You don't make it out of the kitchen before your hunger finds teeth

With your head burrowed into Cook's shoulder, your nose full of her tantalizing apple-tart scent, your cunt pressed against her forearm, you feel the rocking of her stride upon a hard floor but you neither know nor care where she's taking you, as long as she gives you more to eat of herself, this is my body, your treat, your treasure, your hunger and your satisfaction, Cook's oozing cunt, you know, this is my blood, the sweet liquor seeping, bubbling over the rim of the best apple tart in your life, take, and eat.

As she carries you, your hands burrow under her robe, digging into her warm flesh like bread dough, squeezing, kneading, taking lungfuls of Cook's intoxicating scent. Your spit mingles with her sweat as you chew on the shoulder of her robe and the strap of her apron. Finally your hunger escapes all bounds and you sink your teeth into her neck.

"Ah!" Cook cries out. She takes your hair in her fist and pulls, breaking your contact.

The pain in your scalp shocks you to awareness. You gasp and cry out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Apple and cinnamon scents transform to sweat and spit and the taste of coppery salt on your lips.

"Oh, girl, girl, no matter," Cook says. "I love your hunger. More gently, or you'll gnaw me to rags." She relaxes her grip and lets her fingers slide from your hair. She touches a fingertip to your lips and raises it to your gaze. You've drawn blood. She gives you a tiny nod and a reassuring smile. "Morgan told me you taste me as apple tart, is that so?"

"Yes, Cook," you say. Your shoulders relax and your breathing slows. The scent of baking apples teases its way back into your nostrils. You part your lips, then close them to swallow as your mouth starts watering again.

"I would take you to bed, Fay, but first, we must take the edge off, poor hungry darling," Cook says. She makes a quarter turn and sets your bum down upon a wooden surface. She drops an apron strap and loosens her robe, fishing out a great heavy breast, creamy pale, faintly freckled toward her heart, with a grand swollen raspberry of a nipple. She raises her breast, guiding you with a hand behind your head. "Suck. Tell me what you taste."

Cook's nipple is stiff and bumpy under your tongue. You suck hard, your mouth watering as a burst of heavy sweetness explodes upon your tongue, and you moan, sucking harder. Harder. Cook tickles the hinge of your jaw with one finger, then presses on the hollow of your cheek. Your suction breaks, and you gasp in a deep breath. "Caramel cream, I taste caramel cream."

"Stand a moment." Cook says. She helps you down, bends down and lifts your robe by the hem, then lifts you back up, your bare bum on the wood, your knees parted, your cunt exposed, spread, and swollen, your clit pulsing hot under Cook's gaze.

Cook presses close and cups your mound with a broad warm hand. The touch sends a shock of pleasure through your body, and you tremble. A gush of juices adds only a little to the moisture under Cook's hand. Your fleece is already sodden from your cunt's weeping desire. You swallow a mouthful of spit. Cinnamon. Baking apples. Pastry.

Cook lifts her heavy breast to your lips. "Eat your fill, Fay," Cook says. "Eat your fill."

Caramel cream in your mouth. Questing fingers slipping through your touch-hungry cunt. An arm moving, wrapping round your shoulders, crushing you close. A tickling pleasure gathers **** inside you, from lips to labia, tongue to clit, gulping throat to pulsing sheath, taking hold of you entire. As your body trembles at the edge of the precipice, Cook murmurs in your ear. "Fay, precious Fay. Find joy."

Joy seizes you from the inside, taking hold of every muscle as you writhe in Cook's arms, her breast stifling your full-throated scream into an aching whine through your nostrils. Waves of pleasure wrack your body, working you like giant hands kneading you, transforming pale, slack flesh into supple, resilient, glossy newness, slowly softening, fading, leaving you to rest and rise again.

You raise your head, feeling a glow of warmth from every bit of skin. Cook's breast is marked with the pink blotches of suction bruises.

"Now let's take you somewhere you can eat me proper," Cook says. She helps you down, pats your robe down, and tucks her spit-shiny breast back into her robe. "And where I can eat you."

"Yes," you say. "Yes."

Cook leads you through a little maze of corridors and down into a cellar where there's a little nest of piled-up flour sacks.

You eat Cook's naked wet sex, an inexhaustible apple tart that never fills your belly but only builds your hunger, while Cook's broad tongue sucks climaxes from you, little tremblings, great rocking spasms, gentle rippling glows.

You eat each other's naked wet sex for hours until thirst forces you, dry-mouthed, to stagger back up to the kitchen. As you're gulping great dipperfuls of water, Second Cook gives you the most ferocious side-eye you've ever seen.

Cook looks over, busts out with a throaty laugh, slaps your bum, and sends you on your way.

You totter off, stinking of cunt. Lovely, lovely, lovely cunt.

Gain +1 XP. You have 4 XP. Avoid a CONSEQUENCE by using STAMINA.

You have Ambition +2, Bravery -1, Cunning +2, Diligence +0, and 4 XP.
Your FRIEND is Morgan Woodbine, bedmate, true love, soppy romantic, and occasional sex toy to the venomous Miss Wormwood.

You know the Forbidden Spell, LUST.