No One Knows What Grows Inside

It’s time again for another

Soaring Twenties

monthly Symposium, and this month’s theme is “How to grow your. . . ” Fellow club member,

Dane Benko

and I made a gentleperson’s agreement that his thematic piece would be body horror with a bit of erotica, and my piece would be erotica with a bit of body horror. It’s been ages since I’ve written in either genre, so here’s my attempt at erotic growth with a bit of body horror. And I definitely write erotica differently than i did in the past, which makes me want to unearth some of my sexy pieces to see the evolution and to get a glimpse of where I may be headed. And PLEASE check out Dane’s piece here, “How to Grow Your Nerve Tooth,” cuz it’s damn effective!

Also, take the above paragraph as a fair warning of whether or not you want to read this piece or send it to the archives.

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Once their bodies have recovered from the rapturous paroxysms, they can refocus from the blur of ecstasy to the sharp features of reality and realize that nothing about me seems particularly sexy. My features are as dull as my wit, and my eyes as distant as my laugh. Yet just moments ago, I had them enthralled. Their whole souls tethered against the flap at the back of my throat as if I was both the boulder Odysseus bound himself to and the sirens who enchanted him.

It's not the gorge of my throat, and it’s not my swallowing. It’s not even the pleasure they know I receive. None of them know the trick of malleable bone. I didn’t even know until I tongued the roof of my own mouth in an absentminded hunt for peanut butter gone rogue at the age of 15. I’d licked the interior clean before, but it wasn’t until then that I felt its incipience. A nearly imperceptible ridge that split the flat expanse of my upper mouth. I thought nothing of it until it started to enlarge. Little by little and bit by bit, it grew in its miniscuality. So, for days on end, I reconnoitered the rim, investigating this new geography. Its progress was slow but noticeable. I feared this bulge would fill my mouth with a mountain until my tongue suffocated under the summit. But it finally stopped its drop until it was just under one centimeter; wide as it was long.

It wasn’t until I was 19 that I took a man into my mouth. He was less a man, tho, and more a boy breaking his back to become masculine. Not yet as hairy as he’d be, and not yet as mean either. Still sweet, before the punishment of want set in. I slid my tense lips along his length and puffed my cheeks up to try and hide the ventral fin that had wiggled down from the roof of my mouth. But I couldn’t keep my anatomy hidden, and the moment the head of him traversed the cartilaginous protrusion, I felt every muscle in his body go slack; except for the muscle that filled my mouth. All my orifices went wet at the power of making this almost-man weak, so I relaxed my jaw and gave him more room to maneuver as a stream of me trickled to my neck and knees. He massaged the inside of me with rhythmic imposition as I drifted into memories of the other girls in the dorm complaining about the work of cock-sucking. But this didn’t feel like work because my flesh ridge did the labor as my head bobbed on his rocky blissful sea.

Is my mouth a mountain or a fish?

Sometimes, when I’m in a rage, I wish for the mountain to break through my soft palate, tearing itself free with its tortuous birth. Would this crack my mandible in two until my teeth splayed like wanton legs? Or would my jaw stay intact as the tip of the range pierced downwards through muscled tongue and terrified throat, breastbone and heart, gut and cunt?

And then, when I’m feeling timid, I wish for a fish to reveal itself. The cartilage fin hangs low in my mouth already; maybe it’s the precursor to the goldfish that floats above. Its belly will nestle into the dark ocean of my oral cavity, and its flutter tail will be the sunrise that flirts with the tongues, cocks, and clits that I collect like treasures.

All I can do is wish tho because the bone has a mind all its own.

Each man looks at me the same. With confusion and awe. They go back in their past as they stroke themselves to the memory of me, but just before they cum, they wonder, “Why her?” Because they know by my appearance that I’m nothing special, but the feel of me gives them the sense that I’m that sparkle you see in a dust storm, I’m the phosphene that stars your night eyes, I am the sacred that blinks through the mundane.

We may talk. I may touch your hand. You may caress my neck. Another bland evening in all our grey days. Stripped down but unseen. Your pants are in a pile, or – if you’re fastidious – they’re folded. Anticipation plays your cock like a marionette, so it dances at the threshold of my slow-opening lips. How badly you want in, and how naïve you are about what’s inside.

You let your eyelids heave an artificial night across your sight as you slip into the small morning of me, noticing the change from room temperature to body heat. You are now as warm as you are wet, and you imagine this will be like any other blowjob until you glide along the stalactite of my soft palate. A quick yelp and whine escapes as you try and figure out the sensation. Your body begins to take over in an unconscious investigation of my contours as my fleshy elevated ridge teases you with the glance and graze of a million tiny fingertips. Your cock is curious about the ripple at the roof of my mouth, so the slit at your tip, which is just a vaginal canal in miniature, opens itself inquisitively. But I pull you out, dripping with spit, from between my lips and deep-kiss the tip of you instead. My tongue, which is envious of the mouth it calls home, is penetratingly pushy. But you want nothing but my topography, so I loosen my jaw to let you commune with the protuberance of bone in a new style of cock fight. My cheeks fill your gripped palms as you try to erode the magical mountain of my mouth. This is less face-fucking and more spelunking as you squat low to arch the shaft up along the peaks that refuse to recede. Along, across, up, and down. With each pass of you, the ridge softens, loosening itself to your shove. When do you notice this malleability tho? When do you begin to feel the membranous expansion and contraction on you? This fin ridge transforms from spine to small hand, which would normally alarm you, but in this penetrable cave, you only know what you feel, not what you see. So my lips tighten in an undulating rubdown from base to middle as my tongue traces your ventrality and the fleshy grasp from the roof of my mouth gives firm but soothing grip to your tip. . .new fingers form a collar for your corona. The sensation is almost too much, an overwhelm of nerve pleasure and wet flesh, you’ve no need to move or thrust, so you stand rooted to rock as my new anatomy jerks you off as I lick, and suck, and slather. Will you conquer or be conquered? I am the Everest you refuse to die on. I am the top of the mountain bare of snow before you came in frozen blows.

My torus palatinus is the pleasure-giver of my womanhood, but once I turn 50, it will begin to be resorbed by my body, so my elderly mouth will be smooth as youth, and men will see me for the beauty I was before my mountain stole the sun. And when the children gather round and ask me, “How do you grow a man?” I will have an answer at hand.