Bruja Barbie and her Ken

V.Castro

Recommended listening- In Your Room by Depeche Mode

 

 

One of his arms is thrown over a woman’s body. His snores disturb the hairs on her neck. Perched on a branch outside his window, I watch beneath the crescent moon, scratch my initials with my talon on the window. They are sharp enough to cut glass and kill a man, but the blow to my heart is worse than anything my claws could produce. Unlike unrequited love, my cuts are swift.

 

My heart, at least the lust, is ground to a paste, softened by thoughts of his saliva and sweat in a molcajete as dark as his eyes. Midnight black like water beneath moonlight. Those basalt flats hide what is behind. As I have just found out, it burns cold. My torment is mixed with his essence that should be dampening my skin, soaking sheets to the mattress. Make me a true lady for his manor and leave pearls on my lips and tits. But it is a fool’s dream, and I clack my claws against the branch before taking flight away from this place. I guess I am all out of spells.

 

I land on the soft grass of my backyard in Alamo Heights. It’s a beautiful home, a Barbie house. And like Barbie’s house, there is a pool and a pink BMW convertible in the driveway that’s always waxed and cleaned. The grass is never over an inch high and the flowers are always in bloom. It will be daylight soon and I will have to return to my human form, before heading to the morning shift when I will see him again.

 

But he will not see me. All I can do is write his name on the paper cup, the only sign of my existence in his life. Inconsequential morning crust gathered in the corner of his eye in the morning, only to be wiped away without thought.

 

Nada. Nothing is his taste and I now I know why. I shouldn’t have wasted my tightest pair of high waisted Jordache jeans. The seam between my legs and up my ass a map for his tongue. Apple bottom with sexy dimples like tiny bites from a ghost lover. If we are talking body language, then these curves feel like a blessing when they cradle you but will leave you with a lasting curse. My Barbie curse. Straight black hair hangs past my shoulders, parted in the center. Eyelashes topped with jet black wings so my eyes might take flight. I pop my gloss before turning back again to face him.

 

As I hand him his coffee, I let one of my long, manicured, red-painted nails scrape his forefinger, a final goodbye in my mind. I can hear “In Your Room” by Depeche Mode as I remember him fast asleep. The sudden touch causes him to look into my eyes, then my lips, which are the same shade my nails. But my eyes reflect nothing because they are empty, and he is full of life. I want to possess it, bottle up the flutter when I make myself come, thinking of him on the days I make his drink. He walks out of the coffee shop. At least I won’t be going home to an empty house.

 

The house is filled with men. I don’t really need another, but I want another. I want him to give me what I desire. Just a taste of his lips. His gaze as he touches me at a darkened concert or in my room. Any room.

 

There is Carlos the Jesuit who tried to convert me until I converted him. He stays in my kitchen. Greg the rich one takes care of our accounts. Michael keeps the place clean, runs my errands, then returns to my bedside to read until I return. I have a rock star who only leaves the house to go to the gym and back. He sings “In Your Room” when I want. But today, sullen, I want to hear it on my stereo loud.

 

I’m not lonely. I want the perfect one, need the perfect one. But the truth is there is no such fucking thing. I have searched for thousands of years. So, I have them all at my disposal to fulfil all my needs when I need them. My perfect Ken dolls to fuck me all at once or one at a time. Under my spell forever and ever in my Barbie house. Their souls sold for immortality and the good things in life. The best sex that never seems to end because I am an insatiable succubus. They give themselves to me because all humans have in this life is frailty, death and destruction. My Barbie house is a fantasy house to escape all of that. I need another Ken doll.

Want to come and play?

© 2023 by The Book Lover. Proudly created with Wix.com