Frosting on Her Mouth

The cake was a lie. Bea had iced it at midnight and then texted Will one line: come hungry, don't be neat. She was thirty-six. He was thirty-nine. They had been fucking for a year and had only just admitted the messy thing, said out loud over pasta, both of them going quiet and hard.

He arrived with rain on his coat. She met him in the kitchen in a T-shirt and nothing else, a bowl of frosting on the counter, a smear already on her wrist.

"Rules," she said. "Food on skin. Not in anyone's eyes. Shower after. You can come on me. I want to see it."

"Yes."

She dipped two fingers and painted his mouth. He licked them clean. She laughed, pushed him into a chair, and straddled him, frosting on her tits, his hands sliding in it. The kiss tasted of sugar and want. She stroked his cock with a slick hand and guided him in. He groaned. She rode him slow, icing on his chest, her cunt tight, the chair complaining.

"Messier," she said.

He scooped frosting onto her stomach and fucked up into her. She came with her forehead on his, laughing, sugar in her hair. He lifted her onto the counter, pushed back in, and came across her tits when she told him to pull out and look. White on white. She dragged a finger through it and sucked it clean.

"Shower," she said. "Then the bed. I want your come on the sheet and no apology."

He gave her both.

The shower was a second scene, not a cleanup. Will soaped the sugar off her tits and then fucked her against the tile, slippery, laughing, her heel up on the ledge. Bea came with water in her mouth. He came on her stomach again because she pointed, and the frosting was gone and the want was not. In the bed she spread the old towel and told him to make a mess on purpose. He fucked her, pulled out, and striped the cotton and her cunt. She rubbed it in and kissed him, sweet and salt. The cake went in the bin. They did not apologise to it.

Bea did not let the shower end it. She pushed Will onto the towel and painted a last stripe of frosting down his cock, then licked it off until he was swearing. She sat on him, sugar on her mouth, and rode him until the chair memory was a joke and the bed was the mess. He held her hips and fucked up. She came with icing in her hair. He came on her tits again, because she leaned back and told him to. They laughed. The bin took the cake. The towel took the rest. She texted him the next day: same bowl, less cake, more you. He arrived hungry.

The second bowl was worse and better. Bea straddled Will on the kitchen floor and iced his cock, then sank down and rode him while sugar dripped onto the tile. He fucked up into her and came on her stomach when she lifted off and told him to paint her. She rubbed it into the frosting and kissed him with a filthy mouth. They showered only after the second round, and even then he fucked her against the tile before the sugar was gone. She texted him a photo of the empty bowl. He replied with a time. The cake was never the point. Her mouth was. His come on her tits was. They kept the cheap icing in the fridge like a promise.

Bea kept the icing spoon in the drawer like other people keep toys. Will came over on a Wednesday and she did not bother with a cake. She painted his mouth, his cock, her tits, and rode him on the counter until sugar hit the floor. She came laughing. He came on her chest and she wore it to the shower, where he fucked her again before the water won. She said the mess was the foreplay and the fuck. He said he would bring strawberries next time and no dignity. She said good. They ate the berries off each other and ruined another towel. The neighbours heard the shower. They did not hear the laugh, or they pretended not to.

They stopped buying cakes. Bea bought icing by the tub and Will arrived already hard. She fed him a finger of it, then stroked it onto his cock and sat down. The kitchen floor took the mess. She came with sugar in her teeth. He came on her mouth because she asked, and she licked her lip and laughed. Shower, then bed, then his come on the towel she had stopped apologising for. She said this was the filthiest nice thing they did. He said it was his favourite night of the week. The bowl lived by the kettle. Anyone visiting would have thought they baked. They did not bake.

She licked a last smear off his thumb and told him to leave the bowl out. He did. They fucked once more in the sugar grit and called it dessert.