Instant Whips and Dream Toppings: A true-life dom rom com by Jacky Donovan
What happens when you swap business suits for kinky boots?
An MP with a choux fetish. A Paddington Bear with a penchant for pinnies. A squirming Batman in baggy blue Batpants.
When Jacky meets Max she discovers desires she didn’t know she had, from luscious lesbians and ménages à trois to the tantalising thrill of control.
With the power of her sexuality unleashed, Jacky transforms into Mistress Kimberley, a high-class, highly in demand temptress in command of her very own dungeon.
Soon she is up to her black-leather basque in a wickedly delicious assortment of men and women and their bizarre and risqué fantasies.
From mouth gags to witty gags, Instant Whips and Dream Toppings is a true-life rollercoaster of love, power and laughter that will leave you begging for more.
Description
Find more from this author on:
About the author:
In between her writing she has recently trekked to see Mount Everest; tandem jumped from a tiny plane; been on Canarian TV due to her crazy long fingernails; run a lesbian dining club; escaped from a yoga holiday in a dinghy; and regularly does charity work for Breast Cancer and Gay Pride. She currently spends her time between London and Gran Canaria.
What inspired you to write your book?
“Batman” came to visit me in the form of a client with a bizarre roleplay scenario. After a humorous session my fingers felt compelled to write the story. Many more curious fantasies transpired, not least of which my own, played out with a married man with whom I had a life-changing and lengthy affair. Romance, love, power, control, and humour all combined to result in my erotically explosive book.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Chapter/ Cream Tease and HP Sauce
It is the satisfying squelch of the chocolate gateau as I smear it over the jowly face of the Right Dishonourable Gentleman in front of me that finally convinces me that not becoming Managing Director of one of the UK’s largest security companies was, indeed, the right decision. To be or not to be… a captain of industry. That was the question. Accept the position and a career in security, or politely turn it down and face a possible future of insecurity as a result?
If I’d not arrived at that particular fork in the road twelve months ago, then maybe I wouldn’t be in the sticky situation in which I currently find myself: in a darkened room with a large silver spoon in my hand that I am using to scoop up a hefty blob of cream. Whipped cream.
“Now then,” I smack my lips and smile. “Who wants some of this?”
As if I needed to ask. He is clearly enjoying having his cake and eating it too. My jaw had dropped when I’d opened the door, recognising him instantly. It was… well, obviously I can’t tell you. This particular private session with an MP and a constituent will forever demand I keep my own cake hole firmly closed. Let’s just say, despite what you might be thinking, he hadn’t been elected to serve Bakewell. Or Chelsea. Or Eccles.
He’s using our brief ceasefire as an opportunity to taste some of the luxury chocolate gateau smeared all down one side of his podgy face. He scrapes off some remnants from his flabby, wobbly arms and from his bloated stomach. Or stomachs, he must weigh twenty-five stones at least. Then he starts to lick the cream and chocolaty crumbs from each of his chubby fingers.
This guy should be seriously worried about his cholesterol levels, I think as I start towards him, the weapon of body-mass destruction clutched in my hand.
He counterattacks my cream offensive by merely standing there, caked in sponge, and shouts, “I mean it now, I’m really going to get you this time.”
I’m glad he’s enjoying himself, even if I’m finding the experience too much to swallow.
Whether it is nobler to suffer the slung pastries or to take arms against a sea of truffles, I am uncertain: all I know is, for this session, I’m earning an outrageous fortune. Suddenly, naked apart from a pair of fetching knee-high navy socks and chocolate-streaked boxer shorts, he leaps towards me, huffing and puffing confectionery-based obscenities. How different he looks compared to the image he normally chooses to present to the House or in front of the TV cameras. The carefully constructed image that the public think they know well.
“You haven’t won this battle yet,” he snarls menacingly as he stops to pick a glacé cherry out from between his buttocks and flick it onto my black tiled floor.
“I’m going to make you eat that later,” I bark, but then try to duck as some airborne jelly – strawberry? – suddenly comes flying towards me. Too late! It catches me full in the face and lodges in my hair, the rest of it slopping against the wall behind me. Three things quickly flash through my mind. Firstly, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover it’s actually raspberry, my favourite flavour. Secondly, as my hair stands on end and stays there, I wonder if L’Oréal are aware of the potential benefits of using jelly or other sugary desserts in their hairspray products: “Our new hair care range: blancmange and custard. Because you’re worth it…”
Thirdly, I’m getting tired. We’ve been acting out this bizarre bun fight for nearly two hours and it’s time to come to the end of this particular course. Besides, I have my own battles with food to contend with and to be fighting with someone who thinks it’s fun has become uncomfortable, even for me.
As we fool around with filthy fairy cakes and erotic éclairs, I notice his – fairly insubstantial – cock raising a point of order, no doubt wanting to join in the fun. I briefly wonder whether I should grab some doughnuts to see how many this member of the house could cheerfully support; my guess is less than half a baker’s dozen. However, this motion is dismissed when I spy a lemon cheesecake on the bed, untouched by our whipped cream wars.
I strike my most seductive pose, no mean feat with my blonde, usually luscious, hair now full of jelly and my black PVC catsuit covered in cream. I grab a fistful of the cheesecake. He’s visibly salivating as I slowly edge towards him.
“Are you going to let me eat that?” he begs, quivering, dropping to his knees.
“Don’t speak unless I say so,” I command firmly and tower over him. Proud. Standing tall. With jam on my face.
I lean forward and grab his cock with my cheesecake-filled hand. The pale lemon mixture covers his rampant rolling pin as I proceed to slowly massage his erection. Some of the biscuit base crumbles.
Such a waste of a good cake, I sigh inwardly, though I do feel a slight twinge down there too. Maybe I’m secretly hungry for some creamy clit-cake action as well? It’s something I’ve never tried before.
Sweet dreams of Swiss roll fun dissolve as I realise my desires are turning towards myself rather than this sugar-coated MP with a choux fetish kneeling before me. So, like a good Mistress, I focus on nothing but his throbbing cock. I pull and tug harder and harder, the lemon and now gooey mixture acting as a mildly citric lubricant.
“Ah, that’s absolute bliss, you bitch,” he exhales loudly and slowly. I can feel him swollen and pumping in my sticky fingers.
“Remember who I am, slave. Don’t overstep the mark or I send you out of here without even an orgasm or a shower. Try getting a cab with a chocolate éclair sticking out of your backside,” I threaten.
His body goes limp. His cock does not.
“I want you to cream for me,” I whisper provocatively. “Yours… onto that.”
I gesture to the biscuity bits on the floor and the remnants of the lemon cheesecake stuck to his cock and hairy grey balls.
He starts to pull harder, faster and faster, his piggy eyes closed.
“I bet you’ve heard of Eton Mess, haven’t you, posh boy?”
He nods quickly and enthusiastically.
“Bet you had it when you were there? You and all the other little boys?”
More nods and wobbling of cheeks.
“All of you scooping it up with your own little silver spoons?” I continue.
“I didn’t go to Eton. I went to grammar school,” he blusters.
“Be quiet,” I shout, before leaning closer to him.
“Now, you’re going to make some of your own Eton mess for me,” I whisper. I slip my fingers hard round his cheesecake-covered shaft again and grab his balls, encouraging him all the while to shoot his come. A last quick shudder… and he’s perspiring but smiling proudly, as if his icing induced wank has just won him a general election.
“Oh, that were grand,” he pants, finally. “Exactly how I wanted it to be.”
I am pleased to hear this, although I’d found it all a trifle too much to be honest.
“Now clean this all up while I have a shower,” I order, smearing some cake mixture off my face and onto his. I leave him to labour at his task, grateful that most of my furnishings are leather and therefore easy to clean.
I don’t know if he became more conservative after he’d finally managed to live out his cake-fuelled fantasy. I was far too busy using a sponge to remove all the sponge from my catsuit. I do, however, wonder whether he ever managed to dislodge the yellow “sprinkle” I’m sure I saw stuck down the tip of his Big Ben.
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