Love Cake

by Maura Martin

 
There I was naked, save for my bib apron with its hem to my knees, spreading cake mix over the walls.
 
No, I wasn't painting the latest commissioned piece for the National Endowment for the Arts, though I think they could take lessons from my imitation of Pollock. My brush in this instance was my hand-held mixer. It had fallen from my grip as my husband rolled my left nipple between thumb and index finger after inserting three fingers into my hot, wet cunny, sawing them in and out in earnest.
 
It started when he told me to undress. He's my husband, but also my Dom and I deny him nothing. If we'd been in the middle of a shopping mall, I still would have done what he required with relish. Not because I'm an exhibitionist, and not because he has some control to coerce me, but because I love to please him. I do what he says, he makes sure I won't get hurt ...or incarcerated.
 
Naked, I went to him as he hung over my neck an apron emblazoned 'Can I cook - or what?'. He used the extra long strings to tie my hands to my waist in the front. It was a debilitating position, but I certainly endured much more restrictive bonds.
 
"I want a cake!" he demanded. I thought that easy enough. I'm a bakery chef and could accommodate him from scratch. "Not knowing how much you needed I bought a bunch of these," he said, removing boxes of Betty Crocker from a paper grocery bag, then laying eggs and vegetable oil on the counter. I wasn't sure whether to be insulted or not, but thought better than to mention it aloud. I couldn't remember the last time I heard of him entering a grocery market. "Willing to let me watch and lech while you bake me a cake, hon?"
 
"Yes, Sir!" I replied enthusiastically. I wondered how long he'd keep his hands from me, hoping it not too long.
 
It wasn't. While on my knees with my head in the cabinet, he goosed my open exposed sex while I retrieved a mixing bowl and a couple of 9" round cake tins. I bumped my head ...on the flesh of his palm. He anticipated my reaction and placed his hand there to protect me. A few moments later, as I stepped down from the counter after retrieving the electric mixer, I found him looking up the hem of my apron. He stepped back and commented, "Nice red beaver..." I just smiled and playfully pushed him away with my toe.
 
I pretended to slip knowing he'd catch me, which he did and lowered me gently. I hesitated, looking into his eyes, hoping for a kiss. "Come on , back to work," he said instead. I moved the chair back to the table and went back to the counter. It took some time and the kitchen-scissors, but I finally poured the powder into the stainless bowl. I cracked the eggs one at a time and using a tablespoon added the oil. I added milk instead of the water because I prefer it.
 
Carefully, I snapped the beater bars into place but for the life of me couldn't reach over the counter to plug in the mixer. "...a little help, Master?" I begged. He wrapped his arms around me embracing from behind, nuzzling his chin into my neck intimately. I held the end of the power cord out, plugging it in while he held me. He directed us in a little slow waltz before letting me go, sending a chill up my spine and warming me romantically. He stood looking over my shoulder as I flipped the mixer's power switch.
 
As I beat the batter he nuzzled his lips into my shoulder and ever so slowly worked his mouth toward my neck. He wrapped me in his arms and rocked me gently as I turned the mixing bowl in a circle.
 
In between kisses on my shoulder he breathed hot-breath down my breast under the apron. Soon two little knobs about the diameter of a pen-cap were clearly visible protruding against the apron. I felt him turn his attention from one to the other as I tried to calm myself. I knew their appearance would draw attention, despite what I thought I wanted. Anticipation of the worst, however, kept them firmly distended against the light canvas. Soon his arms gripped tightly as he watched his little friends. We were taking little dance steps to a cha-cha rhythm in his mind and they moved ever so slightly against the cloth as he watched and encouraged them. He knew his little friends were persuasive: he called them little cheerleaders. They involved the rest of my body in sensualism.
 
Soon enough, his observation over, he slipped his right arm inside the apron over the strings. I felt his warm, bare skin as he gently threaded it inside and under my breast. He hefted the weight of my breast in his palm and kneaded it softly as I gasped, then moaned.
 
"You like, huh, honey?" he asked, and I just grunted my approval, it felt so good. "I've seen the stress you put yourself under lately, and I've seen the results too. For the next couple of hours we're going to forget. Your country is right here at the counter and the world is this kitchen. Until your father comes home, I'm the only other person in your world," he soothed. After a few moments he lightly pinched and rolled my left nipple as he rubbed across my right with the open palm of his left hand. I arched my back pushing my breasts out and my derriere into his stiffening member; all while turning the bowl and beating the batter smooth. I leaned back into him. We were still dancing to that elusive cha-cha beat, but our feet weren't moving.
 
I relaxed into him. My head lolled back onto his left shoulder as the pleasant manipulation continued endlessly. I lost track of time as I engaged the autopilot that long hours of baking professionally had given me. His teasing hands sent little shocks from my breasts straight to where it did good. As the intensity increased, so did my arousal. His hands warmed me. I became wet with desire as the smell of my sex rose behind the apron up between my breasts, just as his hot breath travelled down and ignited the warmth below my naval. That warmth radiated as my hot blood circulated. The smell of sex, his breath, the sweet scent of the batter, and the ozone of the electric motor combined to leave an indelible mark upon my mind. Who knew which scent would remind me of these moments in months to come?
 
His attention returned to my shoulder as he nibbled lightly at the ridge. He worked from the outside in, kissing, nibbling, breathing his now torrid breath heavy and fast on my shoulder. He found one of my many erogenous zones, between my shoulder and collarbone. I felt the lightening strike, my pussy experiencing 100% relative humidity. I knew it just a matter of moments now, with the same sense one has of impending rain, before it precipitated and moistened my whole pubic area. When he made his way to 'that spot' on my neck I shuddered experiencing my first small orgasm. It was just a little 'o', but he murmured his satisfaction at the twitching he felt.
 
I closed my eyes, the batter mix now reduced sufficiently that the bowl spun on its own. I moved my hands together on the handle of the mixer and held on, surrendering myself to the sensations of his ministrations. I squirmed in his arms. He held me even tighter. He moved his left arm under the apron to my stomach and rubbed. To make room for him under the canvas apron the strings tightened. To compensate for the loss of extension I stood on my toes and leaned in to keep the mixer over the bowl relieving the rattle of beaters. His lips followed. His tongue slid in behind my ear. He lapped at my lobe while pinching my nipple. I shuddered again with a little 'o'. He grunted, "uuhm." I squeaked.
 
In this way, rubbing, pinching, positioning, dancing, he kept me horny for much longer than I needed to mix batter, but I endured gladly. I lost track of the number of little 'o's he brought me, they were so numerous.
 
When he had enough, he worked us up for our ultimate climax. I should say he worked me up. He was prepared, as evidenced by his steel-like protuberance thrusting into my back thigh. Even if still within his trousers, I felt it prod me as we danced to the rhythm I felt but did not hear. His hands moved down between my thighs, massaging my already engorged lips blooming as a black orchid in the dark. It occurred to me that he wasn't in front of me, but behind. All he need do was step back. Bent forward just a little, I was certain my wet fleshy folds visible from that vantage-point. A little embarrassed, I blushed more furiously for my wantonness.
 
That fed my lusts. Rubbing now in the cleft between he carefully avoided my clit, rubbing round and round it while sticking three fingers into my hot honey pot, all the time still pinching, twisting and pulling my left nipple and breathing hot and moist along my neck and breast. He kissed ardently, nibbling at my neck and shoulder with soft lips made sanguine by the hot rush we shared. The mixer continued to stir, the bowl continued to rotate as the equilibrium continued at the jagged edge, threatening to spill over and run to completion.
 
He brought me close, working those marvellous digits. I felt the cooling wet in sharp contrast to the heat within me and I yearned, begging "Please! OH PLEASE!" He ignored my pleas as he might a lamb's bleating. I had my fun; as many as eighteen little fleeting instances that served more to whet my need. A deliciously cruel Dominator, I loved him for it, but not during the throes of our passions. All I perceived, and what worried me in the midst, was the depth of his authority and the malicious build in intensity that might never be satisfied, dependent upon his evil temper. I knew him pitiless enough to take me to new heights and then deny me!
 
...and I feared it true! He does occasionally, just to show who's boss and remind me not to be lippy or flippant. I'd been both recently as the stress had me on edge and I forgot myself. I knew the choice wasn't mine whatever it would be. That was what I craved, but also what I feared most. The stress in my life of that time was greater than any I knew before and I knew then that if he did as I suspected it would push me into some kind of crying, whimpering breakdown. I'd be a long time recovering and basically useless while I did. I prayed he knew what was at stake for me. 'Please don't let him deny me. I know I've been so bad lately, but I'll be good! Honest! I'll do so much better! Just let me come!'
 
"You are such a bad little girl. Lately you've been abusing me and those around you, dear. I'm going to end it!" he whispered in my ear.
 
My heart stopped for a beat as what he said filtered through my fogged mind. Now I prayed, 'Please, don't let him be vindictive. Oh, I have to come like this, I just have to! This feels so good, and I want him in me so badly! When he invites me to beg, I will! I will! Anything! Just so that he doesn't deny me!' It continued, rubbing, pinching, positioning, dancing as my need grew proportionately to my fears, the two at odds but feeding each other symbiotically.
 
My need built until the tears came to my eyes. I'm a proud woman. That pride bound me as much as my need now did. I knew for what he waited, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I knew he would continue what he was doing until I did. The level of conflict took a giant step upward. I resisted, waiting for his need to overcome him: for him to open his fly and fuck me.
 
He whispered in my ear, "No darling, I'm quite determined. You will apologize. You will succumb." Then a moment later, "You will beg!" After a longer pause, "I won't stop until you do."
 
It was just a matter of time. He declared himself and he never, ever, went back on his word. I'm a determined woman, and I thought time on my side. I knew that stimulating me as he was that the muscles of his hands and forearms would tire. I knew he couldn't continue forever, but I also was bound. It worried me that if he gave up I still wasn't fucked, but thought in my mind this whole incident then a draw. I could cry for awhile, complain bitterly about the abuse and in that way turn our draw into a win for me. I thought to settle for that. I had it all planned.
 
Only, I couldn't have been more wrong.
 
He whispered low, just audibly, "I know what you think dear, but you know that I can't let you win. Even your draw would be a loss for me as your Master. That's your intent, isn't it?"
 
I thought about remaining silent, just to let him stew. I couldn't bring myself to admit that he knew me that well, but then thought better. Admitting it wouldn't change the plan. He would still tire. Thrusting away from the counter just a little I tested the steel in his trousers and found it comfortably erect. I thought I still had a hand to play, if only to bluff. I nodded affirmation to his question.
 
"You forget too soon the lesson of my determination. Look to your right, over the breakfast counter, into the living room and on the coffee table. What do you see?"
 
Slowly I turned. I thought opening my eyes to be the hardest thing I did that day, until I tried to focus. Using up a lot of reserve I brought the horror of his incredible mind to my eyes and instantly assessed my game to be a loss.
 
"What do you see?" he insisted.
 
I didn't want to look, but I couldn't turn away. "My gag, Master, and 'the toy'." So called, not because I played with it, but because that's what it turned me into when required to wear it. It is a one of a kind device specially constructed for me. It's not per se a dildo or vibrator, as those have hard shells. This is more a soft sack that is very substantial all the same. Internally it's filled with a special ultrasonic fluid and within is an ultrasonic transducer. It is driven by MP3s written to a popular player, the storage of which is about 40 hours of music. The intensity is phenomenal and once locked on it would not release me until it completed its programming.
 
"How long, dear, do you suppose the program is on that device? Can you endure until the batteries exhaust themselves?" I could only groan in reply. He threatened to automate what he now did to me. I knew that it was tuned to keep me just on the jagged edge, just as he did now.
 
As he did always, he built me up layer upon layer until submission was as much a fact as if I'd already capitulated. He left me only two options and one was unthinkable. I knew he had no compunction about subjecting me to the torture. I didn't even have to see his eyes to know they were huge as saucers and jet black with his damnable rage that seethed just below the surface. The passions on both sides were operating at catastrophic levels. "You know what I want, dear," he calmly exclaimed. After a minute more he brought it to a head, and I thought for sure I would blow apart and immolate myself: my psyche, "...twenty seconds, dear."
 
He was telling me to give in because he never would. "...fifteen,"
 
Around about twelve seconds I gave in, "Oh, God! Please, please, Master! Oh, please fuck your sluttish wench! This wench has such a wet needy cunt and it cries out!" I cried openly now, the tears streamed from my eyes, dripped from my chin to my breasts where in turn it ran down to my pussy that itself continued to weep. "Please, Master! Oh, please! This sluttish wench knows it has not been itself lately, but you know the tremendous pressures weighing upon it! It's so sorry for its churlish behaviour. It's been so dreadful, it knows, and it deserves to be punished, but please, it needs you so badly! You've seen to that! This sluttish wench begs, please; don't deny it your cock. Your cock is so big and satisfying and if it doesn't feel it in its wet hot honey-hole soon it, it will bust, it will explode before you. This sluttish wench is nothing without you! Don't diminish it further by denying it! That would kill it! Oh please, it knows it's not worthy, but it begs, take pity upon it!" I continued bawling on the verge of breaking down.
 
"Who's your Master?"
 
Instantly I screamed, "You are!"
 
"Who's always in control?"
 
"You are!"
 
"Who owns every part of you?"
 
"Only you, Master!"
 
"What should I do with you, sluttish wench?" he asked only half in jest.
 
"Please Master, punish your sluttish wench, but first take pity on your property and fuck it!"
 
It was many seconds before I realized that nothing changed! I couldn't fucking believe it! He won! He stripped me of everything! I gave him all power, and it seemed now he was undecided! 'Pity me and fuck me, or punish me and lock me in that monstrosity, but get on with it,' I thought! Then it occurred to me, maybe he's thought of something even worse! It continued, rubbing, pinching, positioning, dancing, all while he finger fucked me without cease! I began to think he would keep it up indefinitely just to prove he could.
 
"Perhaps we should recapitulate what you just said."
 
What he really wanted was to prove my total loss of control. I broke down. I became hysterical. I wouldn't stop crying. It never occurred to me that one of his options was to do nothing different at all!
 
At that point he knew that if he asked I would slit my wrists, if only he fucked me first. I was broken. There was nothing more of me to give. The only thing left now was to build me back up. He pulled his right arm out from under the apron. I still didn't know what would happen; only that something would. I knew nothing until I heard his zipper descending. My further distress was brought about by my relief, "Oh, God, thank you, Master!" I cried out between sobs.
 
He lifted me at the hips and lifted the mixer right out of the batter. The beaters spun at an even higher speed, relieved of their batter burden. The batter went everywhere, all over me, all over the counter, and all over the wall in front of me. I quickly turned it off but it was too late. Worse, as he brought me down and pushed me against the counter I pushed the bowl out of the way. I gave it a sharp shove in the only direction it could move. Unfortunately that was up against the wall before me. The batter rose up in a wave as the bowl crashed against the wall and spread against it. I figured I'd lost about half the batter, but a heartbeat later it was moot.
 
He thrust into me and buried himself to the hilt. No more dancing, positioning, or pinching. Just plain fucking is what happened. I started coming on the third thrust, clamping pussy down on his cock. About ten slow strokes later he spent his sticky load in me and I was truly grateful, gripping wilfully on his member with the hope it wouldn't end. For his part he started all over again, hardening instantaneously. He brought me to two more spectacular orgasms before it was clear that I couldn't handle another. Quickly he finished his second as I cried out and kegelled him as he thrust to completion.
 
Though spent emotionally and crying, it was not the end of the ordeal. I mixed another box of cake mix after stemming my flow of tears. Retrieving another 9" cake pan, then greasing and flouring them all, I poured mix in each while the oven warmed. After relieving myself at his behest he reversed my wrist bonds; tying my hands behind after encasing them in oven-mitts and inserting my gag. The next hour I spent tied to the handle on the oven door. "If those cakes fall I'll punish you more severely than I now do for spilling the mix."
 
That was an admonition not to move lest I clap the oven door attempting to escape my bonds or the heat radiating onto the backs of my legs. He moved my hair over my shoulder to the front, sliding it under the strings binding me.
 
He slipped heels on my feet and buckled on leather cuffs about my ankles. The extra height of the heels bent me backwards to relieve the tension upon my wrists and the oven door. He used the d-rings of the ankle-cuffs to spread me wide with a bar, bending me back further. Satisfied, he left me to stew in my own juices. The heat built and to relieve my overheated calves and thigh-backs I stepped forward, away from the oven, bending me back obscenely. For 40 minutes I baked just like my cakes. Strawberry, the cakes were as pink as my exposed skin. Checking periodically, he made sure that I wasn't burned.
 
At the end he sniffed the air. Content, he pronounced me, "Done." Stepping into me and cradling me as in a dip during a dance, kissed me endlessly. Helpless I could do nothing but enjoy and return the affection. When he was done he proclaimed me, "Fit to eat!" I watched as he removed a tub of strawberry frosting from his grocery-bag.
 
Selecting a wooden spatula from the counter he returned smiling. After a long moment he dropped out of sight. He lifted the apron hem and literally slapped frosting onto my twat, working it deep into the cleft, under the hood over my clit, and over the perineum to my anus. Between the intent demonstrated and the irritation of the slapping application it was a wonder I didn't collapse. He popped up long enough to set the remainder aside. Turning back he exclaimed, "Frosted cheesecake! Yummmmmmmmmm!" and dropped from sight.
 
He had his cake, all three layers, and ate some too. What I served at dinner was only a little burned.
 
Love Cake 2002, Maura Martin.All rights reserved. Not to be reprinted without written permission of the author
 
Now available @ Amatory Ink, Maura Martin's "A Day in My Life" and NEW! "Julie, Transgendered," the first of a series.
 
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