That night he turned into a lemon honey cake. Now, lemon honey cakes are the best in the erotic sense because they don’t make much sense. “Lemon and honey? Together? In a cake? Whaaaaaaaaa-?,” the very sensible Mrs. P was rendered aghast when it was suggested to her.
But he dripped honey and lemon in a dangerous mix on the white plate upon which he was served. Honey is golden and made by bees while lemon grows on trees. All fine till there, but as early alchemists found out, the combination is potent. Especially when put in a cake. And poked with a fork.
She had a fork. With four pointy ends. A trident has only three. So, as rightly pointed out by the saffron brigade, forks are infinitely more violent. She held it in her right hand while moodily considering whether to poke or not. The sky was blue and windy outside, so she decided to lick it first.
Those who have turned into lemon honey cakes need a fair amount of attention. They are like tiny babies who need to be picked up and loved and loved and loved all over till one swallows them. This is not a normative prescription, but rather, an empirical observation.
She pressed down upon him with her tongue. Lemon ooozed out in a happy flow from the perforations in the cake. She let her tongue slide into one of the perforations, tasting the sweetness of the more viscous honey which would not flow out so easy.
“Ooh that hurts.” The cake begged.
She was feeling kindly so she stopped and kissed the cake smelling the lovely lemon honey aroma. A couple of minutes later though she was bored of being kind and decided to plunge her fork into the cake.
Thunder! Lightening! etc. etc. Then rain sweet rain. Rain smells the best.
“This blog is turning into nothing but a cheap collection of eyebrow-raisable euphemisms.” Someone remarked on the street.
“Oh, I’m a bit confused actually. Is this a food blog or a sex blog?” His mate asked.
“For clowns, there is not much of a difference really.” Bozo assured them before cartwheeling along till the 4th Cross on the street.