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“The best dessert I’ve ever seen,” he groans. “Fuck, I wish I had a painting of you like this. I wish you could see yourself, you gorgeous, delectable woman.”
“If you’re going to eat me, you’d better do it,” I advise. “The cupcakes will be done soon.”
He grins and scoops more icing onto the flat paddle he’s been using to frost my body. He spreads more icing over my right breast, then pats it lightly so the soft flesh jiggles. Then he leans over the table and places his open mouth right over my nipple, sucking firmly.
The sensation is divine. It’s a bolt of tingling delight right through my nipple and straight to my clit, where the sensation of building arousal curls warm in my belly. I’m panting, flushed, fighting the whimper that’s rising in my throat. Rupert swipes his tongue along the curve of my breast, devouring the icing and tantalizing my skin at the same time.
The man must have an insatiable appetite for sweets, because he laps all the frosting off both my tits within moments, leaving my breasts wet and my nipples pink and peaked.
Then his forefinger carves a trail through the frosting on my mound, right above my clit.
He offers me his finger, coated with sugar. “Open up, sweetheart.”
Obediently I open my lips and let him insert the finger. I suck on it, holding his gaze, watching his blue eyes heat with lust.
With a low growl of desire he dives between my legs, devouring the frosting with long, fierce licks, so firm and rapid that I’m driven to the peak faster than I expected. My fingernails scrape the wooden table as I gasp, rising, rising, nearly there—
A whispered spell, and then his tongue vibrates against my clit, and I clap my hands over my mouth just in time to stifle my scream of ecstasy.
The orgasm is like the flash of fire in a pan, bright and hot, settling quickly into a steady glow.
“Shit,” I whimper as he continues savoring my oversensitive pussy. “Shit, shit. Oh goddess, Rupert—the cupcakes!”
He darts over to retrieve them from the oven, while I sit up, trembling, and stagger naked to the sink, where I dampen a rag and begin wiping the rest of the frosting off my body.
Rupert sets the pan of cupcakes on a sideboard to cool, then comes over to wash his hands at the sink before disappearing in the cold cellar.
Quickly I finish wiping myself down and pull on my clothes. I’ll be a little sticky, but my maid already told me I’d be visiting the baths tomorrow in preparation for my night with the King, so I can endure the faint stickiness until then.
After soaping up another cloth, I wipe down the table, discard the bowl and paddle Rupert used, and set about making a fresh batch of frosting while the cupcakes cool. And all the while I’m smiling—smiling at the warm glow between my legs, the delicious satisfied soreness of my pussy—smiling at the memory of Rupert’s admiring grin as he turn me into his own personal confection.
I’ve never done anything so wicked, so wonderful. The combination of baking and sex is the naughtiest, most perfect blend I could imagine. The only thing that would make it better is—
“Wine,” Rupert says cheerfully, climbing the steps out of the cold cellar.
“Are we allowed? Don’t they keep track of the wine and ale and such?” I ask.
“This bottle had Rupert Diggs’ name on it. I found it at the back of his assigned shelf. Perhaps he was saving it for something—a celebration.”
I frown. “If we drink this, we have to replace it.”
“If you wish.”
“I do wish. It’s bad enough you’re robbing this man of multiple days of his life—and now we’re drinking his precious bottle of wine?”
“He’ll be fine. He’s getting a well-deserved rest after the trauma of his demotion and mutilation.” Rupert yanks the cork out of the wine bottle, and I can’t help noticing how his bicep bulges against his shirt-sleeve when he does it. I’m desperate to see him naked, or at least shirtless. But if I suggest it, he’ll strip down his bare skin right here, and I think it’s best we both remain dressed from this point on. After all, our two hours in the kitchen is drawing to an end. We need to stay focused on our purpose—finishing the cupcakes.
We sip our wine while I frost the cupcakes, batting away Rupert’s hand when he tries to help. “There’s an artistry to a smoothly-frosted, impeccably garnished cupcake,” I tell him. “And your clumsy fingers will only fuck it up.”
“My fingers do like to fuck things up,” he admits, with a squeeze of my rear.
I try to suppress a smile, but I can’t. I’m happy. Here, in this wretched House, under the sway of a terrible monarch, far from my home, my business, my friends and my brother—I’m happy. It feels so wrong to admit that to myself, but it’s true.
I’ve never experienced anything like this—the sexual play, the constant naughty innuendo, the free use of my body in my sacred space—the kitchen. I could have experienced it with someone eventually, I suppose, if I’d allowed it—but I’ve never felt like allowing anyone this much freedom with my body and my mind. Rupert simply… suits me. He is charming, but with enough clumsiness and uncertainty to be endearing. He’s clever, but not so intelligent that he’s pompous and unbearable. He’s coarse sometimes, and yet respectful of my wishes… earthy yet magical. I’ve never met anyone like him, and every part of his personality fascinates me.
His hand is still stroking my bottom, but his forehead is puckered now, his lips moving as he concocts the rhyme he wants to use. Every warm sweep of his hand over my rear makes me want to pull down my pants, fling myself onto the table, and beg him to use me again. But I restrain myself and continue placing bits of lemon peel around the blueberries nestled in the cupcake frosting.
“I think I’ve got the right spell,” he says after a few minutes. “And just in time. Our two-hour window is nearly at an end. I think we made rather good use of it, don’t you?”
