Fuck it, I'm videotaping it.

Something I should've thought of before I coated my hands in custard, but impulse knows no such thing as good timing. Nor was it good timing that the urge overtook me while my partner, lovely as they are, teaches online lessons to bored college students in the adjacent room.

Being quiet was never my forte.

Tripod set, I can't believe I'm actually doing this. If my partner finds out what I've done--what I'm doing--to their favorite pastry from down the street, they might actually call off all seven years of our relationship. Being an emotional mess is one thing, but a literal mess is, well... that's not everyone's cup of tea.

Sometimes acceptance and understanding don't go hand in hand.

You see, I'd just gone through a breakup. It's a long story. Not with my partner, but with another partner. Sort of. Like I said, it's a long story, and I need to cope somehow.

I'd shared my deepest, darkest sexual desires. My penchant for humiliation, the names I longed to be called (none of them very nice), the power play, everything but my messier acclimations.

And when it ended, so did my sex drive.

My cohabiting partner, the one I love very much, doesn't share those desires. Vanilla like the custard I'm smearing over my face and tits, the cold smoothness reawakening nerves that had been dormant during a frenzy of ice cream binges and zombie movie marathons. Anything to numb the barren wasteland of my mind.

I look in the viewfinder. A few pounds heavier, but honestly, I'm beyond past giving a shit.

I can hear my partner giving lecture notes, oblivious as I grab another custard cream off the table. The type that's half custard, half whip all wrapped up in an airy choux pastry. Beyond smushable as I create abstract patterns of yellow and white over the curves of my body.

God, it's almost enough to forget. At least my cunt seems more than ready. A reliable fetish as I scoop up more of the creamy coating and shovel it over my face, suck it off my fingers, massage it into my mons and inner thigh--loving the way it mats my dark curls. Each stroke teasing my fancy for a different type of sugar rush.

I forget the camera as I lose myself. I hadn't taken my masturbatory aides out of their prison for more than a week, thinking I'd never want to look at them again. But fantasies turned reality were enough to grab my sleek feeldoe, smuggled like contraband under my partner's nose to my private paradise. Black. Glossy. Silicone.

Inhaling the scent as it mixes with the sweet smells of pastry, my growing need leaks onto the towel on the floor and seeps into the spongy remains of the sacrificed chouxs. Anything for a taste of pleasure.

There isn't time to savor the moment. The lesson carrying on in the other room is just a ticking time bomb until the next ten-minute break. Gripping the doe, I scrape it over my small nipples, slick with thickened egg and dairy and let my tongue do the talking, wondering how it would feel with cream and custard dangling over the solid mass as I shaft myself with it.

My eyes roll to the back of my head. It's better than not fucking myself for more than a week. All five senses meld together like the creamy components of the puffy pastries. Reaching for another, craving the cold smack on my ass as I shift to all fours, I come up empty. Fuck, I should've bought more. With how cheap they are, I could've had one for every exposed piece of flesh and then some.

The squelching, the fucking, the moaning, the groaning--it all fills the room as tatters of the once regal dessert fly like stray bullets as I continue to fill the aching emptiness between my legs. Spongy choux works its way wedged between the cleft of my rounded buttocks as my tits jiggle with the force of my self-imposed cunt-wrecking, lubed with arousal and filling.

And for the first time in a long time, the familiar build pushes me mercilessly off the cliff that I've avoided for far too long as I detonate all over the living room in a glorious explosion of delicious shrapnel.

Ragged breath subsides. The flush that ran rampant through my body flutters out. The laminate flooring now gleams with a sticky sheen. The towel proved completely useless.

Then silence.

Fuck.

Collapsing on the floor, my partner peers into the room, probably thinking they would get to enjoy ten minutes to relax, but instead, their favorite pastry is strewn everywhere, mostly on me.

"Did you really use all three?"

My post-orgasmic haze glues me to the floor, and I just nod.

"And you didn't save me one?"

Empty wrappers and custard splatters paint the room. The answer is obvious.

"You should really learn some table manners."

And after spending a fortune on cleaning supplies and a long shower, I decided next time my heart gets broken, the first thing I'm buying is plastic sheeting, and then I'm going to stick to yogurt. At least that moisturizes as it soothes.