Chapter 1 - bacchanalia

I don’t think there’s enough time in the world for me to sit and list all of the things that I love about food. When people get to know me very well, they start to understand that the things that turn me on are opulence, fat, gluttony, hedonism, excess, eating, feeding, feasting… Food is at the core of everything that gets me excited. I also love the preparation, the care and love that goes into it. I enjoy watching bartenders and chefs preparing the food and drink for me. The focus, care and attention that goes into making that special treat for you. Not everybody always understands these fantasies and urges, especially within the regular kink community, but sometimes the stars do align. So, it’s safe to say that when I was describing my desires to a close Chef friend of mine, and he offered to make one of my deepest fantasies come true, I jumped at the chance.

I was going to throw a dinner party, lie down naked on my table and be plated up as a living dessert platter for my guests to feast off.

You know, standard Saturday night stuff.

We planned it for weeks, spending ages coming up with a menu and ideas for how to make the logistics work. How would the food react to my body temperature? How do we stop things from sliding off? Chef was the only person I trusted completely to get this sort of thing right, to make me look the way I had always dreamed of - he was as passionate as me, though perhaps for different reasons, and he thought about it all down to the smallest detail. Picking a group of people to attend was even more difficult. The guests were a part of the kink circles I run in, but none of them were feedists. Would they understand my vision enough to enjoy themselves? I could only hope so.

When the day finally arrived I was a ball of anxious excited nerves. I spent the day getting ready, lotioning up, putting on makeup, making myself look perfect, all the while listening to Chef and my husband hard at work in the kitchen. They were wearing matching chef’s whites, every surface in the kitchen was covered in food, and listening to them cooking all day was driving me wild. I was nervous, apprehensive, but ultimately I knew this was going to be amazing. The feeling in my stomach was like the building pressure when a thunderstorm is coming.

The evening rolled around and the guests started to arrive. They were beautiful - I had requested that they dress to impress, and they went all out. Three gorgeous women, one of whom had brought her partner. The lounge was full of sweeping black and silver fabrics, glittering with beads and jewelry, and as we waited for the kitchen to be ready I made cocktails and kept the alcohol flowing. My nerves were easing now, I was in my element, the Mistress in my head had taken control. The guests seemed as excited as me - they knew a little about what they were all there to do this evening but I don’t think they were truly prepared for the spectacle of hedonism they were about to enjoy. We ate charcuterie while we waited for the kitchen, and that thunderstorm pressure continued, it seemed to have taken over all of the guests as well, and though we were chatting and enjoying each other’s company, it was clearly on everyone’s minds.

Finally, it was time. We closed off the doors to the kitchen and I approached the table. I remember looking hard at the clean white cloth it was covered with and getting so excited at how messy I knew it was going to be soon. Then Chef lifted me up and laid me out on the table, and my thinking got a little less clear.

My husband began to dust me down with icing sugar to help everything to stick, massaging it into my body, running his hands up and down my thighs, my stomach, my tits. As he worked, I could hear him talking to Chef, asking him questions, both of them discussing me as though I wasn’t there, as though I was just another plate. This was such a departure from the norm for me - usually so dominant and in control, but in that moment, looking up and seeing them leaning over me in their chef’s whites, I felt like I was in the middle of a surreal and beautiful dream. Chef stood for a moment with the piping bag and I could feel him take a breath and look down at me before he began to pipe chocolate onto my stomach. I could feel my body beginning to come to life. The warmth of the chocolate, the very lightest, delicate touch of the piping bag, I was hypersensitive to it all. From my position, I couldn’t see much, but my senses seemed heightened, more focussed.

The cool, sticky feeling of sliced strawberries being daintily arranged on my tits, warm slices of lemon meringue pie being placed in a line on my stomach. Beautiful, intricate swirls of chocolate on my thighs. Tempered chocolate domes were filled with freshly whipped chantilly cream and arranged like arrowheads along the line of my hip bones. Coulis was drizzled on my arms to support mini eton mess cheesecakes, honeycomb pieces were scattered like rose petals across my whole body. I could feel my nerve endings sizzling, my breath catching, I could hear my gasps of delight at each new sensation. A bead of cream lazily rolled down the side of one of my hips, leaving a comet trail of tingling pleasure in its wake. I was alive with it, and this was only the beginning. The guests weren’t even here yet.

When it was done, when I was ready, I could hear them being invited to the table. I heard their exclamations of excitement, of appreciation, but they sounded a million miles away. I don’t remember what they said, just the sounds of their voices. My brain was busy, soaking in the scent of the food and the sensations on my skin. It seemed tentative at first, perhaps they were shy, perhaps they were admiring the art that my Chef had created, but soon I started to feel silverware, then hands and finally lips and tongues exploring every aspect of my body. I could hear moans of delight at the way that I tasted. Spoons crashing down on the chocolate domes, sending rippling shockwaves through my soft thighs, sending cold cream splattering over my skin which they slowly licked off me. As the first course disappeared, Chef invited them to take the piping bags, to take the chocolate, to decorate and drizzle as they saw fit.

Things began to get more feral, more hedonistic. I felt one guest’s body press against me, cream smearing her dress, her long hair trailing on my skin and getting messy. Lips brushed my nipples, sucking them clean. Then, a new sensation - shot glasses being filled on my body, glasses being pushed into my mouth one by one as they drank tequila and vodka from me, licking salt and lime from my stomach and chest, getting drunk off me. My legs propped up, I opened my eyes to see a torrent of double cream being poured down my thighs into their voracious mouths. It was a feeding frenzy and I was in the very eye of the storm.

The aftermath was as delicious as the experience itself. I felt as though I was waking up from a daze. I had gone from a piece of fine art to a culinary Jackson Pollock, smeared and spattered with excess, tongue marks swirled into my skin like signatures. In all of my life I have never felt so beautiful, so seen. Like a goddess of gluttony, or a human sacrifice in some glorious Bacchanalia. It was a dream realised, and I cannot wait to do it all again.