Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

My Candyman	By : LoonyLucifer Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 13234 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
Chapter 2 // Breakfast, To Go
~*~
Rating: NC-17
Author: Lucifer
Notes: My my, it’s been a while since the last update hasn’t it? Many apologies about that. I’m hoping things shall go much faster from now on. The continued response i’m getting from this story is amazing, the movie hasn’t even come out yet! Wow guys. Thank you.
For me, this chapter can be summarized in just about one image. Morning-Wonka.
Additional Warning: Charlie is still as young as he was in the end of the book (i‘m believe between ten and thirteen), he’s going to be portrayed in sexual situations with Mr. Wonka. :P
Note to all reviewers: Alrighty, i tried replying to all of you in one long list within the chapter here, but aparently aff.n didn't like that. However, i still wanted to thank you guys individually anyway, so in order to read your feedback simply hop over this way: http://www.angelfire.com/theforce2/swporn/reviews.html
Thanks!
~*~
Charlie felt his pulse quicken to the point he imagined he could hear it as he watched Mr. Wonka. The man’s hair had fallen about his face in a way that made it seem even more…“swooshy”, if not a little more like a normal person’s. Probably due to the loss of his hat. Charlie found it peculiar of himself to think that Wonka’s hair should be unlike a normal person’s. After all, he was very real flesh and blood lying right here next to him, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking it anyway. Mr. Wonka kicked off his shoes, Charlie following his example, and pulled a good deal of the massive amounts of bed sheets up to engulf them. Having the blankets wrap around him calmed Charlie slightly, but soon Wonka’s arms joined them. The drumming pulse was back in his ears and inside his head all at once. He swallowed, finding his throat as dry and empty as his mind, unable to comprehend being in such close proximity to the great Willy Wonka. The man was a legend, something from imagination, not only of his but of every child around the world. Unreal, yet here he was.
Charlie could have drowned himself in childlike fantasies of the candyman if not for two violet colored eyes staring at him that were so real they miraculously grounded his thoughts. And suddenly, he felt safe. The arms around him were strong and warm and wanting and there was no reason to be shy. Wonka wanted him here, he reminded himself, and that was all the reason in the world to push his uneasiness aside. He could be confident if this man wanted him to. He grew so very fond of the man just by staring back and forth with him like this. He could see a touch of a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. It was something pleased and content, and something that made Charlie feel like the most special person in the world to be the source of it. The man’s skin was very pale and a slightly different shade from Charlie’s which had a more creamy golden color. For some reason Charlie became fascinated with his hair. The deceivingly longish way it was cut gave it a fine swoop that caught the boy’s eyes and pulled them along down it’s curve until they landed at his jaw line, another feature which threatened to take one’s eyes for a ride down its straight base. He could follow contour after contour, relaxed and exploring, making a map in his head from the curve of eyebrows and nose to the dip just above his upper lip.
It would have felt like an abstract version of connect-the-dots if Charlie had stopped to think about it, but he was too mesmerized for that particular thought to do anything more than flicker through his mind. He’d never really explored another person so thoroughly with his eyes like this before. Perhaps with his mother when he was much younger, but still, not so consciously and she was his mother and for some reason he felt that wouldn’t count here.
“You’re going to love it here, Charlie,” Wonka whispered, “We’re going to be better than best friends.” Then came that smile, knowing and secret, filled with wonderment, the one that made Charlie smile back no matter what was going on around them, he couldn’t help it. It was impossible to resist when Wonka smiled like that, and after only a day of knowing him, he knew it would never wear off. Right now, though he was still nervous, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. He didn’t have to do anything, be anything, and least of all worry about anything when he was wrapped up in Wonka’s arms. It felt wonderful. Yes, he was going to love it here, he and Wonka would be better than best friends. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
And when Wonka kissed him, the nervousness wasn’t quite so bad.
~*~
That morning Mrs. Bucket awoke feeling like she’d never ever felt before. She’d slept late, much later than she could ever remember doing, and even before she opened her eyes, she felt like she’d rested for a thousand years. Not a bone in her body ached of tiredness or overuse. She felt twenty years younger, no, even more than that. She felt like she’d never worked a day in her life. She felt not very unlike the way her son looked running around outside her now open doorway between the other rooms, pulling an old and reluctant Grandpa Joe out another door and begging his father’s help, then running back to his mother’s room and leaping upon the bed just as she realized he must have been what woke her up in the first place. The boy had a great big smile plastered to his face that left her bewildered but she found quite contagious nonetheless.
“Mom c’mon, get up,” he pleaded, pulling at her arm in the same manner she’d seen him dragging Grandpa Joe out his door a second ago. “You have to come see this; Wonka’s making pancakes!”
Wonka’s making pancakes. Willy Wonka is making pancakes. It took a few times dragging it through her newly awakened mind for her to grasp what her son was talking about. Most of the other adults looked as confused as she felt, but Charlie gave her arm an extra hard tug which nearly made her topple out of the bed.
“Alright! Alright!” she exclaimed, pulling herself to her feet. The boy ceased attempting to bring her to the ground yet still wouldn’t let go of her arms, tugging her along to the door.
“Charlie, I’m not even dressed yet!” she protested. It was true, she still was only in her nightgown and was beginning to lean in the direction where she set her day clothes the night before, but Charlie would have none of it, and continued pulling her out the door.
“No one’s going to mind,” he reassured her, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. Reluctantly she joined her husband and Grandpa Joe, each as befuddled as she was.
“Well Charlie, now that you’ve dragged us all out here, what have you got in store for us?” Grandpa Joe asked.
“Oh it’s nothing I’ve got,” Charlie replied excitedly, already starting off towards the hall but with this eyes still firmly locked on the group, making sure they were following him. “It’s Wonka. He’s making pancakes!”
There was a degree of excitement in his voice which made Mrs. Bucket glance to her husband nervously. Exactly why is Willy Wonka making pancakes such an extraordinary event? Compared to all his other strange candy-making contraptions, the process of making pancakes should seem rather simple, shouldn't it? He gave her a helpless look in return. So the group followed Charlie, throwing curious glances at each other every now and then, down the twisting and turning hallways, absently wondering if they’d ever find their way back. Fortunately there were a good many landmarks in the factory to go by, a great water fountain in an open area (one that used kool-aid rather than water), a greenroom filled with all sorts of plants and trees with some of the vinery winding down the hallway after passersby, and giant open areas every once in a while filled with granite and stone statues. The statues could be happened upon almost anywhere in the halls. Many were of children running and playing, or men who seemed to be of some significance which neither Charlie nor his family knew of. By the time they reached the kitchens his mother was wondering how he’d known the way at all, especially all by himself. Though, she did suppose it was possible he could have gotten directions form Mr. Wonka that morning. In fact, just as Charlie threw back the big swinging doors to the kitchens, giving them a grin and ducking quickly inside, she realized she had no idea when her son had woken up this morning, nor how late he'd stayed up last night. Nor where he'd slept for that matter.
The thought couldn't do much more than give her slight pause however. Not a moment later a giant clump of dough was flying at her head.
She gave a choked shriek and cringed, her hands rushing to shield her face, and the gob of dough missing her by not more than a few inches.
"Oh my! Dear, madam I'm so sorry!" she heard a familiar voice exclaim over quite a lot of racket that she now recognized as pots and pans and silverware clanging about. She peered out from between her folded arms in time to see Willy Wonka, who must have been standing at the large whirring contraption that had just flung cake mix at her, rushing to see if she was alright. He knelt down beside her and with the help of her husband, brought her to her feet. She hadn't realized she'd been crouching on the floor until then.
"It tends to do that every once in a while. I'm still working some of the bugs out...," he explained in apology. He gave her arm a light squeeze and she took a deep breath.
"That gave me quite a scare," she said while waving her hand in front of her face and attempting to laugh off some of the sudden adrenaline rush.
"You okay, Mom?" Charlie asked, now at Wonka's side, trying to help console his mother.
"Fine, fine," she replied with a smile. The anxiety was wearing off considerably. "Wouldn't have done much more than mess up my hair anyway," she laughed.
Satisfied that she was alright, Charlie scampered over to the machine. As far as his parents could see, it wasn't much more than a mess of brightly colored wires and odds and ends, all spinning about and sometimes sloshing syrup out onto the floor.
"Isn't this thing the coolest?" he asked. "Wonka showed me how to make it work earlier," he went on, seeing their puzzled looks. "It can make any kind of breakfast food you want."
"Seems you can make lots more than candy here, Wonka," said Grampa Joe, coming over to where Charlie stood to have a closer look at the machine.
Wonka chuckled. "Oh yes, I can make anything, or well, almost anything I want here," he said proudly.
When one inspected things closely, it seemed that the contraption was making pancakes. In fact, it seemed to be making several different kinds of pancakes at once. Blueberries were added to some, strawberries to others, oranges, and other various fruits as well. Once the batter had been baked well enough, the cakes were actually tossed out of the machine (Wonka ducked under them to show Grampa Joe how a certain nozzle worked) and onto large silver plates which were rotated to fit them all. The flying pancakes seemed to be what fascinated Charlie the most. He attempted several times to jump up and catch one in the air before it landed in its plate.
After a while more of inspecting the pancake-maker, Wonka lead the Buckets to the dining hall, a room similar to the ones seen in great mansions they'd seen in movies, usually with a long table stretching down its middle and a butler waiting at its end and a shining chandelier hanging overhead. Wonka's however, had replaced the butler with several Oompa Loompas who followed behind to serve breakfast, and though the large table in its center was quite long, it was in the shape of a spiral.
Once they were all seated for breakfast, Mrs. Bucket felt that it was time to make polite conversation. The events of the day before were still only beginning to sink in on her. Now as she took the strawberry pancakes passed her way and listened to Mr. Wonka, Grampa Joe, and her son chatter, she began to think of her family's plans for the future in earnest. Mr. Bucket, all too familiar with his wife's moods, seemed to catch on to her ponderings after a few minutes. With his help and curiosity of what was going on inside her head, she soon managed to make her way into the conversation which had originally been concerning all the types of non-candy foods the chocolate factory could produce, and how Mr. Wonka could ever remember the recipes for them all, at which point Mr. Wonka informed them all of the factory’s library.
“A library of recipes?” Mrs. Bucket piped in.
“Oh yes, among many other things. I like to keep well read,” Mr. Wonka replied. “Much of it’s stored electronically, but some of it is so old that well, the Oompa Loompas haven’t yet organized it into the computer system....” Charlie imagined Ooompa Loompas spending hours reading stacks and stack of books aloud to MJ who somehow remembered and stored them behind his twinkling eyes and fluffy mass of black hair. Wonka trailed off, suddenly interested in the hem of his sleeve and glancing at Charlie under the brim of his hat before he got back on track again. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket waited patiently. “I have books on everything--”
“Everything?” Charlie interrupted curiously.
“Everything,” Wonka repeated with a quick smile.
“Everything?” Mrs. Bucket chimed in, asking by her tone alone to be told what the two were talking about.
Wonka took a dramatically deep breath and belted out, “Frogs, cats, whangdoodles, toads, wizards, lizards, rock stars, Irishmen, dogs, birds, several uncles, Peter Pan (one of my personal favorites), monkeys, giraffes, grapes, fudge, actors, astronomy, C. Montgomery Burns, physics, rocket ships, sewing machines, economics, trips to the moon (or lack there of, I’ve been there! psh!), Mexican drug lords, national talk-like-a-pirate day, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Bert and Ernie, clocks, bombs, radios, and those unfathomably annoying flying thing-a-majiggers with the spinning tops that chase after you while you’re on the run from the law--”
“Helicopters?” Charlie asked.
“Exactly!” He replied, then catching the stares from the elder Buckets, decided that he’d provided enough of a description. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Well, I did say everything, did I not?”
Grampa Joe, Mr. and Mrs. Bucket simply nodded their heads, momentarily at a loss of words after the small rant.
“I’d very much like to show you the library later today, Charlie,” Mr. Wonka began.
This time it was Mrs. Bucket’s turn to clear her throat. “You must not stay up too late tonight, Charlie,” she said carefully, raising her eyebrows as she spoke, a trait she might have actually picked up from Wonka, “there is school tomorrow.”
~*~
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

My Candyman