turns me on.
Luscious, smooth, thick, thick cream. Dollops
of it. Bowlfuls of it, oozing, running, flowing. A lusty indulgence,
a sinful luxury in a non-fat, low-carb, asparatame-flavored world,
a plethora of tasty sensuality poured out and consumed hungrily.
Even the word cream is lustrous. It lives quietly
in the mouth, a breathy utterance that ends in a smile. It evokes
the texture and taste and the gentle, velvety richness.
You know how much I love cream, how I want to
be creamed up, over and on. You indulge me in this. You love it
You seduced me with poetry on cream-textured paper,
enticed me with your cream-coloured tie. At dinner you fed me chocolate
pudding, but it was just an excuse to pour thick, yellowish, Jersey
cream all over the dark, sticky sweetness. I licked the spoon and
Today you are making love to me in a cream-coloured
Your kisses are full, open and urgent. We both
taste of dessert and desire. You undress me quickly yet carefully,
my nipples jutting out with lust, my pussy throbbing with need.
You push me gently back on the bed, urging my
legs open and running light fingertips across my creamy white thighs.
I rest against cream-coloured cotton sheets, soft with use and welcoming
against my skin. I imagine that the bed is a bowl of cream and I
am floating in it, surrounded by soft, silky lushness.
have placed a silver jug of pure cream by the bed. Now you hold
it above my prone body with a mischievous smile, one corner of your
mouth turned up with glee. You tilt the jug but don't allow the
contents to spill just yet. This is a moment of power, a moment
where you know I'm trembling, waiting for you.
At last the slow, fluid cascade begins, and cool
cream hits my warm belly, sliding leisurely down my sides and leaving
goosebumps in its wake. Soon your hot tongue is against my flesh,
licking me clean, erasing the creamy chaos and creating a new, fresh
canvas, ready for more.
We pause while you pour cream into my waiting,
open mouth. It coats my tongue, rests pleasantly against my teeth,
and flows down my throat effortlessly.
You produce a can of sweetened whipped cream
and decorate my breasts with a flourish. Suddenly I'm a naked cupcake,
a fleshly dessert topped with white spirals of succulence, ready
to be devoured, Your tongue once again makes light work of me, and
I imagine that the bed is a bowl of cream
and I am floating in it...
ice-cream surprises me. It's the expensive kind, the pure vanilla
sort made with real cream. The sudden chill against my clitoris
jolts me into stiffness, but I melt as your hot mouth covers my
cunt and sucks it clean, your tongue swirling against my throbbing
bud, finding the cherry amid the sundae.
Soon you are covering my pussy with more cream
from the silver jug and licking me like a cat devouring a bowlful
of milk. I'm writhing, panting, exuberant with pleasure, the creamy
taste lingering in my mouth mixed with the flavour of passion.
I come in your mouth, my body engulfed in a wave
of white, smooth ecstasy. The spasms have barely died before you're
fucking me, furiously, desperately, your cock driving hard into
my cunt and igniting further explosions of pleasure.
You come, your own cream spurting into me, filling
me like a perverted éclair, adding the final touch to the
wanton creamy creation lying prone on the bed.
We lay together on the messy, stained, cream-coloured
sheets, languid and sated, our bellies full and our hearts happy.
The jug of leftover cream sits abandoned on the
bedside table, but it doesn't matter.
There's plenty more in the fridge.