— by FabDisBabe —

I bake a great pie, trust me. But there’s no way in hell I could conjure up twenty-plus cream pies and get ready at the same time.

I’ve got Ravel on the stereo (Copland’s great for pie fights but I’m in sort of a romantic mood) and am trying to see whether or not I should go with the tiara or just a chestnut spill of curls when the kid from the bakery shows up.

“It’s a ladies auxiliary supper,” I tell him as I hand him his generous tip. “Never made this kind of delivery to a hotel room, hmm?”

With effort, he tears his eyes from my plunging neckline. “No ma’am,” he sputters and leaves.

Ma’am. I’m only thirty. “Ma’am,” I mutter to myself, cutting through the tape on the bakery boxes so that I can retrieve the pies more easily later. All twenty fit in the refrigerator without much difficulty on my part.

I decide to chuck the tiara and start arranging drop cloths everywhere – (These are the plastic ones, clear, very slippery when messy, perfect.) It’s a nice place and I don’t want to be barred for life. Where else in Central Florida can one get a kitchen with a full-sized refrigerator, King bed, and jacuzzi tub in one place? Near a market that delivers its great-tasting cream pies, even?

He’s going to be here soon….and tonight is going to be the best night of his life (so far). I’ve been reading WAM, talking online to fellow pie-people, and picking up hints. The WAM primer is folded up in my lipstick case. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet any other pie girls, so I have asked them – the guy with the initial R, more than anyone else – what would turn him on, so it helps; other than pieing myself and having a friend take pictures to send to my Sweetie Pie, I am a pie virgin – and I am damned tired of waiting! (I described this in day-before-yesterday’s post)

The bed is dropclothed, and I start lining up pies in one corner near the top. Ten fit. It’s a little warm compared to the November chill, and droplets of moisture start to bead up on the whipped cream topping of the pies. I line up several on the kitchen table–except for one, which I remove from its box and slip just under the empty side of the bed. I smooth my shimmery silvery gown just as I hear him come in through the door.

I would describe him here, but one of my WAM pals advises me that you men just don’t want to know. Well, fine, but he is the sexiest, most beautiful man alive, and my heart skips a beat just looking at him. Will that suffice? He melts me with a smouldering kiss and I can barely pull myself away to give him a brief tour.

We don’t make it past the kitchen.

He pauses to admire me, in shimmery gown, perfectly coiffed hair and makeup, silver cascade earrings and necklace for a moment, and I describe what kind of treats await him. “Here,” I point out, “are banana cream, french silk, strawberry chiffon (they looked at me like I was nuts when I asked for guava chiffon), and lemon meringue.”

(Yes, R., the meringue is for last)

“And do you know what I love about this banana cream pie?” I look into his gentle aquamarine eyes (sorry) as I heft a weighty treat before him. Without giving him time to answer, I smash it into his face and give it a good, circular rub before tossing the tin into the sink. He wipes his eyes. “How good it looks on you…” I finish, smirking. “Oh,” he accuses, “You are so BAD!” (I am licking banana cream from his eyelids and lips)

“I am?”

“Yes, you are a bad girl and you are going to be punished.” he threatens.

“What are you going to do to me?” my ruby red lower lip quivers in anticipation. He grabs me gently but firmly and bends me over the kitchen table.

“You are going to get a spanking.” he announces, lifting up my gown to expose black garter stockings with no panties. Splat!! First one cheek, then, Wham!!–the other. Removing the tins, he gives me a fierce paddling that sends crust and cream flying everywhere.

I retaliate by unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and creaming his strong chest with a strawberry chiffon before winging the tin over my shoulder and rubbing the filling into his flesh through his shirt, then grabbing his messy, stained shirtfront and pulling him into the bedroom. He laughs when he sees the ten pies on the bed, and I pull him out of his shirt and lick his nipples clean.

I have been waiting so long for this moment. He caresses my face gently, kisses me, and then, picking up a French Silk pie, gently smashes into my face. Ecstacy. I keep my eyes closed to savor the moment, and feel the creaminess slide down my neck and between my breasts. He hits me with another pie, right into my cleavage, and buries his face into it while I clear the pie from my eyes. When my vision is restored, I slide down his body and remove his jeans using only my mouth. Hard work, but worth it. I pull out the waistband of his boxers and dump a banana cream pie down the front, then climb onto him for the world’s messiest lapdance. Removing his shorts, I busy myself cleaning up the mess I’ve made.

Much later than is really necessary, I raise my face toward him; he has been waiting for this moment – he makes a pie sandwich of me, slapping a cool, creamy pie on each side of my head, and rubbing the filling into my hair while I plant whipped cream kisses on his inner thighs, and up his tummy, chest, and shoulders, and feel my dress sliding down my body as he leans me back onto the bed and we start making sweet, messy love. He quickly brings me to a climax, and as I reach its height, he creams me in the face with a pie. He makes me come again and again, and every time I do, I receive a splattery tribute on my face or breasts. The plastic covers on the bed are slippery with cream, and we slide around the bed, kissing and nibbling at each other during our passion. With effort, I reach over the side of the bed, and pull up the last, heaviest banana cream pie you could possibly imagine (and I know some of you can imagine some pretty big pies) and hold it on my chest, slipping my hand between the tin and the crust, which crumles into my fingers a tiny bit. “You’re going to come soon,” I purr, “and when you do, I am going to get you. I am going to smash you in the face with this banana cream pie and smear it all over you!” I barely finish my sentence.

“Sweetie Pie,” I advise him as we lay near-stunned in a nest of plastic and pie, “we need a bath!”


“I want to wash your hair.” he said when we were showering off all of the mess from our pie fun a half-hour earlier.

I get up off my knees and checked to see if the jacuzzi tub was full yet-the bubbles were just beginning to be visible.

“I used my lavender bath goop,” I warn. “You’re going to smell like an English lingerie shop.” He steps into the tub, and I slide in after him, arranging myself into his lap. He pours shampoo into his hands and rubs them together, then smooths his palms over my damp, dark locks, kissing the back of my neck as he massages the lather into my scalp and down my back. I slide down into the water, until all but my face is submerged, and shake my head to rinse the suds from my hair, but also to fan my tresses against my Sweetie Pie’s lap, gently tickling him with my hair. I then turn to face him, dripping wet, and lather up his beautiful head while slightly raised on my knees, so that he can lick my nipples dry as I massage shampoo into his pate. Climbing onto his lap, I lower myself onto him while pouring water over his head to rinse the shampoo from his hair, and ride him gently, then speed up our pace until water and suds are sloshing over the sides of the tub. He presses me up against the side of the tub, and I cling to his strong, damp shoulders, my damp hair dripping over the edge. This being a fantasy and all, we reach orgasm simultaneously, and melt together into the warm water after I make him hop out and turn on the jets.

When the water cools, we clamber out, lovingly dry each other off with kisses (and towels), gather up the drop cloths and sneak them out to the dumpster, grab some dinner, and eat some lemon meringue pie at the room for dessert. (Told you I was saving it for last, R.!!) Hey, a girl’s gotta eat….