⚠️ DISCLAIMER — READ BEFORE PROCEEDING ⚠️
This chapter features a character who is loud, proud, and unapologetically hypersexual. He has zero shame, very little filter, and a mouth that runs faster than common decency.
If blunt sexual humor, explicit confidence, or unfiltered self-expression isn't your cup of tea, this chapter may not be for you—and that's totally okay. Please proceed with caution, personal boundaries intact, and pearls securely fastened.
You have been warned. No refunds. No apologies.
****
"Alrighty," Luca said, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face. "I respect that you already gave yourself a very Bread Music–coded stage name." He cleared his throat. "But since this is still a competition, I think the three of us can agree—we'll be referring to you by your given name, or another stage name you prefer. Just… not CreamBun. At least for now."
"It's all cool," Jeremiah replied easily, unfazed.
"Now that that's settled," Luca said, nodding, "please take it away."
The lights dimmed.
The audience buzzed—nervous, excited, bracing themselves like they had no idea what kind of ride they were about to be taken on.
Then the music started.
The massive LED screen lit up with the inside of a whimsical candy shop—bright colors, glossy counters, oversized sweets everywhere. Playful. Innocent. Almost childlike.
Jeremiah smirked.
The recorded spoken intro began.
🎶 Unwrap it for me…
Let me taste what you've been saving.
Sticky, thick…
And mine. 🎶
The audience collectively went, Oh! Cute. Candy theme. Fun!
Poor, naive souls.
Because what they didn't realize—what they were seconds away from learning—was that this "candy" was not FDA approved.
And then Jeremiah started rapping.
🎶He sit back, legs wide, gold on his skin
Said "be sweet," so I dove right in
Thick stick, tongue flick, no shame at all
I suck it like a prayer with my knees on the floor🎶
Eyes widened.
Jaws dropped.
The girlies and the gays? Absolutely feral.
Screams. Squeals. Hands flying to mouths at Olympic speed. People whipping their heads toward seatmates like, DID YOU HEAR THAT? Couples locking eyes in mutual shock. Entire rows vibrating with disbelief.
And yes—everyone heard it crystal clear.
Jeremiah basked in the chaos like it was sunlight.
He strutted across the stage, every step dripping charisma, command, and "I know exactly what I'm doing." This wasn't nerves. This was ownership. He didn't just belong on stage—he claimed it.
Then came the pre-chorus.
🎶You call it cock
I call it dessert
Each lick's a blessing
Each groan, a curse
Drippin' juice like it's holy rain
This ain't a snack, babe—it's a fuckin' flame🎶
That's when it happened.
Jeremiah locked eyes with Eli in the artists' section.
The smirk on his face deepened.
He crouched slightly, delivering the lines directly to him.
Monarch, seated beside Eli, completely lost it—hollering, flailing, living.
Eli, however, was not about to be overshadowed.
He leaned back, one arm slung casually over the seat, cool as hell. Then—slow, deliberate—he crooked two fingers at Jeremiah in a "come here" gesture, grabbed his crotch for emphasis, and bit his lip.
The theater exploded.
Jeremiah nearly lost composure. For a split second, it genuinely looked like he might crawl off the stage and close the distance himself.
Almost.
Instead, he blew Eli a slow, devastating kiss.
The audience—especially Eli's hoes—ceased functioning.
"Oh to be Jeremiah right now!!!"
"IT SHOULD'VE BEEN ME."
"YAOI 👏 IN 👏 REAL 👏 LIFE 👏"
Pure, unfiltered chaos. Horny + unhinged = a lethal cocktail. Shaken, not stirred.
While half the theater spiritually combusted, poor Jordan sat frozen, face buried in his hands, red as a tomato. Neck. Ears. Gone. Completely overheated by the sheer concentration of sexual energy in the room.
Eli noticed.
With a soft laugh, he reached over, ruffled Jordan's hair affectionately, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Jordan only blushed harder.
The contrast?
Diabolical.
And as the performance barreled forward, one thing became violently, undeniably clear:
When Jeremiah said he loved writing songs about dicks—
HE. WAS. NOT. KIDDING.
There were no stutters.
No awkward pauses.
No "haha just joking" backpedals.
Just pure, unfiltered confidence.
He stood there, chest out, mic tight in his hand, and sang about dicks like it was a damn love letter to the universe. No shame. No apology. Not a single fuck given. Jeremiah wasn't performing—he was testifying.
And then… it ended.
Silence.
The kind that stretches too long.
The kind that makes your stomach drop.
The kind where everyone collectively wonders if they just hallucinated what happened.
The lights stayed on.
The audience stayed frozen.
Jeremiah's smile wavered.
Oh shit.
Had he gone too spicy? Too unhinged? Was everyone suddenly lactose intolerant to the sheer amount of audacity he just served?
His fingers twitched around the mic as nerves crept in—until—
CLACK.
Tuesday shot out of her seat, ripped off one of her luxury heels like a woman possessed, and YEETED that bitch toward the stage. It skidded to a stop near Jeremiah's feet.
The theater gasped.
Jeremiah blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Tuesday then started clapping. Loud. Sharp. Relentless.
And just like that—
the dam broke.
Thunderous cheers exploded across the theater. Whistles. Screams. Applause rolling like a damn earthquake.
"I don't know if you're familiar with a certain tradition in the arts," Luca said smoothly, smiling like he was enjoying every second of the chaos, "but throwing a shoe on stage is actually one of the highest forms of praise."
He gestured toward Tuesday, who was absolutely glowing.
"So no, she's not telling you to get off the stage. She's saying she loved it."
Understanding finally hit.
Jeremiah picked up Tuesday's heel and raised it over his head like a goddamn trophy.
The crowd went feral.
"I am shooketh to my core," Tuesday said, pointing at him like a proud menace. "So listen to me very carefully. Do not ever stop being you for anybody. You hear me?!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Jeremiah replied, eyes glassy, smile trembling.
"Good boy," Tuesday said with satisfaction. "Now y'all go—I need to breathe."
She waved Foca and Luca off before dramatically collapsing back into her seat.
Luca stepped forward, laughing.
"I'm gonna be completely honest—I'm an occasional horny motherfucker myself," he said casually. "Excellent job."
The audience laughed.
"That chorus?" he continued. "It's living rent-free in my brain. Full-on squatters' rights. It moved in, changed the locks, and refuses to leave. Once again—good job."
Then it was Foca's turn.
The room quieted.
He hadn't been watching the stage.
He'd been watching the live chat.
And it was… ugly.
Real ugly.
@Conservatisim: What has the world become. Celebrating such vulgarity on global television. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. I'm reporting this to the officials. Believe me, this is not a threat.
→ @Conservatisim: This is demeaning and a toxic influence on the youth and children. I had hoped this show would prioritize talent. Instead, it's clearly chasing views. Disgusting. At the end of the day, it's all about money, isn't it?
→→ @Conservatisim: And don't even try defending that trashy music. Anyone who thinks whatever happened on that stage qualifies as "art" is deranged and sick in the head.
@Malory: What a shit show. Y'all are basically blasting 🌽 on TV. This program started with promise—now it's a full-blown dumpster fire.
@Karen Kweefler: My kids were in the room. My KIDS. This is why moral decay is winning. Cancel the whole damn show.
Foca looked up from the screen, face unreadable.
The room held its breath.
Because everyone knew—
this was about to go one of two ways.
And either way?
The internet was about to lose its goddamn mind.
And then, Foca spoke.
"I'll address this once—and only once," he said, voice calm, steady, unmistakably steel. His gaze lifted directly into the camera, unblinking. "What you choose to think after that is entirely your business. I assume, at the very least, that you are an adult."
A pause. Deliberate. Heavy.
"Art has always been subjective. That is not a new concept—it is, in fact, foundational. Taste differs because people differ. The world is vast, layered, and diverse, and it does not exist solely within the narrow confines of your personal comfort."
He tilted his head slightly, not unkind—just firm.
"Learn respect. Art remains art regardless of how you attempt to diminish it. And if something does not resonate with you, then you must accept a simple truth: it may deeply resonate with someone else."
The audience was silent now. Listening.
"This program has never wavered from its promise. We prioritize talent—always. You may label certain talents as crude, small, or unworthy, but talent does not lose its value because it offends you. We are gifted what we are gifted with. There is no hierarchy to expression."
Another pause. Sharper this time.
"And for clarity—this show has always been rated PG. Parental Guidance. We have never failed to inform viewers of the nature of our content. So please, do not project a holier-than-thou narrative onto us."
His voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"We have done our part. Now you must do yours. Be responsible for your own children."
A few gasps. Some claps already starting.
"If you dislike what you see," he continued evenly, "do yourself a favor. Do not watch. This is not a complex equation. Stand up. Turn off the stream."
Then—almost casually:
"And finally, for those suggesting this is about money—rest assured. I do not need more. I have enough to last several lifetimes."
A beat.
"Hopefully," Foca concluded, "this has clarified things for some of you."
Silence.
Then—
"DAYUMMMMM," Tuesday exclaimed, hand pressed dramatically to her chest, equal parts amused and proud.
"Oof," Luca muttered, nodding slowly. "That was… cold. Respectfully devastating."
The theater erupted.
Cheers thundered. Artists leapt to their feet. Trainees stared in stunned admiration. Applause crashed like waves.
Jeremiah bowed—deeply—his smile glassy, overwhelmed, sincere.
Foca might never realize it.
But in that moment—
that calm, unwavering defense—
He didn't just protect the art.
He protected Jeremiah.
And that?
Meant more than anyone in that room could possibly understand.
****
PS - You can listen to "Lollipop (Explicit)" in full at YouTube (@FocacciaBread-Music), Spotify (https://open.spotify.com/album/6F9I7q30z2OAjsyKFhnvfK?si=8dUIKwbrSjuD9NC6U8lQzQ) or other digital streaming platforms.
****
Full Lyrics:
[Intro]
Unwrap it for me…
Let me taste what you've been saving.
Sticky, thick…
And mine.
[Verse 1]
He sit back, legs wide, gold on his skin
Said "be sweet," so I dove right in
Thick stick, tongue flick, no shame at all
I suck it like a prayer with my knees on the floor
Pop that tip, let it hit my tongue
Slurp it slow like it's just begun
Roll it 'round, make him beg for breath
He moaned my name like he feared death
[Pre-Chorus]
You call it cock
I call it dessert
Each lick's a blessing
Each groan, a curse
Drippin' juice like it's holy rain
This ain't a snack, babe—it's a fuckin' flame
[Chorus]
Lollipop, lollipop, deep and wet
Gag so good, make the sheets regret
Lollipop, lollipop, cherry drip
Ride my throat like a fuckin' ship
Pop it once, twist my lips
Slurp it loud, no need for scripts
Lollipop, lollipop, candy king
Cum so sweet, make my angels sing
[Verse 2]
Suck it like I missed breakfast
Fucked up jaw, tongue reckless
Ven said "damn," couldn't hold his moans
Gripped my hair like he lost his home
Thighs quake, hips rise, I ain't done
Deepthroat love in the California sun
No hands—just lips and spit
Choked once, smiled, and kept at it
[Bridge]
Slurp it loud, make my ass twitchin' jealous
This dick divine—ain't nothin' rebellious
I spit, I choke, I suck, I swear
Tongue so slick got you pullin' my hair (Uh-Oh)
[Final Chorus]
Lollipop, lollipop, filthy treat
I take your sugar down to the beat
Lollipop, lollipop, moan my name
Spit drippin'—you'll never taste the same
Stroke my lips, shoot that cream
You the star of my sweetest dream
Lollipop, lollipop, no goodbyes
'Cause babe…
I'll suck again tonight.
[Outro]
I don't need candy, babe.
Your cock's the only thing I crave.