Dessert

Dessert
by Kiernan Kelly


I smell him before I’ve even gotten through the front door.

Well, not him, exactly…its not like he smells. Usually. It’s what he does that smells. Good. It smells good. What he does.

Damn it! Not in the house five minutes and already he’s reduced me to a blathering idiot.

Sniffing the air, my sensitive nose detects the aroma of chocolate. I know without needing to be told that I’ll find some kind of delicate, fancy, freshly baked chocolate-something-or-other-in-French waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

Yesterday, it was Tranche Blueberry Tart. The day before it was a Mango-Pear Mousse Cake. I see more blue ribbon desserts in my kitchen in a week than a handful of county fairs see in a year. And who is expected to eat each and every one of them? Moi, that’s who.

Sighing, I slip out of my overcoat and hang it in the hall closet. No sense in calling out to him – its after eleven at night, and I know that he’ll already have left for Crème Douce, the five-star French restaurant at which Granger is a pastry chef. Our paths rarely cross these days. Since he’d been hired as a chef and began to work baker’s hours, and I continue to slave away behind a desk for the nine-to-five shift, the only evidence I have that he still lives in the house is the lingering smell of his cologne that clings to the sheets, the dirty clothes in the hamper that aren’t mine, and the inches being added to my waistline.

Sex had become what we’d call the rare occasions that we’d bump into each other in the hallway on the way to or from work.

It had to end soon. We’d have to come up with some type of solution. I was strung tighter than a suspension bridge’s cable, and if I didn’t get laid soon, I was going to snap.

Following my nose, I walk into the kitchen. Sure enough, sitting on the kitchen counter on a plate of our best Limoges china, is the most beautiful éclair I’ve ever seen. It’s perfectly formed, dripping in rich chocolate, bursting with sweet cream. He’s written my name in white chocolate across the top, in fancy, looping script.

Damn him.

Notes, I’d said. Write me love notes. Text me messages on my cell phone. Send me emails. But for God’s sake, Granger, please stop baking for me before I get too big to squeeze in through the front door without grease and a crowbar!

A noise outside on the back porch catches my attention. Kevin, the pool guy – whom Granger insists on referring to as our “cabana boy” in a haughty, extremely fake French accent – is coiling hose just outside the screen door. Funny – he usually shows up on Wednesday to tend to the pool. Today’s Saturday, unless I’m mistaken, and I know that I’m not, since today is also my birthday.

Alone on my birthday with no one to celebrate with but a gigantic, fat-filled, chocolate éclair – I have never felt quite so pathetic in all my life.

Kevin is wearing Daisy Dukes that are so short they barely cover the cheeks of his ass. Make that don’t cover them – his curved bottom peeks out, twitching prettily as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s bare-chested as well. Evidently he’s working on that incredible golden tan he’s got going. As he works, the hard, wiry muscles of his shoulders and back move fluidly under his smooth, silken skin. Kevin’s hair is light, bleached nearly white by either the sun or a bottle. Not for the first time I wonder if he’s a natural blonde. Since he keeps his arms and legs hairless, I’ve never been able to tell.

Damn it. I really, really need to get laid. I’ve given myself a helluva boner ogling the pool boy. How cliché! Disgusted with myself, I pick up the éclair and shove half of it into my mouth, biting off enough to puff my cheeks out like a blowfish.

Crunch.

What the hell?

Since when are éclairs crunchy? I spit out a half-masticated wad of cream-covered, slightly chewed paper. Wiping it off as best I can, I squint to read the slightly smudged handwriting.

“Surprise! Happy Birthday Honey!” it reads in Granger’s neat script. “I’m sorry I can’t be there. But I left your present for you – he’s out in the yard. Enjoy! Love, Granger.”

Huh?

My eyes shift from the note to the screen door, beyond which Kevin has finished coiling the garden hose and is now stretching his spine, arms held high over his head. I can count the knobs of his spinal cord as he bends and twists. Watch that cute tight ass of his tilt first in one direction, then the other.

No…Granger couldn’t mean…no…

Could he?

At that moment Kevin turns and looks into the kitchen. He sees me, and a slow, knowing grin spreads across his handsome face.

Oh, yeah. He could. Bless Granger’s little, pastry puff heart.

Dropping the cream-covered note into the sink, I shove the rest of the éclair into my mouth – for what I have planned, I’m going to need all the sugar I can get – and wash the sticky chocolate from my hands.

The door opens, and Kevin walks in, still smiling that secretive little grin. “Hey, Mr. Alan,” he says. His voice is slightly husky, and he smells of chlorine, suntan lotion, and male. “Did you get Mr. Granger’s note?” He’s always called us by our first names, with the respectful prefix of “Mr.”

“Yes, I did, and please just call me ‘Alan,’ Kevin,” I reply. “The ‘Mister’ thing makes me feel old.” At 36, I am old compared to Kevin’s 22 or 23 years, but there’s no need to point out the obvious.

“Great! He was so excited about surprising you! We’ve been planning this for a month!” Kevin grins. “Where do you want me?”

Wow. This was really going to happen. I felt for my pulse, just to make sure that I haven't stroked out from all the cholesterol I’ve been pumping into my arteries lately, eating all of Granger’s rich concoctions. Nope. I’m still alive and kicking. And so fucking hard, my cock could split wood.

I also know exactly where I wanted him. “Right here,” I say, pointing to a stretch of Corian countertop. Grabbing a box from the cabinet I open it and shake heaps of powdered sugar onto the green faux marble. I want to see that sweet ass of his parked in the middle of the mounds of fluffy white powder – and then I want to lick him clean. I’m going to create my own five star dessert - my homage to Granger, I suppose. Maybe I’ll name it after him. Sucré Granger Surprise.

“Wait!” I say, putting out a hand when he reaches for the buttons on the fly of his shorts. “I’d like to do that, if you don’t mind.” I finally get to see if he’s a real blonde, and want to do the revealing myself.

“It’s your birthday,” Kevin laughs. “Mr. Granger said that I should give you whatever you want, that anything goes.”

“Anything?”

“Yup. Anything.”

How cool was this? My boyfriend gave me carte blanche with the pool boy. And here I was thinking that all I was going to get was a crummy éclair. I should have known Granger better than that.

Lightly, I run my fingers over Kevin’s sculpted chest and abdomen, counting each and every one of his deliciously formed abs. One, two, three, four, five, and six…yup, his six-pack is all present and accounted for. His skin is like silk under my fingers, warm and soft, rippling under my touch. He has the cutest little “innie” navel with a silver belly ring hooked into it. Unable to resist, I bend down and give it the tiniest of tugs with my teeth – just enough to make Kevin hiss and know that I mean business.

With a flick of my fingers I unbutton his denim cut-offs. My eyes are glued to his fly as I begin to inch the zipper down, tooth by agonizing tooth. The material parts slowly, revealing more of his luscious satin skin. Damn it! Doesn’t this boy have hair anywhere other than on his head? Not that being completely hairless is a bad thing, I think, as thoughts of running my tongue over balls as silken as a baby’s bottom float through my mind. Still, how am I to know the answer to the question that’s plagued me since we hired him? I could flat out ask, but there’s no fun in that.

Another inch or so of zipper parts, and I realize that Kevin isn’t wearing underwear. Another inch, and I’m getting down to the nitty gritty. Finally, there it is, my answer in the shape of a small thatch of dark sable curls.

Kevin gets his golden locks courtesy of Clairol. His pubes are nearly as dark as my own, and I’m a brunette. Always have been and I always will be, not counting the grays that have begun to pop up at my temples.

The zipper hits bottom. Spreading the denim, his cock springs out into my hand, as hard and ready as my own.

Lordy, the boy is gifted.

Grinning, I flick out my tongue, taking a taste. Kevin tastes fresh and clean, male and musky - all my favorite flavors rolled up into one nine-inch piece of Grade A beef.

“On the countertop,” I rasp, my heart thudding in my ears. At this rate I’m never going to last very long, and I know it. Ah, well…c’est la vie. I’m the birthday boy after all. Today, it’s all about moi.

I’ll make it up to him, I swear. I’ll give him next Wednesday off, with pay.

Kevin jumps up onto the countertop in a puffy cloud of powdered sugar. It slowly settles back down, coating his skin with a fine layer of sugared goodness. Yum.

Thank God I’m tall. My height keeps me from having to strain to reach him, or worse, having to use the kitchen stepstool. Kevin leans back on his elbows, watching me, waiting to see what I'm going to do next. Swiping my tongue over my lips, I dig into my dessert.

I paint wet trails through the powdered sugar, crisscrossing his chest from nipple to nipple, licking him clean. His nipples harden, tiny white buds that I worry between my teeth.

One long lick traces the line carved between his abs, dipping into his bellybutton with its sexy belly ring, lapping up the sugar that's collected there.

I can feel the heat of his arousal against my cheek as I dip my head lower, just before I take him into my mouth. By the time I suck every particle of sugar from his cock, he’s moaning and lifting his hips toward me, fingers clenching the countertop with a white-knuckled grip. He’s close. I can see it in the way he’s parted his lips, in his hitched and rapid breathing.

Well, what do you know? Maybe it’s-a his birthday, too.

Sucking his balls into my mouth, I roll my tongue over them. Kevin wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking it, pleading with me to allow him to come. He’s asking permission? Wow, Granger must have really set down the law when he arranged this. I realize that I have total control over Kevin. His pleasure – or lack thereof – is in my figurative hands. Actually its in his own – he’s jacking off like a madman, his fingers a blur, but I know that one word from me will put that to an end.

He’s been a good boy up until now. I’m feeling expansive and I nod, continuing to suck on his sac as he shoots. I feel his hot seed painting my face and hair as his muscles clench with his orgasm.

Okay. My turn.

“On your knees,” I command, conscious of my newly discovered power over him.

Kevin is grinning a soft, yeah-I-came-so-its-all-good smile as he shifts his weight and crawls up onto his knees on the counter. His ass is perfectly round, the sort of bubble butt that always attracted me. It’s heavily coated with sugar, even between the cleft.

Growling, I attack his ass with my lips and tongue, sucking, nipping, and lapping at his flesh in a frenzy of ass-eating delight. Parting his cheeks with my fingers, my tongue darts inside his body, tasting sugar mixed with his musky male flavor. Goddamn! Any restaurant that could put this on the menu would be booked for reservations for years ahead of time. He was thoroughly, utterly delicious.

My fingers left his ass and flew to my fly, frantically trying to get my cock free of the confines of my pants. Succeeding in freeing my erection, I next searched my pocket for my wallet. In it, secreted behind my driver’s license, was my emergency rubber. Finding my just-in-case-because-you-never-know-when-you’ll-need-one condom, I tear the package with my teeth and remove it, rolling it over my engorged cock.

A quick, light slap on his ass tells him to roll over. Kevin’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his pupils dilated. Either he’s going into sugar shock from all the sweetness he’s been inhaling, or he’s getting turned on again. I hope it’s the latter because he’s not getting off the counter until I’m done.

Grabbing his hips, I slide his ass forward until it rests on the edge of the counter. Again I’m grateful for my height. It puts me at perfect thrusting level with his dark pink hole.

Lordy, my cock feels like its made of poured concrete. It feels heavy and hard enough to cut diamonds as I slide it up to the root inside his tight channel. Kevin lifts his legs to rest on my shoulders as I begin to hammer his ass with powerful, hard thrusts. My hips slap against his rear end, powdered sugar flying everywhere.

Briefly, I think that Granger’s kitchen is going to be a sugar-and-semen splattered mess by the time he gets home, and then my mind goes wonderfully, blissfully blank as my body shudders and I come.

I feel as though my bones are made of rubber, weak and spindly, my muscles trembling from exertion and ecstasy. Leaning down, I rest my head on Kevin’s belly, nose-to-belly ring, breathing hard.

All I can think of at the moment is, how the hell am I supposed to match this for Granger’s birthday next month? I wonder if the gardener is up for a little creative under-the-table work.

~End

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