Qu’ils mangent de la brioche

I have no idea how we are going to explain this to Hotel Management, but then again, when you are staying in the The Ritz-Carlton Suite, do we really need to explain?

The polite knock on the door came just as I slipped my heels off.

My feet ached in that delicious way that comes after an indulgent evening — too much champagne, too much laughter, too many courses in a restaurant where every plate looked like art.

I padded across the room to the door, relishing the plush carpet underfoot, the linen of my ivory dress whispering against my legs like a soft sigh.

Wondering who it could possibly be - Abe and Michelle were both in the room in various stages of undress. We certainly didn’t need any more food, maybe more champagne?

It wasn’t dinner.

It was a ice bucket with bottles of champagne and a cake.

This was not just an ordinary cake - this was an eight-inch white chocolate cake, perfect and luminous under the warm light of the suite. Gold spray shimmered across the smooth frosting. Vanilla and caramel macarons arranged carefully around the edge and elegant white chocolate shards rose from the centre like sculpted petals.

Perched delicately above it all was a small topper in elegant lettering.

“Qu’ils mangent de la brioche.”

I laughed out loud.

“Abe… what on earth?”

The waiter discreetly rolled the trolley in, wished us a pleasant evening and disappeared.

Abe had that look, that relaxed, confident, slightly amused with himself. His jacket was slung across one of the chairs, his shirt unbuttoned and belt unclasped. Michelle was wrapped under his left arm, giggling with sheer delight at the audacious dessert. She still had her heels on but very little else.

“Just a little dessert,” he said.

I turned toward him, still staring at the cake.

“It’s beautiful.”

He reached into the polished silver ice bucket, the ice shifting softly as his fingers wrapped around the chilled bottle.

And my breath caught.

The bottle label glowed softly.

“Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque?”

He nodded casually.

“You remembered,” I said.

“How could I forget?”

My mind instantly flew back to Épernay — that outrageous afternoon at the Maison when two girlfriends and I had tasted champagne far too enthusiastically and behaved far less elegantly than the setting probably expected.

I had told him the story once.

Just once.

“You are far too deliciously dangerous,” I murmured against his lips, kissing him softly.

The cork released with a gentle pop that seemed to echo around the room.

He poured the champagne into three crystal flutes, pale gold bubbles rising lazily through the glass.

He handed one to me, one to Michelle who by this time was licking ‘just a little taste’ of buttercream off her fingers

“Sante,”

“To our decadent desires,” he said.

I took a long sip.

Cold. Bright. Perfect.

He stepped toward the cake and lifted the knife, the blade catching the soft light of the room. He gave a cheeky wink to Michelle as he placed the handle in my hand.

“What do you think we can do with this?”

His voice was soft near my ear.

Then his lips brushed my shoulder.

My breath caught slightly as he kissed the skin there, slow and unhurried.

One strap of my dress slipped loose as I turned.

The knife slid into the cake with almost no resistance.

Vanilla sponge. Lemon curd. Buttercream. This man is incredible, how could he know?

I carved out a small slice.

Turning back to him, I lifted his chin gently, offering him the slice of cake balanced on the knife.

He hesitated, raised an eyebrow.

I smiled.

He leaned forward and took a cautious bite.

The change in his face made me laugh.

“Good?”

“That,” he said, “is dangerously good.”

The tension broke and we all laughed, Abe with a mouthful of cake while Michelle and I clinked our glasses, giggling at this deliciously bizarre scene.

I turned to him. 

Looked him in the eyes, hesitating until he locked into my gaze.

I lifted his chin, just a little, placing a light kiss on his full lips.

I lifted my champagne glass toward him.

He hesitated again, smiling.

I tilted it gently.

A small trickle escaped and ran down his chin.

We burst into laughter again.

The mood was playful, silly, full of mischief.

He cut a delicate slice for me.

Instead of placing it on a plate, he held it between his fingers and slowly moved it beneath my nose.

“Cruel,” I murmured.

Then he finally let me taste it.

The lemon curd was sharp and bright against the soft vanilla cream.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Oh that is ridiculous,” I moaned.

He repeated the tease with Michelle, her eyes widening as the flavours blossomed on her tongue.

‘Oh my,’ she sighed, reaching out to the cake and dragging her finger through the buttercream, stealing another taste.

He slipped the straps from my shoulders and took my glass as I shimmied out of my dress.

Bending to retrieve it, he draped the linen across a chair before releasing his own trousers and stepping out of them with an easy shrug.

For a moment he paused, as if committing the scene to memory — the cake glimmering with gold, Michelle standing there in nothing but her heels and that wicked smile, and me in a whisper of silk and lace, laughing as we sipped the most delicious bubbles and dropped dollops of cream into one another’s mouths.

Stepping forward, pulling us closer, he kissed the escaped cream on Michelle’s cheek, then down her neck. He pulled me tighter into him, nibbling my neck, moaning with delight as he found a stray smear of cream on my left breast.

He raised his champagne glass to my lips this time.

The bubbles danced across my tongue, cool and bright after the sweetness of the cake.

The combination made me laugh.

Cake. Champagne. Midnight city lights.

I kissed him again, tasting sugar and bubbles between us.

Michelle popped a caramel macron in her mouth as she cut a generous slice and placed it on a small plate and using her fingers slid small chunks into her lips as she did a happy dance around the room.

Picking up the champagne bottle, I wandered toward the window.

Melbourne stretched out beneath us, the towers of light creating a a dazzling display against the dark sky.

I took a small sip straight from the bottle.

When I turned back, Abe was watching me with a look that was half curiosity and half admiration.

“What?” I said.

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

“Maybe I am.”

I took another sip from the bottle and giggled with the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

Michelle danced up to me and pushed a piece of cake into my mouth.

The gold dust shimmered faintly on her fingers. 

I held the bottle to her lips and tipped a little too much, cascades of golden bubbles splashed down her chin and across her red nipples.

She squished the cake between her fingers and mashed it into my lips. Laughter, cake and bubbles exploding out of us.

Abe was in fits of laughter watching us, sheer joy on his face.

I heard him push the trolley closer, but at that point I was trying to pour more champagne down Michelles throat.

There was still cake.

And she reached back grabbing a huge chunk in her hands and smooshing into my hair.

A breath of silence, and the giggles got us again as I poured the rest of the bottle over her head.

There was still cake.

Still champagne.

And I’m not sure what happened next but somehow Michelle had landed on the cake. Still on the trolley!

We fell about laughing, throwing chunks of cake at each other, rolling around in the cream, touching, playing, kissing, sucking, licking, and splashing my favourite bubbles over our bodies. 

Abe poured champagne down his chest, we knelt in front of him, lapping at the rivulets streaming down his cock and balls; Michelle scooped cake from my tits squishing and squelching our decadent treat onto his thick shaft, both of us sucking him clean until we felt this balls tighten, his body go rigid and we were front row seats as we gulped down his steaming hot cream.

Abe returned the favour licking cream out of my soaking wet pussy. After he was sure I was completely and utterly satisfied he made his way down Michelles body, tasting her nipples, tickling her tummy with butterfly kisses, working his fingers across her clit until she groaned and shook, soaking him as she squirted all over him.

Exhausted, but still giggling, we looked around the room.

There was no cake.

Or champagne.

But there that awkward conversation to be had with the cleaning staff in the morning.

Food Play

A$950.00

2h

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