5 comments/ 22967 views/ 3 favorites The Caterer Ch. 01 By: Calamine I don't know if you are going to find this story sexy. I have read a lot of the stories on this site, and I notice that most of them are about fantasy women - hot blondes/redheads with DD breasts and great bodies who, in that great throwaway phrase that conceals so much effort, keep themselves in 'great shape'. Most women are not like that. Most of us are not happy with how we look. Most of us are unsatisfied. Most of us are never going to be the fantasy women that most men dream about - and, guys, we know you know it. I am no exception. If I look at the pictures of me when I was a little girl, I was cute the way all little girls are cute. But as I grew older, and other girls got more attention, I began to realise that I am not the kind of woman that men dream about. When I was old enough to start sleeping with boys, it was an unusually long time before I managed to get one to sleep with me. And when he did, he had his eyes shut. Most of the men who sleep with me keep their eyes shut. And next morning, they don't look at me. What do I look like? I have brown hair and grey eyes. I don't like my face. My nose is too long, a blade down the middle of my face. I am not an incredibly fun-loving, outgoing person and you can see it in my mouth, which is wide and has narrow lips and which turns down at the corners. My jaw is kind of square. I once had my hair cut short when I was a teenager and I was repeatedly mistaken for a boy - I didn't make that mistake again, and now my hair goes down to my shoulders. I am short-sighted and have to wear glasses. My eyes are small, narrow, and dark, with bags underneath them, part of my ever-so-lucky genetic inheritance. I hardly ever wear makeup because of my job, which I'll get to in a minute. The rest of my body doesn't make very happy. I have never been, as they say, a Big Girl. My breasts are 32AA. Okay, I am flat-chested, may as well say it out loud. I've been called it so often that I now say it myself, so no other bastard can hurt me by getting it in there first. I barely need to wear a bra unless I want people to see my nipples, which most of the time I don't. I wear layers instead. My legs, on the other hand, are as strong as hell, because my only hobby is cycling. My hips are narrow and my bum is square and hard, like a bloke's. Well, like some blokes. Most of the blokes who have slept with me do not have square, hard bums but flabby ones. I don't seem to attract really good-looking guys. I realised early on that one of the ways to console yourself for looking like me was to eat, and briefly when I was twenty I had a serious problem with overeating. First, my weight got out of control, then I became bulimic and threw up most of what I ate, and the fat melted off me once more. It has pretty much stayed off since then; I don't seem to be able to be one of those girls with a plain face but a great body. I am skinny. I managed to defeat my bulimia by learning how to cook, first by teaching myself and then by going to cookery school. Being a cook gives me control over the one thing in my life that gives me any real pleasure - food. (Well, I have control over my cat as well, but only up to a point.) I am a good cook, though I say so myself. I make great demi-glace, I can whip up a bearnaise sauce in a matter of minutes without having to do it over a pan of water, I do not get flustered, I do not forget things, I know how to chew the ear off a commis-chef when the mirepoix isn't diced to the correct size, I can cook you a perfect steak every time, even if you're one of those weirdos who likes it well done - I can even bake, which is a specialised skill that a lot of my peers find scary and arcane. I am the kind of cook that chefs like on their team; I am one of the boys, even though I am a girl. I can also handle the alcohol and drug abuse that tends to go with being a hard-working restaurant cook. I like a drink and a smoke once in a while. But basically, I am known for being very, very good, very disciplined and very reliable. And a fucking hard-assed grill bitch who takes no shit from anyone. A couple of years ago I was headhunted by one of my former bosses and recruited to a top-flight catering company, one that specialises in cooking for VIPs and celebrities and rock stars who want to give elaborate private parties. I like it, although it's not as exciting as cooking in a really good restaurant on a busy night, when your whites end up soaked in sweat and you come away with a few extra burns on your already scarred and blistered hands, and you end up getting drunk with the other guys, exhausted but triumphant, and maybe even having a quick sympathy fuck...okay, okay, that last bit doesn't happen very often, but it does happen (occasionally). The catering gig is relatively low-pressure. Most of the pressure is about making sure that everything is what the client wants, which does not necessarily mean that it's what the client asked for. Most clients do not know what they want. I was about to meet a client who knew exactly what he wanted. Okay, so you must be wondering when I'm going to cut all this boring shit about my job and get to the sex part. Because, believe it or not, there is a sex part. Yeah, I'm as surprised as you. The story about the big-nosed, red-faced, no-makeup girl with no tits and a square ass does include a sex part. Am I selling you on the whole idea? I wonder. Because right now I am living a very different life than I was living just four weeks ago. And it has to do with the sex part. It has everything to do with it. The story I have to tell is intimate, very sexual and - for me, at any rate - very, very personally embarrassing. But that's part of why I not only have to tell it, but want to tell it. It all began when we were told that a very famous and very well-travelled and very rich rock band was going on tour, and they had very specific dietary requirements. They wanted their own personal caterer to travel with them. They were coming to see us, and the singer - who was recognised as pretty much the leader of the band - would choose one of us for the job. We will call the singer Don, which is not his real name, and I wouldn't want you to think that it's Don Henley, for whom in any case I would've refused the gig because I've never been able to stand the Eagles. So we were all more or less excited, me somewhat less so as I am not an easy person to impress. It wasn't a band I was a huge fan of, in any case, but some of the guys in the company would have killed to be the personal caterer for Don and the boys. Not me. I was interested in going tour with a band just to see what it was like, but I'd be bringing my iPod with the best of my CD collection installed. The great day arrived, and we lined up in our clean whites to await the inspection of the mighty Don. I have to say, there is something about certain very famous people that is different from the rest of us. When Don entered the room, he just was the most important person there, full stop. He had charisma, I had to admit. And he didn't look so bad, although he said goodbye to fifty some time ago. He was very tall, had a lot of hair, was wearing something that involved really expensive-looking jeans and a scarf and shades that looked like they would have cost me a month's salary, and he had a smile for everyone. He chatted to all of us. I know now that he is a superb actor, because...well, you'll see. At the time, anyone could have been forgiven for thinking that he was seriously interested in meeting every candidate. When he got to me he turned that famous grin on me and removed his shades. 'Well, hello,' he said, and I thought, What a sleaze. I looked up at him impassively. 'I'm Don,' he added, as if to explain. His accent was up in the stratosphere somewhere, en route from South London to Beverly Hills. 'I know,' I said. 'I'm Deirdre.' 'I dunno how to pronounce that,' he said, the grin widening as if he were genuinely amused. 'Most people call me Dee,' I said, and then felt like an idiot for making it easier for him. I am not impressed by someone pretending to find me cute, when in reality he just wants to move on to the better-looking women in the room, my colleagues Carrie, Jen and Paula, who were and are all sexier than me. 'Then I will too,' he said amiably. 'So Dee. How would you make sauce gribiche for someone with a cholesterol problem?' 'Same as always,' I said, recognising the trick question. 'The cholesterol in hard-boiled eggs isn't the bad kind. Use extra virgin olive oil and it's fine.' 'Very good,' he said, nodding. 'Can you bake?' 'Yeah,' I said. 'Cakes?' he added with one raised eyebrow and the hint of a dark twinkle. I don't know why, but I felt myself blushing, and the fact that I was doing so made me so annnoyed that I blushed harder. 'Yeah,' I said. 'Though it's tricky if you have a cholesterol problem.' 'I don't,' he said. 'My keyboard player does. So we won't give him any, will we?' I felt myself shaking my head no. He laughed. 'Brilliant,' he said, 'you're hired.' He turned to my boss and said 'She's perfect.' I was stunned. Not as stunned as some of the others, who'd been kissing his arse from the minute he entered the room. Some of them were looking at me with something like hatred, but fuck it, they'd get over it. I felt a bit dazed as Don's assistant began to hand me tour itineraries, diet sheets, contact numbers and lots of other essential information. Two hours later I was in my street clothes in the back of a car, being driven to the airport. I'd packed my cat off to my mum's, dumped a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, grabbed Saulnier's 'Repertoire de la Cuisine' off the bookshelf and crammed it into my jacket pocket, and now I was wondering what this new life as a rock band's caterer was going to be like. When you are as famous as this band, you don't travel on public transport. I was not surprised to find that they had their own jet. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it had a galley which, although cramped, was well equipped and sensibly stocked. I was shown to my own cabin, which was about the size of my closet at home and which consisted of a bed and a tiny ensuite shower cubicle. And for the next couple of days, I learned the ropes. I personally spoke to each venue we went to and each hotel that we stayed in, and ensured that the proper food and drink was available for the band and their entourage. I whipped up snacks and light meals on demand, making the best of the electric hob and narrow oven. I was up each morning at six to prepare breakfast, and I went to bed each night after one, only when the whole band had finally dropped off. I thanked my stars that they were all so old, and liked early nights. Their manager told me that back in the 70s, they were able to go for days on end without sleep. And the rest of the time, I trudged along in their wake, anonymous in my scuffed leather jacket and jeans, my Access All Areas card hanging round my neck, the least cool and least conspicuous member of the whole team. A constantly changing gaggle of girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, potential girlfriends and plain old groupies swarmed around the glamorously damaged band members. All of them could have and probably had modelled for Playboy, nearly all of them were blonde, half of them were younger than me (I am 28) and they had all had boob jobs. Only Don seemed not to have a female partner of some sort or other. They fluttered up to him all the time, and he would flash that grin and nuzzle them a bit, but he seemed to be able to make them go away without offending them. Sometimes he would catch my eye from across the room, while some catwalk model was trying it on, and he would flash this hugely amused twinkle at me, as if to say 'Ridiculous, innit?' Okay, well, we are approaching the sex part, and I am now officially embarrassed. It was on the fifth day of the tour, after the LA concert. We had been driving from the hotel to the airport for an overnight flight to Tokyo when I had suddenly received a cellphone call from Don. 'I fancy some cake, Dee, love,' he'd said lazily. 'A nice big Victoria sponge with jam and cream. In fact, make three in case the other lads get peckish in the morning. That's not a problem, is it?' This was my first taste of a rock star's whims. I was going to be up for at least another three hours making the damn cake. 'Not a problem,' I'd said through clenched teeth. He'd rung off without thanking me. We'd boarded the plane and taken off, and as soon as we'd climbed high enough to take off the seatbelts, I'd gone to the galley to change into my whites and get baking. Something must have been wrong with the heating in the galley, because it was sweltering in there. Just taking out all the ingredients for three Victoria sponges had me dripping with sweat. I cursed, and nipped down the corridor to my cabin. I took off my whites and stripped down to just my panties, then put the whites on over them. I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals. Normally I wear sturdy shoes while cooking because you don't want to drop hot fat on your bare feet, but baking a few cake was a low-risk job, even for someone as knackered as me. I went back to the galley. It was boring and physical work, creaming the butter and sugar, blending it with the flour and eggs, and whipping the cream. But within forty minutes, I'd got a decent batter together and the oven was at the right temperature. I wiped my forehead, took off my steamed-up glasses and wiped them on a clean cloth. I glimpsed my reflection in the darkened window, looking out into the night sky over the Pacific - my face was shiny and I knew it was red. Then the door slid open, Don eased himself into the room and slid the door shut behind him. He turned his charm on me. 'All right, Dee?' he said. 'Just came to see how the cake is coming along.' 'Another hour or so, sorry,' I said, not feeling sorry at all. 'Need notice for cakes.' 'It looks great,' he said, peering at the enormous bowl of cake batter and the deep Pyrex bowl of whipped cream, ready to go into the fridge to chill. 'It really is very good of you to go to all this trouble for me.' 'It's what I'm paid for,' I said curtly. I took six cake tins out of a drawer and began to smear butter around the insides. 'Mind if I...?' he said, grinning at me and pointing at the metal bowl of cake batter. 'Wash your hands,' I said, indicating the sink and the handwash bottle. He pouted, washed his hands, then dried them, dipped a finger in the mix and tasted. 'Mmmm,' he said, 'brings back memories. Lovely.' 'Be better when it's cooked,' I said. 'So, how you settling in?' he said conversationally, leaning against the wall. I was really irritated with him and just wanted him to fuck off so I could cook in peace. 'Fine,' I said. 'What do you think of the rock star lifestyle?' he said. 'I'm sure it's lovely,' I said sarcastically. 'Getting any action?' he said with a raised eyebrow and that twinkle. 'None of your business,' I said and felt myself blush. 'Oh, but come on, Dee,' he said. I could feel him looking at me and I felt weirdly hot and self-conscious. 'I want you to have fun.' He started crooning, tiptoeing over to me - 'I want to be happy, but I can't be happy, till I make you happy, too...' 'I don't get a lot of action,' I muttered. 'That, if you don't mind my saying so, is a fuckin' scandal, Dee,' he said. He was standing too close to me. I moved away, smearing more butter round the fourth cake tin. 'A lovely girl like you,' he added. It was too much. My anger welled up, and I rounded on him. 'Don't take the piss out of me, you fucking wanker!' I snarled. 'I'm not a fucking lovely girl, and you know it! And I'm not here for you to tease like one of those bitches out there! I'm here to do my fucking job! If you ever take the piss like that again, I'm fucking gone, I don't care how much money you pay me! And I will file a complaint against you for mental cruelty! So just, fuck off with that lovely girl shit! I will not take it from you, or from anyone else!' He was staring at me, smiling slightly. I was shaking with anger and now I felt like I was going to cry, too. This famous sex symbol rock star thought he could get away with teasing me for being plain, a red-faced boring-looking flat-chested girl with no figure, someone he would never look at twice. 'You're right, Dee,' he said softly. 'You aren't a lovely girl. I apologise.' To hear him say it was almost more than I could bear. I swallowed hard and turned away. 'Get out,' I said in a shaky voice. 'Dee,' he said quietly, 'look at me.' I didn't move for a moment, I was scared to. He had all but called me ugly to my face. Then I felt him touch my shoulder, tentatively. I turned around warily. He was smiling at me. I looked up at him, feeling the tears just waiting to burst out, my throat aching, tired and lonely and sad. 'All right,' he said softly. 'So you don't look like...you know. Them.' He jerked his head contemptuously in the direction of the main cabin, where the girls would be all spread out on the seats, snoozing. 'I'm not tryna tease ya. Honest. It's just, you seem a bit...sad. I think it's a shame.' 'Don't you dare pity me,' I muttered fiercely, swallowing hard. I managed to hold his gaze, though. He took a step towards me, and I took a step back, and then felt the metal door of a food cupboard behind me. I looked up at him, trying to work out what the fuck he wanted from me. 'I don't pity you,' he said, and a look of annoyance passed over his face. 'Fuck's sake, Dee. I'm not that much of a wanker.' 'Then what are you doing in here?' I said, miserable, just wanting him to go away. He was standing just centimetres away from me, looking down at me, that much-photographed face smiling at me. 'Fucking stroppy little cunt, aren't ya?' he said, amused, and then to my astonishment he leaned down and kissed me on the mouth. For a moment I didn't know what to do, then I instinctively began to flinch away from him. But he grabbed me, and his tongue forced its way into my mouth, and his hands clamped nto my bum, and he pulled me into those famously rangy hips and I felt the alarming length of his hard-on through his designer jeans, pressing into my groin. Oh, my. A spasm of electricity jolted through me and I couldn't help myself - I relaxed, a little, just enough for him to gather me in his arms and squeeze me into him, pressing my body into his. His tongue was exploring my mouth and I gave an involuntary little sigh. He broke out of the kiss and looked at me. 'Oh, now, that's more like it,' he said, grinning. I was aroused, I admit it, but I was also outraged, because I knew this had to be some kind of fucked-up rockstar prank or other, that he was snogging me for a bet, and the rest of the band were watching it on some sort of concealed camera. 'Don't fuck with me,' I breathed, scowling at him. My heart was pounding despite myself. 'I don't wanna fuck, um...with you, exactly,' he chuckled. 'You're all fucking watching this on some camera or something,' I gasped, and then he let go of my bum and reached up and began to unbutton my white linen jacket. I wriggled furiously. 'What's wrong?' he said with surprise. He was holding onto me. He was strong. So am I, but I couldn't get free. 'This is a trick,' I gasped, trying to struggle out of his grip. 'This is some sort of fucked-up trick on the cook. You can fuck off!' 'There's no trick, darlin',' he purred, and as I twisted around to face away from him he kissed the back of my neck, making me shiver. 'There really isn't. Dee? Are you gonna listen to me for a second?' 'This is sick,' I said, desperate to get out of his grip. I thrashed. I kicked. He held onto me. I felt the tears coming, and after another couple of minutes of trying to get away I just gave up and leaned my forehead against the cupboard door and let them happen. Don held me and nuzzled the back of my neck and I sobbed. The Caterer Ch. 01 When my sobbing died down a bit, he wiped my face with his hand and whispered into my ear. 'You know,' he said, 'it's just possible that somebody might fancy you. Ever think of that?' 'It doesn't happen very often,' I muttered, and sniffed. He handed me a dishcloth and I wiped my nose. 'But we're all beautiful, Dee,' he purred. 'I know I'm a boring old hippy, but we are. Everyone is. It's only boring bastards who think that beauty is about lookin' like some tart in a magazine.' He reached up, and went on unbuttoning my jacket, and I was so tired and confused that I let him do it. 'Everyone deserves to have someone think they're sexy. You been unlucky. That's a shame. But maybe your luck is about to change, girl.' I was breathing heavily as this man who was easily as old as my dad was opening up my white linen jacket. He undid the last button and gently pulled it down my shoulders, exposing my bare upper torso, my barely-there breasts, my mortifyingly erect nipples. 'Oh God,' I muttered. 'Look at you,' he said gently, and he turned me to face him. My jacket hit the floor. I was naked from the waist up. He pulled my tight white chef's toque from my head, and then took my glasses off. Everything went a bit fuzzy. I blinked, looking up at him. 'Look at what you can make,' he added, and he reached behind me and came up with a finger dipped in cake batter. He put it in my mouth and I sucked on it. It tasted pretty good. He reached behind me and this time, when his hand came back, all his fingers were dipped in the gooey batter. I squinted up at him and he painted a stripe on my forehead, then one on each cheek. I couldn't help smiling. 'How does that feel?' he said, cocking his head to one side. 'Okay,' I said, nervous, tense as a rabbit in his arms, wanting him to go on doing what he was doing, never wanting this to end, whatever the fuck it was. 'How about this?' he said, and his other hand slid behind me, under the waistband of my white linen trousers and into the seat of my knickers, stroking my bare bum inside them. I gasped and stifled a giggle. 'I can tell you're a brilliant cook, Dee,' he said. 'But that wasn't the only reason I hired you.' 'What was the other reason?' I said, trying to look confident, aware that this rich and famous man had one hand inside my panties caressing my bum while the other hand had got me topless and was now starting to paint little lines of gooey cake batter like war paint on my face and chest. 'I think I know you,' he grinned. 'What do you think you know?' I gasped, as he circled my breasts with streaks of cake batter. I was starting to get a bit messy, and it wasn't something I had ever told anyone else but I loved the feel of cake batter on my skin. I had once got into a food fight with a bunch of other students in catering college, which had climaxed for me in more ways than one when some of the lads had held me down and got me partially undressed and covered me with whipped cream, shoving some of it inside my pants and in my bra, and I had had a huge orgasm which I'd managed to make look like a fit of anger. I didn't know why, but there was something about the feel of anything slippery and slimy and lavish on my skin that always aroused me. And Don seemed to know it, because he took a handful of cake batter and smeared it over my bare breasts, making me gasp with pleasure and shiver. His left hand was kneading my buttocks inside my panties and white linen trousers. 'I think I know what you like,' he said, with a devilish twinkle, and his left hand slid out from inside my panties and out of my trousers, and came around the front, and quickly unbuttoned them. I tried to get away, but then he reached behind me and his hand came up with a heaped mound of the pale yellow cake batter, and - splat! - he pushed it into my face, blinding me. I gasped - shocked, aroused and blinded. I hung my head and I felt him pulling the button open and yanking down the zip of my whites, and then they collapsed around my ankles. I kicked off my sandals and stepped out of them. Now I was wearing only my skimpy old threadbare green panties. 'Didn't you wonder why the galley's so hot?' he murmured. 'I didn't want you to feel cold.' 'You planned this,' I breathed, spitting out cake batter. 'I did,' he said, and he wiped my face, clearing my vision, and then as I blinked and focused on him, he leaned in and kissed me, hard, his greasy hands sliding down to my hips and slipping my panties over my bum and down my legs, stripping me naked. I felt myself blushing but I leaned into the kiss, putting my arms round his neck, letting him do this to me - strip me and mess me up and have his way with me. Suddenly I realised something. 'You don't want me to bake the cakes,' I muttered into his mouth, a feeling of embarrassment making me shudder in his arms. I pulled away from him, blinking up at him in horror and desire. 'No, Dee, I don't,' he said, smiling down at me, looking hugely amused. All at once I saw what he had prepared for me, and I pulled away from him in a last effort to escape from the galley and get to my cabin. He grabbed me easily around the waist and lifted me off the ground. I thrashed, naked. 'Oh no!' I yelped. 'No! Please!' He carried me to the counter where the huge metal bowl was brimming with cake batter. 'Oh yes,' he said, and I felt him fumbling at his flies. He was going to do it, he was really going to do what I was so scared of, the thing that would make me lose it completely, lose all my composure and break down all my defences. He put me so that I was leaning over the bowl. I grabbed it with my arms and tried to stop him. He had one hand on the back of my neck, forcing my head down, my face getting closer and closer to the surface of the cake batter. 'Admit it, Dee,' he said cheerfully, 'admit you want it, admit you want to be a messy little fuckslut, just say yes, love, go on...' 'No!' I yelped, and then I could feel the slippery head of his cock between the tops of my thighs, and just the prospect of being about to fucked was making me almost insane with shameful desire. 'Admit it,' he said, forcing my head down closer to the surface. It was inches away. I was standing naked, facing the counter, my hands on either side of the bowl trying to stop my face from touching the surface, while he was driving up into me from behind, trying to find an entrance. My clothes were discarded on the floor. I stared in horror at the gloopy, glistening surface of the cake batter, and realised that this was what I truly wanted all along. 'Oh God, no, please...' I moaned, feeling my humiliation wash through me like a cleansing wave, sweeping away all my silly pride and defensiveness and sarcasm. 'Ah!' he gasped as he shifted his hips, and then I felt his cock tip touching my labia and I groaned and weakened, and it was all he needed. In one simultaneous movement, he shifted his hips again and his cock helmet slid into my raw, wet pussy, while his other hand, clamped firmly but not painfully at the base of my skull, pushed my face beneath the surface of the cake batter. I closed my eyes and felt it welling up over my nose, my mouth, cheeks, eye sockets, folding around the sides of my face, my temples, as he buried my face in the cake batter and began to fuck me from behind. I made a muffled gasp, and a huge bubble went blorp! next to my face. I pushed my narrow hips back onto his cock and squeezed with my vaginal muscles. I was tingling all over with the delicious, painful, huge, intimate humiliation of it. Plus, it just felt great having a man's long cock driving up into my pussy for the first time in months. He relaxed his grip on my neck and I pulled my face out. I couldn't see a thing. My face was thickly coated with cake batter. When I make cake batter, I make it sticky. I gasped for breath and went 'Oh...mblll...God!' 'I think you should admit it now,' he gasped, pumping into me from behind. 'Oh yes!' I moaned, no longer able to protest. 'Yes what?' he chuckled. 'Oh God yes, Don, please, make me into your messy little fuckslut!' I whimpered. 'You asked for it,' he said. 'Deep breath now!' I just had time to draw a huge breath before he pushed my face into the cake batter again, but this time he kept on pushing and in disbelief I felt my whole head going into the bowl. It welled up and filled my ears and engulfed me down to the neck, spilling over the sides and on my hands and splattering off the counter onto my bare legs and crotch. I screamed with pleasure and humiliation. Then the bowl slid, and I lost my balance, and Don and I fell over, my cake-batter-covered head coming out with a great schlupping sound and the bowl splattering now-useless goo all over my naked body and his clothed one as we crashed to the floor of the galley. His cock slid out of me and he landed on top of me. I gasped. I didn't care. I didn't care that I couldn't see a fucking thing and could barely hear. Don had tapped into my secret fetish and I was loving it. I sprawled nude on my belly as he quickly pulled my hips up and entered me again, then I placed my hands flat on the galley floor and whined as he rooted inside me, fucking my brains out. He took a handful of cake batter from the floor and smeared it into my face and I licked it up deliriously, blinded and breathless. 'I've fancied you from the minute I saw you, you skinny little cunt,' he gasped. I squirmed, face-down in the muck, and laughed to myself as he rogered me. His hands were on my arse and he slapped me on each bare buttock, making me squeal. 'I know you, Dee,' he said, sliding in and out of me slowly and expertly. 'I know what you think of yourself. I know what you think of how you look.' He abruptly slid out of me. I whimpered in protest, but he rolled me onto my back and pulled me up so that I knelt. I stared up at him, and he grasped my filthy, mucky head, my brown hair thick and clotted with goo, and his cock hung in front of my face. 'I want you to do this for me,' he said. 'What?' I gasped. 'What you're doing already,' he said. 'Cater for me. Cater for us. We all have needs. I want you cater for them.' He slid his cock into my mouth and I licked my tongue around it. I was all sensation, all feeling, no more sarcasm and self-hatred and loneliness. He was making me feel with my whole body. I had never much liked giving a blowjob, but right then I could have sucked him off forever. I shut my eyes. It was just as well, because just then I felt a flood of cool, oozing cake batter flow over my forehead and eyes and face, engulfing me. I moaned, thickly, muffled by his cock. He was using me in the way that I was most scared of being used. Part of me wished, right then, that the other guys in the band really were videoeing all this with some hidden camera. I knelt naked in front of Don, gripping his hips, sucking him off as he dumped another load of cake batter over my face, blinded, the goo dripping off my small tits. Abruptly, he pulled out of my face and spun me around. 'What do you say, then, young Dee?' he asked. 'Oh God,' I whimpered, 'what?' He shoved me forward, forcing me on all fours. I blinked and shook the cake batter out of my eyes, but I could still barely see and my short-sightedness didn't help. 'You really want to be our caterer?' he said. 'You really want to tend to our needs? All of us? Because we all know one thing. We want you.' His hands were on my buttocks, pulling them apart, and I was scared again because I knew what he wanted to do and oh god there would be no stopping him, he was going to do it, he was going to take me in the most intimate and secret place in my body, the place where my hangups about food and my hangupgs about sex came together, the part of my body that was maybe the least pleasing, the least curvy, the most angular and tight and masculine bit of me. I knew what he wanted to do. I crouched before him, on all fours, feeling weepy, wanting it and not wanting it. He was silent for a moment. 'You know what?' he said. 'One thing. Just been bothering me.' I turned my head, my eyes stinging and swollen, and I saw him reach for a kitchen knife, and just for an instant I thought Oh fuck, Dee, it's all been the run-up to this, it's a rock star sex murder thing, you will vanish forever and never be found - He grabbed the sticky mop of my dark brown hair, bunched it together close to the root, and then with wonder I felt the sharp blade scything through it. He was cutting my hair. He cut the side bits, too, while I crouched and shivered, tense and tearful, and then when my hair felt short he said in a pleased tone, 'That's better. Perfect. Know what you look like now?' 'What?' I whimpered, knowing the answer and hating it. 'You look like a boy,' he said. I felt my chest heave and I sobbed, just once or twice. I'm not sure why. I felt a kind of betrayal had happened. But then, I felt his hand touch me gently on the shoulder, and he said, 'So, Dee? You wanna be my boy?' I shut my eyes and breathed deeply. I lowered my head. I nodded. His cock pushed into the tight gap of my buttocks and I breathed deeply. I had never let anyone do this to me. Some fella had tried once and I had kicked him out of bed, out of my flat, out the front door, furious. Nobody did this to me. It was not something I did. 'I'm gonna fuck you up your arsehole, Dee,' he whispered. 'If you don't want that to happen, say so now. Because otherwise it will.' I breathed deeply for a long moment. 'Make me your boy,' I whispered raggedly. Then his cock was pressing at my arsehole, and he was pushing lots of some kind of goo down there to lubricate it, and I was grimacing and wincing and moaning aloud, because it hurt. 'Let me in,' he breathed into my ear, and I relaxed, and suddenly - schlop! - he slid up deep inside my rectum, and I fucking loved it. I loved it. I was cumming within seconds. He started pumping into me, stroking my clit with one hand while his other massaged a handful of some kind of goo into my face, and his cock was pistoning up my arse, and I writhed, helpless in his grip, and I came, very very loudly I'm sure. He took the bowl of whipped cream and inverted it over my head and it slid down past my eyes and nose and mouth and I barely noticed, I was just an electrified flesh puppet for his cock up my bum. I felt weak and dizzy and I was making some sort of noise, I don't know what. Eventually my arms gave way and I fell forward and he fell on me, driving his cock so deep up my arse that I screamed and woke up half the plane, though I didn't know that till much later. That's when he finally came, his semen spurting deep inside my arse, his lips kissing my face, hugging me as I laughed and wept. We lay there for quite a while before he packed me off to his cabin and stuck me in the shower. I sat on the floor, letting the water clean me off, while unbeknownst to me he cleaned up the galley (bless!). Then he joined me in the shower and washed me, and finally deposited me like a damp pair of newly washed jeans in his bed, where I slept naked with his arms around me until late the next morning. That was the first chapter of how I became, in a very alarming sense, the personal Caterer for a group of people who would find ways of using me that I would never have been able to imagine, and who would force me to entirely rethink how I felt about my own body, my own desires and my own sexuality. If you like, I could tell you the rest of it...