April Fooled
[This story takes place two hours after April’s Fool, which I recommend reading first. But if you don’t want to, here’s a brief summary…
Previously, we were introduced to April, who bullies her himbo boyfriend and has never tasted his — or anyone’s — semen because “that’s dirty.” She won’t allow him to come in her mouth, and she’s tired of being asked to. She plans to take revenge for his nagging by making two rhubarb fools, with his incompetent assistance. The two desserts appear identical, although one contains a surprise: April encouraged her boyfriend to masturbate into it. Her deal is that she’ll pick one dessert, and he’ll take the other; if she eats the one with his semen in, she’ll let him come in her mouth in future, but if he eats it, he’ll know what semen tastes like and he’ll stop asking her to swallow his. She intends to cheat, because she knows the semen is in the glass with a tiny occlusion in its stem.]
Oh my, he’s tried to be a clever boy. I’ll make him pay for that later.
Dinner was marvellous: partly because I cooked it, mostly because I was so looking forward to humiliating him during dessert. But he’s smarter than I thought. Or perhaps he’s simply a hopeless romantic?
He was busy while I was in the bath. He didn’t just clean up the kitchen: he laid the dining table, lit vanilla candles, and put a rose from the garden beside my place setting. So far, so predictably romantic. Except April 1 is not a romantic holiday, and predictability would demand a red rose. But he chose a Ballerina — pink on the outside and cream in the middle, like one of the two desserts he’s just brought to the table.
The stems of both glasses have been completely wrapped in red ribbons — from my craft room! — tied in characteristically scrappy bows. The tell-tale occlusion is obscured; the desserts are genuinely indistinguishable now. He’s no romantic. He saw through my game, and he’s outplayed me.
So which fool has his muck in? It’s a toss up. Ironic, considering that’s how his horn created my dilemma.
I could unwrap one glass, or refuse to eat from either, but his treacherous little trick is a challenge to the finely balanced power dynamic I’ve established. If I show my hand now, or try to back out of our deal, that would tip the scales in his favour. So I have to pick a fool, blind, and whichever one I get, I must eat it. All of it.
The first few spoonsful were exactly as I expected: a rich, delectable blend of sweet, silky cream and the earthy tartness of rhubarb. Perfect. And it should be: while I didn’t prepare it myself, I supervised him closely as he did the work. This is my creation, and it’s as delicious as I expected.
But I know now that I chose the wrong glass. I can see that I did. His foul emission didn’t mix with the fool. It’s sitting there, in the centre, a little puddle of viscous spunk, polluting my beautiful dessert. And from the way he’s grinning, he’s seen it too.
I eat carefully from around the edges while I consider my options.
I have two choices, and giving up isn’t one of them. I can stir his seed in and hope rhubarb and sugar work together to mask its flavour, or I can go for a power move.
Power is what this is all about, and I will not surrender it easily. So I do the only thing I can: I scoop up his semen, grit my teeth behind a winsome smile, and lift the spoon to my mouth. That faint chlorine smell, so pleasing in cleaning products, always makes me shudder, even when I’m not this close to it. But I hold my nose, close my eyes, and — oh god — take a spoonful of cold cum into my mouth.
It’s… different. Like the last remnants of a thick, over-salted clam chowder, left in the fridge so long it’s starting to go off. That’s something of a shock to my taste buds, which had accustomed themselves to rhubarb fool, but I have to confess, it’s not actually unpleasant.
I remember the first oyster I ate; the first time I felt caviar burst against the roof of my mouth; my first mouthful of slimy, pungent nattō: how I balked at each strange new taste and texture, and how much I savour them as delicacies now.
And I swallow.
I can feel his gelid spunk sliding down my throat, but it’s also stayed in my mouth, coating my tongue with intriguing layers of flavour. His semen tastes almost sweet yet somehow bitter; slightly soapy, mostly salty, and entirely, excitingly, almost orgasmically dirty. I wonder how much better it is when its served warm?
I open wide and stick my tongue out, to show him I’m true to my word. “There. I’ve swallowed your seed, like one of those cheap tarts you used to date, and it was disgusting. I may vomit. But you won, fair and square, so I suppose I should give you a ‘proper’ blowjob now. I’ll have to suck your cock until you can’t hold back any longer and you flood my mouth with spurt after spurt of hot, sticky… ahem… I mean, obviously I don’t want to do that but a deal is a deal, so we definitely should do it, right now.”
He scrapes the last of the fool from his glass, sucks his spoon clean, and smiles at me. “I’ll have to take a rain check, I’m afraid. I’ve come twice in the last two hours; I don’t think I could manage another orgasm so soon.”
Oh my! He really is a clever boy. Although in all fairness, he only had the opportunity to be clever because of my brilliant plan. So I deserve the credit, and we should share his reward, as soon as he’s ready to give it to me.
Linked to Wicked Wednesday
