Cream

Cream 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 too.

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 laughed.

Today you are making love to me in a cream-coloured room.

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.

You 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 shiver.

The 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. Sleep beckons.

The jug of leftover cream sits abandoned on the bedside table, but it doesn't matter.

There's plenty more in the fridge.

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