Chapter 4 #3
One more raspberry. A blackberry, firmer than the rest.
Each one slides in with its own particular resistance, the juice bursting and mingling with the cream and salt already inside him. It’s gorgeous, filthy and excessive.
I lick my fingers. The taste is already changing.
“He’s turning into dessert.”
“I want to taste what we’ve made.”
Jean lets out a choked sound, hips rocking backward instinctively. He’s still holding the bag over his cock, both to keep it from spilling and perhaps to keep himself from touching—though he’s clearly struggling.
Hessou is the first to try.
I watch him lower his face, spreading Jean’s cheeks open with both hands. The sight from his angle must be obscene—cream-slicked skin flushed and stretched, the rim swollen from everything we worked into it, the fruit nestled just inside.
He breathes him in like perfume.
Then his tongue flicks out.
Jean moans as if struck by an electric jolt, his entire body seizing against the counter.
I press a hand to the small of his back to steady him, but my eyes are locked on Hessou—on his mouth tracing soft, maddening circles around Jean’s rim, his tongue pressing in, seeking out the berry nestled closest to the edge.
He pulls it out with his mouth.
A raspberry, crushed and dripping, deep red against his teeth. He turns to me with a look of delight and offers it with his tongue, holding it there like a gift.
I lean down and eat it right from him, our lips smearing with sweet juice. The flavor hits my mouth in a burst—fruit, salt, heat—and I groan aloud.
More.
I bury my face in the mess, licking slow swipes through the melting cream. I feel Hessou’s lips bump against mine as we both try to suck the same stripe of salt-sweet slickness from Jean’s inner thigh.
We laugh, and return to the warmth of Jean’s hole. “Push for me, just a little,” I say, and Jean does, yielding another berry.
Hessou takes it from me greedily, licking my lips afterward like he’s trying to coax me into feeding him more.
And I do.
A raspberry. Then a mulberry. We pass them between us, painting our saliva in deep reds and purples, chewing them with mouths open, mess dripping from chins, sweet juice and cream and Jean all mixed into a mess of lust and appetite.
I’m drunk on it.
I fish out one last piece of fruit with my tongue and rise on trembling legs, my breath shuddering. I step around to face Jean.
His eyes meet mine, unfocused and teary.
I cup his cheek and push my thumb between his lips, prying his mouth open to feed him the berry from my own mouth, and he moans as our lips meet.
The fruit squishes between us, juice and cream leaking from the corners of our mouths.
We kiss, smearing each other with the sweet, messy proof of what we’ve made of him.
Behind him, Hessou has returned to his work.
His hand slips between Jean’s cheeks again, probing gently, his tongue following to lap away any trace of the fruit left behind.
Jean’s knees buckle. He makes a sound into my mouth that’s somewhere between a cry and a plea. I swallow it whole.
“Let me fuck you?” I ask against his mouth.
Jean looks at me with glazed eyes and lips that are wet, pink and bitten. But his voice is clear, soft but certain.
“Yes, please. It… it feels so good,” he says, voice filled with wonder. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
I brush hair away from his forehead, kiss the sweat there, and smile.
“You’re perfect.”
I move behind him, guiding him to keep one knee propped on the stool. He’s already soft and open, the cream and berries having done their beautiful damage. His hole glistens, swollen and messy and inviting.
I stroke my cock once, and guide myself into him.
He gasps.
His body yields to me inch by inch, and I feel the cream inside him, warmed to a silken heat. It coats my cock, binding us together, and I moan at the sensation, at the absurd rightness of it.
It feels like being swallowed by something holy.
“You’re so good,” I whisper, kissing his spine. “So perfect.”
Jean moans, bracing himself, his hips rocking back.
Hessou’s hand lands on my hip. Then my back.
“You should see yourself,” he tells Jean. “So open and flushed. So wet and ruined. Beautiful.”
Jean lets out a moan, and it is the sound of lust made manifest. It’s the vibration of pure need—a sound so obscene and glorious it feels like he’s just given lust a voice for the very first time.
Hessou smiles, leans up to kiss my neck.
“You feel it?”
I nod, body shaking.
His hand slips around to my stomach, fingers tracing upward to play with my nipple. Then he presses a kiss to Jean’s back.
“Good boy.”
Jean moans, hips rocking, and I fuck into him.
The first thrust makes him cry out, a desperate ah that echoes in the kitchen. The next pulls a moan from his throat so shaky it borders on a sob.
“God! God, it’s—”
I thrust again, deep, and he keens.
“Too much?” I ask, panting, my hands spread over his back.
“No,” he chokes out, hips pushing back into me. “Please.”
Hessou chuckles softly. “He likes being filled. Look at him.”
I do.
His back glistens with sweat. His thighs are shaking. His entire body trembles, his fight to stay still a lost cause—he is overstimulated, spread wide, needy.
And with every shift of my hips, the slick sounds grow wetter and filthier.
Hessou leans over Jean’s side, one hand locking onto his hip to hold him steady while the other slides beneath the pastry bag, cupping the heavy weight of his cock through the fabric.
“Still dripping for us. As if you’ll never run dry.”
Jean jerks at the touch.
I fuck him harder.
A wail rips out of him—high and broken, shattering into gasps and half-formed words.
“God, please— it’s— I— I can’t— gonna—”
Hessou’s fingers stroke a teasing line up his shaft through the cloth, and then Jean comes again, his ass clenching tight around me, milking me through his climax.
I moan into his back, and all I know is the heat of him.
“Dieu,” I say, licking the sweat from his spine. “You taste so good like this.”
Jean whines, his whole body still pulsing.
And I thrust again.
My body is locked tight, fighting to not drive too fast into him, but every thrust brings a moan, a gasp, a choked please.
Hessou’s hand cups my jaw, and he kisses me the moment I turn to him, his lips slick with the taste of sugar and raspberries and everything we’ve poured into Jean. Our mouths tangle hard, teeth clacking for a moment before we find the rhythm.
One of his hands rests on my ass, the other cups the back of my head. I moan into him, still inside Jean, still pulsing.
Then he pulls back and turns to Jean, brushing fingers through the mess of curls clinging to his flushed forehead. Jean’s eyes flutter open and Hessou kisses his cheek. Then finds his mouth.
It’s gentler than how he likes it. Not rough or wild, or meant to dominate. Just a mouth learning another. But Jean whimpers into it, and the kiss deepens.
It’s hot.
My hands tighten on Jean’s hips as heat blooms low in my belly. It rolls through me like a molten wave that burns my skin and makes my cock pulse. Watching them is a beautiful obscenity.
Jean whimpers into the kiss again.
The tiny sound shifts everything, and I can see the moment any hesitation dissipates from Hessou’s body. Now, he kisses like he always did. No longer testing, but devouring. And Jean is trying to keep up, lips parted, tongue being sucked into Hessou’s mouth, body trembling under both of us.
God, it’s indecent.
I fuck faster, watching.
I want Hessou to kiss him until he cries, kiss him like he’s fucking him with his mouth, while I stay buried inside the heat of him and lose myself in the way his body shakes.
Jean gasps into Hessou’s mouth, and Hessou fists a hand tighter in his hair, angling his head back, swallowing the sounds whole.
When they part, Hessou’s thumb brushes Jean’s spit-slick lower lip.
“Can I enter you, too?”
Jean nods immediately. “Please.”