Shopping for an intimate, candle-lit supper for Angela’s thirty-fourth birthday was proving to be a bigger challenge than I’d anticipated.
Let me state this for the record: I’ve always found Angela to be an incredibly sensual, sexy woman. I was attracted to her the first time we met, that blind date her friend Kerry set us up on. And not just in a, "Gee, let’s hold hands, rent a movie and snuggle on the couch" kind of way. Angela is so poised, so unselfconsciously stylish, so comfortable in her own skin. That’s what I find truly erotic about any woman.
Not to mention, Angela was voluptuous. God, that ass. And those breasts! I’ve seen dozens of girls with big tits, but Angela’s cornered the market on perfectly-proportioned, heavenly mammary masterpieces. If Peter Paul Rubens had taken up sculpture instead of painting, he would have created Angela’s tits.
Angela’s astonishing plus-sized physique in general, and her tits in particular, were the very reason I went into a near-panic eight months ago. That was when Angela woke up one morning and announced her decision to change her lifestyle and eating habits completely and lose some weight.
"How much weight?" I asked her. "Keep in mind, I think you’re perfect now."
"You’re sweet," she said. "But I can hardly climb a flight of stairs without getting winded. It’s not even really about the weight, Chad. It’s about feeling better and having more energy." She reached under the sheet and gave my balls an affectionate squeeze. My morning wood throbbed from the sudden attention. "You want me to have more energy, don’t you? Because then I can ride you . . . a really . . . long . . . time." As she stretched out her statement, she peeled off her panties. She knelt on the bed with her legs spread, wearing only her thinnest, tightest t-shirt, and I was overcome with desire. I threw back the sheet and leapt on top of her, pinning her to the mattress.
"Don’t get skinny," I begged her as I peeled back her t-shirt to suck those gorgeous breasts. "Don’t take these tits away from me." I slipped her erect nipple in and out of my mouth, and Angela seemed to lose the ability to speak. She could only moan.
After we’d made love, Angela borrowed her uncle’s pickup truck for the day, went to the mall, and bought a treadmill.
And man, is she serious about that treadmill. Has been for the entire eight months. That, and eating healthy food. The day after she bought the treadmill – and set it up, and used it – Angela bought a new plastic garbage barrel and threw every last piece of junk food into it. She threw out the cheese, the chocolate, the ice cream bars, the bottles of soda. Even the diet soda! She donated the non-perishables to the church on the corner, and passed the rest off to some kids who live in our building. Then she took me to Moon Patch, one of those new organic grocery stores where many of the shoppers look to have less than 1% body fat and bring their own grocery sacks made out of hemp. We bought everything matching the description of fresh fruit, vegetable, lean meat or whole grain. And green tea. Lots and lots of green tea.
Each day since, she stuck to that strict eating plan. We avoided restaurants. Every time a holiday came up, and we spent it with her family, she filled herself up on fruit and water first. No beverage, other than water and green tea, has touched her lips the entire eight months. Well, unless you count my cum as a beverage.
"Very few calories in semen," she told me one morning. "I read it in Cosmo."
"I don’t care if Cosmo says I squirt Boston cream pie filling," I said. "You wouldn’t stop swallowing, would you?"
She cocked her head and looked at me with that adorable cat-that-ate-the-canary expression. "No," she said, "I want you to keep filling my pie. Not to mention eating it."
Wherever she picked up this newfound enthusiasm for healthy food and exercise, it worked. I never knew what Angela’s top weight was, since she hadn’t been on a scale in years, but I would guess it was more than 200 pounds and less than 300. But as her thirty-fourth birthday approached, she was down to a toned, sleek and still-curvy 150, with (thank the gods above) her larger-than-life sweater puppies still intact.
Dedication like that deserved a reward. Hence, my plan to cook up a birthday dinner that would wow Angela without junk food. The last time I made a romantic birthday dinner for a woman, it involved copious quantities of pasta in cream sauce, washed down with a domestic sparkling white wine and topped off with handmade, chocolate-dipped cannoli from a little Italian bakery downtown. Angela would kick my ass if I brought any one of those things into the apartment.
However, I just couldn’t bring myself to shop at Moon Patch. A grown man has no business being seen in a place called Moon anything without his girlfriend. So I pushed my shopping cart up and down the overly wide aisles of the jumbo-mart, racking my brain for a meal I could make for Angela. Resisting the temptation to throw a bottle of wine in the cart, I settled on salmon as the entree. Salmon is lean and can be baked into something presentable with lemon juice, pepper, and maybe a little sprinkle of ginger, all of which Angela would find acceptable. I threw the salmon steaks into the bottom of my cart and moved on toward produce.
A fresh lemon followed by the ingredients for a salad: Romaine lettuce, a little arugula, radicchio, cherry tomatoes, cucumber. I wanted a fresh ginger root to grate over the salmon, but to my surprise, the jumbo-mart was actually out of them.
"Excuse me," I said to the bored-looking woman in the jumbo-mart polo shirt, loading kumquats into their display. "What are the chances that you have some more fresh ginger root in the gargantuan store rooms of this ungodly behemoth you call a supermarket?"
The jumbo-mart, unlike my Angela in her "before" days, did not wear its size well.
She looked at me as if I had cooties. "Anything we have is out on our shelves," she said. "You can find powdered ginger in the baking aisle, with the other spices. Aisle Nine."
"Thank you," I said, though of course I’d known that all along. I wheeled my cart through the mazes of produce, meat and fish, then set course for Aisle Nine.
The baking aisle was replete with forbidden delights: sacks upon sacks of flour too white and not nearly whole grain enough for Angela’s tastes, cupcake and cake mixes, icings and frostings of all descriptions, candy sprinkles, chips of chocolate and butterscotch, marshmallows, corn syrups, and molasses. I felt naughty for even looking at those things, as if I were in a porn shop instead of a jumbo-mart. Worse, actually. Angela would tolerate an interest in porn much better than an interest in cupcakes.
To get to the spices, at the far end, I first had to pass the sugars. Oh, there were so many sugars, from the light and fluffy confectioner’s to the lumps of raw sugar to the gritty brown sugars, straining against the boundaries of the clear plastic bags like very slowly moving living things. Sugar had not seen the inside the apartment in eight months.
Angela didn’t know it, but I got my sugar at work, in the form of those gorgeous white packets beside the coffee machine. She’d never said that I had to change my eating habits, of course. I was always free to indulge in whatever I wanted. But out of sympathy and convenience, I’d been eating whatever Angela ate and avoiding whatever she avoided, at least when she was around. One sugar per coffee, three or four coffees per work day, was enough to keep me from sugar withdrawal.
So the sugars themselves, though beautiful, didn’t tempt me. What came next did.
It was the honey. I couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something magical about the sticky golden liquid in the bear-shaped bottles. They held me captivated.
I stopped and stared, and realized that there were different colors of caps. Each color was a different flavor. I’d never realized before that there were different flavors of honey: clover honey, orange blossom honey, raspberry honey, vanilla honey, apricot honey, amaretto honey, peach honey. Drooling, I picked up a honey bear with a reddish-brown cap and read the label. Cinnamon honey.
Cinnamon honey: the five most mouth-watering syllables in the entire jumbo-mart. I thought of Angela, frowning at the very idea of me chucking this little bear into my cart. Very quickly, though, my thoughts about Angela and cinnamon honey took a decidedly different turn. Right there in the baking aisle, I began to fantasize about Angela, laid out naked across the bed.
Her eyes and smile spoke of welcome and utter contentment as I approached her with the cinnamon honey bear. I drizzled the honey lightly over her breasts, straddled her, and licked the honey away. A residual sweetness lingered – the perfect excuse to keep licking, and even scrape gently at the sensitive skin with my teeth. This would produce such a thrilling sensation in Angela that her body would rocket-launch into a wild orgasm. And this was just the appetizer. Drizzling a trail of cinnamon honey down her belly, I would intrigue her. She’d growl like a she-bear as my tongue snaked drops of honey from her dark pubic hair, spreading the sweet stickiness over her clit and between the lips of her pussy...
An old woman walked by with her cart, and I remembered where I was. I got back on task, proceeding to the spices to find my ginger. I never did put the cinnamon honey bear down. I carried it with me as I went down the beverage aisle to find a bottled water fancy enough to take the place of sparkling white wine, and as I chose a dozen red and a dozen white roses. I carried the honey with me through the self-scan checkout lane. Scarcely thinking about it, I scanned the honey bear. I could have voided the purchase, but a wicked little voice inside my head told me that, deep down, Angela wanted that cinnamon honey every bit as much as I did. After all, it was her birthday, and I only wanted it for her pleasure.
I still had much work to do before Angela got home from work: I had salmon to bake, a salad to rinse and chop, and a romantic candle-lit atmosphere to create. As I unpacked my groceries, I turned the honey bear over in my hands. What, exactly, was I going to do with it? If I left it in the kitchen, the sudden appearance of a sugar product in her sugar-free kitchen might freak Angela out. I decided to stow it behind the alarm clock in the bedroom, next to the diamond-and-pearl earrings I was also planning to surprise her with.
Angela came home from work early, while I was playing with the dimmer switch, trying to get the mood lighting right in the dining room. "Surprise," I said as she leaned in to kiss my cheek.
"What’s all this?" she asked me.
"Happy birthday," I said. "I made you dinner." I got in another quick kiss before she went to the table to examine the roses.
"Thank you," she said, her voice muted. "I really wasn’t expecting any of this, Chad."
"I know," I said, pulling out a chair for her. "That’s why I did it."
She sat down, and I brought her a bottle of fancy water.
"Wow," she said. "I can’t wait to see what you made for dinner."
I brought out the salads, and Angela looked impressed. She complimented me on the lemon-ginger salmon. She was delighted with my simple dessert of mixed berries dusted with a cinnamon and crunchy oat topping.
"Come with me into the bedroom," I told her as she finished the last of her berries, "and I’ll give you your real gift."
"This is a real gift," Angela said. "You didn’t have to do anything more."
"Just a little something more," I said. She followed me into the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes. I took the jewelry box out from behind the alarm clock and placed it in her hands.
"You’re so sweet," she said, opening the little box. She held one of the earrings up and studied it. "They’re lovely!
She pulled me to her, so that I almost fell into her lap, and she kissed me. Her polite thank-you kiss morphed so suddenly into a lustful do-me kiss that I barely had time to pull away before I was pulled into her erotic orbit.
"Wait," I said. "There’s one more thing."
Angela squealed with anticipation. But when she saw the cinnamon honey bear, she twisted her mouth up into a gesture of annoyance. "What’s that?" she asked.
"Honey," I said.
She nodded her head as if I’d answered her with an obscure foreign word. "That’s very sweet," she said, apparently missing her own pun, "but I really think I’m better off if I stick to my regular eating plan."
"I don’t want you to eat it," I said, reaching out to unbutton her blouse. "I want you to wear it."
I managed to get the top two buttons of her blouse undone, and I slid my hand inside. I slipped two fingers into her bra and found her nipple. She shivered.
"That might be fun," she said. She helped me take her blouse and bra off, then slipped out of her skirt. She left her panties on and laid across the bed, just like in my daydream.
The cinnamon honey made an unromantic fart noise on the first couple of squeezes. Once I got it flowing, though, I was in cinnamon-honey-tit sucking heaven. And from the way Angela was grinding her hips underneath me, she was liking it, too. It didn’t quite make her scream, but once I reached into her panties and stroked her clit, she was almost there.
I pushed her panties down and stuck a probing finger between her lips. Her pussy was soaked. My cock was eager to get in on that action. I stripped out of my clothes and was down to socks and briefs when Angela, unexpectedly, clamped her legs together.
"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling abashed.
"Do you think you deserve to get some pussy?" she asked. Her tone was playful, but stern. "You brought a honey bear into the apartment without my permission, Chad. And I think you’ve been cheating on me with forbidden foods. Don’t you think you should be punished?"
I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but I liked it. "Yes, ma’am," I said meekly.
"Take all your clothes off," she ordered.
I quickly slid out of my shorts and socks. She instructed me to lie down on the bed, and then she pulled a pair of fur-lined handcuffs from the bedside table and handcuffed me– both hands – to the headboard.
"Where did you get these?" I said. I’d never seen them before.
"Birthday gift," she said. "From myself." She winked.
She turned and I caught a glimpse of Angela’s ass, and without thinking I tried to get up. The handcuffs held me in place.
"You like that, huh?" Angela said in her disciplinarian voice.
"‘Like’ doesn’t begin to describe it," I said. And I meant it. Angela’s ass had gotten smaller over the past eight months, but was still round and curvy enough that it made me want to grab on with both hands. Its shape triggered something primal inside me.
Angela held me prisoner, and I could only stare at her naked body. My cock ached. Underneath her flattened belly, dark hair half-hid the outline of her clit and labia. I imagined the first touch of my cock against that smooth, slippery skin and that soft, dark hair, and I shuddered with anticipation.
She knelt on the bed and spread her knees wide apart. Her pussy was shiny with moisture as surely as her eyes were filled with mischief. As beautiful as her breasts were, as much as I wanted to touch her ass and hold her against me, there was no part of her that I wanted more than those tender pink lips.
She crawled toward me, stopping when she was eye-to-eye with my cock. "Do I turn you on?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said. My throat was dry.
"Oh, come on," she said. "Say it like you mean it, Chad. I’m not a piece of leftover birthday cake. I’m a woman, naked and wet and horny for you." She touched her lips to the head of my cock all too briefly.
"Do you want me?"
"Yes!" I screamed. "I want you, Angela. I need you. And I will go mad and die if you don’t put one set of lips or the other on my cock right now!" I wouldn’t have been surprised if the neighbors heard me through the walls. Not that I cared.
Angela smiled. "You’re in no position to want anything," she said. "But I’m a merciful woman, and I’ll give it to you anyway." She opened wide and shoved my cock so far down her throat I was afraid she’d choke. She followed this act of generosity with gentle sucking, punctuated by licking, up and down the shaft. Angela knew exactly what she was doing. And if I didn’t know better, I would have imagined that the whole time she was sucking me, she was imagining my cock steeped in the flavor of delicious cinnamon honey. The thought of Angela sucking a load of warm honey off my cock brought me to the edge.
Just as I was on the brink of coming in Angela’s mouth, she stopped cold.
I opened my eyes and found her sitting up, staring into my face. "You’ll be a good boy," she said. "You’ll come when I tell you to. Not before."
She left me there for a moment, panting, just long enough for me to come back from the edge. The whole while, she stared at her fingernails and looked bored.
When she was ready, Angela lowered her wet pussy onto my cock. Despite her posturing, Angela was as excited as I was; I could see it in her eyes. I closed my eyes tight. Her inner thighs were soft as rose petals, and I wondered how long I could withstand their touch. From the look on her face, Angela felt the same way about my hardness.
It was then that the handcuffs began to wear on me. I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to grab her ass with both hands and discover, once again, if was as really as soft as it looked. "You’re driving me crazy," I told her. "I want to touch you."
"You think about that," she said, almost out of breath, "the next time you decide to bring a honey bear into the apartment without my permission."
But the thought of our honeyed escapades clearly turned her on. I watched her face as she planted her hands in the center of my chest and rode me hard. Before the new exercise plan kicked in, I’d dreamed of an Angela with the strength and endurance to ride my cock until it was practically raw. I couldn’t stop staring at the hypnotically beautiful movement of her hips, swaying back and forth as she drove my bone deep inside her.
I stared, but Angela’s mind was off in her own world. Her face registered intense concentration at first. Then she seemed to find her rhythm, and that scrunched-up look of concentration was replaced by the blissful expression that told me she’d found her G spot. When she tired of gently stroking her pleasure spot, she bore down with a look of fierce determination to make herself come.
I longed to help. I tugged at the bonds of the cuffs once again, wishing I could reach out and stroke her clit in time to the rhythm of her hips. I flexed my dick as hard as I could, smacking against the walls of her pussy. I pulsed and flexed in time with Angela’s rhythm, and I could tell that she reached her own edge as I writhed underneath her. She squeezed my hips between her knees, bit her lip, and drove my cock deeper than I knew was possible into her pussy.
All at once, Angela was coming on me. I watched those amazing breasts bouncing as the walls of her pussy clenched around my cock, and I lost it. She threw back her head and let out a howl of ecstasy. I could only moan along with her as I dribbled into her. The drawn-out ordeal left me weary and drained, but happily so.
"Let that be a lesson to you," Angela said smartly as she pulled herself away. She rooted around in the bedside drawer for the keys to my handcuffs.
"Yes, ma’am," I said. She released me, and I rubbed some of the numbness out of my wrists.
I woke up the next morning, while Angela was still sleeping peacefully beside me, and took the honey bear from the bedside table. I hid it where she wouldn’t be tempted by it, in my briefcase
"What happened to that honey bear?" Angela asked me that evening. "Did you get rid of it?"
"Did you want me to?" I asked her.
She shrugged, giving me just a hint of her cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. "I don’t know," she said. "We had some fun with it, didn’t we?"
I wrapped my arms around her and whispered in her ear. "You never know when Cinnamon Honey Bear will make his next appearance," I said. "You just wait and see."
Originally published October, 2008