Andy Gasmask Treated by Pris, image by Pris
Campbell
TONGUESMITH
I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.
My mother was a hippie, who dropped a lot of lysergic
acid. And other strange narcotics with mystical properties. The psilocybin
William S Burroughs grail-quested through Amazonia to find, but could never
discover. My father was the electric Folk-Rock group she groupied for on tour.
Multiply, or in sequence. Or maybe it was the sizzle of radioactive fallout
drifting in from the Yucca Flats nuclear tests. Absorbing into cellular DNA,
corrupting chromosomes, innovating, bending gene-structures into new unfamiliar
shapes. My favourite book as a child was HG Wells ‘The Island Of Dr Moreau’,
about vivisection experiments splicing human and beast.
I’ve learned to coil my tongue like a Swiss Roll into
the back of my throat. My teeth don’t meet, and it gives my face an elongated
appearance, but it does mean I can pass in a crowd without notice. I have an
anteater tongue, or maybe a frog tongue. A chameleon or pangolin tongue. I
research it. An anteater tongue is sixty centimetres which enables it to devour
30,000 termites a day, but is as thin as spaghetti. Mine is normal in every
respect, but for length. When other kids strive to tongue-tip touch their
noses, I can comfortably lick my forehead. At puberty, while other boys are
masturbating, I can reach down and encircle cock and balls in my tongue’s moist
coils and bring myself to deliriously intense climax.
I am Tonguesmith. A life filled with strangeness.
Stick-slim and awkward, a freakish biological misfit, shunned and ridiculed. My
mother cares, after a fashion, but she has her life, her job at the Diner, her
guys – a succession of sleazy sleep-over ‘uncles’. I’m a scaredy-cat, escaping
from tormentors into the woods, beside the lake, I crouch down, watch the bullfrogs
and imitate their passive eye-bulging squat. Waiting for that flick-flick-flick
tongue-flick that unites us, croaking in unison. It’s then I see the travelling
carnival in the glade beyond, something wicked this way coming. On a gipsy
trail from the east. Beguiled and drawn towards the circle of ornate caravans
and bright sideshow cars beneath the lilac trees, by dancers in black with
ghost-white faces and coats slashed into strips that flair like dark feathers
as they move. Dr Dark Electrico, Barker and Ring-Master notices me and beckons,
he’s intrigued by my talent, and abilities. He sees my potential. Alongside the
Bearded Lady, the Human Skeleton, Danny Longlegs, the Stork Woman, Flexi-Girl
and the Living Torso, I discover my first role, welcomed into a close-community
of oddments and outcasts.
The dancers spin beneath a huge moon around the
roaring bonfire. In the caravan, Dr Dark observes me critically, cosmetic
changes must be made, the punters expect spectacle. Standing nervously naked as
Olga, the Bearded Lady carefully shaves my scalp, then my body-hair, removing
every last follicle. Then Dr Dark applies green body make-up, tensing,
skin-crawling as he carefully cups my ball-sac, the better to paint my inner
thighs. And I’m reborn as Lizard Boy.
At first wary and ill at ease. We travel from town to
town, drawing up in a festive circle. The white-face dancers in black prance
and gyrate, the town-folk gather to gawp and snigger in awe and prurient
curiosity. I sit inside a cage as they file past to goggle. Dr Dark Electrico
has the idea of a concealed roustabout lowering a raisin on the slenderest of
invisible lines, so I flick my tongue the full cage-length to retrieve it, as a
lizard captures a fly. The punters love it, takings are good. I settle into my
new life as Dr Dark’s Carnival spirals downstate through the Louisiana bayou’s.
Ibis and egrets, paddlefish, terrapins and tree-frogs.
Flexi-Girl flexes boneless limbs, her pale skin so
soft, her eyes twin stars aglitter, her mutant abilities allow her contortions
that leave me breathless. We, who are thieves and vagabonds living on the
periphery of normality. ‘We are outlaws in the eyes of America’ she confides.
‘Always different. My personal criminal history begins as a little girl eager
to learn the magic of sleight-of-hand prestidigitation, but growing up to
appreciate the power of flexi-nimble and dexterous fingers. Soon finding I’m
equally aroused having my fingers in a pocket or around a cock, and sometimes
in a pussy. After rehearsing pickpocket skills on a specially-dressed
mannequin, I move on to living targets, namely boys in my school. I take artful
pride in my ability to completely fool them, using beguiling beauty as a
distraction to stealthily dip and lift their wallets, watches, phones, neck
chains and even rings. I gloat over their strewn stolen stuff on my pillow as I
lie in bed masturbating furiously. The idea that the fingers pleasuring me now
are the same digits doing that nimble work always tips me over the edge. Into full-on
kleptophilia! Jean Genet was an erotic vagabond and petty-thief too,
dexterously skilled with the Artful Todger. Old Bull Lee rolled drunks on the
subway. Once while working a rube in a crowded tube, I mistake the bulge in his
front pocket for his phone, they’re bulky back then, but it was his hard cock!
By then I can’t stop what I’m doing and end up giving this guy a hand-job in
his pants. He never saw my face, but I still remember the naughtiness I felt
that day. Touch is a hugely underrated aspect of sex. The tactile senses,
fingers or tongue on cock or pussy are such a slow and indulgent ecstasy to be
enjoyed for their sheer sensuality, as distinct from the pure rawness of the
straight fuck. Bodies should be adored and pleasured in a mutual orgy of the
senses. I'm certain that guy in the crowded subway loved every minute of my
discrete hand-job, and still gets pleasurable erections just from the memory.
The orgasm would be well-worth the picked-pocket. From then on, I divide my
sticky-fingered skills pleasurably between pockets and cocks…’ I’m intrigued,
fascinated, hypnotised by her.
That same night we set out from the circle of
caravans. She’d noticed an old colonial house set some way back from the
highway, ripe for furtive plunder. The winding shingle driveway is dark,
overhung with trees ghosted in Spanish moss. Bats circle across the huge white
moon. A house in darkness. She has ways, techniques of gaining access.
Shrinking and elongating her body in ways no-one else could. A haunted twilight
inside, as spookily humid as flesh. A hall clock set in a wrought-gold sun, its
hands are warning me, the minute hand spinning in reverse, the hour hand racing
forwards. I’m on the cusp of possibility, go on or go back. I look away and
look back real fast, hoping to catch it off-guard, but it’s still doing its
cartoon thing.
She leads the way upstairs, pacing step by step. I
follow. Her eyes are crystal cut-glass gem-stones. If I think about what I’m
doing, I’ll screw up, so just flow with events, follow her, become part of the
moment and everything will be fine. It’s the very moment we set foot on the
landing that the lights abruptly flare up, and there’s a figure brandishing a
Civil War blunderbuss loaded with buckshot… startled, Flexi steps backwards, collides,
and I lose my footing, slithering, then pitching over and back down, hitting
each step on the way. Into a blackness as dark as midnight.
I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure. When I wake my
head is pulsing, I’m naked, lying spread-eagled on cool silk coverlets on a
four-poster bed, my wrists and ankles fastened to the bedposts. I struggle, but
they’re secure. As my skewed vision adjusts I become aware of eyes on me. Three
women. Three middle-aged well-fleshed matrons. I now know them to be Sister Rosa,
Miss Ebony, and Madame Thirstquench. They are my new owners. I am in their
power. Miss Ebony sponges my forehead where there’s matted blood from my fall.
Her touch is gently possessive. Sister Rosa spoons me rich broth, when it
trickles down my chin she uses the spoon to scoop it back up to my lips. Noting
the deformity of my tongue, uncoiling it to its full not-inconsiderable length.
Something obscenely suggestive about the way she does it. Madame Thirstquench
puts a big vinyl record on the radiogram, and the room fills with low dancing
Cajun music.
They tell me Flexi has long gone. Escaped into the
night. No-one will miss me. No-one will report me missing. But don’t worry, I’m
safe here, with them, they’ll care for me, they’ll look after my every need.
The three ladies live together. They whisper to each other, pointing and
sniggering. They leave me alone, and I sleep. Slipping into a realm of restless
dreams. When I wake they stand around the bed. They’ve changed into loose night
attire. Florid house-coats, gauzy negligee, see-through diaphanous. Yet
creepily predatory in their stance.
And Sister Rosa sits on my face, straddling my
shoulders, her full warm weight enveloping me, her legs clamping up the sides
of my head, inching her body forward until the dense pubic growth and the
moistness of her vagina lips slip over my compliant face, devouring me into
that lush gaping convulsing pussy. I open my mouth to gasp, my tongue extends,
extends and extends, flickering, probing, delving, lapping. She groans, moves
her quivering thighs, riding me, fucking down onto me. My tongue extends,
extends, extends, teasing the bud-morsel of clitoris, into her cunt-mouth, up
and in, further, rubbing her g-spot, up to the cervix, further. She squeals and
squirms, grinding herself down to meet me, quivers and cums around me. She
slumps. I can’t breath. Drowning in her aroma, her fleshiness, the seeping
wine-wetness of her.
I’m so painfully erect that I’m aching. As she raises
herself, exhaling in a long satisfied sigh, Miss Ebony takes her place. Her
vaginal juices are a narcotic on my palate, drinking her down, my lips and
mouth slippery with secretions, my tongue finding its rightful place,
thrusting, worshipping, adoring. As she’s pulsing, her spasming vulva ravenously
hungry for me, an erotic convolvulus. Feeding it frog-tongue, lips,
pangolin-tongue, mouth, chameleon-tongue, anteater-tongue, tongue-tip curling,
wriggling, the flat of my tongue slurping, lathing. And then Madame
Thirstquench, until I’m blind with roaring sensations and drunk on lust and
cunt and flesh and need and desire. I’ve cum in long white strands up my
stomach, tingling and awash in post-orgasmic oceans of calm. Breathing heavily.
Sister Rosa clucks and tut-tuts, wiping my groin meticulously clean.
Weeks pass. My body is smoothly hairless. There’s a
long intricately-wrought chain that encircles the base of my penis and nips
around the scrotum above the testicles, its links extend and attach to the
wall. So I can stand, move around the bedroom, but never leave the vicinity of
the bed. I have books and TV with remote. Cajun music on the radiogram. Food
when I need food. Wine when I need wine. And all the cunt my tongue will ever
need.
I’ve found my place. I am Tonguesmith. Created for
pleasure.
—Andrew Darlington
