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Fetish is a Six-Letter Word
by Daina Blue © 2006

"Grease is the word, grease is the word, is the word that you heard; It's got groove it's got meaning. Grease is the time, is the place is the motion; Grease is the way we are feeling..."

Benny Harlow's Crisco covered fist slammed up and down the length of his meaty cock. His eyelids fluttered, his glazed stare fixed on the television in front of him. Within a matter of minutes, wet splattered over his curled fingers, mixing with the grease to create a white gelatin-like sludge.

Letting his breath blow out in a great gust, he collapsed back against the couch. He tried to clear his mind, deliberately going through the alphabet, avoiding every word he knew would trigger yet another round of obsessive masturbation.

"Apple. Book. Cat. Dark. Elephant. Fire..."

It was a lonely life.

*               *               *

He wondered as he walked down the busy sidewalk if anyone could tell. Sometimes, he wore headphones, listening to pre-recorded tapes of himself reciting specific words. Three-letter words, four-letter words, even eight-letter words. But, never, ever six.

He was a tall, slender, man. His hair was medium-brown and his eyes were an uncertain shade of blue-grey. His features were neither movie-star perfect, nor off-putting. He was a regular guy with a regular job and a very irregular problem.

He had tried everything—

*               *               *

"Forgive me, Fa..Prie..." He stumbled over the titles.

"Father will do..."

Benny felt, he was sure of it, the breath of the man on the other side of the screen. It was if that word had caressed him. His body seized, he lost his breath, he slid his hand over the sudden rigid swell of his cock. Shame bled through his flesh in the form of hellish heat.

"Oh. Fa...I...!"

"What is it, my child?  What troubles you so?"

"I've got trouble. Please...oh God...please, please, please!" Each uttered plea sent electricity surging through his body. Through the fabric of his pants, he fondled his prick. Rubbing, rubbing. He was lost now. The word had rushed through his lips and had become a litany of sensual kisses to his ears.

"God is listening. Purge your soul of these demented thoughts and receive the glory of God's forgiveness."

"I can't. I'm...I'm a freak! Everywhere I go, I hear them. I hear them and they taunt me. The words."

"What words? Release them from your soul. Free yourself! Banish every impure thought from your mind, God will guide you."

"B..banish...impure..." Benny's eyes rolled back into his head, his legs sprawled in the confined space and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Soon the rasp of his dry fingers worked up and down the length of his cock. "Banish. Banish. Please. Yes, God! I am impure! Please, yes!"

Ten minutes later, Benny found himself being escorted out of the church. His shirt hanging haphazardly from his trousers, his cheeks flushed.

"You need God! And, counseling!" The priest called after him, pumping a fist furiously in the air.

*               *               *

Forty-five minutes after he had arrived in his psychotherapist's office, Benny was sprawled across her fat, overstuffed couch of  blue chintz. Slowly, the fog cleared his mind and he could hear, once more, the sound of his breath coming in and moving out. The roar was gone.

His pants were down, his cock hanging limply off to the left.

His still stunned therapist was scribbling hastily on her yellow legal pad. "Mr. Ha...Sir. I'm making you an appointment with Doct..Doc Shariz. He's an excellent psychiatrist and can give you a prescription. I'm also scheduling you for group therapy. Here's the address."

Sheepishly, Benny tugged up his pants and tucked in his shirt.  She shouldn't have hypnotized him. He took the slips of paper from her hand, noticing the slight tremble to her fingers, the high flush on her cheeks.

"Thanks, for um, trying."

"Have a good day...Sir."

*               *               *

Three weeks later, on a new OCD medication for the last two, Benny stood in front of an innocuous looking building, the scrap of paper with the address on it, crumpled in his hand. Group therapy. His last hope. They'd probably all be alcoholics, maybe the odd anger management dude. Who else was going to have a problem like his? How could he tell perfect strangers, he would never be able to endure a whole hour listening to them, if any of them uttered even a single one of those words?

Fourteen minutes later, he seated himself in the very back of the room. There must have been twenty-five other people in the sparsely furnished room. He looked up at the gentleman standing on a small stage, tapping at a microphone.

"Evening. Evening. Hi, welcome back everyone. My name is Paul Berribone." He paused as the collective group of people returned the greeting as a chorus of ‘Hi Paul' back to him. "Thank you. Thanks. I'd like to let you know we have a new visitor here with us tonight. So, that you might understand where he's coming from, I'd like to ask him up here to say hello. Benny?"

Benny fought the tingling in his groin when he heard Paul speak a six-letter word. Taking a deep breath and mentally ticking off his alphabet list in his head, he slowly stood. He made his way slowly up to the stage, feeling the curious looks but not returning them.

He shook Paul Berribone's hand and turned to face the small crowd of people. His gaze swept over their faces. Faces just like his. Not a single person there looking as if they needed to be. "Hi. I'm Benny."

"Hi Benny!" They chimed in unison.

A flicker of light in the front row to the left caught his attention. It was a twinkle of light reflection of a woman's wristwatch. His immediate thought was, she was so lovely. Shorter than him by several inches, she had to be. She was shorter sitting in her seat than anyone else on her row. Golden-brown hair, and dark-eyes that looked up at him steadily. She looked slightly flustered but didn't make any movement to leave her chair.

Paul Berribone cleared his throat and Benny jerked his gaze back up. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he spoke haltingly at first.

"I'm here tonight because I have a problem. I can't hear six-letter..." He paused over the word, his fingers inside of his jean pocket, curled painfully around his car-keys. "...words. They seem to stimulate me in a most embarrassing way. It is affecting my whole life. Work. Romance. Grocery shopping. I can't even go to confession without getting kicked out. You can just imagine what it's like trying to play a game of Scrabble."

A small round of chuckles met his words. He laughed, too. It was good to finally be able to laugh and not feel laughed at.

"Thanks for letting me come and join in your meeting. I look forward to meeting you all properly."

He stepped down from the stage, deliberately walking on the side where the woman sat. Her chocolate-brown eyes met his gaze briefly as he passed. A small current of lust blasted him out of nowhere. For no other reason than, his body seemed to recognize hers in a purely chemical way.

Real passion. He thought.

During the meeting, he was surprised to hear as some of the people went up on stage, that this was a group therapy for people with all kinds of problems. Odd problems. Like his. One gentleman could not step on a crack. No, he wasn't afraid it would break his mother's back. He said he felt the power of the Earth's core through those cracks and it gave him super-power. He had recently herniated discs in his back trying to lift a car.

Another young woman could not tolerate the sound of country music to such an extent that when she heard it, she began to pull chunks of her hair out after balling up on the ground.

On and on came the stories until Benny didn't feel that different at all. It seemed there were a lot of fucked up people in the world. It was an oddly comforting thought.

After the meeting had ended, Benny decided he would definitely come back. Those who had spoken had made a conscious effort to avoid the words that would set him off.


He turned, smiling, having been greeted and welcomed by several now. "Hello, I'm..."

"Mr. Harlow." Her voice was silky-soft, sweet. Was it some kind of purposeful tease that she had used his last night? The sound rode through his veins like hot caramel sliding down slopes of sweet vanilla ice-cream.

"And you are?" He stammered out, shoving his hand forward.

She smiled and Benny was certain he saw a hint of mischief lurking in those warm brown eyes. "My name, Mr. Harlow is...Trixie. Trixie...Tucker."

As her fingers closed around his own, Benny was certain he was going to human combust on the spot. Trixie Tucker. God. His cock was stiffening in his pants. He felt the first beads of perspiration on his forehead. "I...I..."

She leaned forward, whispering into his ear conspiratorially. "One less than six. Five. Five-letters, Mr. Harlow."

It took a moment to register, but when it did, somehow Benny felt like he'd just struck oil. Won the lottery. Cheated certain death. He gazed down into her eyes and began to grin.


Her lashes swept down as her skin became hot with a blush. Her fingers tightened on his. "Let's go to your apartment, shall we? Mr. Harlow..."

*               *               *

Hours later­

"Pretty pussy..."

"Tight pretty pussy...I'm going to eat it."

"Oh yes, Mr. Harlow. Devour my pretty tight little pussy!"

They fucked as if they hadn't had any for years. Words called out in the heat of lust. Whispered in the throes of passion. Groaned softly in the aftermath of release.


Days later­

"I need food..."



"Yes, that's right...come here."

Months later—

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

*               *               *

And they lived happily ever after.

© 2006 Daina Blue.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: I write fiction because I love to tell a story. Sometimes they're sweet, sometimes they're not. My hope is that the words linger with you long after the last word is read.

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Daina Blue


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