My phone buzzes on the counter, pulling me from a hazy daydream. I snatch it up, my heart giving a hard thump when I see his name.
Make me something sweet, sweetie. I'm craving mini pancakes. Be ready in two hours. I want to see you in that lace thongs from your drawer. And a little apron. Nothing else. Don't make me ask twice.
Heat floods my face, then pools instantly between my legs. Two hours. I'm moving before the blush even fades, my body humming with a frantic, eager energy. I remember his command from yesterday, too. Freeze the banana. The long one. I'd done it last night, shoving the firm yellow fruit into the back of the freezer, a secret thrill zipping through me.
The next hour is a blur of measured ingredients and sizzling butter. I make a stack of tiny, golden-brown pancakes, the sweet smell filling my kitchen. I dice strawberries, their red juice staining my fingers. I set out a bowl of fresh cream, a jar of honey, a handful of plump blueberries. My hands tremble as I slice a fresh banana, the cool, slick flesh of it making my mind wander to other places. A familiar, aching wetness soaks my panties. No panties, I remember, my face burning hotter. Just the lace.
I hurry to my room. The set is red, intricate lace that does more to highlight than hide. my heavy tits, my pierced nipples making obvious peaks. The thong is a mere scrap, a whisper against my skin. I tie the frilly red apron around my waist, the strings digging into the soft flesh of my hips. It covers nothing in the front, just a sheer curtain over my belly. From behind, it's just a strip of fabric over my ass. I check myself in the mirror—a blushing, half-naked chef, my body on shameless display.
A firm knock at the door makes me jump. Two hours on the dot.
I pad to the door, my bare feet silent on the floor. I can feel the cool air from the hallway seeping through the wood.
"Mia." His voice, low and familiar, comes through the door. It's a command all on its own.
I unlock it and pull it open.
Mr. Callahan fills the doorway. His eyes, dark and hungry, sweep over me in one slow, thorough pass. A slow grin spreads across his face. "Fuck," he breathes, stepping inside. I lock the door behind him, the click sounding impossibly loud.
He doesn't touch me yet. He just looks, his gaze like a physical caress over the lace, the apron, my flushed skin. "Look at you," he murmurs, stepping closer. His hand lifts the front of the apron, his knuckles brushing my bare stomach. He peers underneath, his eyes drinking in the black lace barely containing my pussy. "Good girl," he says, his voice rough. "You obeyed. Exactly as I asked."
I'm flustered, my skin on fire. "It's… it's two in the afternoon," I stammer, the practical part of my brain clawing for purchase. "Won't your wife be home?"
He closes the distance in one step. His mouth finds the sensitive skin of my neck, his lips hot, his stubble scratching. At the same time, his hand slides under the apron, his fingers slipping effortlessly beneath the lace of my thong. He finds my clit, already swollen and slick, and rubs a firm, perfect circle. I gasp, my knees buckling.
"She's a doctor," he murmurs against my skin, his fingers never stopping their delicious, torturous motion. "Untimely shifts. She's at the hospital right now." He nips my earlobe. "So you don't worry about her, sweetheart. You worry about you."
His other hand comes down hard on my ass cheek, a sharp, stinging smack that echoes in the quiet apartment. I cry out, the pain melting instantly into a deep, throbbing heat. He gropes the stinging flesh, his fingers digging into the soft, plump curve. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "Are you ready for your punishment, sweetheart?"
I can only nod, my breath coming in shaky pants. The wetness between my legs is a flood now, soaking his fingers, soaking the lace.
He pulls his hand from my thong, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes locked on mine. "Mm. Anticipation tastes so good on you." He takes my hand. "Show me my pancakes."
I lead him to the dining table, where the spread is laid out. He surveys it—the stack of mini pancakes, the bowls of toppings, the cream, the honey. His eyes gleam.
As I turn to the counter to maybe get plates, his arms slide around me from behind. His big, rough hands slip under the apron, bypassing the apron entirely to cup my bare tits. He squeezes the heavy, soft weight of them, his thumbs rubbing over my tight, pierced nipples. "No plates," he whispers into my hair, kissing the top of my head. "No need. You're going to serve it, sweetie. I'm going to decorate you."
A full-body blush consumes me. He releases me. "The banana, Mia. Get the frozen one."
I fetch it from the freezer. It's solid, a pale, icy phallus. He takes it from me, then guides me to sit on the edge of the dining table. The wood is cool against my bare thighs. He unties the apron strings and lets the garment fall to the floor.
I'm completely exposed in just the red lace. He stands between my spread knees, his hands roaming over my body. He massages my tits, his palms warm and possessive, then delivers a series of gentle, stinging smacks that make the flesh jiggle and redden. He leans down, kissing a trail from my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, down my trembling stomach. Each kiss is a brand.
"Lie back," he says, his voice a low thrum.
I obey, lowering myself until my back is against the cool wood of the table. He produces a silky red ribbon from his pocket. He takes my wrists, lifting them above my head, and ties them together in a loose but secure knot around one of the table's sturdy legs. I'm stretched out, bound, utterly helpless.
"Spread your legs, Mia. Let me see that naughty cunt."
I let my knees fall apart, my feet still on the floor. He looks down at me, his eyes blazing. His hand comes down in a sharp, open-palmed smack right on my inner thigh, the sound cracking in the quiet room. I yelp, the sting igniting a fresh gush of wetness that darkens the lace.
"You've been a very naughty girl," he says, his tone dripping with nasty delight. "Haven't you? Playing with the building manager. Letting him take pictures." His fingers hook into the side of my thong and drag it down my legs, tossing it aside. The cool air hits my bare, swollen pussy and I moan.
He pushes my knees wider, his thumbs spreading my outer lips, licking the middle. "Look at this," he groans. "So fucking puffy. So fucking wet for your punishment." He leans down, his breath hot against my skin. "Your inner lips are so dark, so long. They're just hanging out for me, all slick and swollen. Beautiful."
He straightens and picks up a mini pancake. He places it carefully over my right nipple. The warmth is a shock against the peaked, sensitive nub. He takes few another, placing it over my left nipple. Then he takes few more and lays it gently on my belly and few on my cunt, just above where my thick thighs meet.
He dips his fingers into the bowl of cold cream. With deliberate slowness, he smears it over the pancakes on my right breast, the white cream dripping over the brown edge onto my skin. He does the same to the left, then drags a thick dollop down the center of my body, over the pancakes on my stomach, through my navel piercing, and down, down, until his cream-slicked fingers are painting my outer pussy lips.
The cold is shocking, exquisite. I arch off the table with a gasp.
He picks up a banana slice and places it on the cream-covered pancakes over my nipple. He adds a strawberry slice, a few blueberries. He repeats the process on my other breast, decorating me like a perverse, edible sundae. He takes a whole strawberry, dips it in the jar of honey until it's dripping, and brings it to my lips.
"Suck it, good girl," he commands, his voice husky.
I open my mouth, taking the sticky fruit between my lips. I suck the honey off, the sweet, floral taste bursting on my tongue. He watches, his eyes dark, as I take the whole berry into my mouth. He leans in and his tongue plunging in to steal it back. He eats it, his lips smacking. "Delicious."
Next, he picks up the frozen banana. He peels it slowly, the skin coming away in strips. He holds the solid, pale shaft. He leans over me, his tongue flicking out to lick a long, wet stripe up my slit, from my aching hole all the way to my throbbing clit. I cry out, my hips jerking.
"Stay still," he murmurs. Then he guides the blunt, icy tip of the banana to my entrance.
The cold is a shocking, intense invasion. I gasp as he pushes, the rigid fruit stretching me open in a slow, relentless glide. It's so cold inside my hot, clutching depths. My inner walls convulse around it, trying to adjust. He pushes it all the way in, until the base is nestled against my slick, puffy lips.
"Fuck, look at that," he groans. "Your greedy little hole just swallowed that whole frozen fuck. Look how it stretches you."
He picks up more cream, smearing it over the base of the banana and my surrounding folds. He scatters strawberry and blueberry pieces over the sticky mess. Then he takes the honey jar and pours a slow, golden stream. It hits my right tit, oozing over the pancakes and down the heavy curve. He pours more over my belly, the sticky warmth pooling in my navel. He aims the stream lower, drizzling honey over my mound, my inner thighs.
He looks at his work—his bound, trembling, honey-and-cream-covered feast. He actually closes his eyes for a second, as if in prayer. "Thank you for this meal," he murmurs, and then he dives in.
His mouth is hot and hungry on my right breast. He licks the honey, sucks the cream, devours the pancake and fruit, his tongue and teeth scraping against my sensitized nipple. I scream, my back bowing. He moves to the left, feasting with the same filthy, sucking intensity. He laps the honey from my belly, his tongue delving into my pierced navel. Everywhere his mouth goes, it leaves a trail of fire.
Then he's between my legs. He doesn't hesitate. He buries his face in my cream-and-honey-smeared cunt, his tongue spearing deep into my hole alongside the frozen banana. The contrast is insane—the burning heat of his mouth, the shocking cold of the fruit inside me. He sucks my outer lips, licks up every drop of sweetness, his nose nudging my swollen clit.
"Push it out, Mia," he grunts against me, his words vibrating through my flesh. "Push that frozen fuck out for me. Let me taste you clean."
I bear down, my muscles clenching. The banana slides out, slick and glistening with my juices. He catches it with his mouth, sucking it clean before tossing it aside. Then his mouth is back on me, really on me. He French kisses my pussy, his tongue plunging deep, lapping up the combined flavors of honey, cream, and my own salty-wet essence. He sucks my clit into his mouth, worrying it with his tongue, flicking the hard, pierced bead.
"You taste like heaven and sin," he mumbles, his face a wet, messy wreck. "Your cunt is a fucking dessert. My dessert."
He licks my inner thighs, sucking the honey from the soft, trembling flesh. He leaves dark, possessive hickeys in his wake. His hand comes down on my ass cheek again, a sharp smack, then on my clit, a stinging slap that makes me shriek and flood his mouth with a fresh wave of come.
He pulls back, his chin gleaming. He's breathing hard. "Repeat after me, Mia. Say it."
I'm panting, wrecked. "W-what?"
"Say: My cunt belongs to Mr. Callaghan."
The words are filthy, humiliating, thrilling. "My… my cunt belongs to Mr. Callaghan," I whimper.
SMACK. His hand connects with my ass again. "Louder. And mean it."
Tears of overwhelm and arousal sting my eyes. "My cunt belongs to Mr. Callaghan!" I cry out.
"Good girl," he purrs. He unties the ribbon from my wrists in quick, efficient motions. He kisses my shoulders, my neck, his hands roaming over my sticky, marked skin. One hand slides between my legs, his fingers rubbing my oversensitive, swollen flesh. "Don't go playing around with anyone else, sweetie," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "Uncle will punish you so much worse then."
He picks up the last strawberry from the bowl, rolls it through the messy, soaked folds of my pussy, and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, watching me. Then he turns and walks to the door, leaving me splayed, used, and glistening on the table.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I lie there for a long moment, my body humming, covered in the evidence of his feast. Slowly, I push myself up. My limbs feel like jelly. I reach for the bowl, pluck out a single remaining strawberry, and bring it to my lips. I eat it slowly.....