Custard on Her Tits

The bowl was custard and a pretext.

Lila was thirty-six. Her boyfriend Owen was not this Owen. This was Hart, thirty-nine, and he had said, over pasta, that he wanted her messy and sweet and not cleaned up until he had come on it. She had bought the custard. She had put a towel on the kitchen floor. She had texted him one line: bring your cock and no manners.

He arrived hard. She met him naked, a smear of custard already on her collarbone.

"Rules," she said. "On skin. Not in eyes. You can come on me. I want to see it. Shower after, not before."

"Yes."

She painted his mouth. He licked her fingers. She pushed him onto the towel and straddled him, custard on her tits, his hands sliding in it. The kiss tasted of vanilla and want. She stroked his cock with a slick fist and sank down. He groaned. She rode him slow, icing-thick custard on his chest, her cunt tight, the towel taking the drip.

"Messier."

He scooped it onto her stomach and fucked up into her. She came with her forehead on his, laughing, sweet in her hair. He lifted her off, laid her back, and came across her tits and the custard in thick stripes. She dragged a finger through the mix and sucked it clean.

"Don't you dare fetch a cloth," she said.

"I wasn't going to."

She pulled him down and kissed him, salt and sugar, and told him the bed was next and the towel was coming with them.

Hart carried her to the bed with the towel and the bowl. Lila lay back and let him paint custard down her stomach, over her cunt, and then lick it off until she was holding his hair and coming, sweet and salt. He pushed into her, slick, and fucked her until the sheet was a crime. She told him to pull out and come on the mess. He did, stripes over custard and skin. She rubbed it in with two fingers and fed him one.

"Shower is allowed now," she said. "But you fuck me in it before the water wins."

He did. Tile, steam, his cock in her, custard still in her hair. She came with a hand on the glass. He came on her arse and watched it run. They bagged the towel after, laughing. In the morning she was still faintly sweet. He fucked her before coffee, no custard, just the memory, and came inside her. She texted him a photo of the empty bowl at lunch. He replied with a time and the word towel. She was already wet.

The second bowl was worse. Lila straddled Hart on the towel and painted his cock, then sank down and rode him while custard dripped onto the cotton. She came laughing. He came on her tits and she wore the mix to the shower, where he fucked her before the water won. They bagged another towel. She bought custard in bulk, which was absurd. He fucked her on the cheap sheets with a smear on her mouth and came inside her. She said the mess was the foreplay and the fuck. He said it was his favourite night. The bowl lived by the kettle. Visitors would have thought they baked. They did not bake. They ruined towels and called it a date.

Hart started keeping a towel in his bag. Lila called that commitment. She met him naked, bowl ready, and painted a line from his throat to his cock. She licked it, then sat on him, and the custard went everywhere it was supposed to. She came. He came on her tits. She mixed it and sucked her finger and told him the shower could wait until he was hard again. He was. They fucked on the wet towel, laughing, and bagged it after like evidence. In the morning there was custard in her hair and his come on the sheet and neither of them apologised to the linen. She ordered more from the shop. The woman at the counter assumed a trifle. Lila smiled and did not correct her.

Lila stopped pretending the custard was dessert. She texted Hart the word towel and met him with the bowl already out. He painted her, licked her, fucked her on the cotton, and came on the mess. She rubbed it in and rode him again, sticky, loud, and came with vanilla in her teeth. The shower took the evidence only after the second round. She bought a cheaper brand. He said he could not tell. She said good, because the mess was the point and the brand was not. They ruined a third towel on Sunday and hung it on the door like a flag. He got hard seeing it. She got wet. They used the flag before it was dry.

They did the floor again on Wednesday, worse, a full bowl and no plan to be decent. Lila came twice, once on his tongue through the custard and once on his cock, and Hart came on her tits and her mouth because she asked. She swallowed a mix of it and laughed. The towel was retired. A new one took the job. She sent him the receipt for the custard and he sent back a photo of his cock, hard, waiting. She was in a cab ten minutes later. They did not bake. They did not apologise. The kettle watched and was not consulted.

Sunday was a disaster in the good way. Lila used the whole bowl. Hart was custard from chest to cock. She rode him on the towel until the cotton squelched and she came, then he came on her tits and she mixed it and licked it and put him back in her for the slow one. The shower ran cold before they were done. She hung the towel on the door. He got hard in the hall seeing it. They fucked against the door, no custard, just the memory, and came, and the kettle finally got used for tea. The trifle woman would have been shocked. They were not.

Hart arrived the next night already hard and carrying a second towel, which Lila called romance. She used half a bowl on his cock and half on her tits and rode him until the new cotton was a loss. She came with her mouth open and custard on her chin. He came across her chest and she mixed it, sucked her fingers, and told him to fuck her in the shower before the hot water gave out. He did. She came again with her heel on the ledge. They bagged the towel, ordered noodles, and ate them sticky. She said the mess had a standing night now. He said Wednesday. She put it in her phone. The trifle woman remained uninformed. The kettle remained underused. The door flag remained obscene.

They did it once more before sleep, custard forgotten, just his cock and her cunt and the towel still on the floor as a witness. She came. He came in her. The flag stayed on the door. He got hard every time he passed it.