Disclaimer: I don't own Blue's Clues, I just do fucked up things with the characters.
Alright, I'm gonna tell you exactly what went down. Exactly. You've heard the stories. The rumors. All wrong. All completely wrong. So I'm gonna tell you what's right.
See, it's high-noon, and the neighborhood is bathed in the golden light of the angels. It's 2009, see, and Blue's Clues has been off the air for quite a long time. Not even any repeats for the kids to watch and enjoy like their parents had all that time ago. Steve's been down ever since the show got cancelled; he's spiraled into a deep depression that I shudder to even think about. He's still got his routine, though, with the clue-finding and the chair-sitting. I think he likes to pretend he's still on the air.
But there's one thing he forgets. The one thing he forgets. Is me.
That's how it started. The heat, the light, the fucking mail.
I'm stuffed to the brim and the sun is beating down on me hard and hot, making me squint my eyes against the bright sunlight. Steve hasn't left the house this week, not one time, and letters just keep piling up. Maybe sometime soon his sorry ass will get up off that chair and actually do what it's supposed to.
Hmm. That ass.
I'm glad the show isn't on the air anymore, see. To be honest, I'm relieved. No more having to sing that fucking mailbox song or dealing with Steve's stupid ass conversations. All the dude wants to do is sing with me. It's like, no, motherfucker, just empty my hole and be on your merry fuckin way. That's the single thing that repulsed me. He'd chit-chat. But no more. No more, sorry little Stevie.
God. He gets me so riled up sometimes.
Why, you ask? Oh, why; it's such a great question. And I'll answer it the way my therapist always does: UST. Unresolved Sexual Tension.
Yeah, that's right. I got the hots for the dude. You probably heard about that. And no, the therapist wasn't my fuckin idea, okay? They were hired by Steve's manager to get us back to our regular lives after the cancellation. Don't think I'm no loony bitch, neither. But you know how close love and hate are.
Okay, back to the original subject. Sexual deviant? I'm the embodiment of it. Ever read Fifty Shades of Grey? I make Christian look tame. I'm a lion next to a kitten in that scenario.
I like it rough. I'll admit it. I'm a down and dirty, no eye contact, scratches down my back kind of fucker. And I like it that way.
Whenever I imagine Steve, shirtless, pantless, breathing heavily beneath me while I slide my flag in his ass, in and out, in and out…whew, it starts getting hot through my mail-slot, is what it does. I imagine him sweaty, glistening in the darkness, my pre-cum lubing up that tight little ass, thrusting into him like it was my first time and last. I see him down on his bruised knees, mouth open as I force my flag into his hot, wet mouth…
"Hey, Mailbox, any mail today?"
Speak of the devil.
I quickly get in character (cuz according to the good therapist that's apparently what he needs to get better) and throw my slot open, quickly transforming into the mailbox that entertained kids for years. "It's mail-time!" I yell. "Empty my mouth for me, buddy, would ya? I need room for tomorrow!"
Ooh. Double entendre. Unintended double entendre. Sweet.
"Okay, Mailbox, let me just slide my hand in…oh! That's a lot of mail." Steve gasped.
Oh, that's right, baby. There's a lotta stuff shoved in my mouth right now. There's one thing I'd LOVE shoved down my throat.
Steve retrieves the mail and goes back to the house. As I watched him walk away, that tight ass swerving back and forth beneath his khaki pants, my mind was made up.
He got his. I'll be getting mine.
Some mail for a fuck, see?
It's all fairness up in here.
OoOoO
Did you ever notice how everything seems so loud when you're trying your damndest to be silent? The key sliding through the tumblers…ktch-ktch-ktch. The squeak of the door as it opens…squeeee. Footsteps on the hardwood…boom-boom-boom.
All the while you just know you're gonna get caught but, miraculously, nobody wakes up? That's just pure fucking dumb luck, that is. And dumb luck was on my side tonight.
I waited. I waited and waited for darkness to fall. Quickly hammered into the ground when I was first delivered ten years ago, getting out to walk around wasn't hard to do. I'd figured out that little trick about three years ago. Night walks were one of my favorites.
But not this night. I wasn't going on a stroll through the neighborhood. I was sneaking into Steve's room to claim him, make him my own, just for a night.
I don't care if he doesn't want it. I don't care if he screams. Whenever he screams, it'll be my name. This is something I need. And he's gonna give it to me, one way or another.
It's amazing, truly, at how big the back of my mailbox is. Sure, you have the foyer, where the mail goes. But there's a whole back part that is all my own. It's amazing how easily I can steal Steve's credit card and buy all the kinky stuff I hide back there. And sometimes, on night strolls, I like to spit some of them out and have a little fun, mono eh mono, you get me?
Anyway. The house was pitch-black. I heard them saying goodnight a good three hours ago, so they all had to be sleeping like the dead by now.
It wasn't easy to find Steve's room. I lived outside and had never been in the house before. To be honest, it was a bit smaller than I thought. But very tastefully designed. I gave Steve mental props for that.
I did eventually find his room. I opened the door (squeeeee) and slipped inside, closing it again behind me. I waited a few seconds to see if Steve had woken up, but he just laid there, moonlight shining on his face, as if he'd been roofied.
Roofies. That's not a bad idea.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here. We'll save that for next time.
Cuz there will be a next time.
I didn't take anything out of the storage area at the back of my mouth. I wanted tonight to be just me and him. No bondage, no chains, no hand-cuffs, no gags. It would be him, doing exactly what I tell him, when I tell him to do it.
But first, I gotta wake him up.
My flag had erected itself when I came in the room, so no self-foreplay would be needed. Which was good. Cuz I was rock-hard and almost ready to cum, right there, right now.
I rubbed myself a little, watching Steve breathe, causing his blankets to go up and down with each inhale and exhale. I could see a little tent pitched a bit lower down; I wonder what he was dreaming about?
It doesn't fucking matter. From this night on, all he'll dream of is me. I guarantee it.
oOoOo
He whimpered. I slapped him, effectively stopping the childish noise and causing his mouth to reflexively tighten where it was currently wrapped around my flag. I moaned at the sensation, thrusting myself forward to try and get him to deep-throat. But he couldn't do it. And, oh Lord, nothing feels better than a man gagging on your rock-hard member.
I pushed further, Steve taking me right up to the brim, gagging and choking on my flag, messaging the tip oh so deliciously with the back of his throat. I pulled back a little, allowing him to catch his breath, before I started thrusting in and out of his mouth, too far gone to stop myself as spit and pre-cum splattered everywhere.
It was easy. So, so easy. Wake him up by pushing my flag through his lips, having him suck on it like a pacifier before realizing what was happening. And he didn't even fight. He made immature noises, sure, but so far everything was going as planned.
"Get on the bed," I growled at him. He did as I asked and I quickly came all over him and his bed. Stains that would never come out. Stains that linked him to this night forever and for always. He wouldn't forget. He couldn't. The evidence is everywhere; on him, his shirt, blankets and sheets, his carpet.
I lit a cigarette and sat down next to him on the bed. Told him to get up. "Strip," I throatily demanded. He did as he was asked, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination as he turned around, completely naked.
Hmm. I think I like him better this way.
I gestured for him to come back to the bed and he screamed as I put the cigarette out on his sweaty skin. I shoved my flag back into his mouth, cutting off the scream. "Don't make a sound," I growled. Stupid boy always has to go breaking rules. Why the fuck would he wonder why he got cancelled? Spend a day with him and you'd do it just as fast.
I forcibly turned him over, laying him flat on his stomach and pulling his legs so his ass stuck up in the air. I put my hand near his mouth. "Spit." I ordered. He obliged.
I rubbed it over my flag, lubing up with Steve's spit and my own cum. I spit on his ass, rubbing it in thoroughly.
Then I thrust into him.
"Uuunggg," we both moaned, throwing our heads back in ecstasy. He was so tight, so hot. I pulled out and slammed back into him, burying myself to the hilt. He let out a yelp at the unfamiliar sensation but I didn't fucking care anymore. I let go, slamming into him repeatedly, over and over, the pleasure in my veins skyrocketing as I picked up the pace.
Steve was letting go as well, meeting me thrust for thrust as he buried his head into a pillow, muffling his cries for more.
In, out, in, out. It became the only thing I could make sense of anymore. I braced myself against his back, clutching his thigh as we moved together, a song and dance we didn't know we knew but felt like we'd done a hundred times before.
Steve came first, spraying his cum all over the bed sheets before I pulled out and spilled mine all over his back.
My flag went limp for the first time that night, my hunger satisfied, my desire filled. Steve collapsed to the bed and I followed.
"Tomorrow," Steve panted. "Come here tomorrow."
I grabbed his throat and his eyes went wide. "Don't tell me what to do. I'll come if I come."
But we both knew I would be back. He became my drug, something I couldn't live without.
Was it love?
Well, who the fuck cares?
So, you see, that's exactly how it happened. Not a rumor. Not an exemplified story. Nothing but the truth.
I spend five days a week pummeling his ass with my flag now. And he has no fucking choice but to lay down and fucking take it.
Life is good for this fucker.