Extra Privileges

 

He'd updated. I click the update link and the pale green light emanating from the screen flickers as the next page loads. Not feeling shame in the slightest, I read the latest installment of one of the most brilliant works of delightfully deviant debauchery I'd discovered in a long while. I read of a hero whose credulous concept of canvassing for corruptive yet comical composition coerced him to carelessly play the Creator, concocting a colorful corpus of cognizant chartreuse coalesce, whose constant craving for coition most carnal consecrated our champion's curiosity with coitus continuous. Compelling reading.

 

Once I'm finished with the new material, I revisit the front page, certain that in my fervor to read the latest chapter I'd skipped something important. Indeed, at the base of the page sat a link to a registration page. I eye the registration form suspiciously, browsing its promises of extra content, chapter previews and the like. At the bottom, in clear red letters just above a "Submit" button, is the asking price of five dollar. No plural, just 'dollar', with smaller print reading "Membership is not without its privileges." Must've been a typo.

 

I don't know why I fill in my details. It wasn't the first time I'd signed up to a smut website, but it was the first time I'd paid to do so. I hit "Submit" and leave to get a bite to eat, not dwelling much on it. After eating my fill, I return to my computer to leave a comment, then retire to bed.

 

- - -

 

I'd entirely forgot about registering to the site until the mailman arrived at the door, bearing a small parcel accompanied by a large envelope. The package is only about the size of a softball, and is heavily padded. I sign for the items and sit them down on the table. Opening the envelope, I read the blurb from the site owner, thanking me for joining. A little unusual for a porno site. That package must be some sort of free gift. A figurine or something. A little more unusual.

 

There are a number of pages after that, excerpts from the story. I read through them again, recognizing the first chapter, where the hero obtains the magical ingredient that turns ordinary green jelly into an insatiable sex machine: A small, battered aluminum tin labeled "SRU Thickening Agent", containing a dull grey powder. I smile, remembering the first time I'd read the story, wondering what the hell the hero would want to stick his dick into a bowl of jelly for. Thank god I read on back then; I'd be a lot less entertained otherwise.

 

The next page was from a different part of the story, and much less. "You paid five dollar," a character said when the hero tried to get rid of the tin, "It's yours, and whatever happens with it is your responsibility, your karma." I reread the sentence. 'Five dollar'. That same typo. I never noticed that before. Well, wonders never cease. More excerpts detailed the ground rules the hero had to learn and eventually break with the mysterious powder. I reminisce about reading through the story, and realizing that I wasn't reading this for chicken-choking material any more, and that I was genuinely interested in the story.

 

Only now does a tightening feeling creep into my gut. I glance at the package. A figurine or something. The excerpts are just a joke, collecting all these parts of the story as if it were a user's manual or something. A joke, I realized as I stared at the round package, that was getting increasingly not funny. There were no more pages left; all that was left was the package. I tentatively reach a hand out to it, as if it were some sort of alien life form. You idiot, I scold myself, it can't be the powder. It's a bloody story! It's not real! But another voice pops into my head, the one my mind had associated with the store owner: You paid five dollar. It's yours, and whatever happens with it is your responsibility, your karma.

 

I peel away at the tape holding the package together, praying it was a sick joke on the part of the author. The end opens, I reach a hand inside and touch sheer metal. I jerk my hand back, as if something had bit at it. Too smooth for a figurine. The anticipation and trepidation grips me tight as I reach in again and take hold of something too smooth to be a figurine. I pull it out shakily, my anxieties confirmed. A beaten up tin, that once had a label before someone peeled it off. "ning Agen" is all that's still readable. When my jitters subside enough, I unscrew the lid. My wildest imaginings and worst fears are realized when I see the fine, grey powder, sitting semi-caked in the bottom of the tin.

 

Oh. HELL.

 

- - -

 

I play a fighting game. It calms the nerves. When you can't ease tension by beating something physical into non-existence, settle for the virtual. Down-Forward-X-Circle. My character flips forward, bringing her heels down on the other guy's head. I mash the buttons again and her momentum is carried on into a cartwheel. My mind goes on autopilot as I watch my girl trounce the jaguar masked wrestler across the ring. Up-Forward-Circle. X. My mind goes very simplistic when I get in the zone. Block. Forward-Square. Triangle-Square-Circle. Beats worrying about the tin on the table behind me.

 

Jaguar guy gets a hit in. Bullshit! my mind cries, You're not getting away with that! Circle-X. I stamp my authority on the back of his skull, using his own body as a springboard as I soar into the air, my legs pistoning into one-two split kicks as I fall. He receives them right in the over-sized feline teeth. The screen confirms the conquest with a bold red "K.O" before going into a replay.

 

I motion to skip it in favor of the next fight before I'm distracted by the tin again. It's almost like it's watching me, waiting for me to cave in and make some dessert. I mean, sure, the story made for great reading, but an actual, honest-to-goodness goo girl? I'd need to get hammered, and I'm not stupid enough to try and make jelly under the influence of alcohol, magical goo girl powder or no.

 

I turn off the game. Damn it, distracting myself almost worked. What the hell am I going to do with this? I almost hear my own head shout out meliae. The word echoes around in my head. Meliae. Honey-nymphs. Goo girls.

 

"Hell," I say. Very fond of the word hell. All the expletives that come naturally from a twelve year Catholic education aren't much use to me now I'm an atheist. Christ, Jesus, God and the like just aren't that useful when you don't think you're besmirching some great big robed guy in the sky. Hell, though, is general. Anyone can relate to hell.

 

I can't believe my own naivety. I get a tin of dust (for all I know) in the mail and I act like it's the end of the world. I know what I have to do to get my mind straight again. I have to try it.

 

But what if it works? Clips of old children's movies come unbidden to mind, bearing lines of dialog such as "Now, Buster, making a meliae is a big responsibility, you know?" or "I don't think you're ready to keep a goo girl yet. Maybe when you're older." But, assuming they're real, meliae think for themselves. They're not pets that need feeding. They eat of their own accord.

 

My junk twitches. Catholic curses fill my head. Assuming they're real. "Hell," I repeat. Just try it, I tell myself, pull yourself together. Try it, and move on. Fairy dust doesn't turn goo into girl. Try it, and move on.

 

The magic words drift into my mind. It's not like you expect this to work.

 

I reach for my wallet.

 

- - -

 

Luckily, I need food. Shopping trips don't do themselves. Besides, it's not like people would suspect I'm buying a packet of jelly with the intention of having sex with it. Well, there was that one guy on the internet who made the papers by buying a small supermarket entirely out of cherry jelly crystals, and declared he was going to fuck it. Something weird about that kid, though...

 

I spend the five minutes walking to the supermarket convincing myself that this wasn't the worst idea I've ever had. It's not like this will work, I tell myself, walking through the balmy summer night, think of it as buying yourself dessert for tonight. Forget about the powder. I walk into the supermarket, the air conditioning kissing sweat at my neck. I don't make a bee-line to the instant food section, instead opting to do the rest of my shopping first, negotiating with myself to buy time.

 

Two packet pastas and a quart of milk later I'm back where I started. I grudgingly make my way to the dessert. The colorful boxes depict caricatures of people made of jelly. Oh, fuck you, irony. Like I need this. I quickly scan the boxes as thoughts of jelly people start to awaken the beast in the middle of the supermarket. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I think back to the story, remembering what flavors did what, trying to avoid anything further boner-inspiring. Cherry? Hell no.

 

My forehead starts to cool, sweat picking up the conditioned air. Strawberry? Mmmmmnah. Raspberry? Ha! Nothing that wild. Lemon? Can't see that going well... I curse to myself. I was starting to get weird looks. It's just jelly, I could read on their faces, what's the big deal?

 

...Yeah. Come to think of it what is the big deal? This isn't going to work, and I'll have to eat it, and it'll taste bad with all that dust through it anyway. Who cares about flavor? I grab the nearest pack and walk as calmly as possible to the counter. Then I change course to the liquor department, adding a batch of my favorite poison to the basket. Something tells me I'll need it.

 

- - -

 

Port.

 

All the flavors they had and I picked port.

 

My father, while not the richest man in the world, had taste. He also had a private cellar. An almost weekly tradition at the family house was ice cream for dessert doused in port wine. It was a dessert wine, after all. Not enough to get drunk, but I was just a kid, and still felt inexplicably dizzy afterwards. One day I pointed out they made port flavored jelly while shopping with Dad. He laughed, and put a packet in the trolley. From then on, a slice of port jelly was added to the alcoholic concoction for the weekly ritual sweets, until I left home a few years back. Hell, I probably picked it out of instinct.

 

And now, here I am on the verge of making my first batch of jelly in so long, and I can't stop thinking about what she'll be like. Hell. Port. She'll be permanently drunk. I'd feel too guilty seducing a drunken party favor. I look at the small battered tin I've brought into the kitchen.

 

Once again, the fantastic and rational sides of my mind find themselves locked in battle. Like last time, rationality is winning, its mantra of it won't work anyway reigning supreme over any concern I had for my state of mind in the presence of my hypothetical goo girl. I mix the jelly crystals in with the boiling water, for some reason being almost ritualistic about my stirring. I reach over and take a sip of the green concoction of apple cider and absinthe. Stupid high school mates, I rued them, on top of Dad's port they've ruined my taste for cheap booze. The crystals at the bottom of the bowl are long since dissolved. I look at the bowl, a sense of achievement washing over me. At least I still know how to make jelly.

 

Then I look at the tin, and my gut tightens again. Picking up the jar, I look for instructions, and remember the label had been ripped off. Hell. I raise the tin over the bowl and carefully shake in a rough tablespoon, before resealing the tin and hiding it in the very back of my kitchen cupboard.

 

Looking back at the bowl, I frown. The dusty powder had clouded the jelly, still swirling with momentum from the stirring. It doesn't look too appetizing... I thought, silently congratulating myself for thinking of it as just a bowl of jelly. The words it's not like this will work drift back into my head, steeling my resolve. I pick up the mug of alcoholic elixir and slosh some into the jelly to mask the inevitable dusty taste. That'll do. Somewhat surprised I went through with it, I carry the bowl into the fridge and let it set. Now we wait. I walk back into my room and start up my PC. I need to talk to someone...

 

- - -

 

[You said: hey! we need to talk a bit. msg me when you get back, kay?]

 

I wait for a reply. The green light's on, so he's either ignoring me, or he's away from the computer.

 

[You said: come on, man! i'm getting freaked out here!]

 

No response. I'm starting to get a little nervous. Why? It's just jelly.

 

[You said: it's just a prank, right? i mean, none of this stuff is real, right?] [You said: how many others got one of those tins?]

 

I hear a noise in the kitchen. The fridge opening. One of my house mates are back, then. "Hey," I shout in greeting from my room as I continue my one sided interrogation.

 

[You said: it's just ordinary dust, or ash, or something, isn't it?]

 

I hear something wet hit the floor. "Hey, come on, I just cleaned up in there," I berate my house mate, "Be careful would you?"

 

[You said: this is just something you cooked up to scare the freaks at the image board, right?]

 

The wet sound doesn't stop. My heart starts beating faster. I listen for other sounds. Nothing except my heartbeat. They're not splashes. They're footsteps.

 

[You said: o fuck]

 

The door is pushed open by a dark shape, the color of deep velvet. The light's terrible; through my monitor's glare I can't see it clearly. But I can take a damn good guess.

 

It's not like you expect it to work... Ironically, now I remember the one golden rule from the story. Damned rationality. The decidedly feminine shape sashays forward, planting a liquid hand on my keyboard before leaning in to engulf me where I sat. The last thing I hear before I find myself ultimately distracted was the ding of my messenger program sending a missive.

 

[You said: I am busy, we shall talk later.]

 

In the light of the monitor I can see her far more clearly. She is about my height, perhaps an inch or two shorter, her body crystal clear and deep burgundy, like stained glass. She's leaning over me, her hourglass figure looks like it could snap under the weight of her still modest chest. If she weren't made of jelly. In the bad light it's difficult to make out facial features, but she leans down to give me a closer look, closing her lips around my own open mouth.

 

My god, the taste. She is delicious! Such a rich port flavor, accompanied by the sharp tang of apples and a cool but unidentifiable herbal scent. It's like dessert in a secluded valley of a European mountainside. I lean upward into the kiss as she lowers her body onto mine, her body cool to the touch. Her mouth, however, is warm and inviting, and I eagerly lap up the flavor, one hand drifting up her back to draw her in further. She lets out a squeak, and I hear her voice for the first time, a melodious pitch almost impossible to replicate that makes me weak at the knees, and hard in other places. She leans back, and I take in her features a slight bit more intimately.

 

Beauty isn't enough. Her eyes sparkle and smolder and disarm and consume me, and threaten to burn me alive. Her button nose sits framed by her other flawless features. Her lips, slick with desire, pout at the extended lack of attention, demanding that I pay them tribute. I don't wait a second any longer. I lean forward into her, continuing the amazing lip lock, before she breaks the kiss.

 

"I must 'ave you," she gasps in that same soul-caressing choir girl voice, a hint of what I perceive to be a French accent. She squirms in my seat, trying to grind herself against me. When I feel a devastatingly warm sensation grip my dick, my mind begins to realize that she was grinding herself into me, not against me, but short-fuses before it can come to that conclusion. I feel an unearthly force inside her caress my cock as other forces free me from my fabric confines, the girl pushing them through her with the skill someone would use to tie a knot with their tongue. Which we were both now trying to do.

 

A spike of pleasure shoots up me, lifting me from the chair. She takes this opportunity to shrug my jeans off, exposing myself fully to her administrations. I moan into her, shivering uncontrollably as her body heats up. She presses me back into the seat, driving as much of me into her as she can. She begins to lightly bounce now, and my body arches, barely keeping my spasming limbs under control. I barely keep myself from release, plunging my mouth onto one of her deep crimson buds, licking and suckling. It breaks her concentration, and she gives a short gasp, her lower body going nearly limp again as I regain control. Now I begin to thrust, feeling I'm prepared for the incredible warmth and sensation.

 

She gasps each time I hilt, and gasps more when I close my arms around her, drawing her in to a full body hug. Her short gasps join together into a long, unwavering high note, and her body drools purple nectar from every point. I'll never get sick of that taste. Her inside closes around me tight, my dick caught in a volcanic velvet vice. My brain shorts out after the fifth spurt, my last sight that of her face, a carmine vision of ecstasy.

 

---

 

Based on the premise of Oblimo's It's Always Time.  I believe he called it ice cream.

 

 

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