Oh, the first taste of her was devastating. Trembling, he drug his tongue down the length of her bronzed, firm limbs and then back up to caress her curves. He explored every inch of her, taking in her elegance with awe. Her limbs tasted like a day at the seaside, all salty, richly aromatic, and reminiscent of home. Her rich folds beckoned to him, and he devoured her essence hungrily, letting out a moan that he couldn't hold back.
Her tantalizing flesh begged for his ministrations.
She melted in his mouth like honey, cool and delicate and smooth. Thrills chased down his spine, dissolving into shivers. Sprawled out as she was on the table, vulnerable and bare under the flickering kitchen overhead light, she was his. Completely and utterly his, and she was beautiful. His reverent tongue swirled in delicate patterns against her. He was the luckiest man in the world.
Crrack!
Her flaky, crispy flesh split under his teeth, with velvet insides sweeter than ambrosia. He swallowed slowly, savoring her all the way down. Never had there been a more perfect creation than she. Sonnets would be written about her magnificence. As Helen of Troy once destroyed lives, so had she devastated him, and how he craved her, even as she slid sensually down his throat.
And oh, oh, OH.
Pleasure radiated through him like a prayer, warm and exploding in his brain, even as he shoved aside the bowl. His shaking fingers pressed to his lips, and he leaned back in his chair, panting and quivering. He could feel her presence lingering. Crumbs clung to his chin and pudding smeared at the corners of his lips.
Never had there been a more perfect creation than she. Never had there been a more perfect creation than fish fingers and custard.