Friday, July 25, 2014

Dessert Tray

Dinner was had at the tapas place in Evanston that I am rather fussed on, it was pleasant and enjoyable and full of food.

“I’m assuming you don’t want dessert,” the Bard interjected.

“Nope, eating that off somebody.”

Cause that is how my life works. After dinner I got dropped off, met my key into the club and headed off to the underground, the cavernous space where people meet and greet and do things located in parts of the city that no one would guess are warehouses to such interesting places. After getting and promising to be on my best behavior, I wandered about a bit until I found the Chef who was serving up most of the cooking that evening.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, happy and excited to see me.

“Of course, you invited me. When do we start?”

“In a few minutes, let me introduce you to the tray.”

The tray was a cute, short brunette who was very excited to be a platter for the first time. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I introduced myself to her girlfriend.

“Well, I have deemed you to not be a serial killer, come and help entertain her while we deck her out for dessert.”

The Tray liked to be talked to and this helped keep her from getting nervous and so talk I did while the Chef, and her purloined evil assistant walked back and forth over the tray, starting first with chocolate cookies, next with fresh sliced fruit, following with designs drawn in different colored icing, topped-up with homemade rice-crispy treats, and finally deck out with chocolate kisses.

The evil assistant began to put the kisses on with the metallic paper still wrapping it up.

Whack, suddenly and “no, nothing goes on the tray you can’t eat.”

He smiled amused, and the Chef immediately apologize as she hadn’t meant to slap him. I think he kind of liked it.

The tray was approaching all trussed up and the finishing touch was a strawberry in the mouth.

The chef, standing over the foot exclaimed, “This foot is mine!” She then invited the girlfriend to eat whatever she’d like and then, before anyone sat in to eat, she walked about for a final announcement.

In the end, the diners, aside from myself, included a very bouncy perky goth, a tall lanky blonde (‘IT’S MY FIRST TIME HERE!) the Chef, the girlfriend and a few random people who were mostly just hungry.

“And, dive in!”

So we did. I claimed her right breast and most of her right side. We were instructed by our Chef to nibble, bite and really get in there, and so we did.

I became rather enamored of the red icing that was lacing its way up and down the trays nipples. While working with my teeth and tongue, not wanting to use my hands, I licked nibbled sucked around sweet flesh, which added a strange element to the sweet of the experience. Skin tinged with red colored dye that stayed red long after the icing had gone, with light marks in flesh, the taste of sweet flesh and salt in my mouth, the feeling of blood running and pumping under my tongue as my lips moved. The hard flesh of her nipple in my mouth, covered in chocolate and whipped cream and strawberries was a heady blend; syrupy erotic sweet. Her pulse was quick as we all dived into her, like vampires sucking and swilling her flesh feeding ourselves off of her as she shook, and trembled, giggled, the smell of her arousal and interest floating over us, increasing our own own.

“Is everyone done? Are we ready for the cold course?” The chef inquires. We all assent and step back as she pours cold chocolate syrup and cold whipped cream and frosting all over the tray, who cries out giggles, shakes and moans with the slickness of it.

Again our mouths attack, and not unlike some perverted pie eating contest, we are all urged on to eat quicker, faster before she gets to cold, the tray writhes a little more but at this point the dessert is much less likely to be shaken off by her movements. Speedy hands go across stiff goose-pimpled flesh and we all laugh and giggle a bit as we work.

“Alright, help me clean her off.” We are all passed different scrapers and at various points on the body we run them over her and start sweeping off the icing and the cold foods, cleaning anything off her body that remained. The tray laid there looking rather flush and languorous as we cleaned her down until finally she could stand up carefully and in the arms of her lover get moved off to the showers where she could clean up.

As she came out, those of us who dined chatted a bit together. When the tray walked by we asked what she had thought and if she would do it again.

“Can I do it now?”

We laughed.

“It was worth the diabetic coma.” More laughter. And with that, full of sweets, I took my leave to have sugary, nipply, syupy dreams.

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