“What do you plan to do with that?”
He smirks and begins filling the bag with the spatula.
“Aven?”
He twists off the end of the bag, then secures it with a knot. “Spread those thick thighs for me.”
“Um, no. You’re not squirting fucking cake batter on my pussy, dude. Not happening.”
“Wasn’t a question, lass. Spread your legs and have a little more faith in me.”
I can only hope I don’t end up with a yeast infection after whatever he’s planning. My legs spread, and his hands go to work between them. But instead of squirting the batter all over me, he maneuvers the thick plastic until it’s inside me. Only the pointed tip sticks out.
“Okay, now what?” I ask. “I’m one sneeze away from making a fucking mess.”
Instead of answering me, he starts positioning me how he wants me. I lie back, putting my ass dangerously close to the fryer. It’s a wonder that I fit on this narrow counter, but I’m doing it. I feel more like a Sunday dinner than a sex symbol, though.
“Relax your thighs,” he says, and when I do, he nods and lets out a deep growl. “Beautiful. Now let’s get that batter into the oil.”
Before I can say no, he grabs a pair of scissors and snips the tip of the bag. A spurt of batter squirts out and lands in the grease with a hiss. His fingers move toward my clit, and he rubs the sensitive nub with a slow, firm pressure.
My pussy clenches, and more batter jets into the grease.
“Oh, fucking lovely,” he breathes. “Come for me, Quinn.”
The smell of deep-fried dough drifts toward me, and damn me for getting more turned on. I can’t help it. Funnel cake is my weakness.
The circles tighten, and the pressure increases. He drops his mouth to my chest, nipping my tightened nipple through my shirt. My back rocks on the cold metal, and the grease hisses again as I give it another offering. Within less than a minute, I’ve achieved lift off and damn near started a fucking grease fire with the high-pressure hose that is my vaginal canal.
When I’m fully spent, he eases the nearly empty bag out of me. He places it on the table and goes to remove the clumps of dough from the fryer.
“Doesn’t look very pretty,” I say as I eye what can only be described as a disaster. Instead of the usual swirled pattern, it’s literally just rods of crispy dough.
“No matter,” he says as he sprinkles a little powdered sugar on top. “It’ll taste amazing.”
I go to take the plate from him, but he pulls it away.
“Wait just a tick. It’s still hot for one, and it’s missing the special ingredient.” Much to my chagrin, he snags the baggy from the counter and places it beside the plate. “There. Now we have a dip.”
“Fucking gross,” I say with a wrinkle of my nose.
But he isn’t joking. He plucks up a rod, then bounces it between his fingers before dragging it over the bag and popping it into his mouth. His eyes close, and he hums. “Damn, that’s nice.”
I forgo the special dip, but I give the rods a taste, and I’m shocked to find it’s the best funnel cake I’ve ever had, even if it isn’t the prettiest.
Our little side quest accomplished, we tidy up and return the food stand to the staff. Aven’s hand finds the small of my back, and he guides me toward the diner I spotted. As we step inside, we’re greeted by the smell of greasy food and the smile of a waitress in a pink uniform.
“Welcome to Jim’s,” the cooks yell from the kitchen.
The waitress steps forward and holds two menus toward us, but Aven waves her off.
“We aren’t here to eat,” he says, and the waitress nods.
“Follow me.”
We’re taken to a swinging door that looks like it leads into the kitchen, but when the waitress punches a few numbers into the keypad, then opens the door, I see a dark cement hallway lined with pipes.
“Y’all have fun,” the waitress says with a smack of her gum and a crinkle of her nose. “Your little friend sure as hell won’t.”
