When you think about it, it’s really ironic that chocolate was introduced to the world by monks.

I mean, in terms of historical paradoxes, its right up there with Beethoven going deaf, Alfred Nobel inventing dynamite, and the Titanic sinking on its maiden voyage.

Admittedly, one does have to be laid out on one’s back, stark naked and plastered with chocolate syrup to really appreciate the beauty of this irony. My current position, for example, was allowing me to do this most satisfactorily. 

I’ll bet the monks who leaked the Spaniard’s ‘chocolatl’ secret in 1544 are now in heaven kicking themselves whenever they hear phrases like “I don’t think you licked all that chocolate out, it still feels really sticky down there”.  But, I for one am glad they squealed, because otherwise their clandestine concoction would not currently be spread thickly all over various parts of my anatomy.

I was interrupted in my reflections by chocolate syrup sliding off my chest and into my armpit. The tingling sensation was an unpleasant one, and I would have stanched the flow myself had my hands not been so efficiently tied above my head.

Brian had decided I’d needed restraining after I’d absentmindedly run my sticky, syrup-coated fingers through his chestnut tresses, thus violating Brian’s #1 chocolate syrup rule; come hell and high water, it was never to make contact with his hair. Oops. In my defence, he had been fucking me for the second time in less than twenty minutes, which would leave anyone a little scatterbrained.

And hey, I had gotten a fairly erotic- if somewhat sticky- spanking out of it, which naturally led us right into round three. Chocolate is so fucking awesome.

Currently occupied with lapping up the last of the sweet liquid from around my naval, Brian was clearly not going to notice the chocolate-in-my-armpit dilemma unless I informed him of the syrup’s southward momentum myself.

“Armpit chocolate!” I yelled, a little louder than I’d intended, thinking that the Spanish monks may have been a little perplexed by that phrase as well. Brian’s talented tongue had a way of reducing my vocabulary to that of a verbally-challenged Neanderthal.

Brian gave a snort of laughter and slithered up my body, his smooth skin adhering to mine with the tackiness of the sugary residue. He quickly checked to make sure I was close enough to the headboard so that I could bend my arms, preventing my wrists wrenching against their nylon bonds. Satisfied, he located the source of the wayward stream of syrup and followed it with this tongue, cursing leisurely over my collarbone before diving down into the hollow of my armpit.

Remembering too late that the location of Brian’s next onslaught was unbearably ticklish, I squealed like a piglet and squirmed against him as I felt his tongue curl and weave in pursuit of the delinquent syrup. Naturally, instead of this encouraging Brian to finish up his task more promptly, my struggling provoked him to slow down and he tantalized me by running the tip of his tongue, feather-light, along the highly sensitive skin.

He had me trapped between his legs and he squeezed his knees against my pelvis to prevent me turning over to escape the assault by his teasing tongue. With tears of laughter running down my face, I begged for mercy, swearing blindly to give him unlimited blow jobs every day for the next sixty-three years.

Snickering, Brian relented and shifted his position, laying several sloppy kisses up and down the insides of my upper arms before propping himself up on his elbows so that we were face-to-face. He had a smudge of chocolate on the end of his nose and I leaned up to lick it off.

Mmm…chocolate-covered Brian…my favourite.

I arched my neck up again and tried to kiss him, but he laid a finger on my lips with one hand, and with the other, reached across me to retrieve the bottle of Hershey’s Deluxe Dark Chocolate Syrup from the bedside table.

“Close your mouth.” He instructed, and he poured a line of the thick, shiny dark liquid into the crevice between my lips. Some escaped and slid down the side of my face, but Brian darted down to catch it before it oozed into my hair. (Chocolate during the heat of passion- fucking hot. Chocolate matted into my hair three hours later…not so great).

I had to close my eyes to avoid getting Brian’s hair in them, but I felt his lips and tongue sweep up the side of my face and begin probing at the edges of my lips, drawing the thick, sweet fluid towards him. Deciding that he’d tortured me enough for one day, I turned my head sideways and opened my mouth to capture his in a passionate, chocolaty kiss.

God, I love chocolate.

I’m fairly convinced that, in addition to antioxidants, chocolate carries some kind of sex pheromone…which may or may not affect Brian exclusively. He just goes ape shit over it.

Being the manorexic poster boy that he is, Brian normally avoids the stuff like the plague and recently, he’s tried to swear me off it too. The reason for this is that chocolate tends to give me weird dreams that often wind up being detrimental to him in some way.

The last time I’d had a chocolate torte for dessert, I’d dreamt that I was building a log cabin out in the woods, but I didn’t have an axe or a saw. So, apparently acquiring the aptitude of a beaver, I’d chewed the trees down with my teeth. I woke up to find that the trunk of the tree I was trying to gnaw through was actually Brian’s arm. Needless to say, he wasn’t too pleased.

But on occasions like today, when I manage to sneak a bottle of chocolate syrup into the loft undetected, Brian is hopelessly lost to his unfulfilled passion for the refined cocoa bean.

The chocolaty kiss lasted a long time, our tongues and lips sliding and undulating against each other, duelling for who got to swallow the last of the sweet residue.  I couldn’t decide which I was enjoying more; the taste of Brian, the taste of the chocolate, or the combination of the two. However, I had resolved one of my other dilemmas; Brian with vanilla ice cream was great, but Brian with chocolate syrup was orgasmic (Dead Spanish monks kick themselves again.)

Brian was first to pull out of the kiss and I arched up to lick away the last speckles of chocolate from around his lips. When the last tiny drop had been affectionately sponged from his face, I gazed hopefully in the direction of the chocolate syrup bottle, hoping Brian might take the hint.

“No more chocolate for you, Little Boy.” Brian answered my silent plea, as he licked his thumb and used it to swipe at the smears of chocolate on my face. “I don’t want any more fucked up dreams about flesh-eating hedgehogs.”

The hedgehog dream had been induced by the consumption of chocolate hedgehogs (what else?) right before turning in one night. The dream involved me having to beat off the vicious little blood-thirsty erinaceids with a croquet mallet. At the tail end of the dream, I was astonished to find all the hedgehogs suddenly amalgamating into one giant hedgehog which then morphed into Brian. When I awoke, I found the reason behind this metaphysical shape-shifting was that the real Brian had needed to put me in a half-nelson to stop me swinging my arms dangerously at him while muttering ‘Get away, hedgehogs, get away!’

Brian laughed at my sheepish look as I recalled the incident, and leaned down to kiss me again gently. His lips travelled down to my neck and swept along up my jaw line. I felt him lick the outside of my ear and curl it into the edge of the shell. As his mouth closed softly on my ear lobe and sucked gently, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the sensation. His hot mouth and warm breath, his body, his warmth, his taste in my mouth mingling with the last of the chocolaty residue…I was riding on a wave of blissful euphoria.

Did I mention I love chocolate?

“Don’t go to sleep, Sunshine.” I felt Brian’s whispered words come out in a warm breath right against my ear, “We’ve gotta shower first, or we’ll be stuck to the bed in the morning.”

“I’m already stuck to the bed.” I reminded him, pulling the ropes around my wrists taut against the headboard.

“Smart ass.” Brian muttered, digging a finger under my ribs and making me squeal again. He reached over me and untied the ropes, then took one of my wrists in each of his hands. Bringing my right hand to his mouth, he began to suck on the fingers, which were still covered in the chocolate syrup.

Fascinated, I watched as he painstakingly cleaned each of my digits with his lips and tongue, and shivered when he licked the sensitive web of skin between them. He traced a circle on my palm with the tip of his tongue, making me writhe with pleasure, before twining his left hand in my newly cleansed right. He turned his attention to my left hand, which received the same treatment.

It was so fucking hot that, despite having been spanked, rimmed twice and fucked four times that night, I suddenly felt as if I’d been deprived of sex for years and years. (Another kick in the robes for the Spanish monks).

“Brian…” I pleaded, my hips thrusting up against him on their own accord. I heard him gasp softly, before he ground his pelvis back down on mine. I gave whimpering yelp which made Brian smile.

“In the shower, Little Padawan.” He ordered, climbing off the bed and pulling me with him. Ick- I hadn’t realized just how sticky I was until then. May be I could get us to stick together somehow…

As Brian pulled me behind him by the hand towards the shower, I glanced back at the bottle of chocolate syrup still sitting on the night stand. It was lit from behind, and I could tell it was still half full. Another 250mL of Brian’s sex pheromone. Half a bottle of liquid heaven.

I grinned. I fucking love chocolate.

THE END