Cinnamon Lips, by Matthew Bryan Pruitt
We experience sexual tendencies far earlier than most people assume we do. How young, exactly, is too young to know about the birds and the bees? 10? 11? 12? How about 9? Bernadette was 9 when she discovered just exactly what sex was. Her teacher was her babysitter, Nathan, who raped her.
Bernadette’s therapist claims that this event was the key trigger in her deep, and strange, nymphomaniac behavior.
“Her lips are like cinnamon, so sweet, but so spicy,” Nathan exclaimed at the court hearing.
Bernadette, after hearing this said, gave herself a new nickname, “Cinnamon Lips”. A nickname that she never once shared with her mother and father.
One year passed, and Bernadette’s parents received countless calls from her principal about Bernadette’s promiscuous antics, her inability to sit still, and how she was once caught in the girl’s bathroom fingering herself.
Her parents sat Bernadette down, and asked her about all of these things she had done. As any kid would, she denied all of it, but she was very bad at lying.
Grounded, Bernadette stayed in her room for a week. She was suspended from school, so she really had absolutely nothing to do.
Margaret and Peter, Bernadette’s parents, were perplexed with the thought of Bernadette going back to that school, the names she would be called, and what the Parent-Teacher Association would think of the two of them.
There was only one solution that they could think up. Bernadette would be enrolled in a Catholic school. They figured that she couldn’t possibly be influenced to do something sexually explicit when a crucified Jesus looking at her.
“Yes,” Peter said, “Catholic school would be the best for her…”
The two of them were wrong.
Cosmopolitan magazine had a special section in its pages where the writers discussed the proper technique in delivering blow jobs. Bernadette had never heard of blow jobs before, but it sounded like something she would’ve loved to do.
December 11th approached quickly. This date had no significance to really anybody besides Bernadette and her parents. It was Bernadette’s birthday.
Her history teacher brought Bernadette a small cake, just for her. She ate it slowly, feeling the moist delectable pass through her cinnamon lips. The final bite she took, she took as slowly as she could as she eyed Ben King, one of her classmates. He was watching her with a dreamy expression.
She smiled, and thought about what she had read in her mother’s Cosmopolitan. She looked just under the desk, at the tent of fabric formed with Ben’s khakis. Bernadette’s mouth watered. A new desire filled her almost immediately.
After class, she followed Ben into the boys’ bathroom. She looked in on him as he sat on the toilet, through the bottom of the door, and smiled.
“This is the boys’ bathroom,” He said.
She just kept smiling.
“You’re really pretty,” He stated, shyly.
She opened the stall door and fell onto her knees.
“What’re you doing?” He asked.
She looked up at him and said,
“I read this in a magazine.”
Nothing more was said as she slid his preteen member into her mouth and began to suck on it.
One cannot really tell if this was either grotesque or beautiful. She was so young, as was he, but they were in the throws of oral sex. Personally, I find it disturbing knowing that Our Savior was watching them from above.
Father Millian retired, but before he did so, he introduced his replacement to the congregation of weary-eyed students. His replacement, Father Phillipe, was a pasty-skinned, red haired 27-year-old with a single pimple in the middle of his eye brows.
Bernadette vowed to have him in the way that Nathan did with her. As they all bowed their heads in prayer, Bernadette could only imagine what he could have underneath his robe, under his underwear.
A familiar itch began to grow.
Father Phillipe made his rounds from class to class, saying hello to the nun teachers and waving at the students. He stopped in my class and asked to see me in private.
My heart skipped a beat as I strode from my writing class to the office of the Father.
His office had barely anything in it besides a few books on the shelves and a small portrait of a terrier on his desk. He sat down and ushered Bernadette to sit across from him. She did so.
“I hear that you were transferred here because of a disciplinary problem at your old school,” Father Phillipe said. He had a very stern voice, which trembled slightly as he spoke.
“That’s true,” Bernadette said, looking down at her feet, but with her legs open. She almost felt ashamed, but not quite.
Rage swelled inside of the Father as he slammed a hand against his desk and barked, “Close your legs and sit like a lady!”
She jumped and crossed her legs, lazily.
“I’m not a lady,” she said, “I’m not.”
“Yes you are, you are a young lady and must act as such.”
“I’m a tramp.”
“What?!”
“A slut, trash, a harlot.”
“Stop this awful taste,” he snarled as he reached for a ruler.
“I’m a whore.”
SNAP! Father Phillipe had taken the ruler between his digits and smacked it against Bernadette’s hand. She pulled away, but it felt almost erotic, pleasing, exciting.
She smiled,
“Thank you, father.”
“Detention,” he said, under his breath, “for a week.”
“Okay, under who’s watch?”
He smirked, not a friendly smirk, but a malicious one,
“Mine.”
There was only one other student in detention. He was a small child with freckles who kept snapping his fingers. He didn’t have any physical indication that he was slow or anything, he just couldn’t stop. It was a form of impulse. Bernadette discovered that was why he was in detention in the first place. I could’ve stopped what I was doing, which would’ve gotten me no detention at all, but I enjoyed looking at Father Phillipe as he read his ancient-looking bible.
Bernadette watched his fingers trail over words as he read them, and she imagined his fingers trailing over her skin, trying to find invisible holy words. Truth was, there was nothing holy about her.
The second detention night, a nun ran it. The Father, apparently, felt ill and couldn’t come into the school today. How Bernadette wished she were at his home, to make him feel better. Maybe to make him some soup, and then give him some young, fresh desert.
This nun kept a close eye on Bernadette’s movements. She must’ve known about her past. No “happy thoughts” for Bernadette tonight.
The final night, a friday night, was just spent between Bernadette and the Good Father. She sat directly in front of him, her legs crossed like the lady she was supposed to be. She kept smiling as her hand would travel about her body, unnoticed.
After a few moments of this, the Father noticed her. He glared for a moment and raised from his seat. He crossed in front of her and fell to her eye level.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.
“Whatever it is you’d like me to.” Bernadette answered, glaring at the Good Father with lust-filled eyes. She licked her lips, her cinnamon lips, and went on, “What is it that you’d like to do?”
Without warning, Father Phillipe flipped over the desk in front of Bernadette, tossing it onto the floor beside them.
“You want to be treated like a slut? Fine then!” He yelled.
He grabbed her by the arms and lifted her onto the desk he was previously sitting at.
Berndatte began to grow frightened.
Her panties were tore off from her hips in one powerful tug. They were flung from her skin and onto the floor beside the desk.
He whispered in a growling voice,
“I will give you the lesson you deserve.”
Bernadette began to cry. She wanted him, but not like this.
He unzipped his pants and guided his penis into her small cavity. She cried out, but he gagged her with his rosary beads.
“Pray for your sins, brat.” He snarled.
His face contorted, making him look more like a demon than a saint. He was forcing himself into Bernadette more and more. She tried to resist, but couldn’t. The more he slammed into her, the more the Good Father vanished. All that was left was the Bad Father and the girl with those Cinnamon Lips.
