Let Him Eat Cake

This has been a total fuck-up from the start, Mike thinks. All right, maybe not a fuck-up; nothing that gets Jason Freese’s tongue on his cock could be considered a fuck-up. But the cake mix smeared over his lower region was meant to end up as a birthday cake for Stella, and Mike is sure that the recipe book said 'place the mix in the oven for half an hour,' not 'let Jason tip the bowl over you so he can lick it off slowly.' It would be an entirely different sort of book if it said that, the kind of book that has ‘adults only’ on the front.

Mike had been stirring the mix and trying not to screw up again (he’d put the strawberry in too soon and felt like the dumbest bastard on earth afterwards, he used to be a chef, he could bake a cake, goddammit) and Jason had snuck up behind him. The wet tongue lapping at his thighs makes recalling even very recent events difficult, but their conversation had gone something like this:

Jason: "Can I?"
Mike: "No."
Jason: "Please."
Mike: "Just a little bit, then."
Jason: "No, the whole fucking bowl."

The resulting impromptu wrestling match had ended with Mike on the floor (and Mike isn’t sure how that happened, he could normally kick Jason’s ass any day), and cake mix had met groin.

Jason had said, "Now you gotta take your pants off, right? You got cake mix all over ‘em." So Mike had removed his soiled clothing, and Jason had pounced, scooping up as much cake mix as he could and smearing it over every bit of bare skin he could find.

The cake mix had obviously taken Jason’s side, because it dripped down to Mike’s cock, sliding down the base before coming to rest on his balls.

Jason had said, "Must be cold, right? Want me to warm ya up?"

Mike now has handprints on each of his thighs; they were put there when Jason, wanting to keep Mike’s thighs apart, had placed his cake-smeared hands on them and bent over to suck Mike down.

Mike’s fingers had scrabbled at the now very wet floor, at the table legs, anything that will give him purchase to thrust up and feel the head of his cock bump into the back of Jason’s throat, and one particularly eager thrust sees Jason’s hat fall off his head and land in some cake mix.

Jason doesn’t suck him to orgasm; when he feels the vein on Mike’s cock throb tellingly, he lifts his head and wraps one hand around the base, stroking the head with his thumb, and that’s all it takes; Mike bucks up into that hand, half-hissing, half-grunting through gritted teeth. Jason retrieves his hat, his mind on other things and not about the fact that his hand is dripping with Mike’s come.

Jason never does get the all the crusty stains out of his hat. He tells people it’s cake mix.