 |
BY MATT NICHOLSON
|
You can find this tit and nipple biting fantasy as well as hundreds of other original stories, over 20,000 other exclusive photographs, video clips, and much more erotic tit and nipple torture, when you subscribe to Darker Pleasures. This story originally appeared in Darker Pleasures' members area. After it's publication, members began asking for the "recipe" for "creme bruleed breasts" used in the story It wasn't long after that we published Darker Pleasures Desserts for them, and later for the public. Given the number of public requests we've had for the story, we've decided to reprint Creme Brulee here for public consumption, as it were. Enjoy! “Our Manager says you have a specialty request in mind, Mr. . .” The small man reached into the inside pocket of his grey, pin-striped, double-breasted suit and pulled out a canary yellow card. He glanced at it then stretched his lips into a practiced smile. “Carlson.” “Yes. He said a chip of my wife would help.” Avery Carlson handed a digital image chip to the other man. He looked at the golden name tag pinned over the man’s left, breast pocket, while he quickly wiped his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans. “This one was taken just a week ago, Mr. Sage.” Sage slipped the chip into a viewer. His smile turned genuine as the three-dimensional image of a life sized, early thirty-ish, brunette floated between them. It began rotating around an axis somewhere around her belly button. She was naked and reclining, her arms held above her head as she ran her fingers through a full eighteen inches of lush chestnut hair that cascaded toward an unseen floor. One leg stretched down the length of whatever bed, couch, picnic table, or other support the computer had removed for viewing. The other leg was bent at the knee, deliberately cocked at an angle so that anyone looking at the image could plainly see the glistening folds of swollen, blushing sex. Her full breasts looked as if they ran around 34 big-C to small-D-ish. They were a pure alabaster, infused with just the slightest hint of cream at the base, like the rest of her almost flawless skin. They quickly turned first a mottled pink, then a blush red toward their tips, much the same tone as her recently used labia. Though the image didn’t give an indication of whether the pleasant red colors came from hard massage or from more active use, Sage suspected they’d been spanked quite well. Whatever the cause, her nipples and areola were dark, hard, crinkled, and demanding, obviously ready for more. She looked all but blemish free, save for a small birthmark nestled into the top of her trim runway of dark, curly pubic hair and a bit of barely visible freckling across her chest, likely from one bad experience with the sun many years back. Her eyes, lined almost imperceptibly on the corners, twinkled with a mischievous look that matched her wide, contented smile. The extra fifteen or so pounds she carried were distributed well, giving her a Rubenesque look that made her all the more appealing. Despite the pervading “ideal” that suggested women should be willow branches with breasts, few men would have found this image anything but provocative. Unless she just liked exhibitionism, there was little doubt this image was meant for someone special. “Can you do it?” “Your specifics are. . . unique.” Sage looked more closely at the image, “.and understandably so.” He looked down at the yellow card. “Without her consent, she’ll have to be gagged, of course. Allowing her to make any noise would present some difficulty. I trust that won’t be a problem considering. . .” “No, not a problem at all.” Sage nodded and extended a hand toward the door. “Very good, then. I’m quite sure we can satisfy you. If you’ll just step through that door, Ginger will take care of details and payment. You can expect a call within twenty-four hours.” The eggplant parmesan was among the best Avery had enjoyed. The atmosphere inside the quiet little bistro would have been relaxing to even the most stressed of urban-dwellers. Turning his fork upside down, he slid his plate and utensils to the side of the small, wooden table, then sipped the last of his Pinot Grigio. He leaned back in his cane, wicker chair and watched the sun stream through pine branches that shifted in the warm, summer breeze. After a few moments, his waiter leaned across his shoulder, lifting the plate. “Will there be anything else before dessert, sir?” Avery smiled. “No, thank you. My compliments to the chef.” The waiter nodded. “You can pass them on yourself, sir. He is ready for you in the dessert room.” He pointed to a glass-topped sunroom only a dozen feet away. Cottage windows decorated the outer walls of the rough-hewn, wooden cabin, and an old-fashioned, screened, pine-frame door beneath a low, green canvas awning provided access to patrons. “I belief our chef has everything in order through that door.” Avery wiped the last of the wine from his lip, laid the red silk napkin on the table, then pushed the chair backward and stood. The waiter met him at the screened door, opening it as he approached. Avery stepped inside the sun-filled room. Tall, lush, green plants decorated every corner, and a wide, thick fern hung on swag chain from the center of the peaked glass roof. All the plants had been recently misted, and sparkled in the natural light. The chef stood in the center of the room. Dressed in a tall, bulging chef’s hat and white apron, he was busy arranging an assortment of glass jars and small trays, filled with a variety of ingredients, spread out across the top of a wheeled, butcher-block tray. He nodded politely at Avery and went back to his last minute arrangement. Beside him, directly beneath the fern, was a rectangular table of matching butcher-block with its stainless steel castors locked in place. The tabletop itself was about six inches thick, sturdy enough to hold several hundred pounds. At the moment, however, it held much less weight - although her struggling, no doubt, added to the stress the thick wooden legs would bear. The scene was exactly as he'd imagined it. The chef finished placing his ingredients and gestured with a flourish to the waist-high stool, positioned just so, at the foot of the thick table. “Please, sir, sit.” Avery sat, and for the first time since entering the room, gazed down at the tethered woman. He ignored the look of fear and recognition. Instead, he smiled to himself when she made a particularly energetic attempt to escape her bonds on seeing his lack of response. Her wrists and ankles were wrapped tightly in black leather manacles, so tightly that her hands and feet had already turned pale lavender. Secured to the upper corners of the table, the leather wrist cuffs held her elbows up and her arms away from her body, leaving her bobbing breasts easily accessible. The edge of the table ended at the middle of her bottom. Her legs, bent at the knee, were splayed wide and secured by the ankle to eyelets in the table’s thick legs. There was nothing between him and her freshly shaved pussy but eighteen inches of air. With her pubic hair gone, he noticed the birthmark was actually a half-inch longer than he’d thought. Her skin glistened in the sun, oiled thoroughly from the tops of her shoulders to the tips of her toes. Her finger and toenails were manicured and painted an apple-red, matching her lustrous lipstick. He knew they’d spared no expense on her make-up, since the lipstick seemed unbothered by the miniature Washington apple that was wedged between her teeth so that her lips wrapped provocatively around its lower curve. The fruit spread her mouth too wide to allow any leverage to bite, serving quite effectively as a gag, keeping the atmosphere serene despite her struggling and well-muffled protests. “Today we are serving the house specialty, Crème Brulèe.” The chef held a long, steel, two-pronged fork in his right hand. With his other, he took her left breast, the nearest to him, in a firm grip and squeezed it hard at the base so that it bulged over the top of his fingers. He jabbed the tines of the fork lightly into the side, using it as a pointer. When she squirmed, he closed his hand tighter. She stopped. “We begin with only the finest of alabaster breasts. The whites must be blemish-free, with supple flesh that has been properly maintained in order to guarantee the finest flavor.” He moved the fork toward the center of her breast, pressing the prongs into either side of her nipple, denting the areola until she groaned. “The nipple and areola are crucial to the recipe, and must be thick and well-crinkled, with a resilient rubbery texture when chilled.” The released her breast with a flourish, making it jiggle. Then, he set the fork on the cart. He bent and pulled what appeared to be a butter-soaked, horsehair whip from a tray on the shelf beneath the table top. “We will begin preparation with a moderate whisking, so that the pores in the whites of the breasts open to the fullest.” Avery thought it was quaint how the chef spoke so precisely and referred to himself in third person, and how he pronounces ‘specialty,’ spes-ee-al-i-ty. He almost chuckled when ‘breasts’ sounded more like breast-es-es. She, on the other hand, struggled so hard that, were her ‘breasteses’ any larger, they’d be making slapping noises. The chef snapped his fingers in the air. Another chef, one with a smaller hat, appeared almost instantly. After a briefly whispered conversation, the second chef hurried down the kitchen access corridor. The first smiled at Avery. “With your permission, we will begin with a dessert aperitif.” He paused when the second chef returned with a thick pastry bag, filled with some kind of white cream, and a glass jar, filled with dark brown sprinkles. He set the jar aside and moved to the foot of the table. “As you can see, she has been totally denuded with only the best cream depilatory and then hand rubbed with virgin olive oil.” He ran a fingertip down one of her soft, plump, shining labia. “I doubt you will find more succulent flesh anywhere.” The chef pressed the pointed end of the tube between the struggling woman’s pussy lips and pushed it slowly. She stopped struggling immediately, her eyes widening instead. The chef smiled and closed his fingers, crushing the narrow bag so that its contents emptied into her. Even with the gag, there was no doubt that she was gasping. The chef smiled at Avery, rotating and shifting the tube, filling every crevice as he slowly pulled the nozzle from inside her, still squeezing so that the cream oozed. He added a thick spiral of whipped cream in a cone that covered her labia. “We keep our home-made whipped cream chilled to an exacting 38 degrees.” Setting the empty pastry bag on his work tray, the chef selected the brown sprinkles and added them liberally to the mound of whipped cream. After topping it with a fresh maraschino cherry, he took a red, silk napkin from the tray and smiled again at his guest. “Shall I?” Avery leaned forward and lifted his chin, allowing the chef to tuck the napkin into the top of his shirt. As the bigger man straightened, he pointed to the adjustment on the stool. “That will lower you to the appropriate height.” Avery adjusted the knob, and the stool dropped. When it locked into place, he was looking just across her belly, his mouth just inches from the whipped cream, sprinkles, and other goodies. The chef took a small green bottle from a whine bucket and showed the label to Avery. “Vintage Napa Valley port, 1983.” With practiced ease, he uncorked the bottle and poured the thick red liquid into a small crystal dessert goblet. He set it beside Avery. “When you begin your appetizer, I will start the whisking.” The chef raised a horsehair flogger and Avery took a long lick. He curled his tongue so that it hooked inside her and then slid out, dragging it across her clit, pushing the cherry up above her slit. She had just enough time to gasp again when the chef spun the limp horsehair whip and started whipping her breasts with a stinging, wet slap. Avery drove his tongue into her as she bucked up against his mouth. While he probed, the chef continued spanking her breasts, slapping them from side to side with an economical, figure-eight motion. “About one minute should suffice.” Avery bit into the cherry and
watched her
breasts jiggle and bounce from his position below her tummy.
Although his
cock
had been stirring ever since he'd walked into the cottage, he felt it
jump.
When her breasts took on a pinkish shade, the chef stopped and patted
the
mound nearest him as if it were the beginnings of a masterpiece.
"Perhaps just a touch more red." Concentrating on the same
breast, the chef swung the whip in a quick circle so that it
repeatedly slapped louder and harder than before. She tried to
twist away, but the chef simply shifted, beating on the tormented mound
with renewed effort. After another couple of minutes, both
breast were a fiery red, and the horsehair strands fell limp
again. “Yes, the pores should be quite ready to absorb the crème, now.” He arched a brow and reached down, taking her nipple between his fingers. “But this simply will not do. They must be much harder…" Using a pair of metal tongs, the chef picked a flat wedge of white ice from inside a misting, stainless steel bucket. “Dry ice.” The chef brought the steaming block of frozen oxygen close to her left nipple. “One must be careful to just lightly brush. We only want the flesh hardened. Not burned.” When the cold mist touched her nipple, it drew taut, as if surrendering for safety’s sake. Her eyes widened when the dry ice brushed her areola, but she’d apparently gotten the hint. She groaned, and shifted her shoulders slightly a few times, but was otherwise still, obviously not prepared to endure freezer burned nipples. Avery set his mouth into the upper part of her pussy, closing his teeth carefully into the soft lips and buried the flat of his tongue between them. He lapped slowly upward while drawing his teeth together, scraping the last of the whipped cream from her labia and licking it from the warm folds. She moaned, then gasped around the apple when he caught her clitoris between his teeth. He held it, while he watched the chef run the tongs slowly around each areola. Once her nipples looked harder than Avery had ever seen them, the cook seemed satisfied. He smiled to himself, turning his back to them as he set the tongs in the bucket. When he turned around, he was holding a huge basting syringe. The clear cylinder was measured in teaspoons, tablespoons, and various increments of cup portions. It was at least a half-cup full of some golden liquid. The needle was long, sharp, and as thick as a number two pencil lead. As soon as he moved toward her left breast, she thrashed again. Her clit dragged from between Avery’s teeth. The chef simply paused, needle hovering over her bouncing breast, and looked at Avery. “We will be injecting approximately three tablespoons of flavoring into each nipple and areola. This procedure is very delicate, as any flavoring that might be spilled, or injected too deeply, will have to be replaced with additional injections.” While Avery appreciated the commentary, he knew that the intent was the same as with the dry ice. So did the woman who would be dessert. Once she'd settled, the chef pinched a thick fold of areola to the right of her nipple. “We will inject six locations per side, five equidistant around the areola and one directly into the nipple.” He jabbed the needle into the hard fold, pinching harder when she bucked. Avery quickly wiped his mouth with the red silk and then stabbed his tongue into the melting topping inside her. She rolled her hips against his face and moaned, but stiffened when the second of the twelve jabs bit into her breast. He opened his mouth so that his lips slid across her sex while his tongue probed. She had obviously been preoccupied with what he was doing, and was caught by surprise by the third jab. He heard her cry as she stiffened again. He tried to watch what the chef was doing, but the angle was wrong. “Massaging the remainder of the cream into the folds of her flesh will produce an interesting taste sensation, if you like.” Avery liked this man’s hints. He stood up and readjusted the stool. When the chef pinched another fold of dark, crinkled areola, Avery ran his middle finger from her leaking hole up to her clit. The chef jabbed just as Avery had rolled her hardened clit clockwise. It was the first time he was able to see the chef slowly pressing the syringe, forcing the golden liquid into her hardened flesh. Although the chef had somehow managed not to be affected, at least not obviously so, Avery had to rearrange himself. “This will be the last injection on this side.” He pinched her nipple at the base and positioned the needle directly over it. “We would suggest addition massage.” Avery slipped his middle finger into her, as deeply as he could, and pressed the pad of his thumb against her clitoris. Before he could add much action, the needle plunged. Avery’s cock jumped at the same time as she did. He hardly noticed her squeal as the needle sank a full half-inch into the center of her nipple. Slowly pressing the plunger, the chef moved the needle around inside her nipple. Injecting more flavor until the clear liquid actually began to bubble out of the tip. By the time the chef pulled the needle free, there was only half the liquid left in the baster. Her left nipple and areola had lost much of their obvious frigid form, swollen with the flavoring. The chef set the syringe on the table and pulled the wedge of dry ice from the bucket. “We will prepare the other one and then begin the basting process around the nipples while the flavoring is absorbed. Then, we’ll chill them again, before we caramelize.” He re-iced her right nipple and then began the injection process again. After a few minutes of massaging and injecting, she was panting hard around the apple, and pressing harder against Avery’s hand. By the time the chef got to her nipple, she had all but stopped stiffening, and seemed to be totally absorbed by Avery’s fingers. It wasn’t until the chef made the final jab, and twisted the needle around to spread the last of the flavoring, that she did anything but moan. When the chef moved the needle inside her nipple, he felt her clench around his finger. The chef pulled the needle up slightly and pushed it back in at a different angle. To Avery’s surprise, she came. It was sudden, with no warning, and it was more explosive than any orgasm he’d ever been able to give her. By the time the chef pulled the needle from her nipple, she’d slumped into semi-consciousness. The chef smiled while reaching for a different pastry tube. Instead of holding whipped cream, however, it held some other cream-colored liquid. “Now, we’ll massage the crème brulee cream into the whites of her breasts. It will absorb quite well in these clear pores, and will provide a good adhesive coating for the caramelizing sugar.” He squirted what appeared to be lotion from the tube, circling the tips of her breasts nearest her areolas and spiraling down to near the base. Setting the tube aside, he started massaging the crème brulee lotion into her skin, kneading deeply. Though she didn’t open her eyes, Avery heard her moan again, rolling her hips while the chef dug and twisted at her breasts, kneading them like breast dough, to make certain all the lotion was well absorbed. Once he’d coated them to his satisfaction, he took each nipple and areola between his fingers and, with light milking motions, pulled from the widest part of the dark circles toward her nipples until some of the golden liquid he’d injected seeped, like clear, golden milk, from the hardened nubs. While the chef was busy, Avery adjusted his awkwardly bent, stiffened cock, feeling the slippery wetness of pre-cum that soaked his underwear. The combination of the chef’s deft massaging, as he shifted her breasts and nipples, with her rhythmic moaning and slow hip thrusting, was as tantalizing, if not more so, as the flavor injection had been. “Now. . .” The chef reached across his masterpiece and rolled a goose-necked lamp so that its eighteen inch rectangular head was over her. He adjusted it until it was centered about eight inches above her breasts and then flipped a switch. A bright, red light flooded over the two mounds. “We will let them bake for about five minutes, until the flesh beads with juices from the flavoring.” He took a small white clamp with a thin, yellow tip and pinched a fold of her breast. The jaws of the clamp were lined with tiny netal teeth, which bit into her skin when the cook released the clamp. “The tip will turn red when the skin temperature reached 105 degrees. They should be a pleasant red, much like the color one might associate with a south Texas sunburn.” By the time the chef had finished his explanation, she was thrashing. He took a handful of long leather straps from the shelf beneath her. “In some cases, strapping the dessert to the table becomes necessary. Although it unfortunately detracts from the aesthetics, the preparation process continues unhindered.” He looked at Avery for approval. Avery took a sip of port, enjoying the show. “No, maybe you could just tighten the. . .” He searched for a euphemistic term, trying to maintain the mood, “restraints. The added-- pressure-- to the hip and shoulder joints--” He stopped, looking at her eyes to make certain she knew he’d substituted the word ‘pressure’ for ‘pain.’ She settled down with a groan, and the chef smiled again while he lifted a wooden bowl from his work cart. He moved back around to the foot of the table and lifted a basting brush from inside the bowl. It dripped with a honey-colored liquid. “Our second aperitif is a warmed, honey-brown, sugar glaze.” He lathered it into the crevices of her pussy with wet slaps. “We use only local honey, and import our sugar.” He finished coating her outer lips and dropped the brush into the bowl. “I will check the progress of the brulee. Bon appetite.” Avery glanced at her breasts before bending for his second dessert appetizer. They were turning pink, and small drops of moisture had begun beading. Her nipples had gone flat, but were covered in a glistening sheen of perspired juices. He turned back to the task at hand. Settling on her left labia, he ran his tongue up its length and listened as she sucked air past the apple, then gasped again when he bit lightly, trapping it lengthwise between his teeth. When a few minutes had past, he'd managed to lick her almost completely clean. She came twice, alternating between gasping and groaning in pleasure while he ‘ate’ and hissing and moaning as her breasts were deliberately sunburned. He marveled to himself; with all the chef’s preparations, nothing was being done that would keep him from using her like this repeatedly. Once the thermometer tip turned red, and her breasts dripped with exuded juices, the chef turned the lamp off and pushed it aside. He took a small spray mister from the cart and carefully spritzed both of her nipples and areola. He lifted the ice tongs and the wedge of dry ice from the steel bucket. Because of the gentle baking, her previously rock-hard areola looked more like the thick, puffy rings of an adolescent. “Now, we will re-chill the nipples and their surroundings so that the cooked juices concentrate. It is important that they remain solid during the final stages of preparation.” By the time he’d finished his sentence, he had already set to work on her left nipple with the misty ice. It took more time, but after a minutes or so, it drew taut and hard. He brushed the dry ice around her areola, lightly touching the hardening flesh, pulling it into a tight, craggy rose-brown ring As her nipples chilled, she whimpered into the gag, pressing her hips out while she tried to pull her breast back. Avery found her clit and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the tip of her breast being as drawn as tight as it probably could, the chef continued to work on the same nipple, taking care not to burn it. Avery watched, while rolling the bud of her clitoris, as the chef slowly froze her nipple and areola. She stopped trying to pull her breast away, apparently concentrating on the vivid sensations between her legs, rather than what was very likely a dangerous lack of sensation in her breast. It wasn’t until the wrinkled flesh had darkened to a frostbitten purple, and tiny ice crystals actually coated the small peaks and valleys, that the chef was satisfied. He repeated the process on the opposite breast, letting Avery keep her distracted as he slowly froze the other ring of dark flesh. Once her right nipple was the same shade of blue, dusted with white frost, he set the tongs back in their bucket and brushed a fingertip across the lower crescent of her left areola. “Very good. Now. . .” He took a clear plastic shaker and dusted her breasts with crystalline sugar. It stuck easily to her sweat-glistening flesh. “This sugar will caramelize quickly. Broiling it would be optimal, but that is obviously not an option in preparing this particular dish.” As if on cue, she yelled into the apple and rolled as best as she could from side to side. The chef smiled his patented smile. “The caramelizing process is a delicate one. We use a culinary torch to melt the sugar, brushing the breast, much like one might brush porcelain with a father duster, cooking the sugar until it forms a hard, brown glaze. A master chef can do this without overheating the flesh. Those less skilled. . .” For the first time, he actually looked the woman in the eyes as he said, “or those that are distracted, can easily burn both the sugar, and the dessert.” Again, she took the hint. Once both breasts were thoroughly dusted, he removed the shaker cap and poured a cone of sugar liberally onto each nipple and areola. Then, he pulled a small, hand-held torch from the table shelf. Her eyes widened as he lit the flame, adjusting it so that it was about three inches long, but she didn’t move. As before, he moved toward her left breast first. Both she and Avery held their breaths as the chef passed the flame back and forth across the lower part of her breast, much like an airbrush painter. After several passes, the sugar liquefied, and then bubbled. She squirmed, rolling her hips, and whimpering quietly. But, determinedly, she held her shoulders planted against the table so her breasts barely moved. Avery glanced at her blushing pussy as it rolled in broken circles just inches from his face. He didn’t think his cock could get any harder, but it had, painfully so. He tore his gaze from between her legs and watched as the chef worked his way towards her nipple. The whites of her breast were almost completely coated in a golden brown glaze. Once he reached the pile of sugar that topped her nipples, he shifted across to the other breast, leaving her nipple un-cooked. When he saw the questioning look on Avery’s face, he smiled. “It is always best to save the nipples for last." He didn’t elaborate. By the time the chef finished glazing the alabaster-then-red flesh, sweet perspiration trickled in rivulets from beneath the caramel shell, down the underside of her breasts. The chef set the torch, still burning, upright on the wooden cart, and pulled the port bottle from the bucket. He tilted it over her crotch so that the crimson wine dribbled, splashing across her engorged lips and flowing through the hot folds, until it splattered on the parquet floor. “The final step in preparation might make you thirsty.” Avery took the suggestion as the hint it was intended. He bent forward as the chef set the wine down and picked up the torch. When the flame approached her left nipple, she stiffened, apparently still quite aware of the dangers involved should she struggle. The flame brushed the tip of the piled sugar and flared like a space capsule on re-entry. Instead of brushing the flame back and forth, the chef moved it in slow circles just over her nipple and areola. As the sugar melted, he held the flame steady. “The trick to making this dessert a success is to melt the sugar so quickly that the molten caramel fills the frozen crevices and sets before the flesh can warm.” The sugar began to bubble. Her whimper caught his attention. The sudden loud groan and hip thrust held it. She arched her back, all but imbedding her shoulders into the wood, while her ass came a full six inches off the tabletop. Avery wasted no time in sliding his hands under her. He grabbed two handfuls of cheek, and dug his fingernails deep. With a solid grip, he pulled her hard to his mouth and bit into her pussy, lapping at the sweet port, while the chef held the flame still, browning the hardened glaze without braising her nipple. Avery kept at it, chewing and sucking at whatever found its way between his lips. By the time the sugar on her right nipple melted, and the molten caramel flowed into the firm crevices of her areola, she was rolling herself wildly against his face. As the glaze browned, and the heat seared, he snagged the base of her clit between his teeth. When he thought the burning might be at its worst, he bit harder and she exploded into another orgasm, and unconsciousness. The chef turned off the torch, set it down, and took a couple of sprigs of spearmint from a sealed jar. He placed one beside each nipple, and re-filled Avery’s glass, then he moved toward the door. “I trust you will enjoy your dessert. The crust will be hard and thin, rather like candy. I recommend sucking the juices from the whiter flesh.” He started pulling the door closed behind him and smiled. “Oh, and the nipples will be quite thoroughly coated with a much thicker glaze. You’ll find that the glaze molded quite well into her areola. In order to best enjoy the dessert, they should be well-chewed, but not broken.” He flashed a smile. “Bon Appetite.” And the door closed. Avery had his pants unzipped before the door latched. They were off immediately thereafter. His cock throbbed painfully and all but led him to her dripping sex. He slammed himself into her, gasping as her muscles clamped tight and warm around his aching prick. He drew back and slammed forward again, watching her caramelized breasts shift slightly, held firm by the thick, toasted candy glaze. He thought for a moment about the chef’s suggestion, but found concentrating difficult as she rolled herself against him. As incredible as her well-lubricated pussy felt as it clenched him, he knew he’d been way over-sensitized. He pressed hard against her and held himself there, letting her slowly grind against him in her nearly comatose stupor. Picking a spot on the lower curve of her breast, he bent forward and bit hard. The think glaze crackled between his teeth then crushed under his tongue. He bit harder, trapping a thick fold of breast in his bite as he sucked the warm flavor from her sunburned flesh. He'd never tasted anything so sweet, nor had he ever been so hot. He took another bite, devouring the hard shell coating, sinking his teeth just enough to make her buck against him, wide awake. He rolled his hips harder and drew the delicious flavor from her fevered flesh. By the time he worked his way to her nipple, his cock was tingling to its depths. She rolled and slid against him, groaning quietly, seemingly oblivious to the bites and bruises. With table-shaking thrusts, he pulled backward and then slammed into her, grinding as he targeted the final three-inch reward. As he felt himself start to come, he bit hard into the thickest part of the glaze, cracking it between his teeth. Candied caramel, crushed from around her nipple, broke from between the creases around it. His mouth filled with candy, and flesh, and savory sweet juice, and it was all he could do to remember the chef’s suggestion, ‘well-chewed, but not broken.’ He heard the apple crack as her muffled scream echoed through the small cottage, and both of them came loud and hard. Once the last jet had passed and she lolled back into semi-consciousness, he smiled. He breathed hard and looked speculatively over at the other breast. After Avery Carlson left, Sage gazed at the sleeping woman. Even unconscious, well-used, punished and spent, she looked delectable. Her arms were hanging limply out to the sides. Her legs were doing the same, dangling spread-eagle off the table. The edge of the table, stained with a variety of fluids, bit a deep crease across the middle of her butt cheeks. Her left breast was a south Texas, summer-sunburn red and still glistened with juices, despite Carlson’s best efforts. It was dotted with small, jagged bits of broken caramel glaze, and dozens of deep, red and purple bite marks. The curved bruises overlapped almost every open inch of the mound. The nipple and areola were extremely ‘well-chewed, but not broken.' He chuckled when he looked at the right side. The darkened tip looked more like it had been given a very thorough mauling, and Carlson had all but ignored the rest of that luscious breast. Sage poked a finger through the hard crust, jabbing it into the feverish flesh of the lower curve. The woman moaned quietly, but hardly stirred. Curling his fingertip, he peeled away a large, curved piece of candy glass, watched a trickle of crème brulee-flavored perspiration dribble from beneath it, then took a bite of the candy. He looked up toward no place in particular. “Ginger, when is my next appointment?” There was a short pause before a pleasant female voice echoed through the room. “It looks as if your afternoon is free, Mr. Sage.” He smiled, loosened his tie, and shrugged out of his pinstriped coat. “Very good. Let’s start the program from the top.” He snapped off another piece of caramel. “And, how about adding the whole caramelizing thing to her snatch, too?” “You got it, boss.” Sage tossed his coat aside and pulled the tie from his collar. “Oh, and ratchet up the sado-level a few. I wanna see this Carlson babe really squirm.” “Gotcha, Mr. Sage. Notching up the sado-level by three.” “Make that four. Chef's going to treat these tits like Christmas turkeys.” “Yes, sir. Anything else, Mr. Sage?” He stood next to the stool. “No, I think that's got it.” After a few moments, Ginger’s voice filled the room again. “OK, boss. We’re good to go, if you are.” “Good deal. Go for it.” A second later, the entire room
shimmered and
shifted. Once the effect passed, the chef was standing by his
wooden work
cart,
arranging his ingredients, and Carlson’s wife struggling against her
bonds,
oiled down and pristine. "Enjoy the program, sir." "Thank you, Ginger." The chef finished placing his ingredients, looked up at Sage, and gestured with a flourish to the waist-high stool, positioned just so, at the foot of the thick table. “Please, sir, sit.” |
|
Home | Subscribers | JOIN DARKER PLEASURES | Site Map | Links
|
