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Creme Brulee

Kategori: Genel

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Copyright 2017 Matt Nicholson. All rights reserved.

Disclaimer – This story is as much extreme BDSM as it is fetish. And, yes, this kind of thing, with all the food and boob-biting and such, is wish-fulfillment at its finest. I make no claims otherwise. If you don’t like reading about these kinds of fantasies, “Creme Brulee” won’t be your cup of tea. If you do like the idea of combining sex with playing hard, fast, and loose with boobs in a culinary setting, then you’ll probably like this story a lot. In either case, it’s fantasy folks, that’s why we write them to begin with. Enjoy. ~Matt~


“Our Manager says you have a specialty request in mind, Mr. . .” The small man reached into the inside pocket of his grey, pin-striped, double-breasted suit and pulled out a canary yellow card. He glanced at it then stretched his lips into a practiced smile. “Carlson.”

“Yes. He said a chip of my wife would help.” Avery Carlson handed a digital image chip to the other man. He looked at the golden name tag pinned over the man’s left, breast pocket, while he quickly wiped his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans. “This one was taken just a week ago, Mr. Sage.”

Sage slipped the chip into a viewer. His smile turned genuine as the three-dimensional image of a life sized, early thirty-ish, brunette floated between them. It began rotating around an axis somewhere around her belly button. She was naked and reclining, her arms held above her head as she ran her fingers through a full eighteen long inches of lush chestnut hair that cascaded toward an unseen floor. One leg stretched down the length of whatever bed, couch, picnic table, or other support the computer had removed for viewing. The other leg was bent at the knee, deliberately cocked at an angle so that anyone looking at the image could plainly see the glistening folds of swollen, blushing pussy.

Her full breasts looked as if they ran around 34 big-C to small-D-ish. They were a pure alabaster, infused with just the slightest hint of cream at the base, like the rest of her almost flawless skin. They quickly turned first a mottled pink, then a blush red toward their tips, much the same tone as her recently whipped and well-fucked labia. Though the image didn’t give an indication of whether the pleasant red colors came from hard massage or from more active use, Sage suspected they’d been lashed quite well. Whatever the cause, her nipples and areola were dark, hard, crinkled, and demanding, obviously ready for more.

She looked all but blemish free, save for a small birthmark nestled into the top of her trim runway of dark, curly pubic hair and a bit of barely visible freckling across her chest, likely from one bad experience with the sun many years back. Her eyes, lined almost imperceptibly on the corners, twinkled with a mischievous look that matched her wide, contented smile. The extra fifteen or so pounds she carried were distributed well, giving her a Rubenesque look that made her all the more appealing. Despite the pervading “ideal” that suggested women should be willow branches with breasts, few men would have found the image anything but provocative.

Unless she just liked exhibitionism, there was little doubt this image was meant for someone special. That said, there was something about Carlson’s demeanor that suggested that “someone special” wasn’t him.

“Can you do it?”

“Your specifics are. . . unique.” Sage looked more closely at the image, “.and understandably so.” He looked down at the yellow card. “Without her consent, she’ll have to be gagged, of course. Allowing her to make any noise would present some difficulty. I trust that won’t be a problem considering. . .”

“No, not a problem at all.”

Sage nodded and extended a hand toward the door. “Very good, then. I’m quite sure we can satisfy you. If you’ll just step through that door, Ginger will take care of details and payment. You can expect a call within twenty-four hours.”


The eggplant Parmesan was among the best Avery had enjoyed. The atmosphere inside the quiet little bistro would have been relaxing to even the most stressed of urban-dwellers. Turning his fork upside down, he slid his plate and utensils to the side of the small, wooden table, then sipped the last of his Pinot Grigio. He leaned back in his cane, wicker chair and watched the sun stream through pine branches that shifted in the warm, summer breeze.

After a few moments, his waiter leaned across his shoulder, lifting the plate. “Will there be anything else before dessert, sir?”

Avery smiled. “No, thank you. My compliments to the chef.”

The waiter nodded. “You can pass them on yourself, sir. He is ready for you in the dessert room.” He pointed to a glass-topped sunroom only a dozen feet away. Cottage windows decorated the outer walls of the rough-hewn, wooden cabin, and an old-fashioned, screened, pine-frame door beneath a low, green canvas awning provided access to patrons. “I belief our balıkesir escort chef has everything in order through that door.”

Avery wiped the last of the wine from his lip, laid the red silk napkin on the table, then pushed the chair backward and stood. The waiter met him at the screened door, opening it as he approached.

Avery stepped inside the sun-filled room. Tall, lush, green plants decorated every corner, and a wide, thick fern hung on swag chain from the center of the peaked glass roof. All the plants had been recently misted, and sparkled in the natural light.

The chef stood in the center of the room. Dressed in a tall, bulging chef’s hat and white apron, he was busy arranging an assortment of glass jars and small trays, filled with a variety of ingredients, spread out across the top of a wheeled, butcher-block tray. Small burners sported melted liquids. He nodded politely at Avery and went back to his last minute arrangement.

Beside him, directly beneath the fern, was a rectangular table of matching butcher-block with its stainless steel castors locked in place. The tabletop itself was about six inches thick, sturdy enough to hold several hundred pounds. At the moment, however, it held much less weight – although her struggling, no doubt, added to the stress the thick wooden legs would bear.

The scene was exactly as he’d imagined it.

The chef finished placing his ingredients and gestured with a flourish to the waist-high stool, positioned just so, at the foot of the thick table. “Please, sir, sit.”

Avery sat, and for the first time since entering the room, gazed down at the tethered woman. He ignored his wife’s look of fear and recognition. Instead, he smiled to himself when she made a particularly energetic attempt to escape on seeing his lack of response. After what she’d done, this would be a good lesson for her.

Her wrists and ankles were wrapped tightly in black leather manacles, so tightly that her hands and feet had already turned pale lavender. Secured to the upper corners of the table, the leather wrist cuffs held her elbows up and her arms away from her body, leaving her bobbing breasts easily accessible. Just the sight of them moving from her struggles made his mouth water.

The edge of the table ended at the middle of her bottom. Her legs, bent at the knee, were splayed wide and secured by the ankle to eyelets in the table’s thick legs. There was nothing between him and her freshly shaved pussy but eighteen inches of air. With her pubic hair gone, he noticed the birthmark was actually a half-inch longer than he’d thought. The thought of what he was about to do to it made his mouth water even more.

Her skin glistened in the sun, oiled thoroughly from the tops of her shoulders to the tips of her toes. Her finger and toenails were manicured and painted an apple-red, matching her lustrous lipstick. He knew they’d spared no expense on her make-up, since the lipstick seemed unbothered by the Washington apple wedged between her teeth so her lips wrapped provocatively around its lower curve. The fruit spread her mouth too wide to allow any leverage to bite, serving quite effectively as a gag. It kept the atmosphere serene despite her struggling and well-muffled protests.

“Today we are serving the house specialty, Crème Brulèe’d Breasts.” The chef held a long, steel, two-pronged fork in his right hand. With his other, he took her left nipple, the nearest to him, in a firm grip and squeezed it hard before using it to tug the tip of her breast up. He jabbed the tines of the fork lightly into the side, using it as a pointer. When she squealed and squirmed, he closed his hand tighter. She stopped.

“We begin with only the finest of alabaster breasts. The whites must be blemish-free, with supple flesh that has been properly maintained in order to guarantee the finest flavor.”

He moved the fork toward the center of her breast, pressing the prongs into either side of her nipple, denting the areola until she groaned. “The nipple and areola are crucial to the recipe. They must be thick and well-crinkled, with a resilient rubbery texture when chilled.”

He let go of her breast with a flourish, making it jiggle. After setting the fork on the cart, he pulled what appeared to be a butter-soaked, horsehair whip from a tray on the shelf beneath the table top. “We will begin preparation with a brisk whisking, so that the pores in the whites of the breasts open to the fullest.”

Avery thought it was quaint how the chef spoke so precisely and referred to himself in third person, and how he pronounced ‘specialty,’ spes-ee-al-i-ty. Avery almost chuckled when ‘breasts’ sounded more like breast-es-es. She, on the other hand, struggled so hard when she heard what they planned that, were her ‘breasteses’ any larger, they’d be making slapping noises.

The chef snapped his fingers in the air. Another chef, one with a smaller hat, appeared almost instantly. After bartın escort a briefly whispered conversation, the second chef hurried down the kitchen access corridor.

The first smiled at Avery. “With your permission, we will begin with a dessert aperitif.” He paused when the second chef returned with a thick pastry bag, filled with some kind of white cream, and a glass jar, filled with dark brown sprinkles. He set the jar aside and moved to the foot of the table. “As you can see, she has been totally denuded with only the best cream depilatory and then hand rubbed with virgin olive oil.” He ran a fingertip down one of her soft, plump, shining labia. “I doubt you will find more succulent flesh anywhere.”

The chef pressed the pointed end of the tube between the struggling woman’s pussy lips and pushed it slowly into her until her pussy spread wide around it. She stopped struggling immediately, her eyes widening in shock instead. Smiling, the chef closed his fingers, crushing the bag so its frigid contents emptied into her. Even with the gag, there was no doubt she was gasping.

The chef smiled at Avery, rotating and shifting the tube, filling every crevice as he slowly pulled the nozzle from inside her, still squeezing so that the cream oozed. After her inner labia and the inside of her clit’s thin hood were filled, he added a thick spiral of whipped cream in a cone that covered her fat outer labia. “We keep our home-made whipped cream chilled to exactly 38 degrees.”

Setting the empty pastry bag on his work tray, the chef selected the brown sprinkles and added them liberally to the mound of whipped cream. After topping it with a fresh maraschino cherry, he took a red, silk napkin from the tray and smiled again at his guest. “Shall I?”

Avery leaned forward and lifted his chin, letting the chef tuck the napkin into the top of his shirt. As the bigger man straightened, he pointed to the adjustment on the stool. “That will lower you to the appropriate height.”

Avery adjusted the knob, and the stool dropped. When it locked into place, he was looking just across his wife’s belly, his mouth just inches from the whipped cream, sprinkles, and other flesh.

The chef took a small green bottle from a whine bucket and showed the label to Avery. “Vintage Napa Valley port, 1983.” With practiced ease, he uncorked the bottle and poured the thick red liquid into a small crystal dessert goblet. He set it beside Avery. “When you begin your appetizer, I will start whisking.”

The chef raised a horsehair flogger and Avery took a long lick. He curled his tongue so that it hooked inside her and then slid out, dragging it across her clit, pushing the cherry up above her slit. She had just enough time to gasp again when the chef spun the limp horsehair whip and started whipping her breasts with a hard, stinging, wet slap.

Avery drove his tongue into her as she bucked up against his mouth. He knew her well enough to know she’d enjoy the chef’s whip as long as it was combined with Avery’s tongue. He planned on that. While he probed, the chef continued spanking her breasts, slapping them from side to side with an economical, figure-eight motion.

“About one minute should suffice.”

Avery bit into the cherry and watched her breasts jiggle and bounce from his position below her tummy. Although his cock had been stirring ever since he’d walked into the cottage, he felt it jump. When her breasts took on a bright pink shade nearing red, the chef stopped and patted the mound nearest him as if it were the beginnings of a masterpiece. “Perhaps just a touch more red.”

By then she was breathing hard and moaning, with the occasional whimper thrown in when the chef caught a nipple.

Concentrating on the same breast, the chef swung the whip in a quick circle so that it repeatedly slapped louder and harder than before. She tried to twist away, but the chef simply shifted, beating on the tormented mound with renewed effort. After another couple of minutes, both breast were a fiery red, and the horsehair strands fell limp again.

“Yes, the pores should be quite ready to absorb the crème, now.” He arched a brow and reached down, taking her nipple between his fingers. “But this simply will not do. They must be much harder…”

Using a pair of metal tongs, the chef picked a flat wedge of smoking ice from inside a misting, stainless steel bucket. “Dry ice.” The chef brought the steaming block of frozen oxygen close to her left nipple. “One must be careful to just lightly brush. We only want the flesh hardened. Not burned.”

When the cold mist touched her nipple, it drew taut, as if surrendering for safety’s sake. Her eyes widened when the dry ice brushed her areola, but she’d apparently gotten the hint. She groaned, and shifted her shoulders slightly a few times, but was otherwise still, obviously not prepared to endure freezer burned nipples.

Avery set his mouth into the upper part of her pussy, batıkent escort closing his teeth carefully into the soft, fat lips and buried the flat of his tongue between them. He lapped slowly upward while drawing his teeth together, scraping the last of the whipped cream from her labia and licking it from the warm folds. She moaned, then gasped around the apple when he caught her clitoris between his teeth. He held it, while he watched the chef run the tongs slowly around each areola.

The sounds she made told him she loved every moment, pain or not.

Once her nipples looked harder than Avery had ever seen them, the cook seemed satisfied. He smiled to himself, turning his back to them as he set the tongs in the bucket. When he turned around, he was holding a huge syringe. The clear cylinder was measured in teaspoons, tablespoons, and various increments of cup portions. It was at least a half-cup full golden liquid. The needle was long, sharp, and as thick as a number two pencil lead.

Avery knew it was only colored saline – perfectly safe as far as such things went, but… He smiled around the morsel in his mouth. They’d see how she loved *this*.

As soon as he moved toward her left breast, she thrashed again. Her clit dragged from between Avery’s teeth. The chef simply paused, needle hovering over her bouncing breast, and looked at Avery. “We will be injecting approximately three tablespoons of flavor into each nipple and areola. This procedure is very delicate, as any flavoring that is spilled or injected too deeply will have to be replaced with additional injections.”

While Avery appreciated the commentary, he knew that the intent was the same as with the dry ice. So did the woman who would be dessert.

Once she’d settled down, the chef pinched a thick fold of areola to the right of her nipple. “We will inject six locations per side, five equidistant around the areola and one directly into the nipple.” He jabbed the needle into the hard fold, pinching harder when she cried out and bucked.

Avery quickly wiped his mouth with the red silk and then stabbed his tongue into the melting topping inside her. She rolled her hips against his face and moaned, but stiffened when the second of the twelve jabs bit into her breast. He opened his mouth so that his lips slid across her pussy while his tongue probed. She had obviously been preoccupied with what he was doing, and was caught by surprise by the third jab. He heard her cry as she stiffened again. He tried to watch what the chef was doing, but the angle was wrong.

“Massaging the remainder of the cream into the folds of her flesh will produce an interesting taste sensation, if you like.”

Avery liked this man’s hints.

He stood up and readjusted the stool. When the chef pinched another fold of dark, crinkled areola, Avery ran his middle finger from her leaking hole up to her clit. The chef jabbed just as Avery had rolled her hardened clit clockwise. It was the first time he was able to see the chef slowly pressing the syringe, forcing the golden liquid into her hardened flesh. Although the chef had somehow managed not to be affected, at least not obviously so, Avery had to rearrange himself.

“This will be the last injection on this side.” He pinched her nipple at the base and positioned the needle directly over it. “We would suggest addition massage.”

Avery slipped his middle finger into her, as deeply as he could, and pressed the pad of his thumb against her clitoris. Before he could add much action, the needle plunged. Avery’s cock jumped at the same time as she did. He hardly noticed her squeal as the needle sank a full inch into the center of her nipple.

Slowly pressing the plunger, the chef moved the needle around inside it, injecting more *flavor* until the clear liquid actually began to bubble out of the nipple’s tip. By the time the chef pulled the needle free, there was only half the liquid left in the baster. Her left nipple and areola had lost much of their obvious frigid form and were swollen with the flavoring.

The chef set the syringe on the table and pulled the wedge of dry ice from the bucket. “We will prepare the other one and then begin the basting process around the nipples while the flavoring is absorbed. Then, we’ll chill them again, before we caramelize.”

He re-iced her right nipple and then began the injection process again. After a few minutes of massaging and injecting, she was panting hard around the apple, and pressing harder against Avery’s hand. She had no idea what was coming.

By the time the chef got to her nipple, she had all but stopped stiffening, and seemed to be totally absorbed by Avery’s fingers. It wasn’t until the chef made the final jab, and twisted the needle around to spread the last of the flavoring, that she did anything but moan.

When the chef moved the needle inside her nipple, he felt her clench around his finger. The chef pulled the needle up slightly and pushed it back in at a different angle. To Avery’s surprise, she came. It was sudden, with no warning, and it was more explosive than any orgasm he’d ever been able to give her. By the time the chef pulled the needle from her nipple, she’d slumped into semi-consciousness.

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