love, filling up heart shaped boxes with square, heart, and circular molds. Cocoa; desire that came from South America, cooked into anything with love, and crafted your desire. As you have said, there is no other way.  

The pictures of Laura Gene on your wall always got the nerves and oxytocin excited. Blood rushed through your heart as you made the chocolate squares for her. Arranging in dark, milky, smooth, and white chocolate, all it needed now were the final touches. Then she could eat them. 

Following her in your car, Laura Gene lived in upper estate flats down Oakland avenue, up river street, and across from Mittzio's boulangerie. Approximately it takes five minutes and thirty seconds to get there. On that day she wore her green tweed skirt and black, black, boots that reflected light from the top to the sole, and her long red hair glowed. She wore this on that weekly issue of Vogue that is pinned on your collection, in fact you were there, everyone knew you were there. Especially Anton, without him you wouldn’t even be able to see that close with every curve and pink hue of her skin

Fingering the chocolate, Laura Gene is there, in your room with pictures of herself. You take your finger and slither it into your mouth collecting globules of saliva, gagging. and plunge it into the chocolate batter. Just like Anton.

“Pulsate the finger around your mouth, curlicues, my pup, curlicues,” you had been at it for hours. Swishing your finger around the mouth, it grew sore, collecting DNA; fragments of your code and soul. Crooning, he continues, “That’s it keep it going.” What would your parents think of you. From there one night of passion leading to an accidental creation evolving into this dirty room where Anton lays on you and the stain covered bed dressed in velvet. The flashes of light blinded you and Anton’s camera caught your naked eye like a deer in headlights. 

Crude, that’s what it read, the word Crude covered the magazine in it’s giant style, it reminded you of The Cramps. With a woman in front, galvanized in dominatrix latex and a man knelt licking her lollipop she throttled. It was Anton’s work alright, and your fingertips were all over the pages: close ups of women and men sucking and choking on hot dogs, gib suits tied up and bananas rubbed against their pelvises, and long red hair covered in syrup sucked and nibbled by naked beings in pig ears and snouts. The rest of the pages were unfathomably and had the pure aesthetic of Anton, his month’s work. His artwork was the media of bodies styled in the works of gouge. 

Artisans, is what Anton and his friends called themselves, sculptors of the body and enigmatics of the new. “You weren’t born the way they were,” his hands caressed yours, “they will never understand the feeling and desire of what we crave. They would call us mad for loving what we do and throw us away for good; they never get up, they never get down, they never go crazy. Everyone’s crazy. They’re crazy because they don’t have the key and we’re crazy because we have the key.

“Madness is the key, the only key to become free and to the pleasures unbelievable by mankind. Madness is the only key.”  

Those words soothed you and soon everyone, Anton planned on creating a website for Crude. It would be the new age of enlightenment and freedom, everyone would see Anton’s artwork and accept the madness he preached.  

This was now all habitual: exploratory meetings, sexual digestion, and huge lumps of cash is what sold you, what bought you. Of course participation was never the desire, watching the bodies at work. Anton called you his audience, a connoisseur to spectate and rate his work however, he never stopped to convince you. Responding with a “no” he demonstrated his teeth.

They were white, “in due time my pup, in due time,” white that was too clean to be real and too clean for his job. He was the only one, he knew everything about you: where you lived, your ex spouse, your crush, and where you were before the two of you met.

The air was breathable and wafted with scents of lysol, and though Dan always talked about his collection of model trains and aircrafts, the cubicle you sat at was your own space, a home away from home. Eventhough home had your spouse and darling children, all sitting at the table waiting to eat the meal of meatloaf, potatoes, and peas; you simply liked being at work. Working over time, and on the weekends, it was just you and the black Dell computer, and no one else. 

Pictures of the red haired woman at the front desk of the office were stored in the memory of the computer. Keeping the photos on the computer was no problem at all, but getting the photos was harder. Copious angles and many details of the skin, captured and stored in the computer. To describe the amount of photos, their closer in depth attributes, and the photographed chocolate would be imposterous, unbelievable, and time consuming. 

No one knew, no one could know, safe inside your bed next to your spouse; It was all on there, and you were here.  

The next day was the same as usual, but you walked out with boxes and your coffee cup. No one greeted you that day, Dan didn’t talk about his trains, and the receptionist was gone. Did they know, but how? The computer was off, all the pictures of her were closed, and you made sure to turn off your computer.

There was no need to explain what you saw on your desk other than what you had been anticipating since the first capture of a picture. The need to vomit whirled, destroying your stomach and corroding your throat as it came up. It moved you, it controlled you, it was inside you and wanted to never let go of you. It greeted and said, “hello my name is God, I know what you have done,” it knows what you are and what you can never be.

Now in your apartment, with pictures of Laura Gene, you need to finish your piece for her. Losing yourself, you look at the pictures of her, the cocoa calls for your batter, the substance that wants to ooze inside her mouth. It would’ve been more enjoyable if it wasn’t there.

“Honey, when are you gonna come home?”

Your spouse sat there next you spectating your lust that filled the confectionery. 

“I hope you're ok.”

Faster now, your fingers masturbated your skin.

“Please, let me know if your ok.”

Choking, your throat began to clog holding back your screams.

“Please come back, we miss you.”

 It was done now, all of the fluid was out and ready to be molded.

The day of delivery, Laura Gene was very busy that week. On wednesday she had a meeting with her networker and signed new contracts for her next bikini season. Thursday, there were a plethora of interviews, and she would be too exhausted, afterwards, to eat them. Friday, Saturday, Sunday were just as difficult: family plans, medical appointments, and daily workouts would consume her day. She would never receive it until February fourteenth. 

On her doorstep laid the artwork, encapsulated in a heart shaped box, pink with red ribbons and a hand written note on top. All seeing from the dashboard of your car. At exactly twelve she would be done for the day, she would cross over Mondrow street and take the subway to her home; she would be here at twelve thirty. For every second you waited, the eyes were wide and crying for a blink or any drop of water from your eyelid. Then you heard something.

The steps of red flats attracted the ears, growing red within each step of her body. There she was, long flowing red hair. She bent over and grabbed the box, she mouthed the writing on the note, “from your secret admirer.”

Once inside you wasted no time, instead of the door, your eyes were smudged against glass piercing into the room: there was a couch, a lamp, and the woman herself. She opened it, and with good conception, eyed the chocolates scrutinizing every bit. Like a critic at Anton’s galleries Laura smelled it, licked it, and nibbled it and you had every nerve bouncing in your body, with blood rushing and oozing into every part of your anatomy. Then she finally did it.

Explosions, and burstations pulsated your body as you watched her smile warmly at the chocolate inside her mouth. You could feel the inside of her mouth, it was warm and empty, and you filled her, throughout the day you filled her. She picked at the pieces of the box and with every bite of cocoa she smiled, wildly. Celebrating the love she felt from another human being.

If you remember clearly, you whistled on your way home, skipped between steps, and worked up the audacity to howl at the moon. Falling onto your bed, the smile left an imprint on the mattress and your hand groped the stains of the sheets. Sleep wanted you, and you wanted it, to dream of chocolate covered mouths and covered heads. If only the door hadn’t banged, only if sleep had caught you, and only if you didn’t open the door you wouldn’t have been in the constant state of dread you are in. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

Forced from your bed to stop the persistent banging, the door moved over to show them. From that one second before your benevolent nightmare, figures masked in all sorts of animals grabbed you. Punching, kicking, and protesting did nothing as their bodies laced around the mouth and unbuttoned your clothes. Professionals, unclothing you to the bare bending your arms and squeezing your neck to block pleas, the smiles of the faces did not smile back at you.

What is going on, had you done something wrong to deserve this, does god know what you do, who knows what you do, no one should know what you do. Their rubber hands lubed and brown with that warm smell of cocoa filtering through you, thumping the love. Heart pumping and inhaling the musk, it ran blood in and out of the body that was now slobbered. Slobbered in chocolate. Ecstasy and anxiety claimed you as you humped the air and begged for satisfaction from all the thumping inside your heart, while yelling to be freed. Then with the flashes of camera light you wanted to drop to your knees. 

Exposed, two figures emerged, naked from all the light poured on their faces, the curves of their bodies, and hair. Laura Gene and your spouse watched with no expression and stood sardonically at the cocoa covered thing that is caught. Cameras in their hands, they clicked, snapping the eyes, body, and hue that captured their eyes. He was there as well, and he too carried another camera, collecting not only your body but the sound of it; a lathered pinkening body crying, with joy seeping from its eyes.

Madness could never describe your experience that night, no words could describe what you felt that either. The only thing worthy to describe your state of mind would be the only thing a sane person could do, laugh.