It couldn't possibly get more embarrassing than this, is what Olivia thought as she stared at the slick, glistening piece of bacon in Kafka's fingers, still warm and glimmering from where it had been inside her, soaked in her heat, her juice.
He was holding it, cradling it in his fingers, in the middle of a public café, for God's sake. Customers chatting ten feet away. Staff passing in and out of the kitchen.
And she was about to eat it.
Worse, she was actually curious.
About how it would taste.
What the slick coating would feel like on her tongue.
She didn't want to admit it, but the thought of tasting her own arousal, warm and infused into the fatty salt of the bacon, was igniting something carnal, something deep. A perverse thrill curled around her nerves, equal parts humiliation and fascination, and it made her belly coil tighter than before.
She swallowed hard, shame burning her throat, as it hit her again, she was becoming a pervert.
Slowly. Irreversibly. Every time Kafka opened that filthy mouth, every time he touched her, teased her, baited her into wanting what she never thought she'd want, she slipped deeper into this version of herself that moaned, whimpered, blushed, and now...tasted.
She was staring down at the bacon again, her trembling hand halfway lifted to her lips, lips parted, readying herself—
...and then it happened.
"Excuse me." Came a familiar voice, polite and gentle, just behind them. "Would you two like anything else? Or should I bring the bill now?"
Olivia's spine went rigid. Her hand dropped an inch. Her heart flew straight into her throat.
It was her. The sweet young waitress from earlier, the one who'd tried to take theirorder with a smile and a notebook. She stood at the edge of their table now, oblivious, blessedly oblivious, to what had just taken place.
But her brow quirked just slightly as her eyes flicked to the piece of bacon Kafka still held delicately between his fingers, arm poised like he was about to feed it to Olivia.
Her gaze lingered, puzzled, while Olivia's face lit up in scarlet panic.
This was it, Kafka would drop the bacon now, play it cool, pretend nothing was happening. That was what normal people did, right? When cornered in public, normal people didn't—
"Oh, no need for anything else." Kafka said smoothly, glancing up at the waitress with the calm confidence of a man absolutely not caught mid-kink. "My girlfriend here just said she's full. She wouldn't eat this last piece of bacon on her own. But she did say she'd take it..." He looked back at Olivia with a lazy grin. " ...if I fed it to her."
Olivia's mouth dropped open. Her soul left her body.
He turned his eyes to her with affection, voice soft. "Isn't that right, babe?"
She panicked. Her throat caught. She looked at the waitress, and saw something utterly devastating in the girl's face.
It wasn't suspicion.
It wasn't horror.
It was envy. The kind of warm, wistful smile that a girl gave when watching the cutest couple in the room. Olivia watched it bloom on the waitress's lips like an innocent daisy opening to the sun.
Her eyes softened, her lips curved in this soft, earnest, romantic curve that said god, I want a boyfriend like that.
Olivia's blood screamed.
There was no saving herself now. The lie had been bought. Hook, line, sinker. And worse, Kafka wasn't giving her time to object. His fingers gently tilted her chin upward, coaxing her to open her mouth.
"Open wide." He murmured, all charm and no shame. "I promised to feed it to you."
She almost whimpered.
She should've pulled away. Swatted his hand. Demanded that they run out of the restaurant, hide in shame. But instead, like a girl caught in a dream too surreal to end, Olivia's lips parted. Slowly. Helplessly.
Kafka's smile deepened.
He brought the glistening bacon to her lips, soaked, still gleaming with the mixture of its own fat and her own slick heat, and he laid it gently on her tongue.
Her mouth closed. Kafka tilted her chin up just a little more, making her swallow it, not just physically, but emotionally. Claiming the act as intimate. Sensual. A public, obscene secret dressed in affection.
Olivia chewed.
Her mind went blank.
The taste exploded across her tongue, rich, smoky fat, warm from being inside her, but also...something else. Something unmistakably her.
Sweet, yes, but earthy too. Tangy. A musky undertone that made her belly tense, her legs clench tight beneath the table. It wasn't bad. It should've been. She wanted it to be.
But instead—
"Mmm..."
The sound slipped out of her throat unbidden. Her cheeks burned hotter.
She was chewing slower now, savoring it. The way the grease had blended with her juices. How the flavor danced across her taste buds. She didn't even realize she'd swallowed until it was gone.
The waitress, who had been watching the entire scene with a tender little smile, tilted her head sweetly and asked, "How was it, ma'am? Was is to your liking after your partner fed it to you?"
Olivia blinked, dazed. Her tongue brushed her lips.
"I-It's...good." She said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's really good."
Her heart hammered, while Kafka chuckled beside her, low and full of that infuriating knowing.
"That's perfect..." The waitress said, scribbling a note into her little pad, smiling with starry-eyed approval. "I'll bring your bill."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
Seeing her go, Olivia's mouth hung open, throat dry, heart a frantic mess pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape the reality she now lived in.
Her face was flushed beyond saving, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she turned to him, Kafka, grinning with that insufferable calm, and hissed in a hoarse, trembling whisper.
"Kafi, how could you make me do that?"
Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, voice cracking as she tried to breathe through the aftermath.
"I just..." She stared at him, wide-eyed, humiliated, cheeks burning with a fresh wave of panic. "That poor waitress. She has no idea what just happened! None!"
"She just...smiled and walked away like she watched something sweet, something romantic, and she doesn't even know..."
Olivia shook her head, unable to stop the words tumbling out.
"She doesn't even know what I just ate! What you made me, what I did in front of her!"
"Well..." He said, lifting one hand as if musing aloud. "Do you want me to tell her what you actually ate, since it seems like you really are quite mad that she doesn't know about the amazing feat that you just did, Mom?"
He started to raise his arm, as if to wave the waitress back over and Olivia panicked.
"No!" She gasped, her hand shooting up to grab his wrist, yanking his arm back down with a ferocity born from pure mortified instinct, and then, as if trying to bury his hand somewhere it couldn't betray her again, she crushed it against her chest, into the curve of her breast, and clung to it tightly.
"N-No, no, please, don't do that, Kafi." She whispered, wild-eyed, holding his hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to sanity. "There's no need for that at all, okay? I'm already...it's already embarrassing enough. I can't—"
She broke off, squeezing his hand tighter, trying to bury her face in her shoulder, but he didn't let her escape. He leaned in instead, his mouth close to her ear, voice low and silky.
"So really..." He murmured. "How was the taste?"
Olivia groaned softly, eyes slamming shut as if that could erase the entire conversation. She tightened her grip on his hand, pressing it harder to her chest, and gave him a pitiful sideways glance.
"I already told you." She muttered under her breath, barely audible. "I already said how I feel about it, Kafi. I'm not saying it again."
Hearing this shocking confession, Kafka's eyes lit up. She didn't even need to look at him to feel his grin.
"Oh?" He said, feigning surprise. "You actually liked it? I didn't think you'd admit that, Mom."
Olivia blinked, then looked up at him, startled and flushed all over again. She hadn't meant to admit it. Not really. But the words were out now, and she couldn't take them back.
Kafka's grin widened, devilish and slow.
"You liked it." He repeated, watching her expression like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. "You said it was really good. Shit, Mom...at this rate, I'm gonna find you dunking every meal between your legs before eating."
"N-No!" She blurted, face a mess of crimson, burying his hand tighter against her breast as if that could silence him. "That's not going to happen! Not at all! I'm only like this because of you! You're the one doing all this to me!"
Her voice cracked with desperate honesty, her body betraying her all over again by leaning into him, her head resting shakily against his shoulder.
"I'm not like this." She whispered, quieter now. "I wasn't like this..."
But she didn't move away. She clung to his hand like a lifeline, his shoulder a warm place of strange comfort now, her breath calming slowly as the moment passed.
Yet even in the calm, her thoughts refused to settle.
She knew now what she tasted like. She couldn't un-know it. Her own slick had soaked into that piece of meat, had mingled with the flavor, and she'd chewed it, swallowed it, savored it.
It lingered on her tongue even now, ghosting the back of her throat in the oddest, faintest sweetness. Her body was still warm from it. Her thighs pressed together under the table like she could squeeze the memory away.
But as the taste faded, another thought crept in.
She remembered what Abigaille did yesterday, how shamelessly she'd swallowed Kafka's cum yesterday. The memory seared through Olivia's mind without warning, vivid and maddening: Abigaille kneeling, Kafka's head tilted back, his hand in her hair, and the way she took it all, gulped it down with no hesitation.
That glint in her eye afterward, satisfied. Proud.
And now Olivia knew what she tasted like.
But what did he taste like?
The question bloomed slowly, almost fearfully. It curled itself around her like ivy, quiet and insistent.
Just like she hadn't meant to want her own taste, she hadn't meant to crave his, but the curiosity coiled deeper every second. She wondered about it. About how it would feel, his cum on her tongue, thick and hot, the salt of him sliding down her throat.
What did Abigaille feel when she swallowed him? What did it taste like? Was it bitter? Was it sharp? Or was it thick and rich and hot enough to leave a mark? Did it linger?
Olivia's breath caught and her nipples turned harder.
But she didn't dare say it. Not aloud. Not even a whisper. Not yet.
She just nuzzled closer to his shoulder, face hidden, her lips parting as she let out a small, trembling sigh, her body aching with a need that hadn't found words yet.
Her thoughts were shameful. Her desires darker now. And she was feeling this way even though Kafka hadn't even properly touched her yet.
But he would. He always did.
And when he did...she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop herself from asking.