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Get the Butter

Work first, then play

By Jack ScrantonPublished 4 months ago Updated 3 months ago 6 min read

Ginger set her boundaries at the outset.

"No blood. And I don't get fucked in the ass."

The blond hunk in the white chef's outfit reassured her in an endearing accent. "Certainly. Is not that way."

"They said you wanted something kinky." Then she flashed a sultry smile. "You kinky, sweetie?"

"I am Ukrainian."


He continued. "Is important birthday dinner. Dessert in one hour. We must hurry."

"So, I'm popping out of a cake?"

"Mmmm... that is... in ballpark. Now, I must see you naked."

"Right here? In the kitchen? You sure you're not kinky?"

But hey, she was a pro, right? As she deftly shed her blouse and skirt Ginger asked, "So what's for dessert?"


That stopped her cold.

"Go, go, keep with the stripping."

"No way, Comrade. I'm gonna need a little more specificity here."

"Of course. I forget." He handed her a stuffed envelope. "Is specific enough?"

She riffled through a stack of hundreds. Thirty of them. "Damn close. I still need to know the agenda. How many guys do I have to fuck?"

He waved her off. "No fuck. Just look pretty. Is all."

"That's it? Promise?"

"Well..." He shrugged. "You will see."

He pulled at her panties. "Off."

"Geez, you horny or something?"

"These men do not wait."

"Show me one who can."

He surveyed her now naked form, nodding in approval. Then he led her to a wide table on which sat the largest silver platter she'd ever seen. He covered it with a satin cloth and patted it. "Up."

She climbed on, cautious but game, leaned back on her elbows, raised her knees and let them fall to either side.

"Naked pussy. Is good."

"So, you like that little girl snatch, do you?"

"Nice to look at. Lousy to fuck. Hair is like... tire tread. Gives traction."

"Ah. You didn’t tell me you were a poet."

He took a saucepan off the huge 8-burner stove.

"Whoa! What's that?" Ginger asked, suddenly concerned.

"No whining please. Is only butter."


He ran his hand over her smooth thighs. "You get wax job, yes? This will be playtime."

And he began to ladle out dollops of the molten grease, first on her stomach, then her breasts, and finally onto her pussy. The oily liquid was hot, but certainly not as bad as candlewax. Kind of sensual, actually. And, yeah, kinky. As it dribbled between her lips, the sensations in her clit rippled through her body and, almost in spite of herself, she began to feel aroused.

"I touch you now. Is okay?"

"Hon, for three large, you don't need to ask."

"What large?"

"Forget it."

He began to smooth the butter over her body, almost like a massage. Almost. He coated her nipples, abdomen and finally her thighs, lips and, ever so briefly—politely, even—in between them. He ran his finger through her slit with delicacy and care, but showing almost no awareness of the effect it had on her. Maybe that was it—his complete disinterest in what men usually wanted simply made his fingers feel all the more electric.

"You do this a lot? You have nice hands."

"Like basting turkey."

"Sorry I asked."

Now he lightly dusted her oiled body with sugar, patting gently to fuse it to the semi-congealed butter. Next he brushed more butter over her. Then more sugar. After seven or eight such careful applications her body was sheathed in a quarter-inch of sweet goo.

He began dipping thin banana slices and strawberry halves in the butter and sticking them to her skin, embedding them in the soft coating. He quickly fashioned a fruit bikini for her breasts, hips and crotch. This he followed with gobs of thick chocolate syrup poured liberally over every surface. She watched, fascinated, as small dark rivers found their way through the embedded fruit, between her legs, pooling in the crack of her ass. Next he emptied a dozen cans of whipped cream onto her.

"Like a frat house I worked once," she muttered.

Finally from the refrigerator came a dark brown dildo, perfectly sculpted into the shape of an enormous cock.

"Let me guess where that goes."

"Is chocolate. Though maybe you warm it up, make fudge." He carefully pried her legs open even further, dipped the tip in what was left of the butter and pressed it between her lips and slid it inside. The thing filled her completely. She briefly wondered if he was getting hard, how he would feel in comparison.

As she was getting used to the cold intrusion, someone entered the kitchen.

"Sergei, we ready?"

Then the man was next to her. "Oh Baby! You look good enough to eat."

Ginger gazed into a relaxed, smiling face and the coldest eyes she'd ever seen. He clapped his hands.

"Let's get to it boys."

Six men built like bunkers surrounded her. They raised the tray effortlessly and carried her through the doors.

Immediately raucous shouts rose up around her. Ginger landed in the center of a large circular table. About fifteen men openly gawked, laughed and made obviously lewd comments to each other. She had no idea what they were saying, but it sounded like Russian.

They all deferred to the obvious guest of honor, an old codger with a face like a plow.

He said something to loud laughter; then he held up his hands to quiet them down. He stared at her spread legs and fruit clad pussy like a little boy with his first dirty magazine. And stared. The table went deathly quiet. No one was looking at Ginger; they all studied the old guy intently, but he simply stood transfixed by Ginger's crotch. Then, as if someone flicked a switch, he shrieked, lunged forward and buried his head between her thighs. He rummaged around a bit, like he wasn't quite sure where he was, but then he found the prize he was looking for.

He finally came up for air, face slathered with whipped cream and the dildo protruding from his mouth. He pumped his fists in victory. Suddenly every face lunged. Tongues licked, teeth nibbled, fingers pulled, pinched, poked and probed. Within seconds they were all a mess—syrup smeared faces, eyes blinded by whipped cream, ears totally covered, hair thick with chocolate. Like locusts, they consumed everything in their path.

Then the dicks came out to the sound of rousing cheers and they began stroking them with a single-minded intensity that silenced all as they worked toward their inevitable climaxes. One by one, they began to spurt. Thick gobs quickly replaced the whipped cream with a hotter, stickier version. Jism coated every part of her. The stuff gushed forth like they hadn't had a release in years. But hey, that was the nature of the beast. Cocks spurt cum and make a mess.

Finally, when the last cock was emptied, shriveled, and tucked away, they sat back, lit cigars and the big men carted her away like another dirty dish.

Sergei lead her to a shower.


"Was disgusting, yes?"

Sergei actually seemed concerned. How adorable.

Ginger shrugged, kept drying her hair. "I didn't do much. I got paid."

Then she said, "You don't fit in here."

"They are pigs."

"Well, yeah."

She thought a moment. He really was cute. And, it would appear, now that his apron was off, growing quite hard.

"You done here?"


"I have an idea."

He waited.

She opened her towel and gave him a peak. Then wrapped herself again. He was transfixed. Now, she dropped the towel and ran her fingers through her pussy.

"Tell me, Sergei, does this interest you? Without the whipped cream?"

He said nothing, just stared hungrily at her naked body.

"I thought so. Why don't you go get the butter?"


About the Creator

Jack Scranton

Writer, image retoucher, musician/composer, 3D artist. Despite modest success in all those fields, Photoshop paid the bills.

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  • Andy Pullano4 months ago

    An idea for the bachelor party I throw.

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