Is there any way to eat a doughnut that isn’t totally filthy? A plump luscious sphere of deep-fried dough sits in front of me. Begging for my tongue, my lips, my teeth to penetrate the sugar-dusted skin and reveal the secret chamber oozing, yearning outward.

I bite; it’s an immersion, more than consumption. That glistening dark golden skin against my lips, around my mouth. A little more pressure and I have broken through;  crème brûlée, so thick, velvety and laden with the sweet and the saline, spurts onto my tongue. 

This cream, so generous, wilful, eager to escape the confines of that dark soft space; so irrepressible, it escapes even my greedy mouth. One, two, three fat blobs slide down my chin to find a resting place on my left breast. Lustrous pearls glisten on the pale skin, just shy of my silk shirt. 

“Here, take this.”  You - the reason why I chose this table, the reason why I chose to eat this doughnut with calculatedly indecent gluttony - you lean towards me from the neighbouring table, offering a paper napkin. 

As luscious as the crème brûlée, you are: eyes of a pharaoh, skin of midnight velvet. This second, as your voice curls out and slides into my ear and brain, I want nothing more than your fingers stealing down my skin from throat to left breast, to scoop those trembling creamy pearls from my skin; your fingers extending towards my lips to offer me the precious mouthful, my lips closing around your fingers, sucking every molecule from your warm skin.

“Thank you.” I  drag myself back from that dream: I take the white paper from your hand. The soft kiss of two-ply is no substitute for your fingertips travelling over my flesh. The merest graze of skin on skin as that scrap passes between us, that whisper of your skin on mine summons lust to my every cell, my every crevice. Inside, hidden, the cells awaken, alert to the prospect of a delicious invasion, preparing for the glorious reception with a creamy flood. Less hidden:  dilated pupils. Dilated veins. Nipples hardening at the prospect of impatient lips. My body is issuing imperious commands to action.

Your eyes follow my fingers as I dab the cream, slowly, slower than any doughnut recovery operation ever made. 

“I can’t waste this, it’s too good.” I raise the recalcitrant dollops to my mouth, flick my tongue, swallow. “Try it, you must.”

Offering a half-plundered doughnut, the imprint of my mouth, teeth in that yielding flesh. Your smile is no less delicious, eyes no less promising of pleasure, as you hold my gaze and bend your head towards the doughnut to complete its destruction. Ah ciel, how my quivering cunt becomes a molten pool of desire: you dip your tongue, as practised and deliberate as a surgeon’s scalpel, into the creamy mess. Probe further, slower.

Can I ever eat a doughnut again, without my cream spilling out?

“Mmmmm. Absolutely delicious.” You measure out the syllables like dollops of clotted cream. Your hand encloses mine; other hand -  gently - takes the broken remains of my doughnut, eyes holding mine. “You’re right: too good,” as you convey it from my outstretched and captive hand towards your mouth. “Makes me hungry for more.” 

In this state, how can I resist your depredations? Your hand still holds mine, your skin warm on mine; increasing the pressure on my fingers. Your middle finger starts a slow journey, tracing a circle in my palm, as your lips close over the final mouthful of soft dough. The movement of your jaw, your throat as you dispatch that sweet and sticky mass, and that tongue of yours; I can detect the limber muscle working the creamy sugar-drenched stuff, surely matching the deft and despotic pressure of your fingers in my palm. This intricate insolent dance on my skin and echoed within, as we sit in seemingly decorous repose.

Your tongue is engaged - for seconds, only for seconds, in that final consumption. Long enough that I am melting inside, claimed entirely by your finger in my palm, your abduction of my doughnut and my senses. You swallow, muscles and tendons flexing: your tongue is freed from that sweet task, free to slide out between your lips now smeared with cream and flecked with white sugar, shining like jewels on your almost ebony skin. 

I should claim those fragments, those errant survivors: lean in to take them back, apply my lips, my tongue and show you that what was mine, is mine. You dine at my pleasure, always at my pleasure.