Vice Cream is a collection of seven short stories, with a common narrator, featuring nature's most perfect food. Not all of the flavours are BDSM but I hope you will sample each one. As the saying goes, "Life is short, eat dessert first". Enjoy...
Vice Cream
Dessert in Seven Parts
Vanilla
"Boring." The word drops out of Master's mouth and rolls around on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, coming to rest next to my ear.
A
clink
of a spoon against a ceramic bowl, I hear it but don't see it.
Boring
. The word was mine, the reaction swift, the result – I tug at the cord of Master's housecoat around my wrist – inescapable. His location for me, head to one side of the island, directly below the overhanging counter top, was no accident. I'm half blind.
With legs and arms pulled taut, lifting my head is uncomfortable but, as I do, he kneels between my spread legs and I see the bowl, then the spoon heaped with a white mound.
Cold! A spoonful of ice cream is slipped into my open pussy. When my hips jolt upward, Master pins them down again using only his eyes focused on mine. His eyes say,
Things can always get worse.
Another spoonful and another and another, until the heat of my sex can't keep up with the frozen cream. The river of melted stickiness dripping out of me, running down to the crack of my ass and onto the floor, slows to a thin stream. Deep breaths help keep me still.
"Boring," he repeats, in a monotone.
Now it's the fridge door I hear, opening. Bags rustling. Containers bumping against each other. My world, tied down on the floor as I am, is the world of sound.
Master is between my knees again. He shows me a strawberry before shoving it inside me. Some peach slices are next. Blueberries stain his palm as he feeds them between my hungry folds. Cherries, mandarin orange slices, even a few grapes, he pushes each new fruit in a little further and a little harder.
Scrambling to define each new sensation, the walls of my pussy tighten and release. The ice cream, melting fast, begins to flow again. Master's hand is empty. He holds up three fingers, high enough for me to see, then stuffs them inside me and mashes the fruit and ice cream together.
My neck arches at the plunging. I groan and pull against my restraints. His fingers drive in and out. The pulpy mess splatters the insides of my thighs and pools beneath my ass cheeks. I'll come soon if he doesn't stop and I've not been given permission.
"Boring," I hear him mutter at the same instant his fingers stop pounding me.
With his clean hand, he picks up the spoon, slips it inside me, pulls out a helping of milky mush and smiles. I smile back, panting, thinking he's about to enjoy a snack. Stupid me. He carries the dripping spoon over my stomach, up to my chest and drizzles the concoction over my left nipple.
Gasping, my back arches as my always sensitive button sends electric shocks down my spine to the ice cream sundae between my legs.
He gives my right nipple – primed by expectation – the same treatment.
The third spoonful he carries to my mouth.
Eyes wide, lips sealed, I shake my head a fraction. The cold spoon rests against my lips and his eyes order them to open. They do.
Master tips the spoon and I swallow my dessert. When the spoon is clean, he pulls down a napkin from the kitchen table and fastens it snugly around my head, gagging me, making sure I cannot rid myself of the flavour.
He holds the empty spoon up high enough for me to see. The handle is made of plastic, thick and round. Bending the spoon into a crescent shape, he slides the handle into my pussy, jostles it around and pulls it out. I pout into my gag, yearning for more.
I get more.
The tip of the spoon handle presses against the delicate pucker of my ass. I bite down as he slides the handle inside me, working slowly, extending my discomfort. I know he's done when I feel the metal end biting the soft skin of my ass cheeks.
Master stands. I hear a drawer open, the dull rattle of cutlery. Kneeling down, he shows me a fork. My molars clamp down on the back of the napkin sawing at the corners of my mouth.
Same routine. This time, however, he leaves the handle of the fork in my pussy; the tines prod my swollen lips. Once again, he stands.
Another drawer opens. What now?
This time he returns with a roll of plastic wrap, pulling out an arm's length and tearing it off. The wrap he winds around my waist, between my legs, around my waist again, until he's fashioned a cellophane loincloth for me, just tight enough to hold the two pieces of cutlery in place.
Repositioning, he lowers his head until it is over top of mine. I can see him reading my eyes, gauging my discomfort. A smile melts across his face. He licks my top and bottom lips and moves south.
Master's mouth lands next on my nipple, licking and sucking up the mess he left. As he does, and the electrical shocks start in earnest, I start to tense and squirm, feeling the handles inside my ass and pussy fill me with pleasure while their cold counterparts dig into my flesh.
From one nipple to the next, my master works his hot tongue around, cleaning every drop from my body. I buck harder, willing the inanimate objects to fuck me, groaning at their cruelty. My ass slips on the slick liquids seeping out of me and the spoon end digs hard into my left cheek, moving the handle, causing my hips to thrust, driving the fork tines into my clit. I yell into my gag. More slipping, more poking, more sucking and licking, I drive myself to the edge of the cliff.
Master pulls away. He stands yet again and watches me as I writhe on the linoleum. My begging is stifled but I know he hears it. I need release. I need it. Why won't he give it to me?
"So, tell me, my precious whore," he says, looking down at me, tall as a skyscraper, "do you still think vanilla ice cream is boring?"
Mango Sorbet
A day off at last. Even better, a day off and a beach all to myself. It was worth the paddle against the current to get to this quiet motu, this tiny patch of sand and palm trees, surrounded by water more shades of blue than any paint store can invent.
That's what I was thinking when
they
came around the corner.
Tourists. No matter how friendly they may be, I'm tired of the small talk and the same five questions, and the "hot enough for you?"' and the "boy, the mosquitoes are eating me alive". I think I would have liked this island better when the natives were still eating each other.
They were a young couple. Giggling and running, as best they could with a cooler held between them, they barged around the corner and kicked sand in the face of my afternoon alone. About ten feet away from me, they stopped, dropped the cooler to the sand, nodded in my direction with twin smiles and resumed being giddy and stupid.
Why my motu? Why so close? Why couldn't they go where all the other tourists go?
Belly down, on my towel, I tried to read my novel as the love birds stretched out a blanket and rubbed sunblock on each other. Porn stars could have taken writhing-in-ecstasy lessons from those two.
From the snippets of babble and their lean, coltish bodies, I figured they must have been French. Good. At least I could speak English and feign ignorance if they tried to speak to me.
But they didn't speak to me; they were consumed with each other. Not that I cared.
From behind my sunglasses, I saw the man open the cooler and produce a small tub. The woman reached a hand towards the tub and he slapped it away. It was a playful slap and she adopted the kind of sexy pout only the French can pull off.
A trickle of sweat ran down my back, as the man removed the lid from the tub, dipped his fingers inside and offered up something orange to his playmate. She unpouted her lips and spread them wide; I could even see her tongue come out a little. He fed her his fingers and she sucked back the offering, closing her eyes as she did.
The second time, she moaned.
Shifting my legs, an extra rush of heat hit me and between my thighs I felt moisture that wasn't sweat. Looking down at my book, I realized I'd been stuck on the same sentence ever since the couple's arrival.
The woman leaned in and whispered to her playmate. I caught a faint nod. Once again, his fingers dipped into the tub, except this time the man didn't offer his fingers to his lover, he offered them to me.
Had my spying been so obvious? Embarrassment glued me to my towel but then the woman also looked at me. Her smile was as warm as the breeze.
I shook my head. No. I couldn't.
This only made my beach mate's smiles broaden. He tilted his head at an angle that suggested hurt feelings if I didn't partake. She beckoned me with her fingers.
'Just one taste', I thought.
The afternoon heat had melted my muscles, I found myself crawling across the sand, on all fours, as if I were the couple's lazy house cat, coming for a treat. By the time I reached the man's fingers, the orange was dripping off them. I felt bad for taking so long; I opened my mouth and let him feed me.
A tidal wave of mangoes engulfed my brain. Cool and sweet, every tropical memory I owned pulsed through me and I found my eyes closing as I suckled the juice off two slender, male fingers.
The second time, I moaned.
He didn't offer his fingers to me again. Instead, he fed himself, turned his dark eyes to the woman and she leaned in to kiss him. I was close enough to smell their sweat mingling with their coconut scented sunscreen and hear their tongues fighting over the sorbet.
I'd never felt so hungry.
When they pulled apart, a silken string of saliva stretched between their lips for a moment before breaking. Hypnotic.
A gust of wind rustled the palm leaves overhead as the man lowered his fingers into the tub again. I was greedy for those fingers but he gave the treat to the woman instead. Maybe I pouted.
She opened her plump lips just wide enough to show me the sorbet on her tongue. Her face was a flower; the orange on her tongue was her nectar, my tongue was that of a yellow wasp coming to pollinate. I leaned in to drink from her mouth.
Warm lips, cool tongue. I sucked slowly and she sucked back Sweat tickled its way down my stomach and I shivered, lost in a stranger's mouth. The man's fingers were untying the straps of my bikini top; the woman's fingers were painting my nipples with something cool and sticky. I moaned, again.
Mmmmm, mango sorbet.
