Debauchery 2

Steve double checked his messages. There was Mary, texting that she and the kids had boarded the plane and that she'd do her best to text him close to when they landed.

She'd been nice about the whole thing. Said it would only be a month or so. ...Just to clear their heads. To reassess what it is each of them needs in this relationship.

Steve had never really understood what it was he wanted out of life. People talked all the time about their passions, their desires... maybe he was punished one too many times as a child for wanting anything at all. How could he have chased his when his survival depended on absorbing his father's will as his own?

Fuck. He was spiraling again. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Moving on. New thought.

Good. Caught it before that ruined his night.

Moving on.

The covers of the king sized bed were warm and silky, his pyjamas a soft crushed velvet with silk lining. To the side of the bed sat an antique dinner tray that Steve had found in an internet group a few months ago. On the tray was a large bowl, a heavily frosted cake, a box of custard, and a fruit pie.

He placed his phone gently on the bedside table, and then rummaged in the drawer until he pulled out his favourite modestly-sized toy.

His breath was getting shaky as the reality of Steve's indulgence grew near.

To Steve's remembering, the first time he'd caught wind of his unnatural urge was as a very young boy. He didn't have the words to conceive his experience until many years later. Still, though the memory is blurry like a touch-worn photograph, he can remember the cool and slimy sensation of the mud seeping through his socks and consuming his foot.

He was too young at the time to know that sitting himself in the puddle would lead to trouble. He only knew that the sun was hot and the mud was cool and it tickled gently when he plastered it on top of his head and mashed it with clumsy fingers through his locs.

The way he was torn to shreds with words and beaten bloody with a switch later that afternoon fried his brain in some twisted way that cursed him in a way he couldn't cure.

***

With trembling hands, Steve first drew the bowl into his lap. It was filled 3/4 full of chocolate pudding, and he could feel a gentle heat from the bottom, from microwaving the substance earlier.

Tentatively, he put a finger into the pudding and slowly brought it to his lips. He hoped for a drop to escape his finger, but the coating stayed intact on its way to his mouth. Warm chocolate, smoothed over his tongue and he let out a soft and relaxed moan.

Ever so slowly, Steve pushed the blanket down his legs, bunching around his feet. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it thrumming in his ears. His stomach felt almost sick with the thread of anticipation pulled so taut. He had spent so long fantasizing about this... making a mess so thorough and large that to clean it up was unimaginable. To ruin himself so thoroughly that he couldn't go back.

Well, maybe a bit of an exaggeration as he still had to go to work on Monday, but he pushed the thought away before it could stop him.

He grabbed the bowl with both hands. Time slowed as he tilted the heavy bowl forward, the lip of the bowl inching downward and the pudding sliding slowly towards the edge under the force of gravity. His heart pounded and his dick hardened, pressing against the solid warmth of the plastic container.

The first touch of warm chocolate to his abdomen had Steve gasping. It was as if his entire body was lit aflame while at the same time his conscious experience of the world was narrowed to where the hot substance pressed the fabric to his flesh. His breath caught in his throat as the semi-liquid made its first contact with bare skin. He immediately tipped the bowl further and in a second he was sat in his bed, in his pyjamas, with a lap full of warm pudding rolling down his hips and into the bedding.

"F-fuck!" Steve was absolutely breathless. He righted the bowl with half its contents still contained, and set it aside, trailing a long brown streak across the covers. It was as if in slow motion as his hands dove into the mess in his lap.

Steve let out a high pitched warbling moan at the sensation of digging his hands into the warm slime. He slid his hand below his waistband to stroke his cock, but immediately switched to clamp it tightly before he could come prematurely. He was a long way off from done yet. Still...

He rolled down the band of his pyjama pants, letting the slime pour in and coat his shaft and run over his balls. Every inch of skin goosebumped as he felt the trails lick down his inner thighs and pool under his ass, creeping up his crack. Afraid to stroke but in desperate need of stimulation, he ground the palm of his hand over his cock, mixing dull pain with intense pleasure.

Fuck, fuck, what next? The possibilities were overwhelming him with choice.

Reaching back for the cart, he grabbed the cake straight from the plate with his filthy hands and smashed it directly onto his velvet-covered chest.

The squish of the soft sponge and the sticky smear of icing quickly coated his chest, and crumbs tumbled into his lap, up his shoulders, under his back and into his hair. The cake disintegrated into clumps of moist sponge and smears of sugar, and it was fucking phenomenal.

Steve wiggles his ass in the chunky mixture and moaned with glee at the sensation of ruining his fucking bedsheets and his fucking clothes and his fucking miserable self. He was ruined. Ruined beyond repair and finally resting at rock bottom.

There was nothing to do now but revel in it.

He'd wanted to hold off longer, but couldn't resist as he pulled back the rest of the pudding.

He laid down, pressing his head into the pillow and lifting the bowl above him.

Remnants from the last pour dropped down and hit his nose and eyebrow, and he shivered with the promise of more to come.

He looked up as he tipped the bowl and closed his eyes just before the desert hit his face.

His mouth flew open in ecstasy, quickly overfilled with pudding. Steve choked and spat onto his chest. He gagged a bit and let the spit and pudding mixture pool and run out of his mouth.

As his ears were covered his hearing went soft and muted, and his world became the sensation of rivulets of pudding tracing his hairline, settling in the indents of the pillow, and slowly sliding up his nose and into his ears.

He coughed, surely sending a spray of pudding across the bedding, and scrambled blindly for the toy. He hit it with his hand and then grasped it firmly, yanking down his pyjama pants simultaneously.

With little fanfare, Steve shoved the dildo past his sphincter and up his ass, ramming his prostate mercilessly and howling in pleasure.

He panted and swore as he repeatedly rammed the toy into himself as fast and hard as he could. It was everything he'd craved. He was overwhelmed with sensation and full to busting with need. He needed- he needed more.

With minimal precision, Steve attempted to wipe his eyes. His eyelids were still sticky and his eyes burned on his first attempt opening them. He grabbed for the pillow next to him and wiped his face across the clean linen.

With his sight returned, Steve leaned over and grabbed for the fruit pie on the lower level of the cart. With only a few awkward shuffles and readjustments, and a bit of pudding leaking down into the carpet, Steve resituated himself on his back. As he flopped back on pillow, his head sent a spray of pudding across the lamp on his bedtable, and he laughed breathlessly.

He grabbed hold of the dildo and slid it back into place. Steve sped his rhythm up until he was fucking himself at a fever pace, chasing the peak he'd found just moments ago.

Closer... closer... fuck... fuck almost-

He shoved the pie directly on his crotch and the feeling of warm squishy cherries and pie crust against his sac was enough to make him come with a scream and a streak of cum more violent than any he'd ever released.

Steve flopped back in bed with a wet squelch.

He chuckled, then cackled to himself at his own debauchery.

With the desperation of orgasm subsided for the moment, Steve took a moment to luxuriate in the wet and foreign sensations enveloping him.

He was curious for a taste of the pie, and grabbed a handful, shoving it into his mouth with an open fist and smearing as much onto his face and up into his hair as he could.

Fucking delicious.

He looked at the cart and the remaining custard. He looked around and the bed, and the rest of the room, relatively clean.

He grabbed the box and tore the top open.

With a giggle, he shook the jug upwards and watched as an arc flew up, splattered the ceiling, and rained back down on him with little plops.

He swung the container in an arc and a line of custard flew into the dresser, over the wall, on the carpet and the bedside lamp.

He opened his mouth, poured custard in until he was close to gagging again, and then spit as far down the bedspread as he could reach. With the last dregs he poured it into his hand and smeared it into every crevice and hole in his face until he was absolutely sure there was no part of himself left unsullied.

With sudden inspiration, Steve flipped over and went on his hands and knees above where he'd lay.

He raked his arms across the sheets and pillows, until the drippings of his mess were in a loose pile. With a deep breath, he shoved his face in the mixture, one hand pulling his own hair as hard as he could, and the other flying back to stroke his partially rehardened cock.

Unable to breath, think, or feel shame, Steve stripped his dick hard enough to hurt until his body spasmed and he let out a weak dribble of cum. He writhed onto one side, then rolled over, gasping and disgusting, blind and sated.