Cake

Quinn Rhodes wrote a very sexy story this week involving girls and cake. It made me wet and urgently horny as hell. In gratitude for the inspiration, I dedicate this to her – she’s a great writer and a lovely person.


It was just a tiny nibble. A small corner of a small slice of choclate cake, the slightly-rounded edge my teeth had left barely visible except on close inspection.
But inspect it she did. She knows me too well.

“I told you not to touch that cake”
Yes, she did. Knowing full well that an instruction like that would only make me hungrier and the cake more tempting. I’ll admit, I felt a pang of guilt as I took that tiny morsel into my mouth and tasted its moist sweetness. Swallowed the crumbs defiantly and crossed my arms, telling myself that it was only the tiniest of pieces, it wasn’t as though I’d eaten the entire slice, all that remained of our weekend’s baking session.

Our weekend’s naked baking session. I allow myself to be momentarily distracted by the recollection of sucking salted caramel icing from the pink nubs of her nipples, before she brings me back to the present with a swipe of the riding crop past my ear. Swish.

“On your knees”
I’m already naked – she has me shed my clothes and put on my collar as soon as I return from work. I’m her pet, her toy, her head-over-heels-in-love girlfriend, and she is the sternest, most sadistic, most beautiful woman whose feet I’ve ever kissed. Unclothed, I am vulnerable, exposed. Just how she likes to see me.

She’s grinning down at me. That quirk of the corner of her mouth that says I’m thinking up something really special for you which sends both a chill of apprehension and a flicker of lust in opposite directions along my spine. The gleam in her eyes that speaks silently of her wicked joy in contemplating my punishment.

She taps the crop against her hand. Uses it to point to the polished wooden hallway floor.
“Go and kneel over there. Face the door. Hands behind your head. Knees apart”
From this position, I can’t see what she’s bringing with her on her return down the stairs behind me.
“Head up. Eyes front.”
I want to glance down, to see what she’s holding, where her hands are but I’m in enough trouble for the moment. The bite of the nipple clamps makes me gasp – she’s been keeping them in the fridge again – I want to squirm away from the chain that swings between them, touching my warm belly with cold licks.
No. Must not wriggle.

She feels me tense, chuckles softly. “Oh no, pet. A bit of cold metal isn’t going make you nearly sorry enough. Raise yourself up now.”
Her hand is warm as it burrows between my thighs, slick with the lube that she has slathered onto her fingers. She pinches my clit, pulls at my labia, dips one finger delicately inside my cunt before sliding the jewelled clamp into place. As soon as I moan with pleasure, she pulls away.
“Uh huh. You’ve been greedy today, and you’re going to be punished. Don’t go making it worse for yourself by being a desperate little slut as well.”

I can feel her eyes burning into my skin as she stands and walks around me, surveying me in silence, before strolling away towards the kitchen.
I hear the kitchen tap running, wonder whether it’s the hot or the cold – and what’s under it. Anticipation and dread are causing my nipples to swell against their confinement.
It turns out to be a large silicone buttplug, and it was under the hot tap. Not hot enough to harm, but certainly enough to make me gasp as she slides it inside me and gives it a twist to start the bullet motor within. This is torture. I want to grind, to buck and squirm, and rub my clit. No chance.

She buckles the gag into position, filling my mouth with its soft leather, silencing me.

“And finally….”
She presses into my hands the string of the delicate glass wind chimes that usually hang in the kitchen window. My arms are already beginning to ache. I can guess what’s coming next
“Don’t move. If I hear any noise from those chimes, I shall open that front door and let everyone who walks down the street see what happens to greedy little sluts. Is that what you want?”
Shaking my head without disturbing the chimes is a challenge.
“Are you sure?” she breathes into my ear, one hand flicking sharply at the chain between my nipples. “Don’t you want everyone to know how much you like to have your mouth filled? Do you think they’ll know, just from looking at you, how wet and hungry your cunt is right now? How greedy you are?”

The thought of being exposed, humiliated like this in front of strangers flushes my cheeks and floods my cunt. I whimper, half-hoping that the sound will inflame her enough to relent and take me upstairs to be forgiven.

She retreats to the kitchen, positions herself on one of the stools along the breakfast bar where she can keep an eye on me.
“And don’t you dare come” she says, replacing the clingfilm over the scene of the crime.

Moments pass. My world has shrunk to the hard floor beneath my knees, the throbbing of flesh against metal clamps, guilt and arousal and the serenity of enduring righteous punishment. As the drool drips from my lips onto my breasts and the cool breeze through the letterbox licks at my nipples, I hear her footsteps approach again. I have been good. I have not moved. The chimes are silent. I am sorry.

“Look at me” she says softly, and I turn beseeching eyes up to her, see hers soften in response.

“Oh my pet” she breathes “you look good enough to eat. But I’m not sure you’ve learned your lesson just yet.” She takes the chimes from my hands and raises the crop. Starting with gentle taps, soon progressing to stinging blows on my buttocks and my breasts, I am one breath away from tears and two heartbeats away from orgasm when she grasps a handful of my hair and pulls me to my feet. Caresses my face gently.

“Now little one” she croons “Your choice. You can have the rest of the cake…..or a good fucking. Which would you prefer? Cake?”

I shake my head, widen my eyes and say with them the words that are caught behind the gag in my mouth. Fuck me. Please Mistress. I’m sorry. I want you. Please, fuck me.

“Good girl” she smiles. “Lesson over”.

When we’ve both collapsed, panting and spent on top of the duvet, our limbs heavy and sticky with come, she gently feeds me the rest of the cake.

And makes me lick up every last crumb.

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