Today's vignette is from The Icing on the Cake, which appeared in the anthology Misbehavior. Suze is making a wedding cake for her frenemy Helen, when the groom drops by....
‘I said I wanted to fuck your beautiful bum,’ he said softly. He was standing right behind me as I was bent over, I realised suddenly. Close enough that I could feel the brush of cloth on cloth - then the exploratory bump of his weight against me. ‘I wasn’t drunk.’
My hand started to tremble and I put the cake-topper down carefully. ‘Um,’ I said, not as quick-witted as I liked to think myself.
‘You have got a lovely bum,’ he pointed out, putting one hand on my arse cheek, with reverent appreciation. All the blood seemed to leave my head and flood down into my body, charging my lower regions with heat. I could feel the flesh between my thighs grow heavy, and my legs correspondingly weak.
‘Shouldn’t you be thinking about Helen’s bum right now?’ I asked, my voice coming out all husky and plaintive.
‘What bum? She’s been on this sodding diet for months – no bread, no alcohol, no chocolate – and she looks like a string bean. She hasn’t got an arse any more.’ Both his hands moved on my cheeks in warm caressing circles. ‘Not like you. God … this feels good.’
If I’d been capable of thought I might have tried to come to grips with the peculiarly male notion that less is not in fact more, but thinking was it seemed no longer one of my strong suits. I was too busy feeling the shockwaves of sensation washing through me with each flex of his grip on my cheeks. Too busy trying to sort out the alarm and the glee that we were battling it out in the empty shell of my skull. With a little groan of relief, Pete pushed his groin and thighs up against my long-coveted butt, and I could feel the hard challenge to my cushioning softness. Like - really, seriously hard. The kick of arousal that shot through my guts was like a jolt of electricity. I barely had the sense to push the cake a few inches further away towards safety. ‘Oh God,’ I said. What I meant was, You really mean it! You really do!
‘Oh yes.’ He ground his hips against me.
Pete, of course, had an excuse for all this. His forebrain paralysed by pre-wedding panic, it was his lower brain that was in charge. So what was my excuse? Getting one over on a friend who had always put me in the shade? Getting a slice of a seriously hot man beyond my normal aspirations?
Maybe the truth is that I’m simply a bit of a slut, when I get the chance. Well, how should I know? – it’s not like other women’s blokes are chucking themselves at me all the time.
‘Suzie,’ he murmured with pleasure, taking me by the hips and wriggling up against me snugly. ‘You’ve got such a lovely fucking arse, I’ve wanted it for years, and-’ He paused, then leaned in to murmur in my ear: ‘And you’re not wearing any knickers, are you?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘Lucky me.’ He tugged at the elastic waistband of my trousers, baring my hip, the swell of my bum, the cleft between my cheeks, right down to the tops of my thigh. Then he worked my bum against his crotch, back and forth over the rigid length of the erection that fought the confines of his own clothes. I loved the way he manhandled me; I loved his greed and his delight. I straightened up against him, bracing my hands on the table, my back to his warm chest.
‘I’m not wearing a bra either.’
God, that got him going. He grabbed at my tits through the thin cloth, squeezing and mauling them like he was discovering boobs for the first time, while his hard-on ground into my backside and I gasped encouragement. Then he found that he might as well stick his hands up under my shirt, and then he pushed the top up to bare them, tugging at my nipples and rolling them between his rough fingers. ‘Great tits,’ he grunted: ‘great arse.’
‘You like them?’ I pulled my top off over my head and flung it behind us; I think it landed in the sink. Then I scraped my nails down his neck, provoking him into squashing my tits together into one luxurious bosom and pinching my nipples until I squeaked.
‘Fuck yes,’ he groaned. Like I said: there was nothing complicated about Pete. He whirled me round to face him then, picked me up and plunked my bare arse on the table – God knows what the food hygiene people would have had to say about that - and for a second just goggled at my tits. I cupped them in my hands and lifted them for his inspection, and Pete just fell into my breasts, plunging his face into my cleavage and taking great wet mouthfuls like he would eat me all up. I had to cling to him just to stop myself falling over backward among the sugar flowers and the bottles of colouring. His hot sucking kisses on my tits sent me crazy, my nipples standing up like jelly sweets in response to his tongue and his lips and his teeth. When he lifted his head from those glistening orbs there was a hungry, wicked look in his eye.
‘Don’t stop,’ I said, pouting.
Grinning, he grabbed the icing bag and turned the nozzle on my left tit.
‘Pete!’
‘Hold still.’ A thin line of sugar icing squirted out as he squeezed, and he drew a spiral round and round my flushed, swollen nub of flesh, capping it with pure white. With almost comic precision he did the other one too.
‘Got a sweet tooth?’ I giggled.
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