Pandora's Sacred Locker (#132, 5th from the left, against the wall in Gym Wing)

"I swear, it never began with me having any of those sexual intentions. It was just something I happened to see. I saw it. And that was the end for me.  It grew and grew.  It possessed me, and..."    
He trailed off with those words, a sigh of resignation.  Exhausted by the demands of pointless self-deceit.  
Here I was, after all, someone he could unload his gruesome and frightening truth on finally.  
His sin eater.

Now, sedating himself with drink from his glass,    
swallowing back with it his self-delusion of a once unerring and true compass.    
Here n the pub Friday afternoon, 12 Fridays after his tragic collapse    
3 full moons past his collapse in his class,    
he told of the final consumption of his tenderized, marinated edible soul,    
his final sinking in a fathomless inky morass.  
But for absence of a lesson, a parable on avoiding such loss of control,
I fear the great harm my re-telling may bring to pass.
    
My colleague confided of a heavenly hell,    
which began with an ending, announced by the tolling of the school’s last bell.    
As had become my friend's habit, begun only that term,    
He strolled to the gym wing, passing teenaged boys holding inexhaustible sperm.    
And senior girls, we must give them mention,    
For it is there,  in their power, condensed in just one, we give our concern
where lay the cause of his ruinous, soon to be bursting tension.    
    
No legitimate reason for my friend to walk there    
at the end of the day, but still, he did swear,    
it was not to see her, he never would dare    
"Not at first," I reminded, "but, friend, to be fair,    
it became only her presence, and her youth, and her scent,    
and those curled thick tangles of her mop of red hair."    
He glowered at me (for the truth, not offence); his supply of denials was nearly all spent.    
    
With a sigh of despair, need for truth not in doubt,    
his shamed sounding tone covered insane boastful shouts.    
It was surely a flood, taking a life in its sweep, but also a flood that ended a drought.
Those were his words, some truth finally come out.
Now leaning over close, a conspirator's grin,    
he lied some more truth, "Her come was the rain, her beauty the cloud,    
they powered a process inside me of thought after thought of such beautiful sin.”  
    
"She would sit in my class, up front by my desk,    
glowing and sweating, heaving hot chest, pumping hot breath."  
Her English came after a rigorous class in the gym.    
My friend taught her English, she taught him of him.    
Cursed with a keen sense of smell, yes he was,    
and her primitive odors made his sight blur and dim.    
Her lust-laden scent gave my friend quite a buzz.    
    
So back to this curious walk after work,    
first he would pass her, then go have a jerk.    
In a staff toilet, he'd jerk for a squirt,    
He pictured her beatific face, and bare ass so unjustly pert,    
slathered and slick under his great gobs of seed,    
And squirming and mewling, she'd beg to be hurt,    
to be punished by him was her greatest dark need.    
    
It need not be said, it was all but in his head,    
but he took real depravity nightly to bed.    
What was it, at root, that increased the very hunger it fed?  
What was the charm that would pull a man’s very last thread?  
What did he spy in her locker one day?    
“What corruptive magic had she?”  I asked, my friend said.    
    
I asked, he replied, in quivering voice,    
"I saw her pink panties they robbed me of choice!  
She put them in there, I could tell they were moist.    
And she saw that I saw," he moaned, abandoning poise.    
"She saw me, and smiled," rasped he, grasping my arm.    
"She saw me see her and my head filled with noise,    
it rang and it clattered, it was God's own alarm."    
    
As I was telling,  he brought with him that smile    
to his new special room, for a most precious while.    
He did his thing, and spilled into that smile,    
and the smile grew wider, as she spread on the tile.    
Still, ‘twas just lust causing delusions of thought,    
that she came a great river, wide as the Nile,
A river of sweetness for him that she brought.
And by him alone, begged to be defiled.    
    
One Saturday, not a soul in the school,    
He let himself in, his mouth filled with hot drool.    
To locker one hundred and thirty and two went the fool!    
He claimed that her pet demon entered and took control of his tool.    
His cock, he did claim, of a sudden became like a rod that divines.    
It sprang up with vibration, it sensed a hot pool,    
of a hot steamy cunt that shamed the sun’s shine,
and drowned every laughable thing that he knew.
    
He smashed the lock, with primitive need,    
and found her pretty pink panties, "Still hot, still wet, you must see!
She left them for me!" his excitement increasing by several degrees.  
He owned that one sniff sent him straight to his knees.    
She knew he would go to her locker of sex,    
"She wanted me too!  It -her desire- was on every breeze,  
my response was nothing more than instinct, reflex.
To choose not to go?  Can we choose not to sneeze?”
    
The truth was that over just a few days,    
I saw my friend's eyes become increasingly glazed.
He was useless at work, his mind started to fray.    
It seemed he was stoned and his will went away.    
Then, yes it happened, right out in the open,
when he stood up from his desk and started to sway,    
a mouth full of panties, cock dripping with lotion,
He stood at the centre of an unforgettable day.
    
Only one other, just one, of that class,    
knew who owned the panties and so who owned the ass.    
But she never would tell of this terrible trespass,
that doomed my poor friend to his inky morass.    
But now, there is one other that’s privy,    
to the heat and the power of a certain young lass.    
You know, I have told you, that other was me.  
    
And he knew of her locker, he knew of her smell,
but he would never fall under her dark wicked spell.    
He could walk the same walk when rang the last bell,
Let her watch (and she did), let her see this other man swell.      
This man would give her what my friend only dreamed,    
He would fuck this young thing, (on my soul, I could tell, but would  sooner just sell)
This witch had no power, he would leave this bitch reamed.
He would not take a step through his friend’s hell.
    
This man took his spot on the white toilet seat,    
where before his poor friend had stroked his poor meat.    
And she offered this man her cunt and said, "eat!"    
So he ate and he drank from endless rivers of heat,    
until it was her turn to beg to be fed.
Then he filled her right up his yummy sweet treat,    
Which she swallowed and swallowed, “More!” she pled.    
    
Now who is that man, with eyes all aglaze.    
It's already known, already been seen, already etched in the stone on his grave.
And he's fading away, consumed by the haze,    
of a monstrous, miraculous magical cunt, of monstrous, miraculous magical ways.    
And who is that man, without warning or hint,    
who is seized by strong hands, and struck his slack face?
Who is it that’s forced to the floor and there pinned?
Who twitches and chokes, with a mouthful of lace?
    
He feels some hard forceful pulling of something,    
a thing he is biting,  a thing he is tonguing,  
a thing he would never cease sucking, though angels would sing
if he would only let go, but he’ll keep it forever til death does its thing.
He will smell it until his soul would perish,
And fuck it with a glee to make devils sing,
And destroy all of what the angels would cherish.
  
This man's old dear friend, would not sit by his bed,    
though they'd shared the same doctors and nurses and meds,      
And let's not forget what they shared in their heads.
The friend knows her scent haunts the hospital’s spaces,
and her whispered moans resound in its halls.
He knows, as do I, that her powerful magic resides in the sperm that resides in my balls,
In the sperm that I use to paint on these walls.