“Would you like a muffin?”
I must confess, I had my doubts. Could it really work? Would we all regret it in the morning? Would I be able to satisfy two glorious specimens of womanhood simultaneously without smudging my lipstick or dishevelling my hair?
Yet, as I devoured my home baked treat, fragrant crumbs spilling down my cleavage to be greedily consumed by the eager mouths at work in that voluptuous valley, I knew with certainty that this consummation was inevitable. I could worry about the logistics or I could abandon myself to pure pleasure. I cast aside the rest of my cake and tore open my blouse in one swift movement. After all, my hair is a mess anyway and I always have lipstick in my bag.
My bosom heaved with pent up passion. The crumbs bobbed up and down, pleasingly.
“You make fucking good cakes,” I breathed, lustily.
“Thank you,” she replied, dabbing up the remaining fragments of muffin with a dampened fingertip and feeding them to me with digit sucking sauciness.
“And you,” I said, turning slightly to accept the proffered glass, “have exquisite taste in wine.”
“Thanks,” she smiled, her tongue capturing an errant drop of spilled alcohol from my wrist with delicate lasciviousness.
“And you both,” I continued, sprawling beneath a vaulted ceiling of skin, satin and lace, “smell so delicious I could eat you.”
“It’s looking that way, yes.”