cupcakesandcum:In her house, sexual frustration meant pies. Cherry pies. When she got this way s
cupcakesandcum: In her house, sexual frustration meant pies. Cherry pies. When she got this way simple masturbation was no longer enough. She needed fervor, spirit, passion. She needed the hard length of a cock inside her.A quick trip to her corner grocer was all that was required. The small shop’s owner had learned years before to always keep fresh cherries in store, even if it meant ordering them from halfway around the globe. She’d return home with her stock and lay out her ingredients, one by one, along the baker’s counter that had been installed by a beau long gone. Then, she’s don her sexiest lingerie- always black lace, she never pondered why- and set in on her task. First, the crust. She’d pour her soul into the bowl along with three tablespoons of sugar, a teaspoon of ceylon cinnamon, and just a hint of nutmeg. There was something about making the crust that spoke to her. She’d measure out the flour carefully, yet it’d always manage to end up on her skin. It was enough to get her started. The fine grains of the flour felt like silk against her veneer. So she’d brush just a little more. Along the curve of her breast, inside her bra and around her hardening nipple. Over her fingers and up her forearms. Trailing her hip where panties met skin and stenciling the lace pattern on her milky thigh. She added the flour to the bowl, and whisked it just slightly. Parting the white sea of ingredients, she made a hole in the center of her bowl, and added in her tiny dominoes of butter. Like an avalanche, she’d cover them with the flour before bringing her fingers into the fray. Slowly, carefully, she kneaded the dough, making sure her warm skin never touched the cold butter. She’d arch her back, her breasts rising and falling with the effort she was extending, as her fingers molded and blended. When she’d done her best, she drizzled a tiny stream of milk over her fingers, letting it bind the remaining bits of flour and butter. She splattered a tiny mound of flour over her workspace before slicing her dough in half and bringing out her pin. She rolled her frustration into the crust. Flattening, collapsing, emptying her pessimistic emotions with each roll of the heavy wood along her palms. She let the rolling pin lead her, from the base of her palm up through her strong fingertips, applying just the right amount of pressure where the dough needed it most. She heard a small moan escape her throat, and felt a familiar wetness in the black lagoon of her panties as she finished. She carefully moved one of the two crusts into the pie plate, and set to work on her cherries. She pitted each one with a small paring knife. Yes, it was more work than using a pitter, but she adored how the sticky sweet and tart syrup would coat her nails. In no time at all, she was covered in the glossy wet goo. The juice was like velvet and cashmere. She wanted to feel it everywhere. She shimmied her panties down to her knees and ran her claret coated digits along the twinkling banks of her moon-lit river. One by one, she let them slide into her crevice, finding their way along her folds, leaving a crimson trail behind them. She mixed the red nectar into the honey flowing over her clit with her beater blade fingers. Slowly, she traipsed them up her tummy, tickling her trunk. She sucked each finger over her fuchsia lips and onto her coral tongue before lapping it clean. She turned back to her bowl of pitted cherries, and added just a half cup of sugar, a tablespoon of corn starch, a half tablespoon of almond extract, and the scrapings from a single vanilla bean. Using her wooden spoon, she swirled the mixture together, twirling her body around, like a prima ballerina, while she did. She poured her divine concoction into the crust, watching the cherries spill out like blood gushing from a heart wound. It carried her frustration with it.She moved her second crust atop the heaping mount and set her pixie-like fingers to work, pinching the crust and forming tiny landscapes- hills and valleys of her sexual need- along the ring of the plate. She cut a small X in the center and brushed the top with egg whites before sprinkling it with a healthy dose of vanilla sugar. She set the pie to bake and let out a sigh. Her panties, still clinging to her knees, fell to the floor. She popped each of her breasts from their ebony cage and toyed with her still-hard nubs. She looked to the mess of flour on the tabletop and longed to feel it on her skin again. She hopped to the counter top, letting the mounds of her ass coat themselves with the silver-white sendal of flour. Her still-sticky fingers found their way again to her intimate flesh. She arched back as they made their way in and out of her village. They weren’t enough. She reached to her left and grabbed her rolling pin. She let out a loud moan as she felt her body wrap around the thick wooden dowel. She twirled it around, letting it mold her insides as it had the delicate dough. Back and forth, in and out. Her own cherry pie heated and baked. Her moaning and thrashing grew in intensity, and just as her oven timer went off, so did she, exploding in a stream of sweet honeyed syrup over the counter and down her thighs. Her sexual frustration led to cherry pies, but by the time she tasted her masterpiece, the only feeling left was satisfaction.-=C&C=- -- source link