As a little girl, I dreamed of my prince charming astride his noble steed, whisking me away from dragons and evil queens. Never did I imagine that my potentate would also be potent in the kitchen. Two years later, my deft dauphin, Carter, is in his final semester at Escoffier Culinary School, and I am eight pounds thicker.
The final semester - desserts - is heaven for my mouth and hell for my hips, all wrapped in one light, fluffy crepe. Tuesday through Friday, Carter leaves the apartment in a clean t-shirt and jeans and returns covered in swipes of confectionery, squirts of fruit juices, and the sweet smell of the dessert of the week.
Then the weekend is spent practicing said dessert until reaching the pinnacle of perfection, and he is ready for the test on Monday. Of course, as his supportive girlfriend, I am very quick to offer my assistance as his sous chef, notwithstanding the fact this means I get to reap the rewards of all the mishaps - yummy!
The fifth week’s dessert is crème; be still my heart. Carter selects Crème Brulee and Chocolate Pots de Crème – my favorites. Knowing that my hips and tummy will expand today, I opt for only an old t-shirt and panties. Why squeeze me into a waistband when that would only inhibit my pleasurable gluttony?
The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sounds of dishes clanging beckon me to the kitchen, where I find my apron-clad prince preparing his space. He looks up at me and winks.
“You ready for crème weekend?” he teases.
“Oh, you know that I have been waiting for this one all semester. It is my favorite,” I squeal as I sidle past Carter and pick up the steaming cup of java that he just poured for me.
“No, I don’t think you understood me,” he rumbles in his sexy, I-want-you-now voice. “I asked if you are ready for a creamy weekend?” Carter grabs me around the waist with one arm and slides his other hand into my lacy drawers.
He swipes two fingers back and forth along my outer lips until my wetness runs like freshly made royal icing dripping from the spoon. Carter’s fingers continue as if a spatula spreading my icing on a cake; even when my knees buckle, and I must lean on the counter for support, he persists.
Soon his fingers press harder, sliding deeper into me and swirling around inside me, mixing my icing round and round. I moan in delight as his spatula moves deeper into me, stirring deeper and deeper.
I was not prepared for a creamy weekend.
Carter has taken me by surprise, and the result is a rapid surge of electricity flashing from my toes, straight up between my legs. I squeeze my legs together hard against the voltage, the hair spikes on the back of my neck, and I let out a moan that matches his earlier rumble.
My shameless sounds urge Carter on, as he continues mixing me in my deepest spaces.
Harder.
Deeper.
Faster.
A tightness rushes up through my growling, hungry belly, and a huge orgasm overcomes me. I didn’t even have time to set my cup down.
“Oh, God, Carter. Yes.” I don’t hold back; I crush his fingers in my pussy and send more icing gushing all over his hand.
Pulling his fingers from deep within me, Carter tastes me. “Mmm… it is going to be a delicious weekend.” We both laugh as he takes a sip of my coffee.
“You are so bad,” I scold him, taking my coffee back.
“You have no idea what I have been thinking about for this weekend,” he says with a devilish grin. “The sous chef may have to work a little harder today for the scraps.”
~~~~~~~~~
An hour later, everything is laid out, ready to go: heavy cream, eggs, sugar, vanilla bean, semi-sweet chocolate, salt, ramekins, and cake pan.
“Let’s get the Crème Brulee going, and then I can work on the Chocolate Pots while the Brulee is in the oven,” Carter directs.
Carter brings the cream and vanilla bean to a boil and sets that aside while I divide out the egg yolks. Once ready, he combines it all and pours the mixture into the ramekins, standing in their hot baths. Then into the oven, they go for their forty-five-minute sauna session.
“Ok, Chef Carter, what’s next?” I ask, full of pride but still with an empty stomach.
For the Chocolate Pots de Crème, Carter whisks the milk, cream, egg yolks, sugar, and salt in a saucepan, over medium heat until it thickens.
I get busy breaking up the chocolate into the blender. Just as I steal a small piece to sustain myself, I feel a nudge on my hip.
“Oh, sous chef,” Carter says in his mock head chef voice. I turn to the oven where he is stirring the mixture, “Do you feel that this is thick enough to stick to my spatula?”
I step over to the oven and look questioningly at the saucepan. Then in one fast motion, I lift his apron over his shoulder and pull down his boxers and shorts.
“Let us see, shall we?” I dip a wooden spoon in the creme, getting a liberal portion, and while I stroke his wooden spoon, I blow on the mixture to make sure it is cool enough for application. When one is hard and the other is cool enough, I pour the sweet, creamy mixture over his hard cock, and, sure enough, it sticks!
“Look, chef, it is a perfect consistency. Shall I taste test too?” I give a playful wink as I look up into Carter’s deep green eyes, and he gives me a nod.
I look at the timer on Brulee, which says we must take it out in ten minutes, and we still have a few things to do on the Pots, but that’s plenty of time to enjoy Carter’s long, thick utensil covered in a sweet, delicious cream.
Leaning in, I run my tongue from the base of his hard device, up the under-side, all the way to the cherry at the tip. Then I swirl my warm, wet tongue around and around that cherry, working my tongue like I am trying to tie a knot with its stem.
“Yum, that cream tastes so good. Or is this pre-cum I taste here?” I muse.
Chef Carter doesn’t answer. He seems to be caught in stunned silence, so I continue.
I wrap both lips around his rock-hard gadget. I suck in every creamy-covered inch of him until my chin hits his balls, and my nose is buried in his pelvis. Cream drips from my lips, and I take just one moment to remove Carter’s hard wooden spoon out of my mouth and lick that tasty warm cream from my lips. I sure didn’t want to waste any.
Carter watches every move and now puts one hand on my head, pushing me back towards my task at hand.
I happily suck Carter in balls-deep in one quick slurp. The smell of sugar and milk is driving me wild, pushing me to tug and glug his device deep and fast, trying to get to his gooey center.
Carter moans, and I work harder. I am squeezing his sacs with my hand to prepare the tool while taking him deeper, deeper into my mouth, clear to my throat.
I choke.
“Ding,” the Brulee is ready.
“Fuck!” Carter is ready.
He shoots his gooey cream straight down my throat.
I swallow, pull away quickly, and get the Crème Brulee out of the oven and onto the cooling rack before they are overdone. Carter cleans up and then comes over to wiggle the cooling rack.
The Crème Brulee is supposed to only tremble in the center.
“Well, shit,” Carter declares, and I smile, knowing that this mishap was my second, no third, sweet reward!!
“What’s the matter?” I ask coyly as if I don’t know.
He put his arms around me and draws me closer. “Looks like you get to turn these into bread pudding, my lusty little sous chef. They didn’t set up enough.” Then he kisses me so deeply that we taste every sip of coffee, every finger lick of batter, and every bit of cum the other had tasted this morning.
He pulls back slightly, looks me in the eye, and says, “But you knew that already.”
With his best James Dean smirk, he leans down to kiss me again with even more passion. A type of passion beyond flavors and smells, a type of passion that elicits visions. Visions of a farmhouse with a garden, kids playing in the yard, vegetables that go to his farm-to-table restaurant. And, of course, more kisses just like this at the end of every day.
Only Carter has ever kissed me this way, and that is why he will be the only man ever to kiss me again.
“Ok, ok, more time for that later, Chef Casanova, we need to get back to the Chocolate Pots de Crème. I want that with lunch,” I shout, clapping my hands. But when we return to the stovetop, what once was a perfect consistency, is now a thick burnt mess.
“Well, I am afraid our fellatio foray has left the Chocolate Pots de Crème unrepairable, my darling. I am sorry, I know they are your favorite,” Carter says ruefully, seeing the frown on my lips.
“I have an idea, pouty pants. It’s still early, and the Pots are a quick dish. Let’s melt down this chocolate, grab a few towels, a few icing bags, and head to the bedroom. I need to work on my drizzle patterns, and I would much rather do it on your beautiful ass than on a serving platter. We will remake the Pots for dinner and practice the Crème Brulee tomorrow.”
Considering his offer as he kisses my neck, I figure I am a lucky girl to get multiple deserts and work off the calories with multiple orgasms, so why not.
