Download: Barry White - Never, Never Gonna Give You Up on SendSpace or YouSendIt (coming soon.)
Begin the song, then read the fic. Rated B for Bakery porn, but is really just a man and his need for a hot chocolate-chip cookie. UH. My husband gave this a thumbs up. And wants me to bake him some cookies now.
His heart pounded and raced. His need was overwhelming, consuming him. He poured a tall glass of ice-cold milk, laid out a spatula, oven mitts, the cooling rack. The smell hit his nose like a wave crashing on the beach and almost pulled him under.
He stepped closer to the oven - but not too close! - he wasn't ready to make contact just yet. A red tongue poked out to moisten lips. Blue eyes burned with desire. Kitchen apron was tied in front - suggestive? Oh, hell yes. That apron could be untied with the barest touch, with only a whisper of intent.
A long, slender finger slid across the door handle, just a tease, really. The timer clicked forward one. More. Notch.
A hoarse whisper: "Bitch."
The flat of his hand slid gently along the seductive curve of the oven door handle and he got down on his knees in supplication.
"I didn't mean it, god- !"
A roughened cheek pressed against the tempered glass front, inner heat that barely seeped out belied the inferno that burned within. "It's just... I want you - I need you so bad, I can't help myself, and - ."
His finger traced the circle of the timer, lips parted, eyes closed, as he sensed the last click tremble - almost time.
He exhaled on the glass and used both forefingers to trace a small heart in the condensation and let his fingertips slide up the glass, unable to let go for a minute as he stood. The timer buzzed and he bit his lip to hold back a moan. Carefully, and with both hands, he pulled the hot tray out. They had to cool for two minutes or they'd fall apart. Patience was the hallmark of his skills as a lover. And as a baker. He spoke to them instead. Cooed. Noticed every chocolate chip. Whispered to the Chosen First.
Cautiously, his eyes wide and mouth frozen in an "O," he held his breath as he slid the spatula under the cookie that would be First. Slowly, slowly, both hands holding the handle - he didn't dare touch the cookie yet, oh no - he freed the baked treat from the dark, slick metal of the pan on which it had been baked.
The cookie slid completely onto the flat, wide surface of the spatula and then, only then, was he able to sigh with relief, breath slipping from his mouth with hot need. With reverence, the cookie was gently placed on a plate - his special plate. There would be nothing but the best for his desserts.
Slowly he leaned forward, eyes closed, and breathed in the heady aroma it gave off. He traced along the edge to ready it, always gentle, but his intent known. Thick eyelashes fluttered open, eyes of faded-denim burned, smoldered.
It was time.
He picked up the sweet, sweet cookie, held it to his mouth, full lips parted, and waved it side to side teasing himself, his need growing with every pass, unable to stop the whimper that escaped. Just the tip, the barest edge of his tongue reached out and touched the very center of one of the hot, melting chocolate chips, then quickly protected it, enveloped that blessed chip with his lips, teeth pressing down, biting, separating the Chosen Chip from the others, singling it out, as it Became One with his mouth.
The fingers on his free hand curled around the edge of his apron and he was unable to stop the flood of moisture in his mouth as the bite caressed his tongue.
I have to pace myself. Mustn't deprive the others.
The milk stood alone on the red velvety place-mat. A single drop of condensation slowly ran down the side of the glass.
Quietly, seductively, "Baby, I didn't forget you, don't cry."
Now that the first, perfect bite had been taken, the still-hot cookie was prepared to slide inside the tight mouth of the glass, to join with the ice-cold milk. He dipped one long finger into the glass, swirled the white surface and suckled the wet cream that clung to the tip.
Dipped once, dipped twice, then quickly placed on his tongue like a communion wafer to be held, savored slowly, to dissolve in his sultry mouth, then be transfigured into something larger than just a cookie and milk. His senses were overcome with hot and cold, sweet chocolate and mild cookie, creamy milk. A rapturous expression spread over his face as he leaned back in his chair, hands grasping and relaxing convulsively as the final traces of sweet slid over tongue and down further to fill his belly.
He breathed deeply through his nose, opened his eyes and blinked several times to rouse himself from his sugar-coated stupor. He circled the cool edge of the milk glass and whispered, "Eleven more to go."
So who wants a cookie? (And apparently it's kita0610's b-day! Happy birthday, Kita.)
cross posted to _willferrell for comm play.