Frosting with xtra cream

The ballroom glittered, a sea of pearls and black ties, but my world was the three-tiered vanilla bean chiffon cake with a raspberry coulis that had taken me seventy-two hours and a minor nervous breakdown to perfect. It was my masterpiece, my edible sonnet, and it sat enshrined in the center of the VIP table, a testament to my pastry chef’s soul.

“Whoa. That’s a cake,” a voice said, low and appreciative.

I turned, wiping a smudge of buttercream from my wrist. He was young, maybe twenty, all sun-kissed skin and easy smile, dressed in the event’s standard-issue white shirt and black vest. A waiter. He held a tray of empty champagne flutes.

“It’s supposed to be,” I said, my voice warm from the kitchen heat and a flicker of amusement. “The trick is the coulis. It has to be tart enough to cut the sweetness, but not so much it makes you pucker.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “A lot like a good kiss, really.”

He grinned, a flash of white. “Is that right? You gotta taste test that often? The coulis, I mean.”

“Only on special occasions.” I let my eyes drift over the sharp line of his jaw. “And for handsome taste-testers.”

The flirting became the background rhythm to the evening’s symphony of clinking glasses and laughter. His name was Leo. He introduced me to his friends, the rest of the waitstaff—a pack of six other guys, all between nineteen and twenty-three, all buzzing with the raw, untamed energy of youth. They moved with a cocky grace between the tables, but their eyes kept finding me near my cake station.

Miguel, with biceps that strained his shirt sleeves, “accidentally” needed to squeeze behind me to reach a power outlet, his front pressing into my back for a delicious, too-long moment. “Sorry, chef,” he murmured, his breath hot on my neck, not sounding sorry at all.

Carlos, the quiet one with intense dark eyes, just watched me, his gaze a physical weight. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. He simply brought his thumb to his lips and slowly sucked a drop of stolen chocolate mousse from it.

The air grew thick, charged. It wasn’t just the heat from the ovens in the back; it was the heat they were generating. The suggestive comments started weaving into our chats, laced with a vulgarity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

“Bet your hands aren’t the only thing that’s sweet, chef,” one of them, Mateo, whispered as he grabbed a tray of profiteroles.

Leo was the ringleader. As the event wound down, he cornered me by the now-half-eaten cake. “So. We’re done here. The party’s moving to our place. Seven guys. One van. One very, very pretty chef who looks like she needs to unwind.” His hand found my hip, his thumb strocing the fabric of my dress. “We’re gonna drink what we stole from the bar and get loud. You should come. Let us… sabor the chef for once.”

The proposition was filthy, direct, and sent a jolt straight to my core. I was thirty-four. I was a professional. This was insanity. I looked at his hungry expression, then at his friends loitering by the service exit, their looks promising a world of trouble.

A slow, audacious smile spread across my face. “Just let me box up my tools.”

The van smelled of cheap cologne, spilled beer, and pure, unadulterated testosterone. I was barely seated before the door slid shut, plunging us into semi-darkness. Hands were on me instantly. Not rough, but desperate, hungry. One cupped my breast through my dress, another slid up my thigh. Leo’s mouth crashed onto mine, his tongue tasting of stolen whiskey and mint. To my right, another boy—Javier—turned my face and kissed me with equal fervor, his stubble scraping my skin. I was kissed, groped, fondled by seven pairs of hands as the van sped through the city, their whispers a dirty, explicit soundtrack to the journey. “Can’t wait to feel that ass.” “You’re gonna choke on this cock, chef.” “Gonna make you scream so fuckin’ loud.”

Their apartment was a bomb site of discarded clothes, pizza boxes, and gaming consoles. The door barely closed before they were on me. Clothes were torn away. My dress was ripped open, my bra popped off. I was laid back on a cheap leather couch that smelled of weed, and Leo was the first, burying his face between my legs, his tongue a wicked, expert thing that had me arching off the cushions, crying out within minutes.

What happened next was a blur of skin, sweat, and overwhelming sensation. They didn’t just take turns; they orchestrated a symphony of depravity around me. Miguel bent me over the arm of the couch, driving into me from behind with a grunt, his grip on my hips possessive, brutal. As he fucked me, Carlos knelt in front of me, feeding his thick, veiny cock into my mouth, fucking my face with shallow, then deep, thrusts that made me gag, tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I could barely breathe, overwhelmed by the dual invasion.

“Yeah, take it, you hungry slut,” Carlos groaned, his hands fisting in my hair.

Just as I thought I couldn’t take anymore, another one—Luca—smirked and pressed the head of his cock against my ass. There was a moment of resistance, a sharp, burning pain, and then he was inside, stretching me impossibly wide. I screamed around Carlos’s cock as they found a rhythm, Miguel pounding my pussy while Luca claimed my ass. I was a spit-roasted plaything, utterly filled, every hole occupied and worshipped in the most profane way.

The scene shifted to the floor, a nest of blankets and pillows. For what felt like an eternity, I was their centerpiece. I lost count of how many times I came, how many different cocks filled my mouth, my pussy, my ass. They came on my face, on my chest, in my mouth. I was used, thoroughly and completely, a canvas for their youthful lust. They were relentless, a pack of animals, and I loved every degrading, magnificent second of it.

The sun was beginning to lighten the sky when I finally stumbled out, my body aching in the most delicious way. My dress was ruined, my skin was flushed and marked with bites and bruises, and I was sticky and sore, my most intimate parts throbbing and red, my skin painted and filled with their dried release. I walked to my car, every step a reminder of the seven young waiters who had indeed earned their tip. And I drove home, a stupid, satiated smile on my well-fucked face, my body a well-used testament to a night where dessert was most definitely served.