tagBDSMVice Cream

Vice Cream

byKeroin©

Vice Cream is a collection of seven short stories, with a common narrator, featuring nature's most perfect food. Not all of the flavours are BDSM but I hope you will sample each one. As the saying goes, "Life is short, eat dessert first". Enjoy...

Vice Cream
Dessert in Seven Parts


Vanilla

"Boring." The word drops out of Master's mouth and rolls around on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, coming to rest next to my ear.

A clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl, I hear it but don't see it.

Boring. The word was mine, the reaction swift, the result – I tug at the cord of Master's housecoat around my wrist – inescapable. His location for me, head to one side of the island, directly below the overhanging counter top, was no accident. I'm half blind.

With legs and arms pulled taut, lifting my head is uncomfortable but, as I do, he kneels between my spread legs and I see the bowl, then the spoon heaped with a white mound.

Cold! A spoonful of ice cream is slipped into my open pussy. When my hips jolt upward, Master pins them down again using only his eyes focused on mine. His eyes say, Things can always get worse. Another spoonful and another and another, until the heat of my sex can't keep up with the frozen cream. The river of melted stickiness dripping out of me, running down to the crack of my ass and onto the floor, slows to a thin stream. Deep breaths help keep me still.

"Boring," he repeats, in a monotone.

Now it's the fridge door I hear, opening. Bags rustling. Containers bumping against each other. My world, tied down on the floor as I am, is the world of sound.

Master is between my knees again. He shows me a strawberry before shoving it inside me. Some peach slices are next. Blueberries stain his palm as he feeds them between my hungry folds. Cherries, mandarin orange slices, even a few grapes, he pushes each new fruit in a little further and a little harder.

Scrambling to define each new sensation, the walls of my pussy tighten and release. The ice cream, melting fast, begins to flow again. Master's hand is empty. He holds up three fingers, high enough for me to see, then stuffs them inside me and mashes the fruit and ice cream together.

My neck arches at the plunging. I groan and pull against my restraints. His fingers drive in and out. The pulpy mess splatters the insides of my thighs and pools beneath my ass cheeks. I'll come soon if he doesn't stop and I've not been given permission.

"Boring," I hear him mutter at the same instant his fingers stop pounding me.

With his clean hand, he picks up the spoon, slips it inside me, pulls out a helping of milky mush and smiles. I smile back, panting, thinking he's about to enjoy a snack. Stupid me. He carries the dripping spoon over my stomach, up to my chest and drizzles the concoction over my left nipple.

Gasping, my back arches as my always sensitive button sends electric shocks down my spine to the ice cream sundae between my legs.

He gives my right nipple – primed by expectation – the same treatment.

The third spoonful he carries to my mouth.

Eyes wide, lips sealed, I shake my head a fraction. The cold spoon rests against my lips and his eyes order them to open. They do.

Master tips the spoon and I swallow my dessert. When the spoon is clean, he pulls down a napkin from the kitchen table and fastens it snugly around my head, gagging me, making sure I cannot rid myself of the flavour.

He holds the empty spoon up high enough for me to see. The handle is made of plastic, thick and round. Bending the spoon into a crescent shape, he slides the handle into my pussy, jostles it around and pulls it out. I pout into my gag, yearning for more.

I get more.

The tip of the spoon handle presses against the delicate pucker of my ass. I bite down as he slides the handle inside me, working slowly, extending my discomfort. I know he's done when I feel the metal end biting the soft skin of my ass cheeks.

Master stands. I hear a drawer open, the dull rattle of cutlery. Kneeling down, he shows me a fork. My molars clamp down on the back of the napkin sawing at the corners of my mouth.

Same routine. This time, however, he leaves the handle of the fork in my pussy; the tines prod my swollen lips. Once again, he stands.

Another drawer opens. What now?

This time he returns with a roll of plastic wrap, pulling out an arm's length and tearing it off. The wrap he winds around my waist, between my legs, around my waist again, until he's fashioned a cellophane loincloth for me, just tight enough to hold the two pieces of cutlery in place.

Repositioning, he lowers his head until it is over top of mine. I can see him reading my eyes, gauging my discomfort. A smile melts across his face. He licks my top and bottom lips and moves south.

Master's mouth lands next on my nipple, licking and sucking up the mess he left. As he does, and the electrical shocks start in earnest, I start to tense and squirm, feeling the handles inside my ass and pussy fill me with pleasure while their cold counterparts dig into my flesh.

From one nipple to the next, my master works his hot tongue around, cleaning every drop from my body. I buck harder, willing the inanimate objects to fuck me, groaning at their cruelty. My ass slips on the slick liquids seeping out of me and the spoon end digs hard into my left cheek, moving the handle, causing my hips to thrust, driving the fork tines into my clit. I yell into my gag. More slipping, more poking, more sucking and licking, I drive myself to the edge of the cliff.

Master pulls away. He stands yet again and watches me as I writhe on the linoleum. My begging is stifled but I know he hears it. I need release. I need it. Why won't he give it to me?

"So, tell me, my precious whore," he says, looking down at me, tall as a skyscraper, "do you still think vanilla ice cream is boring?"



Mango Sorbet

A day off at last. Even better, a day off and a beach all to myself. It was worth the paddle against the current to get to this quiet motu, this tiny patch of sand and palm trees, surrounded by water more shades of blue than any paint store can invent.

That's what I was thinking when they came around the corner.

Tourists. No matter how friendly they may be, I'm tired of the small talk and the same five questions, and the "hot enough for you?"' and the "boy, the mosquitoes are eating me alive". I think I would have liked this island better when the natives were still eating each other.

They were a young couple. Giggling and running, as best they could with a cooler held between them, they barged around the corner and kicked sand in the face of my afternoon alone. About ten feet away from me, they stopped, dropped the cooler to the sand, nodded in my direction with twin smiles and resumed being giddy and stupid.

Why my motu? Why so close? Why couldn't they go where all the other tourists go?

Belly down, on my towel, I tried to read my novel as the love birds stretched out a blanket and rubbed sunblock on each other. Porn stars could have taken writhing-in-ecstasy lessons from those two.

From the snippets of babble and their lean, coltish bodies, I figured they must have been French. Good. At least I could speak English and feign ignorance if they tried to speak to me.

But they didn't speak to me; they were consumed with each other. Not that I cared.

From behind my sunglasses, I saw the man open the cooler and produce a small tub. The woman reached a hand towards the tub and he slapped it away. It was a playful slap and she adopted the kind of sexy pout only the French can pull off.

A trickle of sweat ran down my back, as the man removed the lid from the tub, dipped his fingers inside and offered up something orange to his playmate. She unpouted her lips and spread them wide; I could even see her tongue come out a little. He fed her his fingers and she sucked back the offering, closing her eyes as she did.

The second time, she moaned.

Shifting my legs, an extra rush of heat hit me and between my thighs I felt moisture that wasn't sweat. Looking down at my book, I realized I'd been stuck on the same sentence ever since the couple's arrival.

The woman leaned in and whispered to her playmate. I caught a faint nod. Once again, his fingers dipped into the tub, except this time the man didn't offer his fingers to his lover, he offered them to me.

Had my spying been so obvious? Embarrassment glued me to my towel but then the woman also looked at me. Her smile was as warm as the breeze.

I shook my head. No. I couldn't.

This only made my beach mate's smiles broaden. He tilted his head at an angle that suggested hurt feelings if I didn't partake. She beckoned me with her fingers.

'Just one taste', I thought.

The afternoon heat had melted my muscles, I found myself crawling across the sand, on all fours, as if I were the couple's lazy house cat, coming for a treat. By the time I reached the man's fingers, the orange was dripping off them. I felt bad for taking so long; I opened my mouth and let him feed me.

A tidal wave of mangoes engulfed my brain. Cool and sweet, every tropical memory I owned pulsed through me and I found my eyes closing as I suckled the juice off two slender, male fingers.

The second time, I moaned.

He didn't offer his fingers to me again. Instead, he fed himself, turned his dark eyes to the woman and she leaned in to kiss him. I was close enough to smell their sweat mingling with their coconut scented sunscreen and hear their tongues fighting over the sorbet.

I'd never felt so hungry.

When they pulled apart, a silken string of saliva stretched between their lips for a moment before breaking. Hypnotic.

A gust of wind rustled the palm leaves overhead as the man lowered his fingers into the tub again. I was greedy for those fingers but he gave the treat to the woman instead. Maybe I pouted.

She opened her plump lips just wide enough to show me the sorbet on her tongue. Her face was a flower; the orange on her tongue was her nectar, my tongue was that of a yellow wasp coming to pollinate. I leaned in to drink from her mouth.

Warm lips, cool tongue. I sucked slowly and she sucked back Sweat tickled its way down my stomach and I shivered, lost in a stranger's mouth. The man's fingers were untying the straps of my bikini top; the woman's fingers were painting my nipples with something cool and sticky. I moaned, again.

Mmmmm, mango sorbet.



Licorice

This was definitely not my crowd. For the umpteenth time, I tugged down on the edges of the mini-skirt Master dressed me in. A man in a leather hood was led past me on a leash. Not my crowd, not our crowd for that matter. We'd never been part of any scene.

I tottered on spiked heels, clinging to Master's side, not physically but with every psychic rope I could wrap around him. He'd told me once already to mingle. Half an hour later, I was still following him, puppy-like, through the party.

No surprise when he turned to me, face a black cloud, and growled, "Go! I don't want to see you for an hour."

I wobbled my way out of the living room as fast as I could, dragging my wounded ego behind me. Where I was going to go? I had no idea.

The party was packed; my direction was determined more by the flow of traffic than by my inclinations. I told myself, These are just nice, normal people, bankers, housewives, everyday folks, just like me, but that didn't stop me from feeling like a penguin wandering through the Serengeti.

I was funneled into a long hallway and a tall woman, with day-glo pink, cropped hair offered me a welcoming smile. Relieved to see a friendly gesture, I smiled back. She stuck out her tongue, displaying a large metal piercing, and waggled it up and down. Maybe I only imagined her laughing at me, as I stumbled and ran past her, wide eyed and trembling, but I doubt it.

Pushing my way through the throng, I spotted a closed door, grabbed the handle and thanked someone's god that it was unlocked. The room I'd escaped into was dark and quiet – perfect.

Dark, yes, but there were lights on. Dark because, as my eyes adjusted and my pulse slowed enough to allow observation, the room was black. Black walls, black stone floor, black ceiling, one long, black table and, seated at the far end of the table, a woman. She wore a white dress, barely discernable against her pale skin, and had hair as light blonde as mine but longer, almost down to her waist. I was rude to stare but the scene was striking, mesmerizing.

"Come here, Pet," she said, in a voice I would describe as white, also.

I did as she asked. Her demeanor was firm but calm; she put me at ease.

My heels clicking on the stone floor made me too aware of my gait. I tried to walk gracefully, I wanted to impress the Snow Queen.

"You look lost," she said, no real concern in her voice but no threat, either.

"I am..." I'd never been out like this before, what was I supposed to call her?

"You may call me Miss Lily, if you like."

"Miss Lily," I liked how her name wiggled out of my mouth.

"Kneel," she said. It wasn't an order, only an instruction, and I was glad for the direction.

Once I was kneeling front of her, she reached out a long, ivory-painted fingernail and lifted up the metal, heart-shaped tag attached to my collar. Her silver eyes were the definition of neutral as she read the inscription.

What did it say? Master had added it to my collar only this evening.

Miss Lily finished reading and nodded, then smoothed a hand over my head. "So soft. Lovely". Her fingers drifted through my hair.

I lowered my gaze, ashamed at my nipples coming alive at her touch, following the laces of her boots down to the tips, and around to a set of heels so high and narrow my toes curled just looking at them.

"Are you hungry, pet?"

"Yes, Miss Lily," I answered.

Her chair didn't make a sound as she turned it out to face me, as if she and everything in the room were made of air. She placed a black bowl on the floor, just beyond my reach. There was no cutlery; I'd have to bend over to eat. My short skirt would show everything. Everything.

No panties, no bra, Master insisted on this when he dressed me for the party. I'm no prude but he knows I'm private, he knows how much I detest the very style of dress he'd chosen.

Shuffling, I tried to move into a position where my head would be facing my hostess but she tapped a fingernail on the table top.

"No, where you were."

Biting my bottom lip, I moved back and dipped my head down to the bowl. My ass was high in the air, facing the lady in white. Could she see the pink folds between my legs, swollen and glistening? I knew the answer and that only increased the temperature in my nethers.

The bowl was empty.

Was she playing a trick on me? I looked again, lowering myself even further. No, there was something there but it was as black as the bowl and impossible to identify. My tongue reached out to explore, it burned with cold. Now I knew.

This time I took a healthy lick but paused when I felt something hard resting on my tailbone.

"Don't you like it?" Miss Lily asked.

Yes and no.

"Yes, Miss Lily," I managed to answer, without breathing.

"Then go on."

My face lowered to the bowl, I licked. The cruel heel of her boot pressed against the opening of my pussy.

I wanted to stop.

I licked again and gasped when the heel dug its way inside me. She was going to fuck me like this and I was going to let her.

I wanted to stop and I didn't.

How could I resist black licorice ice cream?



Bubblegum

Of the four flavours of ice cream displayed beneath the dusty glass of the Sip-n-Go mini mart, why did I choose bubblegum? I shrug, lick the blue mound on top of the cone and wander a little further into the desert.

High noon has eaten my shadow. Vegas seems a universe away. I'd only stopped for gas, a pee and a cold snack, so why am I out here, in the middle of Emptyville, with only hard pack, a few cactus and some rusted car parts for company?

Another tongueful of bubblegum; years start to roll backward. From the outside, no one would notice the change but I'm getting younger with each lick.

Thirty-five, twenty-six, twenty-two, nineteen, seventeen, fifteen. Fifteen. I'm fifteen now. Sweet bubble gum lips. Naïve and curious. I'm still a virgin. Not for long.

My tongue drags its way across the cool blue; my footsteps scare a jackrabbit hiding in the scrub. I stop and watch it bound away in terrified leaps. Poor bunny. Maybe I should be scared, too? After all, I'm just a young girl, alone.

No, not alone.

I wait for moment, a thin trickle of ice cream dribbles onto my hand. His footsteps are getting closer. Not very nice, following a poor, helpless bunny into the wild. When he'd smiled at me, in the Sip-n-Go, he'd had rattlesnake teeth and coyote eyes. Maybe I should be scared?

I resume my walk. Just up ahead, there's a wreck, mostly intact except for the missing tires and the sun burnt paint. Licking and ambling, I make my way to the abandoned car. Once there, I don't turn around. Fifteen year old girls are so clueless. I lean my elbows on the hood, bending over, swaying my hips to the music in my head – some band I'm, like, totally in love with.

Footsteps scratch their way closer and closer until I can smell him, sour from too many hours on the road, in the heat.

"I can't fuck you," I say, turning around, "I'm a virgin."

Coyote eyes narrow.

A stream of blue runs down my hand, my wrist, almost to my elbow, like blood from a wound. Lifting my hand high, I lick up my mess, ending at the cone. I watch the stranger swallow.

"But I can suck you off," I say.

He answers with a grunt, taking a few steps forward and turning so that his back is against the passenger door. I let him undo his own fly. Filthy pervert.

Small rocks chew at my knees, as I kneel in front of the man. He holds his hard cock out to me like a piece of candy he's using to lure me into his car. It's a big cock, a grown up man cock, the kind I've only seen in the dirty magazines my dad keeps hidden under the bed. Working up a little saliva, I coat the tip of his man candy with blue spit and use my free hand to rub it around.

Coyote growl.

At the smell of his crotch, all sweat and danger, I wrinkle my nose. I take a long lick at my cone, which is melting fast now, and then lower my lips to the stranger's cock. He shivers. One coat of bubble gum. Raising my head, I take another lick of cone and go back down on the stranger – now he tastes better.

My sucking is slow, not because I'm inexperienced but because I like the feel of the veins against my tongue and the walls of my mouth. He is big for me, though, so big that sometimes I choke.

The ice cream is running down my arm; I have to stop now and then to suck on my cone instead. When I do this, the strange man makes a noise, kind of an impatient moan. I like his noise, I like teasing him.

I'm starting to like the choking, too. A few times, I try pushing his dick as far into my mouth as I can, until my throat is full and I can't breathe. Then I have to stop. When I pull away, long, gooey, blue strings hang from my mouth. The gooiness isn't gross, though, it helps make his member slippery and each time I can get him down my throat a bit farther.

I feel the man's hand grab my pony tail. Tight. He wraps it around his hand like a cowboy with a set of reins. My hair is cinched so tight in his hand, it tugs on the corners of my eyes. He uses the reins to push my head further onto his cock.

I gag and feel the cone crunch in my hand.

He pulls my head away. I catch my breath. He pushes it back down. Another gag. Tears roll from my taut eyelids. Pull and push and gag and moan, he fucks my throat. Blue cream coats my left arm, another kind of cream is soaking through my pink, flowered panties.

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byKeroin© 16 comments/ 12538 views/ 5 favorites

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