Sinful Sunday: Waiting

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Kuchen Wunsch

A version of this piece was originally written for Exhibit A when he was running a marathon and asked for stories about running and sex. I raced last weekend and I recently had an amazing piece of cake, so this story came back to my mind. He enthusiastically encouraged me to share it.

In Munich it isn’t easy to find a meal that’s healthy rather than heavy but for my last meal before the marathon I needed to eat reasonably light. I found a café open early for dinner and explained that I simply wanted grilled chicken and a green salad. Of course it was served with fried potatoes on the side. I’m not one to deny myself pleasures so I took a few bites, salty and greasy and magnificent, before returning to my plain chicken and large glass of water. I wanted a beer. The weather was perfect for sitting all night in a biergarten but it would have to wait for tomorrow. Okay, so sometimes I do deny myself pleasures, at least temporarily.

The waiter cleared my plates. Behind him appeared a buxom young woman holding a dessert tray. So much powdered sugar and sculpted chocolate it held that fairy tale enchantment that Bavaria oozes with.

“Haben Sie einen Kuchen Wunsch?” Her large blue eyes begged me to take a piece of cake, and they begged for something more from me. Kuchen Wunsch, cake wish. The phrasing charmed me almost as much as her blushing pink cheeks. I did have a wish to take her back to my hotel and see just how flushed I could make those cheeks but it was one of those pleasures that would have to wait. I couldn’t expend the energy so close to the race.

My eyes lingered on the bit of cleavage peeking from her scoop-neck blouse before settling on her tray of sweets. If I wasn’t going to fuck her, I would definitely be having a piece of cake. I chose a kirschtorte, black forest.

Her thumb slipped as she handed me the plate, sliding through the top layer of cherry syrup and cream. She made to draw back and apologize but I placed my fingertips on the back of her hand. Her eyes encouraged me. I raised her thumb to my lips and kissed her offered confection, licking the cream from my lips. Suddenly shy, she drew her hand back and I let her. More than anything else that little gesture of pulling away made me so hard. I planned to enjoy my cake then go back to my hotel room and think of her.

After the last bite, I ran my finger across the place through the syrup and cream then licked it. I wanted to smell like the cake, and like her. I wanted to smell the sticky sweetness on myself later.

Alone in my room, I turned off all the lights, undressed, and sank into the soft, thick comforter. I held my fingers to my nose and inhaled the almost sickly sweet scent of cream and chocolate. I moved my hand to my hard cock, imagining her large blue eyes watching me and her cheeks blushing deeper with every stroke I took. When I came, I imagined myself drizzling cum over her breasts and the dessert tray, like icing.

**

I’d been going along at a nice pace, stopping for water every few miles. I felt like I would finish with no problem, maybe even a personal record. The weather was perfect. The crowd was jubilant. I felt confident in my training and in my choice of dinner and activity the previous night, especially the cake.

In a race as long as a marathon, I always start to get hungry around the halfway point. I considered stopping for one of my gels. I was used to them but for some reason today they seemed so unappetizing. When the hunger became strong enough that I had no choice, though, I paused to fish one out of my shorts pocket.

In that moment I smelled cake. I glanced up to see I’d stopped in front of a patisserie and several of the spectators held sweet confections in their hands. It seemed a cruel joke, a bakery at this point along the marathon route. The sweet scent of kirschtorte reached me. My dick twitch. I saw her. The woman who’d granted my cake wish stood in the crowd, eating the kirschtorte, a bit of cream smeared across her lips. She saw me and smiled. Suddenly my dick became hard and I could think of nothing else but wanting those cream-smeared lips around my cock.

Discipline. I ran another couple miles, my dick surprisingly hard for the amount of exertion I was using the rest of my body for. When I arrived at a bank of portable toilets, I ducked into one. I raised my hand to my face. I hadn’t showered that morning so my fingers still smelled slightly of the sugar and my cum from last night, erasing the odor of the urine and shit from the marathoners that had already used that toilet. I closed my eyes and again I thought of her large eyes and blushing cheeks, this time with the bit of cream on her lips, imagining them sucking me hard, then me licking the sweet cream and cum off of them. When I came I imagined coming over her breasts then dusting them with powdered sugar and licking them clean.

I continued on with the race, determined to find that café again fulfill all my Kuchen Wunsch that evening.

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Sinful Sunday: Sunscreen

 

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Sun

“She could feel the sun penetrating even into her bones; nay, farther, even
into her emotions, her thoughts.” – D.H. Lawrence, Sun

I stared at the slightness of her shoulders. She’d put the sunscreen on my back already, sloppy, like a child rushing through a chore before going out to play. I’m certain she missed a spot. It didn’t matter, though.

The thick white cream had a slightly floral scent. I rubbed her shoulders, marveling how one of my hands completely covered one of her shoulder blades. I rubbed slowly, deep. She sat stone still. This was sunscreen only, a practicality, nothing more to her. This was my opportunity to touch the skin on her back but I’d get no response.

I moved slowly across the back of her neck, remembering kissing that exact spot late last night. I moved down, slipping my fingers underneath the tie of her bikini top that stretched across her pale back. She loved the sun but preferred to stay pale. She worshipped the sun. She knew I hated so much heat and brightness but she brought me along on these beach holidays for exact this purpose. Lotion application.

My fingers slipped along the string to the side of one breast, exposed by a tiny triangle of fabric that only just covered her nipple. She willed herself to stay still, to not let her body betray anything. She might let me get away with a little fun but I shouldn’t push it. One finger strayed across her nipple. It tightened and hardened at my touch but her face didn’t flinch. Behind the sunglasses, under the large-brimmed hat, what the world could see of her face was as white and immoveable as marble.

“That will do,” she announced a moment later. I shifted back to my own towel and watched her lie down. Stretched and ready for the sun to work its magic on her. I was jealous of the sun. I didn’t want it watching her. I didn’t want anything or anyone but me watching her. In that bikini, though, plenty of other beach-goers would see. I hated that she brought me to the public beach. I had to watch others steal furtive glances at her all day long. Some would outright stare. And why shouldn’t they? She intentionally put herself on display for the sun and the vacationers to view.

I fidgeted on my towel. I’d forgotten a book but I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on it anyway. It was too hot. My forehead was slick with sweat and sunscreen. Even with sunglasses on the glare from the water gave me a headache. I reached for a water bottle and drank deeply from it. Icy droplets fell on my chest. I briefly considered flicking some of the cold condensation droplets across her stomach but I gave up that thought as quickly as it entered my mind. She wasn’t that kind of playful.

“Go take a swim,” she murmured, followed by the lazy sigh she always let out just before she fell asleep. There was nothing for me to do except follow her order.

The water was beautiful, clear and blue, but not at all refreshing. It was a warm bath on a hot day. I swam, though. I swam out as far from the beach as I could. The shallow water in the cove remained too warm. I didn’t know if the moisture on my forehead was sweat or saltwater spray. I turned and looked back at the beach. By the bright color of our beach towels I could pick her out easily. Such a crowded fucking beach and I knew her well enough to know she really was dozing contentedly under the gaze of everyone. Including the sun.

I put my feet up and floated on my back in the saltwater. She wouldn’t be ready for me yet. As I bobbed I thought about what would happen later but I didn’t dare touch myself, despite how much my body needed and wanted it. She would know.

I imagined her sun-heated body lounging on the cool, crisp bed linens in our cabana. Trees in the garden casting the room in shade, windows open with a warm tropical breeze blowing in. She liked to lick the saltwater from my skin. The scenario sustained me, kept me afloat. Distracted me from her display on the beach. She would be all mine.

Several hours later I confirmed that she did miss a spot with the sunscreen. Searing pain on my back when I showered. A white handprint surrounded by scorching red skin. I could see the imprint of her fingertips curling slightly around my waist. She held onto me always.

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