I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

 by CumGirl

"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."

"Not butter! What is it then?"

"It's 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter'."

"What?"

"It's what it's called. It's a brand name. A margarine or buttermilk or some such. You're not supposed to be able to tell the difference between it and butter."

"So you haven't got any butter then?"

"No, just this. I'm sure it will do fine."

"That's easy for you to say, it's not your arsehole that's going to be smeared in it. Why didn't you get butter?"

"It was on offer."

"On offer?"

"Yes it was half price. They did have a BOGOF on Kerrygold but I figured I wasn't going to need two tubs to get you well lubricated, so that would just have been wasteful and ended up more expensive so I went with this."

"The 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter'? What was wrong with real butter?"

"Forget the butter. It's not 1972. You're not Maria Schneider. We're not in Paris and I'm not Marlon fucking Brando. It's 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter'. Get over it."

"You've not got any olive oil then?"

"Only extra virgin and there is no way you could be considered extra virgin. I've got some rape(seed) if you'd like it extra rough. Would you like it extra rough today?"

"Ummmmm"

"And I've got some honey and mustard dressing. The mustard seeds might be a bit gritty rubbing against your tight anal cavity but you'll taste quite flavoursome for your post fuck tonguing, so we could go with that."

"No, I don't believe I'd enjoy that. I just don't really want something 'artificial', you can't really be sure what all those lactic cultures and emulsifiers will do once they're inside you. Are you sure you don't have anything natural?"

"Natural like my thick, ribbed, plastic dildo?"

"Well there is that I suppose." "I do have a couple of organic courgettes that I was planning to chop up as part of a ratatouille, if you prefer. They're Spanish, pesticide free guaranteed. So if you'd rather I ravaged your pouting tight dark star with a virginal, we'll travelled, summer squash I'm happy to oblige."

"No, thank you."

"So it's the dildo then? Eight inches of engineered plastic composite?"

"Uh huh." "Completely artificial. No warmth, no heat, no thick veins pulsing blood as it splits your sphincter. Just a cold, disinterested phallus."

"Oh God. Yesssss."

"And would you prefer that served raw or would you like a little lubricant as an accompaniment?"

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"Shall I butter you up then?" Shall I 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter' you up?"

"Mmmmmmm."

"Is that a 'Yes'?"

"Yes. "

"Manners."

"Yes, please."

"It's maybe just a tad cold. A little slippery. With a certain gloopiness. Ohhh but don't you look pretty, all shimmery and squirming."

"Mmmmmmm."

"It's quite wonderful. Not really buttery at all. Softer. Coating your delicate arse crack. Less absorbant. Easier to massage into your pulsing muscles."

"Ohhhhhhhh."

"See how easily my fingers slide in. That's two and you've opened up so easily. Can you feel them wiggling, sliding, stroking your secret flesh."

"Oh God. Yes. Please."

"Please? Please fuck me, please?"

"Please fuck me, please."

"With this?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes please."

"Mmmmmmmm. So?"

"So? Fuck"

"So?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Harder?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Deeper?"

"Plllleeaaasssseeee."

"Slamming into your rippling cheeks. Stretching your pulsing muscles. Plundering your tightness. Swelling your belly. Thrusting. Rampant. Insistent. Demanding. Relentless."

"Yes. Yes. Yes. God. Please. Yes."

"Whimpering. Moaning. Panting."

"Ohhhh God. Fuck."

"Sobbing. Fixed and trembling. Helplessly pinned. Writhing in blissful abandon."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh"

"So?"

"So?"

"Can you?"

"Ohhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Can I?"

"Can you believe it's not butter?"

"Ohhhhh God. Fuck. Pllleeeaaassseee."

"Can you? Tell me."

"MMMMPPPFFFFFF."

"TELL ME."

"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Fuuuucccckkkk."

And that's it. A mere trifle. A conceit. A silliness. Not truly worthy of my time or your attention. But I promise to do better in future, to try harder, to be less whimsical. Cross my heart and hope to die. And if I should be telling a teensy fib then you may bend me over, spank my proffered cheeks, smear me in the vegetable oil of your choosing and plunder my wanton, achy star.

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