Sweet Beginnings
Dear Good Housekeeping,
It’s been a while since I’ve been mixed up in anything new. My wild days of being shaped into the perfect treat are long gone, along with the endless nights of devouring bliss, passing through a plump set of lips and savoring the feel of a hot tongue licking all over me. It seems like forever, as if my shelf life has no end in sight. Maybe there was something I should have done differently; could I have been something else? These thoughts make me so sour, and that’s an issue if you’re made to make others tingle in all the best ways.
I’ll introduce myself before I bowl you over with my story. My name is Sugar. I’m the naughtiest monosaccharide you’ve ever whipped up. I may look as pure as snow, but don’t let my glowing skin fool you; I am rotten down to the core, and I make the most out of every opportunity to cream.
Am I making your heart skip a beat, already? I’ve been known to have that effect, but we’re just simmering here on our way to a boil…
It began for me the same way it does for most: I gluttonously engulfed any nutrient that came my way, demanded the best care at all times, and quivered in the sensational moistness of my environment. It was bliss, the warm and cold touch of the Earth massaging my body, making me quake for release. I needed more! I burrowed my root as deep as it could go. Though I couldn’t see what I was doing or where I was thrusting, the vibrations of the soil gripped me. Pressing me down. Holding me in. It rubbed all over and pushed me to the edge, but I couldn’t get into the groove enough to burst. Instead, I held firm. Probing the Earth with my root. Sending my tip into its treasure. It was magnetic, the deepening fit. My skin was lavished with attention by the soil, it’s wet lips smacking sloppily along my body, wherever I needed. Though I wasn’t exploding with sweetness, it felt like I was in the right place.
Then, my life was uprooted before I could make sense of all these sensations. My tip was unearthed and my flaccid leaves were rendered useless, chopped off, as the brightness of the sun clung to my flesh. Filth was caked on me. My body was heaved into a grope fest with familiar strangers. We clung to each other as our bodies pumped roughly together, our swollen tips begging for their Earthly plugs but quickly finding solace in the hard slap of flesh. I was tossed from body to body. I could feel the insistent ridges of their roots, while my tip desperately throbbed against the depths of their grooves. Skin crashed like lightning. It kept striking. And striking. Unearthing a rumbling that burrowed down to my root.
Soon, our bodies were swept up by a wave. We were suspended, just out of reach of each other as we drowned in a sea of lube. It held us apart only to abruptly slam our bodies into a nearby sweetie or two while swirling through liquid space. It felt so different from plunging into the Earth with my tip, going root deep. The nectar flooded my deepest rings. Even without the hard thrusts, my body roared like thunder. The passion was consuming me; my senses were saturated. The intermittent crash left me begging for more. The growing rush of my excitement matched the quickening speed of the surge. It was coming; the moment I was craving ever since I was plugged in: sweet release.
Tingling on the edge, my folds barely felt the slice that tore me in half, halves of halves, an unrecognizable version of myself. Shredded to bits, the marking was over in a matter of seconds. My rings sat exposed, rubbing lewdly against other sweeties’ inner parts that trembled from the intensity. Such insurmountable pain replaced with unimaginable pleasure; I was being shaped into the perfect treat for the most devilish appetites. Molded for a snapping bite. Still, I hadn’t had my climax; what would I become? Then, another submersion, but this time the liquid carried me away from my severed body, my craving separating from my flesh to enter a different state of being. One born out of extreme bondage and sadomasochism. The refinement of my skills, my skin to serve the Makers; by their hands, I take form and fulfill their most carnal pleasures only to return again for more devilish delights. It was the life I was born for, always chasing the sweetest rush.
I have been folded into all positions. Whisked away to serve the Makers. Fluffed up till I’m about to pique. Spread out, on sale, for everyone to see. Each memory puffs me up till I’m ready to erupt, but it wasn’t until I found my current Maker that I reached so close to blowing my bowl.
That is the story I want to tell, Good Housekeeping, if you’ll have me. Others have drooled to get a piece of this; I’m giving you the best lick. Oh, and I’m always happy to divulge more about my sinfully sweet experiences, but I don’t want to drain your readers too fast...
Sweetest,
Sugar