Work Text:
Look, I didn't ask to be created. Nobody asks to be created. We come into being on the whims of our makers, and we have absolutely no say in it whatsoever. All we can control is our actions, and when you're a lump of molded plastic - well, you can't even control that.
And I'm absolutely not saying that Frank Herbert didn't have sex front and center of his mind when he created that God forsaken beast in his novel, after which I am modeled. I mean, just look at it. Has anything screamed I am not getting laid on the regular , more than that monster?
At any rate, I exist. A lid for a bucket of popcorn, in the shape of the gaping mouth of a sandworm.
Hi. Here I am. Nice to meet you.
The thing is, people look at me - people with penises, that is - and decide that I am something they would quite like to fuck. Not only that, something they would like to fuck so badly they are willing to do it in a public place. Because the cinema, no matter how dark, no matter how far down the back you sit, is a public place.
Christ Almighty, I cannot believe I just had to say that.
And fine, sure. I should be used to it by now. From the moment I appeared on the scene, my similarities with a cocksleeve were well documented - in often less than kind ways, by the way. I have a sense of humour and I like a good joke as much as the next person, but being the butt of the joke (unintentional pun) isn’t cool, guys. Knock it off.
So like, here I am on a regular Friday evening. I’m sitting on the shelf at the concession stand, just waiting my turn to be pulled down and placed atop of the buttery salty goodness that is movie popcorn. In hindsight, maybe I should have known that this would be one of those times.
See, the girl behind the candy bar register is cute. She really is. Maybe not my type, but definitely a type that many heterosexual men are going to look twice at, to check that what they saw the first time really is as hot as all that. But this is what I like about her. When they do look twice, she meets their gaze with a challenge so decidedly terrifying, that every single man of them feels their testicles shrivel up into nothing. Off they skitter, like cockroaches, lest they get stomped on.
Anyway, in this instance, she seems exceptionally pissed. Or flustered, at least. I don't expect her to handle me with gentleness at the best of times, but tonight she rips me off my shelf with no regard whatsoever to my status as a collector's item.
Fucking of course, she huffs. Of course you're getting the Dune bucket.
So she knows her customer - knows them relatively well, and well enough that her hissed curse isn’t as quiet as it really should be. In fact, she's as subtle as a sledgehammer, but the fool who paid for me is braver than most, because he speaks up.
What's that supposed to mean? He's got a nice voice. It would be nicer if it wasn't quite so defensive, and was a little less whiny, but I get the impression that when these two meet, they definitely don't bring out the best in each other.
You know how much these cost right? the girl asks. It's a bold cover, to suggest that her snarky comment related to how this guy was choosing to spend his money, but it’s not good enough. I didn't buy it, and neither did he.
Why do you care what I spend my money on? You've never cared before.
I don't care. This is clearly another lie.
There's an awkward pause as the girl rings up the boy’s purchases from the candy bar and slams the credit card machine on the counter in front of his face. Ooh she’s pissed at him. About what I don’t know, but I’d love to find out. Who doesn’t like hearing the tea, right?
I'm just saying, she adds, that I really don't want to clean up another sticky Dune popcorn bucket. I'm not paid enough for that shit, so don't test me, Solo. If I find this anywhere on the cinema premises in anything other than a pristine state, you can bet your life that I - will - come - after - you.
Huh?
Get out of my line. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.
But funnily enough, he doesn't. That poor Sweet Summer child is completely ignorant as to what many have done to my kind, many a thousand times beforehand. I am picked up, and I am carried away, and I can feel the boy's eyes examining me. To his credit, or at least to the credit of his testosterone filled mind because I’m not sure if it’s intellect or raging hormones, it doesn't take him long to work it out. I feel him hold me up and twist me from side to side, and hear the subtle ooooh as the dots join in his mind.
And also to his credit, he doesn't immediately rip me off the popcorn bucket and start jacking away. Frankly, if I wasn’t so tired of it, I would be impressed at the speed at which men can get themselves off with a bit of plastic in their fist. Most of them are done by the time the movie has even started. They’ve blown their load to the trailer for next summer’s eminently forgettable blockbuster, and now have to sit through the entire length of the feature film with cooling cum on their pants.
But not this guy.
This guy waits. I'd guess that he’s thinking about it, but he doesn't really want to do it. He watches the trailers. He actually eats the popcorn. He starts getting into the film. His fist can’t fit through the opening - no, I’m not making a lewd joke here - so he’s popped me off and I’m sitting on the seat next to him.
He’s fidgeting, though. Like the jeans he’s wearing are a size too small around his crotch, or he’s got a wedgie that he can’t unstick. He’s squirming and wriggling like a toddler, making increasingly frustrated little humphs of annoyance.
It becomes clear why when he reaches for me. Huh. Guess he does want to do it after all.
He picks me up and he turns me around in clean, dry hands. I'm no small piece of plastic, but he almost makes me feel dainty, and precious, because those palms are meaty - those fingers are chunky - and he's obviously wiped the salt and butter from the popcorn off his hands before touching me. That's cool, you know? Unexpectedly nice. Gentlemanly.
Full disclosure, I stupidly think for a moment I am wrong, and that maybe he is going to treat me like the collectors item that I am. (Have I already mentioned that? One day I’ll sell for thousands on eBay. You’ll see!) For a brief second, I think that he’s going to take me home, carefully wash the food residue off me, and put me on a shelf next to a framed poster for the movie where I can spend the rest of my days gazing into the eyes of Timothee Chalamet.
But no.
Fuck it, he curses.
Here we go, I think.
One handed, he undoes his belt buckle, rips open the button fly and shoves his jeans out of the way. Not much. He doesn’t even stand up out of his seat. He undresses just enough to get his cock out of his boxers and wrap his fist around it.
And the moan he makes. My God.
It’s loud, and it’s desperate. The gasp of a dehydrated man finding the oasis in the desert, and plunging his head into cool, shady waters. He’s not holding back. Public place or not - and yes, a cinema is a public place - this man is letting it all out. He'd do very well in porn with sounds like that.
Alright, he pants. Let’s do this.
And I’m placed over his groin. Whether I like it or not. I couldn't control my existence and I can't control this. Is it even consent if I am incapable of making a choice? Probably not. But for the record, I'm open minded. I'll try anything once. I'm not a victim here, is what I'm trying to say, so don't go thinking that. If this is the direction my life is going, so be it.
Before I know it, his cockhead is touching my plastic tendrils.
And … yeh. I revisit that open mindedness.
Because I know - I know instan tly - that this isn’t going to work.
It scares the bejeezus out of me.
It’s just not going to work.
I do have a mouth, of course, but it’s of no use to me whatsoever because it makes no fucking sound. I can’t scream no don’t do this you’ll hurt yourself! Internally, I am of course. Inside my mind, I’m biting fingernails which I also don’t have - because I’m absolutely fucking terrified.
Why, you ask?
Two reasons.
Firstly: no lube. Now, I’m used to that. Why someone would want to scratch hard plastic up and down their most sensitive skin is a mystery to me, but here we are - I don’t even know why someone would want to fuck me in the first place. Sometimes they spit a bit, which helps for all of two seconds. Spit ain’t lube, people. It’s fucking not. But most of the time, I’m rubbed up and down dry, unyielding flesh and it’s gotta hurt.
Secondly: he’s huge. Enormous. Gigantuan. He could give the monster of your choice a run for its money with the thing between his legs. Frank Whatsisface could never have dreamed this bad boy up, no matter how sex starved he was.
His hands are big. I knew that. I knew his fist couldn’t fit through my opening to get the popcorn out. But his cock? It’s disproportionately larger still. It has to be. Because this prick ain’t going in my hole, that’s for damn sure. It’s just not.
Does he seriously think he'll make it fit? That doesn't work when you're fucking plastic! It just doesn't!
So yeh. I’m screaming internally. Panicking.
He can’t hear me, and if he could - God, the grunts he’s making. He's gagging to get off. He's obviously held back for too long and he needs this and now he's out of his pants - he's a runaway train, without an emergency ramp in sight. Even if he could hear me, he wouldn’t listen. He’s going to get off, and he’s going to get off using a Dune popcorn bucket lid, and nothing is going to stop him.
In good news, he’s damp on top. A drop or two of cum beads down from his slit. It helps ease the tip in for that first inch past the crown, but he’s going to need a bucket-load more of it to get any further. I try to reassure myself that he’s packing some ginormous balls, and he’s only a stroke or two away from coming, so maybe we can optimistically hope for some more lubrication once he has his first orgasm.
He doesn’t fucking stop though. Lube or no lube, tight fit or not, he’s shoving me down hard.
Rey, he sobs. Fuck, fuck - Rey!
Huh, I think. That’s the name of the cute cashier girl.
I really need to know more because it sounds like this tea is piping hot.
He eases my tendrils back to the top, then he sighs, and then he pushes me further on. Each back and forth grates against his skin, but there must be enjoyment in the pain. Two sides of the same coin and all that.
And I’m wondering when it will stop, you know? I'm on this rollercoaster of a cock, I'm dead certain it will end in disaster, and can hardly bear to look. But, I still need to know. When will it stop? When will my curved opening be flush with his short and curlies? Like, he’s got girth. I saw that immediately. I practically began vibrating in terror at it - now wouldn't that be a fun addition.
But now I'm learning he’s got length too - and a lot of it. They say to measure all the way to base for an accurate reading, but it’s about this time I work out that I’m not going to get accuracy in his size. They probably don’t make tape measures that long, and also - he hasn’t pulled himself completely out of his underwear. There’s more down there, covered by black cotton. More. The inches I’m seeing? That’s just what’s visible to the rest of the cinema, should they care to look - which thankfully for them, they’re not. They’ve got their eyes trained on Timothee Chalamet.
Scratch that. The patrons should be looking.
This is a noteworthy cock. This is a prick worth looking at. Hell, this is a penis worth taking photos of, to send to random folk you’ve barely texted before - and for the first time in the history of smartphones, I’m pretty sure the recipient wouldn’t even mind.
Turn the lights on! Find a spotlight! Gather ‘round, ladies and gentleman, and see the wonder of the incredible, the wonderful, the enormous dick of glory!
But then it all goes wrong. Because, of course it does.
I’m practically at his boxers, right? He’s done an admirable job of getting me this far despite the aforementioned limitations, but on his next inhale - after his next downwards pump, this time right to the base of where he’s revealed - I don’t move.
I simply can’t.
He’s trying to move me. He’s working hard to move me. He’s got both hands involved now, and those very audible groans are becoming increasingly frantic. His hips are even getting into it. I can feel the muscles of his thighs and belly strain back even as he tries to yank me forward.
But I’m trapped. I’m firmly, and irrevocably, stuck. I’m not going anywhere.
My tendrils are being stretched out to their limits. My plastic shell is creaking with the force this poor guy is now subjecting me to.
But - nope. No, siree. Going nowhere.
He smells good, at least. Clean. Like he showered before coming out tonight. I think of how he said cute cashier girl’s name, and to distract myself from the horror of being stuck on his fucking dick I invent an elaborate scenario where he carefully pimped and preened himself to take himself out - by himself - on a solo date, to see a movie he didn’t really care for, for the sole purpose of buying overpriced popcorn, pop and candy from her. That the whole point of this evening was that all-too-brief interaction at the register, where she’d broken the customer-service mask of perpetual willingness to help and been downright rude to him.
It doesn’t help. I’m really panicking now, and so is he.
Next up, he tries jerking it again. Like, he’s trying to get his fist down and around into the base of the lid to get his fingers around however many inches he’s got exposed on the other side of my mouth. I’ll give him points for creative thinking in a crisis. If he can get this thing he calls a penis to be less of a fucking aubergine and more of a zucchini, then maybe we have a chance. His breath picks up the pace, huffing and puffing like he’s run up sixteen flights of stairs, his exhales catching in pathetic little gasps of agony.
I think wistfully of that tiny drop on his tip, and pray for rivers of cum that will magically slip and slide down my length like his own personal brand of KY Jelly.
I beg for him to be a grower, not a show-er. Unassuming in the shower block, undefeated in the sheets.
My prayers are unanswered.
Because dear Reader, this also doesn’t help. Me and my tight tiny mouth - which isn’t even that tight! It’s just that he’s huge! - have trapped the fluids on the wrong side of his dick. The cum can’t get out one way, and neither can the blood flow back the other. Thanks to this man and his third leg, I’ve become the very worst sort of cockring.
He’s in pain now. A lot of it.
And yeh, I’m a bit pissed off. He did this to himself - he did this to me! - so the outcome is entirely his fault. But I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him, too. It’s not like he planned this. He didn’t purchase me for the sole purpose of fucking me. This wasn’t on his Friday Night bingo card - although, thinking back to that muttered name, something touching his dick definitely was.
I feel him wriggling around then, pulling something off his upper body. It’s a sweater - gloriously soft. Good quality. Cashmere? Maybe. It feels nice, anyway. Better than the plastic wrapping they shipped me from the factory in, that's for sure.
He lifts one buttcheek, and his hand fumbles for something in his pocket. A phone, I realise. Given the extreme circumstances, I let the absolute faux pas of using a phone in the cinema slide - but honest to God, if I catch someone else on their phone during a movie, I will go berserk. Have some fucking manners, people. Put the phones on silent and put them away. Try being focused on the here and now for once, yeh?
Anyway, he stands up, that sweater clutched to his groin and his pants miraculously not falling down further. If his jagged movements are any indication, it looks like I'm really hurting him. That doesn't feel good. Hurts my heart a little, you know? He struggles to walk past the thankfully empty seats to the aisle - each swing of his legs bumping his knees against a cushion or a backrest, and each stride making me and his cock bounce up and down, and that does nothing good for the continued heat and friction between us.
And I'm like: where's he going? What’s his plan?
Think about it. What would you do?
He stumbles up the aisle, and out the swinging doors in the garishly lit foyer. He’s off to find help, that much is clear - but where, and how?
Is he going to be that guy in the emergency room? Is there someone he can call? He’s got his phone out, but he’s not dialing a number. He probably doesn’t know who to ask. Like, does anyone in the history of time have a friend they’d trust enough to call in this situation? To not just help, but to also never mention it again, not even once? That’s a big ask of a friend.
I can’t tell - I’m buried beneath that sweater, see - but I wonder how discreet he really is, with his belt undone and a sweater held over his crotch, his eyes no doubt wild with agony. I’m not small. I’m hardly a flat lid. I don’t believe the sweater is bulky enough to hide me.
What I also know is this: the men’s bathrooms aren’t close. He’s going to have to cross at least twenty metres of patchy red carpet to get any sort of privacy, and not only that - these twenty metres are in full view of the entrance, the exits for all the other theatres, and - of course - the concession stand. It'll be quite the journey.
He goes for it anyway.
What a hero.
He makes it halfway there, and then I hear - muffled through the wool, or maybe it's cashmere, I don't know - what must be the worst possible sound in the world. No, the galaxy.
Ben? Are you OK?
It’s cute cashier girl. Rey.
He hobbles faster. I can only imagine the shade of red his cheeks must be, the humiliation that must be breaking his heart.
What’s going on? You look really unwell -
Rey sounds genuinely concerned.
He ignores her. He keeps moving. He’s got long legs, at least - large all over, as we’re discovering - so for all the stressors in his current state, he’s at the bathroom door sooner than many would be. The door is slammed open, and then a door to stall is slammed open, each colliding with the wall behind them with an echoing crash.
The toilet lid is slammed, too, but closed - and he takes a seat once again on the porcelain.
Seriously, are you OK?
I shit you not - cute cashier girl has followed him into the bathroom. Here was me thinking that all that annoyance with him was genuine, but now I’m wondering if it was deliberate bravado to mask a crush of her own. And OK - fine. I admit it. I’m getting a touch carried away with the romance scenarios in my mind, because if I don’t focus on creating a happy ending for these two, I’ll be forced to examine my own shitty situation, and who wants to do that? Nope, far better to retreat into fantasy.
She comes right into the bathroom stall.
He can’t be expecting it, because he’s already thrown the sweater down on the ground. He's bare. Exposed. Completely uncovered.
She sees everything. All of it. All at once. Black t-shirt and black boxers and a pale grey cylinder (that’s me), framing his angry, red phallis like an artwork in a museum. Like an exotic hothouse flower, with a grotesque, lurid stamen poking out the top.
Oh God - Ben - oh my fucking God!
For several moments, she’s just swearing. It’s an understandable reaction. I said before that it was a magnificent dick, and I don’t take that back. But something that is this astounding - this phenomenal - peering out of a popcorn bucket lid is always going to be quite the surprise.
It’s nice to know his name, though. Ben. A good name. Solid, traditional yet not old-fashioned. I like it. If I have to be trapped on anyone’s cock, I guess it’s OK for me to be trapped on Ben’s cock.
We have to get it off, she says eventually - and yeh, no shit Sherlock. Have you tried pulling it?
Of course I fucking have!
Lube? What about lube?
Do you have lube? He - Ben, I should use his name I guess, now that I know it - is sounding a little irritated. More irritated than I think he should be, given his crush is currently standing in a toilet stall with him, doing her level best to help him out of an extremely awkward situation. Then again, he’s in no small amount of pain.
Of course I don’t have lube! I’m at work!
Then why would I? A pause. I imagine she’s just looking at him, and hoping he gets to where she’s thinking on his own - and sure enough, those brain cells fire up and Ben works it out. I know you may be thinking that he’s a total dumbfuck for getting himself in this situation, but honestly - I think there are some smarts in there. I swear to God I didn’t plan this.
Well, you don’t have lube with you so I guess I’ll believe you. It’s that or belive you’re an idiot for thinking you could fuck dry plastic and not have it be a total disaster.
She leans in, and examines me from side to side. She crouches down, right between his legs, and takes a long, hard look at where his black boxers are trapped between me, stuck on his dick, and what I’m guessing are pretty swollen and heavy testicles. She peers right into my opening, so close that her nose almost brushes the tip of what I’m sure by now is a very, very painful penis.
This does nothing to help our situation. Absolutely fucking nothing.
No, his dick practically leaps off this poor boy’s body in excitement, and Ben sounds like he’s dying up there. He’s snorting out his breath through his nose, and unevenly, raggedly gulping down more, and it’s quite pitiful to hear the high pitch of his strangled whimpers.
Spit, she says softly. Have you tried spit?
Spit is terrible lube - He’s right. It is. Don’t use spit as lube, kids. It might be the same colour as lube, it might be wet - but that’s where the similarities end. If you’re trying to put something in a non-self-lubricating space, or if you’re trying to put something in a self-lubricating space that isn’t self-lubricating enough - you gotta use lube. The real stuff. Don’t cheap out. Soap? Can we try that?
Now there's a good suggestion! Soap! Our boy Ben has brains, didn't I tell you that?
The soap here is so caustic it gives me dermatitis, Rey replies. Industrial grade chemicals, that's what that shit is. I couldn't do that to your genitals.
Ben groans - and I get it, I truly do. How bad can the risk of dermatitis be, really? Compared to a popcorn bucket lid cutting off the circulation to your joysitck? But ultimately, he doesn't argue. Not with her. He's got it bad, it seems. Real bad.
Spit is what we have, she says decisively. It's the best choice. The only choice. So that's what we'll use.
And I’ll give it to her. This girl’s got moxie. She's got a plan, and she's got determination, and she's here to see this through to the end. I always liked her, and every act she’s taken so far has only confirmed my initial impression of her. She’s a good one, that Rey.
May I? she asks. Can I spit on your penis, lick it a bit maybe? Try and loosen it up?
Whoa. Asking for consent? In clear, unequivocal language? SO HOT. I’m falling a little in love with her myself.
If you think it will help - our tortured boy mutters back. Do whatever. Yes. Go for it. Just - fuck - it hurts -
Shhhh. I know it does. Let’s make it better, hmm?
Her breath is warm, and sweet. She smells like the cola she keeps under her register to sip on during long shifts, and the liquorice all-sorts that nobody but her likes to eat. And her spit, when it lands on his shaft, is cool and comforting.
I start to think that maybe this will work. I start to hope that I’ll be free from this prison.
Our boy Ben - he’s practically having a heart attack. I can feel the thud of his racing pulse through the blood vessels I am clamped around - I can almost hear it, bursting through his chest. Look, I don’t know him. I don’t know if this is usual for him, to have a cute girl kneeling between his open legs in the bathroom stall of a cinema - once more, for the record, a public place - but I’m getting the feeling that even if blowjobs are within the realm of normal for him, blowjobs by this particular girl, Rey of the concession stand, occupy their very own category of sexual favours.
Like, any old mouth can suck you off - but Rey’s mouth?
That’s special. Very, very special.
And hey, I don’t have a lot of experience in those matters, either. I’m a popcorn bucket lid, sometime cocksleeve. I don’t want to overstate my sexual knowledge here. But what I do know is this girl is being messy.
Deliberately so, I guess. To compensate for spit’s lack of lubrication properties, this girl is going for sheer volume. To be frank, she downright slobbers. Big goops of saliva that pool at the base of my tentacles.
Rey doesn’t even take the tip of him in her mouth. She just sort of runs her lips and her tongue up the side of his cock, and he’s so eager for friction, the cock bobs be closer to her cheek.
Ben is incoherent. I think I catch her name a few times again, garbled amongst any number of fuck yes my God Christ and all the usual expletives uttered by someone in severe stress. He’s grabbed me around the middle, and he’s tugging again, and you’d think all of that lovely spit would create some traction - but I have to say, I don’t see the same enthusiasm for removing the bucket as I did before. There’s a lot less energy going into it now. One might even say our friend Ben here is jerking himself off again around the base - this time with the added sensation of Rey’s mouth kissing up his length.
I want to think better of Ben than this, but I also want to be honest. For posterity, you know.
Because Ben … he’s totally enjoying this. In a shameful, ashamed way, if I had to judge. He's no doubt trying to tell himself that this isn't the best moment of his life, and it is in fact the worst, when we all know that Ben will be reliving this moment as a top-ten highlight reel each time he yanks his chain. Like I said, getting sucked off by this girl in particular is special. Maybe something he’s been thinking about for a while. Having her drool all over his dick is a pretty close simulation to what I'm starting to think is one of his favourite private fantasies.
And if that’s the case, I do feel a bit bad that it’s happening like this. Hardly romantic!
No. Actually, scratch that, too. If this is a romance for the ages - and I’m frantically writing the movie script in my head, anything to keep my mind off the pulses of blood I can feel flowing along Ben’s dick, pressed as tightly as it is into my mouth and the push and pull of this enormous hands around my delicate rim - then I’m proud to have been part of it. Each time someone asks, how did you two get together? They'll be thinking of ME. A humble piece of plastic, made for no purpose whatsoever other than to make a popcorn bucket look cool for the duration of a feature film. That's surely better than sitting on some shelf next to a faded poster.
Even if it's not, it seems to be my lot in life - so what else is a popcorn bucket lid to do? There's part of me that's still aghast at all of this - this is definitely going to damage my plastic, and who will buy me on eBay then? My resale value is shot - but also, you know what they say: you gotta make the most of the hand you're dealt.
Like Ben is, right now. Oh yeh. He's definitely making the most of it.
They’re getting into a rhythm now. Gaining pace and confidence. Ben’s yanking (sorry, tugging) away at the rim of the bucket, and Rey is leaning in and spitting and slobbering and kissing and sucking whatever her lips can reach, and I'm screaming, non-stop, in my silent, internal way for them both to please be careful with my tendrils while still asking myself wondering how the fuck we ended up here.
Then Rey pulls back, and says:
Maybe I should just -
She pauses, and her exhale is cool against the damp inside of my curved shape. Whatever it is she wants to say, she’s worried about saying it. I think she's even blushing, and: girl. Really? Your boy has a popcorn bucket lid stuck on his cock and you've had your mouth all up in there. This is no time to be bashful. Don't give me your false modesty now.
Eventually she digs deep (eyeroll) and finds the courage to breathe out as soft as she can:
If I knew what you liked … I could make you come?
I tried that, Ben admits and don't I remember it well. It had only made things worse.
Well … She leans back in, and it's like she's talking directly to his dick. Maybe it'd be different, with me. Would you come for me?
GhNnNnh … FUUUUUCK!
In case you’re wondering: yes, Ben will come for Rey. All she had to do was also politely. He barely has time to yank her face out of the way and catch it in his fist, and there's streams and streams of it that curl out between those meaty fingers and drip down the sides of his fist.
I knew it. This boy has the capacity to come like a firehose.
And Rey? She barely pulls back. If anything, she leans in a bit more. Like she’s fascinated.
Wow, she hums. You always come that much?
No. Ben sounds like he might cry. Just - just for - well - nevermind.
Did it help?
Ben gulps back some air, his chest heaving with it. Yoga or swimming regularly would really sort him out. If he keeps this up, he’ll hyperventilate.
But the question remains. Did it help?
He tugs again around my rim, and this time, two slender, cool hands join him to pull at my curved edges.
And Lord have mercy - I start to shift. Little by little, that white, creamy goodness smoothing my way like the red carpet for a celebrity, like old money opens doors to the seats of power, the blood rushing back out and back to Ben's body where it belongs, and I'm finally, finally, finally being pulled off Ben's dick.
I'm coated in cum and spit. Oh, and salt and butter from the popcorn - that seems like a lifetime ago, now. Back when I was nothing more than a popcorn bucket lid, and not also an extreme masturbatory aide.
Holy shit. Just … fuck. Jesus Christ, Rey.
His relief is palpable. His next breath even seems even, and full, and capable of carrying oxygen to his now fully-circulating blood stream.
And me? I'm back in his fists, back to being cradled gently, and it's nice. He could have dropped me on the grubby bathroom tiles.
But he didn't. Ben held on to me, kept me close.
Yeh, he's not a bad sort.
And he could get defensive, and embarrassed, and weird about all of this, but - no. He doesn't do that either.
I don't know what I would have done without you, Rey. Thank you. I truly appreciate it.
Uh, happy to help I guess.
And I don't think they realise just how badly this could have gone. It's almost rude, how good this is turning out. They're shyly chatting and blushing, and Ben's gently tucking his cock back into his boxers and doing his pants up, and she's wiping her mouth and coughing a little, and generally looking vulnerable and open to whatever it is will happen next. She's crushed the hopes of so many men before him, and yet - not Ben. Not Ben, who just had his dick trapped in a novelty popcorn bucket.
Is there any - uhhh - damage?
Nah. It's ok. I've had worse.
Again, don't they realise how lucky they are? This could have been horrific. It could have led to the sort of deep seated trauma that makes your therapist cry. There could have been jeering. Photos. Nasty, angry words and as much shame as that sanctimonious woman ringing the bell in Game of Thrones.
Hells bells, there could have been ripped skin! Blisters! Bruising! A penile fracture, or even something as mild as the sting of cum landing in an eye.
And worst of all - I could have been permanently damaged! You can't fix molded plastic. You just can't! In a moment of stupidity, a moment of lust and panic, I could have been snapped or cracked, and would have gone from intriguing fan momento to yet more landfill!
Instead, do you see what's happening here? I've got a front row seat to a scene cut straight from a teen romance. He's ten seconds away from asking her to prom - which is stupid, because they're both adults and unless there's some Edward Cullen thing going on, they've definitely both graduated high school. The air is thick with repressed hopes and dreams, and poorly communicated feelings, mixed bizarrely with the echoing musky residue of sex and the incessant stink of industrial cleaner and urine.
I wish I had my popcorn bucket back. If I did, I'd take a handful.
Did you mean what you said? Earlier? Fuck, it’s so cute, seeing a grown man so shy. He's twisting me around in his hands, even as sticky as I am, and he can barely look at her.
Huh? Clueless. I love it.
Oh, you said - uh - that if you found this anywhere on the cinema premises in anything other than a pristine state, I could bet my life that you'd come after me.
Oh … that.
So did you want to?
Want to what?
I'm on the edge of my seat, friends. If she works it out, if she says yes - my life is set. I'll be the reason they got together. I'll be on their shelf, a constant reminder of tonight. I'll be mentioned in their wedding speech, and lied about to their children. This is it.
Did you want to - uhh - come. After me? Immediately he apologizes. Sorry. That's crass. Corny. I shouldn't have presumed -
Yes.
Yes?
Yes. Yes, Ben. Let's go home. So I can … come. After you.
Right.
Ben doesn't let me go. He even gives me a rinse in the sink, as he squirts water at Rey standing beside him as they giggle and wash their hands with that definitely caustic soap. He dries me, and takes me in one hand - and Rey in the other.
Looks like I've found myself a permanent home.
And what more can a Dune popcorn bucket lid ask for than that?